Sex and Murder Magazine

By Emmanuel Paige

After walking for what felt like an eternity in the dark, the desolate road curved and Devin could see a parking lot up ahead immersed in the amber glow of an overhead streetlight. He was close enough to read the sign. The red neon and black marquee letters said THE DEAD HORSE SALOON AND GENTLEMEN'S CLUB, FINE FOOD AND SPIRITS, EXOTIC DANCERS, KARAOKE ON THRUSDAYS AT 9:00 PM. There were a dozen cars and half as many motorcycles parked in front of the building. This is too good to be true, he thought, as he quickened his pace toward the saloon.

When Devin stepped inside the first thing he saw was an exotic dancer suspended upside down on a brass pole wearing nothing but a pair of black, patent-leather pumps. A song by Buck Cherry blasted through the speakers. He could smell cheap cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and beer. Black fluorescent lights cast a purple hue throughout the bar and a large, glimmering, mirrored disco ball spun above the stage.

A big man with a cleanly shaved head that shone like polished glass stepped in front of Devin. He was adorned in glistening, diamond earrings. He looked like a queer version of Mr. Clean, Devin thought.

“You got some ID?” Mr. Clean asked.

Devin took out his wallet and showed his ID card. Mr. Clean examined it with a flashlight, grunted indifferently, and then stepped aside and let Devin pass.

The song finished and the dancing girl picked up her belongings from the stage. She disappeared quickly through a backstage door.

The DJ was sitting behind the mixer station near the stage, wearing black Ray-Bans and headphones, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He spoke over the PA system in a thick voice enhanced with an echo effect. He had a tone that sounded like Wolfman Jack.

“Alright,” the DJ said, “everybody give it up for Holly.”

The crowd applauded with whistles, whoops, and shouts of joy.

“And now get ready for Bobbie Blue. She is bootyliceous,” the DJ said, followed with a howl.

The crowd applauded even louder in a raucous tumult.

Bobbie Blue came out onto the stage as a song by AC/DC filled the air—it was a song about a highway leading to Hell. She was wearing a fancy costume of leather and lace with boots all the way up to her ass; everything was blue in color, including her lipstick and hair. She jiggled her breasts and ground her hips to the beat, sultry and seductive, slowly removing her outfit piece by piece.

Devin approached the bar and took a seat.

The bartender ambled slowly over, drying a beer glass with a dishtowel. He was chewing a toothpick, a cigarette behind his ear, hair slicked back with Brylcream.

“What'll you have?” the bartender asked.

“I’ll have a beer,” Devin said.

“Coming right up.”

Devin looked up at the big, Samsung, LED television screen behind the bar and watched with mild interest. It was tuned to a local news channel. A blond bombshell news reporter was speaking into a microphone. There were police cars and fire trucks behind her with lights flashing. Red flairs blazed on the street near what looked to be a terrible automobile accident. The paramedics rolled a gurney with a body wrapped in a sheet into the back of an ambulance. Devin could not hear the TV over the loud music but he could read the closed caption text scrolling across the screen.

…AUTHORITIES RESPONDED TO THE ACCIDENT AFTER A 911 CALL WAS RECEIVED EARLIER TONIGHT…THERE WERE NO SURVIORS…

Suddenly, the scene on the TV changed to what looked like a slow-motion instant replay with blow-by-blow details of the accident. The volume on the TV increased and Devin could hear it perfectly, even over the loud music.

“How in the hell can they do that?” Devin said. He was amazed that they could replay an accident. Something wasn’t right about that, he thought. “Can they do that?” he said to the man sitting next to him.

The man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Charles Manson, only shrugged and went back to nursing his drink.

Back on the screen, a white, 1965 Camaro raced down the highway, swerving erratically into oncoming traffic and darting straight toward a minivan.

Abruptly, the camera did a quick cut to the perspective of the driver of the Camaro. Devin could see the shocked look in the woman’s eyes as she tried to steer the minivan out of the way. A horn blared, tires squealed and screamed, and then the two vehicles collided, the impact tearing metal and shattering glass.

