Bad Influence
The little girl in the yard wore only a t-shirt and a diaper. Maria thought that was weird, because it was cold even though the sun was out. Cold enough that Maria had even gone back inside her house, without being told, to get her jacket.
"Hi," she said to the little girl, walking up the driveway and into the yard. "Where's your mommy?"
Sucking her thumb, the girl watched her. She didn't answer, didn't even make silly words like Maria's baby cousins would.
"Is your mommy using the computer?" Maria sat on a pink tricycle. "Mine is. Did she send you outside, too?" She pedaled the trike, but her knees kept hitting the handlebars. She got off and began to wander around the yard. "You sure don't have many toys. What's your name?"
Still the girl kept quiet. But she followed Maria, and that gave Maria an idea. She remembered her cousins liked to throw rocks in the little stream down the road. "Come with me," she told the girl. "Let's do something fun."
They walked together down the dusty dirt road. Maria made sure to hold the girl's hand, as she had seen her mommy and aunt do with her cousins. She wished Mommy could see what good care she was taking of the little girl. She always asked Mommy for a little sister to play with, but Mommy always said no. She asked if she could help with her cousins, who often came to visit, but Mommy said no to that too. "You're too little," she told Maria. Once Maria's Aunt Harriet had added, "Besides, she'll probably—" Maria hadn't heard what her aunt thought she would probably do, but Mommy had laughed and nodded. Neither of them would look at Maria.
She and the little girl reached the river. Maria remembered her cousins liked to stand on the huge rocks that kept cars from crashing down into the water. "Stand up here." She helped the little girl climb onto the biggest rock. "Now I'll find some rocks for you to throw."
The girl smiled when Maria returned with two fist-sized rocks, the size her cousins liked. "Now you throw them in the water, like this." Maria demonstrated with her hand.
The girl threw the first one. It landed somewhere among the grass below. The second plunked into the water among the bigger stones. "Yay!" Maria cheered the way Mommy and Aunt Harriet did.
The shout from behind them sounded like Mommy at first. Maria turned and waved, but the woman running toward them was not Mommy. "Look!" She flung out an arm to point. "Is that your—"
The woman screamed. She stopped where she was, put her hands to her face and screamed the scariest scream Maria had ever heard. Maria put her hands to her ears and tried not to cry.
That was when she noticed the little girl was gone from the rock.
She took her hands from her ears and looked around. No girl.
Then Maria remembered Aunt Harriet scolding her cousin Braden for jumping on the big rock. "Do you want to fall and smash your head on those rocks?" she'd screeched, and Braden cried so loud that they'd all gone home again.
Shaking, Maria looked down the gully.
The girl lay bent across the two big rocks her little rock had fallen between. She was face down in the water. Maria didn't know little kids could hold their breath, like big kids could. Something red spread in the water around the girl. Maria didn't remember her wearing anything red. Then she realized it was blood.
The woman in the road started to run toward her. She wasn't screaming anymore, but her face scared Maria. The woman looked as angry as Mommy had been the time Maria ruined her brother's science project. Mommy had spanked her so hard she couldn't sit for three days.
She didn't mean it this time, she wanted to say. She was only playing with the girl. Andrew hurt her when no one was looking; she wanted to hurt him back. But not the little girl, not her friend.
Instead of coming at Maria, the girl's mother plunged over the bank. She slid down toward the water on her butt. "My baby, my baby," Maria could hear her saying over and over, and finally she had to run, because "my baby" was what Mommy called Andrew and Maria had asked her once why she never called her baby and Mommy had said Maria would never be her real baby.
Sobbing now, Maria ran home. She would hide up in her room, where the girl's mommy could never find her and Andrew could never hurt her again and no one could tell her she wasn't their baby. She would fall asleep, and in her forever dreams she would play with her cousins and the little girl, and no one would ever get hurt again.
Christa M. Miller is a writer based in northern New England . Her work has appeared at Spinetingler, A Cruel World, and Flash Pan Alley. Visit her website at http://www.christammiller.com for more.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Powder Flash Burn #24 - Alan Peden
A JUMPER FOR CHRISTMAS
By
Alan Peden
The wind blew over the North Bridge like a bastard. Whoever said Edinburgh could be a faithful mistress was talking pish.
