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A Rathskeller Jar
© 2001 by Nikki Isaak



The crowded pinewood bar had an innocuous enough name: Matzgar's Dream.

Innocuous, until you knew who the owner was—Richard Matzgar, white supremacist leader, a powerful bully with the right political connections.

Brandy knew who Matzgar was.  Who didn't, in this mid-sized town? She simply didn't care.  She'd come in here to get fucked by that cute skin bartender, Derek, the one she'd flirted with last night.

She ignored the muttering female and appraising male skins who stared at her coiffed, mouse brown hair and starburst eyes.  Her smile hinted of timidity, a belying facial trait.  In truth, she was a strong woman who was weary of tedious Kens who treated her like a Barbie to be pampered and fucked as such.

She wanted a rough boy who knew and respected the thin line between thrill and rape.  Derek fit the bill, as far as she could tell.  If he didn't, there was mace in her purse, and a promised phone call to her friend, Jennifer, whose house she'd been staying at since the beginning of the week.

California, with its overcrowded lifestyle, had become stifling.  Her weeklong visit with Jennifer was a godsend; when she returned to California next week, she'd view its trafficked clamorings with homesick relief.

Derek's doe brown eyes appraised her, drew her back to the present.  His smile, like hers, was almost gentle.  If he wasn't in these environs, you'd never guess he was a racist. . .  if he really was one.  Either way, it didn't matter.  She hadn't come here to banter about racial equality with him.

Josh, her manipulative philandering ex, would be mortified to know she was here.

She smiled at the thought.

"The usual, Brandy?"

"You win the prize, my man."

"And what prize would that be?" He winked as he mixed her rum and Coke.

He was interested in her.  Good.

Brandy pretended to study the bar around her.  It was standing room only inside the tiny rathskeller.  Most of its patrons, like Derek and herself, were in their early twenties.  Unlike Brandy, though, they sported racist ink and bold swastikas on their bodies.  She wondered if Derek had any tattoos on that firm body of his.

The thought of a tiny swastika on one of his undoubtedly tight butt-cheeks (where had that come from, she wondered) made her giggle in her drink.

Derek hadn't noticed.  He was busy getting drinks for a green-haired sneering girl to her right.  On the exposed plunge of her immense cleavage were the letters "ZOG" in a red circle with a red slashing line through them.

The girl, noting Brandy's perusal of her ink, turned to her. "Do you know what it stands for?"

Oh God.  The cow-faced bitch actually thought she was competition.

" ‘Zionist Occupational Government,'" replied Brandy, with a hint of sarcasm, " ‘The infernal Hebrew machine that secretly controls everything.'" She yelled this above the din of the tune emanating from the nearby juke.  Some of the skins had cleared a small space and were slamming to the three-chord punk progressions.

Brandy silently thanked Jennifer, who'd filled her in on skin lingo.  Jennifer had used this information for a term paper last semester.

Derek returned with the girl's drinks, a caramel-coloured shot glass and two Budweisers.  Eyes narrowed, she set her money on the worn bar as she collected her drinks and disappeared into the crowd.

Brandy nursed two more drinks while waiting out the fresh influx of inebriates.  More than a few tired come-ons came her way; she immediately rebuffed them, returning her attention to a busy Derek and the white power slogans behind the bar.

The black top that neither hid nor highlighted her moderately-sized tits was hot, sweaty.  Her hardened buds, she knew, were in evidence.  Her longish black skirt made up for that immodesty, a feint in her seduction of Derek.

This was the same outfit that had driven Angie, the patchouli-reeking bartender at Flushed Pearl, to taking Brandy atop the bar.  Angie's knowing tongue had delivered repeated raptures; later that night, as they walked down Valencia, the San Francisco sky was warm, approving.  It was a night to remember, one of many.

Hopefully, this night would join their ranks.

The juke, momentarily silenced: a jarring cowbell.

"Last call!" Derek's yell drew her back.

He turned as she looked at him.  Her desire mirrored in his eyes, his smile teased.

He was hers.

*                *                *                *                *

Fifteen minutes later, the bar was nearly empty.

Derek, who'd been smiling at her obvious flirtations, was fully engaged in conversation with her.

". . .  then we lost the farm in '86.  After a few months of unemployment, Dad found work at a local store.  Between that, and Mom's house-cleaning gigs for a rich banker ­ the same one who'd urged Dad to borrow during the economic boom ­ we made it through.  That, and Matzgar.  Without Matzgar and his activism, Dad would've given up completely."

Derek looked away, his eyes misty.

Brandy nodded sympathetically.  Buzzed on booze and lust, she wondered if she was being played.  She decided she didn't care.  After all, she was the one who'd initiated the game, not he.

Seeing Brandy's dazed expression, he looked embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Brandy.  Not exactly light conversation is it? A woman like yourself. . ."

"No, no, it's O.K.," Brandy said too hastily, "It's just that it's so sad."

Derek smiled, said, "Would you like to hang out a bit longer? I promise to lighten up.  I like talking to you.  You're cool."

"Well, thank you," glowed Brandy, drawing herself up, "you're pretty cool yourself."

"Let me get the rest of these bums out of here, then we can talk more."

"Okay.  I need to call my friend to tell her I'll be home late."

"Fair enough," he grinned.  His hand brushed hers as he leapt over the bar, landing feet-first on the other side of it.  Her sex shivered wetly at the unexpected contact.

Shakily, she rose from her stool and headed towards the phone at the back of the bar.  She dialed Jennifer's number.

"Hello?" Jennifer, half awake.

"Don't wait up.  I probably won't be home tonight." Brandy suppressed a giggle.

"Okey-doke.  Be careful, ‘k?"

"Will do.  I'll give you the gory details tomorrow."

"Whatever." Jennifer, chuckling in spite of herself, hung up.

