I welcome you to tea in Las Vegas. Today I'm thrilled to present the latest horror installment from a favorite author of mine, Justin Bog. We've been reading along with the story at tea each week, eagerly awaiting the new episode. Enough of me squealing like a fangirl, here is the story.
Under his breath, still coming off a tweaker’s high, Pete “Petey” Quarles repeatedly hummed, mumbled the words pig, pig, piggy at the police officer walking ahead of him towards the release area, really a glass-walled partition with a slot where they could hand him his belongings, which amounted to a pair of sneakers wrapped in a brown paper bag. He had crazy, animalistic, tics, one side of his mouth always rising and falling, hands clenching into fists, off and on, rapidly, giving energy away. The full jailhouse scrounged up a lost pair of jeans, a rank, dirty white t-shirt, and a hoodie that still had splashes of blood all across the back, and a knife slit, widening near the left shoulder-blade area. Arrested for public nudity, public nuisance, disturbing the peace, attempted assault, resisting arrest, and drug use (a known meth user on the island—one of many) Petey had been brought in wearing only his black Converse All-Stars. They allowed Petey to sleep his high off on the concrete floor of a cell that already housed eight others.
“Anyone coming to pick you up this time?” Officer Lucy Kincaid asked her question with little emotion. She didn’t care if Petey had a ride back to Fidalgo Island or not. She processed the official forms, stamped a few, slid one through the slot for Petey to signature, and tapped her finger against the desk top, waiting.
“Nope nope nopey nope!”
Officer Kincaid rolled her eyes, a rudeness she indulged in only because she felt safe within her glass cage. The toughest of toughs, and she’d seen much worse than young-but-looks-way-ancient, teeth-rotting, methhead Petey Quarles in her time on the force—a desk jockey happy to clock in and clock out—didn’t often make her crack a smile.
“Well, it’s too bad there’s no room at this inn, once again, or your ass would be on a different path. Try not to let me see you again this month.”
“Do my best, lady cop,” Petey said, and he added a salute.
“You can put your shoes on over there.” Officer Kincaid pointed to the lobby where a graffiti-strewn wooden bench stood against the wall.