And it hadn’t realized it could not hear until it did; that as the machine continued to dig it came to know what the sound of digging was. Breathing too, as well as grunts from hefting. Words—mention of a septic tank and new irrigation flows; that this was the spot; this, no other.

It was being un-earthed. After all this time, free.

The men continued to work; the creature continuing to probe. It took in the language of the species it would soon devour, taking their thoughts for its own. Humans are what they called themselves, each being contributing to their dominance upon the sphere. A world-breaker it would be called when the people of this planet came to name it; a beast from beyond the stars. They would be correct, of course, as that is what the creature was—what it had been born to do. Planet to planet it would survive, thrusting a piece of its engorged self into orbit once all forms of life had been entered and depleted. The world drained, it would drift. Drifting, it would seek. Seeking, it would find.

It didn’t know how much time has passed since landing where it had, only that it was time to rise again.

The digging ceased, the voices the men produced becoming less and less. Alone, it surged upwards. Struggling, it sought; pushed onwards and moved, parts of its compressed body tearing against the jagged rock as it filled into the cracks the men’s machinery brought forth. Up, it sensed the air, smelling as a human would. Through, it slid over the top of the rise, its gelatinous body cold and black against the cool night air. It was small now, a fraction of what it was meant to be. It needed to feed, its hunger awake. It understood this now; that it needed to eat. As this is what it was called on this world; that sustenance was required.

It rolled onwards, its body a translucent gel, suddenly pulsating from dark to light as it sensed the dog. Off the dirt, through the grass, it moved with purpose, with speed, studying the structure to which it approached. Made of wood, it was small, boarded by mostly black trim. Inside, along with the pups it had spawned, lay the beginning of the end. Soft, each offspring sucked at the teat, and if the creature sensing them had had a mouth it believed it would smile.

Sensing it, the Doberman growled low in its throat and began to rise. The creature pressed on, now a foot from the door to its prey. Fast, it ejected a part of itself, striking the animal in the soft of its neck. Tethered, the creature drank, ate. Then forward, forward, attention now to the voices the mother could no longer protect. There were six in all, each a deflated husk by time it was done. Sated, the creature grew and then slept beneath the skins of its meal. Dreaming, it lay in the glow escaping from the windows of the larger house. There was food in there as well, each one bigger than a pup.

 *

Beau Johnson lives in Canada with his Canadian wife. She is very understanding and allows him to write even though they have three small monsters who do their very best at keeping them on the go. Beau has been published twice now, at the Kitchen and the Carnage Conservatory. He also has upcoming works set to appear in Bartleby Snopes, Thundadome, Diagonal Proof and 6tales. As ever, he strives to be published.

Snow falling. A breeze rudely blowing the anemic looking white flakes around in a kind of bored disinterest.

Only the sound of the car’s engine and small heater running in overdrive breaking the silence. Until the man behind the wheel turns and looks at the black silhouette of the man sitting across from him.

“I asked to meet you here because of a mutual friend of ours wanted this. Wanted me to give you something. Something you’ll find interesting.”

Impossible to see but the eyes of a King Cobra . . . eyes as black as sin itself . . . stared at the man behind the steering wheel and said nothing. Said nothing but waited in the darkness to hear more.

“Listen to this,” the man with the heavy dark wool trench coat and wide brimmed fedora covering a bald head said as a gloved finger punched the button of a small digital record he held in his right hand.

“‘ . . . I don’t care what it takes. He’s got to be taken out. He knows too much. Knows where all of our skeletons are here in the States. If he’s caught and grilled he could spill everything.’”

A hard voice speaking softly yet faintly, eerily, with a kind of echo effect at the same time. Like someone talking in a hallway of a government building. With polished tile floors and unadorned, white painted walls.

As he listened he could hear two distinct clicks of the heels of shoes briskly moving across the tiled floors. And in the distance the soft murmurs of other voices to faint to understand.

“‘That isn’t going to be easy, director. We know nothing about the man. Other than he’s good at what he does. Maybe he’s an asset we should keep around.’”

“‘That’s what worries me, Hargrove. We know nothing about him. Who is he? What’s his background? Where did he get his training? Is he ex-FBI? CIA? Military? He’s an enigma, Hargrove! A chimera. An unknown asset we have no control over. Some of our friends in the mob recommended him. That’s all we know. That’s all they know. Hell! We don’t even know where he lives, for chrissake! How the fuck do we control an asset when we know jack-squat about him?’”

“‘But director. We have no reason to suspect him. He’s done exactly as we asked. Takes his money after each assignment and disappears. We contact him when we need him. We give him the assignment. And we step away. The job gets done and there’s no evidence to show that we were involved at all.’”

“‘That’s the point, dammit! That’s the point!’” the hard voice of the man known as ‘the director’ shot back heatedly. Angrily. “‘He can point his finger to us! And with as many kills as he’s racked up, if the sonofabitch is ever caught and starts singing, I can guarantee you there are government agencies around here who’ll listen with intense interest! It’ll be our necks on the chopping blocks, Hargrove! Our necks! Do you want that?’”

To the right of the dark eyed man a nightclub door was thrown open and a shaft of light and the sounds of blaring music filled the snowy night air for a moment. Two people . . . a man and a woman . . .both drunk, staggered out of the door arm in arm laughing their heads off and pointing fingers at each other. Neither paid any attention to the black sedan nudged up against the curb in front of the nightclub. Nor at the men sitting inside the car. Turning, both began their uneasy, uncoordinated shambling down the sidewalk still laughing wildly only drunks laugh about at this time of the night.

Both men inside the car watched the two for a few more seconds, hands inside their coats, fingers wrapped around the grips of cold steel. When it was obvious to both the drunks were indeed drunk and posed no threat they relaxed their grips and slipped their hands out of their coats.

