BATTLE FOR THE LAUGHING CITY by Richard Godwin

Richard returns with a remarkable revisit to the brilliantly bizarre... Laughing City...


Battle for the Laughing City


I fed them on heads and severed limbs. And I starved them of the meat they craved as the battle drew near. I had a supplier at the Ravaged Depot, a storehouse for the mutilated corpses of renegades. He’d hand me the meat, lumps of flesh on ice housed in plastic. I’d slice them open and the bags would hiss and I’d let my army work its fangs into it. I wanted them savage and ravenous when the time came. I catered to their primal desire for murder and knew by their eyes that these men were the most extreme band of killers anyone had gathered together in the name of a military unit. 


Ever since I blew his father’s brains out Simeon Baw had threatened revenge against me. He was a spoilt daddy’s boy and I took his rumblings as seriously as I did the threat of a broken nose from a pansy. He’d made a lot of money and ripped a lot of people off. Now he’d crawled out of the sewer smelling of shit and he’d set up his army with the intention of removing me. But I was ahead of him. I was going to take the Laughing City. First I was going to crush his army and hang every head of every man who served him from the ravaged poles that lined Tryton Avenue. 


It had been named after the new chemical weapon developed by Panacea Drugs. The renegades had got hold of it and been dropping it from the sky. It caused instant madness and genital mutations. As a result we had a new breed of mutant on our hands. The side effect of Tryton was it gave those who survived it extreme physical strength. Monsters with ambiguous genders strolled the streets looking for food. 


I saw one that morning as I met with my army. He ripped the head off a passing citizen, tearing it from the neck bone and crunching the skull in his mouth like a piece of chicken. The poles of Tryton Avenue were placed there as motifs of conquest. They resembled Roman spears and stood in the ground pointing towards the Laughing City.


I met my men in a charred field beyond the town and told them what to do.


‘We’re taking the Laughing City’, I said, ‘but first I have an old enemy who wants a fight.’


I looked at them.


They were as hungry as sharks for blood and as indifferent to who they fought.


‘Simeon Baw has an army and I want it destroyed’, I said.  ‘I’ve worked too many jobs for too many users and now I want my time, we’re taking over.’


Bertolino was my captain. He was a renegade mercenary who’d killed more men than you could count. He was adept with all weapons. He stood there as the distant sun caught the scars on his face and said, ‘Do you want us to capture him?’


‘No. Kill him, decimate his men, burn their bodies and we go to the Laughing City.’


We headed out to the quarters owned my Baw, passing the house he used to breed a race of warriors. They held prostitutes with the right DNA he’d investigated for his purposes and the women were routinely fucked by his breeders, mutants with oversized genitals breeding replicants for his army.  The surgery his women needed made any efforts by me to maim someone look lame. 


I could hear one of them screaming as we headed down the street in our weapons carrier.


Rape and imprisonment were justified methods to Baw.


We passed office after office bearing the Baw name. He had the money all right. I doubted his expertise when it came to organising soldiers.


We searched all afternoon for him and found out he’d gone. He’d taken his men up to the Laughing City before us. And so we headed after him.


The laughter was insane now. I could taste Baw’s blood in my mouth as we landed. There’d been a few changes since the last time. A supernova had imploded near the Laughing City and Crystallus Carvex, the android warrior who’d invaded many towns, had passed through the event horizon to another galaxy. It was rumoured there were now two of him and he was operating a stealth campaign from his new star, Duplex Android, and waging war in the parallel universe we inhabited. So as far as I was concerned he was parallel to me and if I saw him I’d burn his fucking body.


The Laughing City was full of fighting factions, most of them mercenaries from other planets who in passing through had got addicted to Drip 02. They’d fucked a few whores and started hallucinating. They hung on for the drug and the illusion they were taking over a planet, one of the side effects of addiction. In reality they were having fights in bars and lying in the shit stained streets while they dreamed of glories. Panacea Drugs had improved Drip 02. Now it not only gave you the most extreme hallucinations known to man or mutant it also left you with a ravenous hunger for raw meat. The addicts would routinely eat the tourists. I saw 
one attacked by a rabid band of them as they set their rotten fangs in their flesh and stripped them to the bone. Hence the shit stained streets.


And then there was the laughter. It was at maximum volume all the time and sounded like Bedlam. A cacophony of wails and shrieks, guffaws and chuckles broke across the frozen wind that hissed at you as you stepped out of your vehicle. It was impossible to shut out. Even if you plugged in your personal music console the laughter was programmed to override it. Within the chortling, snickering, giggling howls of merriment we passed into the Laughing City.


The Silver Crows and Lizard Dogs were out. I saw a Crow rip the head off a dog who wandered about showering the place with blood.


I had a building I owned which housed weapons. We headed there through the burning streets. Mercury rained from the sky and what little vegetation remained blazed in the smoke filled neon air. Mutant plants blazed like Roman Candles in the ravaged landscape, like some last hope of growth burning in a deranged world. The air was sulphurous, as light refused to yield to darkness and every shape and person had a spectral glow to them as if they were walking underwater in a floodlit swimming pool.


We got to my building and took what we needed. We armed ourselves to the teeth. I watched my men walk out with every conceivable method of killing at their disposal. They had rocket launchers, flame throwers and snibe shots. These were metallium guns that fired a small deadly hole in the target that released an acid that could burn through a man’s flesh in two seconds. They had multi shots, which fired so many rounds they could take out an army.  They had razor knives and the incendiary golf balls I’d designed. Throw one of them at someone after you pull the pin and they’ll lose their head, which is what I guess it takes to play golf in the first place.


We headed out into the carnival streets where the Silver Cows were chewing on the Lizard Dogs’ flesh as they scattered and came again at them, mouths open and fangs dripping. Fragments of fur and meat lay scattered everywhere.


And the laughter was obsessive, incessant, like the manic roar of a madman at your shoulder. It sounded like the pathological ecstasies of the deranged. 


Down at the River Ha Ha’s end, where the stewed foetuses floated and bobbed, Baw’s army was assembling to take over. We saw them walk towards the citadel which was ruined by the explosions that rocked the Laughing City. We passed along the edge of the water with the sight of the bloated heads lying on the black surface. And we followed them to the citadel.


The Mayor of the Laughing City, an obese pervert with two heads, was eating fruit from a fork held to his mouth by a mutant prostitute as she squirted milk from one of her tits into his other mouth as we entered the decaying building. Baw’s army got there before us and we heard the rapid gunfire as they opened up. 


By the time we got there the Mayor was splattered all over the ceiling and the whore’s tits had exploded. Nipples and skin lay embedded in the chandelier that swung above our heads dripping blood. The Laughing City’s slogan loomed over us in neon: ‘No breeding, just whores’. It was part of the promotion of the city as a hot spot for tourists.  They’d pass through, fuck the women and leave, taking new diseases with them.


Baw’s army saw us and opened fire. I launched several golf bombs in their direction.


Limbs and heads flew through the air. They moved in, throwing fire, and we retreated to the back of the citadel where the skins of rival politicians stretched across the walls like some tapestry of hate. Whores ran out of rooms clutching at their mutant bodies. The citadel had been turned into a brothel.


They came after us and I let rip with one of the bigger bombs. We sheltered against the fire as the blast halved his army. Then we fired round after round on them. I found Baw hiding in a room and I scalped him, running my knife around his head as he stared at me with dazed eyes. I blew his head off and stuck his scalp to the wall of skin.


I took my men to the nearest Fuck House and they ate and cavorted with the women.


As we sat there I received news that Crystallus Carvex had landed.


He wanted a war and I was ready for him. 




BIO:
Richard Godwin is the author of the critically acclaimed novel, Apostle Rising.
His renowned series of author interviews, 'Chin Wag at the Slaughterhouse', are on his blog here.

