NO PLACE TO HIDE,
a Noah Milano short story
The look of the two crewcut gentlemen in Hugo Boss suits and red ties screamed ‘fed’ so loud they almost beat the sound of Avenged Sevenfold’s guitars on my CD player.
One of them was a Hispanic guy in his late twenties with a long, flat nose and intelligent looking dark eyes. The other one was at least ten years his senior with salt-and-pepper hair and a small puckered scar on his chin. The older one knocked against my window.
“Please open the window, sir.”
I obeyed. “Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“We’d like to talk to you for a minute.”
“Sure, no problem. What do you want to talk about? Rock music? Comic books?”
“Cut the crap. Get out of the car. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
“All right, relax. Relax.”
I left the car. As soon as I was out my head was slammed flat on the roof of my car. My hands were held behind me and cuffed. The holster at the small of my back was emptied of the Glock inside. I heard the slide being pulled to empty the chamber.
“You have a permit for this?”
“I do. Check my papers. I’m a registered security consultant and private investigator.”
“We’ll talk inside,” the older guy said and pushed me forward. While we walked towards the bungalow I was parked in front of I noticed the Hispanic guy looking around paranoid.
*****
The job that took me to that bungalow was routine enough. An insurance company asked me to do a background check on a new employee. What surprised me was that I couldn’t find much about the subject, John Spiegelman, before a year or so. Oh, there was a driving license, social security number and more of that stuff but I was missing credit card debts, parking tickets, insurance claims, phone bills. A year ago John Spiegelman was a phantom. That made me decide to follow him around a bit, check out the way he was living his life. After following him from work to a local Wallmart I ended up in this bungalow in Laurel Canyon.
*****
I was brought into the kitchen of the bungalow. There were about as many electrical appliances and cooking utensils in it as at my place. That is only a phone to call for a pizza.
On a kitchen chair was another guy in a suit. This specimen had red hair and a linebacker’s build. When he saw us enter his hand went instinctively to the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
“Take it easy, Brock. We’ve got it all under control,” the older guy said. Then he pushed me into a chair. “Let’s talk.”
“Could you take these cuffs off first? I think the chances are pretty slim I’m going to kill you all with my bare hands, not with all the firepower in this room.”
The older guy nodded. “Hernandez, uncuff him.”
The Hispanic guy freed me. I rubbed my slightly chafed wrists. Why some people were into bondage was beyond me.
The older guy put a foot on my chair, just between my legs. He leaned into me and gave me a hard stare.
“If you’re gonna kiss me please take a breathmint first,” I quipped.
He grimaced. “Funny. Hand me your papers.” I did so.
He glanced over my driver’s license and PI-license. “Milano, huh? You’re Robert Milano’s kid aren’t you? I heard about you.”
“That could well be. What are you; US Marshall, FBI, DEA, ATF? I’m betting US Marshall, right? I think I just stumbled on a Witness Protection deal. The way all of Spiegelman’s official papers are all okay but the unofficial papertrail is non-existant... All of you well-armed suited gorillas hanging around…”
“I’ll be honest with you, buddy. I really don’t like a mobster’s son stumbling in here. Chances are pretty high you’re here to hit Spiegelman. We just can’t take that risk.”
“So what are you going to do? You’ve nothing to charge me with. Are you going to kill me then?”
He seemed to consider that. Then his head exploded.
Brock and Hernandez drew their guns. I dove from my chair.
In the door opening two armed men appeared. One was dressed in a rumpled suit with a tie way too big for current fashion. His dark hair was too long and he wore a porn star moustache that made him look like he just left a Time Machine on its way back from the seventies. In his hand was a smoking 9mm Beretta.
Flanking him was a large, bald man wearing glasses that were so big they resembled skiglasses. He had on a brown leather jacket with a fur coat, a Metallica T-shirt underneath. In his hands he was carrying a shotgun.
The two feds fired their guns at the intruders while I freed the dead fed’s gun from his holster. Then I made a run for it.
The door that led outside was blocked by the intruders so I had to choose the other one. While their guns exploded and the air filled with the smell of gunpowder I crashed through the door into the living room.
John Spiegelman, a thin man with a receding hairline and hornrimmed glasses was cowering in a corner. A goodlooking thirty-something woman with dark hair was trying to work the window open, crying and screaming. That had to be his wife. I guess they’d hurt the gunshots.
The woman turned her head to me. She saw my gun and froze. “Please don’t kill me,” she pleaded.
“Relax, I’m one of the good guys,” I said. “Let me open that window for you.” I used the butt of the gun to break the window.
John Spiegelman left his corner and scrambled to the window. “I gotta get outta here!”
“Ladies first,” I said and took Mrs. Spiegelman’s hand to help her through the window. She placed a foot on the windowsill and went through.When John wanted to follow her a loud bang announced a bullet coming our way. It went through the window, just barely missing us all. I pointed my gun at the source of the bullet. The hitmen had entered.
The three of us fired in unison. I caught the big guy in the throat. Blood spurted out, showering his glasses. I felt a bullet go through my shoulder. It burned like hell and made me drop my gun. Another bullet went clean through Spiegelman’s head. Seventies Man was a pretty good shot.
I was on my knees, my hand clutching my shoulder to try and prevent me from bleeding to death. Seventies Man kicked my gun away from me and put his Beretta against my head. So this was going to be it, I was going to die for some mob snitch?
There was a sound like a whisper, then Seventies Man’s arm went slack, his Beretta slipping from his hand. He crumbled to the floor. Blood ran from his neck down his collar.
In the doorway was an old acquaintance.
“Kane!”
