Lady Luck

WARNING! CONTAINS SOME COARSE LANGUAGE, VIOLENCE & SEXUAL REFERENCES.

Lady Luck

By Clyde Laffan

    Danny had never hitchhiked before. Neither had Will, and it was his idea. One he would regret until his dying day, which was not too far off.

 The two laid in bed, planning their move to Hollywood. Will was excited about hitchhiking; "We'll just be like Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy from On The Road."

"I don't know who they are," his boyfriend lied. Danny lacked Will's enthusiasm. He picked up his phone and searched for a distraction; cute animals, Britney Spears, anything, to deflect his boyfriend's excitement.

 Too late. Will was excited. "I know this is a crazy idea, but we're moving to Hollywood, and I'm going to write, so I need to live, right?"

Will took Danny’s phone, closed one app and opened Google maps. “We’re going to burn, burn, burn, like brilliant roman candles.” Will quoted his favourite line from the book he had read several times. Danny wondered where the shy guy he had fallen in love with during his freshman year had gone. The boy beside him oozed crazy confidence that Danny didn’t recognise.

 “Look,” Will showed Danny a blue line that marked the route between Chicago and Los Angeles. On the small screen, it looked harmless enough. "We will catch the bus to the outer city limits," He pointed to a spot on the phone. "From there hitchhike. This will be life-changing.“

“That’s if we survive.”

“You’re not scared, are you?." Will starred into Danny's blue eyes.

“Crazy shit happens out there to guys like us, homophobes wielding axes, all sorts of bat shit crazy stuff.”

“It will be okay. I promise.”

Danny frowned and decided to play the rich, privileged card. Danny's parents did whatever their only son asked, atonement for years of neglect. He gave it a shot: "Mom will fly us. Business-class. We can get drunk in the lounge, drunk on the flight, arrive in LA, have a driver pick us up, do some coke, hit the bars in WeHo. Now that’s living, right? More Bret Easton Ellis than Jack Kerouac.”

Both boys were English majors - Danny drama, Will creative writing. It was where they met. Danny moved to Chicago from Los Angeles to escape his obnoxious privilege; Will moved to escape being poor in the South.

Will saw who Danny really was and loved him. Unconditionally. Will silently thanked Danny for bestowing him with confidence. “Dude, you are the epitome of white privilege. I love it."

Danny leaned in and kissed Will. He was happy but still, he needed to inject his voice with fake enthusiasm; "We're hitchhiking to LA, aren't we?"

Will had got him. “Yes!”

School ended, apartment packed, boxes shipped. For their last night in town, they met friends at a popular gay bar, took a bunch of drugs, danced shirtless, and flirted with every available guy. Will flirted. Danny could only be star-struck by his boyfriend, who seemed happiest being the centre of attention. The dance floor transformed Will into someone who was intense and beautiful, fun and crazy.

Some nights it ate away at Danny, gnawed at his insides and filled him with a sickness. Danny was jealous of Will, his laughter, his looks, how easy it was for him to be sexy. The dark thought dimmed his own light; Danny was just as desired, yet all he could do was fixate on Will.

“Hey sexy,” someone whispered in Danny’s ear. He felt hands grip his hips. Dancing with him was a shirtless, tattooed boy with an understated face, bad teeth and a mane of thick dark hair that spilt from under a red trucker’s cap. He looked Danny in the eyes and smiled before glancing across to where Will danced with several boys.

 "Your friend sure gets a lot of attention, doesn't he?”

So he’s been watching us? “He’s my boyfriend,” Danny said.

“Lucky him.”

He pulled Danny even closer, and their nearly naked bodies touched. The boy was lean and athletic, but it was the swagger in his hips that Danny noticed; that sexy confidence Danny longed for.

“You’re hot,” the boy said. Danny kissed him. He could taste the bitterness of tobacco on his breath, but he did not care. The boy moved his tongue into Danny's mouth, where it was welcomed. Danny only pulled away when it was time to check Will was watching.

He was.

Will shimmied across the dance floor, came up behind Danny, and reached for the boy, sandwiching Danny between them both. “Nice,” Will whispered into Danny’s ear. "But we've got a big day tomorrow. Maybe we should leave it for another time?" Danny dug his nails into his palm and tried not to be belligerent, “I’m having a really good time.”

Together, the three left the club and made their back to their empty apartment. The boy had not shared his name but was generous with some purple coloured pills he called Outer Limits. “They are fucking crazy!” Will looked at Danny to say no, only to see Danny take the drug and swallow.

Reluctantly, Will did the same.

The night became a blur.

FUCKING CRAZY!

Everything went sideways.

Fade out.

Will woke up, startled.

He was on the bus. Danny was next to him, asleep. They were dressed - jeans, t-shirts, runners. The boy in the red trucker’s cap was gone. So too had Chicago.

They were on the road.

Will felt a sense of dread. They were in no condition to be doing this, he thought. He also noticed that they were the only two on the bus.

