Yellow Mama Archives II

Darryl Hicks

Acuff, Gale
Ahern, Edward
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
Aronoff, Mikki
Ayers, Tony
Baber, Bill
Baird, Meg
Baker, J. D.
Balaz, Joe
Barker, Adelaide
Barker, Tom
Barnett, Brian
Barry, Tina
Bartlett, Daniel C.
Bates, Greta T.
Bayly, Karen
Beckman, Paul
Bellani, Arnaav
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc
Beveridge, Robert
Blakey, James
Booth, Brenton
Bracken, Michael
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
Campbell, J. J.
Cancel, Charlie
Capshaw, Ron
Carr, Steve
Carrabis, Joseph
Cartwright, Steve
Centorbi, David Calogero
Cherches, Peter
Christensen, Jan
Clifton, Gary
Cody, Bethany
Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
Cumming, Scott
Davie, Andrew
Davis, Michael D.
Degani, Gay
De Neve, M. A.
Dillon, John J.
Dinsmoor, Robert
Dominguez, Diana
Dorman, Roy
Doughty, Brandon
Doyle, John
Dunham, T. Fox
Ebel, Pamela
Fagan, Brian Peter
Fillion, Tom
Fortier, M. L.
Fowler, Michael
Galef, David
Garnet, George
Garrett, Jack
Graysol, Jacob
Grech, Amy
Greenberg, KJ Hannah
Grey, John
Hagerty, David
Hardin, Scott
Held, Shari
Hicks, Darryl
Hivner, Christopher
Hoerner, Keith
Hohmann, Kurt
Holt, M. J.
Holtzman, Bernard
Holtzman, Bernice
Holtzman, Rebecca
Hopson, Kevin
Hubbs, Damon
Irwin, Daniel S.
Jabaut, Mark
Jermin, Wayne
Jeschonek, Robert
Johns. Roger
Kanner, Mike
Karl, Frank S.
Kempe, Lucinda
Kennedy, Cecilia
Keshigian, Michael
Kirchner, Craig
Kitcher, William
Kompany, James
Kondek, Charlie
Koperwas, Tom
Kreuiter, Victor
Larsen, Ted R.
Le Due, Richard
Leotta, Joan
Lester, Louella
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Luer, Ken
Lukas, Anthony
Lyon, Hillary
Mannone, John C.
Margel, Abe
Martinez, Richard
McConnell, Logan
McQuiston, Rick
Middleton, Bradford
Milam, Chris
Miller, Dawn L. C.
Mladinic, Peter
Mobili, Juan
Mullins, Ian
Myers, Beverle Graves
Myers, Jen
Newell, Ben
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl
Nielsen, Judith
Onken, Bernard
Owen, Deidre J.
Park, Jon
Parker, Becky
Pettus, Robert
Plath, Rob
Potter, John R. C.
Prusky, Steve
Radcliffe, Paul
Reddick, Niles M.
Reedman, Maree
Reutter, G. Emil
Riekki, Ron
Robson, Merrilee
Rockwood, KM
Rollins, Janna
Rose, Brad
Rosmus, Cindy
Ross, Gary Earl
Rowland, C. A.
Saier, Monique
Sarkar, Partha
Scharhag, Lauren
Schauber, Karen
Schildgen, Bob
Schmitt, Di
Sesling, Zvi E.
Short, John
Simpson, Henry
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snell, Cheryl
Snethen, Daniel G.
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Temples. Phillip
Tobin, Tim
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Varghese, Davis
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Al Wassif, Amirah
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
Weisfeld, Victoria
Weld, Charles
White, Robb
Wilhide, Zachary
Williams, E. E.
Williams, K. A.
Wilsky, Jim
Wiseman-Rose, Sophia
Woods, Jonathan
Young, Mark
Zackel, Fred
Zelvin, Elizabeth
Zeigler, Martin
Zimmerman, Thomas
Zumpe, Lee Clark

Thigh Spy


Darryl Hicks





  Fred Jansen was pitching his video game. The audience was all female.

  Fred said, “You get the most points if you see the front of the thighs, less points for a side view, the least points for viewing the back of the thighs.”

