Near to the Knuckle

Presents

”Gloves Off” Edited by Craig Douglas & Darren Sant

Converted to Kindle by Craig Douglas @ Gritfiction Cover Design by Steven Miscandlon at Steven Miscandlon Book Design.

Copyright © 2013 This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights are reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the author. Introduction

Near To The Knuckle rose like a Phoenix from the ashes of an eclectic blog known as Close To The Bone. CTTB was sadly hacked into oblivion and much precious data was irretrievably lost. There were several regular bloggers behind CTTB and it was this collective that made it such a unique and interesting blend. With this demise it was decided that we would turn a negative into a positive and create a fiction site. Like CTTB we wanted something original, different and that nobody else was doing. Our goal was simply to publish fiction that other sites might not, edgy fiction that tackled difficult, violent and often uncomfortable themes. Right from the start we wanted a broad remit and you'll find everything on our site from supernatural fiction to poetry and humour and yet all have a common theme that it is Near To The Knuckle. We believe that in a little over a year we have achieved this and more. We have never compromised on quality nor shied away from a tricky theme. In this time we have been delighted to meet a whole host of talented writers and it has been our honour to host and showcase these authors who so easily create dark and atmospheric worlds. The proceeds of this collection go towards the continued growth and survival of the site and all of the authors have willingly contributed their time and their talents. I'd like to thank all of the authors involved particularly Paul Brazil for giving us several posts in his weekly column. Richard Godwin for coming forward and offering us blog space before we even had a chance to ask him and of course for coming up with the title. Graham Smith who has always given us that extra bit of support. David Barber for pointing out my editorial errors when I've lazily let them slip through and always with a smile, never a harsh word. Pete Sortwell for being a huge part of the original team and who got me blogging. Vic Watson, Allen Miles and Cheryl Reid all of who were involved in the original blog. AJ Hayes who has always supported us and who always takes the time to leave a positive comment. Craig Douglas my co-conspirator in this venture who deserves more credit than me. Whilst I am, perhaps, the public face of the site it's Craig who does the formatting, the in depth editing and the real work behind the scenes. Finally, thanks to all of the authors who have contributed their work. There would not be a site or a collection without you.

Darren Sant March 2013

All Night Just Baking The Cake The Hit Man And Her Brotherly Love Weight Twatchers Cold Somebody’s Daughter Squeezing Brothers Under The Bridge Be Careful What You Wish For Walkies The Rapist’s Revenge Highway Star House Party Innocent Devils and Doughnuts The Way Of Things An Evening In Sin City Razorblade Kisses

By Gareth Spark

The first things you noticed about Nash were the tattoos poking out from under his white guard's shirt. He had a heart, a diamond, a spade and a club on each finger, and a skull on the back of one hand; H-A-T-E and some kind of black bird on the other. I wanted to ask him about them, but he wasn't the kind of man you questioned. We were night-watchmen together at the Collinson Scrap-yard gates. I'd held the job a month or two and it was okay; we'd sit in a portakabin close to the curling wire fence, looking over at the walls of an abandoned furniture warehouse. The streetlights lit the brick a dull crimson and there was something about the empty windows that scored a line straight over my peace. I would turn and gaze at the River Tees through the other window; huge, black and endless beneath the night. The flames shooting out of chemical works over there were the only way you knew a far shore existed. The night was darkness, and fire caught in the ebony waste of water. Nash held up to the world like a shield. He must have been fifty and I reckoned he'd only got the job 'cause he was a big bloke. I'm six feet and he towered over me. A beard as rough and grey as steel wool hid the lower half of his face and he tied his greasy hair in a ponytail. He was either rolling a fag. smoking one, or looking out at the river through fingerprint marked glass. This night I was reading The Sun. I flipped the Page 3 over at him, gestured to the Blonde caught there and said, 'Eh? What do you reckon, Mate?' He flicked his yellow eyes towards the paper, peered through the smoke, then looked back to the window. I followed his gaze and saw nothing but the flame stamped tides. It was 3 in the morning. I hated silence. I reacted to it the way a slug takes to salt. I carried on talking, 'You should have been here last night, pal,' I said, a little too loudly. 'Few fellas out there with bikes in the wee small hours, up to mischief. You ask Frank.' It was true enough; me and Frank, the other lad, heard them coming through the night, quarter of an hour before we saw them. Three men riding the finest machines I'd ever seen; chrome and black steel, polished so brilliantly they seemed to even catch the starlight. They pulled up in front of the warehouse opposite, killed the lion's roar of the engines and sat there looking bang at us. Frank, who was an ex-squaddie and did his job right, walked out and called to them. They silently watched him approach. Not one wore a helmet and all were dressed in the same kind of jacket, denim, with the sleeves cut off and a patch covering the whole back The patch carried the picture of a skull and some lettering I couldn't make out. They waited until Frank was six feet away, then kicked the motorcycles into life and tore down the long straight road leading out of the estate, kicking up a cloud of dust that hung in the summer night like a ghost. I told Nash this as I'd told him maybe a hundred other stories, sat back in the moth eaten chair, a lukewarm mug of tinny-tasting PG Tips in hand. I glanced over at him and his eyes were hard against my gaze. 'Tell me again,' he said. I did and it was as though he was shrinking in front of me. His head sank slowly onto his chest and I heard his breathing go funny, then he stood and turned, started to unbutton his shirt. 'What you up to?' 'This patch,' he said, 'On the cut offs? Was it like this?' He let the shirt drop and there it was: faded blue ink over his wrinkly bicep, the death's head grinning and letters that had bled into each other over the decades. 'Exactly the bloody same,' I said, feeling my mouth dry. The wind was picking up outside. You could hear it throw dust against the walls and chop through the river like a thousand blades. He turned. 'Fair enough,' he said, sitting. His face was so pale, suddenly, that his brown eyes seemed black. He plucked his cigarette from the ashtray and sucked on it.I shuffled closer. 'What is it?' 'Something that's been coming for a long, long time,' he said, turning back to the window. He didn't say another word until the sun rose. I got off the bus the next night and trudged through the empty industrial estate. I hadn't slept. Every time I'd started to drift I saw those bikers, only where their faces should have been there were skulls caked with soil, towering over me with all the darkness of the grave. I would wake with my heart trembling like a snared rabbit. The day had been August hot and you felt some of that heat leaving the tar of the road. It stank like something burning. Then there was the salt and weed tang of the river itself, trapped in the gathering chill of night, flowing like a cold breath between the broken buildings, sighing through shattered glass. Something about the windows brought back the memory of those dream skulls and I walked a little faster. I was working with Nash again. I reached the corner and a woman's voice addressed me from the darkness of a doorway. ''scuse me, fella; got a light?' She was about my age: short dyed black hair; nose ring; cracked leather jacket. A grin snaked over my face. I reached into my pocket for a box of England's Glory and tried to think of something smart to say as she took the matches. 'You lost, love?' She lit a cigarette and waved the match dead in front of her green eyes and let it drop to the dust with a stink of sulphur. She breathed out a cloud of blue nicotine and studied me. She cocked her her head to one side. 'You work up in the scrap yard?' There was a hint of Scots to her accent. 'For a security thing we're looking after the yard, yeah. What's your name?' 'You're working with Mitch Graham?' 'Never heard of him,' I said. 'Maybe he might be called Graham Nash?' She leant back against the cobwebbed brick of the doorway and sucked on the Marlboro. Her eyes glinted behind the smoke like streetlight caught in the windows of an abandoned home. 'Nash, yeah...' I stopped myself. There was a feeling behind my ribs like cold water rising. 'I mean...maybe...why?' 'Be sure and give him this, lover.' She reached out quickly and grabbed my hand then forced something into my palm. 'See you around.' She walked away, her leather coat creaking. It was an eternity ring. The sort you’d get your wife or girlfriend. I frowned and looked back for the girl, but she was gone, leaving only the trace of smoke and sulphur. Nash was in the chair, looking out at the river. A rollie hung from his lips and ash had fallen into his beard. He didn't turn when the door opened, but I saw his reflection in the glass. He closed his eyes tight. 'Nash,' I said. He opened his eyes and breathed out slowly, stubbed the cigarette dead into the ashtray I'd nicked from a pub in town. 'It's you,' he said. 'Who did you think?' I hung my jacket on the back of the door and flipped the kettle on. 'Listen. There was this lass out there, under where the old door factory was, she asked for you and told me to give you this.' I placed the ring carefully on the desk before him and studied his face for a reaction. He glared down at it, his palms stuck to the arms of the swivel chair and then he looked up at me. 'A girl then, was it?' 'Pretty one too.' 'They always are, mate. These little angels get sent; always the prettiest eyes, always that sweet voice calling you on.' It was the most I'd heard him speak. I flicked the switch on top of the kettle and the sound of boiling died. A moth fluttered against the black window. Nash stared at the ring. 'How's about you telling me what's going on?' I demanded, feeling afraid and realising I'd felt that way for days. 'I mean, should we call someone?' He laughed; a high, ragged noise escaping him like a last breath. 'I'm serious.' 'So am I.' He reached into the inner pocket of the jacket hanging beside him and dragged out a flick knife. The handle was worn with use but when he clicked the switch and the blade materialised, I saw it was well oiled and sharp as the north wind. He slid it over the desk. 'Take this.' 'What for?' 'Because I'll want to use it and I can't use it no more. The light all died out of me a long while back. What's coming is only what's supposed to.' 'I don't get it.' He sighed and looked out at the black river flowing silently beside us. 'There are worlds on worlds out there boy and this isn't one you want in on.' His voice was low and scarred. I had the impression these were words he'd rehearsed. 'I done something a lifetime ago and I owe for it. That's all. Thought I could outrun it, but there is no outrunning it, nothing's ever over, There's no bottom to that black river.' He nodded to the window then quickly grabbed the ring from the desk and pressed it to his lips. His dark eyes were wet. I felt my stomach spoil as I backed up to the chair and sat. I wanted to do something, to run, to take hold of Nash and make him laugh; make him tell me this was all bollocks. That it was all some sort of joke he was playing on me. Silent hours passed. I was about to speak when I heard an engine's distant howl. Nash looked at me, his red eyes were wide. 'Get out,' he said, 'Run. And don't stop.' 'I'll stay.' 'No.' 'I could help.' He stood, grabbed my shoulder and pressed me to the door. 'Too late for that,' he said punching the door open and pushing me out. I fell in the dust at the bottom of the steps. The motorcycles were closer now. I felt the growl of them through my palms as I pushed myself up from the earth. The night was deep, endless and filled with the roar of steel, rubber, dirt and whatever else was reaching for us through the pitch dark. 'Go!' He yelled. I dashed along the wire fence to the place where it turned towards the river. The yellow grass was high and stiff as sticks between the dirt path and the lapping water. I hurled myself onto the cracked earth and lay flat as the bikes pulled up a hundred yards away. I lay with my hands on top of my head and peered up through the grass as Nash walked slowly towards the three bikers. Their engines fell silent and all I heard was the water behind me. Then a man's voice. 'You didn't run?' 'You thought I would?' Nash replied. 'Always have, brother. You always have.' The man's voice was clear, but even from a distance I heard the tremble in it. He climbed from the bike and I saw his long hair move in the breeze as he looked at the ground. 'For fuck's sake, Nash. Why didn't you go this time too?' 'I'm old,' I heard Nash say. His voice was dry and low, 'And I'm tired and by Christ, Johnny Boy. I deserve this at last.' Silence. A minute ticked into two, then the man spoke again, 'I've been thinking about her.' I couldn't see his face, but the voice was that of an older man. I heard the diesel fumes and cigarettes and the bathtubs of booze that had passed through that throat. 'I don't think I've ever done different,' Nash replied. The two other riders remained still. Their machines were pulled at angles to the third blocking the road. 'Twenty years,' the man said slowly, 'and here we are at last.' 'Here we are.' 'You know I got to do this.' 'I know.' 'I loved her.' Nash looked up into the night air. There were no stars. I crawled a little closer. 'Johnny boy, you never knew what the fuck love was.' 'And you did?' 'We'd of got away that night, then maybe.' Johnny Boy walked over to one of the riders who passed him a sawed-off double barrel gun from a saddle-bag on the bike. They murmured something and then Johnny turned and walked back to Nash, who stood with his arms by his sides looking still into the air. 'You got anything to say, brother?' He held the shotgun in one hand like a pistol and levelled it at Nash's face. I glanced at my watch. It was 3.30am. The wind was picking up and I watched dust lift in clouds on the dirty road and hang in the harsh glare of the streetlamp. I was going to run to the phone box I knew was round the corner, get the Coppers down here. Something. Anything, then I heard the heavy click of the hammers going back and the question again. It came out trembling and weak, like something dying dragged from a hole. 'You got anything to say?' The water churned in the wind and I heard Nash say, 'I love you, Louise.' The gun kicked and I saw a burst of grey and red and flame. Nash's head wasn't there anymore. The shot echoed like a slamming iron door off the abandoned buildings and I heard birds rise from the shore close by. I smelled the gunpowder and Nash fell back into the dust. Blood pumped from the shattered ruin of his head like spilled black paint and I was on my feet without thinking. I heard one of the men yell as I raced blindly down to the shore. An engine kicked into life like a waking monster and I ran until my lungs burned like acid, crying all the time, running until I came to the water. I fell to my knees and heard the bikes spin off through the estate. They weren't coming for me. Not tonight, not this time. I threw up the bile in my guts and wept silently. My knees were deep in the river mud and it seemed that all the world was nothing but that black water before me, dark and deep and cold and forever. Gareth Spark writes dark fiction from and about the moors and rustbelts of the North East where grudges are savoured, shotguns are cheap and people get by in the economic meltdown any way they can. His work has appeared at Near 2 The Knuckle, Out Of The Gutter, and Shotgun Honey.

By Richard Godwin

They like the fast food joints. They smell of burning sugar. They talk about cookies and donuts, candy and chocolate bars. There’s blood in the food chain. I’m holding the chain here in these endless hotels. I want to wrap it around their throats and yank. Perhaps I will drag them along miles of broken stones. That way I can see if they have flesh at all. All the hotels belong to the same company. There is only one company. The towns are all the same, they may be part of a stage set. I sometimes hear them coughing in the wings, a piece of donut stuck in their throats, all those directors with limousines full of hookers stationed by the terminals at airports, waiting. They’ve paid for it all, they only understand payment. My salary is the questionable reality of the illusory freedom I enjoy. I’m waiting for Frankie. He is much like a dealer, except he talks a different jargon. Beneath the jargon lie the addictions, gnarled and diseased, just like the targets. Their compulsion for annihilation tastes just like burning sugar. Outside my window it looks like icing.

#

Chicago. It’s winter. I’m losing my memory. The alliance will move me on soon. Cars are frozen solid, women scurry by the blocks of iced metal, hiding their skins from the cold. Skin has a price. Even yours. I’m opposite Millennium Park and I ask myself what I’m doing here. There are no answers in the bottles of Jim Beam and Twinkie wrappers that litter the apartment. I pull down my eyelids and stare at my face in the tarnished mirror. You never know where your next job is coming from. I don’t know how many days I’ve been here. Clocks are illegal now. I’m stepping out of the shower when the door buzzes. Frankie’s standing there with his briefcase. He walks in, sits down, slings a cowboy boot over his Wrangler jeans, and pops a strawberry Zinger in his mouth. “So Harry, ready for the next one?” He slides a picture of a fat man eating a lollipop across the stained coffee table. It has the usual details on the back, address, schedule of target’s movements. “Usual payment?” I ask. Frankie nods. “Bake him, he’s cake. Then we’re moving you to another city.” “Where this time?” “Does it matter?” It doesn’t. It doesn’t matter where I am because the life’s the same, except I’m losing myself. “How did I get here?” I ask. “You don’t want to know that, Harry.” “You want to erase me, is that it?” He smiles. It is a smile totally without mirth. “We’re putting the codes in.” “On the targets?” “Everyone, eventually. That is the plan.” He leans forward and knits his hands together. “You see, we need to keep track of you.” “I work for you.” “Exactly. Consider it like an ISBN code, for your protection.” “I don’t need protecting.” “Safety is the purpose, it is a national objective.” “And you always achieve your objectives.” I watch him on the street down below as he walks to his car, a small man with small ideas. I can see his head opening from a long range shot, his skull cracking like plaster, his brains spreading across his cowboy boots, a fitting end to a drone. I get ready for the job.

#

It’s an easy hit. Fatso’s in the shower when I get inside his house, I can hear him singing Leonard Cohen’s Famous Blue Rain Coat. He’s croaking, “What can I tell you my brother my killer,” when he stops and gasps like a virgin as he sees me there in my black leather gloves. I say, “Bye baby,” and spread his head over his nice white tiles. Problem is there’s a half naked blonde in a G string in the hallway, who screams and covers her large breasts as I run my eyes down her full figure. Pity to miss a fuck but I pop her too. She looks good enough to eat and I’m hungry as I head out of there. I stop on North Sheffield Avenue at the DMK Burger Bar. The only beer they’ve got is Heineken and that’s when the flashback hits me. I’m sitting at a bar in Detroit drinking Heineken when Frankie’s boys come in. They blackjack me in the john with my dick in my hand. One minute I’m pissing, next thing I’m lying in a white room listening to Mantovani. A pretty nurse comes in and checks my pulse. I can smell Frankie’s cheap cologne in the air. He is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had become invisible. Many of them do. I can tell what has happened. My brain is hammering like a rapid pulse. I’m aware of something solid in my head, a small hard thing at my temple. It’s a blur of pills and hotels after that. It’s called the sponge filling. When a gun gets to know too much they control his brain, spooky but true. Soon he’s put in a cake and shipped out to the diners. This job’ll eat you alive. I leave the bar. Back at the apartment I open my temple with a scalpel. I cut just deep enough into the side of my head and peel back two inches of skin, removing the chip, which I put in my pocket. I stitch myself up, and put on my hat. Then I pack and head downstairs to the Lincoln waiting to take me to the next city. The two bozos in the front yap about football as they take the detour. I shoot them at a junction and get a taxi to the airport, calling Frankie from my cell. “Think you could do away with me? I’m going freelance.” “Good job we have a code. Await your next instructions,” he says. Soon I see Bessie Coleman Drive and I taste freedom. It tastes of salt. There may still be restaurants. There may still be other foods. I move like a shadow through the crowds. I ditch my Glock in a trash can. As I’m booking my ticket I feel a hand on my shoulder and a cop asks me to come with him and his colleague. I’ll show them the pictures, I’ll tell them about the alliance. I’ll work for them. The cop smiles. “Do you like cup cakes?” he asks. Richard Godwin writes dark crime fiction, among other genres. He is the author of critically acclaimed bestselling novels Apostle Rising, and Mr. Glamour. He writes horror fiction as well as poetry and is a produced playwright. His stories have been published in over 28 anthologies, among them The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime and The Big Book Of Bizarro. Apostle Rising, published by Black Jackal Books, is a dark work of fiction exploring the blurred line between law and lawlessness and the motivations that lead men to kill. It digs into the scarred soul of a cop in the hunt for a killer who has stepped straight from a nightmare into the waking world. The sequel is due out this year in mass market paperback. Mr. Glamour, published by Black Jackal Books, is about a world of wealthy, beautiful people who can buy anything, except safety from the killer in their midst. It is about two scarred cops who are driven to acts of darkness by the investigation. As DCI Jackson Flare and DI Mandy Steele try to catch the killer they find themselves up against a wall of secrecy. And the killer is watching everyone. Richard Godwin was born in London and obtained a BA and MA in English and American Literature from King's College London, where he also lectured. He has travelled the world extensively. His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are highly popular and unusual interviews he conducts with other authors and may be found at his blog http://www.richardgodwin.net/blog . They have been compared to the Paris Review in terms of style and quality. You can find out more about him at his website RichardGodwin.net . He is also a highly requested public speaker and is speaking at The House of Lords in London for cultural diplomacy.

