Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I Run a Desert Motel, And One Guest Asked If We Serve Blood

Episode Date: September 19, 2025

Check out ⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠ to get 20% off fresh roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! Author: Jake Bible Check out the author's latest release: Blood Cruise! https://jakebible.com/novels/blood-cruise/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The hand sticks out of the ice like a sad greeting from a weird friend. Hey pal, how's it going? Me? Oh, I'm chill. The hand is definitely in that. What's up? Position with the thumb and first two fingers up, and the last two fingers curled in a little.

That's what I imagine the owner of the hand would say if I could see them. But I can't ask the owner their intention. All there is, is a hand. A severed hand. drained completely of blood with not a single discolored cube of ice in the machine's bin. Just a pale, blue hand, ready to have a good time. Well, shit, I say to myself, and push my trucker hat up so I can scratch my bald head. At least it's something to take my mind off the stack of unpaid bills sitting on my desk in the motel office.

Digging for something worth or shit? Marlene calls out from her doorway. Well, you ain't going to find it in the room. there, you brainless fuck. She cackles, coughs hard, hawks a luggy into her mouth, then lets it fly out into the sunbaked parking lot. Marlene, please stop spitting into the parking lot. I tell her for the umpteenth time.

It's nasty. And speaking of nasty, I turned my attention back to the hand. Hey, Marlene, you got both your hands right now? Last time I checked, she replies, and I catch her making sure out of the corner of my eye. Yep, still attached. Pugh! She ducks back into her room and slams the door, leaving me alone with a severed hand. Just another day at the Glory Spot Motel and Lounge, where travelers can find a semi-clean bed

and a roof over their heads that doesn't leak. Mostly because we're in the middle of the desert and it never rains. When it rains, it leaks like a goddamn sieve. But potentially leaking roofs ain't my problem right now. My dilemma is that in about two hours, the sun will go down and Thursday night karaoke begins in the lounge. Big deal, Thursday night karaoke. People from all over the valley come in to sing and drink, and most of those folks like ice in their drinks. Ice that currently has a hand in it.

Now, the way I see it, I have two choices. I can take the handout, call the authorities, and end up canceling Thursday night karaoke, which would be bad. The glory spot makes half its income from Thursday night karaoke. The other option is I fish this here severed hand out of the ice, scoop out the cubes around it and toss those, and then just carry on with the evening like nothing happened. Dumping the whole bin and starting from scratch isn't possible.

It takes 24 hours for the ice machine to fill up, and I need ice tonight. It's not a hard choice. I scoop out the hand and surrounding ice into the big, white five-gallon ice bucket and casually stroll past a row of rooms until I reach the lounge doors. Whistling as if nothing is wrong at all, I push through the doors, hurry inside, close the doors, and look out at the parking lot and the rest of the motel to see if I was spotted. Seeing nothing and no one, which is to be expected, since it's over 100 degrees out there, I sigh and carry the ice bucket into the kitchen. Not that it's much of a kitchen.

A three compartments sink on one side, and a long counter with an air friar, a convection toaster oven, an industrial coffee maker, and about six blenders, three of which don't work on the other side. Oh, and a large commercial fridge and freezer combo. That's where I keep the margarita and daquery mixes, plus fruit for garnishes. I might even have some celery in there for Bloody Mary's, but I'm not sure. I hurry through the kitchen and out the back door to the dumpsters that sit outside baking in the desert heat. I frown.

The dumpsters were emptied this week. The garbage company, really just a guy named Jed with a big truck, comes by every other week. That means the hand currently resting in this ice bucket will be sitting out here for several days. Not ideal. Considering I know Marlene's sometimes boyfriend, Carl, who lives in the room above hers, likes to dump her. after getting roaring drunk. You don't want to know what I found him eating. Well, shit, I say to myself, bit of a pickle. Then I remember that I have a tub of sour cream left over from a failed attempt at a Taco Tuesday promotion. No one wanted tacos. They just wanted another karaoke

night, which I nixed immediately. Needed income or not, a man can only take so many attempts at desert rats trying to sing landslide. My limit is ten times. one night a week. I set the ice bucket down, hurry inside to get the wholesale-sized tub of sour cream and race back outside. The hand is gone. It should be sticking up out of the ice bucket, but it's not. Well, shit, I say to myself, as I look about the area behind the lounge, which is pretty much just the dumpsters, an old Chevy pickup that was left here when I bought the damn place 20-odd years ago, and a picnic table with only two slats left on top. Take my trucker hat off and scratch my bald head again.

