left alone for a while. To find some peace before he faced his fate.
He’d had enough of watching Thomas and Saint live out their bliss with their significant
others—he didn’t want to sign any autographs and he damn sure didn’t feel the need
to kiss the cold, dead ass of some old-world, sissified vampires to be forgiven for
his conduct or allowed a quick end.
Hell, he was in a dark mood.
Mac pounded his glass on the bar once to let the bartender know it needed to be refilled.
He hadn’t been this maudlin since the decade after he was made.
High-pitched feedback from a microphone on the small stage made him flinch and grit
his teeth. He was too old for this shit. He would go out into the desert at dawn and
be done with the whole bloody thing, but that was a coward’s path. Mac was many things,
but he had never been called a coward. He was just…what had Thomas called him?
Grumpy.
Hunkering down at the bar and attempting to appear as forbidding as possible, he tried
to ignore the chipper, female twang that now echoed through the bar. The speaker smelled
of canned peaches and Ivory soap. A perky scent for a perky voice.
“Welcome to the first annual Belly Up Jam,” she started, before whooping and causing
the microphone to screech again. “Yippee! Oops. Sorry everybody.”
No one responded, enthusiastically or otherwise, and after a moment he could hear
the shuffling of papers as she continued, “I can see a lot of people got last minute
jitters and decided not to come in spite of all the flyers and hard work everyone
put it. Well, shame on them. But the show must go on, right? Besides, I just have
a really good feeling that they’ll be pouring in to enter before the contest is over.
Maybe after the diner closes down for the night. This is an opportunity to represent
our town, after all. And to win money for our school, which everybody knows could
sure use some fixing up after that fire.”
Mac’s curiosity got the better of him and he turned on his barstool to look around
the room. Including the man whose camera now contributed to the sawdust already coating
the floor, there were six people—the skeletal bartender, dressed in a tattered leather
vest and sporting a long, bushy beard; the short, plump woman with the dimpled smile
currently at the microphone; and four other patrons besides himself. None of them
looked as though they were here for a contest.
The woman continued, undeterred. “For those of you who are new here, I’m Jolene. Named
after a popular song made famous by the irrepressible Miss Dolly Parton.” She did
an impromptu curtsy before moving on. “My husband there, behind the bar, is Hobie.
We own this little slice of heaven you’re sitting in, The Belly Up Bar, and we’re
also the ones that thought, ‘You know what? Those kids are right. Our town has just
as many talented people as anywhere else in the state of Nevada. Some of them could
probably use a trophy and a recording contract. Some of them would love to have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars donated to their local school district.
Let’s remind the folks way over there in Sin City what we’re made of’.”
One old man in the corner beat his beer mug on the table approvingly, and Jolene beamed.
“Thank you, Dickie. So this is how easy it is. Come up here and sing a song. Any song.
It can be a cappella,” she lowered her voice. “That means without instruments. Or
you can take one of these guitars up here and show us what you’ve got so we can pick
a winner and send him or her to Las Vegas to represent our community. Heck, we even
rented a karaoke machine for the night. And if you don’t use it, Hobie will.” She
winked at her husband who nodded in silent agreement. “He has hidden talents. For
example, I bet y’all had no idea that when I met him he was a championship beat-boxer
in Reno.”
One of the patrons groaned and Mac felt
He’d had enough of watching Thomas and Saint live out their bliss with their significant
others—he didn’t want to sign any autographs and he damn sure didn’t feel the need
to kiss the cold, dead ass of some old-world, sissified vampires to be forgiven for
his conduct or allowed a quick end.
Hell, he was in a dark mood.
Mac pounded his glass on the bar once to let the bartender know it needed to be refilled.
He hadn’t been this maudlin since the decade after he was made.
High-pitched feedback from a microphone on the small stage made him flinch and grit
his teeth. He was too old for this shit. He would go out into the desert at dawn and
be done with the whole bloody thing, but that was a coward’s path. Mac was many things,
but he had never been called a coward. He was just…what had Thomas called him?
Grumpy.
Hunkering down at the bar and attempting to appear as forbidding as possible, he tried
to ignore the chipper, female twang that now echoed through the bar. The speaker smelled
of canned peaches and Ivory soap. A perky scent for a perky voice.
“Welcome to the first annual Belly Up Jam,” she started, before whooping and causing
the microphone to screech again. “Yippee! Oops. Sorry everybody.”
No one responded, enthusiastically or otherwise, and after a moment he could hear
the shuffling of papers as she continued, “I can see a lot of people got last minute
jitters and decided not to come in spite of all the flyers and hard work everyone
put it. Well, shame on them. But the show must go on, right? Besides, I just have
a really good feeling that they’ll be pouring in to enter before the contest is over.
Maybe after the diner closes down for the night. This is an opportunity to represent
our town, after all. And to win money for our school, which everybody knows could
sure use some fixing up after that fire.”
Mac’s curiosity got the better of him and he turned on his barstool to look around
the room. Including the man whose camera now contributed to the sawdust already coating
the floor, there were six people—the skeletal bartender, dressed in a tattered leather
vest and sporting a long, bushy beard; the short, plump woman with the dimpled smile
currently at the microphone; and four other patrons besides himself. None of them
looked as though they were here for a contest.
The woman continued, undeterred. “For those of you who are new here, I’m Jolene. Named
after a popular song made famous by the irrepressible Miss Dolly Parton.” She did
an impromptu curtsy before moving on. “My husband there, behind the bar, is Hobie.
We own this little slice of heaven you’re sitting in, The Belly Up Bar, and we’re
also the ones that thought, ‘You know what? Those kids are right. Our town has just
as many talented people as anywhere else in the state of Nevada. Some of them could
probably use a trophy and a recording contract. Some of them would love to have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars donated to their local school district.
Let’s remind the folks way over there in Sin City what we’re made of’.”
One old man in the corner beat his beer mug on the table approvingly, and Jolene beamed.
“Thank you, Dickie. So this is how easy it is. Come up here and sing a song. Any song.
It can be a cappella,” she lowered her voice. “That means without instruments. Or
you can take one of these guitars up here and show us what you’ve got so we can pick
a winner and send him or her to Las Vegas to represent our community. Heck, we even
rented a karaoke machine for the night. And if you don’t use it, Hobie will.” She
winked at her husband who nodded in silent agreement. “He has hidden talents. For
example, I bet y’all had no idea that when I met him he was a championship beat-boxer
in Reno.”
One of the patrons groaned and Mac felt
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