The Best Way to Get Blood Out of Your Shirt

Kyle MacDougall awoke at his usual time, 5:30. However, today was when the unusual took over. He sat straight up and rubbed his face. His hand slid across his wet and sticky cheeks, but something just didn’t feel right.  God, I feel like shit. Where did I go last night? Straining his memory, Kyle felt his chest tighten and his stomach knot. What did I do? Don’t know. 

When he flipped on the lamp next to his bed, he noticed his sheets were covered in blood and there was a phone number etched into his forearm: 555-690-1111. Kyle recognized the number from park benches advertising pizza parlor deliveries. WTF. What did I do? Order a pizza?

Talking aloud, Kyle mumbled, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

He answered, “Uh, uh, I’m lost. Okay. Let’s start when I left work on Friday night. Uh, why Friday? What day of the week is this? Holy shit! I don’t even  know.” Kyle turned on his television to the Monday morning news.

After taking a long, hot shower to clear his head, he was no closer to remembering his lost weekend, so he dressed and headed to Dot’s.

The tavern was closed, but Kyle saw Marvin Fisher, the backup bartender, through the storefront window. He was taking upside-down stools off the counter and sitting them upright in front of the bar.

Kyle fished a quarter from his pocket and tapped it on the glass door. Marvin held up his index finger and hotfooted it to the entrance. “Kyle, I’m not open for another 30 minutes.”

“I don’t want anything to drink, I just need to ask a couple of questions.”

Marvin pulled a ring of 34 keys and searched for the one that opened the front door. Finally, Marvin unlocked the entryway and held it open until MacDougall squeezed inside.  Marvin stepped outside and took a deep breath of air thick with diesel fumes from the railroad shops a half-mile away. Marvin looked up and down Main Street and then stepped back inside and quickly closed the thick piece of glass. “Kyle. What can I do for you?”

“This is going to sound strange, but when was the last time I was here?”

Marvin shook his head. “Considering how much you had to drink, that’s not such a strange question. The strange question is, why did it take you so long to ask?”

Bewildered, Kyle frowned. “What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Kyle mumbled, “If I could remember anything, I wouldn’t be here. The only reason I’m here is because this is where I go every Friday night.”

Marvin poured himself a cup of coffee and poured a second cup for MacDougall. “I suppose it was about 5:40 when you came in. You took your usual seat, third stool from the end, and sat quietly for the best part of an hour.”

“Like a typical Friday night?” sighed Kyle.

Marvin nodded. “Just like a typical Friday night.”

“Then what happened?”

“You went in back and played game after game of pinball while drinking beer after beer. You played until the band started to set up. That was about 8:30.”

“And then what?”

“You came back to the bar and started drinking shots of whiskey.”

“Then the band started to play,” said Kyle with a befuddled frown on his face. “I remember now.”

“You went to the men’s room and were gone for most of the band’s first set. When you came back you had the witch with you.”

“Hey!” roared Kyle. “She wasn’t a bitch.”

 “I didn’t call her a bitch. I called her a witch. She was talking witch-shit all night, and you were buying it.”

“How so?” prodded Kyle.

“Your stool was across the bar from the beer tap, so I was picking up bits and pieces of your conversation throughout the night. She was on the stool second from the end, and Smitty sat next to her.”

“Smitty the baker?”

Marvin nodded. “Yeah, he was there through the second set; then he got mad, called the witch crazy, and stormed out without paying his tab.”

“It’s not like Smitty to walk out on his bar tab.”

“He paid up on Saturday.”

“So, what did the witch do when Smitty walked out?”

“She started chanting. I assume she was placing some kind of spell on him.”

Kyle had a pensive scowl on his face. “Some things are coming back to me, but I can’t picture what she looked like.”

Marvin started to laugh. “Do you know the term coyote ugly?”

“A girl so ugly; if you woke up next to her and her head was on your arm, you’d gnaw off your arm rather than risk waking her?”

Marvin grinned impishly. “Yeah, but your witch was wolverine ugly.”

“Wolverine ugly?”

“Yeah. She was so ugly you’d gnaw off your other arm too, so you wouldn’t be tempted to do anything like that ever again.”

Unamused by Fisher’s comment, Kyle frowned. “What did she look like?”

“If I were you, I’d be thankful I couldn’t remember,” chuckled Marvin.

In a voice two octaves angrier, Kyle thundered, “What did she look like?”

“She was thinnish, pasty-faced, and had black curly hair parted down the middle.”

“Brown eyes with black eye shadow?” added Kyle. “I think I remember.”

“Long thin digits with knuckles twice the size of the rest of her fingers; skin stretched tight across her bony face.”

Kyle nodded slowly as he looked down to avoid embarrassing eye contact. “She had a wart on the tip of her nose. Didn’t she?”

“That’s right,” hooted Marvin. “She wore high-heeled Doc Martins . . .”

