Blair's Tavern

From the perspective of Chase Cringle.

We arrived in Richmond, Kentucky. The sun was down, and rain pelted the semi. I eased the semi into a half-full parking lot with a few scattered light posts blessing the ambiance, as lightning streaked across the jet-black firmament above.

"We're here. Get out." Jeriah's damp, long golden hair jangled and bopped as he popped open the right door and hopped out of the cabin. His feet hit the gravel hard as thunder shook the ground. A squall swayed the tractor trailer from side to side.

We all raced to be the first one of the other three to enter the tavern. Jeriah won; He was faster than a jackrabbit on meth.

Inside Blair's Tavern was much like any other tavern, but more country and ruthless, yet laid back. Someone in the corner of the tavern picked hastily away at a banjo and whistled a tune that granted good spirits to the whole tavern. The ceiling lanterns hung low, and blood red glow-in-the-dark stars dotted the ceiling. A short, stout Japanese man slammed on his drums like a gambler banging a decommissioned slot machine.

Prying eyes drifted over the three of us. I smiled grimly all around as dense clouds of cigarette and marijuana smoke suffocated me. I chuckled as if I was a young teen boy walking into a strip club, completely mesmerized. Girls sat on the laps of men, kissing them and petting them affectionately. Aromas of Mexican and Chinese and Italian and homestyle country food all blended into an overwhelmingly delightful fragrance. All around were mason jars of moonshine and cherry shine and peach shine and vodka and whiskey and bourbon, as well as drugs of all kinds. I wasn't into hard drugs, but I was a friend of marijuana. An old-timer offered me a couple puffs from his massive, fat joint he was smoking, passing it around for everyone to hit, and I couldn't refuse him. I took a couple hits from the joint, then I handed the joint to another lucky lad.

I felt that a shot of whiskey or two would be appropriate, so I sat down on a stool and I glanced around, then I focused on the bartender as Jeriah and Milton sat on either side of me. It was then I realized I had no credits to pay for anything.

The bartender turned to me and said, "Drinks are free tonight. What trickles yer fancy?"

"Bourbon," I replied. "Flavored, if that's not too much to ask for."

The bartender chuckled and set down a whisky glass, then he gingerly poured the glass to the brim with bourbon. He then added a splash of orange cream soda. "Try that. It's a local favorite."

The mixed drink scorched my throat and left in my mouth a satisfying sickly sweet taste. The whole bar seemed to erupt into laughter, but I was only imagining things.

After I finished the mixed drink, I turned around to Jeriah who was smoking a joint, the same joint being passed around. I waved my hand through the smoke, then I turned to Milton chewing on his natural leaf tobacco. I sighed, glaring down into my glass, noticing a faint reflection of myself.

I was still damp, but I was beginning to feel warm as I sat on the bar stool. I looked around the bar, and I noticed a peculiar man in the background, lonely and unperturbed, sitting idle at a round hickory table on the far side of the room, his head slumped down and his black silky hair like a dark, shallow ocean with clear bottles of orange cream soda by the right of his head. I rushed to sit beside him.

As I sat down on a black metal folding chair, I tapped the guy's shoulder. He awoke with a startle, his eyes red and strained. "Hmm? Yeah? What time is it?" His black hair glistened in the lantern light.

"It's past nine o'clock. You look like you need a friend."

"Ha. I have friends. But most of them are dead."

"That's no good... Addicted to orange cream soda, I see?"

"How did you guess?" He feigned a chuckle. "It's my drug. Some people smoke weed, others smoke cigarettes, others get high from huffing paint, and others get high by running or cycling. Me? All I need to have a good time is drink one of these."

I was feeling a little whacky, and I thought out loud. "I doubt I could suffer the slanted eyes most of you Asians have."

"The happier I get, the less I see. I'm Brandon Vanity. What's your name?"

"Chase Cringle. Got any news for me?"

"Not much. Kentucky factory workers are emigrating to cities farther north like Cleveland, Pittsburgh and Chicago, but most of the farmers in the state are moving south and east. Blair's Tavern is prospering, for now, but, once the F.E.F. hikes the tax rates, Kelly will have no choice but to relocate. Richmond will become a ghost town if Kelly leaves. Oh well. I can't stay here, anyhow. It's best if I leave the next chance I get."

I implored, "Know anywhere I can get some diesel?"

"Not off the top of my head. How far are you looking to go?"

"California," I said nonchalantly.

"Holy crap. That's a bit far. Good luck getting there." Brandon laughed.

"Listen, I have two other guys with me, and we got a semi."

