by Gary Clifton
I’d stood out in the
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
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
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.
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
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.
rasped into the phone.
I said, like a good murderin’
“You have any trouble
with the toad, Mila,” he
don’t say my name on the
“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
empty head Bugs would have his floor safe
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
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
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.