Tip of the Spear

John C. Erianne

"Before you stands a damn fine soldier…a COTTONBALER…by God! I can be counted on to accomplish any mission…any task…any job. I have been in the arena. My face is covered with dust, sweat, and blood. I have known the sweet fragrance of freedom for I have paid the price. I am a damn fine soldier…a COTTONBALER…by God! " — from the Cottonbaler’s Creed

Corporal Darius Mayberry III, A.K.A.Cherry-Popper, considered that most of what he knew about warfare he’d learned as starting cornerback for the David W. Carter High School football team in Dallas, Texas. As he pondered this thought, Darius was quite pleased with himself. He was working the leg press in the Camp Doha gym. His glutes and knees tensed with every repetition. One of the first things his coach had taught him was that the most prepared in any game wins. Back home, Darius was always a little more fit than the guy he was eyeballing on the field. He was almost always faster and had stickier hands. Better to come down with the ball than with air.

By the time Darius was a senior in high school he realized that, as good at football as he was, he probably didn’t have the level of talent necessary to make it as a college player, much less as a pro football player. It was about this time that an army recruiter came to his high school. The recruiter’s name was Sergeant Charles Allan Gray. Sergeant Gray was part black and part something else and walked with a certain gait that Darius’ late father, Darius Jr., would have described as "church Negro straight," which meant that Gray walked as if God Himself had shoved a lightning rod up his ass. Still, Darius had to admire Gray’s sales pitch. The sergeant skillfully moved his recruiting speech off stage, having fixed his attention on the few students who had been paying attention. He approached them one at a time, speaking to each student like a big brother.

"Hey there, Darius," Gray said. "You look like you really like the ladies."

"And they like me," Darius had answered, trying to sound tough.

Gray must have known at that moment that he’d hooked Darius.

"Well, shoot," Gray said. "If you think you’re gettin’ pussy now, just try it in a uniform. Hell, man. You’ll be like Puff Daddy and Dennis Rodman all rolled into one package."

Darius signed on the dotted line and within six months of his encounter with Gray, he was on a bus heading to Georgia.

Darius’ army experience had only reinforced what he already knew from football. The only difference is that now the battles would be real. Back in Texas, if you lost a game, you maybe got your ass chewed by the coach and went home with a case of wounded pride. In war, losing meant losing your life and the lives of your friends. Of course, Darius had no plans to die. Shit, he thought, I’m going to live forever. He smiled at the thought.

Darius was still smiling when Sergeant Alex Rojas, A.K.A. Sergeant Rock, approached him from the other side of the gym. "Cherry," he said. "Boy, if you aren’t some kind of son of a bitch."

"What’s the problem, Sarge?"

"I told you to look after the new kid. Not take him to a cathouse and get him drunk. This is Kuwait, son — not Reno, Nevada. Dios Mio. How did you find that place anyway?"

Darius laughed. He once claimed to have deflowered more than one thousand virgins in the Big D before joining up with the Army. Not one among the Sand Hogs from the Fighting 3-7 believed him, but Darius did have an easy way with women and always knew where to find action. Darius seemed to know the location of every bar, strip joint, and whorehouse on the planet.

"Don’t rightly know, Sarge. How’d you find out?" Darius had a voice as big and booming as a Howitzer cannon and a generous white smile made all the more luminous in contrast to his dark caramel skin.

Rojas shook his head." Your buddy Chavez gave me the lowdown. The kid’s in the infirmary puking his guts out. You’re damn lucky Lieutenant Finney wasn’t the one who found out. Finney would have your nuts if he knew."

"You going to report me?" Darius asked.

"Not this time. Fortunately for you we’re heading into Iraq soon and I don’t need one of my best on ice just now. "

Darius smiled. "Thanks, Sarge."

"Don’t thank me. The road to Baghdad won’t be a senior prom."

Darius grinned at him. "I’m straight, Sarge."

"I hope so. Because what’s coming around the bend isn’t a training exercise. It’s about as real as it gets."

Rojas had been right. Three days later, Darius found himself in the turret nest of an M3E1 Bradley Fighting Vehicle with sand blowing in his face. The uncomfortable trek to Baghdad was made more treacherous by sandstorms and broken supply lines in the convoy. Food rations had been cut by a third and water rations by half. No, this wasn’t going to be a trip to the prom. Four days into the Iraq campaign, Darius got his first taste of real warfare. Finney radioed Rojas that the convoy needed to stop due to a sandstorm up ahead.

