I never have fit in anywhere. So I worked in The Quarter, I did stripped jobs without ever working the clubs. As in, "You, me, a hotel room--you just got the ride of your life, mister."
And boy did they ever.
When I worked on Bourbon, there were three different brands of daqueri shop. One with joker/Carnival masks, one with some weird almost-tiki setup, and one other kind…I guess I was to drunk or too uninterested to remember. Hell, it was just a job.
Three brands--but each and every and every single shop is owned under a different corporate name. That way, the shop owners can work your ass 50 hours a week between three stores and never give you a damn cent of overtime.
How long do you think I did that? If you said, "Half a week," then you're wrong. Dead wrong. I did it for five whole months before I finally took a slush-drunk businessman, black suit and all, back to my place in the Bywater.
(If you're ever down on Bourbon, spend just one night sittin' in one of those shops in between two and five in the aye-emm. You see that drunkass in a suit bent over in front of the ATM with the stripper right beside him, telling him what to push? Been there, done that.)
From then on it was me and a couple other girls from the daqueri joints. We'd find those suits at the daq shops, sure, but we hit some nice places. We hit the fuck out of Jackson Square, too.
Jackson square. Right in front of that big-ass church they've got there. Just diagonal from the end of the French market. We'd dress up in skirts and pretend we were high-school girls collecting money for a trip. Then one of us would stand on tip-toe, maybe have to put a hand on the back of a neck to get the guy's head down to us, and whisper in his ear…
End up in bed next to some guy with a loose tie and a hard dick--or at least what passes for hard after too much Chartreuse or Absynthe or whatever weird green shit we made him buy. He wakes up and we're gone but we've left a little reminder of ourselves: Four or five Polaroids of the night before and a little note says we got all his info from his license, and we'd appreciate a little bit of a head start, please.
Of course we'd already maxed out his plastic by the time he woke up.
How did it all end? If this were a movie, it'd be all about how "somebody had to fall in love." Not us. We knew better. Instead, the youngest of us found a daddy.
Like, for real a daddy.
Like, he really was her daddy.
He'd come down to "Nawlans" (gotta fuckin' hate that shit) to find the baby girl he'd abandoned nearly nineteen years ago. For some reason, the people who spent time, energy, and money actually raising the damn girl thought it'd be a good idea to send this man down to New Orleans to find her.
You ever heard of GSA? No, not "Genuine Sexual Attraction" or "Genitals Stimulated Anally" (though there was plenty of that).
It stands for "Genetic Sexual Attraction" and it's what happens when closely-related people meet for the first time as adults. Well, sometimes it happens. I swear this one's in the books. They've done studies.
Me and the other girl (no they don't have fucking names--fuck off) thought the man looked a little bit too much like her. We found her high-school glamour shot in his wallet. We'd have laughed if it weren't for the white crust on the photo.
He'd made it big in sales: insurance, cars, imported buttplugs--you name it. He went all around town with her and bought her every damn thing you please. Told her she was just what he wanted, he was gonna take care of her for the rest of her damn life, yadda yadda yadda.
We were worried when we found that picture (we found it in his wallet when we were looking for something else we needed). We were even more worried when we talked to her mom.
Cuz really guy, you're obviously not in it for life, not after that story you gave her folks. I mean maybe you weren't gonna let her have a little overdose accident once you'd had your fun but then maybe I never sucked a cock for a hundred dollars, either.
Everything I ever needed to know, I learned in kindergarten when Mama told me that the bastards'll get you if you don't get them first.
So we got that fucker, alright. Got him on tape with his thin powder-milk jizz runnin' down our chins while we lapped it up off each other's tits.
Our friend hated us but at least she ran off for a couple days.
He came to us looking for her. We made out like we were broke and told him for a thousand bucks we'd blow his mind and anything else he wanted blown, for three nights if he wanted, and we'd get somebody to find his little girl.
Of course that's not what happened. We kicked him out of a window when he was drunk and nobody came from out of town to investigate because nobody cared about him anywhere else.
No one cared about him in New Orleans, either.
Sure it's not every day a man falls 21 stories and lands on the side of Canal St. at two aye emm in the morning.
But the cops and the crooks and the girls in New Orleans all know that most people are shit and the value of your average human life is whatever you can get out of it.
He was dead and nobody ever gave a shit, except our friend. She got over it in about eight days.
The Maiming by Doug Ordunio
They call it performance art, and Gwen Stevens was one of the best. She had been given a one million dollar grant to participate for one day in different art installations across the country. There was a hired staff of people who would put together the necessary paraphernalia in each selected gallery. The slate lasted for two months.
It was the day before the end of the exhibition. Today’s gallery was in Houston, Texas. Gwen had lain upon her stomach for two hours, allowing her ample right breast to protrude downward and hang silently in the water of a large fifty gallon aquarium that contained a variety of colorful tropical fish. As the fish swam around, a few of the more curious creatures would ascend to briefly nuzzle the mammary. This tickled Gwen, and so every few minutes, the breast itself would jiggle. The people who gathered in the gallery were watching in silence. Gwen’s cell phone vibrated. “Yes, Roger?”
“I’m giving you the five-minute warning. When you’re done, put on the robe, come out and take a bow,” he said.
Soon the alarm sounded on her phone. She rose from the water and dried herself off. Then she walked outside where the gathered spectators, some of whom had sat for eight hours, were warmly applauding. After signing a few autographs, Gwen excused herself and disappeared to get ready for the plane flight to the last location.
The next morning Roger and Gwen arrived at the Pasadena Art Museum at eight-thirty. Roger spoke the thought that he knew was haunting Gwen. “This last one is probably the toughest performance art piece I’ve ever seen. You can still back out, Gwen,” he said.
“No way am I going to chicken out. How will it look, Rog? I have to do this. This was a challenge made to me, and by inference, to all women. After I go through this, many females will feel empowered around the world.”