Don't see no hand hanging around. Maybe one of the stray desert dogs or cats snagged it while I was inside. Those hungry bastards are fast and we'll eat anything. I once caught a mangy-looking mutt staring at me as I took the trash out after a Thursday night. He kept watching me even after I dumped the trash, making me think it was looking for something a little more fresh than half-consumed fast-food burgers, soggy fries and leftover pizza. I shrug and dump out the ice right here on the broken pavement.

As I watch it quickly melt under the desert sun, my phone dings, telling me I need to be prepping for the night's festivities. I shake out the drops of water from the ice bucket and head back through the lounge, out the front doors, and down the sidewalk back to the motel's lone ice machine. A dozen trips later, and the ice bin behind the lounge's bar is full. full to the top. With that finished, I wiped my sweaty brow with a tanned forearm and start slicing limes and lemons for all the drinks I'm going to sell. Better be a lot. Only got six out of 20 rooms occupied right now, not counting Carl, Marlene, and Rosa B, who is our other long-termer.

But I've had worse stretches. I went an entire January without a single room occupied, not counting Carl, Marlene, or Rosa B, of course. With the garnishes prepped and placed in trays on the bar, as well as containers in the small fridge below the bar, I head back into the kitchen to get the snacks. While Taco Tuesdays didn't work out, everyone loves free chips and salsa. That became apparent when someone shouted,

Hey, asshole, where's the chips and salsa? The Thursday night karaoke after the failed Taco Tuesday. I would have told them to shut up and shut up, find their own damn chips and salsa, but soon the whole lounge was shouting at me. Good thing I bought in bulk, and that the chips were only slightly stale. The salsa was warm coming right out of the industrial-sized jars I'd purchased at Costco, but drunks don't care about warm salsa. They just want something to dip their salty chips in and fill their bellies with so they don't puke too early. I, of course, get to clean up chips and salsa vomit most Thursdays now. So I'm not sure this is a win-win-

or even a win-lose. Feels like a lose-lose as I set out bowls of tortilla chips and large ramekins of salsa on all five of the tables the lounge holds. Next, I fill up a few portions for the bar, wipe my hands on my shirt, and survey the lounge. Living the fairy tale life, for sure. The lounge doors open, and Rosa B makes her early appearance. Instead of taking her usual seat at the frontmost table next to the tiny stage I built for the karaoke bar to the Thursday night karaoke, she makes a B-line for the bar, her bright blue eyes locked onto me. Dale! She shouts, because Rosa B only has one volume, and that volume is loud.

Rosa B. I reply and give her a nod. What can I get you tonight? The usual? Bodka soda with lime? Yes, get me that. But I gotta talk to you. She says, and shoves a bar stool out of the way, so she can lean as far across.

the bar as possible. She's trying to get in my face, but that bosom of hers ain't gonna allow that. I ain't got a clue how old Rosa B is, because she ain't telling and I ain't asking. But I do know, she was a Vegas showgirl in the 1980s. Her large breasts are a testament to that time in her life. They're about as real as my retirement account. What's up, Rosa B? I ask as I mix her drink and set it on a ratty cardboard coaster in front of her. forehead leaking again. Well, yes, that too, but I got something else to talk to you about, she says, then downs her drink in two gulps before slamming the empty glass on the bar.

Barely melted ice cubes bounce up out of the glass and slide across the bar. I chase them with a semi-white rag and smile at Rosa Bee. She watches me closely as I gather the ice cubes, pick up her empty glass, and start the process all over again. When I set her second drink down, she sips it slowly and nods. What you got for me, Rosa Bee? I ask. Why the hell did you put assholes in the room above me? She barks.

