On a High Wire by Rob Kitchin.

Paul Thackeray scanned down the list of horses, circled ‘Dark Sun’, and closed the newspaper.  He drained his dishwater coffee, placed a ten euro note on the table, and exited the cafe.  With matted hair and dressed in a grubby white shirt, blue jogging pants and brown shoes, he appeared more like the people he supplied than the drug lord of the west side of the city. 

He shuffled along the pavement and entered a betting shop.  There were just three punters in the grubby room, none of whom broke their gaze at a widescreen television to acknowledge his entrance.  Thackeray approached the middle-aged woman behind the counter. 

‘Fifty on Dark Sun, Susie. I want odds of 10-1.’

‘Dark Sun is the 4-5 favourite,’ she said, taking the note.

‘Just do 10-1,’ a male voice called out from an office behind her.

The woman shrugged and handed over the ticket.

‘How you doing, Tom?’ Thackeray said.

‘I’ve been better,’ the man replied without appearing.

‘And your daughter?’

‘In rehab.’

‘She still owes me whether she gets clean or not. I’ll send Johnny round later to collect.’

Johnny Croft was a man mountain with iron fists, an ability to follow orders, and a liking for dispensing pain.  Nobody wanted a visit from Johnny, and with the big man watching his back, Thackeray was given free license to run his drugs empire.

‘There’s no need,’ Tom replied.  ‘I’ll deliver it.’

‘It’s no bother, Johnny could do with the exercise.’  Thackeray pulled a sly smile for the surveillance camera, before turning to leave the shop.  As he neared the door it opened, three men entering.  The first two in moved towards the three punters.

‘Going somewhere, Paul?’ Jimmy Kiley asked, blocking the exit.  Kiley had recently risen to prominence in the north of the city, where he’d been building a reputation as a ruthless criminal.

‘What do you want, Jimmy?’

‘Okay, everyone out,’ Jimmy ordered, ignoring Thackeray.  ‘Anyone calls the guards and they’re a dead man walking. That includes you, Reader’s Wife,’ he said, looking at Susie. 

‘What about the ...’ a man in his fifties pointed at a race being shown on the screen.

The nearest of Kiley’s men grabbed the man by the neck, slammed his head against the wall, and pushed him towards the door. 

Once everyone had exited, Kiley ordered one of his men: ‘Lock the door and put that in the DVD player.’  He handed the man a disk.  ‘I thought we could maybe watch a movie together,’ he said to Thackeray.

‘Take one of your monkeys. I’m sure they’re already used to sucking your cock on the back row.’

‘Touché,’ Kiley said, his voice even.  ‘Have you ever wondered what’s it like to fly, Paul?’

‘I know what it’s like. Now what the fuck is this about?’

‘We’re taking over your business.’

Thackeray laughed.  ‘I don’t think so, Jimmy. What you’re doing is making a fucking big mistake.’

The screen changed to an image of a tall crane against a midnight blue sky.  The shot zoomed upward to reveal a man hanging from the hook.

‘That’s Dave Makin. Took part in an armed robbery only he didn’t want to tell us where the money was hidden. We decided he needed some flying lessons.’

The camera zoomed back and the winged man plummeted, his arms flapping ineffectively.  The cable jerked to a halt just a few feet from the ground, snapping the man back violently.  The shot moved towards him, his face ashen, his eyes wide with fright and shock. 

‘Where’s the money, Dave?’

‘I don’t know. Honest, Jimmy, I don’t.’

A hand appeared in front of the lens, moving in a circling gesture.  The man started to be hauled back into the night sky.

‘Fast forward it,’ Jimmy ordered. 

The winged man rose swiftly and somewhat comically. 

‘Okay, normal speed.’

The man plunged again, his scream rising in volume, dying as he snapped to a halt. 

‘He’s not doing very well, is he?’ Kiley said.

Thackeray feigned indifference.

‘Fast forward.’ 

In quick succession the man was raised and dropped twice more. 

