Short Story: Hunger (Patreon)

Hey! Tomorrow I face one of my biggest fears when I go skydiving. Tonight, I'm facing one of my other big fears by sharing a short story I wrote last month. During September, I wrote a few short stories every week, and this is one of my favorites and one of the few I finished. I haven't done much polishing or revising, so please don't criticize me too harshly! Anyways, Happy Halloween and thanks for being a patron <3

Hunger

Of all the strip clubs in the city, Oasis was Quincy Powell’s favorite. Candyland smelled like a greasy refrigerator gone bad, and most of the girls were busted up and lazy. The Cabaret had those stiff butt skinny white broads, writhing around to some shit he grew up hearing on Miami Vice. The Nectar, a 10-minute bus ride from the PJs, had the sexiest women. But pulling into that spot without being strapped was idiotic- and Quincy wasn’t in the market for new beef. So Oasis, where the cover was a steep $10 and the drinks were watered down swill, was his choice. Even though it was a 30-minute walk from his apartment, the girls were worth it. Spanish, black, Asian, and even a couple of white girls. It was a buffet. Quincy could drive his brand new 93 Toyota Supra, but he hated putting miles on it. As a truck driver for Express Delivery, his days were filled with heaving packages, sitting in traffic,  and being yelled at by his manager (or by some old bitch whose package had been stolen). Really, he didn’t mind the half-hour walking journey.

So three to four times a week, Quincy would slide on his shoes, clip his pager to his belt, grab $40 from the ATM in the lobby of his building, and trek to Oasis, ready to relax and unwind. This is how he found himself under a thick cocoa beauty with flaming red hair in the VIP, one balmy Wednesday night in October. He had paid his $10 entry fee, parted with $10 for his customary shot of Henny, and thrown his maximum $10 to a few of the dancers. The remaining $10 was usually reserved for a box of hot wings on the way out of the door. But tonight, he decided to take up the $10 lap dance offer of the sweet young thing who sat on his lap. He dismissed a bubbling sensation of shame and focused on living in the moment.

The dancer sat backward on his lap and rotated her hips to the pounding hip hop beat, tossing back her head to allow Quincy to nuzzle his face into her glitter-covered neck. She smelled like coconut and toasted sugar. It was intoxicating. “What’s your name, baby?” she yelled over the throbbing music, grabbing his hands and dragging them along her wiggling hips. His dick was already hard enough to cut glass, but now he felt dizzy. “Q!” He shouted back. The woman gave a little moan. “Mmm. The perfect name for a sexy guy like you.” Quincy smiled indulgently as she leaned forward and began bouncing her bare ass to the beat, dipping down periodically to brush it against the bulge in his jeans. Quincy stared at the wobbling cheeks as if in a trance. He had never seen an ass so perfect. Just as he was about to ask if he could smack it, she stood up and made it clap in his face. Quincy fought the urge to stick his hand down his Girbaud jeans and stroke his dick. Instead, he stuck his right hand out and gave her ass cheek a firm squeeze. It was softer than the blue stress-relief ball he kept in the cupholder of his work truck. The dancer giggled and continued to make her ass clap and bounce, her skin rippling with force, hypnotizing him under the rainbow beams of VIP lights. Before Quincy could register what he was doing, he was trying to stick his face into the woman’s butt. She struggled to get away as he attempted to inhale and taste her. She screamed and swung around to knock him against the head. “Nigga are you crazy?” She bellowed as Quincy felt the wallop of costume jewelry collide with his nostrils and upper lip. His hat was knocked off from the force. The dancer took a step back, her fist raised again.

Quincy reflexively grabbed at his nose and face as the dancer continued to swing. He scrambled to his feet, anger pumping through him. As he considered punching the hysterical bitch, the massive security guard, Big Malc, came through the curtain separating the small room from the rest of the club. The dancer fell back immediately. “The bastard tried to rape me!” She exclaimed.

***

It was no use explaining or putting up a fight. Big Malc seized Quincy by the neck and slung him out past the partition. Quincy stumbled to his feet, as a few fellow club-goers watched the commotion. Big Malc followed behind Quincy and shuffled him to the door, chuckling. “All these hoes in here and you try to fuck Brooke? Man!” He said to Quincy once they were outside on the sidewalk outside of the club. The area, like most of the street, was empty. “It ain’t even go down like that,” Quincy said, massaging his neck and staunching the tiny stream of blood coming from his cut lip with the sleeve of his hoodie. Big Malc chuckled some more as he slapped a cigarette out of a smashed box produced from his pocket. “Yeah well she’s a square. And the boss is trying to crack down on illicit activity so I had to kick you out. And since she’s gonna tell everybody, you can’t come back.”

Quincy’s jaw fell open. “Man I ain’t even do shit! That bitch lying!” He shouted. Big Malc lit his cigarette and smiled. “I hear you brother.” He said flatly. Quincy could hear the apathy in the bouncer's tone. He ground his teeth and checked his watch. 1:29. If he started walking now, he could be home in time to call a phone sex line while the best girls were still awake. He was furious and needed to rub one out. Quincy scowled at Big Malc, who was eyeing him with interest.  I hate this big dirty fuck, Quincy thought to himself before asking to bum a cigarette. Big Malc gave him one and lit it. “You know she get off at 4, right?” The bouncer said mischievously.

Quincy inhaled the comforting taste of menthol and raised an eyebrow. Through his anger, he could see that perfectly round ass curling and shaking in front of him. Big Malc took a puff of his cigarette and continued. “You know where the back entrance at?” He asked. Quincy nodded noncommittally, all the while thinking about coconut and sugar and glitter.

