The saloon was too bright for how tired Harland felt. Fluorescent strips lit the country-western bar like a dentist’s office pretending to have a sense of rhythm. The floorboards gleamed from too much polish and too many boots, and the scent in the air was an assertive blend of stale beer, fried food, and synthetic pine from the urinal cakes. Somewhere in the corner, a neon sign of a howling coyote buzzed with a hiccuping rhythm.
Harland Bixby stood near the edge of the dance floor, sweating.
He was not a man built for movement. His button-down shirt, a regrettable red and white plaid, pulled at the seams when he raised his arms. His belly pressed gently against his belt buckle like it was trying to escape. His slacks, chosen out of ignorance for the occasion, clung damply behind the knees. He had the body of someone who had once resolved to exercise, then read about all the injuries running could cause and decided walking to the fridge would have to do.
He wasn’t completely bald, not yet, but the crown of his head had taken on a pinkish glow under the bar’s lights, ringed with thinning hair that curled at the edges like it still remembered what a full head once felt like. His face was soft in the way people described as approachable, which he suspected was a euphemism for you look like you own several Garfield mugs.
Harland clapped along, two beats behind.
“Left foot, stomp! Right foot, back! Spin your partner!”
He spun no one. He had arrived alone.
The instructor, a woman with sparkly jeans and a microphone headset, beamed encouragement at the group, never quite making eye contact with him. Harland did his best to follow along, which meant shuffling left when the group went right, slapping his thigh instead of stomping, and nearly knocking over a tray of drinks when he took one ambitious backward step.
He didn’t belong here. But he was trying. And that had to count for something.
The music played on.
And then it stopped.
Not a scratch or a skip. Just gone, mid-note, like the sound itself had been excused.
Silence spilled through the bar like a slow fog. Conversations died. Boots froze mid-stomp. Even the neon coyote flickered once, then went still, mouth open in a howl no longer heard.
Harland turned.
He was standing in the doorway.
The Killer Mime.
The figure was tall. Too tall. Not NBA tall. Not lanky uncle tall. Offensively tall. The kind of tall that made you question the doorframe, or your depth perception. His presence seemed to stretch the threshold wider than it had any right to be.
He wore a formal black tailcoat, the cuffs frayed like paper burned at the edges. Black trousers clung to unnaturally long legs, the fabric crisp with a creased line that had not been fashionable since silent film stars took their final bow. His shoes were impossibly polished but left no sound behind, only the memory of motion.
His gloves were white. Not costume white. Not satin or cotton. They were perfectly white, like fresh snow that had never been stepped on. They shimmered faintly even in the uneven light.
His face was white too. Not pale. Not painted. White like bone and chalk, wiped smooth. Black lines arched above the eyes, drawn like they had been inked with sorrow, and from the corners of his mouth, black paint curved upward into a delicate smile that had never once changed. The smile was fixed.
And the eyes.
They were not glowing. They were not red or hollow. They were just eyes. But they were looking. Really looking. Like he could see your last bad decision and the one you’re about to make.
He stepped forward.
Harland’s breath went shallow. His pulse picked up, but the rest of his body did not follow.
The mime tilted his head. Slowly. Precisely.
And then he danced.
It was not a mockery. It was not some clumsy pantomime. The Killer Mime danced. Line steps. Heel taps. A pivot with a slide. Every move Harland had just attempted was now performed with elegance and exactitude. The mime danced without music, without sound, without flaw.
He stopped.
And turned to face Harland.
One white glove rose into the air. The fingers moved deliberately. A line to the left. A line to the right. One across the top. One across the bottom.
A box.
Harland tried to move. He could not.
He tried to speak. Nothing.
The mime gestured again. A stomp. A kick. A clap.
Harland’s body followed.
His limbs twitched into motion. His boots scuffed against the floor as he was compelled into a grotesque parody of the line dance. Arms rose and dropped in stiff rhythm. His face flushed red but did not regain control.
The Killer Mime stepped closer. They moved in tandem now, a duet of humiliation. The mime spun. Harland spun. The mime bowed. Harland dipped.
And then, the mime raised a hand and pressed it flat against Harland’s chest.
Harland crumpled to his knees like a marionette with one string cut too many.
Silence reigned.
Then the music returned.
The chatter resumed. The coyote buzzed back to life.
Harland gasped for breath. No one looked twice. No one asked what happened.
He sat on the sticky wooden floor, sweat clinging to his back, heart racing, arms sore from being borrowed.
He looked toward the doorway.
Empty.
Only the faintest echo of applause remained, like a glove clapping gently against itself in the space behind his ribs.
He never went line dancing again.