BILL 'AJ' HAYES MEMORIAL WRITING CONTEST - WINNER - Angel Luis Colon

Bill in Richmond, London.

Thanks to all the entrants, readers and a big shout to the organizers, Eric Beetner, Holly West, Steve Weddle and the other good folk at Do Some Damage who also published the winning stories - and, of course, a thumbs up from the late, great Bill Hayes...

SHOTGUN WEDDING

by Angel Luis Colón

Something Old

Hank and Annie were about as good a pair as lit dynamite and an orphanage. They met at dirty little rub and tug just outside Dallas. He was tired after a long day of drug slinging. She was wearing a Walmart kimono and enough pancake makeup to kill a man twice her size. Only thing they loved more than pawing at each other was that damn methamphetamine—and maybe good old fashioned violence.

Old Nelson Hauer found out about the violence first hand with a rock to the side of the head. He made the mistake of being the Good Samaritan for what looked to be a nice, young couple hitching on the side of Interstate 15, a few miles south of Las Vegas. Last thing he saw was those two kissing the way teenagers would and speeding off in his ’62 Chevy II Nova.

Something New

“There’s Vegas up ahead, baby.” Hank ran his arm under his nose—narrowed his eyes at the red streak running from wrist to elbow. “Excited?”

“We’re getting married,” Annie sing-songed.

“We need some money.” He looked over to his lady love. “That old man have anything in the glove? Revolver or something?”

Annie kicked the compartment open and shook her blonde mop. “Nothing but maps and bullshit pamphlets.” She lifted one of the pamphlets and grimaced at the title, Chlamydia: Do’s and Don’ts.

“Gotta make a pit stop, then. Buckle up.” Hank took his own advice—for a change—kept that pedal down like he was trying to touch the asphalt with his boot.

Two lefts and a right outside of town and he found what he was looking for. Big old sign said ‘Gun Garage’. “Hold tight, lover.” That Nova bull charged into the storefront. Wasn’t a soul in the store, so nobody was hurt—not like Hank would have cared. “Stay in here and give a holler if the law shows up.” He booked it out of the car.

Annie nodded and lit a smoke.

Hank was back lickety-split with twin shotguns—one pink—“For my lady-love.” He offered it like a bouquet.

Annie was all smiles. “That is so god damn cute.”

Back on the road they went.

“So we get money…” Hank paused to light a cigarette. “…then we hit up that fancy chapel you talked about.”

Annie bounced in her seat. “The Little Church of the West Wedding Chapel? Oh, you’re the best.”

“Like I said; we need to hit an ATM.” He pulled the wheel hard and came to a skidding stop in front of a local bank, the lights popping to life inside. “Man the fort. I’ll be out in two minutes.”

Annie loaded her shotgun and winked. “I’ll keep the motor running, baby.”

Something Borrowed

Elena stripped off her wedding dress.  A bright pink shotgun between the eyes was all the provocation she needed.

“Thank you, sweetie.” Annie lowered her aim and clenched the dress in her hand, her press-on nails raking against the delicate polyester mesh of the hem. “Give it right back when I’m finished.”

Hank took hold up duties with his own double barrel while Annie stripped. He took a second to admire that well-rounded derriere of hers and licked his lips. “Hurry on up—need to get out of here and get you into a hotel. Some place higher end like that Days Inn a few miles out.”

“You spoil me.” Annie forced the dress over her waist. She had a full head height over Elena—who stood there mouth agape and shaking like a lapdog.

Her fiancé, Bill, was busy nursing a shoulder full of buckshot—Hank’s way of telling him to stop being a fucking hero. Hank gave him a little kick and smiled. “Fucking flesh wound, champ. Man the fuck up.”

The dress on, Annie lifted her shotgun and aimed it over at the Reverend Joseph Love Parrish IV. “Alrighty—get started, Rev.” She turned to Elena. “You think you and your boyfriend can sign the license as witnesses?”

Something Blue

Two “I do”s, forty miles and thirteen squad cars later—there they were—surrounded on all sides by the boys in blue with a score of gun barrels trained on their sweaty heads.

It was easy enough to find the newly christened Mister and Misses Kapowski. One dead senior citizen, an obliterated store front, five bank tellers and a crying bride in a stretched out dress led the coppers towards I 15 South. No telling the tax payer dollars wasted in all that time.

“Shit.” Hank dumped a sloppy rail on the quivering skin between his thumb and index finger. He brought it to his nose and snorted. Sweat beaded across his brow and made trails down the side of his face. “Shut up,” he muttered.

The police were very insistent the pair came on out with hands up, but truthfully, not a one of them really wanted that to happen. That many itchy trigger fingers needed work to do.

Annie—well—Annie was a little too preoccupied covering up her half naked body and coming down from her high. “Maybe we should listen to them.” She tossed that one into a suggestion box had a hole in the bottom.

“No.” Hank’s eyes were saucer wide. He raised the shotgun. “I’m sorry lady-love, but I ain’t going back.” He turned the barrel, slid that bad boy between his lips and leaned his fingers down against the trigger.

Boys in blue would later argue over whether the sound of that gun popping Hank’s head like a zit was louder than Annie’s screams.

Poor Annie Kapowski—alone, bloodied, and with a ringing in her ears that would take weeks to leave. She raised both hands and a few deputies did her the favor of escorting her out that ruined Nova.

A few steps towards the waiting squad car and she stopped short with a wince. “Damn, wait a sec. Think I got something in my shoe.”