Dressed in a black duster, holding a silenced 9mm was my old mentor, my dad’s right hand and assassin. “You turn up at the strangest places. You’re lucky my two men are expendable enough to allow me to save your ass.”
“Spiegelman was in the Witness Protection Program because of my dad?” I asked.
Kane nodded. “He was one of your dad’s accountants and ready to testify against him. He sent us to take care of it.”
I shook my head. “I’m glad I left that life behind me.”
Kane gestured towards the dead body of the big shooter. “You seem to be doing a lousy job. No place to hide from your past, buddy. Just ask Spiegelman.”
“Fuck you,” was all I had to say about that. I am so quick-witted sometimes.“Right. Go outside. Have Mrs Spiegelman drive you to the hospital, get that shoulder taken care off. I’ll clean up after us here.”
I stumbled outside. Mrs Spiegelman was opening her car. It then came to me she didn’t know yet her husband was dead. Shit, I hate bringing bad news.
THE END
BIO: Jochem Vandersteen has been writing about Noah Milano for quite some years now and remains his favorite protagonist. For more about the author and his character visit http://www.noahmilano.tk/ or buy his novel, The White Knight Syndrome.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Powder Burn Flash #20 - Christopher J. Pimental
A Killer in the Room
Bob Stills banged open his step-son's door and stumbled in. "Wake up you little turd," he said. "We gotta roll."
Danny lay atop a bare mattress, holding his breath and squeezing his eyelids shut. Pretend to be asleep, his momma always said.
Bob, who liked to preach that he was nobody's fool, booted the mattress with a size thirteen Stanley, leaving a bloody print. "I said wake up, Goddammit, I know you ain't sleepin."
Danny opened his eyes, saw his step-father's bloody hands and immediately wriggled to the wall. "I didn't hear anything, I didn't hear anything," he said, bowing his head the way his momma had taught him.
Bob gulped the remnants from a 20 ounce Busch then dropped the can to the floor. Bending forward, hands on knees, he released a barley-flavored burp in his step-son's face. "I didn't ask if you God damn heard anything, did I?"
Danny, whose creamy skin easily bruised, and whose ribs tended to protrude, shook his head from side to side and said "No." Just agree with him, Momma always warned.
"Damn skippy, boy," said Bob, straightening up. He wiped his thick hands on his T-shirt, further smearing his wife-beater BVD. Danny could not help but stare.
Catching the little runt's gaze, Bob booted the mattress again. "What are you lookin' at?"
Danny darted his eyes down and said "Nothing" as softly as possible.
Bob nodded and puffed his chest. "That's right, boy. Nothin'" Then, "You piss in the bed again tonight, peckerwood?"
Danny shook his head but Bob ignored the denial. "I bet you did. How many nights in a row now, little pisser?" Danny continued to shake his head. "I want momma," he said. He removed his blanket and began to get up. Bob kicked the mattress again and told him to "sit the fuck down." Danny wilted back to the wall, pulled the blanket close and turned his head away. Even when he didn't wear steel-tipped shit kickers, Bob stood 6-feet tall and weighed 200-pounds.
"Where's momma?" Danny whimpered.
Bob turned, glanced into the hall, then back at his step-son.
Smirking, he said, "She's around."
Danny glanced at the open door, which seemed miles away. "Is she in the living room?"
Bob swallowed a burp then nodded. "Yup. She sure is."
The boy gazed into the hall, aching to bolt, not daring to move. "I want momma."
Bob tilted his head to the left. For a moment, he considered kicking his Danny in the jaw.
"I ought to beat the skirt offa you, little mama's boy!" He yanked the blanket from Danny's clutch. Danny closed his eyes and raised his hands to his face. Bob continued, "Ed Cook's boy is a year younger than you and he already weighs a full 70 pounds. And his kid don't piss the bed!"
Bob threw the blanket aside and pinched Danny's ear, pulling him from the wall. When he spoke again, the stink of beer-breath prickled Danny's nose.
"Maybe if you woulda stopped pissing in your bed, your momma could be in here right now. Maybe if you didn't make so many problems, that bitch wouldn't have made problems for me. This is all your fault you little shit. " He thumped the boy's head into the wall. "Don't ever forget it."
Danny curled his knees to his chest, hugging them with arms that were as thin as reeds, quite the opposite of his step-father's. "I want momma," he repeated. Tears smeared his face.
"Forget about your momma, boy. She ain't a factor in my plans no more." As if to finalize his point, Bob turned and staggered to Danny's tiny bathroom.
Before long, Danny heard the bowl water splash to life. His breathing quickened as he got off the bed and darted to his closet. There, he opened his Snoopy book bag and took "it" out as carefully as his momma had instructed.
Bob, recalling why he had awakened the little shit in the first place, leaned backwards and shouted to Danny. "Get some clothes on, you little shit. Or I'll leave you here."
When he heard the gun cock behind him, his gut clenched. Turning, he said, "What the fuck?" and fumbled to tuck his manhood into his blue-green work trousers. He never got the chance.
Danny pulled the hair-trigger just like his momma had taught him. Bob fell backwards, his free hand fluttering to his chest. He ended up on the toilet, his legs splayed, his manhood still in his hand. "You little turd," he grunted.
Danny shot him again and again, until the cylinder clicked dry. "I want momma," he repeated then dropped the gun and scurried to the living room.
Just before Bob Stills died, he heard his step-son scream like a little girl. Little peckerwood, he thought.
Bio:
Christopher Pimental
Former International Surveillance and Under Cover Investigator
Miami, South America, Carribean
www.myspace.com/christopherpimental
Present: Writer & Self Employed
Bob Stills banged open his step-son's door and stumbled in. "Wake up you little turd," he said. "We gotta roll."
