|Aldrich, Janet M.
|Allan, T. N.
|Allen, M. G.
|Ammonds, Phillip J.
|Augustyn, P. K.
|Aymar, E. A.
|Baumgartner, Jessica Marie
|Bennett, D. V.
|Bernardara, Will Jr.
|Blackwell, C. W.
|Bohem, Charlie Keys and Les
|Boyd, A. V.
|Brown, R. Thomas
|Bruce, K. Marvin
|Burke, Wayne F.
|Cameron, W. B.
|Campbell, J. J.
|Campbell, Jack Jr.
|Cardoza, Dan A.
|Cooper, Malcolm Graham
|Corrigan, Mickey J.
|Cosby, S. A.
|Cross, Thomas X.
|Danoski, Joseph V.
|Davies, J. C.
|Davis, Michael D.
|de Bruler, Connor
|De France, Steve
|De La Garza, Lela Marie
|Deming, Ruth Z.
|De Neve, M. A.
|Dennehy, John W.
|Di Chellis, Peter
|Dillon, John J.
|Dioguardi, Michael Anthony
|Drake, Lena Judith
|Dromey, John H.
|Dubal, Paul Michael
|Dunham, T. Fox
|Dunn, Robin Wyatt
|Fabian, R. Gerry
|Fisher, Miles Ryan
|Flanagan, Daniel N.
|Flanagan, Ryan Quinn
|Funk, Matthew C.
|Gardner, Cheryl Ann
|Garvey, Kevin Z.
|Gay, Sharon Frame
|Goddard, L. B.
|Golds, Stephen J.
|Greenberg, K.J. Hannah
|Gurney, Kenneth P.
|Hanson, Christopher Kenneth
|Hayes, A. J.
|Hayes, Peter W. J.
|Hockey, Matthew J.
|Hogan, Andrew J.
|Hoy, J. L.
|Huffman, A. J.
|Huguenin, Timothy G.
|Huskey, Jason L.
|Irascible, Dr. I. M.
|Jaggers, J. David
|Jones, D. S.
|Jones, Erin J.
|Kaplan, Barry Jay
|Keaton, David James
|Kevlock, Mark Joseph
|King, Michelle Ann
|Kolarik, Andrew J.
|Krafft, E. K.
|Lacks, Lee Todd
|La Rosa, F. Michael
|Lerner, Steven M
|Levine, Phyllis Peterson
|Lewis, Cynthia Ruth
|Liskey, Tom Darin
|Lopez, Aurelio Rico III
|Lucas, Gregory E.
|McFarlane, Adam Beau
|Mooney, Christopher P.
|Moran, Jacqueline M.
|Morgan, Bill W.
|Moss, David Harry
|Muslim, Kristine Ong
|Neuda, M. C.
|Ogurek, Douglas J.
|Perez, Juan M.
|Perez, Robert Aguon
|Powers, M. P.
|Purfield, M. E.
|Quinlan, Joseph R.
|reutter, g emil
|Rhiel, Ann Marie
|Richey, John Lunar
|Robinson, John D.
|Rodgers, K. M.
|Rowland, C. A.
|Sayles, Betty J.
|Schraeder, E. F.
|Seymour, J. E.
|Shaikh, Aftab Yusuf
|Sheagren, Gerald E.
|Shirey, D. L.
|Shore, Donald D.
|Simmler, T. Maxim
|Sinisi, J. J.
|Small, Alan Edward
|Smith, Brian J.
|Smith, Elena E.
|Smith, Ian C.
|Snethen, Daniel G.
|Solender, Michael J.
|Stanton, Henry G.
|Stevens, J. B.
|Stewart, Michael S.
|Stryker, Joseph H.
|Swartz, Justin A.
|Taylor, J. M.
|Thompson, John L.
|Turner, Lamont A.
|Valent, Raymond A.
|Waldman, Dr. Mel
|Weil, Lester L.
|White, Judy Friedman
|Williams, K. A.
|Butler, Simon Hardy
A Scrawny Little Cat
by Gary Clifton
The marked squad took a full ten minutes
to roll up. "Po-leece version of snail mail." Harper rolled cigar stub across his mouth. Even unlit, it stunk like zebra shit.
The officer was young, male, with soft
blue eyes. "Kid," I said, "this dealer is a piss-ass loser who needs killin'. He sees a uniform, he can't cap one of our asses
and say he didn't know we were cops. There's no back door, so when we go in, just stand in the front doorway." The kid nodded.
As we approached the door, the rhythmic
male grunts and corresponding high-pitched shrieks hinted old Johnnie was getting some.
Harper kicked and the whole doorframe went down, crashing behind Johnnie who was anally sodomizing
a little boy bent over a sofa. Harper, always big and tough, backhanded the fat, nasty old man into a corner. A gut-kick and
the fight was settled.
The kid, blond and slight, feces and
blood trailing down his inner thighs, ran screaming into a small kitchen. I followed as the kid clawed at an overhead cabinet.
Surely this little peckerwood wasn't going to shoot me? I edged back and put a hand on the magnum.
pulled out a scrawny little white kitten, clutched it to his chest and in a voice not possible to describe in words, said:
"You motherfuckers shoot grandpa and I won't be able to keep my kitty." The last syllable of kitty trailed off like the scream of a dying pig.
I stepped back into the other room
and Harper kicked the old man again. The young cop vomited in the doorway.
We planted grandpa Johnnie in the Sterrett Center and hauled the kid to Juvenile on Harry Hines. He
sat, holding the cat stoically, face frozen in hate.
I took the damned cat home that night and listened to it yowl in
the garage all night.
Next morning, I went by Juvenile first
off. The kid had gone over the concertina wire during the night and I never saw him again. "He give you that shit about losing
his cat, did he?" The juvenile supervisor smirked. "This ain't that kid's first
parade, McCoy. He's gone over the fence twice before."
That damned little scrawny
cat was my kids' pet for years.
|Art by Steve Cartwright
by Gary Clifton
Willy was in the back, chopping onion,
when the strangers walked in. In shiny pants and tight muscle-shirts, Willy
could tell through the open door they were trouble and not from those parts. "Sandra be right wit' 'chall," Willy called out.
Sandra walked from the minnow-barrel
to the grocery counter. She was plain, going to pudgy, in mid-thirties with the bloom of life skidding prematurely past. "Hep
y'all?" She stood in front of the counter.
"Couple steaks, rare, no onions,"
the bigger one said, eyeing her chest. His hair bleached brilliant yellow, he
looked like a bloated canary. A fanny pack bulged on his right hip.
"We don't got no steaks," she said.
"What kinda joint you got here?" the
other guy said. His hair was permed into a Brillo pad concoction.
