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skonen_bladesThere were three of them. A rangy, long-haired cowboy, his big brother, and a hot African woman. She probably would have been called a chick if it wasn’t for the fact that her stare was terrifying. Insults and catcalls died in the men’s throats with a glance. The two cowboys seemed affable enough but the shadows from the rims of their hats hid their eyes and they didn’t say anything.
They moved as a trio up to the bar. She ordered the drinks for all of them in a French accent.
The thin cowboy with the long hair had a red handlebar moustache that went down either side of his chin. For no reason I could put a finger on, I thought of the term ‘blood troughs’. Dirty copper curls touched his collar at the back like a hippie.
His big brother was a bull of a man, at least a foot taller, with the same red hair in a thick beard covering the rolls of his round face. The seams of his shirt were stretched tight around his shoulders. His round head perched on the top of the mountain of his body.
The small woman was dark and dry. She looked Somalian. She wasn’t shiny black or milk chocolate but somewhere in between. Dark eyes and no nonsense. The muscles of a gymnast gave her an economy of motion that let most of the middle-aged men in the bar know that she could kick their ass. Looked like a few of the young men might not be smart enough to know that, though. Inside my gut, I tensed for trouble.
They got their beers and got to sipping, staring straight ahead.
The jukebox finishing playing Ghost Riders in the Sky and set to playing Fulsom Prison Blues.
Not a whole lot of talking was going on and no one was looking at the bar. It was like we were all try-hard tough guys and the real deal had just walked in. We were locals ignoring visitors. We were fish ignoring the sharks. We were sheep ignoring the wolves.
Funny thing about old-time bars like this, they always have huge mirrors behind the shelves of the bar to make it look like there’s more alcohol.
I noticed almost casually that those three were missing from the picture on the other side of that mirror. I stared at the mirror from across the room trying to piece it together until it hit home.
They’d found me. The council had tracked me to Texas and I realized who was sitting at the bar.
Enuka the bloodless, Uncle Jessup and Tornado Jack. Together they were known as The Hoedown. The brothers shared Enuka and the three of them had been together for almost a century.
I tried to edge my chair back from the table quietly but the wood screeched. I froze. They stood up straighter and turned around to look at me.
Enuka’s eyes were yellow now and she smiled around a jackal's mouth. Jack gave up a lopsided smirk with his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his jeans and Uncle Jessup spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice. I hope it was tobacco juice.
I stood up and walked towards them. Hopefully I could get them out of here before they started killing.
I’d escaped from The Farm. I knew there was no way out for me as of ten minutes ago. I’m going back.
tags
They moved as a trio up to the bar. She ordered the drinks for all of them in a French accent.
The thin cowboy with the long hair had a red handlebar moustache that went down either side of his chin. For no reason I could put a finger on, I thought of the term ‘blood troughs’. Dirty copper curls touched his collar at the back like a hippie.
His big brother was a bull of a man, at least a foot taller, with the same red hair in a thick beard covering the rolls of his round face. The seams of his shirt were stretched tight around his shoulders. His round head perched on the top of the mountain of his body.
The small woman was dark and dry. She looked Somalian. She wasn’t shiny black or milk chocolate but somewhere in between. Dark eyes and no nonsense. The muscles of a gymnast gave her an economy of motion that let most of the middle-aged men in the bar know that she could kick their ass. Looked like a few of the young men might not be smart enough to know that, though. Inside my gut, I tensed for trouble.
They got their beers and got to sipping, staring straight ahead.
The jukebox finishing playing Ghost Riders in the Sky and set to playing Fulsom Prison Blues.
Not a whole lot of talking was going on and no one was looking at the bar. It was like we were all try-hard tough guys and the real deal had just walked in. We were locals ignoring visitors. We were fish ignoring the sharks. We were sheep ignoring the wolves.
Funny thing about old-time bars like this, they always have huge mirrors behind the shelves of the bar to make it look like there’s more alcohol.
I noticed almost casually that those three were missing from the picture on the other side of that mirror. I stared at the mirror from across the room trying to piece it together until it hit home.
They’d found me. The council had tracked me to Texas and I realized who was sitting at the bar.
Enuka the bloodless, Uncle Jessup and Tornado Jack. Together they were known as The Hoedown. The brothers shared Enuka and the three of them had been together for almost a century.
I tried to edge my chair back from the table quietly but the wood screeched. I froze. They stood up straighter and turned around to look at me.
Enuka’s eyes were yellow now and she smiled around a jackal's mouth. Jack gave up a lopsided smirk with his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his jeans and Uncle Jessup spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice. I hope it was tobacco juice.
I stood up and walked towards them. Hopefully I could get them out of here before they started killing.
I’d escaped from The Farm. I knew there was no way out for me as of ten minutes ago. I’m going back.
tags