“That’s weird.” He turned to Danny. He didn’t know but Danny was lost in a nightmare, one that had haunted him since childhood. In the dream, he was abandoned in a shopping mall, his mother was gone, and he was consumed with fear and loneliness that burned him like a fever. "Mommy!" He screamed, but he could not make a sound, no matter how hard he tried. "Shh Danny, everything will be okay" The voice belonged to a woman. This was the first time he had heard her. “I’m here. Follow my voice, and I will take you home."

Danny opened his eyes.

Fuck.

“Where are we? What happened?”

“You’re sweating.”

Danny shivered. He felt his guts twist and turn like an entanglement of worms devouring a rotten apple. His stomach rose, and he wanted to throw up.

The bus skidded to a halt. “Final stop!” screeched the driver, who turned to look at Will. Will looked back. What he saw was not what he expected. Will wanted to scream. He looked into the abyss where the driver's face should be. There were no discernible features - no nose, no eyes, no lips. The driver had no face, and the moment Will realised how insane that was, the driver grinned, and Will, breathing heavy, realised his mind was playing a trick.

"Here we are, boys. The END."

Will searched out the window for something that resembled normality. The sun struck his eyes, blinding him. Danny began to move quickly down the aisle as if he was being chased.

I'm waiting for you, Danny.

"Where are we?" Will asked the driver. His throat was dry.

 “The Outer Limits, it’s where you wanted to go.”

Maybe it was the light still dancing in his eyes, but Will began to panic a little. “You mean the city limits, right?”

Danny faced his boyfriend. “Let’s get off the fucking bus. I'm going to be sick." She’s waiting for me.

The moment they stepped off, the bus disappeared into a storm of red choking dust. They were left abandoned opposite an old roadside diner painted with dirt and decay. Rust stained the facade in streaks as if the building bled. A tangle of dead thorny weeds choked the old dwelling. There was nothing here except an empty parking lot and the smell of death.

This is not where we are meant to be. Will pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. "Shit, no service."

Danny did not hear him. He just stood transfixed by the diner; “Will, I’m hungry. Let’s go in.”

"What? There's nothing here. We should get…."

Danny cut him off. “Listen.”

Will could hear music. It was an old 50s track, although not liking the classics, he wasn't sure. The tune came from the diner where the foreboding stench of rot and decay now welcomed them with the familiar aromas of coffee and bacon.

“Come on, the sign says it’s open.” Danny moved towards the diner, reaching the entrance where he pushed open the door. He peeked inside. “Breakfast time.”

Will followed. His footsteps matched his heartbeat. It felt like a death march,

Finally, said the voice that spoke to Danny.

The interior shinned as if a loving owner had buffed every inch with a bottle of Turtle Wax. The chrome, the glassware, even the red faux-leather booth seating sparkled. Not that Will noticed. As familiar as it was, all Will Baxter saw was how perfectly eerie the setting was

“Hello, anyone here?” Hollered Danny. He knew there was.

"Down here, boys," replied a woman’s voice.

Will saw a trail of blue cigarette smoke coil into the air like a slithering snake. He was on edge, his heart beating like when he watched one of those Conjuring movies with Danny. There was something wrong.

“Danny, we need to go.”

Where to Willy?

The women stood to be seen. Will looked her up and down. Her face was pale, her lips a rogue red that matched the colour of her sheer dress. Her nails, even her heels, were red. Shoulder-length raven hair was pulled back, tied with a red ribbon. Her eyes were dark, too dark, thought Will, black slits of hopelessness. She sported an old-school tattoo of a lady in red, straddling a martini glass under the words Lady Luck. "Well, hello, boys. Aren't I Miss Lady Luck this morning?"

She turned to face Danny. “I think the staff are outback handsome, having a…fag.” The way she spat out the word “fag” startled Will. “But help yourself to coffee.” She pointed to Will. “He’ll fetch it.” She sneered and blew a ring of smoke into the air. Will obliged her.

The woman was the most beautiful Danny had seen. She was radiant and voluptuous, and she left him feeling aroused.

“My name is Christine. And you, handsome." The timbre of her voice made Will think she was flirting with Danny. Danny did not notice. He stood tall, unable or unwilling to hide his excitement.

“Danny,” he replied. She grabbed his hand. The shock of her coldness sent a shiver down his spine. He ignored it and held her hand for a moment longer than needed. Christine gestured towards Will, who returned with the coffee.

“And him?” This time her tone was more sinister.

Danny wanted Will to leave. “He is Will.”

Will did not want to shake her hand. He knew she would be as cold as death. "I'm his boyfriend."

De Ja Vu, he thinks.

Not for much longer. "Oh, how sweet." Faggots.

They sit. Christine pours coffee.

“Tell me, what are you, and him, doing in a place like this?” She smiled. Her parted lips revealed a mouth full of horse teeth, the colour of hay.

Will turned away in disgust. He was ready to wake up now.

"Moving to LA," Danny replied, oblivious to the freak show. "We've just finished school, and Will wanted an adventure. So we thought we'd hitchhike."

"A boy like you shouldn't be hitchhiking."

“That’s what I told him!”

She took a sip of coffee, blowing steam rising from the mug towards Danny. She ran her tongue across her upper lip.