Brandy made her way back to the bar.  Derek, shutting and locking the entrance doors, turned to her.

"I'm supposed to count out the register, but I'll do that later.  Is it O.K.  with you if we talk upstairs, in my flat?"

"Most definitely." Her alcoholic buzz had lost its edge, replaced by full-blown lust. "Lead the way."

Leaping over the bar, he locked the cash register.  He deposited the key in one of his pockets before leaping over again.

"You could use the proper exit," she teased, eying the open end of the bar counter.

"Not as much fun," he grinned, moving to an oak door at the back of the bar.  He unlocked it, then stepped aside.

"Watch your step.  The light's burned out in the stairwell.  If you hold up, I'll guide you."

Stepping past him, she mounted, paused in the carpeted darkness.  She kept her hand on the sturdy metal rails on either side of her.  Grateful for the darkness -- it hid her deepening blush ­ she waited for him.  She imagined his capable hands on, inside her.

The door shut and locked behind him, he moved up the hot, stifling stairs.  He bumped into her as he did this.

"Oops.  Sorry."

His tone belied that sentiment.  So did his erection, which brushed her thigh.

He lightly touched the small of her back.  Fiery tingles shot through her with their every step, his confident guiding hand furthering her want.

If they didn't fuck soon, she'd come without him.

She giggled at the thought.

"What?" His voice, soft in her ear, causing her to shiver.

She ignored his question. "Are we almost there?"

"Three more steps."

She took them, waited for him to join her.  A switch was flicked.  Wince-inducing light from a naked white bulb enveloped them.  The cooler air raised goosebumps on her flesh, and her nipples, hard before, became ruby diamonds.

They stood in a small hallway.  To her right was a locked office.  To her left, another wooden door, also closed.

The place was a dump.

Derek, noting her distaste, said, "Hardly anybody comes up here.  But Matzgar lets me stay here, if I work the bar. . .  of course, he sticks me with the closing shift." His laugh was apologetic.

She gave him a half-hearted smile. "Your sheets are clean, right?"

"Yes." He sounded sheepish.

"Good," she said.  She kissed him on the mouth, hard and probing.  He responded to her by pulling her to him, his hands on her ass.  His erection poked her inner thigh.  She wondered if he could feel her wetness.

"Which way?" she purred, breaking off the kiss.

He pulled her towards the left door.  It opened with a loud squeak, as he flicked on the light.

The room was cleaner than she thought it'd be.  A dresser in one corner, a queen-sized bed (its sheets looked clean), and a nightstand on one side of the bed was the only furniture in the place.

A huge black swastika, its white circle fringed with crimson, dominated the white wall behind the bed.

The swastika startled her.  Brandy had to remind herself that she wasn't political; an unbidden element was starting to sink in, and it disturbed her.  Why, she couldn't entirely say.  All she knew was she wanted to forget it, commence with the fucking.

As if sensing her desire, Derek pulled her to him.  He swiftly stripped off her clothes.  His mouth never left her body, exploring her feminine, hisbiscus surfaces with a thoroughness that left her breathless.

The swastika was forgotten, for the moment.

She returned his zeal, kissing his mouth, his neck, his chest as she literally ripped his sleeveless t-shirt off him.  His jeans came away from his muscular body, her mouth a wanting pocket.  As his cock sprang free of the denim, she slipped a condom onto its flaming girth.

Smirking, she fell to her haunches.  He took her from behind, just as she willed him, his hands, lips and teeth equally aggressive.

She came twice before he finally surrendered his igneous seed inside her.  Sated, they fell into spoon formation.  His suspirations teased her neck.

"Wow," he said.

"Wow, yourself," she laughed, snuggling against him.

They lay together like that for a few minutes.  Brandy asked him where the bathroom was.

"Right through that door." He indicated the door in the right corner of his room. "Could you do me a favour and shut off the lights?"

"No problem." She kissed him on the cheek as she got up, his cologne tasteful, pleasant: Old Spice?

She flicked off the bedroom light before going into the bathroom.  He'd probably be asleep by the time she got back ­ his drowzy tone assured her of this.

Good.  It made it easier to leave.

One night stands were labeled as such with good reason.  Why stick around if you already got what you came for?

She fumbled for the light switch, finding it almost immediately.

The bathroom, like the bedroom, was clean.  She quickly went about her business.

It was only then that she noticed he was out of toilet paper.  She groaned.

Her eyes lit towards the cupboard next to the door.  Her body followed suit.

A stack of clean towels, bars of unopened soap, a bottle of baby shampoo, a half-bottle of Old Spice (she was right), other toiletries—

Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the human head in the jar.  It was set near the back of the shelf.

From its pickled bloated features, it appeared to belong to an Asian woman.

The faded, scrawled label on the bottle read: "1st kill, 1-15-99."

She couldn't believe it.  Derek, who seemed so sweet and reasonable, a "Phineas Priest," a killer for the Identity?

She barely made it to the toilet before throwing up.  After a moment, her retching settled into dry-heaves.  Trembling, she stood up.  Her putrid breath came out in panicked huffs as she shut the cupboard door.

She had to get out of here.  Now.

Quietly, she slipped into Derek's room.

As she expected, he was sound asleep.  She hoped—prayed—he wasn't faking it, hadn't heard her reaction to his "trophy."

It took her a long minute to get dressed.  She watched him as she slid her clothes on, his snoring consistent in its rhythm.

Then she was out the door.  She made her way down the hot, cramped stairs, fumbling with the lock for several panicked seconds.  The bar was creepy in its chilly a.m.  darkness; to keep her imagination at bay, she trained her eyes on the unmoving shadows in front of her, all the way to the front door.

It was only when she hit the street that she allowed herself to run away from her new waking nightmare.

©2001 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved.

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