Riding into the nearly deserted Mexican garrison town on the back of a decrepit gray burro the nameless stranger’s squinting eyes searched the terrified faces of the scurrying townsfolk. The few families and individuals that remained simply had nowhere else to go. One man who stayed because he was kind of enamored of the place had been appointed sheriff because nobody else wanted the job. Crime was rare and drunkenness almost nonexistent. These people went to church every Sunday although the pastor didn’t speak any Mexican. He had his own reasons for staying on. The bar stocked more top shelf liquor than anyone in the town would ever think of drinking. The cowboy tied his burro to the hitching post and came inside. The showgirls were elderly and didn’t move. The stranger rested it at the bar. “Whisky,” he said gruffly.
The bartender poured a tall glass of strong Kentucky bourbon; he had so much he could afford to give it away. “Here ya go, partner.”
The stranger drank. He set his empty glass down and the keep filled it again. “You trying to get me drunk?” asked the stranger.
The bartender nodded to the man at the piano who kicked it to get the music roll started in the middle of ‘O Sussana’ without him having to do much else.
The stranger picked up his glass and took it to a table. There he was approached by a woman at least three times his age so you’d think. She thought so too.
“Looking for a good time, sonny?” she said right out.
“Know where I can find one?” he drawled.
“Up at the top of the stairs. Turn left and wait in the room. Girl’ll be right up. Gotta preference?”
“I s’pose breathin’s good enough.”
“They ain’t all breathin’. What kind of place do you think this is? We don’t put our girls out. We keep ‘em ‘round. Some tricks like their girls real quiet.”
“I like the quiet type,” he sneered.
The blowsy blonde sat back on the wooden chair. “Then I’ll have somebody carry Kate up to see you. She ain’t breathed going on ten years. She’s still gotta good figure. Musta been her diet. She was always looking out for what she et.”
Slapping a gold dollar to the bare table the stranger stood up.
“Sold,” he said. “I’ll be seeing her up there then.”
“You got a handle, partner?”
“Nobody ever bothered giving me one,” he said.
“Just as well. Kate ain’t much for conversatin’ with her lips sewed up like that.”
Saying nothing else the stranger walked towards the stairs not making a sound going up the battered steps that normally creaked when a fly lit on a peel of paint. The woman left the table motioning for two girls to give her a hand; the bartender watching the women cram into the cramped backroom to unfold the woman’s corpse from a sturdy travel case that kept out the humidity so Kate’s dry flesh stayed soft and pliable. Kate’s eye sockets were hollow but that was the least of it. Dousing the carcass with a full bottle of French toilet water the older woman told the two girls to hurry her upstairs before the stranger realized what he’d agreed to. The stranger knew. He was looking forward to ****** the dead woman. Stripped down to his union suit he sat on the bead smoking a cigarillo. He hoped he wouldn’t be stuck in the dead end adobe mausoleum too long. The girl rapped sharply at the door. In only his drawers and hat the stranger opened the door.
“You asked for Kate,” she said coming inside hauling the feathery weight by the ankles followed by the second girl holding the limp arms by the wrists. Lifting the body onto the bed the girls smiled at the stranger then at Kate whose moth-eaten petticoats were ten years out of style. “Is there anything else?” said the girl.
“Tell the bartender to send up a couple of bottles of that good *****.”
“Yessir. Right away,” she said. “Just leave Kate’s tip on the bureau.”
Both girls curtsied and hurried out.
Closing the door the stranger removed the hat from his bald head. “Well, Kate, looks like you and me are gonna us have a little party.”
The bartender put several bottles of the good stuff on a silver tray with one glass, thought again and put down another glass. Balancing the wobbling tray the girl made her way to the top of the stairs, kicking the door with the toe of her worn boot and the stranger opened up for her. “That was quick,” he said.
“We aim t’please, mister,” she said coming into the room and setting the tray on the table, loitering for a tip.
“I aim too,” he said drawing his pistol and shooting her. She fell dead instantly and he picked her up and lay her on the bed beside the desiccated partygirl. With Wiley and Morphea turned to dust, the lone Nosferatu was desperate to form new minions anywhere he could find them.