'Normal speed,' Kiley demanded as the man reached the top again.  ‘It’s amazing how learning to fly loosens a person’s tongue. You’ll enjoy this, Paul.’

The hook connecting the man to the cable opened.  He plummeted and slammed into the hard packed mud with a sickening thump.

‘The problem with flying is it’s over so quickly,’ Kiley said.  ‘Probably not like being buried alive. Have you ever wondered about that, Paul? What it’s like to be buried alive?’

‘Don’t make empty threats, Jimmy. I’m not some nobody like ... who did you say he was?’

‘Dave Makin. And I’m not making an empty threat. Do you know what happened to Tommy Logan?’ Jimmy said, referring to a crime boss from Kiley’s neighbourhood who’d disappeared a month previously.

Thackeray stared back stony faced. 

‘He tried to play King Canute only he couldn’t stop the tide crashing over his head. Do you want to watch the movie?’

’Have you any idea what’ll happen to you if so much as one hair on my head is disturbed?’

‘Yeah, fuck all,’ Kiley said, placing his hand on Thackeray’s scalp, ruffling his greasy mop. 

‘Johnny Croft will pull you apart limb by limb,’ Thackeray said, grabbing Kiley’s wrist and pushing his arm away.

‘Johnny Croft will do what the fuck he’s told if he’s got any sense. This is regime change. The old guard can swear allegiance to the new king or they can star in one of my little movies.’

‘Go fuck yourself. I’m leaving now. Don’t even think of coming back here unless you want to leave in a wooden box.’  He took a step towards the door.

Kiley shot out his left arm blocking his path.  He pointed a handgun at Thackeray’s head with his right. ‘You’ve got some balls, Paul, I’ll give you that. It’ll be interesting to see how you cope in a confined space with six feet of soil above you.’

For the first time, Thackeray’s confidence started to slip.  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘Deadly.’

‘I’m sure we could come to some kind of agreement.’

‘I don’t think so. You’re time is up, Paul. I thought we could make a little movie about it. You’ll be the star.' 

‘Fuck you!’

‘It’s not that kind of movie, Paul. We’re aiming more for an underground drama.’

Rob Kitchin runs a research institute in Ireland and spends his spare time reading or writing crime fiction. He blogs at http://theviewfromthebluehouse.blogspot.com/ where he publishes reviews and a weekly drabble (a story of exactly 100 words).

A Typical, Loving Relationship by Ryan Sayles.

She made the decision to kill him four years ago when the physical violence began, but she acted on that decision four minutes ago when he told her he was leaving her.

She stood over his corpse, five smoking bullet holes stared up at her, accusing. One round for every card she’d received while being treated in the ER for her broken jaw, the broken arm. The small fracture to her eye socket when she ducked and took the left hook on the forehead instead of the mouth like a good girl. Each visit, a concerned nurse trying to broach the subject, there are places you can go and other women have survived this. Handing her business cards for shelters, places that only take battered women and children. Places no man could find her. Five cards, all thrown away.

“Thanks,” she’d say through fat lips and loose teeth, “but this really isn’t what it looks like.”

They dated six years. The first two were a fantasy. Flowers, special visits to work – back when he allowed her to have a job – and talk of the future. Then her dad died. And when he was buried, so were her adoring boyfriend’s inhibitions for his possessiveness. His rage. No daddy around to protect her. She was all his. A trinket. Accoutrement.

After that, his drop-in visits became less of a sweet surprise and more of an attempt to catch her fucking her co-workers right there on her desk. He would roar and go on tirades about he knew, he just knew she was doing something. Then he forbade work. Made her quit. No two weeks notice. Nothing. There one day and gone the next. As abrupt as a massive stroke. She was his girl; he’d support her. She moved in because he said to. She shacked up with him and he gave her an allowance. Sometimes. When she was a good girl.

She’d roll away at night and sob quietly. Not every night, but a decent amount. She would thank him when he allowed her to wear make-up. His birthday and their anniversary. Special occasions.

Sometimes he’d watch her go to the bathroom. Looming like low-grade nausea.

