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| Truffle Hunting |
by: Wade 'Oorag' Sands |
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She saw him when he walked in, all sinew, hair, and male attitude. He cut his way forcefully through the crowd, flinging bare-chested moshers aside with seething indifference, like a gypsy brushing through a bead doorway. She watched him and reminded herself why she rarely went to these places anymore. "Check this one out," her companion said, leaning toward her and pointing to the warthog on two legs. "I see him Trace," she answered. Her eyes widened. "You're not actually gonna-"
Her companion smirked and shrugged. "I like his vibe."
"Tracey! The guy's got rabies!" She snorted in disgust.
"Exactly. It's like the song, baby. Tonight, I wanna be fucked like an animal. Boo-bah doo boo doo-bah! Inside-out."
Tracey smirked, twisting her face into a mass of pierced tissue. "It's you're life, Miss Extreme. Go for it."
"I will. Oh, Linn, how's my hair?"
"Still green."
Tracey's eyes lit up elfishly as she drew away from the counter, her head bobbing side to side, like a boxer gearing up to jump into the ring. She handed Linn her lit cigarette and set out.
"Don't wait up for me."
"Oh, don't worry about me, I'll be fine." Linn rolled her eyes and took a drag from her friend's butt, watching her advance on the man-boar. He looked over as she sidled up to him, taking her in with one, elevating glance. She smiled and said something obviously obscene, which the blistering speed metal pervading the place thankfully shielded from Linn. His piggish eyes watched her, oddly detached as she pressed herself close to him, grinning and posturing. Anything but a corpse could pick up those signals, but the man seemed like he was watching a seal do a trick. He grinned with amusement, the flash of yellow visible even from where Linn observed. He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her close to him. His head dipped in, and from where Linn stood, seemed to sniff at her.
Linn pushed away from the bar, trying to get a better view. She didn't like the way this courting freak show was unfolding, especially the way that hairy degenerate was acting. His hands were gliding along the plastic smoothness of Tracey's meager vinyl outfit, mechanically tracing her muscular curves as if by rote. In stark contrast, his eyes drank her in with a burning hunger.
She was about to do something, shout, run over there, something, when she must have caught the man's eye. Snapping his attention from Tracey, he glanced over to her. Linn couldn't help but take a step back as his raw hunger was shifted onto her full force. In that brief moment, as he saw her, it seemed to double. She turned away and took another drag of her cigarette, aggressively minding her own business.
The man did not stop staring at her. Despite Tracey's repeated efforts his eyes lingered on Linn. Finally, with a casual backhand gesture he brushed Tracey's face aside with enough force to send her hurtling into the torrential mosh pit that raged a few yards away. She barely had enough time to squeak in surprise as she was swept up in the storm of limbs and leather and vanished.
He was beside Linn in a heartbeat.
"Greetings, my lady," he whispered, his voice surprisingly smooth and greasy for such a pug-ugly face.
Her hand was in his. He bent and pressed cold, dry lips to it, lingering there for a moment before rising.
She gaped at him. "What the fuck was that?"
"A kiss, little tulip. My name is Locke. What is yours?" Their eyes were level and his nose almost touched hers, he was so close. There was an icy coldness to him, but he seemed to be on fire. She couldn't turn away, no matter how much he terrified her.
She rallied, not letting the creep get the best of her. She shook her head slightly and spat, "No! What you just did to my friend! What kind of no-prick asshole are you?"
He chuckled, a greasy little hiccup. "Yes, a fiery one. I smell that in you. Come." With that he gripped her wrist and turned to drag her away.
"Hey! Get the fuck off me! Leave me alone!" She yelled. "Let go!" With her free hand she launched a barrage into his exposed kidney, but she might as well have been punching a bag of sand for all the effect it had on him.
Locke began to cut a path to the door, dragging her behind him with insulting ease. Panic-stricken now, Linn finally bit back her pride and succumbed to her last resort. She threw back her head and screamed against the soundtrack. "Help! Somebody help me! Please!"
Few people were paying attention, fewer cared, and no one seemed to feel the need to do anything. Linn's eyes darted desperately across the crowd as she was hauled towards the looming night outside. An entire building full of violence-drenched males and not one was going to help her?