Danny lay atop a bare mattress, holding his breath and squeezing his eyelids shut. Pretend to be asleep, his momma always said.
Bob, who liked to preach that he was nobody's fool, booted the mattress with a size thirteen Stanley, leaving a bloody print. "I said wake up, Goddammit, I know you ain't sleepin."
Danny opened his eyes, saw his step-father's bloody hands and immediately wriggled to the wall. "I didn't hear anything, I didn't hear anything," he said, bowing his head the way his momma had taught him.
Bob gulped the remnants from a 20 ounce Busch then dropped the can to the floor. Bending forward, hands on knees, he released a barley-flavored burp in his step-son's face. "I didn't ask if you God damn heard anything, did I?"
Danny, whose creamy skin easily bruised, and whose ribs tended to protrude, shook his head from side to side and said "No." Just agree with him, Momma always warned.
"Damn skippy, boy," said Bob, straightening up. He wiped his thick hands on his T-shirt, further smearing his wife-beater BVD. Danny could not help but stare.
Catching the little runt's gaze, Bob booted the mattress again. "What are you lookin' at?"
Danny darted his eyes down and said "Nothing" as softly as possible.
Bob nodded and puffed his chest. "That's right, boy. Nothin'" Then, "You piss in the bed again tonight, peckerwood?"
Danny shook his head but Bob ignored the denial. "I bet you did. How many nights in a row now, little pisser?" Danny continued to shake his head. "I want momma," he said. He removed his blanket and began to get up. Bob kicked the mattress again and told him to "sit the fuck down." Danny wilted back to the wall, pulled the blanket close and turned his head away. Even when he didn't wear steel-tipped shit kickers, Bob stood 6-feet tall and weighed 200-pounds.
"Where's momma?" Danny whimpered.
Bob turned, glanced into the hall, then back at his step-son.
Smirking, he said, "She's around."
Danny glanced at the open door, which seemed miles away. "Is she in the living room?"
Bob swallowed a burp then nodded. "Yup. She sure is."
The boy gazed into the hall, aching to bolt, not daring to move. "I want momma."
Bob tilted his head to the left. For a moment, he considered kicking his Danny in the jaw.
"I ought to beat the skirt offa you, little mama's boy!" He yanked the blanket from Danny's clutch. Danny closed his eyes and raised his hands to his face. Bob continued, "Ed Cook's boy is a year younger than you and he already weighs a full 70 pounds. And his kid don't piss the bed!"
Bob threw the blanket aside and pinched Danny's ear, pulling him from the wall. When he spoke again, the stink of beer-breath prickled Danny's nose.
"Maybe if you woulda stopped pissing in your bed, your momma could be in here right now. Maybe if you didn't make so many problems, that bitch wouldn't have made problems for me. This is all your fault you little shit. " He thumped the boy's head into the wall. "Don't ever forget it."
Danny curled his knees to his chest, hugging them with arms that were as thin as reeds, quite the opposite of his step-father's. "I want momma," he repeated. Tears smeared his face.
"Forget about your momma, boy. She ain't a factor in my plans no more." As if to finalize his point, Bob turned and staggered to Danny's tiny bathroom.
Before long, Danny heard the bowl water splash to life. His breathing quickened as he got off the bed and darted to his closet. There, he opened his Snoopy book bag and took "it" out as carefully as his momma had instructed.
Bob, recalling why he had awakened the little shit in the first place, leaned backwards and shouted to Danny. "Get some clothes on, you little shit. Or I'll leave you here."
When he heard the gun cock behind him, his gut clenched. Turning, he said, "What the fuck?" and fumbled to tuck his manhood into his blue-green work trousers. He never got the chance.
Danny pulled the hair-trigger just like his momma had taught him. Bob fell backwards, his free hand fluttering to his chest. He ended up on the toilet, his legs splayed, his manhood still in his hand. "You little turd," he grunted.
Danny shot him again and again, until the cylinder clicked dry. "I want momma," he repeated then dropped the gun and scurried to the living room.
Just before Bob Stills died, he heard his step-son scream like a little girl. Little peckerwood, he thought.
Bio:
Christopher Pimental
Former International Surveillance and Under Cover Investigator
Miami, South America, Carribean
www.myspace.com/christopherpimental
Present: Writer & Self Employed
Powder Burn Flash #19 - r2
Deadheads
For years, the government had kept a lid on the whole zombie thing. Whenever one was spotted, Zombie Action Police quickly snatched up, beheaded and ashed the zombie remains.
Most people never saw a zombie. Most people didn’t believe in zombies. Zombies were “urban legends”.
But when the cities got too crowded, the zombies went nuts. Zombies were everywhere. Their numbers swelled exponentially.
Maryanne Mason the Senator from New York became one of the biggest zombie “hawks.” This was considered quite a change of direction from her normally left-leaning politics.
“Finally, you get to take out your aggression on men,” her husband, Tom, said in his fey little voice.
“Zombies are women too, although once zombification sets in, they act like men,” she replied.
“Touché,” he said.
“Of course that probably isn’t an insult to you.”
“With our pre-nup, you can call me whatever you want. Most people call me rich. I call myself set for life.”
She devoted herself to the zombie problem.
She criss-crossed the country speaking on behalf of the Live Human Self-Protection Act, which gave attractive tax breaks for purchasing firearms. Headshots were the most effective means of self-defense against zombies.
But still the zombies multiplied.
Then came the Zombie Control Act, which made zombie hunting legal. Maryanne Mason co-sponsored the bill.
On the day it passed, she walked into the study of their spacious home in upper-state New York.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” Tom said, as he quickly turned off the computer. Porn again.