'Where the fuck is he?' Detective Inspector Mickey Ridge said, giving up trying to light his cigarette.
'Over there,' DS Ian Robertson said, pointing to near the top of the road.
It was eerily quiet. Usually by the afternoon, there were arseholes all over the place, cutting off buses, running red lights, and competing to see who could kill the most pedestrians in the least amount of time. But Christmas Day was different.
A patrol car sat with its blue lights flashing at the top of the road, while uniforms stopped what little traffic there was from the Princes Street end.
'The jumper's name is James. James don't-call-me-Jimmy Pierson,' Robertson said.
'Could the prick not have chosen a fucking warmer day to go sky-diving?'
'He's holding his dog as well.'
'Fuck me, a window licker. Let's go and see the bastard then.'
The two detectives walked down the road. A uniformed officer was standing in the bus lane where normally he would have been splattered by a number 33 by now. 'What's the script here?' Ridge asked the officer. He wondered if he could retire early and fuck off to Miami or something. Anywhere to get away from this fucking December chill.
'He said if he sees another uniform, he'll fucking jump. Wants to talk to a detective.'
'I wish those fuckers would just take a bottle of pills and be done with it.'
'I'm sure the Evening News would love to publish that comment. "Police spokeman says jumpers are a pain in the hole",' Robertson said.
'Fuck 'em. I'm freezing my nuts off here because some fucking half-wit decides to take his dog sky-surfing.'
'You said sky-diving a minute ago.'
'Fuck off.'
A box was laid against the side of the parapet. Did Jimmy put it there to climb over or did a uniform crew put it there? The fire brigade were standing by with their rock-climbing boys, the specialists who led the dozy bastards off Arthur's Seat who had got themselves stuck.
Ridge stood on the box and looked over the side. The wind blew over his shaved head. He wished he had a poofy haircut like Robertson at times, something to keep the chill off.
'So what's the score here, Jimmy?' Ridge said.
'My name's not Jimmy; it's James.'
Jimmy was holding onto a Jack Russel. The dog was shaking in his arms.
'So what's up Jimmy? Too big a line to get on the Ferris Wheel?' The Winter Wonderland had opened up for the Christmas Season, but today the fairground lay dead, the skating rink abandoned.
'You can fucking joke if you like, but I'm deadly serious here.'
Jimmy was dressed in a ragged pullover, dirty jeans and muddy shoes. His hair was being blown all over the place. The dog was wearing a harness and looked up at Ridge like it needed a pee. Or was about to shit itself.
'What's this all about, Jimmy?'
'My name's not Jimmy, it's James. And I'll tell you in good time.'
'You'll fucking well tell me now; I'm freezing my bollocks off here, and I've got a bottle of Becks sitting in the fridge with my name on it. So hurry up and tell me why you're fucking up my Christmas Day.'
'What, has the Police negotiator died or something? You the only one they could dig up at short notice?' He gritted his teeth at Ridge, his face trembling with cold and anger.
'Listen fuck face, you're getting yourself over this parapet in the next thirty seconds or you'll be the first man in history to have a Jack Russel surgical removed from his arsehole.'
'That's nice fucking talk.' He was bracing himself against the cold, concrete wall, but the ledge was wide, so Jimmy wasn't going anywhere fast.
'You got a problem, talk to me about it while I can still feel my balls,' Ridge said.
'That lassie they found in the harbour yesterday?'
'What about her?'
'I killed her. Cut her tits off and dumped her in the water.'
Ridge knew the tits thing was a detail the press had left out. 'Get over here and we'll talk.'
'They're going to stick me away for a long time for doing that to her. I'm not going to prison for that fuck. I didn't know what I was doing.' Then he smiled at Ridge, a dog-vomit kind of smile, full of teeth and lies. 'You're going to tell them I'm a nutter. That I wouldn't have been on this side of the bridge threatening to throw myself and my dog off if I was sane. You'll help me get a nice room in the psycho hospital or else I'll jump.'
Ridge looked back at Robertson. 'How old was that girl we found yesterday?'
'Fifteen.'
He looked back down at Jimmy. 'Fuck you.'