The museum would open at ten. She positioned her shapely body on her back—naked, blindfolded, spread-eagled. Roger moved the four gleaming metal guillotines into position. Each stood eight feet high. If the blades fell, she would lose either of her big toes or one of her thumbs.
At ten, people began to vote on the Internet. When the votes on any chosen guillotines reached 600,000, a toe or finger was excised. Large LED readouts kept the tally. Urination or defecation would take place in full view of the public. After eight hours, the long anticipated outcome—a gutsy event.
Seven hours and fifty-five minutes later, Roger rang. “Only five minutes left. You may get out unscathed.” Visions of her next vacation destination filled her mind.
The next five minutes lasted an eternity. The applause and cheering began. It was just loud enough that Gwen couldn’t hear the ringing of the bell or the sound of the rapidly descending blade...
It was the day before the end of the exhibition. Today’s gallery was in Houston, Texas. Gwen had lain upon her stomach for two hours, allowing her ample right breast to protrude downward and hang silently in the water of a large fifty gallon aquarium that contained a variety of colorful tropical fish. As the fish swam around, a few of the more curious creatures would ascend to briefly nuzzle the mammary. This tickled Gwen, and so every few minutes, the breast itself would jiggle. The people who gathered in the gallery were watching in silence. Gwen’s cell phone vibrated. “Yes, Roger?”
“I’m giving you the five-minute warning. When you’re done, put on the robe, come out and take a bow,” he said.
Soon the alarm sounded on her phone. She rose from the water and dried herself off. Then she walked outside where the gathered spectators, some of whom had sat for eight hours, were warmly applauding. After signing a few autographs, Gwen excused herself and disappeared to get ready for the plane flight to the last location.
The next morning Roger and Gwen arrived at the Pasadena Art Museum at eight-thirty. Roger spoke the thought that he knew was haunting Gwen. “This last one is probably the toughest performance art piece I’ve ever seen. You can still back out, Gwen,” he said.
“No way am I going to chicken out. How will it look, Rog? I have to do this. This was a challenge made to me, and by inference, to all women. After I go through this, many females will feel empowered around the world.”
The museum would open at ten. She positioned her shapely body on her back—naked, blindfolded, spread-eagled. Roger moved the four gleaming metal guillotines into position. Each stood eight feet high. If the blades fell, she would lose either of her big toes or one of her thumbs.
At ten, people began to vote on the Internet. When the votes on any chosen guillotines reached 600,000, a toe or finger was excised. Large LED readouts kept the tally. Urination or defecation would take place in full view of the public. After eight hours, the long anticipated outcome—a gutsy event.
Seven hours and fifty-five minutes later, Roger rang. “Only five minutes left. You may get out unscathed.” Visions of her next vacation destination filled her mind.
The next five minutes lasted an eternity. The applause and cheering began. It was just loud enough that Gwen couldn’t hear the ringing of the bell or the sound of the rapidly descending blade...
Liar, Liar by Eric Beetner
"I’ll ask you one more time...”
It’s always one more time. Really it’s five or six more times so why do they think I’m buying it? No way he’s getting what he wants out of me anyhow.
“Where’s the cash?”
“I don’t know, dipshit. How many times I gotta tell you?”
Another hard left across the cheek. The swelling was so bad the skin split from the blood pooling up underneath. Couldn’t take the strain.
Okay, calling him a dipshit was not exactly offering an olive branch but this guy has been on my ass for an hour and I’m done.
Strapped to a chair with sloppy duct tape work, I can feel at least three teeth missing and that hammer over on the table is starting to worry me. There’s only so long this guy can use his fists without breaking something so I’d say we’re about at the tools stage of the game.
It’s a game I know well but always from the other side. This guy must be new in town because I’m sure I know everyone in the business. Heard someone say Rizzo when he walked in. Now those other three are taking the back seat, catching a smoke, watching the show.
Rizzo was a pro, I’ll give him that. I’ve never been in danger of going out cold. Can’t find your swag if your man isn’t talking. Trouble with this shakedown – I didn’t do it.
Try telling him that.
“Okay, I’ve been a nice guy up to now.”
“I hate to disagree but...”
Rizzo smiled. He knows we’re in a battle of wills. My test is to keep from giving a false confession despite the agony and his job is to make me break whether I did it or not. Give the man upstairs a body and the rest goes away. Along with the cash. Half a mil. Not a bad haul for whoever took it.
When he turned around he had the hammer. I wasn’t surprised.
He twirled it in his hands, looked it up and down. All I could do was wonder where the first shot was coming. I know from experience there are lots of choices.
Kneecaps, fingers, jaw, feet (take the shoes off first), ribs, shins, temples (big risk of putting the lights out), and balls. Please not the balls.
“I’m gonna ask you again.”
“I thought you said one more time on the last one.” Rizzo ignored me.
“Where’s the money you took?”
“I don’t have it. I didn’t take it. You can ask me all night long. You can buy me drinks and whisper sweet nothings and I still didn’t take it.”
Kneecap. Not much worse in this game. So painful I didn’t even scream, just got dizzy and saw a flash vision of Deborah, my eighth grade girlfriend, whatever that meant. Misfired synapses I guess.
I took a full minute before I opened my eyes. Lifting the lids let loose the tears waiting to rush for the floor. Rizzo was smiling.
He lifted the hammer high over his head like Thor and ran at me. Looked like he was coming for my skull. I glued my eyes shut and braced for impact but heard his feet stop shuffling forward and a low guttural laugh.
I opened back up and the whole peanut gallery was laughing along. Rizzo put the hammer back on the table, picked up something I couldn’t see.
I thought about giving him an address or directions to a tree stump in the woods – anything to get me out of there – but he would have killed me anyway. At the very least once they found no money where I sent them I’d be dead within twenty-four hours. Half a million was no joke.
Rizzo stepped in close. Garden shears. Fingers. It was the next logical step. He was working from the playbook I knew so well.