By Paul D. Brazill

Carl Henderson had to squint when he spoke to the tired sounding American woman that looked like she'd just melted onto a bar stool. The scorching midday sun was streaming through the open door and all he could see was her silhouette. He put on a pair of sunglasses and liked what he saw. She was a good looking woman; late forties, stylishly dressed and wearing sunglasses that were a lot more expensive than his. She held out a perfectly manicured hand. He took it delicately. ‘Linda,’ she said. ‘Craig,’ he lied. ‘What can I get you?’ he said. ‘Well, it’s just after noon, so that makes it Margareta time in my book,’ she said. He prepared the drink with a flourish and handed it to her to taste. ‘What do you think?’ She sipped the drink and gave a shaky thumbs up. He smiled. ‘Nice to know. Cocktails are like humour. Very personal things,’ he said. ‘Indeed,’ she said. He turned back and slammed the till closed so hard that the optics hanging overhead rattled. ‘With my late husband, the humour was the hardest part at first,’ said Linda and unsteadily she got off the bar stool. She moved it closer to the bar. ‘Well, that and the Yorkshire accent.’ She tightly held onto the bar and edged back onto the bar stool. Gripped her glass. Stroked it. Caressed it. ‘Rod was like a machine gun. Rattling off these one-liners that were filled with cultural references that I just didn’t have a hope of getting.’ She smiled. ‘Never did get most of them.’ She scraped some salt from the rim of her margarita and licked it from her finger tip. Henderson just nodded and waited for her to continue. He knew he was in for the long haul with this one. He could tell, just by looking at her that she needed a shrink at least as much as a drink. He could see how haunted she looked. Still, business was business. The bar was always deserted on Tuesday afternoons. The bloody Spanish and their siestas. And today, Linda was the only customer, apart from the old English geezer in the corner with the walking stick and the thick glasses. He’d been nursing a milky coffee for hours and didn’t look keen on buying anything else. ‘The first time we met,’ said Linda. ‘Was on a boat.’ Henderson straightened his tie in the mirror behind the bar and turned back to Linda. He picked up the remote and clicked on the CD player. Tim Hardin wafted into the room. A Leonard Cohen song about trying to be free. ‘I was barely in my twenties. Trying to prove I could be independent from my rich daddy. He was a big shot executive for General Motors. Anyway, I got a job working as a kids’ entertainer on a cruise ship that was going around the Greek Islands.’ Henderson sipped his lemonade and looked up at the ceiling fan. It was working but the bar was still stiflingly hot. Pain in the arse getting planning permission for a listed building , though, so air conditioning was out of the question. It had cost plenty already. Almost everything he’d ripped off from Big Howie, in fact. ‘Sounds great?’ ‘It was. Another world. I’d never been out of Michigan before, let alone the States. My family didn’t like to travel. Dad always said, why go looking around the world when we have everything we need at home?’ ‘Not the most adventurous of guys, then?’ ‘Huh. Yeah. So, there I was trying to entertain the kids –who were running riot - when this middle aged English singer turned up. In two minutes, Rod got them organised into two lines. ‘Boys in front of Uncle Ian’ - him – and ‘girls in front of Auntie Myra,’ me. Not that I got the joke at the time.’ ‘The Moors Murderers? Sick joke, that.’ Linda shrugged. ‘But you hit it off, anyway?’ said Henderson. ‘Yeah, and what a life that led to. I joined the band on backing vocals, and that eventually became a duo. Him and me. I played keyboards even though I had no musical training. He put coloured tape and numbers on the keys for each song. We went around the world; Russia, Saudi Arabia, Thailand and Italy.’ ‘Sounds great.’ Linda nodded. ‘It was in Morocco when I noticed something strange, though. Rod always went out for a drink late at night. Sometimes he didn’t come back till the early hours but he rarely seemed drunk.’ ‘Mmm.’ ‘Yeah, so. Paranoid. One night in Morocco, I followed him. He walked and walked and eventually ended up in a small dark, bar. He sat with a big, sweaty guy in a stained, white, lined suit. Very creepy looking . I saw Rod move up close to the guy, whispering in his ear. I was about to barge in when I saw Rod lean even closer and the businessman slump into a heap on the floor.’ Henderson stopped cleaning the pint glass in his hand. ‘Then, Rod walked out of the bar a blank expression on his face. He put a gun in his jean's waist band and walked straight past me.’ ‘So, what did you do?’ ‘I said nothing. Didn’t know what to say. I was in shock or something. A few months later we returned to the States and went to a bank. Rod opened up safety deposit boxes full of more cash than I’d ever seen. We put on money belts stuffed with hundred dollar bills.’ ‘Wow!’ ‘Yep. Headed off to Switzerland and put it in a bank account there.’ ‘And did you confront him?’ ‘Eventually. But I knew the score by then. I’d guessed. It was clear that Rod was a hit man. An international assassin for hire. The musician thing was perfect cover.’ ‘Yeah, perfect,’ said Henderson, a little nervous now. ‘Anyway, things slowed down a little and then …When we were in Africa, The Gambia, well, Rod died of Malaria.’ ‘Sorry to hear that.’ ‘I buried him there. Went back to his home town for a memorial. Returned to Michigan for a while.’ ‘So, did you give up the music?’ ‘Yes. I never had any talent for that side of the business. But I carried on Rod’s other work.’ Henderson’s turned pale and dropped the glass which shattered on the floor. Linda dug a hand into her handbag and pulled out a gun. ‘A goodbye from Big Howie,’ she said and fired. Henderson stumbled and fell. A single bullet in his forehead. The man with the walking stick sat up. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to invest in a bar,’ said Rod. He tapped his stick on the stool. ‘You’ve invested in far too many as it is!’ said Linda. And they walked, arm in arm, out into the mid-day sun. I was born in England and now live in Poland. I’ve had writing published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime 8 and 10 – alongside the likes Lee Child, Ian Rankin and Neil Gaiman. I’ve published 13 Shots Of Noir, Snapshots, Red Esperanto/ Rosso Esperanto , Death On A Hot Afternoon/ Morte A Madrid, Vin Of Venus, Guns Of Brixton and The Gumshoe. I’ve edited the anthologies, True Brit Grit ( with Luca Veste) and Drunk On The Moon. I'm a member of International Thriller Writers Inc. My blog is here: pauldbrazill.wordpress.com/

By Aidan Thorn

I could not be happier right now. I’m on the way to the hospital with a stab wound in my side courtesy of my big brother and if I didn’t have eyes on me right now I’d be grinning from ear to ear. The ambulance is really shifting as it carries me away from Larkford Prison to the hospital. Of course I panicked at first. Well you would, wouldn’t you? Some resourceful and deadly chap sticks a sharpened toothbrush handle into your side and you start to wonder if today might not quite make the ‘top 10 days I spent in prison’ list. And if I’m honest getting on that list would not be difficult because the days have been pretty shitty so far. Still, I was wrong, because this day is actually going to top the list of great days I spent in prison. Well, days I started the day in prison, because today, I’m escaping. See, when I say I have a stab wound in my side courtesy of my big brother I should probably explain. He didn’t actually administer the wound. He’s not in prison with me. Oh no, this isn’t some episode of Bad Girls where we’re all in together, happy families and stuff. That said I wouldn’t have minded being stuck in that prison, there were a few tidy looking sorts in there. I reckon I’d have a new day to add to my ‘top 10 days I spent in prison’ most weeks in a place like that. I’m sorry, my mind is wandering a bit, I’ve lost a lot of blood, you’ll understand. Anyway, Rick, that’s my brother. He arranged for me to be stabbed. It’s all part of his plan to help me escape. He had Three Fingers Louie do it. Louie’s only got three fingers on his right hand. He’s doing a life stretch for stabbing some bloke eighteen times; killed the bloke it did. See, my brother Rick is a top bloke, made sure he got someone who knew what he was doing to stab me in the guts. It’s good to know you’re in the hands of a professional. Reassuring. Louie had stuck the toothbrush in deep and moved it about a bit. He made a fair sized hole. At first I was focusing too much on the fear and pain to really listen to what he was saying. When I finally did hear him I realised he wasn’t being aggressive towards me, well unless you count wiggling the shank about a little too vigorously. ‘Calm down Jimmy lad, I’m doing you a favour. This is all part of a plan your brother Rick has to break you out of here. Now lay down,’ Louie whispered quietly in my ear before dropping the bloody toothbrush, stepping off and shouting. ‘Guard! guard! This man’s been stabbed.’ The next thing I know there are two guards trying to fight their way through a crowd that spontaneously assembled the second Louie started shouting. They’re morbid fuckers in that prison, first sign that someone might die and that’s it they’re buzzing for the week. The only person that didn’t stick around for a look is Three Fingers Louie himself. What happened next was a bit of a blur but it’s ended up with me lying handcuffed to a stretcher in the back of this ambulance. I’ve got a paramedic working on my injury on one side and one of the guards that dragged me out of the crowd on the other. The guard is an older fella. I can’t remember his real name, but apparently he’s been at the prison longer than most of the lifers and everyone calls him 'Mortar' because they say he’s part of the building. He’s a grumpy old fucker. I guess I would be too if I spent my life at a prison. ‘Why were we called out?’ The paramedic asked Mortar. ‘You’ve got a ward and doctor on site.’ ‘We’ve had to close it down this morning. There’s a water pipe running through the medical centre. Some prick has put a whacking great hole in it and flooded the place,’ Mortar said rolling his eyes. Bloody hell my big brother’s clever, he really did pick the right man for this job. See, old Three Fingers Louie has got a cleaning job in the area of the hospital wing. I think it would be a pretty safe bet if I were to stick a 'ton' on that he was responsible for that leak. Rick’s thought of everything, which is good to know because I guess that also means he’s got a plan to get me away from the prison guard and the police escort that is following the ambulance. ‘You shouldn’t be wasting your time driving around picking up shit like this bloke anyway. There are decent people out there in need of your help. No one would be too upset if this prick bled out on a prison floor.’ Mortar continued talking as the paramedic tried to look busy. I’m not really sure the medical man is doing much in all honesty but I guess like me he wants the daft twat to shut up and thinks maybe he will if he looks too busy to listen. No such luck, Mortar’s going right into one about all the scum he’s seen going through the prison over the years and how they’ve gotten worse over the years, since the system got soft on them. Honestly I feel for the paramedic. Okay, so I’ve got a stab wound and I have to listen to Mortar banging on, but for me it’s a means to an end. The paramedic is stuck between a rock and a hard place. If he agrees with Mortar, he risks upsetting me and he doesn’t know what I’m doing time for – I could be a twisted unhinged serial killer. I’m not, I went down for armed robbery and that was unfair. I mean is it my fault that the people who owned the house were awake when I got in and that they felt threatened by the crowbar I’d used to force the window? I hadn’t intended to use it on them. Some people are over sensitive. Anyway the paramedic doesn’t know I’m not violent and it’s more than obvious that he’s trying his best not to upset either of us. Mercifully for both of us the journey is short and we’re at the hospital before too long. The doors swing open and I get my first site of the outside world in eight months. It’s funny how even the sky can depress you when viewed from inside a prison yard however as I’m pulled from the back of the ambulance the sun seems brighter than it has been the rest of the year. It’s probably in my head, or maybe it’s just a sunnier day but the romantic in me likes to think it’s a sign that my future is bright. My head fills with excitement as I contemplate the possibilities for the next stage of my brother’s brilliant escape plan. The problem is until about 20 minutes ago I didn’t know anything about this so I’m as in the dark on this as the hospital and prison staff. That said, judging by the number of people in darkly coloured uniforms - including police, hospital security and Mortar - that surround my bed as it’s wheeled through the hospital and into an operating room, they’re better prepared for an escape attempt than I am. What a cynical bunch of fuckers, assuming that a person might get himself stabbed and the prison medical ward shut down just to escape, I mean it’s a bit of a drastic move, right?

Apparently I’ve been out for a couple of hours, so the nurse tells me. She brings a sick bowl over and catches some of my vomit. It’s a side effect of the anaesthetic she tells me after telling me not to worry, it happens all the time. I’m finding it difficult to focus, I’ve got a sore throat and feel like I need to drift back off to sleep. But then I remember I’m here as part of my brother's plan to help me escape a ten stretch. I need to stay alert and ready for when the next stage of the plan kicks in. I fall asleep. When I wake up I’ve been moved and it appears I’ve got the room to myself, well apart from a copper in an ill-fitting uniform sat on a chair looking out of the window. Clearly he’s put a few pounds on since he was issued with his gear. I guess what with the budget cuts the force can’t afford new clothes every time one of their boys lets himself go. My throat is still sore and I cough, that gets the copper’s attention and then I see why the uniform is snug, he’s not a copper at all it’s my big brother Rick. ‘Hello bruv,’ he says, standing up and walking towards me. I’ve got a lot of questions; What’s the plan? Did he really have to have me stabbed? Which sun kissed island are we off to? ‘Where the fuck did you get that uniform you fat bastard?’ Comes out of my mouth before anything else. Rick pulls back the curtain on the bed next to me to reveal a naked bloke, about two stone lighter than himself, handcuffed, gagged and sleeping soundly thanks to a bump to the head that’s still leaking a fair bit of claret. Before I can ask Rick what the plan is he’s made his way to the doorway and is calling into the corridor for a nurse. I can’t see what’s going on because Rick has pulled the curtain back around to cover up the sleeping policeman, but I can hear the conversation. ‘I’ve just had a call from the prison. They’ve got their hospital ward back up together again and are keen to get the prisoner back asap.’ Rick sounds very convincing as a copper, which is good because he looks fucking stupid with that clobber hugging him far too tight. ‘Well he’s not in great shape but he’s certainly not in any danger now he could do with staying here the night really though.’ It was a shame I couldn’t see the nurse because her voice suggested she’d have been a bit of a cracker, still probably best to fantasise that she looks like Charlize Theron, rather than be let down by the reality. ‘The prison hospital ward is more than capable of giving him the appropriate care now that they’ve got it back on his feet I can assure you,’ Rick replied ‘Okay. Well, we’ll have to arrange an ambulance for the transfer.’ ‘Already done. The prison called this in just before they called me. They just asked me to let someone on the ward know as a courtesy.’ ‘Fine,’ the nurse replied. A slight hint of annoyance in her tone before leaving Rick with one last comment ringing in his ears. ‘You know they really ought to issue you with a new uniform.’ I couldn’t help but let out a little laugh which was cut short by a stabbing pain in my stitched up wound.

Pushing me through the corridor in a wheelchair, Rick explains his plan. ‘I’ve got a couple of the lads, Phil and Andy. Dressed as paramedics parked outside with an old ambulance I managed to get hold of. I’ve marked the back of it with a little red X so I don’t push you into the back of the wrong one and blow it. Couple of miles down the road I’ve got a car parked up in a multi-story. We’ll ditch the ambulance and head to the harbour where we’ll jump on Andy’s boat and fuck off to France.’ He says France with a hint of disgust before adding. ‘I know it’s shite, but it’s better than prison.’ We’re upon the ambulance with the red X on the back before I’ve even got a chance to tell Rick I actually don’t mind France, not that my two day visit to Euro Disney in 1994 makes me the most qualified person to comment. Rick shoves me up the little ramp before pulling the doors shut behind us and the vehicle is rolling before he’s even sat down. All the action so suddenly after having been stabbed, drugged, patched up and brought around has played havoc with me and my head is spinning faster than the wheels on the ambulance. I pass out. I wake up momentarily as Rick, Phil and Andy manhandle me from the ambulance into a car. The pain from my sliced up guts soon knocks me out again. Next I’m rudely awoken by the rocking and pulling motion of being heaved from the back seat of a car, my brother tugging at my legs whilst Phil gives me numerous shoves in the back. We’re at the marina and I can see Andy has gone on ahead. I guess he has to unlock the boat. The still night air is interrupted by the unmistakeable sound of gunfire. Just one shot cracks through the air echoing from Andy’s direction. I’d lost sight of him for a moment and searching the area in which I last spotted him I start to panic as he doesn’t come back into sight. ‘Fuck! The Old Bill have fucking found us.’ Rick says in hushed tones of concern. Another gunshot echoes out and the pushing on my back stops as Phil slumps down dead behind me. ‘Fuck, fuck!’ Rickie shouts in a moment that may not have been the most eloquent of his life, yet still he manages to capture my emotions perfectly. What the fuck is going on? The police don’t shoot unarmed men dead. Before I can collect my thoughts I've got my answer. ‘Hello boys.’ Booms the menacing voice of Darren Rivers, a man you never want to see stood over you with a gun. Nothing happens around these parts without Rivers’ say so, he controls the drugs, the nightlife and the muscle – Four of his henchmen are standing behind him as he aims his gun at Rick’s chest. ‘Darren, what’s this all about? I’m just trying to get my bro to safety, get him out of prison and out of the country.’ Rick says, the confusion melding with the fear in his voice. ‘Well I’m glad to see you managed to get young Jimmy out of prison and I’m glad my lad Louie could be of assistance from inside. Unfortunately I can’t let you go through with the rest of your plan, although you will both be getting on a boat with your two friends,’ Rivers says gesturing towards Phil’s body and in the direction I last saw Andy. The threat didn’t need explaining, we were about to be killed and dumped at sea. The only question was why? Rivers continues. ‘You see, Rick. That house that your little brother Jimmy got caught robbing before he got sent down belonged to my girlfriend Suzie’s grandparents. They’re both scared to leave the house because of scum like Jimmy here.’ He seems oblivious to the irony of these words coming from his mouth. ‘Suzie is really upset. The ol’ boy keeps wetting his cacks and his missus keeps waking up because of her nightmares. They’re a mess and it’s killing my Suzie seeing them like that. So imagine my delight when Louie called from the prison and let me in on your little plan. Really Rick, I’m glad you did, but seriously did you really have to outline the whole plan to ol’ Lou?’ The sky flashes blue and sirens interrupt Darren Rivers as he winds up and gets ready to shoot. Shouts of ‘Stop Police!’ fill the air as Rivers’ mob flee from behind him in various directions and are jumped upon quickly by officers leaping from cars that are skidding to a halt. I can see in Rivers’ eyes that he's still tempted to try and get his shots off. I can see him calculating the fact that he’ll be going down for two murders. What was two more going to matter? Also the recognition in his face that he’d probably only manage to get one shot off before he takes one in the head from a police marksman. He drops the gun and raises his hands. The police proceed cautiously towards the three of us. I see Detective Alan Simmons, the arresting officer that had me put away in the first place at the back of a group of armed police. So I’d be going back to prison and my brother would be coming with me, my sentence will be extended, but I guess it’s better than floating about in pieces in the English Channel. I’ve never been so glad to see a copper. Aidan Thorn is a 33 year old writer from Southampton, England, home of the Spitfire and Matthew Le Tissier but sadly more famous for Craig David and being the place the Titantic left from before sinking. It's Aidan's ambition to put Southampton on the map for something other than bad R N' B music and sinking ships. Since having his first short story published in Radgepacket Vol. 6 in 2012 he has written a couple more but spent the first half of 2012 completing his first novel 'When the Music's Over.' More information on Aidan's writing can be found on his website http://aidanthornwriter.weebly.com/.

By Pete Sortwell I always have to stand next to the weirdos on the tube or in the post office. Even if I sit on a town centre bench, I’m absolutely guaranteed to get a ‘Class A’ nutter introduce themselves to me and talk about their latest medication. Tonight’s no different. I’m in the queue of WeightTwatchers, sandwiched between the two most boring people this town has ever produced and that’s saying something. They’d give an aspirin a headache. ‘It’s ridiculous. I mean I haven’t even got a car and they’re charging me for the whole year’s insurance,’ the guy is saying. ‘I know. They make you sign up for a whole year. How do they know that you’ll keep the car for the full year? You should be able to cancel. I agree,’ his partner tells him. It’s all I can do to point out that most normal people don’t smash their car up on the way for secret midnight McDonald’s on third party insurance. If you’re into late night driving to feed your burger addiction, at least go for ‘fully comp’. It makes sense if you think about it. I don’t really want to be here. I’m compelled to be, though. The missus needs me here. She isn’t even that fat. A bit porky, but nothing that calls for all this. I don’t like clubs like this. Fat clubs are just sex clubs for bloaters. They just sit around jamming health bars up each other and licking jam rings suggestively. Barry told me he’d seen it when he looked through the window once. I’m not going to let any of these whales harpoon my missus though. ‘So I counted out seven chips and just added them to the Weight Twatcher's Pizza,’ the bird behind me tells Mr Dull causing me to offer her my place in the queue, which she readily accepts but it doesn’t quieten her down. I consider sticking the pen I was given into one of my ears, just to cut out fifty per cent of the utter tripe these two barrels are compelled to share with each other. It’s busy here tonight. At least seventy people. This queue is long. I should have come earlier. The wife’s sitting down now. She looks upset, maybe one of the lard arses has offered her a go on his banana. I’ll have to stop getting distracted by these two. It’s funny how the thoughts of killing people can take your mind off the task in hand, isn’t it? I get it all the time. In Tesco I can be so engrossed in what to do to a woman that’s been stood waiting for ages, then decides to fish her purse out of her bag right at the end of the process. They can never find the purse without emptying everything they own onto the counter, then they have to sort through photos of their fish and points cards for shops they haven’t been to for years. After I’ve finished judging, hurting and killing her in my head, I forget to get my fucking money out too. Other people are just a pain in the arse and these greedy cunts are the worst of the lot. By the time I finally get round to the scales, the wife’s made it to the seats. I can see her from here. I wonder what’s upset her. I hope this speccy cow I’m about to speak to hasn’t done it. There’ll be trouble if she has. I’ll kick her stand over later just in case it was. ‘Take your shoes off, then step on the scales please, Mr …?’ ‘Kendall,’ I tell her, taking off my first shoe. My feet fucking stink. She tries her hardest not to turn her nose up, but with the gas northbound there’s no way she can. ‘Let’s just do it with shoes on this week, shall we?’ she tells me, stopping my arm from taking the other shoe off and causing me to wobble on one leg as I try to steady myself. We go through the pointless process of the weigh in. I might be a little chunky but I don’t care about it. I’m here for one reason and one reason only. For her. I weigh in at fourteen stone. As I get off the scales Hilary addresses me. ‘So what brings you here?’ ‘That,’ I tell her, pointing at the digital screen of the scales that is still displaying my weight. ‘Oh! Just here to feel better about yourself, then?’ she asks me, taking me for one of these other comfort eating bloaters. She then hands me a little folder to keep my thoughts on eating in or something, I don’t know, I stopped listening. I take a seat at the back, away from the boring people. The wife looks like she’s stopped crying now and has her mates with her. I keep an eye out from the rear. There’s a fair amount of chunkers in the queue waiting to get patronized by the leader behind me. I can hear all their weights from here. They might as well put a huge screen up so we can all see. It would be more motivatiing if people were mocked and laughed at for being Big Macs. The meeting finally starts. Hilary starts going on about how exercise can help people lose weight. Who didn’t fucking know that? Half the losers here didn’t seem to. A particularly huge lady in front of me puts her elbow into her mate’s folds and whispers, ‘Here, Vic. You know that? I didn’t.’ Clearly you did. You just ignored it because you like cake. It gets even more painful as Hilary, who seems to have few social skills and a poor grasp of when a crowd has given as much as it can, starts singling people out and asking them what exercise they think would be good. A fucking stupid question from the word go. Any exercise is good, unless it’s running through a primary school with an AK47. Some pig in the second row gets the first go at public humiliation. ‘Mrs Brown. What do you do?’ Hilary asks. ‘Er, er,’ Mrs Brown says, realizing a smile isn’t going to get her out of this one. She’s got to answer. It’s gone well past the point of awkwardness. ‘Walking my cat?’ Mrs Brown says, causing me to snort the cold I’ve been carrying round down my top. ‘Shit,’ I vocalise without meaning to, wiping the snot from my jumper. ‘Mr Kendall, wha …?’ That’s as far as Hilary gets. The wife turns around and sees me, as does her mate. ‘You bastard! You know you’re not supposed to be within a hundred yards of her! Someone call the police,’ her mate shouts. The game’s up. At least I got to take Hilary’s stand down with me when the gang of 'beach balls' all started to exercise by charging at me, pinning me down till the Old Bill got there. Pete is 32 and lives with his wife, Lucie and their pet sofa, Jeff. He's been writing for just over two years, they've been pretty eventful, well more eventful than he thought sitting on Jeff typing would be anyway. First published in the Radgepacket anthology with a story he'd written during month five of his new hobby. Pete's now featured, in a total of eight different anthologies and have been amongst some very fine company. Although I've been the best in all of them, I know that because both my Mum and Jeff told me and they're both honest to God, Christians- possibly. Author of Comedy e-book 'The Village Idiot Reviews' Which was released on Kindle alone during the arse end of 2012. It is the first in the series of 'Idiot Review' books and will be followed by, 'The Office Idiot Reviews' , 'The Idiot Politician Reviews' and 'More Village Idiot Reviews' Who knows where it will go after that but once these four are completed all your dinosaurs out there will be able to buy them in paperback. Debut Novel, 'So Low, So High' will be published in 2013 by Caffeine Nights publishing and is the first in a trilogy. 'Die Happy, Die Smiling' being number two and 'Start something' being number three.

