Chickens in the Bread Pan Pickin' Out Dough

⛧⛧⛧

I

⛧⛧⛧ “...and then… AND THEN… this sonuvabitch goes and crucifies the poor bastard! Goddamnedest thing I’ve ever seen! I went stumblin’ outta that ring ‘fore they decided to throw ‘im in a cave for three days!”

Daytona slapped the bar so hard the glasses jumped. Rob, nursing a whiskey the color of tired sunlight, raised his eyebrows with a half smirk while Anna cackled; one voice, two voices, more than that, depending on which version of her was paying attention. “Honestly, Rob, it was a very funny crucifixion. You really had the panache.”

Rob shrugged, the picture of casual menace. It felt good to forget his lies for a while - even if it meant going off-grid. “Man’s gotta make a statement. The best part was you coming back like you were going to white knight, just to get your fuckin’ cowboy hat.”

Daytona threw an arm around him. “A statement?! Boy, I been makin’ statements my whole goddang life and not once did I think, ‘Y’know what this situation needs? A crucifixion.’ That’s why I admire you, Robby. You’re creative! You think outside the box!”

Rob clinked glasses with him. “Like you never wanted to crucify him?”

Laughter rolled through the booth. The cold Atlanta air fogged the windows from the warmth inside; neon lights smeared across half-empty glasses. The Whoresmen were loud, happy, and obnoxiously themselves; an apocalypse in cowboy boots and combat boots and whatever the hell Fred Dick wore on his feet.

Fred launched into a story about the time he got kicked out of a Waffle House for trying to make love to a jukebox (which he affectionately referred to as ‘Shirley') and Daytona, naturally, embellished it until it had become a cautionary tale of betrayal, destiny, and hash browns scattered-smothered-chunked. By the time he was slapping the table and shouting “AND THAT’S WHEN THE LADY IN THE HAIRNET PULLED A FUCKIN’ KNIFE ON ‘IM,” even Anna was doubled over.

For a while, everything felt warm and perfect.

Then Daytona’s eyes narrowed. Not with suspicion or paranoia, but with intention. Schemin’. Cookin’ up something foul.

He leaned closer to Rob. “Hey Robby. RoboCop. Big R. Lemme borrow you a second.”

Rob gave him a look. “If this is about buying another round, I already told your ass I ain’t buying you anything with an umbrella in it.”

“Nah, nah. This ain’t drinks,” Daytona muttered, lowering his voice. “This is… business.”

Rob sighed the sigh of a man who’d regretted many choices and was about to regret one more. Still, he stood. “Gotta go see a man about a mule,” he told the others.

Daytona hooked an arm around Rob’s shoulders and guided him toward the hallway near the bathrooms, out of earshot and away from Fred’s enthusiastic description of how good a jukebox feels when you grind up against it just right.

Once they were alone, Daytona checked both ends of the hall like he expected a sniper.

He whispered, “Alright. So. Our tag match at Colossus. Belts on the line, Communists and Bandits ‘cross the ring from us…”

Rob folded his arms. “Yeah. I’m aware of it.”

“And you wanna win, right? Like, really win? Like, make-the-crowd-throw-up-from-pure-awe kinda win?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods? Missed that mark three fucking times.”

Daytona nodded, jaw tightening like he was about to reveal nuclear codes. “Then I reckon it’s time we took things… deeper.”

“Deeper,” Rob echoed without emotion.

Daytona licked his lips. “We’re in Georgia, ain’t we? Peach State. Also home to somethin’ else. Somethin’ powerful. Somethin’ evil. Somethin’ that can help us win.”

Rob stared at him. “If you say ‘The Varsity’, I’m walking back to the bar.”

“No, goddangit!” Daytona shouted. “I mean a crossroads! A real deal crossroads! One of them demon-summon’, soul-sellin’, fiddle-playin’, blues-cursin’ crossroads!”

Rob went perfectly still. “Oh shit, you’re serious.”

“As a heart attack in July!” Daytona stepped closer, lowering his voice further. “We go out there tonight. Find the spot. Say the words. Sell JUST A LITTLE bit of our souls and boom! We got supernatural enhancement for Colossus, Robby! Maybe glow red. Maybe breathe fire. Maybe get, I dunno, extra ligaments.”

“Extra ligaments,” Rob repeated flatly.

“Brother, think ‘bout it. You with extra ligaments? Unstoppable! Me with demon juice flowin’ through my veins? Forget about it!”