"You mean to say you made friends with Milton and Jeriah? Ha. Nice. Seriously, though. Why would you go all the way to California?"

"To get away. To experience something new."

"That's an adventure I'd be interested in. I need to get out of town. Can I hitch a ride with you?"

"Of course. We'll need water and food for the trip. Some candles would be great, and a lighter. And whatever else that may prove useful."

"Don't you know how to hustle?" Brandon asked as if I had never managed to live on my own.

"I'm a scavenger, a vagrant, and occasionally I'm a diplomat," I answered truthfully. "Also, I recently found out I'm a vampire with no recollection of my past."

"I'm basically Samurai Jack, without the ponytail."

"You own a katana? Can you sword fight?"

"A bit."

"Where's your sword?"

"In the back of the tavern. I work here."

I sweated and fanned myself with a menu to keep cool.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Not really. Let me spare you the trouble of ordering. Ms. Schaffer!" Brandon shouted over all the ruckus.

A slim young woman with snow white skin and dark freckles below her lime-green eyes wriggled her way through congested traffic of bikers in black leather. She erected herself before us, holding a flip notepad in her right hand and a fancy metallic pen in her left. "What do you want, Brandon?" Ms. Schaffer smacked her enticing watermelon flavored gum.

"Tell my friend here everything that's on the menu."

"Oh, boy. Here we go. There's spaghetti, there's breadsticks sprinkled with mozzarella cheese, there's buttery garlic bread, there's thin crust pepperoni pizza, there's spanish rice and seasoned beef wrapped in a traditional corn tortilla smothered in our special homemade salsa , there's nachos, there's tacos, there's heart-stopping fried chicken, there's green beans, there's mashed 'taters with or without the gravy, there's cornbread, there's mac n' cheese, there's bacon burgers, there's cheeseburgers, there's salted fries, there's stir fry, and, lastly, there's beef flavored ramen noodles and there's chicken flavored ramen noodles. We like to cover all our bases."

"How much is a taco?"

"20 credits."

"I don't have any credits."

Ms. Scaffer rolled her eyes. "Got anything to bargain for?"

"A single flathead screwdriver, out in my ride."

"You mean Milton's ride."

I blushed and conceded. "Yes."

"What's the condition of the flathead?"

"It has some wear. I'll throw in three cans of chicken broth."

"Deal."

I sprinted out of the tavern and through the soaked gravel parking lot to collect the goods for my trade that were in my backpack, then I ran back before slowing to a casual stroll back through the entrance of the tavern. I scuttled around a herd of brawny drunkards, trying not to to bump into them.

"Here's your goods," I told Ms. Schaffer, placing the goods onto the round table. She checked the screwdriver and the three cans of chicken broth, then carried them away.

Brandon tapped my shoulder and leaned in close.

"She'd sleep with ya, no money down," he said.

I coughed and blood rushed to my cheeks. "No thanks."

"I find her sickly appeasing." Brandon licked his lips.

"That's nice to know," I said, not surprised.

Brandon laughed. "You know, I got a girl pregnant when I was seventeen. Her name was Lindsey. She lost the baby at 10 weeks. I heard from one of her friends that she moved north a while back. I haven't had an actual girlfriend since we split."

"How did you survive all this?"

"I took this job. I had no choice. It was this, or take a FEF job. Hehe. You don't want to work for the FEF. They can work you to death for just 100 credits a day, in some places."

I was starting to feel drowsy, so I attempted to exit the conversation. "Hey, you know what? I'm going to order a free grape soda. Then I'm gonna find a place to sleep. Have a wonderful night."

"I'm ready to pass out anyway. I'll pack us some sandwiches and bottled water for the trip. Goodnight, mate."

I shoved the chair back under the table.

At the bar counter I ordered a glass of grape soda; I drank it minimally. With the grape soda halfway drunk, out of nowhere a taco plopped onto the bare counter surface before me. I scarfed the taco down in less than a minute.

I turned my head to inspect a man with short fiery red hair and an overhanging white cowboy hat, his bright blue eyes fixed on me. "Still hungry?" His voice was soft yet rigid.

I replied casually, "Always."

"Hehe. Ms. Scaffer! Get another taco for this fine young man."

Ms. Schaffer shouted back, "I'm on it!"

I winced. "You're the owner?"

"Sure am. Blair Kelly in the flesh."

"Wow. I didn't know who you were, but thanks for the taco. I appreciate it." I nodded toward Blair.