By B R Stateham

He walked briskly, head down, and used the brim of his fedora to shield his face from the cold wind. The collar of his heavy trench coat was pulled up over his ears and his hands were in the coat pockets. The heavy feeling of an approaching winter's storm hung in the air. The wind, cold and filled with tiny ice pellets, were slanting down and toward him, coming out of the north. It was a horrible night. Cold. Frozen. So cold no one dared to confront the darkness and the wind. Except him. Except his dumb ass. Apartment buildings rose up around him like taciturn giants with a thousand bright yellow eyes looking down upon him, severely. The street curbs, lined with cars and pickup trucks, looked forgotten. Abandoned. Empty cold steel and glass condemned to suffer through another night of bitter cold. Yet here he was, head down, ploughing into the wind, hurrying along as rapidly as his short, spindly legs would allow, hoping . . . hoping . . . he'd live through the night. Not that he wasn't afraid. On the contrary! He was terrified! He knew they would be coming after him. He knew they had orders to kill him. Somehow . . . somehow . . . he had to find a way to live long enough to see tomorrow's sunrise. If he could just get to the DA's office and tell the district attorney everything he knew, then maybe, just maybe, the DA would stash him away somewhere where no one could find him. Maybe. Dammit. It wasn't his fault! He didn't leak a word to anyone about the caper! But they were coming after him. The person who really screwed up ratted him out to the boss! Danny Arlito didn't know how to keep his mouth shut! But Danny was the boss's nephew and the boss believed anything Danny told him. Anything! A contract had been put out for him. He heard Smitty . . . Smitty, for god's sakes, had been paid his thirty pieces of silver to track him down and eliminate him. Jesus Christ! He knew he didn't have a fucking chance. Not with Smitty hunting him down. Hurry. Hurry! Just around the corner and then up the stairs to his apartment to pack a bag or two before slipping off to some sleazy motel for the night. If he could make to his apartment. . . . Movement. Just the merest flash of deep black moving against black. Looking up quickly he stopped in his tracks, mouth open, eyes wide. Smitty! Smitty standing at the corner of the building all in black gripping a big, ugly looking revolver and silencer screwed onto the end of its barrel stretched down the side of his leg! Standing facing him, dressed in a black trench coat and a snapped down, narrow brimmed fedora, partially hiding has face. "Smitty! Smitty . . . please! I swear to god I . . ." "Move to your right," the distinctive snarl of a loud whisper slammed into his ears. "Smitty, let me explain . . . please!" he screamed seeing the assassin's gun hand coming up to point the end of the silencer toward him. "Move! Now!" He whimpered, gloved hands in front of him in some useless gesture to protect him from the bullets he knew were coming and stepped to his right. Phaft! Phaft! Phaft! Three shots. He screamed. His legs buckled,he dropped to his knees and gripped his chest blindly searching for the bullet holes in an effort to stop to flow of his own blood seeping out of his body. He couldn't breathe. He felt hot liquid running down his leg. Everything was turning white . . . he was dying! Roughly, someone grabbed him by his coat collar and jerked him to his feet. A gloved hand slapped hard across his pudgy cheeks, with blows filled with pain. With enough pain to make his eyes water. Enough to make his vision and senses return to him. He found himself staring into the partially hidden face of Smitty. "Around the corner is my car," the hiss for a voice spoke as he lifted a gloved hand up with car keys dangling. "Get in and drive. On the passenger seat is a sealed envelope full of money. It's yours. So is the car. Get out of town and don't come back. And Thompson, one other thing. Don't even think about running to the district attorney and blabbing to him. Or the next time you see me, you will be a dead man. Understand?" The fat man with the shaking hands and bright red cheeks on his pudgy face couldn't speak. All he could do was vigorously nod his head. Smitty's hidden dark eyes glared at him for a few seconds and then let go his grip on the man's collar. Tilting his head toward the building corner, he watched the pudgy little mob accountant scurry away. Seconds later, a black CTS Cadillac, red stop lights flashing wildly, roared down the street and disappeared into the now heavy falling snow. The snow fell furiously and heavily, already almost half covering the three dead men he had drilled in the forehead with his shots. Walking up to the nearest one he bent down and quickly searched the man's pockets. Pulling out a set of car keys he stood up and started to walk away. One of the men groaned and stirred. Raising his gun up fractionally he pulled the trigger. Phaft! There was no more groaning. No more stirring. Now to fix the problem and save an innocent man's life. Two hours later Danny Arlito, nephew to mob boss Donnie Arlito opened the men's room door of the night club he owned, paused, and cupped a hand round his mouth to shout to his friends he'd be right back. The noise coming from the club dance floor was throbbing. Thunderous. Ear splitting. Closing the door he turned and walked to the stand of six urinals lined against the wall and noted the open window high up on the wall. The cold air, refreshing actually from the grueling sweat bath of the club outside, swirled around in the bathroom. Unzipping his trousers he spread his feet and started to do his business when pain. Vast amounts of pain exploded up the back of his leg like molten metal being poured onto him and made him buckle legs and stagger back from the urinal. He screamed in agony as he looked around and down at his leg and noted the handle of a switch-blade stick out of his leg. No one on the club floor heard anything above the throbbing music pulsating the walls of the entire building. Looking up he saw the black form of Smitty standing behind him, the low brim of the black fedora he was wearing, hiding the upper half of his face. On the man's face was a wicked, frightening, smirk of pleasure. He turned, gritting his teeth from the jabbing pain in his leg, and threw a haymaker swing at his attacker. Smitty, slapping the blow away as if he was slapping away a lazy fly, stepped forward, grabbed the hair on the back of Danny's head, and slammed the Danny's face hard into the mirror above the sink. He slammed it twice into the mirror, burying fragments of glass into Danny's forehead in the process. Again no one outside on the dance room floor heard a thing. Half unconscious, bleeding heavily from the forehead, the knife still in his leg, Danny felt himself being jerked to one side. Jerked close to the smiling Smitty. Close to the man's lips. "You have just one chance to get out of this alive. Just one!" Smitty's harsh whisper filled Danny's right ear. "Tell your uncle the truth! Tell him you were the one that blabbed too much about something. Maybe Donnie might forgive you. Maybe not. Don't confess and I promise you, you won't live to see next Thursday!" The next blow folded Danny Alito up like a wet paper towel and dropped him onto the smelly floor of the restroom unconscious. Seconds later, opening his eyes, he found himself alone. High above on the far wall the window was sealed shut. Looking down at his leg he noticed the knife was gone. Blood covered his leg and filled his shoe. Blood also covered his face. Using the sinks to pull himself to his feet he washed the blood from his face, dried it off with a paper towel, then turned and hobbled out of the restroom. Two days later Smitty heard the news. Danny Alito was out of the country. Taking a long vacation in Italy recovering from some mysterious injuries he recently acquired. Word was Danny might not come back. Apparently Danny's uncle was not happy with his nephew. Not happy at all. And oh . . . the contract out on that fat accountant? Cancelled. Cancelled, but strangely it was said Smitty got paid his full price nevertheless. Interesting. B.R. Stateham is a sixty-three year old curmudgeon and writer who, like all the rest of the writers in the world, struggles along in anonymity. Eh, that's life!

By Brian Panowich

I hit send. It rings. He answers. "Do you have my guns?" "I have your car. Whatever's inside the car is none of my business. I'm calling to tell you that you can have it all back." "You steal from me and now you want to give it back?" "I didn't steal from you. I repo'ed the car; that's what I do. The Charger was registered to one Eric Talbott. He hasn't made a payment on it in over nine months. The bank called my boss, and he sent me to pick up the car. That's it. That's the truth." "Your telling me that my associate, Mr. Talbott, was in a position to have his vehicle repossessed? And that you had no idea what you were taking from me? You want me to believe that shit?" "That's what happened, sir." "What's your name, kid?" Kid, this asshole calls me. I'm damn near forty years old. "Emmett." "And how did you get my number, Emmett?" "Your boy, Eric, left his cell phone in the car. It rang a few times while I was driving. I saw one of the missed calls which said Leon Nash and I immediately knew I'd stepped into something above my pay grade. I called hoping we could work this out." A pause on the line. "You're telling me my fuckin' name was in E's cell phone?" "Yes, sir." Another pause. "You know who I am?" "I mean no disrespect, Mr. Nash, but who doesn't." "Well, I tell you what, Emmett. Why don't you tell me where you are, and I'll send a few of my people down there to collect the car." "Once again I mean no disrespect, sir, but I know how this kind of shit can play out. You send some goons down here to collect your merch, they put a bullet in me, dump my body in a wet foundation somewhere, then tell you I never made the meet. They make some coin off your hardware, you blame me, and we both get fucked. I'm not going out like that." "I trust my people." "Really? I wouldn't put a lot of stock in your guys if they are anything like the dumb-fuck that landed us in this situation." "Listen, kid..." "No. It's gotta be you. I want to give you this shit and bad as you want to get it back, but it's got to be you." "You got a hefty sack of balls, kid." "No, sir. They're just well loved by the little lady at home, and I want to make sure they get back to her in working condition." Another pause. "Who did you say you worked for?" "I didn't, but it's Ace's Auto and Repossession Service." "Stay by the phone. I'll hit you back." The line went dead.

###

Leon Nash took out kneecaps and bashed in noses as local muscle for bigger sharks like 'Z' Williams and The German. At least that’s what he did until all three got popped on a Midtown bank job that went south. Luckily nobody got killed, but all three went down for armed robbery, sentenced to thirty years each in USP Atlanta Federal Prison. That was three years ago. Now Leon's black ass is peddling high end gats down Peachtree Boulevard while his bosses endure three hots and a cot behind cement walls and razor wire. Only one way he could be out that fast, but that wasn't my business. The phone rang and I answered. "Okay kid, you check out. You throw the party and I'll be there, but it's gotta be right now." "I'll be at Brownwood Ave where it crosses the park in one hour. Look for the skinny white guy covered in tattoos. You can't miss me." "You better hope I don't. So far, you've played this pretty smart, so I'm giving you this shot at making it right. But, kid, if you get stupid and I smell anything going sideways, I'm gonna do you slow. You get me, Emmett Cobb?" He did check me out. "I got it, Mr Nash." I hung up.

###

One hour later, a huge black Escalade pulls up behind Eric Talbott's recently repossessed Dodge Charger. Time to shit or get off the pot. Three people get out; two gorillas and the man himself. I'll be dipped in shit. He showed up. I crushed a Camel Light out under my boot. "I told you he was a fuckin' greaser, boss. Nothing to worry about. Look at him." The second gorilla joined his buddy in underestimating me. I let him. "I don't see Talbott." "And you won't...ever again. I trust you left everything in the car as it was?" "I didn't touch a thing, Mr. Nash." "Well then why don't you beat it before I change my mind. Maybe let Daryl blow a hole through that hokey-ass straw hat." Daryl pulled up his windbreaker to show me the massive hammerless Glock 17 shoved in his waistband. He smiled a gorilla smile. I removed my hat and held it with both hands. "Mr. Nash, it's not quite that easy. I still need to keep the car." "Excuse me?" "If I don't turn in the car, I don't get paid and I really can't afford to miss a paycheck these days. Times are tight. I'm sure you understand that." "I understand that I should have went with my guts and popped you from the jump, instead of letting you suck up this much air. You stole from me boy! And now you want to get mouthy, too? Daryl, show this motherfucker how we do things." He waited. "Daryl, I said show this mother..." "Daryl and that other goon are too scared to move right now, Leon, due to those little red lights on their chests." Both gorillas were frozen, staring at Leon like helpless little girls. "Those lights are connected to two Barrett M98 bolt action sniper rifles. You should know the make. The trunk here is full of them." "You son of a bitch! You think you got juice? You think I don't know who you are? You’re one of Jack Parson's boys. Jack would never cross me. You clear this shit with him? I bet not. When this is over I'm gonna take my time on you! I'm gonna..." I raised my left hand six inches and Daryl's shoulder exploded into pink mist. It spun him completely around. He screamed. "That's Jack saying hello. My buddy, Kenny, is out there too, in case you were thinking of name dropping him too. Now listen up ladies, this is what’s going to happen. The big retard that isn't bleeding is going to collect everybody's guns and cell phones. Then he’s gonna throw them into the back seat of this Charger. Next, I'm going to pop the trunk and let you get all your shit out of it. The guns now belong to you two jack-offs. Go make a few bucks and get Daryl's shoulder looked at. It looks pretty bad." "You two fuckers better not listen...” "And don't worry about Mr. Nash here coming to look for you. I promise you that ain't gonna happen. Do you understand what's going on here? They nodded. "So get it done." They did. "Who are you working for?" "I told you already, Ace's Auto and Repossession Service." "Bullshit, man, be straight. 'Z' hire you to do me? Or that German piece of shit? I got money. I'll give you twice what they're paying." "Nah, I hope those two pricks rot in prison for the shit they've done to this city. I'd never take a dime from them, or you. Daryl, tell your girlfriend to hurry the fuck up." He did, and they hurried. Within seconds they were packed up and ready to roll. "Take that shit and get the hell out of Atlanta." Two gorillas in the wind. Two red lights now on Leon, center mast. "Kneel down." "What?" "Kneel. Down." "I'm in the fuckin' street here!" "And you're gonna die in the street." "Why? Who are you? What the hell did I do to you?" "Jack...?" "No, no! Wait, okay." He knelt. I squatted to face him. "Why are you doing this?" "Because of the girl." "What girl?" "One week before that piss poor attempt of a bank robbery that landed your fat ass in prison, you let a nineteen year old girl die on a piss stained sofa in one of your flops. You snatched her out of a club in Five Points, and force fed her a needle. You brutalized her for weeks. You passed her around like a goddamn party favor. Do you remember her? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Z was into that kinda shit, not me.” “Really? Did Z take a Sharpie and write Leon’s Toilet on her forehead?” Silence. “You shouldn’t sign your work, you dumb fuck. You stole everything from her, everything that made her human. And when you were done, you pumped her full of poison and left her to die in her own filth." "Let me guess. This girl? She your woman? Your sister? Shit man, I just joined in the party. I never did anything dem bitches didn't want..." The left jab I gave him came fast. It shut him up, and took out a few teeth. "She wasn't my sister, or my woman. I didn't know her at all. I just happened to be the one to find her. The one who held her while she died. It took some work just to find out her name. Do you want to know what it was?" "Fushh you!" Another jab. More teeth. More blood. "Francine. Francine White from Salt Lake City. She came here to go to Georgia Tech. She wanted to be an Engineer. She didn't even get to start classes." "Juss anover junkie whore!" "No. She was somebody's daughter. A human being. I don't expect you to understand what that means. You're the farthest thing from human I know. I watched the life drain out of that girl and I knew I'd find you. You and your buddies. I knew I'd kill you like dogs in the street. But then you botched that bank job and got yourselves arrested. Prison saved your life. Well, it saved the other two. You decided to be a rat and take your chances out here. I wasn't about to let you do to someone else what you did to Francine, but you were holed up pretty good. Lucky for me you're stupid and you employ stupid people. It was pretty easy to flush you out." Nash looked up at me like a whipped dog. The intended outcome. I reached into the back seat of the Charger. "This is how you get to go out, Leon. Here's your gun and a bullet." I tossed both to the ground. "Do the right thing. But don't take too long. Jack is an impatient man." He stared at the gun and held his bloody mouth. I got into the canary yellow Dodge and cut the highway into black ribbons. I still had thirty minutes to make it to the airport and tell Cobi what happened before she flew back to Salt Lake. Her sister, Francine, could finally rest in peace. Her parents could start to heal. In the rear view, I caught a glimpse of Leon scrambling for the gun right before silent shots caused roses to bloom on his forehead and chest. My boys didn’t feel like waiting. Fine by me. He took a nosedive into the pavement and died sucking Charger exhaust. I think I'm gonna keep that Glock 17. Brian is firefighter living in East Georgia. When he's not busy saving babies, or running into burning buildings, he spends his time making shit up. His crime fiction has been on a few esteemed online fiction websites, including shotgunhoney.net, and outofthegutteronline.com. His story Sixteen Down was the grand prize winner of Evolved Publishing's story story contest and is the lead story in the anthology Evolution Vol. 2. His most recent project is the zombie epic C'mon And Do The Apocalypse Vol. 1 co-written with some dude named Ryan Sayles. It's great, you should buy it. There will be a lot more of that so look out for Vol. 2. The story in this book, Somebody's daughter, ties into Brian's first full length novel, A Warm Machine, that is currently being shopped for a publisher. This is not the last you'll be hearing from Emmett Cobb and the boys.

By Ryan Sayles

Bullets snap to life around me and I dive, hitting the deck behind a solid concrete fountain. The sun is beating down. Midday. Heat wave and drought conditions. Now this. Outside on the campus, walking along; the crackle and pop of gunfire puncture the air. I taste adrenaline like that sour mash from a bad hangover. My heart is pummelling like a death metal drummer. Everything tunes up. Bits of concrete snap off in plumes of dust: rain down on me. The walkway around the fountain is blistering to the touch. Not a tree or shade in sight, and this walkway has been absorbing the 100 degree of day since forever ago. My knees squeal like frying ham touching a pan. I try and crouch; no good. One minute you’re on a college campus struggling for a passing grade in calculus, the next minute some dude pulls out a rifle and goes ape shit. Stay calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. A calming technique I practice. Everything is oddly silent except for an alarm klaxon, dinging like a fire bell and the mushy but constant moaning of the wounded. All the senses tune to a higher pitch. This is war. I close my eyes for a moment; inventorying my body. Checking for perforations. Nope, but someone shoots again and I feel the impact into the fountain basin. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” I hear him shout. “Show yourself and take it like a man!” 911 must be blowing up right now. Student after student calling and screaming, “HE’S GOT A GUN!” Not me. I stay below the fountain’s level. I stick my head around the side and hear a stray bullet bark. I jerk back. I get my phone and fire up the police scanner app I downloaded yesterday. I find the city: cop voices, tense like that moment before you make the decision that changes everything. I can hear sirens behind those voices. They ask for information as they race to the scene, trying to keep tabs on their enemy. I’ve never been good with my electronics. Brandon actually helped me with the app. If I could just have a rotary phone, I’d be in my comfort zone. Footfalls. Confusion and disbelief. I planned on being as near to the Student Loan Center as possible in just a few minutes. I've got an appointment. People shout sporadically. One girl won’t stop screaming. I think she’s dying. I saw her on the ground before I took fire;writhing and clutching at a red bloom on her waist. Three dead on the other side of the fountain. I know one of them. I also know Brandon, shot in the head standing not ten feet in front of me. I look to my left and there he is; lying on his belly. His face turned my direction. Blood running out of his eyes. His nose. His mouth. An accusatory look, because it was him, not me. It's not like he suffered. I suppose he’d give that look to anyone right about now,but he won’t stop. “It’s not like you suffered,” I say. He doesn’t respond. He just bleeds. I worry I’m going to get flanked. Whoever is shooting has obviously targeted me. Might just go in for the kill, skirt around to my side. Open up his killing field. Hell, the shooter might be ex- military. He might have skills. I was never military. Might be a cop. I was never a cop. There’s not supposed to be guns on this campus. The signs say so. Me? Chemistry student. I did best making things in a lab. Equations. Reactions. But if I get flanked, I’m over with. I know that much. I slide up the three-foot basin of the fountain, hugging the heat-soaked concrete like it’s my lover. The kind of lover that makes your skin swirl and agonize and you love every second of it. If I weren’t trying to stay alive I would never touch something this hot. I ease over the lip and down into the water. Refreshing yet also sun- scorched. I keep my phone and junk above water, slowly move around, away from where he last saw me. Throw ‘em off. Now I hear sirens for real in the air. The cavalry’s arrived. The water presses down. Squeezes. Like a lot of things, really. I move and it kicks up, sloshes into my mouth. Panic. Can’t get my phone wet. Need it. Police scanner. And, I need to make a phone call. Who doesn’t right now? “828, PD. On scene and approaching from the south.” “821. All units, I have a man down on the east side. Two shots in the back-” “800, PD. Hold the air. Have EMS stage up on the west side of the auditorium off of Lake Drive. Broadcast the description and location again.” “PD. All units. Subject is described as white male, early twenties, shaved head, black shirt, black shorts, combat boots, back-pack, armed with a rifle. Last seen near a water fountain-” I click it off. The scanner is loud as fuck, giving me away. Hear footfalls racing around the fountain. Blood heaves through my jugulars and I know he’s coming in for the kill. Must play a lot of video games. Thinks he can roll up and double-tap me. The guy is shooting, pinning me down. I get up on a knee to face him. The world squeezes. It doesn’t fit right on my skin anymore. My skin squeezes, doesn’t fit right on my sins anymore. My sins, they tattoo. Slither. Caress. And when you have a choice between squeezing, suffocation, slithering and caressing, you pick the affectionate stuff. Trust me. Let me tell you something. When a headache lasts an entire year, you find new ways to adjust. New thoughts that don’t hurt as much. Escape valves. Moans and screams echo off the campus buildings. Even from where I am I can see blood sprays along the concrete. I need to be at the Student Loan Center. Funny thing. During the orientation tour they told us the Student Loan Center was the campus safe haven. Built to take a tornado. They drilled it home into all of us. Whatever is happening, come here. Student Loan Center. Safe. God. It’s hot today. He’s almost here. He thinks he can roll up and double-tap me. You know, you give it all you have and for some people, that just ain’t fucking good enough anymore. Mom wants me to be a chemist just like her dad and my own father just says come home with something to show for the money I’m spending and as it turns out, he shouldn’t have spent the money. I learned a few things, though. Like what corrodes through a padlock on the back of the Student Loan Center. Or what explodes when you run an electrical current through it. So my father might get a good fireworks show for his money. Motherfucker. The dude who was laying down return fire, suppressing fire, comes around to the left. I have my rifle levelled. I see him before he sees me. Two rounds into his chest and I’m empty. Drop the rifle. I move to his big red blotch baking on the hot summer concrete and grab his gun. “You know you can’t carry concealed on the school grounds, right?” I ask, looming over him. “They have signs up all over the place. You could get criminally charged, idiot.” Motherfucker. Just some dude, I didn’t even see a book bag. Maybe he's an off-duty cop having lunch with his girlfriend. Maybe he’s failing school as well and we shared the exact plan, only I beat him to the punch. I win. For once in my God-forsaken life. He’s fading out and flips me the bird. I plug him with his own gun, spraying brains out under him like a gooey pillow. You get extra points in video games for killing someone with their own weapon. One minute I’m on a college campus struggling for a passing grade in Calculus, the next minute I pull out a rifle and go ape shit. According to plan. I’m sure over the course of the following weeks I’ll be a media sensation. My name on the lips of every broadcaster. My face on the computer screen and TV of every house in America. The people who gave their lives so I could finally have some respect, they’ll be fluffy news stories with sad songs playing in the background while family and friends who hated them yesterday will gush and miss them tomorrow. Folks, you’re welcome in advance for the newfound adoration. All I want is some relief. The world, tense like that moment before I made this big decision, knowing it was going to change everything. I fire up the police scanner app I downloaded yesterday. Never needed it before I decided to go through with this. Trying to keep tabs on my enemies. Let me tell you something. I wrote in a spiral bound notebook. Counted it. I wrote six- thousand two-hundred and eighty-eight times, 'You have this coming'. I’m man enough to admit I cried during most of it. Let me tell you something. If you had my dad, you’d want someone to bully also. “Why are you wearing that ridiculous jacket?” Brandon asked me as we strolled through the Student Pasture here. The Pasture, part lawn, part courtyard, part study area and part picnic for all us failing intellectuals to hang out inside and be corralled. Despite the heat, I needed some way to conceal my chopped down rifle. “Dude, it’s already over 100 degrees. You must be sweating your balls off,” he said and regarded me as a moron. I don’t like Brandon much, but he’s one of the few people who talk to me. “Not to mention you look like a retard. If you’re going to be all Trench Coat Mafia on us, at least get a jacket that doesn’t have sequins stitched in the back-” And it was time. That’s how I knew. Brandon turned away to finish his thought and the rifle came out. It kissed his cowlick before I pulled the trigger. People screaming. Music. My life’s tensions: evaporating. Something about dust in the wind enters my mind, a melody; Dad loves that song and I aimed and fired. Everywhere. “800, PD. Shots fired near the Students' Pasture. Use cover.” “826. I can see a water fountain-” I run past the guy who tackled his girlfriend to shield her. I got him in the neck for his trouble. Past the girl with the blood blossom on her waist. She’s shut up. Past the guy who, out of the blue, decided to engage me in a gun fight. What are the odds? Past Brandon, past all the others. I dart into the Bannerman building. It's the most direct route from point A to point B, factoring in chaos and a probable Police response. I rush down the northeast flight of stairs, counting as I go. The calming technique I practiced during the dry runs. The basement's air conditioning runs its tongue along my skin. Chilling, cool, delicious and reinvigorating. Across one, two, three and four doors on the left before I hit a T-juncture in the hallway. Turn right. One, two, three, four, five, six rooms, turn left. Staircase. Two flights up. I burst out into the sizzling air. Across a small parking lot, up the hill: Student Loan Center. Shrieks. A trail of blood, even here. A girl sees me and starts bellowing like a banshee. I must be recognized. Phone; dial, trigger number. I could have done this from anywhere, but I want to see it. I want to see all those shitbags who are doing better than me, who have parents that will love them no matter how they come home, all those preps and dirtballs and stoners and jocks and foreign exchanges that turned the other way when I’d walk up, that left the table when I sat down, that giggled and said no when I asked them out. Motherfuckers. “I wrote a letter!” I shout to no one. “Wait ‘til it arrives tomorrow or the next day! Then you’ll see! Then you’ll fucking see!” My psychiatrist will tell them. He’ll read the letter and tell all the police. Then, they’ll understand me. It’s all written down. Let me tell you something. Little guys like me have feelings too. We need love too. If God can pour lava over cities and Stalin can slaughter his own people, I can express my distaste as well. Two digits left – 48 – and the cops rush. I should have put it on speed dial. I’ve never been good with my electronics. You know, for all the planning in the world and- Bullets snap into life around me. I dive and hit the deck behind an administrator’s car. Blood pools in my vision. I can’t see clearly. Can’t think clearly. Color washes out and I taste copper. Lots of it. My stomach is on fire; left thigh. My ear is buzzing a high-pitched squeal like frying ham touching a pan. The law enforcement blue floods in. I think I swallow a tooth. On the touch screen I see 4. I need an 8. All I need is an 8. 8 rhymes with hate rhymes with fate and sometimes you are destined to be great and sometimes your fate is to die alone on a sweltering sheet of concrete bleed from the face and one day there will be a memorial and the president will ask for a moment of silence and everyone will know just how much I hate chemistry and my mom and dad rhymes with bad which is the only type of attention I could ever get and now the big decision has been made rhymes with fade as in fade to black and fade mostly rhymes with fate rhymes with hate rhymes with 8 rhymes with fuck it all, world. Fuck your squeezing. Fuck your squeezing. Motherfucker. With all the blood in my eyes I can’t tell if I press 3 or 8 when the phone dials and the cops run up and all their muzzles flash at once for a thousand years. Ryan Sayles’s debut novel The Subtle Art of Brutality is out through Snubnose Press. He is a founding member of Zelmer Pulp, has a nonfiction column at Out of the Gutter and is a fiction editor at The Big Adios. For a full list of his publishing credits please visit Vitriolandbarbies.wordpress.com

