Rogue Wave
“What a great idea this was, Edward. I'll never forget today. In some ways it means more to me than our wedding day.”
“'Liz, you know I'd do anything for you,” Edward responded as he looked lovingly at his wife.
The couple, along with four of their closest friends, rode in a limousine provided by the Princeville Resort. Off to their right, the blue-green waters of Hanelai Bay sparkled in the mid-morning sunshine. The only person who looked somewhat uncomfortable was the priest who was also provided through the auspices of their hotel. With his deeply tanned skin and silver hair, it was easier to picture him on a golf course somewhere rather than doing quickie weddings or, in this case, presiding over a renewal of wedding vows for wealthy tourists at Kauai ’s most upscale resort. Oh well. Even if the padre only got a percentage of the outrageous fee they'd been charged to arrange this whole shebang – multiplied by the hundreds of these he must do each year – Edward was sure the old duffer made a pretty good living. Nice work if you can get it, Edward thought, recalling that great old Gershwin tune. I might have to look into the gig myself.
Speaking of nice gigs, Edward had to admit that he'd had a pretty damn good run. He had married Elizabeth because of her money; there was no getting around it. In the ten years they'd been together, though, he had at least developed something akin to affection for her. In the last two or three years, however, ‘Liz had really begun looking her age … a few new wrinkles here, a few extra folds there … at forty-six she was fourteen years older than Edward. He shuddered to think about what the next decade would bring. In all honesty he questioned his ability to bear up under that kind of strain. People were already starting to stare at the couple when they went out to dinner or the theater or to one of those charity affairs Elizabeth insisted on attending. Shit, he felt like some kind of low-rent gigolo or half-assed escort. If it weren't for the fact that his wife was loaded, ole’ Edward would have lit out for the territory ahead … like yesterday already!
Edward’s thoughts were interrupted by the driver. “Here we are,” the young Filipino in chauffeur’s livery said over his shoulder to his passengers as he turned the vehicle into a small roadside pull-off. “You see where that trail starts? The beach is right down there. Watch your step, though, the trail is steep and it can be muddy. Ladies, especially, you don’t want to ruin those dresses.”
Lumaha’i Beach: Edward had really done his research in selecting this location. Used as a backdrop in South Pacific when Mitzi Gaynor – did anybody even remember who she was these days? – sang “Gonna Wash That Man Right out of My Hair,” it was reputed to be one of the most beautiful and romantic beaches in the world. Movie buff that she was, Elizabeth had been ecstatic when Edward suggested that they fly to Kauai for their tenth anniversary and renew their weddings vows in such a famous and picturesque spot.
Once the party reached its destination – dubbed “ Tourist Beach ” by the locals – everyone commented on how magnificent a location it really was. With its brilliant white sand, majestic palm trees swaying lithely in the tropical breezes and the waves crashing against the pulverized coral that had been deposited at the water’s edge, it would be difficult to imagine a more beguiling place. Elizabeth felt like she was twenty years old again.
Edward posed for pictures with is wife both before and after the brief renewal ceremony. He was careful that they always faced the ocean. “Hey, Elizabeth ,” Edward said to his wife at one point, “let me get a shot of you alone. Why don’t you stand over here?”
Elizabeth agreed and posed with her back to the sea … the better, Edward had explained, to capture her beauty against the majesty of sand, sea and sky.
Motioning with his arm, Edward had her back up almost to the water’s edge. Camera in hand, he remained about ten or fifteen feet away. Only the priest seemed alarmed when he noticed where Elizabeth was standing. Before the older man could open his mouth in warning, a rogue-wave at least five feet high crashed over ‘Liz’s head. Only her dress sandals remained on the wet, glistening sand when the surge subsided. Before the onlookers could even register their shock, another wave deposited Elizabeth ’s lifeless body back on shore.
…
Two days later, after all the tiresome arrangements had been made concerning Elizabeth ’s mortal remains, Edward packed and got ready to return to the mainland. Their friends – ‘Liz’s friends, actually – had left yesterday. Edward had been glad to see them go; here he was in friggin’ Hawaii and he had to play the role of the grieving widower. Son-of-a-bitch! He returned his rental car at the airport in Lihu’e and grabbed something to eat at one of the kiosks in the small terminal building. Just before boarding his flight, he took out his cell phone and hit a number on speed dial.
“Sara … yeah, listen. It went great. It had to be the freakiest think I've ever seen. But everything I read about that damn beach turned out to be true. What? … No …The insurance and the will won't be any problem. There were five witnesses to what happened. I'm supposed to land around 9:30 your time. See you then … I love you too.”
Edward was almost looking forward to the long flight. It would give him a chance to do some reading. He had to start searching for a special place to take Sara on their tenth anniversary.
THE END
BIO: "James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK) and WORD SLAW."
Monday, April 21, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Powder Burn Flash #79 - Michael Knowles
Ten For the Price of One
“This is one outstanding sandwich. I had no idea a little convenience store like this even sold fresh sandwiches.”
“Thank you, my friend. Are you sure you would like only one? You look like two or three would be more appropriate.”
“No, no one is enough. Say, could you turn up the television? I want to see what the Prime Minister has to say about that poor dead boy.”
“Fucking Canadian Government! One soldier dies and they lower the flag. One man gets a national symbol. What about the people he helped kill? Where is their symbol, my friend?”
“You don’t support the war in Afghanistan?”
“My friend, I am Afghanistan. My country is no better with you there. Taliban we knew; with you people, there is no order at all”
“I’m not there, I’m here. So are you.”
“My friend I am here, but my mind has never left the land of my father. I raise support everyday for my brothers in the struggle.”
“Oh yeah? Raise how?”
“I send funds back to my army.”
“You mean jihadists.”
“We are nothing so fundamental my friend. It is not jihad on the ground; it is war. Jihad is for the imams in the mosque.”
“Ironic.”
“What is ironic, my friend?”
“That I’m a government employee eating in your fine establishment.”
“And why is this irony?”
“I do government work, get paid a government wage. By eating here, I’m sponsoring terrorism.”
“Not terrorism - a noble war effort against an unjust occupation. Terrorism is so subjective. In my home, it is your employers who are the terrorists.”
“Why are you here then? Why not stay and fight in your war?”