Devin jerked his head back and covered his face, bracing for the impact. He jumped up from the barstool onto his feet, losing his balance and falling backward. The world spun beneath him as he stumbled and crashed into a table where a man and a woman were engaged in conversation, knocking their drinks to the floor. He landed on his ass in a puddle of beer and cigarette butts from an upended ashtray. He looked around at the crowd. The music stopped and the bar became silent. The dancer on the stage stopped dancing. All eyes were on Devin.

He rubbed his eyes and looked back at the TV where a Budweiser commercial was praising the King of Beers.

Mr. Clean came over to help Devin to his feet, saying, “You alright, buddy?”

“Uh, yeah,” Devin said. “I think so.”

“What the hell just happened?” Mr. Clean said.

“I don’t know. I was watching the news and then…I fell off my seat. I was watching TV and then the next thing I know I’m on the floor.” He scratched his head as he tried to make sense out of it. “Sorry about that. I guess I just slipped.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Mr. Clean said, giving Devin a hand up onto his feet. “Shit happens.”

Devin hobbled back to the bar and sat down.

“Everything is gonna be alright,” Mr. Clean said, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” Devin said.

The DJ cued in: “Alright. He’s alright ladies and gentlemen. So let’s get back to the festivities. Bartender, get that man a beer.”

The crowd cheered as the music blared through the PA system and the girl on the stage resumed dancing, jumping up and spinning around on the brass pole.

The bartender put a Budweiser on the bar in front of Devin and wiped his hands on a dishtowel. Devin reached for his wallet but the bartender interrupted saying, “This one’s on the house.”

“Thanks,” Devin said. He lifted up the bottle and took a drink. It tasted strange; watered down. Was this some kind of joke, Devin wondered. He took another drink and decided that the beer was fine.

He watched the girl dancing on the stage and smiled. She was hot. The night was getting better already. This was ten times better than the party he had crashed earlier that night. He thought about how the party had ended . . .

*****

Devin was bored with the party. It was always the same with college house parties. After a while it just lost its appeal. He didn’t care for the whole scene. He was getting ready to drop out of college completely and head out to the West Coast to seek his fame and fortune. Fuck school. Who needed it? He looked at the girls sitting across the table sipping sweet mixed drinks, engrossed in idle gossip. He hated it. He hated them. He came to the party to get laid but now he had lost his mojo and didn’t care anymore.

“Don’t you ever stop?” Devin said to the girls. “I’ve heard about all I can stand.”

“What?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?

“Who asked you anyway?”

“Nobody. Just stating a fact.”

“Why don’t you just leave if you don’t like it?”

“Maybe I’ll just do that. I’m sick of you bitches anyway?”

Devin grabbed Tony and told him to come on; they were going out to get some fresh air.

Outside, Tony stood on the grass shaking his head in a befuddled stupor.

“Let’s get out of here,” Devin said.

“Are you kidding me? There are some hot chicks in there and I’m about to score.”

“To hell with them.”

“I don’t get you. We came here to get laid and now you’re acting like an asshole. What gives?”

“I’m over all of this shit. I hate this fucking town. I hate these stupid college bitches. This sucks. Let’s go.”

“That’s all fine and groovy for you. But what about me? I was this close to scoring in there.” He held his fingers half an inch apart.

“I know. But I’m not interested now.”

“That’s just great. It’s always about you, isn’t it?” Tony said, tossing his beer bottle into the bushes. “Well you pissed them all off, so it’s probably a done deal anyway.”

The door to the house flew open and a muscle-bound jock sporting spandex shorts and a tank top came out onto the porch. He looked at Devin and Tony and said, “Which one of you pricks called my girlfriend a bitch?”

Devin and Tony looked at each other and then back at the jock and then at the parking lot across the street. It was at least a hundred yards and the jock would surely catch them, Devin thought.

One of the girls that had been sitting at the table came outside. “It was him,” she said, pointing at Devin.

“I’m going to kick your ass, punk,” the jock said, trotting down the stairs like a WWE SmackDown wrestler. He flipped his hat around with the brim backward and flexed his muscles.

“You’re going to have to catch me first,” Devin said, breaking into a mad dash across the yard.

Tony was right behind him.