BIO:

Angel Luis Colón has landed ass first into crime fiction and is taking a shine to it. His work has appeared in WeirdYear, Red Fez and Fiction on The Web with forthcoming work due out in Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, All Due Respect and Big Pulp. He hails from the Bronx and works in NYC, but is currently exiled to the wastelands of New Jersey with his family—thankfully; he has access to good beer and single malts. 

You can follow his grumblings on Twitter @HeckChoseMe or be audience to his useless ranting over at http://angelluiscolon.com/.

BILL 'AJ' HAYES MEMORIAL WRITING CONTEST WINNERS - 3rd place - Jen Conley.

Bill's hat at Noir @ the Bar L.A. 

THE REPAIRMAN 

by Jen Conley

On a November afternoon, when Erin Lewis was on maternity leave, a repairman arrived on her doorstep holding a large gray tool bag. She was expecting him because her husband had arranged for the dishwasher to be fixed. His dirty white truck sat in her driveway under a heavy gray sky.

            “I’m a little late,” the repairman explained and although the voice was perfectly normal, something about it nagged at her.

            “It’s fine,” she said and stood back to let him in.

            “Just in there?” he asked, nodding towards the kitchen down the hall. When he passed by, his scent made Erin shudder. She couldn’t place it, but somewhere deep inside a dark bell went off.

In the kitchen, the repairman placed his bag on the floor next to the dishwasher. She asked if her husband had described the trouble.

            “Yep.” He swung around and underneath the roughened skin, the graying beard and balding head, underneath the girth of his large body, she suddenly saw who he really was: Bill Vinson. She was thirty-eight years old, lucky to have gone through therapy and lucky to have pulled her wrecked mind together and lucky to have met Kevin on a train to New York and set up this life: a nice marriage, a decent colonial house to live in, and a healthy two-month-old daughter.  I was worried about you but you did good, her mother said often.

            Now this man, Bill Vinson, stood in her kitchen with his tool bag and his repairman’s clothes, smelling slightly of stale alcohol. He must drink at night before bed, Erin thought.

            “Cooking dinner?” he asked, eyeing the raw chicken next to the cutting board. An onion and two carrots lay next to it. 

            “Yes,” she said.

            “Well don’t let me get in your way. Just tell me to move. I’m easy as a summer breeze.”

            He turned and bent down in front of the dishwasher. She had a sudden urge to kick him. But then, from the sound of the baby monitor, Erin heard her sleeping daughter move.

            “Let’s see…” he said.

            Erin walked to the far counter and withdrew the long knife from the holder. The knives were new and sharp. She returned to the cutting board and began to chop the carrots which had been peeled earlier. She went down hard, making little dents in the wooden board. Her daughter moved again but Erin continued cutting.

            “This is an easy fix,” the man muttered.

            Erin picked up the onion, hacked off the sides, and ripped off the outer layer. Within seconds, she was chopping it to pieces.

            “Now don’t cry,” she heard him say.

   She stopped cutting. He was standing behind her.

   “Onions,” he said.

             Her bones rattled.

             “I gotta get something in the truck.”

             Erin said nothing.

             When he was gone, she looked up and stared through the kitchen window. The backyard trees rocked in a gentle wind. The memory returned: she was fourteen, locked in a room with Bill Vinson, a twenty-year-old, still hanging out at high school parties. She’d told her mother that she had gone to her friend Jamie’s house and Jamie had told her parents they were going to the movies. There was liquor and Bill was cute and he was talking to her about the band Molly Hatchet and soon they were in a room, her shirt undone. Then it went bad. She was too small to fight it off. She cried and asked him to stop but her head was spinning from the booze. To make things even more horrid, when he was done, someone popped out of the closet and snapped pictures of her on the bed. She never did figure out who took the photos for the room was dark and the flash popped three times, brightening the walls for each wretched moment, Bill and the mystery guy snickering. They left her there in tears. She managed to get out and get home, her mother finding out days later when Erin confessed she was worried about pregnancy. It turned out she was lucky.

            Now Bill was whistling. Erin lifted the plate with the raw chicken and slid it onto the wooden board. She began slashing through the meat, piece after piece. Her daughter moved again and let out a brief whimper. Erin looked at Bill, crouched like a gopher, fiddling with the dishwasher. She returned her focus to the chicken and began to hack at the meat. Years of pain. Embarrassment. Kids had found out, had seen the photos, and she’d been teased and labeled a whore. “It’s nothing new,” her mother had said sadly when Erin cried to her. “It has always happened to young women.” Life had been thrown off, as if she were kicked off the paved road, thrown to the side. She suffered.

            Now she could slice his throat. Stand behind him and take her knife and cut straight through. Blood would spurt against the open dishwasher, gush to the tiled floor. His body would droop, slip down, die.

            How she had been shamed and had lived with it. He deserved this death, she thought, standing behind him, the knife in her hand. He deserved it.

            Bill scratched the back of his head. Muttered to himself.

  She stepped closer. How she had wished for this moment. How she had sat with her tears, her fury, all those years ago. I want him dead. Dead.

            She moved closer. The hair thin on his skull.

            Her daughter moved.

            Erin licked her lips, gripped the knife’s handle.

            There was a little murmur from the monitor, a little cry.

            Then Bill Vinson slowly turned his head and saw Erin holding the knife. His big body fell back against the counter and he sat cornered, his hands up. “Whoa, whatever I did…”

            His eyes flickered and she knew he recognized her.

            And that was good enough.

            She put the knife down.