Rob rubbed his temples. “You want us to… sell our souls to the Devil so we can win by… ligament advantage.”

“HELL YES!” Daytona said, beaming.

A long silence followed.

A very long silence.

Finally, Rob exhaled. “...alright. Fuck it.”

Daytona lit up like he’d just been handed the keys to heaven itself. “KNEW I COULD COUNT ON YOU! Robby Williams, you beautiful sinner!”

He clapped Rob on the shoulder so hard it probably left a bruise.

“Tonight,” Daytona said, eyes shining. “Midnight. Somewhere on a dirt road outside of Atlanta. We’re makin’ a deal.”

Rob stared at him, resigned to fate, friendship, and the terrible things he’d agreed to be part of since joining The Whoresmen.

“...let’s finish our drinks first,” he muttered.

“Well, shitfire, ‘course we are!” Daytona said. “Man can’t sell his soul on an empty stomach! Ain’t that right, Robby? Ain’t that fuckin’ right?”

And together, they walked back toward the bar. Toward the laughter, the neon, the mess of their friends, and the kind of night that always ended in either glory… or arrest.

⛧⛧⛧

II

⛧⛧⛧ “Best hamburger in Suwanee.”

Rob read the sign aloud, notably missing anything resembling hope or enthusiasm.

“Man, I’ve put my chips behind some dumb shit, but this? C’mon ‘Tone.”

“Aw shitfire, let’s at least see ‘bout that burger.”

The inside of Crossroads Bar and Grill was a sensory overload that would’ve made any southern boy’s pecker stand at attention. Maybe even shed a little tear if you hang around until closing time. The air was all grease and yeast - mostly from the beer, but not totally.

Some two-toothed hillbilly was talking his way through a karaoke rendition of ‘Creep’ flat enough to skateboard over. Rob was pretty sure this guy was going to drink whatever cleaner was readily available in the bathroom once he wrapped the song up.

“Jesus Henry Fucking Christ, ‘Tone.”

“Shh! Best not to say that too loud in this place, Robby! These are good, God fearin’ folk! Now c’mon, let’s wet our whistles.”

They dodged a fist fight on their way to the bar.

The bartender looked slightly better than the rag she was cleaning the bartop with, and it looked like it was used to clean a crime scene. In an earlier time, before the internet, she could’ve made a mint charging to see her luscious head of hair. The one growing from the giant mole on her chin, not her head.

“You boys drinking or eating?”

Daytona smiled wide at her, ordering the umbrella-rimmed drink he’d been longing for. Rob couldn’t focus on anything but her mole. She probably had a face behind it, but he couldn’t confirm.

“You do got umbrellas here, right?”

The bartender nodded and Rob’s face crinkled in horror.

The hair on the mole moved like it was a mid-life divorcee taking that first spring drive in his new Corvette.

“What about you, handsome?” She asked Rob. He did not respond.

“Robby! Don’t be rude!” Daytona planted a slap across Rob’s chest that nearly removed him from his barstool. He was still adjusting to his newfound ‘I-lifted-a-four-wheeler-off-my-baby-and-broke-the-Russian’ strength.

“Uh, what?”

“Goddangit, Robby! Just order a beer or somethin’! Somethin’ brown that tastes like pisswater! You ain’t on a diet or a rich white woman, so drink up, motherfucker!”

Daytona and the bartender shared a laugh.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you got with a minimal risk of blindness or death.”

He sure loved quoting McCarthy. It made him feel smart.

“Sure, whatever the fuck that means,” The bartender laughed and Daytona joined in, slapping the table and kicking his legs. Rob didn’t feel so smart anymore. “I’ll be back with your Mai Tai and a beer for the scholar.”

More laughter. Each minute in this hell hole watered the seeds of Rob’s regret. Quoting that stupid fucking book, following Daytona here, never finishing high school. The list goes on.

Rob shifted on the barstool, feeling it wobble like it was one bolt away from becoming a lawsuit. Daytona twirled the tiny parasol between his fingers like he’d been waiting his whole life to weaponize it.

“Easy, Robster,” he said. “Ain’t nobody judgin’ you. Be cool.”

Rob snorted. “Everyone’s judging me. Even the mole’s judging me. What the fuck are we doing here, man?”

Daytona leaned in close, eyes wide with purpose. “What we’re doin’ here, Robby… is preparin’ to DOMINATE at Colossus!"