RETURN TO THE LAUGHING CITY by Richard Godwin

If you are easily offended, then please don't read on... but if you like madness and dark humour, please do!

Return to the Laughing City


I was trying on one of the newest suits.

I strapped it on like armour, standard mechanized metals mined from the Azure Fields.

It felt like an Iron Maiden without the spikes.

I never needed that kind of protection, a kill’s a kill, wearing that shit was like fucking with a condom, playing the piano with gloves on.

I took it off and handed it back to the bounty salesman. They were amassing weapons for the new breed of assassins. I thought they were a bunch of pussies.

If you don’t like blood don’t take the job.

I needed to feel every vibration, every fluctuation in the kill, like the tremors in a lover’s body and soul.

I went outside and stared at the Azure Fields.

A pale blue ghost in some hallucination.

They blew in the wind that kicked up from nuclear fall out when the punctured sun bled.

It had a certain poetry, a half orange dripping red from a broken skyline. Beyond it you could see the event horizon of an imploding supernova.

Nothing was real in this desert of scars and broken humanity.

I looked out at the wounded horizon, it felt like witnessing a rape behind reinforced glass.

You want to punch your way through it but your knuckles are bleeding.

This place will strip the flesh from you and chisel your bones.

I thought about the assignment.

Baw had been long forgotten when I took the job.

I’d been smoking a few renegades out and handing them in to local government bureaus where they just shuffled papers and threw them back in the water with a few more scars than they already had.

I’d got my own army by now and these men were hungry for killing.

I’d kept them since I assassinated Artemus Lime.

When I put the suit on I didn’t expect to be going back to the Laughing City.

But then I knew not to expect a fucking thing from the cold comfort farm of my life.

If I was going back I was going naked.

I wanted to move with the air on my skin.

Jarves Long was a fat cat businessman.

He was part tetronium, the new metal that guys were smoking because it gave them erections that lasted for a year.

Painful flaming unrelieved hard-ons they could only alleviate by mass fucking.

Panacea drugs was behind it and once again hadn’t banked on its side effects.

What the fuck did they care?

The hookers were happy, wives less so, I’d made a load of money buying shares in KY jelly.

It was such sweet pleasure to see their value rocket while men with obscene bulges ran amok in the streets.

The air was full of the acrid smell of spent semen for weeks on end.

Long spent little time with me in his air conditioned office.

He looked like a fat walrus. There was something wrong with his face.

‘I want you to remove this man’, he said, sliding a photograph across the table at me.

I knew who he was.

‘You serious?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’, he said, scratching his prick.

‘You want me to kill Manuel Blaize?’

He met my comment with a blank stare.

I looked at his face and realised what was missing. He had no eyelashes.

‘Why do you want him dead?’, I said.

‘Let’s say he has reneged on a deal and is a threat.’

Outside in the lift on the way down I thought it through.

Manuel Blaize was the nastiest killer you’ll ever meet.

Face covered in scars, Mexican, army trained, half android, liked eating the brains of his victims and good with a knife.

I headed up to the Laughing City.

I had my flame gun with me and my usual array of weapons, hardcore killing machines that can do the job just right depending on the situation and the man.

Always read your man, that’s the way you get to clean up in this business.

If you get him wrong, you’re wasting your time.

I like shootings best, a quick shot, spurt of blood and home.

Home is where the empty metal surfaces are, the lack of human life, an assassin’s pad.

Like a hotel room built for fast exits and entrances.

I live in a theatre of the macabre, and I count the bodies.

I wanted to scalp Blaize.

He’d killed so many men I knew.

I also promised a friend a little something from the Laughing City.

Lynn Queen was after some Crow and I knew just how to hand it to her.

She’d been brave enough to expose the lies of the system down below and I wanted to give her something back, even if she was a Royalist.

I arrived in the City as mercury rained from the sky.

It was crazier than the last time.

The light flickered orange and red like a deranged traffic light and the Lizard Dogs and Silver Crows were out.

I watched one fly off with the mangled remnants of a dog’s penis in its mouth, sit on a burned out car and tear it piecemeal with its claws.

I headed to the hotel where I began my search.

I found two locations for Blaize, one where he met his recruits, young Mexican militaries who would kill anyone for the right money, the other a whorehouse he used.

My hacking showed me he also liked Drip02, the new hallucinogenic drug, a million times more powerful than LSD.

He’d shoved some up a whore’s cunt and performed a little operation with his knives.

As I was about to leave Long messaged me.

‘Dispose of the body’, was all he said.

I passed by the River HaHa, filled with aborted foetuses. These were the mutated terminations of hookers’ encounters with some of the more extreme customers of the City.

From time to time one of them would float to the surface with a distended hand or an eye ball the size of a blood orange popping out of a collapsed head.

I got a shuttle and headed to Blaize’s headquarters.

It was black there, no light and I figured I’d go in.

Nothing except empty space the size of a hanger.

Blaize never left any trace, he killed with precision.

I left.

As I made my way back I bent to check the time and felt something hiss by my ear.

I ducked and saw one of his knives land in the side of a Lizard Dog.

It ripped right through it spilling a mile of coiled and swirling guts on the menses strewn pavement.

I turned and saw Blaize’s scarred face vanish.

I made my way back as the laughter started that night.

It was worse than the last time.

It was as if an audience were screaming insanely at a joke.

A high pitched whine of a cacophony of deranged hilarity took over the air waves until I made my hotel room and closed the door.

I was going to kill him tonight.

I got my flare gun and my A1 which can shoot through reinforced steel.

I ate some powdered heart and made my way to the blood bath.

The Tripped Out Fuck House lay at the edge of the City.

It was the last stop beyond the Whore’s Hole.

The driver wouldn’t take me there and I had to walk.

Some mutant hookers were strutting past some garbage that spilled onto the broken road.

I could make out the tip of the desert beyond the City, the place where no one goes.

‘Fuck me any way you want’, one of them said.

She wore neon boots and a skirt the size of a rag and put her hand inside herself as
she licked her face with her ten inch tongue.

‘It’s OK I’ve eaten’, I said.

The other one approached me, swaying with what I assumed was intended to be an erotic gesture, although she looked like she desperately needed to pee.

Her eyes were made with beaded jewels and she pulled out an obscenely large breast.

‘I can clean the floor with my clit while hanging from the ceiling’, she said.

‘I have a cleaner thank you.’

They squealed with obscenities as I passed them.

The Tripped Out Fuck House was busy.

I don’t know what was worse, the fact that they used lights that turned everything yellow or that they were playing Black Lace.

Even in a good mood Agadoo made me want to kill.

Its popularity in the Laughing City stemmed from the fact that it encouraged tourists to dance obscenely and make merry, like some grotesque backdrop to the endless tapes of the chuckles and guffaws.

A couple of whores laid their sweating hands on me.

‘You want some wet snatch?’, one of them said.

‘No, I’m just here to push pineapple, shake the tree.’

‘Don’t you like us?’, the other one said.

‘I met a hula mistress somewhere in Waikiki.’

I edged past the whores and disappeared up the back staircase.

I’d checked out the layout and it was simple.

The fuck rooms were upstairs.

I’d timed it right, Blaize had gone in earlier and downed a huge dose of Drip02.

I disturbed a few fucks and found him in a room with a glitter ball hanging from the ceiling.

He was fucking a whore up the ass while another one sprayed him with come.

They saw me, he saw a series of mutant animals and began throwing knives, and as the whores ran out I incinerated him. I fried him to a crisp.

Then I shot him for good measure.

I held my gun against his ravaged face, pushed deep into a cicatrix the shape of a swollen gash and blew his head apart.

I looked around the room.

Shards of obscenities lay among the waste and used condoms, dildoes of all shapes and specifications adorned the fuck room.