“Who is this Hargrove?”

The voice was a soft, almost gentle, whisper coming from the passenger side hidden in darkness.

“My boss. Deputy Assistant to the director. The guy who thought up the idea of using you as a surrogate agent. His boss, they guy that sanctioned the hit, is brand new. A political appointment from the head of the Department of Homeland Security. He transferred over from the FBI and is making waves. Lots of waves. And you, my friend, are on the top his list of things to be swept under the rug as soon as possible.”

“Why is he so concerned? Why are you giving me this heads-up?”

“Apparently there are some people in both the House and Senate asking questions about what our agency does inside the confines of the states. Apparently they have heard some rumors. Not so much about you. Well . . . maybe a little about you. We think someone in the mob said something to a particular House member about our agency using contract assassins. Your name wasn’t mentioned, I’m told. But the impression was the incident mentioned was one you worked on for us last year.”

Last year. Two contracts. Both about taking out foreign assets quickly and quietly before an international incident could happen. Both contracts well paid. And no questions asked.

Yet, somehow someone knew . . .

“What does your boss want me to do?”

“Find a way to disappear. Stay alive. But disappear. And somehow convince the two agents coming down from Washington assigned to take you out they were successful. Simple!”

In the darkness the thin lips of the man called Smitty stretched into a half grin. Simple. Convince two killers they’ve eliminated their target. Leave no evidence around to suggest otherwise. Simple.

A piece of cake.

Yet the half smile on the dark eyed man’s lips lingered. He saw the difficulties of the assignment. Saw the challenges. Found his interest piqued.

“What happens afterwards? When this all blows over?”

“Your talents are . . . uh . . . still required. The boss has just got to find a way to use you without arousing any suspicions. That’s all.”

Smitty turned dark eyes away from the man beside him and stared thoughtfully down the wind-strewn streak of snow of an empty sidewalk. Above him the giant neon sign in all its garish splendor kept flashing on and off. On and off. Revealing for a moment the sharp outline of Smitty’s face before plunging again into complete darkness. For a moment or two he sat in silence and stared into the darkness. The silence, for the both of them, seemed deafening.

“Okay. Consider it done. Congressmen will be pleased to hear their concerns have been addressed. The director will heave a sigh of relief. And your boss’ neck will be spared from the chopping block. Everybody will be happy.”

“But how . . ?”

“Tut tut,” Smitty said, lifting a gloved hand and shaking his head. “What’s the term you spooks use . . . plausible deniability? The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

The door opened and Smitty rolled out of the car before the other man could say another word. In two steps the small man in the long black trench coat was gone. Disappeared into the night.

Six hours later Smitty, sitting in a comfortable chair pushed into the corner of a spacious bedroom of a palatial home on the outskirts of town, heard the car slide into the wide driveway. In the darkness of the bedroom, one leg crossed over the other comfortably, the ugly mass of a six inch barreled Model 14 Smith & Wesson .38 cal. revolver lying expectantly in his lap.

When the tall man with wide shoulders and an athletic body walked into the bedroom and flipped on the lights he didn’t see Smitty sitting in the chair. The man had thick, curly black hair. A finely chiseled faced. Wearing a tuxedo that looked very good on him. Walking across the soft carpet of the bedroom the tall men slipped off the tux’s jacket and tossed it on the bed and then began slipping off the solid gold cufflinks one at a time. When he stepped up in front of the wide dresser and glanced into the mirror and saw Smitty sitting in the chair directly behind him the color in his face drained and he froze. Became as motionless as lump of freshly poured cement.

“Hello, Ruby.

Smitty was smiling. No. Not smiling . . . it was that curl of the lips. That snarl. That one. That one that made Ruby’s blood run cold.

“You’ve been a bad boy, my friend,” the soft, incredibly menacing, whisper of Smitty’s voice drifted into Ruby’s ears. “You broke our contract. I told you what would happen to you if you ever mentioned my name to anyone.”

“But . . . but . . . Smitty! I . . . I . . . didn’t . . . !”

“Now, now. Don’t deny it. I know you did. A friend of mine told me a government agency has two men looking for me. About a job I did a year ago involving a terrorist. The friend said some politician got word I was involved. Didn’t use any names. But somehow I was implicated. Only one person I know has ties with congressional politicians. That’s you, my dear Ruby. So let’s go. We don’t have much time left.”

“Where . . . where we going?” the tall handsome made asked, terror filling his face.

“Why . . . off to pay the piper, Ruby. Where else would we go?”

Two hours later. On a side street two blocks away from the Downtown Holiday Inn. The hotel the two government hit men were staying at. The dark eyed man stepped into the middle of the snow packed street and stopped. Turning, he looked at the black Caddy CTS sedan sitting at a desolate curb behind him.

And snarled a grin of death.

The suave young mobster who loved to dabble in big time politics sat in the driver’s seat of the CTS , head turned looking at Smitty . . . eyes wide with unfiltered terror. Unmoving. Awake. Alert. But unmoving.

Paralyzed.

Frozen in life behind the wheel of the Caddy, one hand curled around the leather of the steering wheel, the other stuck out of the open driver’s side window hanging limply down the side of the door.

Smitty turned, stuffed hands into the pockets of his heavy trench coat and started walking. The drug he had used on Ruby would keep the mobster that way for the next two hours. An hour more than what was needed.

The walk of two blocks over to the Holiday Inn didn’t take long. When he turned a corner and saw the tall building in the middle of the block he pulled a hand out of his coat pocket, pealed the leather glove back to reveal the Rolex strapped to it and check the time.

