Short Story: 'Twang'
Cannibalism and Comfort Food
I started writing crime fiction in 2014. For the next five years I published short stories, novellas and novels. I also contributed a few short stories to anthologies inspired by a specific artist or band. A version of this one appeared in Just To Watch Them Die: Crime Fiction Inspired By the Songs of Johnny Cash under the title “25 Minutes to Go.”
Fair warning: References to cannibalism, murder.
I’ll be sharing a few of my previous short stories here over the next few Saturdays.
Twang
By S.W. Lauden
"Real country music is like comfort food."
The young reporter didn't give a shit about country music. They had only given her twenty-five minutes with him before the big event, and the clock was ticking.
Her eyes wandered to the intricate patchwork of tattoos that covered his arms, each one a different name. She had to find a way to get the answers her readers wanted.
"It's the same every damned time and you always leave satisfied."
It was still hard to believe that she was interviewing Twang, the notorious country guitarist who hadn't spoken to the press since 2004. Even now the news vans were parked outside waiting to catch a glimpse, and here she was face to face with the man himself. I guess it really is who you know, she thought.
His eyes were as dark and piercing as her mother's old album covers had promised, but his mane of curly hair was cut short. It was disappointing to discover that his famous sneer was really nothing more than a nervous tic.
"If you want that classic sound, you need the right guitars. Nothing fancy, just a couple of single coil pick-ups and wound nickel strings. The thicker the better."
"I was going to ask you about the strings..."
"I figured you might. You hungry? There's no way I'm finishing all this food."
He pushed one of the to go containers across the table. She knew he wasn't going to make this easy for her.
"What did you order?"
"Barbecue, what else? The full spread. There's corn bread, collard greens, slaw and biscuits. The meat is pretty good, but not near as tender as mine."
She shot him a skeptical look.
"Don't worry. It ain't homemade."
His laughter echoed off the concrete walls. Her appetite had instantly disappeared when they called last night to say that her interview request was finally approved. She hadn't eaten anything since, but decided it was best to maintain a professional distance if anything was to come of all this.
"Your loss. Anyway, it used to be that the rockabilly guys played hollow body guitars. They got that from the blues guys. There was a sense of tradition. These days, who knows? Everybody's got the same spiky hair, or beards, or both. Even the so called country artists."
Twang picked at his yellow teeth before going on.
‘Yep. Give me a Fender Telecaster any day. You see me in a cowboy hat with one of those babies strapped on and you know what you're gonna get. It's the real deal."
"How big is your guitar collection at this point?"
"I have a couple stashed here and there, but I hocked most of them to pay my lawyers. Those’ll belong to somebody else soon enough. Easy come, easy go. You sure you ain't hungry? I'm pretty full myself."
Twang popped a cigarette into his mouth and asked for a light. She took a Zippo from her bag and brought it up in front of his face. Her hand was sweaty and starting to shake. The sparks jumped and danced, but it took several tries to produce a flame.
"Nervous?"
One of the heavily-armed prison guards coughed just outside the cell. They only had a few minutes left.
"Looks like it's almost show time. But you didn't come here to talk about country music, now did you? Tell me what you really want to know."
She flipped her notebook to the page full of questions she had labored over instead of sleeping. Her eyes went right to the bottom of the list.
"Let's start with the tattoos. Who are all those people?"
He stuck his arms out and rested his hands on the table palms up. The name 'Christina' took up most of his left forearm, but other names spiraled outward from it in every direction. The tattoos started at the wrist on each arm and snaked all the way up until they disappeared into the sleeves of his jumpsuit.
"People have been asking me that question for years. You'll probably be real disappointed when I tell you."
"I'm listening."
"The names on my left arm are like my family. 'Christina' was my first girlfriend, back in high school. I always did have great taste in women. But you already new that, didn't you?"
She winced. He winked before going on.
"'Mickey' is a roadie that I worked with for years. 'Bobby Ray' is my bus driver. 'Tom' is my drummer. They've all been with me through thick and thin. We're like blood brothers."
"Sounds wholesome the way you put it."
"It's a pretty simple system. You know, 'keep your loved ones close...'"
"What about your enemies?"
"That would be my right arm. They say to keep them even closer. I guess I really took that to heart."
"That's a lot of enemies."
"There's always room for more. I got a new one just a couple of days ago."
She noticed a patch of irritated, red skin poking out from under his sleeve.
"How do people make the enemy list? I hope turning down food doesn't qualify."
He gave a chuckle and relaxed his shoulders. She went in for the kill.
"Who is 'Alan'?"
