Going Down to the Roadhouse

Reading about these girls, about the sickening, monotonous details of their deaths, has made me physically nauseous. I feel emotionally wrung out and empty, and need to get the fuck out of hear. I pull on my jeans and boots. I sling on my shoulder holster, more for the comfort than because I think I'll need it, and head out.

I slam the motel room door behind me and head towards the parking lot. The sun has set, and a cool breeze brushes against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. The details from the police reports and autopsies weigh heavily on my mind, and I need an escape, even if it's just temporary.

My senses pick up the sound of country music, its infectious beat calling out to me. I follow the sound, feeling drawn towards its source. As I approach the old building, the neon sign above it catches my eye, Rad's Roadhouse. My boots crunch across the gravel parking lot, past pickup trucks and muscle cars.

I step inside, the warm, smoky air hitting me like a wave. The smell of beer, sweat, and fried food mingles in the air, and the energy of the room is electric. People are gathered around the dance floor, some two-stepping to the music, while others lean against the bar, chatting and drinking. There's a pool table in the back.

I head towards the bar, taking in my surroundings. The walls are adorned with memorabilia, from signed guitars and photos of famous musicians to frying pans old signs and other antiques. A young bartender, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, smiles at me as I reach the end of the bar.b"What can I get you?" he asks, a genuine smile on his face.

"Something strong and make it fast," I reply, hoping to shake off the shadows of the last few hours. He doesn't hesitate, pouring me a shot of whiskey and setting it in front of me. I down it in one, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction. "Another, and a beer," I say to the bartender.

The bartender nods, pouring another shot and setting it on the counter. He slides over a glass of beer, giving me a knowing look. "You from around here?" I drop the shot glass into the beer and take a sip of the boilermaker as it threatens to foam over the rim of the glass. The bartender raises an eyebrow.

"Just passing through," I reply, dropping the shot into the beer. The bubbles fizz around the whiskey as it mingles with the beer. I take a long pull, savoring the taste. I feel the familiar burn in my belly as the world seems a little less awful. "Anything weird going on in town? Any news of suicides at the college?"

I can't help but scold myself for bringing up the case, but the opportunity seems too good to pass up. Bartenders know things. The bartender's face contorts in confusion, then realization. "Oh, you mean the girls? The Ramos girl and the other ones. Yeah, there've been some rumors."

I nod, trying to hide my eagerness. "Do you know any details? Anyone got any theories?" He looks grim and earnest, and a little bit like the boy he must have once been. I feel a little guilty for opening up these wounds, and reflexively reach across the bar, placing my hand on his.

He shakes his head, reaching for the bottle of beer to refill it. "Not really. Everyone's just... shaken up, I guess. It's a sad situation. The Ramos girl uses to come in here and shoot pool with her friends. No one seems to know for sure what's going on."

I can sense the internal debate playing out as the bartender looks guiltily around the room, then leans in, whispering in my ear. "It's just gossip, mind," he warns. "But some folks say the girls had been dabbling in some dark arts. Raising spirits and all that." He wipes at the bar with a rag, as if trying to scour away the thought.

I can't help but shudder at the thought. It's a wild theory, but there are more things in heaven and hell than are dreamt of in a philosophy textbook. I lean back on my stool, taking another sip of my boilermaker. I appreciate the honesty, even if it doesn't give me much to go on.

I can't help but wonder if there's someone else in the crowd that might know more. I glance around the room, spotting an older man with a cowboy hat and a leather jacket, at a table. A college age girl plays pool alone in the back, balls clacking as she shoots. I finish my boilermaker and signal the bartender for another round.

There's an itch I need to scratch. More than one, actually, as I feel the familiar need from between my legs. As a half Succubus, what is called a Cambion, I have to feed on energy every bit as much as I need food. The energy of pleasure, passion and physical desire, to be exact. It's my cross to bear, I reckon.

Should I stay here and talk with this handsome bartender? Should I talk to the weathered cowboy in the corner? What about the girl playing pool. Maybe she was friends with Madison Ramos. I drop my shot into my beer and drink off the excess as I consider my next move.