The pedestrian traffic coming in and out of the five star hotel was heavy on this cold, snowy night. Street traffic was bumper to bumper. It would be a dicey shot he knew. But the Model 14 Smith & Wesson an accurate weapon.

When he saw the two agents step through the revolving glass doors of the hotel and move to the edge of the curb to hail for a cab the dark eyed man smiled. From underneath his trench coat appeared the revolver.

Just as a yellow cab pulled up in front of the two agents one of them, as he was opening the door, looked up and saw the black trench coat clad man across the street with an upraised gun in his hand. He yelled something and ducked just as a gunshot exploded into the night. A deafening roar that sent people scurrying like frightened chickens in every direction. The bullet slipped through the gaps of the heavy traffic moving on the streets and slapped into the thin metal of the left rear passenger door of the taxi.

Both agents came around the taxi with guns in their hands and firing. Bullets chipped away the brick of the buildings behind where the dark image had been standing. But the dark image had moved. Paused. Raised his gun one more time and fired. And turned and disappeared down a narrow, dark alley.

The agents pursued. Guns in hand. Cautiously they entered the alley and made they way carefully down the dark corridor looking for the man who had shot at them. There was no thought of waiting to call the police. They were agents sent out to ice a hit man. The last thing they wanted was police interference. So, determined, they moved to find the dark eyed man they had no distinct description on and hoped they could find him and eliminate him before the police arrived.

Through the alley they moved. Finding nothing. Coming out on a deserted side street . . . .

Gunfire!

The agents ducked, lifted their guns, saw someone sitting in a black Caddy with a one hand on the steering wheel and the other sticking out of the window with a gun in hand. They lifted their weapons and fired. Each firing off an entire clip into the car and the man. The roar of guns blasting away was deafening.

But they got their man. The hit man was dead. Very, very dead.

Up against the curb in front of a club called Nina’s Peek-a-Boobs. A man sitting alone in the dark car, smoking a cigarette, eyes taking in the wind, the snow, the emptiness around him.

In the darkness beside him a cheap cell phone rings suddenly. Reaching for it the man clicks it on and lifts it to his ear.

“Well?” came the familiar hiss of a soft, almost kind, whisper.

“Done. Don’t know how you did it. Don’t want to know. But the heat is off. The director is pleased. My boss is pleased. I’m . . . . for some odd reason . . . pleased to hear you’re still alive. Don’t know why.”

There was a soft, amused chuckle from the other side of the phone. And then the phone went dead.

“Sonofabitch,” the man growled, shaking his head, tossing the phone into the middle of the street and driving away.

*

BR’s latest masterpiece:

I always used to light her cigarette. It was the first habit I acquired around her when I met her all those years ago. Faith was mesmeric and she flickered like a blue flame. Fingers coiled around the slim drug. She snatched the flame from the heart.

The morning after the letter arrived I woke with my fists stuck to the sheets. I’d punched in the bedroom window the night before. The wounds on my knuckles were so painful I reached for the Tequila before the first egg hissed and crackled in the spitting pan. I stumbled to the tarnished bathroom mirror and encountered the empty resolution of my tired face. My stomach convulsed with the hatred born of guilt. I tossed the egg in the bin and poured some more Tequila, craving the loss of regret that only booze brought.

The letter sat folded by the bread bin.

It had been years since Faith left me. I remembered her standing in the hall of our large house. She held the list of goods she wished to take away in her manicured hands, and I watched her bold writing crawl like a mantra of desertion across the immaculate white paper. She was dancing that day as the tears rolled out of my burning eyes and splashed so loudly on the tiles that I thought the world had just turned the volume up.

‘I need these things’, she said, ‘and then I’m gone.’

I remember what I said, the words often wake me in the blackness of night when my limbs are paralysed from a deep dream.

‘Is that all we are, things?’

She blurred and faded in my hot tears.

Even then my voice sounded weak and I despised myself. I watched her leave and drive off with a part of my soul in her teeth. Over the ensuing weeks I tried hanging myself and cutting my wrists. I was a failure even in suicide. I gave up my job and allowed self hatred to grow like some cancerous friend. For there is comfort in disease. And I watched my wealth evaporate like a spray of perfume.

The only reason I washed any more was to see my daughter on those rare weekend visits Faith allowed. Although I acquired the capacity for huge amounts of alcohol, I never drank when I saw Melody, song of my heart. When I saw her I was always shaved and washed, wearing my best suit. I made sure she went away with the comforting illusion her father was happy and had moved on with his life.

It wasn’t until her teens that I began to know some sick little worm was eating her soul.

She burst into tears regularly when I saw her and told me nothing.

When I got the visit from the police a second part of my life swam away from. I was back in the day Faith left me. It produced a jolt like a broken bone snapping into place.

Melody had taken an overdose and I thought has she inherited this from me? Is her success as a suicide an even deeper failure of mine?

I knew it when I saw Faith at the funeral. Guilt lay embedded in the Botoxed ice of her face.

The letter arrived two days later. In it Melody recounted how she used to stay awake with her mother reassuring her about her looks. How Faith spent increasing amounts of money on them and knew the men she courted were eyeing her daughter.

She’d found a wealthy New York socialite who had it all and she’d set her sights on him, but he told her he liked Melody. And so she drugged her daughter and left them alone at her house and he raped her. She had it all on film and blackmailed him into marrying her. Melody knew. The way she put it in the letter was ‘I can’t live with a mother who sold me.’

I arranged to meet Faith. She wore the expected black and sat in a deep chair sipping Martini, her eyes hidden beneath sunglasses.

‘Did you have anything to do with her death?’, I said, watching my hands shake as I put my glass to my lips.

‘How could you say such a thing?’

