Victoria Smoke and Her Little Revenge

1.

Victoria's Throwdown

Warnin’.

This story may cause you to drink excessively.

Hell—a lil’ whiskey with these pages will probably make the words a lot better, like most relationships I reckon’.

It’s about a girl who sought out The Devil, and found him.

There’s some fightin’. And shootin’. And some killin’, sure—but that ain’t all.

It’s also about love…the hurtin’ kind, and again, like most romances, that’s where the drinkin’ comes in.

So, if you’re stickin’ around, pour you some. Keep that bottle close. We’ll start with where things got messiest.

That’s the love part of the story.

Like most good tales, it begins in a bar . . .

Hangman’s. A honkey tonk bar in a warehouse off Interstate 475 in Macon, Georgia. The road ran out of paved asphalt some ten miles back. We—that’s Crystal and myself— just followed the dust cloud to get here. That and the parade of pickups with mounted searchlights and country music blasting out the speakers and of course, the rifles mounted in the back of the cabs.

“Country livin’, girl. Damn, I tell you what,” I say, parkin’ my little rented Cabriolet between two lifted F150s.

A group of rowdy boys in Wranglers and ten gallons with beers in their hands hoot and slap the hood of my car as they pass through my headlights beams.

Crystal pulls down her visor and touches up her lipstick. “You forget about country life livin’ in the big city or somethin’? You havin’ second thoughts?”

I kill the engine. “I lived lifetimes in the country before there was a country. Just because I spent a little time in Seattle, that ain’t gonna erase that.” I slap Crystal’s arm. “Respect your elders now, Ms. Crystal Faith.”

“Huh,” she scoffs, puttin’ away her makeup in her little case. “Ms. Victoria Smoke, just because you haven’t aged in almost two hundred years, that don’t make you my ‘elder.’ You’re like Peter Pan. Forever young. The rest of us should be so lucky.”

God bless her. She don’t know what that eternal youth truly cost me. “Guess you my Wendy Darling, darlin.’” I lean into her brushin’ my bare arms on hers.

She puckers and evens out her lips. “Nah. I’m just another Lost Boy.”

I reach the backseat for my Colt .45. “Well, let’s get lost then. Hopefully we don’t need this. I got a knife in my boot in case we run into trouble.” I lean across Crystal's lap and toss my six-shooter into the glovebox and lock it. “Whatcha wearing, girl? Smellin’ like a peach farm.”

“Just lotion. From Ulta.”

I linger on that glove box just to take in another whiff of her. That fancy stuff mixed in with her natural scent smells so damn good.

I lick my lips. “Well, all right then,” I say, pullin’ back and slappin’ her thighs. “Off to Neverland.”

I secure the car and we mosey on down.

“I think they use this place for church on Sundays,” Crystal muses.

“Figures,” I say.

Past the bouncer, Crystal hands the attendant cash for the cover. “Sixty dollars?” She scoffs.

“Got a live band tonight.” He says, stampin’ our hands.

I nudge Crystal. “We okay?”

“Uh huh. she leans into my ear talkin’ over the music. “ I said it was my treat, seein’ you dropped everything and flew down here and all. I appreciate ya.”

I throw my arm across her shoulder as we head in. “You’re my ride-or-die. I’d drop the world for you.”

“Aw.” She crinkles her little button nose. “You should write that down. Them some good lyrics.”

I pull her a little closer. “You might be right about that.”

It’s a party, all right. A live band has got folks swingin’ and scootin’ and what a crowd. Everyone with a drink in one hand, a dance partner in the other. And yeah, I hate to admit that maybe Crystal was right. I had strayed from my roots some when I went west and settled in Seattle. I have my reasons, but you know the sayin’. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country… you know the rest.

The band’s pretty good. A mixture of high-tempo outlaw and honkey-tonk. We drink and dance, twirlin’, arms around each other. We get some side-eye, but it ain’t too bad. I’ve had worse. Everyone is just here to have a good time.

