EVERYDAY PEOPLE - by Paul D. Brazill

For a man that needs no introduction...it's that Polish, Englishman who's absolutely Brazilliant!

EVERYDAY PEOPLE

Brendan Burke was a creature of narrow habit and come rain or come shine, come hell or high water he always ate meat on Fridays, even though, around the time of his seventieth birthday it had begun to play havoc with his digestion.

‘Rebellion,’ said Brendan to Tony Amerigo. ‘Rebellion against the shackles of my Catholic upbringing.’

‘Power to the people,’ said Tony, raising a clenched fist.

Tony had been a butcher since leaving school, as were his father and grandfather, but business hadn’t been so good since the influx of supermarkets selling cut price cuts of meat. Curmudgeons like Brendan were a godsend for Tony.

Brendan put the meat in his checked shopping bag and headed off.

‘Post office?’ said Tony.

‘As per usual,’ said Brendan. The social kept trying to convince him to have his pension paid into the bank but Brendan dug his heels in, stuck to his guns. He hated banks and enjoyed his trips to the post office, the centre of the local tittle tattle. ‘And then I’m off to the naval club, though I still don’t know if I’m an inny or an outty’.

He chuckled to himself and was still chuckling when a scooter jumped a light and knocked him arse over tit.

***

‘Jeezus, don’t send for her!’ said Brendan. Skye, the featherlight social worker, had suggested phoning his daughter in London and getting her to come and take care of him for a while. He’d barely been in the hospital a week, discharging himself after complaining about missing two sessions at the club.

‘She’s worse than her bloody mother was for fussin’ and fannyin' around,’said Brendan.

‘Well, you need a carer, Mr B,’ said Sky.

Brendan shook his head as he looked at her. She was sparkling and fresh, from somewhere down south. How could she have a clue about anything?

‘Do you know anyone?’ she asked.

Brendan just stared at her nose stud with disgust.

***

Oliver Sweet ducked into his flat as soon as he saw the social worker enter the building. He’d seen her before in the record shop where he hung around. She’d bought a Janis Ian CD and she’d tried to make conversation about it but it wasn’t exactly his cup of cocoa. Neither was small talk. Oliver was a bit of a mouse, who kept himself to himself, and it would surprise most people to know that he loved to listen to Sly Stone, Bootsy Collins and Funkadelic. These were what blew his skirt up. Along with taxidermy, collecting funk on vinyl was the centre of his life.

When Brendan moved into the flat opposite, Oliver was a bit worried that he’d complain about the noise but after talking to him a couple of times he relaxed . Brendan was as deaf as a post.

He was listening to Sly Stone and changing into his ASDA uniform when he heard the scream and the bang. He stuck his head out of the door and saw that Brendan’s door was was open. And then he heard coughing, choking.

‘Are you alright Mr Burke?’ he shouted. No reply.

He went to Burke’s door and knocked.

‘Mr Burke?’ said Oliver. He went into the flat, saw Brendan doubled over and ran towards him.

‘Are you alright?’

Brendan looked up with tears in his eyes. Tears of laughter.

‘Sorry...Sorry, Sweety,’ said Brendan. Oliver hated that nickname.

‘Couldn’t resist.’ He wheezed. ‘I just wanted her to piss off, so...’ he coughed. ‘So, I grabbed her knockers. The stuck up little cow soon scarpered then.’

‘So, you’re okay,’ said a blushing Oliver.

‘Aye,’ said Brendan. ‘Do us a favour and pass us that bottle of vodka from the mantelpiece and get two glasses from the kitchenette.

Oliver wasn’t much of a drinker but he thought he needed to clam down before heading of to work.

He poured the drinks.

‘A toast,’ said Brendan.

‘Na zdrowia, as Polish Andy used to say. To your health.’

Brendan downed the vodka in one and Oliver did the same but it burned like molten lava.

***

After a week or two it was decided that Oliver would be Brendan’s carer. He’d do the shopping, cash his pension and pop in now and again to keep an eye on him.

Oliver started to like drinking with Brendan and the carers’ allowance that he received meant that he could give up his job at ASDA. In fact all was tickety boo until Bonfire Night.

***

Tony Amerigo’s voice was like a dripping tap to Oliver and the woman at the Post office was even worse. Still, he endured and managed to pop in to the record shop before lunchtime to buy Parliament’s ‘Up for the down Stroke.’

‘Pricey stuff this,’ said John, the owner of the shop. ‘Been saving up your pennies, Sweety?’

