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Paul "Deadeye" Dick
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dickdice.jpg

A Deadly Case of Relativity

A “Dick Dice” story

by Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

The Sun and the Moon were sulking. The parent sky had sent them to their rooms indefinitely.What existed now was something that wasn’t night or day. It was Limbo. A metaphor for what passed as existence. Constant cold. Constant rain. A black & white world where the only colors were blood and money.

The Superpowers had played nuclear Russian Roulette one too many times in the 80's. The nuclear gun inevitably went off. The population of the world dropped from 6 billion to who-gives-a-fuck within a matter of months. EMP shut the world's lights out, and turned on the dim lamp of a new dark age. The world eventually exceeded expectations and survived. Records and books were a rare commodity and the ones that were found were partly responsible for humanity's jump-start.

Some townships founded their religion or society on the books and records they found.

 

Me? I belonged to The Luke Rheinhart Redemptionists Church, but I just wore their symbol now.

 

Twin Dice. They were the symbol of a “Die-Caster.” A Church Assassin.

But I fell from grace long ago.  Most of the world devolved back to eras from these books and records.

 

Some the 1950's, some areas the 1920's and those rare groups of civilization went even further back still. Don’t ask me why. . . . I'm not a historian. Or an anthropologist. I'm a hired Killer.

 

Man is an animal with delusions of civilization. And civilization comes through direction of purpose. He who can read those books, hear those records, can interpret, direct, and control with purpose and get things moving again. Wars still raged but they were minor and tribal in nature.

 

Each territory was controlled by a "Mayor.”  And wars between territories were never a massive deal.

 

A team of five would fight another Mayor's team of five. Losers would cede resources and territory.

 

Technology started to evolve as new power sources were discovered. But nothing was an easy fix or free.

 

Pig shit provided the best possibilities, and the warlord "Mayors" of each town that sprang up were quick to hog it.

 

Don’t ask me to explain why pigs managed to survive nuclear fallout. They just did.  The fuckers grew to huge proportions, standing 6 feet at the shoulder.

 

In fact, don’t ask me to explain anything I don’t have answers to—I just know how the world works now.

 

I know how to hunt, how to kill, how to take orders and how to get paid.

 

         How I get paid is by finding people. Sometimes I bring them back alive, most times not.

 

If I find you, it’s because you've done something wrong to make me find you.

 

And wrong is determined by those who pay me. Call me a coldhearted son-of-a-bitch— I don’t give a shit.

 

Leave your complaints if you have them with my secretary, Lucille. I carry her in my shoulder holster.

 

She's a big girl known for getting straight to the point. Usually the point between your eyes.

 

I pat her butt for luck and hear an almost inaudible giggle from her chamber as I near the "City".

 

The buildings looked from a distance like the broken teeth aftermath of some drunken god’s barroom brawl.

 

The "towns" that had sprung up were flophouse shantytowns with manned gun defense walls.

 

Only each of the town's mayors and those in his private army had anything approaching comfort and cleanliness. The rest of the populace made their homes wherever they could.

 

These towns bred life and death of many kinds as a result.

 

The entire city was covered by an armored "canopy" to shield from the worst of the elements, but roofs never last forever and holes were commonplace in the superstructure.  Was this place safer than outside? Only marginally. Sure, there were still habitable areas outside the towns.

 

But if the drifting rad storms didn’t kill you, the roving creatures would. You stood a slightly better chance inside. But not by much.

 

I sent up the call sign to the wall's watch commander for "friend," and the gates opened with a deep, slow, braying sound. Like a dying, tubercular donkey having the last laugh.

 

Abandon all hope ye who enter here. . . . Welcome to Ded-troit City. . .  .                                                          

 

The air tasted salty from bad intentions, bad food, and bad sex.

 

The town smelled worse as you passed the pigpens and saw what was left of those that pissed off the current administration.

 

The pigs and their human masters didn’t give a shit what the pigs ate as long as the pigs gave a shit for fuel.

 

Apart from being used for food and fuel, their skeletons were used in furniture and building supports; their skin was used for clothing, tarps, and for branded money. Paper was a precious commodity as there were hardly any trees left, but there were plenty of pigs and plenty of people. When both died, their skins were still useful. 

 

Sudden rain found its way through a chink in the roof's armor and beat a steady, constant staccato on my radora brim and radorak trench shoulders.  I'm glad I bought the armored hat and trench coat.

 

The price I paid was a bullet through the previous owner's teeth and it was a solid investment.

 

Sure, I had to clean out the brains from the hat, but the guy didn’t have that much brains to clean out, anyhow. If he did, he wouldn’t have drawn his gun on me. He would still have a head to smile with.

 

The downpour increased; acidic water became sliver metal. Something to do with radiation storms, sweeping up debris in electromagnetic whirlwinds. Ripped apart into smaller pieces, becoming trapped in weird gravity anomalies in the clouds, making it rain metal on occasion.

 

Many used to go mad with the sound of needle rain coming down on their shelters.

 

The key was to try and make a rhythm of a favorite song outta the rain.

 

The rain's beat became the opening to “I Wanna Be Your Dawg,” by Iggy Pop.  Apt, this used to be his town.

 

A rat, the size of a dog, drunkenly ran past me. The needle rain immediately scrubbed it off Life's menu as the “not-so-special” for today.

 

It must've snacked on one hooched hobo too many and ran into the rain with fatal Dutch courage. Its impaled body shone with slivers of metal sticking out of it.

 

A rat birthday cake with too many metal candles, and no more birthdays to celebrate.

 

Leaking red filling into the mud, blood, and shit of Dedtroit's “streets.”

 

The rain ceased temporarily as I passed under an intact part of the “City's” canopy.

 

New sounds screwed the "night", and didn’t even buy it a drink. Sounds of a struggle up ahead.

 

Lucille swung her butt into my chest and my hand slid instinctively to grip it.

 

The dice on my bootlace tie strap ends, danced restlessly as I ran silently into stealth cover.

 

From my vantage point in the shadows, I could see a small but wiry-looking guy. Dressed in black and red, bottom heavy ,and spindly-limbed, like an amputee spider, short of four limbs.

 

He flashed a smile under his low brimmed trilby, a smile as long and sharp as the straight razor he brandished over a figure at his feet. A girl caught in the street lamp's yellow gaslight.

 

Trapped . . . Like a bug in amber.                                                                                                                                     

 

She coulda been sixteen, but its kinda impossible to tell these days. The need to repopulate the earth gave evolution a kick in the pants to build girls big. But it’s a cinch that he must be her pimp.

 

I hate pimps. . . .I should kill this fuck on general principal. My Mom's pimp killed her in front of me. . . .

 

Bludgeoning her to death. I hate pimps. I also hate wasting bullets. Bullets cost money.

 

I was a dumb kid then. . . . didn’t know better . . . pumping every last shell into that motherfuckin' pimp.

 

The gun was huge and broke my wrist with the recoil. I felt no pain as I emptied it.

 

I never felt pain from that day on. Hardly any emotions either. 

 

I kept the gun. Named her Lucille . . . my Mom's name . . .

 

The Rheinhart Church took me in and fucked me up even further with its crazy dice-based religion.

 

As a “sinner,” I rolled dice on an altar crap table to determine whether I sought redemption or be executed for my sins. My life literally turned on a Die. And I became their enslaved unpaid killer.

 

But that’s a story for another time. Concentrate on the now. . . . The pimp in front of me . . .

 

In the time it would take me to close the gap to snap the pimp’s neck, he'll have killed or cut the girl, anyway.

 

So do I?  Or don’t I shoot him?  Decisions, decisions. My dice rustled on my bootlace tie again. 

 

And the spiderman's squeaky voice derailed any train of thought.

 

"Excuse me, baby doll, but d'ya wanna be mugged?" said the spiderman, dancing with the blade between really long fingers.

 

"Y' know ya ain’t supposed to carry this amount about with ya—What ya tryna do? Escape to a better life?”

                                                                                                                                                                        

"N-no, Simon . . . I-I was gonna hand it all in to ya, I promise."

 

The girl starts producing cash from every conceivable hiding place on her person.  She's in the wrong profession, selling her ass. She'd make one hell of a stage magician.

 

"Hold out once, ya get a smack. Hold out twice, you get cut."

 

"Nooo!" The girl broke free and kicks him where it should've hurt. The guy hardly winces. His smile widens.

 

"I cut your lip, you can still work—wont be so bad . . . this way you don’t need to kiss 'em."

 

He advanced on her retreat. Slowly, like a cat toying with a mouse.

 

"Went to a party at the county jail . . . yeah, yeah!" he drawls thru his grin, spins with a flourish, gyrating. Wobbling his legs and pelvis in a grotesque parody of Elvis singing “Jailhouse Rock.”

 

This ain’t my business. . . . I can easily just walk on as I can easily take a breath of the fetid air in this town.

 

I don’t have to like doing either, but they're both a necessity if I want to get paid.

 

And then it happens again. . . . the creepy feeling . . .

 

I start to care. . . . or . . . is it . . . I start to be indecisive about what to do next? Either way is disturbing for me. . . .

 

I can’t be like this in my line of business.

 

The dice bootlace tie suddenly whips off my neck and zips around in the air.

 

A pair of cubist flies on the lam from a turd chain gang. Bound by a tether of fate and circumstance.

 

These aren’t your normal crapshooter bones. Jet-black, featureless, rolling stones of uncertainty and chance—I feel the numbers on them rather than see them.  I get the distinct impression they're grinning at me without a mouth, when they roll down snake eyes.

 

The Pimp must die. I know this because the dice know this.

                                                     

Time's wheels set in motion again as I lift Lucille free from her holster bed. I smile as her comforting curves promise great things to come. As I squeeze her trigger, she immediately goes to work. Speedily typing up and sending a "Dear John" letter to the pimp's brain, telling him his relationship with his life is over.

 

The pimp's smile vanishes in a slow motion blur of showering blood and a cloud of shattered tooth enamel.

 

The bullet busts through his grin and exits the back of his head, smacking a cherry pie fandango of brain matter, gore, and shitty personality onto the wall behind him.

 

By this time, my dice bootlace tie has gone back to normality around my neck.

 

Weird . . . I'm crazier than I thought. . . . But looks like this diversion yielded an extra bonus.

 

Nothing cures my hallucinatory condition more than the reality grounding acquisition of unexpected wealth.

 

I start humming Little Richard's "Lucille" as a lullaby of sorts, tucking my Lucille back into her holster bed.    

                                                                                                                                                                     

And as I pass the hooker on the ground, I drop off a business card beside her. I count up the money she's holding. May as well get something outta this . . .

 

"That'll be 50 pigskins for a first-time customer. That’s to cover time, inconvenience, and cost of materials.”

 

"C-cost of materials?" she says, looking up, her face doing time behind bars of tear-streaked makeup.

 

It’s then when I'm close enough taking the money, I realize she is a he.  Maybe even both.   

 

Great, I play shiny knight to a damsel-in-distress. Turns out this shitty night, its a damn ass-sell in a dress . . .

 

I wasted enough time already and I got no inclination to find the truth out, anyhow.                                                                                                                                                                                       

                                                                                                                                                                       

"I just wasted a bullet turning your pimp into pig chow. I'm charging for the cleanup, so no one's gonna miss him for a while. You got the money now to give yourself some options. Get fuel. Get a car. Get out of Dedtroit. There's my business card beside you. You got the money. I got the time."

 

I strip the pimp, keeping anything I can use. I keep the straight razor. The 200 'backs he's got on him.

 

A large, black, metal-studded dildo. Two Derringers he had on handspring rigs up his sleeves. Classy.

 

Still, that’s 300 Pigskins I made shooting a violent, eunuch pimp. Got some extra weaponry and ammo out of it, too. Not bad for a night's work. If the limbo sky above me can be called “night.”

 

As I heave the stripped pimp's body into the pigpen beside the other corpses, I notice that the pimp's dick ain’t there. It’s a metal plate with some kinda piss nozzle and attachment clamps. What the fuck?

 

That explains why the kick to the jewels didn’t faze him. I take it off and hand it to the hooker.

 

"Keepsake for ya. Trade that into a blacksmiths and get some extra pigskins for it."

 

The prostitute mumbles something about me being the worst kinda hooker. She-male may have a point.

 

She-male makes people temporarily happy for money.

 

I make people permanently unhappy or dead for money.

 

As I walk off to get paid by the Mayor for my last job, I hear she-male read aloud my business card:

 

DICK DICE—PROBLEM INTERCEPTIONS

P. I. / MERCENARY / BOUNTYHUNTER.

YOU WANT HELP?

TAKE A GAMBLE.

(Radio Freq. 55.66.44.)

 

I finally reach the Mayor's mansion on the other side of town. I should’ve had more trouble getting there.

 

Usually in these townships I leave a path of broken bones and perforated brains for those stupid enough to try me. But I guess my ironclad rep’s given me a temporary bulletproof shield.

 

The Mayoral mansion's just a glorified shanty hovel on steroids with a veneer of wealth.

 

But it’s warm, kinda clean, and covered in acquisitions.

Some trophies are remains of previous enemies. Some rad-desert creatures,  too. Taxidermied sentinels standing vigil on either side of entranceways and the staircase. One has the face of a huge, green, screaming baby with the circular teeth of a meat grinder.

 

The Mayor descends the stairs.

 

Unlike most of the population, he doesn’t have that grey, emaciated look.

He's a jolly-looking, red-faced, toad of a guy. Spindly legs, a squat body, and a ginger-bearded bald head, that looks like it lost the willpower to grow a neck. His bulbous eyes squint at my approach.

 

He beams a smile that looks suddenly familiar. . . . Where have I seen that smile before?

                                                                                                                  

“Dice, my boy, welcome to Chez Saric!” He claps bloodstained, butcher's hands on my shoulders and I resist the urge of grabbing Lucille's butt. This guy, after all, is a paying customer.

 

I pull out a sack containing eight human heads from underneath my trench coat. Straight to business.

                                                                                                                                                                      

“That’s 200 per head as agreed.” I'm always to the point in business affairs.                                               

 

The Toad is about to give me my 1600, when his smile fades to a scowl of intemperance.

 

One of his cronies bursts in, a lank-haired piece of shit. Shock-faced and nervous, he delivers the message.

 

And my world shatters. It may as well have been a bullet.


          “We just found the remains of your brother, Simon, in the pigpens--He's been shot dead!”

 

He produces the muddy pig-snack head of the pimp I shot. I knew I'd seen that smile before.

 

The Mayor and the pimp were twin brothers.

 

The one standing before me, trying to pay me for my last job, is the fatter, wealthier, considerably more dangerous, and alive one. . . .

 

Again, I see my bootlace tie fly off my neck and the blank, black dice on them spin in the air, making my choices for me. No one else can see this so I must be really crazier than I thought.

 

My eyelids flicker at the tumbling stones. My eyes roll back in my head, becoming dice rolling into the crap table of my mind. The numbers appear in my subconscious—my choices are clear. . . . I either . . .

 

-       Own up and confess, meaning I don’t get paid, and most probably get dead on snake eyes.

-       Cheekily take out a contract on myself, kill some random guy, and get paid on a 3–11.

-       Say nothin’, get paid, and get the fuck out of Dodge fast, before anyone knows on box cars.

 

          . . . Snake eyes . . . I feel the dice grin at me again. They make my mouth betray common sense.

 

My confession creates a pregnant pause that seems to never want to give birth to action.

 

But the pregnant pause's waters break violently and waves of gunsels flood out of doors everywhere as a croaking scream splits the air.

 

“Kill this Motherless Cocksucker!”

 

I'm surrounded. A remote island in a sea of guns. But this island's volcanic and I'm about to blow.

 

I take out the lights with an ink bomb. The world suddenly goes black and swirly and I go darker with stealth kills. They fire blindly giving away their positions in the enforced darkness. Stupid . . .

 

My kukri blade sings from its trench coat sheath and I spin in a horizontal arc, cutting the guys to the right, center, and left of me. I've turned them into human zippo lighters, heads barely held on by neck skin hinges.

 

I whirl, throwing the kukri into the head of a M249 toting fatboy behind me.

 

He tailspins to the ground, killing some of his own by accident as his gunfire sweeps wildly.

 

I duck and roll under his wildfire wad cutters, finding their unintentional targets. And those targets in turn fire back as they die, hitting others.

 

I grin broadly as that dirty dame, bloodlust, whispers sweet, red nothings in my ear.

 

Twisting on my heel as I rise, I straight razor the next two guys’ hamstrings, before they know they've grown a second mouth each in their throats. Arterial rainfall baptizes me as their mouths gurgle red, baby noises.

 

I feel like singing in that rain, but I already got reckless. A lucky shot grazes my razor hand.

 

I drop the straight razor in the darkness.

 

I improvise, pulling the metal-studded dildo out and fucking up the shooter's face and morale with it.

 

Dazed, he gets spun round into use as a human shield. I use the other fallen to get from cover to cover.

 

As the air fills with more lead, the human shields become Swiss cheeseburger within seconds.

 

But by this time, I've woken my Lucille up outta her bed to go to work again.

 

When the emergency lights come back on, ten badguys get dumped hard by “Dear Johns” from Lucille.

 

My hat and trench take a pounding from bullet rain as I duck and cover behind an overturned scrap metal table and reload. It’s then I see the Mayor run upstairs. . . .  Get back here you fuck.

 

I give chase, and am about to shoot the fucker's legs from under him when Lucille's shot out of my hand by a fuckin' freak shot.

 

More shooters, from different directions, breathing down on me hard, like they’re gasping their last.

 

I oblige them with extra breathing holes in their heads from the jack-in-the box Derringer rigs in my sleeves.

 

I realize only then I've been hit. My thigh's bleeding and a bullet's shaved some meat off my ribs.

 

I got no time to bleed.

 

I tourniquet my leg and hand with one of the badguy's bandanas, wondering if they've got parasites or worse.

 

Reinforcements are probably gonna arrive soon, but I still wanna get paid for those heads from the last job.

 

Yeah I killed his twin brother, but Mayor Toady still owes me a pay day.

 

I always collect. One way or another . . . everyone pays. . . .

 

    

happyanniversarycaring.jpg

Happy Anniversary

 

by

 

Paul "Deadeye" Dick 

 

It was a month before our 20th Wedding anniversary when the illness began.

 

First the headaches. Her temperature rises and falls. The blisters. The feeling of insects inside her. Constant itching and scratching.

Her skin dessicates and flakes off. She's covered in wedding confetti again, but she's not smiling.

 

She bleeds herself badly. Wearing mittens at night and swamped in emolient cream by day.

She doesnt go out. Eyes too photosensitive. Curtains drawn. Our love life dies...

Instead she holds my hand, telling me repeatedly Love you...I'm sorry...

I try to say it back.  All I can do is smile wanly, gently squeeze her hand, then drag my hand away...

 

Chest infections. Constant rasping breathing and wracking coughs make me start to loathe her as much as care for her.

The sudden sharp pining breaths in the night dont give me much sleep.

I'm on call to nebulise her 24/7. 

 

The seizures begin. Her repeated Love you...breaks into an involuntary whistling question.

hoooooooo. Involuntary shaking. The Gran Mal hits her like a freight train. Throwing her about.

A human softball in an invisible giant's hand.

 

I'm a helpless witness to her becoming a drooling, idiot-grinning thing that pisses where it lays.

Her mouth. Part sneer, part grimace. Mocks herself dying by inches. Mocks me for caring.

She spasms at weird angles, pops bones and reforms them as she turns around in her skin.

 

She stays too few nights in hospital. Epilepsy tablets given barely hold it in check.

But its not Epilepsy...and by the time the hospital knows that, its too late. The epidemic hits, the  country grinds to a halt and we are forgotten.

 

Three days before our Anniversary she pleads with me to kill her.

She cant bear it anymore. She says its not fair on me...Let me go.

Tears of guilt, relief, love, absolve me as I give her an Amitriptiline overdose.

I hold a cushion over her sleeping face. She dies peacefully... I can finally sleep again.

 

Two days before our Anniversary, she comes back. No vestige of my wife remains just the enraged version of the idiot thing. She scuttles after me like a deranged hungry spider.

Impossibly strong, screeching like a chimp, biting me before I knife her repeatedly in the chest.

 

Its the last night before our Anniversary.

Her greying, blood-stained corpse and the grandfather clock, chiming the hours to midnight, are my only company in the chilly boarded up hallway. 

Midnight strikes. Its now our 20th Anniversary. Her eyes, the color of tuberculotic spit, snap open.

 

Hungrily feral, she launches herself at me once more.  The Colt.45 automatic trembles like a newborn foal in my hands.

Half of me wants to be eaten, to be inseperable from her. The half that's pure survival wins.

Through the torrential tears, through the bile rising in my throat, I croak......

cryinggun.jpg

I blow her head off....cradling whats left of her in my arms.

 

I've never loved her more....

 

 

fatredbastard.jpg

That Fat, Red Bastard

 

A Dick Dice Story

 

by Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

 

 They say you always remember your first love. Your first fuck.  I remember my first kill. 

 

A loveless virgin at 12 years old, when I took a man's life. But as I stalk up the stairs to get that sneaky rat fuck Mayor, I think about my 1st kill I made for my first employer. . . .

 

“The Luke Rheinhart Redemptionists’ Church.”

 

It was the night before Christmas and all through the night, nothing stirred but my gunsight. . . .

 

The sky was sultry. She brooded with the promise of rain. Her resolve broke as I got into position under her. She wept uncontrollably down upon me and those of Ded-troit city, who had abused her. The world felt and smelt better during and after rainfall. Cleaner. More focused.

 

But like all good things, over too soon. Cold humidity hung in the air, replacing it. Cold as the body lying beside me. A Dwarf security detail for that fat, red bastard. I gave that stunty fuck something bigger to suck on than a kid's candy cane this year.

 

My big gat, Lucille, had typed up yet another “Dear John” letter and mailed it through his brain.

 

Telling him his relationship with his life was just for Christmas.

 

I was really anticipating the kill, now, the dwarf being an appetizer for the main meal.  A tingling sensation, I had, in my mouth, like you get before biting into a juicy pork chop.  Killing that guy when I was so young had given me a real taste for it.

 

  But that was up close and it was definitely personalthis kill was from a distance with a Sniper cannon.  All I wanted for Christmas was to put a bullet through his two front teeth.

 

But “The Church” had been specific how he should die.

 

An example was to be madethe death dice had decreed.

 

That fat, red bastard was the worst sort of pedophile. The guy commanded instant sentimentality, respect, loyalty, and trust from kids.  Even adults. They would happily leave their kids with this guy. Caring little what he was really doing with them.

 

He began his own religion of sorts.  His temple was shaped like a Christmas tree.

 

“The Church” didn’t like that one fuckin' bit. . . .

 

That fat, red bastard was one of those pedos that was so friendly and not overtly creepy on the surface, that children couldn't help themselves around him with big innocent smiles. Like they were following the Pied-fuckin’-Piper.  Instead of music, he plied them with promises of gifts only to deliver shattered innocence.

 

I was hired to burst this fuckin' Pied Pedo's pipes for good.

 

I worked for “The Church” as one of their “Die-casters.”

 

A Church assassin. The Redemptionists got me at an early age after I killed my first.

 

They tested my faith every day by forcing me to roll their sacred dice on their altar crap table to determine whether I would be executed for my sins or live to “seek redemption.”

 

And I sought redemption by killing in their name. The dice wouldn’t let me die yet.

 

In my cramped sniper roost, the weight of the gun for my young frame and my anticipation made me sweat.

 

A bead of it trickled from the nape of my neck slowly down my spine. Another bead formed and chased it.  They joined sweaty, eager hands, quickened pace down the hillside of my spine like a deranged Jack 'n' Jill.  The party really started when they fell into my butt-crack.

