Synopsis: The search for love, peace and beauty begins at home.

About the Author: Mark Joseph Kiewlak has been a published author for more than two decades. In recent years his work has appeared regularly in The Bitter Oleander, Bewildering Stories, A Twist of Noir, Wild Violet, and Cezanne’s Carrot. His story, “The Present,” was nominated for the 2010 Spinetingler Award: Best Short Story on the Web. He has also written for DC Comics.

In this delightful fable, we are reminded that global peace is possible.

* * * * * * * * * *

Harmony
by Mark Joseph Kiewlak

Gene had been studying energy patterns all his life. Decades ago humanity had believed that energy and thought and matter were all separate things. Now we knew better. But the unfolding of true understanding had only just begun.

There was a knock at the door and Gene’s son Michael entered. Gene turned away from the computer screen.

“What are you working on, Dad?”

“The Harmony Theory,” Gene replied.

Michael yawned elaborately. “I’m getting ready for Scream Night,” he said.

Gene was still doing calculations in his head and was only half paying attention to his son. Michael was used to this. So used to it that even half of his father’s attention seemed like a blessing.

“Mom said she would come with me. Will you come too?”

“Sure,” Gene said. “Sure I will.”

It was only after Michael had left the room that Gene realized he had agreed to something.

&&&

The Harmony Theory was his life’s work. This was the case with many of the world’s scientists, but unlike so many of his brethren, so much of the world in general, Gene understood the theory. He believed in it, and not just for inspirational purposes. The Harmony Theory would literally save the world. It was, in fact, our lack of understanding that had set us adrift in the first place.

Even decades ago, years after the breakthrough, humanity had still struggled to take responsibility for their own lives. Even after the energy of the universe became a measurable force, mankind did not want to accept their crucial role in its maintenance. Even Gene’s wife Willow had struggled with it on that first night he had tried to explain.

They were in his lab, watching the patterns on a subatomic level, the dance of creation, and Willow, his girlfriend at the time, was wired head to toe with emotion receptors.

“I know they say it’s true,” she said, “and I was taught this even in kindergarten, but how does the energy of my thoughts help to build or destroy the universe?”

“Watch the screen,” Gene said.

Willow complied. On the screen individual energy patterns lapped like waves on an ocean. There was color and beauty and sense to the patterns, but it was nothing she could put into words. It seemed as much art as science.

“What does this have to do with the Harmony Theory?” she had asked.

When there was no immediate reply she turned back around and saw that Gene was on one knee before her. In his palm was an engagement ring.

“You are my life,” he said to her. “Marry me, Willow. And together we’ll change the universe.”

She was in tears and nodding her assent and the moment lasted an eternity. They held each other and cried and it was only after the emotion had been fully spent that Gene gestured again toward the screen and Willow understood. The energy patterns had undergone a visible change. They were softer, yet stronger somehow. The colors were more vibrant, the flow was easier, steadier than before. It was nearly impossible to quantify but undeniably true. Love had changed the world.

&&&

“The Harmony Theory attempts to describe the relationship between what we view as our subjective reality and the ways in which we yield or do not yield to the guiding instincts of our lives. This giving of one’s self over to the fundamental sense of the universe incorporates an individual’s positive energy into the greater whole of creation and strengthens rather than impedes the flow of energy throughout all levels of being.”

Gene had studied these words, and the tens of thousands that followed, like a bible. They were a part of the original theorem written some twenty years ago by pioneer physicist/metaphysician Norris Xavier Freeman. Freeman was the first to discover a practical method for measuring an individual’s energy output as it responded in conjunction with the other forces at play in any given moment of existence. Mankind had already surmised that one’s thoughts affected the outcome of all given events, but it was Freeman who proved it to the world in a way that at least a few could understand and were willing to accept.

Gene admired this man, but he had his own interpretations of Freeman’s work. It had taken five or six generations before the world was even somewhat ready to accept the notion that we had power over all that exists, that we were not helpless and weak in the face of Nature or any other force of the cosmos, that we were, in fact, co-authors of it all, contributing our own consciousness to the greater whole and able to affect change if we so desired.

Gene found it unfathomable that we did so little with this knowledge. Hunger and war and greed had been done away with, but more often than not we still didn’t listen to what the inner voice, the greater flow, was trying to tell us. Each day was a miracle of coincidence waiting for us to notice and abide by its precepts. The messages were not hidden. They were right there in our conscious mind, but we turned always away. We were forever focused on that which we imposed upon ourselves, all that we thought we should do, our seeming obligations and methods to pain. We constantly overlaid a pattern where one already existed.

And each time we did, the world was destroyed just a little more.

&&&

“Dad, are you ready? It’s time to go.”

Gene was immersed as usual in the visual cacophony on the screen before him. At times it was beautiful. Around the holidays it was achingly, transcendently so. But usually it was a mess. And Gene knew that our ocean would never be calm until we learned not merely to row in the same direction, but to stop rowing altogether and let the waves carry us.

Gene’s son Michael appeared in the doorway. “Dad? I’ve called you six times already.”

Gene turned away from the screen. “What is it, Michael?”

“It’s Scream Night. Mom and I are ready to go. You promised to come with us. Remember?”

Gene hesitated just a moment too long before he said, “I do remember.”

Michael turned away and slammed the basement door behind him. His footfalls were heavy on the stairs. Gene felt paralyzed. His head was filled with the need for harmonious thought, but not the thoughts themselves. So-called reality worked like that. By concentrating too hard on a desire we imposed its opposite.

Frustrated, Gene spun around in his chair until he was dizzy and sick to his stomach. He’d forgotten to eat all day. Again.

“What is Scream Night?” he said.

&&&

“Thanks for coming with me, Mom.”

The crowds were beginning to gather, in every neighborhood, all around the world. Candles were held high. Michael stared up at the thirty-foot high video screens that lined the walls of the great dome on every side. There were already thousands of people milling about and more filing in each moment. At least his mother understood. This thing was meant to be a family event.

She held his hand tightly, lest one of them be carried away to the other side of the dome. “I don’t like this,” she said. “It’s hot in here and pretty scary. Can we go out into the street?”

“Sure,” Michael said. He was just glad that one of his parents was with him.

Scream Night was one of those rare events meant to unite the world. In the past, most such events had been brought about as tragedies, when the fear of extinction, the notion that humanity’s path had taken a downward turn, had caused a widespread event to manifest — a war, a plague, a global energy crisis or natural disaster. Scream Night was supposed to be different. An outlet. A time designated to stand among one’s fellow man and shout to the world all our dismay and distrust, all frustrations emptied in a single vocal burst meant to cleanse the emotional palette. Michael thought it was a cool idea, and something he desperately needed. His scream would be directed primarily at his father.

As the night air touched her, Willow smiled at her son. “I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished with your life. The harmony of your soul. You’re a kind person. And you know yourself well.”

Michael had his guard up against such praise. “Most of the time,” he said.

“Your father feels the same way about you. He’s just as proud.”

Maybe this was a bad idea, Michael thought. He didn’t want to be naked in front of everyone. Every human emotion was in play around him. He scanned the faces, the gestures of every passerby. Those open to experience were excited. Others had been dragged here, though of course nothing really occurred against our will. Michael wondered why this barrier existed between his father and himself. The idea of love between them was simply shattering, a vulnerability that neither felt they could tolerate. It robbed too much of their pain. Michael had always concentrated on living the moment itself, while his father concentrated on dissecting it. There seemed no middle ground upon which they could meet.

A momentum was gathering now. Although there was no official hour, no chosen moment designated when the scream would actually occur, it was thought that once enough people had gathered, the energy of the event would take its own course. They would scream when they were ready.

Michael and his mother were strolling along the riverbank. The water was crystalline, aglow with moonlight. The last few decades had returned a purer beauty to us, and it added patience to the soul every time it was observed. Michael felt that he could wait a little longer to scream.

“Would you rather be somewhere else?” Willow said.

His mother was smiling again and she was truly beautiful. An anger flared up, directed at his father. Nothing should ever be wasted, yet every time his father focused away from his family, her beauty went unnoticed. This was as terrible a sin as anyone committed these days, but for Michael this evolution still was not enough. He had to remind himself that harmony wasn’t about a forceful compression of our being into a preconceived paradisiacal shape. It was allowing the shape to take its own form, or no form at all.

“We have to go home,” Michael said. “I have to talk to Dad.”

&&&

Not by chance had Gene stumbled across a broadcast of the worldwide Scream Night festivities. Coverage of the event was on every channel, every wavelength of perception currently employed. Gene felt embarrassment over his ignorance of this event. A caveman would know of it, but he had not. The technology of the present allowed for multiform, multisense inundation. Gene immersed himself in the images, the sights, sounds, and smells. It was worthy of study, but more to the point Gene felt as if by participating in this limited way he was somehow rectifying his earlier behavior toward his son. He wanted so badly to share in Michael’s existence. But he had never found a way in. The boy was so ultra-sensitive, so attuned to beauty and perfection, that Gene felt as if he would always say or do the wrong thing in his son’s presence, and so he had stopped really trying. It was far easier to study the theory than to live it.

Gene began to feel a commotion arising worldwide among the participants of Scream Night. Each individual, in concentrating upon their upcoming catharsis, was contributing a minute portion of their soul’s pain to this greater whole, feeling a union with others, sharing their grief. The event was taking shape in a way no one had anticipated. For the first time in his life Gene felt truly connected to his fellow man. The emotion receptors were registering a buildup to a never-before-achieved pitch. Even those not directly involved were still being fed the thought-energy of the people closest to them, and so became mirrors for a greater universal truth — all humanity in agreement that pain was pain, and that, in order to truly evolve, mankind must learn to embrace the inherent goodness of their essential being, not so that they could win the battle with themselves, but so that they could realize that there was no battle, that nothing could hurt us if we didn’t let it.

And then, all at once, everywhere across the world, everyone began, not to scream, but to cry.

Billions of people willingly shed their anguish, the tears flowing directly from their hearts.

And Gene, as always, went to work immediately, analyzing the data. He was sure that the key to the Harmony Theory was just one intuitive leap away.

He was still wired to the emotion receptors, but the feelings of the world had become mere background noise. An equation was forming in his mind. Something that could bring it all together. He was getting closer, closer. He was almost there.

Gene heard a knock at the door and recognized his son’s voice. “Dad, do you have a minute?”

The shape upon which he was concentrating was elusive, like an image seen among the shifting clouds. If Gene turned away even for an instant he knew it would be lost forever.

“Dad? I know there’s a lot going on in the world right now, but I needed to come home to tell you something. I needed to do it right now, because I might not be able to do it later. I don’t know how long my courage will last.”

Gene could see it beginning to form. He knew that his life’s work was mere seconds from realization. He would unlock the key that would end all suffering and put mankind forever upon the path to total unity and brotherhood. Everlasting peace.

“Dad?”

Gene turned away from the computer screen. It was the easiest decision he had ever made. His son was talking.

“What is it, Michael?”

“I just wanted to say that I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, son.”

And behind Gene’s back, unseen and unrecorded, the harmony readings went off the chart.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Mark Joseph Kiewlak 2012

Image Courtesy: “Pluck the Aura” by Ujjwal Dey

Welcome to Twenty-Twelve! Hope all of you are seated ‘cause we are blasting off this year’s first issue. An awesome collection of fiction that takes you all around the globe and then into outer space too. Many new authors, many new adventures. This year’s first is one issue to reckon with.

We open this edition with an “adults only” story. Why? Because it is easily the best of the lot. An amazing pulp story that will give you the jitters and make you rethink your opinions on relations and friendships. It’s from an amazing new talent – author Nicomedes Austin Suárez. Other true pulp tales in here are from John Medaille, Steve Prusky and Jeff Poole. Real hardcore action and entertainment. Feel the filth of the urbane creep up on you. These new FFJ authors will take you to places that will change your view of the world. Give rise to emotions inside you that will make you shiver at your own mindset.

And that’s just half the “story”. Yeah! Science Fiction! Amazing spectacular adventures. We have a brilliant scifi tale from Anna Sykora. Casey Murphy and T.L. Bodine give us Superhero adventures. If you thought that was it, well it isn’t. Who is Alan Dawson? Yes, the rural Sergeant Bert Dalton author is back with yet another investigation into local extraordinary crime. We even investigate the supernatural and not just through Sergeant Dalton, but also in a horror story by Monika Ragland.

So what are you waiting for, dig in. Be sure to check out our new look website. It has been a big upgrade since the last time you visited the site. We completely rebuilt the website on Feb 2012. There will be some dead links for your old bookmarks but all stories are saved and archived in free downloadable PDF formats at http://freedomfiction.com/twisted-tales/

Pulp To Grind Your Senses !!!

Best Wishes,
Ujjwal Dey
Editor for Issue 12, Vol 04.
Freedom Fiction Journal | http://freedomfiction.com/

* * * * * * * * * *

FREEDOM FICTION JOURNAL
An eclectic mix of all flavours of genre fiction

Journal Issue 12; Volume 04
March 2012

* Editor’s Note
* “Dangerous” by Nicomedes Austin Suárez
“The Flight of the Medusa” by Anna Sykora
* “El Diablo Warhola” by John Medaille
* “A New Start” by Steve Prusky
* “Vindictive” by Jeff Poole
* “Ghost Writing” by Monika Ragland
* “The Warrior” by Casey Murphy
* “The Academy” by T.L. Bodine
* “Sergeant Bert Dalton & the Hag” by Alan Dawson
* Artwork Acknowledgements

Synopsis: All Charlie ever wanted was to be a superhero and join the elite group The F.I.V.E. in fighting crime. When a want ad appears in the paper, he decides to sign up even though he is far from super.

