Anaideia 14

The flash of midday sun blinded me as Randy opened the boot of his 98 Cadillac DeVille. I sat up in the trunk and noticed we were surrounded by a sea of desert and golden sands and open skies in every direction. It was a seven hour drive in total blackness. Randy recommended a cocktail of Ambien and Benadryl along with an oxygen mask and a jug of water to accompany me. As my eyes adjusted to this environment, I noticed that we were parked in front of a hastily cobbled together compound that resembled a shanty town. On one building scrolled above the entrance read “Candyland”.

“Welcome to my kingdom,” Randy told me as I climbed out of the back of the Cadillac. This couldn’t be real, I thought . This was hell.

We walked through the front entrance of the forward building and inside it was near total darkness except for the glowing red neon lights illuminating the displayed liquor bottles and a beat-up bar in front. Behind the bar was a large bartender with a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he wiped down a beer glass. “Let me introduce you to Burl,” Randy told me. Burl, the bartender, looked up and glared. “He doesn’t speak good English,” Randy explained, “so you’ll have to excuse his silence.”

“What the fuck is this place?” I ask him.

“Oh it’s nothing to worry about,” Randy assured me. “I have all my licenses in order. Health inspections usually clear.”

“That’s not what I asked…”

The lights suddenly brighten and a large-bossomed woman sauntered down the stairs and into the bar with her flowing silk robe and long legs. She towered over every man in her high heels and though she was easily 30 years my senior, I felt a bizarre attraction to her. “Good afternoon Randy,” she spoke in a slow and exaggerated southern accent. “Who’s this tall glass of water?”

Randy hemmed and hawed at her flattery. “Well I wouldn’t say he’s THAT tall,” he said, “he’s still three inches shorter than me. His name is James.”

“James,” the woman said, extending her hand to mine, “I’m Madam Joelle.”

I look to Randy. “Randy,” I said, “I know a whore house when I see one.”

“Will you shut your mouth?” he snapped. “This is a male fantasy house of ill-repute. Lots of distinguished gentlemen visit these illustrious halls every year. We provide a valuable service here and I will not have my business ventures besmirched by foul words.”

“Okay Randy,” I surrendered.

“Now,” he continued, “let me introduce you to the girls. Madam Joelle, please call the ladies front and center.”

The Madam clapped her hands and women came filing out from all corners. It was like an international buffet at an Oklahoman casino. There were Chinese ladies, Persian ladies, African ladies, Brazilian, Laotian, Norwegian, Russian, Mongolian, Argentinian, Japanese, Siamese, Arabian, and places left untold. “Ladies, allow me to introduce you to our newest employee, James,” the Madam announced.

The women looked confused.

“Let me guess, they don’t speak English either,” I say. Randy appeared shocked that I figured it out.

“Please be kind to James as you show him the ropes,” the Madam continued. She gave a faint mischievous smile. Then she clapped twice as if giving an order. “Now back to work ladies!”

“So what the fuck do you want me to do here Randy?” I ask.

“It’s nothing complicated,” he explained. “When male customers get a little rowdy you simply kick them out.”

“Like a bouncer?”

“There’s a little bit more to it. You see, sometimes the customers like to haggle down the price for our services. Of course, it’s quite reasonable to have questions and concerns. But our prices are set in stone. Most customers are perfectly happy with our terms. But when they continue to haggle, particularly after services are rendered, it is your responsibility to ‘take it out of their ass’, if you will.”

I swallowed hard. I didn’t like this arrangement at all. “Randy, what makes you think I could kick someone’s ass?”

“Oh don’t worry,” he assured me, “most men will find you quite reasonable when you carry a Louisville Slugger.”

I pissed myself a little. “Is that all I’ll be doing?” I ask.

“Just other odds and ends stuff. You may have to extract money from the girls from time to time.”

“Extract? You mean rough them up?”

Randy was offended. “Jesus James! What kind of place do you think this is?! Don’t rough them up! Just use some scare tactics, ya know?”

A Japanese woman interrupts and hands Randy a martini. He throws his arm around her and they go gallivanting up the stairs. I badly needed a drink so I go to Burl. “Miller High Life,” I tell him. He glared at me then grabbed a dirty ass glass, pulled a beer tap, and piss-looking liquid flows out. I was about to cry when the Madam throws her arm around me. “Howdy sailor,” she says, “come around here often?”

“No,” I say. I look in the opposite direction to hide my watery eyes. The Madam puts her finger under my chin and turns my head around. “Hey, don’t cry,” she says. “Things could always be worse. This could be a Turkish whore house. Don’t get me started on that!”

I wrap my arms around her and I loudly cry. “You poor angel,” the Madam whispers. She placed my head on her ample bosom and shushes me. “There there,” she says, “do you cry in arms of prostitutes often?”

“Yes.”

Meanwhile, a gang of roughians were playing high stakes poker at the other end of the bar. One of the players, already six sheets to the wind, slaps his cards on the table in an act of jubilation. “Blackjack fool!” he yelled. The player in front of him was irate and holding a large jackknife. “I ain’t takin this shit!” the angry player was yelling, “you’re a liar and a cheat!”

“I ain’t no cheat!

“You are too! Tell him Jim!”

Jim was the elder statesman of the table. His small grey eyes thoughtfully pondered the situation like a renowned sensei. In one hand he held a pipe. In the other he was stroking his long gangly white beard. “Now now Tom,” Jim said to the irate man, “we all agreed to abide by the rules of this table. Bill won this hand fair and square. If you can’t pay, I’m sure we can work out an arrangement…”

“I ain’t payin!” Tom protested. While wielding the knife, he grabs a whiskey bottle and guzzles it down. When he was finished, he smashed the bottle against the bar, leaving only the neck with jagged edges on the end. He then waved the two edged weapons around. “I’m leaving and if any son of a bitch tries to stop me, I’ll kill em!” he warned.

Jim laid the pipe down and placed a Smith and Wesson on the table. “Tom, you know we won’t stand for this riff raff,” the elder man warned.

Tom grabbed a prostitute, the African one, and placed the jackknife against her throat and began shouting like a rabid dog. “I can’t be stopped! I won’t be stopped!”

It occurred to me that I was getting paid to handle these situations. My eyes might’ve been tear-crusted and my pants soaked, but I felt that special element bestowed to few people which allows them to rise to the occasion. With few options available, I picked up an empty beer bottle and hurled it at Tom. By the grace of god, the bottle avoided the prostitute and nailed Tom square in the eye causing him to drop both knives while blood squirted out of his head. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled.

The prostitute ducked behind a nearby table and before Jim could get a shot off, Burl had a shotgun ready. The bartender fired and Tom’s head exploded into a million pieces, leaving bits of brain and blood scattered across the bar. The corpse collapsed limply and what remained of the skull splattered on the ground.

The seconds afterwards felt like hours before anyone uttered a word. “Get Karl!” the Madam ordered. Burl goes behind the bar and moments later a scrawny leprechaun-like man with rotted teeth and a flat-brimmed cowboy hat pops out. This thing called Karl approached Tom’s headless corpse and kneels down. “Gee golly!” he hollers. Then he looks at me and grins. “Time to earn our paychecks!” he says.

TO BE CONTINUED…