Christopher Grant

Yellow Mama

Christopher Grant

Suppose it was a racist thing, calling her that.

Yellow Mama, I mean.

Meant no disrespect, though. She was Chinese or Japanese or somethin'. We had no idea. So we just called her that.

Yellow Mama.

Anyhow, she'd get down on her knees and suck your dick if the price was right.

She may have been Chinese or whatever but she knew cash and she was smart and she wasn't going to suck your dick for nothin'. She wasn't comin' out on top, she wasn't doin' shit.

She'd fuck you, too, but the money, like with the head, had to be up front and in her pocket 'fore she'd do a damn thing.

Girl knew fuckin' guns, too.

Girl really knew her some guns and she put that knowledge to good use. I know cuz she took me off once and I ain't come back on her on account of the fact that I like breathin' and shit. Put that fuckin' twelve in my face and racked the shit. I handed her my roll right then and there, hearin' that shit rack.

The thing of it is, she shouldn'ta got done the way she did. I mean, that shit was fuckin' ice cold. Takin' them off was her mistake and it shouldn'ta gone past more than a beatin'.

But shit got back to HIM 'bout how she was talkin' shit about HIM. 'bout how she said that she'd tried to fuck HIM but HIS dick wouldn't cooperate and shit, stayin' limp the entire time and how when she finally did get him up, HE came 'fore they could even really do shit.

It was all a buncha shit, somethin' a dickhead in a Cards cap put in HIS ear and HE couldn't let that stand.

And Yellow Mama, a little slow on the trigger that day, she got got. Beaten, stabbed, her face cut up, her tits cut off, raped, burned, and fuckin' shot. Christ, man! It didn't have to be that way.

Even if she did say that, which she didn't, it didn't have to be that way.

See, cuz that girl, Yellow Mama, she was beautiful and, despite what she did, for a time, she was mine.

So this here is what you might call a little bit of blowback shit, goin' boomerang on your ass.

I should prolly put a coupla holes in y'all cuz of what you did, what you helped along. But I need you to get in HIS ear again.

I need you to tell that boy to come on down to the street, if HE's man enough, if HE's ready to take on someone his own size.

And 'fore you go, leave the Cards cap, dickhead.

The Soldier

by Christopher Grant

The soldier is accused of being derelict in his duties in a time of war. He is accused of allowing the prisoner to escape. And so he is found guilty and he is sentenced to death by firing squad.

They march the soldier out to the middle of the parade grounds, for all to see, and they ask him if he has any final words he would like to speak.

The soldier is stoic, he is brave, and he declines to say anything.

The guns are raised, the guns are aimed, and the guns are fired.

The killing shot, which could have come from any of the rifles, is the one that the soldier takes to the forehead, the bullet shredding through skin, bone, and eventually brain on its exit into the grass twenty feet behind the now-fallen form of the soldier.

The soldier's body is carried away after being pronounced dead by a medic, taken to the morgue, where his fatigues and any personal effects will be removed and sent to his family.

His bunk, even as his body is being carried off the parade grounds, is being looted by those who once called him friend and now spit his name with the taste of traitor in their mouths.

It isn't any more than an hour afterwards when weird, unexplainable things start to happen.

There's a low hum, constant. It never gets louder, never grows softer.

Wait until the war is over. . . .

The prisoner, gone for four days, is back in his cell. He has no recollection of ever being gone and so he doesn't understand what his interrogators are talking about when they ask him where he's been or how he got away in the first place.

And we're both a little older. . . .

There's a sound of crying coming from the parade grounds, in the exact spot where the soldier was executed.

Make a grave for the unknown soldier. . . .

Upon investigation, two guards find a rough outline of a soldier's body that disturbs the grass. In the center of the outline, sits a single white rose.

Nestled in your hollow shoulder . . .

Later that night, the soldier's various former bunkmates swear that they see a man standing next to the soldier's bed. The figure, they say, glowed briefly blue and his eyes were either white or red, depending on who is telling the story.

The items looted from the soldier's foot locker are all returned by morning.

Top of Form

The Pressure

by Christopher Grant

The pressure in the suit is dropping and I can feel myself slowly stepping away. You read that right. Stepping away. Stepping away from this life or this world, this realm, whatever. It's like I'm shuddering, ripping apart little pieces of me, like a piece of notebook paper. This piece going here, that one going there.