If he was going to follow protocol he would start with the pinky. I could live without a pinky, maybe two.
“I’ll ask you one more time...”
He stuck with protocol. Little finger, left hand. Goodbye.
That time I screamed. Tipped over the chair and howled. Two of the men on their coffee break came over and wrapped a dirty dishtowel around my bloody hand. Made a mental note to go for a tetanus shot if I got out of there.
Yeah, Rizzo was a pro. He’d seen the drill before. He knew when enough was enough.
“He doesn’t know,” he said.
There were protests from the others. Rizzo stood firm. “He didn’t take the money. Bring me the next one.”
Next one? My God, how many pinky fingers would he have by the end of this?
My sendoff was less than hospitable. They nicked my arm when they cut the duct tape off. I saw one of them step on my severed finger as he dragged me across the room. They threw me down the stairs and of all the torture I’d endured, that was when I came closest to passing out.
It hurt like hell but I forced myself to pinch down on my new stump so the bleeding would stop.
Their parting words were an urging to get out of town, advice I was keen to follow.
I’d leave minus one finger, a decent amount of blood and a few teeth but I knew I’d be okay.
I had half a million waiting for me.
---
Eric Beetner is the co-author of One Too Many Blows To The Head. His short fiction has appeared in Thuglit, A Twist of Noir, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Crooked, Flash Fiction Offensive, Pulp Pusher. Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn. More info and links to stories can be found at ericbeetner.blogspot.com
It’s always one more time. Really it’s five or six more times so why do they think I’m buying it? No way he’s getting what he wants out of me anyhow.
“Where’s the cash?”
“I don’t know, dipshit. How many times I gotta tell you?”
Another hard left across the cheek. The swelling was so bad the skin split from the blood pooling up underneath. Couldn’t take the strain.
Okay, calling him a dipshit was not exactly offering an olive branch but this guy has been on my ass for an hour and I’m done.
Strapped to a chair with sloppy duct tape work, I can feel at least three teeth missing and that hammer over on the table is starting to worry me. There’s only so long this guy can use his fists without breaking something so I’d say we’re about at the tools stage of the game.
It’s a game I know well but always from the other side. This guy must be new in town because I’m sure I know everyone in the business. Heard someone say Rizzo when he walked in. Now those other three are taking the back seat, catching a smoke, watching the show.
Rizzo was a pro, I’ll give him that. I’ve never been in danger of going out cold. Can’t find your swag if your man isn’t talking. Trouble with this shakedown – I didn’t do it.
Try telling him that.
“Okay, I’ve been a nice guy up to now.”
“I hate to disagree but...”
Rizzo smiled. He knows we’re in a battle of wills. My test is to keep from giving a false confession despite the agony and his job is to make me break whether I did it or not. Give the man upstairs a body and the rest goes away. Along with the cash. Half a mil. Not a bad haul for whoever took it.
When he turned around he had the hammer. I wasn’t surprised.
He twirled it in his hands, looked it up and down. All I could do was wonder where the first shot was coming. I know from experience there are lots of choices.
Kneecaps, fingers, jaw, feet (take the shoes off first), ribs, shins, temples (big risk of putting the lights out), and balls. Please not the balls.
“I’m gonna ask you again.”
“I thought you said one more time on the last one.” Rizzo ignored me.
“Where’s the money you took?”
“I don’t have it. I didn’t take it. You can ask me all night long. You can buy me drinks and whisper sweet nothings and I still didn’t take it.”
Kneecap. Not much worse in this game. So painful I didn’t even scream, just got dizzy and saw a flash vision of Deborah, my eighth grade girlfriend, whatever that meant. Misfired synapses I guess.
I took a full minute before I opened my eyes. Lifting the lids let loose the tears waiting to rush for the floor. Rizzo was smiling.
He lifted the hammer high over his head like Thor and ran at me. Looked like he was coming for my skull. I glued my eyes shut and braced for impact but heard his feet stop shuffling forward and a low guttural laugh.
I opened back up and the whole peanut gallery was laughing along. Rizzo put the hammer back on the table, picked up something I couldn’t see.
I thought about giving him an address or directions to a tree stump in the woods – anything to get me out of there – but he would have killed me anyway. At the very least once they found no money where I sent them I’d be dead within twenty-four hours. Half a million was no joke.
Rizzo stepped in close. Garden shears. Fingers. It was the next logical step. He was working from the playbook I knew so well.
If he was going to follow protocol he would start with the pinky. I could live without a pinky, maybe two.
“I’ll ask you one more time...”
He stuck with protocol. Little finger, left hand. Goodbye.
That time I screamed. Tipped over the chair and howled. Two of the men on their coffee break came over and wrapped a dirty dishtowel around my bloody hand. Made a mental note to go for a tetanus shot if I got out of there.
Yeah, Rizzo was a pro. He’d seen the drill before. He knew when enough was enough.
“He doesn’t know,” he said.
There were protests from the others. Rizzo stood firm. “He didn’t take the money. Bring me the next one.”
Next one? My God, how many pinky fingers would he have by the end of this?
My sendoff was less than hospitable. They nicked my arm when they cut the duct tape off. I saw one of them step on my severed finger as he dragged me across the room. They threw me down the stairs and of all the torture I’d endured, that was when I came closest to passing out.
It hurt like hell but I forced myself to pinch down on my new stump so the bleeding would stop.
Their parting words were an urging to get out of town, advice I was keen to follow.
I’d leave minus one finger, a decent amount of blood and a few teeth but I knew I’d be okay.
I had half a million waiting for me.
---
Eric Beetner is the co-author of One Too Many Blows To The Head. His short fiction has appeared in Thuglit, A Twist of Noir, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Crooked, Flash Fiction Offensive, Pulp Pusher. Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn. More info and links to stories can be found at ericbeetner.blogspot.com
'Til Death by Shannon Schuren
The foot washed up just down the beach from the hotel where we’d planned to spend our wedding night. If I squinted, I imagined I could still make out the trail where I’d dragged my beaded satin train through the saltwater and sand, screaming his name.