“By the way, congrats. The "Let's Kill Zombies" legislation was brilliant. Even the conservative pundits are calling it a very smart political move. There’s talk of a presidential run, I hear. It would just be too delicious to party in Lincoln’s bedroom,” he said.
“Yes, I feel the bill was smart in many ways. I worded it very carefully. Note the phrase: ‘suspected of being a zombie,’” she said. She pulled the gun out of her purse and pulled the trigger. His head became a fine red mist.
END
Bio: r2 works by day in the corporate world and by night in the world of dreams. He has been published in Muzzle Flash.
r2
randyrohn@sigecom.net
For years, the government had kept a lid on the whole zombie thing. Whenever one was spotted, Zombie Action Police quickly snatched up, beheaded and ashed the zombie remains.
Most people never saw a zombie. Most people didn’t believe in zombies. Zombies were “urban legends”.
But when the cities got too crowded, the zombies went nuts. Zombies were everywhere. Their numbers swelled exponentially.
Maryanne Mason the Senator from New York became one of the biggest zombie “hawks.” This was considered quite a change of direction from her normally left-leaning politics.
“Finally, you get to take out your aggression on men,” her husband, Tom, said in his fey little voice.
“Zombies are women too, although once zombification sets in, they act like men,” she replied.
“Touché,” he said.
“Of course that probably isn’t an insult to you.”
“With our pre-nup, you can call me whatever you want. Most people call me rich. I call myself set for life.”
She devoted herself to the zombie problem.
She criss-crossed the country speaking on behalf of the Live Human Self-Protection Act, which gave attractive tax breaks for purchasing firearms. Headshots were the most effective means of self-defense against zombies.
But still the zombies multiplied.
Then came the Zombie Control Act, which made zombie hunting legal. Maryanne Mason co-sponsored the bill.
On the day it passed, she walked into the study of their spacious home in upper-state New York.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” Tom said, as he quickly turned off the computer. Porn again.
“By the way, congrats. The "Let's Kill Zombies" legislation was brilliant. Even the conservative pundits are calling it a very smart political move. There’s talk of a presidential run, I hear. It would just be too delicious to party in Lincoln’s bedroom,” he said.
“Yes, I feel the bill was smart in many ways. I worded it very carefully. Note the phrase: ‘suspected of being a zombie,’” she said. She pulled the gun out of her purse and pulled the trigger. His head became a fine red mist.
END
Bio: r2 works by day in the corporate world and by night in the world of dreams. He has been published in Muzzle Flash.
r2
randyrohn@sigecom.net
Friday, March 16, 2007
Powder Burn Flash # 18 - Shannan A. Gros
Nighttime Intruders
My eyes slowly opened as I starred into the night. I was awoken by someone whispering from inside the room. When I sat up I realized what was happening.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded. Brandee began screaming on the bed next to me.
The man standing at the foot of the bed did not respond, he just stood there with his pistol pointed at my head. There were two other men in the room; they were holding Brandee down on the bed. All three of them were wearing masks to cover there faces.
“Shut up bitch, before I kill you.” The smaller of the two men said as he covered Brandee’s mouth with his hand.
“Get up”, the man with the gun ordered of me. His voice sounded vaguely familiar.
I stood up next to the bed and began walking toward the man. “Do you know who I am? I will find out who you are, you bet you asses I will. And when I do, I am personally—“
“Shut up, all you do is talk shit. Now come here!”
Standing several feet in front of the man with the gun it finally hit me, “Jacob Bourgeois? What the hell are you doing, you’re like a brother to me?”
Jacob took off his mask, “yea, I was.”
As I lunged at Jacob, I was struck from behind and fell to the ground.
When I grabbed the back of my head I felt the warm blood begin to ooze through my fingers. I laid there for a second wondering what just happened. When I turned over, Brandee was standing next to Jacob.
“What the hell happened” Brandee asked looking at Jacob.
“I told you he would recognize my voice. I said I would do it if he did not know it was me. When he said my name I froze.”
“Just give me the gun; we need to hurry up.”
Jacob handed her the gun, and kissed her on the lips. She turned and looked down at me, the moonlight glistened across the bruise under her right eye.
“You’ll never beat another woman again.” She whispered as she pulled the trigger.
THE END
Bio: Shannan has several flash pieces awaiting publication with Flashshots e-zine and DZ Allen’s Muzzle Flash. He has been recently published in the Nefarious – tales of mystery e-zine. Shannan also enjoys spending time with his family and teaching himself to play guitar.
My eyes slowly opened as I starred into the night. I was awoken by someone whispering from inside the room. When I sat up I realized what was happening.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded. Brandee began screaming on the bed next to me.
The man standing at the foot of the bed did not respond, he just stood there with his pistol pointed at my head. There were two other men in the room; they were holding Brandee down on the bed. All three of them were wearing masks to cover there faces.
“Shut up bitch, before I kill you.” The smaller of the two men said as he covered Brandee’s mouth with his hand.
“Get up”, the man with the gun ordered of me. His voice sounded vaguely familiar.
I stood up next to the bed and began walking toward the man. “Do you know who I am? I will find out who you are, you bet you asses I will. And when I do, I am personally—“
“Shut up, all you do is talk shit. Now come here!”
Standing several feet in front of the man with the gun it finally hit me, “Jacob Bourgeois? What the hell are you doing, you’re like a brother to me?”
Jacob took off his mask, “yea, I was.”
As I lunged at Jacob, I was struck from behind and fell to the ground.
When I grabbed the back of my head I felt the warm blood begin to ooze through my fingers. I laid there for a second wondering what just happened. When I turned over, Brandee was standing next to Jacob.