"All right, Private. Let’s make a pit stop," Rojas said to Pfc. Boot.

"Sure thing, Sarge." Boot was a rangy kid with a long jaw-line that made him look as if he had a perpetual smirk. Spc. Antonio Chavez had said to Darius, just before they handed Boot over to the loving embrace of a Kuwaiti prostitute, that Boot would look more at home in a circus than in the army.

"Boot’s all right, Tony," Darius had replied. "No doubt the boy can drive a Bradley. Fact is, if he can fuck the way he drives, he might put me to shame one day."

Boot stopped the Bradley. "Boys," Rojas said. "Get out and stretch your legs. We might be here a while."

The Bradley carried five men including one embedded reporter — a Frenchman named Pierre de Guerre, who was a correspondent for Le Monde. Darius expected de Guerre to be a pain in the ass, but the guy kept to himself and slept quite a bit. de Guerre had only rarely asked a question since joining up with the unit at the Kuwaiti-Iraq border. He usually asked technical questions like, "What does this instrument do?" or "How much damage can this vehicle withstand?" His English was very good and if he had a serious problem with the U.S. military, he was smart enough not to show his true feelings.

Rojas tapped de Guerre on the shoulder. "Hey, de Guerre. Wake up."

de Guerre opened his eyes. "We are stopping now?"

"Yeah, " Rojas said. "Grab yourself a bite to eat. Same for the rest of you. Eat. Take a piss. Whatever. Cherry — "

"Yeah, Sarge," Darius responded

"Corporal. I want you to form a perimeter. One man stays in the turret."

After eating, Darius ordered Pvt. Beale into the turret. Darius and Chavez stayed at the rear of the vehicle with de Guerre who was scribbling in his notebook. "What you writing there, Chief?" Chavez asked de Guerre.

"Just some observations."

"You ever cover a war before?" Chavez asked de Guerre.

"Many," answered de Guerre. "I was here during the first Gulf War. I’ve covered Africa extensively. Kosovo. Bosnia." de Guerre looked over at Darius.

"So, corporal," de Guerre started. "You are from Texas, yes?"

"Yeah, that’s right."

"What do you think of your President Bush?"

Darius turned to de Guerre grinning. "Bush. Bush, you say? Bush ain’t nothin’ but a pussy."

Chavez laughed. de Guerre continued as if he hadn’t gotten the joke.

"So, you don’t care for your commander-in-chief?"

"I don’t rightly have an opinion about the man. He tells me I got to go to Iraq, I go to Iraq. He tells me I got to win Baghdad and put down Saddam like the dog he is, that’s what I do. I’m a soldier. "

"You are gung ho, then," the Frenchman observed.

"The Marines are gung ho," Chavez corrected. "We’re cautiously optimistic."

"What is the difference?"

"Why don’t you explain it to him, Cherry?" Chavez said.

"Well, Pierre. It’s like this," Darius said. "We’re a much more democratic organization than the Marines."

"How so?"

"Marines have to die on command. Here in the three-seven, we get to die whenever we’re of the mind to."

Chavez laughed. Even de Guerre couldn’t help himself. He expelled a great nervous belly laugh.

"You know," de Guerre said, finally. "I really like you guys."

Just then the men heard a pop. Then another. Pop. Pop, pop.

A bullet hit Beale in the middle of his face, breaking his head open like a Fourth of July watermelon. Someone yelled, "Medic!" Rojas pulled Beale from the turret. The private’s brains spilled onto the floor as Rojas laid him down inside the vehicle.

"What the fuck — " Chavez yelled. He ducked down and wheeled around with his rifle and began firing. Darius shoved de Guerre into the back of the Bradley.

Darius dropped to the ground and rolled to the side. He sprayed the area with cover fire, rolled, then fired again in the direction the initial shots had come from. Darius heard a scream. By this time, other soldiers from the convoy, including Rojas and Boot had come running. The soldiers lit up the dunes with rifle fire. It was like an old-fashioned crow blast. When they had finished, four of the enemy lay dead in the sand.

"Gawd," said Boot. "They’s just a bunch of kids." They were dressed in civilian clothes. The oldest didn’t look to be more than twenty years old. The youngest was probably around thirteen.

"Is this who we came here to fight?" Chavez asked.