‘I got a letter. From Melody.’

She looked at me over the rims of her Channels. It was the merest flicker of acknowledgement, like some wavering doubt in the mind of a meretricious trickster. She never loved, she never could. Not me, nor the daughter who had kept me alive. She was blighted, like some sick little apple you fetch from the orchard alone and hungry as a child.

I was going to leave when she said it.

‘If you hadn’t fucked up she would be alive now.’

I was walking toward the door when she lit a cigarette and on an old impulse I got the lighter from the side and held it to her lips.

It was a heavy lighter set in marble, something she’d acquired on a shopping spree and as I pulled it away I brought it crashing down on her head. I kept hitting her until she wasn’t moving.

She looked beautiful in death. Her skin was blue and as I leaned down and took her hand I said ‘I loved you, it was not the same the other way around. You were a lie, even your name is a lie, the only person who sustained me all these years was Melody, a piece of my fucking heart, and now she’s gone.’

I went home and tried to shoot myself but the gun failed. I turned the gas oven on and realised the supply had been cut off.

I always was a failure. So I sat and drank Tequila, watching the worm at the bottom of the bottle, wishing I could buy Melody back.

*

Bio:

Richard Godwin is the author of crime novel Apostle Rising, in which a serial killer is crucifying politicians and recreating the murder scenes of an original case. The novel has received great reviews http://www.richardgodwin.net/media
It has just sold foreign rights to the largest publisher in Hungary
http://www.amazon.com/Apostle-Rising-Richard-Godwin/dp/0956711308/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1325697920&sr=1-1 .
He is widely published in many magazines and anthologies and also writes horror and Bizarro as well as literary fiction and poetry. You can find out more about him here http://richardgodwin.net . His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are popular and penetrating interviews he conducts with other authors at his Blog
http://www.richardgodwin.net/blog .
His second crime novel will be published in April of 2012 by Black Jackal Books as a paperback.

“We were bakers, but we ended up like toast that’s been put down twice, burnt. We enjoyed another free bed and breakfast stay courtesy of the NYC penal system.”

“Hadda be Leary’s fault.”

“No, hard as it may be to believe, not entirely. But I have to give him, as usual, the lion’s share of credit.”

“What happened?”

“As you may or may not know, Leary and I had a minor misunderstanding that took place In Lou’s Grocery.”

“Do I know? Christ, the whole neighborhood knows. They all ravel in the exploits of the two of you. Your daring life of crime provides more entertainment to this neighborhood than Netflix. If I recall the plot of your last adventure it revolved around pineapples. I think it has a nice exotic Hawaiian touch to it. That said though, probably the only way the two of you would possibly ever get involved with anything Hawaiian would be getting arrested by Hawaii 5-0.”

“We haven’t made their rap sheet yet, but there’s still time. Anyway, because of our escapade at Lou’s we ended up getting community service.”

“That’s fitting, except that I think that you guys are under the impression that the community should serve you, not the other way around.”

“Due to our past and frequent interactions with the friendly folks at the New York City criminal justice system, they gave us a month of community service along with a complimentary warning that we were candidates for a return trip to one of their finer accommodations. Frankly, I think that the New York penal system had overbooked themselves which worked in our favor.”

“I can’t believe Leary didn’t approach it like an over booked airline and tell the judge that he’d give up his cell for $200.”

“Even Leary knew enough to keep his mouth shut on that. Hey, it was a month of freedom as opposed to God knows how long as a guest of the correctional system.”

“Too bad they don’t have a frequent guest program like hotels do. You guys would have all sorts of rewards accrued. Maybe a free week in solitary or a week in a famous prison like Folsom in California.”

“Anyway, we get assigned to a shelter kitchen. Besides the new knife skills that they taught us, which we never knew existed, as we always thought that knives were just for fights, they taught us how to bake.”

“Did the two of you wear those goofy, puffy hats?”

“Yeah, they came in handy for stowing contraband like weed to get us through our busy work day.”

“OK, so which one if you decided to learn to bake?”

“Neither, they were short cooks and we got drafted as second string chefs. No one else wanted to do it or knew how.”

“Isn’t there a term for that, Sioux chef?”

“Like the Indians?”

“Right, something like that, maybe it’s Sue chef. Regardless, continue.”

“OK, so this flaming liberal chick Samantha ends up feeling sorry for us. She takes it upon herself to teach us some basic cooking and baking skills. I think that she saw Leary boiling potatoes with the skins on and my first attempt at rolls that came out as hard as baseballs. She knew we needed help. She basically gave us the crash course. For some reason, the baking part stuck.”

“She had her own Pillsbury Dough Boys.”

“No, she was hot. There wasn’t anything soft when she was around.”

“So let me tell you what happened next, Leary’s Irish eyes start smiling. The Leary charm kicks in and pretty soon she teaching Leary how to make bacon and eggs, except it’s not in the shelter though.”

“Yeah, you got that right. She starts hanging out at Leary’s. Before she arrived, the only cooking utensil Leary had was a toaster. Leary’s oven saw less traffic then the middle of the Sahara desert. After she started dropping by, all sorts of cooking implements appeared out of nowhere like my relatives did the time I hit the numbers.”

“So what exactly did she do? Did she start teaching the two of you like she was Rachel Ray?”

“Who’s Rachel Ray? Is she the one behind Ray’s Pizza?”

“No, don’t you have the intellect for reality TV? She has a cooking show.”

“Fuck, you watch cooking shows?”

“Hey, don’t you know, chicks love guys who cook, even if your skill set consists of opening a can of beef stew. You just tell them you like to take a night off from preparing a five course meal. You don’t have to be able to cook the stuff, just describe it to them. Then you do something creative with the stew, like pour hot sauce or soy sauce on it.”