Blaize’s jaw bone hung dripping from the glitter ball like a detumescent penis.

And I dragged his smoking body down the back stairs and into the street.

His skin looked like it was covered in burnt potato chips and syphilitic scabs.

Outside mercury rained from the sky and bombed and ricocheted like malign stars falling from a hole in time.

The whores were gone, the Dogs and Crows were out and they were not in a good mood.

I watched a Crow peck a Dog’s eyeball from his head. He squawked in wild delirium.

I walked to the edge of the River Haha dragging Blaze’s body on the ruined ground.

His skin was falling from his bones and lay lodged with chunks of flesh that were skewered on the sharp stones.

The sound was deafening now, the laughter had been turned up full volume.

I leaned down and scalped Blaize, running my razor sharp knife in a perfect circle round his skull and peeling it away like a label.

‘Well, looks like you lost this one’, I said.

The old assassin’s methods are the best.

I took one last look at his bleeding head, and using the knife he had tucked in his pocket, cut his stomach open, releasing all the gases. Then I tied some rocks and waste metal to him.

‘Can’t have you floating’, I said.

I threw him in the red and foaming water and watched him sink below the decayed foetuses that hovered like deformed nightmares on the black current.

Then I returned to my hotel where I packed.

I wrote ‘invoice’ on Blaize’s scalp with a marker pen.

As I made my way to the space port I stopped in the street and took a shot of a Silver Crow.

Back home I went to get my money from Long.

‘Good job’, he said, sliding the cash across his desk.

‘A little present for you’, I said.

I’ll never forget his face when I laid Blaize’s scalp on his desk.

He had the outraged shock of a meat eater who has never seen an animal slaughtered.

His lashless eyeballs stared into space.

I paid a visit to Lynn and gave her the shot.

She looked down at it and seemed unable to remove her gaze from it.

‘You’re not avoiding eye contact are you?’, I said.

I could see she was delighted.

Her efficiency never failed to amaze me.

She put it on the cover of her magazine the next day.

I invested my money in some new weapons.

I began training my army for what I had in mind.

BIO:
Richard Godwin's novel 'Apostle Rising' is being published March 10th 2011 and he is widely published in magazines such as A Twist Of Noir and Pulp Metal Magazine and anthologies, as well as being a produced playwright. His story 'Pike N Flytrap' is in the latest issue of Needle Magazine and his story 'Face Off' is in Issue #5 of Crime Factory.You can check out his writing credentials here and listen to his recent interview on The Authors Show
http://www.richardgodwin.net/You can pre-order a copy of 'Apostle Rising' here.

WORST IN SHOW By Matt Lavin

TKnC welcomes Matt with this humorous crime tale. 

Enjoy!

Worst in Show 

On the way to Milt Woczniak’s No Fuss Carpet Cleaners, Hattie's head
was full of veal parmesan and puppies. Not Taser burns or bloody
clumps of hair or the smell of sex.

Hattie was bringing lunch for her husband. Italian take-out. For two.
She’d drink gasoline before bringing food for Milt’s receptionist
Ronette. 

That was the excuse, anyway. What Hattie really cared about was her
little dog Ferguson.

“Settle down, Little Boy Blue,” she said as she walked. “We’re almost there.” 

Ferguson was a tea cup poodle, bred with powder blue fur. He yipped at
the cuffs of Hattie’s pantsuit as they walked. 

She found the front door unlocked but an unattended store. She did not
concern herself with Milt’s whereabouts.

“Great,” she said. “We have the place to ourselves.” 

In the middle of the room were two circular stands covered in off
white carpet. One was labeled “before” and the other was labeled
“after.” The before stand was covered in stains—red wine, mustard,
something that looked like blue razz Kool Aid—and the after stand was
immaculate. Just like the winner’s platform at the American Kennel
Club. 

She placed the take-out boxes on the reception counter and guided
Ferguson onto the after platform. “Stay, Ferguson. That’s a good boy.”
She went into her purse and took out her eleven megapixel digital
camera and began to snaps shots of her little champion from all the
most flattering angles. 

Hattie imagined Photoshopping a Kennel Club background into the
background. She hit the review button and went through the photos
she’d taken so far.

“Fudge,” she said, noticing that her camera was low on power. “I
forgot my battery charger.”

Hattie tethered Ferguson to the reception desk and wandered in past
the display where Milt’s slogan was displayed proudly on the wall:
“There’s no mess we won’t stick our nose into.” She went toward the
plastic drapery that separated the supply room from the storefront
area. Milt sometimes kept double-A batteries in back office. 

She
slowed when she heard the echo of giggling off concrete walls. 

Hattie rounded the corner to the image of Milt Woczniak, No Fuss
Carpet Cleaner, sticking his nose into Ronette’s mess. 

“Oh my God!” Hattie cried, betraying her presence to the entwined lovers.

“Sweetie!” Milt said. “It’s not what you think!” 

Her arms flailing, Ronette lunged toward her dress and stockings,
which were hanging haphazardly from Milt’s Roll-o-Matic 5000 office
chair. Hattie backed away. 

“You son of a bitch!” Hattie clutched her chest. “I brought you veal parmesan!” 

She stormed back to the reception area. Ferguson had somehow found his
way onto the desk and was sniffing at the take-out boxes.

“No! Bad doggie!” tears were streaming from Hattie face. “Bad, bad dog!”

She pulled Ferguson away from the boxes. 

Milt emerged from the back room, his naked shoulder and chest showing
under a half-on flannel shirt.

“Baby!” Milt tried. “Oh, baby. C’mon, I know I screwed up. I’m an
asshole, I know it.” 

“Shut up. Just shut your fat face. I swear to God—” 

“But I love you!” 

“I will cut off your fucking dick!”

Hattie searched the reception area for a box cutter, a pair of
scissors, anything. No luck. Finally, she reached for the take-out box and
carried it to the after platform. 

“Not tomato sauce!” Milt cried. “That’s gonna take me forever to clean.” 

“God forbid you do your job for ten minutes instead of grabbing
Lucinda von Carpet Slut’s ass all day.” 

Milt stood helpless as she upended the canister. Marinara flowed onto
the carpeted surface.

A now-dressed Ronette emerged from the store room to witness the
pouring motion. 

“You bitch!” Ronette screamed. “I’m gonna rip your face off!” 

Ronette flew at Hattie in a wild fury. Hattie hands went up in
defense, but her late response was no match for Ronette’s full force
tackle. Both women fell to the floor in a chaotic muddle of hair
extensions, press-on nails, and pink pantsuit. 

“Ladies! Ladies!” Milt said. “Settle down. There’s enough of me for
both of you.”

Ronette tried to find Hattie’s neck with her outstretched hands.
Hattie drove an elbow into Ronette’s midsection. They grappled on the
floor until neither could continue. Ferguson yipped wildly. 

“You stupid whore,” Ronette said, breathing heavily. “He’s divorcing
your ass and marrying me.” 

“Look, ladies,” Milt tried again. “Let’s just calm down.” 

“What?” Ronette glared at Milt. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves is all I mean.” 

“Milt. Tell your wife you’re leaving her. Tell her.” 

“I mean, hey, let’s just take things one step at a time, right?” 

Ronette’s grip on Hattie’s hair loosened. Hattie pulled away from the
padded shoulder she’d been attempting, unsuccessfully, to bite into.
They both turned toward Milt. 

“You told me you loved me,” Ronette said. “You’re not leaving her, are you?” 

Hattie saw Milt’s bashful shrug, then looked back at Ronette. She’d
climbed to her feet and was cracking her knuckles.

Hattie stood and brushed herself off. She pulled a red press-on nail
out from a crevice in her suit coat and let in drop lightly on the
floor. “Ronette, you want a hand kicking this guy’s face in?” 

