Little Red Riding Hood

Everyone called her Little Red Riding Hood because of her auburn hair, tight body, and that hoodie she wore under her helmet on her bike. Her real name was Rebecca, most definitely not of Sunnybrook Farms, and you can bet your ass she never dreamt of Manderly. She tended at The Hole in the Wall, a biker bar on the state highway near the edge of the forest, cutting through the woods from her house on the other side to get to work

Little Red rode her hog to the bar and back, even in the rain, sometimes bringing a basket of goodies for the regulars and the owner, a tough old bird affectionately known as Grandma to all and sundry.

Wolf had his eye on Red, even though everyone told him she didn’t get involved with Grandma’s clientele. Taking hints and warnings wasn’t his strong suit, which was why he found himself in so many fights.

Red slung Budweiser, tequila, and whiskey all night, occasionally mixing a margarita or gin and tonic. Not a lot of rum or vodka drinkers at The Hole, and the wine was vintage Ernest & Julio Gallo, in the big bottle with a screw top. The pool tables and dartboards saw a lot of action, and the jukebox hadn’t been updated in over thirty years.

When she felt like it, Grandma would turn on the lights in the kitchen and fire up the grill and fryer and offer a blue plate special of whatever she felt like cooking. About once a week, she made a big batch of biscuits that melted in your mouth and renewed faith in the lord.

Grandma was in the kitchen making a big pot of venison chili from some of the deer meat the regulars who hunted kept her stocked in. The iron skillets were in the oven, preheating for the cornbread batter to sizzle into before Grandma popped them back in the oven.

Red stocked the beer after stashing her basket, which was actually a battered backpack, but the tough, tattooed regulars couldn’t resist the fairytale jokes, and Red played along, telling them to keep their big hands and teeth to themselves if they wanted to keep them. There was a shotgun behind the bar, but Red had only pulled it out a few times over the years, and aside from target practice with Grandma and the occasional turkey shoot, she hadn’t fired it. Everyone knew she could and would if necessary, though she was more likely to pull her pocketknife on anyone who gave her trouble.

Wolf came in early that day, before Moose and the rest of the regulars roared into the parking lot. Grandma came out of the kitchen while he was complaining about his bike being in the shop. A George Thorogood song played in the background of the dimly lit bar. You could look at the dollar bills stapled to the wall and ceiling and tell when smoking in bars became illegal.

“You oughta learn how to fix it yourself.” Grandma snorted. “Probably some foreign bike they gotta order parts for.” She shook her head and poured herself a shot of whiskey and a draft beer. “I remember when we used to burn a foreign bike in the parking lot once a year, before the fire chief got his panties in a wad and fined us for it. Miserable little prick.”

“Lots of people take their bikes to mechanics.” Wolf protested and nursed his Budweiser.

“Red, you ever take your hog to a mechanic?” Grandma downed her whiskey and chased it with her beer.

“Nope. My daddy, God rest his soul, taught me how to take care of that old Harley before he let me ride it, unless you count riding on the back. I don’t.” Red tugged a bar towel through one of the belt loops on her jeans and poured herself a shot of tequila.

Wolf was three or four beers ahead of everyone when they piled in for happy hour, and it showed on the pool table, where he sank the cue ball more than the ones he tried to take off the table. His luck was a little better on the dartboard, but not enough to keep his cash in his own wallet.

“Hey, Red! What’s in your basket today?”Moose asked. “You got some brownies for me in there?”

Red made eye contact with him in the mirror behind the liquor while she poured a pitcher of beer. “Maybe. You’ll have to wait and see. Grandma made chili and cornbread if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, hell yeah. Put two bowls on my tab. I’ll have one now.”

“I like brownies,” Wolf said, making big eyes at Red.

“Everybody likes Red’s brownies,” Sandra, an aging brunette wearing heavy eye makeup, a tank top, and jeans, broke in. “Hey Red, I’ll take another beer and a bowl of that chili. Throw me an extra piece of cornbread and I’ll get your next shot.”

The night progressed as they always do, people coming in for beer, going out to smoke. Red handed out brownies with discretion, warning everyone who received one to wait until they got home to eat it. She confiscated a set of keys or two and called Ubers for those leaving their bikes at the bar.

Wolf had returned to his bar stool and ordered another beer and shot when Red gave last call. She knew he wasn’t driving, so she served them to him and asked if he was settling up or running a tab.

“Depends on whether or not you saved me a brownie,” he slurred.

“You know the rules. If you don’t pay by the end of the week, you’re banned until you do. My brownies are a separate matter, and the ones left are Grandma’s.” Red stood her ground and continued washing glasses and wiping down the bar.

When she came out from behind the bar to sweep the floor, Wolf slipped off his barstool and staggered towards Red’s backpack.

“Maybe I’ll just help myself.”

“I wouldn’t advise it. I’ll ride this broom across the bar and put a hex on you if you touch my shit.”

“What’s this?” Wolf pulled the shotgun from behind the well. “I don’t think your broomstick is a match for this one.”

Grandma would kill her if she let him shoot up the bar, so Red dropped the broom and crossed the floor in record time, pulling and opening her knife in one fluid motion, jabbing it into Wolf’s neck just enough to draw a little blood. “Drop it, motherfucker. Ain’t nothing back here yours.”

Wolf hesitated, and Red slid the knife against the skin of his neck a fraction of an inch, nowhere near his jugular. “I’m not fucking around.”

Just then, Moose came back in for the bowl of chili he left sitting on the end of the bar and saw Wolf holding the shotgun and Red’s backpack. He pulled his nine and clicked the safety off. “Don’t get your knife dirty, Red. Just back away from him.”

Red did as she was told, leaving Wolf holding her backpack and Grandma’s shotgun. He hesitated too long, and Moose fired a shot, hitting center mass.

Red looked around at the mess—Wolf’s blood was everywhere. “If you think I’m cleaning this up, you’ve lost your damn mind.”