The Problem with Flesh-Eating Foodies and Other Persistent Pests

If there was one thing Buck hated, it was being talked to while he was taking a piss. 

It was even worse when the person doing the talking was an ex. 

And dead.

A ghost made up of little more than cinderette smoke, malformed memories, and the ink from a physician’s scribble. 

But as annoying as the presence was – that presence being Chantilly Mace – Sparkman had learned to deal with it. 

It happened often enough.

The men’s room.

The shower. 

A freshly flushed toilet bowl.

Any time Buck was alone, Chantilly Mace was bound to appear.

Like a case of the lizard pox or a stop sign on the road after a night of idiot.

“Good evening, Chantilly. What brings you to this trough?” Buck said. “Looking for a drink?

A smoky wisp blew across Buck’s face. 

It smelled of burnt hair and molotov perfume bottles. 

“I see we’re not having a big dick day,” Chantilly Mace said, her voice as sour as a yeast infection. “Pity.”

Buck attempted to push her to the side with his hip. 

He thought about the werewolf that bit him.

The suppository he still hadn’t taken.

And the full moon outside. 

It loomed over Hellsboro like a ruler-clutching teacher with a DOA pension plan and an upside down mortgage.

“How do you ever manage to keep your wife satisfied?” Chantilly asked, the smoky tendrils of her hair wrapping around Buck’s neck. “You sure as hell couldn’t satisfy me.” 

The memories of stumbling skid row gutter puddles, mainline mirrors, and walk-in caskets filled his head with howls. 

Chantilly was a dead-end, a cul-de-sac of disdain and someone else’s cocaine. 

Buck growled.

Chantilly’s hair snapped tight. 

Piss ricocheted off the outer wall of the trough and all over the gravedigger’s hands.

Mace’s grip around Sparkman’s neck grew tighter. 

Buck couldn’t breath, but he wasn’t worried. 

He double-tapped, put it back into his pants, and zipped. Chantilly’s grip loosened.

“So that’s the way it’s going to be, Sparkman,” Chantilly said as Buck turned around and walked to the sink. 

He’d never gone this long without a silver bullet. 

The smell of asshole was stronger than ever. 

And visions of gigantic dog biscuits tumbling down the street filled his head.

As for the silver bullet, Terry had already told Buck he was tempting fate, but he didn’t care. He half wanted to see how this would play out. 

Washing his hands, he looked in the mirror. 

The gravedigger could see the smoky form behind him, all waist-length hair and three-alarm fire cumulus curves. 

Truth be told, Chantilly Mace wasn’t a particularly good lay herself. 

Having sex with her was like doing the New York Times crossword puzzle on the circular center of a bear trap with a rusty nail and a half-drunk hammer. 

One wrong move and the game was over. 

At least Buck could argue that at the time he was into oxycosmonauts and phenobarbiedolls. 

Chantilly couldn’t. 

She was a cunt from conception, a rotten egg that was kicked out of the uterus by her better-behaved sisters. 

Her entrance into the world wasn’t a birth as much as it was an eviction.

“I told you smoking in bed was going to bite you in the ass, Miss Mace,” Sparkman said as he dried his hands. 

Chantilly hissed and coughed smoke ring epithets and lowest common denominator curses, the kind you could find on the sales rack at a bargain basement store.

Buck looked in the mirror and over the shoulder at Mace. “I heard your dog didn’t even bother to wake you up when the bed caught fire. He just got up and left through the doggie door.”

Sparkman turned around and said, “Smart puppy.”

Then he pushed open the door to the bar, leaving Chantilly Mace to dissipate until nothing was left but a faint hint of disdain and ash and the fading sounds of sirens.

It was then that Sparkman realized he had made a mistake. 

The Midnight Coven was filled with Foodies. 

He ambled over to Terry and sat down. 

“Damn Foodies,” Terry growled. “What the hell are they doing here?”

Buck looked down the bar to the entrance of the Midnight Coven. More Foodies were stumbling through the door, all dead eyes and grinding jaws. 

Some groaned and shuffled toward the bars. 