I'm in my house, back on Earth. My mother is there and she says that I have to get ready for school. Even though I'm thirty-six years old, she says the bus is going to be here soon and I have to grab my backpack and stuff my books in there. She kisses me on the top of my head and I'm back, drifting in the void, the air still seeping out.

I'm on another planet, looks like Mars. I'm not wearing my EVA suit. Why am I not wearing my suit? I should be wearing my suit. I'm starting to panic when a woman comes up to me and puts her finger to my lips, as if to silence me, though I've spoke no words. My mind calms. She's quite beautiful and her hair whips in the Martian wind.

I look down at the dial. It says I don't have much oxygen left. I wish I were on Mars with that woman right now.

There's a car speeding right at my friend Joe. He's been my friend since we were kids. In the real world, I know that I saved him, that that's what solidified our friendship. But here, now, in this world, I can't move, my feet nailed to the sidewalk and I watch Joe take the front bumper full on, watch him flip over the hood, over the roof of the car. Other people rush to his side but I already know what they will discover. Joe is dead.

Three times over, I am swimming in the ocean. It's blue for as far as my eyes can see. Deep dark blue and I decide to float on my back. Looking up at the sky, I see dark shapes moving amongst the white fluffy clouds. At first, I think I must be seeing things but then I see them again. Small from this distance, there are at first only two of them, then there are a half dozen and then more. I feel dread in the pit of my stomach but I feel awe in my mind and in my heart. What are they?

The stars look so beautiful out here and I feel my breathing start to come more rapidly, yet shallower. Not much time left.

Twenty years ago. I sit on the stoop outside my apartment building and Cheryl Landis walks by. I have a crush on her and she says that she knows that I like her and she likes me, too. She asks me to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance. I accept. Somewhere, in my mind, I know that this is the girl that I will marry one day.

I think of Cheryl. Think of the kids. Wish I was back on Earth with them instead of losing oxygen out here.

I am standing over Cheryl, who is asleep in our bed. I look down at her and know I cannot touch her cheek, cannot whisper that it will be all right. I am standing over Joanie, my daughter. She looks like she's having a good dream. I turn around and see Joe, my son, named after my best friend. Joe sees me, asks me if I can get him a glass of water. I know I cannot. I feel tears streaming down my face.

Holly Jolly

Christopher Grant

What is she? Eighteen, nineteen. Whatever it is, at least she's legal. Looks good in that short green skirt with the thigh-high stockings, striped like fucking candy canes. Looks just like a fucking elf. I'd love to be her Santa.

And then, just like that, my thoughts are interrupted by Jimmy. Slaps his hand down on the table and gives me that look. The one that says, "I can't believe that you're still sitting here, wasting my fucking time, get off your ass now!!!"

All work and no play for me.

What's her name again? Holly, I think.

I look at my watch as I stand up and give Jimmy a smile. The one that says, "I'm going now, boss, I'll be back with results, boss, you can count on me, boss." I fucking hate playing subservient chicken shit. One of these days . . .

The party, according to my watch, will probably still be in full swing when I get back from dealing with the latest fuck-up.

Sam, that's his name, the latest fuck-up. Couldn't get the coke off the boat in time. Was supposed to be off-loaded and then taken to a warehouse last night. At noon today, there was still coke on the boat, still no business being put into action and still no Sam.

Sam should have a bullet with his name on it. He's got at least a hell of a beating coming.

I grab Wallace and we grab our coats and the two of us head over to the docks. Fucking cold enough out tonight to freeze your cock off. No snow on the fucking ground but plenty cold to go around. The fucking docks are done up in red and white Christmas lights.

Sam's in his office, at least that's what one of the idiots that works for him says.

And, sure-fucking-enough, there's Sam, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar.

In that moment, it's all I can do to not yank my piece and slam one through his forehead.

"Coke's gone," he says behind his newspaper.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Ya heard me," Sam says, flipping a page, reading what's on the backside of the page he was just reading.

"We had a deal," I say.

"Had being the operative word." The cigar smoke is making my stomach even queasier than it was.

"What the fuck am I supposed to tell Jimmy?" I say.

"That you're a fuck-up?" Sam says. "Just a suggestion."

I want to kill this motherfucker so badly.

Wallace actually pulls his gun. And then it's a cacophony of guns being racked. To Sam, it's more like a symphony.