Standing over him she screamed, “You know what it’s like having diarrhea in front of some asshole who is constantly demanding to know if I’m faking the discomfort so I can make phone calls in secret? Do you? DO YOU!”

Standing over him she sobbed and still pointed the gun, shouting, “My mom stopped calling her own daughter because you’d answer the phone and tell her I didn’t want to speak with her! The lies you told her! All those things I never wanted to say and you made me!”

Holding the same gun in her hand right now that he had the night he barged in on her in the shower, yanking back the curtain and stuffing it into her temple until her head slammed against the wall. He ordered her to admit she knew he was allergic to cumin and why would she cook chilli with cumin in it. Was she trying to kill him? Was she trying to get him out of the way so she could run off with somebody else?

He always accused her of being a whore, and here he was, cheating. Sure, he’d been gone at nights for the past few months, but he’d come home drunk and she always figured that was the cause. That and not the fact he was railing some other broad.

She created fantasies for herself where he’d come home so trashed he’d miss one of the concrete porch steps and fall forward, chopping his forehead into the edge of the last step. Sometimes he died in that dream and she was free. Those thoughts scared her. The freedom was more suffocating than the tyranny. Other times he was just a vegetable and she could care for him because she loved him dearly but now she wasn’t afraid of another ass-beating. Still other times he was just cut and he was so moved by how loving and tender she was that he changed. A deep, true, soul-redefining change. Changed out of gratitude.

But today he came home at the regular time and gave her five twenties – twice the money he issued out for groceries. He smirked and said, “Take your punched-out and haggard pussy and hit the road.”

“Make room,” he said as he walked past her. “I got somebody better, somebody who will treat me the way I deserve to be treated.”

“But I can do that,” she mumbled, and her entire world shattered. He was horrible, but he was everything. And he was actually giving her money and telling her to hit the bricks. “I can do that.”

Over his shoulder, in the kitchen rooting for a beer, he blurted out, “She’ll be here at three so you need to shag ass. I want you gone so she won’t see you and think I was slumming before her.”

The gun was under his pillow. He always told her he kept it close. He gave some stupid threat as a reason but it got lost in the well all those other threats fell down into.

It was an out-of-body experience. All she knew was that her left hand was holding the healed-over broken jaw which would ache in cold weather and her right hand had the gun in it. She thought it did anyways; the tears were distorting everything she saw.

The first boom was scary. The second, liberating. The third, deserved and the fourth made her hungry for more. He was on the ground, facing to the ceiling as every thread of his soul was exiting up and into the sky. Before the last thread was gone, while it was still in the room where it could see, she made that fifth boom and blew his face wide open.

“I promise I can treat you that way,” she said, feeling free enough to run away, far off into the horizon. But instead she sat down in the now-devastated home they made and filled with their particular brand of love.

She sat down and knew she'd pissed away her good years on him and his clenched teeth and his jealousy.

She laughed like broken glass and thought maybe it would be better if she cried. No tears would come. Instead, she just waited until three o'clock.

Ryan Sayles is Midwestern and prior military. He has been previously published on sites such as Shotgun Honey, Nefarious Muse, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes in the Dark and has an upcoming story in Yellow Mama. Under the pen name Derek Kelly he has been published in Beat to a Pulp and Crime Factory. He was included in print anthologies with SNM Horror Magainzine’s Bonded by Blood III and Short Story Library’s Branded Words.

Convergence by John Spaedt.

A gray-bearded black man sat at the diner bar watching the short-order cook fry up a pork belly’s weight of bacon on the flattop.  The cook—she was probably 40 but looked over 60—never worked without a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the counter.  They were alone except for a couple of high school kids at a far booth. 

“You in here early,” she barked at him over the rising sizzle of the bacon. 

“Yeah.  Told you it was my last week,” he said.

She turned from her bacon, took a drag from her cigarette, returned it to the ashtray, and went back to the flattop.  “Aw, that’s right,” she shouted.

The kids leaned toward each other over the table.  The sun lowered into the west window, turning the whole place an unbearably bright yellow. 

