Guest Author Jim Selleck

Show Down in Our Town

Bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire.
Got a whole lot of money that's a-ready to burn, so get those stakes up higher.
There's a thousand pretty women waitin' out there.
They're all livin', devil may care.
And I'm just the devil with love to spare, so
Viva Las Vegas, Viva Las Vegas.
- 1964 by Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman

"How's the house?" Hildy flicked the ash off her cigarette, thought about another drag, then stubbed it out.

"Good. Couple tour busses pulled in a while ago. Looks like everybody came in to see the show." Bill Westervelt never took his eyes off the small mirror on the wall, brushing out the gray streaks in his mustache. He wore his electric guitar behind his back with the neck pointing downward.

The dressing room was tiny and shabby, but it was an actual dressing room, almost unheard-of on this club circuit. Hildy sat back in a lumpy chair, regarding her smudged reflection in the cracked mirror at the back of the

the world, but Hildy had blown it and pissed off the wrong people. Now the band was so far off The Strip they might as well have been on another planet.

Hildy considered ignoring the knock on the hallway door. It was locked from the inside. She could have pretended the room was empty. This club was a step up from the last few, with a real stage of sorts. The dressing room had another door that opened into a dark, musty storage cavity behind the set. They did dinner theatre here during the week, and the band was playing in front of a poorly painted backdrop; a local artist's attempt at rendering Thornton Wilder's Grover's Corners, New Hampshire. Hildy had played the part of Emily Webb in her junior high school production of Our Town, but their drama teacher had heeded the playwright's instructions to use no set and few props. This production clearly took great liberties with the script. The backdrop included various town businesses whose owners had no-doubt paid a fee for inclusion. The club owner was terribly proud of the stage, so Hildy had held her tongue and said nothing in the interest of diplomacy. Her younger self would have been unable to resist commenting how convenient it would have been in 1901 to find a Tastee Freeze right there between the Congregational Church and the video rental store.

The knock came again. It wasn't so much a knock as a tap, only louder than a tentative tap, but more delicate and genteel than a fist striking a wooden door should sound. Hildy stood up quietly, careful to stay silent, still not sure if she was going to answer. She checked herself in the mirror. For a moment, she missed the daring Victoria's Secret cocktail dresses she had been required to wear in Vegas. She had worn them well, not suffering in comparison with the ubiquitous dancers and showgirls, but all the glitz had seemed a distraction. What about the music?

In the sensory overload of Vegas, how could real feelings and emotions avoid being trampled? Night after night, Hildy had searched the audience trying to make eye contact with someone, any stranger, but their eyes were always directed lower. They weren't really listening. Hildy provided background elevator music for their libidos.

Tonight she wore blue jeans. They were not the kind of denim clothing that farmers might wear to work in the fields, but they still qualified as jeans, at least that's what the tag said when she bought them in the juniors department. They were snug, with stitchery suggesting pockets (but just for show), and rather low cut in the waist. Hildy worked hard to maintain the lean muscle tone needed to wear such clothing convincingly. It helped that she had never borne any children, she freely admitted. That was another sneaky, occasional regret that she pushed aside using a mantra: "It's not too late." The ticking of her biological clock seemed louder every year, now and then waking her from a sound sleep. Sometimes, she could just turn over and fall back. Other times, she would lie awake, alone with her doubts in another anonymous motel room, listening to traffic passing on some highway.

She decided to answer the door. "Be right there," she called out, taking another second to check her sleeveless cotton top. It was skimpy, but the stage lights would be hot. The audience would get to ogle her flat lower abdomen and drool over a little cleavage, leaving Hildy free to think more about singing and less about sweat stains.

The man standing outside the hallway door was tall and thin. His middle-aged frame appeared a bit weathered, like a stalk of wheat after a windy season. He wore a rumpled suit that was simply out of place in every way Hildy could imagine. His eyes were fixed in a thoroughly frightened expression behind silver wire-framed glasses. He held a very old golden coin between three fingertips, pointing its face at Hildy.

For a moment they stood, Hildy with eyebrows slightly raised, the man apparently frozen in place. Hildy's mind was already in show-banter mode. Several amusing lines drifted in from her brain's comedy center. She considered saying, "Normally I get tips after the show." Instead she simply prompted, "Yes?"

Her word shocked the man out of his trance. "Oh. Thank God. I'm sorry, but I had to… you see… Oh dear." He lowered his hand, relieved, but he'd run out of words. It looked like he hadn't expected to get this far. Hildy thought the man looked like an overgrown boy trying to ask a girl out on his first date. Her finely tuned defensive reflexes suggested now would be a good time to close and lock this door, but she saw no indication this man was anything but harmless. His clipped British accent intrigued her.