"They’re some kind of militia. Probably came out this far on their own accord," Rojas said.

"Why do you say that?" de Guerre asked.

"If I were Saddam and I knew my enemy was heading toward Baghdad, and I knew they had air superiority, I’d pull my best divisions back closer to the city and send my militia out to stall the ground advance. Give me time to fortify Baghdad. This posse here is probably part of some scouting party. Pity for them they weren’t better marksmen."

"They sure as hell nailed poor Beale," Chavez said.

"And they wasted a lot of ammo doing it," said Rojas.

"So what are we going to do now?" Darius asked, visibly upset, his hands shaking. Boot was kneeling by Beale’s body, crying.

"For Christ sakes," Rojas said. "Boot. Cowboy up, man. This isn’t the last friend you’re going to lose before this mess is over. Chavez — "

"Yes, Sarge," Chavez answered.

"Police Beale’s body. Boot? Boot!"

"Y-yes, Sarge."

"Radio Lieutenant Finney."

The convoy stayed the night. Darius manned the turret until the sandstorm hit. It was a tense night. Only de Guerre and Rojas were able to sleep. Boot had the hardest time with Beale’s death. The two of them had gone through basic training together. Darius wanted to say something to lighten the mood, but for the first time in his life he couldn’t think of anything to say. Even though he had lived very near a known gang neighborhood back in the Dallas-Fort Worth area where gun-related fatalities were common, Darius had never actually witnessed anyone die like Beale had.

"That shit was fucked-up," was all Chavez could say in a low voice not much more than a whisper.

"Yeah," Darius replied.

Boot hugged his rifle close to his body.

The full brunt of the sandstorm hit at around 2200 and it didn’t subside until 0340 the next morning. Wake up was at 0400 and, after a quick snap to get the vehicles started, the convoy was on the move again.

de Guerre woke up finally.

"Gawd dang," Boot shouted, "I believe that man could sleep through anything."

"Un vieil homme a besoin de son sommeil, jeune châtelain," de Guerre said with a slight grin.

"Did he just call me stupid or something?" Boot asked.

"Pourquoi, non. That would be rather foolish of me," de Guerre said. "Sergeant. Where are we going now?"

"Still hauling ass towards Baghdad."

"Smooth sailing, then? As you Americans say." de Guerre said.

"I doubt it." Rojas pointed to a line on his map. "We’ll probably reach An-Najaf sometime tomorrow. If HQ thinks the route to Baghdad is going to be a cakewalk, then somebody’s been smoking something."

As the convoy got closer to An-Najaf, Darius could see black smoke over the horizon from his position in the turret. As the convoy exited the open desert and entered a two-lane highway, Darius saw his first view of what the air campaign had wrought on Iraq. The charred remains of trucks and other vehicles littered the road, some with corpses inside. The air smelled of gasoline and fried flesh.

"Yay, tho’ I walk in the valley of the shadow, motherfucker," Darius muttered. "Lord, almighty."

The expedition suddenly turned into a one hundred kilometer death-slog. A massive sandstorm caused delays. Many vehicles broke down or got stuck. Occasionally, a bulldozer would have to be called up from a maintenance unit to fill in a ditch that obstructed the path forward.

The convoy broke down into small units, each with its own mission. The 3-7 moved on to the city of An-Najaf. On the outskirts of the city, near an abandoned industrial site, Rojas and his men had their first serious engagement in the three-day battle for An-Najaf. A rocket-propelled grenade came flying from behind a partially collapsed brick wall. The RPG narrowly missed the Bradley, but came close enough that Darius felt its heat as the grenade whizzed past him and exploded in a field.

Rojas yelled, "Chavez, blast that fucker!"

Boot turned the vehicle forty-five degrees to the left and Chavez fired the big gun. BLAM. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. The wall collapsed completely and the attacker stumbled from the dust and fell to the ground, a big bloody hole in his chest.

Darius caught another man on a rooftop getting ready to fire at them. Darius shot first and hit the man in the throat and stomach.

de Guerre was filling his notebook during the skirmish. Afterward, he asked Darius how it felt to kill another human being.

"Well, you know. I don’t feel too good. But better them than us."

Rojas wasn’t in the mood to answer de Guerre’s question.

"I am just trying to understand, Sergeant."

