Tavern of Terror Vol. 10: Short Horror Stories Anthology

TRADITIONAL LADIES

Pete Grayson was a catch, and he knew it. By any reasonable standard, hotties should have been beating a path to his bedroom door. He was good-looking, successful in real estate with a cool side hustle in Bitcoin, and possessed great wit and charm. This was Pete’s assessment, admittedly. But he prided himself on being a pretty good judge of character.

“Trouble is,” he told the barman, “American women don’t know a good thing when they see it. They’ve had their minds so poisoned by all this feminist crap in movies and so on that they think homemaking is dumb. They were never taught to please their man. That’s why I have to keep dumping ’em because they get irritating and clingy and talk about themselves all the goddamn time. Yadda yadda, day and night. It’s all about their needs and their space and their jobs and whether they want babies right now or when they turn forty. I want a nice little wife, not someone obsessed with having her ova frozen, for Chrissake!”

The barman, an older guy who gave off an ex-military vibe, made a noncommittal noise. Pete glanced sideways at the other member of staff, a girl of around twenty with green streaks in her hair and an emo-Goth vibe. She was within earshot but pretending not to listen, assuming this place didn’t employ deaf barmaids. He sniffed. The old guy was probably scared to agree with Pete. It was a common situation.

“Stands to reason,” he said, setting down his empty beer glass and pinging it with the nail of his right index finger. “We men—real men, anyhow—are smarter and stronger because nature intended us to be in charge. And females are good at nurturing and nest-making because our species evolved that way.”

The barman made that nothing noise again and took Pete’s glass. It was frustrating trying to vent in a world of wusses. Pete looked around the pub, seeking a kindred spirit, but only one person was within earshot. It was an older guy two stools along. The stranger was dressed so badly, he might have been on the verge of homelessness. Or maybe he’d done it for a bet. Scuffed tennis shoes—white with two green stripes—plus loose-fitting jeans and a plaid jacket at least one size too large over a T-shirt made for a crappy ensemble.

Pete prided himself on wearing smart but not overly formal clothes, always with a tight shirt. There is no point in paying for a gym membership and a personal trainer and hiding the excellent results from the world. The thrift store guy looked like a strong breeze would knock him down. Smiling at the thought, Pete was about to check his phone when the stranger spoke.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your remarks, friend. It’s a common lament these days—the man seeking an ideal partner who finds conventional methods unsatisfactory.”

Pete stared. The worst-dressed man he’d seen all week turned might be the most articulate.

“It’s a bummer,” he declared. “All I want is the love of a good woman who’ll be there waiting with dinner on the table when I get home from a hard day’s work. Is that so strange?”

Plaid Jacket shrugged.

“It seems to me that you want a woman from another historical era or another culture. Perhaps a bit of both?”

Pete began to warm to the odd little guy. Perhaps they could have a decent grousing session, two very different fellas lamenting the decline of American womanhood. Hell, there was a good chance Plaid Jacket was a victim of the feminists. A bad divorce would explain his down-at-heel appearance.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Pete agreed. “I mean, I’ve considered foreign chicks, but there are a lot of scams out there. No way am I paying for some gold digger to fly from Europe or whatever. But you gotta try before you buy, right?”

“It is standard practice these days, I’m told,” Plaid Jacket said. “It seems you are destined to eternal frustration. Unless you are willing to try less conventional methods?”

The stranger produced a business card. Pete took it, feeling mild contempt. His cards were so much classier. He read PEREGRINE STARK and the usual email and phone details. He turned the card over. The other side read DISCRETION GUARANTEED.

“Your business top secret, buddy?” he asked. “Also, is that even a real name? What kind of parents do that to a helpless baby?”