"We ain't really a restaurant," Willy
said, stepping from the back. "I can make eggs and bacon . . . or sandwiches."
Willy's was back off Highway 253,
forty miles north of Beaumont, shotgun distance from Louisiana, mostly hidden by piney woods and hills. The Willy's Texaco sign out front promised food, groceries, carry-out beer, fishing supplies, camping
gear, and haircuts.
Canary Head slowly drew an automatic
pistol from his fanny pack, macho style, and ordered Willy to room-center. Brillo pulled a revolver from his boot and waved
it around. His eyes showed stoned, drunk, and crazy.
"Money's in the register there." Willy
wiped his hands on a greasy apron. "Maybe a hundred. Take it and don't break the register or hurt nobody . . . please."
"You plenty scared, dumbass?" Brillo
waved the pistol.
"Yes, sir." Willy was jowly, fifty,
with more tattoos than teeth. "No call to shoot or nothin'."
"This ho' your ol' lady?" Canary gestured
at Sandra, squeezed back against the counter, eyes fixed in terror.
"No, sir, she's no kin. Here two weeks.
She . . . she gots problems. Jes' outta the state nervous hospital up at Terrell.
Please, leave her be."
"Well, Sandra," Canary puffed himself
up. "You're gonna suck my dick. Get over here, bitch."
He waved her across the room with the automatic,
which she followed like she was on a leash. Canary hugged her with his pistol hand, helping himself to a handful of breasts
with the other.
"Mister . . . please." Willy's voice
quivered. Brillo shoved Willy. Bags of chips scattered as he went down.
Sandra, in Canary's grasp, whispered
upward. "God, mister, this makes my pussy wet. Take me out back and you can do whatever you want." Her breath came in short, agitated gasps. She slid a hand across his crotch.
"You ho's all alike." He pushed her
Willy slowly, cautiously, got back
on his feet. "Genius . . ." Canary pointed the automatic. "You know Charlie Joe Beasley?"
"Ain't sure," Willy said carefully.
"He the dude runs the sawmill and lives up in that big house on Lake Sundown?"
"That's him. He come in here ever damn day for coffee and a Baby Ruth around noon," Canary snarled. "We here to kill
his fuckin' ass."
"Whud he do to you?" Sandra asked,
still breathing heavily, eyes animated.
"Mufucker stiffed us on a deal. We
gonna kill him. We know he been comin' in here noon ever day . . . maybe to get some o' you, baby."
"God," Sandra said huskily. "You're
so hot. Gonna kill a dude for no call."
"We got call all right, bitch. He
jes' fucked over the wrong people. You still gonna get some 'a my dick here
in a bit."
"He likely be comin' in here in ten
minutes," Brillo spoke up. The wall clock read 11:50.
Two men in construction garb approached
the door. "Tell 'um the electricity off." Canary raised his automatic.
Willy stopped the men at the door, spoke briefly,
and they walked back to their pickup. A log truck stopped and Willy turned the man away.
They waited until the clock read 12:25.
"I ain't thinkin' he come ever day." Willy slumped on a stool.
"He be here . . . we gonna wait,"
"Sandra, get over here on your knees."
Canary leaned against the counter. "You get seconds, partner," he said, grinning at Brillo. He unzipped his silk pants and
flashed a partial erection.
Sandra moved closer. "Take off them
clothes, you trashy bitch," Brillo directed. "Get nekked."
Breathing again harder, Sandra hiked
up the hem of her print dress. Canary laid the automatic on the counter. "Do
it, baby." He watched in slack-jawed anticipation.
She stepped to mid-room and did a
twirl, then reached under the dress toward her underwear. Canary stepped closer.
Brillo lowered the revolver. "Damn baby, whut was you in the nervous hospital
"Murder." She smiled. From under the
dress, Sandra came out with a snub-nosed .38 and shot Brillo almost squarely between eyes, blowing the back of his head all
over the floor.
Canary grabbed at the automatic, but Sandra’s
movement had drawn him out of reach. She had a second to aim the .38. "You two jackoffs shoulda done a better job of hiding
up there on Saw Mill Road,” she said. “Thought you'd never grow
the balls to make a move."
Canary threw up his hands in surrender.
Sandra's first round blew off his still exposed penis. He went to the floor, thrashing in agony.
Willy fell to his knees, a puddle
of urine forming. "My God, Sandra, don't kill me."
"Kill you?" She reached behind the
counter and grabbed a backpack. "Christ, Willy, sorry about the mess." She held
the .38 at her side and moved toward the doorway, then turned back. "Willy, when the cops get here, I was 19, black hair .
. . skinny, understand?"
"Yes ma'am . . . and your name was
Sally. Please don't shoot me," he repeated, still on his knees.
Sandra glanced at the carnage on the
floor. She stepped over to Canary, writhing on the linoleum in a widening pool of crimson, clutching his crotch. "How's that
pecker doin', mankiller?" She shot Canary between his pleading, ferret eyes. "Charlie Joe Beasley sends his regards, motherfuckers."
She walked out.
A BUTCHER'S DOZEN
By Gary Clifton
Mama was a whore.
It was all her damned fault. She had no idea who Bobby's daddy was; probably didn't know.
She was always shameless about plying her trade with him around. The whole deal, Mama entertaining
a trick with the bedroom door open, never having a damned dime, growing up small and ugly as a busted ass, morphed
Bobby into one screwed-up dude.
Fixation with bizarre sex was the result. Early on it had been animal cruelty
—hanging or burning stray animals, but always with a hard-on. Then came window peeping. He'd gotten busted a couple
times for watching women through a crack, but a kid sneaking a peek slipped through the
strainer. Nobody recognized the twisted freak society was constructing.
He lusted after women despite universal rejection and ridicule. Bobby couldn't
help being fat, and short, with more moles than teeth. It wasn't his fault when he stood
around the bus station and stared at the bitches so long that they called the cops.
Then he found porn. First a "dirty" movie house, then mama came up with a
computer and the stuff was right there for the taking. Finally he connected with women of the
street. With whores, he was the master. Blissful domination was his.
Bobby never worked. Labor was for fools. Mama got food stamps and he could
lift enough store stuff to save his welfare checks for whores. He managed enough for a new
score every month.
He'd pull the pistol—only rubber—but
the dumb clucks wilted like old lettuce. He'd slip on the cuffs and entertain himself as
payback for scorning him—show those uppity chicks who was the real man. Duct taping
those sordid mouths, burning their soiled, naked bodies with cigarettes, making them beg through
the tape for more pain until they fainted. God, the thought flooded him with a rush that nearly caused involuntary
orgasm. But he'd save and savor that for his next conquest. And his welfare check had arrived
Bobby could only sort of read. But he could understand
the gist of the gory headlines in the worn newspaper. "Twelfth Victim Found Bound, Butchered
in Motel Room - Police Stymied. Bobby read and reread the headline. The tension, the
anticipation, was almost unbearable. He had to score this very night. He had to. He'd worked
nearly every neighborhood in the city. Tonight he'd visit low-rent bars on the far south side—rednecks—the
very worst of arrogant female riff-raff.