By Chris Leek

Buckshot splintered the door and gutted Leroy's brother. Big Earl hesitated for a moment, before toppling like a sawed off pine and thumping on to the dirt floor. “Shit! Earl, you okay?” Leroy called from the far side of the cabin. He was hunkered below the window, blindly returning fire with a rusty .44. His Ruger Scout lay discarded behind him, the last of the.308 rounds gone. “Damn it, Tommy. Go fuckin' help him.” I didn't move. Instead I pressed myself further up against the cast iron stove. I could feel its heat on my back, smell the leather burning as it singed my jacket, but still I didn't move. The window above Leroy disintegrated in an spray of glass and another blast was unloaded through the ragged hole, hammering the back wall like hard rain and shaking dust down from the rafters. I looked at Big Earl, he looked back, but was past seeing. His blood – too much blood - almost black in color, crept slowly towards me over the packed dirt. I shuffled my feet out of its path. I'd known Big Earl all my life and right now I should be feeling something, anger maybe, or at the very least sadness. I just felt hollow. “Tommy.” Leroy's voice was distant, drowned out by a constant wump-click-clack-wump, the rhythm of a shotgun duet. “Tommy!” Something thudded into my shoulder and bounced on the floor beside me. I snapped my head around and saw a snub nose pistol laying there. “Get in the fuckin' game will ya boy. I make it's no more than two of 'em out there.” Leroy stared at me with hard eyes, one hand hung useless by his side, gore dripping from his knuckles. “I think Earl's dead,” I said looking at the gun, its dull metal smeared with bloody finger prints. “Fuck.” It went quiet outside. Time crawled. Five minutes passed, or maybe it was ten. It might have only been one. The silence pushed down on me. I fought back a crazy urge to sing out and shatter it. Something moved by the window, at first I thought it was a glazing bar from the busted frame, but it was growing, pushing further into the room. I realized it was the barrel of a 12 gauge. Leroy saw it too. He steadied himself in a crouch and silently mouthed for me to cover him. He gave me no time to do it before he leapt up and made a grab for the gun with his good hand. He knocked the barrel up, sending a deafening discharge of double-aught harmlessly into the roof. Leroy yanked hard on the burner, it's jockey held on and tumbled in through the window on top of him. I scooped up the pistol and pointed it at a mound of flailing limbs. The two men were locked in a death grind, each toiling for an advantage. I couldn't find a clean shot. Behind me the door shuddered under the weight of a boot. The lock held for a moment, then gave with the second kick. Big Earl's lifeless bulk blocked it, restricting the opening to just a few inches. I spun on my knees and saw a hand clawing round the jamb. I took aim, emptied my six into the flaking paint and was rewarded with a yelp of pain from the other side. Leroy gave a muffled shout of triumph and his opponent cried out, scrabbling backwards with one hand clasped to the side of his head. Leroy turned, spat out a chunk of ear and got up cradling his gimp hand. “You know this piece of shit Tommy?” Leroy asked, stooping to retrieve the shotgun. I couldn't see the guy's face from where I was, only the cuffs of his faded jeans and his muddy work boots. I shook my head. “Well, I do,” he said and chambered a shell, one handed, with a sharp jerk on the pump. “Don't I, Sleepy boy?” I guessed then it was Charlie Haynes, or Sleepy Haynes as he got called on account of his lazy eye. I'd heard of him; heard he ran brown dope over in Springer. “Who else is out there, Sleepy? You tell me an' maybe I'll make it quick.” “This ain't done, McCarthy. You boys is still owing,” he said. Out front, a truck spluttered into life and roared off, spitting gravel up on to what was left of the front porch. “Sounds like your buddy just lit out on you, Sleep. You all alone now.” I got to my feet, not entirely sure that my legs would hold me up. Sleepy was on his back in the corner, blood coursing from his torn ear. Leroy hovered above him like a storm cloud. “Who's that with you? One of them Crenshaws? That asshole, Jackpot Ray?” Leroy ground the gun barrel into the folds of fat hanging out of Sleepy's ripped shirt. He stiffened as the metal bit into his stomach, but kept his eyes fixed on Leroy, one sharp with pain, the other hooded and milky looking. “Fuck you,” he said. “Naw Sleep, you the one who's fucked.”

#

Dirty smoke stained the oblong of sky in the truck's rear view mirror. The fire Leroy had set, caught hold and took the cabin: Big Earl's funeral pyre and Sleepy's executioner, unless he'd already bled out. In which case his executioner was sat next to me. Either way Sleepy hadn't talked. Leroy propped an open can of PBR between his legs while he bandaged his hand with a flannel shirt. “You want I should go by the hospital?” I asked, already knowing what his answer would be. “It's just a crease boy.” We drove on and I felt the silence weighing heavy again. In all the years the McCarthy brothers had hunted with my old man, I doubt that Leroy had spoken to me directly more than a dozen times. He wasn't much for conversation and I guess I wasn't much for hunting, but I went along anyway, more for the old man than for me. He was never happier than when we were up here stalking game, father and son pitting our wits against the sly forest bucks. I hadn't thought about it since the cancer took him, but lately it had been on my mind more and more. Our trip for early season, White Tail just seemed like something that still needed doing, not out of habit or tradition, but perhaps out of respect. “I think I winged him,” I said. “You what?” “The other guy, I think I clipped him when I fired at the door.” “Son of a bitch, you seen him hit?” “No, but I heard him squeal out.” “Good enough,” he said, looking at me like he was trying to see inside my head and not sure of what he might find there. “Listen Tommy I got to know if your with me on this.” I held his stare, thinking about how my dad always said he owed Big Earl on account of that day at Khe Sanh. “I am,” I said and felt my guts tying a knot. The white oaks parted and the tires of Big Earl's Ford ran out on the pot holed blacktop of Larkford County Road #16. “We'll go to the Hog Pen. I'm fixin' to end this today,” Leroy said. I started to ask him just what the hell this might be; why Earl was dead and why some dope runner from the next county was crisping in our old hunting cabin. He shushed me with a cold stare and a bloody finger. I suppose the details didn't matter. Spite and malice was always simmering on the stove in these hills, feuds that had been festering since God was a boy ran through them like open sores. All kinds of wrongs, both real and imagined got righted with the country justice of a sawed off side-by-side.

#

I pulled off of the 421 just north of Hartford and parked in the weeds of a vacant lot beside the Hog Pen. Rooms rented by the hour in the back, dime a dance and buck a beer roadhouse out front. This was the place those Springer boys went to scratch their itches. I started to get out and Leroy grabbed my arm. “Easy. Where you goin'?” I could feel something warm and sticky seeping through his makeshift bandage. “Inside. I thought.” “That' ain't the way. Just sit tight.” There were ten or so vehicles in the parking lot, all pick ups of various makes, except for a sorry looking blue Nova. We watched for an age, but no one came or went. I sat there chewing things through. Just when I'd decided I actually preferred getting shot at to all this waiting, two guys more or less fell out of the front door into the gathering dusk. One was a big fella in bib overalls, he was laughing hard at something. The other was skinny, dressed in hunting camo, he didn't seem to get the joke. Leroy sat up beside me leaning forwards to get a better view. Laughing boy was shaking his head and made to put an arm around his pal. The skinny guy shrugged it off and started loping towards the Nova, favoring his right leg. “I don't recall Jackpot having no limp,” Leroy said, fingering the.44 on his lap. The Nova belched a cloud of oily smoke and rolled out of the lot, making a left on to the 421 and heading towards the Snake. I looked at Leroy. “Well go on then, follow him, but don't make it look like your following.” “How in hell do I do that?” “Fuck Tommy, don't you got a TV? You know. Just drive casual.”

#

I tried casual and almost lost that blue shit box before we'd even got to the Snake. Leroy was cussing me up and down, but I caught up with the Nova at the top of the switchbacks. The Snake was what locals called the 421 past Boone. Here the road flipped around the mountainside like a carnival ride, diving down into huddles of dark pine that jostled for space on the narrow granite ledges. We started down after the Chevy and my choices were to either drive right on top of it or hang back out of sight in the bends. I settled on the second one and paid out a little slack, catching a reassuring glimpse of his taillights now and again when we swept through a softer turn. The highway flattened on a ledge high above Doe Creek and straightened out to follow it for a mile or so. The Chevy was 50 yards in front with nowhere to go. Bare rock climbed up on one side and plunged away through scrub pine to the river in a sheer drop on the other. “Go alongside,” Leroy said. I edged the Ford on and pulled around. Jackpot glanced across. When he saw Leroy McCarthy sat next to him, his face dropped and he mashed the gas. The Nova lurched off like a scalded pup, its whipped motor screaming in protest. “Thought so, you bastard. Git after him, Tommy.” I did as I was told, down shifted and gave it some beans. The powerful Ford easily reeled him in on the straight, but as the road started to hairpin down again I couldn't see a way around. Leroy leaned out of the window and blazed away left handed. He got lucky with one shot and took out the back windshield, making Jackpot weave from side to side, but the rest were all over the place. “Hold this damn thing steady for Christ's sake,” he said, spent jackets rattling out onto the floor as he fumbled in fresh ammo. Jackpot fired back with what looked like a squirrel pistol. The little rounds pinking of the hood were no real threat, but they got Leroy madder than hell. “Ram that fucker!” He yelled, emptying his .44 in the general direction of the Nova, dry firing two chambers before realizing he was out again. I closed up and nudged the bumper, sending a good jolt through the Chevy, but when the wheel snatched through my hands I instinctively backed off again. “Jesus Tommy, don't tickle him, fuck him up.” Leroy stomped his foot down on top of mine, pancaking the pedal and launching a six ton guided missile complete with a chrome mags and a gun rack at Jackpot's Nova. I clung on, desperately trying to keep all four tires in contact with black top, slewing Big Earl's Ford around a bend and piling into the Chevy. The impact sent us fishtailing wildly, Leroy went careering along the bench seat into a swearing heap on the floor. My forehead cracked off the windshield and the world took on a haze of red as blood poured into my eyes. We skewed off into the rock wall, raking along it in a squeal of metal before kicking back out towards the drop off. I pumped the brake and fought against the laws of motion, dragging the wheel over to plough more granite. Sparks ground off the cab, the front tire blew out with whoomp and we shot a 180. The back end slammed into the cliff as we came to a stop more or less facing back the way we'd come.

#

The stench of gasoline forced its fingers down my throat making me gag. I wiped enough blood away to see that my side was wedged tight against the rock. Leroy was out cold, laying amongst the litter of empty Papst cans and shell cases on the cab floor. I reached across and tried his door, the handle came away as I yanked it. The whole frame was crooked as the number seven, the metal folded over and fused in place with rock slide welding. “Well now ain't this a fine evening for a drive.” I peered through the crazed windshield glass and saw Jackpot standing in the road with a shotgun cradled in his arms. He looked like he'd been beat some, but he was still pitching. There was no sign of his shitty Nova. “Get them hands up nice an' high where I can see 'em boy. Where's McCarthy?” I started to motion to the floor and he swung the gun up and drew a bead on me. “Uh, huh, hands boy. Keep 'em up. Is that bastard out of it?” I nodded and felt a fresh trickle of blood run down my nose. “I know you, don't I?” He asked limping around to the side of the truck. “You're Buck Hopkirk's boy, out of Larkford.” I just sat there bleeding and didn't answer. Jackpot continued to circle, keeping his side-by-side trained on me all the while. “How is old Buck?” “He's dead,” I said. “Well that's a damn shame, he was always straight up and down.” Jackpot pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and bent to mop up gas from the puddle forming under the truck. “You made some bad choices today, boy. Weren't none of this your concern. I guess you're gonna have to think on that, but not for too long, eh?” He said, spinning off the filler cap and stuffing his snot rag in the tank. I kept my eyes fixed on Jackpot and kicked furiously at Leroy with my boot. “Give old Buck my regards when you see him,” Jackpot said and spun the wheel on his Zippo. Flames leapt from the lighter and touched off the rag. All the time that weighed so heavy on me earlier, curled up like burnt paper and carried away on the breeze. Jackpot let out a cackle and went gimping off down the road. I tugged once at Leroy, he didn't move, just lay there like he was sleeping off a good drunk. I had a few seconds and no options. I swung my legs up and kicked at the busted windshield, working my boots along the top edge to try and pop it out and knowing that any moment those flames would reach what gas was left in the split tank. “C'mon you fucker!” I yelled and stomped with all I had, finally the glass gave and flopped onto the hood like a dead catfish. I scrambled through the opening, my escape hastened by a hot blast of exploding truck that flung me and some assorted auto parts across the highway into the scrub pine.

#

Soft flurries were blowing around the parking lot, dancing in the sodium glow of the Hog Pen's security lights. Heavy snowfall had shut the 421 a few days back, so I took the long way around, through Boone and Hartford. I'd been waiting for a while now, not just here in the lot. The one thing I got again is time. Last Sunday I overheard the preacher talking about my old man's funeral, saying what a pleasure it was to bury a Hopkirk who didn't have a bullet hole in him. I guess he'll wind up being the only one. It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive, but it's not something I'm right proud of either. Most nights the whole thing plays again in my head, like the re-run of some grainy old home movie. Big Earl's sightless gaze, watching me from the cabin floor, Leroy laying unconscious in the truck like a pile of old clothes left out for the welfare. Some nights the windshield pops and sometimes it don't. Nowadays I keep a bottle on the nightstand for when the walls of my room start closing in and the smell of gasoline is so thick its like trying to breath through corn syrup. I'm alive alright, but it don't feel much like living. Maybe putting this right will help, but I doubt it. Right and wrong don't matter, they're just two sides of the same coin. I checked the load of the .410 for the umpteenth time and rested it back across my lap. The wind was turning back towards the north, strengthening, a snowy gust slammed the Hog's front door back on it's hinges, pulling if from the grasp of skinny guy in a camo hat. He paused in the doorway, a warm fug of raucous laughter and loud country drifting around him from inside the bar. I curled my finger around the twin triggers as the guy cupped a Zippo in his hands and lit a smoke; drawing deeply on it before flipping up his collar and limping off across the lot. I eased myself out of the cab, dragged the hammers back on my old man's shotgun and followed Jackpot out into the night. Chris Leek is 1/5th of the team behind Zelmer Pulp Publishing. He also writes a review column for Out of the Gutter Online. His fiction has appeared at or in: All Due Respect, Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, Near to the Knuckle, Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers and Spinetingler Magazine. He blogs at www.nevadaroadkill.blogspot.co.uk

By David Barber

”I told the wife not to do it,” Joe said. “I told her it was asking for trouble.” He took a mouthful of his beer, his anger rising. “You can’t blame Louise,” the landlord, Liam Thompson, said. “I’m not blaming her, Liam. I know what she was doing was for the kids, to make it all Christmassy, but those thieving scum bags only need the tiniest opportunity. They’d rob their own grandparents to get their drug fix. Well, I’ll tell you what, Liam. I’d fix them bastards if I got my hands on them. I’d ring their scrawny necks for them.” Joe Walsh was standing at the bar of The Red Lion, a pint of Stella Artois, half empty in front of him. He was normally an optimist, a half full type of bloke, but the robbery had dampened his outlook. “Take it easy, Joe. Aren’t you insured?” “That’s not the point, Liam,” Joe replied, eyeing the landlord. “The little arseholes broke into my house. They were in my house. Do you know what that feels like? I’ve heard people talk about being burgled and how they feel like their home isn’t theirs any more. How it feels dirty and soiled and I used to think, ‘well it’s still their home, they can clean it and claim back on their insurance etc. etc.’. But, I’ll tell you what, Liam, they’re right. My home feels dirty. But the worst thing is, they’ve upset my wife and kids. They’re thinking Christmas is ruined. Every last present under the tree has gone, along with the flat screen TV; the play station, the DVD player and some other bits ‘n’ bobs. And before you ask again, yes we are insured and everything is going to be replaced, but that’s not the point, is it? Do you know what the coppers said when they eventually turned up? Liam simply nodded. Joe slapped his hand against the bar and chuckled. “Do you know what they said? ‘You probably shouldn’t have left them out on display.’ Can you believe that? Where are we supposed to put things when we’re at work? Pack it all up every morning and then unpack at night? Fuck that, Liam. Is it too much to ask that we should feel safe in our own homes?” Liam didn’t know what to say and was relieved when a customer shouted to him. He walked down to the other end of the bar to serve. “I wish I could get my hands on the little bastards,” Joe whispered, burying his face in his hands. “I can help you with that.” The voice came out of nowhere. Joe turned around and stared at a thin and scruffy man standing next to him. The matching black hoody and sweat pants and scuffed trainers the man was wearing had seen better days. He was pale, almost translucent. The veins under his skin were plainly visible. An unpleasant smell hung in the air and, when he spoke, there was an unnerving undertone to the words. Joe backed away slightly, the man’s sour odour overwhelming. “I can help you with your wish, Joe,” the man said again. “What? How do you know my name? Who are you?” “You don’t need to know who I am, Joe. I know you and I know how much you want to get back at those thieves who’ve ruined your Christmas. I can smell your anger, Joe.” How you can smell anything else but your own odour is a mystery, Joe thought to himself. The man placed a hand on Joe’s forearm. “I can feel your anger,” he said. “I can sense what you want to do to the people who invaded your kingdom, Joe” “Look pal,” Joe said, pushing the man’s hand off his arm. “I don’t know you from Adam so… just leave me to finish my drink, eh?” The scrawny man looked Joe in the eyes and smiled, his thin and dry lips looking like they would tear if he smiled any wider. Joe looked away, pushed past him and went to the toilet. Standing at the urinal, he looked down and noticed a red blemish on the back of his hand where the man had touched him. He finished up, washed his hands and pulled up his sleeve. He touched the reddened area. Heat was coming from it but there was no pain. “What the f…..” Joe rubbed at the blemish and as he did is started to disappear. “Oh, I’ve had too much beer,” he mumbled to himself, walking out of the toilets. He made his way back to the bar, looking around the pub for the hooded man, but he was nowhere to be seen. He drained the rest of his pint and the landlord walked over to him. “Another pint, Joe?” “Err, no thanks,” Joe said, rubbing his arm. “Think I’ve had enough. Did you see where that bloke went?” “Eh?” “I was talking to a bloke, right here. He was wearing a black hooded top.” Joe scanned the pub. There were a few people in but the man was nowhere to be seen. “I didn’t see anyone, Joe. You’ve been stood on your own since we were talking earlier.” “I was ju…he was st…Oh forget it, Liam. I’d better go, mate. Think the stress and the beer have gone to my head. See you later, pal.” Joe walked to the pub door, grabbed his jacket off the hook and walked out into the frosty December night.

***

Three hooded youths sat in the living room of the council flat. The more common term these days for such a place is ‘apartment’ but that would suggest clean and tidy, well decorated with nice furniture. It was certainly a flat, and right in the middle of a run down council estate. They each sat on filthy armchairs, the stuffing protruding from the arm rests where they had been picked at by agitated and paranoid fingers. “Are you fucking sure nobody saw us? Because if anyone did we’ve had it, you know? We’ll be well fucked.” “Calm down, Paul. No-one saw us. And, even if they did, they won’t know who we are ‘cause we had our ‘clavas on. Stop worrying and have some of this.” The ring leader, Phil Brady, threw a small bag of white powder across the room to Paul Simms and another bag to the third member, Johnny Watson. “It’s gonna be a white Christmas boys.” The three youths all started laughing. They all opened their bags and emptied a small amount of the white powder onto the backs of their hands and snorted it. “This is the good stuff, boys,” Phil told them in between sniffing and licking the excess powder from the back of his hand. “Pure as pure can be. There’ll be plenty more of this when we sell that pile of beauties.” They all looked over to the corner of the room at the pile of presents, flat screen TV and the other valuables they had stolen. “A few grand’s worth of stuff there boys. We buy more of this, cut it in with some baking powder or talc. Double our money.” “Yes, but don’t forget to save some of the good stuff for us, Phil.” “Would I ever? I always look after my boys, don’t I?” The two other youths threw a quick glance at each other and both said, “Yes.”