They've been here two nights, and I ain't been able to sleep a wig since. That's so? What's the problem? I ask, as I wash Rosa B's first glass and dry it with a mostly wet hand towel. I'm not sure why it's wet since I just started prepping a little bit ago. But sometimes there are mysteries in life that can't be solved. I just told you the damn problem, Dale. Aren't you listening? No, I mean, what are they doing to keep you awake?

Are they stomping around, yelling all night, fucking too much? Don't be crass, she says, sitting on a stool to sip or drink. I'm no prude. If people want to fuck, then they can fuck. No, these assholes are screaming and crying. Screaming and crying? That's what I goddamn said, Dale. Pay attention.

Just clarifying so I understand the issue, Rosa B. No need to be mean. Boy, you ain't seen mean yet. I frown on her. Don't call me boy, Rosa B. I'm a 62-year-old man, and I earned every damn year. Ah, no one gives a shit what you think, Dale. She says, then sips and waves me off.

So stop making it about you. Thanks, I say. And get ready to mix her another drink when the lounge door is open. Carl, Marlene? I say as the on-again, off-again couple walk in. From the way their hands are all over each other, I'd say they're on again. Usual? Damn, right.

Marlene says, and leads Carl over to the table second from the front. We just worked up a thirst. See, they's fucking and I don't give a shit. Rosa B says. They're on the other side of the motel from you, Rosa B. I reply, and pour a picture of high life for Carl and Marlene. Grabbing two glasses, I walk it all over to them and set their usual on the table. Anything else?

Stop sucking up, Marlene says, immediately pouring her beer. She doesn't pour one for Carl, and he looks hurt about it. You know we ain't gonna tip you, Dale. Perv like you don't deserve no tips. You get caught putting up two-way mirrors in the rooms once, and everyone thinks you're a pervert. Ain't fair. I took all that down, I say, and walk off a little pissed. These Yahoo's don't need an excuse to not tip. They're cheap as fuck.

So even if I was a perfect angel, I wouldn't see a penny from them anyway. Hey! Rosa B shouts as she swivels on her bar stool to face Carl and Marlene. You hear the screaming and crying the past two nights? Only from Carl. Marlene says and cackles. He likes it rough. True.

He says as he pours himself a beer. The rough or the better. Shut the fuck up, Carl. Marlene says. She downs her beer and yanks the pitcher out of Carl's hand before he's done filling his glass. High life splatters the tabletop, but not as much as you'd think. Marlene is good at snagging pitchers out of hands.

Assholes above me been screaming and crying since they got here, Rosa B says. She downs her vodka soda with lime and slams the empty glass on the bar. I've told her not to slam glasses since she breaks about one in four, but Rosa B is gonna Rosa B. What kind of screaming and crying? Carl asks as he attempts to fill his glass a second time, able to accomplish his. task. He smiles like a proud child, then sips from his glass, his eyes staring over the rim

at Rosa B. He really wants to hear the woman's answer. Not the good kind I can tell you that, Rosa B huffs. I place the expected third drink next to her, and she picks it up without so much as a thank you, then makes her way to her usual table up front. First night, I thought someone was being murdered, but he was the same screaming and crying last night. So I guess whoever it is made it for Round two. If you thought someone was being murdered, then why didn't you tell me? I ask. Last thing I need is for this place to get a reputation for being a murder motel. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout,

only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports me. millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. From major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7.

See less carts go abandoned and more. sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button sign up for your one dollar per month trial today at Shopify.com slash dns go to shopify.com slash dns that's Shopify.com slash d ns the three of them look at me then burst out laughing like that'll ruin this place's reputation Carl says have you seen the yelp reviews Barleen cackles my favorite is the one where the woman had to fight off the family of scorpions living in her closet. My favorite is the guy saying the shampoo was laced with some drug,

because his fiancé ran out of the room, down to the parking lot, and straight into the desert without a stitch of clothes on after taking a shower. Carl says, That wasn't a Yelp review dumb shit, Marlene says. That was the night I spiked your Dr. Pepper. You were the one who ran out into the desert without a stitch of clothes on. Oh, right. He nods and smiles.