“Is it his?” the cop asked.
I nodded, baring my own ankle to show off its twin A week of submersion had distorted the image, though I could still make out the stem of the rose, the blood red now faded to a hazy purple, the words ‘til death’ blurred into one amorphous blob.
“I did them myself. They were meant to be his wedding gift.”
But then John had disappeared before the service.
Along with my bridesmaid.
“That’s unfortunate.” His voice was hard and cold, like the metallic bite of the handcuffs. “Because according to the coroner, the tattoo was done post-mortem.”
---
Shannon Schuren lives in Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin with her husband and three children. She works at a child-care center and finds writing both emotionally rewarding and a great way to avoid murdering her relatives. Her short stories have appeared in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal and Mysteryauthors.com, and will appear in upcoming issues of Big Pulp and the Ultra-Short edition of The Binnacle.
“Is it his?” the cop asked.
I nodded, baring my own ankle to show off its twin A week of submersion had distorted the image, though I could still make out the stem of the rose, the blood red now faded to a hazy purple, the words ‘til death’ blurred into one amorphous blob.
“I did them myself. They were meant to be his wedding gift.”
But then John had disappeared before the service.
Along with my bridesmaid.
“That’s unfortunate.” His voice was hard and cold, like the metallic bite of the handcuffs. “Because according to the coroner, the tattoo was done post-mortem.”
---
Shannon Schuren lives in Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin with her husband and three children. She works at a child-care center and finds writing both emotionally rewarding and a great way to avoid murdering her relatives. Her short stories have appeared in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal and Mysteryauthors.com, and will appear in upcoming issues of Big Pulp and the Ultra-Short edition of The Binnacle.
Soliloquy and Whatnot by C. Rohrbacher
I tell you what, he intoned in his nasally accent acquired from too many broken noses, there is no way, I mean, I like those fellas just fine. Just fine. Both of ‘em stand up guys as far as I’m concerned, but I tell you, they don’t have a cup of sense to sip on. Neither one of ‘em. You hearing me? Look, look, I’m telling you they’re like cats who wander into a kennel of Rots and have no damn idea they’re about to get their heads ripped off even when the dogs are slobbering mad with fangs and muscle and whatnot.
I don’t know where he picked up that word, whatnot, but he used it so often I was about crazy. I told him if he ever said it in my company again I’d bust his lip. Of course, he quickly figured out to say it only at times I couldn’t respond, like right now while eating my Swedish meatballs at my favorite restaurant. Reece was an ass that way.
It was about that moment I saw his right eye explode out of his head, spattering my meatballs with a tsunami of blood and gray matter. Reece’s mouth hung open, like a man in some soliloquy (I learned that word from my ex who used it just to remind me what a messed up idea I had thinking I could ever be with a girl like her) and suddenly forgot what he was going to say. I suppose he did forget what he was going to say since, I would guess, a bullet ripping through your skull-bone would generally have that affect. But I swear he was going to finish his thought before falling forward into his plate, snapping his nose into two places once more.
I imagine the coroner opening him up, recreating the timeline, the 44 bullet travelling at this angle telling us the shooter was yeh tall and how the bullet ricocheted off his skull just enough to save his friend’s life.
But I couldn’t imagine anything at the moment. I was too busy saying, what the fuck?
I sat there like a cat in front of a Rot watching everyone dive under tables, pulling their beautiful pasta dishes on top of their heads. I watched the bartender disappear behind the oak bar. I saw people scurrying into the back hall and I saw the boy holding the too big gun in his shaking hand. He looked oddly familiar but I couldn’t place where. Sweat fell from his forehead. His brown eyes had a look that reminded me of something very serious, but everyone laughed anyway. His red flannel shirt hung loosely off his slight frame. He sported a thick head of brown hair, jeans, and the way he was shaking this was the first time he ever took a human life.
What the hell did Reece do to make this kid want to make him a pirate in the afterlife?
So I sat there looking at the kid, and the kid stared at me, and then he turned and ran out. I was pissed. Reece always left me in these kinds of situations. Now I’d have to talk to the cops. I’d have to deal with their questions and sidelong glances. I’d have to hope it was McClain first on the scene and not that hardass, Nevin.
I’d have to order some more damn meatballs and whatnot.
----
Author Bio: I read a lot and write, in that order. I do this in Greensboro, NC. I've published stuff and whatnot.
http://crohrbacher.synthasite.com/
I don’t know where he picked up that word, whatnot, but he used it so often I was about crazy. I told him if he ever said it in my company again I’d bust his lip. Of course, he quickly figured out to say it only at times I couldn’t respond, like right now while eating my Swedish meatballs at my favorite restaurant. Reece was an ass that way.
It was about that moment I saw his right eye explode out of his head, spattering my meatballs with a tsunami of blood and gray matter. Reece’s mouth hung open, like a man in some soliloquy (I learned that word from my ex who used it just to remind me what a messed up idea I had thinking I could ever be with a girl like her) and suddenly forgot what he was going to say. I suppose he did forget what he was going to say since, I would guess, a bullet ripping through your skull-bone would generally have that affect. But I swear he was going to finish his thought before falling forward into his plate, snapping his nose into two places once more.
I imagine the coroner opening him up, recreating the timeline, the 44 bullet travelling at this angle telling us the shooter was yeh tall and how the bullet ricocheted off his skull just enough to save his friend’s life.
But I couldn’t imagine anything at the moment. I was too busy saying, what the fuck?
I sat there like a cat in front of a Rot watching everyone dive under tables, pulling their beautiful pasta dishes on top of their heads. I watched the bartender disappear behind the oak bar. I saw people scurrying into the back hall and I saw the boy holding the too big gun in his shaking hand. He looked oddly familiar but I couldn’t place where. Sweat fell from his forehead. His brown eyes had a look that reminded me of something very serious, but everyone laughed anyway. His red flannel shirt hung loosely off his slight frame. He sported a thick head of brown hair, jeans, and the way he was shaking this was the first time he ever took a human life.