“What the hell happened” Brandee asked looking at Jacob.
“I told you he would recognize my voice. I said I would do it if he did not know it was me. When he said my name I froze.”
“Just give me the gun; we need to hurry up.”
Jacob handed her the gun, and kissed her on the lips. She turned and looked down at me, the moonlight glistened across the bruise under her right eye.
“You’ll never beat another woman again.” She whispered as she pulled the trigger.
THE END
Bio: Shannan has several flash pieces awaiting publication with Flashshots e-zine and DZ Allen’s Muzzle Flash. He has been recently published in the Nefarious – tales of mystery e-zine. Shannan also enjoys spending time with his family and teaching himself to play guitar.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Powder Burn Flash # 17 - E. A. Cook
Royalty
Shep's tracks were seeping, causing his left forearm to stick to the sleeve of the Member's Only jacket that he just scored from the Catholic Charities clothing room. Carefully, he rolled both sleeves up to his elbows, and checked the damage.
"Infected. Shit.," he mumbled, as he made his way down Rush street, looking for a restroom to clean his wounds. He cursed himself for picking a "cool" jacket over a warm one. November nights in Chicago held nothing but bone chilling cold for drugstore cowboys like Shep.
"But damn, I look good," he said to nobody.
A neon beer sign caught his eye a few yards up the sidewalk. As he twitched closer to the door of the bar, a meth-induced tremor hit his heart hard. He stumbled side-ways, reaching for the cold brick wall for support.
Shep bent over to catch his breath as a casually dressed couple stepped out of the bar, laughing at a private joke. Standing up straight, leaning against the wall, Shep tried to look casual as the couple turned in his direction, and passed him with barely a glance. He didn't know the bar. It was a few bocks from his usual stomping grounds, but in his jacket, and matching denim shirt and pants from the thrift store, Shep felt confident that he would blend in as he stepped though the door of the dimly lit lounge.
The door slapped shut behind him. Hard. Startled, Shep turned towards the sound, and a vessel blew in his brain. Blinded, he fell to his knees. His heart whacked his ribs double-time, and he screamed, "I'm the King motherfuckers!".
Stunned, everyone in the bar froze. Hands over his heart, he pitched forward on his face, breaking his nose and three teeth. "I'm the King! Kiss my ring bitches!" The words bubbling from a mouth filled with blood. As the bartender raced around the counter towards him, Shep suddenly, violently, convulsed. The stroke caused a siezure that made his feet , head and arms tap out a staccato beat on the floor.
Five seconds later the meth took his breath.
BIO: I'm a Private Investigator from a different background than most, ( which is to say I spent three years behind the walls. Youthfull indiscretions you know. My peers consider me a brother from another mother. I've posted almost thirty non-fiction autobiographical blogs, that read like fiction, on myspace. My url is www.myspace.com/eacookinvestigations
Shep's tracks were seeping, causing his left forearm to stick to the sleeve of the Member's Only jacket that he just scored from the Catholic Charities clothing room. Carefully, he rolled both sleeves up to his elbows, and checked the damage.
"Infected. Shit.," he mumbled, as he made his way down Rush street, looking for a restroom to clean his wounds. He cursed himself for picking a "cool" jacket over a warm one. November nights in Chicago held nothing but bone chilling cold for drugstore cowboys like Shep.
"But damn, I look good," he said to nobody.
A neon beer sign caught his eye a few yards up the sidewalk. As he twitched closer to the door of the bar, a meth-induced tremor hit his heart hard. He stumbled side-ways, reaching for the cold brick wall for support.
Shep bent over to catch his breath as a casually dressed couple stepped out of the bar, laughing at a private joke. Standing up straight, leaning against the wall, Shep tried to look casual as the couple turned in his direction, and passed him with barely a glance. He didn't know the bar. It was a few bocks from his usual stomping grounds, but in his jacket, and matching denim shirt and pants from the thrift store, Shep felt confident that he would blend in as he stepped though the door of the dimly lit lounge.
The door slapped shut behind him. Hard. Startled, Shep turned towards the sound, and a vessel blew in his brain. Blinded, he fell to his knees. His heart whacked his ribs double-time, and he screamed, "I'm the King motherfuckers!".
Stunned, everyone in the bar froze. Hands over his heart, he pitched forward on his face, breaking his nose and three teeth. "I'm the King! Kiss my ring bitches!" The words bubbling from a mouth filled with blood. As the bartender raced around the counter towards him, Shep suddenly, violently, convulsed. The stroke caused a siezure that made his feet , head and arms tap out a staccato beat on the floor.
Five seconds later the meth took his breath.
BIO: I'm a Private Investigator from a different background than most, ( which is to say I spent three years behind the walls. Youthfull indiscretions you know. My peers consider me a brother from another mother. I've posted almost thirty non-fiction autobiographical blogs, that read like fiction, on myspace. My url is www.myspace.com/eacookinvestigations
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Powder Burn Flash #16 - Clair Dickson
LORD OF HIS DOMAIN
A Bo Fexler Short Story
by Clair Dickson
"He moved out eight months ago. I've hardly seen him since," my client, Deanna Terp explained, pausing to sip her coffee.
My name is Bo Fexler; I'm tall, pretty and have a speech impairment. In spite of all that, I work as a private eye. A quiet private eye. I let other people do the talking.
She continued, "He did well enough in school. He got the factory job as soon as he turned eighteen. He makes decent money. He's never been in trouble."
"As far are you know," I commented, like holding a flame under kindling to see how dry it was.