That was a fun night. It was once I wrangled your naked ass back to the room and got the cuffs back on you. Arlene says, then drains her glass and refills it. No, no, none of you are listening. Whoever it was wasn't screaming for pleasure. Not even the pain is pleasure kind, Rosa B says. It was real agony. Like if you take a dull blade and start to saw back and forth on...

The lounge doors open, and I expect to see some of the desert rinket rat regulars. But instead, it's a mousy man I checked in a couple nights ago. I do the math and check my mental map and realize this is one of the assholes that Rosa B is complaining about. He said he was here with his wife, but I haven't seen her. The first thing I notice about the guy, other than his pale skin and wide, bloodshot eyes, is that instead of a left hand, he's sporting a blood-soaked towel duct-taped around the end of his arm. I realize I never did look close enough to see if the hand I found was left or right. Didn't seem to matter much at the time.

But it does make me wonder if the ice hand and this guy might be connected. Then I look closer at the end of his arm. Hey, I snap. Is that one of the motel towels? All eyes fall on the man. Then on the bloody tail. Uh, yes. As a matter of fact, it is.

He says in a voice that is not mousy at all. I'll pay for the towel if that is an issue. Could be, I say and shrug. I'm good at getting blood out of towels, and sheets, and comforters and carpet and bathtubs and off walls and all sorts of other stuff. I prepaid, I believe, he says. His voice is not desert rat. Ain't city rat neither. Nah, he's from someplace foreign, like Canada or England.

I mean, I'll add it to your drink, Bill, I say. What can I get you? Ah, yes. about that, he says and smiles at Carl, Marlene, and Rosa B, then sidles up to the bar and leans across, whispering, I'm not in the mood, possible, I say, and pick up a clean glass to wipe, so I have something to do. I look down, realize I'm using the wrong rag, and happened to be turning a clean glass into a dirty glass. Oh well, what you're looking for? It's a rather odd request, I'm afraid, he says. Yeah, his accent is definitely English, or possibly Connecticut.

Shoot, I say, and set down the now dirty glass and pick up another clean one. In for a pound, as the Brits say. I do have to ask for your discretion with this request, if that is possible. Discretion is my middle name. Is it now? No, not really. But I've been running this place for a while, and, well, let's just say everyone has secrets around this valley, so discretion comes naturally. Ah, excellent, he says and smiles. Then he looks over his shoulder at Carl, Marlene, and Rosa B. They are staring directly at the two of us, none of them trying to hide their interest in what's going on. Perhaps I should write down the request. Sure thing. I reach under the bar and hand him a scratch pad and pencil. He scrawls a word, then turns the pad around.

It reads. I read the word again and raise an eyebrow. Um, yeah, that's an odd request. I say and slide the paper back to him. Not sure I can fulfill such a request. He takes the paper and scrawls something else on it. Raw meat, it reads. That's a little easier, I say.

I know a rancher who... No, no, not from a ranch, he says and takes the paper back and writes, Human on it. Well, shit, I say, and not just to myself. Haven't had that request before. I mean, sure. I may have procured a working girl now and again for a guest, but what you're asking for is not quite the same.

Now, it is not, he says. Then he glances at his arm and frowns. My apologies, I seem to be bleeding all over your bar. I see that, I say, and use my glass-durting rag to wipe up the small pool of red. Looks like you could use another towel. Yes, that would be delightful, he says. Unless you have a hot griddle in the kitchen I could borrow for a moment, a flesh-searing agony.

No griddle or stove, I say and shrugged. Sorry. No apologies needed, he says. A towel will have to do. Be right back, I say, and walk into the kitchen. Well, shit. I do say to myself, as I find the stack of sometimes clean towels I keep back here because of,

well, chips and salsa vomit. And I thought the choice of whether or not to use the hand contaminated ice was hard. This guy wants me to find him what? A human victim he can take all the blood from? And use their meat to do, I don't know what. When I returned to the bar with two towels in my hands, I see Rosa B has decided to get up close and personal with our one-handed guest. And then he said to me, well, sweets, if that can fit,

then this shouldn't be a problem at all. Rosa Bee roars with laughter. Carl laughs from his table until Marlene slaps him across the face. It's good to see them together again. Well, Miss B, that's quite the body story. Your past sounds quite interesting. I look forward to hearing more tales. Great.

