Home
Editor's Page
YM Artists' Page
"Skeeter", the Official YM Mascot
YM Guidelines
Contact Us & Links to Other Sites
Factoids
Lisa's Revenge-Fiction by Janet Hatwell
Her Passion-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Threes-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Ruby in the Red Hoodie-Fiction by Ryan Priest
No-Fiction by Bruce Costello
Fat Trucker, Hot Wife-Fiction by Matthew Copes
Between the Sheets-Fiction by K. Marvin Bruce
Hearts in Retrograde-Fiction by Hillary Lyon
From a Buick-Kind-of-Place-Fiction by Darrell Petska
The Map-Fiction by Jan Christensen
Old Mules-Fiction by Mickey J. Corrigan
The Right Tool for the Job-Fiction by Roy Dorman
The War Against Stuff-Fiction by Fred Andersen
The Handyman-Fiction by Bobby Mathews
Till Death Do Us Part-Fiction by Justin Swartz
Deadville-Fiction by Gary Clifton
Huggermugger-Flash Fiction by Gay Degani
Mortuary-Flash Fiction by Doug Hawley
Inside Room 107-Flash Fiction by Dustin Walker
Gatophobia-Flash Fiction by M. A. De Neve
Daybreak Over I-15-Poem by C. W. Blackwell
Confetti and Juicy Fruit Gum-Poem by Kenneth James Crist
Night in Cumming's Cove-Poem by Michael Keshigian
Scar-Poem by Otto Burnwell
Graveyard Love-Poem by John Grey
Plan but No Really Plan-Poem by Joe Balaz
Audible Sigh-Poem by John Tustin
Erica-Poem by John Tustin
Heartbreaker-Poem by Meg Baird
La Guitare-Poem by Meg Baird
Parking Garage-Poem by Joel Matulich
Vintage Trade Paperback-Poem by Joel Matulich
Perpetual Motion-Poem by Stephen J. Golds
The Best Ones Are the Crazy Ones-Poem by Stephen J. Golds
Black Widow-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Out of My Skin-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
The Terrible Shadows-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Lucky Number Seven-Poem by Bradford Middleton
The Old Routine of Dreaming and Blasting-Poem by Bradford Middleton
F**K It, Let's Listen to the Ramones-Poem by Bradford Middleton
Our Open Window-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Wandering Woman-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Winter's Twilight Sky-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
You, I, Together-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Each Day-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Ghost Dance-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
He Paid For-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Winter Woman-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

84_ym_deadville_mddavis.jpg
Art by Michael D. Davis 2021

DEADVILLE

by Gary Clifton

I’d stood out in the midnight sweltering-assed August humidity on the corner of Independence and Gladstone for two mother lovin’ hours in my whore suit: yellow halter top showing half my forty pounds of pure American tits; cut off jean-shorts showing enough ass to get busted for indecent exposure. Only ladies with class worked that corner. The rest was just low rent sluts. I’d already had a half dozen offers, all from johns who smelled like yesterday’s piss and looked worse. I directed them all down to South Troost Avenue where if they didn’t get mugged, they could enjoy a case of bull head clap. They all drove off grinning like Bozo the Clown. Christ, what losers men are.

If a whore don’t make a price first, the undercover cops can’t make an arrest. Kansas City Vice wasn’t a bad bunch… as cops go…usually.  All the fucks who’d stopped were idiots, but all looked too smart to be cops, and none looked to have a twenty, let alone two hundred it took to unzip their fly.

Then, there the jerkoff was. In his red Jag, a gold tooth prominent, a Rolex flashing in the streetlight, he leaned across, “Busy, Sugar”. Baby come to mama.

I thought, “No, asswipe, I’m waiting here for my movie contract”. Instead, I slid into his air-conditioned ride, leaned over, fondled his crotch, and said, “Just standin’ out here in the heat waiting for you, baby.”

He whizzed behind the auto parts store two blocks down and squeezed the Jag behind a dumpster. Then the jackoff barked like fuckin’ John Wayne, “Strip, bitch”. You ain’t gonna believe it, but he reached across and smacked me across the face…bad idea, mother-fucker.