On stage, the band started playing their first tune. The dressing room wasn't soundproofed, but it was still quiet enough for conversation. Hildy smiled apologetically and edged the door toward closure. "Sorry. I'm on in a couple minutes. Come talk to me in the club on the break."

"No!" The man stuck one large shoe into the door to stop her from fully closing it. Hildy had never experienced a shoe in the door confrontation. She looked into the man's eyes, her own eyebrows raised slightly. She found resolve there, mixed with a hint of desperation, but no hostility or aggression. "I must speak with you now, before you go on stage, on a matter of surpassing urgency."

Hildy grinned. "'Surpassing urgency'? You are definitely not from around here." She swung the door open and stepped aside.

"No." The man stepped into the small room and moved as far to the left as possible, apparently to demonstrate his non-threatening nature. "Thank you."

He looked a little pained. "Oh dear. I hardly know where to begin."

"Let's start with names. I'm Hildy Fox." They shook hands. His skin was surprising soft; no work calluses.

"Charmed." He bowed slightly, unconsciously. "Flanders. Jack Flanders. Please, call me Jack."

"Hello Jack. Are you English?"

"Flemish, actually, or my parents were. I was born in France and we moved to England when I was still a baby. So I suppose I'm English by citizenship if not by birth."

"Jack, we only have five minutes. A simple 'yes' would have worked."

"Of course. Sorry." Hildy waited for Flanders to continue. "Five minutes… I'm afraid that may be only enough time to convince you that I am a raving lunatic."

"Are you a lunatic, Jack?"

"No, I don't think so." Flanders came to a decision. "Miss Fox, what do you know about vampires?"

Hildy's eyebrows rose again. She took a casual half-step toward the stage door and distributed her weight for balance. "Are you a vampire, Jack?"

"God no!" Flanders appeared genuinely shocked by the suggestion. "And neither are you. Otherwise both of us would be smoking piles of ash right now."

"Okay Jack, I'm not following along."

"Right." He opened his hand and showed her again the strange old coin. "This is called the Talisman of Galosh. It is very ancient and has been passed down from father to son in my family for countless generations. I'm afraid I have no idea how it works, but it destroys any vampire who looks at it. You are I are both looking at it now, and we're still here. Ergo, we are not vampires."

"If you don't know how it works, how can you be sure you're using it correctly?"

Flanders opened his mouth, but found no words. Hildy continued, "Anyway, don't you have to hammer a wooden stake through a vampire's heart?"

Flanders was shaking his head impatiently. "No. That's all folklore and Hollywood nonsense. No stakes through the heart, garlic, crucifixes, sleeping in coffins, turning into bats… I'm talking about real vampires."

Hildy couldn't keep a drop of condescension out of her tone, "I'm sorry Jack, but I don't believe in 'real' vampires."

Flanders nodded. "Yes, of course you don't believe. Most people don't, and I hardly expect to be able to convince you to change your mind in the next couple of minutes. Nevertheless, vampires exist. They rise from the dead, only come out at night, tend to be very persuasive, and live on human blood. Direct sunlight kills them, along with a few artifacts like this talisman. Other than that, anything else you've heard is all bollocks."

The first tune came to an end and the band let barely two beats go by before launching immediately into another; a little up-tempo, warming up the room for Hildy's entrance.

"Look Jack, we're about out of time." She moved back to the hallway door and placed her fingers on the handle. "I can honestly say that this has been the most interesting pre-show conversation I've had in weeks. And the good news is that I really don't think you're a lunatic. Probably just… a little delusional."

Flanders nodded resignedly with a little crooked smile. "That's pretty much what they said when they discharged me from the faculty at Oxford."

"Wait a second. You taught at Oxford? Seriously?"

He simply nodded. "Until recently."

Hildy removed her hand from the door and crossed her arms in front of her body. "That's actually kind of impressive." She stood for a moment, deciding. "Alright Jack, are you trying to say you think there is a vampire in the audience tonight?"

"No." Hildy looked satisfied, and her fingers moved back to the door handle. Flanders continued. "Not just one vampire. Your entire audience tonight are vampires. They arrived in two charter coaches and engaged the lounge for a private party. I should guess more than one hundred in total."

"Is it too late for me to change my vote from delusional back to lunatic?"

Flanders was no longer smiling. He moved toward Hildy with his hands outstretched pleadingly. "Don't you see? This is an incredible opportunity. It's unprecedented. I've never heard of another time in history when this many vampires will be gathered in one place at the same time. You must destroy them. I don't know, maybe it's your destiny or something."

Hildy blocked him with an outstretched hand. Back in Vegas her boyfriend had been a Tae Quon Do instructor. Hildy had been a good student. She was pretty sure she could break some of this whacked-out English professor's bones if necessary, but any serious kicks would probably split a seam in her tight jeans, and she had no time left for a costume change.

