THE HAMMER N' CLUB

This is the next chapter in The ShambElla Saga.

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The companions were traversing an overpass when Sam first noticed the barnlike building with two words written in white shingles on the otherwise black roof.

BUTT NAKED, it said.

Sam nudged Colt’s bony arm, and the skeleton swiveled its skull rapidly, 360 degrees, which the companions came to understand was his comical way of doing a double take.

Sam laughed and shook his head, and everyone else looked at what they were seeing.

“What the Hell?” Siris said.

The tall signpost next to the building, however, read something different:

THE HAMMER N’ CLUB

“If this isn’t the know-it-when-you-see-it moment Doose was talking about, I don’t know what is, though now I’m not sure I want to know,” Ella said, and David the cat mewed to second her motion.

As if to verify her supposition, they saw a man exit the building with a group of people. The man just stood there, looking up at them, as if he knew they were there. He waved, and the others followed suit. Then he beckoned, turned around, and they all went back in.

Sam looked around but saw no cameras or anything else that he could have marked as surveillance equipment. “How’d he know we were up here?”

Ella sighed. “I think the only way we’re going to find out is to go down and go in.”

They made their way down and into the building.

It was a bar. Considering the words written on the roof, no one was surprised to see a stage with a pole in the back, but though there were both women and men milling about, no one was naked, and there were no dancers on stage.

“Yeah, this used ta be a strip club, but I ensured the ladies here that I’d take care of ‘em if they cleaned up their act,” said the proprietor from behind the bar. “I kept the words on the roof and the name of the place cuz they’re funny, though. Despite my havin’ changed my ways, I still got a soft spot in my heart for ribald humor. Don’t worry, folks, you got nothin’ to fear here. My name is Damien Daimon, and I make the best burgers this side of the Apocalypse. We got farm fresh everything from just down the road, and these people here are my people, they won’t dare hurt ya. Sit down, look over the menu, and I’ll be happy to serve ya up a meal and give y’all rooms and a shower for the night. I been waitin’ for ya.”

The companions seated themselves at the bar, including Colt and the goons. “Now these here are some folks who need some meat on their bones, eh?” Damien remarked and they all laughed, Colt slapping the bar for added effect. Damien put out his hand to the blue-shirted skeleton, and they shook on it. “Nice seeing ya again, friend. I knew you’d make it.”

“You know Colt?” Ella asked.

“Yeah, we go way back. Calling it Colt cuz of the shirt, eh? Slick. It likes that name.” Damien looked at Colt for a long time, shaking his head, as if they were having a silent conversation. The other companions looked on in astonishment as it went on for some time. Then Damien turned to the others.

“Well, ya looky-loos, maybe you should use those peepers to check out these menus like I told ya!” There was no trace of malice in his voice, ever. Only amusement.

After looking over the menu, Siris, with wide eyes, looked up and asked: “Butterburger? You got butter?”

“Farm fresh, buddy!”

“I want one-uh them butterburgers, and some toast with butter, and some French fries! Can you make the burger Royale, like, with a fried egg on it?” Siris would never have guessed how happy he would be to encounter butter again, but here it was!

“I can and I will!” Damien replied. The rest of the companions ordered, and Damien went back to the kitchen to cook ‘em up.

The companions made small talk with the other patrons about where they were from and how they got here.

Some of the ladies were former strippers who survived the Turning and kept the place up, just barely, until Damien arrived and turned it into a veritable Mecca for lost souls.

The others drifted in from all over, just like the companions, and found an unlikely home. Now it was a whole community. Damien ran the club, and the others worked there or on the farms around the way. Damien was sort of like the mayor, they said, and he would always be, so long as he was here.

“According to him,” said a lady named Clara, “he was supposed to be the Antichrist, but he rejected the office. I don’t know how true all that shit is, but he ain’t human, that’s for sure.”

As if to illustrate the point, their meals suddenly appeared before them on the bar as Damien came out the door that led from the kitchen, wiping his greasy hands on his apron. “I can move ‘em with magic, but I cook ‘em for real, folks! I swear it! It’s a matter-uh both pride and joy! As for the Antichrist bit, Clara probably won’t ever buy it, but it’s true. I’m here ta help y’all with some provisions, and we gotta have us a long talk tomorrow before ya go. But now, we feast, and then, I’m gonna have Colt here fire up its playlist and we’re gonna have this not-so-swanky establishment hoppin’ well into the night!”

Colt and the goons all raised their skeletal hands in the horn salute and banged their skulls in perfect union.

Damien laughed and clutched his belly. “I wanna hear some Heavy Metal too, but don’t forget to play some stuff the others like! Some like to dance, some like to mosh, some like to quietly listen and reflect. We need a little of all that, along with ya beverage-uh choice!”

Simultaneously, several drinks made themselves at once and drifted on the air before their chosen companion.

A draft beer for Siris.

A bottle of Whiskey with two shot glasses between Sam and Ella. Along with a couple glasses of water.

A saucer of milk for David, who was also delighted to have gotten a plate full of fresh shredded chicken. The cat was on the bar, between Ella and one of the goons. Damien scratched him behind the ears and with a look of genuine pity said, “You had it roughest of all, kid. I wanna say I’m sorry. It wasn’t my operation, but I came from the same damned stock that sanctioned it. There’s no excuse.”

‘Now,” Damien said as his face stretched in a big smile. “LET’S PARTY!”

A resounding cheer went up among the patrons. As the night went on, Colt played song after song from the EYEGOONS, and people danced, and the skeletons moshed, and every little thing, for once, was happily happening in its particular and proper place.

As the night dwindled to its end, Sam went outside to be on his own with the remains of the bottle of whiskey Ella and he shared. She was dancing with Siris and the others, laughing and having a good time, and he was happy to see it. He loved her like a daughter and knew there had been too little of that since the Turning.

But he was thinking of his own girls now, and his dearly departed wife. The night sky was full of stars, their luminescence gently bathing his upturned face, and he recalled how Debra used to place a hand on his cheek, her blue eyes quivering like moonlight reflecting its serenity across a pond in a distant midnight.

He ached with longing, but he only had a bottle of whiskey to chase away the bitterness that came with these sweet memories. He would take it, he decided, and love it. It was his, fair or foul.

Just then the front door opened, and Colt came out to sit with Sam.

The skeleton had something to give the old man, something which made him start.

It was three purple orchids. This had been Deb’s favorite flower, and the girls’ too. They planted orchids in the flowerbed when the girls were little, and every year it reminded them of the special time they had together when Daddy was away on business.

When he returned home, during the months when the orchids grew, the three fine young ladies—yes, young, eternally young, each one, because, in his eyes, Debra would always be the girl he met in high school, and his girls would always be his girls—would each pluck an orchid and give it to him.

He would carry the flowers with him on the road until they disintegrated.

He looked up at Colt’s expressionless skull with tears in his eyes. “Wow. Thanks, Colt. I—” he sobbed. Colt patted his shoulder and drew him in for a bony hug.

No need to explain.

Then, as the raucous revel within the club went on, another song played softly, just for Sam, and he heard the words and appreciated the sentiment all the more beneath the starlight, with a good friend by his side, and bittersweet memories he would never regret or relinquish steadily burning in his heart.

***** * *****

A short remark on Damien Daimon:

For those of you who are familiar with Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings, Damien Daimon is sort of like my Tom Bombadil. I imagine Damien as comic legend Rodney Dangerfield, but leave it to you, dear reader, to use your own imagination. As for Bombadil, I wish they had included him in the movies, played by Robin Williams. But that's just me.

For more on Damien's backstory, reference this flash fiction piece with Rommentary from Horror to Culture:

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