'Yes you fucking well are, you cunt. Or else I'll come over there and stick you with the same blade I stuck her with.'
Ridge could see the blade in the front of his trousers, tucked into the waistband.
'Pull me fucking up now!' Jimmy snapped. He reached a hand up. Ridge reached down. Grabbed a hold of the dog's harness. Stepped down off the box as Jimmy's screams were cut short by the glass on the roof of Waverley Station.
'I missed the fucker's hand,' he said to Robertson. He passed the dog over to him.
'Merry Christmas.'
BIO: Originally from Edinburgh, Scotland, but now living in the Hudson Valley, in New York State. Alan has had stories published in Flashin In The Gutters, and Crime Scene Scotland, under the pen name John Carson. He is currently working on a novel.
By
Alan Peden
The wind blew over the North Bridge like a bastard. Whoever said Edinburgh could be a faithful mistress was talking pish.
'Where the fuck is he?' Detective Inspector Mickey Ridge said, giving up trying to light his cigarette.
'Over there,' DS Ian Robertson said, pointing to near the top of the road.
It was eerily quiet. Usually by the afternoon, there were arseholes all over the place, cutting off buses, running red lights, and competing to see who could kill the most pedestrians in the least amount of time. But Christmas Day was different.
A patrol car sat with its blue lights flashing at the top of the road, while uniforms stopped what little traffic there was from the Princes Street end.
'The jumper's name is James. James don't-call-me-Jimmy Pierson,' Robertson said.
'Could the prick not have chosen a fucking warmer day to go sky-diving?'
'He's holding his dog as well.'
'Fuck me, a window licker. Let's go and see the bastard then.'
The two detectives walked down the road. A uniformed officer was standing in the bus lane where normally he would have been splattered by a number 33 by now. 'What's the script here?' Ridge asked the officer. He wondered if he could retire early and fuck off to Miami or something. Anywhere to get away from this fucking December chill.
'He said if he sees another uniform, he'll fucking jump. Wants to talk to a detective.'
'I wish those fuckers would just take a bottle of pills and be done with it.'
'I'm sure the Evening News would love to publish that comment. "Police spokeman says jumpers are a pain in the hole",' Robertson said.
'Fuck 'em. I'm freezing my nuts off here because some fucking half-wit decides to take his dog sky-surfing.'
'You said sky-diving a minute ago.'
'Fuck off.'
A box was laid against the side of the parapet. Did Jimmy put it there to climb over or did a uniform crew put it there? The fire brigade were standing by with their rock-climbing boys, the specialists who led the dozy bastards off Arthur's Seat who had got themselves stuck.
Ridge stood on the box and looked over the side. The wind blew over his shaved head. He wished he had a poofy haircut like Robertson at times, something to keep the chill off.
'So what's the score here, Jimmy?' Ridge said.
'My name's not Jimmy; it's James.'
Jimmy was holding onto a Jack Russel. The dog was shaking in his arms.
'So what's up Jimmy? Too big a line to get on the Ferris Wheel?' The Winter Wonderland had opened up for the Christmas Season, but today the fairground lay dead, the skating rink abandoned.
'You can fucking joke if you like, but I'm deadly serious here.'
Jimmy was dressed in a ragged pullover, dirty jeans and muddy shoes. His hair was being blown all over the place. The dog was wearing a harness and looked up at Ridge like it needed a pee. Or was about to shit itself.
'What's this all about, Jimmy?'
'My name's not Jimmy, it's James. And I'll tell you in good time.'
'You'll fucking well tell me now; I'm freezing my bollocks off here, and I've got a bottle of Becks sitting in the fridge with my name on it. So hurry up and tell me why you're fucking up my Christmas Day.'
'What, has the Police negotiator died or something? You the only one they could dig up at short notice?' He gritted his teeth at Ridge, his face trembling with cold and anger.
'Listen fuck face, you're getting yourself over this parapet in the next thirty seconds or you'll be the first man in history to have a Jack Russel surgical removed from his arsehole.'
'That's nice fucking talk.' He was bracing himself against the cold, concrete wall, but the ledge was wide, so Jimmy wasn't going anywhere fast.