"How many wars did you say you’ve covered? How many do you have to cover to understand killing’s a shitty thing to have to do?"

de Guerre smiled and put away his notebook. When the Bradley started moving again, de Guerre went to sleep.

Pointing at de Guerre, Chavez asked, "You think he’s got a family?"

Rojas shrugged. "Somehow, I doubt it. Can’t imagine he’d sleep that peacefully over here if he did."

"Fucking-A," Chavez said, thinking of his wife, Sonja, and his three year-old son, Jorge.

An-Najaf is located along the Euphrates River, which has a number of bridges running across it. The 3-7 was assigned Objective Floyd, which brought the soldiers up along highway 9. Highway 9 runs parallel to the river so the assorted Iraqi militia who had found relative safety among the civilian population inside the city were forced to come outside to defend the onslaught of the 3-7.

The Iraqis were not well-trained, but they made up for it in tenacity and daring, throwing themselves at the Americans in wave after wave of hit-and-run assaults. Darius had killed at least three men who had tried to get close to his vehicle. It was carnage. It was a night when no one dared close his eyes.

By the end of the third day of the assault, the 3-7 had completely encircled An Najaf. The soldiers had killed or captured over 1000 of the enemy. The 3-7 turned the entire operation over to elements of the 101^st Airborne. After refitting and refueling, the Sand Hogs of the 3-7 crossed the Euphrates river.

Most of the resistance between the river and Baghdad had been destroyed during the air campaign. Apache helicopters had taken out two whole columns of the Republican Guard the day before, and other units of the Third Infantry had all but decimated the feared Medina division. By the time the 3-7 got within thirty kilometers of Baghdad, coalition forces controlled nearly three-quarters of Iraq. Except for a small contingent of Fedayeen fighters who attempted an ambush on the banks of the river as they crossed, Rojas and his men had a fast run to their next objective.

"So boys," Rojas said. "What do you think about the enemy so far?"

"Can’t shoot for shit," Darius said, "but —"

"But what?" Rojas prodded.

"They know how to adapt and they ain’t afraid of us."

"Exactly. When we get to the airport, expect anything. They will do whatever it takes to stop us. Stay alert. Stay cool."

The coalition renewed its bombing of Baghdad ahead of the incursion into the city. Parts of Baghdad were on fire. Power had been cut off to the city. As the convoy closed in on Saddam International Airport, Darius could see the bursts of bombs and the tracer fire from the few remaining anti-aircraft guns flashing in the sky above Baghdad.

For the first time, Darius admitted to himself that he was truly afraid. He tried to conjure more pleasant thoughts, but he kept seeing Beale’s face. Poor Beale. Poor dopey Beale. Poor preacher’s kid with his chunky freckled face and nervous eyes. Darius was sorry. Sorry Beale was dead and sorry he had been the one who ordered Beale into the turret. Mostly, Darius was feeling sorry for himself that he was only twenty-three and might not make it back home.

de Guerre was wide-awake. He seemed excited to be coming to what was expected to be the worst fighting of the invasion.

"We’re coming into the home stretch, boys," Rojas announced.

"Magnifique. C'est oj l'action est," de Guerre said. "This reminds me of Bosnia."

"Maybe I should give you a weapon," Rojas said.

de Guerre shook his head. "Non. I trust your men will protect me."

"Keeping you safe isn’t our primary responsibility, so you might want to keep your Kevlar on and your head down," Rojas replied, then added in Spanish: "He hecho las paces mi con el dios. ¿Tiene usted?"

Up ahead of the convoy, an Iraqi tank and a truck full of armed men were blocking the road. One of the other Bradley vehicles launched a TOW missile at the tank. The gun turret blew off the tank’s body. The explosion ensnared the truck and it caught fire and blew up. The few militia men who were not killed instantly, lay in the road, screaming and burning to death.

Darius muttered to Chavez, "Jesus. You see that? I can’t believe that shit."

"I know, man. That could’ve been us."

"Might be before this is over."

"That’s not my idea of fun," Chavez said. "I got people to go home to. I’m ready to go home."

"I feel you, brother," Darius said.

The fight for Saddam International was a lot like An-Najaf had been, only worse. It was the first time the 3-7 had experienced serious casualties.

BAM, BAM. BAM,BAM,BAM,BAM.

"SANCHEZ. ON YOUR SIX." Rojas got out of the vehicle and jogged alongside it, his rifle pointed up at a nearby building.