Tall, long blonde hair, chesty, striking, she sat alone at the bar. Waving his
flash roll, a few twenties rubber-banded around a wad of one-dollar bills, he slid onto the stool next to her. "Buy you
a drink, baby?" He could smell her perfume even in the smoky room. His animal passion sky-rocketed.
Small talk was difficult for Bobbie, but soon he'd find plenty of voice, like before.
"Sure." Her sultry, husky voice resonated in his brain with electric ecstasy.
A whore for sure, she'd soon be his handcuffed prisoner. His pleasure would peak when he
paid her back for the look of disgust she shot him. He wouldn't be so ugly when he started
in with the cigarettes. He'd make this one tell him how handsome he was before he finished.
"How much, baby?"
hundred. Half up front." He'd wipe that leer off her face. He struggled to hide his excitement,
the raw evil. "The motel across the street, baby," she continued. She ran a hand inside his inner
"My blue pickup will be parked in front of the room."
He eased off the stool.
The greasy motel clerk took his hard-earned
cash. Yeah, damn right welfare is hard work, hanging around answering all those stupid,
abusive questions. On the edge of the bed, naked, his breath came in short, excited gasps.
He'd hid the tape, the handcuffs under a pillow. The gun was beneath one of his skinny legs.
She rapped softly, then swayed in. She entered behind the fragrance of sweet
roses, exuding sexuality. "Hey baby," she greeted. With a slinky, sexual grace she approached, tossing her
shoulder bag on the bed. "I'm all yours."
You bet she was. "Strip, bitch," he whipped out the rubber pistol and motioned.
He'd soon have this arrogant wretch begging through her taped mouth. The fantasy of butchered victims, the newspaper headlines,
lit cigarettes on naked flash, enveloped him.
She smiled in the dim light and dropped the silky dress to the floor. Her bright
red leotard barely visible in the dim light as she stepped up to him—a lamb to the slaughter. Her nearness caused
Bobby another blood respiratory burst. He trembled as he showed her the handcuffs. "For you,
bitch," he sneered. Bobby was in command now.
"For me...oh my," she whispered, moving closer
saw the razor that severed his left carotid artery.
motherfucker!" she hissed.
Bobby collapsed backward on the floor.
"My God"' he gurgled his last. "You're the Night Butcher..."
"Yes, baby," she replied in a male, baritone. "And you slimy little pig, my
name is Ralph." Ralph slipped out of the red leotard, the better to avoid bloodstains, his manhood now obvious
between his legs. Effortlessly, he picked up Bobby's small, still twitching body and tossed
it on the bed. He pulled a long knife from the shoulder bag on the bed and bent over the
The homicide detective leaned over the carnage on the bed. "Jesus, partner,"
he said. "It's her again. First kill in this neighborhood. Head posed on a nightstand, genitals
chewed partially off, tongue gone...I guess eaten or kept as a souvenir. This has to be
a damned strong woman. To cut up a body into this many pieces took hours. How many men
has she slaughtered? Twelve?"
"No...uh, thirteen." His partner
flipped open his notebook. Goddam...thirteen. Them Johns never friggin' learn."
|Art by Stephen Cooney © 2014
Love and Kisses
by Gary Clifton
Lieutenant Luther Bledsoe was one mean sonofabitch—quick
to kick somebody's ass—or worse. Chief of Detectives
for the suburban Dallas Hollandia Police Department, he was famous for
spouting little gems like "never killed a sumbitch I didn't have to." Luther had a few enemies. By and large,
however, they kept their asses and comments some distance outta his radar range.
Tell ya' up front, Luther had busted my ass a
couple times early on - whorin' ain't no guaranteed entitlement deal. I'd offered a head
job, money, and what the hell. Luther slapped me on my ass when I offered the sex thing,
narrow-minded bastard. Then, by God, we came to a mutual agreement. Information was the currency of cop-speak. I upped enough loose street
talk to clear a murder and two armed robberies, and me and ol' Luther were good as hitched.
I snitched. He busted asses. Gimme a form of "get outta jail free" pass.
On a sweltering August morning, like a thousand
times before, Luther parked his city-owned car in the lot behind the Hollandia cop-house
and started the fifty feet to the back door. Them so-called experts doubted he heard any
of the four rapid-fire shots from the passenger side of an old clunker thirty feet away.
The first splattered Luther's head like a busted tomato. The three following were also
fatal—all cranked off by somebody handy at killing. Like you gotta figure, Luther
Then came balls to the wall multi-agency
police task force—more goat fuck than organized effort. The list of suspects—thugs just outta the
joint, defense lawyers, jilted broads—stretched 'round the corner. The lead
footed clucks were gonna catch a killer—so they thought.
rounded up all the fuckups in town or anywhere close. By dark that evening I was stuffed
in a holdover with a gaggle of the most God awful stinkin’ bitches you ever smelled.
Two cops yanked me out and sweated me—you know, the usual crap about how I needed
a friend or how they'd help my ass next time I got busted. Claptrap I’d heard
plenty of times before.
I asked the fat one, named Callahan,
if this chickenshit collar was included in the “next time” deal. He slapped
me across the back of the head. I hoped he
busted a finger. Then the skinny one, who name was as Polish as an eye chart,
asked if Luther was gay. I asked him if he was just jealous 'cuz Luther got all
the tail while this dude was married to his jerk off hand. Two more across the
back of my skull.
"Hey, bitch," Callahan finally woke up. "You’re that whore who snitches...or
usta snitch to Bledsoe before he bought it. He hosin' you, too?" The sneer wasn't quite right and I shoulda snapped on it.
"Eat shit and die," I recommended.
Then the skinny Pollack stepped out to piss.
"You got some tits on you, baby," Callahan smirked. "I gotta plan." He slid a cold, slimy hand inside my shirt.
So Callahan cuffed me behind and marched me right out the damned back door and into
the back seat of a beat up old Dodge. We were in the sticks anyway and he didn't have far
to go to pull the junker into some weeds. He climbed into the back seat, un-cuffed me,
stuck a Glock in my face. "Strip bitch," he ordered and what the hell, I
did what I did best— dropped my duds. He laid the pistol on the seat beside
I was straddle him in the back seat, giving him a two hundred buck ride free—sorry
thieving bastard. "Damn, baby, you some kinda good stuff," he panted. "Cain't tell me ol'
Bledsoe wasn't gettin' some o' this."