Although Devin and Tony had both run with the track team in high school, they were no match for the jock. He was a professional athlete, a linebacker for the college football team and he was much faster. He was primed, pumped, and ready to kick some ass. He was slowly closing in on them.

Devin knew this would result in a painful beating, especially if the jock’s buddies caught up and joined in; it might even result in an ambulance ride to the emergency room. He had to think quick, using brains over brawn. Still running, nearly out of breath, Devin reached into his coat pocket and felt the 9mm Beretta handgun. Desperate times called for desperate measures, he thought. He pulled out the gun and turned around and aimed at the jock. His heart was pounding in his ears.

“You better stop or I’ll blow your damn head off,” Devin said. He pulled the slide back and loaded a shell into the chamber, cocking the hammer to prove he was serious.

The jock skidded to a stop, hesitating, and then considering the proposition, saying, “You don’t have the balls, punk. If you shoot me you’ll be fucked.”

“Don’t think so?” Devin said, taking aim. “Just take another step and find out.”

Tony stopped running, turning around to see what was happing. He saw the gun and said, “What the fuck are you doing? Come on man. The cops are gonna throw us in jail. Let’s get out of here.”

“Just turn around and walk away,” Devin said to the jock. “We are going to leave and that’s that. Alright?”

The jock pondered for a moment, shook his head, spat in the grass, and then adjusted his hat.

“Sure. Whatever you say. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. I’ll catch your ass someday and you’ll be sorry this ever happened.”

“That’s fine by me,” Devin said. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe next time I’ll shoot you for real. Now get the fuck going before I do it right now.”

“Okay, okay. I’m going,” the jock said, turning and starting back toward the house where a large crowd was gathering on the lawn.

Devin started away, backpedaling, and watched as the jock went back to the house. When the jock was far enough away, Devin turned and ran across the street to his car with Tony close behind. They jumped in the car, a white, 1965 Camaro, and raced away from the scene, the 350 high output engine revving explosively down the road.

“Man, this is not good,” Tony said. “They’re going to call the cops.”

“They won’t catch us,” Devin said. “We’ll be ten miles away before the cops get here.”

Devin pulled out onto the highway and stepped hard on the throttle. The speedometer needle climbed past 100 miles per hour as they shot away into the night.

“Slow down,” Tony said. “You’ll get us killed.”

“Shut up!” Devin said, looking over at Tony. “I know what I’m doing.” He accidentally swerved into the opposite lane over a solid yellow line and into oncoming traffic while his attention was diverted from the road.

Suddenly, a minivan came around the corner and impact was imminent. The woman driving the minivan tried to swerve out of the way, her face an expression of terror and shock as she anticipated the impact. There were children in the minivan. Devin could see them. The headlights were bright. The sound of screeching tires was a prelude to a horrendous crash.

“Lookout!” Tony shouted.

“Holy shit!” Devin said, swerving to avoid the collision.

Both vehicles went into uncontrollable skids, crashed into each other with tremendous force, and then spun away like pinwheels. The Camaro smashed into a tree and the minivan flew off the embankment, slamming into the rocks below.

*****

Devin opened his eyes and looked around at the dark interior of the wrecked car. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. A ticking noise coming from the engine compartment and the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline brought the reality and horror of the accident back with a sudden impact. He moved and his leg throbbed with a sharp stabbing pain as he turned and looked at Tony.

“Tony…” he said. “You okay?”

He saw that Tony was knocked out cold. His breathing was labored and his chest heaved. There was a large gash on his face and blood bubbled from his lips.

“Tony. Wake up,” he said. “Come on man, wake up. Everything is going to be alright. Don’t you fucking die on me. It can’t end like this.”

Tony wasn’t dead, but he was very close to it. The blood bubbling from his mouth was proof of that.

“Shit,” Devin said. “Come on Tony, wake up. Oh fuck me man. I’m going to get some help.”

Devin pried the door open and crawled out onto the grassy hill. He staggered and fell climbing up the slippery embankment. He mounted the summit of the hill and stepped onto the road. He stumbled to the other side and looked down into the ravine where he could barely see the smoking wreckage of the minivan by the light of the moon.

His stomach lurched as he puked on the pavement. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and began to panic.