Sanchez wheeled around and fired the 25mm chain gun at a bus full of armed Iraqis. The rounds tore through the side of the bus. The bus flipped over and skidded on its side for several yards.

The vehicle slowed to a crawl. de Guerre got out of the back of the Bradley and was running behind Rojas. de Guerre muttered to himself in French then said to Rojas, "This is very exciting, no?"

"What are you doing out here?" Rojas shouted.

"Just trying to cover the story, mon ami."

de Guerre only smiled at him as a bullet zinged past his ear. Darius and Sanchez were among those providing suppressing fire as the infantry moved forward. A symphony of gunfire and explosions rocked the highway leading into the airport.

An Iraqi in green camouflage aimed an RPG at Lt. Finney’s vehicle. Darius shot the Iraqi soldier, but not before the soldier fired at Finney’s Bradley. The rocket punched a hole in the side the size of an Easter ham. Darius could hear the screams above the continuous crack of bullets. The whole side of the vehicle came off and Finney rolled out onto the street, minus his legs and one of his arms. The side of Finney’s face was gone. The vehicle squealed to a halt.

At one point the Americans were on the verge of being overrun, but they fought through it and pushed the enemy back a little further.

The fighting went on for several hours. The enemy regrouped. The Iraqis tried to create a bottleneck, but they only had small arms. Buses, pickup trucks and bulldozers were no match for armored cavalry. The Americans had miscalculated logistically in the run up to Baghdad, but the Saddam loyalists has miscalculated tactically in believing that the Americans wouldn’t enter the city with armored divisions. Logistical problems can be worked around. Tactical problems are fatal. Eventually, superior firepower wore the Iraqis down. Saddam International belonged to the coalition authority. With the airport in their possession, the military could launch attacks into Baghdad at will.

Darius stood next to the Bradley, just outside the airport, cleaning some of the grime off him. He had so much sand caked on him that the Iraqi desert had become like a second coat of skin. Sanchez was reloading the Bradley. Boot was sitting on the pavement near the vehicle looking like he was about to vomit.

"Where’s Rojas?" Darius asked Boot.

Boot shrugged. "Think he’s talking to Captain Grady."

"About Finney?"

"I think we’re getting ready to move out again. The Sarge said we weren’t going to quit until we’d cleaned out the city."

Darius shouldered his weapon and adjusted his shades. To the left of him, a small group of soldiers had a bunch of prisoners lying prostrate on the ground. A soldier had his boot pressed firmly on one prisoner’s back, his rifle pointed at the man’s head. "GIVE ME A REASON, MOTHERFUCKER. I WILL SHOOT YOU."

A group of soldiers were gathering the dead and loading them into trucks. There were some dead American soldiers — more than Darius had seen at one time since the war began — but most of the dead were Iraqi. There were body parts and blood everywhere. There was an overturned truck, smoldering and black to Darius’ right. A severed human leg was hanging from the hood, its flesh seared and fused to the surface. A headless body lay next to the truck. Darius couldn’t tell whether the corpse was an American or an Iraqi.

de Guerre, who had been talking to another reporter from one of the cable news channels, came trotting over to Darius.

"How are you holding up, my man?"

"How you think?" Darius answered.

"Listen," de Guerre said, "I’d like to get some of your impressions about the battle."

"What do you want to know?"

"Did it go as you expected?"

"We won, didn’t we?"

"That’s not what I meant."

"No. It didn’t go the way I thought."

"You thought the Iraqis would take one look at your big fighting machines and throw down their weapons without a fight?"

Darius nodded. "Something like that. I mean, I knew they would fight. I just didn’t think they’d come at us quite like that. I didn’t think we’d have to kill so many of them"

"But now you know," de Guerre said.

Darius nodded and walked away. Rojas and Capt. Grady were walking toward him. Grady slapped Rojas on the back. Rojas glanced over at Darius. He had the kind of look on his face that told Darius trouble was on the way. Who knew how long the fighting would last? The army would push through the city block by block, building by building, stone by stone. The army would converge like the tightly clenched fingers of a giant fist, choking what life was left in the city. Tomorrow some general would be on television calling this mess a victory, but it didn’t feel like victory to Darius. Some days you jumped up and came down with the football, Darius thought, and some days you come down with air. Today, it felt like air — hot and stinking Iraqi air.