'You got a problem, talk to me about it while I can still feel my balls,' Ridge said.
'That lassie they found in the harbour yesterday?'
'What about her?'
'I killed her. Cut her tits off and dumped her in the water.'
Ridge knew the tits thing was a detail the press had left out. 'Get over here and we'll talk.'
'They're going to stick me away for a long time for doing that to her. I'm not going to prison for that fuck. I didn't know what I was doing.' Then he smiled at Ridge, a dog-vomit kind of smile, full of teeth and lies. 'You're going to tell them I'm a nutter. That I wouldn't have been on this side of the bridge threatening to throw myself and my dog off if I was sane. You'll help me get a nice room in the psycho hospital or else I'll jump.'
Ridge looked back at Robertson. 'How old was that girl we found yesterday?'
'Fifteen.'
He looked back down at Jimmy. 'Fuck you.'
'Yes you fucking well are, you cunt. Or else I'll come over there and stick you with the same blade I stuck her with.'
Ridge could see the blade in the front of his trousers, tucked into the waistband.
'Pull me fucking up now!' Jimmy snapped. He reached a hand up. Ridge reached down. Grabbed a hold of the dog's harness. Stepped down off the box as Jimmy's screams were cut short by the glass on the roof of Waverley Station.
'I missed the fucker's hand,' he said to Robertson. He passed the dog over to him.
'Merry Christmas.'
BIO: Originally from Edinburgh, Scotland, but now living in the Hudson Valley, in New York State. Alan has had stories published in Flashin In The Gutters, and Crime Scene Scotland, under the pen name John Carson. He is currently working on a novel.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Powder Burn Flash #23 - Clair Dickson
CAT NIP
A Bo Fexler Short Story
Clair Dickson
"Honest, I haven't seen him in, like, weeks," Amy tittered. She flashed a smile.
"When, exactly, was the last time you saw him?" I pressed again. I leaned in, using my several-inch height advantage for intimidation. I'm Bo Fexler, tenacious female private investigator. She was a woman I'd finally cornered outside a Taco Bell after several weeks of investigating.
"Well. Lemme think. I think it was back in April before spring break."
"Spring break?" I arched one eyebrow.
"I'm still in high school. Graduate this year."
"You don't look that young. How old were you started dating Ben?"
"Seventeen. We were pretty steady for a long while."
"That's what I hear."
"But we broke up. I don't even know where he's at."
"I don't buy that."
Her smile vanished and was replaced by a cold frown. "I don't care."
"You've been calling him and harassing him."
"No. No, I haven't."
I moved very close to her. "You didn't like that he broke up with you. That he got another girl. Except, you didn't realize he had the girl on the side most of the time he was dating you. You were the young girl he scored with, she was the girl he was going to settle down with."
"You don't know what you're talking about. You talk this shit, but you can't prove anything."
"I don't have to prove anything to you. You have to try to clear your name. I have enough circumstantial evidence to hang you with."
She shoved me. I allowed myself to tumble back and fall to the floor. She laughed cruelly. "You don't have anything."
"Maybe not. I guess I'll go." I gave up easy, starting to get to my feet. Because I already had what I needed. I had lifted her cell phone from her open, over-stuffed purse.
She didn't give up though. She lunged at me, knocking me back over. She pulled my hair and scratched at my face. I tried to shove her off but was limited because I clutched her phone in one hand. She punched me with a loose fist, so I grabbed her wrist and twisted it until she squealed and scrambled away from me. I thought she was leaving, but she came back for a heeled-kick to my head. I grabbed her ankle, twisted her to the ground beside me, and punched her good in the face. Her nose trickled blood. I got up and got away, finally.
I drove down the street, finally stopping at a gas station. I flipped open Amy's phone and wrote down each of the numbers dialed, noting when they were called. Two numbers were called frequently. One was my client's husband.
But that didn't prove that she was calling to harass like my client's husband claimed. Or that she was seeing the husband, like my client wanted evidence to prove. But I had an idea. I went to my car and took out my tape player. Then, I opened the phone, put it on speakerphone, and dialed.
After three things, a breathless voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi!" I asked, forcing my voice to high giggly pitch.
"Amy? Is that you?"
