A Demon Call
A Demon Call
Charles manipulates the duo’s massive black car off of the back streets of Kingsport and into the gravel driveway of Abuela Betty’s Chophouse. Abuela Betty’s Chophouse, known locally as The Pink Bitch, was little more than a run-down diner flanked with big rig equipped gas pumps. Its fame came in the form of Abuela Betty herself, an old white woman of admittedly no Latin descent that wears gold lamé scenic muʻumuʻus and way too much purple eye shadow and silver glitter for a woman of her 70 years, or any age for that matter.
“Abuela Betty’s Chophouse,” Charles reads the name aloud questioningly, then the neon slogan, “Truck Stop Diner to the Stars.”
“You want a cupcake, you go to Sugar Plum Fairy’s in Arkham, you want a steak and bitter coffee, you go to Abuela Betty’s Chophouse.” The Professor says.
“Does that mean that we want a steak and bitter coffee?” Charles asks.
“Yes it does,” The Professor replies, as he answers his ringing cell phone.
Charles navigates the metal mass of a Lincoln between two colossal old rusted trucks.
“Yes Harry,” The professor answers into the phone.
“Kenneth called again,” The other end of the phone says. The voice is echoed and tinny as if in a chasm.
“What did you tell him this time?” The professor questions with flippant concern.
“What do you think I told him? I told him to fuck off!” Harry proclaims with frustration.
“Well, Harry, Kenneth is unstable but harmless. Keep him at bay. We’ll get around to him eventually.”
“I’m not sure about that, Professor. He seemed a little… off?” Harry says.
“Off? How so?”
“Well, he was calm. Normally he’s a hot mess, but this time he was, ya know, calm… like creepy calm. God, I hate that little shit. I know I’m trying not to kill anyone, but if I could kill someone, it’d be him.” Freddy answers.
“We’ve all agreed on this. There’s only one person we’re all willing to kill, Freddy.”
“Right, Professor. Christina.”
The two both chuckle a little at the mention of the name.
“Noted, but as I said, we’ll get to him eventually,” The Professor discards the topic, “but, for now, take the night off, all seems mellow enough.”
“Will do, Boss,” Harry hangs up the phone.
Harry sets his phone down on the nightstand of his room and stretches his arms up in a V while sitting on the edge of his bed. The room is spartan and the walls are concrete.
He stares at the wall for a second. Harry’s wearing shorts for sleeping and a thoroughly loved Led Zeppelin Houses of The Holy t-shirt. His arms and legs are smattered with poorly done, oddly spaced, illegible tattoos.
He stands up and grabs a towel from the loan shelf and walks to the door of the room. The door is massive and metal with a big wheel on the front that must be turned to open like a cold-war-era’s submarine. With little effort, Harry creaks the mass of metal open, revealing a long concrete hallway.
Sitting on the floor in the hallway is a monk. An almost black-skinned man with a shaved head in yellow Buddhist Shaolin style robes. He sits, calmly muttering a prayer over a shallow wooden bowl filled almost to the brim with water. As Harry steps from the room, the monk looks up and says, “Rise and shine it’s evening time, Freddy”.
“‘Sup Thelonious? Wanna take a walk and get some grub?” Freddy asks. “The Boss says we can take it easy, nothing on the docket.”
“Sure,” Thelonious says, getting up cautiously making sure not to disturb the water.
The two friends walk down the long concrete hallway, Freddy with a towel draped over his shoulder and Thelonious still carefully carrying the bowl.