“My friend, what I do here does more for my people than what ten of me could accomplish on my home soil.”
“Aren’t you worried about the government? What if they find out about what you are doing?”
“Worry? What is there to worry about? Your country is civilized is it not? You will not murder me. You will simply send me home. And before long, I will be back. It has happened before and it will happen again. You see, your meal is not ironic; it is part of a chain of ignorance. Your employer lets me exist; they even gave me a business grant. Your patronage is just another extension of you country’s ignorant hospitality.”
“Well, whatever it is, the sandwich sure is good.”
“Thank you, my friend. But tell me, what do you do for your country?”
“I serve, like you, just not with sandwiches.”
“How do you serve then?”
“I assess risk. I find out the best way to solve a situation. It’s a good job. I get to lug this briefcase all over the world. ”
“Where will you travel next?”
“I’ll be home for a while. My last trip overseas showed me the real risk was not where I thought it was.”
“Where is it then?”
“At home, in places you’d never expect. But enough of that, I’ve talked your ear off long enough. My lunch break is over and I have to get back to work. How much do I owe you for the sandwich?”
“Three seventy-five.”
Three loonies and three quarters hit the counter.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have much left for a tip.”
“My friend, your money will do plenty. I thank you and my people thank you.”
“Let me check my inside pocket. There we go, I found something.”
“Wonderful, my friend.”
“What do you tip on a sandwich worth three seventy-five? Ten percent?”
“It is up to you.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I just happen to have a .38.”
FUPP. The sound of the body hitting the floor was louder than the silenced shot. The government man holstered his gun and threw the rest of the sandwich in the garbage. He took out his phone and dialled the number for a clean, prepaid, phone as he walked away from Hasty Market.
“It’s MacDonald. Everything went fine… No, no one saw anything. I think the sandwiches keep most people away. I’m moving onto the next name… I don’t care if you don’t think it’s wise. My down time is my own. The way I see it, it’s like there will be ten less people waiting for me when I meet you in Kabul.
MacDonald ended the call and got into his car. He checked his watch then started the engine. He put the Ford in drive and waited with his foot on the break. Through the windshield, he watched the Hasty Market tremble before sending its glass out onto the pavement ahead of the explosion inside. No one watched MacDonald leave the parking lot; everyone’s eyeswere on the fire.
“This is one outstanding sandwich. I had no idea a little convenience store like this even sold fresh sandwiches.”
“Thank you, my friend. Are you sure you would like only one? You look like two or three would be more appropriate.”
“No, no one is enough. Say, could you turn up the television? I want to see what the Prime Minister has to say about that poor dead boy.”
“Fucking Canadian Government! One soldier dies and they lower the flag. One man gets a national symbol. What about the people he helped kill? Where is their symbol, my friend?”
“You don’t support the war in Afghanistan?”
“My friend, I am Afghanistan. My country is no better with you there. Taliban we knew; with you people, there is no order at all”
“I’m not there, I’m here. So are you.”
“My friend I am here, but my mind has never left the land of my father. I raise support everyday for my brothers in the struggle.”
“Oh yeah? Raise how?”
“I send funds back to my army.”
“You mean jihadists.”
“We are nothing so fundamental my friend. It is not jihad on the ground; it is war. Jihad is for the imams in the mosque.”
“Ironic.”
“What is ironic, my friend?”
“That I’m a government employee eating in your fine establishment.”
“And why is this irony?”
“I do government work, get paid a government wage. By eating here, I’m sponsoring terrorism.”
“Not terrorism - a noble war effort against an unjust occupation. Terrorism is so subjective. In my home, it is your employers who are the terrorists.”
“Why are you here then? Why not stay and fight in your war?”
“My friend, what I do here does more for my people than what ten of me could accomplish on my home soil.”
“Aren’t you worried about the government? What if they find out about what you are doing?”
“Worry? What is there to worry about? Your country is civilized is it not? You will not murder me. You will simply send me home. And before long, I will be back. It has happened before and it will happen again. You see, your meal is not ironic; it is part of a chain of ignorance. Your employer lets me exist; they even gave me a business grant. Your patronage is just another extension of you country’s ignorant hospitality.”
“Well, whatever it is, the sandwich sure is good.”
“Thank you, my friend. But tell me, what do you do for your country?”
“I serve, like you, just not with sandwiches.”
“How do you serve then?”
“I assess risk. I find out the best way to solve a situation. It’s a good job. I get to lug this briefcase all over the world. ”
“Where will you travel next?”
“I’ll be home for a while. My last trip overseas showed me the real risk was not where I thought it was.”
“Where is it then?”
“At home, in places you’d never expect. But enough of that, I’ve talked your ear off long enough. My lunch break is over and I have to get back to work. How much do I owe you for the sandwich?”
“Three seventy-five.”
Three loonies and three quarters hit the counter.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have much left for a tip.”
“My friend, your money will do plenty. I thank you and my people thank you.”
“Let me check my inside pocket. There we go, I found something.”
“Wonderful, my friend.”
“What do you tip on a sandwich worth three seventy-five? Ten percent?”
“It is up to you.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I just happen to have a .38.”
FUPP. The sound of the body hitting the floor was louder than the silenced shot. The government man holstered his gun and threw the rest of the sandwich in the garbage. He took out his phone and dialled the number for a clean, prepaid, phone as he walked away from Hasty Market.
“It’s MacDonald. Everything went fine… No, no one saw anything. I think the sandwiches keep most people away. I’m moving onto the next name… I don’t care if you don’t think it’s wise. My down time is my own. The way I see it, it’s like there will be ten less people waiting for me when I meet you in Kabul.
MacDonald ended the call and got into his car. He checked his watch then started the engine. He put the Ford in drive and waited with his foot on the break. Through the windshield, he watched the Hasty Market tremble before sending its glass out onto the pavement ahead of the explosion inside. No one watched MacDonald leave the parking lot; everyone’s eyeswere on the fire.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 78 - James C. Clar
Trouble In Paradise
Amir sat at a table beneath the famed banyan tree on the ocean side of the Moana Surfrider Hotel in Waikiki . It was December 6th and night had fallen as it usually does in the islands, like a soft curtain of midnight blue velvet. On the veranda stage behind him a small combo worked its way through yet another rendition of “Blue Hawaii.” He sipped his guava juice and watched the lights of a giant container ship about one-half mile off-shore pass behind the eastern flank of Diamond Head . The freighter disappeared into the inky tropical darkness. A moment later he looked up to see an older, Asian man in khakis and an Aloha shirt approach his table.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said, “but you look like a ‘local’. I was wondering if you know of anywhere decent to eat within walking distance of here?”