About the Author: Casey Murphy has been writing fiction since the fifth grade. She currently has 7 short stories and 1 creative nonfiction piece published. You can find her at: www.simplydelete.wordpress.com .

In this action packed adventure, superheroes get saved by the power of human determination.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Warrior
by Casey Murphy

Sure enough, it was happening again.

As Charlie crouched in the air vent, his cape had snagged on a screw and was tearing. “Shit!” he muttered as he tugged at the fabric, but instead of setting himself free, he was only creating a bigger hole. Finally, the fabric came loose, leaving behind a small scrap from the edge.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing in the air vent to begin with. He was no superhero. But even as despair clouded over him, he continued moving forward, trying to be as quiet as possible, which was a hard task for a klutz.

Charlie had seen the want ad in The Chronicle close to two months ago, just like everyone else who read the paper.

WANTED:
One superhero with extraordinary superpowers to join The F.I.V.E. (First-class Icons of the uniVerse Ever) in fighting crime. Must be prepared to start immediately. No previous experience required.

Well, Charlie didn’t have any experience because he didn’t have any superpowers. But he had worshipped the F.I.V.E ever since they had saved him from being bullied, and he was determined to show them that he was just as good as they were. Even without superpowers.

The sound of his elbows banging against the bottom of the air vent reminded him of the sound his shoes made as he walked down the linoleum hall heading toward the auditorium where his interview was being held. He remembered how he took a deep breath before pushing open the heavy metal doors.

And there they were. The four of them, waiting for him. Light seemed to shine around them as they looked over at him. Really looking at him.

He ran over to the table where they were sitting, slamming his hands down on the surface to stop himself plowing the table over. “Wowie! It’s really you guys!” he screamed, his excitement getting the better of him.

“Who else would it be?” Lightning Girl asked, sounding slightly annoyed.

Inflated Muscle Man was staring at him real close. “You look familiar. Do we know—“

“It’s me! Charlie Graham.” His smile was growing wider by the minute.

“Wait, aren’t you that kid—“

“Sure am!”

Inflated Muscle Man paused. “Don’t we have a restraining order against you?”

“Not yet.”

“Look, kid, what are ya doin’ here?” Leprechaun Lad asked.  “We’re kind of waitin’ for someone—“

“That’s me.”

The four exchanged skeptical glances. Inflated Muscle Man looked down at the sheet in front of him. “You’re the Warrior?”

Charlie nodded enthusiastically. Lady Illusion laughed. “A warrior of what? Teen angst?”

“What Lady Illusion’s trying to say is, what exactly is your superpower?” Lightning Girl asked.

“My superpower?”

“What can you do?”

Charlie quickly racked his brain. “I can… uh…”

“See, he can’t do nothin’,” Lady Illusion said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “He couldn’t do nothing’ to save his sorry ass back then, and he can’t do nothin’ now.”

“No! I can!” Then it hit him. “I have telekinetic powers!”

“Do ya? Show us.”

The room was so quiet Charlie could hear the crinkle of Inflated Muscle Man’s muscles as he leaned across the table. “You have to give us something, Charlie,” he said, sincerity in his voice.

“He can’t cause he can’t do nothin’,” Lady Illusion insisted.

With the pressure on, sweat began to form at Charlie’s hair line. There was only one way he knew how to respond. “OKAY!” he shouted. “I don’t have telekinetic powers! Or any superpowers!” Lady Illusion let out a quick, harsh laugh. “I just wannna join F.I.V.E. so badly. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“Sorry, but you need to have a superpower to be part of F.I.V.E.—“

“Now wait a minute, Lady Illusion,” Inflated Muscle Man said. “Maybe we should let him join.” The idea of Charlie getting what he wanted for the first time in his life lit up his face.

“But—“ Lady Illusion tried to protest.

“He’s the only one who answered the ad anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean—“

“And it would be kinda nice not worryin’ about being impaled by some newbies uncontrolled power,” Leprechaun Lad said half to himself.

Lady Illusion opened her mouth again, but was cut off by Lightning Girl. “Not to mention we can’t really be F.I.V.E. without… well… five.”

Lady Illusion stared at the other three incredulously. “Fine.  If all y’all wanna hire this… kid, then go right ahead. I’m not stoppin’ ya’ll!” She stood up quickly, almost knocking her chair over as she headed toward the doors. As she passed Charlie, she made sure to bang into him. “Welcome to the team, Warrior.” Flames trailed behind her as she left, her anger showing through her powers.

“Don’t give her any attention,” Lightning Girl advised. “She’ll grow on you.”

Charlie was still waiting for that to happen. He spent the month and a half in headquarters fulfilling the duties of sidekick apprentice, which was mostly cooking, cleaning, and taking out the trash, all things he turned out to be pretty good at. What he really wanted to do, though, was fight crime, but every time the call came in he was told to stay behind. Until today.

Charlie stopped moving and tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead, but it was hard to do in the cramped space. He could hear voices up ahead.

“Just a little further,” he whispered.

Reaching the end of the vent, he stared down into the room from behind the metal grate. Everything was dark except for the center of the room where a giant hole in the floor revealed a bright, bubbling purple mixture. Leprechaun Lad was suspended in mid air above it, his tiny body rotating in different directions. The other three were standing nearby, watching.

“This is pathetic,” a woman standing off to the side said with a laugh. “Fight back!”

“I can’t with ya tossin’ me ‘round like that!”

“No, you just can’t.”

With a small flick of her fingers, Leprechaun Lad went flying, creating a leprechaun sized hole in the far wall. At the impact of his body, a spider the size of a baseball fell from the roof of the air vent onto Charlie’s head, and crawled onto his face.

With a yelp of surprise, Charlie somehow managed to break the covering of the air vent off and tumble onto the floor of the room without breaking his neck. As if a sensor detected his movements, overhead lights came flickering on. Slowly, Charlie sat up rubbing his head. For a second the room swam around him before coming into focus and he saw they were in some kind a warehouse, with large wooden crates surrounding them.

“Charlie?”

At the sound of Inflated Muscle Man’s voice, Charlie was up, rushing toward them. “I came as fast as I could!” he said, his breath coming out in big gasps.

“And who is this?” the woman asked, playful curiosity in her tone. “Your rescue squad?”

Charlie puffed out his chest and pointed his thumbs at himself, like he had seen so many people do on TV. “I’m the Warrior,” he said. “And I’m here to destroy you.”

Silence filled the room for a split second before the woman threw her head back in laughter. “Warrior, eh?  You don’t look like much of a warrior to me.”

“Don’t be deceived.”

“Well then, Warrior, welcome to Ossicles’s lair. I hope you prove to be a better fighter then your… ah… friends.”

“He’s not my friend,” Charlie heard Lady Illusion mutter under her breath.

“Now,” Ossicles continued, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

Without further warning, two of the smaller crates came flying in his direction. It was one of those times where Charlie was thankful he was actually good at dodge ball. Unfortunately, the third crate thrown his way was bigger and it bowled him over.

“Too easy!” the woman laughed.

“You can do it, Charlie.” From the ground, Charlie looked up at Lightning Girl, who was smiling warmly at him. “I believe in you.”

“Can’t you help me?”

She shook her head, a small frown on her face. “She’s got our powers under lock down.” Leaning her head back slightly, it was the first time Charlie noticed the silver collar that clasped her neck. Lady Illusion had one that looked similar, but Inflated Muscle Man didn’t. Charlie did notice that his inflated muscles had two gashes in them, and they were slowly deflating. “It’s up to you.”

“But I’m not a superhero!”

“That’s odd. I didn’t know the F.I.V.E. took on people without powers.”

He couldn’t help but stare at her, confused.

“Are you done already?” Ossicles said. “That was too quick. I didn’t know warriors gave up that easily.”

Charlie stood. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by another flying crate. He quickly scrambled out of the way, and it fell into a tower of crates behind him, making them rock dangerously back and forth. Ossicles was smiling. “Oh, we’re playing a game now? Alright.” And two more crates came his way.

Charlie kept his ears and eyes open for the sound or sight of flying crates. He ran around in circles, weaving in and out of crate towers, not exactly sure what he was doing, but knowing it was better than standing still. Finally, Ossicles made her mistake. As Charlie rounded a corner close to her, she hurled a crate toward him. Again he skillfully dodged it, and it knocked down a tower of crates right into another tower, creating a domino effect. It was then that Ossicles realized what she had done. She screamed as the crates crashed down around her, until she was no longer in sight.

As the dust and dirt settled, Charlie was glad to see the other four unharmed. With Ossicles’s fall, the silver collar’s around Lightning Girl and Lady Illusion’s throats had come undone. From across the room they could hear Leprechaun Lad stirring.

He groaned. “What happened?”

“We were saved,” Lightning Girl said with a smile.

“By this punk?” Leprechaun Lad asked in shock as he pointed to Charlie, who was sweating.

“Somehow,” Lady Illusion muttered, not sounding too happy about it.

“I don’t believe it,” Leprechaun Lad said.

“It was one of those you-had-to-be-there moments,” Inflated Muscle Man agreed.

As they all left the warehouse, Charlie helping Leprechaun Lad who had a terrible limp, Lady Illusion announced, “Don’t think that one victory means you’ll be joining us in fighting crime. You’re still only our apprentice.”

“Of course,” Charlie said, nodding his head. “If I come along you won’t have anyone left to save your asses.”

As flames radiated off Lady Illusion, the other three laughed at Charlie’s response. Secretly, though, he was thankful he would still get left behind. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a superhero after all.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Casey Murphy 2012

Image Courtesy: Ebenezer

Synopsis: Are you fed up of your dreary existence? Welcome yourself to an alternate lifestyle. Let’s see where it goes. Enjoy the ride.

About the Author: Steve is a native of Detroit.  He has spent the last twenty-five years writing, living and working in Las Vegas.  His prose and poetry have appeared in various publications including Apocrypha and Abstractions, Foundling Review, Flash Fiction Offensive, Orion headless and The Legendary.  He posts all of his previously published work on http://sprusky.blog.com/ .

In this dark episode of gloom, a man takes a chance and lives to tell the tale. Kiss your past goodbye.

Special Guest Artist, Fabio Sassi, a new generation of Beatnik Artwork.

* * * * * * * * * *
A New Start
by Steve Prusky

Suburban life sucked Sam emotionally dry, taunted him sleepless, over-anxious, irrational. For ten years, Sam had been self-employed ten hours a day, six days a week in an effort to save his failing business. He struggled to pay an overwhelming balloon mortgage on a home that had dropped to half its original value after he bought it. A distressing family life haunted him; the too dramatic, trendy, spendy wife, three daughters, one just past the hormonal terror and confusion of puberty, two more about to dive head first into it; the banal suburban backwash of Plasma TV’s, X-Box mania, cybercafés, five dollar lattes, the crushing loan against the Cadillac Biarritz… . Sam was no longer living ’The Dream.’ He ran at dawn–no note, no divorce, no goodbyes. By sunset, he was two states west of Detroit. He woke up two-thousand miles later in Vegas mid-May his third morning free.

The transient nature of Vegas suited him as the likeliest atmosphere to hide in, meld with, become someone else in. Beyond that, he had no immediate plan. Sam was a naïve suburbanite, an urban bumpkin self-deceived Vegas floated ankle deep in twenty-dollar bills begging to be scooped up. He rented a pay by the week room in one of a cluster of decrepit motels on Fremont and Eastern, the premier skid row of skid rows failure in Vegas spawns. The nucleus of this crossroad was the Vegas Lounge; a black hole for the lost, the precipice of darkness Sam was about to unknowingly lend his soul to. The ‘Lounge’ strategically stood on the south-west corner of this junction like a cockeyed dry-rotted wood marker in a ghost town graveyard.

When Sam arrived, the blossoms of this urban landscape had long ago wilted dead as week old cut flowers. The forest of worn tattered 1950’s motels, Christmassy neon lit smut stores, a narrow street nicknamed ‘Crack Alley,’ lingered stunted, dormant, neglected, abandoned to the criminal demography headquartered out of the Vegas Lounge. This crossroad was the pedigree of despair; a malignant black spot of melanoma on a brightly lit desert city’s sun baked skin with the ‘Lounge’ as its cancerous host. Sam, innocent, gullible, foolish Sam, freely enlisted in this illicit, well-stocked drug store of stepped on rock cocaine, tar heroin, degraded meth, murderers, smack-back addicts, thieves, felons, soulless crack whores. The ‘Lounge’ wasn’t the glitzy adult amusement park Strip tourists see. It was Sam’s ‘fix’. It was all the Vegas he’d need.

Sam took the graveyard shift at the Vegas Lounge. The absentee owner paid him forty dollars a night plus tips, made him bar manager for an extra fifty dollars a week cash, no questions asked. Sam used a fictitious Social Security number to get the job, was issued the required state gaming card by mistake from an overworked Gaming Commission clerk down town with no time to trace Sam‘s past. His out-of-state driver license expired. The bank caught up with the Biarritz. All traces leading to his previous life disappeared inside two months. The illusion of a new life for Sam was about to begin. He was a freshman initiate to the dregs of Las Vegas life.

