The Last Time

The Last Time

A dead kangaroo was lying about a hundred yards from the building. A truck must have hit it as it passed through. He paid it no mind though. He was thirsty. He’d been driving across the Outback for a day now without anything to drink. This bar looked just as good as any other.

He opened the door and strolled inside. The interior was an odd affair. Plastered on one wall was a gigantic map of Australia. A large arrow indicated that he was here, wherever here was. A collection of what appeared to be wooden statues occupied one well kept corner. A radio on the bar played “The Last Time.” He’d always fancied that as a song for a bar.

The woman behind the bar nodded her head at him. He walked over and sat down on one of the stools. She put her hands on the bar and looked at him. She had some years on her. He guessed that she wasn’t any younger than forty, but fifty might be pressing it. He didn’t really care anyway. This was a bar, not a brothel.

“What can I get for you?” she asked him.

“Got any Jack Daniels?” he asked. He wasn’t much into the Aussie alcohol. Give him some good old American whiskey though and he was happy.

She pulled a bottle out and poured it into a mug. He took it from her and nodded his head. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem, big guy,” she replied, “Drink up.”

She walked off into a back room. He turned his attention towards the mug that sat before him. The whiskey tasted good after an age of driving and seeing just dirt and rocks. The dry, gritty feel in his mouth soon went away and was replaced by the bitter taste of the drink. It was good.

He turned around and looked at the odd collection of wooden statues. There was an Aborigine, a cowboy-looking figure, and a hippie throwback from the seventies. They were very well-done statues. The carving on them seemed to be perfect. So perfect, in fact, they were almost lifelike. Every wrinkle in the face, every crease in the skin, seemed almost as though it was made of skin and not of wood

A raucous screech sounded from the window. He turned, startled. A bird flew away, flapping its wings in the dry Australian heat. He turned back to his drink when he noticed something. The bird had stirred up a little breeze when it had taken flight. He thought he had seen the hair on the hippie sway a little in that draft. He got up and walked over to the statues. He stopped. His blood ran cold and his heart stopped. That was not wood that took on the appearance of skin, it was skin. These were men, stuffed and mounted like trophies. Mannequins for someone’s sinister purposes.

He backed away. As he did so he lost all feeling in his body and he crumpled to the floor in a helpless heap. He tried to move, but he was completely paralyzed. What was it? Had the drink been poisoned? It had to have been that woman. She’d poisoned him, she had to have! But why? Somewhere in his confused, addled mind the thought he heard a door creak open and the sound of boots on a wood floor reached his ears. One stopped in front of his face.

“See you found my little collection,” the voice of the woman said. He began to pant in fear and his heart raced. “It’s so lonely out here,” she went on, her voice taking on an almost forlorn tone, “I hardly ever get anyone out here. And if they come, they never want to stay. They’re always just passing through. Well, now they have a drink and stay. You will too. You’ll stay here and keep me company, won’t you?”