***

Joe flicked up his collar against the biting cold, holding it closed around his neck. Thick plumes of steam escaped from his mouth with each exhalation as he walked down deserted streets, the plummeting temperatures making people stay indoors. He was only a few hundred yards from the crossroads at the end of his street when he heard the familiar voice. “I can help you with your problem, Joe.” Joe spun around. The thin man was standing behind him, his black hooded top pulled tight around his face. “Who are you?” “Don’t worry about that at the moment. You’ll find out later. What you need to know is that I can sort out your problem. I can make your Christmas happy again.” “How?” Joe asked, the thought of getting some kind of retribution bouncing around inside his head. “You need to make a deal with me. I help you and then you help me.” “What do I need to do for you?” “We’ll discuss that another time. Are you up for it? Do you want to get your things back?” Joe pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, the cold biting into him. He thought about what he’d love to do to whoever it was who’d stolen his family’s Christmas. It didn’t take long to decide. “Yes, you’ve got a deal.” “Follow me.”

***

“Where are we going?” Joe asked, following the thin man up the stairwell. “Come on. You’ll know soon enough.” They got to the top floor of the building and walked outside along the top balcony. How do people live like this? Joe thought as they walked past doors covered in graffiti. One had even been kicked in. “We’re here. Are you ready?” the man asked, stopping at a window. There was a slight gap in the curtains and a light on inside. “Ready for what?” Joe asked. “Revenge,” the thin man said producing a handgun fitted with a suppressor. “Wh…wh…where did that come from? What’s going on?” Joe hissed. “It’s your prize, Joe. You get to take back what is yours. Look,” the thin man said. He stepped out of the way as Joe approached. Through the gap in the curtains he could see a pile of wrapped Christmas presents in one corner of the room. Sat off to the left, on ragged armchairs were three youths, their heads leaning back and their eyes closed. A small bag of white powder lay on the floor next to one of them. “They’re high as kites. They won’t know what’s hit them,” the thin man said. Joe turned to him and looked at the handgun he was holding out. “I...I’m not sure...” “Nonsense. A deal is a deal. I’m taking a big risk bringing you here. Go in there and take back what is yours.” There was malice in the man’s voice and something more in his eyes. They seemed to burn into Joe’s. “Wh...who are you to be speaking to me like that? I’m...” “Just do it...for your wife and children,” the man said, pushing the handgun against Joe’s chest. Joe looked down at the weapon and reluctantly took it from the scrawny fingers that held it. The grip was hot in Joe’s hand as he gripped it, his finger resting on the trigger. “H...how do I get in?” Joe asked. The thin man walked to the door and gripped the handle. He closed his eyes for a second or two and then turned it. The door opened and he gently pushed it wider. “There. Now go in and don’t hesitate. You can have the three of them done within seconds.” Joe stepped forward and hesitated at the threshold. He turned to the man and then looked into the hallway of the flat. Fear was making his heart pound in his chest. He walked in and headed towards the door at the end of the hallway. Reaching the door he gripped the handle with his left hand, the handgun held firmly in his right. He turned it slowly and pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, the energy saving bulb giving little light. Joe entered, looking at the pile of presents and other items that had been taken from his home. His anger began to rise again as he turned his attention to the three stoned youths in the armchairs. He inched towards them and came to a stop a few feet from where they sat. “Do it.” Joe turned to see the man standing in the doorway. There was something different about him – something strange that Joe couldn’t quite put his finger on. He seemed to be bigger, almost filling the whole door way. Joe blinked a couple of times and shook his head. The man was back to normal and Joe put it down to the situation and his mind playing tricks. “Do it.” Joe raised the gun, his hand trembling. He squeezed the trigger slightly but then eased off. His heart felt like it was beating in his throat. He stood there, the gun aimed at one of the youths. “I can’t do it,” he whispered. The reply came from right behind him. “Yes you can.” A hand gripped his hand and there was pressure on his index finger. “No,” Joe whispered, trying to force his finger off the trigger but the bony fingers were much stronger than they looked. An unnatural heat was enveloping the whole of his right arm, from the tip of his index finger all the way up to his shoulder. PFFT! The gun went off and the first of the youths sagged in his armchair, a dark stain spreading on the front of his grubby t-shirt. “No, I don’t want this. I’ve got insurance that will replace the stolen things. Please...stop!” Joe’s voice was louder than a whisper now and one of the other boys murmured. Joe’s arm was moved to aim the gun at him. “No!” PFFT! A bullet ripped through the boy’s forehead. “Last one, Joe,” the man said and moved Joe’s aim. Joe fought hard to stop what was happening but the man was too strong for him.The last youth stirred and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus his vision and realise what was happening. He turned to Joe and his eyes settled on the gun that was aimed at his head. “Wh...what’s going on? P...please don’t shoot!” Joe stared at him and tried to lower the gun but he was unable to. At that moment the gun went off and a third bullet took part of the boy’s head off, throwing him back against the chair. “Oh shit! Oh shit! Wh...what have I done?” Joe stood in the middle of the room, his eyes scanning the three dead youths. “Give me the gun, Joe, and get going home. I’ll sort this mess out,” the man said. Joe just stood there, his eyes wide, staring at the blood. “JOE! Give me the gun and go. I’ll be in touch.” Joe turned to the man and handed the gun over. He walked out of the flat, his legs barely able to keep him up. On the balcony the cold air bit into his face but he was too numbed by what had just happened to feel it. “What have I done?” he whispered to himself.

***

The next few days were the hardest time of Joe’s life. He was off work and spent most of the time checking the TV for any news on the deaths of 3 youths in the Manchester area. There was nothing, not even in the local newspapers. Had he dreamt the whole thing? Had it really happened? He was beginning to think that it was all a part of his imagination. There was a knock at the front door. His wife was and children were in the living room watching a Christmas movie. “I’ll get it, honey,” Joe said, walking to the front door. He opened it and was taken aback by the visitor. “Hello, Joe. How are you feeling?” The thin man stood in front of him, the hood of his black top pulled tight around his face. “Wha...? H...ow have you found where I live? I was...” “I’ve always known where you live, Joe.” “What do you want?” “I’ve got something for you,” the man said, pointing to a small, white van. “I’ve brought your stuff from the flat, remember?” “I...I...don...” “Listen, Joe. Don’t worry about anything. Nobody knows anything about what happened. Relax. Now,” he said, blowing into his hands, “about my end of the deal. Come outside and I’ll show you something.” Joe stepped outside, the cold biting into him. He followed the man to his living room window and stopped. “What’s going on?” Joe asked. The man turned and stared intently at Joe. Something burned in the thin man’s eyes. “Take a look, Joe. That’s my part of the deal.” Joe looked through the window into his own living room. Inside he could see his wife and children watching the TV, all laughing together. It was a beautiful sight. Then, slowly, a strange orange haze began to build around the three of them before turning into a kind of flickering glow. Then Joe realised what the orange glow was. Some kind of aura was surrounding his wife and children and it was slowly turning into flames. Within the flames he could still see his family laughing together. “What the...” “Yes, they belong to me now. Be careful what you wish for, Joe,” the thin man said. “Were you never told that it’s a bad idea to make a deal with the Devil?” “No, no, no!” Joe cried, “You can’t do this. I want my family...” The thin man had gone and so had the white van. Joe looked back into his living room and the flames had also disappeared. There was no aura surrounding his family. His wife turned and looked at Joe, a smile spreading across her mouth. She beckoned him in and Joe nodded, wondering if he would ever see the thin man again. David Barber was born and bred in Manchester, England, but after 39 years of city life decided to up sticks and move to Crieff in Scotland with his wife, Lisa, and their two daughters, Imogen and Melissa. Having written for a few years when he was younger, fatherhood took hold and, being self employed, earning money suddenly became more important so mindless scribbling had to take a back seat. It was after a visit back down to Manchester that his childhood friend and fellow writer, Col Bury, invited him to submit something for a magazine he was assistant editor of – the award winning Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers. He rattled off a six sentence story called Sorry Love and sent it off. That piece then went off to win a 2nd place Bullet Award. Since that day his writing has flowed from fingers to keyboard and onto other magazines, such as A Twist of Noir, Near To The Knuckle, The New Flesh and Blink Ink. He has also had the honour of having stories published in print and in e-book anthologies, True Brit Grit, Action: Pulse Pounding Tales, Off The Record and The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology. He was, for 18 months, the editor of The Flash Fiction Offensive. During that time his eye for detail vastly improved and the editing side of the industry has helped his own writing enormously. He is a crime editor at Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers. He is currently working on a few projects including a novel and a new e-book short story collection. His first short story collection, From A Crowded Mind, is available at amazon.co.uk and amazon.com.

He can be found lurking at davidjbarber.wordpress.com On Twitter at @thetwoblokes On Facebook at facebook.com/david.barber

By Vic Errington ”Someone has to do something, John,” I said to the dog’s owner, “Don’t you agree?” As I awaited the man’s response I gave yet another sharp tug on the leash and heard the usual faint yelp in response. The first couple of times I had done that the dog had looked up at me with a curious look on her face. She soon got used to it though and, I think, understood the need for it. John, looking somewhat confused, managed a begrudging ‘yes’ in answer to my question, but didn’t seem convinced. We’d only been walking for three quarters of a mile and the man was already exhausted. To me, a former special services operative, the distance was nothing. “Let’s have a breather – SIT!” I commanded. The dog responded instantly and his owner gave a soft sigh of relief as we stopped to take in the view. The beach was deserted at dawn. The only sounds were of the sea washing up onto shingle and stones and the distant hum and clatter of a milk-float in the town. I pressed my point. “If the people who commit these abuses aren’t retrained then they’ll just go on committing them … someone has to stick up for the vulnerable … the underdog.” I breathed in the early morning air with gusto. The sun’s golden fingers were rising above the horizon as though saluting my worthy efforts. The thought braced me. “let’s go,” I said, giving another sharp pull on the leash. “The way I see it,” I continued, “The law in this country only serves the rich and powerful. It does nothing to help those who have no voice. I am their voice.” The man grunted, whether in agreement or not I didn’t know, but he still appeared bewildered and very tired. I had predicted a mile long walk would be too far for him. It had to be, 'no pain, no gain'. The dog was obviously enjoying it though. “Let’s carry on. Not far now, John. You can see the pier. Look.” We carried on in silence, moving slowly along the beach towards the pier. I pondered on my attempts to win the man over to my philosophy. Had he agreed with me and seen the light? Had he even understood? I couldn’t tell, but other dog walkers would soon start to appear and I had other jobs to do, so with a final yank on the leash we powered on to the pier. Underneath the pier I called the dog over and gave her a fuss. “Beautiful girl,” I crooned in her ear as she wagged her tail and jabbed at my face with her tongue. “Right, John,” I said, leaning down to remove the leash from around his badly blistered neck, “I'll be keeping my eye on you. If I ever see you kick your dog again because you're in a bad mood I’ll take you for another walk. Your last walk. Do you understand?” The man, his skinless, bloody knees poking through the holes in his trousers, his hands ripped and pierced by razor-sharp shingle, stood up shakily. Tears dropped from his bloodshot eyes as he stood before me nodding his head, suitably chastened. I handed him the leash, turned, and headed for the town. I never could stand animal abusers. I used to make a living writing essays and reports for clients. I only did that for a year and a half though. The money was pucker but the work didn't do my brain any good as I ended up mentally fried and vowing never to write an essay again. Then flash fiction turned up. After stumbling on a couple of short shorts that left a deep impression on me I started Flash Fiction World, an online resource for flash fiction/short story writers. That way I get to enjoy a constant influx of stories, as well as the chance to help aspiring writers embrace the craft. Occasionally I get to write a story myself. Previously working in a variety of roles, from soldier to social worker, cleaner to computer technician, and too many other jobs to mention, I'm now a wage-slave with the local council - making sure all the bins are emptied and streets kept clean. I actually hope to retire at the age of 55. But as that particular birthday is only 8 months away, and with no nest egg hidden away, it seems highly unlikely. No worries - as long as I am still able to read and write when I retire at 70, all will be well. If circumstances dictate that you can't live your life exactly how you want to, then live it through stories - your own or those written by others. Long live short fiction!

You can find Vic at: Flash-Fiction-World.com Flash Fiction World Collections: Amazon - viewAuthor.at/VicErrington And also at Smashwords.

By Graham Smith

Author's Note

It's an emotive subject I've tackled but the ending kinda fits in my opinion. I wanted to show the damage that can be caused by women crying rape just to get at a man.

‘You ruined my life, you lying bitch.’ The woman tied to the chair in front of me fought against her bindings without success. ‘Mmummppff,’ was the only sound which got past the gag. ‘Tonight, I’m gonna get my revenge. I spent five long years in prison because of your lies. Rape, you cried. Rapist they called me. I was the one who was raped. Twice a week for five long years in Barlinnie. I caught fucking AIDS in there because of your lies.’ I stopped talking and walked round her a couple of times. I’d snatched her within a week of leaving Bar-L. Then I’d driven her to a deserted house on the banks of Loch Ard in the Trossachs. The hire car was parked out of sight and I had all I needed to exact my revenge. Taking the hunting knife from its sheath at my waist I sliced through the cotton strip I’d gagged her with. There was fear in her eyes as she looked at me wondering if she dare scream for help. I answered her unspoken question by letting out a scream of my own. ‘Scream all you want. There’s no one coming to help you.’ I sat on the other chair I’d brought and watched her as she tried screaming and yelling for help. Five minutes later when she’d stopped shouting and started to sob instead, I spoke again. ‘Awful isn’t it when you are screaming for help and none comes.’ ‘What are you gonna do with me, James?’ It was the first time she had spoken to me directly. ‘Well Diane.’ My voice was laced with anger as I too used a Christian name in deference to our one time familiarity. ‘What I’m gonna do is commit the crime I was wrongly imprisoned for.’ ‘No! James, please no. I beg you.’ ‘You beg me? You fucking beg me? Who do you think I begged when I was being sent down? Who do you think I begged when they came for me in the night? In the showers?’ ‘I’m sorry. I was just angry about you flirting with that girl. I never thought you’d get jailed.’ ‘How many times have you got to be told? She was my bloody neighbour and I wasn’t flirting.’ I was getting close to losing my temper so I started pacing round her, using the movement to cool my boiling blood. ‘Please let me go James.’ The desperation in her voice calmed me more than anything else, and I knew there and then that I would be able to carry out my plan without losing the plot and killing her. ‘When you’ve suffered the way I’ve suffered, I’ll let you go.’ Diane wept as she struggled against her bindings in another doomed attempt at breaking free. ‘My family are rich now. They can pay for you to have a new life in another country. If you let me go, I promise I’ll get them to set you up abroad.’ ‘I’ve heard your promises before. You lied your pretty little head off in that courtroom. Your lies ruined my life. Besides, what’s the point in getting a new life when the old one has already been sentenced to death?’ ‘I swear, James. Anything you want you can have.’ ‘Can I have back the five years I spent in prison for a crime I didn’t commit? Can I have back my anal virginity? Can I have back the respect I lost as your lies poisoned the world against me?’ When she didn’t answer me I lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. ‘Do you honesty think I’ll ever believe a word you say to me?’ ‘What are you going to do to me then?’ There was resignation in her tone. Diane was a tough girl and it took a lot to shake her for any length of time. Now she had accepted the inevitability of her predicament, she was drawing on her internal strength to face whatever I threw at her. She was an intelligent woman and knew that there was a fairly decent chance that she could survive being raped by me without actually catching the dreaded disease. As I watched her I could see her confidence grow as she compartmentalised her impending trauma. ‘I don’t believe you’ll do it, James.’ Her tone was a direct challenge. ‘You are not the kind of bloke who’d rape a helpless woman. I know you. You won’t be able to get it up when push comes to shove. Remember the time I let you tie me to the bed? It didn’t work then and it won’t work now.’ ‘Yeah. That’s what I reckoned as well. But I’ve had a long time to plan this.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a blister pack containing two rows of little blue pills and a tube of lubricant. ‘D’you know what these are?’ Diane nodded once as her new found composure fell away. I worked my mouth to generate some spit and then popped two tablets in my mouth and swallowed. ‘They take half an hour to really kick in so I’ve got time to get you ready. ‘Ready?’ ‘Yes ready. I can’t possibly rape you when you are sat on your arse on a chair can I? You said I raped you vaginally which was a lie. I’m gonna show you the truth of how I was raped.’ ‘Please don’t do this. Don’t be the man people say you are.’ ‘I’m just gonna be the man you said I am. You’re the one who called me rapist. Nobody else. You. There was three months between you crying rape and me being sentenced. In that time my mother was spat at, shunned by lifelong friends and her home was covered with the vilest graffiti. The shame caused by your lies put my mother in an early grave.’ ‘I’m sorry James. I never heard about her death.’ Diane was falling to pieces in front of my eyes and I could see that she was now terrified for her life. I could have spared her this worry but if I’m honest. I wanted her to worry. I wanted her to suffer the stress of terror as she awaited an unknown fate. ‘You caused it Diane. That viperous tongue of yours wrapped its way around her throat and tightened the lies until she could no longer breathe.’ I left her sobbing to get a table from the other side of the room. I pushed it across the floor until I had it butting against the far wall. It was a standard rectangular kitchen table. Five feet long by three feet wide with a leg at each corner. The only unusual thing about it was the large metal hoop I’d screwed to the table earlier. I used my knife to slit her bonds and then held it at her throat with one hand while using the other to cable tie her hands to the hoop. She tried kicking at me as I secured her legs to the table leg but I’d had a lot of time to work out lately and I could easily restrain her. Diane was now bent forward over the table with her backside sticking up just as I planned it. It only took me a moment to remove her clothes with the help of my knife. ‘No. James, please stop. Don’t do this to me.’ I walked round the table to where she could see me and stripped off my own clothes so she could see my drug induced erection. Pleas fell from her mouth unheard by my ears as I stood behind her. There was no contact between us but I could feel the heat coming from her bare skin. ‘DIANE! Are you ready for me?’ ‘Pleeeeeaassse no. Don’t rape me. Pleeeeeaassse.’ ‘Get ready, ‘cause I’m gonna start any second now. Or would you rather I killed you instead?’ Her voice when it came was a whisper. ‘Kill me. I’d rather die than be raped that way.’ ‘What did you say?’ ‘Please kill me, instead of raping me.’ ‘Louder!’ ‘PLEASE DON’T RAPE ME. KILL ME INSTEAD.’ I picked up my knife and carefully aligned it in front of her eyes. I wanted her to watch what I did next. Her eyes blinked uncontrollably as tears and stress poured forth. I was watching her eyes intently as they widened when I cut through the cable ties holding her arms and then legs. ‘Feel like that for five years and you’ll know what hell prison is for an innocent man.’ I had waited a long time for this day and when I’d seen her eyes admit defeat, I knew that the wait was over. I had finally shown her my perception of purgatory. Once I was dressed I looked over to where she lay sobbing and left her with a final threat, ‘If you tell anyone what happened today, there’ll be a different ending next time.’ Graham Smith is married with a young son. A time served joiner he has built bridges, houses, dug drains and slated roofs to make ends meet. For the last eleven years he has been manager of a busy hotel and wedding venue near Gretna Green, Scotland. An avid fan of crime fiction since being given one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books at the age of eight, he has also been a regular reviewer and interviewer for the well respected review site Crimesquad.com for over three years. He has three collections of short stories available as Kindle downloads and has featured in anthologies such as True Brit Grit and Action: Pulse Pounding Tales as well as appearing on several popular ezines. His first collection Eleven the Hardest way has been longlisted for a Spinetingler award.

Twitter - @GrahamSmith1972

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/GrahamSmith

Blog www.grahamsmithwriter.blogspot.com

Amazon Author Page http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.amazon.com

Goodreads www.goodreads.com

Graham’s own books

Gutshots: Ten Blows to the Abdomen www.amazon.co.uk www.amazon.com

Harry Charters Chronicles www.amazon.co.uk www.amazon.com

Eleven The Hardest Way www.amazon.co.uk www.amazon.com

Anthology Entries

Off the Record 2: At the Movies www.amazon.co.uk

True Brit Grit www.amazon.co.uk

Action: Pulse Pounding Tales www.amazon.co.uk

Flashy Shorts www.amazon.co.uk

By Walter Conley

Jose said, “I don’t want to drive you to Wyoming.” “I need you to,” Alton said. “I don’t want to.” “I get that, Joe, but I don’t have a choice.” Jose hated the older man’s American nickname for him. “I can’t load that goddamn truck by myself. I can barely see to drive. I’m having a hard time just sitting up, talking to you like this.” “So?” “So, I’m in no shape to do much of anything.” Alton shifted on his stool, creasing his suit between the rumples. He glanced around the bar. His hair, knotty and colorless, was plastered to his mottled skull, making his head look like something you might find knocking against a pier. “Stay here, then,” Jose said. “I can’t.” “Rent a U-Haul.” “I can’t.” “Why not?” “Long story. The only thing that matters is I have to be in Casper, Wyoming in two days.” Alton looked into his son-in-law’s dead brown eyes. It was slow, quiet and dark; the handful of other patrons were all loners, there to do nothing more than get fucked up and watch TV. “Come on, man. Please. I’m begging you, for crissake.” “Don’t beg,” Jose said. “Pay.” “I plan to. Believe me. I’ll make it worth your while.” “And don’t swear at me like that anymore.” “I won’t.” Jose sipped his drink. He only drank Bloody Marys. He wore a sweatshirt over a button up pinstripe shirt with the collar folded outside. The sweatshirt was tucked into his pants, which were too big and fastened with a shiny belt. He had new boots on. Jose wore cloth gloves all the time in public, the white kind ladies wear to garden parties. He’d taken them off to drink. They were folded on the bar. “What are we talking about?” Jose asked. Alton wrote a number on the wet bar top with his finger. His hand trembled. He wiped his fingertip on the bar’s chipped edge as he withdrew it. “Half up front,” Jose said, looking away. “I can’t do that, either,” Alton said, “But the minute we get there, I’ll give you the whole thing. Cross my heart. We can stop at a bank first before we do anything else.” Jose thought for a moment and said, “You’re not going to shoot me when we get to Wyoming, are you?” “Shoot you?” Alton said, grinning. “No way, man.”

