Demon Stories

Cheol: The Day Smokey Died, 1964, USA

Cheol

The Day Smokey Died

1964, USA

I was outside the bar, leaned against the front wall, smoking a mighty fine cigar. A long line of motor bikes sat in front, all slightly leaning casually as me. The night air tasted crisp, almost chill.

When.

"That's a mighty big cigar for such a little lady, ain't it?"

I stared at the gorilla of a man standing before me. The grey jacket was too familiar. A grim sneer formed on my face.

"That's a mighty small dick on such a large man," I retorted, and took a long drag of my prize as his jaw dropped open.

"What you said?!" he bellowed.

"Go on now," I sighed, gesturing to the side with the cigar, "I am in no mood to deal with any of your guys' shit."

He walked away with a confused but slightly pissed off look on his face, but he couldn't be more pissed off than me.

Not tonight.

They were being too loud again.

"That noise," I sighed, covering my ears with my hands as I leaned my elbows on to the bar.

Violette was sat next to me, taking a leisurely sip of the Shirley Temple I had bought her while eyeing my tall Sam Adams. But she knew she could have none of it in public due to her child-like appearence. Not even a sip. Not in this area of the United States, at least. Heck, she was lucky to even be in the bar at all. It was only the friendship I had struck with the owner and my lie about her being my little niece which allowed her.

"Oh, that's okay," she said uncharacteristically quiet.

"Why?" I asked, still staring at the usual crowd of boisterous bikers beyond the bar seated at their tables.

"As long as Smokey's not disturbed by them," she said in a whisper.

"Smokey's at home," I reminded her gently.

But then my eyes went wide.

There was a slight bulge in her dress where an older girl's bosom would be. Violette does not have bosoms. 

"You didn't," I sighed.

The bosom wiggled at the sound of my voice and started to purr. Before I knew it, a familiar pink kitten's nose popped up beyond her white collar. Sniffing.

I looked around quickly then looked at her sternly as she was trying to concurrently stifle her giggles and stuff Smokey back down her dress.

Why had I not smelled cat earlier? Maybe it was because she was covered in cat hair anyway. Either way... "You know if Mr. Thomas found Smokey he'd throw us out! No animals! I told you!"

But immediately this was met with a pouty face, classic Violette. She knew I couldn't stand such a girl's charm. She used it to her advantage.

I sighed and patted her black curly head. "Fine then, just tonight. No more."

She broke into a smile, dimples and all.  I wanted to put my head into my hands for falling for such an easy trick. She paused. I knew she was to say more.

"Yes?" I asked, lifting my glass to my lips.

"Smokey wants milk," she whispered behind her hand.