I hadda contort sideways to reach the .38 in my shoulder bag on the floor, that mope thought
the move was part of the procedure. I held the pistol close and he didn't see it in the
dark. He didn’t hear the hammer click back. Two big mistakes for such a hot shot.
Then in the heat of lust, the asswipe dropped a line he shoulda swallowed. "When
I finish with you, baby, you gonna get the same he got.
One or two in your pretty little head. Man, the rush makes me wanna get my nuts."
"You murdered Luther?" I was sitting in a very precarious situation— literally.
"What the fuck for?"
"Sorry sumbitch stole my
I slowly slid the .38 up. "You talkin' bout that ugly skank works on the lobby desk? The
one Luther called Petunia Pig? He told me you was hosin’ that ragged out bitch. Word
is she gives blowjobs to the winos under the Zangs Bridge three nights a week. Bitch
is lyin’ to you, jackass. Luther wouldn'ta touched her with your dick."
He grasped at my throat. "Gonna enjoy finishing your ass jes' like I did that loser.
An’ I know you was fuckin’ him."
wouldn't gimme any, asswipe." I gasped for breath. “Wasn’t because I didn’t
"Bledsoe skipped free whore pussy...with these tits?” He smirked. “Why?"
"Cuz' mu'fucker...we had a special relationship. Different fathers but the same
mother. Lester Bledsoe was my brother, dipshit."
sure, but I think he gasped at that revelation jes'
as I squeezed off a round up his nose. An' jes' like Luther, I doubt Callahan heard it
I dressed beside the car. Grabbed my shoulder bag and walked
away. Callahan's brains were splattered
against the rear window—couldn't have been many of them. Now they could have a
really big task force.
Gunshot inside a closed car—my
ears squealed for a goddamned month but Callahan was still one dead sumbitch.
LAST DUKE OF WEST ROSA ROSA
“Oh, god, baby, don’t stop. I’m gonna
explode…gonna pump that little mouth fulla more ‘n you can swallow…”
Maggie Mae Mopless, called by other dancers “3M” was giving…or had been
giving Thomas Anthony Izzetti called “Tommy Ice” on the street…a world
class head job in the back seat of his Lexus on the far corner of the parking lot of The
Purple Turtle Topless Club.
didn’t get to explode because at the critical instant, a massive explosion of a
different type blew the Purple Turtle all over the neighborhood, leaving Ice
lucky 3M didn’t perform involuntary pecker amputation.
had drifted down from Cleveland fifteen years earlier, quickly becoming big noise in the
city’s mob world. Owner of The Purple Turtle and a rich man from pimping the toked
out, screwed up fringe of society called strippers, plus selling more dope than a glue
factory, Ice was also one mean son of a bitch.
blow job at 1:34 A.M. in the Lexus was because the A/C inside The Turtle went
deader than good manners an hour before closing time. The only cooled oral sex
seat left was the Lexus and Ice just had to have his knob polished. Aside from Tommy
Ice’s dogrobber/arm breaker, Bruno Milano Rosetti, called “Bruno Breaker”
who was faithfully standing guard, Ice and 3M were alone on the parking lot. That
was good, because they both bailed out of the Lexus and spent enough time running bare
assed naked around the parking lot like chickens in stunned shock, to gather a middle-of-the-night
crowd of dumfounded spectators.
nobody was reported dead, Homicide sent out Red Harper and Davis McCoy, hard-assed
old timers, both acquainted with Ice from a dozen murders either in the club,
or for which Ice was suspected, or from general knowledge that nobody with a
lick of sense would put a bomb in Tommy Ice’s joint.
some mu’fucker is a dead bastard,” Ice said ominously as the two cops joined
the glut of firefighters and uniforms on the lot. “Gonna have the sumbitch’s
nad’s in my pocket and his eyeballs in a whisky glass.”
had found his trousers and no shirt or shoes and 3M was dressed only in his
whity-tighties, her 44D’s open to the hot night air and drawing the attention
of half the cops in town, twenty or so firefighters, and about a hundred
passersby who had heard the blast and gathered to gawk.
you doin’, Ice?” Harper asked kicking his way through debris, “…When the shit
hit the windmill?”
business matters with Ms. Mopless here.”
sex, Harper,” said 3M, whose brain matter had been absorbed for tits. “I was
only giving oral sex and I heard the President, his fuckin’ self, say a simple
blow job ain’t goddamned sex. She’d had a boob job which gave her enough tits
to cause back failure and then had “hot” and “cold” tattooed on each side.
McCoy wondered if she could read well enough to know the difference.
McCoy asked, “Ice, badass like you is supposed
to be too damned mean to get bombed. Any suspects?”
Ol’ 3M here has attracted a goofy mope who struts around telling people he’s
the deposed last goddamned duke of some goddamned place. Whut the name? He turned
Western Rosa Rosa, boss. I think that’s in Africa. Said he was one of them political
referees. I ain’t did shit to egg the dipshit on. He just likes my tits.” She
hefted one with each hand for emphasis.
refugees,” McCoy corrected.
McCoy dug Ice’s shoes out of the back floorboard of the Lexus and pointed him toward
inspecting what was left of The Purple Turtle. They interviewed 3M in the back seat of
a squad car.
“Y’all want I should give ya a quick blow…?
interrupted, “Mon now, kid. You want a shirt or something?”
“Dude, I paid three large for these tits and I
want as many hard dicks lookin’ at ‘um as by-god possible.”
said, “It’s very important you help us find this duke of dipshit guy before
Ice. We’ll just shoot the bastard. Ice catches him, it ain’t gonna be that
easy. He been sleepin’ with you?”
Harper, I give him a little headjob…just that one time. Never any sex.”
four days ago.”
your telephone number?” McCoy asked.
cell. Tol’ him the next time I suck his little dick, it’s gonna cost four
hundred. He ain’t got no four hundred, so he ain’t gonna call. ”
he’d blow up the Turtle?” McCoy ask.
God, I tol’ the little fuck about the four hundred and he went apeshit. He
thinks he owns these babies,” she thrust out her chest again.
“He give Ice and Bruno some shit inside about
midnight a while ago and they tossed his ass out. He said he was gonna get even. Fucker
come back and dropped the A-tomic bomb on us.”
“We figure you took him to your place to service him. He know where you live?”
Didn’t wanta get busted giving a blow job behind the dumpster.”
Harper said, “He’s got your cellular number
and knows where you live. You know damned well he is not some deposed duke. He is one goofy
fuck, and he’s gonna call you either to try to get his pencil dick back in your mouth
or to brag he blew down the Turtle.”
handed her a card. “Call me the second you hear from this mope…and do not call
Ice or Bruno first, understand?”