But, I lied, “I like it rough baby.” I stripped and was astride his junior size pee-wee dick in one minute.

“How come we didn’t talk price, bitch,” he groaned as I gave him my best.

I leaned back and found my little .38 in my handbag on the floor.  The dumb shit just thought I was acrobatic. I slid the piece up and put one in his left ear. Brains and shit splattered the headliner and all over my tits. Part of his skull landed on the back seat. My ears were gonna ring for a month.

“Cuz’, shithead, I gotta better offer…sending you to hell instead.”

I spotted an outdoor faucet next to the dumpster, and already nekked, did my damnedest to lose the blood. After pullin’ my whore suit back on, the walk back to my Corvette in six-inch stilettos and ninety percent humidity was a bastard. But I was long-assed gone in ten minutes.

I had this deal with this prick, Ben Russo, a half-assed mobbed-up turd, known as Bugs Benny. K.C. had a lot of heavy weight dudes who were real mobsters. Bugs arranged contract hits for the mob on whatever loser was unfortunate enough to end up with somebody with cash wantin’ his ass offed. That’s the story of the mope I’d just left with half a head. I’d stalked him a week. My “come kiss my big ol’ tits” act hadn’t failed yet.

And no, I don’t have a clue what his offense was and didn’t give a shit. I’d done a dozen jobs for Bugs, and every mother lovin’ time, he’d tried get me to cop a head job or more when he paid up. I’d warned him, don’t touch the equipment, dumbass.

***

Procedure had been, when I’d finished, I always called Bugs on my cell, and said only – that’s by God only — “Deadville”. That was his signal to transfer the twenty large to my account in the Caymans. The deal was not another Goddamned word spoken.

“Hello,” he rasped into the phone.

“Deadville”, I said, like a good murderin’ bitch should.

“You have any trouble with the toad, Mila,” he replied.

“Goddammit, Bugs, don’t say my name on the telephone.”

“Aw hell, sorry. Won’t happen again. C’mon by. I got Julia here. I’ll make her go down on you as a bonus.”

Damn right it wouldn’t happen again. Now, Julia was a witness who could get me the three-needle-cocktail. Mope like Bugs hires me, he could hire another contractor to put one in my ear. Same for some other jackass who decided to off my ass. Screw that. I drove to Bug’s mansion on the north side. Julia met me at the door, nekked as a newborn. I followed her into the bedroom where Bugs, also bare assed, flopped on a King size bed.

I had a frozen Margarita and an hour or so of Julia’s talented tongue. Then I put one between the eyes of both. Each shit themselves, then croaked.

Rule on the street: dumb bastards never learn.  Ol’ empty head Bugs would have his floor safe open.  I made off with two suitcases of Ben Franklins – hundred-dollar bills to you straight mopes.

***

I’m sittin’ on a beach in Aruba, working on my third margarita, served by the tightest-assed stud you ever saw. I’m gonna have some of him before the night’s over. No, I wouldn’t cap any hunk that looks that good…unless of course, he can’t get it up.


Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot, stabbed, lied to and about, and often misunderstood. He currently lives on a dusty north Texas ranch, where he doesn’t give a damn if school keeps, or not. Clifton has published approximately 120 short fiction pieces, including upwards of fifty in Bewildering Stories Mag. He currently has three novels available through Amazon and other outlets: Nights on Fire, Murdering Homer, and Dragon Marks Eight. He blogs at bareknucklethoughts.org.



If Charles Addams, Edgar Allan Poe, and Willy Wonka sired a bastard child it would be the fat asthmatic by the name of Michael D. Davis. He has been called warped by dear friends and a freak by passing strangers. Michael started drawing cartoons when he was ten, and his skill has improved with his humor, which isn’t saying much. He is for the most part self-taught, only ever crediting the help of one great high school art teacher. His art has been shown at his local library for multiple years only during October due to its macabre nature. If you want to see more of Michael’s strange, odd, weird, cartoons you can follow him on Instagram at mad_hatters_mania.











In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2021