  Mary Utofski was the oldest of the investors in the room. She said, “What is the name of your game?”

  “I’m calling it ‘Thigh Spy’.”

  “So, I’m getting that the player seeks a female in shorts, then he looks at her legs.”

  “Not just shorts, dresses and skirts count, too.”

  “Do you get bonus points if you spy thighs below all three garments? Like a trifecta?”

  “Hey, that’s a great idea. So, you like the game?”

  “I think it’s sick.”

  “‘Sick’ is good, eh?”


* * *


  Young Sonya Watford wore a pantsuit and sensible low-heel square-toe leather shoes. As she walked Fred out, she said, “We’ll be in touch with our financing decision.”

  “What are my chances?” asked Fred.

  Sonya planted her left foot and launched a right leg kick, driving her shoe into Fred’s balls. Fred crumpled on the sidewalk.

  “Your chances are about that good,” replied Sonya.

* * *

  Still seeking funding, Fred went to his bank. While he waited for an appointment with the investment manager, a woman in a sundress ran in, waved a gun, and shouted, “This is a robbery! Everybody on the floor!”

  Fred sank down and laid on his back. The woman stood over him, still waving her gun. Fred had an unobstructed view up the sundress. He could see all the way to Paris France. Not just to the Paris suburbs, oh no, Fred could see all the way downtown. She wasn’t wearing panties.

  Fred was lost in the moment, staring at the bush of thick black hair. Alas, the moment didn’t last long.

  The girl’s boyfriend loomed over Fred, and yelled “Quit staring at my girl’s pubes!”

  The lights went out when the boyfriend drove his rifle stock into Fred’s temple.

* * *

  At the police station, Fred was interviewed by Detective Tom Gunther. The Detective asked, “How’s the face?”

  “Not bad,” lied Fred. He had a mouse over his eye. It hurt like hell.

  “Can you describe either one of them?”

  “The girl had relatively small knees, positioned between fleshy thighs and athletic calves.”

  “That’s it? You’re just describing her legs?”

  “They were very distinctive legs.”

  “We don’t exactly have a database of female legs.”

  “You don’t? It would be a great aid to crime solving.”

  “Forget about the legs. What was her hair color?”


  “You’re a horrible witness. Everybody else said she was a blonde.”

  “She’s not a natural blonde.” Fred described looking up the sundress and seeing the forest of black pubic hair.

  Tom pinched the top of his nose and closed his eyes. “They’re laughing hysterically in the observation room. They’re going to razz me mercilessly about this interview.”

* * *

  Declining a ride home, Fred walked away from the police station. He turned a corner, heading down a dimly lit side street.

  A dark-haired woman was leaning against lamppost, near a rusty blue van. “Help a girl out?” she said.

  She was wearing shorts, so naturally Fred looked down at her legs. It was the girl from the bank, Fred was sure of it, he never forgot a leg.

  While Fred focused on the girl, the boyfriend jumped out of the van and punched Fred in the gut. The air whooshed out of Fred’s lungs. As Fred struggled to breathe in some oxygen, the boyfriend bundled Fred off into the back of the van.

  The girl ran around and started the vehicle. Soon, they were off.

* * *

  At the safe house, the boyfriend asked, “What did you tell the cops?”

  Fred shrugged. “I told them your girl has a thick black bush.”

  “Well, that should narrow their search to a few million.”

* * *

  They locked Fred in the bedroom closet, then proceeded to have sex. The girl was a screamer.

* * *

  On Fred’s side, the closet door had a round knob, with a hole in the middle. Fred pried up a carpet nail. While sticking the point of the nail in the hole, Fred turned the knob and pushed the door. The door swung open.

  It was long after the many rounds of torrid sex. There was a bit of a low-grade snore coming from the bed, at least one of them was asleep. Fred stepped into the room.

  The boyfriend popped up and said, “Where the hell are you going?” He swung his legs around and stood on the floor.

  Fred ran towards the bed. Extending an arm, palm forward, Fred stiff-armed the boyfriend. The base of Fred’s palm connected with the boyfriend’s nose. Fred’s running motion multiplied the force. Fred’s palm drove the nose up and in. The nose exploded in a shower of blood.