She strutted across the
parking lot, boobs out, drawing applause from a hundred guys standing around, Harper and
McCoy went home and back to bed.
A.M, McCoy had just dozed when cellular hell dropped in.
it’s 3M,” she whispered.
“No, he’s here in my bed, and like you tol’
me, I ain’t called Ice or Bruno.”
“I told you
“Little dork was
there when I come in a minute ago. He’s deader than shit, dude. Gotta iron pipe up
his ass.” Her voice was barely audible. “And that little pencil dick…I
think is in his mouth.”
McCoy whose give-a shit-factor
was only above ground level because below grade was impossible asked, “If he’s
fucking dead, why are you whispering?”
always taught me to give them dead folks some reverends.”
jotted down her address, called Harper and did his best to repeat the
conversation with 3M. “We did our damnedest to save his useless ass. Hard to outflank
Tommy Ice and company. ”
Harper drawled sleepily. “Stupid fuck shoulda picked somebody else’s joint
to blow up.
“This way saves a lotta time.”
“Christ, McCoy, you suppose when Ice and
Bruno were hammering that pipe up this Duke guy’s ass, he claimed diplomatic immunity?”
|Art by Steve Cartwright © 2016
CLETUS ORLANDO LEBLANC III
“Colbockski, we gotta new agent just outta the academy and
you’re his training officer.” My idiot group supervisor, Numbnuts Ivan,
introduced me to my new idiot partner. Somehow, the sound of Christmas Carols
drifting in from Commerce Street out front, soured several octaves.
A pair of outlaw
biker gangs were smack damned in the middle of WWIII and naturally D.E.A. had a dog in
the hunt. Bikers were murdering each other in lots of five. They’d assigned me to
“monitor” the action, which I took to mean pass out more ammo and help count
The Snakes had shot Dirt Dog, my snitch and a member of the Lizards, 47 times—more
holes than grandma’s pincushion—deader than my sex life.
My third wife, Horrible Hilda, had just left me, my left knee
throbbed night and day from three years trying to play high school football,
I'd been assigned a brand new rookie partner who looked incapable of using toilet paper
and it was three weeks before Christmas, the happiest day of the year – not.
There, in lard ass splendor, stood Cletus Orlando LaBlanc III
waving a law degree from someplace like Mail
Order U. Double holy hell!
Anyone with enough sense to pour piss outta their shoe would
take one look at the guy and say, "If this oily fuckup isn't a vampire undertaker,
he's gotta be a lawyer."
The son of an attorney doing ten to fifteen in Leavenworth for
racketeering…so Cletus said…he was incapable of uttering a sound which wasn't a
whine. Prematurely thinning, wispy, reddish hair was already nine inches above
his eyebrows and amply lawyer-disheveled at the neck.
Cletus’s wide ass wouldn't fit a standard arm-chair. When he
struggled to his feet, his backside, wedged in vacuum-packed mode, lifted the chair
a foot or so before crashing back to the floor. On the third such occasion, the
spinning chair knocked over the office yuletide tree. Jingle Balls smashed into tiny
C.V. Clark, called me.
"Colbockski, you still messin’ with them bikers?”
Biker in here jes' now. Wantin' to trade a machinegun for some
crank. Tol' him I didn't do no dope. He left in a pickup...got the tag number."
I spooned my new liability into an old Dodge and proceeded to
"Good grief," Cletus surveyed the neighborhood. "We're
not really going in one of these awful places?"
"If they rush you in here, Cletus," I John-Wayned. "Just
"Can't...forgot my pistol."
"It's just as well. You'd only have half the weapons of
every dude in this place."
Old C.V. handed over the license number. Didn’t sell dope? C.V.
would have sold his sorry old mother if she wasn’t doing time in the joint for
shooting a pimp she’d tried to rob on Oakland Avenue. C.V. was just banking an
attaboy for next time he got busted.
He’d operated the Diablo Topless Club on Second Avenue for
18 years and had shot and killed nine unruly customers or would-be robbers in the
C.V. gave Cletus an up and down. “New partner, Colbockski?”
“Naw, hell no, he’s my brother-in-law from Fresno.”
Cletus declared, “I hafta urinate”.
C.V. replied, “Commode got shot all to hell last night. Jes’
step out that back door there and piss in the alley.”
Cletus, eyes wide as silver dollars, stepped, like a man mounting
the gallows, out the back door into the dark alley. In thirty seconds he was
back, eyes wide as silver dollars.
“Kobock, when I tried to urinate, a very tall lady in yellow
shorts appeared out of the dark and tried to seize my member.”
“Seize? Member…your Johnson?”
“Yellow shorts? That’s just Henrietta, wantin’ to sell you a
blow job, except she’s a he…name o’ Ralph Rizolli. Lives up on Gaston. He needs
money for Christmas gifts for his four kids.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Just a dude trying’ to make a livin’. Keeps him off welfare.
It’s the American way. He actually touch you?”
“Well, you’ll know in about a week whether it turns into Hong
Kong Dong.” His expression was as if Henrietta had him in a
step-over-his-pecker wrestling death-hold.
From the truck license, I had the driver's ID in minutes via
cellular: Lester Wagers Dwight, called
"Crowbar", member in good standing of the Snakes. I drove to the Snakes’
house on Elam Road.
Guys like Crowbar can smell cops and their
intentions a mile away. He crashed out the front door and ran like Blue Billy Hell. But,
Crowbar wasn’t much good at any form of running, except his mouth. I pulled beside
him and said politely, “Keep going asswipe, and I’m gonna swerve onto that
sidewalk and run your ass over.”
As the report would sort of read, “He did and I did.” The Dodge
bumper tossed Crowbar twenty-two feet.
Knocked goofier than he’d
already been, he gasped the always reliable standard, “Ain’t did shit”, a line
learned early on in fuck-up school.
I parked the right front tire on his foot until he signed a consent
to search his F150. We found two dime bags, an old MI Carbine which had been
altered to fire fully automatic, and 846 stolen Christmas cards. I arrested him and
en route to jail, Crowbar squawked like Captain Ahab’s parrot. Cletus
was oddly mute.
“Police brutality,” Crowbar tried to tell everyone working in
book-in, like anybody gave a damn. “He run over my foot, with a damned old
Dodge,” also failed. We left Crowbar in a cage.
The next morning, while I punched computer keys to report the
Crowbar affair – more or less, Cletus made the century's most colossal
statement of understatement: "Colbockski, I'm not cut out for law enforcement."