Amir expected someone younger. The man’s ethnicity was also somewhat perplexing. Nevertheless, he was too well trained to betray his surprise. “Maybe,” he replied. “What type of food are you interested in?”
“I was thinking Thai, perhaps.”
That cinched it. The reference to Thai cuisine was the key. With that, Amir took his pen and, grabbing a cocktail napkin, began writing. A moment or two later, he folded the napkin in half and offered it to the man.
“About five or ten minutes west of here, where Kalakaua and Kuhio Avenues intersect, there’s a place called Keo’s. You can't go wrong.”
“Thank you,” the Asian gentleman said as he accepted the proffered paper. “My family will be quite appreciative.” He turned on his heel and walked away. Amir lost sight of his erstwhile companion as the man mounted the steps to the veranda and made his way across the crowded hotel lobby.
About fifteen minutes later Amir, too, left. He glanced over at the band as he walked past the stage. This time the musicians were attempting to inject new life into “Little Grass Shack” but the tune seemed to be beyond the point of resuscitation. He climbed the main staircase and returned to his room on the second floor of the stately hotel. He showered and then packed. He was in bed and asleep in less than thirty minutes He had an early start in the morning. His flight left at 7:15 A.M. HST.
A quarter-past seven, that was four hours before the president’s motorcade left the airport and headed for the annual December 7th commemoration of the attack on Pearl Harbor. It had taken Amir nearly five months to cultivate his sources and ferret out the exact details of that route. Allah willing, with the information that he had just passed to his contact, the American president would never reach his destination. If all went according to plan, Amir himself would be well on his way back home by that time.
The next morning at 5:00 A.M. he exited the hotel via the marble staircase that led to the porte cochère. He stopped at the bell desk and requested a taxi. As he was waiting, he sensed a presence at his elbow. Slowly, deliberately he turned and came face to face with his contact form the previous evening.
“I wanted to thank you again for the tip about that Thai restaurant. We had a wonderful meal. We’re leaving today as well. I'm just sorry that we didn't discover that place earlier in our stay. We most certainly would have eaten there another time as well.”
Amir was speechless. Either he had made an egregious mistake or this man was one of the boldest and most iconoclastic operatives he had ever encountered.
“By the way,” the man continued, “the directions on that napkin made absolutely no sense whatsoever. I threw it out after spending nearly twenty minutes studying the map in one of those tourist publications you find everywhere here. You must have been confused. Fortunately your verbal instructions were accurate and easy to follow. Again, thank you so much for your kindness. I assumed that you were a resident. For a visitor you're remarkably well informed.”
Amir was rendered speechless. Without really being aware of what he was doing, he bowed in response to the man’s gesture. Once again, the Asian turned and, without another word, walked to the street where he and a group of eight or nine other Japanese climbed aboard a small shuttle bus that, presumably, was taking them to the airport.
Amir turned to the bell captain and explained that his plans had changed. There was no point in returning home. He had failed in his mission and, given the timing and the meager resources at his disposal, redemption was an utter impossibility. It might take days or weeks, but retribution was inevitable. He would welcome it when it came. For now, he would continue to enjoy what remained of his time in paradise He descended the stairs to the street. He turned right and, as he passed the police substation just past Kaiulani Street , he noticed the sun beginning to rise over the ocean to the East. He would find a place on the beach to pray. Then, after a light breakfast, he would look for somewhere more economical to stay until his masters came for him.
THE END
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
Amir sat at a table beneath the famed banyan tree on the ocean side of the Moana Surfrider Hotel in Waikiki . It was December 6th and night had fallen as it usually does in the islands, like a soft curtain of midnight blue velvet. On the veranda stage behind him a small combo worked its way through yet another rendition of “Blue Hawaii.” He sipped his guava juice and watched the lights of a giant container ship about one-half mile off-shore pass behind the eastern flank of Diamond Head . The freighter disappeared into the inky tropical darkness. A moment later he looked up to see an older, Asian man in khakis and an Aloha shirt approach his table.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said, “but you look like a ‘local’. I was wondering if you know of anywhere decent to eat within walking distance of here?”
Amir expected someone younger. The man’s ethnicity was also somewhat perplexing. Nevertheless, he was too well trained to betray his surprise. “Maybe,” he replied. “What type of food are you interested in?”
“I was thinking Thai, perhaps.”
That cinched it. The reference to Thai cuisine was the key. With that, Amir took his pen and, grabbing a cocktail napkin, began writing. A moment or two later, he folded the napkin in half and offered it to the man.
“About five or ten minutes west of here, where Kalakaua and Kuhio Avenues intersect, there’s a place called Keo’s. You can't go wrong.”
“Thank you,” the Asian gentleman said as he accepted the proffered paper. “My family will be quite appreciative.” He turned on his heel and walked away. Amir lost sight of his erstwhile companion as the man mounted the steps to the veranda and made his way across the crowded hotel lobby.
About fifteen minutes later Amir, too, left. He glanced over at the band as he walked past the stage. This time the musicians were attempting to inject new life into “Little Grass Shack” but the tune seemed to be beyond the point of resuscitation. He climbed the main staircase and returned to his room on the second floor of the stately hotel. He showered and then packed. He was in bed and asleep in less than thirty minutes He had an early start in the morning. His flight left at 7:15 A.M. HST.
A quarter-past seven, that was four hours before the president’s motorcade left the airport and headed for the annual December 7th commemoration of the attack on Pearl Harbor. It had taken Amir nearly five months to cultivate his sources and ferret out the exact details of that route. Allah willing, with the information that he had just passed to his contact, the American president would never reach his destination. If all went according to plan, Amir himself would be well on his way back home by that time.