What the hell did Reece do to make this kid want to make him a pirate in the afterlife?
So I sat there looking at the kid, and the kid stared at me, and then he turned and ran out. I was pissed. Reece always left me in these kinds of situations. Now I’d have to talk to the cops. I’d have to deal with their questions and sidelong glances. I’d have to hope it was McClain first on the scene and not that hardass, Nevin.
I’d have to order some more damn meatballs and whatnot.
----
Author Bio: I read a lot and write, in that order. I do this in Greensboro, NC. I've published stuff and whatnot.
http://crohrbacher.synthasite.com/
Shit Jesus by CK Black
I decided to nail Wideman up to the shelves of his bookcase.
I'd snuck up on him while he was stroking his pud to a video on his computer of some 18-year-old redhead getting airlocked by three well-hung black guys.
The fucker was wide-eyed oblivious, his three chins resting on his chest, shit-stained boxer shorts bunched around his ankles, his body convulsing with big asthmatic breaths.
He went down with one punch to the back of his skull, right where the spine met up with bone.
Looking at the fat bastard, I could understand why old Chrissy wanted the dude gone. Of course, she wasn't no prize pig herself, but she could do a hell of a lot better than this guy.
She told me she wanted him disappeared, but I wasn't no big fan of the cunt either and there wasn't no way I was gonna haul this tub of guts out of their shitty little place for the five hundred bucks she paid me; so I figured I'd leave her a nice little present.
Well, not little...
My going rate was a lot more than the five hundred Chrissy had given me. That was part of the reason I didn't haul Wideman out. When we first met, I told her that I wouldn't do it for anything less than two grand. She kept trying to negotiate me downward while she was going down on me.
With my cock in her throat and her hands squeezing my balls, I decided that I wasn't going to get any more out of her. I took the five hundred and blew my wad down her throat. That was the first and last time I was doing that or her.
I had about five minutes to work before the corpse shit itself.
Wideman had stunk while he was alive and smelled twice as bad now that he was dead. Once he evacuated his bowels, this place was going to be considered a biohazard area worthy of containment and condemnation. They'd probably have to burn the fucking place to the ground.
I found some nails and a hammer in the garage, did the best I could to prop Wideman's wide frame up against the bookcase and started pounding the ten pennies through his palms and into the wood.
I finished up just as a lifetime's worth of shit came pouring out the asshole's asshole. Have fun with your Shit Jesus, Chrissy, I thought, as I shut the front door and inhaled the outside air.
Smog never smelled so good.
---
BIO: CK Black is a former contract killer (what Hollywood refers to as a hitman), having worked various jobs around the world in the last twenty-five years. A lot of what finds its way into his fiction comes from personal experience.
I'd snuck up on him while he was stroking his pud to a video on his computer of some 18-year-old redhead getting airlocked by three well-hung black guys.
The fucker was wide-eyed oblivious, his three chins resting on his chest, shit-stained boxer shorts bunched around his ankles, his body convulsing with big asthmatic breaths.
He went down with one punch to the back of his skull, right where the spine met up with bone.
Looking at the fat bastard, I could understand why old Chrissy wanted the dude gone. Of course, she wasn't no prize pig herself, but she could do a hell of a lot better than this guy.
She told me she wanted him disappeared, but I wasn't no big fan of the cunt either and there wasn't no way I was gonna haul this tub of guts out of their shitty little place for the five hundred bucks she paid me; so I figured I'd leave her a nice little present.
Well, not little...
My going rate was a lot more than the five hundred Chrissy had given me. That was part of the reason I didn't haul Wideman out. When we first met, I told her that I wouldn't do it for anything less than two grand. She kept trying to negotiate me downward while she was going down on me.
With my cock in her throat and her hands squeezing my balls, I decided that I wasn't going to get any more out of her. I took the five hundred and blew my wad down her throat. That was the first and last time I was doing that or her.
I had about five minutes to work before the corpse shit itself.
Wideman had stunk while he was alive and smelled twice as bad now that he was dead. Once he evacuated his bowels, this place was going to be considered a biohazard area worthy of containment and condemnation. They'd probably have to burn the fucking place to the ground.
I found some nails and a hammer in the garage, did the best I could to prop Wideman's wide frame up against the bookcase and started pounding the ten pennies through his palms and into the wood.
I finished up just as a lifetime's worth of shit came pouring out the asshole's asshole. Have fun with your Shit Jesus, Chrissy, I thought, as I shut the front door and inhaled the outside air.
Smog never smelled so good.
---
BIO: CK Black is a former contract killer (what Hollywood refers to as a hitman), having worked various jobs around the world in the last twenty-five years. A lot of what finds its way into his fiction comes from personal experience.
Timmy Says Post This on a Website
by Timmy Johnson, c/o Benjamin Sobieck
Oct. 21, 2009
Maynard McAllister
#655321
Wisconsin State Prison
451994 Bleach Drive
Nevets Points, WI 54881
Timmy Johnson
2201967 Red Oak Wood Road
East Bethel, MN 55011
2201967 Red Oak Wood Road
East Bethel, MN 55011
Dear Timmy,
1) Firstly, I’ll cut to the chase and answer some questions from the letter you sent me last week. Just like the TV man said, I don’t regret killing my neighbor and, yes, I would do it again if I had the chance to go back in time.
2) Secondly, as a suggestion for the next time you write, don’t send magazines. The guards will confiscate them unless they’re sent from the publisher, although I appreciate you offering your dad’s Playboy.
3) Thirdly, thank you very much for brightening up my day, Timmy. They’ve got me all on my lonesome in here. To be honest, I’m surprised a kid your age has taken an interest in me and what I represent. Too many youths today are listening to overprocessed payola crap. They don’t appreciate music.