Looking both ways, he saw that the road was deserted and desolate, and dark. He reached in his pocket and took out his cell phone. He turned it on only to read: NO SERVICE.

“Shit,” he said, smashing it on the ground.

He started walking down the road, limping from a sharp stabbing pain in his leg. He would find help somewhere; the first house he came to would surely have a phone, he thought. After about a mile he grew faint, stumbled, and then passed out cold on the side of the road in the damp grass. Everything faded to black.

When he awoke sometime later, he couldn’t remember anything. So he got up and started walking, completely unaware of the automobile accident or even who he was.

*****

Devin was startled from the memory when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, snapping him back to reality. It was Mr. Clean.

“You going to be alright?” Mr. Clean asked.

“Holy shit!” Devin said. His memory came back with complete recollection, everything flooding back into his mind in an instant. “I’ve been in an accident. I may have killed someone.”

It was all coming back to him now. He must have suffered some sort of amnesia or something, he realized, because he couldn’t remember any of it until now. The accident he had viewed on the TV was real. He was the driver of the Camaro. Somehow he had survived the accident and made his way to this seedy bar; now he was drinking beer while people lay dying at the scene of the crime. The police, emergency crews, ambulances, and reporters were already there now so what could he do?

He had to do something; he had to own up to his responsibility. He looked around the bar, stood up and shouted at the top of his lungs: “There's been an accident down the road. People are hurt. I need a ride. Who can give me a ride?”

Nobody responded.

He couldn't believe this. This was an emergency situation and they were all ignoring him.

“Did you hear me? I said there’s been an accident and I need some help!”

The bartender came over and said, “Listen, you need to calm down. You're upsetting some of the customers.”

“What?” Devin said.

“Sit down and have another drink.”

“Didn't you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, I heard you,” the bartender said. “But did you hear me?”

Devin felt his temper flaring. This couldn't be happening. This had to be a dream. He was growing more hysterical with each thump of his heart. He ran toward the stage, turned toward the DJ station and grabbed the microphone. The DJ didn't try to stop him.

“Listen,” Devin said into the microphone. “Everybody listen. There has been an accident. I need someone to take me there so I can see if my friend is alright.”

The music stopped and the girl, Bobbie Blue, quit dancing. The room was silent for a moment and then everyone began to boo and hiss and throw beer bottles and ashtrays at Devin. The DJ snatched the microphone back.

“Everyone just calm down,” the DJ said in his monotonous announcer’s voice. “Never mind this idiot.”

Devin looked at the DJ in disbelief.

“Go sit down,” the DJ said into the microphone. “Nobody wants to hear about your problems.”

The crowd cheered.

Devin was speechless. He looked around, dumbfounded, in complete despair. This was insane, he thought. He turned and ran toward the door. It was locked and wouldn’t budge. He yanked on the doorknob until he realized it was hopeless and then he fell to his knees and began to sob hysterically. It was too much. He was breaking down. What had his life come to? He was sure this was a nightmare and he would wake up any moment screaming, safe at home in his bed. Please, oh please, he thought, let this all be a dream.

“We got a live one, folks,” the DJ said. The music began to play again; it was Lynyrd Skynyrd singing about a free bird. “You'll only find this kind of fun at the Dead Horse Saloon…”

Devin sat on the floor, his head spinning in circles as tears rolled down his cheeks. It was hopeless, he thought.

The bartender picked him up from the floor and led him to a stool at the bar. Devin resisted at first, but Mr. Clean assisted and together they sat him down on the barstool. The bartender put a bottle of beer in front of Devin and said, “Relax. Everything is going to be alright. Don't worry about it. There isn’t anything you can do now.”

“Let's get back to having some fun. What do you say?” the DJ announced.

The crowd cheered again.

Another pretty girl came out onto the stage and began dancing, taking off her clothes. The patrons went back to business as usual.

Devin didn't know what to do. He watched the girl dancing. It was like an LSD trip. His entire life flash before him at high speed. Images of people and places that he loved. He thought about the people involved in the accident. The lady and her children. Tony. They were probably all dead. He shook his head, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek. “What have I done?” he said to no one in particular. “Oh God, what have I done?”

“He can't help you now,” a voice said, bringing Devin out of his stupor.

