The Bar Killer

The utility van skittered to a halt on the gravel drive. Burnt orange dust blew past the windows, tiny particles clinging to the glass like no-see-ums on skin. Two curs, one perhaps resembling an Irish setter and the other a small, toothy yap with vacant brown eyes, launched themselves off the trailer porch in a flurry of growls and teeth.

Peter hastily retracted his leg and slammed the door. The dogs circled the van expectantly.

"Red Dawg! Skowl! Stop that barkin' and git yer tails back on this porch right now, afor I git my switch!" A paisley tent with greasy reddish hair had appeared on the makeshift landing, flabby bare arms akimbo. "Didja hear me?" She stuck out a pale ankle as big around as Peter's whole body and took a single lumbering step.

The dogs immediately stopped their berserker attack and slunk away through a hole in the singlewide's foundation blocks.

"Yew can git out now," rasped the woman. Her face and arms were mottled red with purplish spots here and there. Sweat trailed down her cheeks and dripped from her pug nose.

Peter took a tentative step from the van, but paused as the dogs growled loudly from their cowardly vantage. Ready to jump back in if necessary, he called, "I'm Peter Hamelin from Pied Piper Pest Punchers. A Mr. Earl phoned about a roach problem."

From the far left of the unkempt dwelling, through a tiny screened window, filtered a deep singsong voice, "I'm on the sheeter...I'll be thar in a minute."

"Come on in. Them dawgs ain't gonna bother yew no more." The big woman returned sideways through the front door, one arm jangling invitingly.

Peter slammed the van and made his way up the short stairs to the aluminum threshold. Growling from below intensified. With a deep breath, he plunged into the gloom.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but they really didn't need to. He had seen it all before; trailer trash made his best clients because of the way they lived. Sure enough, the interior was full of crumpled beer cans, assorted food wrappers, dirty piles of cloths, carpet that had never been vacuumed-detritus from floor to ceiling.

The place stank, of course. Body odor, soured clothing and other darker smells plagued his nose. A blaring television offered up the only variation in color beyond that of tan dinginess. Oh yes, this would be a roach heaven for sure...and possibly other critters too.

"My name's Willy Jack. Howya doin'?" A pale, skinny young man-twenty-ish-with long black hair and bad teeth, offered up a bowl of popcorn from his perch on the arm of a lumpy sofa. "Want some?" A filthy fingernail rose into the depths of a nostril, which was subsequently wiped on a ragged blue-jean leg.

"No thanks," Peter quickly replied. It seemed rather incongruous that the huge lump of a woman taking up fully half of the overstuffed sofa could have a scarecrow for a son.

A whooshing noise, followed by a loud slam, accompanied the entrance of a person who caused Peter to take a step backward. The belly arrived first, followed seconds later by a stained t-shirt that barely made it to the sternum. A black cap sporting a skull-and-crossbones said, "I'm the Shadow of Death," and topped a round head that could only be termed friendly, yet vacant. Incongruous-it was a word Peter was coming to believe in wholeheartedly.

"Hi. I'm Earl. Earl Jones." He stuck out a dubiously wet hand.

Peter's own hand was engulfed in humid meat. Once withdrawn, he attempted to inconspicuously wipe it on the back of his coveralls. "I understand you have a roach problem. Is that right, Mr. Ear...I mean, Jones?" He briefly wondered how he got the name wrong from the phone message.