Few bartenders at the Vegas Lounge survived long on the graveyard shift. Sam fed drinks to criminals, on the take cops, whores, drug fiends and the living dead from midnight until dawn. No upstanding, decent bartenders last long with this crowd. At first, Sam enforced the peace from his side of the bar with 911 calls each night the predictable brawl occurred. He kept a baseball bat near for the drug-crazed miscreant courageous enough to hop over the bar. His over bearing size and quick temper kept him out of a fight–mostly. When a situation occurred where he couldn’t back down, he’d raise his voice the ear piercing depth of a sonic boom, intimidating those less certain of their bravado. That routine usually browbeat the majority of his antagonists to back down. Sam hovered taller than most; he was a mammoth six foot four intimidating bulldozer of a man. When he scowled in anger his cherubic face glowed red, his two-hundred thirty pound frame puffed up when he had no choice but to square off with a drunkenly brave patron, a crazed addict, a brooding biker in a bad mood. That routine normally settled the less valiant ones down. Sam fought when he had to. When he did, he usually grabbed something to tip the odds in his favor. He was mostly just tough talk though–the right talk apparently. He kept to his side of the bar almost always. He acted fearless at all times. At the Vegas Lounge, how you acted was how you were judged. Tough, quiet, submissive, wise, street smart, violent; each behavioral pattern rated where you stood in the social order of the Vegas Lounge. Sam was near the top. Deep inside though, Sam’s stomach churned life sucking evil lightning bolts stabbing him with fear each graveyard shift at the potentially violent atmosphere on the other side of the bar. When Chauncey showed up, Sam was to set the record for longevity as a graveyard bartender in the ‘Lounge.’

Chauncey, a rock dealer, thug, thief, whoremonger, began patronizing the Vegas Lounge on Sam’s shift. At first, Chauncey sat at the bar most nights, played the video slots, drank Tangueray and tonic in a tall glass with a twist of lime. He appeared to Sam, at first sight, as another lost soul with a pocket full of money and nothing else to do but gamble. Chauncey was big, not as tall as Sam, but stockier, barrel-chested, arms muscular and thick as Sam’s legs. His face was a permanently molded mug of constant hatred, anger, meanness. Chauncey’s mere presence radiated swift violence. Sam chanced to cultivate Chauncey as a friend, an ally, someone he’d want on his side in a fight.

“I’m Sam,” he extended his hand. Chauncey looked up from his bar top video machine as if Sam was a rude intrusion. He lightly clasped Sam‘s hand like a limp noodle, brusquely growled, “Chauncey,” after he fell a card short of a full house. “Get me another Tangueray and tonic,” he gruffly demanded. Sam comped this drink. In Vegas gamblers drink free.

“I’m from Detroit,” Sam continued.

“Milwaukee,” Chauncey replied.

“How long’ve you lived here?”

“Ten years,” Chauncey contained his irritation, “How ‘bout you?”

“Three months,” Sam didn’t yet know how to cloak his over-eager bright-eyed naïveté.

“Oh yah! What do you think of this town so far?”

“Jury’s still out. This town sure is different. Seems like everything normal here would be considered abnormal every place else in this world, and vis-à-vis.”

“What the fuck does vis-à-vis mean?” Chauncey’s vocabulary was limited to street jargon.

Almost embarrassed by Chauncey’s gruff indifference, Sam replied, “Vegas is like no other place in the world.”

“Welcome to Vegas,” Chauncey laughed. Sam feared him. Chauncey was perceptive; he knew right off he could manipulate Sam’s fear to his advantage.

After a few weeks Chauncey began discreetly dealing rocks on Sam‘s shift.

“I know what you’re doing Chauncey,” Sam complained. “You’ll bring Metro down on this place like angry hornets.”

“Just look the other way,” Chauncey advised in a threatening tone. “I’m taking all the chances here. You’re immune.”

Sam silently blessed Chauncey’s activities. Sam acted nerveless, brave, distant, as if he were privy to a monumental secret others only hoped to know. “There’ll be no need for 911 calls any more. I’ll keep security here an in house affair.” Chauncey survived twenty years in Waupun State Prison (a ‘silent’ prison; inmates weren’t allowed to talk), for Murder 2, kept a slim handled snub nose 38 in his hip pocket. He wasn’t averse to grabbing a pool stick to crack a skull, wrapping his fist around a cue ball to crush a cheekbone, busting a long neck Bud bottle jagged to slash a chest open from shoulder to shoulder. To Chauncey the only fair fight was the fight he won. Word hit the corner of Fremont and Eastern, Chauncey enforced the peace at the ‘Lounge’ with ruthless brutality. From then on no more fights, no more cops. Chauncey securely promoted his trade, although he always remained alert, suspicious, untrusting. Sam fed Chauncey drinks free whether he gambled or not. Sam ran the bar–Chauncey ran the floor. The Vegas Lounge was their malevolent empire.

Sam knew all the local rock-hoes intimately. He let them ply their trade in the bar when he was on; in return, he had the privilege of fucking any one of them free. Sam set his new female friends up with ‘dates.’ It was a whore that got Sam sprung on rocks his first time. Sam easily fit in as pimp, whoremaster, connect, rock fiend. One foot on the curb, the other in the gutter, Sam had his new life. Chauncey watched Sam’s character deteriorate to the same level as the felonious crowd on the floor. Sam matriculated for his street degree. Chauncey gladly volunteered as his tutor.

Ultimately, Chauncey slyly convinced Sam to keep the bag in the stock room behind the bar with promises Sam would get a cut of the profits and rocks at cost. Only he and Chauncey knew its location amongst the beer and liquor stocked shelves. Sam cautiously doled out the speedy, yellowish chunks to Chauncey when prompted. Chauncey slowly coaxed Sam to serve his customers across the bar when Chauncey discreetly signaled Sam with a twitching hand, a tapping foot, a tweak on his ear. Chauncey stayed almost completely out of the criminal loop. All Chauncey did was collect payment first before he cued Sam to deliver. While Chauncey worked the floor, Sam persuaded non-slot players into drinking doubles. He rang up the price of the cocktails as comps to imaginary bar top video game gamblers, stuffed the money in his pocket to buy rocks at a cut-rate price from Chauncey after work. Chauncey never shared the money he pledged. So, secretly Sam shaved from Chauncey‘s bag whatever he could each night, hit the pipe in the stock room, chancing Chauncey wouldn’t become suspicious he worked the bar sprung all night.

Like any other perishable product picked off the grocery shelf, Sam’s time on this corner had an expiration date.

Sam mingled with the hoes, ran with them on his days off. Chauncey went on hiatus when Sam didn’t work. Sam chased the elusive high of that first hit on two-day runners with his whores as if he were a Jekyll turned fiendishly Hyde. He’d return to work his first shift of the week face drooping past his chin, sleep deprived, crashing hard as a boulder rolled off a hundred foot high cliff, jonesing for the wispy smooth white cloud that passed through the transparent glass pipe.

Sam began hitting the pipe every day. The first half of each shift his craving muscles twitched in withdrawal with each drink he served until Chauncey arrived with the daily bag. Sam automatically begged Chauncey for a rock to get a grip until he made enough tips to pay Chauncey back. Chauncey knowingly obliged.

Sam began hitting off Chauncey’s rocks in the back room of the bar. Chauncey knew Sam was shaving, he let it go in trade; ultimately, Chauncey had Sam do all the hands on work across the bar and pass the cash from each transaction unobtrusively to him. Sam began keeping a five shot 25 automatic in his front pocket. He wasn’t sure he could ever use it. It seemed an appropriate tool for his new avocation.

Often, fake bearded undercover cops swarmed the lounge draped in phony, easy to spot longhaired wigs, tattered, soiled tee shirts and jeans. They’d watch the action behind them in the mirrored bar back wall. Sam and Chauncey spotted them… mostly. They’d lay off dealing a while. Sam warned the whores to beware. They’d do their business in one of a number of less active skid rows doting Vegas like rampant spreading acne until Chauncey was certain Metro lost interest and left for the action further west up Fremont Street. When Chauncey was convinced it was safe, the routine crept back to normal until the next potential sting.

By late autumn, it ultimately happened….it was bound to. Sam grew sloppy, too obvious, overconfident. Chauncey spotted it, so did Metro. Chauncey gave Sam the nightly bag as quick as he could, never carried, made the deal, signaled to Sam how many rocks should be passed over the bar and to whom. Sam held the money until end of shift. Chauncey kept count of the money in his head. Chauncey stayed clean at Sam‘s too trusting expense.

Often Metro waltzed in, took Chauncey outside, jacked him up and searched him with no results.

The validity of Sam’s illegitimate front crumbled when Chauncey told Sam not to serve a hoe on credit Sam often fucked free. As revenge, she snitched on Sam to trim her charges down on a pending case. The arrest hit like a meteor strike. Cops dressed like armored robots bashed in the door of his hotel room without warning, guns drawn, screaming intimidating threats, cuffed him and the hoe he slept with. Before they finished reading him his Miranda and the writ, his legs began cramping, twisting, gnarling in withdrawal. His body wept for that hypnotic stream of white mist he sucked into his lungs. Buckled down snug in the back seat of the black and white, hands tightly cuffed behind his back, craving welled up in his gut. Where was Chauncey with that first rock of the day now? He needed just one more hit to take the edge off. The symptoms of his addiction were too strong. It was a long ride to processing and the holding tank. Chauncey heard about the bust and slithered off to cultivate another new bartender further up Boulder Highway in Pittman, just outside of downtown.

“Where’d you get the rocks from?” a plain-clothes detective asked.

“Fuck you! D Street and Lake Mead, how‘s that?” Sam wailed. He was more afraid of Chauncey’s wrath than he was of the belligerent detective. The cop grabbed Sam’s balls and squeezed, “Don’t bullshit me, that’s darkest Africa, those savages down there’ll kill a fucking stupid white boy like you for a double up.”

“Kiss my ass,” Sam howled.

“That’s it fool, don’t snitch on Chauncey. Be loyal asshole. I don’t see him here bailing you out. He’s not your friend. Give him up. We’ll forget about this and let you go. We know this bag in my hand is his rocks; there’ll be no deals with you if you don’t snitch.” Sam stayed silent. “That’s okay,” the cop calmly said, “you’re ours now. He’s ours too, just a matter of time.”

Pandering, possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell; drug trafficking, possession of an illegal firearm. At arraignment, Sam’s first winter in Vegas, the public defender recommended he plea out; take the Big Bitch; the Habitual Criminal, twenty years–fifteen minimum–as opposed to the life sentence the DA wanted. Sam took the deal. He never saw Chauncey again.

Prison! Lock down alone twenty-three hours a day. The narrow wire reinforced glass slit in his cell wall faced east. He often peered past it toward the suburban world he knew before Vegas. The thick glass magnified the sane life he left behind for Vegas as if it were a telephoto lens repeating vivid, non-stop streams of his past. Memories of his former life compounded the new Vegas demons that tagged his soul black.

He’d do three nickels in Carson City. Upon release, Sam left without shaving his head bald, gangbanging up, pumping weights, marring his skin with a white supremacist thunderbolt tat under his arm. Sam found his way back to Vegas.

Years later Sam heard Chauncey got shot and could occasionally be seen navigating Vegas in a wheel chair panhandling at the corners of Charleston and Nellis, Main Street and Gasse, Sahara and Las Vegas Boulevard.

Sam worked menial construction jobs in Vegas for twenty-five years after he got out, stayed straight, behaved, read books, died. It was almost as if he could have stayed put at the Detroit suburbs and lived the same drone existence.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Steve Prusky 2012

Image Courtesy: www.coroflot.com/fabiosassi © Fabio Sassi

Synopsis: A professional writer has a secret that allows him to tell the most interesting, detailed stories. As with many secrets, they can twist and turn, becoming difficult and deadly. Beware of what you write, it may kill you.

About the Author: Monika Ragland is a retired educator who has had poetry published in a number of journals. Her short fiction has appeared in Voice and Creosote, Arizona publications. She lives in Safford, Arizona, a small town in southeast Arizona. She spends her time writing, reading, and hiking on nearby Mt. Graham.

In this spellbinding horror, writing makes the pen a deadly tool.

* * * * * * * * * *

Ghost Writing
by Monika Ragland

It wasn’t Barnes & Noble, but it was paying the bills. My star was rising. I met with an increasing fan base at the smaller specialty bookstores that still clung like lichen to the world of publishing. Overstuffed chairs sat in semi-circles around podiums crowded by oak bookcases. Fans relished feeling intimate and close and I liked that I didn’t need a mike to read a chapter from my latest murder mystery. It was great—until he killed me.

Not that he was personally involved, but he did it just the same. I was reading out of Falling Leaves & Shattered Seasons, my third Jackson Towers novel. Over the top of the book, I noticed two cops coming in. Thought they were fans. Stupid me.

“Jake Stower, you’re under arrest for the murders of Kathleen Bailey, Jessica Andrews, and Sandra Hewitt…” It all went to, “Blah, blah blah…” after the word murder. Yeah, they dragged me out in cuffs, and shoved me into the backseat of a squad car. All I could think was I hope this ups the book sales.

Hollywood gives police interviews a dramatic grittiness. There’s shouting and shoving. Steely glares and fists pounding on furniture lead to the final pathetic confession. In reality, they make it uncomfortable, but it’s pretty straightforward. Not too much high tech or psychiatrists watching from the other side of the mirror in Smalltown, USA.

“We know you killed them. We just want to know why.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” I put my best innocent emphasis on the words, but wasn’t really worried too much. After all, I hadn’t killed anyone. I recited that mantra for the first few weeks—with the police, the arraignment judge, and the public defender. No one listened. They were all convinced that I had killed three women. I started to worry.