“Shit.  I need a damn last week.  I been down south about every Sunday night now, trying to hit it” she said. 

“Casinos?" he asked. 

“Yeah.  I don’t be goin’ crazy.  I was doin’ the lottery but that’sbullshit.  Two dollar. . .five dollar. . .free ticket.  Then scratch your free ticket and what do you get?  Don’t get nothing.  I was buyin’ ten of them at a time.  Not no more.  Hell naw.”

She’d taken all of the bacon-slabs off the flattop and the place turned so quiet you could hear the sleeves of the kids’ hoody’s rustling against the smooth table as they leaned in close: new in love.

The cook had a gold tooth, and a powerful body, as though full of taught springs, and stare of fearlessness. The old black man leaned back in his plastic stool, “You know the lottery ain’t nothing but a tax.”

“Yup,” she said, as if she had known all along.

Just then, a church organ burst forth into the little diner, and its airy tone bounced off the brown laminate booths, shot up from the amber tile floor, swept out and returned from the long wall of windows.  The two kids in the booth flinched.  COGIC shouting music: ‘Yes Lord’ in ab.  'Man, this the only song that thing knows,' she thought.

“That was Mayor Willie got that going?” the man asked.

“Lottery?  Naw.  Was Mr. Cohen,” she said.

“Yeah.  Senator Cohen.  He’s alright.”

She lit another cigarette and immediately moved to cradle it in the ashtray, only to find she already had one burning. “Shit,” she said, snuffing out the cherry of the one she’d just lit, careful not to damage it.

“My boy got himself locked up in 2-0-1 last night,” the man said.

“Again?  I swear to god if my boy do like that, he’d wanna be in there.  Otherwise, I’d grab his knobby head—,” she stopped, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the thought.   “Nuh-uh, don’t even wanna think about it.”

“All these thugs.  Don’t understand a damn thing,” he said.

“Man, I ain’t scared of those motherfuckers.  Stupid-ass parents shoulda’ slapped ‘em upside they heads before they got that way.  I mean, not you.  Sure you did what you could.  It’s the schools got ‘em that way.  Let the teachers slap ‘em like they did us.”

A man walked through the door and sat down at a booth.  Despite the heat, he wore pants and a great coat.  He had a balding, pinkish head, cannonball shoulders and dark, intense eyes.  He placed his elbows on the table, entwined his fingers into a large ball under his chin, and sat staring straight ahead.

“Well, sorry about your boy,” said the cook.  She was also the waitress, but was unaware of the new customer.  “Maybe do him some good.”

“Yeah.”

The jukebox quit, leaving the quiet of still air in its wake. “Excuse me,” the bald man’s voice exploded in the cook’s head. The waitress shot her head around, startled, then looked back to the man at the bar: “Why didn’t you tell me he come in?” He just gave her a puzzled look and pulled up the paper. She didn’t wait for an answer.

“What you need?”

“I would like a cup of coffee.  Black.” he said.  He spoke with a malicious over-enunciation. 

“Alright.  You want anything to eat.”

“I would like a cup of coffee.”

The sun lowered below the horizon, and the diner turned the dark yellow of tar.  The waitress poured a cup of burned coffee into a soapy coffee cup, mouthing to the man at the bar, ‘What the hell is wrong with that man?’  He offered an uncomfortable laughing grunt and buried his head back into the paper.  The whirring of the air conditioner intensified the silence in the stead of his guttural discomfort.

“There you go,” she set the coffee down in front of the man.

Just ten minutes passed. The waitress sat smoking at the bar looking at the open kitchen, the large griddle she’d fried the bacon on, an open waffle iron, an empty skillet on an unfired eye. The color of everything suddenly began to glow (she’d have thought of Van Gogh’s paintings if she’d ever seen them). Then, she realized her friend at the other end of the bar wasn’t there right now. She turned to look over her right shoulder and saw the kids were gone, too. As she slowly twisted her head back she the bald man met her gaze from behind the bar, his coffee cup gripped at his side.

