The Birthday Massacre
Part One – Happy Birthday
Wednesday, August 12th, 2009
11:42 PM

I think my friend said ‘I hear footsteps.’
I wore my black and white dress to the birthday massacre
Birthday massacre
I wore my black and white dress…

“C’mon, Miss Ivy,” said Rosalyn Callasantos, “You should go home.”

The diminutive bartender was dressed in a black and red halter top, loose black cargo shorts that reached her knees, and black Converse low tops with red laces. She had her shoulder length hair pulled back into two mostly equal pigtails; her hair was as honey brown with sparse, scattered red streaks.

“I’m not leaving just yet, Cally,” replied Ivy, “What’s the point of being the owner if I can’t stay as late as I want?”

Cally, as she was known to everyone but her boyfriend (who called her either Rose or Rosie), stopped and considered what Ivy was saying. It was true, Ivy McGinnis was a 50% owner of TC’s Pub, and therefore Cally’s boss, but she was rarely around. Her duties to both Valerian’s Garden and the FWO had made Cally the general manager almost by default; a title that Ivy and her partner, Eli Flair, had been more than happy to make official when the time came. The twenty one year old knew the workings of the building backwards and forwards, but always deferred to the bosses when they were in the house.

She wished Eli would show up; he was the only person who could ever talk sense into Miss Ivy when she was feeling down on herself, but if memory served, Eli was in Maine with his wife’s band, working in some unassuming dives, getting the kinks out of their new music before they returned to the studio.

“Cally,” said Ivy, suddenly, “Dos Equis. One for me and one for you.”

At least it was dead in here tonight. There was no television in the bar and after the past few days, most of their regulars would be somewhere that they could watch the Yankees.

Ivy would’ve normally been at the stadium, but for some reason she isn’t.

As Cally returned to the bar and pulled two bottles of Dos Equis Amber out of the cooler, she gave her boss a good once-over. If she didn’t know better, Miss Ivy was dressed for a night on the town, in a flattering red dress with spaghetti straps and high heeled boots. Quite the contrary, she had been in her seat for nearly three hours, poring through two large photo albums.

“Here,” said Cally, as she handed off a bottle, “To your health.”

“In your ear,” replied Ivy, with a smile, as the women tapped bottles and drank, “You never met Paul, did you?” she asked.

“Paul?” repeated Cally.

“Sorry,” replied Ivy, “Hornet.”

She moved the album toward Cally, and pointed. “This picture was taken after Fish Fund thirteen,” explained Ivy, “August, 2002. We all went out after the show to celebrate my birthday.”

The photograph that Ivy was gesturing towards was taken at a nondescript bar, where, all in a row, Joey Melton, Ray S. Cornette, Mark Windham, Ivy, Triple X, Eli Flair, Craig Miles, Eddie Mayfield, Hornet, and Dan Ryan sat, shotglasses in hand.

“That was about a week before my twenty eighth birthday,” continued Ivy, “The last good one.”

So that’s why she was here. “That’s right,” said Cally, “Tomorrow is—“

“Thirty five,” interrupted Ivy, “Happy birthday to me.”

Cally took another long pull from her beer. “And that’s why you’re here, and not with your friends or your family?”

“Aren’t we friends?” asked Ivy. She drained nearly half the beverage in one sip.

“Of course we are,” said Cally, “You know what I mean.”

Ivy laughed, but there was no real joy behind it. “I’ve spent the past six birthdays with my friends or family, Cally,” she said, “and what did I get of it?”

She took off her glasses and leaned in toward the young bartender. “Dozens of miniscule scars around my eyes,” she continued, as she pulled at the hair just above her hairline, “Stitches in my forehead,” said Ivy, as she put her glasses back on, “and let’s not forget the three bullet scars and missing kidney. Can’t forget about good old twenty nine, now.”

“That was years ago,” reminded Cally.

“True,” admitted Ivy, “I also found out I was pregnant on my birthday, and spent over a month making myself sick because I thought Sean was going to leave me over it. To say nothing of spending number thirty three in a bus on the side of the road somewhere in southern Kansas because a freak monsoon turned the highway into a river, and number thirty four narrowly avoiding jail because I punched some asshole who thought it’d be funny to grab Angel’s ankle and try to drag her off the stage.”

Ivy leaned back again and picked up her drink. “No, Miss Cally… I love my friends and my family, and I’m by far the luckiest lil’ bitch who ever lived… but this week, I don’t think I could handle anyone. Hell, Shannon is with my brother until Friday.”

“Really,” asked Cally, “you wouldn’t want to see anyone?”

“No,” said Ivy, until she noticed that Cally’s eyes had raised above her head and behind her. Before she could react, a pair of hands landed on her shoulders, and a pair of lips touched the top of her head.

Ivy turned around, to come face to face with—

“Sean,” she whispered, before allowing herself to be scooped up in his arms.

“Oh my lord,” said Cally, “You two are so cute I want to punch you both.”

I think my friend said ‘don't forget the video’
I think my friend said ’don't forget to smile’
’You're a murder tramp, murder tramp’ I think he said
’You're a murder boy, birthday boy’ I think I said…