 "Well," she winked. "This is your lucky day too. Drink up Danny, I have a car outside, destination Hollywood. What do you say?"

“Did you hear that, Will? She’s going to give us a ride, all the way to LA.”

It would be more fun if it was just the two of us, Danny. “I guess he can come. But he sits in the back.”

 As she stood to leave, the air shifted around her. This time the chill ran down Will's spine. He saw the truth immediately. Christine was chaos in stilettos. He gulped. He noticed for the first time that he was filled with the dread of his own, impending death. “I didn’t see a car parked outside.”

Shut the fuck up and follow me, faggot. All the way to hell.

Outside, the day had waned into late afternoon, shadows lengthened, the dust settled and parked was a fire-engine red 1958 Plymouth Fury.

“Wow.” Danny moved towards the car reaching for Christine’s hand as he did so. “Is this yours?”

"It’s our's babe." She took his hand and led him towards the passenger door. Danny felt the warmth of the car. With his free hand, he grabbed her gently by the waist and pivoted her towards him. Danny Forsyth's dick was now rock hard, and all he wanted to do was kiss her.

Let's be honest here. All he wanted to do was fuck Christine.

But what about Will?

He needs to go.

Will was losing his mind. "You're fucking kidding, right?"

Christine turned to him. "Something wrong, Willy?" She hissed like a snake, enraged.

“Will, don’t be rude,” Danny added. “The lady is giving us a lift. To Hollywood. You should be happy.”

 “The car is a Plymouth Fury, Danny,” Will said. “It’s the same car that Stephen King wrote about in the book.” His voice quivered with fear. This was not going to end well.

“What book?“ Danny asked.

Will knew if he said the word, he was dead, but what choice was left at that moment in time. "Christine," he swallowed as he spoke her name.

Christine let out a shriek. It wasn't a good sound. It was a terrifying sound.

 “Danny, please let go of her hand. This is wrong.”

As he spoke, the car shuddered, and the glove box popped open, revealing a wooden-handled, six-barrel, Smith & Weston Colt Python handgun. It was a weapon of craftsmanship and beauty. The Rolls Royce of revolvers.

Danny freed his hand from Christine’s waist, reached inside the car - he could almost feel the car - and picked up the handgun. He had never shot a pistol until now.

He aimed the gun at Will.

“Danny, what the fuck are you doing.”

Danny knew exactly what he was doing. "You stole it from me."

"Stole what?"

Do it, Danny. Kill the faggot.

“Me, you stole what was in me and took it for yourself.”

“Danny, please, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Will knew he was wasting his time. He saw the madness in Danny's face. It was mixed with sorrow and sadness. Danny, Will knew, did not want to pull the trigger, but he was powerless to stop himself. Will did not have time to flee.

The sound of the bullet colliding with Will - steel splitting bone - was sickening, but Danny did not flinch. Soon he would be with Christine. Soon the fear would be gone. Soon, he would be whole again.

Will screamed. The pain was intense. He touched his chest. It was wet and sticky with blood, his blood.

So they do bleed red.

“Danny.” Air hissed through the hole in Will’s chest. “What have you done?”

Danny retook aim. He was so turned on. Christine's hand reached for his crutch, where his cock was about to explode.

Do it again, Danny, do it for me.

Danny pulled the trigger.

Will Baxter hit the ground with a thud. The bullet penetrated his skull. The impact blew his brains out through the back of his head. Christine dropped to her knees as he fell, grabbed hold of Danny's fly, tore open his jeans, and released his large, privileged, white cock.

She smiled.

So did Danny.

She took it all.

I’m back, he thought.

What followed was the worst pain Danny would ever feel again. It would also be the last thing he ever remembered.

See you later, faggot.

His scream was so intense it woke a couple who lived in the apartment upstairs. “Jesus, they’re at it again,” muttered the male occupant to his sleeping girlfriend.

It took 10 days and a nasty smell for anyone to realise that two college boys had been murdered.

When a local news crew door-stopped Will’s distraught mom at home, she wept and said it was common for Will not to call.

“I think he was embarrassed his mom lived in a trailer,” she said. Danny’s parents weren’t any help either, explaining that their son never called and had blocked them from his social media accounts.

In piecing together the events of that night, the detective-in-charge determined the two were seen leaving a popular dance bar at about 1 AM with a young, dark-haired man wearing a red t-shirt, red baseball cap and faded jeans. He had a tattoo on his right bicep, but no one knew what exactly. No one had seen the man before.

Their apartment offered few clues. This is what the detective found: Billy Baxter, 23, African-American, an English major, had been shot once in the chest and once in the head. The murder weapon, a Smith and Weston made Colt Python pistol, was found in the hand of boyfriend Danny Forsyth, 23, Caucasian, also an English major. Forsyth bled to death, having had his genitals severed. There was so sign of missing body parts.

Police also found two packed duffel bags and traces of cocaine and ketamine. Later, toxicology would find both boys had consumed alcohol and another powerful unknown substance.

Also found were well-read copies of Jack Kerouac's On The Road and Stephen King's Christine. If he were alive to talk to the police, Will would explain that the novels were his favourite.

The End,