 

My ass hairs were soldiers woken to wage an itchy-ass civil war on each other once again. Trying to win some battle for supremacy that would never be won by either side.

 

I wanted nothing more than to drop the cannon, drop my trousers and hold back the warring flanks.

 

As that fat, red bastard appeared, it was all I could do to pull the trigger as something that felt like an epileptic spider tried to invade my asshole.

 

I swallowed hard, focused, went snake-eyed, held breath for a long second, squeezed the trigger.

 

Once. Twice. Three times. Switching targets within seconds of each impact.

 

          Timber!  The support struts splinter to dust as each .50 cal bullet hit home.

 

The Christmas tree-shaped building fell on top of that fat, red bastard – His body split, soaking the ground with a wave of gristle and gore. Bones broke up and went on separate vacations.

 

I love it when they fall funny. . . .

 

It’s a wonderful life.

 

 

Copyright © 1994  by Paul 'Deadeye' Dick

 

 

  Dick Dice –A Case Of Deadly Relativity Part 2

 Love Anna '45

 

 

 

              A Love Story With A Hollow Point,  Big Stones And A Hard Dick

 

        By Paul 'Deadeye’ Dick

 

 

 

1.  Intro -  In Case Of Emergency  - Break Glass (onto the past)

 

A freight train rush of adrenaline blood, rapidly quickened my heart beat to bursting. My body conducted a crazed, cardio-vascular concerto echoing in my ears.

It matched the rapid, heavy thud of running footsteps from reinforcements in the distance.

 

Wounded in the thigh. Clipped in ribs from a lucky shot. Hand numb from bullet graze. I've  had worse. And I don't have the time to bleed. In my short time in Ded-troit City I had a fistful of pigskins saving a she-male hooker from a razor-wielding pimp, was about to collect another 1600 from delivering enemy heads to Ded-troits' Mayor. 

 

But I'd fucked up.  The pimp I killed was the Mayor's pimp brother and I'd killed at least thirty of the Mayor's personal guard to join that dickless fucker burning in hell. More would be coming through the main doors any second now.

Outnumbered and wounded, I took the high ground. No time for escape I had to find that rat-fuck Mayor. I get him – I get paid my 16 large for the last job.  He'll also be my hostage, securing my safe passage outta here.

 

He was in his study. Pig-shit fuelled gas lamps bathed the place in a sickly, yeasty piss yellow glow. Fitting décor for a yellow bastard.

He wasn't armed and cowered behind his long, Gold-leaf painted desk.

 

His bald head bobbed slowly. A ginger-bushed dick that couldn't decide to get hard for action or remain flaccid in fear.  But I'd forgot why this guy was a survivor. Answer?

He's a fuckin' sneaky son of a bitch.

 

He hit a switch and shit happened in quick succession. More bad guys on the stairs behind me. He laughed like a comic-book super-villain. I was taken for a sucker.

He'd lured me in here. When that penny dropped. So did the floor under me.

I grabbed for the edge of the dead drop with both hands.

 

My .50 Cal Handcannon, Lucille, clattered away so I could gain a better hold. Digging my Kukri blade into the floor, I pulled myself up and rolled free just in time. The dead drop snapped its greedy mouth shut with a single horizontal guillotine tooth.  Seconds slower I would’ve been cut clean in half.  That fuckin' Mayor had way too much time on his hands.

 

I stood up to throw the blade at the Mayor but he suddenly made a hard clockwise pull.  The desk flipped and I stared down the end of a concealed double barrell mini-gun. He had me deadbang and grinned.  By this time, the first Henchman had came through the door behind me gun blazing.

I sidestepped. Cutting his gunhand off with a downward chop of my kukri, breaking his jaw, knocking him out cold, with a spinning elbow.  

I turned to get the Mayor.  But he had other ideas.  He screamed as he fired....competing with the whistling roar of the minigun... Probably splooging his pants in the process. He was clearly overcompensating....

 

I spun around, letting my armored coat take the brunt as bullet rain beat a fevered drum solo on my back. I grabbed the next guy who came through the door as a human umbrella and was forced next to the only exit there was. The window. 

In Case Of Emergency Break Glass....

 

The last thing I saw until everything went black was my bootlace dice tie bouncing in my face as I swam in slow motion through an ocean of  broken glass. The window shattered as the physical universe did likewise.

What should have been twenty feet to impact in a Dedtroit night-shrouded alleyway outside, was instead what seemed to be thirty light years of night.

 

Freezing cold. Black, formless void. No up. Nor down. No left. Nor right. Only the feeling of forward motion. A horrible, claustrophobia of bumping, tumbling, rolling chaos momentum. Like being trapped in the trunk of a runaway car with square wheels and no brakes.

Or even more crazy...the feeling of being trapped inside a huge, rolling dice.

breakglassonthepast2.jpg

 

2. The Wise-guy Who Fell From The Sky

 

I don't know how long I fell. Tumbling through the seemingly endless nothingness of a frigid, cubic, void until it all came to a sudden stop...

Something groaned in the dark, and I was forcibly shat into recognisable existence over a bright, shiny world that was not my own....

 

I'd thrown up and my olfactory sense kicked in, a river of rot-gut bourbon and stale pork sandwich stained my front and acted as the smelling salts to slap the shit out of my other senses to wake the fuck up. Hearing kicked in first. Sound of Air rushing...

 

True sunlight warmed me after the endless cold of  tumbling nightmare. The sudden light blinded me . Searing muscle pain. Sudden air. Too much all at once. Lungs not used to such. Starting to gag. This must be what it felt like to be born.

Eyes adjusted. the sudden sight of this world made me for brief seconds forget I was very likely plunging to my death.

 

I squinted up above me and there were the dice which used to be my boot lace tie,  whirling around like a giant pair of crazy, cubic bolas. It had been them that saved me falling to my death when I dove through that fateful window in the Mayor’s study.  Insane as that sounded it was the only explanation.

 

Now they had become the architects of a new death by aborting me into this world at a height of around 200 ft. No hope. No sympathy for this devil. I was destined to become street pizza through an insane turn of events that made little sense. The only thing that did' was I was going to die.

 

I didn’t panic, I had cheated death plenty of times, but you cant cheat it forever… When your numbers up… its up. All the screaming and crying will do you no good. You may as well sit back say fuck it and enjoy what’s around you before the end. Find the good in the bad.

 So I decided to appreciate the natural beauty of my surroundings. Before I splattered into them.

 

The sky was a welcoming bright cerulean blue that hurt the eye and the soul with its majesty, the Sun even more so. The clouds smelled wonderful as I fell through them.

I saw a bustling metropolis beneath of many colors and hues. Even the greys were bright.

These were my sole comforts as I became gravity's plaything. Spinning around in the air and dispassionately looking down to see what would eventually kill me.

 

Buildings and transport of strange yet familiar design were in abundance. They looked from this distance like shoals of brightly colored fish moving through terracotta and grey coral reefs of brick and steel.

 

I had seen the image of shoals of fish in an old movie before 'the Church' decreed movies weren’t suitable for mass consumption. People might get their own ideas and start to be happy on their own. 'The Church' had sent me to “torch the movie theatre and anyone turned from faith...”

 

But that was another life which flashed before my eyes now - when I was a “Die-Caster”, a “Church” Assassin for a crazy cult called “The Luke Rheinhart Redemptionist Church” who worshipped the random decrees of death dice that they daily threw on their altar crap tables. Life for them turned on a Die.

 

This was another death in front of me I had to somehow get out of,  plummeting onto a colorful world I was going to make even more fuckin' colorful with my internal organs.  But the dice had never let me die yet.I saw my opportunity within minutes to impact. A group of people below me.

 

Five handgun-wielding gunsel's about to kill a larger guy and some stacked dame, dressed in red.

Spreading my Radora trench, then gripping it in tight bunches, I formed air pockets. The sudden air brake turned me around from head-first to feet-first.I slowed my imminent descent just long enough for me to steer myself into a trajectory to land on clueless killers.

 

Aiming for the fattest gunsels in the group to break my fall. My analytical personality gave myself small odds on surviving this. But better odds than before. Though I couldnt hear what was said being too far away and air rushing in my ears, it was clear the couple below had shitty odds too... But this Dice was rolling towards them to even those odds. For both of us...

 

I had to get their attention to bunch together. I pulled my kukri  from its sheath and threw the blade into the back of one's head, killing him instantly. The rest turned around. And nearly dropped their guns in surprise. 

The Angel of Death was upon them. And he wore a Trenchcoat.

 

Seconds to impact I tucked myself into a ball. Bringing my legs up, head down, arms across both. The fattest gunsel exploded in gristle as I cannon-balled into him.

Meat came apart from bone. Blood, burst its fleshy flood walls soaking me as I landed upon them. The shock absorbers in my hat and trench took most of the brunt.

 

My arms broke as did both my legs. Skull remaining intact was small consolation.

But nothing avoided concussion. I felt some ribs of mine splinter and muscles tear across my abdomen and back.  Through the darkening pain, I smiled at the satisfying crunch of breaking bones and shattering spine vertebrae that weren’t my own. You have to enjoy the little things in life.

 

As consciousness started to slowly bleed out in little black waves, the last things I heard were gunshots, machine gunfire, men and a woman shouting, screaming, threats in Italian.

I assumed the couple I rescued by my surprise attack were now clearing house.

 

“Take dis fuckin' message to Razzolli, ya filthy fuckin' animal, Requiest en Pace! Vaffanculo!

 

More machine gun fire and screams of the dying

“Papa Look out!” Gunshot  followed by Two more gunshots rang out quickly

 

“ Anna what da fuck I tell you 'bout using handguns? It’s not lady like,” 

 

A woman protesting, her voice was breathless, lightly rasping and husky...

 

“That’s fuckin' bullshit, Papa! I killed fuckin' two of them! I saved us..,” Giggling echoed...

 

“Owhoaaa –Watcha fuckin' mouth an' stop fuckin' laughin' like ya got dropped on ya fuckin' head.”

 

“Why I oughta... “

 

He raised his hand to her...but instead he pinched her nose raising his other huge hand up to the heavens to enforce his point

 

“...If you're mother could hear you now.”

 

He turned to look at me and my vision faded as a black wave of concussion washed over my eyes.

 

“An' What’s wit' dis fuckin' guy? 'Fuck he come from? Fuckin' Wise-guys fallin' outta da sky, here.”

 

I opened my eyes briefly one final time as I was turned around to hazily see what looked like a hulking giant with a talking tomato for a face and the fading outline of a petite, busty brunette dressed in red looking down on me.

 

“Let's help dis crazy bum da fuck up, he's da one  just saved us. Put down da fuckin' heater and get da fuckin' boys....

 

The world went  totally black and swirly.....if this was Death it was such a fuckin' anti-climax... No Heaven, Purgatory or Hell greeted me... Just darkness and the rumbling sounds of giant dice chasing me across a huge crap table....

 

 

3. The Girl With The Hollow Point Smile

 

The world eventually softened, yielded. Straightened out and lightened as consciousness ebbed back into being.  When I came round I was in a bed. In some kind of room the likes I never seen. It was bright and beautifully furnished. I had the sensation I had been here for a long time. I was drip-fed with some painkiller drug that I had no intention of starting a fight with.

 

It was my best friend right now. I was covered in what must have been silk sheets, banged up bad sure, but very much alive.  Naked, washed. Cleaned, bandaged wounds. Casts on broken limbs....but sight was still slightly blurry with concussion. One eye covered with a bandage.

 

Dick Jr had got up a half hour earlier and was trying to fight its way out the covers so it could see what the dealio was with its one good eye. I reached down and gave him a friendly, conspiratorial pat on his shaft like I was patting the flank of a horse, the way a cowboy did in a movie I'd seen.  You gotta enjoy the bigger things in life too - Me and you against the world buddy

 

A girlish giggle from the direction of a sudden pressure swell at my feet. Even through the haze of my vision I still made out the dame in red. She had been semi-reclining at the foot of my bed.

She had those kinds of curves you could suck on, get your fuck on, worship upon until death or infirmity robbed you of their sight, taste, touch and smell.

 

The dame was the same gal with the big tomato-faced guy. The couple I'd saved in that alleyway.

She had been stroking my cock to attention and bringing me pleasantly back to the waking world.

She closed again to wrest her new favorite toy back from my patting hand.

 

“ I'm glad you’re...up, Dick”  she gushed breathlessly, a sexily husky, rasping voice.

 

I wasn’t too sure which one of us she was talking to but I was liking where this was going...

She lifted back the sheets slowly to regard her handiwork. Then she looked up at me with big, dark eyes and a red-lipped smile that look liked they belonged to a cartoon and not a human being.

She was small and young looking, 18? early 20s possibly, but her large rack made her seem older.

 

Her cleavage was spectacular, a small but muscular trim stomach and waist and generous hips that no doubt slung a voluptuous ass on its back.

A perfect hour glass to watch your life slip away to.

 

Red, plump limps parted and I was blown away by the fully loaded hollow-point smile she shot at me.. I was a slave to anticipation as she licked her lips and got into position breathing hard on my hard-on.  Her tongue was like an electric eel. Sending jolts of pleasure as she slowly, glided her tongue around….damn she was good at that. 

 

That one eyed fucker Dick Jr had the best view in the house as she tore her white blouse off and leaned over burying his head between her heavy, pillowy white breasts. She was braless and those huge breasts said Fuck you Isaac Newton.

Her plump purplish brown nipples were black cherries on all-you-can eat vanilla sundaes.

 

Her cleavage was wet from some creamy scented oil. The perfume of  which was intoxicating.

She massaged her snow-bank tits against my cock, leant in and briefly sucked and kissed Dick Jr between her cleavage…then looked up at me with those cartoon eyes and  grin.

 

I smelled expensive booze and cigarettes on her breath. But the melody they created with the whole orchestra of her curves was very pleasing to the senses. And I felt the sudden urge to cum.

I fought back from the brink of Cumageddon by thinking about how many guys I'd killed that year and how I did them. Works every time.

 

The secret to my lady killing between the sheets. Think dead guys guts....

 

She felt my hardness ebb some and continued her previous endeavour with determination. Her mock frown was playful but kind of scary at the same time. I don’t scare easy but when a woman has a handful of your cock and balls and she frowns like that. With dark eyes you cant read. Good seldom comes and neither do you. You go….

 

Her voice adopted at a weird, childlike tone that I kinda found both weirdly sexy and off-putting at the same time.

 

“ Now, now don’t you go limp noodle on me big guy,,,,” she accentuated guy with a higher pitch like she was asking a question.

 

She waved a finger at me and then at my dick before saying in the same weird voice

 

“boop-boop-be-doo - ooo”

 

I blearily came to the conclusion  that this broad's stairs may not reach all the way to her attic.

Then her voice changed back again into her breathless, light husky, Italian American accent that I knew well from those Fugazi twins I screwed in Nuked Jersey that time.

Where the fuck was I now?

 

“ Ugh …’ the fuck am I?”

 

”Resting up. At The Palminteri Compound. Hoboken  New Jersey.”

 

Her smile and eyes got bigger and brighter with every sentence and more enthusiastic. I was getting kinda uneasy. She was talking to me like I was in Kindergarten and she my hot but very insane kindergarten teacher

 

“Papa said I could nurse you while he takes the hurt to those Razzolli fucks. That I should show you a good time once you woke up...you like the movies?”

 

She must not date much cos Papa was clearly a well known gangster. They were afraid of him, maybe her. She had every intention on taking Papa’s instructions literally.

 

“Howww... long I been here?” I asked trying to ask a hard question with a hard on

 

“When you saved our lives that was January 1st, now its the exactly the second week in February - Its Valentine's!!!”

 

She bounced up on her haunches when she said this, eyes wide like a kid at Christmas. But her large bouncing breasts saying otherwise. The dark panties between her legs enticing.

 

“My Birthday today also! And you’re the best birthday present I could have, Yesh you are”

 

She was talking to my dick like it was a pet. I played along as she played with me.


I had been a month or so unconscious in this room.

My incredibly enthusiastic cock-hungry nurse here, delighted I was finally awake to play.

I had a sneaking suspicion she hadn't waited till I woke to play with it. But at least she hadn’t put a dolls dress or bows on my dick....Jeez the way she eyed it ...Get a knife and fork already.

 

“Uhhh....Whats the Year?” She stopped stroking my cock and looked at me with genuine concern.

 

“Wow the War really did a number on you, huh? Ya been outta VA hospital long? Had vomit all over ya and looked like a bum....Or was it the fall too?”

 

“War?!?”

 

“You're really fucked up, The Second World War? God Bless America!” She mock saluted my dick.

 

 This was a big bag of crazy... Senses reeled. I'd somehow time travelled or rather rolled back in time inside gigantic dice that used to be only a tie decoration. I started like I was going to be sick n' pass out again. She held me in the conscious world by my cock...my business card tickled him,,

 

“Now, Now, Mister Dice we'll have none of  that, we have work to do!”

 

“Secun Wirl Wuh? Y'mean kill Hitler?”

 

“Jeezus  Mister, we got a few questions of our own you know?”

 

“Like why you dressed so fuckin' weird?”       Cos I'm from the fuckin' future

“Why you carry that weird looking knife?”     Cos its a great back up, balanced for throwing.

“You got a holster but no gun, you drop it?     Damn I left my handgun Lucille back in the future.

 

And whats with the stupid leather fuckin' business cards, DICK?

 

She hit my dick so hard  my erection nearly snapped. She edged away pouting and scowling.

That slap briefly cleared the concussion some to make me aware I could be in even more trouble.

 

Her eyes took on a feral hardness. On her roundish face that stare made her look like a demonic doll. This was not gonna be pleasant. She clenched her teeth, hissing, spraying foam out her mouth.  Eyes bugging pointing at me

 

“Who are you working for, Really? Us? Or them?”

 

She had pulled a switch-blade from some place on her person and was threatening to break skin and vein on my ebbing erection.

I looked wildly around for something to defend myself with but only saw the newspaper by the bed stand.

 

I speed read that Newspaper's headlines in microseconds...I then remembered every bit of information of that page with utmost clarity...I'd never done that for a long time....

 

 

FEB 14th 1945 

 

EVERYONE MUST DO THEIR PART TO WIN THIS WAR

AND NO ONE DOES IT BETTER THAN OUR O.S.S. HEROES

 

Then in another part

 

Paul 'Big Pomodori' Palminteri and Rizzo 'The Rat' Razzolli.  Gangsters go to war over suspected Razzolli support of former Fascist Italy and their Nazi collaborators...

 

A lightning fast cover story was born...No matter how bullshit.

My eidetic memory and photographic reflexes started to flash and kick in, I hadn’t used it in a long time due to a head injury. The fall must have jogged it loose again.

To explain this ability shorthand - I can remember at times everything I've seen...and use it.

 

I see someone fire a weapon or execute a martial arts move I remember it perfectly and can do it.

I sometimes get total recall of dates, times, facts, figures, weapons, close combat, vehicle knowledge, films and books...secrets....

 

Its something I was born with and something that “The Church” encouraged at first and as the ability made me a more efficient assassin for them...

But in time they saw it as a threat to them and I was to be “retired” by a fellow Die-caster.  I hit first.

 

Combined with a kind of creative imagination, enables me to talk my way out of any problem, by reading people. Making people through force of personality believe me, that throws them off-guard and into my pocket.  I can profile and get into the head of people. Look through their eyes.

It doesn’t work on everyone only the susceptible. The unsusceptible I shoot or gut.

 

Its the super confidence goof of all times and I went into “free form” improv.  I started talking like a mish mash of every fast talking old school private eye, secret agent and gangster  character I seen at the movie theatre or read about ...I was channelling…personality traits of:

 

Cagney...Bogart...G.Robinson.....Pacino...Connery....Coburn....Chandler....Spillane, mimicking mannerisms, machine gun speech delivery. I fixed her with the look.  I made this chick a believer.

 

I reached across and grabbed her by the shoulders, ignoring pain of broken bones, torn muscles and a knife at my dick. I pierced her mind, heart and soul with the look.

 

“You Listen up sister and listen good...I'm going to come totally clean with you, see?

I can be killed for what I’m going to tell you, understand?”

 

“I'm working for Us, see?  I’m working for the US as in the good ol' US of A, Ya hear me?

 

“You want me to answer your questions, Missy? Well I'm going to answer them god-dammit.”

 

“Be warmed by the fiery patriotic flame that blazes in my heart for my country. A flame that burns brightly with the colors of the good ol' red, white and blue.

I am an O.S.S Operative PROBLEM INTERCEPTOR working for the betterment of mankind through American interests. Intercepting and if need be eliminating any problems that will prevent America from being great.

 

“I'm going to completely debrief you. It is all about winning the war, sister and everyone doing their part  for America. The greatest god-damned and god-blessed country that has ever been founded by Real Men' s fighting spirit, hard work and free enterprise.”

 

“But it was founded also by Real Women's supremely dedicated and appreciated effort in the home, in the kitchen, in the factory and in the bedroom.  Together these real men and women are feeding, mothering, fathering, mentoring, toiling for and bettering real men to fight and win wars for future generations. Furthering America's interests, making the world a better place.”

 

“I'm here to protect your father, and especially YOU with my life if need be. Support him in thwarting the schemes of Nazi collaborators in the organised crime underworld. In return for service to the nation your father will have a limited free pass on criminal activities unless they conflict with American interests. My deep cover story is your personal bodyguard. I will go by the name Dick 'Big Dice' Dicci”

 

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She stood there speechless, mouth opened...an every so slight smile playing ring-a-rosy around her lips...I couldn’t have hit her with a better piece of rug-pull revelational bullshit  if I had a week to prep. My eidetic creative imagination instinctively scanned her I profiled her within seconds...

 

 

4.     The Broken Doll With Broken Dreams

 

I scanned the room for clues, The tomato-faced giant was her father... A picture of an Asian woman possibly her mother...possibly long dead as there were more pictures of the father...

The kid was a broken doll with broken dreams that I had produced the glue to fix.

 

Her child-like naivety she displayed contrasted with the seasoned bordello hijinx. A product of a trauma perhaps early in her life and snowballing events thereafter.

Cloistered by her father in a Mafia family that wanted sons to fight petty gang wars and plots. She was a prisoner in the compound. Finding her fun where she could.

 

Curiosity about sex had devolved into a fascination with guys dicks... No different to my time....No girls allowed in the family business. And plenty of broken girls with broken dreams finding solace in loveless sex...either as prostitutes or gangsters molls.

 

Her father left the poor kid all alone at home, mostly to protect her. Alone albeit with armed babysitters to cater to her every need – sexual or otherwise - except one.

She wanted real adventure and action.  She had got a taste of a real gunfight and had did good from what I heard before passing out.  She wanted more.

 

She could only get that action before, and even romance, vicariously at the movies.

Many theatres closed because the War was still on. But Papa had given her a special treat of a trip to the Movies. Their security was somehow compromised and the hitmen kidnapped them at gunpoint to kill them in that alleyway. But I'd dropped in.

 

 All she knew now was the hard truths of her father's business. And she wanted to be part of it. But daddy obviously didn’t want that…she had retreated into the world of the movies and Saturday morning serial plays she had seen.  I was kind of similar in a lot ways except I had been cloistered by 'The Church.

 

I'd seen plenty of action and adventure. So much that it had became routine...When 'The Church' had wanted me to burn that Movie theatre down and kill anyone there I did what they said. But only after I had seen every movie there....that also made me a danger  for ‘The Church’ to try and correct....

 

She was practically creaming herself with excitement now.

She'd believed she was stroking the cock of a REAL American hero spysmasher secret agent. Not just some War Veteran turned drunken bum who had rolled off a fire escape  and happening to land on the right badguys at the right time, saving the day.