The week before Christmas, he found a job with the Dallas Public
On his last day, he'd absent mindedly squeezed his gigantic ass into
an arm chair. As he rose to leave, surprise:
the chair stuck, clattered back to the floor, and Cletus waddled out the
door. Up, up, and away, never to be seen again, I fervently hoped.
"Colbockski, what the hell you laughing at?" supervisor
"Just thinking, boss. Some poor sorry mope down at County,
sittin' in a cell, suddenly figuring out Cletus is the last thing between him and
forty years in the joint. Sorta brings a tear to the old eye, hey?"
From the rear of the
squad room, someone wised assed, "Ho, ho, ho."
|Art by Steve Cartwright © 2017
A STAB IN THE DARK
Fat Freddy, a swindler who operated a
half-assed numbers game on Main, recognizing the battered undercover Cutlass,
waved the two vice cops down. Detectives
Harriet Washington and Sheenika LeBuff stepped out into the humid night air.
Blue out here a bit ago saying he gonna shoot the asses off bof’ of you nex’
time he see y’all.”
Chicago Blue was a pimp who’d never seen
Chicago. The name came from a crooked card game he used to run over on 3rd,
until Ol’ Big Peewee shot off his left nut with a .32 when he caught Blue marking
grown up in a housing project, the daughter of a prostitute. Her hatred of
pimps was intense. A low rent pimp threatening her life was one hell of a
In the cop world, general threats in the blind are as common as free donuts. But a specific threat against a cop by name
is an “oh shit”. Street rules dictated
Washington and LeBuff find Blue and pull off a body part or two.
The sun was a
faded memory to the west, but the hundred plus heat had remained.
LeBuff swung the Cutlass into a defunct service
station, the usual gathering spot for about a dozen ladies of the night. Blue would show
soon enough. Washington sat on the taxi fender, smoking a filter tip through a long cigarette
A pimp called “Trike” whizzed up in a black Lexus. Tall,
with a single gold tooth, he complained, “Godammit. Y’all interfering with
Washington gave him a casual up and down. “Eat shit and die, loser.”
darkness, a hooker called Flower appeared and talked up Trike briefly. Flower was
one of Chicago Blue’s girls. Whoredom had no provision for free agency. Blue
had been the only suspect in the murder of two of his girls in the past years—one
whipped to death with a coat-hanger, the other tied with an electrical cord and
Blue roared up in his light blue Cadillac pimp-mobile. Not having the
good sense to see in the semi-dark ten feet away, the two very same cops he’d threatened
to kill, he lost his shit and slapped Flower across the mouth for talking to Trike. A hit
of coke will give damned fools the courage to do damned foolish things. A
hundred pounds overweight in his purple silk shirt and way past too stupid to
stir coffee, he mumbled something about “cash” he took another swing—only
Flower ducked. Trike retreated to his Lexus and split.
Flower, her skirt so short it needed no hiking
to allow her to run like hell, kicked off her spikes and hooked ‘um. She ducked around
the darkened corner of the old service station, Blue waddling behind her.
In seconds, Blue
stumbled back into view, holding his lower stomach together under the silk,
blood gushing down like a busted water hydrant. She’d stuck him good. He staggered
east on Grand, his eyes silver dollars of wide-eyed terror. Flower, waving a
red-handled switchblade, was a few steps behind, her eyes narrow slits of
deadly determination. They disappeared into the darkness only to reappear beneath the next
streetlight a block down.
LeBuff said, “Harriet, we may not have to kick this
guy’s ass, after all.”
“Think she’ll catch him?” Washington exhaled toxic poison.
kill him, I’m gonna,” LeBuff peered into the darkness.
As Blue led the
chase beneath the next streetlight, Washington remarked, “I believe he’s
Ten minutes passed. Blue reappeared from
the haze, still making running motions, but at a ghostlike walk. The exertion
of running exposed an intestine or two dangling through the purple shirt. Flower,
now forty feet behind, had lost ground, but plunged on with dogged persistence. Blue fumbled
in his pocket, jangled keys, popped the trunk with the remote, jumped in, and pulled the
Flower, eyes glazed in anger and exhaustion, staggered up, bloody knife
in hand and stabbed the Cadillac trunk at least twenty times. She switched to stabbing
tires until all four were flat as modern music, then tossed a brick through the front
windshield. Only then did she notice Washington and LeBuff watching.
knowing both cops very well, said, “Ain’t did shit, Ms. Harriet.” Shoeless
from the chase, she fled into the darkness, knife still in hand without saying another
Washington stared after her. “Hell, Sheenika, we can’t pursue
that suspect. We gotta citizen trapped in a car trunk.”
LeBuff called for backup and responding units
peeled the fat pimp from the Caddie trunk. Brodsky’s report would read: “Unidentified
suspect eluded capture.”
John Henry Davis—that’s what the obituary column called Blue
when he died of gangrene four days later—lay unclaimed in the morgue for three
weeks before he was dumped into a formaldehyde tank in the medical school next
door to be carved up in anatomy class. Blue had finally made an honest
contribution to society. And Sheenika and Harriet had not laid a glove on him.
little bitch,” He spat in a hoarse whisper. “You ‘post to be earnin’ cash,
not runnin’ the fuckin’ dog pound. Mr. Wilson, one of my best customers, is
back in the bedroom waitin’. He’d got his dick in one hand and a hunnert bucks
in the other. And turn off that damned Christmas music.”
turned away as he clicked the radio off, shielding the half-starved, little
black mongrel. “Please don’t hit me again, Buck. He was under the back stoop,
wet and hungry. I’ll just feed him scraps when I fix your supper.”
already drunk and stoned, slurred through his scraggly beard, “Bitch, you ain’t
earned a dime today. Now lose the damned pooch and them clothes and get your
ass back there. Earn me a couple more quarts of tequila at least for Christ’s
“My god, Duke, tomorrow’s
Christmas Eve. Most of them men that come around are home with their families. We ain’t
gonna have many visitors.”
bitch.” Buck stepped partly down the hall and raised his voice.
“Gotta a sweetheart comin’ up Mr. Wilson. She
gives great head.”
please, let me have a condom. Wilson is a smelly old man. I still got them marks on
my back where he whipped me with his belt last time.” Sherry brushed passed him,
nude. He hadn’t seen her hide the dog in the trash accumulated beneath a fold out
dining table in the filthy trailer. She’d tossed her clothes atop him next to the
door. Shivering and grateful for dry warmth, he huddled, nearly invisible.
ass in there, dumbass. Before he changes his mind. And get the hunnert ‘fore he
puts up his hard-on and his cash.” His drunken laugh was like tearing metal.
met Buck on the bus down from Lubbock. Race car driver, he’d said, coming to
Dallas to sign a contract with a major sponsor. The only race he’d had was
running from the cops. He’d moved her into a sleazy trailer court and made her
sell herself to any john who showed up. She’d run away from home in Lubbock.