The kindling-- client-- smoldered, but didn't ignite. "Maybe, but really Wayne didn't usually go out. Not with women, not even with other guys. He can't get in much trouble at home."
"What did he do with his time?"
"Played video games. Probably too much, to be honest."
"What makes you think he's in trouble?"
"His phone's busy all the time. When I get through, he doesn't want to talk. He won't tell me what's going on. When I go over, he doesn’t have time."
"Did he leave anything here when he moved?"
"Yeah. I'll show you his room."
She stood in the doorway while I sorted through papers, old notebooks, and homework assignments. I found several pages that were potentially useful and pocketed them. Then, as it was nearing nine that night, I shook hands with my client and went home.
Or rather, went to work. With the information I got from Wayne's room, I came up with the name of an online multiplayer game. There was one character he had the most notes, illustrations and stats of. I called my friend Axel for some help, and he set me up to join the online world where I hoped to find Wayne.
I wandered around at first, then, I started asking for Lord Xeon-- the character Wayne had seemed most interested in on paper. I found that Lord Xeon often hunted in a particular area of this online world, and marched my character off after him.
As I went, I continued to ask questions about this Lord Xeon character. How long was he usually on? How high of a character was he? Did people like him?
When I got my PI license, I never would have expected to conduct interviews online via video game. But, it was extraordinarily successful. People were very familiar with Lord Xeon. He was a top level character that many noobs would go to for extra items, spells, and advice. He was kind to most, but willing to take out anyone who gave him any crap.
As I waited for my character to ride a boat across some ocean, I flipped through the case file I was building. I stopped to linger on a photo of the short, pimple-faced, fat kid with glasses standing with his mother.
He logged on usually at 5:30pm . Barely a half hour after his shift at the plant would end. He logged off between one and two in the morning; however, he was still there when my character walked into the hut where he hung out.
I brought up my text menu. "Wayne Terp?" I asked in a private chat.
"I require the name of my inquisitor," he typed back, his font large and red.
"Bo Fexler. Private investigator."
"What can I do for you?"
"Are you really Wayne Terp?"
"I am."
"Birth date?"
" January 23, 1973 ."
"Your mother's worried about you."
"..."
"Could I get some kind of proof that you're okay? For your mother."
"More, I presume, than just my word."
"Yeah."
"..."
"What about your game log. Print it off for me. I'll pick it up tomorrow afternoon when you get home."
"..."
"What's the problem, Wayne ?"
"She won't understand. She doesn't think I should spend so much time on the computer. That's why I moved out."
"You have your own place. What can she do?"
"..."
"?"
"I never thought about that. I'll print it out for you."
"Thank you."
Logging off, I checked the clock. Three in the morning. The next-- or rather-- later that morning, I called Axel and made a less-than-ethical request. I needed him to hack into game and email me Wayne's chat log.
The email didn't arrive until after I'd gone to Wayne's for the game log he'd printed off. Wayne put in hours and hours on the game. The chat log told a different story. A story that included many deals between Lord Xeon and other players. Deals that exchanged in game items and spells for cybersex.
I used the 'find' function to search for other references and instances of cybersex. Only, I found that it didn't always remain on the internet. There were half a dozen accounts in that many months of times that Wayne had driven to some hotel over the weekend in exchange for real-live sex. Didn't matter if they were men or women. I took out my highlighter and started marking the chat log.
Then, I wrote up the report and prepared to deliver it to my client. She took it about as well as she would have taken a prostitute's solicitation. Or if I was telling her that her son was a prostitute.
"You have to be mistaken! Not my son."
I tapped the thick binder with my report and the chat log. "Believe what you want, ma'am."
"I'm not paying."
"Then, I'll see you in court."
"I'm sure you're wrong."
"Why?"
"He's-- he's not like that. He's a quiet boy. Shy."
"But online, he can be whatever he wants. No body can see what he looks like. In real life he doesn't have the super model body. He's just average. When he's this Lord Xeon character he plays, he's important. He has power. He can get sex. He's got vast fortunes of virtual money. He works to pay the bills. He plays this game to live."
END
BIO: Clair spends her time writin short stories for bitter PI, Bo Fexler, when she's not teaching. Which isn't a lot of time, unless she skimps on sleep. And she does. Readers can now follow Bo Fexler across the dark alleys of the internet at http://www.bofexler.blogspot.com/.
A Bo Fexler Short Story
by Clair Dickson
"He moved out eight months ago. I've hardly seen him since," my client, Deanna Terp explained, pausing to sip her coffee.
My name is Bo Fexler; I'm tall, pretty and have a speech impairment. In spite of all that, I work as a private eye. A quiet private eye. I let other people do the talking.
She continued, "He did well enough in school. He got the factory job as soon as he turned eighteen. He makes decent money. He's never been in trouble."
"As far are you know," I commented, like holding a flame under kindling to see how dry it was.
The kindling-- client-- smoldered, but didn't ignite. "Maybe, but really Wayne didn't usually go out. Not with women, not even with other guys. He can't get in much trouble at home."
"What did he do with his time?"
"Played video games. Probably too much, to be honest."
"What makes you think he's in trouble?"
"His phone's busy all the time. When I get through, he doesn't want to talk. He won't tell me what's going on. When I go over, he doesn’t have time."
"Did he leave anything here when he moved?"
"Yeah. I'll show you his room."
She stood in the doorway while I sorted through papers, old notebooks, and homework assignments. I found several pages that were potentially useful and pocketed them. Then, as it was nearing nine that night, I shook hands with my client and went home.
Or rather, went to work. With the information I got from Wayne's room, I came up with the name of an online multiplayer game. There was one character he had the most notes, illustrations and stats of. I called my friend Axel for some help, and he set me up to join the online world where I hoped to find Wayne.