Not the way you and me do, Timmy. Not like the family of my supposed “victim.” And that thin-dicked prosecutor. And all those media people. And those parent groups.
You mentioned you skipped school April 5. That’s good. I Hope You Smoked Some Cigarettes Or Pot For Kurt. Like You And Me Know, That’s When Kurt Cobain Sacrificed Himself. The date of
His death should always be kept holy.
Do you know what they did to unholy people during the Inquisition? They inserted pyramids the size of chicken coops up the assholes of the blasphemous until their insides ruptured and they bled to death.
But that would never happen to you and me. We’re holy people. True Nirvana fans! We can trust each other. So I’ll tell you about me, then you write back and tell me about you.
Here goes:
Go back to 1994. Kurt Cobain, He Was A Genius, But The Masses Only Liked Him Because He Was Popular. They bopped their heads to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” because the radio told them it was hip. They had no real faith in the music. That’s blasphemy, and that’s unholy.
They didn’t recognize what only I did. It was 1) the alienation, 2) the narcotics and 3) the grungy noir – the feeling of inevitable doom – that had fueled the engine of Nirvana’s music. You can’t fake those feelings, Timmy. Something that isn’t fake must be the truth, and the truth is holy. Nirvana is holy. In order to be on that level as a true fan, I had to be holy, too.
But I was stuck at being only 2/3 holy. I was 1) alienated and 2) using narcotics. I had no sense of a 3). That noir. That inevitable doom.
Everything changed April 5, 1994. Killing Himself Was Kurt’s Inevitable Doom. As a true fan, I realized I had to take a life, too. But I had a problem. I couldn’t decide whose to take!
Sure, I Could Kill Myself Like Kurt. But I’m no good with guns. So what else could I do?
Well…The neighbor guy had once asked me to turn down Nirvana. The prick actually came into my garage to chew me out about the volume of the music.
That was it! It was the perfect 3).
You should’ve seen my neighbor’s face, Timmy, when I did it. Actually, ask Dave Grohl, Nirvana’s drummer, since that’s who I sent the Polaroid.
I just don’t understand what Dave didn’t like about my photo. He should’ve been honored. He didn’t need to call the cops. I don’t know, maybe I was too messy.
After I tied my neighbor up, I tilted a CD of Nirvana’s “In Utero” so it made a pointy pyramid. Then I put it in his utero. Just like the Inquisition! And wouldn’t you know it, it worked as well in 1994 as it did in the 13th Century.
It made me a true fan. I got 1), 2) and 3). Let me tell you, there is no other feeling like achieving the ultimate in Nirvana fandom. It’s like listening to “Rape Me” at 120 decibels. Only the music is coming from inside me and out my hands. It’s beautiful beyond words.
You know exactly what I’m talking about. From your letter, Timmy, it sounds like you found your 3), too. That’s terrific! I like how you drew inspiration for your 3) from the song “Heart-Shaped Box.” Very artistic. Just be sure to keep everything intact before you put it in the box and mold it into the heart shape and take the photos. You wouldn’t want to rupture anything and ruin your mom’s carpet. Not that she would care anymore!
The last question you asked in your letter was how to make the world know about your 3). You probably don’t have Dave Grohl’s address to send photos.
Here’s my advice: Demand a website or blog publish this very letter you are reading. If they don’t, tell them you’ll have no choice but to kill again. A blog or website dealing with crime would be especially appropriate. That would get the world’s attention for sure.
Heck, it worked for the Zodiac killer!
Remember, Timmy, it’s better to burn out than to fade away. So make it count.
Peace, Love and Empathy,
Maynard McAllister
#655321
#655321
P.S. Be sure to write me with the URL of the website or blog this letter ends up on.
---
Author bio: Benjamin Sobieck’s favorite Nirvana song is “Heart-Shaped Box.” This is his second appearance on Flash Fiction Offensive. His first was “Purgatory at the Pump ‘n’ Loaf.” He is working on finding a home for a crime novel. His online crime writing home is http://crimespace.ning.com/profile/BenjaminSobieck, although he also lives in Stevens Point, Wis.
Meet me Tonight by Jimmy Calabrese
I can't believe I'm about to go through with this. I knock on the flimsy trailer door, and the trailer shifts slightly as someone responds. I hear the click of the lock, and a dark-haired woman in a silk mini robe appears in the doorway. She's too beautiful for a place like this, I bet she probably owns the trailer for such occasions.
"Are you Party2Night?" The woman asks holding open the door.
"Yes I am. I presume you are LonelyHRT?" I hold out my hand, but she moves aside to usher me in. I step inside and swallow hard trying to remove my heart from my throat. The smell of incense is overwhelming, and I take inventory of the dripping candles, Oriental scarves draped over the windows, and the king-sized bed that dominates the floor.
"I must be honest with you," I say trying to sound calm. "I've never done anything like this before."
"And you think I have?"
"No, no, I didn't mean that. I just mean I'm really nervous, and I'm afraid I won't give you your moneys worth."
"Your internet profile stated otherwise."
"Well... actually, I am an experienced lover. It's these types of situations. I'm not used to."
"Then, how about a drink to relax?"
"Sounds great." I turn and crawl onto the bed. The satin sheets feel cool to the touch, I can tell they are new by the creases in the fabric. I pull my shirt off and study the woman's figure as she pours me a drink: fake titts, perfect ass, and no wedding band.
My friend Giovanni convinced me to try escorting when he showed me a perk of the trade -- his new BMW. He described the women he serviced as, "Out of shape housewives, whose husbands are more turned on by work than their marriage." I smile uncontrollably as she removes her robe, I won't be needing the emergency Viagra.
She hands me the drink and I take a sip. It numbs my tongue and warms by throat as it goes down. Delicious. I raise the glass in approval and quickly drink the rest.
"You don't watch the news, do you?" She says rubbing my chest.