Oliver ignored him and headed back home.

***

‘The Post Office was packed again,’ said Oliver to Brendan.

Brendan said nothing, of course. He’s said nothing since he’d broken his neck falling out of the bath on November 5th. Oliver still liked these evenings, though. Steak, vodka and a bit of Bootsy playing in the background. He glanced over at Brendan as he unpacked the rest of the shopping and thought that he really should have bought some more formaldehyde.


Bio:
Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘Paul D. Brazill, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/

CRIMSON TRAIL by Paul D. Brazill

Crimson Trail

The stage coach shook and rattled, like a drunk in the first stages of withdrawal, invading Frank’s dreams and dragging him into consciousness. He opened his eyes but the day was as bright as a migraine and he clamped them shut again.

He counted to ten and slowly peeled back his eyelids. The coach was hot and cramped. A little old man with a bushy beard snoozed close to to the window, beside him a beautiful blond with a red ribbon tied around her neck sat reading the bible, eyes filled with tears.

All Frank could see outside was desert until a flock of screeching vultures, looking more like bats, sliced across the sky. The woman glanced over at him muttering to herself. He fiddled in his jacket pocket for his canteen of whisky and took a drink. It was empty.

How the hell had he ended up here? Was he leaving Tuscon or returning? His sleep had been fitful and stained with disturbing dreams. Or were they memories? Frank wished he could drink the whisky and wash away the dark and dingy thoughts that lurked in the murky corners of his mind. He took out a scarlet bandanna and scrubbed the encrusted blood from his hands as the stage coach came to a small town.

Tombstone. Well, it looked like Tombstone but why was everything painted red? He shivered as he remembered coming here with Becky. A picture of her naked on a bed, a slash of lipstick across her mouth, turned into an image of her splattered with blood. The sound of a Colt .45 echoed through his thoughts until the old man jolted him out of his reverie.

‘Frank,’ he said, ‘You’re here.’

The coach stopped and the horses screamed. As Frank and the blond got off , he realized the ribbon around her neck was blood. The main streets spilled with cavalry and Frank guessed that it must be some sort of holiday.

Was it Christmas? He couldn’t remember. He turned and saw that the old man was still on the coach waving as it rode away. The stage driver, his eyes glowing red, tipped his crimson stetson and laughed like a maniac. It was getting hotter as he walked down the Main Street, passing the deserted salloon and whorehouse. And it was getting harder to breath. Dark memories skewered his thoughts. Then he heard screams .

The sky got redder. Everything got redder. And Frank finally understood where he was and why he was there. It had been stupid of him to get involved with a woman with a history. Especially Becky’s tainted history. From their first night together, they were on a trail that was bound to end in tears. And blood.

Hers. Or his.

‘It’ll be a cold day in hell when I let you walk away from me,’ Becky had once said. She was wrong on that account. It was a red hot day. And it would only get hotter.

***

Bio:

Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Six Sentences, A Twist Of Noir, Thrillers Killers n Chillers and Beat To A Pulp and other such classy joints.. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pauldbrazill.blogspot.com/

SMUDGE - by Paul Brazill

Prolific Paul's back...

SMUDGE

‘No one gets out of life without dirtying their hands,’ said Julian ‘Smudge’ Bogajski, watching the steam rise from his muddy coffee. Fitz just nodded and started digging into his bacon and eggs with all the enthusiasm of an ex-con in a bordello.

The Star Coffee Bar was stiflingly hot and cluttered with the usual hodgepodge of waifs and strays that seemed to congregate at greasy spoons during the early evening. Behind the counter, Madge, a midget with a withered arm, was serving tea in half pint glasses to a couple of ageing Teddy Boys with fading tattoos. A sound system that was twice as big as Madge, blasted out a Mott The Hoople song.

Fitz’s head was pounding and he was starting to wish he’d gone to Smudge’s office now, but he really couldn’t risk being seen going in. He wanted to keep his problem as secret as possible and Smudge had a reputation.

‘I’ve gone arse over tit many a time, metaphorically and literally,’ continued Smudge. ‘Especially when I’ve been imbibing.’ He picked up a napkin and shined his pearl Yin and Yang cuff links. Sitting back in his chair he flicked lint from his black Hugo Boss suit, surveyed the room disinterestedly and then looked at his potential client.

Trevor Fitzroy was an overweight man in his late forties, wearing a safari suit and with an expression so hangdog as to make a basset hound jealous. Smudge could imagine him living with his mother and talcum powdering his palms before shaking hands. He was right on both counts.