            Her daughter’s wail bellowed through the monitor. 

BIO:

Jen Conley's stories have appeared in Thuglit, Needle, Beat to a Pulp, Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, Grand Central Noir, Big Pulp, Literary Orphans, All Due Respect, Protectors, Plots With Guns, Yellow Mama, All Due Respect and others. An editor at Shotgun Honey, she’s been nominated for a Best of the Web Spinetingler Award and shortlisted for Best American Mystery Stories 2012. She lives with her son in Brick, New Jersey. Follow her on twitter @jenconley45

SIMMONS' CHOICE by Aidan Thorn.

Here's another new writer making his debut at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.  Aidan Thorne is a Southampton based scribe hoping to make something out of this crazy writing world.  Let's show him some support as he gives us.....

SIMMONS' CHOICE

by 

Aidan Thorn

I had to do what was best for my boy, any father would right? Not that my son could see that, oh no, he disagreed with my plan from the start – But what choice did I have?  No son of mine could go to prison, especially Larkford Prison - he’d be lucky to get through the first week alive. 

When the call had come in that Ian had been arrested for the murder of a known dealer my first thought wasn’t of disbelief, it was that I had to keep him from going to Larkford.  I could just imagine what would happen if the other inmates found out that he was my boy, the son of Detective Alan Simmons.  It would be all of their Christmases rolled into one.  I was responsible for putting a lot of people behind those bars. It wouldn’t take long for them to make the connection between Ian’s last name and the family resemblance.  No, he wouldn’t last a week.

My sons struggle with drugs has been with us since he hit his mid-teens. When I realised he had a problem and confronted him about it of course it was my entire fault.  Apparently because of who I am he was bullied, he went to a tough school, coppers kids were just below the fat kids and the gingers in the social structure.  He started to rebel against anything that had a whiff of authority about it all with the aim of making his peers laugh and fitting in.  Sadly his plan worked and Ian fell in with a crowd that could only be described as wrong. 

Before long Ian was a barely walking, barely talking cliché.  He moved through drug classes with far greater ease than he had ever coped with school classes.  And I found myself doing everything I could to try and get him off that shite, of course my interference only pushed him further in. He picked up a few arrests over the years and every time I managed to get him off with a slapped arse, but this time it was different – They don’t dish out slapped arses for murder do they.

The only way I could see to keep him safe this time was to have him declared insane, have the little shite sectioned.  Better he sees out his sentence on a mental ward than getting sent to Larkford to become one of my collar’s play things or end up with a shank in his neck and that’s what I told him, when I went in to see him after his arrest.  

‘No fuck that, I’m not rotting in some room with a bunch of spaced out nutters for the rest of my days.’ Ian had protested as I’d outlined my plan.  He seemed oblivious to the irony that it was because he’d spent nearly half of his life as a ‘spaced out nutter’ that he was now facing a future behind secure walls.

‘If you don’t go for an insanity plea I can’t protect you. It’s not going to take long for the inmates at Larkford to connect your name to mine.’ I said. ‘I don’t care how gaunt and broken you look and how chubby I’ve become there’s no denying that we look alike. Some of the people I’ve put away are never coming out, there’s nothing stopping them taking out a little revenge on me through you.’

‘So get me sent to another prison then. I’m not being locked up with the loons.’

‘Prisoners do re-offend when they’re released. There’s nothing to say that you won’t come across someone I put away in the past that’s now doing time somewhere else. You won’t be safe in prison.’

I looked sideways to Ian’s brief for support.  I’d hired David Shipton, one of the best in the business.  I’d seen some of my best collars slip through the system to freedom when Shipton had defended them.  I’d paid through the nose to get him and agreed that I’d owe him a favour in future if a key piece of evidence needed to go missing for one of his clients – despite everything, I’d sell my soul for my boy.  There was no way Shipton was ever going to get Ian off but getting him sent down as insane was going to be a tough job and so I needed the best.

‘Your old man’s right Ian, the best we can do for you is plead insanity, have a couple of doctors testify that you’re not all there and get you sectioned whilst I try to find ways of appealing this thing,’ Shipton said. ‘I’ll to be honest with you though, it’s going to be tough. There are three witnesses that saw you stabbing the victim in broad daylight and you were arrested covered in his blood. Now I can use this to our advantage, as only a mad man would viciously murder a person in public in the middle of the day…’

‘He’d stolen my money and not given me my fix,’ Ian interrupted, anger flashing across the back of his eyes.  Sweat beads had formed lines across my son’s grey and furrowed brow.  He shook with uncontrollable rage as he screamed out his words.  In Ian’s drug addled mind the dealers crimes were worthy of a death sentence, perhaps convincing a judge and jury that he was insane was not going to be as tough as first thought.  I looked at Shipton and the slight grin on his face suggested he’d just had a similar eureka moment.

***

I’d pulled a few strings and managed to have Ian placed in solitary whilst he was awaiting trial.  Shipton had asked that my boy be bailed to my custody but we all knew that wasn’t going to happen. 

As the trial approached we had a number of concerns.  Shipton was concerned that regardless of any doctor’s testimony,  it was going to be tough to convince a jury that Ian was insane.  He didn’t have to remind me, but did, that drug addicts aren’t society’s favourite people and addict muderers are at least a step or two further down that list.  I had to remind Shipton that I’d employed the best lawyer for my boy because I was more than aware that the situation was a fucking mess. 