I'll tell you about the one where the mobster got his pecker stuck in. Here's a towel for you. I say and toss a fresh one to the man. What was your name again? It's Philip. Rosa B answers. He tried not to. to give it to me, but I wore him down.

Philip? Really? I ask and raise an eyebrow. He shakes his head no, but Rosa B. doesn't notice. I'll have to check his signature in the office later. Not that I expect that to be his real name. They rarely are here at the old glory spot. Thank you for this, the one-handed guy says, then looks about. Rest room. Over there.

I point to a small alcove next to the stage. Be careful. There are power cores all over. the place for the speakers and karaoke machine. Karaoke? How quaint, he says before hurrying off with the towel. You need any more duct tape? I have some under the bar. I call out to him. No, thank you. I have my own roll. He replies before he ducks into the men's room. Not that I give a shit if only men use it. He can be Peter Paul or Mary for all I care. Piss and shit is piss and shit. Don't matter which toilet it goes down. Three faces turn in my direction.

Who needs refills? I ask. What are you right on that pad? Rosa B asks, and I almost panic. He took it with him, so I couldn't read it. Relief floods me, and I smile. If you wanted to know, he would have showed you, Rosa B. B., bunch of horse crap, she says before making her way back to her table. The lounge doors open, and in come the regulars.

Desert rats, all of them. We're talking old bikers and meth dealers, show girls who didn't age as well as Rosa B. Blackjack dealers missing thumbs because they got caught skimming from the house, and pretty much every low life you can imagine. If they've lived a sad, possibly criminal life, then they are filing into the Glory Spot Lounge tonight. Well, that, and if they happen to live within easy driving distance. No one goes too far out of their way to visit the Glory Spot,

even for Thursday night karaoke. The tables fill up quickly, followed by the seats at the bar. Once those fill two, then it's standing room only. Okay, not really. I wish. There's never that many people here, and tonight's no exception. I'm slinging drinks and pouring beers left and right. As the first singer gets up to the mic,

he's one of the old meth-dealing bikers, and his voice is so shot that I have no idea what he's singing. For all I know, it could be a punk version of old McDonald out of farm. Except no one is singing along and going, E-I-E-I-O. Quite the show, the one-handed man says when he squeezes between a pair of ex-show girls with tits down to their knees. You must really enjoy running this place. Yeah, yeah, it's amazing, I reply.

My sarcasm not exactly hidden. Oh, not the fairy tale life you'd hoped for? I eye him, and he grins. His teeth are a little sharper than I like to see in a smile, but beats a nasty snagletooth grin any day. My apologies, I realized that I never said what you would get out of the exchange, says the one-handed man. He hands me my scratch pad. I hope this might offset any reticence you might have.

Oh, baby! Where is that accent from? One of the showgirls asks. Her voice, a mix of broken glass and, well, broken glass. Ohio, the one-handed man says. That ain't Ohio, baby. The other showgirl says, I'm from Toledo. Nice try.

Will parts unknown suffice as an answer? He asks, and gives them both a wink before tapping my scratch pad. And how about you, Mr. Dale? Will that work? I look at the pad. This time, he hasn't written words, but a number. That's a lot of zeros, I say. The ex-showgirls try to catch a glimpse,

but I take a step back, keeping the scratch pad and the many zeroed number out of their view. I glance up at the ladies and frown. How about you two give us some space? How about you give us eat a drink on the house? One replies. I mix their drinks, hand them over, then point to two empty chairs at the back table. They fuss and complain, but take their free drinks and saunter off.

You want blood and fresh meat, I say. He holds up a finger. Blood or fresh meat. But if you can get both, and on a fairly regular schedule, then I may be able to add another zero to that number. I'm so close to telling him to go fuck his crazy self, but the thought of another zero kills the words before they can form in my mouth, because the guy sure as fuck is right.

I ain't exactly living the fairy tale life. What makes you think I won't report you to the police? I ask. I mean, the way I see it, in order to get both, some unlucky SOB is going to have to die. What makes me think you won't call the police? Oh, that's simple. Did you call the police when you found my hand in the ice mission? He laughs at the look that must be on my face.