Parting Shots

by John C. Erianne

            It was Paul Tremble’s last day at Lady Godiva’s Erotic Video and he was sitting in the back office, feet propped on the desk, thumbing through the photographs he’d taken of Julius Romney and Natasha.  He removed one photo from the pile and admired its clarity. Romney’s old, boney body poised behind Natasha’s petite frame as he worked his fingers around the hardened nipples of her small breasts.  He had gotten to Romney easy. He found him on his boss, Sergei’s, freak list.  Rich dudes who liked the black market stuff.  That was Julius Romney.  A retired philosophy professor with family, money, and a wife.  He liked young girls.  Eleven, twelve, thirteen year-olds.  Natasha was perfect for the job.  She was five feet tall and had the body of a gymnast. Twenty-two, but she could pass for thirteen.  One last meeting, he thought.  One last payment and he and Nastasha would be off to L.A.

            A moment later, he heard Sergei, stir and grunt.  Paul placed the photographs back in the envelope and placed the envelope back in his knapsack.  He glanced at the security monitor.  Sergei was standing near the front of the store, flipping through a magazine.  Paul zoomed in closer until he could clearly the words BONDAGE GIRL BONANZA on the front cover. 

            Sergei grinned and held the magazine up to the camera, pointing to the image he had been looking at.  A very young Japanese woman, hog-tied on a kitchen floor.  Paul walked out of the office and smiled at Sergei.  Sergei with the pot gut, extenuated by a t-shirt a size too small.  Sergei of the many scratchings of crotch and armpit.  Sergei with the long, scraggly hair and perpetual three-day beard.  Fuck you, you fat, hairy turd.  I’ll be glad to be rid of you.

            “Hey, Paul,” Sergei shouted. 

            “What?”

            “Watch the front a minute.  I have to take a dump.” 

            Paul looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes ‘til four.

            “Sure.  You think, this being my last day, I can leave a little early?”

            “I guess.  Not much happening here. Just wait ‘til I get back, okay?”  Sergei scratched his chin and walked back to the bathroom.

            In the six months he had worked at Lady Godiva’s there were many things he had come to hate about it.  The sticky, inky smell in the air.  The fuchsia and black faux marble decor.   Mostly he hated the regular perverts.  Those middle-aged, never-been-laid assholes who thought porn was some kind of high art form.  Guys like Sidney Goldstein of 501 Spring Street who now stood at the counter to return three tapes he had rented.

            “Returning, Mr. Goldstein?”

            Sidney nodded.  “You still have that refund guarantee, right?”

            “Sure thing.  We here at Lady Godiva are concerned with your pleasure.  If you’re not satisfied, we’re not satisfied.”

            “I didn’t like this one.”

            “Cum Slut Hookers Three.  Hmm. Strange.  Hustler gave it three and a half penises.  Not like Hustler to steer us wrong.”

            “But I didn’t like it.  It —”

            “Okay I’ll just credit your account,” Paul said before Goldstein could start his rant about camera angles, lighting  and money shots.  “What are you renting today?”

            Goldstein handed him the video.

            “House of Dreams.  Can’t go wrong with Andrew Blake.  A classic.  Well, we’ll just use your store credit and you can be on your way.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Got to hand it to you, Mr. Goldstein.  You’re a real auteur.”

            Once Sidney Goldstein was gone, Paul called Natasha.  Told her to be ready.  He’d be around in a while.

            Sergei finally came out of the bathroom.

            “So, you are leaving now,” Sergei said.

            “Yeah.  Time to hit the road.”

            “Can’t say I won’t miss you.  Hard to find good help in this business.  Can’t say I blame you.  Your girl is very beautiful and she wants to see America.  I understand.  Girls from Odessa are very beautiful.  My mother was from Odessa.  Also very beautiful.”

            “I didn’t realize you knew Natasha.” Paul said, noticeably perturbed.

            Sergei smiled.  “She is stripper, yes? She dances at my cousin’s club.  I see her all the time . . . at the club, of course.”

            Paul’s mind flashed to an image of Natasha giving fat Sergei a lapdance.   It was not an image he wanted to hold onto.

            “So long, Sergei.”

            “Goodbye, Paul.”

            A half hour later, Paul was sitting in his car, parked across the street from Dr. Julius Romney’s two-story Victorian.  The house stood in an affluent part of town, not far from the city park.     He waited until Romney’s wife left the house to attend her weekly book club meeting.  Once her car was out of his sight, he crossed the street and rang the doorbell.