“I’ll have to remember that. Anyway, she teaches us how to make these incredible brownies. Leary gets the idea in his head that if we rent that little abandoned pizza place on First Avenue and Ninth Street, the one the size of a telephone booth; we can go into the bakery business.”

“That sounds too tame for Leary. I see Leary working a straight job like I see him joining the priesthood.”

“You can almost see the Leary slant on the bakery business coming.”

“Let me tell you, he spices up the product.”

“Not all of it, just the brownies, which we jack the price up on.”

“Normally, spicing would mean ginger or something similar but with Leary mixed in with the recipe I’m sure it’s weed.”

“With insight like that, you’re headed for “The Apprentice”. Weed becomes the chief ingredient of his signature brownies.”

“If I were part of a Leary venture, I’d want to be sure that I’m not headed to Riker’s Island.”

“Obviously,” so I say to Leary, “How do we sell the spiked ones?”

“It’s simple. We post a sign that states our spiked brownies are organic. They have a kick to them. We handle it the same way that the drug companies do.”

“Wait, fuck me, Leary, are you telling me that the drug companies make brownies? Sara Lee is actually a front for a drug company? No wonder nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee.”

“No, you can still like Sara Lee, in fact you can have sex with her for all I care. What I mean is, when you hear the drug companies advertise their junk, they always tell you that their drugs may cause headaches, diarrhea, constipation, etc.”

“First, how can something cause both diarrhea and constipation and second, who’s going to buy the brownies if they cause all those things?”

“No, Dr. House, I just threw a bunch of examples together, the first thing that came to my mind.”

“You mean that out of all the things that can be going through your mind all you can think about is going to the john?”

“Never mind, trust me on this we’ll just tell them that the brownies may have a little buzz to them. A mild after effect of you will.”

“And how do we tell them, whisper in their ear?”

“No, we put up a sign that says that due to their organic nature the special brownies may have a slight pleasant after effect. Note the word pleasant.”

“That’s a good point. The drug companies can’t say that you will be pleasantly constipated or pleasantly running to the john every five minutes.”

“OK, now you get the point.”

“So Leary makes up a sign telling the customers what’s up with the allegedly organic brownies. We’re in business. In fact business picks up really quickly. Word spreads in the neighborhood of our little venture and the organic brownie business is booming. Not to outdone by his own success, Leary comes up with another idea.”

“Look, why don’t we cater parties with the brownies. You know people can eat them at Sunday football tail gate parties, watching the Oscars etc.”

“Great idea, we can bake batches just for that purpose. After they’ve had the foot long sub they can have a brownie for dessert.”

“So Leary and I start advertising brownie batches for parties etc. If someone is having a traditional party, we give them the regular brownies. If it’s a special party, they get the higher priced organic brownies. Some of our customers are now planning social events around the organic brownies. The catering business takes off and we’re placing orders left and right.”

“So what went wrong?”

“We get really busy on one Friday night. As you’d suspect, weekends are when we did our best business.”

“Leary, where did you put the batch of regulars that are supposed to go to that Flanagan kid’s party?”

“They left.”

“They left?”

“They left yesterday. They were the ones that were sitting on the front counter to the left.”

“No, that batch was for the sixties revival party over on Avenue A.”

“No, that delivery is sitting right now on the back counter by the oven.”

“No, that’s the batch for Flanagan’s party.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh shit, that means that the organic batch went to the kid’s party.”

“What’s the commotion out front?”

‘Mr. Leary, Mr. Gannon, I’m Detective Thomas from the Ninth Precinct. I’m placing the both of you under arrest for incorporating marijuana into your bakery products, particularly the brownies. One of the parties that you catered yesterday, Mrs. Flanagan’s I believe, was for the nine year old son of the precinct captain. Captain Flanagan suspected something when the room of usually rambunctious kids became exceptionally tranquil and manageable after eating your brownies. Then they started eating everything in the house. On a hunch, he had your brownies tested. The lab advised him that the primary active ingredient wasn’t cocoa, but marijuana. Would you gentlemen please come with me? One more thing, please don’t try eating the evidence.”

*

Charlie Coleman is a writer living in New York.

*

find out more about John http://www.facebook.com/the71sound

Kevin thumbed fat copper cartridges into the throat of the chubby black magazine. The men both wore large ear protectors that made them resemble ’70s radio DJs.

“Kind of like a remote control,” Jared said. “Greatest invention since the blow job.”

Kevin handed him the mag.

Jared slapped it home and emptied it rapid fire, hitting nothing. “Whoo! You ever get a blow job while shooting? It’s awesome.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“I did in Reno. Fired a minigun at a remote control glider while this hooker went to town on my meat whistle,” Jared said. “Best day of my life. They got you in this gunner chair, in front of a rotating cannon like the guy has in Predator. They merged with a brothel, but the gun range name shows on the receipts.” He laughed his machine-gun laugh.

Kevin loaded the last mag and took measured shots at the chunks of wood hanging at the fifty yard mark.

“Don’t tell the wife, okay?” Jared laughed, punctuating with harsh slaps to Kevin’s shoulder, making him miss.

Kevin didn’t tell Jared’s wife. He told his own, while her hip length blond hair tickled his thighs.

“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” Samantha said. “You couldn’t concentrate on either, really.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Kevin said. He gripped the pillows tight while Sammy ground away.

They’d removed the front sight of their Smith & Wesson Model 29, and fitted it to her strap-on harness. The woodgrain grip rubbed her just right, and the eight inch barrel scratched an itch Kevin felt deep inside.

“That’s it baby. Push back. I’m feelin’ right percolated.”