I had to test you somehow. So you cut your fucking hand off? He shrugs. Whatever, I say and shake my head. Okay, yeah, that got my attention. I narrow my eyes. But why drain out all the blood? I needed it.

Waste not, want not. That's some crazy shit, I say, glancing at its freshly wrapped stump, which is already soaking through the towel. And I know crazy shit. Yes, I figured you might. Now, Mr. Dale, do we have a deal? I tapped the number on the pad. When do I get this? Because if it's like next week or next month or some bullshit, then forget it.

What is it you Americans say? Cash on the barrelhead. Did we say that? I've never said that. Never mind. What I am saying is that it will be a normal exchange. You procure what I need, and I pay you for it. it. So, Mr. Dale, the timeline is really up to you. How soon we talk in? You need it tonight,

tomorrow, when? How soon do you think you can deliver? I study the faces in the lounge and instantly cross Carl, Marlene, and Rosa B off the list. They might be missed, and they're my only source of steady income. I also cross off several of the regulars. They're either too well-known in the community, or I don't exactly hate them. Then I see someone who might fit the bill. A customer who came in off the bus and has been here three nights already. The guy is in his late 30s, I think, and paid for only the three nights, which means we'll have to have the payment up front talk first thing in the morning. I might be able to skip that talk altogether and throw some zeros in my bank account at the same time.

Need a fresh one? I ask, when I walk up to the young man as he leans against the back wall, his eyes on a very plump woman trying to sing some song about being toxic or whatever. Excuse me? He responds, frowning. Your drink? Do you need a fresh one? He glances down at the half full rum and coke he's been sipping very, very, very, very slowly. Uh, no thanks. One is enough for me. You sure? Yeah, I'm sure. Okay then.

I start to walk away, then turn back and smile. The guy flinches a little. Listen, I get the feeling you're short on cash. I could use some help tonight if you're interested. Help with what? He asks, not denying that he's short on cash, which tells me I'm right. See all these people? They need drinks and drinks as fast as I can get them made, I say, pointing at the cue that is forming at the bar, even in the short time I've stepped away. I'm not a bartender. Nah, I need a runner, not a bartender. Take drinks out to the table so they can get drunk faster. I also need someone to keep the chips and salsa full. Those folks get sort of nuts if they have to wait more than a couple minutes for fresh chips. I lean in close.

Not that the chips are fresh. He smiles because we've shared a secret. If he only knew the big secret I'm keeping right now. How much? How long you planning to stay? Um, I don't know. How about your room is free for the next five nights, and I also slip, say, a hundred in your pocket.

A hundred? I sigh. Okay, okay, I can make a 200. But you have to hustle. If I'm paying that kind of dough, then I need the drink orders to flow. like water. I've seen the water in this motel. It doesn't exactly flow with so much a spurt. Just like blood, I think. Okay. If you're not interested, then, didn't say that.

He replies and pushes off the wall. I want free drinks too. Oh, that won't be a problem. He thinks the nods. Sure, just show me what to do. Great. Come on into the kitchen. I'll get you an apron, because you are going to need one with this crowd. I'll also show you where the extra chips and salsa are kept. Cool. As we walk by the bar, I give the one-handed man a nod. He smiles wide, really showing me those sharp teeth and nods back. What's that about? The guy behind me asks. What are you two nodding at? Huh? Oh, just being friendly. Shit, the kid is more alert than I thought. Better make this quick. When we enter the kitchen, I go over to the sink and look in it. Oh, great. I say and point over to a shelf with old, rusted dust.

pots and pans. Can you hand me that huge pot there? What's wrong? He asks, looking around. The chips are right there. We'll get to those. I just need that pot real quick. He shrugs and grabs the pot off the shelf and brings it over to me. Put it in the sink, please. He hesitates, then does. Now, do you see what's written at the bottom of that pot? I ask and take a step back, my right hand reaching behind me for the old chef's knives I know is sitting on the counter. Written? Why is something? something written inside a pot," he asks, and bends over the sink to have a look. Before he can realize that I am full of shit, I step forward, grab him by the hair, and yank his head back.