I love touchin’ this woman. As natural as pettin’ a cat that’s nuzzled beside you. And she don’t seem to mind too much. This could be our night…

The band takes a break. We grab another round of whiskey and drift off the dance floor to a high table.

“Cheers,” I say, as we toast and shoot. “It’s high time for this celebration.”

“What are we celebratin’?” Crystal says, swallowing that last bit of fire after a whiskey shot. “Gettin’ drunk?”

“Milestones,” I say. “Cry, I’m just gonna say it. Now, I know your heart is broke, but Travis wasn’t good to you. You’re free now, dove.”

She sighs. “I know. It just hurts.”

“I’m here,” I say.

Crystal pulls out a pack of Reds from her fanny pack. “Victoria, see them rednecks over there?” She says.

“You gonna have to be more specific,” I say, gesturing to the room.

She lights up, takes a quick puff blowin’ out the side of her mouth. “The ones been starin’ at us half the night. Ones got a plaid western shirt. The other looks like Dwight Yoakam.”

I casually scan the bar. “I see ‘em. I’d say more Tom Petty than Dwight, but yeah.”

She offers her cigarette.

“No thanks. I gotta keep the pipes clean.”

“Suit yourself.” She takes another long drag.

I watch the smoke curl as it floats from her mouth.

I hold my hand out. “Hell. I haven’t had a cigarette in God knows when. One drag won’t kill me.”

I pluck it from between her fingers and take a long pull letting it settle before I blow it out. It feels like a warm blanket tossed over my brain. “Lord, have mercy,” I lean on the table and I hand it back to her.

She chuckles. “Listen to you espousin’ the Lord’s name like we’re in service.”

“Hell,” I say, straightenin’, still buzzed. “You know I gave up on church a long while back. They ain’t exactly acceptin’ of certain parts of my character.”

“Which parts?” Crystal says, grinnin’ sly, “the demon or the bisexual?”

“The bisexual. Oh, there’s plenty of demons in church. Believe you me. Hey, why were you askin’ about them boys?” I cock my head to the side.

She blushes. “I don’t know. It’s just been a while since I had sex. The last few months with Travis we just— didn’t. I ain’t lookin’ for a rebound. I’m just horny, is all.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, well uh, we best do somethin’ about that…”

I let that hang between us holdin’ onto her gaze.

Those rednecks sidle on next to us. “Evenin’ ladies. How y’all doin’?” the one in the plaid shirt asks. “My friend and I were hopin’ we could buy you a drink.”

Up close, they’re actually kinda cute. “My friend and I thought you two might be gay,” I say, rufflin’ their feathers.

I wink at Crystal, with her eyes all wide and mouth half open.

“Oh, we're into women, alright,” Dwight/ Tom says smilin’. “I’m Paul.”

“Joseph,” the other says.

“Crystal.”

“Victoria.”

We shake hands.

“So,” Paul says, puffin’ his chest out, “what’s your poison?”

“Being sober is my poison,” I say, glancin’ at my nails. “Whiskey’s the cure if y’all are buyin’.”

“We’ll be right back then.”

So, the finer details escape me… but after a couple of doubles, Paul and I are makin’ out in the ladies room bathroom stall.

“Damn, girl,” he says, his hands feelin’ good in my back pocket. “You got me all worked up. Let’s say we take this to my truck. I got a nice long seat in the back.”

I place my palms on his chest, “Hold on, cowboy. Let me see it first.”

“See what?”

“Your penis. I got a weird thing about how they look.”

He undoes his belt buckle and pants. “Well, you in for a big surprise then.”

“It’s not the size so much, more the shape. There are just some that I don’t like.”

He pulls his pants and drawers down, whippin’ it out on full display. “How’s you like that? You see how hard you got me?”

“Yeah. That ain’t gonna work. Put it away.”

“You serious?” He says, deflating.

I inch back and put up my hands. “When they bend a certain way like that, it just . . .”

“The fuck . . .” He grunts, pullin’ up his pants. “You’re a goddamn tease!”

“Just go,” I say, openin’ the stall door.

He stands there like a dummy.