The next morning at 5:00 A.M. he exited the hotel via the marble staircase that led to the porte cochère. He stopped at the bell desk and requested a taxi. As he was waiting, he sensed a presence at his elbow. Slowly, deliberately he turned and came face to face with his contact form the previous evening.
“I wanted to thank you again for the tip about that Thai restaurant. We had a wonderful meal. We’re leaving today as well. I'm just sorry that we didn't discover that place earlier in our stay. We most certainly would have eaten there another time as well.”
Amir was speechless. Either he had made an egregious mistake or this man was one of the boldest and most iconoclastic operatives he had ever encountered.
“By the way,” the man continued, “the directions on that napkin made absolutely no sense whatsoever. I threw it out after spending nearly twenty minutes studying the map in one of those tourist publications you find everywhere here. You must have been confused. Fortunately your verbal instructions were accurate and easy to follow. Again, thank you so much for your kindness. I assumed that you were a resident. For a visitor you're remarkably well informed.”
Amir was rendered speechless. Without really being aware of what he was doing, he bowed in response to the man’s gesture. Once again, the Asian turned and, without another word, walked to the street where he and a group of eight or nine other Japanese climbed aboard a small shuttle bus that, presumably, was taking them to the airport.
Amir turned to the bell captain and explained that his plans had changed. There was no point in returning home. He had failed in his mission and, given the timing and the meager resources at his disposal, redemption was an utter impossibility. It might take days or weeks, but retribution was inevitable. He would welcome it when it came. For now, he would continue to enjoy what remained of his time in paradise He descended the stairs to the street. He turned right and, as he passed the police substation just past Kaiulani Street , he noticed the sun beginning to rise over the ocean to the East. He would find a place on the beach to pray. Then, after a light breakfast, he would look for somewhere more economical to stay until his masters came for him.
THE END
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
Friday, April 11, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 77 - Ron Richardson
THE PAUSE
Grady O’Toole was a born loser. On the up side of sixty, he lived in a seedy neighborhood above a Vietnamese grocery store. His one room flat was as hopeless as he was.
Unable to sleep because of the heat, Grady rose at first light, padded to the open window and stared down on his personal hell. He wiped his brow, scratched his belly, and sucked down the dregs of a longneck left from the night before. Hung over, he was thinking of ice cubes and aspirin when there was a loud knock at the door.
Grady groaned. “Who in the . . .”
Another knock.
“Hold your horses, I’m comin’.” He pulled on a pair of soiled pants and crossed to the door.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
Grady twisted the key in the lock and cracked the door.
“Ah, good morning, Mister O’Toole.” A tall man smiled and slid a shiny business card through the opening. “ My name is Benjamin, may I come in?”
“No.”
“Please, I have something to show you, it won’t take long.”
Pause.
“What is it?”
“I’ll have to show you,” Benjamin said.
Curious, Grady pulled the door open. “Okay, you gotta minute.”
“Over here,” Grady pointed towards the open window, “catch the breeze.” He dragged a chair across the room. “Sit,” he ordered Benjamin.
Grady leaned against the wall, crossed his arms. “ Show me. Make it quick.”
Benjamin opened his briefcase and removed a laptop and a DVD. He held it up so Grady could see it. “It’s a DVD. Do you agree, Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah,” he said, “so what?”
“On this DVD is your life in living color. I have been directed by my client to show you one minute of your past, anywhere you choose. Think about it, Sir. Where would you like to spend the next minute?”
Grady jerked a cigarette from a crumpled pack, lit it, inhaled, exhaled, stalling. “Is this some kinda sick joke?”
“No sir,” Benjamin said, “ it’s no joke. Give it a try. What have you got to lose? Now, where would you like to go?”
Grady pushed away from the wall. He cracked his knuckles, opened his mouth, “Uh . . .” closed it. Opened it again, “Okay, okay let me think about it.”
Benjamin smiled. “Take your time.”
Finally, “Lets go to the summer of 1957.”
“A special time Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Pause.
“I was ten,” Grady began, “my dad took me swimming for the first time. He bet me a burger and coke I couldn’t do a back flip off the high dive. He didn’t even know if I could swim.”
Grady stared at the ceiling, remembering, gathering words.
“He was always tryin’ to make me look bad.”
Grady smiled.
“I tell you, I was scared. He kept yellin’, ‘come on chicken, come on chicken!’ over and over, laughin’at me.”
Grady stubbed out his cigarette, lit another.
“A perfect flip, that’s what it was. I’ll never forget the look on his face. Man, you should have seen it. I think he was disappointed I didn’t belly flop.”
Grady felt good.
“He’s been dead a long time.” He shook his head. “ No matter, that’s what I want to see, that sorry look on his face.”
Benjamin turned on the computer and inserted the DVD. His finger touched rewind.
“So be it, Mister O’Toole.”
The machine whirred and stopped. “Is this the right place?” he asked.
Grady looked at the screen. Bile rose in his throat. Excited he said, “Yeah, it’s the right one.”
“I’ll press play now and for the next sixty seconds you will relive that minute. Are you ready?”
No answer.
“Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
The figures came alive and began to move. He saw himself wave a skinny arm at his taunting dad. He walked to the end of the diving board, bounced, and jumped. He flew through the air in a perfect back flip. Down he went in slow motion.
Grady watched, waiting for that golden moment.
“Five, four . . .” Benjamin counted the last seconds. “Two . . .”
At one second, a manicured finger touched pause. The machine ground to a stop. Grady’s perfect flip was frozen one inch above the water, forever. He was cruelly robbed by Benjamin of that happy moment, seeing once again his father’s silly face.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on?” Grady blurted.
Without a word, Benjamin switched off the machine and stowed it in his briefcase. He walked to the door, turned and spoke to the shocked Grady, “Your father sends you a message . . . ‘once a loser, always a loser’.”
BIO: Ron is a native Texan. He spent time in the Navy in the early 50's. He is married, a college graduate and a retired air traffic controller. Soon after retirement he began to write mainly as a hobby. He has completed several college level creative writing courses and is active in two fiction writers groups. He is a member of Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. Ron has been published by LITBITS.CA, ESC! magazine and Powder Burn Flash. He also received an honorable mention in flash fiction from Byline magazine.
Grady O’Toole was a born loser. On the up side of sixty, he lived in a seedy neighborhood above a Vietnamese grocery store. His one room flat was as hopeless as he was.