            Romney didn’t answer at first.

            “Julius.  Julius, it’s me.  You’re good buddy, Paul.  You do remember we were supposed to meet today?

            He rang the bell again.

            “Jesus, Julius.  You wouldn’t want me to create a scene out here.  I’d hate for your neighbors to get a look at these nature studies I’ve brought with me.”

            Romney opened the door.   He was a tall man — taller than Paul’s five-foot-seven inch frame.   He was much more imposing in person than he appeared through Paul’s camera lens. He ran his long fingers through his shoulder-length gray hair, then put on his glasses.  “Come on.  Let’s get this over with.”

            The interior of the house reeked of tobacco and pine, but the furniture was clean and shiny without a trace of visible dust.  Passing through the living room, Paul made note of the large, flat-panel television on the wall.

             Paul followed Romney upstairs to the study.   The study, like the rest of the house, was neat and dust-free.   Bookshelves lined the walls.   An Apple computer sat on a small desk by the window.  A larger desk faced the door.  There was a small pile of papers on top of it, and a thick book with a faded brown cover and many bookmarks between its pages.  “You’ll understand if I don’t offer you coffee?”  Romney said.

            “Sure, as long as you understand I won’t show you mine until you show me yours.”

            “Yes, well . . .”

            Romney walked around the large desk and opened the drawer.  He removed three stacks of crisp new bills and placed them on the desk. 

            “Excellent,” Paul said.

            “No, wait a minute.”  Romney reached inside the drawer again and removed a revolver. A snub-nose .38.  Romney’s hand was shaking.  “What if I don’t want to pay you this time?”

            Paul smiled and started to walk toward him.  “What if I —”

            ”Killed me?  What if?”

            “You are an intruder in my house.”

            Paul laughed.  “You’ve been watching too many cop shows.”

            “I’m a wealthy man.  I’m a star in my community.  The police — ”

            ”Are not as dumb as you think.  You used to be a professor.  Smart guy like you.  Figure it out.  No forced entry.  Dead guy.  Unarmed.  No police record.  Only a smudged fingerprint on the doorbell. You wouldn’t have the time to make look good for the cops.”

            Romney looked like he wanted to cry. Paul reached into his knapsack and removed the photographs.  “No.  I’m afraid they’d arrest you.  Then once they found out my last job was an adult video store and connected me to Sergei, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to dig up Sergei’s little black book and connect me to you.  You’d be looking at Murder One for sure, and you’d go down with a pedophile tag as well.”

             Paul gestured Romney to put the gun on the desk.

After Romney complied, Paul shoved one of the photographs in front of Romney’s face.   “This is definitely you, isn’t it, Julius?  Recognize the birthmark.  Kind of looks like the state of Delaware, doesn’t it?  And look at the girl.  Thirteen years-old.  She doesn’t look too happy, here.  And — oh my God — Who knew you could do that with a stuffed animal?”

            Romney was weeping.  “Stop it.  You’ve made your point.”

            “Okay, so pay me.”  Paul tossed the pictures and the negatives on the desk.  Romney handed Paul the money.  He counted it and made sure it was all there.  All twenty-five thousand.

            “How do I know you won’t come back?”  Romney asked.

            “You don’t.”  Paul stuffed the money into his knapsack and started to leave, but as he turned toward the door, he saw Sergei and Natasha standing there. “Natasha?  What the fuck?”

            Sergei removed a pistol from his belt and shot Romney in the head.  His brains splattered all over his heavy, oak desk.  Sergei then pointed the pistol at Paul.  “Hand the money to Natasha.”

            Paul did as he was told.  “So you and Sergei were together all the time.”

            Natasha looked at him and smiled.  “Sorry, Paul.  I really did like you.”

            “So why didn’t you just blackmail Romney yourself?” Paul asked.

            “It’s really more complicated than that,” Sergei said. “I’ve been skimming money from my cousin, Andrei.  He’s Ukranian mob.  Lives in New York.  He trusts me to manage his affairs in South Jersey.  The Adult Video Store.  The Strip Club.  Gas Stations.  The vending machines.  All that, I manage.”

            “And all that you’ve been stealing from,” Paul said.

            “To the tune of two hundred and fifty thousand and change.  Andrei’s not too bright, but even he’s starting to get wise there’s a problem.  So I need to get out of town.  I needed a fall guy.”