You know you’re in trouble when you start selling everything you own, emptying your bank accounts, and borrowing from anyone you’d ever counted as a friend just to get a good lawyer. John W. Pierce was supposed to be good. By then I certainly hoped so. I was tired of Mayberry’s jail and wanted bail, a decent meal, and a shower without company—in that order.

“Mr. Stower, now that we have you out of jail, shall we proceed to the gist of the matter? Did you do it?” A pinstriped suit, manicure, and framed vellum diplomas lent an air of sophistication to Pierce’s questioning. On my side of the polished desk I started to feel a bit of relief. It was obvious that he was successful. I needed successful.

“Nope. I don’t even know how the police connected me to this or why they seem so positive that I’m guilty. I’m a writer. I can’t remember having been to the cities where these murders supposedly happened!” At this point of the game, I was having real trouble maintaining a calm certainty in the infallibility of the Justice System. My calm was definitely being damaged. And this was all before disclosure.

The interview after disclosure was a bit different.

“Mr. Stower, I don’t like clients who lie to me. I don’t really care if you are innocent or guilty. I care about doing the best job I can for you. I can’t do that if you lie to me. “Shall we try again? Did you do it?”

“I don’t know what you think you know, but I DID NOT KILL ANYONE!” Shouting at your lawyer is never a good idea, but frustration leads to bad judgment.

We spent the next five hours (at $500 an hour!) going over the case against me. That’s when it became clear to me how he’d killed me.

It doesn’t matter how many “Ghost Hunters International” programs they air on SciFy or Discovery Channel; the average person still doesn’t believe in ghosts. It’s all lights and mirrors and spooky entertainment. Unfortunately for me, I knew they were real. I spoke to them.

It started when I was young and dumb. I’d gone out with the rest of the macho men at Creston High to tip over headstones at the local cemetery. It was the cool thing to do after midnight on a Saturday night. One time I was the last to leave (the other guys weren’t interested in watching me puke my drunken guts out) and heard someone crying. A plaintive sobbing hiccupped through the night. The heartbreaking sound had me wandering among the graves lit by solar path lights.

“Who’s there? Are you Okay?” I never saw anyone, but I did start a conversation I would never forget. I could hear her talking. It was like she just made the words appear in my brain. I’m sure from the outside it looked pretty weird—me sitting on an overturned grave marker talking to myself in the middle of the night.

Her name was Anna Lynne Martin. Yeah, we’d turned over her headstone. It was dawn before I left, knowing everything there was to know about Anna. I could picture the house she’d grown up in, the pets she’d had, and the strapless, silver, satin gown she’d worn to the prom. I even knew how and why she’d killed herself.

I didn’t think much about it for a while. Then Ms. Howard assigned a short story. Until that moment, I had never even thought about writing. I didn’t have to work on a story because I had a story to tell—Anna’s. Her sorrowful life made a great story. Ms. Howard even complimented me for doing such great research on one of our town’s historic tragedies.

After that, I was a natural writer. In college I published a few stories in some minor magazines and journals. Material was easy to find. I’d just hang out at a cemetery on moonless nights talking to no one. My developing, offbeat reputation didn’t bother me. The effort was paying off.

When I moved from Arizona, I found bigger, older cemeteries that had even more stories to tell. For the next decade I lived life, bummed around the country, trolled cemeteries, and sold dead people’s stories.

Then one night I started my conversation with Jacob Haney.

I’d been strolling around Paxtonville Cemetery in up-state New York at dusk. You know the kind…lined with oaks and maples that had seen the Revolution, manicured lawns dotted with hand-carved angels on pedestals and obelisks that mirrored Cleopatra’s Needle. I’d had enough short stories published that my ego yelled that it was time to move on to writing a book.

Usually, I trolled headstones looking for someone who’d died young. Short lives—short stories. But I wanted a book this time so I expanded the age range to find a full life experience. Books were character driven. The rich complexity needed was developed over time. It was made up of dreams and disappointments, naiveté and cynicism, tears and laughter—all in equal or not so equal parts. Of course the best characters had flaws that motivated them, hindered them, made them likable or hateable but left them unforgettable.

As the sun dropped leaving the sky shades of mauve and purple, I tripped over a nondescript marker raised barely above ground level. Jacob Haney was sandblasted into its face. He’d died at 52. As I thought about his age, I realized he’d lived through some pretty interesting history—the Viet Nam war, the Civil Rights Movement, the Space program, the Iran-Contra Affair and Star Wars—both the Lucas and the Reagan versions. So I waited for Jacob. Planting myself on their headstones usually brought some kind of response from the resident ghost.

Jacob was an angry man. It took me a few nights just to get him to listen to me. We finally came to an understanding and he agreed to tell me things. Some nights he’d ramble on about inconsequential crap and disappear in a huff when I pushed for something better. Other times he’d come in furious and fast—it was all I could do to take notes and keep up. His mercurial moods kept me coming back. Besides, as a newspaper reporter, Jacob had more stories and details than an average life could have offered up.

During the months I sat there talking to Jacob, you’d have thought that I’d get in trouble with someone. A couple times I had to dodge some late-night kids, but, for the most part, cemeteries are pretty empty after midnight. I actually rented a dump in town and settled in to write. Everyone thought I had a night job because of my schedule. I’d meet with Jacob, scribbling notes furiously, and then go home and type until I had to sleep. When I woke up it started all over again.

Needless to say, Jacob had great stories that made pretty good books. It was working for me—until the trial.

Did you know that circumstance can build a pretty strong bridge to guilty? The prosecution didn’t even have to work all that hard. You see, it seems I did have cops who were fans. All the evidence they needed was right there in black and white. Three murders—three books. Every little detail—when, where, how, with what—it was all spelled out. Some details had never been released by the police. Kathleen had been killed by a knife found buried under an oak in a cemetery. A scene I had written in detail in book one. The gun that killed Jessica was found on the pages of book two. Book three vividly described the cottage on Gun Lake where Sandra died, and exactly what was used to weigh down her body in its dark waters. Only the actual killer would have known these things. And I thought Jacob was just a great reporter.

As a loner who’d spent his time in cemeteries at night, I couldn’t offer up a reliable alibi for anything. I suppose I could have gone for the insanity plea by testifying that I got it from a ghost. But really, would that have cleared me? No!.

My last thought as the needle went into my arm was, “Who’s gonna tell my story?”

**** THE END ****

Copyright Monika Ragland 2012

Image Courtesy: Bergen County Historic Sites

Synopsis: Another tale about art and artistry? You won’t get enough of it yet!

About the Author: John Medaille has been published on Pseudopod, Escape Pod, Dunesteef and Lacuna Magazine and is working on a short story collection called: Hideous Tales of Doomed Spacemen, Demonic Cameras, Protoplasmic Flesh-Eaters, The Supernatural, U.F.O.’s, Interdimensional Beasts, Evil Children, Misunderstood Robots, Telephone Calls from Beyond the Grave, Mayhem, Murder AND THE MACABRE!

In this bizarre tale, a new cult rises among the decadents.

* * * * * * * * * *
El Diablo Warhola
by John Medaille

Ciudad Juarez, Mexico – The evening is hellishly hot and the light is tinged an antic orange with the dust that hangs over the city, as my guide, let’s call him Eludio, leads me into the mercado. We pass stalls selling tamales, wafts of hot grease and garlands of dry, fingerlike chilies. Further on there were plywood botanicos framed in Christmas lights, at which merchants hawk enchanted soaps and candles, guaranteed to bring luck in the lottery or ensure the fidelity of a lover or inflict inscrutable stomach pains on an enemy. Under a broken, strobing streetlight, a guitarist tries to sing an old love ballad, something about amantes and corazons, but it is drowned out by the thumping rumbas of electronica that blares from the boomboxes at every shop and pushcart and he soon gives up, packs his instrument in its case and wanders off into the night. Far away in the depths of the city I hear the perforating punctuations of ‘goat horns,’ as AK-47′s are called here, rattling away.

Eludio takes me to the outskirts of the market where we come across the elaborate, crude and lovingly-built shrines of the Narco Saints. These are what we came to see. They are the patron saints of the drug world, the criminal gods and goddesses who are worshipped and honored and sacrificed to by everyone from the foot soldiers of the drug wars to the cocaine barons. Here is the icon of the ever popular Saint Jude, he of the lost causes, encased in a plexiglass box and surrounded by a fiery moat of votive candles. Beyond him is the mustachioed Jesus Malverde, the bandit hero and folk saint of the Sinoloan cartels, unrecognized by the Catholic church, whose plaster bust beams like a movie star from its pedestal, a silver screen swashbuckler. Highest and most feared in the menagerie of the Narco Saints is La Santa Muerte, Holy Death, also known as La Santisima and the Little Skinny One. She is fashioned from a full size human skeleton, real or artificial I can’t tell. Dressed in a white bridal gown, she holds a scythe in her hands, and the scythe is real, insanely sharp, insanely old, all grayed wood and pockmarked iron. At La Santa Muerte’s feet lie bouquets of dollar bills and pesos folded into flowers, which not even the most desperate beggar would dare to steal, and little skulls made of sugar with lemon drop eyes or sculpted out of paper mache, still wet and baking in the night heat.

It is to these Narco Saints that the petitioners come, they crawl here by the thousands on their hands and knees or squirm here, snakelike in the dust, for miles. They fill their shoes with broken glass and totter, wincing all the way, in pain-pilgrimages to the shrines. Some are flagellants, flailing their own backs with knotted whips and electrical cords. The pavement here is polka dotted with brown oxidized drops of old blood among the darker wads of flattened bubble gum and the flitting poltergeists of candy wrappers. At the end of their journeys, they kneel faithfully before the Drug Gods and pray for them to intervene on one side or the other of the gruesome narco wars and gang violence that afflict modern Mexico. They pray for money, for revenge, for power or protection or peace, for everything that everyone has ever prayed for. There are at least fifty worshippers arranged in front of La Santisima tonight. There are rosaries and Hail Mary’s and a metallic smell. We stand on the fringes of their ranks and observe.

Finally Eludio leads me away and brings me to the particular Narco Saint he wanted to show me tonight, the new one. The saint’s shrine is the furthest away from all the rest, the least weather worn, and it has the smallest congregation although Eludio assures me that this is the fastest growing drug cult. They are young toughs, mostly, heavily tattooed and pierced and chained and blinged. They stand or sit torpidly on the concrete, smoking a lot, and they do not smile. They don’t make jokes, and this is disturbing and perverted in the young. I wind my way through them and examine the icon, and I know that I have never seen this saint despite three years of covering the Mexican narcotrafico. It is, like Le Santa Muerte, a pale figure, life sized, but male and dressed in a dark suit of shimmering velour. His plaster images wears sunglasses and on his head is a bushy platinum fright-wig. At first I wonder if this is a personification of governmental corruption or the blank epitomization of callous indifference to the undervaluization and meaninglessness of human life in the face of the overwhelming bloodletting of the war. Or is it, conversely, a modernization of some old, Aztec, heart-feasting Blood God?

And then I think I recognize him, and I’ve met him before.

I find my contact, Eludio, in the throng, and I ask him, “Is that…isn’t it…?”

“It’s Andy Warhol,” Eludio says.

He has no idea how the Cult of Warhol started, and it is doubtful that anyone truly does. It is not even known where it started, although some will swear up and down that it was right here in Ciudad Juarez. Others contend that it was imported from Mexico City or Los Angeles or Tamaulipas, all anyone seems to know is that it has been gaining in popularity, almost epidemically, over the past several weeks.

Eludio tells me that the followers of San Warhol call themselves Los Boyz Plasticos and they are gaining themselves a reputation by hiring out as affordable, efficient street level enforcers. They perform grudge killings and intimidations with a brutality that is shocking even here, where mutilations, beheadings and mass femicides are considered commonplace. Their signature is the artful arrangement of body parts: cadavers laid out just so on the curb, five left hands woven into identical positions in a chain link fence, a well-lit torso. Already their numbers are thought to rival the Zacamale Syndicate. They are renowned for their emotionless and automated style. They strive to be poet-robots. They never, ever remove their sunglasses.

“What does it mean?” I ask Eludio. Does Warhol have some connection to Mexico that I’ve missed? Wasn’t he of Slovakian extraction? Maybe Hungarian? Sure, he was a creature of drugs and money, salesmanship and surfaces, but still, pop art? I am baffled. What does it have to do with this? What does it have to do with anything? And is it art?

“I don’t know,” says Eludio. “It’s estupido.”

I take a closer look at the tattoos of the black clad Warholians. They are in unornamented script, sans serif, and they say Spanish translations of Warhol’s inanities and quotations. They say:

‘I love plastic’

‘I want to be a machine’

‘I like boring things’

‘All the cokes are the same and all the cokes are good’

That, and, of course, tomato soup inked swastikawise into biceps.

As the evening plummets into night, the ritual begins. Los Boyz Plasticos turn on Nico and The Velvet Underground. Portable televisions play fuzzy, twenty five hour loops of Warhol’s movies, Sleep and Blow Job and Kiss. And over the unconcerned beat of recorded drums and the awful-bad songs, nothingness happens.

The worshippers crawl to San Warhol’s beatle booted feet and grovel there and, horribly, they make sacrifices. I already know what the offerings will be before they are placed, and they make me sick. There is rising a growing heap of offerings. There is Campbell’s soup, of course, idiotically, all kinds; Bean and Bacon, Chicken and Stars, Cream of Mushroom. There are Brillo boxes and Coca-Cola bottles. There is exactly everything that you think there would be. Sugar skulls and severed human ears would be more wholesome.