"Uh-huh!" I giggled and drawled.
"You not supposed to call this early."
"No? Oh. Right. Forgot."
"Have you been drinking?"
"A little."
"A little?"
"But I wanted to hear you again."
"You must be drunk. You usually only call when you want money, pot, or sex."
"I know. I do. I knew there was a reason I called!" I giggled. This was degrading.
"Which do you want?"
"Can I get sex?"
"No. I told you. I gotta stay home with the baby."
I knew that. "How about pot. I'm out."
"How can you be out? I just sold you four ounces on Sunday."
"I'm starting to think you don't love me anymore."
"I never loved you. You know that. I liked your . . . kitty. You liked my plants."
"That's right. And the wife?"
"What about her? She has what she wants. The nice husband. The kids. The big house. She's got everything she wants. Doesn't suspect a thing."
I rolled my eyes. "Of course not. You're so smart," I said in my normal voice. And hung up. I returned the phone by placing it on Amy's windshield, wiped clean of course, and called my client on my own phone.
She took it in stride.
A few days later, it hit her. And hit Tom. With the weight of their minivan as my client pulled into the driveway after dropping the kids off at her parent's for an overnight visit. I was called to testify on motive.
I supplied the tape, reluctantly admitting that I picked up Amy's phone and pretended to be her. I almost didn't get anything for my trouble. Except I took it upon myself to contact the paper about my testimony-- free advertising.
And I called my client's parents, telling them they were responsible for their daughter's bill if she didn't pay.
I also called Amy and told her that she could have been next. She didn't thank me. Probably because I also set her up to buy pot off an undercover narcotics officer. My way of thanking her.
THE END
BIO: Clair Dickson writes Bo Fexler stories when she's not teaching her darling students at the Alternative Adult Education High School Program she's currently underpayed at. She also maintains a blog at www.bofexler.blogspot.com, posting links to Bo's published stories there. Clair has a penchant for wordplay, including the title of this story. She can't help it-- it's like Kryptonite.
A Bo Fexler Short Story
Clair Dickson
"Honest, I haven't seen him in, like, weeks," Amy tittered. She flashed a smile.
"When, exactly, was the last time you saw him?" I pressed again. I leaned in, using my several-inch height advantage for intimidation. I'm Bo Fexler, tenacious female private investigator. She was a woman I'd finally cornered outside a Taco Bell after several weeks of investigating.
"Well. Lemme think. I think it was back in April before spring break."
"Spring break?" I arched one eyebrow.
"I'm still in high school. Graduate this year."
"You don't look that young. How old were you started dating Ben?"
"Seventeen. We were pretty steady for a long while."
"That's what I hear."
"But we broke up. I don't even know where he's at."
"I don't buy that."
Her smile vanished and was replaced by a cold frown. "I don't care."
"You've been calling him and harassing him."
"No. No, I haven't."
I moved very close to her. "You didn't like that he broke up with you. That he got another girl. Except, you didn't realize he had the girl on the side most of the time he was dating you. You were the young girl he scored with, she was the girl he was going to settle down with."
"You don't know what you're talking about. You talk this shit, but you can't prove anything."
"I don't have to prove anything to you. You have to try to clear your name. I have enough circumstantial evidence to hang you with."
She shoved me. I allowed myself to tumble back and fall to the floor. She laughed cruelly. "You don't have anything."
"Maybe not. I guess I'll go." I gave up easy, starting to get to my feet. Because I already had what I needed. I had lifted her cell phone from her open, over-stuffed purse.
She didn't give up though. She lunged at me, knocking me back over. She pulled my hair and scratched at my face. I tried to shove her off but was limited because I clutched her phone in one hand. She punched me with a loose fist, so I grabbed her wrist and twisted it until she squealed and scrambled away from me. I thought she was leaving, but she came back for a heeled-kick to my head. I grabbed her ankle, twisted her to the ground beside me, and punched her good in the face. Her nose trickled blood. I got up and got away, finally.
I drove down the street, finally stopping at a gas station. I flipped open Amy's phone and wrote down each of the numbers dialed, noting when they were called. Two numbers were called frequently. One was my client's husband.