“Huh? What?” Devin said, observing that it was the guy that looked like Charles Manson. “What did you say?”

“It's too late for that,” the man said.

“Too late for what?”

“Help from God. He can't help you now.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Devin said.

“Look,” the man said, pointing toward the window by the door, “out there.”

Devin swiveled around on his bar stool. He stood up and walked slowly to the window. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Outside, in the parking lot, standing like zombies, Devin recognized Tony and the woman and her two children. They were covered in blood and lacerations, flaps of skin and hair hanging askew. They looked in through the window, pointing accusingly at Devin. He could feel guilt swelling in his chest and throat.

“It can't be,” Devin said, putting his hand against the cold glass. “What are they doing out there?”

Suddenly, Tony began to glow with a bright white intensity, and then the woman and children started to glow as if they were illuminated by floodlights with millions of fireflies swarming around them. They changed to a translucent, vaporous, green hue, and their forms began to melt and merge, wavering, waxing and waning, like a candle flame in a gentle breeze. They swirled around, faster and faster, merging, becoming one and turning into a fantastic green glowing tornado, rising into the sky. Leaves and debris swirled around in the wake of the twister. It reached high into the night sky, illuminating the clouds.

Hurricane force winds emanated from the cyclone. The clouds overhead roiled and rumbled, lightning bolts licking the gaseous twister, snapping and crackling with electric intensity. A horrendous thunderclap shook the glass under Devin's hand, and then a tremendous flash like an exploding atomic bomb followed, blindingly bright. He put up his hands to block the piercing light, and closed his eyes.

“Oh my God,” Devin said.

When he opened his eyes, the parking lot was empty except for the swirling cyclone of debris that slowly settled back to the ground. It was dark again, and the streetlights seemed sinister now, like the glow from a haunted house jack-o'-lantern. It was silent in the room behind him. He stood motionless, staring out into the parking lot, afraid to turn around. He could feel all of the eyes in the bar on him; everybody in the room was watching. He felt the tiny hairs prickling along his spine.

The DJ broke the silence over the PA, saying, “Wow. Now that was quite a light show, wasn't it folks?”

Devin still didn't turn around. He was looking out into the parking lot where the cyclone had been. Terror filled his veins like ice water.

“It’s time to get back to business,” the DJ said, matter-of-factly. “Everybody give it up for Jessica Fox.”

The crowd applauded. Music blared through the speakers with Rob Zombie singing about a living dead girl.

“Did you guys see that?” Devin asked, turning around.

When he turned and looked at the customers in the bar he was filled with an absolute dread. The patrons of the bar had transformed. They were all pale and withered and crawling with maggots. The girl dancing on the stage was a corpse. She gyrated her hips, spun around and then did the splits. Her jaw fell off and landed on the floor. She rolled her fishy white eyes and quickly reached down and picked it up, snapping it back into place. The guy that looked like Charles Manson had changed into a demon, serpentine, with horns, and claws. He looked at Devin and laughed.

Devin swooned and almost fainted right then, but he managed to stagger to the bar.

“Welcome to the club,” the demon said. “You are our newest member.”

“What?” Devin said. “I don't want to be a member. I just want to go home. This can’t be real.”

“Oh, this is real,” the bartender said. “This is your home now. You are one of us. Forever. Nobody ever leaves the Dead Horse Saloon.”

Devin looked at the bartender. He was all festering sores and maggots. A beetle was crawling around in an empty eye socket.

“No. I am not.”

“Take a look for yourself,” the bartender said. He pointed to the mirror behind the bar.

Devin looked and was struck with overwhelming horror when he saw his reflection. He was staring into the eyes of a mangled corpse.

“No,” he said. “That's not me. No way.”

He turned and ran to the door, grabbed the handle and yanked hard. His bloody hands slipped from the brass knob. The door was locked and wouldn't budge. He pulled the doorknob with all of his might, pushing and kicking, beating his fist against the door. It was of no use. The door wouldn’t budge. He looked out the window and noticed that all of the vehicles parked in the lot were rusted and broken down from years of disuse. The lot itself was overgrown with weeds and spindly trees. The neon sign was no longer lit and now the marquee had the words: CLOSED FOR ETERNITY.