Chapter 3 of Creepers my new novel. A Supernatural Thriller
CHAPTER 3
Fairy Dust
Beauford Strunk and his wife Rhonda where at it again, it seemed their spats always flamed out of control when there wasn’t something good on the TV: like Wheel of Fortune or Survivor.
Today’s war erupted shortly after Beauford realized his monthly disability check was already gone. Whenever they had money, drinking followed, which led to petty bickering.
Beauford shouted, “Damn it Rhonda, you telling me you went and spent my whole damn check already? It just come in the goddamn mail yesterday!”
Rhonda became brazen once she’d had few. She stood her ground defiantly, spoiling for a fight, tapping a staccato rhythm with fake red nails on her Maytag sized hips. “We got bills Beauford! Bills that are late; bills that have to be paid or the lights go out and the phone gets cut off.”
Beauford sat on his stained maroon Barko Lounger like an over fed seal, glaring up at her, his dirty size thirteen work boots looking like a pair of sinking tugboats. “Well it’s my money ain’t it? And I’m sick of you blowing my money without my permission!”
Rhonda fired back, “you’re a lazy fool! And I know bout you dipping your sticky fingers in my purse, you been doing it for years. Helping yourself to my tip money!”
Beauford didn’t bother denying it. “How do I know its tip money?” He shouted, “My Dad always said you dressed like a dolled up whore!” (Of course, the idea of anyone on the planet paying Rhonda for sex was ludicrous.)
“You can go piss on your Daddy’s grave. What ever happened to that twenty thousand he promised to leave us? The old coot croaked and left us to foot the funeral bill.”
“Hey! Don’t you talk about my departed Daddy like that! You better start showing some respect for the dead! Cause you’ll be joining him if you don’t shut the fuck up!” Beauford’s face flushed crimson as his temper flared.
Rhonda tipped her drink to her lips then frowned when she realized all that was left was sweet, pink ice. “I didn’t respect the bastard when he was still kicking, why should I respect him now that he’s in the ground where he belongs?” Rhonda slid her glass across the counter. She was about to mix herself another drink when Beauford suddenly tossed his half empty Pabst can in her direction. Smack, it struck her head broadside, denting her new perm and soaking the front of her lime green house dress with beer. “That’s for my Daddy you bitch! And I told you to get me a case of Budweiser . . . a case! Not a measly six-pack of this swamp water. You went and spent my last dime on that goddamn Slow Gin of yours . . . shit tastes like cough syrup. Goddamn Cherry NyQuil, that’s what it tastes like!”
Unhurt but rubbing the side of her head for effect, Rhonda plucked a pink ceramic poodle off the mantel and hurled it at Beauford never expecting to actually hit him. She knew the moment the pink pooch left her hand, that she’d made a terrible mistake, like lighting up a Virginia Slim next to a ruptured gas line. If she hadn’t drunk four Sloe-Gin-Fizzes before their supper of Hungry Man TV dinners, she might have nailed Beauford right between the eyes with the ceramic canine. But the pink poodle (given to them by his Aunt Ida) tumbled through the air like Mighty Dog and smashed against the wall of the trailer, a mere foot above Beauford’s bald head, showering him with shards of pink glass and silver flecks of glitter. Oddly it reminded her of Peter Pan’s ‘Fairy Dust’. “You ass hole! That hurt,” she lied, rubbing her damp, freshly permed head, hoping to justify her foolish act of aggression. For a second it seemed that the poodle really had turned to Fairy Dust, because Beauford lifted off his Barko’ Lounger as if defying the law of gravity. Then he came for her. He would have caught her too, if he hadn’t taken a header over the ironing board and landed face first in the pile of dirty laundry that lived on the floor next to Rhonda’s washer. He sprang up, as fast as a fat man could but momentarily got his feet tangled in a pair of Rhonda’s tent-sized bloomers. He kicked them off and scrambled after her, madder then a bear with bee up its nose.
Rhonda ran, a blur of lime green, red polyester and undulating cellulite, screaming like a doomed cheerleader in one of Beauford’s horror flicks.
Beauford stopped to holler, “I’m gonna kill you bitch! This time I’m really gonna kill you!” He continued his pursuit.
Rhonda flipped over a kitchen chair, slowing Beauford’s charge. She darted past him agile as a frightened cow. Snatching the cordless phone off the kitchen counter on her way, she ran into the bedroom, locked herself in and dialed 911.
“911 what’s your emergency?”
“He’s gonna kill me! My Husband’s gonna kill me!”
“What’s your address?”
“1515 Sandy Pines . . . in Leigh Acres!” Boom! Boom! Rhonda shrieked, “he’s . . ..”
Drunk as he was, it still only took Beauford two good kicks with his steel-toed boots to bust open the flimsy foam-cored door.
Rhonda tried to stuff her fat ass under the bed but he caught her by the ankle and dragged her out. Hysterical, she managed to kick free and roll to her feet. She fought back.
He punched and slapped.
She kicked and scratched. Red faced and tear streaked she screamed. “I called the . . ..” Whack!
Beauford’s right cross, caught Rhonda’s jaw, her head snapped back and she collapsed into a heap on the bed, out cold and silent. Fight over, by a knockout
His anger spent, Beauford stood shaking, sweating but victorious, he staggered back to the kitchen trying to catch his breath. His damp shirt pasted to him with sweat and spilt beer Popping open his last Pabst Blue Ribbon, Beauford plopped down on the sofa, panting like he’d run a marathon and dreading the imminent arrival of Sheriff Musser. “Shit why did she have to call the cops?” He couldn’t face the prospect of another thirty days in jail without beer or cigarettes. He lit up a Winston and sipped his beer as if they were the last ones he’d ever enjoy and tried to think. He had to come up with a plan, make up a story, maybe when Rhonda comes to she’ll . . . no, better split for a few days, till things cool off, maybe she’ll forget about the whole thing if . . .
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