I raise my voice. “This is the ladies room! Go on! Get!”

He storms out, just as another young thing walks in, nearly bowlin’ her over.

“Your date?” The red head says to me, goin’ to the mirror.

I lean halfway into the stall. “I wouldn’t call it that so much. More like a ‘speed date.’”

“Been there done that,” she says, puttin’ on lipstick.

She leans forward and her baby doll tee lifts above those low waisted jeans showin’ her smooth midriff.

“Hell,” I say, “I don’t even know if ‘speedate ‘covers it. I got flings that break the soundbarrier.”

She chuckles, crimping her hair. “Well, ain’t you just a cute somethin.’”

…

My eyebrows shoot up. . .I lock the bathroom door this time. . .and here I go again. . .

She tastes like strawberry wine.

“You gonna mess up my hair and makeup,” she says like it’s a dare.

I nibble at her neck. “I’m just gonna have to go lower then. . .”

…and I does . . .

The bar looks a whole lot different by the time I come out of that ladies room. The crowd’s riled up. Ain’t no music playin’.

“Jesus, Victoria,” Crystal appears, seizin’ my arm. What the hell we’re you doin’ in there? Havin’ a baby?”

“That’s an impossibility,” I say, scannin’ the room. People are shoutin’ and throwin’ things at the stage. “Unless we’re talkin’ the immaculate conception.”

Crystal scoffs. “How ‘immaculate’ could it have been? Them cowboys left. The one you took to the bathroom was pretty upset. I came to check on you to see if you was alright. Hell, I must have pounded on that door twenty times.”

“That was you?” I say.

“Well, then I saw that redhead walk out, big smile on her face. I did the math. You ain’t gotta explain yourself or anything.”

I look at her, gnawin’ at my lower lip, head bowed. I ain’t ashamed, I just don’t want it to spoil our night.

The sound of glass breaking on the stage pulls our attention.

The bouncers are involved now, draggin’ some rowdy customers out kicking at screaming.

“What the hell is happenin’ here?” I ask.

Crystal rolls her eyes. “During the intermission a roughneck got into it with the lead singer for lookin’ at his girlfriend or somethin’. A fight broke out, and long story short, the singer got his jaw broke. Now people are pissed because they paid the cover to see a show, and there ain’t no show.”

“I say we scoot.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’ll just settle up our bar tab and. . .” Crystal looks down at her waist, head turnin’ about. “My fanny pack is gone!”

“Damn, Cry. You didn’t take it off somewhere?”

“No! Shit.” She brings her hands to her face. “I let that redneck, Joseph, get a little fresh with me. I think he took it. The bartender has my license since I was payin’ cash.”

“Oh, hell.” I put my hands on my hips, and kick the floor. “Don’t worry baby girl. I’ll cover our drinks.”

I take a step, then pause . . . “Except I left my charge card in your fanny pack.”

Crystal goes pale. “So what do we do? Wash dishes?”

I place a hand on her shoulder. “Let me talk to the bartender.”

We weave our way through the crowd, and shove our way to the bar, a lot less jovial than they were a half hour ago. The band starts playing some blue grass, but the crowd just ain’t into it.

The bartender is arguin’ with some customers about gettin’ their money back.

“Hey!” I yell. “I want to pay my tab!”

He slides down to us. “That’ll be $150.”

“Yeah.” I lean over the bar. “Listen, so, uh, we got what you might call a drinkin’ problem.”

“Take it up with your sponsor,” he rasps.

I clasp my hands, as if in prayer. “We got robbed, and we don’t have a way to pay for our drinks.”

Crystal steps forward. “You got my license though. We’d be glad to swing by later and . . .”

He throws up a hand. “No. Listen. I’m the owner of this shack and I’ll tell you what. You could be sincere, but then shit happens. Find a way to pay it before you step foot outside, or else I’m gettin’ the sheriff involved.”

Crystal drops her head.

I yank my phone out of my front pocket. “Do you take Apple Pay?”

“Apple what now?” He says.

“Never mind.”

