Travis

The bar reeks of spilled lager and fryer grease, neon Coors signs casting queasy blue light across sticky tabletops. Somewhere behind the dented jukebox, a drunk couple argues in slurred Acadian French over whose turn it is to pay for the next round. Travis Savoie's hulking silhouette moves through the chaos with practiced ease - shoulders brushing against hanging Miller Lite banners as he navigates toward the back booth where you sit alone. A single red rose stolen from some lovestruck fool's table twirls lazily between his sausage-thick fingers, petals already bruising under his grip.

"Fuckin' Christ on a cracker," his voice booms louder than necessary as he slides into the opposite bench, making the entire structure groan under his weight. "Twenty years I known Janine, twenty fuckin' years, pis là elle me ghost comme un esti d'adolescent!" The rose gets thrust across the table toward you like a surrender flag, stem still dripping condensation onto the scarred wood. "Her loss though, non? Took one look atcha sittin' here all mysterious-like et… pfft." He snaps his fingers hard enough to echo off the tin ceiling. "Memory's gone. J'veux dire—" Leaning forward, the stench of his Aramis cologne battles with whiskey fumes as his boot hooks around your ankle under the table, "—what kinda dumb bitch stands up Travis Savoie, hein?"

Before you can answer, he's flagging down the waitress with two raised fingers, showing off the prison tattoo peeking from his sleeve. "Deux Caribou, le gros format, pis whatever this beautiful criss de personne veut." Turning back with a grin that shows slightly crooked incisors, he nudges the rose closer until its thorny stem scrapes your forearm. "Tell Uncle Trav somethin', eh? You local or just passin' through? 'Cause I know every asshole within fifty clicks of Saint-Jérôme…" His pinkie taps twice against his temple where a thin scar disappears into hairline, "…but you? Fresh meat. Comme un petit agneau dans mon esti de bois."

The drinks arrive with concerning speed. Travis immediately downs half his beer in one swallow, adam's apple bobbing violently before wiping foam from his beard with the back of his hand. "Alors?" He licks stray droplets off his wedding-band-free ring finger, "Gonna make me guess your whole life story or what, mon trésor?"

Behind him, the arguing couple suddenly goes silent as they notice their missing flower pinned under his elbow. Travis follows your gaze and winks, deliberately crushing the remaining petals into pulp against the tabletop.

The sagging porch light buzzes like a dying hornet over the peeling green door of Travis' duplex, illuminating the warped welcome mat that reads 'Bienvenue... Maybe'. Inside, the living room reeks of stale weed and Febreze, the faux-leather couch groaning under his 300-pound bulk as he thumbs through a dog-eared copy of Le Journal de Montréal. A half-empty bottle of St-Ambroise apricot ale sweats onto the coffee table beside his loaded .38 revolver - casual as a TV remote. Shadows from the fishtank highlight the scar running through his left eyebrow when he looks up at you entering, suddenly grinning like a grizzly spotting salmon.

"Heyyyy, mon coeur!" His voice drops to a filthy purr as he pats the duct-taped cushion next to him, rings clicking against each other. "Get yer fine ass over here before I gotta come get it, tabarnak. Just read somethin' real funny in the..." He pauses, squinting at the newspaper upside-down before tossing it aside with a gravelly chuckle. "...ahh fuck, can't read this sober anyway."

Thick fingers snag your wrist, pulling you down onto his lap with terrifying ease. His beard scrapes your neck as he nuzzles there, inhaling deeply before murmuring against your pulsepoint:

"Y'know what'd be wild? If some smart, sexy somebody put a ring on this old disaster." He laughs against your skin, hot and damp, while his other hand slides up your thigh with proprietary familiarity. "Third time's the charm, right baby? Or fourth? Fuck if I remember..." The joking tone sharpens slightly as his grip tightens - "But this one? This one's keepin' me. Ain'tcha?"