While her mom worked evenings at the truck stop, her stepdad Wilber, a bigger shit
than Duke, couldn’t keep his hands off her. When he raped her again on her seventeenth
birthday, she’d fled in desperation.
honey-talking on the bus, had seemed to be a new beginning. It was, all right,
except he was a brutal, low-rate pimp. She’d called her mom collect and learned
Wilbur had been shot and killed in a Lubbock barroom brawl. If she could get the
sixty-one-dollar bus fare, she’d run. But she’d tried to run a week earlier
with no money. Duke had caught her at the bus station and beat the shit out of her. Now,
in despair, she endured Ol’ smelly Wilson’s crude sexual abuse, feeling painfully
alone and helpless.
down the hallway tugging at his fly. He handed Duke the hundred dollars. “Fine little
piece of ass, Duke. Nice tits. Loves pain. I got her broke in for whoever’s next.”
As the door slammed behind him, Duke called out, “Sherry, get your ecked ass in
here.” He tossed the five twenty-dollar bills on a coffee table.
from the treatment she’d just received from Wilson, she stumbled down the hall.
“My turn, baby.” Duke threw her to the floor, took a long pull on his tequila
bottle, dropped his greasy jeans, and threw himself on her. The soft growl of
the forlorn little dog went unnoticed.
young officer Jackson said. “You missed that little honey runnin’ round buck
nekked tryin’ to pull on duds and hold her dog at the same time.”
sergeant studied the burned hulk. “Man, that’s a hell of a fire. One of them damned
cheap little trailers get started, they’re a roman candle. Looks like the mope
tried to crawl out the door. He’s mostly burned from the waist down. Whud the
medical examiner say?”
and blood loss. Sherry, the little cutie there says the pimp, Duke what’s his
name was slammin’ tequila and smoking a joint when she dozed on the sofa. Looks
like the dumb bastard passed out and set hisself afire. That tequila ain’t gasoline,
but it will burn. He’s sure as hell no loss.”
burns plus blood loss…?
the dirtbag tried to crawl out the door, see his jeans come partly
off… managed to catch his package on the metal door sill. He
mighta made it…tore his balls clean off, then he couldn’t
get clear. Burned right there in the door.”
his ol’ lady?”
said she was jes’ crashin’ for the night. Lucky ol’ Duke killed his damn fool
self. He’d a turned her out sure as hell if she stayed. She’s only been in
Dallas three weeks. Says she needs to get home to mama in Lubbock. She’s got a
hundred bucks to buy a ticket and a cage for her mutt if I give her a lift to
the bus station. Think that would be okay, sarge?”
don’t get caught havin’ a quickie on the way.”
young officer motioned Sherry over. “I got the okay to take you to the station. We
can stop at the pet shop and get a carrier for your dog. Whut’s the little
runt’s name, honey…and does he bite?” He scratched the little dog’s ears.
“Angel. He’s my Christmas Guardian angel.
And he’d never bite anybody.”
grinned. “He don’t look so ferocious to me. Jackson, get started for the bus
terminal. Sherry can be home for Christmas Eve if you hurry the hell up.” Angel
burrowed his head into Sherry’s hoodie. There was no way the cops could see the
blood on his muzzle.
Christmas, Sherry,” the Sarge called out as they walked away.
THE DECLINE OF THE MIDNIGHT
you shoulda heard the bitch scream and plead and shit.
Man, I got another bitch lined up. Come on along with me tonight and enjoy the fun.”
Pauli’s skinny little body and shoulder length dirty hair gave him the appearance
of a wet rat.
you gotta stop that shit. I saw it on the news a while ago. They’re
callin’ you the “Midnight Sadist”. They claim you already did six. Cops
are gonna be out in force tryin’ to catch your ass.” Wilbur, his shaved head
glistening with nervous sweat, tamped out his joint in a tabletop ashtray.
“You think them dumb cops got enough sense to
bring me down? Bullshit, man.”
“Hey, this bitch I’m
gonna do tonight lives alone, vacant lot behind her house, damned
careless about strutting around inside buck nekked. She wants me to fuck her up, see.”
Wilbur scribbled down the address on a scrap of paper and tossed it on the kitchen counter.
“You get a boner, man, jes’ drop by about midnight.”
had stooped in weeds behind the house for nearly an
hour. The brunette chick had moved about the house, shades up, first in a robe, then nude.
“Look at them tits,” he mumbled to himself. Then he saw her sitting at a kitchen
bar, sipping a drink. She’d put the robe back on, but she was still beautiful.
Wilbur crept to the back door, cautiously
trying the knob. Incredibly, it was unlocked. He stepped quietly into the
kitchen. The victim’s back was toward him.
to meet the Midnight Sadist, bitch,” he said,
trying to growl like the animal he was.
She turned. He was startled
to see she was even more attractive up close. “Well,
hello, baby,” she smiled. “You don’t have to be concerned. I like it
rough. My friends call me outright kinky.” She slid off her stool, allowing the robe
to open brazenly. “Would you like a drink before we have a good time? I think you’re
gonna be able to satisfy me just fine.”
Wilbur stood, mouth agape
as she stepped to the fridge, came away with a bottle of
red wine, and filled a glass on the bar. He reached out and fondled her, then took a bar
seat and drank his wine. He realized he had become very excited. He first felt lightheaded,
then dizzy…very dizzy.
As Wilbur slowly regained his senses, he
realized he was spread-eagled on a metal table, his hands and feet attached
with electrical wire which cut into his flesh.
He was naked, a gag stuffed in his mouth in what appeared to be a basement.
The brunette, now nude, was holding an
extension cord, plugged in overhead. Then he saw the business end was only bare
wires. She touched the wires to his crotch. Beneath the gag, he tried to
“Wakey, wakey, Wilbur,
honey. You need to be wide awake.” She gave him another two seconds
of the wires. “I know your name cuz’ you dumb bastard, you were carrying a
wallet. Bet that’s you mama’s place, just a few blocks away?”
Wilbur shook his head frantically. She touched
the wires to his armpit. “Not nice to lie, you little prick. When I’m done with
you two, I’ll visit mama and give whoever is in her house some of this.” She
dug the electricity into his navel.
twisted in spasms of agony. “My God, had she
Then he heard groans. As
he twisted his head sideways, he gasped in horror. His brother, Pauli, was
spread, feet and hands bound to the corners of a table next to his. She suddenly yanked
the gag from Wilbur’s mouth. “Yes, Wilbur, your loving brother showed up as
I was getting you fixed up on my table. Said he was concerned for you. He should be, Wilbur.