“Yeah, why not?” 

Milt began to back way but soon ran out of floor space. Ronette
reached behind the counter and grabbed the thick, heavy Maglite she
kept for nights when she closed up alone. Hattie brought out her
pocket Taser. 

Ferguson looked left, then right, and left again. No one seemed to
notice his presence. He crept toward the after platform, where the
smell of something irresistible was calling him. In the distance, he
could hear the sounds of a Taser firing, a heavyset carpet wizard
falling to ground, and a Maglite landing blow after blow against soft
human flesh. None of it mattered to Hattie’s little champion. He knew
only the overwhelming truth of veal parmesan.

BIO: 

Contributor Bio: Matt Lavin is a doctoral candidate in English at the
University of Iowa. He has a bachelor’s degree from St. Lawrence
University in Canton, NY and a master’s degree in American Studies
from Utah State University in Logan, UT. His fiction and creative
nonfiction have appeared in “Boston Literary Magazine,” “Broome
Review,” “Elimae,” “Foliate Oak,” “Paradigm,” and “Prick of the
Spindle.”

THE HOLIDAY PARTY By Chantelle Osman

Here's a little thought provoking humour/flash from Chantelle

THE HOLIDAY PARTY

I sat listening as the droning voice continued.  How much longer could she keep this up?  I looked around at the faces of her audience, but saw only rapt attention.  Either I was missing something, or these were the dumbest people ever to be accumulated in one room.  Maybe they had all mastered the art of sleeping with their eyes open?  I tuned the voice back in and tried to pay attention.  It was a valiant attempt that lasted approximately ten seconds—abandoned once I heard the words “that reminds me of when I was a child.” In the past two hours, I’d heard her whole life story—grocery lists included. My legs had gone numb, as had my brain.

The door leading to my escape loomed large in my peripheral vision, taunting me. I knew there was no escape.  I thought longingly of the DMV.  At least there I could have a book to read and a parade of people to watch, rather than counting my brain cells as they committed suicide one by one.  I thought of my grandmother, my dream trip to Paris, and baseball—but nothing helped.

The speaker took a sip of water, perhaps gearing up to conclude. No. She seemed content to spend her remaining days spewing nonsense.  I, however, was not. Slowly, my remaining limbs went numb.  I didn’t really try to fight it. The pain distracted me from the incessantly buzzing voice. Finally, my eyes lost their battle and fluttered closed.  As the cocktail party faded into a distant memory, I realized I had literally died of boredom.

Bio:

Chantelle Aimée Osman is a published mystery author and one of the founding members of The Sirens of Suspense, a group of award winning authors who blog on all things writing and publishing www.sirensofsuspense.com. In her other life, she own a script consultation company www.twistofkarma.com, and speaks to writing conferences nationwide.

HERO OF THE DAY By Michael S. Collins

Hero of the Day


Well, here’s my fairy tale. I hear they are all the rage these days. This one is an old story, but no one has ever heard it from my perspective before, and since I was the hero of the show that seems a strange enigma that needs overturned. So here I am, all words on the page to give you my version of events, that dark day in history when the grizzled, evil beast stole away Belle to his tower.

Her father had three daughters, all of whom would have been the prettiest face at any given dance, but of all of them, Belle shone the best. Her radiant, glowing, smiling face is one I remember well. The father had been a big shot merchant in the district, until his merchandise sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic. After that, he was just another failed money man, plying his trade as a farmhand to try and get the bread on his table. Not a very good farm hand, I hear, but he was reasonably well liked in the area, so I guess that’s Farmer Williams sympathy for you.

His daughters strove to keep up his spirits, and helped bring messages to and fro the town for a tidy sum. I would occupy the eldest two as newspaper deliverers, but I must admit, it was the youngest I had my eye on. Innocently, of course, she was fourteen back then, but she would have made a fine wife for someone in time. You could sense that in her. And with her innocent charms and wide-eyed niceness, she had the eyes of the village on her.

It was three years after the ships went down that The Incident went down. The father had heard word that the shipwreck of one of his cargos had been found, and the cargo retrieved. At once he set off for Calais to see how much was salvageable. He never returned for a month. His daughters, all of them, were getting worried. Then suddenly he was back, and in that same instance, Belle was gone. Vanished in the blink of an eye.

Naturally, I was worried. This was no age for a girl to go wandering off in the middle of the forest. But as weeks went by, we began to realise just how serious the situation was. Until Belle’s father finally broke down and told us all the horrible truth: Belle was taken away by a hideous brute of a monster, who lived in a Castle somewhere five miles east of our village.

At this point, I could take no more.

We were in the tavern when I made my stand with the locals. It was a Friday, the beer was flowing mournfully, and people sat about disenfranchised instead of deciding on plans to save the day. That was my jurisdiction. I stood on top of the nearest table and banged my beer mug off the ceiling to get silence.

“Men, and womenfolk”, I said. “Let’s be under no illusions that the fate of Belle is a tricky one. Some foul wretch has stolen her away from our midst, from the protective arms of her father, and we must do something about it.”

“What can we do?” came the cry from the bar. Little Tommy, no doubt.

“Well, we can’t just stand around here moping and hope that one day she was turn up. We can’t just sit around here and make it someone else’s problem. Belle was one of our own, therefore her kidnapping is our problem, and we need to get her back.”

A murmur of support began to rise up from the rest.

“What I suggest is we set up a militia, of our strongest bodied men, ride into the depths of the forest, find the Castle, kill this demonic imbalanced creature, and save our Belle from the Hell she is no doubt in!”

An uneasy silence filled the room, broken by Timmy, Tommy’s brother.

“Well, sure”, he said, “I’d love to join this little Militia of yours. Only, I think I left the gas on.”

Laughter, from every portion of the room, in response to him. It filled every essence of my soul, and anger burned up in me.

“This isn’t funny!” I yelled. “If you are not with me, then I’ll have to do it myself.”

“Look, Gary”, replied Timmy. “We are all with you, in spirit, but that forest is dangerous. All kinds of wild animals live in there. And we have no idea of where this Castle actually is. It’d be a fool’s errand.”

“Fine”, I said. “I’ll go myself, and I will find Belle, slay this vampiric disease, and then I intend to marry Belle.”

I dropped back down to the floor and was on the way out of the door, my hand resting on my trusty sword, when Timmy put his arm out.

“I don’t want to see you going out into the unknown like this, Gary.” He said. “I’ll go with you.”

Old friends. You can always count on them in the end.

Together we rode through that evil forest, heading east, all kinds of hideous monstrosities attacking in the rare instances our guard was down. Snakes and wild boars and cats and animals you would never believe in. The forest is a home to all kinds of hibernating deadliness.

And then we found the Castle. Weeks after the trek had started. The quest.

“Cyclopean leviathan, we have found you at last” I said, starring up into the vertigo inducing towers. We stormed over the drawbridge, but then disaster struck. Timmy died. I’m not really sure what happened, what dark forces the evil at the heart of this stone asylum had used, but he was dead. And I was on my own. I let him drop slowly to the ground, and grabbed my sword tightly in caution.

I knocked on the large oak front door.

A voice called out from the other side.

“State your name, occupation and business being here” it said.

“Gary Gaston, tailor, heroic quest.”

“Very well” said the voice. It sounded bored, but the door swung open. The servant the voice belonged to welcomed me in.

“I hope you had a trouble-less journey” he said. “Now, what is this heroic quest you are on?”

“To save the lady Belle from your evil clutches” I cried and stabbed him through the heart.

He yelped in pain. At this point I realised he was actually invisible, but not to worry, I got him anyway. You never know, that servant could easily have been Timmy’s killer.