"I built this tavern on the belief of hospitality. Treat a brother and sister right, and they shall respond equally with gratitude. We don't keep sourpusses. I have a proposal for you. Either you take the job I assign you, or my employees will deal with you--harshly. Choose wisely."

"But this is my first time here," I answered.

"I don't give a rat's ass. Do you honestly believe a flathead and three cans of broth is worth even one taco?"

I shook my head. "No. I'll take the job."

"Good, good. Where ya' from?"

"I don't know. I woke up yesterday with no recollection of where I was."

"Had a wee bit too much moonshine, did ya'?"

Blair washed down a drought of whiskey from his tumbler, then he rubbed his red, dripping mustache with his red and white plaid cuffs. His skin was bright sanguine and his face was flustered, his eyes bulging.

"The Wolfeaters are coming south, the biker gang that poisoned Columbus's water supply." He spat while talking, unawares. "They'll probably stop in Covington tonight. Hell, they're probably already in Covington. This gang will pass through Richmond. It's highly likely they will stop by for a visit around noon tomorrow. My tavern attracts all kinds of people, particularly vampires."

"Why would the Wolfeaters stop in Covington?"

"Covington's a sanctuary for all southern vampires."

"So you're gonna do business with a bunch of evil vampire bikers?"

"Why not?"

He croaked and spat murky brown phlegm on the floor.

I didn't argue. I didn't care as much.

"Where's that taco?" I sighed in impatience.

"Right here," Ms. Scaffer replied. "Impatient much?" She dropped the taco down on the counter, and the shell broke in half.

"Sorry," I apologized to Ms. Scaffer. "I'm just so damn hungry today. Thank you kindly, ma'am. I appreciate your generosity." I tilted my head toward Ms. Schaffer.

"You're welcome," Ms. Scaffer replied, unimpressed.

Once Ms. Schaffer turned to return to her duties, Blair leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, almost laughing, "I'm firing her in the morning." He chuckled, grinning with content.

"Cool." I didn't really care what Blair did with his employees. "Can I eat now?"

"Sure. I'm not stopping you."

I began to effortlessly consume my second taco. Spicy dark taco sauce ran down my lips and chin, dripping onto the counter. I wiped the sauce with a single paper towel, folded it, and left it on the table. The crunchy taco with crisp lettuce, juicy tomatoes, black olives, and a dollop of sour cream was better than the first, it was gone in three bites. "My God. That's heavenly."

"Ms. Schaffer's taken a liking to you."

"She needs to market that sauce."

"Yeah, I suppose. Say, I saw you talking with Brandon. You're planning something, aren't you?"

"A drive across the country."

"Is that so? What are you driving in?"

"Milton's semi."

"Is that right? Well, now, you see, you owe me a favor. I already had a job in mind, but now I've changed my mind. I need you to deliver twenty 55 gallon steel drums filled with diesel to Denver. Brandon, Milton, and Jeriah will join you. You and your crew will each be rewarded with one gas card and two weeks free food here at Blair's Tavern upon your return. If any of you die along the way, one of you will get the cut that was owed to whoever died. After that, I don't care. Just get the job done. I'll know if the diesel has not been delivered."

I didn't like the prospect of hauling diesel to Denver, but I didn't complain. Sure, I'll help deliver diesel deep into the Vampyr Empire if that means I can get two weeks worth of tacos when I get back.

I checked the time on my wrist watch. Nine O'clock, my unofficial bedtime. I wasn't really tired, but I wasn't entertained either. And if I was bored then rest was the answer to my boredom.

"Uh, well, hey, Blair, I need to get some rest."

"Your eyes are on fire, kid."

"I'm sorry. I'm tired as hell. I woke up real early."

"Alright, son, you take care now. If I don't see you again, don't be bashful."

I went to find Jeriah and I asked him if there was a bed I could sleep in.

"Sleepy, already? You'll have to make do with the cab."

"Sorry. I usually like to stay up late, but not tonight. Don't bother me." I flicked my hand to wave bye.

"I didn't plan on bothering you anyway. Sweet dreams, Sherlock."

I jogged through the bleak rain and climbed into the cab, where I made a makeshift bed from the driver and passenger seats. I wrapped my burnt orange jacket tightly around my empty backpack to act as a pillow. After laying down, I gazed up at the night sky and saw nothing but raging torrents and ground shaking thunder, so I shut my lids.

Next thing I knew it was morning already, the air crisp and refreshing, the light of the sun piercing the passenger window and blinding my eyes. The rain was no more; the storm had retreated overnight, leaving behind a calm, cool atmosphere.