Kyle chimed in, “And she wore torn fishnet hose, a black blouse, black skirt, and had unusually white teeth.”

“Don’t forget the black fingernail polish, black lipstick, and drawn-on high-arching eyebrows,” added Marvin.

“Was she a Goth?” quizzed Kyle.

By this time, Marvin was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. As he wiped tears from his face, he replied, “I don’t know. Do they make 58-year-old Goth queens who... “

Kyle cut in. “. . . recite bad poetry to an inattentive audience?” How did I know she recites poetry? “Did you say, 58-year-old? I’m only 35.”

Marvin nodded. “And she recited bad poetry between the band’s sets. Well, it sounded like poetry. From your response, she could have cast a spell on you.”

Kyle felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. “A spell?”

“Yeah. She placed her hand on your forehead and then planted a big, sloppy kiss on your lips.”

“Oh, crap!” said Kyle as he felt a stinging pain in his mouth. “She tongue-kissed me, and when my tongue followed hers, she bit me. I kissed her back, and she bit my tongue until it bled. Without forethought, I bit her lower lip, tugging it away from her mouth before releasing it. She kissed me again, savagely. I responded in kind.”

That’s when I said, ‘You two need to stop. You’re embarrassing the band’s groupies.” She flashed an evil grin and took you outside.” Marvin shrugged. “I’ve got nothing after that.”

Kyle stared deep into space. “We hopped into my back seat, but the band must have stopped because a flood of people came outside and drove off in their cars. The rest of Friday night/Saturday morning is nothing more than a blur; a strobe of flashes and brain-numbing sounds...  and then things got kinky.”  

With the bar cleared of stools, Marvin wiped the top until it was free from dried beer and salt. For those of you who don’t know, many rednecks moisten the base of their index finger and thumb, then sprinkle the damp surface with salt, and lick the salt off to enhance the beer’s flavor. 

As he wiped his way down the bar, Marvin asked, “What happened after you left?”

“I think we went to my place.”

“You think?” bellowed Marvin. “You don’t know for sure?”

“Marvin, I think I agree with you. She must have cast a spell on me. I was helpless to stop doing whatever she wanted me to do.”

“Yup. It looked like that to me.”

“Well, we went back to my place and fooled around. Let me take that back. We didn’t fool around. It was so much more intense than fooling around. We had sex for 24 hours - 24 hours straight.”

Marvin chastised, “Nobody can have sex for a solid 24 hours. It’s impossible.”

“We’d do it, and then she would recite poetry. We’d do it and then have something to eat. We’d do it, and she cast a spell to keep sparking another intense bout of passion. I thought it would never end.”

“But it did,” murmured Marvin.

“How do you know?”

Marvin’s head bobbed. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Physically, yes,” said Kyle as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. “I’m not so sure if I’m here mentally.”

Marvin stared at Kyle’s right forearm and pointed. “I almost forgot about that.”

“The phone number?”

“Yeah. She took an eight-penny nail out of her purse and carved it into your arm.”

“She what?” screeched Kyle.

“She used a nail to etch the phone number into your arm. Sorry, Kyle, but I had to watch. It’s not every day you see someone do that.”

Fascinated by the etching, Kyle prodded, “Was it a rusty nail?”

Marvin shook his head in disbelief. “A strange woman carves a phone number into your arm and all you ask is ‘was the nail rusty?’ Kyle, I think you’ve lost it.”

Mesmerized by the etching, Kyle asked, “Isn’t this the number for pizza delivery?”

“Yeah,” snapped Marvin. “She probably told you it’s her phone number.”

“She told me her name was Fiona.” Racking his brain, Kyle muttered, “At least, I think she told me that.” Ten seconds later, he repeated, “Fiona,” as a chill ran down his spine. “I got nothing.”

“Aren’t you gonna call the number on your arm?”

“And you said she was twenty years older than me?”

“At least!” snickered Marvin.

Kyle retrieved a dollar from his pocket and slammed it on the bar top. “Gimme some change for the phone.”

Marvin pulled a phone from under the counter and put it next to Kyle. “Be my guest.”

Kyle raised the receiver with one hand and dialed with the other. However, when Kyle heard the voice on the phone say, “The Pizza Place,” he fumbled the receiver back into its cradle.

“What did you do that for?”

Kyle huffed, “Don’t know.” He raised the receiver and dialed one more time. However, this time the man answering the call asked, “You looking for Fiona?”

“Yes, how do you know?”

“Whenever I get a call at this time of the morning, it’s always for Fiona. There aren’t many people calling for a pizza before 6:30 AM.” After a long silence, the pizza-guy asked, “Aren’t you gonna ask me?”

“What?”

“She carved this phone number into your arm. Aren’t you gonna ask for her?”

When Kyle glanced at Marvin for a few seconds, the bartender nodded slowly. Kyle took a deep breath. “Well, is she there?”