Unable to sleep because of the heat, Grady rose at first light, padded to the open window and stared down on his personal hell. He wiped his brow, scratched his belly, and sucked down the dregs of a longneck left from the night before. Hung over, he was thinking of ice cubes and aspirin when there was a loud knock at the door.
Grady groaned. “Who in the . . .”
Another knock.
“Hold your horses, I’m comin’.” He pulled on a pair of soiled pants and crossed to the door.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
Grady twisted the key in the lock and cracked the door.
“Ah, good morning, Mister O’Toole.” A tall man smiled and slid a shiny business card through the opening. “ My name is Benjamin, may I come in?”
“No.”
“Please, I have something to show you, it won’t take long.”
Pause.
“What is it?”
“I’ll have to show you,” Benjamin said.
Curious, Grady pulled the door open. “Okay, you gotta minute.”
“Over here,” Grady pointed towards the open window, “catch the breeze.” He dragged a chair across the room. “Sit,” he ordered Benjamin.
Grady leaned against the wall, crossed his arms. “ Show me. Make it quick.”
Benjamin opened his briefcase and removed a laptop and a DVD. He held it up so Grady could see it. “It’s a DVD. Do you agree, Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah,” he said, “so what?”
“On this DVD is your life in living color. I have been directed by my client to show you one minute of your past, anywhere you choose. Think about it, Sir. Where would you like to spend the next minute?”
Grady jerked a cigarette from a crumpled pack, lit it, inhaled, exhaled, stalling. “Is this some kinda sick joke?”
“No sir,” Benjamin said, “ it’s no joke. Give it a try. What have you got to lose? Now, where would you like to go?”
Grady pushed away from the wall. He cracked his knuckles, opened his mouth, “Uh . . .” closed it. Opened it again, “Okay, okay let me think about it.”
Benjamin smiled. “Take your time.”
Finally, “Lets go to the summer of 1957.”
“A special time Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Pause.
“I was ten,” Grady began, “my dad took me swimming for the first time. He bet me a burger and coke I couldn’t do a back flip off the high dive. He didn’t even know if I could swim.”
Grady stared at the ceiling, remembering, gathering words.
“He was always tryin’ to make me look bad.”
Grady smiled.
“I tell you, I was scared. He kept yellin’, ‘come on chicken, come on chicken!’ over and over, laughin’at me.”
Grady stubbed out his cigarette, lit another.
“A perfect flip, that’s what it was. I’ll never forget the look on his face. Man, you should have seen it. I think he was disappointed I didn’t belly flop.”
Grady felt good.
“He’s been dead a long time.” He shook his head. “ No matter, that’s what I want to see, that sorry look on his face.”
Benjamin turned on the computer and inserted the DVD. His finger touched rewind.
“So be it, Mister O’Toole.”
The machine whirred and stopped. “Is this the right place?” he asked.
Grady looked at the screen. Bile rose in his throat. Excited he said, “Yeah, it’s the right one.”
“I’ll press play now and for the next sixty seconds you will relive that minute. Are you ready?”
No answer.
“Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
The figures came alive and began to move. He saw himself wave a skinny arm at his taunting dad. He walked to the end of the diving board, bounced, and jumped. He flew through the air in a perfect back flip. Down he went in slow motion.
Grady watched, waiting for that golden moment.
“Five, four . . .” Benjamin counted the last seconds. “Two . . .”
At one second, a manicured finger touched pause. The machine ground to a stop. Grady’s perfect flip was frozen one inch above the water, forever. He was cruelly robbed by Benjamin of that happy moment, seeing once again his father’s silly face.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on?” Grady blurted.
Without a word, Benjamin switched off the machine and stowed it in his briefcase. He walked to the door, turned and spoke to the shocked Grady, “Your father sends you a message . . . ‘once a loser, always a loser’.”
BIO: Ron is a native Texan. He spent time in the Navy in the early 50's. He is married, a college graduate and a retired air traffic controller. Soon after retirement he began to write mainly as a hobby. He has completed several college level creative writing courses and is active in two fiction writers groups. He is a member of Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. Ron has been published by LITBITS.CA, ESC! magazine and Powder Burn Flash. He also received an honorable mention in flash fiction from Byline magazine.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 76 - James C. Clar
LOYALTY
“I let it go longer than I should have,” Vince Toscano said to the man in the sport jacket standing in front of the desk, “because you've been such a loyal employee. Anything I've ever asked you to do, you've done.”
“I know that, ‘Mr. T’, I know that.” Freddie Zito replied. He resisted the urge to reach up and wipe the sweat off his brow. God knows he'd seen lots of these kinds of meetings over the years. This was the first time he'd been the one on the “business end.” It gave him a whole new perspective on things, that’s for damn sure.
“The thing is, Freddie, if I let you get away with it, well, you know how it goes. Discipline, that’s what it’s all about in this business. I have to set an example. Not even one of ‘my boys’ can get a break. You owe $25,000 in gambling debts plus the ‘vig. With your habit, you'll never make good on the money. God only knows what you'll do, who you'll talk to, in order to get out from under. I can't take those kinds of chances. Never have, never will. No one lasts very long if they do. You know it’s nothing personal.”
Toscano clapped his hands and two guys, each the size of your average office building, moved quietly into the room. They took up positions on either side of Zito … and just behind him.
“Please, Mr. Toscano, give me another week. I swear on my mother’s grave I'll get you your money.”
“Freddie, it’s not about the money any more. You understand. I promise you we'll take good care of your wife and kids. I haven't forgotten the way you looked after Mrs. Toscano when I was in the hospital last year. Somebody else might have taken advantage of the situation, you know what I mean?” Sally Toscano was in her early-thirties, nearly half the age of her husband. She was also hot enough to melt the polar ice-caps. “Boys ...”
With that the two behemoths flanking Zito moved forward. Instead of grabbing hold of the hapless man, however, they both drew weapons.
“Easy, boys,” Toscano said with surprise in his voice. He had used these two guys before and they were good. “What the hell are you doing? Not here. You know better. And listen … make it quick and clean. I owe him that.”
The two thugs didn't respond. Instead, they leveled their guns at Toscano.