I gave him a little wine, and now he’s all ready for a little fun, too” She
stepped around to the next table and gave Pauli two hits with the bare wires.
Pauli’s muffled scream couldn’t escape his gag.
Wilbur sobbed. “Please, miss, I really ain’t
that midnight sadist guy, honest. I was jes sayin’ that shit. Please, lemme go.” He urinated on the table.
She jabbed him in the crotch with the extension
cord again. “Remember, baby, not nice to lie…or pee on my table.”
He shrieked again, then sobbed, “Oh my god.”
“Wilbur, the young
lady the Midnight Jack Off butchered night before last was my little sister. She must
have suffered. I’m sure you enjoyed the shit outta that. Now it’s time to pay
for your entertainment.”
Wilbur blurted, “Awright, awright, Godammit,
I’m the Midnight Sadist, but I ain’t did that one, honest. Lemme go now dammit!
Please lemme go!”
“Let your ass go,
you little fuck? How ‘bout little brother Pauli here?” She gestured
to the next table.
Pauli. Jes’ let me go. You can fuck him up all
She waved a kitchen knife.
“Shame on you, Wilbur. I told you I like it rough…except that
I’m a pitcher, not a catcher. I originally planned to carve on you two a couple of
hours or so. But I just visited my dentist who said my teeth were very good. I’ll
just use those pearly fuckin’ whites until I lose my taste for the pair of you, if
you follow my drift.”
back to Pauli, leaned down and bit off part of his left
ear. Pauli stained to scream through his gag. She spat the ear in Pauli’s face and
turned back to Wilbur. As she leaned down to his crotch, he screamed in anticipation. “Wilbur,
darling, I’m glad I had this basement soundproofed.” She stuffed the gag back
in his mouth.
Wilbur, I want you to feel the same gratitude as I do
toward the nervous hospital for letting me out early. They were so nice to tell me I was
cured. Guess they fucked up a tiny bit? Stupid
shrink suggested I was some kinda damned vampire. What did he know? I just like my
meat rare. One thing I learned from another inmate was to always do this buck assed nekked.
Keeps your clothes clean.”
close to Wilbur’s crotch, she smiled sideways at his terrified eyes. “Wilbur,
please remind me before I finish here to make sure your little mama back at her
little house is gonna get the same as you.” She bent back down. “Except she has
no little pecker to chew off.” She smiled and showed bared, long white teeth.
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
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.
“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.
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.
rasped into the phone.
I said, like a good murderin’ bitch should.
“You have any trouble with the toad, Mila,”
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.
by Gary Clifton
“Damnation, Thibadoux,” DuPree
growled, as he pounded on the door of Thibadoux’s shanty on the far side of
Mounsone Creek, just South of Jackson’s curve. “It already be past six. Them
frogs got better things to be doin’ than to wait aroun’ for us to be shooting
their little asses. Whatchu been doin’ in there?”
Thibadoux stuck his head out.
“Pourin’ a bunch of them bottles together to make sure we got a full gallon o’
ol’ Rooster Boudreau’s shine to offer us comfort while we be a-harvestin’ them
frogs.” He held up a crockery jug
“She’s damn near full, podner.”
“Thibadoux, that’s gonna go right
nicely. Mah ol’ lady sent along some biscuits. Hopin’ you got your .22 , cuz I
cain’t find mine nowhere in dat damned house. I’m a’ hopin’ Flower Jo ain’t
pawned it down to Slick Willy’s bait shop again.”
Thibadoux waved an old single shot Remington.
“She’s good to go and I got twenty catridges.”
“I found the
bait bucket and the lantern.” Dupree grabbed the jug and took a long pull on the
shine. “Da’um,” he coughed. “Da’um.”
By 2:00 A.M.,
the whiskey was gone, and so were Thibadoux and DuPree. Puttering away in DuPree’s
old Dodge pickup in the pitch black, both were as drunk as old man LeBleu’s mule
when she got into the rotten apples behind the outhouse. They'd cranked off nineteen rounds
and not gotten within a foot on a single frog.
in drunken despair, "DuPree, God loves frogs more n' he do us."
Dupree nodded and
“Hell-far, DuPree, you goin’
twice as fast as hell. Be a lot quicker if you’d slow down and stay on Route 41
over ‘dat bayou bridge.”
“Holy hoot in
hell, man, don’t tell me how to drive mah own damned vehicle.”
Suddenly, the Dodge headlights
Hootertown Courier, June 4th:
Willie Marvin DuPree, Jr., 52,
and Cletus Thibadoux, 40, both of Route 4, Plugtown, were injured early
Saturday morning when DuPree’s 1974 Dodge pickup overturned on the westbound approach
to the Bayou St. Marie bridge on Highway 41.
Chief Deputy Willfred Shuckus
of the Bojamine Parish Sheriff’s Office told the Courier that official
investigation indicated the two men had been frog hunting with a .22 rifle.
While returning home at approximately 2:20 A.M., Dupree’s pickup headlights blew
a fuse. He managed to stay on the road.
no spare fuse and seeing that a .22 cartridge fit exactly
in the fuse slot on the steering column, they replaced the blown fuse with a .22 bullet.
The cartridge restored the headlights, and they continued their trip. Shortly, the bullet
apparently overheated, discharged, and shot DuPree, Jr. in the testicles.
DuPree, Jr. lost control and the truck rolled over, saved from plunging into Bayou
St. Marie by the new bridge railing which was badly damaged.
Thibadoux suffered a broken
left femur, cuts and abrasions, and remains hospitalized at Bojamine Parish
Medical Center. DuPree, Jr., in addition to cuts and abrasions, remains
hospitalized for treatment of the gunshot wound to the sensitive area.
Dr. Pierre Rochambeau of the
Bojamine Parish Medical Center advised the Courier, “I got no way of
knowin’ how well DuPree. Jr.’s testicles functioned before, but they never
gonna ever work so good no more.”
Deputy Shuckus stated, “I been a officer of the law for 26 years, but this is a first.
I cannot imagine how them two got so dumb enough to admit to how this accident happened.”
Willie Marvin DuPree,
Jr.’s wife, Flower Jo DuPree, 15, told the Courier, “Willie Marvin shot
hisself in his whut? Far as I know, he didn’t have none. If he ever did have any,
he never did use ‘um ‘roun’ here. Whut in tarnation would he need spectacles
for no how? He could see jes’ fine. I’d be hopin’ to high h—l,
that truck still runs when they get it up-sided.”
Mrs. DuPree continued. “And,
a’ wishin’ them laws would look in the bait bucket behind the seat and see
if them boys got any frogs.”
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.
In Association with Fossil Publications