Fitz absently scratched his arm with a fork. Without looking up, he said. ‘So, do you believe me?’

‘I’m a ... facilitator,’ said Smudge, squirming as Fitz pulled a string of bacon rind from his mouth. ‘I’m impartial. It matters not a jot if I believe you or not. My responsibility is to listen to your story. And to act.’

Fitz stared out of the window at a High Street, bustling with Christmas shoppers and glistening with fairy lights. A group of schoolkids raced past, chased by a wheezing Santa Clause.

‘So.Take it away. One more time,’ said Smudge with a grin.

‘Well, you see, I put it down to stress,’ said Fitz, shuffling in his seat.‘Things went pear-shaped about a year ago. This recession. You know?’

Smudge nodded.

‘I lost my job. I’ve always had a bit of a weight problem and I’d tried my best to keep it under control but you know , as an insurance salesman ... well, the company said I was bad for their image. I’d been with the firm all my life.I couldn’t face telling the wife and kids so I just continued leaving the house at the same time. Returned home at the same time. I spent my days like a ... a ghost. In the park. Library. Here. And, of course, I took out all sorts of loans to keep up the lifestyle. Rolling interest. You know’

‘Unfortunately, I do,’ said Smudge.

‘And then I kept getting this urge. This compulsion. It came during the night. In the street. I’d never felt that way before. I’d always been a clean living kinda guy.’

He downed his coffee in one.

‘I was in Harrods when the urge reached a ... a crescendo. I was in the food hall. And I saw them.A massive bunch of Cumberland sausages. Juicy. Succulent. Before I knew it I’d whipped them off the shelf and stuffed them down the front of my trousers.’

‘Ahem,’said Smudge.

‘And then I just wandered off, in some sort of a trance.’

‘And you ended up where?’said Smudge.

‘In the lingerie section.’

‘Aha,’ said Smudge, licking his lips.

‘I don’t remember getting there. Like I say I was in a ...sort of ...’

‘Trance. Yes, you did say.’

‘I came to when this vinegary looking woman started screaming at me. Calling me a pervert..’

‘What had happened?’ said Smudge.

‘I looked down and realized that my fly was half open and one of the sausages was sticking out...The security guards came and then the police and then I was charged. With...with... ’

‘With indecent exposure?’said Smudge.

Fitz nodded. Madge plonked a plate of apple pie and custard in front of him. He started to breathe heavily.

‘But I’m not a perv. If this gets out, well...You believe me don’t you? I need you to believe me Mr. Bogajski.’

‘Strangely, I do,’ said Smudge, ’But the most important question, of course, is what I need to do to eradicate your problem and, more importantly for me, if you can afford to pay.’

‘I can, I can.’ said Fitz. ‘Are you sure you can help?’

Smudge nodded. ‘Give me the information, the name of the shop, the description of the woman and I’m sure I’ll be able to renegotiate with her.’

Trembling, Fitz pushed a stuffed brown envelope over to Smudge. ‘It’s all there,’ he said.

‘Honest?’ said Fitz.

Smudge stood up, his suit impeccable, stretched his long arms and yawned.

‘I am – and have been - many things,’ said Smudge. ‘But I’m always honest. Hence the nickname.’

‘Eh?’ said Fitz.

‘Like in the Spandau Ballet song’ said Smudge, picking up his briefcase.

‘I don’t follow, ‘ said Fitz

‘True?’ said Smudge. ’You must know it?’

Fitz looked bewildered.

‘Baa ba ba baaa, daa - I know this...’ said Smudge as he walked out of the cafe, patting the Bowie knife holstered below his left shoulder.

BIO:
Paul D. Brazill has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, The Legendary, Beat To A Pulp, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Blink Ink, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Shoots & Vines, Six Sentences and Flashshots.
He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
http://pauldbrazill.blogspot.com

THIS OLD HOUSE - by Paul Brazill

A big welcome to Paul on his TKnC debut...

THIS OLD HOUSE

Ten Sycamore Hill was, in the mind of Peter Ord, the font of all of his misfortunes.

While women, work, cars and kids came and went, the only constant in Peter’s turbulent life –apart from the drink, of course -was the weather beaten Victorian detached house overlooking Hart Village; it’s increasingly battered facade and interior seeming to degenerate with each one of his trials and tribulations. With every one of Peter’s disappointments a window frame would crumble; with every disaster - romantic or otherwise- a door handle would come loose or slates would be ripped from the roof by an unsympathetic wind; when his health failed, so did the heating. And, as Peter’s bank account was slowly depleted, the wallpaper and paint seamed to peel itself free from the walls before his eyes.

