Now, I'm no college graduate, although I did spend a few semesters at community college back in the 80s before calling it quits, but anyone with a lick of sense could tell the Major's guests weren't from around here. Shoot, we were only a fifteen-minute drive from Nellis Air Force Base and the unmentionable Area 51 and, with its reputation for weirdness, when a ranking officer gave you a recommendation you took it as gospel.

That's not to say the guests were an unfriendly lot or a bunch of AA dropouts that had fallen off the wagon once too often. And other than a couple of the larger ones, I'd never seen any of them cause trouble in the five years I've worked this bar. Yet it was easy to tell they were different from regular folks. Not so much in how they walked or the way they sat on a barstool; they just looked kinda pale and sickly. Imagine an actor in a movie with too much makeup and a really bad hairpiece or a high school kid trying desperately to cover up his zits with a jar of Clearasil and a paintbrush, and failing... miserably.

None of them ever spoke to me other than to place their order or ask for the tab, and understand, I'm a friendly sort when I'm sober, always good for a chat about the never-changing weather, but these guys just nodded their heads and shrugged a lot. Every now and then I'd hear some grunting from one of the tables, but as soon as I turned toward the sound, it stopped and they looked away, as though discussing some dark secret that even a bartender couldn't be trusted to hear. They did wring their hands quite frequently, as if they were wet and were trying to dry them under one of those blower things you find in a gas station's restroom instead of paper towels. I made sure there was always an ample supply of napkins on their tables.

The really odd thing was they never came into the Silver Thorn more than once; never the same face twice in the past five years. My guess was they were headed out to integrate into the general population and this place was their last lesson in human behavior, but I never asked anyone the question and no one ever volunteered an explanation. As much as I wanted to be a regular bartender and strike up a conversation with these people, the opportunity didn't present itself and life in Spindle Junction, Nevada went on in this fashion without incident.

Until the day the three hookers stumbled into the bar, looking for Las Vegas.

It was easy to tell they were "working girls." I mean, any female wearing hot pants and a see-through blouse with no bra isn't planning on a job as a Walmart greeter. These three had spent more time putting on eyeliner and lipstick than it would take a one-armed man to change a flat tire. The tallest of them, a redhead with a star tattooed on her left cheek and a diamond stud in the opposite nostril, stomped up to the bar and slammed her car keys down in front of me.
"Where in the name of all that's stupid and dusty are we?" she croaked.
"Spindle Junction." I smiled at her and added, just to be sure, "Nevada."
One of the other girls, too pudgy to interest most sober men, brushed a curl of bluish, purple hair off her face as she unfolded a road map. "I don't see it on the map, Javonica."
The redhead, now known to the assemblage by name, turned and spit on the floor at Pudgy's feet. "I told you that map wasn't worth a crap and with your sense of direction, you couldn't find your way off a dead end street anyhow."
I wiped the bar clean in front of three empty stools and laid the rag on my shoulder. "Where are ya comin' from?"
Javonica lowered herself onto one of the barstools and fluttered her eyelashes at me. "Portland." She cocked her head to one side, as though she was a professor making sure I was following the lesson. "That's in Oregon."
I nodded. "Heck of a drive."
She leaned in close to me and whispered, "You can't possibly imagine."
The third member of their trio, a dusty-haired waif who could have stood behind a cactus and not been seen, took the map from Pudgy and tossed it onto the bar. "Do us a favor, Pops, and put us back on course, willya? The sooner I get to Vegas, the sooner I can ditch these two and get my life out of Pause."
Pudgy spun on her heels and poked an orange fingernail in the skinny girl's face. "You should be thankful that we're payin' for the gas and food, otherwise you'd still be doing ten-minute tricks in the back of delivery trucks."
"Maybe so, but at least I wouldn't be sucking dust balls and tumbleweed in the middle of the freakin' desert."
I interrupted the verbal assault before it got loud enough to draw attention. Not that the three of them hadn't already drawn stares from every table. "You came south on 95 and turned east on Route 6?"
"Yeah." Pudgy took a seat at the bar and spun the map around to where I could see it.
"You went too far on 6 and should have turned south again onto 95 at Tonopah." I took a pen from my shirt pocket and circled the intersection. "Out of the parking lot and take a right. Third turn will take you back to Route 6, follow that back to Tonopah and you'll see signs for 95."
Shaking her head slowly from side to side, Javonica opened her purse and took out a twenty, letting it float onto the bar. "Might as well have a drink before we hit the road again."

Now, at four o'clock in the afternoon, the Silver Thorn hadn't yet hit its stride. There were a couple of tables over by the jukebox occupied by guests and a large six-seat table next to the door with a mix of enlisted men and officers who had been working several bottles of the J brothers - Walker and Daniels - along with pitchers of beer for over an hour. Only one barstool had a patron, a craggy, old regular named Viceroy, who had been drinking heavily since I opened up at eleven that morning. He lifted his head and eyeballed the girls before pointing to his empty glass and falling back into a stupor.

One of the airmen swiveled in his chair and reached out to tap Skinny on the back. The girl looked over her shoulder at the guy, maybe old enough to be her father, and shook her head. "I'll take a month's salary from you, fly boy, if you like, but you ain't gonna be satisfied when I'm done, and you put another greasy finger on my butt and it's gonna cost you far more than you can afford."

The airman, a sergeant by the chevrons on his uniform, fueled by a combination of whiskey shots and beer, grabbed Skinny by the fabric and pulled her onto his lap. "Maybe you don't know how much the Air Force pays these days, sweetheart."