But that didn't prove that she was calling to harass like my client's husband claimed. Or that she was seeing the husband, like my client wanted evidence to prove. But I had an idea. I went to my car and took out my tape player. Then, I opened the phone, put it on speakerphone, and dialed.
After three things, a breathless voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi!" I asked, forcing my voice to high giggly pitch.
"Amy? Is that you?"
"Uh-huh!" I giggled and drawled.
"You not supposed to call this early."
"No? Oh. Right. Forgot."
"Have you been drinking?"
"A little."
"A little?"
"But I wanted to hear you again."
"You must be drunk. You usually only call when you want money, pot, or sex."
"I know. I do. I knew there was a reason I called!" I giggled. This was degrading.
"Which do you want?"
"Can I get sex?"
"No. I told you. I gotta stay home with the baby."
I knew that. "How about pot. I'm out."
"How can you be out? I just sold you four ounces on Sunday."
"I'm starting to think you don't love me anymore."
"I never loved you. You know that. I liked your . . . kitty. You liked my plants."
"That's right. And the wife?"
"What about her? She has what she wants. The nice husband. The kids. The big house. She's got everything she wants. Doesn't suspect a thing."
I rolled my eyes. "Of course not. You're so smart," I said in my normal voice. And hung up. I returned the phone by placing it on Amy's windshield, wiped clean of course, and called my client on my own phone.
She took it in stride.
A few days later, it hit her. And hit Tom. With the weight of their minivan as my client pulled into the driveway after dropping the kids off at her parent's for an overnight visit. I was called to testify on motive.
I supplied the tape, reluctantly admitting that I picked up Amy's phone and pretended to be her. I almost didn't get anything for my trouble. Except I took it upon myself to contact the paper about my testimony-- free advertising.
And I called my client's parents, telling them they were responsible for their daughter's bill if she didn't pay.
I also called Amy and told her that she could have been next. She didn't thank me. Probably because I also set her up to buy pot off an undercover narcotics officer. My way of thanking her.
THE END
BIO: Clair Dickson writes Bo Fexler stories when she's not teaching her darling students at the Alternative Adult Education High School Program she's currently underpayed at. She also maintains a blog at www.bofexler.blogspot.com, posting links to Bo's published stories there. Clair has a penchant for wordplay, including the title of this story. She can't help it-- it's like Kryptonite.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Powder Burn Flash #22 - Jarret Keene
SCALPED
By Jarret Keene
Peggy put on her make-up, her little zip-up biker jacket and leather pants and satin mules, and drove to Lechter’s. She selected the largest cleaver. She paid with cash, and because it wasn’t yet noon she took the bag into the mall’s Cineplex, where she watched a romantic comedy starring a washed-up soap star whose thinning hair made her think of Sloan’s infected scalp. Her husband had blown a small fortune on experimental implants in a last-ditch effort to stave off his genetic destiny, and the results were truly horrifying: Red, puffy patches of skin. Dandruff galore.
The few remaining healthy hairs Peggy had yanked out when he announced she wasn’t a woman with whom he imagined growing older. He said he wanted a woman with a passionate heart. A woman like the one he’d met at the office. A woman like the one he’d been sleeping with for the last three months, whose name was Cheri McMichaels, and who lived in a house he’d bought for them in Riverglen Gardens now that he was breaking up his marriage. But he was going away on business, his flight was leaving this afternoon, and so could he count on his soon-to-be ex-wife to take his messages and collect his mail until he was ready to move out?
And after ripping the last, precious follicles from his skull — essentially scalping him — she reached for the phone and pretended to talk to a lawyer as Sloan packed his suitcase and peeled out of the driveway in his Jaguar, and when he was gone she sat on the edge of the bed and cried and counted sleeping pills and contemplated razors and went so far as to load the .38 the cheating bastard had bought her last Christmas. It was a fine gun, perfectly suited for the task, but there was no way in hell she was going to give him the pleasure, and so when she settled on a plan she transferred the hairs in her clenched fist into a Ziploc and pushed the toy-sized gun through the sink’s black rubber mouth and switched on the disposal and packed her own suitcase and abandoned the half-million-dollar house amid the awful clamor of metal grinding metal.