 

“That why you killed Razzolli's boys?  The black 'O' of her mouth became an overbite white 'V'

 

“That’s what’s with your weird clothes? Your army trenchcoat and your fedora feel like it has metal in it instead of cloth...cos that’s your Super agent combat kit aint it? WOW”

 

I really am a total bastard....I couldn’t help myself....I kept it going....

 

“ I had suspicions about Organised Crime being linked to Nazi Sympathisers, I was following leads to ascertain your father's involvement if any. To find out which of you two families were the real American patriots and who were Nazis pretending to be American.”

 

“I'd been in a fight with a whole bunch of fascist fucks and their leader...aboard  a Nazi plane over America with a cargo of nerve gas, disguised as an import plane for the Razzolli family.

I blew up that plane with a grenade and parachuted out.”

 

That wasnt totally bullshit the plane was another plane of existence in 2125.  The fascist fucks, were the Mayor and his gunsels. But it had the desired effect regardless.

I'd just made her so fuckin' moist. Her eyes and open mouth twitched in wonderment and awe.

I was telling her the best bedtime story ever.

 

'I fell over 200 feet as my parachute failed,  but when I saw Razzolli’s boys going to kill you, I landed on those gunsels to break my fall as much as rescue you.

 

Spoonful of truth to 3 spoonfuls of bullshit makes the medicine go down

 

And go down she would too and then some.

 

“ Wow...I wanted you awake to give you a proper thank you for saving me and Papa P's lives.

I was gonna just have some fun. Cock-tease you a bit then quickly blow you and jerk you off. 

But You’re Special and I'm going to take my time with you”

 

She withdrew the knife and lovingly daubed the micro thin line of blood she had shed and sucked at it on her finger.  I swallowed hard and played it cool my All-American Boy Scout manners intact.


“Why thank you Miss, I am what America made me and destined me to be”

 

“Aww c’mon Dick, “Miss” is too formal. I'm  Anna. Anna Lucille Palminteri at your and America's service. I'm really going to do my part for America”

 

She mock saluted again, let out a disturbing girlish giggle and flashed the dark forest of pubic hair she wore in place of panties under that red skirt.

 

“Oh and I'm also fully debriefed” she swayed back and forth coyly before jumping on me.

 

Dick, I think you've just bit off more than you can chew. Wait.... She just say her name was Lucille?

 

 

5. Bringing Dead Back Alive With Love And A .45

 

She inched her diminuitive, curvy, 5' 4 frame across my 6'2 length. She kissed me the way Angels ought to kiss.  Lightly on the ribs at first where I'd been shot then moved lower, offering me both pleasure and pain in sweet abundance.

 

Playfully biting, tracing her tongue over my belly, punctuating her progress with those angelic lips. Heavenly, quick kisses that slowed and got more pressure as she headed south. Down across my expertly dressed thigh wound  and then took me deep into mouth and throat, reallygoing to work. 

 

My God her dedication to America was without question.

 

She backed off  and got up - I thought she was gonna leave. But then she pulled the heavy buttons on the side of her red skirt apart and slipped it down to reveal that dark forest in its full glory, she wore no underwear but a red and black garter belt and suspenders with thick red wool hold up stockings. It was afterall February in New Jersey….

 

Damn she was hairy. Back in my world everyone shaved. Bald as newborns cos of the hellish lice problem we had in some townships.

I had been clean shaven both up and down most of my adult life, but this was definitely one of those occasions where I'd be getting beard soon.

 

She then pointed to the door, pointed one finger against her mouth and made the slice neck sign with her other hand. Clearly she was saying dont make a sound or you're dead

Intrigued I readily complied. She stuffed  panties she'd taken off before entering the room, into my mouth.

 

2 hours later that seemed like a month - The tell-tale sign I was about to cum was my back starting to arch slightly. Hell my mouth and jaw ached as much as my dick and balls.  She'd  taken the panties back out my mouth to bite down on herself when I had spoken in tongues inside her.

 

Slowly stroking my increasingly purpling head against her puffing pussy lips as she arched backwards. She fingered her generous ample nipples and her moist, pink jellybean

Bringing herself to the borderlands of quick climax. Backing away from finishing herself too quick.

 

Her pussy lips were as plump and pleasing as those she wore that devil red lipstick upon. And it was my honor to kiss, tongue  and suck on both. Was I feeling Love? It dawned on me I had fucked without any real passion my whole life until that point. All I'd fucked was either prepaid mayoral whores or marks I was going to kill. 

 

Almost lost in her own pleasure, she finally saw I was overdue to climax and pulled me quickly deep inside her welcoming dark forest. My dick, a willing sacrifice to feed the growling wet mouthed monster within. She devoured me.

 

She gathered momentum. Her huge tits weighty metronomes keeping the fuck beat. She ground faster and faster riding me hard to an explosive carnal climax.

I came with surprising force inside her making her utter a brief sharp cry of esctacy and surprise. While this wasnt the first time she'd been fucked this was the first time it'd been done right...

 

The rest of her cries during sex had been breathless hisses and sighs through the her panties gag.

Immediately her hand was at her mouth and looked to the door. Eyes bugged. I fancied they could penetrate the door like X-rays and scan to see who was on the other side. No one came but us…

 

Whoever was meant to be standing guard out there was either gone for good to jerk off or  they were there to stay with beers as they listened to our radio sex play.

We had filled each other with the harsh white light of the best orgasm we ever had. 

 

I could tell from her shuddering, slightly bow-legged walk as she limped back to her dropped skirt that she hadnt faked it. I think her vision was fuzzy now too with orgasm as she tottered on her stilettos and banged into the table stand and nearly fell over.

She made a husky oopsie sound and looked back over her shoulder and smiled dreamily,

 

Hehhh She was just fuckin' adorable.....Not for the first time I believed I had literally fallen head over heels in love with this dame, albeit I had indeed fallen head over heels out of the sky and landed on her would be killers. She stopped on route at the table stand by the low window

 

This girl had no qualms standing there bare pussy at the window gently towelling herself as the warm sunshine and chill wind warmed and cooled her between the legs in equal measure.

She lit a cigarette smoked half and gave me the rest. I could see she had been crying.

She gave me a quick look of embarrassment at what she was about to say

 

“ I did that for America, I did that for you , but most of all I did it for me, I want to be the mother of children...who are going to grow to be like their father fighting for this country and all it represents.....I know we just met Dick...but you're not like the others I've had.... I think I Love you”

I had tricked this poor girl....mostly to get out of my dick being cut....but she had still cut me more than any blade could.  No one had ever said that and didnt try to kill me right after...

I started to mouth “Love you too” silently but it quickly died on my lips...

 

I felt I was remembering a movie... didnt seem real to me... not just then anyway... Instead I said aloud with a whimsical smile.

 

“ I know” She squeezed out a single tear and stroked me once from cheek to groin and walked off.

 

As she walked away I got for the first time a dynamite view of her curvaceous calves, thighs and great, round ass  from behind. All of them beautiful, white and full as the moon....but...

 

She had something on her ass cheeks.... An uneven burgundy Love heart. The divide of her ass made it look like a broken heart.... She caught me looking and scowled that scary frown again at my expression.

 

“It’s not polite to stare at someone's deformity.....it’s not a  tattoo...it’s my birthmark”

 

“Anna... I love your ass and you” I couldn’t believe I just said that.  She made an Awww face and cried again.

 

“Happy Valentine's Day, Dick”

 

“Happy Birthday, Anna” I winked at her and grinned my sinner's grin. I had got hard again.

 

She walked over with that smile again. Something shiny she had picked out of her hand bag was in her hand. She sprawled on me pinning me under the weight of her tits and rested a gold-plated .45 on my dick. 'The Fuck Was This?

 

“I was dead emotionally, Dick. Just going through the motions. You brought me back alive”

 

She gently cradled my cock in one hand and stroked it with the cold muzzle of the Colt .45 automatic in the other.  Kissing the areas she touched…

I watched uneasily thinking any moment I could have a blown off, bleeding stump.

She wanted my undivided attention as she dreamily made her point. Fixing me with those big eyes.

 

“My Pappa always said theres two things you need to survive in this world. LOVE....AND A .45 ”

 

 

6. Good Things Come In Small Packages Lil’ Lethal Lucille

 

Love and a .45 I liked that philosophy and embraced it. I'm still doing what I do best. Killing.

Fully recovered from my injuries, I'm protecting Anna Lucille and her Pops full time now, and its good pay… saved them both again from another two would-be hits.

 

They never got close as they did first time round, I intercepted the problem before they got near.

I even taught Anna how to fight and shoot in secret, as Papa wouldn’t approve.

But the crazy kid's a natural. She hardly needed schooling and she’s much better than me with thrown weaponry. On my last hit Papa Pomodori sent me on?  She came with me in secret.

 

Here’s how it went down… There was twelve guys guarding the rival family compound...

 

I had already taken out my six with stealth -  kukri blade kills and silenced rifle – The rifle was a custom build made from a Thompson 100 drum-fed with scope and silencer.

Handling and looking like a Russian VSS combat sniper but with a drum fed... Giving full-auto close to medium range and 3-burst long range. Firing  Thompson .45 rounds instead of VSS 9 mm.

 

I covered her on the other six with the sniper rifle, just in case she fucked up being a rookie.   First couple of guys had caught her on the perimeter fence  climbing down.(she wanted this to happen)  She was dressed like a dude, in a fat suit that covered her huge tits, hat and fake beard.

 

For to sneak her out the Palminteri compound. I told Papa Pomodori that she was my associate from O.S.S. Giorgio “Bambino” Gambino. One of the first Italian Partisans to fight the Nazis. The disguise was good enough to fool Papa. With her husky voice lowered, she sounded eerily male.  Papa was suspicious at first but trusted me so much, gave it the OK.

 

Anyway. The guards caught her...but didn’t kill her...They tried? I wouldve dropped them first.

Instead they punched her fake gut and knocked her beard and hat of. Discovering He was a She.

I was lining up kill shots when she gestured to me through the sniper scope.

Back off lover I got this.  They argued if they should kill such a fine piece of ass. A stripshow, then passing her around the guys was decided on. Like I was gonna allow That to happen.... 

 

She played out her cocktease shenanigans. Giving these Goombahs a real show. She bent over and stripped off her pants giving them a good look at her heart-shaped birthmark ass and the goods beneath. Too busy laughing, wolf whistling and crotch grabbing they didnt see her wink at me through the scope - Bring the rain, Lover.

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Fire selector to full auto, I gave suppression cover fire for her to go to work. They were too busy firing back  at me they didnt see her pull off the switch-blades she'd taped under her huge breasts. She moved like a fuckin' jungle cat, pouncing fast on one of the guys, opening  his throat with one deep, sweep of her blade - throwing the other at the guy who had just turned around.

 

The dumbass didnt realise he had a thrown switch-blade heading towards him until it was buried in his eye. But it didnt kill him as he was a tough fucker. She closed distance fast with a jump spin kick, hammering  it deeper, into his brain. The impact knocked him down, the haemotoma finished him. She dived for his dropped .45 and finished off the rest in a hail of groin, heart and head shots.

 

She's already set the phosphorous charges by the time I got down from my sniper's roost. She stood  there with her back to me looking at her handiwork. Her heartshaped birtrhmark butt never looked so good as it did in that moonlight. A smoking .45 cocked in the air at her ear.

 

There is no finer sight in the world than a huge breasted, naked woman holding a smoking M1911 Colt.45 Automatic Handgun.

 

“What kept ya?” she beamed at me with that white hot hollow point smile.

 

“Yeah, Yeah. Don’t get cocky, kid. You did great but you could’ve done that less naked, taking less risks....and -”

 

“Oooh but you know I always want to get cocky!!! C'mere big guy” She gurgled throatily.

 

She grabbed  a handful of cock and led me out to safe distance on the mansion front lawn.

 

“Got a present for ya, lover”

 

 She pointed down to her sweet peach, she'd shaved her pubic hair down into the shape of a pair of black dice. She was mine and I was hers....

 

We made love on that compound lawn like it was our first time and as we reached climax together the mansion went up in flames…

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The girl has fuckin' impeccable timing…

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

This world is in many ways more complicated than my own but a lot more simpler in others.

 

Its a lot more fun…besides doing what we do best…there’s movies, good food, clean air, bowling and dancing. Now the War’s ended, America has this feeling that it cant be stopped as we destroyed the evil of Hitler.  And yeah I played a hand in that too but I’ll tell you about that another time

 

Papa Pomodori ain’t stupid, He’s a smart, fat, tomato-faced fuckin' giant. He knows I’m more than his family’s most trusted bodyguard and hit man.  He knows I ain’t a government agent…And I'm pretty sure he knows about Anna being my Hit Queen. But what can he complain about?

 

A prospective kick-ass Son-In-Law who has saved his life 3 times?  Uh uh...

 

A man who may provide him with “a Masculine child”, a  grandson heir to family business.  Nope

Not to mention the fact that The Wise-guy Who Fell From Da Sky here has made him one of the most feared mob bosses in New Jersey. Well... with a lil help from his lil girl.

 

I don’t even miss my big gat Lucille so much any more... every once and a while maybe truth be told. But when I have a living, breathing, soft, big-breasted version of her that can fire guns, fuck me senseless and fuck people up in some ingenious ways.  I'm missing her less and less everyday.

 

If  big Lucille knew I was cheating on her with another woman (Lil Lethal Lucille) and other guns, she'd blow my head off when I cleaned her next.

 

But I now  I got a helluva woman, an M1911 and Thompson 100 drum-fed sniper custom build.

 

I truly have LOVE AND A .45.....

 

 

 

                                                 THE END?

                            (Roll some dice and see if ya get lucky)
 
 

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Art by Paul Dick © 2012

Knight Errand

by

Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

Night time was “Knight time.” I shot out of my underground base like a slug from a .45.  My customized Honda Fireblade’s wheels hit asphalt in a triumphant screech of purpose. I donutted the bike around in the direction I was needed. It was a Special Delivery and “Knight Errand” couriers always delivered.

Accelerating the ’blade to near its maximum speed, I hit the nitrous near a damaged section of road using the broad back of a mutated cockroach as a impromptu ramp to get to the other side. The Resource Wars had raped the world through Atomic, bacterial, and chemical warfare. Mutated species were its unwanted offspring.

The global governments left our raped earth crying in the gutter. Fucked off-world to their Alpha moon bases, leaving the rest of us to get on with it.  Every once and a while, they sent “cleanse” teams; some done some good and made areas habitable again.  

But most failed or never returned. It was up to people like me to try and make things better with our relief deliveries of food, medical aid, and power cells—the Knight Errand was born. The package strapped to my back was already making me feel weaker with its contents.

The heat was almost unbearable even through my armored biker leathers.  But it had certainly done the trick to keep the Haemorlocks off my back for the present. The UV headlights on the ’blade did the rest.   

The shambling albino fucks kept their distance as their enhanced senses had sniffed out the package before they saw me. They hid in the gloom, inside skeletal ruined buildings. Faces divided by piss-yellow, glowing eyes, and snapping vagina mouths, ringed with scolex teeth.

But they were hungry and one decided to attack. As he sprang from above for me, I fast-drew my Argentine katana from the bike’s right dorsal scabbard and sliced the cunt-face in two, from crotch to crown, flicking the sword sideways to shake the blood off it.  

From the other dorsal side I unholstered the “clusterfuck”—fired into the buildings supports, bringing it down on the Haemorlock pack. That would slow them from following. . . .

To think these assholes used to be like us.

Finally reaching my destination, I climbed the stairs three at a time inside the high rise. I banged on the door, wanting to get the hot box off my back.

 Five Normals answered, hungry, frightened, but armed to the teeth with improvised weapons. They were wary of the figure in black standing before them wearing a darkened helmet visor. One false move and I would be fucked.

“Knight Errand Special Delivery, here’s your Care Package—10 Ultra Deep Pan, Extra Garlic with organic Cheese and Fortified water, and medical supplies as promised.”

Weapons still trained on me, they said a grudging thanks and slammed the door. Triple bolting it shut.

Still, the Garlic and the “extras” baked into the Pizza would keep them healthy. And by the time the Garlic had worked out of their systems, we would return and harvest them in force, now that we knew where they were.

A good Vampire never kills all his livestock. He rears and keeps those he doesn’t kill healthy and in sufficient supply to breed. . . .

 

 

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The Long Rider Caught Short

by Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

Shouldn’t have eaten that fuckin’ Chinese joint Burrito. He needed a giant shit. That shit was now a heavyweight boxer punching his Hemorrhoids like a fuckin’ speed bag. The long ride from outside North Vegas to Death Valley, California, had done a number on his ass already. Like himself, the saddle of the Pan head motorcycle he rode on had seen better days.

Both bike and biker had went through the grinder over the years and kept rolling. Both were considered classics. Old Cole Younger was an outlaw in name and nature, nearly 62, well-respected member in the Vegas chapter of his outlaw MC. 

There was no better enforcer in his day, but like all things, he'd gotten old. He'd been succeeded by a blue flamer, psycho piece of shit he was always at fuckin' odds with. But he was mostly at odds with his own body.

Wild, drug-fuelled sex, Wild Turkey booze and wild west-style fighting had all took their toll on him and now his plumbing was his worst enemy. When he got caught short, he used a roadside. . . . But the truck stop restroom ahead . . . Nirvana.

Hemorrhoid pained, fecally impacted, he dismounted, walking with bow-legged difficulty into the restroom. He was going to "give birth"— the closest a man would ever get to the act. Though it wasn’t life he created, he still would be proud.

Women would never understand that real men—not these goddamn metrosexual pansies—took pride in a good shit almost as much as he took pride in a son. He prided himself on having a son in every town and a shit in every bowl from Vegas to California.    

Men took pride in a shit's size and weight as they would if they caught a sizeable Marlin in the Keys. And like a Marlin, this sonuva bitch inside him was putting up a real fight. He wasn’t "The Old Man and the Sea" but the old man in the "C-Stop," the joint he was currently using this foul-smelling "maternity ward" of.

He had been in there for what seemed like an ice age now, heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat beading his hot brow. Physical and mental pain and strain peaking. He was close to "doing an Elvis.”  He resorted to mental imagery now, just as a cock-shy guy imagines a waterfall to piss next to others at a urinal.  He focused himself in between deep breaths and quick-controlled breaths on the opening scene from the first Star Wars movie.

He groaned and yelled in pain and triumph as his mind played out the long crawl across the silver screen of the evil Empire's giant starship. Suddenly something broke free from him. Only this time his "baby" returned the yell. Eerily amplified by the confines of the toilet bowl.

Cole sprang off the toilet as his "offspring" climbed out and made its bid for freedom. Across the floor, it trailed a wake of blood and shit up the wall and smashed the window.

It paused before it exited the building, growing a cat-like face out of its ass snake's body and hissed at its parent.

Just before Cole passed out from blood loss and this fucked-up situation. He groaned one sentence before unconsciousness took him.

"It’s . . . a . . . Boy. . . ."

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AKAI TAIYO – Happīendo

 

by Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

Colin J. Farnsworth III was your atypical, respectable, late 40s American WASP businessman. Slightly overweight, but “muscular fat,” receding salt-and-pepper hair balding and whitening at the temples and crown, and farmer’s sunburn tan etched the happiness and sorrows of his life upon his face in equal measure.

He had a trophy school-principal wife in her late 30s and a bounty of well-behaved, All-American children. They lived in white-picket heaven in some would say a "select community" of similar people. 

But, most of the time he lived in high-price hotels.

He was the epitome of the American dream—starting out small and humble in Nebraska and becoming big and successful in California.  He had the ears of Democrat and Republican state senators and governors alike. It began with hard work and networking, but later resorted to double dealing, corruption, blackmail, and ruthless business acumen.

He was a predator; he saw what he wanted and took it: a small business, a woman. He didn’t think twice about other people’s needs. And he would satisfy his needs by force if need be. And wasn’t he in the business of force? Being the CEO of a top U.S. arms manufacturer? Force worked.

Unbeknownst to his wife, his predatory instincts included sexual desires that she could no longer satisfy. No matter how hard she tried. But being the dutiful husband, he thanked her for her minor if rather unspectacular endeavors.

Instead, old Farnsworth yearned for the barely-legal girls of the East: India, Thailand, Vietnam. Wherever his business had taken him, he arranged for a bevvy of barely-legal beauties for his entertainment after a successful deal.

A Viagra-fuelled, victory Fuckathon would ensue with some of the most tight, flexible girls offered. Sometimes, three at a time. Sometimes he marked them by biting them their pussies, tits, or asses and paid extra for the privilege.

Occasionally, he drew blood , but he was never in any danger of STD infection. He had them checked out thoroughly in advance. Bloodletting was his “spice” to the evening.  It asserted his power—whenever he fucked with a full- length mirror in the room, he turned and posed “Charles Atlas” style as he pounded ass.

With his lovely wife at home and all-you-can-eat pussy buffets on his trips, he redefined "having his cake and eating it." But even these sexual gymnastics began to get stale and he was always looking for something different.

He knew he would find it in Japan. This country was a strange fish, full of more contradictions than the western world. Japan censored its own porn industry so heavily, that its people cried out to the States for real hardcore fare. But, not satisfied with even that, they debased themselves in the weirdest fetish brothels and sex dungeons imaginable.

And they shared Farnsworth's fascination with young girls. It was these sex dungeons Farnsworth wanted to visit. Especially the rope-torture ones he’d heard so much about. He craved something different, something memorable. 

As he saw it, Japan had been at the U.S.'s mercy, first in its Americanization of the Meji Imperial Army at the end of the 19th Century.  The last remnants of the classic outlaw Samurai clans were nearly exterminated when the U.S. sold them the Gatling gun. Then, when Japan thought it could take on the U.S. during WW2, Enola Gay kissed their War effort goodbye in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Now, Japan’s young women were at Farnsworth’s mercy.

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The day of the big deal came and went smoothly. As predicted, Farnsworth's hardball tactics and reliable products had made the deal go successfully with Yoshida Nakamura Industries. Fuku Yoshida was an old school Japanese who looked like he wanted to bisect Farnsworth with one of his Hittori Hanzo Katana displayed in the meeting room. But even he was sold on the strengthening of his company with "Gaijin" technology.  He appreciated Farnsworth’s style.

As a parting gift Yoshida bowed and gave Farnsworth a business card for an "executive massage" parlor called "Nagai Jikan Happīendo." Farnsworth's Japanese was rusty, but he recognized that the words meant "Long Time Happy Endings."

Well, it would be a nice way to start off the night's festivities.

He bowed back at the old Japanese businessman and, with a grin, said, "Arigato, Fuck you –San."

The Japanese CEO smiled coldly. Bowing, he said, "Sayonara, Farnsworth-San, enjoy your ending."

Farnsworth's grin vanished briefly, but he assumed Yoshida was trying to intimidate him. He decided to ignore it. Taking his leave with another bow, he reminded himself not to bow quickly like that again. He had got a rush of blood and had gone lightheaded.

He thought Yoshida’s face changed. For an instant, it seemed to have black tentacles growing from it. Farnsworth blamed it on his lightheadedness from bowing and began searching for the hand job massage parlor.  Time to celebrate the deal . . .

It seemed he’d been in heavy traffic for hours when Yoshida’s chauffeur finally wrestled the limo out of the ring of cars and into the seedier backstreets of Tokyo.

Farnsworth downed a Viagra with a swig of the complimentary Sake. His sexual predator had awoken and it was hungry. He would leave his mark on Tokyo's ladies of the night in his usual fashion but he was determined to have at least one new experience tonight.

The car suddenly stopped.  There it was, the "Nagai Jikan Happiendo" hand job parlor.