Skinny, in a move worthy of a television wrestler, slid her hands under the sergeant's armpits, wrapped them around his neck, and yanked his face down to her crotch. "If you smelled as good as what your nostrils are suckin' in right now, we'd have something to talk about." She brought one knee up hard and clocked him under the chin, jumping back and away from the chair as he tumbled to the ground, a trickle of blood coming from his nose.

As Skinny scampered quickly away from the table to the safety of her two compatriots, the other airmen at the table shoved their chairs back and started to come around toward them. Javonica leapt from her stool and pulled a switchblade from her waistband, flicking it open and holding it out to where all could see the glint of its polished steel.

There are two things you learn in bartender's school and it doesn't matter whether you take your classes in a crystal and mirror watering hole on the Las Vegas strip or a swill pit in Carson City as I did. Stop the fight before anything gets broken, including yourself, and never take sides. To that end, I've always been successful thanks in part to the sawed-off twelve-gauge pump-action I've kept behind the bar in all the places I've worked in the past twenty-five years. Truth be known, I've never loaded the shotgun and would have to ask directions if I ever did, but the ominous sound of that wooden slide, ka-chinging back and forth, was enough to stop most altercations before they got out of first gear.

However, in the two quick breaths it took me to turn and pull the peacemaker out from under the bar, there was a loud, angry guard dog growl from one of the small tables and then a thud, as a body behind me crumpled to the floor. By the time I turned around, one of the guests was standing over Javonica, his arms raised with his elbows pointing at the back of her head. How he'd put her down so fast and how he'd managed to get from one side of the room to the other, I'll never know since I was looking the other way. Nevertheless, one thing was certain; the battle was over except for the retreat.

"You'd best get your friend out of here quickly," I admonished the other two hookers, "I've seen this guy get pissed off before and it's not a pretty sight." With no reason to think they'd doubt me I added, "The Spindle Junction sheriff is not the kind of man who takes well to strangers causing trouble in his town." Of course, the nearest sheriff was two counties east of here and wouldn't set foot in this town without a bribe.
Pudgy hauled Javonica to her feet, tossing the switchblade on the bar. "Take a right out of the parking lot?"
"Yep." I laid the shotgun across my chest. "You got around four hours of driving to Las Vegas. I wouldn't suggest stopping anywhere in between."
She nodded and with Skinny's help, they ushered the still dazed Javonica out the door.

I stowed the shotgun and was about to suggest to the six airmen that it might be time for them to head back to the base, when, in a show of intergalactic friendship, the sergeant took a swig from a bottle of whiskey and handed it to the guest who'd put Javonica on the floor.
"No!" I shouted, but the word came one gulp too late as the guest put the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and emptied it down his throat.

The transformation happened faster than a horny schoolboy unzipping his trousers in the backseat of a car. It was as though someone changed the channel on a television set - the guest went from Sesame Street to porno flick in a five-count. The front of his jeans bulged to the point where I thought they were going to explode, his color changed from a milky pallor to a deep crimson with beads of sweat popping out from his forehead in such profusion that it looked as though someone had doused him with a glass of water, and as his lips curled in on themselves his breaths came in short, violent gasps. I wasn't sure if he wanted to eat someone or screw their brains out.

Unfortunately for the sergeant, the guest viewed him as the objection of his affections, stepping close to the airman and wrapping an arm around his waist.
"Whoa there, big fella, there's a bit of science here you might not understand." The sergeant put a hand on the guest's chest and tried to push him away. However, it was obvious that he lacked the strength necessary to free himself and shouted to his fellow airmen to come to his assistance. "Stan, Jackie, get this bastard off me!"

The other guests, still seated at their tables, looked on impassively at the struggle on the other side of the room as though it had nothing to do with them, regardless of how outnumbered their friend appeared to be. I was certain this was going to turn into a free-for-all and wished I had loaded the gun.

Two of the enlisted men charged the guest in a vain attempt to knock him over, but the guest's feet had some how cemented themselves to the wooden floor and weren't going to move until gravity failed. A third airman jumped up on the table, knocking over several pitchers of beer and most of the bottles before he launched himself at the guest's neck... he missed and ended up crashing into the bar head first.

I grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and was about to club the guest with it when the door to the Silver Thorn flew open and Major Deegan marched inside with a contingent of Military Police. He pointed at me and in a voice totally inappropriate for the situation calmly told me to drop the weapon and stand back.
"Rachel, let him go." The Major stepped closer to the guest and repeated the order in an even but forceful tone, "Rachel, release him now or you're going home."
The guest relaxed his grip on the sergeant and slinked back to his table, the pale tinge returning to his face and the massive lump in his pants now flat again.
"Rachel?" I shook my head. "He... it... she's a girl?"
Major Deegan smiled at me and turned to the MPs. "Escort these airmen back to the base."
I placed the shotgun across the bar and took a seat on the nearest stool. "But the bulge?"
"A protective covering." The major frowned. "You gave her a drink?"
"Not me." I nodded toward the sergeant. "Him."
He shook his head slowly as the six airmen shuffled out the door.
Scratching an itch on my neck, I leaned toward the major and asked, "How'd you guys know there was trouble here?"
"We stopped a car with three women in it, heading north toward Nellis." Major Deegan grinned. "They said some guy in the bar down the road had accosted them and they were looking for someone to complain to." He took the stool next to me, glancing once at Viceroy, who was snoring, before loosening his tie. "I figured it was one of our 'guests.' Typical women, they can get quite jealous when they're drunk."
"Would she have...? I mean, could she have...?" I stuttered. "You know... done it with him?"
Major Deegan looked over at the guests and then turned to smile at me. He winked and put his hand on my knee. "Pour me a drink, handsome, and you can find out for yourself."