Now she gnawed on popcorn. The movie was silly. It pretended love was effortless, redemptive, perpetual. The only thing real and true and eternal was the rage growing inside her. Sloan would never think like this during a movie. He always dozed off in theaters with the excuse that people should catch up on their sleep.
Peggy endured the movie all the way to the credits; each frame kindling the fires of vengeance. Once, she slipped her hand into the bag to stroke the flat part of the cleaver’s blade. She remembered reading an article in a magazine about scalping. Removing the scalp served as evidence of one’s violent prowess. Scalping supplied a portable trophy. Sloan had a trophy girlfriend he rubbing in Peggy’s face, but Peggy had other plans.
When ushers showed up to clean, she exited the theater and wandered through a mall throbbing with consumerism. Her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she was soon browsing the clearance racks and jostling for position against other shoppers in the merchandise-crowded stores. She got her hair and nails done and searched the bookstore for a decent novel. On the surface, it was routine; she was hitting all her favorites.
She checked her watch, saw it was time and threaded the parking lot. She started up her rental, a red BMW convertible coupe, and set a course for Riverglen Gardens, one of the gated communities outside the city of Tampa. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the palm trees lining the interstate, and she let the wind play with her new perm because, dammit, it felt good. The thrumming engine buoyed her. The moment was splendid.
She was a woman with a passionate heart.
She stopped the car a hundred yards from the gate and watched the guard sleeping in his booth, but she didn’t wait long because soon Sloan’s Jaguar was zooming out of Riverglen Gardens en route to the airport.
At the gate, she honked her horn, startling the guard. He straightened his tie and approached her car and said, “Well, hello there.”
“Hello,” she said, smiling from behind her sunglasses. She could still make men smile. “I’m the art dealer Ms. Spinoza invited over.”
“OK,” he said. After pressing a button to open the gate he asked, “Say, where are the paintings?”
“Miniatures,” she replied, indicating the shopping bag.
The guard shrugged, waved her through.
She cruised slowly down the upscale streets, and when she found the house she pulled into the driveway and slipped on her velvet gloves and took the bag from the back seat and carried it to the house and rang the doorbell.
Cheri McMichaels opened the door, furrowed her brow, and said, “Do I know you?”
“I’m Peggy.”
“Huh?” said Ms. McMichaels, who reeked of tequila. “Oh, I see, we must have an appointment! Come in.”
In the living room, Peggy glanced at the marble-topped bar and the animal-skin rug. The whore had taste.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure.”
When the home-wrecking bitch turned her back, Peggy removed the cleaver from the bag and hacked Cheri McMichaels in the neck.
There was some — but not too much — blood. The rubber gloves came in handy.
She took the Ziploc from her purse and, using tweezers, carefully placed her husband’s hair follicles underneath Cheri McMichaels’ dead fingernails. DNA evidence was still tough to beat.
Minutes later she calmly drove out of Riverglen Gardens.
Passing the sleeping guard, she grinned. Sleep was something people should catch up on.
BIO: Jarret Keene is author of the poetry collection MONSTER FASHION and the rock-band biography THE KILLERS: DESTINY IS CALLING ME, and editor of THE UNDERGROUND GUIDE TO LAS VEGAS. He lives in Las Vegas.
By Jarret Keene
Peggy put on her make-up, her little zip-up biker jacket and leather pants and satin mules, and drove to Lechter’s. She selected the largest cleaver. She paid with cash, and because it wasn’t yet noon she took the bag into the mall’s Cineplex, where she watched a romantic comedy starring a washed-up soap star whose thinning hair made her think of Sloan’s infected scalp. Her husband had blown a small fortune on experimental implants in a last-ditch effort to stave off his genetic destiny, and the results were truly horrifying: Red, puffy patches of skin. Dandruff galore.
The few remaining healthy hairs Peggy had yanked out when he announced she wasn’t a woman with whom he imagined growing older. He said he wanted a woman with a passionate heart. A woman like the one he’d met at the office. A woman like the one he’d been sleeping with for the last three months, whose name was Cheri McMichaels, and who lived in a house he’d bought for them in Riverglen Gardens now that he was breaking up his marriage. But he was going away on business, his flight was leaving this afternoon, and so could he count on his soon-to-be ex-wife to take his messages and collect his mail until he was ready to move out?