"Nah, it's too depressing."
"Then, you don't know about the missing prostitutes on Van Buren?"
"Oh that? Sure, I've read the headlines, but nothing for me to worry about, they were all women."
"Actually, some of them were women, but a few were transvestites."
"A few what?" I hear my words slur as the room starts to spin, I lie back on the bed unable to keep my eyes from closing.
I wake up on my back with straps around my wrists and forehead. The smell of damp earth fills the room. I think I'm in a cellar. I wait for my eyes to adjust, but it stays dark. I pull against the restraints and notice I can't feel my legs. I can't feel any sensation below my waste! I started to panic, thrashing back and forth on the cold table until I lay limp from exhaustion.
Holding a candle she walks out of the darkness.
"I'm glad you didn't lie about your physical attributes on your internet profile." She lights more candles in the room. "You'll make a pleasant addition to my collection." She moves out of my view, down toward my feet.
She walks back with a large mason jar filled with fluid and what looks like an eel.
"Rasputin's got nothing on you honey." She places the jar next to my face. Floating in the pale-green water is the shrivelled piece of meat that got me in this mess in the first place.
----
Jimmy Calabrese is a singer, songwriter and bass player for the internally> acclaimed cult horror rock band Calabrese. His stories have appeared in the> Toe Tags Horror Anthology, Microhorror, Flashes In The Dark, Thrillers,> Killers 'n' Chillers, when inspiration strikes the Official> Calabrese Blog - [LINK: http://calabrese666.blogspot.com/]> http://calabrese666.blogspot.com/ . Check out all things Calabrese at> [LINK: http://www.calabreserock.com/] www.CalabreseRock.com
"Are you Party2Night?" The woman asks holding open the door.
"Yes I am. I presume you are LonelyHRT?" I hold out my hand, but she moves aside to usher me in. I step inside and swallow hard trying to remove my heart from my throat. The smell of incense is overwhelming, and I take inventory of the dripping candles, Oriental scarves draped over the windows, and the king-sized bed that dominates the floor.
"I must be honest with you," I say trying to sound calm. "I've never done anything like this before."
"And you think I have?"
"No, no, I didn't mean that. I just mean I'm really nervous, and I'm afraid I won't give you your moneys worth."
"Your internet profile stated otherwise."
"Well... actually, I am an experienced lover. It's these types of situations. I'm not used to."
"Then, how about a drink to relax?"
"Sounds great." I turn and crawl onto the bed. The satin sheets feel cool to the touch, I can tell they are new by the creases in the fabric. I pull my shirt off and study the woman's figure as she pours me a drink: fake titts, perfect ass, and no wedding band.
My friend Giovanni convinced me to try escorting when he showed me a perk of the trade -- his new BMW. He described the women he serviced as, "Out of shape housewives, whose husbands are more turned on by work than their marriage." I smile uncontrollably as she removes her robe, I won't be needing the emergency Viagra.
She hands me the drink and I take a sip. It numbs my tongue and warms by throat as it goes down. Delicious. I raise the glass in approval and quickly drink the rest.
"You don't watch the news, do you?" She says rubbing my chest.
"Nah, it's too depressing."
"Then, you don't know about the missing prostitutes on Van Buren?"
"Oh that? Sure, I've read the headlines, but nothing for me to worry about, they were all women."
"Actually, some of them were women, but a few were transvestites."
"A few what?" I hear my words slur as the room starts to spin, I lie back on the bed unable to keep my eyes from closing.
I wake up on my back with straps around my wrists and forehead. The smell of damp earth fills the room. I think I'm in a cellar. I wait for my eyes to adjust, but it stays dark. I pull against the restraints and notice I can't feel my legs. I can't feel any sensation below my waste! I started to panic, thrashing back and forth on the cold table until I lay limp from exhaustion.
Holding a candle she walks out of the darkness.
"I'm glad you didn't lie about your physical attributes on your internet profile." She lights more candles in the room. "You'll make a pleasant addition to my collection." She moves out of my view, down toward my feet.
She walks back with a large mason jar filled with fluid and what looks like an eel.
"Rasputin's got nothing on you honey." She places the jar next to my face. Floating in the pale-green water is the shrivelled piece of meat that got me in this mess in the first place.
----
Jimmy Calabrese is a singer, songwriter and bass player for the internally> acclaimed cult horror rock band Calabrese. His stories have appeared in the> Toe Tags Horror Anthology, Microhorror, Flashes In The Dark, Thrillers,> Killers 'n' Chillers, when inspiration strikes the Official> Calabrese Blog - [LINK: http://calabrese666.blogspot.com/]> http://calabrese666.blogspot.com/ . Check out all things Calabrese at> [LINK: http://www.calabreserock.com/] www.CalabreseRock.com
Backlog
Greetings, everyone!
I do apologize for the lack of stories the past while. I'm out of town and unable to really do much on these hotel computers. I also got a backlog of stories that I'm looking forward to sifting through. So if you haven't had a response from me on your submission, please be patient.
A shitload of new stories should appear this weekend. Promise.
I do apologize for the lack of stories the past while. I'm out of town and unable to really do much on these hotel computers. I also got a backlog of stories that I'm looking forward to sifting through. So if you haven't had a response from me on your submission, please be patient.
A shitload of new stories should appear this weekend. Promise.
The Deal by Steve Prusky
Vegas had him strung up good and tight. There were the traffic violations and consequent fines he didn’t pay. Each ticket went to warrant every court appearance he skipped. He tended bar swing shift on Fremont Street at a local’s hole in this last chance part of town dotted with similar grave yards for the lost. He was a two-time felon. He kept an illegal piece; a Charter Arms snub nose 38. He dealt stepped on coke from behind the bar, doled free drinks to slot players, his friends and anyone who tipped big. He dipped in the till when he could. A third conviction would qualify him as an habitual criminal; the “Big Bitch” in street jargon--twenty years to life. He vowed on his life he would do no more time. His live in girlfriend was a shackle gripping at his throat; snorting up his half of the rent at will. He disliked her more than he liked her, but it was more convenient to stay than leave. They shared an education earned in the shadows of a darker Vegas no visitors see. Years on Fremont Street earned them their honorary “Street Degree”: an envied sheepskin few with both feet on the curb survived long enough to attain. There were no other bonds between them--besides coke and sex and a mutual inability to love.