“Sit still there, and listen.  I want to tell you a joke,” he said.

Sensing sincere evil from his intonation alone, the waitress mustered her fight: “You need get the hell outta that kitchen.”

“Shh.  Listen.  You fucking Christian: you will love this,” the bald man said.  The waitress's body tightened.  Her heart raced and she looked at the steak knife warbling under the greasy dish water behind the counter.  But, as she was about to move, she went limp.  For the first time in her life, she froze. She looked again for her friend at the bar. ‘He’s in the back. He must be calling for help,’ she thought.

"Who goes to church alone but leaves with everyone?" asked the bald man.

A sudden crash of shattered glass, then the loud pop of the halogen bulbs overhead. Darkness. She heard a strange clang, like a ceramic bell being struck by a flesh-and-bone clapper.  The coffee cup clattered to the floor at her feet, and she felt the warm, milky mixture of coffee and blood trickle down her face.  She heard the bald man’s booming voice, as though from down a long corridor: 'You fucking Christian: Jesus Christ does.  Jesus Christ, you cannibal.’  

His face came close to hers, as her vision narrowed to a mere pinhole on reality.  From the other end of the world, he asked her, ‘Can you see it?'

And she could:  a flurry of fat, dirty-white flakes.  Snow.  She lived her whole life in Memphis, and she tried to remember the last heavy downfall like this.  But it’s summer.  I’m in the coffee shop. That can’t be right.  In the spaceless, infinite gap between her and the world the snowflakes floated down so softly but didn’t land on anything.  Naw, that ain’t snow.  

Another crash as her head slammed against the bar and she crumpled to the cool tile floor.  She saw her trembling hand in front of her head and tried to touch the flakes dancing around her.  As darkness swirled in around her, she saw the man’s face inches from her own.

‘Now you know,’ he said. ‘Death has a bearer.’

Almost gently, he laid his huge body on top of hers, pressing her stomach, her breasts, and her face to the floor.

From another world the jukebox rang out again, playing the only song it knew:

I'm trading my sickness

I'm trading my pain

I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord... 

Ten more minutes passed.

“I ain’t seen nothing like that,” the black man says, shaking his head. “We was just talking—just talking. Then she started acting crazy. . .you know, shaking and foaming—damn.”

He is telling this to a paramedic in the parking lot of the diner. She comforts him. She tells him strokes happen suddenly. She tells him there was nothing he could have done--these things come out of nowhere.

John Spaedt graduated from the University of Memphis with a B.A. in English and Philosophy, went on to earn an M.A. in philosophy from Memphis, and finally went to The George Washington Law School, leaving after a year in order to save himself from becoming a wealthy lawyer. He now works odd jobs and writes. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee with his wife and two cats.

Pimp Inc.© by Nick Mott.

Pimp Inc.©

First and foremost; Welcome to Pimp Inc.©. We are the corporate solution to prostitution; a worldwide conglomerate for the oldest profession in the world. Our business practices are focus driven by our client’s needs and we aim to become a global leader in the very competitive harlotry market.

This handbook, issued to all our new Pimps, is an invaluable tool for working in this successful and expanding company. If you follow the rules and adhere to our procedures, the sky's the limit; you can become a respected and high earning hustler. As you’ll have been informed at your induction, 20% of your earnings will be paid to us on the 1st of each month. This entitles you to the use of our many hotel rooms around your city, dental care, health clinics for your 'staff' and the use of our team of lawyers should the need arise. Please read this guide carefully, and more importantly, with pride – you’re a Pimp Inc.© employee now!

Overview

There are many aspects to becoming a successful fornication enabler. Forget the terrible fashion sense and the aggressive, violent Pimp. These are out-dated concepts that never provide the maximum return on your investment. A suit and tie are a company mandate and any member of staff found to be in breach of this will be severely reprimanded.

If you want to get the best out of your 'staff' then you must treat them with the respect that, to be honest, they don't really deserve. You must make them feel valued, and above all, appreciated.