Eludio is talking by my side, “They think the Warhol will give them all their wishes, and take all the revenges asked of it. But it has to be paid for. The right price,” he smiles and shakes his head. “Always the correct price and no less. The price has to be equal to the miracle it is asked to perform. If the Warhol doesn’t get paid, well, he gets mad easy and the petitioners will die. They’ll die of gunshot, AIDS, staph infection, machete, whatever. He’s not a love god, not the forgiving kind. But you can get anything you want as long as it’s paid for. It’s a transaction.”

“That’s a lot of soup,” I say.

An hour later, I am in my hotel room. As always, there is a paid mercenary patrolling the hall on the floor of the reporter’s rooms. I hear him clomping around in his black plastic streamlined soldier-of-fortune boots and I can’t sleep. It is a fad, I think. It will burn itself out in a month or a year, and the plaster Warhol and his infinite, identical reproductions in every warring border state will be abandoned and disintegrate into frosting by the rain and dust. It is a pop-cultural footnote, and only semi-interesting, and nothing more, and good only for a byline blurb, and then it’s over.

Or so I pray.

**** THE END ****

Copyright John Medaille 2012

Image Courtesy: Google Images

Synopsis: Art and the Artist move independently and the spectator is caught amidst the chaos.

About the Author: Jeff Poole’s stories have been published in print, and e-zines. This tale originally appeared in Downstate Story, a midwestern magazine which publishes midwestern writers. The editor liked the story, but asked if Jeff had ANY midwestern connection. He told her that he had a sister in Omaha; guess that was enough.

In this crime thriller, a regular fun shoot turns into vindictive rage and vengeance. Will our protagonist survive this artistic assault.

* * * * * * * * * *

Vindictive
by Jeff Poole

I’m lying in a pit, inside a mine. I’m surrounded by bats and darkness with a dead guy lying on top of me. I can only see part of my surroundings, the part at the end of a thin beam of light from my pocket flashlight. I can’t see the bats but this is a mine in the southwestern U.S. so I know they’re here. I don’t know exactly where here is, except that it’s a mine somewhere outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico.

These old, abandoned mines don’t even have square entrances anymore. The openings are just two or three foot wide holes on the side of a hill, usually next to some old wooden buildings. The entryways offer no clue as to what’s inside: large, seemingly endless tunnels and stairways held together with old, rotting wood. I was stuck in a mine I knew nothing about with a pocket light, and a dead guy. I was in this mess because I’d pissed Morty Andrews off. I didn’t steal his money or mess around with his wife. I’d told him what I thought of him and he didn’t like it.

Morty was the worst kind of sensitive artist. If you’ve ever spent time in an artists’ town like Santa Fe you know exactly what I mean. He was the kind of man who’s very sensitive in regards to what’s said to him, but not what comes out of his own mouth. He held everyone else to a higher standard than himself. He could be excused for his transgressions because of his talent. It was just the price the world paid for his brilliance. Morty didn’t take criticism very well.

Morty had money. Not from his art, at least initially. He’d had it when he came to Santa Fe. No one knew where he came from, just that his family hadn’t been in Santa Fe the requisite four hundred years to qualify as local. I first met him at an art opening, in a gallery he owned.  The first thing I noticed about Morty was his Santa Fe chic. He had his black hair slicked back, small, dark framed glasses, black jeans, a white shirt with a bolo tie, and he was wearing a black cowboy hat. He stood about five feet eight, and he had a uni-brow. If Morty’s face hadn’t been so fat it would have made him look sinister. As it was, he just looked like he had a giant caterpillar on his brow. His eyes were the only things menacing about him. They were golden brown, arrogant, intelligent and mean. He stared at everyone with a look of amused superiority. He reminded me of a smart pig.

I guess I took an instant disliking to the guy.

After being officially introduced I did my best to avoid him the rest of the evening. That first night Morty didn’t waste too much of his valuable time on me. He took a gander at my blue jeans, lanky frame and once white tennis shoes and wrote me off as a local gallery crasher, which I was. I wasn’t there to film his opening. I was just there for the free wine and cheese, and to meet pretty girls.

Eventually my line of work would throw Morty and I together. I make a living filming or photographing other people and their special moments. Need a guy with any kind of camera, Harry Carter is your man. I take moving pictures and edit those pictures into quaint vignettes. I make promotional videos for a lot of the artists in town when they have a major art opening. It can be a good living but sometimes it can be hard. Art openings are very stressful for artists.  A lot of these artists have serious attitudes and a stressed artist with attitude is not a fun individual. If I feel that an artist has talent, the attitude is a lot easier to take and maybe I won’t overcharge them. Some artists have talent, and sometimes he’s just a guy who knows someone with money.

Morty was an artist who had money to begin with. Now the odds are probably just as good that a Rockefeller could be as good an artist as someone born poor, I won’t pretend to know. The difference is, someone with money can buy or influence a lot of people, and give himself a lot of exposure at high dollar functions. Garner appreciation through the green, so to speak.

Morty Andrews painted southwestern landscapes. I thought his paintings were decent enough, but I wasn’t overly impressed, certainly not as impressed as he was with himself. Morty’s paintings sold, but hell, these carved, wooden coyotes people make around here sell, but they still suck. Morty didn’t need the money, but he did need the praise. We all like to be appreciated for being good at something, but some people need it more than others. Morty Andrews really needed everyone to understand how important and talented he was.

I’d had contact with Morty after the night at the gallery but I avoided long conversations with him. As I’ve said I didn’t like him, but that wasn’t the reason I tried to stay away from him. I’d seen how vindictive he was. Morty Andrews didn’t forget slights. He didn’t write anything off, he wrote it down. Santa Fe was filled with people who’d had bad luck after crossing Morty’s line of acceptable behavior. Sometimes it could have been bad luck. I suspect money and favoritism or a few choice words in special ears might have helped some of the bad luck along. Morty had money and connections; with the law, local politicians and connections with people who did bad things. I didn’t want to get on his bad side. I didn’t need the aggravation.

Despite my best efforts I had done some work for Morty. Hell, why not? He paid well. Morty knew I didn’t like him but he liked my work.

He was under the illusion I had respect for his abilities and I never tried to alter that perception. I never bad-mouthed his work to anyone, he was a paying client and I owed him that. I paid close attention to what I said about Morty or any of my clients. I am a man in control of what I say. Even when I drink too much, I watch my mouth. Except for a few rare occasions, which have invariably come back to chew my ass like a rabid dog.

Two things happened which set events in motion that would lead me to the bottom of a mine shaft. I landed a job in Denver working for a local T.V. station, which meant I’d be leaving town, and my last gig before departing would be filming Morty trying his hand at performance art.

The “pieces” had been like most performance art: embarrassing, unpleasant or accidently funny, especially Morty’s “Waves Lapping at the Shores of Indifference” drama. It was all very difficult to watch, except for one performance. A woman named Fiona Felders had a very moving piece about domestic violence. Everyone, including yours truly was impressed, everyone except Morty. Morty couldn’t stand being upstaged by some woman who worked days as a clerk in the store where he bought his bolo ties, one of the few places downtown that hadn’t been turned into an art gallery. Morty pulled some strings with the owner of the store, and she lost her job.

I was pissed. So was everyone else. Morty didn’t care. He didn’t have to worry about those of us who lived here. People from out of state bought the art Morty sold.

A week later Santa Fe had its annual short video festival. Since I was leaving Santa Fe in a few weeks, and wouldn’t have any more dealings with Morty, I took an edited version of his “performance” from the previous week to the festival. I’d had quite a few beers before I went, so I was in rare form. The projectionist claimed to have no idea how the tape had gotten in the VCR. He didn’t even know where it had come from. It was the funniest thing at the festival.

Morty had sat at the front of the room looking evil, as I had announced, “This tape will become a part of Santa Fe lore! Twenty years from now, when people are stumbling across your paintings at local garage sales Morty, maybe they’ll come across copies of your attempts at artistic expression on the stage as well!”

I won’t go into some of the other things I said, but I spent a few days waiting for the beginnings of a lawsuit. Morty wasn’t going to let me off that easily. He had been humiliated and he wanted real blood.

A week later I drove to the outskirts of town to shoot some nature video, which is where the two thugs Morty hired found me. I had noticed their car behind me as I drove out of town but I hadn’t really paid much attention. They were pretty quiet. One minute I was looking through the view finder of my camera, and the next I’m waking up in the back of a four-by-four, wearing a blindfold, with my hands tied behind my back.

I couldn’t see anything but I could hear traffic passing by as I tried to work the ropes loose. The cars became less frequent. Then a few minutes later I heard the familiar sound of driving on a dirt road. We came to a stop and when they opened the back I faked unconsciousness. I heard two voices. Suddenly I was covered in cold water and spluttering.

“Wake up!” A voice said.

“He is.” replied another voice.

Voice number one said, “Morty wanted us to make sure you were conscious when we did our thing to you video boy.”

Adrenaline roared through me. If you’ve ever hit your brakes and nothing happened, you know what I mean, right up from the feet, through the yawning pit of my stomach to the tip of my scared-shitless nose.

Voice number two said. “Yep. I saw ya tense up there partner. You should be tense. If you knew what we were going to do, you’d be crapping in your pants.”

Strong hands grabbed my coiled and panicked body and dragged me out.  A fist hit me in the gut. I never saw it coming because of the blindfold. I’m in good condition, and I was pretty hopped up on adrenalin, so it hurt but it didn’t knock the wind out of me. The fist to my mouth, however, split my lip and broke my bridgework. Then someone smacked me in the eye knocking the blindfold down.

“You’re in good shape dude.” Voice number two said, “That just means we’ll have to beat on you a little longer.”

They hadn’t tied my feet, so I tried to stand up. I could see voice number two, a wiry short little guy, and he kicked my feet out from under me. I would have landed on my knees but he made sure I landed on my back instead. While I was lying on the ground wiry guy grabbed the blindfold which was now hanging around my neck, and dragged me around. I gagged and they snickered but I’d kept working on the ropes binding my hands. It had been late afternoon when I’d driven out to the countryside, and now it was dark. I looked up at the clear night sky and the endless stars and tried to think clearly. I could hear but not see voice number one until he came around in front of me and kicked me in the cujones.

As I squirmed around on the ground in pain, voice number one, a big guy with bad teeth and a nose ring moved into my range of vision. I thought, “What a stupid thing to have in your nose if you’re someone who gets in a lot of fights,” of course I didn’t voice the thought.

I was lying on my back gasping. The smaller man started dragging me by the scarf around my neck again. I was on my back dragging my hands and it helped to pull the bindings off. I held on to the ropes so neither would realize my hands weren’t tied any longer. The big guy told the little guy to go get a stick; they were going to poke me with it he said. The little guy dropped me in the dirt. When he moved away, I jumped up and ran like hell.

I could hear one of them cussing, and I chanced a look back. I saw the little dude coming on strong and the larger man laying down holding his leg. He’d tripped on something and was in serious pain. The wiry guy didn’t seem to know it. I stopped when he got close and drove my foot into his knee. He went down and I stomped on his neck in fear and rage. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while. Then a bullet hit the tree I was standing next to. What a drag, the larger fellow had a gun. I was off and running again. As I came out of some brush I saw buildings in the partial moonlight. I ran for them but as I got close I realized they were empty. Of course, these yahoos wouldn’t take me where there were people.

I ran by a sign on an old building that said Golden. I knew where I was now; an old abandoned mining town outside of Albuquerque. I’d shot some footage here before, but I’d never entered any of the old mines, only an idiot would do that. I headed for a shaft. It was all I could think of at the moment. I saw a mine entrance and crawled through. I pulled my penlight out of my pocket and turned it on. The entrance opened up into a large room with a tunnel running to the right.  I only had a few moments to make a decision, so I ran down the tunnel. I heard someone coming to the tunnel entrance as I came up to another opening on the left side of the tunnel I was in. I turned into it, stopped moving and clicked off my penlight. It was like someone had spray painted my eyeballs black. There’s no way to describe the darkness of a mine if you’ve never been in one. You’ll find no darker place on earth, except maybe the grave.

If they didn’t have flashlights they couldn’t come in here. I decided I’d make my way on hands and knees in the dark. It was a dangerous move but I didn’t see any alternative. I put my penlight in my pocket and started crawling.

A few feet later I realized I was on wood. I heard it creak for a moment and then I dropped into darkness. I remember hitting my head, being dazed and thinking about how much noise I must have been making as I crashed through old wood. Then I hit the ground, and the darkness enfolded my consciousness as well.

When I woke up I felt something lying on me. I didn’t move. How long had I been here and where were those guys? After I’d gathered my wits I touched whatever was on top of my stomach. It was someone else’s leg. I moved it aside and pulled out my penlight. I aimed it in the general direction of where I thought the rest of the body was and briefly flashed the light. No sense in notifying anyone as to my location. In the brief flicker I saw that it was the big guy. He was dead

Taking inventory I was reasonably certain nothing was broken. How far had I dropped and where was the gun the guy lying next to me had been shooting at me? Where was the wiry dude?

I consoled myself that I was infinitely better off now than I had been a short time ago. Instead of being a tied up, blindfolded piñata, I was a dirty, dusty blind man with no real idea where I was.

Which is where we started.

These old mines are filled with a powdery dust. I felt like I’d been dipped in dirt, and dirt is all I could smell. My mouth was so dry that my tongue felt like a wooden ladle clacking around in my mouth.