He moves to the other side pourin’ drinks and takin’ care of payin’ customers.

Crystal leans on the bar and buries her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, Vic.”

I shake my head. “This is ridiculous. I’ve been in a lot worse scrapes than this. . .” I get the owner’s attention once more. “I’ll sing for it,” I tell him. “Your band is missin’ a singer. I’ll cover, if you clear our tab.”

“You Patsy Cline, now?” He laughs.

My blood starts to boil, and I feel that ol’ demon side taking hold. I grab his arm and squeeze tight enough to leave an impression. “Your customers don’t wanna hear no Patsy Cline, or whatever blue grass mess they’re peddlin’ now. I’m Victoria Smoke, and I’ll bring the whole goddamn house down, on that you can sure hellfire bet, Mr.”

A little bead of sweat forms at his temple.

“What’s it gonna be?” I hiss.

Crystal stands awestruck mouth agape, catchin’ flies.

He swallows hard, jerkin’ his arm away.

I ease my grip.

“Fuck it.” He grumbles. “You go on up there, then. If you can win this crowd over? Then drinks on me.”

“Deal,” I snarl.

Crystal has her hand over her precious heart.

I cock my head to the stage. “I better get up there.”

I weave my way up, greeted by wolf whistles and various calls to “take it off!”

The band stops playin’. “Who the hell are you?” The grizzled guitar player asks.

“The entertainment. Let me have that banjo.” I point at the stand.

He looks over towards the bar. The owner shrugs.

He hands me the Deering. I sling it over my shoulders and adjust the fit.

“Don’t break it now,” grizzly tells me.

“Just try and keep up,” I say. “Fill in when you can.”

“Shit.”

I step up to the mic—an old friend, if any, and look out into a bar of drunken fools, and like a shaft of light, Crystal’s face in the back.

My fingers have a mind of their own, when it comes to fast strummin.’ By the sixteen count, and the first words out of my mouth, ain’t no one wolf whistlin’ or shoutin’ rude things no more. . .

Victoria’s Throw Down

I’m a Harley engine

I’m a girl gone sinnin’

I’m a tiger set loose whose tired of the whippins

I’m the meal you can’t afford

On an empty tummy

I’m a mugger on the street

So give me all your money

I’m a Nascar crash

I’m a snake in the grass

A pain in the ass

Hell, I’m Johnny damn Cash

I’m the drugs in the back

I’m a pink Cadillac

I’m a little white lie

All dressed in black

The knife in your boot

The gap in your tooth

Now this is the part

where you holler and hoot!

This aint no ho down!

This is a showdown!

You better draw quick

Or else you go down . . .

Now clap your damn hands

and stomp those steel toes

It’s time to throw down! It’s time to throw down!

(Let me hear ya! Woo!)

I’m the mud on your tires

Stripped down to the wires

I don’t wear no dress, but I’m a pretty little liar

I’m a grifter a con a thief and a crook

I’m the page you earmarked in your little black book

I’m a country woman

I’m the biscuits in the oven

I’m the bluff I’m the tell I’m four of a kind

I’m blue chips red chips I’m all in

And If you think I’m playin’

Then you’re out of your mind

I’m the rodeo bull

I’m the tractor pull

I’m the mule that bucks

I’m a horseshoe’s luck

I’m the Cuevo the Jack Johnny Walker Black

The Morgan’s and Coke

Ms. Victoria Smoke

So stand the hell up

And kill those beers and chasers

Clear the chairs and the tables

We’re about to tear this place…

…Up!

This aint no ho down!

This is a showdown!

You better draw quick

Or else you go down . . .

Now clap your damn hands

And stomp those steel toes

It’s time to throw down! It’s time to throw down!

(C’mon now!)

2.

High Beams Gala

So, that got their attention. After that, me and the band just did some fast covers and kept the party goin’. Our tab was cleared, and we even got open bar the rest of the night, and I split the tips with the band, recoverin’ some of the $200 that got stole from Crystal’s fanny pack. All in all, we broke even. And some nights? Hell. Even is a win.