  The boyfriend’s head flew back and down. On the way down, the back of the head struck the corner of the nightstand.

  Fred turned and ran. He was out of the bedroom in a flash, out the front door soon after.

* * *

  Fred ran a zigzag path, through yards, past houses, across streets. Three streets over, he stopped and assessed his situation. He had no phone, no money, and the crazy couple had his wallet, so they knew where he lived. Fred moved on.

  A few hours before dawn, Fred wound up at the investor’s building, where he pitched his video game. Was it just yesterday? It seemed so long ago.

  He snuck in the back door, while the cleaners were taking out trash. Fred found Sonya’s office and crashed on her couch.

* * *

  Fred heard a man say, “I think he’s awake.”

  Fred rolled into a fetal ball, protecting his head.

  “Relax dude,” said the man. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”

  A female added, “We just want to understand why you’re here, on my office couch.”

  Fred opened his eyes. Sonya and a man in a security uniform looked down at him.

  Sighing, Fred said, “I was kidnapped by a crazy couple. They took my wallet and keys. I had no money, no credit cards, nowhere to go.”

  “Looks like you ran away through a raspberry thicket,” said the security man. “Your clothes are torn. You have cuts and scratches all over.”

  Fred sat up and examined a bare arm. “I ran like the hounds of hell were chasing me, through backyards and vacant lots, anywhere it was dark.”

  Sonya said, “I have good news for you.”

  “You’re going to stop kicking me in the balls?”

  The security man looked at Sonya. She shrugged.

  “No,” said Sonya. “My brother looked at your game. He says your Python programming is pretty good. He knows a gaming company that would love to hire you.”

  “Could they advance me enough money for breakfast?”

* * *

  Sonya loaned Fred twenty dollars. Detective Tom Gunther met Fred at a diner.

  As he poured a ton of syrup on pancakes, Fred said, “Can I get witness protection?”

  Tom said, “They only stole like twenty thousand from that bank. They’re not exactly mafia kingpins.”

  After breakfast, Tom drove a twisty route, directed by Fred. Backtracking Fred’s escape path, they wound up at the crazy couple’s safe house. Tom called in for a search warrant.

  Although not mafia kingpins, the crazy couple still rated a SWAT entry team. Admittedly, it was a slow day for SWAT, they had nothing better to do.

  A few minutes after entry, these words came over Tom’s radio, “We have a dead body.”

* * *

  Detective Tom and Fred stood out of the way. Fred could see the face.

  “It’s the boyfriend,” said Fred.

  “What did you do to him?” asked Tom.

  “I punched him in the nose, with the base of my palm.”

  “Palm strike. Are you a top-secret CIA assassin?”

  “Not hardly.”

  The SWAT Sergeant was squatting near the body. Tom asked, “How did he die, Charley?”

  “I’ve got blood on the corner of the nightstand and blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Probably, he died of that. But maybe, Jack Ryan there punched some nose cartilage up into the brain and he was already dead.”

  Fred said, “What happens now? Am I going to jail?”

  “Yes, five years for pussy peeping,” replied Charley.

  The whole room laughed.

  “Shut up, you guys,” said Tom.

* * *

  In the interest of getting her twenty dollars back, Sonya picked up Fred and drove him to his bank. They parked in the lot and walked towards the front of the bank.

  A crazed woman, in a sundress, jumped out of the bushes and yelled, “I knew you’d need to come here for money!”

  Sundress woman pummeled Fred with three hard punches to the face. Fred went down. She then proceeded to kick Fred in the ribs.

  Fred knew who the woman was. He recognized the leg that was kicking him. Plus, she wore the same sundress during the bank robbery.

  Sonya threw a kick that grazed the other woman’s cheek. Sundress woman punched Sonya in a breast. It went like that for a while, Sonya mostly kicking, sundress woman mostly punching.

  Fred grabbed a bare ankle and toppled sundress woman. As sundress woman fell, she rolled up on Sonya’s legs. Sonya went down awkwardly.

  Sundress woman sat on Fred’s chest and rained blows to his face. She screamed, “Asshole! I loved that man! How dare you kill him?!”

  “You kidnapped me.”