Praise them when they’re doing a good job. Compliments like, 'you certainly know your way around a cock,' and, 'your tongue action is amongst the best I've seen,' will always guarantee a happy employee. Remember it is company policy to test your product before putting them on the market.

Training courses are available for anyone you feel lacks experience.

As a Whore Peddler it's your job to ensure that profits are at a maximum and morale is high amongst your staff. Don't forget we have coke and cake Friday once a month and an employee recognition scheme: Thank a Skank, where your employee will have the chance to win top prizes including gift vouchers, monographed stationary, Crack Cocaine and a framed certificate. Please see our website for full details - www.theoldinout.com.

Core Principles

Here at Pimp Inc.© we have 3 core principles that guide our adventure through the world of high class prostitution. We expect you to learn these values and put them into practice at all times. Employees found not adhering to these will be dealt with accordingly.

The 3 core principles are as follows:

Complete Customer Satisfaction
Integrity
Teamwork

Complete Customer Satisfaction

This is our first and most important guiding principle. If the customer is not completely satisfied then you've failed at your job. Your 'employee' maybe at fault, but ultimately, you’re responsible. It's your job to ensure that when a customer is not totally satisfied they're given the opportunity to fill out our on-line customer questionnaire. This document can be found in the HR section under the heading: You've emptied your sack but what did we lack? In extreme cases we can offer a full refund but authorisation from your Supervisor and Area Manger is required.

Integrity

To gain the complete trust of the client (and their money) you must appear to be honest and sincere. A guise of integrity is required at all times; be polite and be respectful.

Please note that under no circumstances should you allow a John (or your Hoe) to disrespect you, a quick, hard slap with the back of your hand will resolve most situations. If a beating is required please discuss with your personnel manager.

Teamwork

Teamwork is vital to a successful business. As the head of your team, your employees will look to you for leadership and guidance. Always try to share the workload and resources at your disposal. If you think one of your girls (or boys) is taking on too much at once, allocate a share of their work to the rest of your team. Fatigue is always a major concern; there's nothing worse than a worn out whore!

In extreme cases where the workload becomes unmanageable for your employees, you might want to pitch in and help them provide a top notch service. Never be afraid to get your hands dirty!

Alcohol and Drugs Policy

Here at Pimp Inc.© we have a strict policy towards alcohol and Drug abuse. If you suspect an employee is not taking enough of either please report them to the HR department via the hotline.

If the situation becomes worse, i.e. they become clean, then it’s company policy to dismiss them immediately. We can supply you with a gun and shovel but this will be charged for at the standard rate and is non-negotiable.

Likewise, if you hear about your staff getting help from charities, religious types or the government, then this infringement on your product must be taken care of immediately. You will find the necessary documents, which needs signing off by your line manager, on our website under: Taking care of the competition. For extreme cases, we do have a team of disposal experts, but this will need approval from your regional director.

Loyalty Card

We are currently implementing a loyalty card scheme for our regular clients. This will entitle them to a 10% discount and a free upgraded room. We would encourage you to promote this scheme as much as possible. For every ten new clients that join the scheme you will receive a bonus in the form of cash, narcotics or free use of any girl on our books (condom strongly recommended). For more information please ask your local loyalty card co-ordinator.

Last but not least – remember to conduct yourself in a professional and intellectual manner; our clients expect nothing less!

And never forget the company slogan:

'Pimp Inc.© – Don't Delay, Sin Today'

Nick Mott (34) was born in Aberdeen, Scotland and currently works in the Oil industry. He has studied Psychology, Sociology, and to his regret, Politics. He is currently studying creative writing at the OU. He has been published in Prole (Issue 2), Brit Grit Too, Daily Frights 2012 and various e-zines around the web.
He gets most of his inspiration from his metal hip. He fully believes this to be the first step towards his immortality.

The Body by Andrew Hilbert.

There it was. Flies buzzed around it. There had to be a hundred of ‘em. Flies, not dead bodies. Of dead bodies there was only one.

Traffic did not slow down the way it usually does at grisly scenes. Nope. It just kept speeding. But the body was there. I know cuz I saw it. I know cuz I poked it.