Inside, the place was beautiful, done in old school Samurai aesthetic. There was a little brook with a bridge, a mini faux waterfall, a Zen garden and sliding partition paper doors. But most beautiful were the girls—fifteen years old if they were a day. Their demure bowing and pandering made his Viagra-budding cock harden as they undressed him for a shiatsu massage –and more.

"Oh, master, you so stwong and . . . beeeeg!" One obviously appreciated a prime cut of Nebraskan farm boy when she saw it.  As she took his pants off, she bowed low, her exquisite breasts swaying. White peach flesh and large, brownish nipples playing peekaboo out of her kimono.

She sat with one foot tucked under her, the other leg extended wide. This offered Farnsworth a beautiful view of her crotch.  Lithe, muscular legs led to a slight tuft of hair framing a small, tight pudenda . The tucked foot placed there slightly parted her pussy lips, displaying the smooth wetness within.

More girls appeared, each with one beautifully-chubby breast and shoulder showing from her black kimono. They carried a harp, sensual oils, receptacle bowls, and Sake.

Farnsworth saw there was no security present: no pimp, master of procurements, or even a madam. Hell, there weren’t even cameras. Could this be a place where he could indulge in spicier activities than just shiatsu and hand job?

Soon he was mildly drunk from the Sake, and they had stripped and washed him, and laid him face down on a massage table. The table had a hole at the end for his face. But as they worked on his muscles with the shiatsu massage and applied the oils, he begged them to turn him over. His hard-on was getting uncomfortable.

"No need, mastah, we have that well in hand.  Just welax and enjoy shiatsu - Azumi - Bukkake Ferachio."

She clapped her hands. Below his crotch, the table suddenly opened via a small trap door.  Beneath him, the girl named Azumi reached up and gently guided his small, thick cock through the gap and into her mouth. Now that was service. 

He had heard of Bukakke and Bukkake doors similar to glory holes where a mysterious man would stick his cock through the opening and ejaculate on a woman’s face, but this was a new spin on things—Blowjob/bukkake mixed with Shiatsu massage.

The woman giving massage disrobed and leaped nimbly onto his back. She spread her legs, riding and grinding him while massaging him, splaying the warm wetness of her sex and brush of her pubic hair across his lower spine. He was totally relaxed as the Sake, sexual massage, methodical light sucking and stroking of his cock—with another girl sucking his toes— made his mind ebb and flow on waves of pleasure across the sea of unconsciousness. . . .

He felt the spasm of orgasm in his spine, then a sharp pain in his dick. “Be careful,” he said. She mumbled something he couldn’t understand. Sudden liquid flowed from his dick. In his Sake-weary state, he thought he’d cum at last—but holy shit, there was a lot—more than he ever had done before.

He tried to move but couldn’t. Something like a rubbery tube was pinning him. He still felt the sucking on his feet but it was like two women each had a whole foot—way past his heel—in her mouth!

 How the fuck was that possible? He struggled to turn and see what was going on behind him. . . . then he wished he hadn’t . . .

The large rubbery tube wrapped around him, tightened on his arms and shoulders like a snake constricting, but he’d seen the thing behind him. He screamed.

The naked masseuse had seemed to be headless, but her neck had stretched forty feet and was wrapped around him and the table. She was devouring him from the feet up. Her mouth and throat were impossibly wide, her eyes now incandescent yellow and snake-like –she was eating him alive.

As Farnsworth screamed, the girl who’d been sucking his cock shot up from beneath the table. Her head, on its overlong neck, was inches from his. Her distended, snakelike face was covered in blood and semen, as her fanged mouth devoured his severed dick. When she’d finished her meal, she laughed in his face. Then screamed:

"Fukōna ketsumatsu!!!"         (Unhappy Endings)

From other rooms also came screams, clearly from other clients who were getting more than the happy ending they’d bargained for. But as the front door burst into flames, another sound eclipsed the screams. A deep cosmic sound, like a voice of Ohm, echoed as a figure in a black leather trench coat and hood stepped through the flaming debris. In each hand, the figure bore a burning red hot katana.

"Rokurokubi! Face your doom, demons. At the blades of the Akai Taiyo!"

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Moving faster than humanly possible, the dark-garbed figure shot from room to room, leaving a lingering afterimage in his wake. He battled the long-necked demons, hacking them apart, and torching anything the blade struck.

The voice of Ohm peaked as he blasted fiery throwing stars from his hands at fleeing demons, and fused the red, flaming gout back into the shape of fiery blades. When he got struck, his chest burned furiously in a circular red jewel that shone with the power of the sun. Gashed wounds spouted blood and fire but instantly healed over as pink scars.

In Farnsworth's room, he easily hacked the Rokurokubi demons, masterfully severing necks and splitting bodies in two, his blades igniting the corpses’ flesh. He severed the Rokurokubi head that had been eating Farnsworth from the feet up but he was too late. Farnsworth was already dying from blood loss. . . .

"S-save me, p-please . . ." he said weakly.

The shadowy figure spun and threw back his hood. The crown of his head was glowing. A red gemstone burst into eerie red light—like the red sunspot on the Japanese flag—and pulsed on his deathly- pale forehead. Farnsworth saw that the figure had burned flesh over his eyes, which were forever seared shut. 

"Y-your eyes . . ."

"Yes . . . I am quite blind. In the human sense. But as an Akai Taiyo I can see better without eyes, for now I see into your soul, Gaijin. I see a brief glimmer of light in the otherwise dark emptiness of it.  For what you have done in the past, you clearly deserve the fate you have wrought upon yourself. But . . ." 

He looked pained and his hands stirred in indecision. He was truly struggling against something inside of him. . . .

"That glimmer of light is the love you still hold for your family.  No matter how much you have betrayed your wife, you still care for her and your children. For that, I give you an honorable death and send you on to Lord Enma to decide your final punishment in Jigoku."

With a sweep of the Akai Taiyo's burning blade, Farnsworth’s head was cut from his shoulders. Farnsworth's eyes filled with bright red light and he no longer felt pain—only comforting warmth—like you’d feel in the womb. Before he died, a feeling of well-being flooded his senses, as he had briefly touched the Sun.

Then icy coldness took him as his soul plunged into Jigoku—the Japanese Hell.

His soul landed head first at the feet of a Giant Samurai Warrior who had four arms and a head with eight faces. Each face was more terrible than the last; each spun around to look at Farnsworth.

Lord Enma, Keeper of Souls, picked up Farnsworth's severed soul-head and spoke to him in Farnsworth's own voice.  "There’s a great American saying: 'Having your head up your ass. . . .' "

To his horror, Farnsworth saw that one of Enma's terrible faces had turned into his own grinning one.

 

 "You have had your head up your ass for not seeing you have a good woman waiting for you at home," Enma said.

Farnsworth stared back at his own grinning face.

"Yes, 'Head up Ass,' as a beginning to your punishments, I think we will start from there."

Enma bent Farnsworth's soul-body over his knee as if to spank him. Instead, he parted Farnsworth's ass-cheeks with his katanas. With his two bottom arms, Enma jammed the screaming Farnsworth’s soul-head deep inside to choke, maybe forever, on his metaphysical bowels.

In the realm of the living, the Akai Taiyo turned and struck at the parlor’s support foundations, bringing everything down around him, burying himself and the carnage in flaming ruins. The sound of Ohm intensified as a Sun burst from the destruction.

As his clothes burned away from him, the Akai Taiyo stalked away from his work, never looking back on the demonic Gamorra he had punished.

Before he faded from view, his naked body began burning bright. Glowing red armor was seared from his flesh and began to clothe him from head to foot.

He stopped, his eyeless face set toward the ground.

He struck again and again with twin swords of burning red fire.  He had cut Japanese Kanji characters into the road that simply read: “SAMURAI.”

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Deep In The Heart Of Texas

 a Grimm Prairie Trail story

By Paul "Deadeye" Dick

 

From Beyond Time and Space,,,

          I have been alone too long….My kindred sleeps underneath the ground and can only awaken when the stars are right. My long lost love sleeps with them and I hunger for her and my kin as much as I hunger to drain this world dry and move on to another…

          We are the Vampheer…Chaos in the flesh…Begat by accident, some would say even destiny, from the dark heart of the Cosmos by that living black hole we call father—the blind, idiot god, Azathoth.  

          He thrashes madly amidst the void, lashing out his whirling pseudopods, destroying small worlds, snuffing out stars and his seminal fluids spattering among the ether, begetting new worlds, new stars, new races and new terrors.  His servitors eternally danced around this nuclear nightmare, piping flutes made from their very being, in an attempt to temporarily sedate his wanton flux.

          For thousands of millennia, we drank each planet we came upon dry, absorbing everything into our being.   We left withered husks hanging in the void of space, bereft of life and knowledge, moving on to the next when the stars were right.

          We would have been unstoppable if it wasn’t for the Elder Gods of Order.  They who redressed the balance of Azathoth’s chaotic whims of destruction and creation.  They had debated about what to do with us for millennia and left our spread among the stars unchecked for far too long.  We battled them for eons until they gained the upper hand, and exploited our one true weakness.  Cold… made us dull in form, intelligence and movement.

          They bound our frozen remains in a giant meteor and threw us into the depths of this once-lush jungle world.  The impact of our arrival and our escape from the meteor quickly orchestrated the demise of the dominant reptilian race as our viscous mass flooded across its geography and absorbed them. 

          The Great Ice age came… and for millennia after millennia we were forced to sleep….Only I had been chosen to remain undreaming and find a means for us to escape.  I walked the earth inside the warm form of one of the new intelligent species that had sprung from the common ape—Man…

          I gifted Man with the essence of fire, both to stave off the cold and keep us warm and myself awake…But I became quickly bored at their slow progress and chose to share knowledge with a few.  These became the Atlanteans and their technology fuelled by knowledge from the stars advanced mankind.  But the Atlanteans got greedy for more power and rent the veil between the worlds and summoned Azathoth’s servant, Dread Nylarhotep. 

          He gifted them with his Black Ankh, a device by which they could conquer this world and others with.  Capable of controlling the elements, even the orbit of the moon, manipulating the path of the stars so they could fold space between worlds. But the Atlanteans discovered too late as the Oceans rose to swallow them, that Nylarhotep’s true intent was this world’s destruction. I smashed the Ankh before it could finish its purpose and I believed it sunk with the upstart Atlanteans.

          I begat what would become the human Vampire race… these bastard children also acquired grand designs when they found parts of The Black Ankh and sought to reassemble it against my wishes.  The strongest decided on killing me, sucking me dry to gain the rest of my knowledge. They found that I cannot die and they fled.

          For their rebellion against me, the sentence is their death. I scoured the earth in search of them. Hunting them across the world’s various continents, adopting guise after guise, my search had brought me now to 19th Century America… It was here I finally learned of a means to return my kin and my long lost love from their sleep.  Stupidly, I had failed to see that The Black Ankh was that means all along…

 

                _____________________________________________________

 

 

Texas State border, 1895, February the 12th

“Texas…. Ptoo … What a fuckin’  black soul shit heap” spat Grimm, as tobacco shot past his cracked, grey lips, spattering on the State’s welcome sign.

            ‘The fuck you call me? ” said the negro bounty hunter beside me. His nickname was “Texas” after all. He was a recent addition to the posse and was one hair-trigger Son of a gun.

          “Settle down there boy, he was talking about the State of Texas, not you,” said the preacher on my other side.  He noticeably winced as he realised he had said the wrong thing to antagonize the Negro.

          “You don’t get to call me ‘boy’ any more preacher man, I am a free man, or didn’t you hear the war ended? Cos you abouts to start another.”

The Negro snarled and made a move for his gun. Hammers clicked and guns were drawn in his direction.

          “How dare you threaten your white betters. Pull that gun und you vill be bleeding from three mouths in your head as you die…” The German LiebenKraft twins now pulled their guns on the Negro bounty hunter…

          Grimm whirled, pulling his Walker Colt and shot the guns out of their hands…He sat astride his white war horse, Ghost.  Both rider and horse had a mane of long white hair. His eyes pale as the moon. His features, a mix of Injun and black but he was an albino and his dark skin was the colour of a tombstone. For Grimm had been dead for 42 years.

          “I’m half black, you German sons of bitches, you think y’all are better than me? Why? Cos y’all be white men and me and the ‘boy’ here is black? Cos y’all alive and I’m           dead?  You wanna shoot me, too? Go on right ahead—it’ll do ya no good…”

          He sneered at them. His teeth like pitted gravestones. The Twins looked afraid at the walking corpse gunslinger who the Injuns called “He-Who-Fights-Monsters.” He then rounded on the Negro bounty hunter.

          “As for you ‘Texas’ – Settle down ‘boy’ or else. Yer named after a shit heap state and a President who was a great man.  Be the great man and not a pile of shit.” 

          ‘Texas’ glowered at Grimm as he turned his back on them again. Grimm held no love for the State of Texas. His father, a Haitian slave, had hailed from here. It was here his mother, a Cherokee Squaw, had died giving birth to him…stillborn until he started to move…  

          Grimm “lived” due to a ‘Zuvembi’ curse placed upon him by a Bokor witchdoctor.  Unless he had repeat infusions of raw meat, Grimm would eventually crumble to dust. Flakes of desiccated skin coated the shoulders and chest of his black duster a dark grey…

          The curse had originally stipulated that he eat human meat which did indeed slow the process of decay.  But Grimm had discovered by chance as he tore a chunk out of a vampire with his teeth, he now preferred the taste of supernatural creatures instead, as their flesh carried more power.  This stolen power from their flesh didn’t just arrest his decay but imbued Grimm with supernatural strength, speed and reflexes.  He even could mimic some of their powers like seeing in pitch darkness. These were valuable assets to have in his chosen profession as a bounty killer.

          Grimm usually led a lonely existence, shunned by most of normal society. No one wanted him for anything except hunting and killing of outlaws both supernatural and mundane.  The irony was, he felt more kinship with the creatures he hunted down than with humanity.  This time, however, he wasn’t working alone, for he had us with him. A six-man posse of some of the best gunslingers and Vampire hunters the West could muster.  Each of us had a high stake in the exterminating of vampires…

          “Texas” Bram Lincoln Sucer.  A muscular black man of indeterminate age. A former Creole slave, turned bounty hunter, who took the name of the late president as his. A crack shot with a Henry rifle and gifted with a knowledge of explosives.  His plantation kin and his master were wiped out to a man by Confederate vampires during the Civil War. He had melted down the silverware of the plantation into bullets and knives he carried.  However he had a mercurial temper and along with the Twins, this man was not to my liking.

          The German Doctor twins, Howard and Philip Liebenkraft, 36 years old.  Ex-Dentists turned Providence, Rhode Island gunslingers for hire. Formerly of Heidelberg, Germany. They were trained swordsmen and natural shootists. A vampire coven had butchered their family in The Black Forest and they had followed the coven’s elusive master to the Americas.  They spoke among themselves and were very secretive about sharing information.  They had a superior air to them I found not to my liking.

          “Mean” Mina Anne Stoker, 26 years old from Arkansas. A former Saloon gal turned bounty hunter, a girl so salty with a gun and blade they say she could trim the pubic hair off Calamity Jane before Jane could even draw breath, let alone a weapon.  Born prematurely from a vampire-bitten mother, the girl seemed to have inherited some of the vampires’ speed and agility and more than a little of their bloodlust.  She would’ve been easy on the eyes, with her ample charms in her corset and riding pants, if it wasn’t for the look of mayhem about her in that crazed pretty face and the silver vampire-like false teeth she wore in place of her own.  Along with Grimm, she was given the weary eye aplenty for her bizarre appearance as much for her manners and cussing mouth ...  

          Reverend Wyatt Harker Rice. 64 years old. A former outlaw turned lawman who eventually found god after a Vampire attack wiped out his wagon train outside Tombstone, Arizona. He repelled them with a butchered Pastor’s silver crucifix. He became a holy man himself thereafter and served as an Army Chaplain in the U.S. 7th Cavalry, where we became good friends.  Good with a gun but even better with the holy book and his cruciform sword made from the melted down Pastors crucifix. Several times I have witnessed him calling on the Lord to aid him and the Lord has answered this humble servant in his fight against the dark forces. I have never met a purer soul.

          And myself—former U.S. 7th Cavalry Colonel, Mortimer Evan Helsing, retired.  The Indian’s called me Raven-Who- rides due to my long curved nose and swept back “Custer style” black hair, My outdoor apparel of black suit, and Storm cloak made them think I had a pair of folded Raven wings.  The only set of clothes I owned now. The clothes I have never taken off, save to wash, since I buried my family. I was 55 years old now and spent 22 years of those hunting and killing Vampires after they had raped and killed my wife, and only daughter. 

           Grimm turned to look at us again with eyes as pale as the moon.

          “Lookee here—I don’t like y’all much, neither.  It’s taken us four fuckin’ years to narrow the search down to Texas. And time’s against us. These blood-crazed cocksuckers found the keys to unearth the Black Ankh of Nylarhotep in these here parts and we only have a few days before the Sun—“

           “Turns black as sackcloth and sky the color of blood…  A biblical Armageddon.....” intoned the Reverend in a harsh whisper before his voice tailed off…

           “Goddamn right, Padre. Then nothin’s gonna stop these fuckers movin’ about           durin’ daylight and bein’ ten-fold meaner than before, with all their weaknesses           gone…I’m here to help you end these fangers fer good…y’all keep givin’ me shit? Bear in mind I’ll be needin’ to feed soon..”

          Grimm held up his bony, gray hand that wasn’t covered with his oxblood glove. Two middle fingers missing, leaving only his thumb, index finger and pinkie—it made almost the devil’s sign and the Preacher crossed himself.  Grimm’s finger stumps crumbled away with tuffs of dust—he gnashed his gravestone-like teeth together in the space of the stumps to enforce his point.

          “Mr. Grimm, I think I speak for all of us in that we appreciate your endeavours sir, let’s put an end to this.” I placated, riding up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. 

          The expression on Grimm’s face almost made me afraid that he wanted to bite off my fingers so his own would grow back.   Leave it to Mina to break the unease with her war cry.

          “Hells a-comin’ ya Vampire cocksuckers! Lets be about ashin’ some fuckin’ fangers,” 

          And with that she shot past Grimm over the Texas state line with the dead man following in hot pursuit along with the rest of us.

          We lit out in the morning of Friday, February the 13th, the superstitious among us believed the day might bring disaster.  Although we tracked down and massacred fifty vampire covens in Daughtrey, not one of them had a master, just alpha vampires and thralls with no key nor map for the Black Ankh.  We had yet to find the fangers we sought. .

          However, as night fell the day indeed ended badly as the superstitious had foretold.  The masters sought revenge for their slaughtered kin and would’ve taken the sleeping humans among our camp by surprise if it wasn’t for Grimm.

                    ______________________________________________

 

          “Ambush! Fill yer hands, you sorry sons of bitches!” 

          Being dead, he didn’t need to sleep and his guns never got any rest either.  The already dark air, turned darker still with the black leathery wings of the Master’s onslaught. They resembled huge bats with cougar-like faces elongated out of proportion, their mouths bristling with teeth. They became a dark whirlwind of wing, tooth and claw tearing apart all our horses, except for Grimm’s. Ghost fought them back, the white warhorse seemed to be immune to their strikes and his hooves gave off sparks as he struck them. His reins whipped out to snag them and pull them towards his rearing hooves, as if the reins were alive. 

          Grimm pulled his dual Walker Colts from his gun rig and went about his work. Barking at them like a hell hound in that rumbling voice of his and his guns barking louder.

          “C’mon, kill me by thunder, come at me two at a time if ya will, ya fuckin’ bushwackin’ cocksuckers, I got two guns, one for each of yaz!”

          He never missed a shot but sadly there were more fangers than he had bullets. When his Colts ran dry he used their gunbutts as cudgels and their barrels as improvised stakes. Driving the long barrels’ customized pointed tips through their hearts and turning them to ash. When they got pulled from his grip, he pulled out his silver-bladed Tomahawk and cut down one vampire master after another that came at him. 

          But he was only one man and even he couldn’t defend all flanks at once from their rush. “Mean” Mina, Reverend Rice and I had been badly slashed in our charge to stand beside Grimm but we were alive, and as long as we were, there was killing to be done. Back to back we weathered the storm. The others weren’t so lucky. With visibility cut down we heard the gunfire and sword clashes of the others as they fought the remaining masters off. But something huge and black spread itself over them and their screams soon filled the air and I was pressed to defend Reverend Rice as his gun clicked empty and he threw it away.

          The old man gripped his silver sword, stained almost black with their blood and pulled his Bible to his chest and inverted his sword into a crucifix, his blood mingling with the black blood of the Vampires as he held the blade aloft and closed his eyes.  He screamed, aloud and quickly, a mix of the Lord’s prayer, Psalm 23 and Ezekiel 25:17.  His voice took on a cadence more sonorous than even Grimm’s and that rose above the flapping of wings, weapons fire and screeches of bloodlust.

          “Our Father who art in Heaven hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom Come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. For Yea, Though I walk through the Valley Of Death I will fear no evil for thou art with me O, Lord. I am thy rod and thy staff, The shepherd of the weak and the Tyranny of Evil men.”

Lightning split the firmament as he continued, for the Lord seemed to be answering. And the Vampires let out a screech of terror like they knew what was coming for them.

           “Bless me Thy servant O Lord as I now strike down upon them with thine great vengeance and furious anger, those who would destroy my brothers for they shall know who is the Lord as I lay thine vengeance upon them!”

          Lightning arced down and hit his sword. The silver cruciform blade and hilt started to glow a holy blue in color as the priest shook violently.  All of us kept our distance from the transfixed Holy man as an almost imperceptible blue shield appeared around us and shot lighting at the masters who got too close.

          The ones that struck at Rice ignited in fountains of blue flames and the others took off as best they could on their burnt wings, but not before that crazy hell-cat Mina jumped on one of their backs.  She rode it bucking like a stable hand breaking a bronco, stabbing it repeatedly with her blades and biting it with her teeth…then she made the mistake of beheading it. 

          It turned to ash in mid-flight and she fell to the ground cursing her stupidity as she fell and badly broke something of herself in the dark. She screamed once and fell silent. I did not like the woman much but I prayed she was alive, as she was regardless a comrade-in- arms. The preacher fell to the ground on his knees, his clothes smoking and seemed barely breathing.

          Of “Texas” Sucer and the German Twins there was no sign, just scraps of torn clothing amid their spilled blood and their weaponry lay blood-stained on the ground where they had stood.  I fared not much better, as my wounds were numerous and refused to stop bleeding.  Grimm had no real blood to speak of, though his wounds looked severe, with part of his face gone and holes torn badly throughout his body. The campfire light shone through them.  He seemed more troubled about his clothes being in tatters than about his wounds.

          “Fuckin’ one thing I hate most about vampires—they mess up my fuckin’           duds…”

          We had thread and needle to mend his clothing, but he needed to feed to mend those holes in him. All there was to eat was vampire ash, our horses’ remains and us. We heard he had killed and eaten another posse that had ridden with him before… but they were whip-tailed scorpions of men. Low in character and moral fiber, who planned to kill Grimm and take his share of the bounty money.

          “What is your intent for us Mr. Grimm? We may indeed be dying here but we are not defenceless,” I growled through my moustache, cranking a shell into my Winchester, but it was false bravado as I was bleeding out, the preacher had passed out and we were at Grimm’s mercy. As he stalked towards us he grinned through what remained of his face.

          “Don’t y’all worry yer bald-ass heads none and cease yer hearts a-flutterin’… I aint gonna eat y’all.  I can mix up a stew with the Vampire ash and horsemeat, use some herbs from my medicine bag to season.  Eat that to heal up.  It’s a Cherokee recipe for ‘Coyote Men’. Their elite warriors.  Y’all should have some too, it’s got healing properties for us all.”