"I'd probably put that away if I were you," Sam tells Wallace, sweet as fucking pie, the newspaper still up, Sam's eyes still scanning the thing. Wallace puts the gun back in his coat pocket.

Sam sets the newspaper aside and puts his cigar in an ashtray. He gives me a look like he wants to make everything all right.

"Look, kid," he says, "this is the way business is sometimes. You said Jimmy'd give me three million. I found a guy that wanted what I had for five. I'm not going to sell myself or my guys short, especially when we did all the work to get it into the country. Plus, there's always next time. Tell Jimmy I wanted more and found it. Tell Jimmy that, next time, it'll cost at least five million. Tell Jimmy to go fuck himself and join up with me. I could use a guy like you. Ambitious, strong-headed, up-and-coming, the future. Think about it. But that's the best you're gonna get out of me tonight. Merry Christmas."

All my plans, the ones for Holly and myself and a nice fuck back at my apartment, the ones for my future making easy money off dead-end junkies, the ones that would have me on a beach somewhere not ever having to worry about where my next dollar was coming from? Down the fucking toilet.

What are you supposed to do in a situation like this? Can't shoot Sam, even if he deserves it. You do, you're dead before he hits the fucking ground. Can't cry. And damn sure can't go back to Jimmy.

So you fucking go back to the car, tell Wallace to do whatever the fuck he feels like doing, I'll catch a cab back to my place.

And as the cab pulls up outside my apartment, snow starts falling, which makes the packing go that much quicker. Shit that used to matter this morning when I got up and pulled on my boxers is meaningless tonight. One bag full of clothes. Fucking ditch the piece, leave it on the bed, whatever. Got my cash, got my credit cards, got my money making a move from one bank account to a brand new one and I've got a ticket waiting for me at the counter when I get to the airport.

Except I'm not getting to the airport, am I? Not when Jimmy is waiting outside my door with fucking Wallace behind him.

Merry Christmas to me.

HOLY HALLOWEEN, BATMAN

CHRISTOPHER GRANT

So this putz, this six-foot, five-inch dickhead comes strolling into the store, dressed like Batman, I shit you not.

Yeah, it's Halloween but so the fuck what?

And he's looking around the place, he's going up and down the aisles and we only have the four aisles in the store. Yeah, it's a small store but we're a corner store in a Wal-Mart world, okay?

So, anyway, he's going up and down, like he's looking for something and I know exactly what he's looking for but he ain't getting it. It's sitting right next to me on the counter, behind the two and half inch thick security glass. If he wants it, he's gonna have to do something fancy. And Batman, this Batman, he ain't about the fancy.

So he keeps looking and I decide, what the hell, fuck with him a little.

So I call out from behind the glass, "Shouldn't you be out looking for The Joker or Mr. Freeze or someone?"

Batman startles. Batman don't startle but this Batman, he jumps when he hears my voice.

Total fucking amateur. What the hell is he doing in my place, trying to take the till or the safe, looking like this, jumping like that?

So Mr. Six-Foot, Five-Inch Batman, he shrugs, trying to cover for the leap that almost put him on the ceiling, right? He shrugs.

Okay. Now here's where the shit gets crazy. Almost on cue, in comes The Boy Wonder. I shit you not. So I got Batman and Robin, the caped crusaders, in my store. Only this Robin ain't no Boy Wonder; he's a she. But she's like almost as tall as Batman. She's lanky, too. She looks like you could probably reach over and snap her arm in two with your pinky.

But she's got the balls that he ain't. She comes over to the security glass and pulls her piece and taps on the glass like she's ready to blast through.

"The cash, man," she says. Her voice, it's kind of high-pitched and, at that height, of course it is.

I just sit behind the security glass and smile. You gotta admit that she's got heart. I reach under the counter and hit the buzzer for the cops and then pull out my twelve gauge and level it back at her.

"Commissioner Gordon and his pals are on the way. What you wanna do?" I say to her.

She looks at the twelve, looks at her puny .38, looks over at Batman, who has probably shit his drawers at this point, and says, "Come on, Bruce. Let's go find an easier place." And they walk out of the store and into the dark night.

Christopher Grant is a writer of noir, crime and bizarro fiction. He is also the editor and publisher of A Twist Of Noir, Eaten Alive: Zombie Stories and Alternate Endings, all of which can be found easily on the interwebs.