Rob blinked. “In a dive bar that smells like fried despair?”

“Crossroads Bar and Grill,” Daytona corrected proudly. “The Crossroads. The Crossroads! Hellmouth-adjacent! Demon-friendly! One-stop shop for all your soul-sellin’ needs!”

Rob held up a finger. “There’s a fucking cartoon cow on the sign.”

“That’s Ol’ Bessie the Beef Demon,” Daytona whispered reverently. “She guides lost souls. And you can get a medium-rare sirloin for twelve-ninety-nine. That’s a goddamn deal, Robby!”

Rob’s blinking did the screaming for him. Morse code for god help us.

Daytona happily missed the stare. Instead, he slapped a laminated menu on the bar. “See? T-bones, cheeseburgers, chicken tenders, and if you look real close…”

Rob looked.

There was absolutely nothing demonic.

Just a poorly drawn anthropomorphic chili pepper wearing aviator sunglasses.

“‘Tone,” Rob said slowly. “I’ve shot dope in places nicer than this. With less Hep C and more teeth.”

“Buddy, you ain’t lookin’ with the right kinda eyes,” Daytona said. “Demons don’t show up to fancy shit. They show up where the vibes are bad and the people are even worse. And this place? Shitfire, it’s Biblically bad.”

They both paused as an old timer at the end of the bar sneezed so hard his dentures bounced off the counter.

“...okay,” Rob said. “Fair.”

Daytona leaned on the bar, lowering his voice. “Look, Robby. I just want us to have an edge, y’know? Somethin’ special. We’re goin’ in there ‘gainst a big, mean motherfucker and his scarred-up, shit-gremlin friend. I’m tryna think outside the box here!”

“‘Tone. Bring it in.”

Daytona leaned in with big, earnest eyes, like a child about to confess to arson.

“You don’t need to sell your soul, and I ain’t got much left to work with,” Rob said. “Your soul ain’t the problem. The problem is that Hessian looks like he mainlines whatever those internet freaks think adrenochrome is and Gamble’s dad carved a smile in him cause he didn’t laugh enough. I don’t know, never paid him much attention. They’re dangerous.”

Daytona nodded rapidly. “Exactly! Which is why we need–”

“No,” Rob raised a hand. “Listen. We beat guys like that by being smarter than them. By being faster than them. By fightin’ like we got nothing to lose. We don’t need demons, ‘Tone. We need each other.”

Daytona blinked.

And then his shoulders dropped.

He let out a long, defeated sigh.

“...shit, Robby,” he muttered. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this whole soul thing is just me… y’know… bein’ scared of losin’. Maybe this whole idea is stupid…”

Rob smiled, relieved, just as the mole-faced bartender returned with his beer and Daytona’s multicolored Mai Tai, tiny umbrella included. “There you go. That’s growth, ‘Tone. That’s maturity. That’s–”

A fiddle screeched to life behind them.

Both men froze.

On the karaoke stage stood an elderly man in rust-stained overalls, beard yellowed by tobacco and poor decisions, sawing a battered fiddle like it owed him money. The beard forked slightly at the ends and his long, yellow fingernails caught the bar lights with an odd, polished shine. His boots were worn into identical crescent scuffs, like he’d spent a lifetime pacing in circles.

His eyes were mostly closed; thin slits revealing cloudy gray pupils that didn’t match the slumped, brittle posture he’d walked in with. But as he played, he straightened, back tightening as if he’d been hooked to a powerline.

The lights flickered at the exact moment his bow screeched a high note.

A couple locals at the bar sat bolt upright, like they’d heard this tune before and wished they hadn’t.

And Daytona? He inhaled like he’d just seen the Second Coming wearing snakeskin boots.

“Robby.”

“No,” Rob said immediately.

“Robby,” Daytona grabbed his arm. “That’s him.”

“Goddamnit, it’s not him.”

“Not him?!” Daytona slapped the bar, rattling every empty glass within a five-foot radius. “Robby, that’s a fiddle-wieldin’ hell emissary! That’s Ol’ Scratch in OshKosh B’gosh! That’s SATAN IN HIS SUNDAY BEST, brother!”

Rob stared at the stage. At the yellowed beard, the forked ends, the horrible posture, the fiddling screaming like a dying banshee.

Rob closed his eyes.

“God. Fucking. Dammit.”