Inside the castle, were books everywhere. Shelves of books rising up to the ceilings on every side, and the ceiling were ten men high at the very least. A librarian’s wet dream. I strode up the stairs, dispatching demonic invisible servant after demonic invisible servant, and finally I found myself in the bedroom.

There was the grotesque gargoyle in all his wickedness, draped across a chair. He acted like a King lion regal. And sitting next to him, laughing, in some form of ecstatic joy over a terrible joke, was Belle. The object of my quest. Having fun. She was meant to be suffering and being tortured to make my heroic saving of her from the hands of desperate destitution and criminal civility all the more heroic. Instead she was here, laughing her head off, seemingly having the time of her life. Clearly, she was brainwashed. I could stand it no longer.

“Monster, rise and face your enemy” I yelled.

They both turned around.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the creature. His voice boomed out over the room, and echoed down the stairs and along the castles Cyclopean walls.

“Gary, what in Hell's name are you doing here?” said Belle. She seemed surprised by the appearance of her knight in shining victory.

“I am here to save you from foulest Hellspawn” I cried aloud. Impressively.

“And where would that be?” she said.

“Why, right here!” I cried.

The monster rose to his feet.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.” He said. “You will upset my wife.”

“WIFE?” I yelled.

“That’s me” said Belle.

I could take this slight no longer. I lunged forward and plunged my sword into the deep abscesses of horror that was his chest. Blood began bubbling out of a wide wound, and he sunk to the ground. Easily defeated. It was now that I could triumphantly take Belle home.

Only she wasn’t happy to see me. She was screaming, and screaming, and screaming. And fawning over the body of the dead villain, and crying, like a woman in deep mourning would. And she pushed me away when I went over to see how she was, and ask why she was crying. Strange, women always do weird things at the moment of success.

It was as I was thinking this that she began to attack me, with a fury gained straight from the bowls of Lucifer itself. Unwomanly power. She was a possessed harlot. I struggled from the blows, and fought to defend myself, but then, it was not to worry, as she died. These things happen.

Belle was dead, but at least the foul monster of Hades was defeated. I think, as heroes go, that was a pretty good job on my part.

It was then that there was the knock on the door. I waited patiently for a servant to answer the door, until I realised that I had rid this world of them. So I went down and answered the door.

Two policemen stood on the front door. They were dressed in the Metropolitan Police’s finest outfits.

“Excuse me, Sir”, said the first one, “We’ve had reports of a disturbance.”

“A disturbance?” I said.

“Yes, Mr Gaston, a disturbance. We had reports from the pub that you had gotten drunk and started yelling out abuse against your ex-wife. Then you and Mr Granger set off to her house to ‘sort out that husband of hers’.”

“That’s not quite true”, I said. “I had a heroic quest to fulfil.”

“We have found Mr Granger dead in the driveway, stabbed to death with a kitchen knife. Attempts to raise Mrs Beast’s parents have been thwarted. Tell me, Mr Gaston, where is the homeowner and your ex?”

I shrugged. “They are upstairs”, I said.

I never understood why so many police showed up so fast. Why they surrounded the streets and looked at me with a mixture of loathing and fear. I accepted the handcuffs without any debate. The charges happened without my understanding, and the judge put me down for life. I still don’t understand it, to be honest. What a way to treat a hero! I rid my village of that evil scum. So what if my village was London, and my forest, in reality, Hyde Park. It still counts. I still succeeded. Nothing could ever have thwarted me in that heroic quest to save my Belle from the clutches of bestial viciousness. And I did. In death, she was saved. And that was all me. I am a hero, you see. That’s what we heroes do. Save folk.

There’s an old saying around here, that Beauty killed the beast. And if you ask me, that beast killed beauty, because she was dead to me when she started going out with him. This was my fairy tale. I don’t quite agree with how the end turned out. Seemed far better when I was going over it. The Beauty didn’t kill the beast. I killed the Beauty. To save her. Because everyone needs saving, in the end.

It was a mercy. She’d have thanked me if she could. I know this. I believe this. Trust me, I am an honourable man.

Just, don’t look at me like that. With those critical eyes, through the bars of my cell. Don’t look at me like that! Like I’m some sort of serial killer. I’m not a serial killer, for gods’ sakes, I’m a hero!

CUSTARD PIE By Vallon Jackson

Part six in the ongoing endeavours of our feckless and anonymous Wile E. Coyote killer's attempts at ending the days of his nemesis (to read the previous slices type PIE in the search bar)...

CUSTARD PIE



The times I’ve wanted to smash the sanctimonious prick over the head with the heaviest thing to come to hand...

But, the problem is, I know that Robert will swat me like a fly, so I always bite my lip, let it go, then continue plotting to do away with the wife-dabbling son of a bitch in a more elaborate scheme than indenting his skull with my laptop. All my previous attempts had failed, but how long could it go on?

Derailing a train, smashing a delivery truck through a building, cutting the ropes on a sandbag, pushing him off a cliff, tampering with his parachute during a charity jump...all had failed miserably to kill him. Mind you, I hadn’t enough fingers or toes to count on to tally up the others that had died. Good job I worked at an accountancy firm, where the spreadsheets allowed me to keep up.

I’d made my own Pie Chart to record my failures. Jeez, it was a big pie, with not a sliver missing where I’d had any success. I’d need an awful lot of custard to serve that beast up with, but I supposed I’d enough of the yellow stuff trickling through my veins to do the trick.

I had to stop being so cowardly. I had to man-up to Robert The Red, tell him what I knew – that he’d been dipping his dongle into my wife’s input slot – and that I was going to kill him for it. Of course, doing that would also mean manning up to everything that I’d done in the meantime. I wouldn’t get another chance at him if I was locked up in prison for mass murder.

There’s always a get-out isn’t there? That’s what I told myself. I couldn’t have at him the way I wanted to, because then I’d have to own up to killing my wife, as well as all the others. So...I wasn’t a coward; just being a pragmatist.

I once told Robert that.

Hey, Robert, I’d said, are you a pragmatist like I am?

Dunno about that, he’d replied. Me...I’m more the grabmoretits type.

He had that right, the arsehole.

Lately he’d been pawing the breasts of the latest temp, a skinny little thing with silicone–augmented assets and she seemed taken with the fiery-haired Lothario. She was sensible enough to recognise him for the creep he was, but also dumb enough to think it would get her a permanent position. The only permanent things that Becky would get from a dalliance with Robert were a tick on his conquest list and a dose of Chlamydia.

I thought about warning her, but knew that she’d mention it to Robert. If he thought I’d spoiled his fun he’d likely kick my butt from one end of the office to the other. So I let it go. Decided instead to try something different. I’d tried all the inventively-violent ways of killing him I could come up with, now for something a little more...not cowardly... sneaky. My Pie Chart had got me thinking. That afternoon I Googled certain sites, making sure that all trace of my surfing was hidden just in case anyone pried later. It’s surprising what you can purchase over the internet. Seems the buyers market extends somewhat to those who wish someone dead.

My stuff came in an anonymous package to an anonymous PO Box I’d set up. Mr Anonymous, that’s me.

The next day I put my scheme in place.

Robert was bent over Becky, supposedly checking her work for the purposes of a job appraisal, but I could see his gaze was down her top, and there was a lot of injudicious guiding of her hand on the mouse going on. The old elbow-titting trick Robert had perfected over the years. Sick perverted git that he was.

The delivery bloke walked right into the office.

Package for someone called Robert, he called out.

The red-headed stud perked up. That’ll be me, he announced, Robert with the huge package. He smirked at the looks we all gave him, then eyed the package like maybe the guy was delivering a decree nici and Robert had been named as co-respondent.

You’ve a secret admirer, mate, said the delivery bloke, handing over the beautifully-packaged custard tart I’d slaved over.