What was more worrying was that we were having problems with both the doctors Shipton had roped in to testify that Ian was a nutjob.  One of the doctors got cold feet when he found out I was a copper.  I think he thought it was some sort of elaborate sting.  I managed to convince him that this was a genuine case by showing him a full audit trail of my bank account from which his five grand sweetener had come, proving that the funds were mine and had been in my saving account for the past decade. 

The second doctor got greedy the week before the trial and decided that five grand wasn’t enough, he wanted ten times that.   Shipton pointed out there was no way of replacing him at this stage.  I wouldn’t be surprised if that little prick had put the doctor up to asking for the extra cash and was getting a commission from him.  I got a loan that would basically wipe out the lump sum I was going to be getting on my pension in a few months’ time and paid the bribe.

And of course the judge had to be given a little convincer too, but that was nothing new.  I’d done it a few times in the past from the other side of the fence when we’d gotten the wrong person, or more accurately couldn’t find the right person and the bad PR involved in that getting out would be too damaging to the force.  We’d stitch up a fall guy, I’m not talking about a family man with a steady job and bills to pay, no someone that had slipped through the net in the past - someone who deserved it. 

It was a great relief when the trial came to an end and Ian was ordered by the judge to be detained at the Moorfield Centre under the Mental Health Act.  My boy would be safe from the violent scum that walked the prison corridors.

***

Visiting time at Moorfield was hard for me.  Ian refused to see me but still I turned up diligently every week hoping to see the son who, in spite of his thoughts on the matter, I had saved from a certain death, bankrupting myself in the process.  As I walked away at the end of visiting time each week, having sat for two hours alone, I noticed the looks of sympathy on the faces of the staff.  I was undeterred and still turned up every week.

As I signed in at Moorfield this morning, almost six months after Ian had been sent here, again a sympathetic face looked back at me and spoke.  ‘Hello, Detective Simmons. Can you go into the waiting room behind me? Doctor Lamb would like to speak with you.’

I was expecting this day to come.  Patients are not kept within the care of mental health institutions indefinitely and Ian’s time was coming to an end. He would have to be reassessed and, if it was decided that he was no longer playing ball, he could find himself out of the hospital and in prison within the month.

Doctor Lamb entered the waiting room and I stood to shake his hand.  He motioned me back to my seat and spoke. ‘I’m afraid there has been an incident. One of the patients went on a frenzied rampage during breakfast this morning. He was sat next to Ian when the incident began. He attacked your son and before anyone could stop him he had slashed his throat with a piece of glass. We're not sure where the glass came from. I'm sorry, Detective Simmons, but Ian bled to death as hospital staff tried to help him.’

I felt my shoulders shake; tears filled my eyes and ran down my face.  I saw Doctor Lamb’s lips continue to move but I heard nothing of what he was saying.


Bio - 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/

GROTESQUE by K.A.Laity

Let's get things rolling again with TK'n'C debutant, the inimitable Kate Laity and her witty take on crime, that is simply... 

Grotesque

In boisterous tones Tony regaled me with the letter he wrote to complain about the boost in water rates. "Uncalled for, uncalled for, outrageous, outlandish," he recited as he waved his Carlie about, splashing the foam on the brown tile floor.

The walk to the pub tonight had been through ghost streets, as if the city had been abandoned by all and sundry, given up as a bad job and everyone had fucked off to Holland or Munich or Rome. But it was only the cup finals.

We weren't troubled by such doings at Tony's. The telly that still hung over the dartboard hadn't worked since the days of Eric Bristow. It now featured a hobgoblin's wig of cobwebs, which complimented the rest of the place nicely from the warped bar itself to the stinking bog at the back. Had any ladies needed to powder their noses, they would have been alarmed to find no door marked mná or with a fetching picture of a doxie with crossed legs.

No woman had ever crossed the threshold of the pub, however.

Perhaps that could be blamed on the décor, which ranged from brown to more brown. Or the ambience that derived from unwashed and mostly middle aged men just off shift. The young lads all went to the shiny new sports pubs with their cacophonous screens and drinks with asinine names that they swilled back like candy.

We had two kinds of lager here and one of ale, with Guinness on the side for the old men from the isle. In the summer you could also get cans of Budweiser to take out into the 'beer garden': a picnic table on a concrete square between the rubbish tip and the grey wall of the car park. The chief appeal seemed to be you were allowed to spit out there.

Tony had just got to the nub of his tirade - "working class traitors! Sixty hour weeks!" - when Huckleberry Bob came in and the room fell quiet all at once. Maybe it was his history as a real hard number: at fifteen he had beat up the next door neighbour for insisting he kerb his dog, Bastard, as the rangy Doberman laid a few steaming brown gifts on his azaleas. Poor old Gary still limped. When Bob got out people gave him a wide berth and not just because he had a habit of muttering menacing words under his breath, aimed at the neighbours or his dentist or the skies.

Most likely the pub fell silent that night because Huckleberry Bob appeared to be covered in blood. The 2 by 4 bouncing in his left hand probably didn't help either. No one looked directly at him. The room got bigger, or so it seemed as our breath ran away.

After an interminable interval, his brother Jack made an attempt to hail him. "How're you keeping, Bob?" Nobody called him Huckleberry to his face.

Bob didn't answer but he did turn his head toward his brother. Without a word, he drew out some kind of pistol and shot him once right through the wide shiny forehead. Jack staggered back against the smudged mirror that had withstood countless years of neglect and withstood the publican's weight, as he expired and fell on the sticky floor below.