And after ripping the last, precious follicles from his skull — essentially scalping him — she reached for the phone and pretended to talk to a lawyer as Sloan packed his suitcase and peeled out of the driveway in his Jaguar, and when he was gone she sat on the edge of the bed and cried and counted sleeping pills and contemplated razors and went so far as to load the .38 the cheating bastard had bought her last Christmas. It was a fine gun, perfectly suited for the task, but there was no way in hell she was going to give him the pleasure, and so when she settled on a plan she transferred the hairs in her clenched fist into a Ziploc and pushed the toy-sized gun through the sink’s black rubber mouth and switched on the disposal and packed her own suitcase and abandoned the half-million-dollar house amid the awful clamor of metal grinding metal.
Now she gnawed on popcorn. The movie was silly. It pretended love was effortless, redemptive, perpetual. The only thing real and true and eternal was the rage growing inside her. Sloan would never think like this during a movie. He always dozed off in theaters with the excuse that people should catch up on their sleep.
Peggy endured the movie all the way to the credits; each frame kindling the fires of vengeance. Once, she slipped her hand into the bag to stroke the flat part of the cleaver’s blade. She remembered reading an article in a magazine about scalping. Removing the scalp served as evidence of one’s violent prowess. Scalping supplied a portable trophy. Sloan had a trophy girlfriend he rubbing in Peggy’s face, but Peggy had other plans.
When ushers showed up to clean, she exited the theater and wandered through a mall throbbing with consumerism. Her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she was soon browsing the clearance racks and jostling for position against other shoppers in the merchandise-crowded stores. She got her hair and nails done and searched the bookstore for a decent novel. On the surface, it was routine; she was hitting all her favorites.
She checked her watch, saw it was time and threaded the parking lot. She started up her rental, a red BMW convertible coupe, and set a course for Riverglen Gardens, one of the gated communities outside the city of Tampa. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the palm trees lining the interstate, and she let the wind play with her new perm because, dammit, it felt good. The thrumming engine buoyed her. The moment was splendid.
She was a woman with a passionate heart.
She stopped the car a hundred yards from the gate and watched the guard sleeping in his booth, but she didn’t wait long because soon Sloan’s Jaguar was zooming out of Riverglen Gardens en route to the airport.
At the gate, she honked her horn, startling the guard. He straightened his tie and approached her car and said, “Well, hello there.”
“Hello,” she said, smiling from behind her sunglasses. She could still make men smile. “I’m the art dealer Ms. Spinoza invited over.”
“OK,” he said. After pressing a button to open the gate he asked, “Say, where are the paintings?”
“Miniatures,” she replied, indicating the shopping bag.
The guard shrugged, waved her through.
She cruised slowly down the upscale streets, and when she found the house she pulled into the driveway and slipped on her velvet gloves and took the bag from the back seat and carried it to the house and rang the doorbell.
Cheri McMichaels opened the door, furrowed her brow, and said, “Do I know you?”
“I’m Peggy.”
“Huh?” said Ms. McMichaels, who reeked of tequila. “Oh, I see, we must have an appointment! Come in.”
In the living room, Peggy glanced at the marble-topped bar and the animal-skin rug. The whore had taste.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure.”
When the home-wrecking bitch turned her back, Peggy removed the cleaver from the bag and hacked Cheri McMichaels in the neck.
There was some — but not too much — blood. The rubber gloves came in handy.
She took the Ziploc from her purse and, using tweezers, carefully placed her husband’s hair follicles underneath Cheri McMichaels’ dead fingernails. DNA evidence was still tough to beat.
Minutes later she calmly drove out of Riverglen Gardens.
Passing the sleeping guard, she grinned. Sleep was something people should catch up on.
BIO: Jarret Keene is author of the poetry collection MONSTER FASHION and the rock-band biography THE KILLERS: DESTINY IS CALLING ME, and editor of THE UNDERGROUND GUIDE TO LAS VEGAS. He lives in Las Vegas.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Powder Burn Flash #21 - Jochem Vandersteen
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.
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.
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
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