Finally, a figure stepped out from the masses and blocked Locke's path. To Linn's surprise it was a woman, little older than a girl. She looked even shorter than Locke, thought it was hard to tell. The flashing club lights made her image difficult to focus on, seeming to expand and contract like the tides. Despite this her presence was solid enough to stop Locke dead in his tracks.
"Stand aside, Grace," he hissed.
Linn pulled at her hand with all her might, throwing herself backwards in vain attempts to wrench herself free in Locke's distraction. "Get this guy off me!" she pleaded.
The woman slowly removed her sunglasses and aimed a scolding glare at Locke. Her eyes looked solid black. "I see you've rooted out a prize, Locke. You should know better."
Locke seethed with violent outrage, squeezing Linn's wrist so hard she cried out in pain. "This one is mine," he stated with such force Linn could barely believe the slight woman remained standing.
"She is not yours to have. Release her," Grace replied smoothly.
Locke's rage altered at this. Linn could see that he was smirking now, and he chuckled, that oily, horrible sound.
"Do you challenge me over her, then? You? Challenge me?"
Grace did not see the humor. "I do."
"Very well!" With no further warning Locke hurled Linn aside, her feet leaving the ground as she soared right into the hard edge of the bar counter. The wind was knocked out of her as she collapsed into a jumbled pile of bruises and overturned stools beneath the bar. Grace and Locke were instantly launched into a deadly brawl, though it seemed more like a war of dreams. Volleys of fists and feet cascaded down on each combatant with such speed that they seemed to be transparent. Two ghost images, flickering and shifting too fast for the eye to see, raged within a sea of maddened slam-dancers that writhed in slow motion. The brutality of the combat, however, was very real. Moshers too far gone into their revelry to notice the melee at times wandered into the struggle. They were smashed and thrown aside like they had stepped before a train, trampled underfoot by the hysterical and uncaring horde. Linn could do nothing but watch in terrified awe.
Locke howled with victory as his club-like arms battered Grace to the ground. Her small frame could not withstand the primal assault that Locke unleashed. She crashed to the floor, and with her, all of Linn's hope. Her body lay still and almost invisible in the shadows of the floor.
Locke observed her there for a split moment, nodding once to himself for a job well deserved and accomplished. Then, with even heightened voraciousness, he turned to collect Linn, still sitting, weakened, confused, and despairing, where she had landed.
"…fucking bastard," she sobbed as she held out a black stun-gun. Blue lightning buzzed between the electrodes warningly.
"There's the spice I crave," Locke cackled, now in quite good malicious humor. "Careful now, I might just come back to life and throw you into a pond!" Looking none the worse for wear after his recent engagement, he bent to scoop Linn into his apish arms, hiccupping like a clogged toilet. "Never cared for stew…"
Linn stabbed the stun gun towards him as he approached, but her awkward position left her no reach. It brushed off his jacket pathetically. Locke suddenly jerked and grunted in pain. Linn cowered back in fear of retribution, but Locke's eyes were not focused on her. He rose up and slowly swiveled around with a throaty growl. Grace stood again, poised at a quarter-turn and holding a collapsible steel pipe loosely in her hand. She showed absolutely no sign of having been beaten to the ground only a few moments before.
"Look mommy: I've got a stick!" Locke scoffed.
"It's not a stick," Grace replied, "see?" The metal cylinder whined as it cut through the air, slashing Locke's forehead and throwing him over the bar.
Locke was up in a fraction of a second. "I stand corrected." He looked about him, realizing his poor position. His arm blurred, taking up a half-filled beer bottle from the counter and hurling it at his adversary. He pounced over the bar as the projectile was still in flight. Grace turned slightly and lashed out her empty hand, catching the flying bottle daintily by the neck without spilling a drop.
Locke was unfazed. Raising a barstool like a battle standard, he charged forward roaring with animal ferocity. Grace speared forward and smashed the bottle over the top of his head, soaking his hair and face with pale yellow liquor. He didn't seem to notice, bringing down the heavy barstool onto his nimble opponent with savage focus. Grace ducked low flicked her club upwards, colliding with the stool and absorbing its force. The stool exploded in a shower of shattered wood fragments. Such was Locke's strength that her own club was ripped from her grasp by the impact, joining the fragments somewhere on the floor.