  “Yes, and then we punished you by making you listen to our sex, big whoop!”

  “It was punishment! You’re a screamer.”

  “We were going to let you go, but no, you had to kill the only man I ever loved!”

  Sonya stood up and kicked sundress woman in the temple.

  Bank security arrived soon after. They enthusiastically detained sundress woman.

* * *

  They sat at an outdoor table of a coffee shop.

  Fred said, “Your pantsuit is ruined.”

  Sonya said, “She knew how to punch. Your face looks bad.”

  “In a month, I’ll be ruggedly handsome.”

  “You know, just because I helped you beat up that bitch …”

  “We’re not involved, I get it.”

  “My brother said the gaming company will hold the job, until after you recover.”

  “Tell them I accept the job offer.”

  “You can keep the marketing rights to Thigh Spy. They don’t want your game. They just want you, as a Programmer.”

  “I get to keep my game, that’s promising.”

  “Not so much. Thigh Spy is disgustingly misogynistic. If you ever try to market Thigh Spy again, I’ll bring army boots the next time I come kicking.”

Thigh Candy


Darryl Hicks




  Sonya and Fred were at a cocktail party, celebrating the opening night of Sonya’s sister’s art show. Many of the women wore formal cocktail dresses, with a thigh split. Many others wore short party dresses, including Sonya. Altogether, these women displayed much thigh candy.

  Fred brought Sonya out to the smoking patio.

  “Why are we here?” asked Sonya.

  “You invited me as your ‘plus one’,” replied Fred.

  “Yes, and then you proceeded to ogle the thighs of every woman present. Your eyes have been at half-mast all night.”

  “You know I only have eyes for you.”

  Sonya made a sputtering noise, then said, “I meant, why did you bring me out to the patio?”

  “The bank robber’s sister is here. I recognized her from when I testified at the bank heist trial.”

  An automatic weapon ripped off a short burst, inside the gallery. Somebody yelled, “This is a robbery! If you use a cell phone, you die!”

  Fred quickly boosted Sonya to the top of the eight-foot wooden patio fence. She made it over the fence, but meanwhile dropped her stupid strapless clutch purse, which she then regretted bringing to the party.

  Fred backed up, preparing for a run at the fence.

  From the patio door, a pistol toting woman said, “Stop right there, asshole!”

  Fred said, “Yes ma’am, stopping right here, ma’am.”

  “Where’s your date?”

  “What date?”

  “The date who belongs to that purse over by the fence.”

  “Oh, that date. We had a fight and she left.”

  “Via the fence?”

  “That fence is way high. Nobody could scale it.”

  “But she could make it over, if you boosted her up, eh?”

  “I can’t confirm that.”

  The woman picked up the purse, then said, “Get inside, asshole.”

  Inside the gallery, a team of three guys were robbing party guests of cell phones, jewelry, and other valuables. One of the guys came over, took Fred’s wallet and cell phone. With a smirk, the man declined to take Fred’s Timex watch.

  Fred’s female captor said, “We’ve got to go. A woman escaped from the patio. She dropped her purse and her cell-phone’s in it, but she’s sure to raise the alarm, somehow.”

  “We’re almost done,” said the male robber. “Is this the guy?”


  “Why am I the guy?” asked Fred.

  “You know why,” said the woman.

  “I know you’re the bank robber’s sister.”

  “Bingo! Then, you know why you’re the designated hostage.”


* * *


  Tyrel and Traevon were conducting business, at their usual corner. Tyrel was older, he did the deals. Traevon was under 18, he held the drugs. Traevon’s job was to run, if any trouble ensued, hence he was the ‘runner’.

  When Sonya dropped beyond the fence, she waited a moment, hoping Fred would throw over her purse. But, when she heard the woman challenging Fred, Sonya took off running. At the end of the alley, Sonya turned away from the gallery. At the next street corner, Sonya encountered two male youths.

  Sonya said, “I need to borrow a phone.”

  “Why would such a fine piece of ass need a phone?” replied Tyrel.

  Sonya promptly kicked Tyrel in the balls. As Tyrel crumpled to the sidewalk, Sonya looked at Traevon and said, “You want some of this?”