          He looked over uneasily at his white war horse. And winced comically.

          “Ghost won’t exactly be talkin’ to me fer a while with us eatin’ his kind n’all.  But that Ornery Ol’ critter will get over it.”

          Ghost whinnied reproachfully as if in response to this and I noticed again how the white war horse didn’t have a mark on him. And not for the first time the horse’s face almost wore a human expression.

          “Why’s your horse still alive and not taking a bath in the stew with ours?” I asked, already half-knowing the answer and regretting saying that in such an indelicate manner. Grimm leaned in closer and for the first time I could really smell the dust and decay on him.

          “Heh, Ghost ain’t no normal horse…No siree… He and his rider died in the Civil War…somehow their souls got lost on the roads of the afterlife and joined as one being. He returned to our mortal plane to find the guy that killed them. Since I was the one that killed that man, Ghost found me and has been my friend and companion, since my old horse got torn apart—fuckin’ Sasquatches — Ptoo…”

          Vampires, Werewolves and Sasquatches  I could only hazard a guess at what else this Pale Rider had fought against in his long career. Then we turned to regard from where the screaming was coming from the darkest of the hillside thickets.

          “I take it by that caterwaulin’ in the brush, lil’ Missy Mina took a tumble over thar, be back just now with her and then I’ll see about tendin’ y’all’s wounds. In the mean time stick this on the cuts, it’ll slow the bleeding down some.”

          He produced some Doc leave-like plants from his medicine bag and applied them to my wounds…I could feel them bleed less already.  As the dead man stalked off to get Mina, he stopped to pick up the Reverend Rice and laid him down beside me. The preacher was thankfully still alive if a bit on the scorched side.

          “By the way, that was a real impressive fireworks show there, Padre, set their fangdango asses ablaze like it were The Fourth Of July. I guess yer the source of where people get that ‘holy smoke’ phrase from.” 

          True as his word Grimm returned carrying Mina over one shoulder indelicately like she was a downed steer.  She was kicking and screaming at him and cussing his lineage. 

          “You no-good undead fuckin’ son of a whore, put me down right goddamn now.”

          One of her arms swung limp and useless, hanging backwards across her ass cheeks.  The shoulder was dislocated and her arm broken at the elbow with a bone poking through the skin.

          “Great Knights of Columbus, Grimm, the girl could lose her arm with that injury”

          “ Calm Yahself now, Colonel, I know a spell or two like the preacher here.  I can set her arm back into place and heal her wounds if she will just shut the fuck up and let           me do it.  But first let’s get you two good ol’ boys attended to”

          “We have had worse Mr.Grimm… see to the Lady first,” said the preacher groggily.

          “‘Lady’ is stretching it a bit, preacher, but okay,” Grimm said resignedly.

          Grimm set her down and her bosom spilled out of her blouse that had been slashed open by vampire claw. She had been slashed badly across the left breast and blood seeped from the wound staining her white blouse red. Our clothes fared no better.

          “Get the fuck away from me with your hoodoo witchery and maggoty hands, dead man.” Mina lived up to her nickname and swung a mean-spirited knife into Grimm’s face and caught him in his open palm as he defended himself. Grimm replied by cold-cocking her with his other hand.

          “I hate hittin’ wimmin folk. But she is one crazy cuss…Still she’s best out of pain now cos this is gonna really hurt.” He pulled out her knife and started to chant.

          Grimm chanted in Cherokee and then his voice changed to another language I didn’t recognise. His hands started to glow with an eerie light green aura which he set on either side of her arm. Her arm thrummed like a plucked guitar string, the skin rippling like a stone dropped in a pool. The spell popped her shoulder back into place and reknitted broken bones and healed over the wounds on her breast.  Grimm rocked like a man catching himself from going to sleep and used his spell to heal us, but it was getting weaker…

          He was near collapse, but before animus left him he imparted instructions how to make the Vampire dust and Horsemeat stew and then he ‘died’.  Each of us partook gingerly of the concoction but with added herbs from his medicine bag it was palatable and immediately we felt vigor and well-being flood through our bodies and I fed Mina. 

          Mina regained consciousness. She sat bolt upright and started flexing her fully-healed arm in wonderment. She looked back at the dead body of Grimm, down at her torn shirt and her exposed breasts.  She fingered the healed scars there.

          “God Almighty, that undead son of a bitch actually healed me…how the fuck can he do that?”

          “I’m no expert, my dear…but I think he transferred what keeps him ‘alive’ to us all…“ She looked stunned at Rice then stripped off her ruined clothes to don a fresh wardrobe.   

“Dirty old coots, y’all actin’ like you never seen bits and tits before.” She cackled…Then she looked at Grimm and stopped laughing

          “Sorry fer actin’ like a prize cunt before. But Y’didn’t havta fuckin’ punch me”

          “Ya Undead cocksucker! – “ she kicked him in the face and immediately regretted it.

          “Holy shit - his head’s as hard as a fuckin’ rock” she cried hopping on one foot. 

          She dropped, pouting, sitting heavily on her ass like a spoilt child. She looked at Grimm again and unexpectedly leaned over to stroke his face where she had kicked him…

          “Sorry ‘bout that…Yeah yer an undead cocksucker but yer alright, Y’big bastard” 

          She pulled him up onto herself and fed him some of the stew.  Grimm sat slowly back up and gave her a wry smile and wink. She smiled and playfully slapped his face. He took the spoon from her and feeding properly now, started to heal the decay and vampire-wrought damage to his being.

           “Alright then…We got a lot of trail to cover to get to this cave before another nightfall…We got no horses ‘cept mine and Ghost can only carry one more…” he said.

          “What cave are we talking about, Mr Grimm?” I asked.

          “The one that appears when these three keys combine, Colonel”

          He combined black crystallized triangular objects he pulled from his pockets together, making an effigy of a pyramid and a vision of a large-lidded eye appeared above it. The eye opened and a faint image of a cave set in rock appeared. Within it was a broken dark crystal Egyptian Ankh. The scene shifted, showing figures attempting to seize the Black Ankh of Nylarhotep by force and meeting horrible deaths by something inside the cave. 

          They were flayed alive and eviscerated by a dark whirlwind, burned to cinders or frozen to death and shattered into pieces.  And that wasn’t the bad news…The bad news was we needed other keys to decipher how to circumvent these obstacles to gain the ancient cursed relic.

          “Some of the ashed fangers remains had these in ‘em.…I found them amid the brush when I was searching it for Flying Mina here.”

He shot a glance at mina and she gave him the finger as he continued.

          “We need the other keys…and so will the masters.  They’ll be back for us at nightfall, we’re down to half our number and we stand little chance out in the open again. When they come for us we will stand more chance bottle necking them in that           fuckin’ cave. There’s only one way we are going to get there in time…”

          “And how is that Mr. Grimm? More pagan magic?” Reverend Rice looked disgusted.

          “Ya didn’t fuckin’ complain much before when I healed ya, Padre…I’m going to have to summon the winged trickster, Kwekwaxa’we - The Great Raven who knows and sees all…and he isn’t exactly going to be fuckin’ happy to see           us….We’ve all spilled Injun blood in the past….he will seek vengeance for that if we don’t pass his testthe son of a bitch does love his riddles….”

 

          Grimm began the summoning ritual and danced around the “soul fire” he created chanting, throwing various herbs from his medicine bag into the flames, changing its colours. It was noon on Saturday February 14th when we heard a giant flapping of wings. 

          With a cacophonous cawing Kwekwaxa’we, The Great Raven of Injun legend appeared before us and Grimm collapsed with the effort of his summoning, but was still conscious.  The giant raven was as big as two horses. Its feathers the texture of black wrought iron. Its eyes glowed darkly as it spoke in rhyme. Its voice a soft, but harsh, grating whisper.

          “Answer wise my riddles three-fold and knowledge you seek shall be told. You have all sinned against my people and helping you is a chore, so  answer carefully or your lives will be nevermore…”

          “I thankya kindly to Get the fuck the move on then.” Growled Grimm on his knees.

          “Very well, Firstly, I am a precious vault of purest white, wrapped in gold, my child stirs within wings of blackest night.” Hissed Raven.

          As frightened as I was in the presence of a god, I got to my feet boldy, pushing down my fear and answered – “Th-  that’s easy…a R-Raven’s egg”

          “Correct Raven-Who-Rides… Secondly the more of this you have the less you will be surprised, but too much can end in mind, body and spirit’s demise.” said Raven.

          “Knowledge.” said Reverend Rice. “Forewarned is forearmed, but too much           knowledge of matters man was not meant to know, can drive a man insane or others may kill him for he knows too much.”

          “Correct Holy Man…Thirdly, the more of me the less you see, the less of me the lighter you will be.”      

          “Darkness, now let’s get fuckin’ goin’” Growled Grimm standing up groggily from where he fell.

           “Correct He-Who-Fights-Monsters, you all have cheated me of my kills,You may ask           of me what you will” said  Raven.  Reverend Rice stepped forward….

          “Firstly I ask you of our lost companions. Are ‘Texas’ Bram Lincoln Irons and The LiebenKraft Twins dead? Or have they been turned into Vampires?”

          “Neither dead, undead or alive they are and hidden from my gaze, but seeing them           again comes at a price, will you pay it Holy Man Rice?”

          “Gladly Raven, for whatever you do to me….I will meet my Lord with a clean           conscience… “ The priest looked pained…

          “Padre…Ya stupid son of a …” Grimm muttered knowing well what Raven could do.

          “Secondly, we seek to destroy the relic called The Black Ankh and those that would use it for evil ends….we know where it lies in a cave but have no idea where that cave may be. I ask you to transport us there.” Said Rice looking weaker…

          “I shall, mortal, but I cannot guarantee all your survival, some will not be themselves, some may be dead upon arrival” Raven cawed ominously.

          “Thirdly we have seen that the cave is cursed for those seeking The Ankh, how do we get past the elemental hazards inside?.” Said Rice feebly clutching his chest.

          “The three elementals can only be passed by one they do not fully affect, passed by the missing element who must risk his neck.” the Raven’s rhymes had ended.

          With the last of the requests for its help answered, The Great Raven spread its wings and darkness took us, as it sped us to our destination.

                    ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­____________________________________________________

          In the enforced dark we experienced what the Indians would call “a vision quest.” Some of us saw the past and others saw the future.  I saw my family violated by Vampires again and what they didn’t finish the ravens did. I cried out to them and my voice sounded like a raven call.  Mina’s continual screaming got more high pitched and broken making her sound like a baby and I realised she was reliving being born from her Vampire-bitten mother.

          Grimm stood stiff and stoically silent, looking like a wooden Indian carving outside a general store.  He wore a look of pure hatred so intense and cold, I believed it could snuff out the very fires of hell itself.  I don’t know what Kwekwaxa’we showed him but Grimm had enough and growled at Raven to stop.

          The darkness lifted and we had indeed arrived at the cave mouth. But not without incident… The visions in the dark had taken their toll on Reverend Rice, Mina and I…. Rice lay dead, a sad smile on his face as he had wanted to stay with us but met his Maker. Mina lay there unmoving, thumb in mouth but still alive. Her mind seemed to be gone. Her face seemed huge to my eyes.

          I stared up at Grimm who was looking aghast down at me.  He looked as large as a redwood tree. I tried to get up and found my arms gone, I realised why everything was so large.  My arms were now black wings as I had become a raven myself…My mind reeled at this revelation…but I held myself together as best as I could… Grimm was understandably pissed….

          “Aw that’s just fuckin’ great… I’m facin’ down God knows how many more fuckin’ Master Vampires comin’ fer me at this Goddamned cave,  I got mahself no Padre, Baby fuckin’ Mina suckin’ her thumb on the floor here and the only other gun I can rely on has become a Goddamn bird…”

          A distant cawing in the distance resembled mocking laughter…  

          “Well Fuuuck You Raven fer laughin’! This’s why all y’all Injun deities don’t get enough worship anymore like the Christian God does.  He doesn’t           go around playing dumb ass tricks on people’s sorry asses like this…”

          I flew up upon his shoulder and opened my beak to speak. And instead of a raven caw my voice echoed out much to Grimm’s surprise.

          “I’m still here Mr. Grimm… In mind if not totally in body…. I remember what Kwekwaxa’we said about the elemental hazards in the cave.  He said something about how one who was a missing element could pass them.  We face Fire, Ice and Wind inside the cave. The missing element is Earth.           Mina said you felt like rock when she kicked you.  I think only you can beat those Elemental hazards…You yourself may be one of the keys we seek.”

          “Well shit fire on a porcupine…aint that a peach dandy now?” said Grimm.

          “Colonel, find my horse Ghost n’ find your way back here? He’s packing a whole bunch of shit that we need here right fuckin’now.”

          “I can certainly try, sir, ravens are the smartest of birds after all” I took off into the sky in search of Grimm’s ghostly warhorse.

 

                    ­­­­­­­___________________________________________________

 

Night fell, the Master Vampires would be coming. With or without Ghost, Rice, Mina and the Colonel I had to go get that fuckin’ Ankh now and leave poor Mina at the cave mouth. Either way, she was dead and I hated myself for it. But I had to destroy the Black Ankh for good and I ran deeper into the cave.

Flame shot out of the walls all around me. By the smell I knew it to be hellfire. No normal means could put it out, only some real powerful mojo.  Magical and tough I may be, but invincible I wasn’t, I would be reduced to ash if I stayed in this corridor too long. My ability to feel nothing went a long ways to keepin’ me ‘alive’ - so to speak - and my flesh didn’t burn as quick, but retained the glow of heat like fiery coals. With my eyeballs on fire, I couldn’t see to disable the flames’ source… I ran in hopes of hitting the next hazard. 

I kept on a-running on fire till I got hit by the second elemental hazard.  Glowing blue water cascaded down the sides of the walls like miniature waterfalls on each side and as I ran past it the water came alive and was blown at me by supernatural freezing cold winds – My hell-flames were snuffed out. 

The cold and ice would have encased me like a bug in amber, if my skin and remaining clothes made from dragon rawhide didn’t continue to burn like fiery coals. They acted as a counter-effect to the cold, giving me enough time to locate the dimly glowing blue power source of the icy blast and tear it from the walls.

The ice storm subsided as I removed the elemental hazard’s power source. What I held now in my hands was an ancient artefact, Ymir’s Roar.  A weapon of the Frost Giants of Nordic Myth...  It resembled a small carving of a roaring Frost Giant’s face as big as my fist. Now I don’t believe in coincidences, but I believe whatever Gods I’ve prayed to in the past had put this my way...

The fires in my clothes and flesh went finally out, but they had burned huge chunks out of me…I felt weak. I heard screeching far off at the cave mouth and knew that some of the remaining Masters had arrived and were making a meal no doubt of poor Mina. I tried to pull my silver Walker Colts and Tomahawk but they had melted in the heat. Ymir’s Roar would have to be enough, that and my stony fists. I suddenly heard sounds of gunfire and swordplay.

The sight that greeted me was fuckin’ incredible. Master Vampires meeting well deserved ends at the hands of “Texas” Bram Lincoln Sucer and the LiebenKraft Twins. Surprising my ass that they were alive n’ kickin’… Even more incredible that an uppity Negro could fight this well alongside white supremacists. But what was really fuckin’ incredible was they didn’t have one wound on them. That fact would have to wait as I needed some vittles and tore into a vampire eatin’ it as the rest of it turned to ash. Strength returned to my body and wounds healed. Fangers are good eatin’. 

The Twins and ‘Texas’ finished the last master, thrusting as one with their blades, and turned to greet me, linking arms like they were old friends. Mina was backed into a corner pointing and screaming. I smelled somethin’ rotten and it wasn’t that my undead ass had just cut a dust fart. 

“Hey man, it’s good to see you” said ‘Texas’ smiling, his dark skin weirdly shiny.

“It’d be good to see y’all too… if y’all were really you.” I fired the Roar at ‘em.

          They screeched an Eldritch wail from their suddenly-misshapen mouths as they literally split apart and ducked from the icy blast at an unnatural angle, like they had no bones, dropping their human pretence.  Part of them remained frozen in place, shattering as it moved...

          They became living tar-like ooze that merged together into a huge, featureless version of ‘Texas’. Its arms became tentacles. A third leg grew out from where a cock should’ve hung. It shot a boneless tentacle from its face at me, faster than I could duck. They picked me up and whip-cracked me into the cave’s passage way. The tar-like entity grew a mouth and sneered.

          “I am Xa Set of the Vampheer, Spawn of Azathoth, I have awaited this day for millions of years. Think an insignificant insect like you can stop me?”

          Its black tentacles caught me by legs and torso and ripped me in half. 

          “My progeny who dared rebel against me are slain and the Black Ankh shall be mine to resurrect my sleeping lover and our kin. We will hunt down the rest of my progeny together, drain this planet dry and with the Ankh conquer other worlds with our knowledge as infinite as the stars.”

          This was gonna be a one-sided battle, unless I out-thunk this braggin’ son of a bitch… Then it dawned on me Xa Set spells Goddamn Texas… Think, Goddamit…

          “Yeah well y’all sure as fuck don’t know how to kill a Zuvembi, ya havta rip our arms, head n’ legs from our torso too, ya Eejit!” I lied my ass off.

          Quick as lightnin’ the bastard obliged me, rippin’ me into pieces and strewing my body parts about the cave. I played dead, making him think he had won….all the time my arms and legs were movin’ accordin’ to my plan… Wait…where the fuck was that bugle call coming from?

          The 7th Cavalry arrived in style as Ghost, with the Colonel perched on his head, burst through the cave mouth. The Colonel sounded the bugle call from his beak. They charged down the corridor, guns a-blazin’ blue flame at Xa Set from twin customised Gatlings along his flanks. The Reverend Rice sat in the saddle and his eyes shone with unearthly blue light, a large ghostly entity of a wild-haired old man with full beard surrounded him, his silvered hands placed on the Gatlings.

          “Deus Ex Machina!” He shouted and the Gatlings fired another volley of blue flame.

          Texas’s Giant Dark Man form screeched that Eldritch wail again, obviously hurt by the onslaught, and dissolved into smaller separate puddles of black sludge, which started to slither back together. While other, larger parts reared to attack - that’s when I commanded my limbs to strike.

          My left arm fired the Ymir’s Roar, its icy beam now wider than the area the ooze could dodge, its blast freezin’ all of it in its place. While my right arm had picked up my head and threw it at the largest part of the frozen ooze that still looked like a man’s torso.  My head was a stone cold bullet biting deep into the heart of ‘Texas’. The whole frozen black mess shattered into tiny pieces.

          “I know I’m just a severed Zuvembi head here, but someone mind tellin’me directly what the fuck is goin’ on?” Rice obliged me some.

          Rice, was an avatar of Nodens, who I aint heard of. A God of Order in the universe, known by many names throughout human history and religion – Hu; Nuada; Njord; Tyr; Thor; Odin; Neptune; Zeus; The Great Wolf Spirit - and the Judeo-Christian God, Jehovah. Rice died so Nodens could manifest himself fully.

          He and the other Elder Gods battled evil alien Chaos Gods and the Great Old Ones that existed on our planet and many others as well as various planes of existence. Some of them slept under the oceans and dark corners of our planet ready to awaken once more when the stars were aligned, while others made frequent incursions among humanity before Nodens kicked their asses back out into the cosmos.

          Nodens couldn’t act directly until they did something evil, as he had to preserve the balance, counterin’ each action the Chaos forces made, like moves in a cosmic chess game.  He had banished Xa Set and his kind here millions of years ago, for them sucking dry other worlds.  He had sealed the others off underground. Xa Set had hidden himself so well among us that Nodens with all his power hadn’t been able to find him till now.

          Xa Set’s eons old loneliness and desperation to be united with his lover and his kind again, he had played right into Nodens’ plan to lure him to this cave – the Ankh here being a fake…Nodens had destroyed the real Ankh long ago when Atlantis fell.  However, not all was tightly wrapped up. Nodens believed his intervention might have weakened the seal on the others.

          He stepped out from Rice’s body as it slumped to the floor. Nodens summoned smoke-like servants he called Nightgaunts to collect the shattered pieces of Xa Set and hide them in icy plains of somewhere called Kadath. 

          Before I could ask any more questions of shit that didn’t sit right with me, Nodens’ shining silver hand shone a blinding flash of light. I was pieced back together and fully clothed…sat on a chair staring at cards in my hand with everything else around me a white void.

“Call” said The Colonel appearing beside me, who for a brief second, sounded like he said ‘Caw’. As I looked at him, a face and body grew out of his raven form, becoming human once more.

          The Colonel, Rice and Mina had been returned to normal. My eyes were drawn to the cards, that’d been laid face down in the air. Their backs were embossed with a winking raven motif… The Colonel winked at me.

          “Trickster son of a…” I muttered aghast.

          Memories of Xa Set, Raven n’ Nodens started to fade.  The environment bled colour and detail back into the world from the white void, and I saw we were now seated round a green baize table, playin’ poker in a busy Saloon somewhere… deep in the heart of Texas….

         

The End

 

 

dickdiceflamejob.jpg

Dick Dyce – The Flame Job Part 1 by Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

April 30th 1958, Callaghan’s Bar & Grill

          Some blues song played on the Juke and matched my mood.  They say the low-points to your career as a P.I. usually don’t get any lower.   Well…they do.  My last case still haunted me.  I hate when bad shit happened to good kids.  Wilhelm Walther, an ex-pat German, prosperous realtor and property developer, had hired me to find his missing 14 year-old daughter, Alicia…He seemed like a genuinely anxious, loving father.   My usual paranoid personality took a backseat to the sizeable payday that drove me to accept the job.

           I eventually found Alicia after a month, in a deadbeat Downtown park, peddling her ass at night.   She was dressed in a weird Shirley Temple sailor suit.  Ripe for those looking to pluck saplings among the trees.  Her buck-toothed, albino pimp “White wabbit” was in an alleyway off the park.   If his profession and stupid name weren’t cause enough to hate this prick, his fuckin’ Elmer Fudd-like voice sealed it.

 

“Lookin’ for pwetty, itty, bitty, titty?” He spat, all tongue and teeth…

 

          I told him why I was there and he went for the .38 stuffed in his pants front.  I grabbed him, forcing him to pull the trigger on himself. He blew his dick off and I punched him hard in the throat so he couldn’t scream. I left him there choking and bleeding out. Holding onto his stump, crying like a little girl.  Fitting really… He no doubt made the little girls cry when he sampled their wares…

          Alicia was on opiates. Her big, blue eyes glazed in her porcelain face.  She looked like a broken china doll with broken dreams. There wasn’t glue enough in the world to fix her.  She begged me not to take her back, she could pay me with her body.   I wasn’t interested in fishing for minnows.  I had got paid handsomely by her father to find her and take her back.   I feel bad now that I didn’t find the others...                   

          She killed herself within a week of getting back home during a moment of clarity, hopelessness and shame.  I got a call from the father.  Said he wanted to pay me extra for taking care of that pimp.  How he knew that, I was gonna find out.  But he wouldn’t stop crying when I got there.   The grief of losing a child is a pain that never goes away, it follows you around like a shadow for the rest of your empty life.  He broke down.  Confessed all. 

          His wife had died recently and he’d turned to Alicia for comfort and eventually sexual solace.   I believed he really loved her in his own twisted fashion.  But he had made her run away with his advances.   He had hired me cos he didn’t want her to be with anyone else.  He blubbered he wanted to join her in death.  That sat fine with me.  I made him look like a suicide. 

          He had paid me to be his executioner and his priest of absolution. But he got the wrong kind of priest.  I was the kind who condemned him to that special place in hell reserved for men who betray their kid’s trust and innocence. 