When Sammy finished it was Kevin’s turn. Because of what Jared had said, he cleared their 9mm Luger, and asked Sammy to dress up in her Nazi stormtrooper coat and hat. She put him in her mouth and the gun in his. She pulled the trigger as he came, looking up into his eyes, his lips pursed around the barrel. They never felt closer.

Over dinner, Sammy asked him. “You think Jared and Wendy would like to play with us?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t like my boss knowing our private life.”

“Let’s invite them for dinner. He’s your boss. That’s just polite.”

“Okay.”

It took a few weeks to schedule it. Jared and Wendy brought a carrot cake for dessert, and a bottle of merlot.

Samantha had made her specialty, chicken pepperoni.

“This is really good,” Wendy. “Good and spicy.”

While the coffee pot burbled, they finished their glasses of wine.

Jared said, “You gotta come with me to Reno, Kevin. You can shoot anything.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “These boys and their guns. What do you think, Samantha?”

“Oh, I was raised around guns. They don’t bother me none. Let me give you a tour of the house. We have lots to talk about.”

“I’d love that. Once my husband starts talking guns, he never stops.”

Samantha led her into the kitchen.

Jared stood, bouncing like a puppy. “Show me your stuff, Kev. Where do you keep them, in the den?”

“No, downstairs.” Kevin walked him to the cellar door, and paused before unlocking it. “I kept a secret for you. I have some things, let’s say, they come from Reno.”

Jared winked. “I gotcha. These gun laws are too restrictive. I’d buy a minigun and keep it in my backyard, if they let me.” Again, the laugh. And the punch on the arm.

They creaked down the basement steps and rounded the corner.

“Kinda dark in here, Kevvo.”

“It’s mood lighting,” Kevin said.

Kevin and Sammy had spent all afternoon cleaning up the gun room, but the heart-shaped bed couldn’t be hidden. Dozens of rifles and pistols were mounted on hooks on the peg board walls, empty spaces where the sex toys had been. The industrial tub of Astroglide was too big to roll under the bed, so Kevin had spray painted it black. The floor was concrete, adorned with a bearskin rug.

“Did you kill that bear?”

“Sammy did.”

“Your girl’s a real pistol. I wish Wendy liked guns. She’s afraid of them.”

“We should bring them to the range. Maybe she’ll feel more comfortable with Sammy showing her the ropes.”

“Holy shit, is that Dirty Harry’s gun?”

“The Model 29?”

“It looks just like it, except the sight’s missing.”

They always cleaned the play guns well, but Samantha’s scent had impregnated the wood grip.

Jared picked it up without asking. “Whoa, it weighs a ton!”

“That’s a very special gun. Family heirloom. Mind if you put it back?”

” I’m not gonna drop it or anything. It’s not loaded, is it?”

“Let me check,” Kevin said, and cupped his hands around Jared’s, easing the weapon from him. Of course it was loaded. It wasn’t exciting, when Kevin knew it was empty.

“What’s that smell? It’s familiar.”

“Gun oil,” Kevin said.

“You sure? Smells kind of tangy.”

They were interrupted by their wives’ heels clicking down the steps.

“Hello girls, you find something to talk about?”

“Oh we sure did. We have a lot in common,” Samantha said. “Hope you don’t mind, honey, I told Wendy about the fun we have down here. After she heard about Reno, she couldn’t get enough.”

Jared’s eyes went wide. “What–”

Wendy glared as the girls rounded the corner. Samantha had her stormtrooper coat on, boots, latex panties and black electrical tape X’d over her nipples. Wendy wore a pair of Kevin’s cowboy boots, a Stetson and gun belts over her pink granny panties and cross-your-heart bra.

“She told me all about Reno, Jared. And I have to say I was surprised. All you had to do was ask.”

“Really, baby?”

“But you were naughty, and now it’s my turn.”

Samantha reached beneath the bed and pulled out the harness, and a ball gag. “Wendy said you just love playing with guns. Now it’s time for Wendy to try some. You’re gonna want the gag at first, Jared.”

“What? I thought you girls were gonna play with each other.”

Samantha laughed, then Wendy joined in. “Kevin and I ain’t swingers. We just like our guns. I thought you wanted Wendy here to like ‘em.”

“I do, but-”

Kevin handed his wife the magnum, and she holstered Wendy up, slicking the gun with lube.

“I don’t know,” Jared said. “You let her do this, Kevin?”

“Baby, tell him how much you like it,” Samantha said. “It loosens my boy right up.”

“I used to be afraid of everything,” Kevin said. “Not anymore.

“That thing’s not going in me!”

“Oh, I’ll just poke you a little,” Wendy said. “Think of Reno. You owe me.”

Wendy popped the ball gag into her husband’s mouth and tightened it up. Pushed him toward the bed, jabbing him with her shiny chrome member.

“Get those pants down, Reno boy.”

“Just relax now, Jared,” Kevin said. “Trust me, if you don’t, it’s a lot worse.”

Wendy made tentative jabs, but as she reached around and found her husband had become excited despite himself, she let loose. Jared squirmed and tried to crawl away, until his face hit the headboard.

“You big baby! It’s hardly in there at all.” Wendy began to shudder, and clutched the magnum as she climaxed.

The shot sounded like a bomb went off in the tiny, soundproofed room. The recoil knocked Wendy off balance and she tumbled back onto her behind, the bloody pistol waggling from her crotch.

The three of them stared, ears ringing, Jared’s muffled screams sounded far and distant. The tang of spent powder hung in the air.

Wendy hooted and laughed. “Well, we can’t say we were cleaning it and went off,” she said.

*

Thomas Pluck writes unflinching fiction with heart. His story “Black-Eyed Susan” won the 1st place Bullet Award in September 2011.

