Page 4 of Death is My BFF
She recognized their local food store on the screen, surrounded by police, and her heart rapidly thumped, but she didn’t know why.
The camera panned to a reporter, who announced a female cashier was shot and killed in an armed robbery. The male suspects were all in police custody. In an ironic twist, all four suspects were rushed to the hospital with life-threatening injuries that could only be explained as a mauling from some sort of large wild animal.
“Oh, my goodness,” her mother gasped, after the victim’s face appeared on the screen. “I know her! That’s Rachael Evans from down the street!”
“Christ, that’s awful,” her father said, his mouth gaping open.
“And to think, you and Faith were supposed to go shopping there today.”
I
DEATH
Present Day . . . Chicago, Illinois
Wisps of smoke dispersed as I manifested into the Pissing Cockroach. The place was just as low-rent as the name implied, a dingy biker bar with cigarette-stained pool tables and an unmistakable waif of urine in the air. Consumed by their cheap beer and full ashtrays, not a single cretin noticed my otherwise grand entrance.
I flagged down the young but hardened blond bartender with a raised gloved finger. Heavily applied makeup failed to conceal a nasty purple bruise swelling up the side of her face.
As Sugar—or so her name tag proclaimed—drew nearer, her anxious eyes clouded over and desire engulfed her body. Her mouth curved into a sultry smile as she drank me in.
“Hey there, stranger.” She leaned forward, bracing herself on the worn bar rail. “What’s your poison?”
“Whiskey, neat,” I answered, indifferent to her advances. My attention was elsewhere, on the group of angry-looking bikers glaring from the opposite end of the bar.
“Sexy accent,” she drawled. “Where ya in from?”
“Hell, and it’s better than this place.” I tapped the naked cocktail napkin in front of me. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Aren’t you the sweet talker.”
As she turned to make my drink, a rather large biker rose from his stool and lumbered toward me.
I checked my watch. Five minutes.
“Are you flirting with my girl?” the enormous man bellowed.
“Earl, you think everyone’s flirting with me,” Sugar interjected with a nervous laugh, sliding my whiskey toward me. “He’s not hurting anyone. Let him have his drink and be on his way.”
“Stay out of this, Sugar, or you’ll get more of what you got last night,” Big Earl snarled.
Sugar cowered back a step, subconsciously touching her swollen cheek. Leather creaked as my fingers curled tight.
“Listen closely, you hooded freak,” snarled Big Earl, invading my personal space. “The last person who hit on my girl has yet to come out of his coma.”
His breath reeked, as if he’d dined on rotting animal carcass and washed it down with urine.
“What did you do?” I took a swig of my drink. “Breathe on him?”
A vein pulsed on Earl’s broad forehead. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
His posse of bikers detached their sorry asses from their seats to surround my stool.
Taking another pull of my drink, I set the glass down with a clink. “I’m Death.”
“I bet you’re dumb too.” Big Earl laughed. He leaned in over his giant stomach, “I SAID, WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE,FREAK?”
I snatched Big Earl around his throat with one gloved hand. His eyes bulged and his sausage fingers clutched helplessly at my forearm as my vise grip tightened.