He balled his hands into tight fists, chin dropping to his chest. The chains on his shackles rattled. She already knew the answer from the trial records, but she needed to get him off balance.
"Alan was the first one, wasn't he? Tell me. You're almost out of time."
He brought his eyes up to meet hers. A young monster stared back at her through the rubbery mask of an old man's face.
"That's my piece of shit brother. I hope he's waiting for me in hell, so I can kill him all over again."
"Are the tattoos on your right arm the names of all your victims?"
"Only the ones I got around to before time ran out."
"Did you eat all of them?"
He took a drag from his cigarette and blew a thin smoke ring. Musicians are experts at killing time.
"You know, there's nothing like a cigarette after a good meal. Hard to believe this will be the last one I ever taste."
She wasn't going to let him distract her that easily.
"The families deserve to know. Let them bury their loved ones."
"They know in their hearts, even if they never do find the bones."
"You're an animal."
"We all are, darlin'. Only difference is that some of us, like you, roam free. Others are caged up, like me."
"And your victims?"
"Destined for the slaughterhouse. Although, I guess that's me now too."
"Must be hard to run a 'slaughterhouse' all by yourself. Who helped you?"
His tic was more pronounced now. Was she getting through, or was he getting off on all this talk of murder? She was about to ask her next question when he forced an answer through gritted teeth.
"I'm afraid there are some secrets I will take to my grave."
"Who are you protecting? Which one of your so called 'blood brothers' helped you kill all those people?"
Tiny beads of sweat formed under her shirt. She had him right where she wanted him. Time was the only thing standing in her way. There were still so many questions to ask.
"Why did you strangle them with a guitar string?"
"Hm. I guess it was the one thing I always had with me. Besides, I didn't want to damage any of the tasty cuts. Guns are messy and I like to save my knife skills for the butcher block, if you know what I mean."
The prison warden stepped into the room with a guard on his right and a chaplain on his left. Twang pushed his chair back and rose up. He was towering over her and flashing a confident, toothy grin.
"I wish I could read that story of yours, but I guess there isn't much chance of that. Isn't that right, boys?"
He nodded toward the three serious-looking men in the doorway. She flipped her notebook shut in frustration, sure that she had failed. There was nothing left to say.
"Don't get down on yourself, darlin'. You damn near got me to spill the beans."
She just smiled and nodded in response. How do you say goodbye to somebody who was about to die? She was the only one of them that couldn't answer that question yet.
"You look like her, you know? Back when we were still kids. You got the same dark hair and pretty blue eyes. Seems like yesterday we were running around together and raising hell."
A tear sparkled at the corner of his eye. It was a tiny reminder that the monster might be human after all. She was finding it more difficult to deny him her sympathy. Her only defense was to lie.
"I wouldn't know. She never talks about you."
"Can't say that I blame her, but she's the one I'll be thinking about when they finally put the lights out. Make sure and give her that message."
The guard and the chaplain each took one of Twang's elbows and started the long walk to the execution chamber.
"And eat something before you go. You need to put some meat on those bones. Consider it my last request."
His throaty laugh echoed down the cellblock as he disappeared out of view.
The warden waited until they were gone before addressing the reporter.
"I hope you got what you needed. I'm sorry we weren't able to get you in to be a witness. This whole interview was just so last minute."
"Thanks. Not sure I could have stomached it anyway."
"Do you have any idea why he requested you?"
"I guess he knew my mother back in high school."
"Good lord. She wasn't one of his victims was she?"
"No, thank god, or I probably wouldn't be sitting here right now. They haven’t seen each other in years, but I guess she still writes him letters."
The warden shook his head. She had a question for him now.
"Hey. How did this interview get approved, anyway?"
"Hard to say. Best I can figure is there's some real country music fans up in the state capitol. I hope it was worth it. A guard will be here in a minute to escort you out."
He gave her a sympathetic smile and left. She sat staring at Twang's empty chair, reliving the interview in her mind. She was about to collect her things and go, but popped the lid on the box he had offered her instead.
It's the least I can do, she thought.
A folded piece of paper was placed on top of the discarded rib bones and other bits of comfort food. The name 'Christina' was written on the front in tiny print. The sight of it almost knocked the wind out of her.
She turned the paper over in her fingers. The letter was addressed to her mother, but he had given it to her. And now he was gone.
Nobody has to know that I read it, she thought.
She opened it a fold at a time, until the creased sheet was spread out in her lap like a menu. There was a single sentence written across the middle of it.
I never told them it was you.
The reporter collected the notebook and recorder, shoving them into her bag with shaky hands. Her heart and mind were racing. It was an hour drive back to her mother's restaurant.
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