  Traevon’s boss had given Traevon clear instructions, “Fuck Tyrel, protect the drugs”. Traevon took off running.

  Sonya kicked Tyrel in the ribs.

  “Damn woman!” said Tyrel.

  “Give up your phone, or I’ll kick you in the head, until you’re unconscious.”

  Tyrel fished a phone out of his hoodie pocket and held it up.

  “Unlock it,” commanded Sonya.

  Tyrel directed the phone screen towards his face. The phone unlocked.

  Sonya grabbed the phone. She called 911.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “There’s a robbery at the Fisher art gallery, on Century Avenue.”

  “Ok, I’m Alice. What’s your name?”

  “Sonya Watford.”

  “Are you at the gallery now?”

  “No, I escaped. I’m on the corner of First and Walnut.”

  “That’s a dangerous place. There’s a drug dealer there.”

  “He’s holding his balls and crying for his mommy.”

  Alice laughed, then said, “Sorry, I need to go. When you hear the sirens, go back to the gallery.”

  Sonya pulled the phone away from her ear and disconnected.

  Tyrel hissed, “Yo bitch! Give me back my phone!”

  Sonya dangled the phone by a corner, then released her grip. The phone dropped straight down, a corner striking the sidewalk.

  As Sonya ran away, she heard Tyrel yell, “Cunt! You cracked my screen!”


* * *


  Sonya knew if she went back to the gallery, the police would hold her too long. She’d become a witness the police would interview relentlessly. So, she ran to her car.

  A while ago, Sonya managed to lock herself out of her car, when she stopped to pick up mail. That experience prompted her to buy a ‘hide a key’ box, which was now magnetically stuck inside a wheel well.

  Her car had electronic door locks and a push button start, so her ‘key’ was actually a battery-operated key fob. She prayed the battery in the spare key had some juice.

  She worried for naught. The spare key opened the doors and started the car.

  As Sonya drove, she now prayed her brother was home. That was likely, however. Her brother was a computer hacker, who rarely left his house.


* * *


  At the door, Micah said, “Hi sis.”

  “Can I come in?” asked Sonya.

  “Of course.” Micah stepped back, then closed the door, when she was in.

  Standing with his back to the door, Micah said, “Wow! You’re wearing a dress! I didn’t think you even owned a dress.”

  “I bought it special for tonight.”

  “I haven’t seen your thighs since we were teenagers.”

  “Shut up about my stupid thighs. You’re as bad as Fred.”

  “Fred is a mega leg-man. Nobody’s as bad as him.”


  “Right, you’re probably here about the robbery.”

  “You heard about that already?”

  “It hit the police scanner like twenty minutes ago. Since then, there’s been a little online chatter. No official news story, yet.”

  “What does the chatter say?”

  “Robbers got away clean, taking a male hostage.”

  “Oh no! I hope Fred’s ok.”

  “Why would it necessarily be Fred?”

  “I’ll tell you, but first off, I lost my purse. I need to cancel my credit cards.”

  “Right, let’s go to my lab. I’ll find you some phone numbers.”


* * *


  After the blur of phone calls to various ‘lost card’ emergency numbers, Sonya related her story.

  Micah said, “Wow! I can’t believe you terrorized a drug dealer to get a cell phone.”

  “He was also in denial,” replied Sonya.

  “Cracking his screen was a tad cuntish, I sort of agree with him on that.”

  “He called me a ‘piece of ass’ and a ‘bitch’.”

  “Sure, but he also said you were ‘fine’.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Ok, what’s next?”

  “Can you track my cell phone?”

  “No problem, if it’s not in a Faraday cage.”

  “I’ve heard about that. What is it exactly?”

  “Basically, it’s a box lined with alternating layers of plastic and tin foil. Cell towers can’t penetrate that. If it was me, the getaway car would be a giant SUV hatchback, with the entire hatchback area lined with plastic and tin foil. You come out of the gallery and toss all the booty in the hatchback area. Boom, all of the cell phones would be in a Faraday cage. You wouldn’t need to bother taking out the phone batteries.”

  “Well, the bank robber’s sister surely has a cell phone. Can you track that?”

  “Good idea. What’s her name?”