The slice across his throat ain't exactly like cutting butter. I really should sharpen my knives more, but a blade is a blade, so it does the trick. I shove his head forward, and the pot quickly fills with the guy's blood as he gasps and chokes. He tries to fight, but he's bleeding out so fast that he goes weak in seconds. I have to lift him up and give his body a squeeze to get as much blood out as possible. Then I let his body fall to the floor and glance into the pot. What it says at the bottom is chiching! I laugh to the corpse at my feet. When I peeked my head out of the kitchen, I catch the one-handed man's eye and nod. He smiles wide again and walks to me. You set on delivery, so you better have the cash on you, I say once we're both in the kitchen.

I make sure he sees the bloody knife in my hand. The man surveys the kitchen, and his smile just widens more, which seems almost impossible. He takes a long, slow sniff, and closes his eyes. Wonderful. The cash, I say. He pulls out a stack of $100 bills from his pocket and hands the entire wad to me.

That is for the blood, he says and walks over to the sink, stepping over the corpse, his nose leading him the whole way. He looks down and almost squeals with, I guess you could call ecstasy. May I? You paid for it, I say, counting the wad of cash. But the body is extra, don't forget. Oh, I haven't forgotten, he says.

He finds a ladle, dips it in the pot, and drinks directly from it. I had hoped that the money in my hand would keep me from getting nauseous. And I was right. As far as I care, the one-handed guy can, and ladle all the fucking bloody wants into that scary mouth of his, as long as more of this cash is coming my way. There's a shout from out in the lounge, and I roll my eyes,

tuck my cash into my front pocket, take off my trucker hat to wipe the sweat from my bald head, then hurry out to see what the problem is. Marlene has Carl in a headlock, and is punching him in the nose over and over, while a meth dealer sings a song about two joints or something like that. Hey! I yell, and Marlene looks up.

What? She barks. Any blood you spill, you are cleaning up. I snap. You hear me? Saying the word blood makes me think of what is happening, just behind me in the kitchen. But before I can tuck back in to see how the ladling is going,

the one-handed man comes out and stands next to me. Except now, he's not one-handed. Well, shit, I say as I stare down at a hand that hadn't been there a few minutes earlier. Now that's a neat trick. One with a heavy, heavy price, he says, and offers me his other hand, the one he's had with him since he walked into the lounge.

Thank you, Mr. Dale. I shall return to my room for the evening. Would you mind bringing the rest of the pot and the other item to my room once you are done here for the night? I shake the hand. If that extra zero is still on the table, then sure. But we do have one problem. Oh?

I nodded Rosa B, who was watching Marlene jam a finger up Carl's nose, and lead him around the lounge while telling him. everyone too. Look at my little bitch! There have been some noise complaints, I say. I might have to move you out of your room. But that woman is not on my side of the motel? No, not the sadistic, bitch. The one with the rack that will outlive the sun. Ah, I see. He puts a finger to his chin. And she couldn't move out suddenly one night? Never to be heard from again. Probably not best. Then you'll have to be careful when delivering the goods later this evening, won't you?

Careful sometimes cost extra. He laughs. Well, while I cannot add another zero to the end of the offer, I can add a number to the front. That seven I wrote is now an eight. Well, shit. It looks like I'm in the body delivery business then. I'll tell Rosa B to deal or shut the fuck up. And you are sure that will solve the problem?

Arlene now has a finger in both of Carl's nostrils. Rosa B is pointing and laughing so hard that her indestructible rack is bouncing up with almost enough force to give her two black eyes. What do you think? To be on the safe side, perhaps a couple of zeros will ease her mind. Might not be a bad idea.