You got that right, matey, Robert said with a wink towards Becky. Becky flushed red, but didn’t deny it. I hid my shark’s smile behind my palm as I ducked down to my own work. One thing I did know: almost as much as he liked filling wives’ holes, he also had a penchant for stuffing his own pie hole. He bragged to the girls that his huge muscles required the sustenance, as did his stamina. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Greedy git would eat the lot and not offer a slice around.

I left the office on my lunch hour, grinning like a maniac, knowing full well that Robert wouldn’t be there when I returned.

True enough, when I got back there were a few white faces, and a hush over the office. It was a bit like the reaction that seeped through our work-place when poor Jim Bunk jumped from the plane with his chute strings undone. They were a sensitive lot at our firm.

What’s happened? I asked.

Ben Butler – who Robert called Ben Butt-wipe to his face – leaned over from his desk to whisper conspiratorially. Looks like there’s been a little problem for our pal, Robert, he said.

Oh? I hope he’s OK, I said, feigning concern.

You know that pie that was delivered...?

Yes. YES. YES.

Ben said: Well, Robert has this nut allergy, you see.

Shit...I hadn’t known that.

What about it? I demanded.

Well, Ben whispered, Robert said it smelled like almonds and wouldn’t touch it. He gave it to Becky, said she needed to get her strength back after they spent an hour in the stationery cupboard.

He gave it to her...

Yeah, apparently she was gagging for it, Ben leered.

Not that! The pie?

Yeah. Ben shook his head sadly. But Becky must’ve had a nut allergy as well. Or she was severely Bulimic or something. We could hear her puking all the way out here! By the time Rob got an ambulance here it was too late for her. Poor girl was dead.

How is Robert? I kept the expectation out of my voice. But I already knew: my wonderful pie scheme had failed to kill him ‘cause it friggin’ smelled like almonds. That’s the downside of arsenic, the internet had warned.

He’s fine, Ben said. He didn’t touch a crumb, remember. In fact, he followed Becky to hospital ‘cause he got his eye on a pretty paramedic. Knowing him, he’ll come back with another story for the boys, eh?

Yeah, and we’d have to listen to it. Over and over and over...till I went even more nuts.

BIO:
 
Vallon Jackson is the alter-ego of a published thriller author who sometimes also goes nuts and comes up with another entry in his PIE saga.

BOB: THE MAGGOT-EATING HORSE-WHISPERING MAN By Alexander Salas

Here's something a little 'out of the norm' from Alexander...

Bob: The Maggot-Eating Horse-Whispering Man

Bob whispered in Goldilocks’ ear while pointing down at his dead neighbor Franklin. Goldilocks neighed heartily. Bob eviscerated Franklin. They waited. Maggots formed.

Bending over, Bob scooped a handful of the pasty grub and swallowed them live. The horse laughed, then dove snout first and snagged Franklin’s life-less heart. She chewed. Bob giggled and ate more maggots… Goldilocks ate the stomach… Bob ate more maggots… Goldilocks ate the liver… Bob ate more…

Both man and horse enjoyed their meal. Flies buzzed their heads. They paid no attention. Eating the moving larva, Bob smiled with every bite. Goldilocks consumed the innards like a bear at dinner time.

“Oh my God. What have you done to my Franklin?” Betsy cried.

Goldilocks and Bob looked up at Franklin’s wife. The horse flicked out its tongue and licked blood from its lips. Betsy ran.

Bob whispered in Goldilocks’ ear.

Goldilocks raced after Betsy overtaking her with ease. Betsy stopped. Goldilocks kicked her in the temple dropping Betsy like a boneless body. Bob strolled over with his scalpel.

BIO:
You can read Alexander's blog here:
http://salasbackwardssalas.blogspot.com/

LIKE GOOD BUTTA by Glenn Gray

Something a little bit different from Glenn...

LIKE GOOD BUTTA

Now this is friggin good butta.

The hell kind is it?

Fuck do I know? Just got these bagels with butta.

Wow. It is pretty good. All creamy and shit.

This here’s real godamn grade A butta.

Good shit. You ever go to that bagel place over on Larkfield?

Sometimes.

They got good butta.

Butta there’s okay. But this - this is good, no great, butta.

Nothing like good butta.

Like a dream.

On a good bagel.

Or just friggin nice rye toast. Ya know? Burned up like charcoal.

If the butta sucks, ruins the whole fachima thing.

Could eat good butta right outta the containa.

With a spoon.

Big fat gobs.

With a damn ladle.

Got that right.

Yup.

So what you got?

Did that job.

Took care a that cocksucka?

Yeah. Just like you asked.

When.

Last night.

He say anything?

Yeah. Said, what the fuck?

What the fuck?

Yeah. I tell em, the Big Guy sent me, and I swear there’s some piss stain forming on his drawers, and he stands there looking like a dope. Just says: What the fuck.

Stupid bastid.

Like he just learned to talk. Lip twitching and all. Hate that shit.

And pissed his pants.

Like a baby.

Standing there like a moron.

All wet in front.

Say anything else?

Just, what the fuck.

That it?

Guess.

Never said he fucked up?

Nah. Just, what the fuck.

You give him time to think?

Enough.

What about the money.

Was right in the bathroom.

Real genius.

Behind the shower curtain.

Stunad.

Same suitcase.

And the other shit?

Right there next to it.

Never had any brains.

It’s all done, nice.

Easy job, then. Good boy.

Smooth.

Like good butta.

Betta than butta.

Gimme some more a that shit, will ya?


BIO:
Glenn Gray’s got a story in OOTG 6. He’s got other crap in TKnC, Twist of Noir, Dogzplot, BTAP, Powder Burn, Underground Voices, Long Story Short and many others.

EVEN THE DEAD NEED A SPOTTER By Stephen Hill

TKnC welcomes Stephen with....

Even The Dead Need A Spotter

Todd’s dumbbells hit the floor after 10. That’s 10 full reps on the incline. Ninety pounds of iron in each hand, and he’d pumped them out like they were cake. Thanks to the rubber mat wedged under the bench though, they may as well have been a pair of fives for all the noise they made. Kind of lame, but it’s not as if anybody else was in the gym to hear them.

Unless you count the zombie.

This was just before midnight on the night before the last day of midterms--I think Todd and I were both writing Anthropology. Besides us, the only students left in residence were a handful of pencil-necks, all drowning themselves in caffeine for an extra few minutes of study time. Whatever. Within four months, Todd and I had slapped an inch of beef on our arms, doubled that on our legs, and carved our guts into six-packs. Truly kick-ass. Even if the zombie were still a biter, he’d have been running from us. Of course when it came to biters, they were now as extinct as VCRs.

A year before it was different. When the virus first hit, people-turned-zombies would claw through cement if they thought you were behind it, and--once they had you--you had a better chance of squatting a Buick than prying their jaws off.

But then came Z-Tap. Scientists promised it would lay waste to the zombie-making effects of the H1N1 vaccine cluster-fuck. Dumped into the water, through the air, and concentrated into a shot, everyone got a taste. The good news was the zombies stopped biting. The bad news was, nothing else changed. Thousands of bodies returned to their jobs, schools and homes, but that’s all they were--all bodies, no brains. They slumped over desks, sprawled on couches, or staggered around their front yards in strange, stupid circles. They were still contagious through their blood and their spit, but since you were now more likely to spot Bigfoot in a tutu than get chomped, the remaining rotters were tolerated. After all, now the only thing threatened if you did turn zombie was your IQ. I remember a buddy once saying that watching cured zombies was like watching bugs, but that wasn’t quite right. Bugs always look busy. Every last bug is getting a job done. Zombies?

They can’t pick their noses without a spotter.