* * *


  As expected, Micah couldn’t ping Sonya’s cell phone. They then scanned news stories about the bank robbery trial, looking for a name.

  After a few minutes, Sonya said, “I’ve got it. This article has a sister interview, done in the courthouse hallway. The sister’s name is Claire Bertrand.”

  Reading over Sonya’s shoulder, Micah said, “Apparently, the bank robber was the best sister a girl could have, really sweet.”

  “For such a sweet girl, she really knew how to throw a punch.”

  “Tell me about it, I saw Fred’s face.”

  “Great, we now know her name. So, we’re all set to find her cell phone number?”

  “No, we also need her online handle.”

  “You mean like for posting on Twitter and chatting?”

  “Yes. Do you know Claire’s handle?”

  “I don’t even know your handle.”

  “I know yours.”

  “Get out.”

  “It’s ‘Thigh Exhibitionist’.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Ok, take a break. I’ve got this.”

  Sonya wandered off to take a shower.


* * *


  Sonya returned to the lab, wearing clothing she scrounged from Micah’s bedroom, exercise pants and a short-sleeved polo shirt. She would’ve liked fresh underwear, but of course, Micah didn’t have any female panties, at least she hoped he didn’t.

  Micah said, “I found Claire’s phone number on the dark web. Look at this chat room thread.”

  Sonya nodded. “Two people making plans to meet at a political event and exchanging cell numbers. Which handle is hers?”

  “Gucci Girl 25.”

  Micah ran an app, which triangulated cell tower signals. He cross-referenced the GPS coordinates with a local map.

  “Oh-oh,” said Micah.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Claire is in your condo.”


* * *


  After reviewing a bank robbery online article, to get the primary detective’s name, Sonya called the local police precinct.

  “I’d like to speak to Detective Tom Gunther,” said Sonya.

  Desk Sergeant Mia said, “He’s offsite, working a new case.”

  “The art gallery thing?”

  Mia sighed. “I’m not supposed to say, but I guess it’s no secret, everybody’s in on that one. What is this regarding?”

  “Tell him Sonya Watford has solid information on the location of a robber.”

  “Hold on, I’ll hit him up on his cell, ask if wants to talk to you.”

  After a few moments, Tom came on the line. “Hi Sonya. I heard you escaped from the art gallery.”

  “Yes, Fred boosted me over the patio fence.”

  “What’s this about knowing the location of a perpetrator?”

  “Remember that bank robbery last year?”

  “The one involving Fred?”

  “Yes. Fred told me he recognized the woman at the art gallery. She’s the bank robber’s sister.”

  “For Fred to remember, I’m guessing the sister has hot legs.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, we know she’s holding Fred hostage in my condo, waiting for me to come home.”

  “Ok, help me get a warrant and I’ll send in SWAT.”

  “My brother hacked a dark web chat room, to get her cell number. Then, he used an app to triangulate cell tower signals.”

  “Totally illegal. They won’t give me a warrant for that.”

  “I’m going in to rescue Fred. Please give me some backup.”

  “Ok, here’s what we can do . . .”


* * *


  Barefoot Sonya turned the key and pushed open her condo’s front door. Leaving the door open a crack, Sonya walked into a tiny vestibule. Rounding the edge of a short wall, she turned toward the living room.

  Claire and Fred were seated on a wicker couch. Fred was handcuffed, his hands resting in his lap. Claire’s pistol was pointed at Fred’s head.

  Pretending to be surprised by the sight of Claire, Sonya exclaimed, “Fuck me!”

  Claire said, “Oh joy, it’s little miss kickboxer. Where’s your trashy dress?”

  “In the car. These are my running clothes.”

  “Let’s party. I have such great expectations.”

  “Do you expect me to grovel?”

  “No honey, I expect you to die.”

  Sonya groaned and stepped closer.

  Fred said, “Please, let her go. Just kill me. I killed your sister’s boyfriend.”

  Claire laughed. “The bastard deserved to die. I felt like killing him myself.”

  “So, what’s your beef with us?”

  “My sweet baby sister is in prison and you two put her there.”

  “Your sister just wanted revenge on me. Sonya was only there because she gave me a ride to the bank.”