The silence broke then like shattered glass, as pints dropped to the floor and shouts rang out as everyone tried to find egress. The pity was Bob stood in the entry way yet and the only other exit led to the garden. Most chose that way to escape, but they quickly became lodged in the doorway like the Marx Brothers on a big night out. A couple of fellas ducked into the loo, but that seemed a worse idea than the garden.

Like an eejit, I just stood there by the pillar. Not really what you'd call cover.

Huckleberry Bob went for the knot of desperate men clawing over one another to get to the beer garden, whacking at the hindmost with his 2 by 4, but not immediately shooting anyone. The men in the bog seemed to be rolling whatever wasn't nailed down to block the door, but they got real quiet when the shooting started at last.

Some made it out, some now lay on the floor bleeding. I saw Tony was one. I don't know why I froze. When Bob turned away from the garden and every nerve in my body said, run, still I stood there.

Bob ambled over. He hadn't rushed or broke a sweat. Truth to tell, he seemed dazed, his eyes rimmed red and his face slack.

May Brigid's sacred fire protect me! I repeated my mam's prayer that I'd heard her mutter a thousand times or more back in our village before I came to the land of the enemy. Like sparks from that eternal flame, words sprang to my tongue.

"How's that fine dog of yours, Bob?" Bastard had died some years back, but he had been replaced by one of his pups, a hideous replica called Junior.

It was Bob's turn to freeze. His fingers twitched as he dropped the board and to my surprise, he began to sob. 

"He's dead!"

"The devil you say! What happened?"

He swayed and I began to think he might just keel over. Sobs wracked his enormous frame and he wiped an arm across his face as he took a ragged breath. "Car. Some fucking Tory in a swank car hit him, killed him." He wailed.

I laid a hand on his shoulder gingerly, ready to jump. "That's a damn shame, Bob, a damn shame. Can I get you a pint?"

He nodded and I stepped around the bar and over Jack's body to pull a pint for him. "So I expect that's how you got the blood all over you," I said, just to make conversation.

Bob looked down as if noticing the blackening stains upon his clothes. I slid the pint of lager across the bar and he drained it, wiping his bloody face again. I set to work refilling it right away, ignoring the way my hands were shaking.

Bob belched, but at least he'd stopped sobbing. He picked at his sticky shirt. "Nah, this is from the Tory scum. On his way back from the cash-n-carry with a load of lumber in his Rover, I reckon."

"Handy that," I offered, as I set up the refilled glass on the bar.

"Too right," Bob agreed, sipping this pint more slowly. "Too right you are there."

"It's a funny old world. Bob," I said, pulling a pint for myself. I could hear the sirens in the distance getting louder.

BIO:
To find out more about Kate Laity's writing visit her website: http://kalaity.com/ 

THE SCHEME OF THINGS by Gary Clifton

TK'n'C is pleased to welcome Gary with this hardboiled piece...

THE SCHEME OF THINGS

Harry The Rat gave the job to that dick, Primo. Yeah, I was still on the payroll for the piss-peanuts The Rat paid, but an assigned hit paid big bucks - what the crap-head straight world called an incentive bonus.

The Rat kept Primo around because he was big, stupid and knew how to act like a real bodyguard - like my ass. Primo was one of those jack-offs who was mean, not tough for shit. The kind who actually enjoyed offing a mark for the sadistic high from the last seconds of terror and gore.

The deal had a helluva hitch. The Rat had a chick on the payroll, Mary, if you can swallow that alias shit. Red hair, beautiful blue eyes, with legs all the way to the floor. She was The Rat's pussy deal. She'd also done a couple of hits. Blew the suckers away like quail hunting in Nebraska . You look that good, no problem walking up on the mark.

Rufus Freeman, dude who ran a pawnshop on Troost, had been hosing Mary - at least The Rat thought so. Funny about some guys. In The Rat's mind, Freeman had to go, but good pussy is hard to find - especially the kind with legs that good. So Mary earned a pass. But Freeman was a dead man and that mope Primo got the contract.

Big problem: I'd had a little of ol' Mary - twice actually in the front seat of her 'Vette. I figured the combinations. I was in deep shit. In this damned business, a man does what he has to do. So I figured I better watch and play the whole symphony by ear.

Freeman's Pawn stayed open until 10 P.M. - damned cold and dark in January. Freeman had a habit of sending home the hired help around nine, opening a nice window of time. Primo liked to use a blade, but he was way too chickenshit to take on an old boy like Freeman with a knife.

The Rat was impatient. He'd insist Primo do the job ASAP. So I only hadda sit on Freeman's two nights before, sure as hell, I spotted Primo in his Lexus parked a block down. At just past ten, Freeman flicked out the lights, fumbled with the front door and stepped between snowplow drifts to cross Troost to his Cadillac in the bitter, north wind.

Primo, like a true dumb bastard he was, whipped the Lexus beside Freeman at mid-street and gave him four in the midsection with that .45 he loved so much. Freeman went down like a wet towel.

Then, She appeared. Even the long trench-coat couldn't hide those legs. Primo had stepped out of the Lexus to put a finale in Freeman's head. From behind a snow-heap, Mary swayed off the curb and put five in Primo with that little S&W she carried. He hit the pavement, dead as last Easter's ham.

Well, what the hell. I cranked my ride and was beside her in seconds. 

She started to run, but when she recognized my mug, she stopped and whipped up one of those million dollar, toothy smiles. "We mustn't leave loose ends, she said softly." 

She was right. Primo must have also visited the front seat of her 'Vette, I figured. Freeman probably hadn't, but I by God had. 