Locke drew back with surprise. As one they noted the sharp, wooden spike still clutched in his meaty hand. His eyes darted back to Grace. "One blow to go," he whispered.
Her black eyes widened fractionally. "You wouldn't dare," she sneered.
Locke shook his head. "You don't know me very well." With that, he lunged, wooden fang darting. Grace's image slid sideways, smearing through reality like oil on a canvas. The sharp wooden point sliced through insubstantial darkness where her heart had been, pitching Locke forward as he tried to catch up with his overextended attack.
Grace calmly stood beside him as he rushed past. With a matador's grace and flourish, she stabbed her elbow into the back of Locke's neck, cracking it horribly. He stumbled and collapsed, without a further sound.
"Olé!" she couldn't help but giggle. Looking down on Locke's prone body, her jaw tightened. "You forgot, Locke: Once for certainty..." She kicked him savagely and he rolled into a feeble ball. "Twice for cruelty." Her boot tip buried itself again into Locke's huddled form, but he did not react. She stood straight again and carefully arranged her clothing. With elegance belying her situation, she carefully stepped around the broken shards of wood and glass as she made her way back to the bar. There she stood over Linn, still huddled beneath the bar. "It's over. You can get up now." She held out her delicate hand. Dainty Linn took it and shakily hauled herself to her feet. "How... how did you do all that? You were..." Grace smiled and brushed it aside. "Just because I am a woman does not mean I am weak. Besides, you're in shock, it only seems like-"
Overcome by a myriad of conflicting emotions, Linn hurled herself at her savior, clinging to her with frantic need. "Thank you! Just... thank you!" she managed.
Grace returned her embrace comfortingly. "There, there..." Grace cooed.
They stayed that way, clasped to each other, for what seemed like ages. Linn's head resting on Grace's shoulder as her hair was stroked soothingly. She sighed peacefully as she clung to Grace's firm, lithe body. Her hands slowly slid down Grace's elegant, sloping curves as the pulse began to pound in her head once more. Grace's hands began to gently trace her own body over the thin fabric of her skirt. Cool lips slid across Linn's feverish cheek, and down her neck. She gasped suddenly as pleasure beyond any she had experienced flooded her senses. Her body intertwined with Grace's, bliss and rapture surging through her body; she experienced ecstasy before her world faded away into dark tranquillity.
Grace held the girl's pale, limp body in her arms for a while, licking the last drops from her lips. "That was glorious," she sighed.
"You're a glutton!" Locke's voice shot out from over her shoulder.
"No, I am a brewmistress extraordinaire," she countered. "You should have tasted it: anger, terror, confusion, peace, lust, joy... everything, just chasing each other around. Mmmm..." She shut her eyes and enjoyed the sensation, smacking her lips judiciously. "Lingered too long on the fear, but she took to the rage quite nicely. Quality."
"She was mine," Locke insisted, but soon realized the futility of it. "Though, I can pick them."
"Yes you can, packbrother." Grace opened her eyes and looked again at the girl. "Quite a fine receptacle. My thanks for giving her up so easily."
Locke snorted. "Lucky shot. Next time I may try to stake you for real."
Grace shrugged. "Next time your hair is soaked with beer I may toss this lighter on it."
"You wouldn't!"
"'You don't know me very well,'" she coolly quoted.
Locke couldn't say anything to that. Grace let the corpse slide from her arms into a heap at their feet. No one near them seemed to care, and they cared even less for that fact. "Well," Grace sighed, "Zvi gave us an hour to be fed and ready for the invasion. We don't have much time left. We'll pick up something for you on the way back, eh?"
Locke grimaced in disgust. Grace gave a silver peel of laughter at his expression. She patted his cheek affectionately. "Oh, don't pout. There will be plenty to choose from and I'll do a quick little number on them. Then after the invasion, we'll go out and see if we can't find us a splendid little truffle just for you. Agreed?"
Locke rolled his eyes as he began to walk out, brushing the crowd away from his and Grace's path, but Grace wouldn't stop looking hopefully at him as guilt began to gnaw her.
"Very well," he finally relented as he opened to door for her.
"Good boy." Grace smiled ear to ear as she walked out into the cool night air, warmed inside by the delicious concoction of her own creation. |
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