She ran Keno at an off-Strip casino only desparate locals played. She cheated at slots too; more for the entertainment value than a risky way to get ahead. We called it “slugging” back then, before video machines converted to debit cards and cash. She’d mold dies in clay from silver dollars and casino tokens, then caste slugs from lead weights used to balance wheels at the tire stores. That kind of coin’s success depends on its weight. If it’s too heavy or too light it trips the machine to shut down. Most times an honest coin would just jam the slot. When that occurred an attendant came, opened the top and freed it up. As amends he’d grant the gambler an on-the-house hand to play. Dollar machines paid off best. When played full up, five coins max, those glorious machines at times spit out magic; four-thousand dollars per Royal Flush. That kind of money was fun to have until it ran out. He let her slug on his shifts. When she jammed she ran, then he’d call an attendant once she was gone. When she won they’d split the winnings 60/40 (40 to him), and they’d run for days on coke, Jack Daniels, no sleep, no food, ‘til the money ran out. Money spends fast in Vegas.
Two days awake, coked-up, loaded on Jack, she hovered over a bar top dollar game in another cemetery for the living dead a bit further west up Fremont Street. Her slot jammed up pretty quick. She moved to the next machine and called for the attendant to free her first machine up as if daring fate to act before its time. He opened the machine, fixed the jam, closed the top and brought a slug to the bartender. “She’s slugging” he said in a proud “ I got her” type voice. “I counted ten more on top in the hopper. I’m calling Gaming Control. Keep her here.” The bartender comped her a Jack and Coke and joked with her some until Gaming came and pulled her aside. The attendant opened both machines, picked out the slugs and handed the agent the evidence. She was cuffed and caged before the full moon set.
The judge freed her by noon next day--case dismissed. She took a quick, easy deal--him for her. The D.A. wanted bigger bait to nibble on compared to what little soul she had left to free. That evening, guns drawn, Metro raided his shift. Before they got to him and the coke he stuck the 38 under his chin and fired. I suppose an eternity dead was better than twenty years to life--at least to him. Never short of coke, she quit slugging for a while; lost her Keno job; still gambled some. She’d lay down when she had to.
---
Steve Prusky lives, works and writes in Las Vegas. He transplanted to Vegas from Detroit 23 years ago and never looked back. He was in the Navy during the Vietnam War. Before that he attended Northern Michigan University (where he learned how to drink) and after Vietnam, he attended the University of Wisconsin--Milwaukee where he learned to love literature. Steve Prusky's poetry and prose have appeared in Lake Superior Review, Cornerstone, Caliope's Corner, Kindred Spirit, Foundling Review and he recently won "The Bukowski" contest for fiction in The Legendary, which will appear later this month.
http://pysih.com/backgroundchecks/>
She ran Keno at an off-Strip casino only desparate locals played. She cheated at slots too; more for the entertainment value than a risky way to get ahead. We called it “slugging” back then, before video machines converted to debit cards and cash. She’d mold dies in clay from silver dollars and casino tokens, then caste slugs from lead weights used to balance wheels at the tire stores. That kind of coin’s success depends on its weight. If it’s too heavy or too light it trips the machine to shut down. Most times an honest coin would just jam the slot. When that occurred an attendant came, opened the top and freed it up. As amends he’d grant the gambler an on-the-house hand to play. Dollar machines paid off best. When played full up, five coins max, those glorious machines at times spit out magic; four-thousand dollars per Royal Flush. That kind of money was fun to have until it ran out. He let her slug on his shifts. When she jammed she ran, then he’d call an attendant once she was gone. When she won they’d split the winnings 60/40 (40 to him), and they’d run for days on coke, Jack Daniels, no sleep, no food, ‘til the money ran out. Money spends fast in Vegas.
Two days awake, coked-up, loaded on Jack, she hovered over a bar top dollar game in another cemetery for the living dead a bit further west up Fremont Street. Her slot jammed up pretty quick. She moved to the next machine and called for the attendant to free her first machine up as if daring fate to act before its time. He opened the machine, fixed the jam, closed the top and brought a slug to the bartender. “She’s slugging” he said in a proud “ I got her” type voice. “I counted ten more on top in the hopper. I’m calling Gaming Control. Keep her here.” The bartender comped her a Jack and Coke and joked with her some until Gaming came and pulled her aside. The attendant opened both machines, picked out the slugs and handed the agent the evidence. She was cuffed and caged before the full moon set.
The judge freed her by noon next day--case dismissed. She took a quick, easy deal--him for her. The D.A. wanted bigger bait to nibble on compared to what little soul she had left to free. That evening, guns drawn, Metro raided his shift. Before they got to him and the coke he stuck the 38 under his chin and fired. I suppose an eternity dead was better than twenty years to life--at least to him. Never short of coke, she quit slugging for a while; lost her Keno job; still gambled some. She’d lay down when she had to.
---
Steve Prusky lives, works and writes in Las Vegas. He transplanted to Vegas from Detroit 23 years ago and never looked back. He was in the Navy during the Vietnam War. Before that he attended Northern Michigan University (where he learned how to drink) and after Vietnam, he attended the University of Wisconsin--Milwaukee where he learned to love literature. Steve Prusky's poetry and prose have appeared in Lake Superior Review, Cornerstone, Caliope's Corner, Kindred Spirit, Foundling Review and he recently won "The Bukowski" contest for fiction in The Legendary, which will appear later this month.
http://pysih.com/backgroundchecks/>
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