I capped her between those lovely eyes. Her head exploded like a bursting watermelon, the force knocking her ten feet, the S&W skidding across the deserted street. I started back to The Rat's. One more in his brain, if he had one, would take care of business.

Survival, that's all it is in the end. Mary lay sprawled on the pavement. "Sorry baby," I looked back. "But even good pussy ain't really that hard to find."

BIO:

Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over sixty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He's been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued and is currently retired. Clifton has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.

THE STAIN By Harris Tobias

The Stain

    

    

I never would have noticed the stain if Lynn hadn’t walked out on me. When she left, I went into a deep funk and, drinking even more than usual, lay around the house staring at the ceiling from one horizontal position or another. I wasn’t used to being alone. The house seemed so empty without her presence, singing or weeping depending on her mood. And our daughter, my little Sharon, where is my little girl?

I don’t blame her for leaving. I’m not the easiest person to live with. I slipped into a kind of gray zone laying on the bed staring at nothing. That’s how I first noticed the stain. A rusty brown blob with no color and no apparent shape. I watched it for hours. After a couple of days, the stain took on a shape I recognized. Sort of like a baseball diamond. I could, if I tried hard enough, make out the pitcher’s mound and the evenly spaced bases. It reminded me of that time I threatened Lynn with a bat. I was drunk, of course. I never would have actually hit her with it but I could see she was terrified. I did manage to bust up the furniture some and those two lamps her mother gave us. I was awful sorry the next day. Lynn took me back. Good old Lynn.

A couple of days later, the stain took on the aspect of a face, a man’s face, but I couldn’t place it until I noticed the cap. A policeman’s cap complete with badge and everything. I could even make out the badge number—387. It was the face of that young cop who came to the door that time I was so high on booze and pills I could barely stand. I must have taken a swing at him because I woke up in a cell in restraints. That was a bad time and I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You bailed me out yet again. I hardly deserved such loyalty.

The stain grows larger. There must be a leak somewheres though it hasn’t rained in weeks. Today the stain looks like a woman, a very unhappy woman. I can see her sad face. The tears streaming down her cheeks, her hair a tousled mess eyes pleading for me to stop. But I don’t stop, do I? I hit you to make you stop crying. I slap your tears away. I strike our daughter, my precious little girl. And what was it you did to make me so angry? I can’t remember. I am always angry.

I fall asleep staring at the stain. It is definitely bigger now and the color is turning from a rusty brown to a kind of greenish brown. My mind struggles to make a picture of the new shape. It is sinuous and complex. At first I think it’s you standing in the doorway our daughter behind your back. You are shielding her from my fury but that is not it. Then it snaps into focus. It is a dragon, its coils wrapped around its victim, a man, his head inside the dragon’s mouth. Whoever it is is being devoured. Somehow I know it is me. I am being devoured.

As I stare transfixed, the stain detaches itself from the ceiling. Is this a hallucination? When is the last time I had something to eat or drink? I’m sure I’m hallucinating. It’s so real, it’s almost funny. I try to laugh. But my mouth is too dry. I try to scream but whatever sound I manage to make is muffled by the dragon’s moist and toothy maw.

         

BIO:

Harris Tobias lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia. He is the author of several novels and dozens of short stories. His fiction has appeared in Ray Gun Revival, Dunesteef Audio Magazine, Literal Translations, FriedFiction, Down In The Dirt, Eclectic Flash, E Fiction and several other obscure publications. His poetry has appeared in Vox Poetica, The poem Factory and The Poetry Super Highway. You can find links to his novels at: http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com/

MELTDOWN by Les Morris

TKnC welcomes Les with this tale about one man pushed too far…

MELTDOWN

The silver BMW crept slowly up and down the seemingly endless lines of cars.  The driver’s head swivelled like it was mounted on a screw thread as he searched for that elusive parking space.

Martin Nicholson had pulled into the car park fifteen minutes earlier and, so far, there was no sign of anyone driving off.  It was ten thirty, his meeting was at eleven.  He’d give it five more minutes and then look somewhere else.  The morning was bright and crisp and the sun was beginning to burn off the early morning spring mist.  He felt good and was looking forward to meeting the sales director for the first time, if only he could find a space.

A middle-aged woman appeared in the car park, this was his chance.  He drove round to where the woman was opening the door of a red hatchback and waited.  She certainly took her time but, eventually, she drove away and Martin claimed his prize.  He’d managed to find a parking space in only twenty minutes. He decided that today was going to be a good day, donned his jacket, picked up his briefcase and locked the car.

He was tall and thin with dark brown hair that was beginning to grey around the temples. His expensive looking suit, briefcase and mobile phone made him look every inch the successful businessman as he strode across the car park towards the office.  Reaching the pedestrian crossing in front of the office block’s main entrance he stopped and waited for the lights to change.  Looking up at the imposing structure, seemingly built entirely of glass, he thought back over the last two months.

He had been unemployed for eighteen months.  Both of his credit cards were up to their limit, he couldn’t even afford the minimum repayment each month.  The building society was about to repossess his house and his wife had been threatening to leave him if he didn't do something to sort the situation out soon.  That was when he saw the advert in the local newspaper.  A pensions and life assurance company were looking for salesmen to join their team.  The wage wasn't great but it was a lot more than his benefits.  He sent off his CV, attended two assessment days and, to his surprise, was taken on to start immediately.  Things were starting to look up.  His first few weeks were filled with paperwork, various courses and learning the ropes.  Now he was ready to meet the big boss.The green man lit up and he crossed to the other side of the busy road.  Entering the air-conditioned office building he looked around for reception.  A girl in her early twenties sat behind a chrome and plastic desk.  The clear perspex sign above her head said "Enquiries" in white etched letters.  He approached and waited for her to finish the phone call she’d taken as he entered the building.  As she replaced the handset he gave his most charming smile.  "My name's Martin Nicholson, I'm here to see Mr Peterson."