Good. I will see you later tonight, Mr. Dale. He leaves without me responding, which is good, because the crowd waiting at the bar looks like they are ready to riot. I almost want to shout for everyone to go home since I have several Thursday night karaoke's worth of income

stuffed into my pocket already. But keeping the regulars happy means keeping the regulars out of my shit. And considering what is still lying on the floor of my kitchen, keeping them out of my shit is a very good thing. I'm like a happy, giddy zombie the rest of the night. I'm making drinks, cleaning up spills, shouting at Marlene to stop stuffing tortilla chips down Carl's pants,

and keeping the crowd from getting too stupid. By the time the night is over, I'm exhausted. When I close and lock the lounge doors, after having to drag Marlene and Carl outside, I turn and stare at the kitchen doors. Then I really get to work. Dead weight is a real thing. And I'm no spring chicken.

So I portion up the young sucker into manageable pieces. Stuff each piece into a separate garbage bag, careful to try to keep as much blood as possible, and stacked the bags by the back door. Then I go to the motel office and grab several suitcases from the Lost and Found. Best not to ask why there are so many suitcases in the Lost and Found. I set the empty suitcases on a cart, wheel it across the parking lot, around the back of the lounge, and stop it right next to the kitchen's back door.

A cat saunteres by with the missing hand, although now a few fingers short in its mouth. That explains that. I load up the suitcases with garbage bags, stack them on the cart, and wheel it all the way back around to the parking lot where the one single elevator is set into the corner of the motel. I really hope it works. The signature on the inspection permit hanging inside is forged by me. No one seems to notice, and no one ever comes to inspect it. But one day, my luck, and this elevator could run out.

But not tonight. Tonight I'm able to get the cart to the second floor and roll it on down to the door of the guy who definitely isn't named Philip and now has two hands when he only had one. A perfectly normal situation here at the glory spot. I knock, he answers. Come in, he says and steps out of my way. The smell hits me instantly. Um, I'm good out here, I say. Don't you want to see how I make all that lovely cash I have to offer?

Sure, but I also don't want to die. So here's your card. Now give me the rest of my money. You really should come in, Mr. Dale. I think once I show you, you'll understand why I have chosen to stay here for as long as possible. Between your resourcefulness and my, well, resources, I can make you a wealthy, wealthy man.

I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. How wealthy? To the point where zeros no longer matter. Well, shit, I say. I really, really shouldn't, but I do. He closes the door behind me and takes the cart, wheeling it over to the closed bathroom door.

Have you heard the story of the girl who could spin straw into gold with a special type of spindle? Uh, yeah, that's an old one. Yes, very. But, you see, the tellers of that tale got one part, very wrong. He waves me over. and my greed gets my feet moving. When I'm next to him, he opens the door and points at what is in the bathtub.

Without the door closed, the smell is a thousand times worse. And what is in the tub is pure nightmare fuel. Is that? Is that a person? I ask. Hardly, Mr. Dale. He responds and unzips one of the suitcases, pulling out the garbage bag hidden inside. But in a way, yes. You see. What the tellers of the tail got wrong is that the girl in the spindle were one and the same.

Except instead of straw, I have to feed this one human flesh in order to get my gold. That thing makes gold? Let me show you. And he does. Half the suitcases are emptied and fed to the thing before it begins to shudder and shake. Then it groans, and a fountain of gold coins comes out of six of its orifices. It has a lot of orifices. I count at least 15.

That's when the screaming and crying start. Pure gold! The guy shots over the noise, holding a handful of coins with his face on them. A greenish slime drips from the coins. But who cares? It's a lot of gold. My entire outlook changes.

And how long did you want to stay? I ask him in my most polite voice, the one I reserve for suckers who pull up in Mercedes or BMWs. Not that many like that show up around here. How long can you provide sustenance to the same? He asks, as if the horrible noise the thing is making is nothing but bird song or some shit. If it means more gold, then I think I can do that kind of thing for a long, long time. Then that is how long I will stay.

Well, shit, I say. There's a thumping from below, and I hear Rosa B shout. Shut the hell up up there. You know what? I say. Maybe not as many folks as I fear will miss Rosa B. Is that so? He asks, an eyebrow arched. That's so, I respond.

He smiles. Those really are some sharp teeth. I smile with him. So, what's your real name? His smile widens. Oh, I can't tell you that. Now can I? Well, shit, I respond.

But not too worried about it, since I have an idea of exactly who I'm dealing with. Sometimes, the fairy tale life does come true.