            “And a blackmailer – a drifter like me is perfect for the job, right?”

            “That’s right.” 

            “So what, you’re going to kill me now?”

            “No.  I’m going to leave you here to be arrested for Romney’s murder.  Then I’m going to arrange for my cousin to have you killed. Then me and Natasha are going to disappear with the money.”

            “You got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

            Natasha kissed Sergei hard on the mouth.  Sergei gave Paul one last look and smiled.  “You didn’t think she’d really fall for a fool like you?  She knows a real man when she see him,” Sergei said.  He cracked Paul in the head with the gun – hard enough to knock him out.

            Paul awoke some time later to the sounds of police sirens in the distance.  The murder weapon lay next to him.  He grabbed it and struggled to his feet. He skull was on fire and there was a ringing in his ears, but he managed to make it to his car and exit before the police arrived.

            After a while, all the small towns Paul had ever been in started to look alike.  Chester’s Bridge was no exception.  The half-hour love shacks and welfare motels were always far from the center of town.  The Highwayman Motel stood out beyond the abandoned factories and tar-roof houses.  The air smelled like garbage as Paul walked up the steps to his room.  Somewhere a dog barked.  Paul’s neighbor, Fred, was leaning over the railing smoking a cigarette.  Jailhouse tats and track marks lined his arms.  “How’s it goin’?”

            “It’s going.” Paul said.

            “You got a dollar I can borrow?”

            Paul reached into his pocket and retrieved a crumpled bill.  “Here.”

            “Thanks, man,” he said, smiling, revealing crooked teeth, one canine missing, the other capped in gold.

            Paul opened his door.  Two suitcases were laying open on the bed. His laptop and his cameras were on the dresser.  “He, Baby,” he said.

            Natasha ran up and leapt into his arms, wrapped her legs around him. She kissed him hard on the mouth.  Her long, black hair draped over his shoulders.  “You want I should give you a back rub, yes?”

            “Cut the crap.  Natasha is dead. So is Paul.”

            “Okay, okay,” she said, a hint of Texas in her voice. 

            He looked at the big bag of money on the bed.  “We did good.”

            She dumped the money out onto the bed. “Oh, my lord.  I didn’t think it’d be that much.”

            “It’s all there,” he said.  “I figure we should have — what, almost 300 grand total minus  a few bucks we needed to finish the set-up?”

            “What’d you do with the gun?”

            “I wiped the prints and planted it in the safe back at the video store.  What’d you do with Sergei?”

            “Slipped him a Ruffie, then called his cousin.”

            “Good.”          

            She handled the money with Christmas-like glee.  Six scores in less than two years and as he watched her play, he knew he couldn’t have done it without her.  He was nobody and she could be anybody.  The combination worked.  His brains.  Her talent.

            He popped an aspirin into his mouth and removed his shirt.

            “Listen.  I need a shower.  So finish packing. Get rid of all of Natasha’s shit.”

            “What’s the hurry?  I thought we could at least stay through the night.”

            “Not that it will track back to us, but I don’t want to be here long enough to find out. And besides, even a retard like Sergei’s cousin will eventually figure out that Natasha has the money. We don't need Russian mob goons picking up a trail.”

            “Okay, whatever.”

            After his shower, he found her sitting on the bed, black wig gone.  Now her hair was short, punky, and strawberry blonde. 

            “Try ‘Juliet Stephenson’ out for size.  Who is she?”

            She switched to an Australian accent.  “ ‘Juliet,’ right.  From Sydney.  Land of koala bears and Nicole Kidman, yeah?”

            “Something like that, yeah,” he said.

            “Nineteen?  Exchange student?”

            “Sounds good.”

            “Are we still going to L.A.?”

            “Eventually.  Thought we’d try Utah for a bit.  A lot of good, upstanding Mormons. Freaks to begin with, I say. Figure we’d run an adoption scam this time. How do you feel about being pregnant and abandoned?”

            “Whatever you say goes for me.  I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

John C. Erianne is the Publisher/Editor of Devil Blossoms. His writing has appeared in a number of publications in North America and Europe over the last two-plus decades, most recently in Blue Collar Review and Inferno. He is currently working on a novel and a really bad screenplay. He has had three poetry collections published while his fourth remains unpublished, floating around the world as a kind of urban legend.