His stories have appeared in Plots with Guns, Pulp Modern, Crimespree Magazine, Beat to a Pulp, Shotgun Honey, McSweeney’s Internet

Tendency, The Utne Reader and elsewhere. His work will appear soon in Hardboiled, Needle: A Magazine of Noir and Crimefactory. He is working on his first novel, and he is co-editor of Lost Children: A Charity Anthology. His home on the web is www.pluckyoutoo.com

My people don’t kill one another so we don’t have any police, courts or prisons, but the absence of such things doesn’t mean I can’t speak on behalf of the dead. I’m not talking in spiritual terms; we don’t have any more use for that than we do rules of law.

So let me tell you about the departed. Joe was a through and through gent with a streak of generosity a mile wide. There wasn’t an open kitchen window or a lump of fresh excrement he wouldn’t tell you about, because the way Joe saw it, the world was rich enough for us all to have a share. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some kind of liberal or socialist dreamer. Far as I’m concerned, a fly that doesn’t graft isn’t any fly at all. But there’s no point sitting on a mountain of food you couldn’t hope to eat in a hundred years and letting it go bad on account of the fact you were the one that found it. No point fighting over it either, there being plenty more where that came from.

I don’t want you to go away thinking Joe was some sort of saint. He had his flaws like the rest of us, particularly when it came to the ladies. Couldn’t get enough of them, as a consequence of which he had himself a regular brood of kids by a score of different mothers. That said I never saw him let down so much as one of those little maggots. If Joe wasn’t the best of us, he was far from the worst. Now Joe’s dead his kids will have to make their way in this crazy world without his guidance.

Now you have the background, let’s get on with the story.

Baked by the sun of an Indian summer, the tarmac outside the library sucked at my feet as I paused to settle my nerves. The librarian gave me an evil look as I flew through the automatic doors, then she went back to checking in books. A perverse silence hung in the air, the quiet afforded not to the dead but to readers of musty books and journals. Of course, humans have been killing one another since Cain put Abel in the ground, so there’s no reason think they’d act any different towards so-called “lower” species. To them it was only a little pest control, not even worthy of a raised eyebrow, but taking it on yourself to end a life, any life, is murder in my book.

Now maybe they’ve their own concerns. Let’s face it, who would know what goes on in those big empty heads of theirs? I reckon the problem with humans is they spend too much time thinking about what they have or don’t have and not enough time living in the now. Life, as Joe would no doubt testify, is short and cruel, so why waste time worrying about it. There I go again, offering opinions where their probably not wanted, talking about me when I should be talking about Joe. You’re right; I’ve put this off long enough, time to view the body.

Joe lay where he had fallen, below a south facing window. Being a little after midday, a beam of sunlight illuminated his broken body. The murder weapon, a rolled up newspaper, lay on the windowsill, the black of its print highlighted by the yellow smear of his guts. The irrefutable proof of Joe’s death settled in my stomach like a lead weight. My friend was dead and for all my earlier bravado I was powerless to do anything about it. As flies go I count myself among the toughest, but I’m still only a fly. Inadvertently spreading disease is about as much as a bluebottle can do.

Buzzing my frustration, I flitted up to the ceiling and surveyed the room. The librarian’s stamp clicked away as she checked out books to a wizened old woman. Was this blue-rinsed Methuselah the killer? The arthritic talon of her hand convinced me otherwise. A stronger, more limber arm had dealt the murderous blow. Perhaps the librarian herself was guilty. What darkness lurked beneath that cheerful exterior? More than one killer has hidden behind the mask of quiet respectability. Her travels round the aisles would have afforded ample opportunity to squash the life from Joe. Worth watching, I decided.

Turning from the desk, my multifaceted eyes lit on an acne-scarred youth. Flakes of dandruff spotted the shoulders of his shirt. Deep-set eyes and a vicious slash of a mouth completed his mean appearance, but if an unfortunate face were taken as proof of guilt then half, if not all, the human race should be locked up. I needed some further evidence. The desk he sat at was closest to the window with a rack of newspapers conveniently adjacent. A blank space confirmed my suspicion that this was the source of the murder weapon. The spotted youth, who stared so fixedly at the contents of some social networking page, possessed both means and opportunity. All I needed to discover now was the motive.

Confident as I was, a good detective reviews all the facts before drawing any conclusions. I could go head to head with this sorry specimen, push him right to the edge, but would such a tactic reveal the truth? Was I guilty of making the evidence fit the facts I wanted to believe in? Needing a safe heaven in which to think things through, I took myself to the window and hid behind the slats of the venetian blinds.

The library, being a public place, it was possible that Joe’s killer had already come and gone in the same fashion as the old woman I’d already eliminated from my enquiries. Much as I wanted to ignore this conclusion I couldn’t dismiss it, but to accept it would be to admit defeat, something I wasn’t ready for yet. I would put the youth and the librarian to the test. If both passed, well and good, I would give up my search for the killer.

The librarian was first. Summoning up my loudest and most irritating buzz, I settled on the counter. When she took no notice, I crawled up on to the spines of the pile of books beside her and made my way to the top of their literary summit. The librarian reached over and lifted the first book. Our eyes met and I prepared myself to spring to safety.

‘Away with you fly.’

She shook the book gently and I took the hint, flitting up to the ceiling and the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. For all her distaste, she had no real hatred, so I pronounced her innocent and moved on to my prime suspect.