  “Yes, but your slut did all the fighting. You were just a punching bag.”

  Moving closer, Sonya said, “Your sister’s tongue would be popular in prison. Does she service all the dykes?”

  Fuming, Claire hissed, “Ok, that’s it. Bye, bye, sugar.” Claire swung the gun towards Sonya.

  Fred yelled, “No!”, and pushed the gun upwards.

  Sonya sprinted a few steps, then launched a flying kick, driving both feet into Claire’s face. The blow toppled the light wicker couch backwards. Fred and Claire spilled over the top, landing intertwined.

  Despite the kick and tumble, Claire still held the gun. As Sonya rolled out of her kick, Claire hoped for a shot at the illusive slut.

  Claire’s party dress had ridden up, revealing a knife sheath, strapped to her thigh. After pulling the knife, Fred quickly stabbed Claire’s thigh. The knife sliced the top muscle lengthwise, down towards the knee.

  Screaming, Claire bashed the gun barrel across Fred’s temple. Fred was stunned.

  Sonya twisted Claire’s wrist. Needles of pain tore through the wrist and hand. Claire dropped the gun.

  The women wrestled on the floor. Sonya transitioned into an armbar. With a foot in Claire’s armpit, Sonya pulled on the arm.

  Claire tried to bridge out of the armbar, but she was hampered by her bleeding leg. Fred swept Claire’s good leg, sending her flat on her back again.

  Detective Tom entered the condo. Fred was standing near two fighting women. A gun and a knife were on the floor, in a far corner.

  Walking toward Fred, Tom said, “Hey Fred, I heard you were kidnapped.”

  “Yes, the kidnaper brought me here. Then, Sonya came home and kicked her ass.”

  “What happened to her leg?”

  “Stabbed with her own knife.”

  “Ouch. Here, let me get those.”

  Tom produced a small key and removed Fred’s handcuffs.

  “Thanks,” said Fred.

  Nodding towards the women, Tom asked, “Should I separate them now?”

  Holding up a hand, Fred said, “Wait a sec.”

  Leaning over and looking down at Claire, Fred sweetly asked, “Darling, what was that you said, about my girl being a slut?”

  “She takes it up the ass every day,” taunted Claire, “from AIDS infected men, with puss oozing from skin ulcers.”

  As that image sunk in, everybody paused a moment.

  Sonya growled and twisted her foe’s arm. Claire gave a yelp and contorted her body to lessen the pain.

  “I love a good cat fight,” remarked Tom.

  “You and Elvis,” replied Fred.

  Leaving Claire in Sonya’s armbar, Tom used his radio to call for two patrol cars, specifying one responder needed to be female.

  The police officers soon arrived. As a young female officer took Claire into custody, a crusty male Sergeant said to Tom, “Civilian women making your collars now?”

  Tom sighed and said, “I suppose I’ll be razzed about this.”

  “Count on it.”


* * *


  Tom would later say he went to Sonya’s condo to get her witness statement about the art gallery robbery. When he got there, he heard the sounds of a struggle and the front door was ajar. This allowed Tom to enter legally, without a warrant.


* * *


  The art gallery robbery getaway driver would later trade a Rolex watch for an ounce of cocaine. Unfortunately, the drug dealer was a DEA agent. This led to the arrest of the other perpetrators and the recovery of the swag.


* * *


  After the police took Claire away, Sonya and Fred were lounging in bed.

  Sonya said, “There’ll be no more public displays of my thighs.”

  “I don’t care,” replied Fred. “I’m switching to breasts.”

  “For real?”

  “Yep, bring on the double-Ds. I’m a breast man, from now on.”

  “Right, and I suddenly grew a pair of balls.”

  After some touching, Fred said, “I can’t confirm that.”

  “Don’t stop,” moaned Sonya.

Darryl Hicks is from Minnesota. Anya, his charming wife of 23 years, is from Ukraine. They have an orange male cat, who they mostly call Dude, although that’s not his actual name. They live in a cozy condo, in the Atlanta suburbs. He’s a Programmer, but he doesn’t code video games.

He has self-published seven eBooks on Smashwords; five of those were short stories.

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