The Mask, Chapter 16
16.
Saturday, October 12th3:00 AM
The strange feeling of being watched swept over Conroy again on his final round through The Golden Kitty, making sure all doors were locked, the cash-box secured, and the lights turned off in the restrooms, the girl's changing room, and the upper office. He tugged on the door to the backroom where the booze was stored, found it locked solid, and turned to look out into the empty club.
It had been a slow night. On a superficial level, that might seem like a good thing. Fewer customers jonesing for lap-dances and private one on one sessions meant less trouble. That had certainly been the case tonight. No one had gotten grabby or complained, which meant an easy night for the girls and the bouncers.
And revenue wasn't a concern. The club went through its highs and lows, and it always ended up in the black, eventually. No, something less tangible had bothered Conroy all night. A feeling in the air. A dampening presence, for lack of a better term, which brought with it a cloying sense of unease. It was the same thing he'd felt in the parking lot the other night, only more subtle.
The patrons had sensed it - buying very few drinks, and acting uninterested in lap dances or private sessions - and Conroy could tell the girls had sensed it, also. Usually energetic and maybe sometimes overzealous in their endeavors, they'd acted lethargic and nervous all night long. Their hearts clearly hadn't been in their lackluster performances. Which, of course, hadn't encouraged the patrons any, either.
For some reason, Conroy felt good that Julie had asked for the night off. She'd seemed the most affected by those masked weirdos who'd tried to gang-rush the club a few nights ago, and he didn't like seeing her so uncomfortable and on edge. He didn't know too much about her past (he'd never really asked) but he knew her sobriety was only about a year old. He'd hate to see her relapse.
Which, of course, only brought up the conflict he felt whenever he thought about Julie. He knew firsthand how hard it was to maintain his own sobriety surrounded by booze almost nightly. However, as a bouncer, he simply had to be clear headed as part of the job. Made it easier for him to build walls.
Julie, on the other hand - like a lot of the girls still did at The Kitty - used to get buzzed before hitting the stage as a matter of course. They called a shot of their favorite liquor before their first dance "go juice." For Julie to stay sober, she had to abstain from something all the other girls did every night as part of their routine.
She had to get out of here. If she wanted a chance at staying sober and living a normal life, she had to leave The Golden Kitty and stop stripping.
Which meant he wouldn't be able to see her, anymore.
He snorted. He was ten years older than Julie, at the very least. No way she'd be interested in a grizzled old horse like him, and besides. He wasn't going down that road again with one the girls at The Kitty. Even with both of them sober, and at better places in their lives. He'd drawn a line in the sand regarding that, one he wasn't willing to cross.
He shook his head stepped forward to turn out the lights, head out back, and lock up for the night.
Something scraped quietly behind him.
A shoe on the floor.
Conroy spun, throwing his hands up, balled into fists...leaving his gut completely unprotected from the metal shaft thrust at him. The shaft's jagged end punched into his stomach with a force which didn't seem human, tearing through muscle and ribs, ripping through his back muscles, and out his back.
He doubled over with a gurgling gasp. Hands clutching futilely at the blood-slicked metal. Slipping off, unable to gain any grip.
It wouldn't have mattered if he could've gotten a grip. He couldn't straighten, his torn and ruined insides twisted up and around the metal shaft. Strength left his legs, and he sank to his knees.
He looked down at the shaft blearily, drooling blood. Looked like an old road sign post. They always got knocked down and sheared off by snowplows in the winter. Plenty of them laying around. But who would...
A spasm rippled through him. He coughed up a clot of blood, and gasped in pain. Slowly he raised his head to look at who had done this, though his view titled as he listed slowly to one side as he crumpled to the floor, hands still fluttering uselessly around the metal signpost jammed into his guts.
He saw them, each standing about five feet away. More freaks in masks, the same masks as the other night. Instinctively, he knew they hadn't wanted to touch him, for some reason. Couldn't touch him. That's why one of them had used a shorn road sign post. They couldn't touch him, because...
The crosses.
His cross tattoos.
Sure, his dying brain thought, as his eyelids fluttered. That made sense. He didn't know what those fucking things were...but they were evil. He knew that. And evil things wouldn't be able to touch the cross of the Savior. No way in hell. He actually chuckled a little at that. Which forced more blood up his throat and out his mouth, and sent another icy wave of pain crashing through him. But this one felt more distant, which probably meant he wasn't long for this world, and that was good, so he wouldn't feel anymore pain...
Something wet splashed on his face, and ran into his eyes. Something which burned. He recognized the smell, because it was similar to the one he smelled mowing the lawn all summer, and at the stock car races at Five Mile Speedway...
"No," he croaked through blood-slicked lips as he felt more kerosene being poured on him, all over. "No, p..please...puh..."
The fumes made him choke and gag. He tried to roll over onto his back, and when the road sign post caught against the floor and tore against his guts even more, he cried out in pain, finally.
He'd gotten a glimpse, though. Of a burning match thrown at him. It lit in the vapors wafting before his face, and the world exploded into heat and light, and mind-scrambling pain as the kerosene-soaked skin on his cheeks and forehead exploded.
For a moment - the briefest of moments, which felt like an eternity - he felt his skin bubble, crackle, and ooze off his face. Something happened, however - a blessed coolness spreading over him - and he fell into a darkness which comforted and eased, and did not terrify. His final thought before moving on from this world to the next was that, if God were merciful, the entire club would go up in flames, so Julie could have that chance at a normal she deserved.