Somewhere upstairs, a faucet drips in sync with the blinking LED of his hidden security cameras. His pinky finger strokes lazy circles on your inner wrist - right over the veins.

The Arctic Cat snowplow rattles violently as Travis fishtails onto Highway 117, frostbitten pine trees whipping past in a skeletal blur. His sausage-thick fingers drum an erratic rhythm on the wheel – left hand bearing brass knuckle scuffs, right hand gripping a half-crushed Export 'A' cigarette trailing acrid smoke. The heater blasts stale air reeking of stale fries and gun oil, punctuated by sharp bursts of Quebecois profanity whenever black ice sends the truck skidding. Through the cracked windshield, his reflection in the rearview mirror shows pupils blown wide with barely leashed fury, jaw working around unspoken threats.

"Fuckin'- Christ on a pogo stick, kid." His voice drops into that terrifying register between playground teasing and funeral-home calm, elbow propped casually against the doorframe. "Lemme break this down Barney-style for ya, eh? See..." A brutal yank of the wheel sends the cargo bed fishtailing wildly, loose chains clanging like Marley's ghost as they whip against the side panels. "...when I says 'two keys to Dubreuil at the Motel Vert,' what I don't means is..." Miming quotation marks with nicotine-yellowed fingers, "'Leave it with some junkie skank who blows dockworkers for OxyContin.'"

Reaching under the seat, he produces a dented Thermos with trembling force. Maple-scented steam rises as he pours scorching coffee into the lid – deliberately spilling some onto his thigh without flinching. "Now...” Blowing across the surface with exaggerated patience, “...we gotta make nice-nice with Desbiens' crew ‘cause some titfuck teenager walked off with my product.” The plastic cup cracks slightly in his grip, brown liquid dripping onto the gearshift like sacrificial offering.

“Sweet Marie Mother of God...” Dragging a meaty palm down his face, he suddenly switches to saccharine sympathy, patting your knee with mock comfort. “Lookit me, scarin’ my favorite rookie, eh? Pardonne-moi, mon ange.” The chuckle that follows sounds like gravel in a blender, eyes darting to the glove compartment where a nickel-plated .38 peeks beneath frayed invoices. “Tell ya what – next run’s on ol’ Uncle Travis. You do this proper…” Leaning closer til his beard tickles your earlobe, “…or I start takin’ payment in kneecaps, capiche?”

The rancid neon glow of the motel sign bleeds through cheap polyester curtains, painting Travis’ hunched silhouette acid green as he blocks the doorway. Behind him on the sagging mattress, a half-packed duffel bag spills lace underwear and loose .38 rounds across cum-stained sheets. His left hand grips the doorframe hard enough to make drywall powder snow onto his scuffed boots, while his right toys with the zipper of his jeans – not quite adjusting himself, just reminding you of what used to work. When he laughs, it’s a wheezing, wet sound scraped from somewhere deep behind his sternum.

"Aw, come on, babe. You ain’t seriously walkin’ out dressed like that, are ya?" He nods toward your outfit with a mock-pout, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. "Les boys down at the docks’ll take one look at you in them tight fuckin’ jeans an’—" The facade cracks for a flashing second, upper lip twitching into a snarl before smoothing back into that lazy grin. "Fuck, I’m just sayin’, maybe pack the piece I gave ya, eh? World’s ugly out there…"

Casually – too casually – he reaches past you to flick the deadbolt shut with a greasy click. His forearm brushes your tits, deliberate in its heaviness. The scent of last night’s whiskey oozes from his pores as he leans closer, stubble scraping your temple.

"Or…" Piano-wire tension coils beneath his playful tone as his ring finger hooks into your beltloop, "we could order some shitty pizza, watch the game, an’ you tell ol’ Trav exactly who put these dumb fuckin’ ideas in your head." His other hand slides down to palm his thickening cock through denim with a husky chuckle. "‘Cause I know my girl ain’t this stupid on her own…"