“Why would a witch be in a pizza parlor at 6:30 in the morning?”

Kyle instantly huffed, “I didn’t say she was a witch.”

With a moderate amount of certainty, the Pizza Guy spouted, “But she is. Isn’t she?”

Kyle sped through his response. “I knew this was going to be a mistake. Sorry to bother you. Thanks for your time.” Then Kyle placed the receiver back atop the phone. “That was a tremendous waste of effort.”

The phone rang loudly, and Marvin answered, “Yeah.  This is Marvin.” In seconds, Marvin held out the receiver. “It’s a man asking for Kyle.”

Kyle frowned. WTF. I never said my name was Kyle.

 When Kyle placed the receiver to his ear, the voice said, “Seems creepy. Doesn’t it?”

“I’m tired of playing games. Now, is Fiona there or not?”

“She said to tell you she’d meet you at your place.”

“When?”

“Tonight at 9:00.”

“Thanks a bunch. We could have saved lots of time if you had told me that at the beginning of this call.”

“There wouldn’t be any fun in that, would there?”  quizzed the caller.

He can read my mind.

“Damned straight. I can read minds. It comes in handy. Can you even imagine the number of false deliveries I prevent?”

---

At precisely 9:00 PM, Kyle peeped out the lens in the door to his apartment, but he did not see a thing. Someone had a thumb over the opening. “Who’s there?”

“Kyle. Last night, you called me your little orchid blossom. Don’t you remember?”

He opened the door. “There are a lot of gaps in my memory of last night. For starters, I don’t remember you telling me your name was Fiona.”

“That’s because my name isn’t Fiona.”

“Then what should I call you?”

The witch grinned. “Fiona. Just call me Fiona.”

Kyle blurted, “But it’s not your real name? Is it?”

With a lilt in her voice, the witch teased, “That’s my name tonight.” Seconds later, she followed with, “Must we argue over trivialities?”

Anticipating an argument, Kyle opened his mouth but recoiled into silence.

“And he says nothing,” mocked the enchantress. “What’s the matter, Kyle? Black cat got your tongue?”

“No. I’m just fighting the urge to struggle over trivial matters.”

“Touché. Point well-made,” cheered Fiona. “However, before we continue, do you consider me a trivial matter?”

“No. Far from it. There is nothing trivial about you, my dear.”

“Good! Thanks for noticing. If you didn’t notice, I’m afraid I would have to place a spell on you.”

“What does that entail?”

“You know, the same as last night. Kill a chicken, spread some blood - the usual.”

“That sounds pretty nasty.”

“Oh, it is. It is,” asserted the witch. “Spreading blood is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

“Then why did you carve the phone number into my forearm? It spread lots of blood.”

“Well, I wanted to ensure you thought of me as not being a trivial being.”

“Ensure?”

“Yes. It was part of the spell I cast on you.”

“Dammit. I knew it. You bewitched me.”

“Certainly. I told you several times I was casting my spell on you. Don’t you remember?” Suddenly aware of Kyle’s confusion, she added, “You don’t remember. Do you?”

Ashamed to admit he succumbed to her magic, Kyle looked away. “Did you or I carve the phone number on my arm?”

“I gave you the nail.”

Kyle snapped, “I know, but who carved ‘555-960-1111’ into my arm?”

“Dumbass!” snapped.  “Are you right or left-handed?”

“Right-handed.”

“Which arm has the number on it?”

“My right arm.”

“How deft are you at using your left hand?”

MacDougall stood in place. “Not very.”

“Shall we eliminate you using your left hand to carve numbers into your own right arm?”

MacDougall wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Couldn’t you have just said, ‘I did it?’ Had you, we would have been done by now.”

“I could have said that, but don’t I deserve the best from you?”

“We’ve established that.”

“So, I’m not worth the extra effort?” carped Fiona. “Is that what you’re saying? Because that’s what I’m hearing."

“You’re not hearing anything. You’re assuming I meant that.”

The witch flicked her wrist. “What’s the difference?”

“Now, you’re taking me for granted. Don’t you think I’m worth the extra effort?”

“If I didn’t believe you’re worth the extra effort, I wouldn’t have given you my phone number.”

Fraught full of frustration, Kyle slammed back down on his stool. Although the stool fell backwards, Kyle stood to avoid a nasty tumble.

 “I didn’t mean to do that to you,” laughed Fiona. “I think you’re worth the effort.”

“Extra effort?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Time’s up,” said Marvin as he set the stool upright.

“Fiona, I need to go.”

“Why?”

Marvin held out his hand to help end the phone call.

“I gotta go, but I have one last question. How do I get rid of all the blood and stains on my white shirt the next time we meet?”

“Kyle, you’re so silly. Everyone knows the single best way to get blood out of a shirt is not to expose the shirt to blood in the first place.  When are you gonna let me carve my home number on your left arm?”