Saturday, October 12th3:00 AM
The strange feeling of being watched swept over Conroy again on his final round through The Golden Kitty, making sure all doors were locked, the cash-box secured, and the lights turned off in the restrooms, the girl's changing room, and the upper office. He tugged on the door to the backroom where the booze was stored, found it locked solid, and turned to look out into the empty club.
It had been a slow night. On a superficial level, that might seem like a good thing. Fewer customers jonesing for lap-dances and private one on one sessions meant less trouble. That had certainly been the case tonight. No one had gotten grabby or complained, which meant an easy night for the girls and the bouncers.
And revenue wasn't a concern. The club went through its highs and lows, and it always ended up in the black, eventually. No, something less tangible had bothered Conroy all night. A feeling in the air. A dampening presence, for lack of a better term, which brought with it a cloying sense of unease. It was the same thing he'd felt in the parking lot the other night, only more subtle.
The patrons had sensed it - buying very few drinks, and acting uninterested in lap dances or private sessions - and Conroy could tell the girls had sensed it, also. Usually energetic and maybe sometimes overzealous in their endeavors, they'd acted lethargic and nervous all night long. Their hearts clearly hadn't been in their lackluster performances. Which, of course, hadn't encouraged the patrons any, either.
For some reason, Conroy felt good that Julie had asked for the night off. She'd seemed the most affected by those masked weirdos who'd tried to gang-rush the club a few nights ago, and he didn't like seeing her so uncomfortable and on edge. He didn't know too much about her past (he'd never really asked) but he knew her sobriety was only about a year old. He'd hate to see her relapse.
Which, of course, only brought up the conflict he felt whenever he thought about Julie. He knew firsthand how hard it was to maintain his own sobriety surrounded by booze almost nightly. However, as a bouncer, he simply had to be clear headed as part of the job. Made it easier for him to build walls.
Julie, on the other hand - like a lot of the girls still did at The Kitty - used to get buzzed before hitting the stage as a matter of course. They called a shot of their favorite liquor before their first dance "go juice." For Julie to stay sober, she had to abstain from something all the other girls did every night as part of their routine.
She had to get out of here. If she wanted a chance at staying sober and living a normal life, she had to leave The Golden Kitty and stop stripping.
Which meant he wouldn't be able to see her, anymore.
He snorted. He was ten years older than Julie, at the very least. No way she'd be interested in a grizzled old horse like him, and besides. He wasn't going down that road again with one the girls at The Kitty. Even with both of them sober, and at better places in their lives. He'd drawn a line in the sand regarding that, one he wasn't willing to cross.
He shook his head stepped forward to turn out the lights, head out back, and lock up for the night.
Something scraped quietly behind him.
A shoe on the floor.
Conroy spun, throwing his hands up, balled into fists...leaving his gut completely unprotected from the metal shaft thrust at him. The shaft's jagged end punched into his stomach with a force which didn't seem human, tearing through muscle and ribs, ripping through his back muscles, and out his back.
He doubled over with a gurgling gasp. Hands clutching futilely at the blood-slicked metal. Slipping off, unable to gain any grip.
It wouldn't have mattered if he could've gotten a grip. He couldn't straighten, his torn and ruined insides twisted up and around the metal shaft. Strength left his legs, and he sank to his knees.
He looked down at the shaft blearily, drooling blood. Looked like an old road sign post. They always got knocked down and sheared off by snowplows in the winter. Plenty of them laying around. But who would...
A spasm rippled through him. He coughed up a clot of blood, and gasped in pain. Slowly he raised his head to look at who had done this, though his view titled as he listed slowly to one side as he crumpled to the floor, hands still fluttering uselessly around the metal signpost jammed into his guts.
He saw them, each standing about five feet away. More freaks in masks, the same masks as the other night. Instinctively, he knew they hadn't wanted to touch him, for some reason. Couldn't touch him. That's why one of them had used a shorn road sign post. They couldn't touch him, because...
The crosses.
His cross tattoos.
Sure, his dying brain thought, as his eyelids fluttered. That made sense. He didn't know what those fucking things were...but they were evil. He knew that. And evil things wouldn't be able to touch the cross of the Savior. No way in hell. He actually chuckled a little at that. Which forced more blood up his throat and out his mouth, and sent another icy wave of pain crashing through him. But this one felt more distant, which probably meant he wasn't long for this world, and that was good, so he wouldn't feel anymore pain...
Something wet splashed on his face, and ran into his eyes. Something which burned. He recognized the smell, because it was similar to the one he smelled mowing the lawn all summer, and at the stock car races at Five Mile Speedway...
"No," he croaked through blood-slicked lips as he felt more kerosene being poured on him, all over. "No, p..please...puh..."
The fumes made him choke and gag. He tried to roll over onto his back, and when the road sign post caught against the floor and tore against his guts even more, he cried out in pain, finally.
He'd gotten a glimpse, though. Of a burning match thrown at him. It lit in the vapors wafting before his face, and the world exploded into heat and light, and mind-scrambling pain as the kerosene-soaked skin on his cheeks and forehead exploded.
For a moment - the briefest of moments, which felt like an eternity - he felt his skin bubble, crackle, and ooze off his face. Something happened, however - a blessed coolness spreading over him - and he fell into a darkness which comforted and eased, and did not terrify. His final thought before moving on from this world to the next was that, if God were merciful, the entire club would go up in flames, so Julie could have that chance at a normal she deserved.
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