⛧⛧⛧

III

⛧⛧⛧ It’s rare Rob Williams wants to be wrong.

You know, the usual things like: did that woman give him the clap? Was that a fart? Is that old man playing the fiddle actually the devil?

Although he really wanted to be wrong, he feared that Daytona had somehow found a gateway to hell in this cesspool.

“What the fuck have you done, Tone?”

The lights dimmed as the old timer finished his song and some people whistled and others applauded, but they all made damn sure he knew they heard him.

Both men jumped at the 30-06 report let out by the old man striking his match on the bar. Daytona and Rob would both swear the man materialized into the tiny, little open space between them at the bar.

“We enjoyed your song, sir,” Rob was the first to pipe up.

“That wasn’t a song, son,” the old man lit the end of the misshapen rollie hanging from his secret smile,”...that was a calling card. I heard you boys were looking for me so I felt obliged to stop by.”

He looked at Daytona first, then Rob - his pale gray eyes reflecting their images back like a wet river rock.

“I’m not… we were… just the burger,” Rob lied.

The man’s crooked and yellowed teeth looked painful to own.

“Oh yeah,” He smirked and blew smoke in their faces. “Everybody comes in this place is looking for something, son, and it isn’t the burger.”

Rob tried not to choke on the smoke, waving it away like he was fending off a ghost. Daytona, meanwhile, sat perfectly still. Reverent. Palms flat on the bar like he was preparing for communion.

The old man - Red, according to the karaoke screen - took a slow drag, embers glowing hellfire orange. Rob didn’t take his eyes off the man. “Nope! Nope, nope. Nobody’s asking anything. You just played a tune and we’re just–”

Red chuckled. A low, scratchy thing that sounded like a shovel dragging across gravel. “Son, the only folks who say they ain’t lookin’ are the ones lookin’ the hardest.”

Daytona gasped like that was the most profound statement uttered in human history.

“Ain’t no shame in wantin’ a little help,” Red said. “Tag match comin’ up, ain’t it? Big fella and the cut-up fella? Nasty work. Nasty men.”

Daytona’s eyes went wide. “HE KNOWS, ROBBY! HE KNOWS ABOUT THE MATCH!”

Rob hissed through his teeth. “Everyone knows about the match, Tone! They’ve got posters all over Georgia!”

Red flashed that crooked, yellowed smile. “I hear things,” he said. “Whispers. Rumors. Screams, now and then.”

Daytona nearly fainted.

Rob nearly left.

And Red leaned in, elbows on the bar, his face inches from theirs.

“So…” he drawled. “Which one of you is ready to make a deal?”

“We… we are,” Daytona whispered, voice trembling. “Both of us.”

“No, we are not,” Rob countered, already reaching for his wallet to pretend-pay the tab and run.

Red crooned, “Step outside with me, boys. Deals like this… can’t be made under fluorescent light.”

Daytona bolted upright. “YOU HEARD THE MAN, ROBBY! IT’S HAPPENIN’!”

Red slid off his stool with surprising grace for someone built like a brittle scarecrow, gesturing them toward the back door. The bartender didn’t even glance up; it was Thursday and whatever was about to happen was clearly a Thursday thing.

Out back, Georgia night air hit them: humid, thick, carrying the scent of old fryer oil and sins committed after last call. A single bulb flickered overhead, turning Red into a silhouette with sharp elbows and sharper teeth. He turned, hands clasped behind his back.

“Now then… let’s talk about payment.”

The old man grinned.

Rob cursed beneath his breath.

Daytona nodded enthusiastically, whispering, “My soul, sir. My whole goddang soul…”

But then his eyes narrowed.

Focused.

Predatory.

Rob saw it too late.

Daytona lunged forward, grabbing Red by the overalls, and slammed him back against the nearby dumpster with a metallic BWONGGGG that echoed into the night.

“ROBERT!” Daytona bellowed, all rage and fury. “KICK HIM IN THE NADS!”

Rob blinked. “I–”

“POP HIS BALLS LIKE A COUPLE-A PINATAS, ROBBY! WE AIN’T MAKIN’ NO GODDANG DEAL! WE’RE STEALIN’ HIS DEVIL POWERS FOR OURSELVES!”