Each night, as a pickled Peter staggered back from another interminable drinking session at the Raby Arms, he would look up at his home perched on the hill, looming over the village like a great black crow and, soaked in alcoholic self-pity, he would curse: ‘Fuck. Fuckin’... fucker ... fuck.’

Or words to that effect.

And then one Halloween, Peter had an idea.
*
‘You know, it’s actually possible to kill someone with a bottle of Pepsi and a packet of Mintoes?’ said JT peeling an unlit pin-sized roll up from his bottom lip.

Peter nodded. ‘Oh, aye?’ said Peter, as he hung his camel coat on the mooshead coat rack and sat opposite JT with a sigh.

‘Aye,’ said JT. 'Not a lot of people know that.’

JT, a gaunt, jaundiced looking man with a spidery black quiff, sat at a his usual corner table, near a buzzing slot machine, drumming his fingers on his pint glass to The Shadow’s ‘Apache’ which played from a crackly speaker.

Peter sipped his pint of Stella, gazed at the fading bat-wing tattoos on his hands and faded in on the memory of a drunken night at a Newcastle tattoo parlor that then segued into the time he first met his wife, Deborah, at Astros nightclub. Twenty five years ago now. There’d been a lot of booze under the bridge since then, he thought.

The Raby Arms, an anonymous country pub, was always smoggy- despite the smoking ban-and, indeed , the interior, including the mirrors, the windows and the faces of most of the regulars, all seemed to have a nicotine sheen. As on most nights, the pub was half empty.

There was a loud bang and Big Jim burst through the doors bringing a waft of autumn leaves with him. Peter and JT both laughed as Jim stumbled into the toilets, his fly open as wide as the Grand Canyon, muttering to himself.

‘Here he is, the David Niven of Hart Village,’ smirked JT.

‘So you reckon it’s a non starter then?’ said Peter, massaging his left arm.

JT took a swig of Stella. 'Oh, aye. Great idea. Get Big Jim to burn down your house and then collect on the insurance. A fool proof plan, that. About as fool proof as that canoeist that did a Lord Lucan and got spotted in Rio or somewhere.’

JT had a point, thought Peter. Big Jim wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the box. He remembered the time in the pub quiz when Big Jim had answered a question about the largest Loch in Scotland with ‘Chub’. However, Jim was cheap and Peter really wanted rid of that house. The bills were mounting up and the Invalidity Benefit that he’s started getting after his first heart attack barely covered his drinking sessions.

Peter sighed again and slouched in his chair as he wiped his sweating brow with his ubiquitous tie. ‘Just think, ‘ he said. ‘This time of year kids are always pushing bangers and fireworks through people letterboxes. It’s happened to me loads of times. Now, if I happen to leave some booze splashed around the place and work on my old motorbike in the front room and it catches fire, well...’

They both looked up as Big Jim plonked down next to them.

‘Peter, I’m you’re man’, said Big Jim.

‘I’ll take that with a mountain of Saxa,' said JT.
*
JT and Big Jim had left and Peter propped himself up at the bar. He was watching ‘Deal Or No Deal’, trying to ignore the numb feeling in his arm, when he heard the bang.

‘Bollox!’ he shouted.

Hot, sweating and wheezing, Peter rushed out of the pub and up the path towards his burning home.

‘Tosser!’, he shouted at Big Jim, who was rushing down the path in a panic. Peter was volcanic and the pain in his arm was getting worse. He heard a sound, turned and saw a group of kids dressed as vampires, werewolves and ghosts.

‘Trick or treat,’ they shouted.

‘Bolox,’ he whispered and then he gasped and crumpled to the ground.

The weight of an elephant was on Peter’s chest before the last stages of the coronary kicked in. The kids were lifting his wallet and watch and, as they frisked him, Peter looked up at his burning house and saw it’s black silhouette against the waxing moon. His vision started to fade like hot breath on a cold window pane. Ten Sycamore Hill’s windows and front door seemed to light up a glowing red like the eyes and mouth of a grinning Jack O’Lantern. And then he thought he heard a laugh.

BIO: Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England-a town famous for hanging a monkey-and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland (South of Hel). He has had stories in (or coming up in) Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences, A Twist Of Noir, Flashshots, Beat To A Pulp and the book 6S2V. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at: http://pauldbrazill.blogspot.com/