###

Jose shot Alton in a department store parking lot, fifteen miles into Wyoming. He told Alton that his head was killing him, which was true, from all the driving he’d done. He said he needed some aspirin. “Please hurry,” Alton had said, giving him a five dollar bill. “I will,” Jose said. Then he looked out the window past Alton’s head and whispered, “Holy shit…” When Alton looked too, Jose pulled a throwaway revolver from his sock, held it behind Alton’s left ear and pulled the trigger. Alton slumped against the passenger’s door. A noxious odor filled the cab. On the seat between them were an overcoat, Jose’s white cloth gloves, the knit cap and scarf Alton had brought to wear whenever they left the truck. Jose pulled everything on, thinking that he probably should have donned the gloves earlier. He rolled Alton to the floorboard. Where Alton had been sitting, there was an oversized atlas and all kinds of road trip garbage they hadn’t tossed out yet. He swept it off the seat onto Alton’s back. To passersby, Alton would appear to be a pile of dirty clothes and trash, which wasn’t too far from the truth. Jose grabbed the canvas sack Alton had been using as a pillow, jammed between the passenger’s seat and door. He unzipped it. Inside, he found a paper sandwich bag full of cash, a hell of a lot more than Alton had promised him, which he slid into the inside pocket of his coat. He sat there for a moment, listening to himself breathe. Victoria wouldn’t ask what had happened. He wouldn’t have told her anyhow. She knew that he was driving Alton to Wyoming and that was it. Neither of them could stand her father. If necessary, after Alton’s body was found, she would give him a solid alibi. Jose left the truck, locking his door. He walked across the intersection, scarf around his face, gloved hands in the overcoat pockets to a busy gas station. He stood by the payphone, stamping his feet. Thirty seconds later, a man pulled up in a Buick Skylark. He left the engine running, cranking the heater before he got out, then jogged into the store. Jose slipped in and drove away.

###

He drove straight through to West Virginia. Every two or three hours, he stopped for coffee and over- the-counter speed. He was sweating so much that he only had to go to the bathroom once. He’d wanted to drive all the way home, but was so exhausted that he was seeing double. Jose found a cheap hotel in the mountains. He paid with some of Alton’s cash. After a quick meal of convenience store donuts and a piping hot shower, he crawled into bed and passed out.

###

He awoke to the sound of a cleaning cart being rolled along the sidewalk. The clock on the night stand read 10:46. He’d been unconscious since yesterday afternoon. How many hours was that? Jose was too thick with sleep to figure it out. He did, however, realize the hotel would expect him to leave soon. In no condition to drive yet, Jose threw his dirty clothes back on and stumbled to the office. A teenage boy with with long hair and pouchy eyes stood at the desk. “Can I get my room for another night?” Jose asked. “That depends,” the clerk said, backing away. “On what?” “On whether or not you can pay for it.” “What do I look like?” Jose said, laughing. “I’d rather not say,” the kid told him.

###

That night, around eleven O’clock, Jose woke up again. The local news was on TV. Jose tucked an extra pillow behind his head. He was parched. In a few minutes, he thought, when his head cleared a little, he’d grab a soda from the machine. He sat through the weather, sports and photos of viewers’ pets. At the end of the broadcast, a graphic showing crime scene tape and chalk outlines went up behind the anchorwoman. She said, “More twists in today’s shocking Virginia homicide. Police in Louisa County are reporting that they now have substantial leads in the grisly fatal shooting of Victoria Sanchez.” Jose’s jaw dropped as a photo of his wife appeared onscreen. “It has now been confirmed that the body of Alton Vine, Sanchez’s father, was also discovered, earlier tonight, in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart in Greendale, Wyoming.” Jose tried to swallow, but had no spit. “One of Mrs. Sanchez’s alleged shooters was apprehended shortly after four O’clock this afternoon as he tried to cross the border into West Virginia,” the anchorwoman said. “According to the suspect, who police say is cooperating fully with them, the late Mrs. Sanchez was the target of a professional hit. The suspect and one other man, who police have identified as William Perry, of Casper, Wyoming, were reportedly hired to murder Sanchez if the woman’s father, the late Mr. Alton Vine, did not pay a substantial amount of money owed to an as-yet unnamed party in Wyoming by noon yesterday.” Jose looked at the bag of money on the night stand, the cost of Victoria’s life, sitting there within reach. Photos of Alton and another man, half his age, went up behind the anchor: the names below the faces read ALTON VINE and WILLIAM PERRY. “Police are asking that anyone with information on the crime, or who may have seen either of these men, please contact them at one of the anonymous tip-lines at the bottom of the screen.” The two photos were replaced by another. A full-screen shot of Jose, taken from the wall of his home. His dry lips moved as he read his own name. “Police are also interested in speaking with the victim’s husband, Jose Sanchez, of Louisa, Virginia, whose whereabouts are currently unknown.” Walter Conley got his start writing comic books and now writes for a variety of media. His short stories and poetry appear in anthologies, small press magazines and literary websites like Danse Macabre and Mad Swirl. Walter also does illustration and records original music under the name Katharine Hepcat. His latest print publication was the poem "black friday" in A Poet's View of Being. Forthcoming in 2013 are Crime and Horror E-books. You can find him at http://facebook.com/wconley2 and reach him at [email protected].

By Tom Pitts

It was billed as a house party. It wasn’t in a house, not even close. It was in the basement of an empty auto-body shop, a cement tomb with no windows and one exit. They’d spent the day setting up, pointing colored spotlights toward the walls and hanging up some white sheets to catch their glow. They helped the DJ haul in his towers of speakers and mounted them with strobe-lights. It all looked cheap and amateurish under the florescent lights, but by the time the room was filled with sweaty bodies, it wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t care. Robert was excited; he’d never worked one of these parties before. He’d been to plenty, but this time he’d be an insider, an authority figure. He liked the feeling. It made him feel a part of something. He dutifully lugged case after case of cheap beer down the narrow stairwell and put up folding tables for the bar. While he worked, he pondered the guest list. His own spots on the list would be filled with ten of his closest friends, all of them begging him to let their own friends in with them. He visualized giving the ‘okay’ or the ‘sorry, can’t do it,’ while they looked at him helplessly. Twenty bucks at the door put a cramp in a young person’s drinking budget. His job was going to be security; general security. The door would be covered by guys twice his weight; the street entrance upstairs would be guarded by someone who looked more intimidating. Robert’s job would be to float around the party and look for potential trouble makers, guys getting too sloppy, hitting on girls that didn’t want to be hit on, and, of course, the pukers. (Vomit meant immediate expulsion from the party.) It was the best job, it would give Robert the chance to mingle and party while at the same time maintaining his status as an insider, someone meant to be there. By ten o’clock the room was beginning to fill up. Robert stood by the bar and watched the two girls working it hand over can after can of cheap beer. At this rate they’d run out long before the night was done. The no smoking signs were ignored as the oxygen was steadily being replaced by smoke; both cigarette and the sickly, sweet stink of green bud. Carlos came over and yelled into his ear, “How’s it look?” “It looks great,” said Robert, smiling out at the anxious horde pressing up to the bar. “No. I mean the crowd. Have you done a walk through, yet?” “Yeah, I just did. It’s mellow, like it supposed to be.” Carlos gave him a blank look. Robert took that to mean, Get back to work. Robert moved slowly through the crowd. Most were dancing on the dance floor; some were dancing wherever they felt like it. There were now too many people to walk freely among them. He was bumped and jostled by a cross section of the city’s youth; shirtless tweakers spinning glow sticks, well dressed Latinos fawning over their high-maintenance dates and college kids sweating out the stress from finals. All of them looked like they were having a good time despite the noise, the heat, and the high price of shitty beer. The stairway up to the street level was more crowded than the dance-floor and they kept on coming. He worked his way to the back wall where they’d placed a couple of ratty couches and saw that every inch was occupied. At the end of one couch was a large, older guy. Too old for this crowd. He watched the dancers like he was in a trance. He wasn’t nodding his head to the music, he wasn’t smiling. He was leering. He also had a beer in his hand - a bottled beer. Robert thought about mentioning it to him, there was no glass allowed in the party. No outside liquor. But Robert decided to just keep an eye on him, instead. There was something about the man that gave Robert the creeps. When Robert saw Carlos again near the bar, he shouted into his ear, “Hey, what do I do if somebody’s drinking beer that they snuck in?” Carlos shrugged. Robert wasn’t sure that he’d heard him. He cupped his hand near Carlos’s ear, “If somebody’s drinking from glass bottles, what d’ya want me to do?” “I dunno,” said Carlos. “It’s not really that big a deal unless they’re causing shit. Are they being assholes?” “I guess not. He just looks like an asshole.” “Do what you like. Take the bottle from him. If he gives you any shit, throw him out.” Robert looked back in the direction of the couches where he had seen the older man. He wanted to point the guy out but he couldn’t see five feet in front of him. He started to describe him to Carlos, in case he needed help, he told himself, but really, he would have just preferred for someone else to deal with it for him. It didn’t matter, Carlos wasn’t listening anyway. It was a half an hour before Robert noticed him again, this time leaning up against a wall with a fresh long neck in his hands. The guy was still staring at the dance-floor, but now wore a sneer across his face. Asshole, thought Robert as he watched him. The guy just didn’t belong. The man upended his beer and threw the bottle hard at the floor. Robert didn’t hear the breaking glass, but could tell the other partygoers close by knew a bottle had smashed around their feet. Nobody challenged him though. Nobody said a word. The big man grabbed a stool from against the wall and placed it near a cement pole supporting the iron beams that ran along the width of the ceiling. And when he sat his fat ass on the stool, Robert saw it; a gun sticking out of the man’s back pocket. Wearing it casual, like it was nothing more than a wallet stuck in there. Robert got closer to see. It was a gun alright, the black handle grip sticking out to the right for quick and easy access, for everyone to see. Robert moved back toward the door where a huge Samoan named Pino was checking stamps on the wrists of everyone that came down the stairs. A greasy black ponytail trailed down the sweat stain on the back of Pino’s shirt. “Pino,” Robert waved at him to get his attention. Pino didn’t even look up. “Hey, Pino,” shouted Robert. Pino finally looked up and grinned, “Hey, Bobby, how you doing? We having fun tonight, or what?” “I think I saw a guy with a gun.” Pino smiled and nodded. He didn’t hear a word Robert said; neither did any of the people rushing past them with their wrists turned up in supplication. Robert made the sign of a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “I saw a guy with a fucking gun, man.” Pino smiled and made the gun sign right back and winked and said, “Go get a beer man. You look thirsty.” Some security. Robert pushed past him to find Carlos at the bar surveying the crowd, nodding his head to the thick, monotonous beat, looking like he knew what he was doing. “Carlos. I need to talk to you.” Carlos looked at him and shook his head a little. “I’m okay.” “No, c’mere. I need to talk with you.” Robert reached over and tugged his sleeve. “No. I’m good,” said Carlos. Robert realized then, Carlos thought he wanted him to come join him for a couple lines. “Trouble,” said Robert as loudly and as clearly as he could. A blonde girl with bad body odor sandwiched between them, vying for beer, turned and gave Robert an irritated look. “C’mere.” He pulled Carlos by the shirt into a small closet space they were using for storage behind the makeshift bar. It was the only spot in the whole party where they could be shielded from the music. “Dude, we got like, a situation.” Carlos smirked. Nothing could be that serious. He was older. More experienced. Robert was just a kid, his first time working a party like this. “What kinda situation?” “I saw a guy with a gun.” More disbelief clouded Carlos’s face. “Where?” “What d’ya mean, where? Here. Across the dance floor.” “What was he doing with it?” “How should I know? It was just stickin’ out of his back pocket.” “You sure it was actually a gun?” “I’m sure, dude. I’ve seen a fucking gun before.” Carlos looked like he was weighing all this out, deciding whether or not Robert had actually ever seen a gun before. “What do you wanna do?” “What do I wanna do? Shit, that’s why I’m telling you.” “A lotta guys carry guns. Are you even sure that it was a gun?” “This guy looks like an asshole. My gut, man, my gut tells me that he’s gonna be trouble.” Carlos pursed his lips and said, “Okay, show me who he is.” The two weaved through the crowd toward the pillar where the man had been sitting. He was gone. “He was right here, I swear.” “If you see him again, point him out to me or Pino. We’ll talk to him.” “Okay,” said Robert as he watched Carlos head back to the bar. He felt helpless. He leaned up against the pole and watched the crowd. Then, there he was, of course, by the speaker. The man was bent over, pulling something from his boot. Robert figured it had to be a weapon, so he stepped closer. It was a bottle, a half pint of Jim Beam. The man put it to his lips and took a slug. His face tightened from the liquor and he turned to face Robert, looking at him now, square in the eye. “You can’t have that in here.” The man’s expression didn’t change. He took one more pull from the bottle and bent down to put it back in his boot. “No outside liquor,” shouted Robert over the noise. The man heard him that time for sure. He said, “Fuck off, kid.” Robert was close enough to hear the growl in the man’s voice, to smell the whiskey on his breath. He could see the stubble on his bloated cheeks, could smell his cheap cologne, deodorant, or whatever the hell it was, mixing with his sweat. The man glared at him, reached in this breast pocket and pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds. He took a moment to light one and blew the smoke into Robert’s face. Robert didn’t know what to say, or how to react. He wanted to tell him that he was going to throw him out, but knew that he wouldn’t, couldn’t throw him out—not by himself. He wanted to tell him, No more glass, no smoking, no goddamn weapons, but what would be the point, this guy wouldn’t listen. He thought about that gun in the man’s back-pocket and just stood there frozen. He felt weak, small, every bit the kid that his brothers beat up, each day after school. Robert turned and walked away. He found Carlos and pulled him back to the spot near the speakers. Like a child, a tattle tale, he pointed the man out. Carlos didn’t hesitate; he walked right up to the guy and said something in his ear. Robert couldn’t tell what he was saying, but the big guy glared over Carlos’s shoulder at him. The two walked past Robert, the big guy first, and then Carlos, motioning for Robert to follow them. When they reached the bar, Carlos tapped Pino on the shoulder, “C’mon.” Pino followed them into the closet turned storage room behind the bar. “What seems to be the problem?” said the man, sounding angry, still smirking. “Our security witnessed you drinking outside liquor inside the party,” said Carlos. Pino stood behind Carlos with his massive arms crossed. The older man said, “So what? Half these little shits in here are fucked up on shit they brought in. Big deal.” “No glass, sir,” said Carlos, trying to be diplomatic now. “We can’t have glass in here. It’s dangerous. Those are the rules, and if you can’t follow them, you're going to have to leave.” “Really?” said the man. Then he smiled and said, “Fuck you.” Pino hadn’t moved. Carlos continued, “My security also said you may have a weapon. No weapons of any kind.” “Your security? You mean this skinny little shit, beside you? You gotta be kidding.” Pino unfolded his arms. Carlos said, “If you don’t leave of your own accord, we may have to call the police.” The man started laughing. Actually laughing. “Call ‘em, you can use my phone,” he said. “Call the fucking fire marshal while you’re at it. You dumb shits don’t even know that the cops are already here.” “What about the gun?” said Robert. “What, this ol’ thing?” The man pulled a .38 revolver from his back-pocket, pointing it toward the floor, saying, “It’s not even loaded.” Then, without warning, he pulled the trigger. Twice. Two quick shots into a case of two liter sodas on the floor. The soda fizzed and sprayed all over the room. The other three froze, the man kept on grinning. No one outside in the party seemed to have heard the shots. The party kept on going. The man reached for a chain around his neck and pulled. Out came a bronze star. The three stared at it. S.F.P.D. The guy was a fucking cop. “Yeah, dickhead,” he said directly to Robert, “I’m your fucking security. What are you securing, you little chicken shit?” Carlos cut in, “Sir, I don’t know what you think is goin’ on here, but we didn’t ask for any outside help.” “Going on? I’ll tell what you got going on. You got an illegal party here, you got underage drinking, selling alcohol to minors, kids on drugs, dealing drugs, you got no permit for this place ‘cause you’d never get one. It’s beyond capacity and beyond your capability to control. You got a problem is what you got.” The gun was still in his hand. Pino hadn’t moved. He was like a statue. The man stepped toward the doorway, pointing into the crowd with his gun, “You think the City of San Francisco would permit this shit? Fucking degenerates high on who knows what, getting all fucked up in this fire hazard?” The guy was looking into the faces of the partygoers, searching. “You think that’s what the city wants?” “What do you want?” said Carlos. Pino had folded his arms back up again. Robert was too nervous to say anything. “What do I want?” said the man. He poked Carlos in the chest with the barrel of the .38. “I want you to get the fuck out of my way.” With Pino in the backroom, the stairwell was wide open now, no one checking for stamps, people streamed in. More people were pushing up to the bar, milling around, dancing, all of them oblivious to the drama in the storeroom. The big man shoved Carlos with his free hand and stepped by him. Carlos lost balance and fell back into a tower of beer cases. He was in the crowd now, gun still in hand. He reached out toward a young girl. She was in a low-cut black dress, tight with glitter sewn in. She had a glow-in-the-dark necklace on. She looked high and oblivious to the meaty paw reaching out for her. He grabbed the girl by her blonde hair and bellowed, “You, you’re coming with me.” The girl looked terrified, panic-stricken. She looked up at her abductor, recognition washed over her face. One word escaped her lips, “Dad.” He dragged her up the stairs. Those who noticed watched them go, clumsy, backward, up the stairs. No one stopped them. No one even tried. When he was gone, they all turned back to the party. The endless beat pulsed on. Tom received his education firsthand on the streets of San Francisco. His work has appeared in Shotgun Honey, A Twist of Noir, Darkest Before the Dawn, Punk Globe, and others. He’s also a popular contributor at SF’s reading series Lip Service West. Contact him at tom-pitts.blogspot.com.

By Allen Miles

It had been nearly a year since Malcolm’s daughter had died. When the Vauxhall Astra, driven by the blameless old man in his flat cap driving home from the supermarket with his wife. hit her. She was five years, five months and twenty days old. He had blamed himself since the day it happened. He’d taken his eyes off her for a split second while he was loading his cricket gear into the back of his car. She was playing with a brightly coloured rubber ball, the kind they sell from string baskets in large petrol stations. It bounced out onto the dual carriageway. She ran after it and in doing so gave Harold McCourt, 68, retired, a memory he would struggle with for his remaining days. He had only been going about thirty when he hit her, but because of the angle of the impact she flew across the road striking the kerb with the back of her skull.. She had been born on Christmas Day and every present he’d bought for his wife had been something for the baby. Moses basket, changing mat, mobiles, they had all been lovingly wrapped in shiny paper, dotted with dummies and teddy bears. It had taken them an incredibly long time to conceive; they had been trying since they got married ten years ago, and had suffered four miscarriages. The happiness that Malcolm found when he held the baby in his arms for the first time, he felt sure had never been felt by anyone in the history of the world. They named her Lucy, after no- one in particular. Tears coursed down his face as he cradled that tiny head in his right hand and he had looked at his wife laying exhausted in the hospital bed with utter devotion. It all seemed such a long time ago now. In fact, Malcolm reasoned as he walked to the train station on his commute to work, it seemed like a different life. They separated soon after Lucy’s death. Malcolm had tried so hard to give his wife strength and support, particularly at the funeral when they clung to each other so desperately as the tiny coffin was surrendered to the earth. But Malcolm’s guilt and his wife’s subconscious resentment meant that the slightest disagreement would result in blame and hateful attacks, and after a while he simply couldn’t take them anymore. He left her, and he let her have everything; the house, the car, the small amount of money they’d saved, they didn’t interest him. He moved into a small attic room in a large Victorian house that had been split into six flats. Every day his routine had been the same. He would wake, dress, drag his raincoat onto his bony shoulders and walk to the station. He would take a seat on the train, smile and nod at the commuters he saw every day. When he arrived at the insurance company where he worked, his colleagues even now would ask after his health. Their heads cocked to one side, giving him the “sad smile” that so many people seemed to have as part of their emotional arsenal these days. He had been taken off customer service when he initially returned to work, merely two weeks after his daughter’s death. He told his boss he was alright and that if he just got on with work as normal it would help him recover. His boss told him that he would go along with his wishes, but he felt it was inappropriate for him to be dealing with the general public while he was so vulnerable. They “liaised” with human resources and found him a spirit-crushingly dull job in Archives and Filing. It was a position that normally would have paid much less than his job in underwriting, but they didn’t adjust his salary. It was isolated, monotonous and lonely, and he liked it. Malcolm and his wife had been a very insular couple, they were both quite shy and didn’t have many friends. The few that they did have had not made much effort to stay in touch with him after the split. He still went to play Cricket every Sunday, only now he didn’t stay for the two pints he would allow himself in the pavilion afterwards. Mostly, though, he carried on as normal. He had been raised with the classic English mentality that you should keep a stiff upper lip, talk about the weather and always be polite. He would make chit-chat with shop assistants, smile at his colleagues and give up his seat on the train for older passengers. When he got home to his empty little bedsit however, he could no longer keep up the charade. It was a very small space in which to live, yet each evening when he sat down on his two-seater settee, he looked round at the walls and felt like a little child sat alone in the middle of an empty aircraft hangar. The loneliness and silence terrified him. Although he was far from a big drinker, he had discovered the anaesthetic powers of whisky. He would allow himself two doubles whilst he slumped in his armchair, watching his old Test Match videos and desperately trying to think of happier times; then he would become maudlin and sit there looking at his photos of Lucy by the light of the electric bar fire. The wine-stain birthmark on her neck that the other kids had picked on her for during her first few weeks at school; he remembered all the times he had sat her on his knee and told her to be proud of it because she was the only person in the world who had one. Her pigtails, her little swimming costume on the beach at Withernsea, her deep brown eyes. Every single night he had hoisted himself up onto his bunk and drank his last double whisky in the dark. And every single night he cried himself to sleep. He continued to do his job to the best of his ability and worked conscientiously and efficiently. His colleagues continued to exude sympathy without showing any particular interest in helping him and if Malcolm had been judged entirely on his work then no-one would have guessed the sadness he had experienced. Yet the little things had started to give it away; his raincoat, once so pristinely hung around his shoulders, was now crumpled and torn in one or two places, from where he dropped it on the floor every night when he got home. He no longer had the vanity to apply his contact lenses each morning, so he wore a pair of rather harsh steel-rimmed glasses instead. He used to Brylcreem his hair back, RAF style, but now it just sat there unkempt on his flaking scalp, and those who passed by him at close quarters would have noticed a faintly sour smell, a sign of someone who doesn’t shower as much as they should. He came to be viewed with slight suspicion by his neighbours, particularly the white-van-owning tradesmen who moved their families to this rather more affluent area of the city as status that they had now made enough money to be able to move away from the council estates. The winter, and Christmas in particular, had been the hardest time. On his walk home from the station he would see all the local children being lead around by the kids’ club assistant from the nearby church, knocking on each front door and singing carols, raising money for Dove House. He had promised Lucy, as she knelt on the window sill at their old house looking out at scenes such as these, that next year she’d be old enough to do the same, and he promised to take her personally, hand-in-hand to each front door and sing the carols with her. He saw families putting their trees and their trimmings up looking so happy, yet every night he made his way back to this enormous gothic stalag and looked up at the tiny little window in the roof where he lived and saw no Christmas lights, no cards, nothing but emptiness. One night he found himself at a particularly low ebb and texted his ex-wife, asking if she wanted to go for a drink and maybe give each other a bit of support during this difficult time. She never replied. The days crawled past and the routine remained the same. Malcolm still behaved in an exemplary manner at work and put a brave face on out in public. His boss got him in the office one day in March, asking very delicately if there was anything he needed help with, gently hinting that his appearance could do with tidying up a bit. Malcolm didn’t quite pick up on the hint and his boss let it go. The nights got lighter and around about April time he started taking a new route home from work so that he could watch the local kids playing in the park. He would occasionally sit on a bench and throw some bread to the ducks that waddled around the small pond next to the playground area, all the while taking equal amounts of joy and despair from watching the children running around. They seemed so free, so innocent, so utterly untouched by any sort of unhappiness. He initially thought it would make him even sadder for the loss of his daughter, yet it seemed to somehow galvanize him and cleanse his mind, being close to such beautiful scenes. Before long he was going to the park every evening and the sense of loss he felt had somehow started to fade. There were still these young rosy- cheeked wide-eyed creatures with everything to live for, they just weren’t his. After a few nights he noticed one kid in particular who he half-recognized. He seemed to remember that she’d been Lucy’s friend and she had come to their old house for tea once. Hayley, he thought her name was. She smiled at him as she ran past, with teeth missing and NHS glasses and a ponytail. Her mother followed and, as Malcolm smiled back, she looked him up and down without recognizing him, smiled curtly, took the little girl by the hand and sharply pulled her away. The next night was the same, Hayley was playing as Malcolm sat on the bench feeding the ducks. She walked up to him slowly, looked at him and said, “Do you know me mister?” Malcolm looked at her. Her eyes were different colours. One blue, one green. “No I don’t think so,” he said. He smiled, stood up and walked towards the road. He crossed and started to make his way to the newsagents when he heard Hayley shouting from the other side of the road “Hey Mister! You’re Lucy’s Daddy! Lucy was my friend!” He looked back and she was running towards him, running towards the road, running towards the traffic. His mind became a screaming electrical storm of flashbacks, funerals and his daughter’s face and it all spiralled together and he ran back towards her so fast that he couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet. He charged out into the traffic, as she ran onto the road, completely disregarding his surroundings. He dived out in front of the oncoming transit van and caught her a split-second before it would have hit her. The front corner smashed into the right hand side of his torso as he threw her to the kerb, and spun him with such force that he was thrown into a railing head first. There was no pain, but the impact of both blows was overwhelming. Through the colours and shapes he saw Hayley running over to him, crying so loudly, tears flowing down her face. He used all of his strength to haul himself up and he knelt on his uninjured knee. She threw herself at him and he held her. He had a fractured pelvis, a punctured lung and a huge laceration on his head, but he felt nothing other than this tiny girl in his arms. She cried intensely, huge heaving sobs of distress. He stroked her head and whispered over and over, “It’s alright, it’s alright….” If he did nothing for the rest of his days, he had saved this girl’s life. If he had been to blame for his own daughter’s death, he had stopped it from happening again. Somehow, in whatever way made sense in this moment of judgement, he had, in that split second, exorcised those demons that had smothered his mind since Lucy was killed. He had saved this child’s life. Then through the noise and confusion and bright circles forming in front of his eyes he heard a cry. A brutal, barbaric bellow cutting violently through the haze. “EY!! GET AWAY FROM MY BAIN!!!” He looked up to see a huge, crew cutted thug harshly jerking Hayley away from his embrace. Then he twisted back to Malcolm and kicked him savagely in the chin. “FUCKIN’ NONCE! PUTTING YOUR HANDS ON MY BAIN!” He felt several of his teeth break and he flew backwards into the gutter. He then felt the colossal force of a steel toe capped work boot smash into his already broken rib cage. “FUCKIN’ NONCE!!” Another made crushing contact with the side of his face and he heard Hayley screaming, “DADDY!! DADDY!! STOP!!” All he could see was Lucy’s face as the blood streamed from his mouth onto the road, but he couldn’t feel any pain. The sounds started to fade and his breathing got more rapid and shallow. He thought he could hear sirens and the last thing he heard before his eyes closed for the last time was, “NO!! LUCY’S DADDY SAVED ME!!!” Allen Miles is thirty-one years old and lives in hull with his wife and baby daughter. He spends most of his spare time drinking wine and watching films that star Humphrey Bogart. After a fledgling career in sports journalism he started writing short stories and prose pieces, several of which were published online. After signing with independent publishing house Byker Books, his first e-book, 18 Days, was released in 2012. It has sold literally dozens of copies worldwide. He can be found online at Twitter.com/ManicOwl and at sittingontheswings.wordpress.com