          I was the kind who took “an eye for an eye” as gospel. They say the thing about “an eye for an eye” was that eventually everyone ends up eyeless. Well, that’s fine by me, as long as I was the last man standing with one eye in the kingdom of the blind. 

In WWII, I’d already lost my left one from shrapnel.  I wore a glass eye in its place now.   On cold days, the glass eye in my skull felt like the icy dice in my bourbon glass that gambled my liver’s fortune away.  I was losing.  They rattled as I downed another double and played craps with my health.  I couldn’t give a fuck anymore.  I was getting a mean drunk on. 

          I just wanted to drown my well-paid failure of the child I couldn’t save.    I wanted to drown my urge to kill every low-life piece of shit in this town and finish myself off last.  Then this place would be closer to a City of Angels.  I looked up from my drink to see three assholes in the bar were staring at me with hatred in their eyes. 

          I couldn’t blame them.  I hated myself for letting that girl die… A rare occasion I didn’t see the murky woods for the money tree.  I should’ve gone with my gut that Walther wasn’t on the level. I wanted to get rid of his money fast and I decided to drink all it away. 

           But I had now taken a real dislike to these staring people especially the older asshole.  I thought about finishing this bourbon bottle and busting it over his melon head.  Jab the rest of it into those other prick’s faces.  Gramps wore a shabby, dark grey suit and fedora that had seen too many alleyway fights and too many booze-filled nights. 

          His looks contrasted with the younger, sharp-dressed pair behind him.  I assumed they weren’t together but all three stared in unison.  The old guy’s stare glimmered like black ice. His craggy features hung a heavy five o’clock shadow on a face that looked like it had been carved from rock.  Hopes and dreams had climbed to great heights, upon that rock-face only to fall dashed and broken.  Silver hair, shorn into a marine buzzcut was the snow cap on his weather-beaten mountaintop.

           He bared teeth and shot surly looks at me between drinks.  The two guys behind him watched us.  Talking among themselves and then staring back.  I really wanted to put a bullet in all three of them.  But definitely, the old guy would be first. 

I snapped to.  Shook myself.  And I realised the old guy… was me. 

          But all that would accomplish was I’d smash my own drunken reflection in the mirror behind the bar and get thrown out of the place I’d chosen to drink myself to death in.   The name’s Dick DyceA reluctant Private Investigator who got bored, with a nice sideline every once and a while in contract killing.

 

          See, I give some clients the option of hiring me to kill the asshole I’ve investigated.  The one who did them wrong.  I make it look accidental or a suicide.  It supplemented the scratch your usual cheating spouse job pays out.   By now I know who I can offer the “extra service” to and who I can’t.  Just now, between clients, I’m killing myself by inches.  Bourbon was my suicide method of choice.

          At 56, I’d served in two world wars, served as a hitman  between them and served time in Folsom Penitentiary.  The mob wars were the worst.  At least in the military and the joint you knew exactly who your enemies and friends were.  In the mob they send your best friend to kill you.  Usually when you least expect it. 

          Since I demobbed, I’ve been here in North Hollywood, Los Angeles.   Just another ten-a-penny, low-rent , aging gumshoe.  In the P.I. game there usually isn’t call for killing.  Most P.I. jobs aren’t exciting or pay well.   My moonlighting as a hitman began again, this time not working for any mob.  War had torn a hole in my soul. Killing filled the hole for a while, like food and booze filled my belly.   But soon I’d feel that hunger again…

          People didn’t think twice about this old man playing Private Eye as a killer. They saw the fat gut, the grey hair and the chronic booze habit.  They saw a burnt out old man with a bum eye as no real threat.  But no one sees the true me.  I’m the nasty surprise they never see coming. The Halloween apple with razor blades inside.  

          Booze made me deal with the boredom between killingit temporarily took away the need to kill and think.  It took away the pain of memory for a while, but would give it back and then some.  The booze was supplied by an ex-Marine buddy, Hal Callaghan, who runs this joint.   The closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had and a friend with no mob ties.  

 

          Standing at 6’5 in his socks and nearly as wide, he was a giant of a man.  His red hair had greyed and thinned on his head to a comb-over cobweb. Hal was Irish, moving to the States in 1939 from Galway.  From the little he spoke about it, his time with the IRA had haunted him.   An ex-marine boxing champ, his nickname was and still is The Irish Iron.   Framed photos of him, in his heyday, and boxing memorabilia lined the back wall of the bar. 

           A pair of gloves hung there also, he could never wear again.  Hal had lost an arm in the war.  From his elbow he wore a rig with two overlapping hooks serving as thumb and index finger.  His boxer physique had slid into a respectable boozer’s paunch through age, too much food and grade-A hooch.  We became fast friends when we escaped a Japanese POW camp together.  We got as many brother marines out we could, then blew those Japs to hell.  

          I would’ve signed up for Korea, too.  But age, the booze habit and the one eye prevented me.   Hal and I both got decorated for valor and bravery after the Pacific campaign.  But no medal really replaces a lost eye or lost limb.  You can really fool yourself into thinking otherwise. 

          “Ye better pay for that last one, ye fockin’ Lush.”  Hal shouts loudly.   I flip him off.

          He leans over the bar with ease and grabs my lapels.  His good left hand, half again as big as mine, attached to a huge arm, almost lifts me off my feet.  But this was a ruse.  He’s dragged me towards him to whisper through clenched teeth

 

          “Ambush in the rear” he pushes me away with an exaggerated grunt.  I play along.

          I stumble off the stool and lurch towards the restroom.  Hal has pegged these guys behind me to do me or both of us harm.  I turn to the two men.  They haven’t been drinking much and have been staring in my direction for some time. 

          I start to sober up quickly as adrenaline silently kicks my fight or flight response up the ass and into gear.  They look professional.   Maybe cops, but they’re too well-dressed.   Italian suits. Shiny shoes.   Neat facial hair.  The bulge of their jackets at the ribs betrays the silenced .22 pistols they carry.   Definitely Mob.   Hitmen.   I can smell my own…

          “Hey DiCenzo, Carmine Costanza says ‘hi’ ” One says as I go past them. 

          I keep walking….Costanza was the guy who ordered the hit on me back in Hoboken, New Jersey, 16 years ago.  I don’t break stride, still pretending I’m boozed up.  That asshole used my real name… How the fuck have they found me after all this time?   I sit in the toilet stall, thinking this out with a direct shot at the urinal.  I check my .45 Automatic. 

          Her name is Lucille, my mother’s name.  The gun, like that great, old Guinea broad, is one of the most reliable dames ever created.  I stare at the wall in front of me and images start to shift on it.  Events that may have led to the mob breathing down my neck again, swam across my vision.  The toilet wall was washed from view, like shale on a beach. It was replaced by Hoboken, New Jersey, 1942.       

          I’d been a faceless, freelance hitter working for various mob outfits for years. Whoever paid me the most got me.  But on one hit I’d grown a conscience.  I chose to disobey orders to kill women and children from Georgio Constanza, head of the Costanza family.  They wanted me dead.

          I hid out in a derelict building using a mob guy, that had been shadowing me, to put out the word on front street I was there.   I ambushed him, gutted the corpse and stuck a nice surprise inside.  When the Costanza mob came for me I was ready. 

          The mob broke in and opened fire with silenced guns at the rigged corpse in the bed...  They came in quiet but they went out loud. 

          The amount of explosive I used levelled part of the building…But left enough evidence for the mob and cops on their payroll to believe I died with them.   I joined the Marine Corps with the Richard Dyce name.  The real Dyce was a low-life marine I killed one night, after seeing him beat up a hooker.  I hate guys who knock around dames…I took his ID and papers and forged my photo through a contact. 

           They never found the body.  Or did they?

           I blink, snapping back to the present, when I hear the sound of a door creak.   Lucille and I are ready.  But no one comes in.   They’re going to wait ‘til closing. Take me when I go outside.  Smart.  Maybe take their time with me.  Make me suffer.  I gotta take a gamble.  Roll the dice.  Play the odds.  A plan begins to form… I emerge from the piss house and throw abuse at Hal behind the bar.

          “Ya know shomething ya big Mick bashtard?  I shink my hard-earned American tax dollarsh in here, keepin’ your fuckin’ potato-eating ass afloat.  Well, no more.”

          I heft a chair and throw it at Hal.  Hal dodges the chair with ease, and for a guy of his size and bulk, hops over the bar counter like a man half his weight and years.  I’ve pissed him off as the chair has smashed not only the mirror, his whiskey bottles and shot glasses, but also his prized framed sports photos. 

          It works as planned. He growls at the patrons to get out.   Anyone who knows the Irishman, knows to scram when his blood is up.  Everyone except the two bewildered, slightly amused mob hitmen who are staying for to enjoy the show.  The dumb bastards don’t realise they’re part of it yet…

          Hal uses me as a boxer’s heavy bag. His artillery of body punches sets me up for his final upper cut, which nearly takes my head off.   I spin in the direction of the hitmen’s table. As I fall, I throw my arms out, clothes-lining both of the bastards, sending us all sprawling to the floor.  I’m a bowling ball and just picked up a 7-10 split. 

          I recover quickly on the ground, smashing the guy on the left hard in the face with a broken bottle.  It cuts a jagged ravine through his nose and cheek, glass shards puncture skin, he’s temporarily blinded with blood in eyes, choking on a sudden rush of blood in his throat.

           I grab his .22 out of his shoulder holster and press it hard into his chest and empty the clip.  The .22’s bullets stay inside the hitman, no doubt glancing off bone. Rattling around inside his ribs like dice in a Yahtzee cup.  He makes red, baby noises as he drowns on the blood from his burst vitals.

          Hal took out the guy on the right. Standing on the guy’s gun arm so he couldn’t go for his .22 and stamping his size 13 foot down hard on his throat.  The hitman lays there floundering for air like a beached fish, then his eyes go dead. 

          Fuck, I hurt all over.  I wanted the fight to look real, but Hal nearly killed me.   I must have really pissed him off.   I tell him as much and he says I shouldn’t be such a ‘focking nancy boy’…He owes me that for breaking his stuff behind the bar.  I apologise.

          “Great… No doubt the fockin’ garda’s on their way. What the fock we gonna do with these two conts?   They look like gangsters…”

          I didn’t know what to do with them.  I was still drunk and operating on survival instinct alone.  The bar was a converted butcher shop. This would’ve been the perfect place to dispose of a couple of dead bodies if he still had the butcher’s tools.  I look up above the bar.

          “Hey…You still got that samurai sword you took from that Jap Officer.”

          “Jaysis…. Ye focking serious, Dyce? Chopping people up at the best of times, let alone at my place of business is nuts. I left the IRA to stay clear from all that shite.” 

          “Just give me a hand taking them down the cellar. Give me tarp, tape, bleach, a pair of rubber gloves and your old gasmask. I’ll do the rest.”

          “Oh aye, it says Callaghan’s focking hardware store on the sign outside, does it?  First, ye can throw in an extra hondred bucks for my incon-focking-venience like. Then ye can hold on to yer tongue, while I’ll hold on to my focking patience…”

          Hal’s welcome to the money I earned from that missing child case.  He closed the place up early and apologised to any customers who turned up.   The cops showed up as Hal was clearing the last of the broken glass.  He explained about throwing a drunk out his bar.  The cops buy it and leave.

          Meanwhile, I’d been getting ready to chop up the bodies.  I stripped down to my shorts and socks, donning gas mask and rubber gloves.  I rummage through wallets and keep the $125 I find in them.  I burn their ID in the cellar’s furnace. Antonio Montosanti and Paolo Riccardi. I don’t recognise the names.  

          I could burn their bodies here.   But the smell that would cause, just so I could save myself a trip, isn’t worth the risk.  I use their own ties, socks and shoelaces as tourniquets.  I chop each into six easily portable pieces.  Arms.  Legs.  Torso.   Head. 

          After a while the hitmen’s remains are wrapped up in their own torn clothes and pieces of taped-up tarpaulin like Christmas presents.  I had one choice within the vicinity where I could vanish them without a trace.  Solomon Creedence’s Junk yard.

          The hardest part now was transporting them.  I had no car.  With my booze habit getting outta control I was banned from driving as a habitual DUI offender. I got around instead by charging extra travelling expenses from clients or getting Hal to drive me.  Hal’s van was getting repaired.  So I made myself respectable and went outside to scout a car.

          A black ‘53 Studebaker Commander, with a beautiful orange and red flamejob around its front, was parked in the alleyway beside Callaghan’s.   It was no doubt the hitmen’s car.  At first I thought why pros would drive about in such a “look-at-me” mobile.  Then I realised that they must have stolen it from from some Greaser in LA.  It blocked the view from the street.   Perfect.   No one would see me load the remains.  I chuckled and shook my head at the irony. 

          The goons had provided for themselves a hitman’s hearse, to transport their remains.  I tipped my hat to the flame job car, got in and drove off into the night. I glared at my reflection in the rear view, still hating what I saw there - No one likes you, one day luck’s gonna leave you and you’ll lose.  But for now, smile you old, one-eyed fuck.  Today you won. I broke into a wide grin.  The mob had came looking for a Dyce and once this car’s crushed, they’d leave LA as dice themselves…..

 

North Hollywood, April 30th 1958, 11pm, 104th Grant and Watson

          That annoying son of a bitch, Paranoia, sat in the corner of my skull, telling me all the things that can go wrong.  I keep calm as best as I can.  Suddenly I tell the prick loudly that he can go fuck his mother. A nearby cop hears my outburst and gives chase in his patrol car. Gets level.  Gestures me to pull over.

          Lucille nudges me in the ribs with her butt, telling me to take this guy out.  I decide against it…killing a hitman is one thing.  You don’t feel bad at all.  But this young cop approaching could be new to LA.   A guy with a young wife,  kids,  someone who doesn’t deserve the bullet in his immediate future for getting too close.  But then deserves got nothing to do with it, has it? 

          I came to the conclusion long ago that life is as random as a dice throw.  When you survive wars both foreign and domestic, only a part of that’s actual skill.  The rest is chance, sheer blind luck. Random occurrence in a godless universe where you just have to roll the dice and play the odds.  That’s why I got inked in the Marines with pair of black dice on my forearm.  They were what I believed in now.

          I left Lucille in her holster as the young cop approached…  Fresh out the academy no doubt….  He doesn’t have the city look.  I close my eyes.  I picture the tattooed dice on my forearm tumble over and over again…multiple outcomes to this situation depends on their roll.  But there’s only one result if they roll snake eyes.  This young cop dies. 

          Give me a hard eight you lil’ bastards, c’mon. I don’t want another kid’s death on my conscience. My eyes snap open as the dice stop rolling across the crap table of my mind .  The young cop looks in through my smashed window.    His head stays intact for now.  I look in the rear view at the older, fat cop, who I recognise sitting there in the car. I breathe easy and grin.   I’ve just saved myself a trip to the Junk yard.

          “Is there a problem officer?” I ask, looking the model of total sobriety.

          “License and registration, Sir. You know why I stopped you?” He fumbled with his ticket pad.

          “Ok, lets save some time here shall we?  I don’t have a license cos I’ve had it suspended.  I’ve had more DUIs  son, than your Mom gave you hot dinners.  The car aint mine, its stolen. “

          He wears that “what-the-fuck?” look well.   I kinda feel sorry for him.   I don’t think this kid is used to so much honesty from a felon. In this city it’s the only honesty he will ever get, certainly not from his partner.   He’s an older cop, early 50s, fat and out of shape, steps out when he hears my voice.  Officer Jan Lebowski tips the peak of his cap at me and grins as I tell all.

           “I-I don’t know why you’re telling me all this, Sir…You have the right to remain –“

          I interrupt his Miranda reading on purpose.  His concentration’s broken.  Keep him from completing.  I’m suddenly the verbal equivalent of Rocky Marciano and I got this kid on the ropes.

          “I am a clear DUI violation.   I’ve downed 6 double bourbons tonight and as I’ve had multiple DUIs before, I’m a habitual offender. If you go by the book, this car is to be impounded with the possibility of summary destruction by law if it was used in a severe offence...”  I leave the dead guys in the trunk part out.

          The young cop stands there with his jaw open, his fair complexion getting increasingly more flustered, his sandy blonde hair completing his All-American country boy rube.    He can’t believe what he’s hearing.  He puts a hand on his gun and asks me to step out the car.  He fumbles to cuff me and drops them.   His Polack partner, Lebowski , suddenly laughs out loud which, sets me off too. 

          “Aww what the eff?…C’mon guys… This a joke on the new guy here?”  He bleats, sheepishly.

          He obviously has no idea how things work here yet and how corrupt the Police Department here could be.  His partner is on the take.  The new guy had probably never heard of the Bloody Christmas police brutality cases of ’51 or the LAPD’s role in filling the void when mob boss Mickey Cohen got pinched for tax evasion and what certain parties may have done with his missing ‘H’.

          “New to LA, huh kid?  Where ya from?  Who’s your Lt?”  I ask, then look at his badge.

          “Utah.  Don’t call me kid, Sir.  I’m 21 and it’s Officer Rubinek to you.   MacGinty is my Lt.”

           Lt. MacGinty was one of many blue angels in this City Of Angels with a dirty Halo. He didn’t like me one bit.  Or I him.  But with me keeping quiet about his dirty dealings, he owed me big.   MacGinty would make the paperwork go away and expedite the crushing of the flame job car.

 

1am,  June 1958, North Hollywood Police Station

          They kept me waiting in the interrogation room until MacGinty finally stormed in all pissed off.   He was tall, stringy, 2nd generation Irish-American.  With a face that looked like a cross between a hawk and a pick-axe with a prominent nose.  His beady eyes glared from under his overly-bushy dark eye brows.  His slicked back hair made him look like he had crawled out of someone’s ass.

          Kirk MacGinty was originally from New York but got transferred to L.A.   His lung cancer had worsened a year from early retirement.  He used to be a good cop but as soon as he made Lt. and his health worsened, he had wanted the easy life.   He wanted the sunshine.  He wanted to take bribes.  He also wanted to skim money from the police pension fund when I caught wind of it.

          “Dyce,what the fuck now?  That new kid can cause alot of shit… URRGH.” A hacking cough.

          He coughed up blood-laced lung oysters into a big red handkerchief.  He looked at it with fascination like he was going to find a long lost treasure in there.  He was an asshole but lung cancer was a shitty way to go.

          “Rubiinek thinks for now it was a practical joke by all of us.  But if he finds out it wasn’t, then  he’s going to look stupid  anyway, cos he hadn’t Mirandized me fully.  Get me, MacGinty?”

          He grudgingly nodded.

          “Technically…You can walk, Dyce…. regardless of what you told him.  But we still have to appear to be upholding Lady Justice here, even though we bend her over a table on           occasion.  I’ll make sure the car gets crushed, throw you in the drunk tank for tonight and ‘fine you’.  The fine goes to my retirement fund, of course”   Concluded MacGinty with a smile.

          His eyes went hard behind the smile like he wanted nothing more than put a bullet between my eyes and then one through his own temple.   It was the family he loved so much that stopped him from disappearing me as well as that flame job Stoody.  Anything happened to me, I had taken measures ensuring all his dirty dealings would come out.

           “Apparently we can’t find the owners of the car?" His head cocked like a bird. I shrug – he wouldn’t get shit out of me even if I had a mouth full of it.

           “Who are you Dyce?” He demands as I get up to go.  He bars my way to the door.

           “I’m Secret Service, MacGinty – Now show me to my hotel room…”

          I tried to get to sleep in the drunk tank while MacGinty crushed the flamejob.  The fine would take the rest of the blood money I had from that Walther missing kid case.  I drifted off in uneasy sleep for about an hour, dreaming about a drowned porcelain doll with big blue eyes.   If there was any more mob in town looking for me, then here was the safest place to be.

          MacGinty appeared outside the cell.  He stood there in the darkness,  breathing heavy.  I had the feeling again he wanted to reach for his .38 and end me.    But my blackmail was the best deterrent against him.

          “It’s done.  Sleep the sleep of the not-so-righteous and get the fuck out my police station come daybreak.  I see you here again. It’s a short ride to Mulholland and a very long fall…” 

          He was serious but he didn’t really dare pull that off.  When he finally croaked I would need to work on getting another police lieutenant on the dangle.  Hope his successor isn’t a boy scout.

          “Love you too, honey.”  I sneered as he slammed a door.  I pulled my fedora low to sleep.

          I still didn’t sleep well that night.  I dreamt of Earth on fire.  It became a dry, dirt husk.  God appeared in blinding light. Looking like Charlton Heston in that Moses movie.  He opened a giant bottle of bourbon in the void of space pouring out the earth’s oceans once more.  Some spilled onto me.  The booze tasted like shit.  It had horrible grain to it.  It was full of dead bodies covered in rot. 

          People I had killed.   Friends I seen die.   God turned me into a pair of ice cubes and threw me into the bourbon.  The ice rolled across the booze ocean and started to darken as the booze became thick with the dead.  The ice turned into black dice.   

          They tumbled around in the brown oceans,  destroying the bodies wherever it rolled on them.   They stopped when they found a white body that wasn’t so tarnished.  A girl, about 14, dressed in a soiled, Shirley Temple-style sailor outfit.

          The dirty bourbon sea around her was flecked with her spilled red blood. Her big, blue eyes and porcelain cracked skin were those of a broken china doll… her mouth cracked open mechanically as I tried to save her and she screamed.  The scream caused faultiness all over her porcelain exterior.  She broke apart as I tried to hold onto the pieces of her. 

          Thick clotted sour milk flowed out over me from her disintegrating body. The disgusting frog-eyed face of Wilbur Walther belonged to a clot as others leered at me amongst the milky mire of the other paedophiles. He laughed liquidly in choking gulps.  Her disembodied scream continued.  I lost my mind with rage, pain and loss and joined in her chorus…..

 

 

 

Dick Dyce – The Flame Job Part 2

 

 by Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

 

          I woke up and let out a hell-born yell from my drunken nightmare, sweating bullets and slowly running out of liquid ammo. My tongue feels like shag-pile carpet and I desperately wanted to shave it. I needed a drink.

          My yell wasn’t just because of the fever dream of God condemning me to my own personal hell. A hell where I couldn’t save an underage teen from  a filthy world that passed for normalcy. It was because I had just been struck in the nuts by something square, flat and heavy.

          The nightmare girl’s screams stuck to me still as surely as the sour milk-colored swamp of the nightmare stuck to her. The lecherous paedophiles who lurked within the murk of its milky mire had dragged her screaming down with them as I got my crushed-nut wake up call.

          Blinding light was all around me. I was immediately reminded of God in the dream. All I could make out was a shadow I took for that corrupt fuck Lieutenant Kirk MacGinty. My erstwhile captor and blackmailed and sometimes over-paid cop stooge. But the shadow’s voice was different. In my drink-addled state it sounded like my own voice, but younger, more cocky. He had thrown a heavy file on my sleeping lap and caught me in the nuts. That prick fuck of a shadow just stood there laughing as I rolled around and threw up.

          “Get the fuck up, you drunken asshole. This came across my desk. I need your help on this.” 

          The dull pain in my struck nuts fought for supremacy with a hangover caused by a night of too much booze and this morning of too much sunshine.  Day had broken through the cell windows. After the night in the chill cell the warmth was welcoming. Little did I realise that this day was going to turn into a heat wave.

          The hangover wasn’t the worst I had. It almost felt comforting to know I had to drink some more to silence the bongo drums in my skull. For a long minute I couldn’t remember what my name was and what had got me here.  Then it all came flooding back as my throat flooded with booze-soaked vomit again.