"Mister Philanders…"

"It's 'Flanders', actually."

He saw a fire in Hildy's eyes that forced him back a step. "Right. Whatever. You can not put this on me. You are the big-time vampire hunter. I'm a lounge singer. My job is to do four sets and get on the bus to the next one-horse truck stop town. If you're so dead set on making a fool of somebody, why don't you just step into the bar at midnight and whip out your little golden tallywacker and see if the customers vaporize."

Flanders retreated further. "Yes, well, there are a couple of small problems with that plan. For one thing, all of the vampires have to be looking at the 'Talisman of Galosh'", he pronounced the name slowly and precisely, "at the same time. Those who are not looking will see their companions destroyed, and that could make them a bit angry, I would think."

Hildy looked at Flanders almost pityingly. "Then it just isn't gonna work. Honey, nobody looks at the singer anymore. Half the time these days the crowd doesn't know if it's a live band or a bunch of cardboard cutouts on the stage, and they don't even care."

He shook his head, a little resolve returning. "Miss Fox… Hildy, don't expect these creatures to behave or react like a human audience. They are not immortal, but they do exist for a very long time. They are immune to all ailments save one: boredom. Vampires thirst for entertainment perhaps as much as the blood that sustains them. It really depends on you. If you have the ability to touch their cold hearts, they will be watching."

Hildy heard the band nearing the end of the second instrumental. In just a few seconds she would walk through the stage door and away from this bizarre man. She stalled. "What's the other problem?"

"What?"

"You said there were a couple of small problems. What's the other one?"

"Oh, yes." Flanders seemed a bit embarrassed. "The, um, vampires have an ability to exert control over humans. It's a kind of telepathic ability similar to hypnosis. It's only effective on weak-willed people. I'm afraid that I am such a person." He shrugged apologetically. "They'd have me believing I'm a chicken; that sort of thing. You, I would think, are likely better able to resist.”

The song ended. Bill's voice came on the P.A., too muffled to make out the words from behind the speakers and through the door, but Hildy knew it was her introduction. She stepped past Jack to the stage door and turned to face him. "That's my cue. Time's up, Jack."

Flanders held the talisman out to Hildy, desperation in his voice. "I know you don't believe a word, but just keep it in your pocket."

Hildy spread her hands next to her hips. "Sorry Jack. No pockets." She spun and stepped through the door, not waiting for a response.

Left alone in the dressing room, Flanders let his hand drop, feeling his entire body slump. Fear and apprehension sat heavily in his gut. He cursed himself for wasting time on a fool's errand; trying to convince her to kill the beasts rather than warning her about the dangers ahead. An after-image of Hildy turning and disappearing through the stage door, possibly to her doom, repeated on an endless loop before his mind's eye. Incongruously, he could not help admiring the spectacular way she filled those trousers.

"Damn."

Continue to next page...

Jim Selleck lives in Brighton, Michigan. He is a professional musician and webmaster for several sites including Trutopia for Writers. Jim is working temporarily as a computer guru.... No that’s just too tame an intro for Jim Selleck. I think I’ll let him do it himself. For the record, I deny any and all charges of bribery.

In Jim’s words:

So, I don't have any zines to tell you about, making my bio really short and uninteresting. I did write a short story at Kim's request (more like a command performance). She told me I could be Guest Author for the February issue if I would behave myself and wash her car every week this summer. I told her that I cannot be browbeaten so easily into submission by a woman, no matter how exotic and irresistible she might be.

Therefore, I told her I would craft a suitably genre-bending black humor- themed story for the February issue, but ONLY if she would find and deliver to me a photograph of a scantily clad woman holding an apple. (A writer MUST have his standards, you know.)

Kim went off in search on the Internet and returned a short while later with news that she HAD found a suitable digital photograph, but that she would not allow me to view it until AFTER I finished the story. GADZOOKS! A Mexican Standoff. What was I to do?

As interested readers will see, I shamelessly caved in. Hopefully everyone will enjoy "Showdown In Our Town". Publishers interested in future fiction, please line up on the right and wait your turn. No shoving, please.

Jim Selleck

makeup table. About half the lights worked. A pretty auburn-haired woman, almost beautiful, of thirty-five looked back sardonically. "Damn." She shook her head, speaking softly. "I'm too young to be this old."

Bill grinned good-naturedly, slipping the makeup case into his shirt pocket and pulling his guitar around to the front. "I gotta tune up. We're on in ten minutes. Why don't we do a couple to warm 'em up and then we'll announce you on."

"Yeah, okay, thanks." Hildy pulled a tissue out of her makeup case, the one she had bought five years ago in Las Vegas. Then, they had been on top of