By Jim Spry

Brushing rain from my short cropped hair, I pushed open The Doughnut Den's heavy glass door. Breathing in the smell of cinnamon, coffee, and assorted baked goods, I raked a glance across the punters seated around Formica-topped tables. The usual crowd of blue-rinsed grannies, giggling school girls and righteous students sat gossiping, laughing and playing on smart phones. Each of them had at least one glazed or sprinkled doughnut and a steaming beverage of choice. None of them looked like trouble. I don't know what I'd been expecting. Eyes making out with candy pink floor tiles, I slipped through the crowd. I found a seat at the empty window bar. I slung my jacket over the back of a wooden chair and slumped down. I stared out to the rain drenched window and my heart beat like a Little Drummer Boy pumped on amphetamines. I stuck a hand into my uniform trousers, pulled out crumpled box of Stirling and stuck the cigarette between my lips. "Dale," she said in a tone like a school ma'am scolding a mischievous child. "You know you can't do that here." WIth my death stick drooping from my mouth like a comedy thermometer, I shifted my stare off the waterlogged street. Her pretty green eyes beamed at me from beneath a mop of golden hair. Her button nose wrinkled like true love over her easy white grin. "Hey Jess," I said, trying a smile of my own on for size, not liking the fit. "Sorry. I forget sometimes." I snatched the cigarette from my lips and tucked it behind my ear. "That's okay old-timer," she said, small hands fidgeting around her order pad. "I heard in history class they used to let people smoke indoors. It must have been great experiencing the industrial revolution." I gave her fish eyes a blank stare while my brain did its thing over what she'd said. By the time her smile had drooped into forced discomfort I still hadn't worked it out. "Never mind," she said, killing the mild unease crawling between us. "Two fudge and chocolate doughnuts. One grande coffee. Black and strong?" "Easy on the doughnuts," I said, pawing my diminished gut. "But I'll take that coffee." "Okay, one bucket of swamp tar coming up. Anything else?" The rumble in my gut told me to go for something with chocolate sprinkles; paternal instinct told me to go for something else. "Yeah, can I get a hot chocolate with those little marshmallows too?" "Niki's coming down?" Her eyes widened as she scribbled down my order, not looking at the pad as she did it. "Yeah," I said, subconsciously turning my left shoulder to her. "But it's between you and me, okay?" "Okay," she said, that fake smile taking front and centre. "It'll be good to see her. One coffee and one hot chocolate coming up." "Thanks," I said as she turned away, feeling bad for noticing the way her ass jiggled with every step under her pink pleated skirt. "Oh, and Jess." She stopped, turned, scratched her head with the base of her pen. "I'm not that old." "You keep telling yourself that, Granddad," she said, showing me the tip of her bright pink tongue. I snorted a laugh and turned back to the window. Heavy rain streaked down toughened glass, taking my humour with it. Like an impatient teen suitor, I hunched over the wooden plank serving as a bar and squinted at the rubber boots, the raincoats and umbrellas. Watched. Waited. Just another day at the office. I checked my watch at one fifteen, grimaced at the pain arching through my healing clavicle. While spiders crawled through my growling belly, I snatched the Stirling from behind my ear and rolled it around my fingers. "Come on, Niki," I muttered. A throaty V8 growl chewed up my grumbling and set glass rattling in its frame. Forgetting my daughter's tardiness for a moment, I gave in to my petrol head instincts, drooled like a tit-stricken baby at the massive chunk of American engineering that slipped like a hot hammer through butter, up to the kerb. My eyes fixed on the mustang, eating up its beautiful lines. I slipped on my jacket, pulled a ten from my wallet and put it on the bar. "Jess," I called, diverting her attention from a quartet of foaming Communist Party wannabes. "Two minutes." Not waiting for her response, I half-jogged into the street, nearly flattening a sour-faced emo kid who cursed me out at about the same volume as a buzzing mosquito. I hunched in the doorway and lit up. Taking a hit of bitter smoke I stared hard at the black beast. Two more Fords, identical colour and spec, growled up either side. A pair of guys, young and smartly dressed, climbed out of each vehicle and slammed doors with a thunk. They huddled smoking around the centre mustang. "Dad!" A shit eater grin split my face even before my head turned. Niki, dressed in a sensible black coat, red boots and woolly hat, stood on the opposite pavement. Her right hand waved self consciously at her shoulder while she studied the oncoming traffic, looking for a break in the flow of cars and buses. "Niki!" I shouted, flinging my cigarette to the floor. Gripping the collar of my jacket closed, I threw a cursory look up and down the street and ducked in front of a busted up Nissan. I tossed the driver the finger when he hit his horn. Centre of the road, I took a breather and let the number 21 shoot past. Taking a rush of stinking exhaust fumes and icy spray was a better option than wearing the bus like an over-coat. The vehicle chugged past, opening a path to the other side. I half stepped across the tarmac, felt my brow furrow and brain slide into neutral. My head flicked left, then right. The spiders in my guts turned into lions. Lightning ripped through my shoulders. "Niki?" A BMW braked hard, wheels screeching to a stop, inches from my hip. I ignored it and ran across the street. Panic settled in for a ride through my nervous system. "Niki!" I roared, hands balling to fists. The bellow of V8s devoured my voice, puked it out in a cloud of exhaust fumes and smoking wheels. I was frozen to the spot like a freshly licensed rookie at knife point. I twisted my head round to the Mustangs and watched that herd of wild ponies roar off down Kingston Road. My guts flipped at the familiar face stretched into a rictus in the car's back window. Burning, paternal rage erupted in my guts as one of the black clad punks laid a hand across my little girl. Seething and pissed, I physically shook off the paralysis. I Tore off after the retreating vehicles and lost them at the junction of London and Chichester. I screamed rage and vengeance at a crowd of passers by. Panting like a dog, I turned into Chichester and caught site of a Mustang's retreating back end as I rounded the corner. Adrenaline laced energy flashed fried my carcass as the blue and white Tesco's delivery truck pulled into the street, blocking traffic in both directions. Elbowing pedestrians out of the way, I reached the Mustang in three long strides. I yanked at the door handle. I couldn't budge it. Matched stares with the wrinkle free prick gawking at me behind the wheel. I leaned back and smashed my foot through the driver's door window. I heard glass sing as it shattered and dragging red nails across his face. "The fuck.." he screamed, his bloody face a tribute to George's cross. I dragged him out across jagged glass and Leaned inside. I smashed my knuckles into his mate's jaw and scanned the back seat. "Where the fuck is she?" I slammed him up against the bonnet and pushed my face close enough to smell his cologne. I drove my forearm into his throat. He clawed my arm as blood tricked into his bulging eyes. He gasped and choked. I upped the pressure on his trachea. "Where is she?" Sirens blared in the distance. Pedestrians stared at me with terror-glazed eyes. I felt the guy on my arm go limp and slump against the body work. "If you know where she is..." Blue-lipped, he tapped my arm. I let him go. "Roosters. She's at Roosters, you mad fuck." "See," I said, grinning into his face and mussing his hair. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Emergency sirens wailed onto Chichester, painting the rain blue. Two coppers, white shirts straining against their fat guts, rolled from the squad car. The assembled crowd yelled and pointed in my direction. I tapped the driver's cheek and threw him at the plod. I took off down London Road. I jumped a cab, gave the driver an address and a twenty quid tip to forget he'd ever picked me up. I took the ride in silence, thinking. Roosters, the dirtiest shit hole I'd ever worked, loomed like a tumour on the corner of Lawrence Road. Some joker had decided to paint the place black. The two goons standing sentinel at its entrance had me checking my watch. They were a good six hours early for their shift. "Sorry, Dale," the tall one, Nigel DiLuchi, hard-eyed me from the doorway, one hand thrust out like PC Plod holding off traffic. "Mr. Hammond says you can't come in." I squared my shoulders, pulled a cigarette from my jacket and lit up. The other guy, big and black, and new on the circuit. I'd seen him as often as his fuzzy chin saw a razor. He shifted his hands from his pockets and set circling to my left. "You try to sucker punch me, son," I said through a mouthful of blue smoke. "It'll be the last time you hit anything, but the deck." DiLuchi reached for his pal, pulled on the guy's sleeve and shook his head. Wise move. "Hammond's got my kid in there, Nige. Had his bone heads snatch her from the street." "I don't want trouble, Dale." He wrote the truth with his eyes, in the way his Adam's apple bobbed. "We've had five good years between us, Nige," I said. "It'd be a shame to ruin a strong friendship over something like this." "I could lose my job, mate." "You would have lost more than that if I hadn't seen the blade, Nige." He jerked like I slapped him. Broke eye contact to spit on the floor. I reached a hand to the heavy double door and Pushed it open. "We're even." "Yeah," I said, taking a hit off the Stirling and then spinning it to the kerb. "I guess we are." DiLuchi checked out his shoes as I walked into the club. I shut the door behind me like a good littlle stooge. He probably called me every cunt under the sun, behind my back. Inside, the place stank of sweat and stale beer. Minimal lighting fought to brighten up the empty foyer. Memories of slappers and goons lurked in the shadows. I left them to it, following the voices bleeding through a door to my left. She sat at an empty bar cradling a can of cola in one hand, her phone in the other. She worked her thumb over her smart phone, doing whatever it is fourteen year olds do with technology. She'd lost the hat, letting her auburn hair spill over her narrow shoulders. My beautiful baby girl had grown up while I wasn't looking. "Niki," I said, crossing the dance floor with a smile on my face. She smiled back, stowed her mobile in her bag and began walking over. Two more goons, the boys who'd picked her up judging from their fresh faces and all black attire, crawled out of the shadows and moved to intercept her. My mood dropped about as fast as my hackles shot up. "Touch her, fellas..." I threatened without breaking my stride. The two boys shared a look. Quick sneers flicked across arrogant mouths. One of them reached into his breast pocket, slipped an equaliser over his fist. The brass knuckles shone with wicked promise under fluorescent lights. "Mr. Parker." "Fuck you, Hammond," I barked, not bothering to throw him a look. "She's coming with me and there's fuck all you can do about it." "Really?" He asked, dripping smarm so thick it made the place stink. "I'm not sure the local constabulary would agree, in fact I think they'd find favour in her soon to be step father protecting her from a violent criminal." "Prick," I said, spinning on a heel. "We're not divorced yet." Martin Hammond, all white teeth and single-breasted pin stripes, grinned from under a shock of perfectly styled white hair. His big brown eyes, smart and barely showing a hint of his fifty five years, gleamed like hot coals in his face. "Not yet, Mr. Parker, but I know some very good lawyers." I felt my top lip twist, flashing my nicotine yellowed teeth. I felt my hands ball into fists. I felt my heart kick out the adrenaline rush that still got me into trouble two years shy of my fortieth birthday. "You son of a bitch," I hissed, chewing up the distance between us with long, hard strides. "Please, Mr. Parker," he said, hands out and face dripping with arrogance that begged to be wiped off. "Try to control your barbaric urges. You are in civilised company." Raging, I cocked a right, pulled it back and opened up. The punch never landed. Strong hands grabbed my bicep and tucked my arm behind my back. Brass knuckles lit fires in my ribs. My head spun. Stomach acid burnt my throat and a hard kick to the ankle sent me to the deck. "Niki," the cotton-haired prick commanded. "Let's get you home to your mother." I kick flipped to my feet and used the momentum to smash my forehead into a Pretty Boy's nose. I slammed my right knee cap into his knacker sack. Putting my weight on that toe, I pivoted into a spinning back kick that crushed the other goon's jaw. "She's going nowhere," I barked, soccer punting the second mug's skull into next week. "Are you, honey?" My little girl stared, mouth flapping like a hooked fish, eyes already pink and swollen. Her little hands, the ones that had wrapped around my finger so tight as a newborn, tore at her woollen cap. A single tear, more than I'd ever been able to manage, trickled down her cheek and dripped from her chin. "Honey?" I choked the word through barbed wire. I held out my hand like I thought she'd take it. The error of my ways was written in bold type in her eyes. "No," she said. "Not with you. Martin was wrong, you're not a barbarian. You're the Antichrist." I staggered from her shotgun blast, paralysed for the second time in one day. She hot footed it to Martin's side and slipped her hand into his. "Come on, dad," she said, looking into brown eyes a spectrum away from my grey. "Let's get out of here." I watched, stone-cold silent, as the usurper of my marital bed walked my heart out the door. Jim lives in a washed-up, beat down Royal Navy city where inspiration is a lot easier to find than hope and honesty. He's been published here and there. He likes a strong drink.

By Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw The pair of thirty eights staring me across the office desk were as every bit as lethal as anything to come out of a Smith & Wesson factory. However, it was the smaller, gleaming .22s gripped tight in each carefully manicured hand and aimed in the general proximity of my heart that had my full and undivided attention. Neither pair boded well for my immediate future. It was only with considerable effort… every inch of my body throbbed in some manner; the line between good and bad pain had blurred… that I eased myself back down into the chair and looked up into Nina’s eyes. I didn’t like what I saw there. I didn’t like what I saw there one bit. While I considered my options, my mind was trying to wrap itself around this…

*

Less than twenty four hours before, the two of us had been sweating up yet another set of sheets… this time, those of the Airport Ramada’s room 347. Nina fucks like Louison Bobet trains for the Tour de France… hard and fast. The first time we were together, she damn near broke my pelvis with her almost brutal pounding, and the bijoux de famille were sore for days. Nina’s orgiastic shrieks were peppered with words that would make a longshoreman blush. In a nutshell, Nina completely demolished the image of the ‘quiet reserve’ of the English upper class woman. Not that I’ve ever had cause for complaining… until now, that is.

*

“Easy, doll… you don’t want to do something you’re gonna…” My mind raced, trying to think of an out… the murderous look that flashed in her eyes told me I was wasting my breath. She knew then… she knew it all! I realized that my options had just narrowed… considerably. “You bloody bastard!” Those big brown eyes, the ones that had taken all of three seconds to seduce me, were bright with un-spilled tears and Nina’s red-painted lips were twisted in anger. Ponder this…

*

Trouble comes from one of two things… money… or broads. That’s always the way of things, isn’t it? When you get right down to it… peel back the layers and the fancy words… the excuses… that’s what gets some poor bastard in trouble… every time! Money, either too much… or not enough… or… a dame… usually someone else’s. For some folk, one or the other isn’t enough.

~~**~~

I had first met Nina, Johnny’s woman, a couple of years back, when he and I did the Lippman job over in London town. “It’ll be a piece of cake, Eddie… I swear! These limey cops don’t pack heat. We’re in… we’re out… we’re set!” Only problem was… the jewellery store owner did pack heat – isn’t that shit illegal in England? To make a long story short, I took a bullet in the backside just as Johnny and I made it back to the car where Nina waited behind the wheel. We had almost made it back to the little cottage in Lakenheath… middle of bum-fuck-Eygpt, you ask me… where we were gonna ‘hole up’ until the heat passed… when the Vauxhall seized up. We hiked the last mile… I guess they call it kilometers over there… with the slug from that old Enfield chewing up my ass. For all her proper ‘English airs’, Nina was one hot little bitch, and I’d a given anything for just a little time alone with her. Judging by the looks she was giving me, I wasn’t the only one with that desire. Johnny must have sensed something though, as he never left the two of us alone. ‘Course, it could have been the fact my tongue got hard every time Nina walked in the room and I couldn’t hardly talk. Three weeks later, we parted company at Heathrow… the two of them heading for Rome and me back to the West Coast and my own little‘enterprises’.

~*~

A couple years later when I needed a good tunnel man for a bank job I was lining up. I knew just who to call… my old schoolmate, Johnny. Two reasons. One… what Johnny didn’t know about tunneling through a city’s underground wasn’t worth knowing. And two… I did mention that Nina was one hot little bitch, didn’t I? If I had known then how fucked up everything was going to turn out, I would have never made that call.

~**~

Pulling back the edge of the heavy drapes, I looked out the window again, into the night. The rain was still coming down hard and heavy. Save for a lone taxi cab, its bright yellow reflecting off the wet pavement as it cruised the dark avenues of the city, the street below was deserted of both man and machine. I turned and walked across the darkened hotel room to the bureau and poured another three fingers of Kentucky’s finest in the chipped glass tumbler the Royal Westbrook provided its guests. Settling back into the big over stuffed chair facing the door… glass in one hand and bottle in the other… I considered what lay ahead for me. I didn’t like what I was about to do, but I liked the idea of not breathing even less and while I’m not a big fan of growing old… thirty-five was just too damn young to die. I didn’t start this, but I sure as hell was going to finish it! Tossing back another slug of whiskey, I let its heat feed the fire building in my gut.

~*~

Looking back, I’m not sure when exactly it was that I decided to kill Johnny. The plan – mine, not the one the five of us had worked out earlier - had been to give Frankie and Ethan their slice of the pie and leave a note for Johnny. Sorry, old pal… you see how it is though… Nina’s a class girl and she deserves better… you think too small… that’s always been your problem, Johnny… no hard feelings, mate? The plan was that by the time Johnny picked up his share of the loot from the locker at Union Station, Nina and I would be long gone. But, you know what they say about plans, right?

~~**~~

Three days after the heist, fishermen found Frankie floating in the middle of the harbor… the seagulls pecking at his eyeballs and bits of several toes gone to the fish. The police speculated that he must have been drunk and fell off the pier. Bad luck, eh? Shit happens? I didn’t think much more of it… Frankie had never been one of those ‘good luck’ guys … until Ethan turned up dead a few days after the flotsam that was left of Frankie surfaced… parts of the small man hanging off the underside of the speeding Buick 8 the poor bastard had been unlucky enough to step out in front of. That’s when I realized that somebody was taking out the gang. It hit me that either someone was seriously pissed – supposing that had been mob money in the bank? Or, someone was seriously greedy and figured on keeping that ten million all for himself. Thing was… and I could be wrong here… I didn’t think it was the mob. You can usually smell when they’re around, if you know what I mean… greasy little bastards. So, if it wasn’t the mob… There were only five people who knew about the job… three now… and I’d been with Nina when both Frankie and Ethan bought it. Damn! I’ve known Johnny ever since we were kids back at P.S. 26 in Brooklyn. He liked a good scrap every now and then sure,… and he could get up a temper… but cold-blooded murder? What really iced it though was the gas stove exploding in my apartment, two days after Ethan got his ticket punched. If I hadn’t woke up just when I did…as it was, the jump out the window damn near killed me anyway. That pile of garbage bags had looked a lot softer from two stories up. But I suppose a couple busted ribs and a twisted ankle is a fair trade off for still breathing… although, with those broken ribs, breathing didn’t have the same appeal it used to. You know… when you’re flat on your back in a dark, filthy alley, staring up at flames shooting out of your apartment window, there’s a certain clarity that comes over you. Ponder this…

*

One… I’d only been in that apartment a couple of weeks and the fingers of one hand were too many to count how many people knew about my new digs. Johnny was one of those. Two… I had turned the gas off on the kitchen stove just after I moved in. I don’t cook and one of the burners leaked. The last thing I needed was to blow myself to kingdom come while lighting up a cigarette.