She returned his smile. "The lift behind you will take you to the tenth floor; Mr Peterson's office is straight in front of you."

"Thanks." 

He turned and headed for the lift she had pointed to.   

Entering the lift he pressed button ten and listened to the monotonous piped music for a short while until the doors opened and a disembodied voice announced, "Tenth floor."

The office Martin emerged into was light and airy.  There was lots of chrome and plastic with natural light flooding in from every angle.  Just in front of the lift was a desk similar to reception.  With a row of five seats along one side, it reminded him of a doctor’s waiting room.  Beyond the desk was a double, natural wooden door.  Mr Peterson's office he presumed.  He approached the woman sitting behind the desk and, once again, gave his most charming smile.  "Martin Nicholson, I'm here to see Mr Peterson."

"Take a seat Mr Nicholson and I'll let him know you're here."

He sat on one of the five seats and tried not to look too nervous.    As he was examining his fingernails for what seemed like the hundredth time, the wooden doors beyond the desk burst open and a man stormed out of the office and headed towards the lift.  After pressing the call button three or four times he impatiently turned towards the stairs. 

"Mr Peterson will see you now."

Nicholson jumped out of his seat.  He was nervous to start with and that certainly hadn't helped.  He wiped his clammy palms on his jacket, picked up his briefcase and headed for the doors.

"Come in."

The voice was loud, authorative.  He didn't knock.  He walked in.  The inside of the room was a complete contrast to the decor outside.  Lots of leather and dark wood panelling made it look like the library of a grand country house.  This was the office of a man who considered himself better than everyone else.

On one side of the room was a large aquarium stocked with all manner of brightly coloured tropical fish; the other was taken up by a bookshelf and drinks cabinet.  Opposite the door was a huge mahogany desk.  Sitting behind the desk, in a green leather swivel chair, was the company’s sales director.  Peterson had grey hair and a red face.  He was overweight with a red face and, by the looks of him, not too many years away from a heart attack.

"Have a seat, Martin."

"Thank you, Mr Peterson."  He put down his briefcase and sat on the edge of the smaller, red leather seat.  “I just want to say how much I’m enjoying my job.  I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since...”

Peterson cut in, "Look Martin, I won't insult you by beating about the bush.  I'm sure you'll appreciate it if I just come straight to the point."

Nicholson could feel his stomach churning.  He didn't like the sound of this.

"The company hasn’t had a very good year.  Profits are down, and in the current financial climate, our shareholders want to see costs cut."

He started to panic.  He could feel the sweat on his back and he wiped away a bead that was running down his face.    
"We've been told that we have to streamline our department and, as you've only been with us two months...."

He was starting to breathe heavily and his heart was pounding.

"...I'm afraid I'll have to let you go."

The words felt like steel talons ripping into his chest.  The air rushed from his lungs and he started to feel faint as his heart was squeezed by an invisible hand.  "I need this job."  His voice was quiet, faltering.

"We all need our jobs Martin.  I'm sure you'll find something else and, of course, if you need a reference..."

"No!"  The word exploded from him, punctuated by his fists slamming onto the desk.  His eyes were wide and his breath rasping, spittle beginning to froth at the corners of his mouth.  “I’ve seen the financial reports.  You got a bonus that was twice my salary, cut that back.”

"My bonus this year was a lot lower than last year.  We’ve all got to tighten our belts.”

Nicholson looked at him with utter contempt. “You have no idea.”

“I think you should leave now, Martin.  Try and get a grip of yourself.  Things aren't as bad as they seem."

Nicholson stood up, slowly turned and headed for the door.

"Martin, you've forgotten your briefcase."

"Keep it.”  He threw open the doors, walked through the outer office and pressed the call button for the lift.  It seemed an age before it arrived but he was determined not to look back.  The doors opened and he stepped in.  As the doors closed behind him he sank to his knees as tears of frustration and rage ran down his face.

With his job gone and the economy wrecked, his house would be repossessed, the credit card companies would be chasing him for payments and, worse of all, his wife would follow through on her threat to leave him and take their son with her.  His marriage was in trouble already but, he feared, this would be the last straw.

The lift doors opened on the ground floor and he slowly got to his feet.  A woman, about to enter the lift, backed off and stood aside as he headed for the exit.

Back out on the street he needed a drink.  Stopping only to buy a half bottle of vodka, he headed straight to the nearest pub.

"Double vodka."  Nicholson’s head was spinning as he sat on the barstool.

"You look like you've had some bed news."  The barman poured the drink and placed it on the bar.  "You want a mixer in that?"

Nicholson threw twenty pounds onto the bar before emptying his glass.  The clear liquid burned as it ran down his throat.  He removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar. "Same again, only this time top it up with tonic."

         "You’re in a bad way, mate, you should take it easy."  The barman placed the glass of vodka and tonic on the bar and took the twenty pound note.

Nicholson walked over to a table in the corner by the front window and sat down.  He placed his head in his hands and tried to think.

"You forgot your change, mate."

The barman put the change onto the table but Nicholson was in a world of his own.  What was he going to do?  Where was he going to find another job quickly enough to dig himself out of the hole he had fallen into? 