I descended the cabin's steps, absorbed by the stark aftermath of last night's storm. Tree limbs were strewn around the perimeter of the tavern, and, in the distance, a surreal pale blue sky with the bleeding light of dawn penetrating the gray wispy chaos of the gloomy storm receding eastward.

"Good morning, stranger! You look like a deer in the headlights." Brandon waved, greeted me. He wore a gothic maroon leather jacket, a tight-fitting black T-shirt, gothic maroon leather pants, and gothic maroon leather boots.

I was despondent. A trickle of sweat ran down my forehead. I didn't feel the best.

"You look like you took a plethora of steroids and gained twenty pounds in muscle."

"I feel sick," I answered.

Brandon reached a heavily scarred hand down to me. I accepted, and I regained my stance.

"Thanks," I said. "How did you get those scars?"

"I was burned a little bit in a house fire when I was a kid. Then, a few years later, my father slashed me with a ginsu knife. He's dead now. But, I must say, there's an aura about you… I know you're one of them. I see it in your eyes. I'm surprised no one else has found you out. You just promise me that I won't be your lunch."

"I promise I won't eat you or any of your friends."

"Do you really drink blood?" he asked, curious.

"I haven't drank any blood, yet. Let's take this conversation inside."

"A'ight."

We both sat in the same position as we did the night before along with Milton hastily chomping his natural leaf tobacco, sitting upon an aged, crude bar stool. I was eager for the chance to speak.

Brandon asked, "Chase, you really want to go to California? It's not like we can come back to Kentucky whenever we feel like."

"Why not?" I retorted.

"The desert will eat you alive and shit out your carcass. You think these hills are bad? Try a flat baking pan, shrubs and death scattered over the sands, no water for miles, ghost towns around every corner, a high risk of developing melanoma and asthma… it goes on and on. The Sonoran Desert is the hottest desert of all North America. Besides that, I heard there are ghouls roaming San Bernardino."

I spoke my mind. "The way you put it concerns me."

"Well, it should. I thank you for this opportunity to get out of town, but we should ride out right now."

"We can't fit four people in the cab," Milton muttered.

"Then two people will ride in the trailer and two people will ride in the cab. Brandon and I will ride in the cab," I declared.

Brandon hastily got up from the chair. "Let me get my things. I have a few outfits I can share. Oh, and those sandwiches! Turkey and ham with cheese, lettuce, and mayo!" Brandon darted to the back of the bar, into the employee section. He returned in seconds with two midnight-blue hefty duffel bags and a black-lacquered scabbard and a concealed steel katana strapped around his shoulder.

"That was fast."

"Yeah, well. I'm in a terrible rut. I don't know if you heard on the radio, but there's a band of vampires heading here. The Wolfeaters. They're a really big gang. Their leader was once my friend. The Wolfeaters travel. A lot. I stole ten gas cards from their leader a couple years back, before I started working at this tavern. I've been saving them ever since. Those gas cards are our ticket out of here."

"Right, right. What route can we take?"

"I've deduced that the best shot for us is to take US 25, then get back on I-75 North. From Lexington, we hit I-64 West."

"Where's Jeriah?" I asked Milton.

"Sleeping. Why?"

"Wake him."

I turned to Brandon. "Where's Ms. Schaffer?"

"Patty?"

"That's her name?"

"Shhh! Don't call her Patty. She's in the back."

"Go ask her if she wants to join us."

"Bro. The less people, the better."

"Alright. Then it's just me, you, Milton, and Jeriah."

"Wonderful. I'm stoked." Brandon grinned devilishly.

"The diesel's loaded in the trailer, right?" I asked.

"Oh yeah. I went ahead and packed the diesel drums with the help of Jeriah and Milton. It was no problem. Kidding--I nearly dropped a drum on my left foot while I was lifting one of those heavy bastards into the trailer."

Milton and Jeriah came through the employee quarters doorway, each armed with a coat and heavy, worn duffle bags. Jeriah's eyes rolled around, disoriented, as he stepped into the room. He smelled of marijuana, seemingly too high to speak, so Milton spoke for him. "Denver's chilly, so we'll all need a coat. We have extra coats fer' y'all. Yer' welcome."

Milton dug into the duffle bag slung over his left arm and retrieved two extra coats for me and Brandon. He then tossed Brandon and I each a coat.

"Is Jeriah gonna be okay?" I asked Milton. "He looks way too high."

"Sure, he's fine. He's just been smoking some of his homegrown weed. It stinks up the whole tavern. He'll come around as soon as we hit the road."

"Alright," I said as I helped carry the bags of necessities to the semi outside. " Time to roll."