“What was I gonna do, ‘Mr. T’? Zito began. I owe you and I owe Falcone. He offered me a way out. Said if I took care of you he'd forgive my debt and pay me enough so that I could take a little vacation in the Caribbean and give Sal and Johnny here a cut as well. Maybe if you'd given me more time? But, hey, like you said, it’s just business.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Toscano chuckled nervously. “I should have seen this coming. I should have taken care of it sooner.”
“Yea, well, everybody makes mistakes. Listen, as far as Mrs. Toscano is concerned, you can rest easy. She'll be in good hands.”
At the mention of his wife, Toscano’s eyes blazed. Almost imperceptibly he moved his right hand toward the drawer of his desk. Just as his fingertips reached their destination, two gunshots sounded. One bullet struck Toscano in the middle of his forehead. The other caught him in the throat. He was dead before he tumbled backward out of his chair.
“Get this mess cleaned up,” Zito told Sal and Johnny as he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. The smell of cordite was strong in the small confines of the room. “Do just what we talked about. And remember, loyalty means everything in this business … Sally, yea, it’s me …”
END
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
“I let it go longer than I should have,” Vince Toscano said to the man in the sport jacket standing in front of the desk, “because you've been such a loyal employee. Anything I've ever asked you to do, you've done.”
“I know that, ‘Mr. T’, I know that.” Freddie Zito replied. He resisted the urge to reach up and wipe the sweat off his brow. God knows he'd seen lots of these kinds of meetings over the years. This was the first time he'd been the one on the “business end.” It gave him a whole new perspective on things, that’s for damn sure.
“The thing is, Freddie, if I let you get away with it, well, you know how it goes. Discipline, that’s what it’s all about in this business. I have to set an example. Not even one of ‘my boys’ can get a break. You owe $25,000 in gambling debts plus the ‘vig. With your habit, you'll never make good on the money. God only knows what you'll do, who you'll talk to, in order to get out from under. I can't take those kinds of chances. Never have, never will. No one lasts very long if they do. You know it’s nothing personal.”
Toscano clapped his hands and two guys, each the size of your average office building, moved quietly into the room. They took up positions on either side of Zito … and just behind him.
“Please, Mr. Toscano, give me another week. I swear on my mother’s grave I'll get you your money.”
“Freddie, it’s not about the money any more. You understand. I promise you we'll take good care of your wife and kids. I haven't forgotten the way you looked after Mrs. Toscano when I was in the hospital last year. Somebody else might have taken advantage of the situation, you know what I mean?” Sally Toscano was in her early-thirties, nearly half the age of her husband. She was also hot enough to melt the polar ice-caps. “Boys ...”
With that the two behemoths flanking Zito moved forward. Instead of grabbing hold of the hapless man, however, they both drew weapons.
“Easy, boys,” Toscano said with surprise in his voice. He had used these two guys before and they were good. “What the hell are you doing? Not here. You know better. And listen … make it quick and clean. I owe him that.”
The two thugs didn't respond. Instead, they leveled their guns at Toscano.
“What was I gonna do, ‘Mr. T’? Zito began. I owe you and I owe Falcone. He offered me a way out. Said if I took care of you he'd forgive my debt and pay me enough so that I could take a little vacation in the Caribbean and give Sal and Johnny here a cut as well. Maybe if you'd given me more time? But, hey, like you said, it’s just business.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Toscano chuckled nervously. “I should have seen this coming. I should have taken care of it sooner.”
“Yea, well, everybody makes mistakes. Listen, as far as Mrs. Toscano is concerned, you can rest easy. She'll be in good hands.”
At the mention of his wife, Toscano’s eyes blazed. Almost imperceptibly he moved his right hand toward the drawer of his desk. Just as his fingertips reached their destination, two gunshots sounded. One bullet struck Toscano in the middle of his forehead. The other caught him in the throat. He was dead before he tumbled backward out of his chair.
“Get this mess cleaned up,” Zito told Sal and Johnny as he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. The smell of cordite was strong in the small confines of the room. “Do just what we talked about. And remember, loyalty means everything in this business … Sally, yea, it’s me …”
END
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
Friday, April 4, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 75 - William Brazill
Taking Back the Night
“Foreign Legion,” she thought as she saw the four young men approaching on the dusk-dimmed street.
They were dressed in civilian clothes but she could easily identify them. Their close-cropped hair, their forearms muscled, developed, carrying the intimation of power unchecked and intimidating. But more. They wore their clothes awkwardly, as if being used to uniforms made them uneasy in anything else, men in disguise, animals wearing borrowed skins that did not alter their identity. There was the almost-strut, straight-backed, as if the parade ground were the natural environment and its step the natural gait, a stride meant to signal ownership, this place is ours. And the smirking way they leered at women, their military status awarding them the entitlement to see any female as an object of use and abuse, as if there were no more to a female than her anatomy, the contours of her body meant for the pleasure of their explorations.
Still, as they maneuvered the street, their eyes were watchful, distrustful, ever-scanning, as if they sensed they were in a world that could suddenly dissolve into chaos, into something incomprehensible and menacing. Fear, she suddenly understood, underlay their arrogance.
She slowed her walk, aware that, sloe-eyed and high-cheekboned, her skin toned the color of rich mocha, she cast an aura of exotic sensuality that readily ensnared European men.
She turned her back to them, sensing their eyes scanning her body and measuring her supple movements as they imagined the lithe body draped inside the sensuously swaying folds of silk. One of them shouted at her in words that she could not comprehend, in a language she did not know. But they did not speak to one another, only making sounds, grunts, as if lust had reduced them to the primitive level of pre-speech, as if words were too complex, too civilized to express the throb of what they felt.
She walked slowly, confident that they would follow. With the lapse of each minute they surrendered more and more of their wariness, their helpless attraction to her became a depth that swallowed their minds and wills. Her barefoot steps took her along the street, down alleys, into shuttered walkways, through one turn after another, leading them into the serpentine labyrinth of the Quartier Bouna, where the indigenous population, the natives, lived. They followed, propelled by visions of the night of savage sex that awaited them. The air changed, new scents that stimulated their imaginations, shadows darkening into blackness, unfamiliar sounds that diminished finally into a silence that wariness should have identified as a warning.