*

So… when was it I decided to kill Johnny, instead of just taking the money and his broad? Lying flat on my back in that alley… clothing soaked from the rain washed tarmac… sharp stabbing pain in my chest… ankle throbbing from the wrenching it just took… watching all of my possessions going up in flames. That’s when. Bruised, battered, pissed and homeless… not a good time to be on my bad side.

~*~

And now I’m holed up in this rat hole that has pretentions of being a hotel room… thinking… drinking… and thinking some more. My mind goes back…

~*~

“Christ! Do you have to smoke those rat-shit cigars?” I fanned my hand across the space between us in a vain attempt to dispel the foul cloud emanating from the smoldering object clenched between Johnny’s nicotine-stained teeth. “I’ll have you know, these are imported… Costa Rica’s finest tobaccos, hand-rolled by…” “Yeah… yeah… ‘little black men’…” I waved my hand impatiently having heard this all before. The two of us are huddled across from each other in a back booth at Delancey’s two days after Johnny and Nina flew in from England. If everything goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow we’ll be divvying up ten million dollars. Split four ways… a cool two and a half million each. With that kind of scratch, a man could start over just about anywhere. “Okay… one more time. The armored car makes its delivery at nine sharp. The bank manager and guard move the money to the vault. The truck leaves. The manager goes back to his office. We got half an hour to finish breaking through the floor, get the money and get the hell out of there before the rest of the bank staff shows up...”

~**~

Midnight… I made my way through the dark alley, stopping just short of the sidewalk and the bright spill from the streetlight. Jamming the fedora down low on my forehead and pulling the collar of my trench coat up against the rain, I leaned against the brick wall and waited… and watched. I didn’t have long to wait.

*

I’d only been there about twenty minutes when a battered Packard pulled up to the curb in front of Delancey’s and my soon-to-be-ex partner spilled out, making a clumsy dash for the red door. A thread of music from the old Seeburg inside the tavern floated across the rain swept street and then Johnny was gone from sight. I figured I’d give him a few minutes to get a couple of drinks in him… let his guard down.

~*~

Vince, the bartender, scowled as I made my way down the length of the bar, its surface scarred with cigarette burns. “You’re trackin’ up the place… didn’t your mother teach you no better?” “If she’d taught me better, I wouldn’t be in this dive, now would I?” “Shit… you wouldn’t know a ‘class’ joint if it bit you on the ass!” Casting a quick glance toward the back, I leaned over the bar. “Hey… Vince,” lowering my voice, “Why don’t you run over to Maude’s and get yourself a burger…” I paused. “And… take your time.” “Aww… Channing… dammit! I still got holes in the wall from the last time you sent me out for a burger!” Vince whispered, the pained look on his face not much of an improvement to what time and circumstance had carved on the big man’s features. Not that his puss was ever going to grace the pages of the Hollywood Reporter. I whispered back… “Just a little hole, right behind the ear… unless he flinches on me. You’re welcome to stay here and distract him if…” I leave the sentence unfinished. “Fuck, no! I ain’t never seen a damn thing and I ain’t about to start now!” Vince threw the bar towel into the sink and headed for the front door, grabbing his coat on the way out. I locked the door behind Vince and then went behind the counter for a bottle of Jack and a clean glass… no ice.

*

The tiny 25-watt bulb illuminating the back booth where Johnny was seated cast a yellow pall over him. His right hand trembled with the effort of raising the tumbler of whiskey. Johnny looked up as I approached. I watched as fear chased surprise across his narrow face, which had gone white as a ghost with my appearance. I pasted a smile I didn’t feel on my mug and slid in to the seat across from him. “Hey, Johnny… what’s up, kiddo? You don’t write… you don’t call… you don’t come by…” I shrugged and waited… splashing a generous measure of whiskey in my glass. “He…ey, Eddie…” Johnny’s voice quavered as he struggled to keep his composure. “I was gonna… honest… but… but…” he hesitated, probably trying to figure out why I wasn’t laying on some mortician’s slab. “I just thought… with the heat on and all… I oughta lie low… you know?” Hopefulness crept into his voice as he watched the carefully neutral expression on my face. “Yeah… probably a good idea… sure… sure…” I nodded. “Hey… I gotta go piss… watch my drink, okay?”

*

Staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror, hanging crooked over the chipped and stained lavatory, the doubt I’d seen earlier in my eyes was now replaced with resolve. Any qualms I had about taking Johnny down had vanished as soon as I slid in the booth across from him. In the dull yellow light, his dark brown eyes were mirrors of guilt and shame. I pulled the 'throw away' .22 from my jacket pocket, checked the safety and jacked a round in the chamber. Tucking the Colt 1911 up my sleeve, I turned for the door. My rubber soled shoes made barely a whisper as I walked back to the booth. At the last moment Johnny felt my presence behind him, his body visibly stiffening, but before he could turn around, my finger had tightened that last millimeter and the 29 grain bullet, travelling at 1,200 feet per second, pierced Johnny’s skull, burying itself deep in the grey, gelatinous matter of his traitorous brain. His body slumped over, sending both of our drinks skittering across the battered tabletop and crashing to the floor.

*

When Vince returned some time later, the only trace of mine or Johnny’s presence was a small puddle of whiskey on the floor, littered with shards of broken glass glinting in the bar’s dim light. And a C-note on the till.

~~**~~

“You bloody bastard!” Nina repeated the curse, but it had no strength now… her arms sagged to her side. My skin prickled as relief washed over me. Treading carefully… “I don’t know what came over him, Nina… all that money… it can make a man do crazy shit… turn on his friends… even his… just a matter of time and he’d have come for you too. It’s better this way, doll… you can see that, right? With Johnny out of the way, we won’t be looking over our shoulders all the time, wondering... waiting…” “We? We?! You bloody stupid bastard!” Spitting out each syllable, bitter incredulity replaced the sharp anger of a few moments ago and the look now in Nina’s eyes told me I had made a huge miscalculation. An alarm went off in my brain… fuck! “There is no ‘we’! There never was! You didn’t seriously think…?” Nina’s face flushed. “You idiot! You killed Johnny because you thought he...? And now… you think…you and I…? God… you’re thick! There is nothing with us! Johnny let me fuck who I wanted because it was the one thing he couldn’t give me. I would never leave him… I loved him! Madly! We had it perfect! I killed for Johnny! And now… you’ve ruined it all!” Nina’s voice went cold and hard in the blink of an eye. “Give me the key!” I found myself staring once again at the tiny but lethal barrels of the twin pistols, removing any doubt that she meant business. Holding Nina’s gaze with my eyes, I reached slowly in my shirt pocket for the locker key. I put the piece of brass down on the desk and slid it over to her. Nina looked down at the key for several moments; then she sat down in the chair facing the desk. Keeping one of the pistols on me, she put the other in her black handbag and reached out for the key… a little smile flitted across her lips… and was gone. “I guess this is good-bye then, isn’t it?” She raised the .22 up and pointed it square at my eyes. “Guess so, doll.” Something in my voice made Nina hesitate… she tilted her head, eyes questioning. My right hand, unnoticed, had found the cold, hard metal of the Remington 12 gauge strapped to the underside of the heavy oak desktop. Unlike Nina… I didn’t hesitate. Born in Lisboa, Portugal to parents of Portuguese/Russian descent, Veronica Marie and her partner of six and a half years, Christina Anne, call the Pacific Northwest home. The couple, married in October 2010, are “still very much on honeymoon!” Part time teacher/barista/student, Veronica’s long fascination with noir fiction prompted her to try her own hand at writing fiction – “the last two years have been a roller coaster!”, where she honed her ‘writing chops’ on an unsuspecting public over at Flash Fiction Friday and Phil Ambler's (formerly Lily Childs’) Friday Prediction. Veronica has been published in Pulp Metal Magazine, The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology, Cruentus Libri Press’s horror anthology, 100 Horrors, and the inaugural issue of Literary Orphans magazine. She also appears in Katherine Tomlinson's charity anthology, NIGHTFALLS: Notes From The End Of The World, and Paul D. Brazill’?s DRUNK ON THE MOON 2: A Roman Dalton Anthology. Veronica counts among her mentors - Carole A Parker, Lily Childs, Paul D Brazill, Richard Godwin and Joyce Juzwik. She is currently ‘polishing’ her first novel – a memoir – and working on the second draft of a second novel, as well as publishing a collection of her flash fiction and short stories.

Veronica’s writings can be found at: www.veronicathepajamathief.wordpress.com and www.veronicathepajamathiefwritespoetry.blogspot.com.

By Mike Monson

I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with Jen. We were in a beautiful suite at Caesar’s Palace on the Strip in Vegas. It was our goddamn twentieth wedding anniversary and all she wanted to do was lie on the bed and watch Jerry Springer and Ellen. “Babe,” I said as gently as possible, “Whatdya say we get dressed up. Go get some drinks. Do a little gambling. Have some more drinks. Get a nice dinner at Wolfgang Pucks in the mall here while we watch the fake sky change color. Have some more drinks, do a little more gambling, then go out dancing until dawn. Maybe check out one of those couples’ strip joints I told you about? Huh? Sound like fun?” “I don’t know,” she said like a freaking little mouse, “Can’t we just hang out here tonight? Get room service or something? Tonight is the finale of Big Brother and the first episode of the new season of Survivor.” God! She loved those reality shows. She’d even insisted that we make a quick visit to the actual shop from the Pawn Stars TV show on the way here from the airport, this afternoon. I could not believe this. This was the trip we’d both dreamed about, all these years. We’d finally made it; we finally had some cash to show for all our hard work and had a chance to have some real fun in Sin City and she wanted to do the same shit she did all day back in Ohio. “I’m going to play some blackjack and toss back a few,” I told her, as I put on the expensive new sport coat I’d bought, especially for this trip, “If you aren’t down in an hour I’m going out and exploring the town without your sorry ass.” I checked myself in the mirror and put on some cologne. “I’ll be at the ten dollar tables.”

After an hour – no Jen. I was up about a grand. Players get free drinks and I’d had more than my share and I was getting angry. A hot young thing at the bar kept staring at me. She looked kind of like Cher did around 1975, after she dumped Sonny and was getting with Gregg Allman. She had long straight black hair, an amazing tan, cheekbones, beautiful big dark eyes, and long, long lashes. She was wearing some kind of fringy, white, buckskin pantsuit thing, just like Cher would’ve worn back then. She even had earrings made out of long feathers. Fuck Jen, I thought. I’m in love. I grabbed my chips and went over. “Looks like things are going good for you,” she said. “You must be a helluva blackjack player.” “I just got lucky,” I said. “What are you drinking?” Her name was Cherokee (I loved that) and she drank scotch rocks just like me. We sat a while and I bought her drinks. I could tell by how friendly she was – meaningful glances, lots of touching – and by the way she kept staring at all the chips I’d laid out on the bar that she was a hooker, or some kid of scam artist. Hey, I’m not an idiot: 27-year-old Cher-in-her-prime look-a-likes sitting all bright and shiny in Vegas casinos don’t go after obese, balding, 50 year old, plumbing contractors from Akron, without having an ulterior motive. I didn’t care though. Shit. I was bored. My wife wanted to lie around all day eating room service and watching the tube. I decided to let things play out; let her think I was a Midwestern doofus, see what happens. Make my own reality show. “So where are you from, Phil?” Cherokee asked me. “Akron, Ohio,” I told her, “It used to be the Rubber Capitol of America, but now, it’s called ‘The City of Invention.’” “Why is that, Phil?” she asked. “The tire companies mostly moved away,” I told her, knowing this was boring as shit, “And now the University of Akron has this polymer research center which is supposed to be just the greatest thing ever. They say that polymers are the future.” “Where do you see our future going, Phil?” “‘Our future, Cherokee?” I said. “We just met. Right?” “I meant our immediate future,” she said almost demurely (the whore), “Like right now?” “What are you saying?” I asked. This was getting interesting. “Do you have a room here, Phil?” She brushed her long nails along the top of my hand. “I do,” I answered, “But it is currently occupied by my wife, and if I know her, she is laying in bed right now, eating shrimp cocktails and watching Oprah.” “That’s a shame,” she said. “How about you,” I asked, “Do you have somewhere we can go and get better acquainted?” “If you want to see my apartment,” Cherokee said, “You’ll have to give me five of those one hundred dollar chips.” I slid the chips over and we got a cab. In the taxi she was real friendly, practically sitting on my lap. She touched me all over and breathed into my ear.

Her apartment was in a crummy little complex over by the Liberace Museum. As I followed her up the stairs I could see by the way she handled the steps in her high heels that she wasn’t at all drunk. Amazing after all the scotch I’d bought her. I wasn’t drunk either – holding my liquor is one of my few talents. I had a six inch knife in the left inside pocket of my jacket that I’d picked up at the pawn shop earlier, and as we went inside I grabbed hold of the handle with my right hand. This was a good move on my part since a rather large man tried to jump me as soon as the door was closed and locked. This didn’t surprise me at all but you should’ve seen the look on his face when I stabbed him in the eye and then deep into his neck. I pulled the knife out and he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his severed artery. I watched him squirm and then cough out his last breath, before I turned to face the whimpering Cherokee. When I do a hooker back home in Akron, it’s usually somewhere dark and semi public, like behind a building or in an alley. So it was a pleasure to be able to take my time with Cherokee and to really concentrate on what I was doing. Afterwards, I grabbed my chips, tried to clean myself up enough to be presentable, and then went back to our suite at Caesar’s, where Jen was transfixed by the closing scene of Survivor. I went into the bathroom and got out of my jacket and clothes. I saw little flecks of blood on everything. I put my pants, shirt, socks and jacket in one of the hotel’s plastic laundry bags. I’d deal with all that in the morning before the maid arrived. I joined my wife as the credits were playing. “Sorry, Phil,” Jen said. “I was just so tired from the flight, you know?” “That’s okay, babe,” I said. “I understand. Sorry I was such a dick.” “Did you have a nice time?” she asked. “It was okay,” I said. “But I missed you.” Then I lay in bed next to Jen. “Let’s go out tomorrow night, okay?” she said. “I really do want to try that Wolfgang Puck’s.” “Sure,” I said. “Let’s do that.” She turned off the TV. I turned off the light. “Phil? Did you get your new jacket dirty tonight?” She asked. “Sorry, babe,” I said, “I’m afraid it’s ruined.” Mike Monson works as a paralegal in San Francisco and lives in Modesto California. He started writing fiction in June of 2012 and so far his stories have appeared or are scheduled to appear in Literary Orphans, Flash Fiction Offensive, Shotgun Honey, Yellow Mama and in anthologies from Out of the Gutter and All Due Respect. Visit him at mikemonson.org

By Alan Griffiths

Priest moves in front of the mirror and recoils. A hotchpotch of livid bruises and a patchwork of raw, scabbed slashes reflect back. Thinking: Razorblade kisses I’ll wear for the rest of my days. Until this is settled, his constant companions will be a junky's craving for revenge and anger in the pit of his stomach, burning like a pus filled ulcer, fit to burst. Thinking: I really don't mind the scars. It’s betrayal that cuts to the friggin’ bone. He’s been double crossed after a successful little tickle in leafy Surrey suburbia. Beaten senseless and carved up like an oily kebab by Nick the Nonce and his goons. Thinking: Left for dead, amongst the mud and the cow shit like an unwanted mongrel. He forms a gun with his right hand and points it at the mirror. He cocks a thumb and drops it, “Ka-fucking-pow!” The sound of car tyres on slick tarmac interrupts his reverie. He sneaks into the garage, unscrews the centre light bulb and crouches in a darkened corner. A prehistoric croc awaits unsuspecting prey. Rain beats a tattoo, cleansing the Saturday night detritus. A torrent of water flushing all the piss, puke and blood from the London gutters. Thinking: Could it purify my dark soul? The garage doors swing up. Sixty grand’s worth of shiny BMW 7 Series saloon purrs like a fat contented cat. It edges into the garage and comes to a halt. The headlights go out and the fat pussy stops purring. Rainwater: drip, drip, drips, onto the concrete floor. “It’s bloody dark, Ernie.” “Shut it, you tart. Where’s the bleedin’ light switch?” Ernie Bradshaw, the Nonce’s six-foot-six enforcer, gets out of the motor. “Switch the headlights on, Razorblade. I can’t see a fuckin’ thing. It’s as black as Newgate's knocker in here.” White light blazes. Priest swings a Louisville Slugger, splitting Ernie’s skull down the middle like a walnut. “Timber!” Priest says, pulling a Glock from his coat pocket. “So much as sneeze, Razorblade and I’ll blow your swede clean off. Now get out!” On a good day Razorblade’s mean, angry feral mug is akin to a boss-eyed robber’s dog with a hair lip chewing on a bunch of nettles. Now it’s as white as the front row of a BNP meeting. He gets out. “You’ve got this coming, Razorblade,” Priest says. “Tell me where the Nonce is and I’ll do it quick? Boy Scout's honour, my old son.” “Y... Yo…You know the b… bo… boss d… do… don’t like that n… na… name….” Not a patient man at the best of times Priest throws a sledge hammer of a punch and cuts the stammering short. The blow spreads Razorblade’s nose like thick strawberry jam across his cheek and dumps him on his scrawny backside. Razorblade spits claret and rattles off, “A…A… At the club b… bu… but he’ll be here later.” An attempted dirty laugh comes out as a whimper. “W… W… We came ahead with a little s… som… something in the car boot.” “Who’s gonna be with him?” Priest asks, pushing the Glock into his waistband. “S… Sy… Syd the Syrup.” “Well, I’d best get ready then,” Priest says. “Chop, chop my old son, lots to do. People to meet and greet and all that.” He hefts the Slugger and beats Razorblade to a pulp, adding; “Now that’s what I call a homerun.” He drags Ernie and then Razorblade through to the utility room, stuffing the two bodies into a chest freezer. He slams the top shut, sits down and sparks up a Silk Cut. Puffing and sweating like a politician on the fiddle he wipes his brow. “Blimey, it’s all go around here,” he says. Priest makes a brew and a cheese and pickle sandwich. He eats half and sups a mug of builders’ tea in the dark, thinking dark thoughts. The blade sinks deep. Grazing cheekbone and paring back a long ribbon of stubbly pink skin. A bloated creamy coloured maggot wriggles out from beneath… He jolts awake, sheathed with perspiration. He’d only closed his eyes for a few seconds, but it was enough. He drinks deep from the neck of a bottle of Chivas Regal and gasps and berates himself for his carelessness. “Must’ve been the friggin’ cheese!” Night is turning to day when he hears the revving of a throaty car engine. A Porsche reverses into a parking space on the other side of the swanky West End mews. In the centre of Priest’s brain, blue touch-paper lights. A firework ignites. It shoots skywards and explodes in a multitude of colours. Thinking: The gang’s all here. Five minutes pass until Syd the Syrup and his eponymous ill-fitting toupee enter the darkened room. “Boys. You there?” “They’re on ice,” Priest says, cutting Syd’s throat with a bread knife as easily as slicing a ripe peach. Syd lets out a little surprised gasp and slumps at the knees. The wig gives up the ghost, slips to half-mast and covers Syd’s lifeless eyes. “Hair today, gone tomorrow,” Priest says by way of a eulogy. The Nonce climbs the stairs talking loudly into a mobile phone. He looks up and his pinched features and piggy eyes put Priest in mind of sour, spoiled milk. A face only a mother can love. Priest’s smile is wolverine as he says, “Hello, Nonce. You’ve got something of mine.” He swings a steel toe capped Doc Martin. “And I want it back my old son.” The Nonce comes to, bound to one of his Georgian dining room chairs. He’s strapped down tighter than a death row con to Old Smokey. Naked save a pair of black-on-white polka dot budgie smugglers. “A fine morning for it, Nonce,” Priest says. He winks and adds, “Nice undies.” The Nonce’s piggy eyes blaze. He spits broken teeth and, “For what? You fuckin’ hooligan?” “A spot of pruning,” Priest says and snips off the Nonce’s left little pinky at the knuckle with a pair of wire cutters. The Nonce roars. Curses flow like an avalanche. He wails like an overly tight fan belt. “Swallow the pain you pussy and grow yourself a pair,” Priest says, shredding the Nonce’s discarded shirt. “You’re gonna take this like a man and then you’ll tell me where the gems are hidden.” Stuffing cotton strips between the Nonce’s swollen lips he adds, “So cowboy up partner!” Whistling ‘This Little Piggy’ tunelessly, Priest delicately trims off the right pinky. The Nonce bucks and squirms like a rodeo cowboy. Pees his pants and does his level best to swallow the gag. Eventually passes out as his bloody thumbs fall onto the luxurious shag-pile. Priest sucks a Silk Cut down to the filter. He chases it with another and surveys his handiwork. He removes the gag and slaps the Nonce around until he revives. “Now for the tiny todger,” Priest says. The Nonce promptly soils the snazzy budgie smugglers some more and starts to blub. When he’s finished Priest says cheerfully, “Back in a jiffy my old son.” The jewellery is in the safe along with thick wads of lovely greasy, cold, hard cash. Priest’s mood brightens with each passing second and he says joyously, “It’s all friggin’ gravy!” Firing up another cigarette he gleefully scoops the contents of the Peter into a holdall. To celebrate he pours a large glass of whisky and eats the rest of the cheese and pickle sarnie. Sated and solvent Priest returns to the dining room. “Nice doing business,” Priest says and drops the bag of swag onto the blood stained carpet. “I’d shake on it but you’re all fingers and thumbs.” The Nonce’s face is sweaty and drawn as he croaks, “You can’t leave me like this you fuckin’ psychopath.” “Too right,” Priest says covering the Nonce’s kisser with a cushion. He feathers the Glocks trigger and in half a heartbeat puts a .45 bullet into the Nonce’s canister. The dear old fat lady sings her sad song for the Nonce. Priest tosses the smouldering cushion away and says, “No loose ends or happy endings my old son.” On the way out Priest hears muffled sounds coming from the garage. He points the ignition fob and pops the boot of the Beamer, the semi-automatic at the ready. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey a young girl stares up at him with big, teary and fearful eyes. Thinking: Just like my own precious daughter, wherever she may be. Cracking what he hopes is a warm, winning smile he quickly loosens the rope around her wrists and gently helps her out of the trunk. She stands on wobbly legs, reaches out thin arms and wraps them around him. He hears her first sobs of sheer relief and feels a lump form in his dry throat. His eyes moisten. He wraps his own hairy, muscular, prison tattooed arms around her. He pulls her close. It’s all very unnatural for a grizzled, old South London gangster. Looking up to the heavens Priest says, “A happy ending, my old son? Okay just this friggin’ once!” Alan Griffiths, a rookie writer, hails from the badlands of South London. His criminal writing can be found in the e-book anthology Discount Noir published by Untreed Reads. Also in the Byker Books anthologies: Radgepacket – Tales from the Inner Cities, Volumes 5 and 6. His literary hero is Ernie Wise: ‘Nuff said really!