                

He wasn’t a friend of mine or of anybody I’d recognized. This dead body had a suit on. A suit and tie. Nobody ‘round here wears those. It’s tacky.

                

“Smells like shit,” Crazy Bob said, “Tha’s why the flies swarm it. They think it’s shit. You check his pockets?”

                

“I don’t wanna touch it,” I said.

                

“Well, shit! Poke him and make fer certain he’s dead so he doesn’t get all jumpy when I reach in his back pocket!”

                

“Ok, you gotta stick?”

                

“A stick!? There are sticks all over the god damn place! We’re on the side of the freeway!”

                

I looked around but there were no sticks.

                

“You think a beer can’ll work?” I asked him.

                

“Is it a tall can?”

                

“Nope,” I said with the empty Bud in my hand.

                

“If you wanna get that close to him. I hear dead rich people curse you with wealth if you poke them. You don’t want that, do you?”

                

“Wealth?” I asked.

                

“Money, you idiot. Just poke the motherfucker!”

                

I poked him in the shoulder with my finger. He didn’t move. The flies made my skin feel like millions of things were crawling all over it. I like that feeling.

                

“He’s as dead as flies on shit!” Crazy Bob’s hands dove into each of the body’s side pockets simultaneously. Crazy Bob pulled out an ink pen.

                

“What’s the California Redemption Value on this?” Crazy Bob was holding the pen close to his eye. He sniffed it. “What the hell’s the use of a pen!?” Crazy Bob threw it onto the freeway. Tires screeched but there was no accident. A pen ain’t too much of a harm to the normal flow of things.

                

Crazy Bob turned the body over and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out the biggest wallet I’d ever seen.

                

“I think our nightmares are over!” Crazy Bob could barely lift it with one hand.

                

I ran toward him.

                

“Fifty-fifty?” I asked.

                

“Sixty-forty.”

                

“Fifty five-forty five?”

                

“Sixty-forty.”

                

“Ok.”

Crazy Bob opened the wallet. No money in it, just a bunch of golden and silver credit cards. No one would believe me and Crazy Bob could legitimately get our hands on one of those. There were just some lint balls and a receipt to a high class restaurant. He spent $200 on two plates.

                

“That’s where all the money went, goddammit!” Crazy Bob yelled.

                

“That’s one heavy receipt.”

                

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! How’re we gonna split this? Sixty-Forty. What’s sixty percent of a lint ball and an eyelash?”

                

“I’ll take the receipt,” I offered.

                

“What? So you can pretend that you spent $200 on a meal? So you can be the King of Shit-town? No!” Crazy Bob waved his arms around, holding on to that damn wallet like it carried bars of gold.

                

“I just wanna look at it and imagine,” I said.

                

“Imagine what? Imagine what? You stupid damn idiot sonofabitch cock sucking wannabe moneyed snaggle ass! What’re you gonna do with the receipt? Use it as collateral to get shiny new spinny rims on your grocery cart?!”

                

“Fine, you take the receipt. You can have the whole damn thing.”

                

Crazy Bob threw the wallet into the freeway traffic. One of those platinum Visas must have had a real heavy balance on it or something because that wallet shattered the windshield on a Mercedes and it went skidding across four lanes, getting smashed by cars less valuable in each lane. The flies’d be happy soon. The bodies were stacking up as far as I could tell. Lots of honkin’ and hollerin’.

                

Sirens started blaring nearby. A fire truck came. Police cars came. Helicopters hovered over. The Mercedes driver was dead-- I saw an officer poke him. A couple of officers were interviewing survivors and witnesses and all of ‘em pointed at me and Crazy Bob. Crazy Bob smiled and waved at them.

                

“Look at it this way, Corker,” Crazy Bob put his arm around me. With his free arm he pointed across the sky, “Free meals, a place to sleep, and television.”

He paused a second and made sure I heard him take in a deep breath right before he said, “Jackpot.”

Andrew Hilbert lives in Austin, TX.