Others grabbed the most convenient appendage and began to gnaw. 

More often than not, it was their own. 

The Foodies were a new brand of trouble in town, one that was quickly putting Hellsboro on the map for the most dangerous cuisine in the world. Tourists flocked to the once sleepy city for a bite from the fine regional fare. 

Few left and even fewer returned to the land of the living after sampling some of Hellsboro’s best. They called it Neo Sadist Cuisine, and with good reason. 

Taking a cue from the dungeon lords of Hellsboro’s past, the town’s celebuchef’s whipped grass-fed cattle until their backs were a loose collection of slashes and gashes, and piglets were ripped away from their mother’s teats as soon as they were born and forced into iron maidens and iron masks. As for the veal, Godzilla knows, you don’t want to hear about that. 

It was bloody. 

It was cruel.

It was motherfucking delicious.

The Foodies, of course, were well aware of Hellsboro’s unique cultural heritage and its unique regional fare. That’s why they came here. 

Subjugation was the new black, and they were desperate for a good beating. 

They were even willing to hand over a gracious tip once it was all done.

Usually from their hand, but, on occasion, a penis.

Buck couldn’t complain. More often than not, the Foodies were right.

They were like the sign of redness at the site of an infection. 

Wherever they went, something delicious was sure to be had.

“Sinew,” Buck said, “the Foodie magazine, they wrote about this place. Called it one of the nation’s best dives. The writer raved about their burgers,” Sparkman smiled. “I’ve got the clip right here.”

The gravedigger pulled out his Tombstone XIII, 2BRO2B, and queued up the Midnight Coven review. “You’re really going to like the first graph.”

Terry growled and put his head down in his bowl. He began to drink. Buck read.

“Nom nom nom. Nom nom nom.”

Terry kept drinking, and the gravedigger kept reading.

“Nom nom nom. Nom nom nom. Nom nom nom. Nom nom nom. Nailed it,” Buck said. “It’s no surprise this place is packed.”

The gravedigger slid his tombstone over to the dog. Terry lifted his head from the bowl. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the dog saw a Foodie with his tongue in a saltshaker and another smelling an ashtray approvingly. 

The Foodie passed it to the Foodie to his right, who moaned, “Authenticity,” to which his fellow Foodie responded by stabbing his neighbor’s hand with a fork. 

Terry looked at Sparkman and motioned him to look at the feasting Foodies. They watched as the one Foodie ate the other’s hand until all that was left were fingernails and a wedding ring.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of these twits taking over our dives,” Terry growled. “First there was Lon’s.”

“And Bela’s,” Buck followed.

“And Boris’s.”

“And Abbott’s.”

“And Costello’s.”

“And Vincent’s Pit.”

Terry pushed his bowl away with his paw. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

Buck wasn’t.

He just tipped his Bloody Virgin back and then licked the wooden stake clean. 

Through the window, he could see the full moon. 

It called. 

It encouraged. 

It sang him a nursery rhyme about the final hours of Muammar Gaddafi and the healing powers of bloodlust and savagery.

“Nah,” he replied. “It’s all you.”

The dog said, “Your loss.”

“Agreed,” Buck replied. 

The gravedigger’s tombstone crackled. 

“It’s Sasha,” he said. “I’ll cheer you on from here.”

Disappointed, Terry turned away, as Buck turned his attention to his Tombstone.

From Sasha: I think the coffee maker is sneaking out of the house at night.

Buck: For real?

Sasha: I found mud stains on the bottom of the coffee pot and what seemed to be a barely noticeable trail of grounds leading to the front door. 

Buck: Oh wow.

Sasha: And she’s not alone. So has the water cooler. And I think it’s started a second career as a bathroom glory hole.

Buck shuddered and typed back: Don’t let them know you’re on to them. I’ll take care of it when I get back.

Then he typed again: Until then, don’t water the plants. The ferns haven’t been fixed.

Sasha: Will do.

Buck: Luvs.

Terry growled and lunged. The battle had begun. 

Sparkman ordered another Bloody Virgin and got comfortable.