          OK… Stop…Let’s recap shall we for the cheap seats… So I can get this all straight in my head…  

          I’d been a former mob hit man called Ricky DiCenzo. That was till they decided to kill me for not killing a mark’s wife and kids like they wanted. I killed the hitters that they sent after me, faked my death and disappeared into WWII as a US Marine under a different identity, Dick Dyce. I’d been using that same fake ID for nearly 20 years.

          After demobbing, I’d set myself up as a low-rent private eye in L.A., working any case that came my way, no matter how cruddy. Sometimes I offered clients the chance to kill those who had wronged them using my old skill set.  I made more money from that than the standard PI job would pay.  More importantly, though, I got paid to kill people that needed killing. And I liked to kill. A US Marine’s sole purpose when he is born-again-hard is to kill and serve up heaven and hell with fresh souls, making the world a better place by freeing it up of assholes.

          My last case working for a prosperous realtor, looking for his runaway child, had turned sour on me fast. Not only had I found her peddling her underage ass to the pederast parade but had found out her own father was one too and wanted her all to himself. When she killed herself not long after I brought her back home, I felt her fucking father should follow her. He didn’t seem to disagree with me much as I strangled him and made him look like a hanging suicide.

          I had been drowning my sorrows on failing to save the girl when mob hitters turned up at my buddy Hal’s bar and knew exactly who I was and who I had been. My 20-year-old fake ID was for shit. Before they could make good on their implied threat, Hal and I had got the drop on them and killed them.

           I’d cut them up and dumped them in their Flame-Job Studebaker. I got my well-paid corrupt cop stooge MacGinty to disappear the car. The price he asked was steep but I gladly paid it, as I had no desire to hold onto money made from the death of that kid.

          With the last of my money gone on the fine, I needed my next client soon. I hoped to fuck it didn’t turn out like the last one. I looked at the file that had struck me in the nuts. An arson case at a low-rent film studio. Client name.  Phone number. I looked back to where the shadow stood and he had disappeared… I didn’t even hear the drunk tank door slam shut.

          I phoned my former war buddy, Hal Callaghan, to pick me up outside the police station. Hal owned the best sports bar in town and that’s where I wanted to be right now, to get my head straight. It was my Fortress Of Solitude. My very own Batcave. My second home or my first one depending on how drunk I was.

          Hal rolled up in his two-tone black and cream Guinness van. The Guinness symbol and the legend—‘Guinness for Strength‘—on the side. It looked for all the world like some crazy, Irish superhero’s mobile. 

           I half expected Hal to jump out and strike a heroic pose with a black, green and white costume on, flanked by a Leprechaun sidekick. Instead he greets me with a disgusted expression and passes me a fresh shirt, tie and jacket.

          “Jaysis, ye look like shoite. Yer no’ comin’ in my van smelling like that.”

I quickly change out of my vomit-stained clothes and spend the journey back to my office explaining that the hit men and their Flame-Job Studebaker would be nothing more than metal cubes by now. We were in the clear. Hal nearly crashes the van laughing at the irony of that.  

          “Hahahhh, they focking came all the way looking for Dyce and wound up as dice?  Ohh that’s fockin’ priceless, that is, hahaha…” He chuckles away.

          I start laughing myself and immediately regret it. The escalating heat is making my hangover worse. I ask Hal to drop me off at my office later and head to his bar. I need some hair of the dog, pronto. He lectures me I should drink more Guinness and less spirits. 

          He preaches its benefits ad nauseum. Between the speech and the van’s Roman Catholic interior, complete with beatific virgin Mary and Jesus statues glued to the dash and a Saint Christopher and a Rosary hanging from the mirror, I feel trapped in a cross between a Guinness advert and a church temperance meeting.

          “No offence, Buddy, but if I wanted to drink something that looks like La Brea Tar pits, I would’ve taken a dive in there last night. You sound like Popeye the fuckin’ Sailor going on about Spinach being good for you, with that Guinness shit.” I grin, baiting him.

          “Jaysis…. Ye Cheeky bastard…  Guinness is GOD. And for the record.  You look like focking Popeye, ye one-eyed old cont.”  He barely swerves from hitting the car in front.

          “Steady as she goes there, Captain Hook.”  The look on his face hurts as I bust up laughing.

          After a few of bourbons and a burger that’s still mooing at Callaghan’s, I feel like my old self again. Hal gives me a Guinness with a raw egg in it. An Irish Hangover cure apparently. I leave it well alone, until Hal starts heckling me.  

          I stick a shot of bourbon in it and make a Guinness boilermaker that tastes better. The hangover’s still there crushing my skull but slowly losing its grip. But the bongo drums are now played by kitten mittens. We eventually go back to my office and find the place is trashed…

            It could be the mob. It could be MacGinty and his cronies. Whoever it was, they’ve tore the place up good. Some files of clients are missing. They stole what little money I had in the safe and drank the last of my fuckin’ bourbon…  I want to kill something. Luckily Hal is my guardian Irish Angel and had brought a bottle of ‘Turkey with him. I look through the file the shadow had dropped on my nuts.

          The file contained several cases of arson all over the city in the past 6 months. Each with insurance payout. Each case was investigated as no wrong doing. That smelled suspicious right away. The most recent was a blue movie - “Taste The Night”. An illegal ‘erotic film’. I now know why they didn’t go to the cops. So who was the shadow that gave me the file? That would need answered later. 

          Cast and crew have been roughed up bad and wont talk. Two killed.   Sounded like mob to me. The backers on the film read like a who’s who of L.A.  And some of them would probably do some shady shit to keep it on the QT and definitely hush-hush.

          A City Councilman, a Hollywood player, a doctor, a dentist, a rich playboy and my previous client –Wilhelm fuckin’ Walther… this began to smell something bad. I phoned one of the contact numbers. The voice on the other end sounded like God had made woman out of honey, practically giving me a boner in the process. Her name is Summer Cumming. Of course it is.

          If she looks anything like she sounds I need this place cleaned up pronto as she arranged to meet me tomorrow. 

 

Wednesday 28th August 1958, Dick Dyce Private Investigations

 

          Broke, running low on bourbon, I’ve been drinking water mostly to try not to smell like a booze bum when I meet the fox from the phone call. My fridge and shower has been working over-time keeping me cool and keeping me clean. The heat wave makes me wish I was back in New Jersey.

          The L.A. smog isn’t as bad as ‘54 when they had to shut down schools and industry for almost a month. The smog still bad enough to cook this city in its own filthy juices of bad sex and bad intentions. Through the smog the sun seems to melt under its own heat like greasy butter on a short order cook’s gridle… The heat bakes people inside their small, dark oven-like apartments….

          Heat like this made people do secret, wet, red, crazy things to each other.  As wet and red as the lips of the red-headed dame in my office.  Summer Cumming‘s two-tone red hair reminds me of that golden orange and red flame job on that crushed Studebaker Starliner.  Her body work’s better and I wanna crush her curves against me. Curves that compete with the heat outside for who is hottest.

          I grudgingly offer her my last shot of bourbon…I fill the rest of her glass up with ice. She takes each icy dice out and sucks the bourbon off it with those luscious lips. Her green eyes staring at me with a fake “come fuck” expression that is well practiced but nevertheless welcoming.

          Or at least the building boner pressing against my trouser fabric thinks so. She then runs each over her honey-colored throat and breasts.  Her wet nipples stand to attention like soldiers.  My ‘drill sergeant’ salutes back.  She gives me an advance, with more than just money.

          She kisses me with promises to empty more than my bourbon bottle. To fill my wallet and her mouth… the icy dice in my all-too-empty bourbon glass, tell me to follow their lead. Play it cool. But like them, I melt against her skin.  The sex under my cold shower feels so good in this heat. Within an hour, Summer and I live up to her surname… 

          Summer gasps and smiles…running fingers over her promised land. I try not to drown in her green eyes as she lights two post-coital cigarettes in that gorgeous mouth…  She passes me one, parting my idiot grin…I’m smug from performing well… I’m glad I can still muster the troops. Years of booze had made me persona non grata with the fairer sex unless they were lushes like me.

          Those women weren’t the best-looking either. More than once I went to bed with Sophia Loren only to wake up next morning to a B-movie monster. I had fucked the Creature From The Black Lagoon in a low dip top and suspenders one too many times. But hey, I aint no fuckin’ prize. So I wasn’t choosy.

          It’s clear though that Summer was sent by someone to fuck my brains out. Whoever the hell he or she may be. My  guess  it’s one of the backers on the film offering me an extra incentive to keep me interested in the case. But while I’ve been enjoying the service, I wonder if there’s a hidden agenda here.  Shut up Dyce… Enjoy the fantasy that Summer actually wants you. 

          Don’t look gift “whores” in the mouth.

          Summer mounts me again for a second rodeo. She may be the death of me, this cowgirl, but  I can definitely think of worse ways to go. I came into this world between a woman’s legs, I really don’t mind going out the same way.  Too long bourbon has been my lady. Now I have Summer in my winter years.

         She stops and bites her lip then with a worried look on her face. She opens her mouth to try to tell me something. I hear footsteps on the stairs and try to go for my gun but Summer’s weight pins me down.

          The door gets kicked off its hinges when a bunch of goons bust in and pull Summer off me. At first I think it’s more mob. But they’re speaking German. Fat and old age slows me down going for my .45 Lucille in her holster.   They chloroform Summer and drag her into the tub. I get knocked out.  Everything goes black and swirly. I feel like I’m drowning in a hot tub full of black ink.   

          I awake gagging in the dark. Something is being poured into my mouth.   Its fucking Gasoline. A fat goon, with a face like a pig’s ass, coats me in the stuff. I can’t move. I’m tied to a chair and I’m naked… He strikes up a book of matches that says “Callaghan’s” on them. Did they get Hal? The fat goon nears me with the flame. He’s giggling, speaking something in German.  

          “Haben Sie feuer Mein Herr?  Nein?  Ich habe feuer…” His intent’s clear and it ain’t good.

          Well fuck you asshole. Better have tried to off me and I’m still here. 

          I spit what gasoline I’ve kept in my mouth in a concentrated stream into his fat, grinning face, catching the flame of the matches on route, careful to stop the stream of flammable liquid so the caught flame doesn’t follow it back to its source... The fat goon’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.  He runs around in a circle screaming in flames. 

          His screams start to shudder as I detect shock flooding his system. Then he suddenly falls to his knees and keels over. I guess the shock stops his heart.  Should’ve cut down on that strudel, Heinz. His dark suit and the orange flames of the ignited gasoline reminds me again of the orange and red flame job on that mob Studebaker.     

          It’s night and I’m still naked from when they interrupted Summer and me. I would complain about being cold but I would’ve been a whole lot fucking warmer if fat fuck here got his way. The gasoline in my mouth tastes like hell and I wish I had a shot of bourbon to take the taste away. Bleeding from my head wound, I’m in an abandoned building with broken glass over the floor.  

          I start to rock the chair, aim for the glass on the floor, I land on it and set about cutting myself loose with a shard. I want answers. I want blood. I need clothes… I need a gun… I check Mr. Crispy here and find a Luger after I piss the flames out on him. Getting dressed in the dead goon’s burnt and pissed-on clothes, he’s so fat, I have to tighten the belt on the trousers twice.  

          His shoes are about a size too big for me and I feel like I’m dressed like Coco the fuckin’ circus clown. Guess I shouldn’t complain. I could’ve been nearly set on fire by some skinny rat piece of shit with feet smaller than my mother’s. I smell of piss and gasoline but I ain’t got time to be choosy about my clothes or personal hygiene.

          I have to get to Hal’s. Gotta know if he’s ok. Then there’s Summer. I swear if they’re both dead, I will happily go to Death Row, knowing I’ve killed every fuck responsible. They should’ve put a bullet in my head, made goddamn sure of me. The fat goon’s car is outside in the lot, a ’51 Convertible Kaiser Frazer. At least I don’t have to break into it. I slide myself over the back end of the Kaiser and into the driver’s seat, setting about hotwiring the car.

          I’m a block from Hal’s bar and decide to pull into a car lot and go the rest of the way on foot. That fat fucker’s shoes flap about on my feet like a kid playing dress up so I take them off and go in in my socks. I go by the back alleyways to Hal’s so I ain’t spotted from the street. Breaking quietly into Hal’s beer cellar, I hear German voices from up above. I take out the bulb in the cellar, plunging the place into darkness and sneak  upstairs in my socks…

          Hal has been tied to a chair and tortured badly. Head hung low. Covered in blood. At first I think he’s dead. But I see him stir as a skinny German fucker with a bald head asks him something. This kraut reminds me of that creepy Nosferatu flick I saw a while back. Two other  Germans stand guarding the front door, watching the street. They have Lugers like me. The one closest to me with his back turned, inspects a nickel-plated, M1911 .45 Automatic. It’s my Lucille. 

          I’ll be damned if some foreign asshole gets to handle my girl. The skinny German torturing Hal brandishes a bloody knife. Hal spits blood at them and tells them to fock aff. The big Irishman has still fight in him. I grin to myself.   I’ve never been more happy to hear him swear. Attaboy big guy, hold on the cavalry’s coming….

          The skinny German cuts Hal again. More for pain than to kill. I need  a distraction. Good Ol’ Hal provides it. He shouts out in pain that he’ll tell them what they want to know. The German torturer leans in closer as Hal croaks the answer. The German leans in too close as Hal bites into him like an attack dog.  The Germans at the door try and get Hal off him. But he is locked on.

          That’s when I go to work. I grab the German closest to me in a marine chokehold, I quickly disarm him and drag him into the dark of the cellar. I break his neck and retrieve my Lucille. United with my .45 silver lady I kiss her hello and whisper to her  - Lucy, I’m home.  Distracted by the sounds coming from the cellar and disappearance of their friend, The other Germans come over to the cellar...

             “Karl? Wo sind sie?”

          I use the little German lingo I know luring the others over to the dark of the open cellar door.

          “Kommen Sie mach schnell!” I whisper harshly in the dark, and the others rush to his aid and straight into my guns.

          I empty both Lucille and the Luger into them. I blow off jawbones and tops of heads. Making peek-a-boo holes in chests and backs. I grab the last falling German and use him as a human shield. The skinny German, that Hal bit, goes for his gun, but I’ve picked up another Luger and shoot him in his wrist and his knees. He collapses, his thin wire glasses falling off his face as he screams out in pain. I kick his weapon away from him. I want some answers from this asshole.  

          “Hal, buddy, are you Ok?” I ask, regretting already I asked it as Hal glares at me.

          “Wha’ kinda stupid fockin’ question is that? Course I’m not fockin’ Ok.  Second time in as many days my bar, my place of business, is a fockin warzone ‘cause of shoite ye brought down on my house. Ye’ll onderstand while I’m glad of the rescue I am not happy one bit…”

           Hal shakily patches himself up with his medical kit behind the bar, while I train Lucille on the remaining German. I swig on a bourbon bottle to get the taste of gasoline out my mouth. I call the cops and the ambulance then use the German torturer’s knife to probe the bullet holes in his knee while I wait. 

          To give the Kraut bastard his due he screams but doesn’t spill the beans immediately. Not until I poke a slow, twisting hole through his sack and into one of his nuts and tell him he’s going to be a fraulein.  He can tell by the look in my eyes I mean it and tells me everything before he passes out from pain and blood loss.

          It was a part money-laundering , part insurance fraud scam. These assholes were ex-SS, working for Nazis living in Argentina. They used Wilbur Walther, as their front man in America, to funnel Nazi gold into Hollywood real estate development and low-budget, high-return illegal blue movies. 

          They would then collect the insurance money from properties burned in arson attacks all over Hollywood. Properties owned by Wilhelm Walther, but under different names. Walther had people on the take at all the insurance companies greasing the wheels for the big pay out. One snag though. I had killed Walther because of what he’d done to his daughter.

          This meant his bosses and those getting paid off couldn’t collect. The Germans had found out I had been one of the last people to see Walther alive and had busted into my office to get me and look for information. They couldn’t find me to torture for answers as I was in a North Hollywood jail at the time. 

           Summer was paid to come keep me busy. She didn’t know they were going to kill me. But she knew they were gonna bust in. All Summer got was a one way ticket on the ‘H’ train to the big adios. They had over-dosed her. She didn’t deserve that. I had failed yet again to save another gal in Hollywood.   Yet another ghost to haunt me. I walked to the back of the bar again. I looked at Hal, his look said it all. “Kill this Cont.”

          I drew Lucille and put one in the German’s head.  No way this scum was going to jail.

          Not everything’s tied up with a pretty bow, however – loads of shit still didn’t make sense. Loads of questions needed to be asked and asked hard of some very famous people. My first stop would be Pierce Morgan Stark, the millionaire. There were holes in this case that needed filled with facts and perhaps bodies. Who was the shadow that gave me the case file? Who in LA sent mob goons at me? Whoever it is, they got me on my guard now... They’re gonna learn that playing with a loaded Dyce…They’re gonna fuckin’ lose…   

                                                    THE END
 
 

 

 

    

                                               

 

dickdicetheabcs.jpg

Dick Dyce – The A-B-C’s 

By Paul “Deadeye” Dick

 

1954, 10th August, 4pm, Los Angeles, North Hollywood, Dick Dyce Private Investigations

          The heat and light of the LA sun baked the city in the thickest smog in years. It made the air sticky and cloying, stewing the citizenry in their own filthy soup of bad air, bad sex and bad intentions.  That same sun had now decided to come fuck with me, too, and found chinks in the armour of the window blinds that clad my office in near-darkness.

          The ceiling fan and the open fridge door had been keeping me cool, but now these concentrated light beams shone through the cracks in the blinds and I would’ve shot at the fuckers for invading my home if it’d do any good. 

          Sunshine isn’t the friend of a seasoned drunk, ‘specially one that has spent most of the night drowning the demons of memory.  Cradling a newly born double of Wild Turkey,  I moved to a part of the office the sun couldn’t reach just yet…

          I say office, but really it was a grimy bedsit with a pull-down bed overlooking the City dump. When used for “office hours” the bed was folded into the closet where I kept a few skeletons still from my past as a peace-time hit man and a war-time Marine.

          I’d custom-fitted the inside of the wardrobe doors to display gun parts of my prized Lee-Enfield and Mosin Nagant sniper rifles, a drum-fed Thompson and an M1 Garand carbine.

          Among the rest of the gun parts were deactivated handguns... A silenced Wellrod pistol, A Nazi Luger with snail magazine clip and an Italian Officer’s Beretta.  But I always favoured my service 1911 Colt .45 over the rest. Her name is Lucille. Like my mother’s name and both these classy broads had never failed to save my life.

          I could piece together and strip apart any of them blindfolded in a matter of seconds if I was in a rush …But usually I took my time with them, cleaning, reconstructing and then disassembling each part. It helped me think while I was working tough cases as a PI. It freed up my creative and puzzle-solving areas of my brain as I conducted the ritual. Japanese Samurai used to do the same thing with their blades or clipped Bonsai trees.

          The office furniture for clients and myself were a pair of robust but worn-leather loungers with a desk that I’d seen and fished out of the nearby city dump. No doubt some well-to-do’s had thrown them out. Maybe a rich law firm or maybe even a nightclub. They just took a bit of cleaning and upholstering and they were almost good as new.

          I didn’t bother with a carpet for the place,  made do with a few well-placed rugs over a blood-red lacquered wooden floor. It made it easy to clean up any sudden messes like blood or puke off my floor.

          You saved every penny you could when you had a booze habit like mine and when you needed to buy favours from assholes and buy bullets to plug just as many assholes in my line of work.

          The most expensive part of my décor was the black and gold lettering on my frosted glass “office” door that read –

          DICK DYCE PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

          YOU WANT HELP?

          TAKE A GAMBLE

          Nearly everything in the office came from the city dump at one point or another. Apt really, since I was in, you could say, Waste Management.

          But I handled human trash instead. Though I kept up the pretence of being a private eye, I also moonlighted as hit man on occasion.

          One of my back teeth was killing me, a casualty of drinking spirits. The booze eventually eats away at all of you in the end, but your teeth tend to go first -exposing raw nerves yadda fuckin’yadda…The irony was that alcohol also deadens that pain if you drink enough of it.

          Fuckin’ teeth were a pain in the ass anyway, I’d done well to hold onto them this long. Time maybe to treat myself and get a nice set of fake chompers to make my life easier. It’d just be another part I could take out and clean when I had to, like my gun parts or my glass eye. Wish I could do the same for my kidneys and liver.

          But I wasn’t going to any fuckin’ dentist anytime soon. They were worse than a garage mechanic – always finding five other things wrong with you and charging you up the ass. But the booze hadn’t been the only thing exposing a raw nerve.

          Shit on a recent case had disturbed me and brought up old childhood memories, funny how events in your early life come back to bite you in the ass when you’re old.

          Rage at these memories revved inside me like a souped-up hot rod engine making me tighten my grip on my shot glass, threatening to shatter it. I thought of something my dad used to say to me to calm me down when I was about to do something stupid ‘cos of my hair trigger temper... 

           “Always know your A-B-C’s, son…whether you’re in the business of taking life, saving life, creating life, or about to have life taken from you.  Know your A-B-C’s .” 

          “A. B. C.  -  Always.  Be.  Cool.”

          I never knew my father much, as he died when I was barely in my teens. Like me, he was a hired gun—mob enforcer and a hit man of note and “away on business” most of the time. But on the few occasions when he decided to be a good father between visits, he gave some great advice.  Words of wisdom he decided to impart to me before he left this shitty world on the end of a bullet.

          “A. B. C.  -  Always.  Be.  Cool.”

          I was about to know my A-B-Cs literally. The Alfa-Becetti brothers, Alberto, Benito and Carlito had come out of retirement and were doing hits again.

          I had been investigating the death of a widow’s contractor husband, Joe Cusamano, and his construction crew. The nature of the contractor’s death made it embarrassing for her to go to the police. They had run afoul of a certain bunch of old timers he saw as no real threat despite their Mob posturing. Stupid fuckin’ idiot.

          He didn’t know they were the real deal…Old-time Mafia from Chicago. You never fuck with Old-time Mafia, especially Chicago boys, as some perceive the smallest of infractions as a serious sign of disrespect or insult.  They hired a certain group of old-time killers, one of whose MO I immediately recognised. 

          The contractor had been butt-fucked with a 9 inch Stilletto rammed up his ass.  You don’t die right away from that but bleed out slow in agonizing pain. You’re unable to really scream for help both out of pain and embarrassment. Why embarrassment? Cos in the back of your mind you don’t want to be found bleeding from your ass in a dark alleyway as people make the homosexual conclusion.

           But embarrassment is the least of your worries. Sepsis sets in fast as  blood mixes a toxic cocktail with the contents of your burst plumbing, creating a burning lava flow in your bowels.

          The contractor contracted right enough. Contracted, twisted and contorted trying to keep his burst insides in for a good half hour. Then he literally shit himself to death, the pain and pressure build-up of his ass cocktail became too much to bear... his heart gave out.

He’d been made an example of.

          His men had got off lighter. Sniper kills with a silenced .22 rifle. Shot in the ear-hole as they walked high steel. The entry wound so small and inconspicuous that the rest of the damage done from the fall masked it. What the bullet didn’t do gravity did all too well. I know five guys who could make a shot like that and only one that was related to a guy known for using a Stilletto in that manner.

          Like all my private investigation clients, I made little on the actual investigation, but as usual I gave her the option for me to mete out direct justice to these assholes for some extra payment using my old skill set. Her discretion and not running to the cops if she got cold feet was cemented in her fear of me killing her, too. 

          For the record, I don’t kill dames unless they try to kill me and I don’t like frightening them much, neither. But this was a necessary part of the job and assurance I wasn’t heading to Death Row for doing the right thing by her. 