As for Gym Zombie, Todd and I both recognized him. He was the only one of the undead who ever visited the weight room regularly--a pile of grey flesh that looked as out of place as a toddler in a nursing home. Who knows where his family was, or even if he had a home. Some zombies never found their way back. Others weren’t welcome. We guessed Gym Zombie was once a student just like us: a dude who lived in Lambton Rez, worked out nights, and maybe even squeezed some book-time in now and then. That night he wore the usual: a pair of tattered blue Nike sweat shorts, and a faded green t-shirt with the slogan “Irish Pimp” busting out in a four-leaf clover. No sign of his socks or shoes. Slack-jawed and teetering, he stood for a few moments between the treadmills, staring out at the room with those spooky, curdled yolk-yellow eyes they all have.

Inspecting his wings in the mirror, Todd didn’t even notice him at first.

“Irish Pimp’s here,” I said, loud and clear. I could have gunned my dad’s Hummer from a few feet away, and Irish wouldn’t have so much as cocked his head. Definitely not pimp.

“Fucking z-tard,” Todd said. “I thought we’d have the gym to ourselves.”

“It’s just one zombie, Toddilus,” I said. “We can deal.” If I wasn’t spending time in the library, I wasn’t about to waste it hassling a rotter, either.

The zombie shuffled towards the barbell bench a few feet over. As he sat on its cracked leather, the stink of maggot-fattened meat gave my gag reflex a yank. I pictured scabs of mold nestled in the thing’s skin.

“Wait a minute,” said Todd. “Weren’t we going to kick ass on the barbell bench next?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

Todd’s eyes narrowed. “Barbell bench,” he repeated, and aimed his finger at the zombie like a weapon. “We know the z-tard’s not going to use it.”

Todd heaved himself up, and we both headed over. Hunched like an old woman, the zombie stared down at the filthy fingers snarled up in his lap. Cogs of yellow bone jutted through torn knuckles, and his mop of greasy black hair was clotted with burrs, grass, and clumps of dirt. Under the smells of soil and rot clung the stink of dog shit.

“You about done here, chief?” Todd barked.

The zombie just sat there. Staring. A fly buzzed past my ear, and I swatted it away.

“Partner!” Todd said, louder now, and clapped his hands an inch away from the thing’s wasted face. “You moving or what?”

I watched the fly light on the zombie’s shoulder, and dart into the hair on the back of his neck.

“All right, what are you lifting then, Irish?” sighed Todd. “Two more plates?”

The racked bar already had a 45 on each side. Todd slid on another one, and iron clanged as the plates slammed together. I checked the clock as Todd slid on a fourth plate.

“Dude. He can’t hear you. He’s not going to do any-“

Todd wasn’t listening. “Hey Irish, 225 is waiting!” he yelled. “It’s what we lift. So unless you’re going to do something with it, get the hell off!”

He slapped the bar, and the plates shivered. This was going nowhere. I glanced back at the dumbbells, thinking about vamoosing to do some curls. “Todd I-” But that was all I got out, because the zombie was slowly laying back.

“Well look at this,” Todd whispered.

I couldn’t believe it. Somehow, the rotter was listening. And it understood.

Flat on the bench and staring up at the racked bar, Irish opened his mouth. His tongue was nothing but a frayed nub of meat, and his breath stunk like a puddle of bad milk.

“Terd-ing” the zombie said. His voice sounded clogged with wet gravel.

“What?” Todd asked. His eyes were huge. Schwarzenegger-in-his-prime huge. “Are you saying-“

“Terd-ing,” repeated the zombie, and his lips pulled into a smile of pitted and broken teeth.

“Thirty?” Todd asked. “Are you saying thirty?”

The zombie nodded, and folded his ruined fingers around the bar’s cold metal grooves. Then, with a coughing grunt, he heaved the weight into the air.

“Holy shit,” said Todd. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit…”

Slow but steady, the bar lowered, grazed his filthy chest, and rose right back up. Again and again, the zombie muscled reps out, as if the weights were made of marshmallows. Soon his snaggleteeth were gnashing at the air.

“I think his appetite’s back,” Todd said.

He was right.

By 12 reps, the zombie was chomping his own lips to pieces. By 20, a hunk of his mouth had splattered onto the floor, and Todd’s complexion was as grey as the z-tards.

“You know what we have to do, right?” Todd said, eyes glued on the zombie.

“Yeah.” I knew all right.

The rotter racked the bar, and lurched to his feet. A ferocious, drooling snarl stretched the skin on his face so thin, it could barely contain the bone.

“You ready for this?” said Todd.

I nodded. No time like the present.

“To our new training partner!” yelled Todd, and held up a hand.

“Kick-ass,” I said, and high-fived him. Irish had just pumped out 30 reps of 225 pounds on the bench. With this kind of motivation, I knew I could bench 300 by Easter.

The zombie let out a gurgling moan, and held up his own palm. For the first time, I noticed his ring finger dangling off his hand like a split branch, bent backwards and twisted.

“Oh my God,” Todd cried. “He wants a fiver!”

“Hells yeah,” I said, and tagged it.

“Kick-ass,” laughed Todd, and gave it a smack.

The only problem was, when Todd tagged it, the zombie’s hand snapped clean off.

The rotter grunted, swinging his arm around. Blood hosed out of his wrist, and a ropey stream lashed across my chest, as sticky as syrup. I stumbled back screaming, wiping at it in a panic. When I looked up from the mess, only thin trickles of blood were left dribbling down the zombie’s wasted arm. His mouth was hanging open, and his dim, piss-yellow stare was fixed on the space where his hand used to be.

Todd looked even worse. His face had been splashed so badly, it was as if it had been painted.

“You all right?” I asked, and he spat out a mouthful of zombie blood. That answered that question.

He had five minutes. Max. I noticed his eyes starting to spoil, rusting across the corneas.

“So, what do we do now?” I said, already knowing the answer.

Todd nodded at the bench. In the middle of all that red, his grin was ghost-white. “Guess I’m maxing out.”

“Kick-ass,” I said, and began adding more weight.

WHEN THE SNOWMAN BRINGS THE SNOW by Paul D. Brazill

When The Snowman Brings The Snow

‘Ta, Keith,’ I say. I push the card into my jacket pocket, stuff the doner kebab under my arm and leave the sweaty, smelly shop. The high street’s heaving with a load of punters queuing up to get into Keith & Babs Key-Babs but I just push past them, nodding at the odd bird and ignoring the blokes. By tomorrow the pavement will be covered with red cabbage from the kebabs, puke and broken glass.

Now, some people might think it’s a bit weird getting a Xmas card from a high street kebab shop but me, I see it as a sign of respect. A symbol that I’ve made my mark. A bit like that bit in Goodfellas were Ray Liotta gets the best table in the nightclub because of who he is, like.

Not that I’m a gangster, mind you. What I am is what’s known as a factotum. Now, I know what you’re thinking: What’s a friggin’ factotum when it’s at home? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s someone who sorts stuff out. Bit of this. Bit of that. Not much of the other, eh?

Mind you, the bloke I sort stuff out for, now, he is a gangster. And a right head the ball, with it. His name’s Captain Cutlass. Well, that’s not his real name. His real name’s Jordan but no one calls him THAT these days.

Cutlass is a sea coal baron which means he’s got a bunch of lads who drive jeeps down to the beach at low tide and dig up coal. He’s made a packet, he has. Not that he needed it. Before he got into the sea coal game Cutlass made a mint smuggling booze and tabs and that into the docks. He used to stand at the front of one of the boats waving this massive friggin sword about. Hence the nickname although I think the sword was actually a rapier.

Anyroads, as soon as I get out of the kebab shop it starts snowing. Nippy it is, too. Them cold north winds doth arf blow, I can tell you. Jack Frost’s nosing at me nips and it’s only November, although the Xmas lights are already up on the high street.