***

Halfway through the walk back to his apartment after coordinating a snatch plan with Big Malc, Quincy’s stomach rumbled. Gleefully, he remembered the crumpled $10 bill in his pocket that Brooke had forgotten to collect. The McDonalds near his building would give him the fuel he needed to stay awake, drive his car to the back of the club once everybody had cleared out, and wait for Big Malc to escort Brooke to her car. “I’ma give you something to scream about,” he muttered to himself, hurrying across a dead intersection to a well-lit sidewalk in front of a barred shoe store, nail salon, and laundromat. A tiny prickle of apprehension made Quincy wonder if he should just go home and stay there. After all, he did have work at 12. Who knew how long this was going to take? But he pushed the doubt from his mind. I deserve a good time, he thought.

Quincy passed a few bums, cops, and equally expeditious looking young men before he finally came upon the block right before the McDonalds. To his dismay, a swarm of blue lights was outside the restaurant, and there was a lot of commotion. He wondered if some enterprising young stick up kid had tried to rob the place. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Quincy’s belly quaked. That was the only open restaurant at this time of night. He thought of the sad state of his fridge. Just as he made his peace with the idea of frostbitten fish-sticks and ramen, a bright flashing light across the avenue caught his eye. OPEN.

He looked at the sign above the awning. DINER. Quincy blinked in confusion. Was this new? In the dozens of walks he had made to the strip club in the past four months, ever since Donna left, he had never seen this diner before. But sure enough, there were people inside, sitting in red booths looking at menus and shoveling food into their mouths. He walked over.

The diner was cold and rather quiet, except for the sound of cutlery grinding against plates and bowls. Quincy glanced around at the dozen or so diners, who didn’t spare him a look. His mouth watered at the smell of bacon grease and pancakes. An elderly white man hobbled towards him, menu in hand. “Table for one, yes?” He asked gruffly. The man had a thick patch of grey hair and a full beard, both flecked with hints of red. He smiled at Quincy with wickedly sharp and crooked teeth the color of a school bus. Quincy looked at him rudely. He couldn’t stand bad teeth. “Yeah.”

The old man pivoted, rather nimble for someone his age, and lead Quincy to an unoccupied booth towards the back of the diner. He checked his watch as he followed behind. 2:07. The old man placed the menu on the table and gestured. “Someone will be with you shortly,” he said as Quincy collapsed into the booth. Quincy didn’t even bother looking at the menu, knowing a short stack and bacon in South Peachwood couldn’t be more than $8. He drummed his fingers on the Formica-glazed table and looked around for a waiter or waitress. He didn’t see one. He sighed impatiently, before reminding himself that he wasn’t in any hurry. He had major time to kill. I wish this place had a TV, he thought, agitated. The silence was annoying. The people around him barely seemed to be moving, let alone talking. They were all facing the front like him. It was then that he realized everybody was solo at their own tables. This comforted him. He wasn’t the only lonely person killing time in a diner at an ungodly hour.

For a few minutes, Quincy thought about Brooke and her coconut sugar scented skin. He entertained himself with the idea of tasting her and holding her down.  His stomach gave another growl. He looked down at the red and white plastic menu, which simply said “MENU”. He glanced around the restaurant again. Not even the old man was in sight. Bored, he flipped open the menu. He was startled when he saw a single word.

Quincy.

“What the fuck?” He whispered, not believing his own eyes. He stared at the letters on the laminated menu until they made sense. That was his name, alright. He bolted to his feet and looked around, alarmed. The diner was completely silent now. There was no scraping cutlery, no sizzling grease, no nothing. The smell of pancakes and breakfast sausage was gone. Quincy’s nostrils were met with the punching odor of rotting fish. He gagged, walking hurriedly to the door, nearly tripping in his dash to leave the premises. Quincy, who had first felt cold when he entered the diner, now felt drenched with sweat. He was reaching for the door when he realized there was no door. Just a window where the door had been, seconds before.

“What the fuck is going on?” Quincy cried out. He turned wildly to face the other diners. The breath was knocked out of him. Hot liquid gushed onto his thigh and drizzled down his legs. He did not notice that he was peeing on himself. Where people had been sitting moments before were blank-faced department store mannequins. Terrified, Quincy turned back to the window and began pounding, trying to break through, trying to alert one of the bums or cops in the vicinity. The glass was thick and impenetrable. Behind him, Quincy heard the sound of a door opening and approaching footsteps. He turned. The old man was walking to him from the kitchen door. The smell of fish became heavier. All of the old man’s teeth were visible in a deranged smile. “Seems like you’re ready,” the man croaked. Quincy suddenly wished he was at home, in bed.

“I don’t want to hurt you, old man!” He said with all the courage he could muster, piss puddle and all. The old man smiled wider, now only 8 feet or so away. Quincy was petrified, his feet glued to the floor. He wanted to run, wanted to lunge, wanted to beat this old man’s head in with his fists. He wished he had his gun. But he didn’t, and he couldn’t move. The smell of fish overwhelmed him. The old man opened his wide mouth in a chilling howl. “Nigga are you CRAZY?” Quincy exclaimed. The old man was suddenly on him, ripping out Quincy’s throat with his teeth. His hands pinned Quincy's arms, chiseled from years of hauling packages, effortlessly to the ground. As Quincy’s eyes rolled back into his head, bleeding out and losing consciousness, the thing on top of him squealed with fiendish delight. Someone walked past the diner, their eyes not once turning to see the blood splashing onto the blue checkered floors and glass windows. Quincy managed a half-hearted scream before slipping into blackness.