          So the widow, Jenny Cusamano, contracted me to hit Alberto, Benito and Carlito. The “Alfa-Becetti” Brothers.  Yeah I know that sounds a lot like the ‘Alphabet brothers’ and I just made that up but bear with me here...

          Alberto, Benito and Carlito were once stone-cold mob hitters like myself. But while I made it my business to hide under the radar and be a ghost, they prided themselves making big noises in the Hit-trick business. Their methods ranged from the clean sniper kill to the extreme, to say the least.

          Two of them, Alberto and Benito, were real brothers from the Italian side of the Becetti family while Carlito was their half-brother from the Alfa Sicilian family. They had the same Goomar whore mother, but different deadbeat mob dads. 

          Once they were three of the toughest enforcers in the Bellardinelli family, and even though they were old men like me now, I still would have my work cut out for me.  The trick to taking them, you see, was I had to make sure the alarm wasn’t raised too soon, alerting the others.

          I had to take the first two out quickly and quietly, before the oldest brother, Carlito, got wind and escaped.  That’s what that rat bastard would do. Take the brothers and any personnel out first, then Carlito…I could take my time with…I owed that son of a bitch fanook a not so quick and clean death…

          I knew that cocksucker from my childhood in Hoboken, New Jersey and from winding up together in Juvenile Hall. He tried to butt-fuck me with a blade too, once.  It wasn’t like he was a homosexual, you got to be human to be that, he did it cos he could, a pure fuckin’ sadist who derived sexual pleasure from it.

          He’s a monster, this guy, wanted to humiliate and make an example of people in the most painful way he could think of before he slowly killed them, staining both asshole and soul before he sent them to the other side.

          He had held me down too, over a pool table with two of his boys on each of my arms as he pulled down my pants to stick a blade in my exit.  Would’ve succeeded too, if I hadn’t kicked out like a mule and back-heeled him in the nuts. He told two of his guys then to hold my legs apart.

          When I felt the extra strength leave from pinning my arms I managed to struggle free and laid into them with a bunch of grabbed pool balls and a pool cue. I sent them all to the infirmary with concussions and broken bones.  I earned a lot of standing in Juvie with that as someone that would not be fucked with.

          Still I didn’t stick around for round two as I knew payback would be more severe and I escaped that week. I had been wanting to get payback on that son of a bitch for years but I had either lost track of him or got sidetracked with something else.

          Over the years several near misses on me I attributed to him or his brothers, then when I finally had a chance to go after, then I lost track of them entirely as War loomed and shit went wrong with my career as a hit man.

          I had to fake my death and joined the marines under an assumed alias. I resurfaced after demobbing as a low-rent  LA Private Dick with a lucrative secret sideline in contract killing for my PI clients. I was so secretive no cop ever found the bodies. If they did I had intentionally made it look like a suicide or accident or I had paid the right crooked cop in the LAPD to disappear them.

          But there were no ‘accidents’ or ‘suicides’ coming to these three assholes…

          When night came and the air was cooler, and I was less drunk, I took the Interstate out of L.A. in my Commander Studebaker.  I had gathered intel to the brothers location and I was headed to the East Coast, back to my old stomping ground of New Jersey. 

          Something happens to you when you can gun your car at a certain speed on the highway at night. The world becomes less real fading away to a parade of seemingly never-ending cardboard cut-outs of vehicles, trees, buildings and people, where you are the only reality, the focal point of the universe. Just you and your thoughts mulling over the plan of what you’re gonna do when you get to your destination.

 

1954, 12th August, 10pm, Hoboken, New Jersey, Becetti Butchery

          Alberto ‘The Butcher’ Becetti, 48 years old, was the youngest and strongest of the Alfa-Becetti crew.  He looked like a wild animal with his unkempt, long greasy hair he slicked back with animal fat. The muscle of the murder for hire outfit, he was a bruiser who liked to take people apart with a butcher’s cleaver and gladly showered in their blood. 

          He ran an abattoir and butcher shop in Jersey as one of his family’s many legitimate fronts. The other in close proximity were the small bistro next door The A, The B, The C – that was run by his older brother Carlito, but owned by all three…  I knew I’d find Alberto at the abattoir as that’s where he processed any stiffs the other two brothers wanted to get rid of in the district.

          Apparently word round the campfire was they’d just rubbed out some hit tricks. They then would be delivered either to the hit trick’s families as a warning or processed into smaller bits to be used as pig feed for the farm they kept out in the sticks.

          During the day, just before closing, I walked into the butcher shop and bought a juicy T-bone steak from the pretty girl serving behind the counter. Her gorgeous eyes kept looking concerned into the backroom. I asked her if anything was wrong and she stammered-

          “Oh, sorry Mister. I-I thought Alberto was back.” She looked scared…

          I waited till night until I heard the industrial mincer and meat slicer start up. I drugged the dog that guarded the backyard to the place. Some barbiturates squeezed into the meat of the T-bone steak did the job nicely.

          Once Fido was napping I climbed into the yard, picked the lock on the back door and I slid into the dark half of the backroom abattoir. My .45 silver lady Lucille was wakened from her bed and fitted with a silencer so she could give Alberto her long kiss goodnight.

          The smell of spilled body fluids hit me as I edged deeper inside. The floor was already slick with blood and offal draining into the floor gutter. In the half light of the room, shadows of swinging pig carcasses swayed like someone had not long passed between them. 

          It dawned on me then that some of these carcasses might be of the “long pig” variety and these could be the butchered remains of the hit tricks hanging among the real porky pigs, now rendered unrecognisable as human.

          Be-de-be-Th-That’s all Folks”.  I whispered with a grin that quickly became a grimace as I sensed something move in the dark.  Silently I moved over by the severed pig heads that hung from meat hooks in the dark corner near the door to the next room.

          They stared dumbly and blindly past me as I looked beyond them into the next area. But too late I noticed one pig head was looking right at me in the dark, with the psychotic glare of very human eyes. It hung on no hook, for a hulking man wore it on his face.

          It suddenly lunged out from the darkness at me. Alberto had been waiting for me in the darkest part of the abattoir and had dressed for the occasion in dark clothing and a hollowed out pig head.  He had a rep for being pig-headed but this was ridiculous. 

          He swung a mean cleaver with half blind ferocity into my shoulder and I felt something give. Luckily for me the blow had struck the buckle on my gun rig and it bore the brunt...

          Now destroyed, the rig sagged free inside my jacket, but my arm had gone numb with the blow. I felt the tell-tale stickiness of blood oozing down my arm and could feel my shoulder was badly bruised, maybe nerve damaged. I rolled under the second blow, but Alberto was already on me again, pressing his attack with his superior height, weight and strength.

          He was one hulking gorilla. Salt n’ Pepper stragglers of unkempt long, greasy hair clung to his sweat-drenched neck. The rest of him that was visible seemed to be covered in thick black tufts of hair also. The guy must easily weigh near 300lbs and was strong as an Ox. 

          I was outmatched in this wrestling match and knew I certainly couldn’t keep this fucker at bay for very long with an injured arm.  I held onto his cleaver arm with all my strength, not allowing him another swing as he pushed me into the light of the meat slicer area.

          He twisted on my damaged gun arm, I gnashed my teeth together rather than yell out and give him the satisfaction he hurt me. But my fucked tooth added more pain to equation—I used it, focussed it and turned it into renewed rage-fuelled strength.

          I couldn’t tell from the pig head mask he wore, but there was a brief pause as I pushed him back. Something in his body language betrayed his surprise at my strength. Then he pressed his attack harder, and started to taunt me…

          “I don’ have to kill you. Just cut you so you can’t run and fight.”

          He backed me closer and closer to the industrial meat slicer and mincer…

          “Maybe slice you off at elbows and knees, huh? Burn the stumps and           wrap ‘em up with salted butcher paper, huh?”

          “Fuck you Alberto, fuck your brothers and fuck that Goomar whore of a           mother who shat you into living.”

          “Mio Fratello be here soon. You pay for what you said about Mama”

          Lucille tried to get shots off at his face but he kept pushing my gun arm wide and off target. One of the shots ricocheted back off a metal housing on a wall which gave me an idea. 

          If you gave me a math test and asked me to plot angles I couldn’t do it but there’s a certain instinct you develop as a Marine sniper where you just know you have a cherry angle for a shot.

          I angled my wrist and fired behind Alberto hitting the metal housing again. This time it ricocheted and sheared some meat off his back.  As he howled out in pain his weight shifted and using this opportunity I suddenly hip switched and tripped him up, turning him with all my strength straight onto the cutting blade of the industrial meat slicer.

          His screams were thankfully muffled by both the pig head mask and the grinding moan of the slicer. It cut through his flesh and hit bone, slicing through a vertebrae in his back. He fell to the ground and lay there trying to move on the floor face down like a puppet with its strings cut….Lucille put two in his head for good measure.

          “Hey Alberto! You done slicing up that special delivery yet?”

          Shit. Benito’s voice pierced the darkness at the back door behind us.  I had to think fast as I didn’t want him to know his brother was dead just yet.  I cut the lights and the slicer’s power plunging the room into silent darkness. Then I used a skill I hadn’t used in a crow’s age.

          “Benito, get tha fuck outta here! “ I shouted out Alberto’s voice.

          “Shut up, you dumb fuck.” I answered my imaginary hostage in my own voice and made sounds in the darkness like I had slugged him out cold.

          I had always been a natural mimic as a kid, I could hear someone’s voice once and do a pretty close impression of it. And Alberto’s American Calibrasi was easier than most. Who knows, I could’ve wound up making a killing as an impressionist or stand-up comedian.

          Instead I had developed that childhood skill into making a different kind of killing as an adult.  It served me well as a mob Hit man and Marine to lure my targets in. Only this time I wanted this target to back off as I knew exactly what he would do next.

          “Whoever the fuck you are buddy, hell is gonna look like a picnic compared to what we’re           gonna do to you. My other brother is maybe a half hour behind me. How you like them apples, asshole?”

          In the gloom, the metal on leather sound of a gun pulled quickly from its shoulder rig and the sound of a silencer being quickly screwed into place was the only sounds I could hear. If I didn’t drop this prick soon, Carlito would indeed be here. Good as I was, I didn’t like those odds. I threw a cleaver into the room so that Benito would open fire at the sound.

          Benito ‘Bada Bing’ Becetti, 50 years old, was the polar opposite of his hulking brother. Small, angular, bald and thin, he was a clean-freak, always dapper-dressed and always wearing a pair of leather gloves as his pathological fear of germs and uncleanliness made him not want to get up and personal, never getting his hands dirty… He prided himself instead on killing people clean and softly, at a distance, with a silenced sniper rifle. He was good with a pistol, too.

          When he heard the meat cleaver clatter on the floor he blind fired in that direction and dove out the back door. Instead of the sound of a driver door slamming shut and a key firing up an engine to escape, I heard the trunk of the car slam shut and running footsteps.

          First they ran on asphalt then echoed far away metal on the rungs of a fire escape ladder somewhere.  I knew Benito now had his sniper rifle and had got to elevated position. I was counting on this.

          The back alley way was bordered by three buildings with fire escapes but only one had the vantage point for a clear shot inside the butchery through the back window. The front exit had the butcher shop’s fire escape platform overlooking it. 

          He could be up in any one of them. All he needed to do was keep me from escaping so his brother Carlito could arrive and shank me in the ass with a Stiletto. If the kill shot presented itself, however, I knew he would take it.  It’s what I would do.  But I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.  I turned the slicer and the industrial mincer back on to disguise any sounds of movement.

          The lot of the sniper is the wait and I know from personal experience the best snipers are the most patient.  As the mincer and slicer disguised the sound of my movement I tested the shot vantage angles of where Benito could be. He was a deadly shot with his weapon of choice and had the reflexes of a cat. 

          He fired instantly the moment he saw movement, and my hat and trench coat spattered with blood as Benito spotted them move past the window, I cried out in pain.

          From my position I heard Benito come down from his sniper roost to investigate. I heard him gloat over my slumped body in the darkness.

          “Hahaha, Gotcha ya fuck. Ya had no clue who ya fucking with did ya? 100 confirmed sniper kills, ya dumb sap …”

          Hubris is a son of a bitch. He no doubt thought he couldn’t miss a shot and had killed the mook that had got lucky with trying to rob his butcher brother.

          He removed the bleeding hat from my ruined head to get a look at me.

          Instead of my face he saw his brother’s dead one staring back. He had been suspended on a meat hook rammed through the back of his head and shoved past the window.

          Oh Madonna….Alberto… no…”

          He tried to move forward to cradle his dead brother but his phobic nature wouldn’t let him get close and touch. Instead he hovered there like a mournful buzzard, crying over the butchered upper body of his fat brother whose fat ass lower half had been given a crash diet by me in an industrial mincer barely 20 minutes earlier.        

          How else do you think I managed to hoist and push a fat guy on a meat hook with my bum arm?  The cry of pain I had given out was half-faked by me pressing on my shoulder wound where the cleaver had hit. I stepped out from my hiding place and pressed Lucille into the back of his skull.

          “100 Sniper kills? Not bad. I’ve got 150 and many more up close. You and your brother here just made my 498th and 499th .”

          Lucille kissed him on the back of his head and blew out his eyeball. He pitched forward onto his brother’s body. The way he fell was ironic as he looked like he was almost hugging him, showing more physical affection for his brother in death than he had in life.

          One more to go and it’s the prick I had been waiting to get payback on for 40 years. If Benito was telling the truth, Carlito would be here in 10 minutes.  I needed to make a distraction for him to go someplace I could contain the situation. I wanted his brothers to be there when Carlito got his. I picked up a cleaver and got to work.

 

1954, 12th August, 11pm, Hoboken, New Jersey, The A, The B, The C  Bisto

          Carlito ‘Cazzo Culo’ Alfa, 55 years old, walked into the Bistro he owned in his immaculate evening clothes like he was a Don of a major family. Black suit, black tie and red cummerbund with a snow white scarf. He smoothed back his Brylcreem-silvered hair and scanned the empty Bistro for his brothers with his deeply hooded, dark circled eyes.

          He tapped out a smoke from his ornate silver cigarette case and lit it up with a flourish. He held the cigarette out at waist height at a 45 degree angle in a manner I’ve only ever seen a dame do and sauntered towards the big table in front of him. 

          His murder-for-hire crew was how he came by his finery. Mostly living off his two brothers’ labour. Coward that he was, he only delivered his trademark “Ass Stilletto” when his prey was properly subdued.

          He had been longer getting to the butcher shop than the half hour Benito had said, but not by much. It had given me some extra time to prepare and I’d left him a note telling him to meet his brothers here. I had left a nice calling card under the silver domed cover of the large dish I had laid out on the main table with a note. The note read:-

          HOUSE SPECIALITY

          Carlito lifted back the silver dish covering and fell back on his heels in horror, stumbling into the table behind him when he saw the severed heads of his brothers staring blindly out from under the removed silver dome. They had apples in their mouths like suckling pigs. He was still staring at the platter when I stepped out silently behind him and sapped him on the back of his head.

          When he came round, the severed head meat platter was gone from the table and replaced by my 1911 Colt .45 “Lucille” on the table cloth. I gave him enough time to focus on what I juggled in my hand.

          “Remember me Carlito? Judging by your expression, guess not huh? It’s been 40 years since last we met face to face when you tried to stick a blade in my ass at Juvenile Hall. I fucked you and your flunkies up for the effort. That embarrassment took a while to recover from didn’t it? Made yourself a big noise in the murder-for-hire business to compensate.”       

          “You…You’re that fuck DiCenzo? We heard you died before the War that’s why we stopped looking for you… You motherless cocksucker…”

          He started to grin manically through angry blossoms of tears. His eyebrows arched wildly. He looked for all the world like an unmade-up clown.  He spoke in increasingly gasping breaths as his psychotic grin dissolved into a rage-filled grimace, his lips foaming with saliva. Then just as suddenly he wailed like a little girl. 

 

          “Wheres the tough guy that was threatening to kill me a second ago? All I hear now is a little girl. Quit your blubbing and take what’s coming .”

          “My guys are out in the car and they’re going to come get me…”

          “Hey, Shh, settle down. The solo tough guy act, Carlito….it’s very exciting… It’s nearly got me convinced… but we both know without           backup you’re nothing. I took care of your boys and they’re draining next door.”

          “Hey, but here’s some good news. Stand-up guy that I am, I’m gonna give you a 50/50 chance to take me out. So here’s the deal, Carlito…” 

          His eyes tried to bug with rage to disguise his fear, but he knew I was right…without backup he was nothing.  I also saw in his eyes that gambler’s desperation as he saw the dice in my hand. He thought he had a chance.

          “I’m going to spin this dice on my gun Lucille here... “

          I raised the dice slowly into the air between thumb and forefinger, flicking my wrist with a flourish for showman’s effect.  Tada.  I blew on the edges of the dice and it spun around.  Carlito, didn’t look impressed.

          “I was taught this trick by a Vegas magician and only a few people can do this. So I want you to appreciate the skill involved of spinning a dice on its edge like this before it falls off the gun onto the table.”

          “When it does, both of us are going to go for Lucille here and whoever is faster on the pickup gets to shoot the other in the face.  Sound fair?”

          I grinned at his sweaty, seething silence as I set the dice spinning like a top. Carlito’s eyes darted up and down from the gun and the dice to my grinning face.  The guy was shit at poker as I knew he was up to something.  If it was a gun he would have used it by now, so my guess was he was going to use his stiletto he kept behind his cummerbund.  He knew his best bet was grabbing for Lucille.

          I could tell he was factoring on me being faster.  So I guessed as the dice spun, that he would try and impale my hand to the table with his blade when I reached for Lucille and then shoot me with my own gun. But this wasn’t poker, he wasn’t playing with cards here but with a loaded Dyce.

           The dice fell off and we moved. I tugged sharply on the tablecloth end in my lap like the Vegas magician had shown me doing the Tablecloth and Vase trick. Lucille flew towards me.  Effortlessly I palmed her big butt out of the air and took aim at Carlito. He had drawn his blade and had lunged forward to end up frozen in place on the end of my silver lady’s silencer.

          “Drop the blade and hold out your arms to the sides”

          He did as I asked, quivering with fear and I shot him in his elbows, breaking them. As he screamed, I stuck another apple in his mouth and tied it secure with his white scarf. 

          I then blew off both of his knee caps from behind and hauled him over to the table to lie face down. His screams intensified as I gave him a taste of his own medicine with his Stilletto.

          “40 years I’ve been waiting, sick fuck. Mrs. Cusamano says Va’ Fanculo. 

          The feared Carlito Becetti of the Alfa-Becetti “Murder-for-hire” family died the horrible death he had inflicted on so many of his victims. His reputation forever tarnished by the manner in which he died. 

          I wiped the place down of prints and anything that would link me to the murder scene, as always I was a ghost in the night.  I took one final look around the place before my eyes finally rested on Carlito.

          “500.” I whispered and left Carlito bleeding out like a stuck pig…

          My work wasn’t done yet, though…I had to mince the rest of the brothers and Carilto’s men into pig feed and dump them at the Alfa-Becetti pig farm out past the Pine Barrens. I left Carlito where he was—an example needed to be made, after all.

          I also still had to arrange some “accidents” for those old fucks in Chicago who had ordered the Alfa-Becetti boys on the Cusamano hit.

          But that in itself is yet another roll of the dice.

                                                        

                                                        The End

 


 


shadowbythesun.jpg

Akai Taiyo – A Shadow By The Sun

 

By Paul ‘Deadeye’ Dick

 

          In the tumultuous lands of Feudal Nihon, Nobunaga Oda had begun his grand campaign of cleansing the warring shoguns and uniting a stronger Nihon under one rule. The country had raised their collective hand against their long-term masters and cried out for change. Inevitably, they drowned in the tidal wave of their blood and tears that followed.

          Night had fallen over Kyoto Prefecture. And as night fell so had Clan Yoshida. Over the blade of his sword, Samanosuke Yoshida, last of his clan, did not take his eyes off the enemy for an instant. They had butchered his family, who now lay in the burning funeral pyre that was once his home. Samanosuke did not need to see the flames which blazed above him on the horizon, the smell of his Clan’s burning flesh choked him and stung his eyes as it drifted on the wind that blew through the trees….But still he kept his eyes open.

          The flames of his burning  home were high and bright against the dark night sky like reaching fingers. It was as if they wanted to grab the very Gods from the heavens.  Yoshida’s rage, too, burned brightly within him as he stared down these enemies that surrounded him, but he could not afford anger now.  

          Attacking these opponents in a blind rage would be a mistake. These were clearly veteran ronin, masterless samurai turned mercenary of many battles. They had easily killed his family and most of the house retainers  who themselves were all seasoned samurai to a man.  All were cut down like wheat. 

          He did not know who they were for they wore Noh masks, but from the exposed skin of their hands he could see that these things were not human, for webbed fingers held their swords and webbed feet bore these horrors forward. Their eyes were large and luminescent in the gloom. Glowing a fish-eye yellow, they almost protruded through the eye hollows of their masks. Their skin shone squamously, jaden black in the moonlight with a dark iridescence...

          Their shaggy hair hung like swamp grass on squat, over-sized heads that bobbled and swayed as they circled Yoshida. Their heads sat oddly on long, thin but sinuous necks, defying reason of how they could support such on so thin a structure. Their odour was by far the worst thing about these masked “men” it stank of long dead, stagnant water and even longer dead denizens in its depths.

          Let them make the first strike, thought Samanosuke.

           Parry the blow and counter strike in one breath with his family’s “Sweeping Swallow Grass Cutter” technique. The battle and his life would surely be lost if he struck first in anger. He had killed several of them already using his family’s counter strike system.

          However, they had not died like normal men. Several blows were needed to kill each and dark blood oozed from their many wounds. Samanosuke himself had not gone unwounded in the skirmish. He had taken a glancing blow to his ribs from a lucky blade. 

          So tired now…how heavy now his blade seemed. Bleeding more from his side and lungs now. He was at a disadvantage. He could barely stand as he tasted blood in his throat from his lungs. He swallowed it hard so that none would spill upon his lips and show weakness to the enemy. 

          Their supernatural providence evoked a haunting fear in Samanosuke’s heart that would have frozen him to inaction if not for the counter effect of vengeance’s rage which burned within him. He let go of his conscious self and remembered the words of the Swordmaster Musashi.

           Slow your breath and choose your moment. You and blade are one. One breath.

          All your decisions in your life shall be decided in that one breath. Live or die. Act or do not. One breath as you move to kill or die. Inhale deeply , exhale quickly and strike.One breath.

          Samanosuke knew this was his day to die. Before the battle he had purposely donned the customary funeral white of those that commit ritualised Seppuku. This was to show the enemy that he was prepared for death, and that it held no more meaning to him now than his or their lives did. He would cut down as many of them as he could to join him on the road to Hell.

          He steeled himself for the coming onslaught of the Samurai advancing on him. His feet slid a little in the mud as he circled, but retained his footing, keeping all of them in his sightlines. They had pursued him from the castle and trapped the lone Yoshida on a bluff overlooking a fast running river.

          The wind grew in strength then and blew through the cherry trees’ tops. The sudden blizzard of cherry blossoms caused by the wind obscured Samanosuke’s vision for but a second, but it was the second his enemy needed to strike. 

          The first enemy katana cut Samanosuke across the orbits of both eyes, destroying them and severing the bridge of his nose. Blinded and in excruciating pain he let his guard down and the other enemy samurai drove their treacherous blades into him. 

          Their last strike would have severed his torso from shoulder to groin, but it missed as he over balanced and fell backwards off the bluff into the shallows of the river. He felt one of his legs break as he fell. The crack of the bone breaking was almost inaudible over the rushing water and the unnatural croaking cries of the enemy as they climbed down to the shoreline in order to finish him off.