I thought about my options. If I turned on my light for any length of time, maybe the other guy was up there somewhere with a gun, and he’d shoot me. Or I could crawl around in the dark until I perished of thirst or fell into another shaft?

I said the hell with it, pulled my penlight out and surveyed my immediate surroundings.

I was at the bottom of a shaft about fifteen feet deep. There was another tunnel branching off to my left and a drop off a few feet to my right. I shone my light down it, and I couldn’t see the bottom. A few feet had separated me from life and death.

I double-checked to see if the big guy was dead. I wanted to find his gun, and to get his wallet. I wanted to know who he was, and if I got out of here, so would the cops.

Why had the fall killed him and not me? I could only assume he’d struck his head harder or simply landed badly. I couldn’t find the gun. It must have gone over the edge. Pulling his wallet from his pocket I opened it and shown the light on his driver’s license. His name was Jimmy Dalton. He didn’t have his nose ring in the picture on his license, and was wearing a grateful dead T-shirt. I thought deadheads were mellow. Ol’ Jimmy must have been a closet Kiss fan.

I turned the light off and listened for sounds. Hearing nothing I decided it was time to move. I couldn’t climb back up the shaft so I had to go down the tunnel next to me. I got up slowly, I wanted to be sure my legs wouldn’t fold, turned the penlight on, and shuffled slowly forward. I had walked for less than a minute when I came to a bend and saw light ahead of me.

I was feeling lucky. I could literally see the light at the end of the tunnel. The moon hadn’t been full so I wondered why the light was so intense and as I neared the entrance I realized it was daytime.

As I approached the opening, I turned off my penlight and moved as quietly as I could. I approached the light with a weird combination of dread and elation, and peered at the landscape without sticking my head out of the entryway. No one was in sight. I could see low bushes, abandoned buildings, and what I thought was the entrance I had used last night. It was off to my left about fifty feet. No one was in sight and no cars either. The little guy must have been well enough off to drive. And to go get Morty? A small bird landed by the opening and chirped. I didn’t know what kind of bird it was, it was a black thing with white markings, but at that moment I couldn’t remember ever having seen a prettier bird. We looked at each other for a few moments.

A rock landed next to it and it fluttered off.

“Go away bird.”

It was the little guy’s voice.

If I hadn’t taken time to contemplate that bird, I’d have been history.

He must have moved the truck, and then hidden next to the entrance. He wasn’t out in plain site or close to the entrance or the bird wouldn’t have landed there. He would have positioned himself so that he could watch both entrances. Could I peek out and see where he was? That would be too risky. I had to sit and think about what to do. I couldn’t panic; I had to keep my head I told myself. Christ! Thirty seconds ago I’d been elated and ready to begin my weary trek to the highway. Now I was sitting in the dusty darkness with another desperate situation to deal with.

Then I heard the rocks sliding and I realized he was coming down to the entrance, probably to shine a light down the tunnel and see if I was in here. I’d have one chance. I couldn’t see anything near the opening to pick up and hit him with so I just coiled up to spring at him as he looked in.

He came to the opening and started to shine a light into it. I launched through it right before the beam of light hit me. I hadn’t planned it but my head drove right into his face. I was bigger, desperate, and had the jump on him. I hit him until he stopped moving. With last night’s bruises and today’s ass kicking he looked pretty bad, but I didn’t bother to check if he was dead. I found his keys, took his gun and started stumbling around looking for his car.

I found it behind a bunch of piled up lumber. A yellow four-by-four, an ugly freakin’ truck. Maybe I was just biased against the owners. I was happy to see my digital camera on the front seat. It seemed like a long time ago that I had been out trying to shoot nature footage.

I climbed into the cab and asked myself what the hell was I going to do? I started looking around for anything to eat or drink, and found a canteen and a cell phone. So now I could call someone. I started taking huge gulps out of the canteen. It made my mouth hurt. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw myself for the first time since this started.

Dirty, sweaty blonde hair matted and plastered to my head. I had a black eye and my mouth was a mess. Swollen lips and when I grimaced at the sight of myself, the gap where my bridge had been made me look even worse.

Then the cell phone rang.

I thought about it until the third ring, and then I picked it up. It was Morty. He said hello a few times and I listened without speaking.

“Dalton?” He said. “Answer me. Did you find Carter? Yo? Dalton? Dalton, can you hear me? Listen; if you find Carter don’t do anything. Wait till I get there!”

I could tell by the sounds in the background that he was driving. What was I going to do when he got here?

“Goddammit Dalton! I’ll be there in a few minutes. Connection must be screwed.” Then he hung up.

He was taking a chance showing up here. You’d have thought he’d be more careful but he was an arrogant guy. He probably figured he had enough money and connections to get away with anything. He probably did.

I checked the gun to see if it was loaded, it was. I could still see the little guy up on the hill. He was in the same place I’d left him. I was sitting in a dead man’s truck, maybe two. Was he dead? Should I walk up the hill and put bullet in him to make sure? Do I move him out of sight and wait for Morty? Maybe I just get the hell out of here. I’d been incredibly lucky. Then again, most of the luck I’d been having had to do with me keeping my head, and not quitting.

Even if Morty found a way out of this with his money, he’d know I might have something on him that could come back to haunt him. The next time he’d send someone good, and I’d be toast. What could I do about it? I wasn’t a killer. I could take my chances with the law getting Morty. That was the smart play. For most of us that’s our only play. Maybe being rich wouldn’t help Morty. Maybe the political ties, shady connections and large infusions of cash wouldn’t make a difference?

Yeah right.

I went up to where the little guy was lying, asking myself while I slowly walked up the hill what I was going to do if he was still breathing. He was dead. So maybe I was a killer. I moved his body into the mine entrance where Morty wouldn’t see him when he drove up, and then parked the truck near a dilapidated building. I figured Morty would pull up next to the truck and I’d come out from behind the building. After that, I had no idea what I’d do.

As I leaned against the old wood building, I realized how tired and sore I was. Everything was starting to throb.  I watched the road through a split between two old boards. I stood behind the building, holding the gun in one hand, and drinking the rest of the water in the canteen with the other.

After about half an hour I saw a Mercedes come around a bend in the road. As it neared the dirt turnoff to where I was, it slowed and turned. I could see Morty in the driver’s seat. He did just what I wanted, and drove right up to the ugly yellow truck. He didn’t see me until he got out. He looked at the gun then he looked up at me.

“You look like shit.” He said.

“Yeah, taking a pounding will do that to a guy. You on the other hand, came out of the womb looking like a rat’s ass.”

He looked at the gun again, and crossed his arms before leaning back against his car, “Where’s Dalton and Fisk?”

“Fisk was the other guy’s name? I hope you guys weren’t close. You’re not going to be seeing either of them again.”

“No great loss. They were cheap hoods, low bidder and all that. In retrospect, I should have known better. I’m glad you got away.”

“Uh huh. I’ll bet you are.”

I had to hand it to him. He was calm. Maybe he thought I didn’t have the guts to shoot him. Maybe he was right.

“That’s why I’m here.” Morty said as he stepped away from his car. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Being able to act so ruthless and all. I was on my way out here to save your ass. Looks like you did fine without me.”

“I’ll be even finer permanently… without you.” I told him. “I’ll admit it’ll be a little hard to shoot you in cold blood, but I think I can manage it. You sent two guys out to kill me because I made fun of you? What the fuck is that?”

“It’s what I do. I don’t apologize for it. I’ve had to be ruthless to survive. It’s become second nature for me.”

“I don’t want your apologies. Goodbye Mort.”

He didn’t even flinch. I had been steeling myself for this. It was shit or get off the pot.

“Can I show you something first?”

I was wary and impressed. Morty might be a first class asshole, but he wasn’t a coward.

“It’s not a trick.” He said. “What I want to show you is on the front seat.”

I motioned him away from his car, “Get on your knees and put your hands on your head.”

Morty knelt on the ground, the distaste at getting his pants dirty showing on his face, and put his hands behind his head.

I opened the car door and saw a small gray suitcase on the seat. Keeping my eyes on him, I pulled it out of the car, and set it down in front of Morty. The suitcase had a simple latch. I flicked the latch, and then opened it towards Morty, just in case. It contained the tape I’d made of his performance.

“Some friends of mine saw it.” Morty said. “They thought it was some seriously funny shit. A lot of people are calling it brilliant. With my connections, I can turn this into something. You’re a natural at editing comedy for effect. I’ll also give you a lump sum for the small inconvenience you’ve had to suffer through. I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars to keep your mouth shut”

He was silent for a moment as what he’d said sank in, “And you and I work together. We’ll both make a lot of money. It’ll also help me to sell my paintings.”

We faced each other in the afternoon heat; the wind came up and blew his cowboy hat off. He didn’t seem to notice. Morty knelt in the dirt looking up at me, saying nothing, cocky and certain I wouldn’t turn him down. He was betting his life on it. This guy had tried to have me killed and I hated his guts. He was asking me to forget all the crap he’d put me through for a few lousy bucks. Ok, for thousands of lousy bucks. I have to admit, it was a tempting offer. I stood there, with the gun in my hand, wondering what to do.

It’s been a year and a half since my little episode in the mine. I live in Denver now, but I work in Santa Fe half the time. I do freelance work in Colorado and make periodic trips to Santa Fe to work for Morty. It’s a very profitable and fulfilling arrangement for us both. I shoot and edit film, and make Morty look ridiculous. It’s a labor of love.

During one of my monthly trips to Santa Fe I started up a relationship with Fiona Felders, the performance artist that Morty screwed over. She’s become quite popular and successful in her own right. Fiona can’t stand Morty. She wonders how I could work for an asshole like that. I tell her what the hell. He pays well.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Jeff Poole 2012

Image Courtesy: Ebenezer

“The sky is definitely blue,” said little Sally.

“Well, it’s usually blue, but it gets gray when there’s clouds, and black at night. So, no.” the teacher corrected.

“Leaves are definitely green,” said Timmy.

“Well, normally they are, but in the fall, they change colors. So, no.”

Then little Johnny raised his hand. “Are farts lumpy?” he asked the teacher.

“Umm…no, I’m afraid they’re not, Johnny.”

“Well,” he said, “I DEFINITELY just shit my pants!”

Synopsis: A pleasant neighbourly visit turns into a horrible living nightmare for a couple yet to discover the nature of crime and criminals.

About the Author: Nicomedes Austin Suarez is a writer spending time in the Third World. He lives with his peach of a wife, Erica, and their magical infant son, Bjorn.

In this psychological thriller, an ordinary sin turns into a terrible horror of violence, vengeance and lust.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dangerous
by Nicomedes Austin Suárez

When they moved in we thought they were a more or less normal couple, a little unusual maybe because she was a black chick and he was a white guy, but they were young, and that was cool. I remember we felt good about having a mixed couple as neighbors. We were just a couple of working class white kids scraping our way up, getting into open-mindedness and all that shit, and it made us feel good. My dad, he died years ago, he used to say, people should stick to their own kind, and I always hated him for saying shit like that, so I guess when the mixed couple moved in I thought, well all right, here’s my chance to prove I’m nothing like the old man, good riddance to the son of a bitch.

And it wasn’t hard to like the two of them, not at first. The black chick, Siena, was really pretty, cut-angled face, great hair, a million of those tight little braids that look like beads, a flat belly, slender hips, and she moved fast and slow like a housecat. And the guy, Frank, he had a good look too, kind of rednecky, but in a tasteful, country way.

The house Maura and me were living in back then was one of those old New England farmhouse things, with the uneven wooden floors, but not in bad shape. At some point someone had cut it in half to make two, independent, two-story apartments with a shared wall and a shared front porch. The other thing the two houses shared, for sure, was noise. From our bedroom upstairs we could hear most of what was going on in the upstairs bedroom of the other place, and vice-verca, I guess.

One night a few days after the couple moved in someone knocked on our door. It was kind of late, maybe around eleven, but we were still in school back then, and I was working the bar at the Mexican place, so we were still up, but not dressed, and Maura said she’d go downstairs and and see who it was. I was sitting up, reading, and I listened to the voices, Maura’s, nasal, pinched, Jewish — I could picture my girlfriend, the prominent nose, in the black pants and shirt I knew she wore because it made her feel less bad about her straight-up-and-down figure — and the other voice, smooth, easy, almost like a person singing, and I sat up more because I knew the voice, it would come to me, and it did. It was the voice of the black chick, the pretty one. Earlier in the day, coming back from class, I’d met her.

She was waiting on the porch for her boyfriend to come back with the truck, she said, there was still another load. And I asked her if it was far away they were moving from, and she said, sort of, about an hour away, and I thought to ask why they didn’t rent a bigger truck, but didn’t. Afterwards, through the door, I cursed myself for not asking her that simple question. The reason I’d stopped short, I thought, was because of something else my old man used to say about minding your own business so other people won’t mind yours. So I went back out on the porch and the black chick, Siena, was still there, still pretty in cutoff jean shorts, frayed and short enough to show the curve of her ass if you had a mind to look, and I asked her the question and all at once I wished I hadn’t. There was this weird look in her eyes, a startled look, a quick hard squint that almost pushed me back through the door. But then she smiled easily and said, in her nice smooth voice, yeah, we’ve been having some money troubles so we couldn’t afford to rent a truck, but it’s cool because we borrowed Frank’s brother’s pickup, just going to take a little longer, that’s all. I knew I was sweating like an idiot and blushing probably too when I said, well, if there’s anything we can do to help, and the chick said, “Would you mind lending me ten bucks? I saw this cool looking pizza joint on the corner and Frank, he was all hurried and shit, he forgot to leave me money.” I was so relieved, basically, I said, “I’ll do you one better, I haven’t eaten lunch either so what if the two of us walk over and it’s my treat. Would that be cool?” And she put her thin, smooth, brown arm through mine and smiled and said, “Well aren’t you a sweet thing?” And right then, heading off for the place on the corner, I started thinking to ask her why Frank had left her if he had to be gone for that long. But I didn’t. I don’t know if it would have made any difference, but it might have.