Her pace lessened slightly as she passed through a gateway into a courtyard. The four followed, the closeness of lust-to-be-fulfilled dulling all their instincts and training. As she passed through the gate on the far end of the courtyard, she heard new sounds behind her, bodies colliding, struggle, muted cries, the distinctive sounds of violence committed with a lethality meant to be delivered with little noise. Then the suddenness of total silence.
She continued. Her pace now became a stride, the parade step of conquest. Her mind raced not in thoughts but in slogans: “Four more victims! Another victory of the Armed Front for National Liberation in its struggle for independence! Ownership of our country being re-established!” Slogans were now her language.
She made her way back to the square in the central city, knowing that other victims awaited and the night offered unlimited opportunities to be taken back.
BIO: William Brazill lives and writes fiction on the banks of the Potomac River in Virginia. His most recent stories have been published in LitBits, Amsterdam Scriptum, Electric Acorn, and Long Story Short.
“Foreign Legion,” she thought as she saw the four young men approaching on the dusk-dimmed street.
They were dressed in civilian clothes but she could easily identify them. Their close-cropped hair, their forearms muscled, developed, carrying the intimation of power unchecked and intimidating. But more. They wore their clothes awkwardly, as if being used to uniforms made them uneasy in anything else, men in disguise, animals wearing borrowed skins that did not alter their identity. There was the almost-strut, straight-backed, as if the parade ground were the natural environment and its step the natural gait, a stride meant to signal ownership, this place is ours. And the smirking way they leered at women, their military status awarding them the entitlement to see any female as an object of use and abuse, as if there were no more to a female than her anatomy, the contours of her body meant for the pleasure of their explorations.
Still, as they maneuvered the street, their eyes were watchful, distrustful, ever-scanning, as if they sensed they were in a world that could suddenly dissolve into chaos, into something incomprehensible and menacing. Fear, she suddenly understood, underlay their arrogance.
She slowed her walk, aware that, sloe-eyed and high-cheekboned, her skin toned the color of rich mocha, she cast an aura of exotic sensuality that readily ensnared European men.
She turned her back to them, sensing their eyes scanning her body and measuring her supple movements as they imagined the lithe body draped inside the sensuously swaying folds of silk. One of them shouted at her in words that she could not comprehend, in a language she did not know. But they did not speak to one another, only making sounds, grunts, as if lust had reduced them to the primitive level of pre-speech, as if words were too complex, too civilized to express the throb of what they felt.
She walked slowly, confident that they would follow. With the lapse of each minute they surrendered more and more of their wariness, their helpless attraction to her became a depth that swallowed their minds and wills. Her barefoot steps took her along the street, down alleys, into shuttered walkways, through one turn after another, leading them into the serpentine labyrinth of the Quartier Bouna, where the indigenous population, the natives, lived. They followed, propelled by visions of the night of savage sex that awaited them. The air changed, new scents that stimulated their imaginations, shadows darkening into blackness, unfamiliar sounds that diminished finally into a silence that wariness should have identified as a warning.
Her pace lessened slightly as she passed through a gateway into a courtyard. The four followed, the closeness of lust-to-be-fulfilled dulling all their instincts and training. As she passed through the gate on the far end of the courtyard, she heard new sounds behind her, bodies colliding, struggle, muted cries, the distinctive sounds of violence committed with a lethality meant to be delivered with little noise. Then the suddenness of total silence.
She continued. Her pace now became a stride, the parade step of conquest. Her mind raced not in thoughts but in slogans: “Four more victims! Another victory of the Armed Front for National Liberation in its struggle for independence! Ownership of our country being re-established!” Slogans were now her language.
She made her way back to the square in the central city, knowing that other victims awaited and the night offered unlimited opportunities to be taken back.
BIO: William Brazill lives and writes fiction on the banks of the Potomac River in Virginia. His most recent stories have been published in LitBits, Amsterdam Scriptum, Electric Acorn, and Long Story Short.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 74 - Pearce Hansen
PARAPLEGIC KILLER CHIMP
You heard me. See, my wife cheats. That ain’t automatically bad: Her hygiene’s always been out of left field, and she craves dick like a goat on Spanish Fly. Wants it way more than I can supply if you catch my drift. Suffice it to say I’m no Ron Jeremy.
I don’t mind as long as she’s discrete. But when I find the strange’s smelly drawers in my bathroom, or I pass guys on the stoop exiting my house still tugging up their zippers and thanking me for my wife’s skills? You can imagine what goes through a guy’s pulsing brain.
So I’m reading this article in the paper about some Chimpanzee at the local Zoo that’s had a spinal injury. Poor Chimpo’s paralyzed from the waist down, they’ve even given him a wheelchair.
I get to feeling sorry for that chimp. I mean, his only job in the world was for zoo-goers to gawk at him, and to throw occasional clumps of his own shit at them to liven things up. Now he can’t even do that minimalism. He’s as useless as me. He’ll push himself around in that wheel chair until he dies, probably in protective custody from the other chimps. See, I’d heard chimps even commit murder on their own kind; they’re advanced that way just like us humans.
That’s when it occurs to me: maybe me and Chimpo could help each other out.
I rent a second story Industrial, and break Chimpo out of the zoo, wheelchair and all. I set him up in that rental and take care of him. Get him to trust me. It ain’t fun: Did you know chimps can’t be potty trained? Chimpo has a grand time crapping his wheelchair until I finally stock up on disposable diapers.
I’ll spare you the details of our training program, but graduation goes like this: At night, when no one’s around, I take Chimpo outside into the alley and give him a boost to the fire escape. See, his lower body is useless, but that upper body of his works just fine.
He climbs up hand over hand, and then crawls through the window with his legs dragging and dead. He clambers up the bed that’s in there, reaches into the gunny sack hanging from his shoulder, and pulls out the 38 that’s in there and shoots all six of the blanks it’s loaded with. He empties that pistol full of blanks into the department store mannequin I have lying under the covers. I even have a wig on the mannequin, about the color and texture of my slut wife’s hair.
Chimpo’s easy to train, he’s smart. I teach him that if he does all those steps right and in order, that he gets a pack of smokes and an eighth of Old Overcoat to suck on. Yeah, it’s hilarious watching Chimpo chain smoke and chug at his bottle. Guess I’m just lucky he doesn’t have more expensive taste in his alcohol.