He turned at the sound of my first buzz and his lumpen features took on a look of antagonistic spite. Needing to be absolute, I alighted on top of his monitor and waited. Sure enough, his hand crept across the desk until it encountered a magazine. I ignored the folding of its pages and the slow drawing back of his arm. A cold smile twitched the killer’s lips as he prepared to strike. Warned by the sudden displacement of air, I launched myself skyward, leaving the magazine to strike harmlessly against the screen. The librarian’s disapproving shush followed the smack of the magazine like an echo, but held no interest for me. I had looked into the eyes of Joe’s killer and beheld the unthinking and unseeing hatred that lived inside. There was nothing more for me here.

It felt good to be outside again, to feel the heat of the sun on my wings and air around me. But how was I to take my revenge? Would I call an army of flies to follow his every step until they drove him into the depths of madness? It was a difficult if not impossible challenge. I seemed the one most likely to be driven insane, or would have been if at that crucial moment I hadn’t spotted a dog doing its business on the grass. The owner called it to heel and as they walked away I knew happy times were here again, because when all was said and done I was only a fly and this is what Joe would’ve wanted.

*

Bio:

Raised and educated in what he describes as a town of narrow streets and even narrower minds, Leon Steelgrave was afforded plenty of opportunity to hone his acerbic wit. If he never looked back, he certainly spent a lot of time looking inward, a practice that has stood him in good stead, not least in his writing career.

White Vampyre, his first work of fiction, was originally published as a Print On Demand paperback by Booklocker.com in the USA in 2003. Out of print for a number of years, he recently issued a revised version via Kindle Direct Publishing. Two sequels are currently in preparation along with a police procedural, A Pauper’s Shroud, and a collection of early short stories.

http://www.leon-steelgrave.com

Just like that. From a blocked number, but it was her, all right. Only Stephanie had that voice. That throat full of broken glass. And it was her old man you were fucking.

Were, is right. When things got hot, he split. Even his smell was gone from your rooms, your sheets. You were left with an empty twat, and a pipe bomb in your guts.

Bleeding ulcers. That’s why you’re here, on St. Jude’s charity floor. Your roommate’s gone. The old bat who was hacking all night. Dead, probably.

You’d be, too, if your super hadn’t gone out for smokes. Face down in the foyer, you were. If Stephanie found you, bikers’ boots would’ve squashed you like a bug. For fucking a Satan’s Angel.

She knows where you live.

The day nurse was here, earlier, with your lunch. But who can eat? Even jello gives you grief. She looked familiar, kind of: Spanish, oily skin. Eyes that saw too much. “You’ll be hungry for dinner,” she said, smirking.

Trembling, you pull the blanket over you. Outside it’s February, chilly. Flurrying. How you loved snow, once. Last month, Butcher and you pitched snowballs at cars, like grown kids. Shivering in your hoodie, his leather ice-cold against you. “Never know, man,” he said, packing a fresh one. “Could be the last snowball you ever throw.”

Does she know you’re in here?

All these tests they ran on you. And, for what? So you’ll be well enough to die?

You had to pick a Satan’s Angel.

Boo-hoo, you think. I fucked your old man. He wasn’t the first. Sure won’t be the last. Unless . . .

Distant, tinny music: in your purse, your cell’s ringing.

You don’t want to know. But you’ve got to know.

As you turn over in bed, pain slices through you. You manage to grab your purse off the tray.

“You’ll die tonight,” this message says. “And won’t see it coming.”

Your instinct is to bolt out the door. You try to get up, but the pain is worse. The IVs pull you back. “Fuck!” you say.

Out in the hall, something’s going on. Female laughter, like the nurses threw a party. A male voice murmurs something, and the cackling starts again.

You’ve got to get out of here. And go . . . where?

“Hey!” You jump, as a new nurse pokes her head in. Your cell goes flying. “You want ashes?”

Ashes?

On her forehead is a crooked gray cross. “You Catholic?” she asks. “It’s Ash Wednesday. The priest’s here. Father. . . ?” She yells up the hall.

“Lynch!” He’s outside your door.

“Lynch?” the nurse says. “You’re not from St. Joe’s, are you?”

“Ashes,” you whisper, as the priest comes in. “I need more than ashes. I need . . . the Last Rites!”

They both stare. Father Lynch nods, slowly. He’s sixtyish, in priest garb, with stiff, white collar. Rough-looking skin. He holds what looks like a regular ashtray. “Let me finish up here,” he says, “and I’ll be back.”

As he turns, you see a long, gray ponytail. Strange, you think.

How long, you wonder, since your last confession?

Thirty years? At least! You can’t lie to him.

No more, you realize, miserably. This will be your last confession.

If not for the pain, you could sneak out. Go to the cops. Or hide somewhere.

Tonight, Stephanie warned. And won’t see it coming.

She called in a favor. Satan’s Angels are outside the hospital, waiting. They’ll wait forever, for a favor.

God knows how they’ll do it, too.

Rape you, first. Cringing, you recall their leader, Ringo. A stinking, grizzled fuck with a beard rats could live in.

Footsteps tell you Father Lynch is hurrying back.

Something about him bothers you. Priest, or not.

That ponytail, maybe. Greasy-looking, like if he got close, you’d smell it. Or his skin, all bitten-looking. Like he cut it with a razor. Over and over.

As he comes in, grinning, it all makes sense.

Like he’ll cut you, Stephanie could’ve told you.

After he rapes you.

*

Cindy is a Jersey girl who works in New York City & who talks like Anybody’s from West Side Story. She works out 5-6 days a week, so needs no excuse to drink or do whatever the hell she wants. She loves peanut butter, blood-rare meat, Jack Daniels, and Starbucks coffee (though not usually in the same meal). She’s been published in the usual places, such as Hardboiled, A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp, Out of the Gutter, Mysterical-E, Media Virus, and The New Flesh. She is the editor of the ezine, Yellow Mama. And she’s still a Gemini and a Christian.