I wandered around at first, then, I started asking for Lord Xeon-- the character Wayne had seemed most interested in on paper. I found that Lord Xeon often hunted in a particular area of this online world, and marched my character off after him.
As I went, I continued to ask questions about this Lord Xeon character. How long was he usually on? How high of a character was he? Did people like him?
When I got my PI license, I never would have expected to conduct interviews online via video game. But, it was extraordinarily successful. People were very familiar with Lord Xeon. He was a top level character that many noobs would go to for extra items, spells, and advice. He was kind to most, but willing to take out anyone who gave him any crap.
As I waited for my character to ride a boat across some ocean, I flipped through the case file I was building. I stopped to linger on a photo of the short, pimple-faced, fat kid with glasses standing with his mother.
He logged on usually at 5:30pm . Barely a half hour after his shift at the plant would end. He logged off between one and two in the morning; however, he was still there when my character walked into the hut where he hung out.
I brought up my text menu. "Wayne Terp?" I asked in a private chat.
"I require the name of my inquisitor," he typed back, his font large and red.
"Bo Fexler. Private investigator."
"What can I do for you?"
"Are you really Wayne Terp?"
"I am."
"Birth date?"
" January 23, 1973 ."
"Your mother's worried about you."
"..."
"Could I get some kind of proof that you're okay? For your mother."
"More, I presume, than just my word."
"Yeah."
"..."
"What about your game log. Print it off for me. I'll pick it up tomorrow afternoon when you get home."
"..."
"What's the problem, Wayne ?"
"She won't understand. She doesn't think I should spend so much time on the computer. That's why I moved out."
"You have your own place. What can she do?"
"..."
"?"
"I never thought about that. I'll print it out for you."
"Thank you."
Logging off, I checked the clock. Three in the morning. The next-- or rather-- later that morning, I called Axel and made a less-than-ethical request. I needed him to hack into game and email me Wayne's chat log.
The email didn't arrive until after I'd gone to Wayne's for the game log he'd printed off. Wayne put in hours and hours on the game. The chat log told a different story. A story that included many deals between Lord Xeon and other players. Deals that exchanged in game items and spells for cybersex.
I used the 'find' function to search for other references and instances of cybersex. Only, I found that it didn't always remain on the internet. There were half a dozen accounts in that many months of times that Wayne had driven to some hotel over the weekend in exchange for real-live sex. Didn't matter if they were men or women. I took out my highlighter and started marking the chat log.
Then, I wrote up the report and prepared to deliver it to my client. She took it about as well as she would have taken a prostitute's solicitation. Or if I was telling her that her son was a prostitute.
"You have to be mistaken! Not my son."
I tapped the thick binder with my report and the chat log. "Believe what you want, ma'am."
"I'm not paying."
"Then, I'll see you in court."
"I'm sure you're wrong."
"Why?"
"He's-- he's not like that. He's a quiet boy. Shy."
"But online, he can be whatever he wants. No body can see what he looks like. In real life he doesn't have the super model body. He's just average. When he's this Lord Xeon character he plays, he's important. He has power. He can get sex. He's got vast fortunes of virtual money. He works to pay the bills. He plays this game to live."
END
BIO: Clair spends her time writin short stories for bitter PI, Bo Fexler, when she's not teaching. Which isn't a lot of time, unless she skimps on sleep. And she does. Readers can now follow Bo Fexler across the dark alleys of the internet at http://www.bofexler.blogspot.com/.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Powder Burn Flash #15 - JP Anderson
Mr. Right Now
The stranger hunched over a bowl of chili, watching the waitress who caught his eye when he walked in to the roadside diner. A bit of chili stuck to his lower lip and he quickly wiped it away. He worried that she might notice, but amidst the flannel-clad truckers, bearded transients, and other pinheads frequenting this shit stain, she would hardly notice a bit of chili on a stranger’s lip.
He studied her as she worked. She seemed to be on autopilot. She must have spent years walking the same dirty linoleum course. She shuffled from the cigarette stained bar to each torn red vinyl booth seat, then back. Hell, she could probably recite the whole menu from memory by now. But something in her eyes told him she did not belong here. Something told him that she was just surviving a job that barely paid her rent. She was waiting for Mr. Right to walk through the door, take her by the hand, and lead her off to a better place, just like in the movies. She had given up on her dream because Mr. Right never did walk through those dirty glass doors.
His stomach knotted at the idea and he gave up on his chili. Not today, he thought. Today, he will be her Mr. Right. He pushed the bowl away and stood up. The stranger pulled a black .45 from inside his coat, and racked the slide.
“Alright you motherfuckers, nobody move!” he yelled. Nobody moved. “This here is what we call ‘armed robbery.’ Everyone reach slowly for your wallets and just lay your cash on the tables.”
He remained by his stool and watched everyone laying out their cash. One particularly large trucker was moving more slowly than the others. Instead of a wallet, he produced a large revolver. Before he could get it leveled, the window behind him exploded in a shower of tinted glass.
“You can just put that piece down along with your cash, trucker. I’ll be taking that, too.” The trucker complied, laying the pistol on the table with a shaky hand and reaching for his wallet with the other. He looked like he might cry.
“Anyone else feeling stupid? I guarantee you, my dog barks louder than yours, ” he waited for a response, “that’s what I thought.”
He walked a circuit from the bar to each table, placing the money in his jacket pocket. He put the revolver in the back of his pants, and stopped at the cash register. A thin greasy-haired man in a shirt and tie stood motionless behind it. His hands were in the air and his mouth was slightly open. His nametag read, “Wade – Shift Manager.”