The funny thing was, the thing that made me sit up real straight in bed when I heard Siena at the door, was that somehow it had escaped my mind to tell Maura about my lunch. I kept meaning to, you know, but then something else would come up and I would forget about it, and that happened long enough that I ended up feeling that too much time had gone by for me to bring it up without it seeming like a big deal, like I had some reason for not mentioning it, which of course totally wasn’t true. Have you ever had that happen? Sure, who hasn’t?

So there I was, kind of holding my breath, pretending to read, when Maura came back in and said, hey, the neighbors want to know if we’d like to come over for a drink.

I put the book down, real calm, real patiently, like I was being interrupted in a really good part, and said, “What? Now?”

Maura looked at me funny and said, “Yeah, now. Jesus, John, it’s eleven-thirty, not three in the morning. You want me to get you a pair of white shoes and a little golf cap?”

I can’t stand it when someone calls me out — another thing my old man always said would get me in trouble — so I got out of bed and started dressing before she could say anything else. Dressed now, I said: “You know I’m a white man.” This was an ongoing joke we had. I’d read this book that took place in America in the 60s and in the book everybody in the world could be divided up into two kinds of people.

Still looking at me funny, Maura said, “Oh, good, because I was starting to think you were a weak sister.”

“Fuck you.”

“Jesus, John. What’s the matter with you?”

It had come out harsher than I meant. Then again, I didn’t even really mean to say it. I don’t know why I was mad at her, or if I was mad at her, but I was. I felt like breaking something, nothing big, just a picture frame or something, like in the movies. But then I thought, this is stupid, calm down, so I kissed her and said:

“Jesus, hon. I’m sorry. I’m just a cranky old man.”

She smiled and put her arms around me, her sharp hips jabbing me in the pelvis. “But you’re my cranky old man, and I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Now let’s go be nice and neighborly for a change.”

“Yeah, sure, why not.”

Heading downstairs, I thought again of mentioning my lunch with Siena, but didn’t. We were just out the door so fast, you know? But man, if I could do it again.
We’d never been next door since we started living there. The neighbors before had been really weird. I think they were goth, or whatever. But they were fine and never had parties or made any real noise. You know how it is when you’ve got a dividing wall between you and somebody else’s life. There’s overlap, right?

It was the guy, Frank, who opened the door. He was a big guy, I can’t remember if I mentioned that, but he was. Not just tall, but thick, the kind of guy you see at the supermarket holding a twelve-pack in one hand like it’s a bag of popcorn. He had these big, thick forearms, like you get from working construction — that’s what he did — but also the kind you’ve got to be born with. I remember watching him make drinks and feeling mild awe. He just squeezed the limes one at a time in his hands like it was nothing, like they were cooked plums. When he was done, they were nothing but limp peels, little bits of dry pulp sticking to his hands. And he had this tattoo from time in the Navy.

But I’m kind of jumping around. What was I saying? Right, so he opened the door, there was music on behind him — some kind of rap, real aggressive, pretty loud — and he was smiling. He shook my hand, kind of crushing it, his eyes never leaving Maura, and then, instead of shaking her hand like I thought he would, he just leaned in and kissed her, not on the mouth, but close — that place right between your cheek and your lips where your grandmother kisses you and it makes you kind of squirm? — and she laughed and took a little step back and I laughed too not knowing what else to do but having a warm, not pleasant feeling spreading up from my stomach to my head. And he was looking at me now, laughing real easy, a baseball hat on backwards and to one side a little, and I couldn’t be sure, maybe I didn’t want to be, but I know now, with no doubt that what he meant was, watcha’ gonna do about it, bitch? But what he said was:

“Shit, I’m sorry. We been having a couple drinks. Don’t know what I was thinking,” he said, and stood aside, unblocking the doorway, letting us know we should come in, and we did. He took us into the living room that looked just like our living room in reverse, and we sat down on a big, black leather couch, the kind that’s got like a thousand rivets in the cushions? The place was actually pretty nicely decorated. I remember thinking, you’ve got to be a pretty alright kind of guy to live in a place that’s this nice. Of course now I know why it was they had a lot more nice shit than we did. But anyway, we sat down, Maura and me on the couch and him on a leather chair — I think you’d call it a wing chair. I remember he didn’t offer to give us the usual grand tour of his place, which seemed a little weird, but what are you going to say? We just sat there looking dumb, I guess. We could hear Siena moving around in the kitchen.

“Hey, hon,” Frank said, kind of pretending to shout it, “why don’t you come in here with Maura while me and Jim make some drinks?”

“It’s John,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s John, not Jim.”

“What did I say?”

“You said Jim.”

“I don’t think I did.”

It was weird, that moment, because I remember feeling like I was watching myself, trying to stop, but not being able to. I thought of this time when I was eight. Our neighbor back then was one of those sweet guys who puts a chain link fence around his yard and lets a rottweiler run around all day, barking its damn head off. I was terrified of that stupid dog, so what I liked to do, when no one was watching, was go over to the gate on the street side and put my fingers up to that nasty snarling face, the dog frothing and throwing itself against the chainlink, being sure to keep just out of range. This one time, when I was doing that, I noticed that the gate’s hinges were coming off, the little screws slipping out. The weird thing was, I kept on fucking with the dog, watching the door coming off a little more every time he lunged. The gate didn’t pop, but I wonder what I would have done if it had.

Frank was looking at me now, his head cocked to one side, waiting for me to say something. I was relieved when Maura said:

“You did say Jim.”

Frank looked at her for a second, real still, and then smiled, shrugged it off. “Truth is, when I drink I actually have no idea what I’m doing.”

The three of us laughed and it felt like a charge went out of the air.

“I know what you mean, man,” I said.

He stopped laughing. “Do you?”

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Why’re you sorry?”

“I meant I didn’t understand.”

He smiled, got up, put a big hand on my shoulder. “I’m just fucking with you. Let’s go make some drinks and let the ladies chat about lady shit.”

Siena walked in and said hi. She was wearing the same mini she had on when we went to lunch, and when she sat down on the wood floor and crossed her legs, Indian style, the little thing slid up her thighs and her panties flashed. They were lacy, pink, and I could make out the shape of her lips through the thin material. I tried to look away in time, but couldn’t. I had the feeling that Frank was noticing me seeing, and when I looked up, I saw I was right.

“Come on, Johnny,” he said, and I followed him through two doors and into the kitchen, not once seriously considering telling him I hated being called Johnny. It’s what my old man used to call me when he really wanted to piss me off.

“You dig on daiquiris?” Frank said, leaning over a marble counter now, cutting limes in half with a huge knife, the kind you see on Iron Chef that looks more like a damn samurai sword.

“Yeah, sure.”

Their bar was really well stocked. While Frank made the drinks I leaned against a counter and admired the unbelievable tequilas. I knew from my years behind the bar at the Mexican joint that three of the ten or so tequilas went for over two hundred bucks a pop. Same for the scotches, though I’m not such an expert there. One bottle in particular, though, caught my attention.

“Holy shit,” I said, picking it up, turning it, checking out the way it glowed amber in the low light. “Is this what I think it is?”

Frank looked up. “You know it.”

“Man, I have never even seen this shit in person.”

He was squeezing the limes into a pitcher now. “Help yourself.”

The seal wasn’t broken. I put the bottle down. “No way. This bottle’s worth, like, four hundred bucks.” I did the math. A shot would run about seventy bucks anywhere that would actually stock it.

Frank reached over and took the bottle out of my hands, cut off the seal, popped the cork top, and poured a double into a highball. Then he handed it to me.

“Jesus, I don’t know what to say.”

He smiled, wiping sweat from his brow with his knife hand. “It’s all about being a good neighbor.”

“Thanks.”

“Go ahead and try it.”

I did. “Christ, Mary, Jesus, and Joseph.”

“That’s the real shit.” He was pouring rum onto the ice now, mixing it with a wooden dowel.

Something occurred to me, something I read, or maybe a friend told me about it, I can’t remember. “I thought you couldn’t even get this stuff in the States.”

“Normally, you can’t.”

Looking at the bar again, I did a rough calculation. I put the total worth between seven and ten grand. That sounds like bull, I know, but I’m serious. My old man was a betting junkie and I practically spent my childhood in an OTB. Seven to ten. It didn’t gel. I reckoned they were paying the same rent we were since the landlord owned the whole building. Who the hell lives in a $700 a month pad and stocks a ten grand bar?

“So, then how did you get it?”

Glasses and pitcher in hand, Frank said, “All about who you know.”

“I guess.”

I started to follow him back into the living room when he turned to face me again. “Say, what do you reckon the value of a human being is?”

“I don’t know. Is this some kind of philosophical thing?”

“Not at all. Everything’s got financial worth, even people.”

He didn’t say anything else, just stood there, so I said, “You mean, how much to buy a person?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess it depends on what you want them for. Do you mean, like, a hooker?”

“That’s one way to buy a person.”

“But not all people are hookers.” This was, without any doubt, one of the weirdest fucking conversations I’ve ever had, in a hallway or anyplace else.

“Don’t be fucking naive, Johnny. Everyone has a price. But what I really meant was, what do you reckon is the value of a human life?”

“Jesus, Frank. Who can say?”

“Could you say it was more than the value of the scotch in your glass?”

“Well, of course.”

“See? Now you’re getting there.” He walked away and I was obliged to follow.
We found the girls having a nice time in the relaxed kind of way that’s typical of girls, the two of them sitting on the floor, at the coffee table. Maura was talking when we walked in, her hands coming out in the sharp little jabs she uses when she’s excited about something, and Siena was chilling, sitting back against the foot of the couch and looking at Maura calmly, one elbow propped up. The contrast between the two girls was more apparent than ever: Siena, calm, hard-bodied in a full way, and Maura, awkward, gangly, thin, but not trim. Despite my best efforts, I could feel a fresh wave of shame spreading over me, not for my own sake, this time, but for Maura. I was totally aware from the first second I met Frank of my inadequacy compared to him; how could Maura not be aware of her’s? Or maybe she was aware, and just over-acting to compensate.

I sat down and she looked at me, our eyes met, and I had the feeling it was the latter. And there was something else in her eyes, a kind of raw panic I’d never seen there before, or maybe it was just me putting my shit on her. Of course, I’ll never know the answer now.
Siena got up and moved to sit on the wing chair Maura was sitting in front of, her feet almost resting on Maura’s hips, straddling her from behind. “Maura was just telling me how much she likes my braids,” she said. “And I told her that if she wants, I’d be happy to do her hair the same way.”

“It would look silly,” Maura said. “I mean, it looks great on you, but I don’t think I could pull it off.”

Siena took hold of Maura’s hair, a little too hard I thought, and Maura must have too, because she flinched. “Let me show you.” To me, she said, “As long as you don’t mind, John.”

I started to say something, I don’t even know what it was going to be, but Frank cut me off.

“Go ahead,” he said, lying down on the couch, spreading out, leaving me nowhere to sit but the floor. “It’ll look hot.”

Siena took a hold of Maura’s lank, black hair.

Maura said, “John, do you mind?”

I could feel Frank looking at me. “He doesn’t mind, do you John?”

It was just like being a ventriloquist’s dummy. I said, “I don’t mind.”

Siena hummed a tune while she braided, something jazzy that I couldn’t quite place. Frank looked at the ceiling, sipped his drink, and pretty much acted like he was alone. Sitting on the floor now, my lips started to feel numb, which happens when I drink, and happens faster than it should, I guess. I’ve always been a cheap drunk.

Then, after a while, Frank was humming along with his girlfriend, the two of them harmonizing, and Maura just sat there, looking straight ahead, having her hair done, the roots straining, and it made her look surprised, like a kid who’s just touched a garden snake with her bare foot.

I bolted my drink, forgetting completely what it was. The whole scene was really freaking me out. I remember perfectly, I had this thought, an actual voice in my head talking. It said: Run. Just run like hell. Get up, run to the door, run out the door, and keep running. I didn’t, though, I just sat there.

&&&

So me and Siena walked to the place on the corner, the pizza joint that’s been there for, like, thirty years, or whatever. We walked there all arm in arm like we were old buddies, and I thought, man, this is weird, but I thought it was nice, too, this cool ass black chick with a killer body cozying up to me. I read once that if a girl initiates physical contact, it means she likes you, and I guess I liked the idea that maybe a chick like Siena might like me. Look, I’m not an idiot, I know girls do all kinds of shit just to get attention and it doesn’t really mean anything and you can’t read too much into it, or whatever. But still, it was cool to pretend for just a little bit that what I read in that article was gospel, that Siena dug me. What’s it like to be with a girl like that, you know?

So we got to the place and sat in a booth. The place is called Jim’s Pizza and it’s one of those places where the walls are so old you can’t tell if they’re dirty or not, and the booths are red and comfy, and the food’s not bad and not good, but it’s cheap and comes out hot.
Also, old Jim’s got a good bar for a divey place. Siena picked up on that right away. First thing she did when the hostess sat us was to order a daiquiri.

“Fresh, limes, none of that shitty mix stuff. You got Mount Gay?” she said. They did and she was pleased. “What are you having, John?”