The car, he still had the keys to his company car.  He drained his glass and left the bar.

He arrived back at the car and opened the door.  Throwing the bottle he had bought onto the passenger seat, he climbed in and turned the engine over.  If he went home and acted as though nothing had happened then he could at least fool his wife for a couple of days.  Maybe sell the car and get some money to tide them over until he found another job. 

Peterson appeared at the door to the office and walked over to the car park.  He had a reserved slot, of course.  His brand new range rover glinted in the sun.  He threw his briefcase onto the back seat and climbed in.  As Peterson drove away, Nicholson decided to follow him.

Exiting the car park, he pulled in behind the Range Rover.  He followed as close as he dare as they drove through the city and out into the suburbs.  The houses became larger and more expensive the further they went.  The four-wheel drive slowed and pulled into the driveway of a particularly large and expensive looking detached house.  Nicholson stopped at the kerb and watched his former boss park next to an identical car, his and hers Range Rovers, very nice.

An attractive woman, in her late forties, and two teenage girls came out of the house to welcome Peterson home.  He had everything that Nicholson didn’t.  He had a large house, two nice cars, a loving family and, most of all, a job.  People like him didn’t understand what it was like living on next to no money.  What it felt like to be unable to pay bills or provide for your family.

He was staring, intently, at the family reunion when the woman looked over and pointed at him.  Peterson, recognising him, started walking down the driveway.

“Nicholson...What is it?  Nicholson!”

He was aware that he was revving the engine loudly as the man approached the car.  Peterson stopped suddenly, sensing a threat.  Nicholson released the clutch, the wheels spun and smoked as he sped away.

Driving towards the motorway, his head was full of bad thoughts of how wrong everything had gone.  He didn't see the lights change to red.  Driving straight across the junction, he clipped another car and almost ran down a young girl on a crossing.  He tried to brake but the damage had already been done.  Over the limit and in no state to be driving, he kept going.  He couldn't afford to be breathalysed now on top of everything else.

Hearing a siren in the distance he panicked, weaving through the traffic and accelerating.  Joining the motorway he couldn't see any flashing lights.  It wasn't far to his house, perhaps if his luck held out...

Then he spotted it, a police Volvo about two hundred yards behind him.  Keep calm, stick to the speed limit and they will just go past.  The car’s blue lights came on, maybe it wasn't him they wanted, keep calm, keep calm.  The Volvo pulled in behind him, there was no doubt now.  He floored the accelerator.  If he could put some traffic between them he could come off at the next exit and lay low for a few hours, report the car stolen or deny moving it from the car park.

He was getting desperate now; he knew he didn't stand a chance of losing the police.  No job and now he was going to lose his licence at least, probably end up in prison.  His world was collapsing around him.

Reaching over to the passenger seat he picked up the bottle of vodka, opened it and took a long drink.  There was only one thing he could do.

He pushed the car to 110mph but the police were still gaining on him, he didn't have long.  The junction was just ahead.  He veered sharply left and onto the slip road.  He wasn’t worried about the other traffic and sped straight across the roundabout, through a red light without stopping and caused a pile up as three cars slammed on their brakes to avoid him.

With the sound of horns blaring behind him Nicholson zigzagged his way through the busy traffic.  Blue lights flashing, the police car’s siren wailed but Nicholson wasn’t stopping now.  He went straight through another red light, then another, across a mini roundabout and turned left into an industrial estate.  He sideswiped a parked car as he took the sharp bend at forty.  Two more turns and, with the police car still behind him, he turned into the dead end at the far side of the estate, the side that bordered the dual carriageway.  His only option now was to ditch the car and run.

The police car screeched to a halt as Nicholson slammed into the chain link fence at the end of the road.  Shaken and bleeding from a gash on his forehead he kicked open the door of the BMW.  The first policeman from the patrol car grabbed him but Nicholson was too fast.  Driving the point of his elbow backwards into the man’s face he dropped him to the floor with blood streaming from his broken nose.

Climbing onto the bonnet of the car, he vaulted the fence as the second policeman tried to grab his legs.  He landed heavily and scrambled up the grass bank.  On the other side of the dual carriageway was a housing estate, a rabbit warren of back yards, gardens and alleyways for him to hide in.  He could rest for a while and think. 

He jumped over the crash barrier and stumbled onto the road.  The driver of the truck would later tell police that he did his best to brake and swerve but it was too late.  Any luck that Nicholson had left had run out.  He had nowhere to go.

At Martin Nicholson’s funeral he was described as a hard working and loving family man.  The police report said that he had suffered some kind of breakdown and acted totally out of character.  His death was a tragic accident. 

His former employers sent a wreath but there was nothing from Peterson.  He didn’t attend or even send a card.  After all, he wasn’t to blame; everyone was suffering because of the financial crisis. Weren’t they?

BIO:

It was while Les Morris was at school in Cumbria that, inspired and encouraged by his English teacher, he developed a lifelong love of books and made his first attempts to create his own stories. At 16 he left school and spent most of the 80s and 90s in the Royal Navy where reading and writing helped pass the long, often boring, days and nights at sea. Since then, he has worked in many industries but always continued to write when time allowed. More recently he started to concentrate on writing thrillers and had a short story, "Blood on Their Hands", published in Matt Hilton's anthology "ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 1". He is currently working on completing a trilogy of stories involving the same character. He lives in Cumbria with his wife and children. http://lesmorris.blogspot.co.uk/