Voodoo Children - A Bubba the Monster Hunter Short Story by John Hartness

Voodoo Children
    By John G. Hartness
    A Bubba the Monster Hunter Short Story
    Copyright 2011 John G. Hartness
    Smashwords Edition
     
     
    *****
    I rolled into town a couple hours before
sunset, the better to get the lay of the land. Of course, my idea
of getting the lay of the land pretty much meant pulling up in my
F-250 in front of the only titty bar in Columbia, Tennessee to see
what the afternoon shift looked like. I’ve always been able to
learn about a town by the level of talent working a pole at four in
the afternoon. If the saggy boobs and cottage cheese butt cheeks on
display at the Ride ‘Em Cowboy Saloon were any indication, Columbia
had seen its better days. To start with there were only about five
guys in there plus me. There was a bartender, a DJ who looked like
a meth addict on the tail end of three-month tweakfest, an old man
asleep with his face down on the bar, and two fat rednecks that
must have been what passed for successful businessmen in that part
of Tennessee. They had the red faces of the terminally drunk, more
chins than a Chinese phonebook, and the laugh of guys who expected
the whole room to laugh with them. I hated them on sight and
figured if I couldn’t get a decent lap dance I’d at least get a
good fight in before the sun set and the real ass whoopin’
started.
    I took up a seat at the end of the stage and
looked up at a bored girl with stringy bleach-blonde hair and
eight-inch clear lucite heels. She had tattoos covering her legs,
track marks covering her arms, and a g-string covering her crotch.
Otherwise she was naked as the day she was born and probably just
as skinny. She saw me sit down and threw me the half-smile that
says “yeah, it sucks, but we’re here together, so why not at least
stare at my tits for a while?” At least, that’s what I figured it
said, so I gave her a dollar and waved a hand at what passed for a
cocktail waitress. It didn’t surprise me that the cocktail waitress
was hotter than the stripper, that had made its way onto my
checklist of nasty strip club qualities some years back. She
jiggled her way over to me and I handed her a twenty.
    “ Gimme a pitcher of
Bud.”
    “ Gimme another twenty
bucks.”
    “ I don’t want a dance yet, I
just want some beer.”
    “ Pitcher’s thirty, jackass.”
I handed her another twenty and turned my attention back to the
stage. Blondie was standing in front of me staring down from her
stilts. I gave her another dollar and waved her off toward other
customers before I remembered there weren’t any other customers.
She clomped off up the runway to the pink shimmer curtain and I
heard the DJ announce that Brandy was coming up. He repeated
himself, and I heard a thump and a yelp from backstage, then a
sleepy black girl stumbled out onto the stage and started walking
around in a bit of a daze.
    My beer made it back about then, along with
ten dollars in singles for my change. I left one on the tray for
the waitress and motioned for her to sit. “Join me?”
    “ I can’t. Got
customers.”
    “ No you don’t.”
    “ You’re right. I don’t drink
beer.”
    “ And I ain’t paying whatever
they’re asking for better booze. So sit down and take a load off.
And help me beat the girls off with a stick.”
    She laughed at that and looked around. There
were two girls taking turns gyrating on the businessmen, and the
only other girl in sight was the sleepy Brandy, who’d obviously
been awakened backstage to come dance. “I’m Wendy,” she said as she
sat down and poured out two plastic cups full of watery beer.
    I downed my first cup in one long swallow,
then poured the cup full again. “You thirsty?”
    “ Kinda, why?”
    “ Then you keep the cups.” I
took a long pull off the pitcher and just held it. It keeps things
easier to just drink out of the pitcher most times for me. My hands
are too big for most normal cups, and I’m less likely to break a
pitcher without thinking about it.
    “ What brings you to