Red wheezed, entirely unable to process his evening’s sudden shift. Rob, horrified, raised his hands. “Tone! We can’t just–”

“HE’S GOT HELL JUICE IN ‘IM, ROBBY! WE TAKE HIM OUT, WE GET IT BY DEFAULT! IT’S LIKE INHERITANCE LAW! YOU SEEN THE SANTA CLAUSE, AIN’TCHA?!” Daytona paused to shake Red violently before shouting in the old man’s face. “GIMME THAT POWER, YOU OLD GOATSATAN!”

Red coughed. “Son… Jesus Christ! Stop shakin’ me! I ain’t–”

Daytona was beyond reason. “ROBBY! GET ‘EM! NUTS! NOW!”

“TONE, I’M NOT KICKING AN ELDERLY MAN IN THE TESTICLES!”

“HE’S NOT A MAN! HE’S A DAMNED DEMON!”

Red, dizzy, finally sputtered, “I ain’t no demon, boy! I’m just tryin’ to sell you some bennies!”

Everything froze.

Daytona paused mid-rage. “...huh?”

Red fished into his overalls with trembling fingers and produced a crumpled baggie containing several chalky white pills shaped like misshapen truck-stop chiclets.

“Bennies!” Red wheezed. “Uppers! Wake-me-ups! Gas-station go-go juice! That’s the whole deal! Y’all want devil power, take three and don’t operate heavy machinery!”

Rob stared.

Daytona stared.

Nobody moved for a long, awful moment.

Finally, Daytona stepped back, releasing Red with theatrical disappointment. “...well, that’s fuckin’ lame.”

Rob rubbed his face. “We assaulted a senior citizen for caffeine pills.”

Red straightened his overalls, dignity mortally wounded. “Bennies ain’t caffeine,” he scoffed. “They’re… little white miracles from the Lord’s trash drawer. Put hair on your teeth and God in your rearview mirror.”

“Well, shitfire, alright, sure,” Daytona muttered, reaching for his wallet even as he drowned in disappointment. “Gimme three of ‘em… Man, I thought you were the goddang devil…”

“Devil?!” Red clicked his tongue and shook his head, “Boy, if I was the devil, I’d charge more’n twenty bucks a bag!”

Rob grabbed Daytona’s wrist before money could exchange hands. “We are not buying meth from a fiddle player behind a burger bar, Tone.”

Red scowled. “It ain’t meth neither! They’re bennies! Mellow man’s meth! A gentleman’s meth! Meth with manners!”

“Jesus Christ,” Rob whispered.

Daytona pried his arm free. “Robby, he said gentleman’s meth. That’s classy!”

“It’s not fucking classy!” Rob hissed. “Nothing about this is classy! We’re behind a fucking dumpster!”

“Now look,” Red interrupted. “Y’all want an edge in that wrasslin’ match or not? These’ll give you a jumpstart. A jolt! A… spiritual pep talk with side effects!”

Daytona looked at the pills with a reverence that should’ve been reserved for holy relics. “Well, shitfire… Maybe this is the devil’s work after all, ain’t it?”

Rob snapped. “IT’S. NOT. THE. DEVIL!”

Red raised a finger, smiling that crooked yellow smile again. “Didn’t say I was all human neither.”

Rob shot him a death glare.

Red winked.

Daytona gasped. “HE FUCKIN’ WINKED, ROBBY!”

“It was a twitch!” Rob barked. “Old people twitch!”

Red winked again. Deliberately.

“GOD. DAMMIT.” Rob turned away, hands on his head.

Daytona, fed to the gills on belief and bad decisions, held out a crumpled wad of twenties with renewed purpose. “Alright, alright. Just gimme the goddang devil pills!”

Red took the money with a smile, storing it away in the chest pocket of his overalls before passing the little bag of pills to Daytona. “Pleasure doin’ business, cowboy.”

Daytona beamed.

Rob groaned.

Red bowed; just slightly, like some old-world court jester.

And as they walked away, Daytona cradling the little baggie like it was a newborn baby, Rob made the mistake of looking back.

Just once.

Red stood under a single flickering bulb… and for half a heartbeat, his shadow stretched long across the wall. Longer than it should have. Longer than physics allowed. Forked at the ends like horns.

The light blinked.

The shadow vanished.

Rob’s stomach lurched.

“...Tone,” he murmured. “We gotta go.”

“Yep!” Daytona said, clutching the bag tighter. “‘Fore that sonuvabitch charges extra!”

And they hurried into the night; one man convinced he’d just bought crank from a demon and the other suddenly terrified that he might’ve been right.