“Open...the fucking...register...Wade, ” he said, leaning in and almost fogging up the manager’s black-rimmed glasses. He felt like he was talking to a child.
Wade fumbled with it, his hands shaking, until finally the drawer opened with a satisfying ching! Wade stood back and put his hands back up.
“Wade, ” said the stranger, “will you please put the money on the counter? I really don’t want to have to shoot you in the face.” Wade nodded and began sliding the bills out of the drawer. “And don’t forget the fifties and hundreds under the drawer.”
As Wade continued stacking cash on the counter, the stranger turned his attention back to the waitress. Like everyone else, she had placed her cash on the counter and did not move. She was still holding a coffee pot and looking at the floor.
“You, ” he said to her as he swiped the untidy stack of bills from the counter. She looked at him tentatively, moving her eyes but keeping her head down. “You wanna spend the rest of your life holding a pot of coffee?”
She raised her head and looked around, first at the nameless rabble of regulars, then at Wade, then back at the stranger.
“Chance of a lifetime, ” he said, holding out his hand.
Her face went slack and she set the coffee pot on the counter. She didn’t say a word, just tossed her order book at Wade’s feet as she passed him.
She took the stranger's hand and they walked silently through the doors. He slammed the door of the 1972 Plymouth Barracuda and twisted the key in the ignition before she even got her seatbelt fastened.
“I may not be Mr. Right, ” he told her as the 426 Hemi thundered to life and he put it in gear, “But I’m Mr. Right Now.”
Bio: JP Anderson writes fiction and social commentary as an escape from his 6' by 6' modular prison cell. He has been banned from 8 shopping malls, 16 churches, and two small European nations for being offensive, immoral, and "posessing a rather offensive odour." Check out his myspace at www.myspace.com/moebiscuits.
The stranger hunched over a bowl of chili, watching the waitress who caught his eye when he walked in to the roadside diner. A bit of chili stuck to his lower lip and he quickly wiped it away. He worried that she might notice, but amidst the flannel-clad truckers, bearded transients, and other pinheads frequenting this shit stain, she would hardly notice a bit of chili on a stranger’s lip.
He studied her as she worked. She seemed to be on autopilot. She must have spent years walking the same dirty linoleum course. She shuffled from the cigarette stained bar to each torn red vinyl booth seat, then back. Hell, she could probably recite the whole menu from memory by now. But something in her eyes told him she did not belong here. Something told him that she was just surviving a job that barely paid her rent. She was waiting for Mr. Right to walk through the door, take her by the hand, and lead her off to a better place, just like in the movies. She had given up on her dream because Mr. Right never did walk through those dirty glass doors.
His stomach knotted at the idea and he gave up on his chili. Not today, he thought. Today, he will be her Mr. Right. He pushed the bowl away and stood up. The stranger pulled a black .45 from inside his coat, and racked the slide.
“Alright you motherfuckers, nobody move!” he yelled. Nobody moved. “This here is what we call ‘armed robbery.’ Everyone reach slowly for your wallets and just lay your cash on the tables.”
He remained by his stool and watched everyone laying out their cash. One particularly large trucker was moving more slowly than the others. Instead of a wallet, he produced a large revolver. Before he could get it leveled, the window behind him exploded in a shower of tinted glass.
“You can just put that piece down along with your cash, trucker. I’ll be taking that, too.” The trucker complied, laying the pistol on the table with a shaky hand and reaching for his wallet with the other. He looked like he might cry.
“Anyone else feeling stupid? I guarantee you, my dog barks louder than yours, ” he waited for a response, “that’s what I thought.”
He walked a circuit from the bar to each table, placing the money in his jacket pocket. He put the revolver in the back of his pants, and stopped at the cash register. A thin greasy-haired man in a shirt and tie stood motionless behind it. His hands were in the air and his mouth was slightly open. His nametag read, “Wade – Shift Manager.”
“Open...the fucking...register...Wade, ” he said, leaning in and almost fogging up the manager’s black-rimmed glasses. He felt like he was talking to a child.
Wade fumbled with it, his hands shaking, until finally the drawer opened with a satisfying ching! Wade stood back and put his hands back up.
“Wade, ” said the stranger, “will you please put the money on the counter? I really don’t want to have to shoot you in the face.” Wade nodded and began sliding the bills out of the drawer. “And don’t forget the fifties and hundreds under the drawer.”
As Wade continued stacking cash on the counter, the stranger turned his attention back to the waitress. Like everyone else, she had placed her cash on the counter and did not move. She was still holding a coffee pot and looking at the floor.
“You, ” he said to her as he swiped the untidy stack of bills from the counter. She looked at him tentatively, moving her eyes but keeping her head down. “You wanna spend the rest of your life holding a pot of coffee?”
She raised her head and looked around, first at the nameless rabble of regulars, then at Wade, then back at the stranger.
“Chance of a lifetime, ” he said, holding out his hand.
Her face went slack and she set the coffee pot on the counter. She didn’t say a word, just tossed her order book at Wade’s feet as she passed him.
She took the stranger's hand and they walked silently through the doors. He slammed the door of the 1972 Plymouth Barracuda and twisted the key in the ignition before she even got her seatbelt fastened.
“I may not be Mr. Right, ” he told her as the 426 Hemi thundered to life and he put it in gear, “But I’m Mr. Right Now.”
Bio: JP Anderson writes fiction and social commentary as an escape from his 6' by 6' modular prison cell. He has been banned from 8 shopping malls, 16 churches, and two small European nations for being offensive, immoral, and "posessing a rather offensive odour." Check out his myspace at www.myspace.com/moebiscuits.
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