“It’s a little early for me.”

She put a hand on my arm and got this real earnest look. “Gee, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were gay. That must be hard.”

I laughed, looking at her hand on my arm. “All right, all right. I’ll have a Rusty Nail.” I knew that was an old man drink, not gay at all, and she seemed to know it too, because she sat back with her elbows on the booth, her tits pushed out — on purpose, it seemed to me — and nodded approvingly.

We chatted about bullshit for a while, you know, the usual stuff you use to fill in the gaps when you don’t know someone real well, where did you grow up, are you in school, and all that. I told her I grew up in New York State, in a little town nobody’s ever heard of, and she said she grew up in Detroit. I said I was finishing my degree at UMass in Hotel and Restaurant Management and she ordered another drink and made me feel like a total pussy again so I ordered a Jack on the rocks even though I was already really feeling kind of buzzed.

After the food arrived, we had our first really awkward moment. I asked her why she and her boyfriend decided to move from their last place and she shrugged and said: “Oh, the usual reasons.”

I used a paper napkin to mop some of the serious grease off a slice and she watched me with a little smirk that made me feel like a pussy all over again. What can I say? The men in my family have a problem with fucking cholesterol. My old man kicked it at fifty-seven, one more shitty move of his I’d sure as shit like to avoid. When I looked up she glanced away, like she was all of a sudden really interested in the retired jukebox in the corner. Some part of me knew I shouldn’t press her, everything about her body language was saying no, but I was a little buzzed, like I said, and I wanted to get back at her for making me feel like a little girl, so I said, all innocent: “No, I don’t know. What are the usual reasons for moving? I mean, it’s the middle of the month, so it’s kind of weird. Most people move on the first, unless they’ve got a good reason.”

She looked right at me and I was sorry for pushing. “Well, maybe we had a good fucking reason,” she said.

Just like that, emphasis on fucking, cold as ice. I didn’t know what to say, and she didn’t say anything either, she just sat there in the booth looking at me like she could rip my fucking head off and then have another drink, maybe order dessert. I got real interested in my food, you know? Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, her staring at me with that look on her pretty face, so I said, “Sorry, I guess I’m kind of buzzed. It’s not any of my business.” And right then I thought of my goddamn old man saying, mind your own business.

Siena smiled, relaxed again, like it had never happened. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big thing, just kind of embarrassing.”

I downed the rest of my drink, not feeling even slightly buzzed anymore. “I’m really sorry. Let’s just start over, okay?”

She glanced around like she didn’t want anyone else to hear, then leaned forward on her elbows so her face was just about right up against mine — Jim’s got these small-ass, ghetto booths — and said, “Look, you just caught me off guard. I don’t mind telling you about it, I just don’t want to do it here where somebody could hear us.”

I looked around. We were the only people in the place. Our waiter had been MIA for about ten minutes, probably playing cards or Scrabble in back, a slow weekday lunch and all.

Still leaning forward, Siena said, “I can tell you, but I have to tell you in the bathroom.”
I was sure I hadn’t heard right. “In the bathroom?”

“Yeah,” she said, and she slid out of the booth, taking my hand as she rose.

&&&

Siena braided Maura’s hair while Frank chilled on the couch, looking at the ceiling, sipping his drink from time to time, setting it on a little silver coaster on the floor between pulls. At one point he went to the kitchen for a refill. He didn’t ask me if I wanted another drink and I didn’t ask for one. Siena went on humming the little jazzy tune I couldn’t place and I sat there, pretending there was a little scotch left in my glass.
“You’re really good at this,” Maura said. Siena was really quick, dexterous, her nice hands gliding through Maura’s hair, twisting, moving, folding. It was kind of hypnotizing.
She didn’t braid Maura’s whole head, but in a few minutes she had one side done. Frank sat up, put his hands on his knees, leaned forward.

“See, now that looks nice,” he said.

There was a full length mirror on the wall. Maura rose and walked over to it. She stood face on, then turned so she could see the side of her head with the rows of tight little braids.

“Wow. I didn’t think I’d like it. It actually looks totally cool.”

“I can do the rest if you want,” Siena said.

“I would,” Maura said.

Frank put a hand on his girlfriend’s shoulder. To Maura he said, “Now hang on a second. That seems like an awfully nice thing to do for a girl, braiding her hair and all.”

Maura sat down in front of Siena. Now she looked at Frank. “I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is,” he said, leaning back, putting his hands behind his head, his arms bulging, “what are you gonna do for us?”

Maura laughed. She was a little tipsy. “I can do a pretty good impression of Diane Keaton. Anyway, people say it’s pretty good.”

“Not what I had in mind,” Frank said.

Maura’s face changed. I felt frozen, unable to do a damn thing, like I was watching a horror flick, tied to a chair or something, like at the end of A Clockwork Orange. In a little voice Maura said, “What do you mean?”

Frank said, “Kind of thing you might see happen when a guy and a girl go to lunch all by their lonesome.”

&&&

I stumbled a little on the way to the bathroom. It felt like I was falling, like I had no choice. All I could do was take in the scenery during the plunge. And also, I was pretty drunk, you know? But that’s bullshit. There’s no point in lying anymore, if there ever was. I mean, look where lies get you, right? The truth is I wanted whatever it was that hot black chick was offering, and I didn’t give a shit what that might mean after.

The bathrooms at Jim’s are in a little hallway. I think the restaurant probably used to be a house, because the men’s room looks like the kind of bathroom you’d see in a house, a little room, just a toilet, a sink, no stalls, no urinal. And a lock on the door.

Siena pulled me by the hand into the men’s and locked the door behind her. She did it like people do it in the movies, with two hands behind her back, and a look on her face that was all innocent, like, oops.

“What did you want to tell me?” I said, feeling like an idiot.

“I didn’t really want to tell you anything,” she said, smiling.

Now she was taking off her shirt, her flat, brown belly flashing in the flickering fluorescent light. Her bra was purple, lacy. It pushed her breasts up and out. I felt dizzy, dry-mouthed. I had a flash of Maura undressing, the jutting little points of her lower ribs, her small, flat breasts. I pushed the image away.

“But, why me?” I said. My tongue felt thick.

She slipped off the bra, then the shorts, the purple lacey underwear. “I’m really horny,” she said. “I get really horny when I drink, especially during the day.”

I’d never seen a black pussy before, except in porn. It was shaved clean, the lips glistening with wetness. And the lips were thick, much thicker than Maura’s.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said. I was having trouble focusing. “I hope you like chubby guys.”

She stood right in front of me now, her face tilted up, her dark nipples brushing the fabric of my shirt, and touched the front of my pants with one hand. “I’m sure you’re not all soft.”

&&&

Maura looked at me, her head cocked. “What’s he talking about?”

I stood up on wobbly legs. “Hon, I think we should go now. It’s late, and I’ve got class first thing.”

“No,” she said, “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on just now,” Frank said. “It’s about what went on earlier on.”

“What is he talking about?”

Her voice broke, just a little, but I knew she knew. She’s always had this amazing intuition, it was practically fucking mystical, you know?

“We need to talk,” I said. “But let’s not do it here. Let’s go home.”

She shook her head. “Tell me right now.”

I tried to talk, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

Frank said, “I’ll tell you, girlie, if you really want to know.”

“Tell me, god damn it.”

Frank smiled, shrugged. “But there’s a price for knowing.”

“Tell me.”

“Don’t you wanna know the price?”

“Shut the fuck up. Just tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“Have it your way.” He pointed at me. “Your boy there went and had lunch with my girlfriend this afternoon.”

To me, Maura said, “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I tried to speak, but again, no words came out.

Frank said, “He didn’t tell you because he fucked my girl in the bathroom.”

Maura just looked at me. “What is he saying?”

“Let’s just leave. We should leave right now. We can talk about this later.”

She stood up. She was yelling now. “No, damn you, John, you’re going to tell me right now if this is true.”

I could feel the sweat running down the back of my neck. I felt sick. “Let’s leave. I’ll tell you anything you want, but let’s go.”

“Tell me!”

I think the neighbors across the street must have heard her that time. If only somebody had called the cops, you know? I said, “It’s true.”

“Jesus Christ,” she said, and sat back down on the ground in front of Siena.

Frank stood up, his arms raised like a Baptist preacher or whatever, and yelled, “And the truth shall set you free!”

It was such a damn cliché it would have been funny if I could have laughed. But I knew right then that Maura wasn’t going to leave, not even if she wanted to. And then I remembered something else my old man used to say. He would say, when it comes down to it, you’ve gotta look out for number one. I always thought he was a selfish piece of shit, and he sure proved that a number of times, but maybe he was also right in a way, you know?

To Maura, Frank said. “You ready to pay up?”

Maura looked shocked, hunched down on the ground, her hands lying limp at her sides.
Finally, she said, “What?”

“It’s time to pay up, girlie.”

Still looking straight ahead, she said, “I think I just want to leave.”

Frank smiled at Siena. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

Now Maura looked at Frank, realizing the thing I’d known for a few minutes. “What do you mean?”

“Open your mouth,” Siena said, and Maura just about jumped out of her skin. It was the first time in minutes that Siena had said anything. Maura knew then that this wasn’t just some shit that a drunk redneck dude was trying to pull, but that both of them, Frank and Siena, were like a two-headed snake that had been coiling itself around us all night.

“Open your damn mouth,” Frank said, fidgeting with his belt.

“No,” Maura said, but only a whisper came out.

Siena took her by the hair with one hand. I moved forward to do something, I have no idea what, since Frank could have swatted me away like a fucking insect, but quick like a damn cat Siena had a gun in her free hand and she was pointing it at me. It must have been in the seat cushion. The things you wish you’d known, know what I mean? With the gun on me and a nasty little smile on her face, she said, “Bet you’re not too hard now, John.”

“Jesus, Frank, come on,” I said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank said. To Maura he said, “Open your mouth or I’ll have my girl shoot your boy in the nuts.”

Siena lowered her gun, pointing it at my crotch. She pulled Maura’s hair, hard this time. “Do it, you little bitch.”

Maura was crying. I’m pretty sure I was too.  Frank reached into his zipper and pulled out his dick and stuck in Maura’s mouth. He fucked her face, hard. Her eyes bulged, looking at me, terrified, not understanding, while he blew his load.

“What the fuck,” I said. “What the fuck.” I sat down on the floor.

The next part I think I knew was coming, but until it did, I was trying to believe I was wrong. I’m sorry, it’s just really hard to talk about, you know? Jesus. You know what happens next, I’m sure you read it in the papers.

I thought Frank was putting his belt back on, but instead he pulled something off the belt. I saw the gleam of the steel and knew what it was. The police report says it was a four-inch buck knife. That sounds about right. Well, he took the knife and jammed it straight into Maura’s throat. It was horrible. I’ve only ever seen that kind of thing in the movies, and I always thought that the blood spray and all that shit was totally exaggerated, but that’s about what happens when you slice an artery, it just lets loose like water bursting through a dam. There was blood everywhere. I like to think that Maura was dead before she hit the ground, but I know better. You know, I can still hear her gasping for air, every fucking night, in my nightmares.

And in my nightmares I remember the look on their faces, Siena’s and Frank’s. Siena was totally covered in blood. Her teeth shone extra white in all the red. They just looked so fucking pleased with themselves, the sick motherfuckers. Frank was looking at me, and I don’t know if you can swagger when you’re just standing still, but if you can, then that’s what he was doing. I think I screamed something as I ran at him, but I’m not really sure, the screaming could have just been in my head.

I never got to him, never made it further than the coffee table, because Siena shot me, twice from where she was sitting. Once in the head, you can feel the scar where the bullet went in. The ER doc said it was a fucking miracle I lived. I’ll tell you what the damn miracle is: how much the headaches still hurt, two years later. The second bullet went right through me and stuck in my spine, and you know what? I’m glad. If I wasn’t at least stuck in this fucking chair the rest of my life, I’m pretty sure I would have killed myself.
The whole thing’s so fucked, right? You’ve got to be thankful for small things. I’ve always hated not knowing certain things, like the answer to a riddle, or whatever. I did find out where that son of a bitch got his liquor. According to the cops, and the stories that came out after, those fuckers used to live in the city and they were neighbors with this guy who imported rare liquors. The cops found the guy stabbed and shot in his apartment, his girlfriend too. It’s horrible, you know, but it feels kind of good to tie up the loose ends. It’s something, anyway.

Sometimes, at night, when I can’t sleep, I sit in bed and remember Maura. I don’t even know anymore if I was in love with her. I don’t really know what happened, or what it means. My shrink — boy, my old man would have a fit if he knew I was seeing a shrink — tells me that I shouldn’t look for meaning in it, that some stuff just happens. What’s the old bumper sticker say? Shit happens. Just don’t let it happen to you. What the fuck. But I’ll tell you one thing it all means, and it makes me sick to my stomach every time I think of it: my old man was right about just about every damn thing.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Nicomedes Austin Suárez 2012

Image Courtesy: Ebenezer

I heard this tapping coming from the parking lot behind my building.

Upon investigation I saw this guy hitting cars with a stick! Thinking he was checking for alarm systems, I thought, that bastard touches my vehicle – he’s toast!

Sure enough the bugger hit my car too. I ran downstairs, grabbed that stupid white cane and beat him senseless with it!

* * *

Driving down the road the other day I saw these 3 guys attempting to rob an elderly woman.

I pulled over, ran across the street to assist.

Do you know it took the 4 of of us 10 minutes to finally get that purse off the old bitch!