Read Online King of the Mutants by Samantha Verant - Free Book Online
Authors: Samantha Verant
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woman wearing a bathrobe and head wrap slept. A record player whined out scratchy Blues music in the background.
I pressed the bell on the counter and breathed in a mouthful of musky air, a combination of sweat, dirt, and urine. The old lady didn’t budge and I wondered if she was dead. We must have been staring at her for at least five minutes until a deep voice behind us drawled, “Reckon you need a room?”
I turned around to face a man who resembled Elvis Presley—not young Elvis, but old, bloated Elvis. He had slick-backed, greasy hair, giant glasses—the kind that bug someone’s eyes all out, a funky cowboy hat with twinkling lights, and dirty overalls held up with a belt—its shiny, silver buckle as big as a bowling ball. No shirt. He eyed the woman behind the counter.
“Don’t worry, Henriette is alive. She’s just older than dirt and dog-gone tired, could sleep through a hurricane. In fact, I think she has.” Scary Elvis looked us over. “Whachew boys doing out so late? Running away from home, I reckon?”
Freddie stared at me, both of us unsure how to respond.
“No,” I explained. “We’re running away from the circus.” The man chuckled and motioned for me to carry on. “And we need a place to stay tonight.”
“Twenty bucks, right?” inquired Freddie.
“That’s right.” He hooked his thumbs into his overall straps, rocked back and forth on his cowboy-clad heels, and smiled. His teeth jutted out of his mouth like square, yellow Chiclets. “But I’ll need to see some iden-ti-fa-ca-tion.”
“We don’t have any,” I said. “Why do we need them?”
“It’s the law ’round here, boys. So we’ll just done and have to get you some.” Scary Elvis began to walk away. “Whachew kids waiting for? A par-ade? Follow me and I’ll get you sorted out.” He opened the door and we followed him into the dark alley. “The name’s Billy Bob Lafitte. But most people ’round these parts call me the General. This is my joint, this is my hood, and I’d like to welcome you boys to the Big Easy.”
Billy Bob walked up to the pile of screaming newspapers and tossed them aside. Under them slept a boy, probably my age. “Gad night a living,” screeched Billy Bob. “Well, if that don’t put the cayenne pepper in the gumbo. I reckon I told you not to sleep in my alley. It doesn’t make a good impression for my paying customers. Now get, before I knock you so hard you’ll see tomorrow today!”
The filthy, bug-eyed kid scrambled off the ground, stuck out his tongue, and ran toward the main street with his arms outstretched. He wasn’t wearing shoes, or, um, pants, just a t-shirt, a red cape, and blue underwear.
Freddie tried to hold back his laughter. I thought his brain might come out of his nose he snorted so hard.
“Tell your mama I’ll be home late, son,” Billy Bob yelled after the strange running boy. Then he shook his head in disbelief and muttered, “That boy is so dumb he could throw himself on the ground and miss. Couldn’t even find a pair of dungarees.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger twice, opened up a rusty door, and led us into a dark and dingy hallway. We could hear the bar’s music and laughter swell. We walked through the back of the building, the lingering scent of stale beer and cigarettes making me gag.
“Careful of the stairs,” Billy Bob said, almost falling. “They’re slipperier than snot on a glass doorknob. And careful of the hole. Been meaning to have it fixed.”
Nope, this definitely wasn’t a five-star joint.
Billy Bob led us into a small room that was more like a closet. He turned on the light, the kind where you yank the chain on the ceiling and it swings back and forth in the air. More mice-sized cockroaches scattered into the cracked cement walls. A wobbly desk sat in the center of the floor, a map of Louisiana hung on the wall. Besides those two things, wires hung down from the ceiling. Otherwise the room was bare, like an
I pressed the bell on the counter and breathed in a mouthful of musky air, a combination of sweat, dirt, and urine. The old lady didn’t budge and I wondered if she was dead. We must have been staring at her for at least five minutes until a deep voice behind us drawled, “Reckon you need a room?”
I turned around to face a man who resembled Elvis Presley—not young Elvis, but old, bloated Elvis. He had slick-backed, greasy hair, giant glasses—the kind that bug someone’s eyes all out, a funky cowboy hat with twinkling lights, and dirty overalls held up with a belt—its shiny, silver buckle as big as a bowling ball. No shirt. He eyed the woman behind the counter.
“Don’t worry, Henriette is alive. She’s just older than dirt and dog-gone tired, could sleep through a hurricane. In fact, I think she has.” Scary Elvis looked us over. “Whachew boys doing out so late? Running away from home, I reckon?”
Freddie stared at me, both of us unsure how to respond.
“No,” I explained. “We’re running away from the circus.” The man chuckled and motioned for me to carry on. “And we need a place to stay tonight.”
“Twenty bucks, right?” inquired Freddie.
“That’s right.” He hooked his thumbs into his overall straps, rocked back and forth on his cowboy-clad heels, and smiled. His teeth jutted out of his mouth like square, yellow Chiclets. “But I’ll need to see some iden-ti-fa-ca-tion.”
“We don’t have any,” I said. “Why do we need them?”
“It’s the law ’round here, boys. So we’ll just done and have to get you some.” Scary Elvis began to walk away. “Whachew kids waiting for? A par-ade? Follow me and I’ll get you sorted out.” He opened the door and we followed him into the dark alley. “The name’s Billy Bob Lafitte. But most people ’round these parts call me the General. This is my joint, this is my hood, and I’d like to welcome you boys to the Big Easy.”
Billy Bob walked up to the pile of screaming newspapers and tossed them aside. Under them slept a boy, probably my age. “Gad night a living,” screeched Billy Bob. “Well, if that don’t put the cayenne pepper in the gumbo. I reckon I told you not to sleep in my alley. It doesn’t make a good impression for my paying customers. Now get, before I knock you so hard you’ll see tomorrow today!”
The filthy, bug-eyed kid scrambled off the ground, stuck out his tongue, and ran toward the main street with his arms outstretched. He wasn’t wearing shoes, or, um, pants, just a t-shirt, a red cape, and blue underwear.
Freddie tried to hold back his laughter. I thought his brain might come out of his nose he snorted so hard.
“Tell your mama I’ll be home late, son,” Billy Bob yelled after the strange running boy. Then he shook his head in disbelief and muttered, “That boy is so dumb he could throw himself on the ground and miss. Couldn’t even find a pair of dungarees.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger twice, opened up a rusty door, and led us into a dark and dingy hallway. We could hear the bar’s music and laughter swell. We walked through the back of the building, the lingering scent of stale beer and cigarettes making me gag.
“Careful of the stairs,” Billy Bob said, almost falling. “They’re slipperier than snot on a glass doorknob. And careful of the hole. Been meaning to have it fixed.”
Nope, this definitely wasn’t a five-star joint.
Billy Bob led us into a small room that was more like a closet. He turned on the light, the kind where you yank the chain on the ceiling and it swings back and forth in the air. More mice-sized cockroaches scattered into the cracked cement walls. A wobbly desk sat in the center of the floor, a map of Louisiana hung on the wall. Besides those two things, wires hung down from the ceiling. Otherwise the room was bare, like an
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