So then it’s the night. I take Chimpo to the building me and my wife lived in. I listen long enough to know she doesn’t have any gentlemen callers – I can tell because she’s a screamer, the whole building knows when she’s entertaining.
But our apartment is silent as the tomb.
Up the fire escape and through the window Chimpo goes, only this time the 38 in his bag is loaded with live rounds. I wait for the gun shots signaling my wife’s departure to hell. When those shots come I’ll fade and Chimpo will be left holding the bag, literally I suppose.
I wait, but no shots come. So I creep up the fire escape and peek in the window. It’s dim inside, but something’s happening on the bed, shapes are thrashing around. Then the screaming starts.
It’s my wife screaming, and Chimpo too, like they’re killing each other. Then the lamp next to the bed goes on and I see what’s happening in my bed.
My wife has a strap-on dildo buckled around Chimpo’s waist and she’s riding him cowgirl style; staring me right in the eyes. Fuckin monkey’s dick may be limp and paralyzed; but he knows exactly what’s happening, they’re both screaming jungle love at each other. As I cringe away, I realize she knows I’m out there, and she turned on the light deliberately, she wants me to see.
Those monkey house orgy screams mock me as I stumble away down the street.
But never say die, right? I heard about this gorilla at a Zoo in the next town over. Old Kong there has a spinal cord injury like my Chimpo, but way worse. Kong’s a quadriplegic; they’re training him to make his electric wheelchair go by blowing in a plastic tube. Kong is especially useless, just like me. Just like Chimpo before my wife turned him into a sex toy.
I’ll break Kong out of his zoo, I’ll put a remote control unit in his electric wheelchair and then I’ll strap a plastic explosive suicide vest on his chest, just like those towel-heads do over in Iraq.
Problem is, I’ll only be able to get at Chimpo and my wife when they’re in a handicap access area -- but that's where they'll be anyways, right?.
You heard me. See, my wife cheats. That ain’t automatically bad: Her hygiene’s always been out of left field, and she craves dick like a goat on Spanish Fly. Wants it way more than I can supply if you catch my drift. Suffice it to say I’m no Ron Jeremy.
I don’t mind as long as she’s discrete. But when I find the strange’s smelly drawers in my bathroom, or I pass guys on the stoop exiting my house still tugging up their zippers and thanking me for my wife’s skills? You can imagine what goes through a guy’s pulsing brain.
So I’m reading this article in the paper about some Chimpanzee at the local Zoo that’s had a spinal injury. Poor Chimpo’s paralyzed from the waist down, they’ve even given him a wheelchair.
I get to feeling sorry for that chimp. I mean, his only job in the world was for zoo-goers to gawk at him, and to throw occasional clumps of his own shit at them to liven things up. Now he can’t even do that minimalism. He’s as useless as me. He’ll push himself around in that wheel chair until he dies, probably in protective custody from the other chimps. See, I’d heard chimps even commit murder on their own kind; they’re advanced that way just like us humans.
That’s when it occurs to me: maybe me and Chimpo could help each other out.
I rent a second story Industrial, and break Chimpo out of the zoo, wheelchair and all. I set him up in that rental and take care of him. Get him to trust me. It ain’t fun: Did you know chimps can’t be potty trained? Chimpo has a grand time crapping his wheelchair until I finally stock up on disposable diapers.
I’ll spare you the details of our training program, but graduation goes like this: At night, when no one’s around, I take Chimpo outside into the alley and give him a boost to the fire escape. See, his lower body is useless, but that upper body of his works just fine.
He climbs up hand over hand, and then crawls through the window with his legs dragging and dead. He clambers up the bed that’s in there, reaches into the gunny sack hanging from his shoulder, and pulls out the 38 that’s in there and shoots all six of the blanks it’s loaded with. He empties that pistol full of blanks into the department store mannequin I have lying under the covers. I even have a wig on the mannequin, about the color and texture of my slut wife’s hair.
Chimpo’s easy to train, he’s smart. I teach him that if he does all those steps right and in order, that he gets a pack of smokes and an eighth of Old Overcoat to suck on. Yeah, it’s hilarious watching Chimpo chain smoke and chug at his bottle. Guess I’m just lucky he doesn’t have more expensive taste in his alcohol.
So then it’s the night. I take Chimpo to the building me and my wife lived in. I listen long enough to know she doesn’t have any gentlemen callers – I can tell because she’s a screamer, the whole building knows when she’s entertaining.
But our apartment is silent as the tomb.
Up the fire escape and through the window Chimpo goes, only this time the 38 in his bag is loaded with live rounds. I wait for the gun shots signaling my wife’s departure to hell. When those shots come I’ll fade and Chimpo will be left holding the bag, literally I suppose.
I wait, but no shots come. So I creep up the fire escape and peek in the window. It’s dim inside, but something’s happening on the bed, shapes are thrashing around. Then the screaming starts.
It’s my wife screaming, and Chimpo too, like they’re killing each other. Then the lamp next to the bed goes on and I see what’s happening in my bed.
My wife has a strap-on dildo buckled around Chimpo’s waist and she’s riding him cowgirl style; staring me right in the eyes. Fuckin monkey’s dick may be limp and paralyzed; but he knows exactly what’s happening, they’re both screaming jungle love at each other. As I cringe away, I realize she knows I’m out there, and she turned on the light deliberately, she wants me to see.
Those monkey house orgy screams mock me as I stumble away down the street.
But never say die, right? I heard about this gorilla at a Zoo in the next town over. Old Kong there has a spinal cord injury like my Chimpo, but way worse. Kong’s a quadriplegic; they’re training him to make his electric wheelchair go by blowing in a plastic tube. Kong is especially useless, just like me. Just like Chimpo before my wife turned him into a sex toy.
I’ll break Kong out of his zoo, I’ll put a remote control unit in his electric wheelchair and then I’ll strap a plastic explosive suicide vest on his chest, just like those towel-heads do over in Iraq.
Problem is, I’ll only be able to get at Chimpo and my wife when they’re in a handicap access area -- but that's where they'll be anyways, right?.
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