Well, I spies one of them new yellow cabs that are supposed to be like the ones in New York and try to get in but the driver won’t open up.

‘Ow, ey,’ I say. ‘I’m freezing me nads off out here.’ But the driver just shakes his head and winds down his window.

‘Money first,’ he says.

I can tell he’s a foreigner – we’ve got a lot of them round here now, from Poland, Bosnia, Euthanasia and that – and he doesn’t know who I am.

Bollocks, I think.

Well, pride comes before a fall, they say, although I’m not really sure what that means, like. I dig into my pocket but all I pull out is hand full of shrapnel. The driver shakes his head but I point over to a cash machine near the kebab shop.

‘I. Go. Money. Machine. You. No. Scarper.’ I say.

***

The thing is, I don’t usually use the hole in the wall. I usually get paid in cash and I’m not partial to technology and that. And this one is one of them fancy ones with the glass screen over the keyboard.

So, I scratch my head for a bit and just put my bank card into the slot and ... open sez me!

But then I pause, like. What the bollocks is my pin number? Now, I’ll admit that I’m half cut but I really can’t remember the last time I used the machine. My kebab’s getting a bit wet so I push it in the corner of the cash machine to keep it dry and try to think.

First up, I type in my date of birth. INVALID PIN it says on the screen.
Then I do that number backward but I get the same answer.

Well, I am flummoxed. And then, I have a moment of inspiration. The number of the beast. Plus one extra. I’m sure of it. I love Maiden, I do.

Six. Six. Six. Six.

First there’s nothing and I get a bit of a sweat on. Then there’s a sound. Like a clanging or whirring. Like in those old science fiction films when the robot comes to life. I know something’s happening. I start to grin but then the screen says: INVALID PIN. CARD RETAINED and that glass screen comes down. Trapping my kebab with it, too.

I turn round and see the taxi driver shake his head before he drives off.

***

I’m outside the old Odeon, wet, cold,starving, knackered and sobering up when I have to stop for a gypsy’s kiss. I lean against the peeling Cannonball Run Two poster and pull out my old man. I’m letting the piss splash on my hands a bit to warm myself up when, from the corner of my eye, I see a big black car pulling up. Could be a BMW but I’m not sure. I’m crap with cars. After, that I can’t go so I zip up and walk off, looking over my shoulder.

The car starts up again and drives past stopping about fifty years in front of me. I slow down my walk and dig my hand in my pocket for the snowstorm paperweight that I always carry in case of problems. It’s got a picture of Blackpool Tower in it and I like to think it’s my lucky charm.

When I get close to the car I can hear music playing and start to relax a bit.

‘Get in,’ shouts Captain Cutlass and I do. I guessed it was him because no fucker else in this day and age listens to Showaddywaddy. He’s a bit of a relic is the Captain. Big black, spidery quiff. Teddy Boy suits. The full whack.

‘Just the man I’ve been looking for,’ says Cutlass, turning down ‘Under The Moon Of Love.’

‘Aye?’ I say.

‘Oh, aye,’ he says, sniffing a bit and looking me up and down.

‘I’ve got a little job for you, ‘ he says spraying the car with peach deodorant. He’s right poncy twat sometimes. Loves the made to measure suits, he does and the signet rings and that. I’ve heard he inspects the napkins on the table before he’ll eat in a restaurant.

‘Oh, aye,’ I say, playing it cool. I could do with a few readies but I fancied a bit of P&Q over Crimbo. On the lash, and that.

Cutlass turns the car onto Murry Street, past all the boarded up terraced houses. Used to be well posh round here when I was a kid but now it’s like holiday camp for smack heads. Once it gets dark, it’s that Michael Jackson ‘Thriller’ video all over again..

‘What does the name The Nuthouse mean to you,’ says Cutlass.

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno, there was that hairdressers on Church Street. Changed it’s name to Curl Up & Dye?’

‘Friggin hell, you’re going back a bit, aren’t you?’ says Cutlass. He shakes his head. ‘You’re living in the past, man.’

I look at Cutlass in his powder blue drapes and decide to say nowt.

‘Well, here in the twenty-first century The Nuthouse is a pub.’ He lights up an Embassy Regal, doesn’t offer me one. ‘ A family pub. Over on the Coast Road.’

‘Never heard of it,’ I say.

‘Aye,’ groans Cutlass. ‘And that’s just the problem.’

‘The towns full of them fun pubs and family pubs anyway. Wack Jackys. Tricky Mickys. Who’d be daft enough to open a ...’

Now, sometimes I think I must be a bit psychic or summit. Cos there and then I get a sense, like, that Captain Cutlass is the owner of The Nuthouse. His face turning as red as a lobster might have helped, mind you.

‘Good location, the, Coast Road. Good location,’ I say, playing my cards right.
Cutlass says nowt and I start getting edgy. I try to hum along to ‘Three Steps To Heaven’ but feel a bit daft so I just shut up.

‘It is,’ says Cutlass slowly, like he’s talking to a dafty ‘a very competitive market. Yes.’

He pulls up outside my flat. Well, outside Toffers Offy, to be precise, like. My flat’s above the offy so he couldn’t really park outside there, could he?

‘Tomorrow at twelve,’ says Captain Cutlass. Then he glares at me. ‘And that’s mid day twelve, daft arse.’

‘Aye,' I say.

***

The beard’s itching like fuck and the suit stinks of fish. I reckon that Cutlass got it off his Uncle Glenn who used to work on the fish quay and did the kids Xmas parties at the Boilermaker’s Club till he got pissed one year and started telling the kids which of their mam’s he’d shagged.

I could do with a gargle myself. I’m RAF - last nights whisky’s cut right through me and I’ve got an arse like the Japanese flag this morning - but Cutlass won’t let me have a drop until after I give the kids their presents so I soldier on, don’t I?
‘Yo. Ho ho,’ I say. ‘Who has been a good boy or girl? Who wants to see Santa?’ I’ve got to shout because Wombling Merry Christmas is being played at full volume.

A little lass with a snotty nose comes up and jumps on me knee and nearly winds me. She’s only about five but she must weigh about ten stone.

‘And what’s your name?’ I wheeze.

‘Courtney Lee,’ she says, picking her nose.

I’m struggling to hold in the spew that’s creeping up the back of my throat.

‘And what do you want for Christmas,’ I say.

‘A Litre Bottle of Diamond Star. Me mam won’t share her’s with me anymore,’ she says, wiping snot all over my Santa suit.

***

It’s just after three when all of the kids bugger off to play in the Nutty Nursey leaving the mams and dad to have a good drink. Perfect places, these fun pubs, I suppose, if you’ve got bairns. Didn’t have them in my day, though. Didn’t let kids into pubs then. Didn’t let women in most of the pubs, in my day.

I’m sat at the bar with a pint of wifebeater - and bottle of WKD to help the beer go down - and nibbling on a bit of garlic bread when I see them. Duncan and Dan Donkin. Cutlass’ nephews. Twins, they are, and right dodgy fuckers they are too. Ratboys. Acne scarred smackheads in Batman baseball caps and Burberry. The sort of little twats that give Chavs a bad name.

I turn away and put my head down but one of them must have seen me ‘cos I feel a hand on my shoulder.

‘Just the man we’ve been looking for,’ says Duncan. Or Dan. Whichever of the fuckers it is I know there’s not much chance of me getting peace on earth this Christmas.

‘Aye,’ I say.


BIO:
Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp, and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/ He also writes a regular column, ‘I didn’t say that, did I?’ for Pulp Metal Magazine http://pulpmetalmagazine.webs.com/

AFTERNOON DELIGHT by Anna Harris

Anna's back up from down under with this refreshing noir tale...

Afternoon Delight

Fast Eddie was dead, which, in the great scheme of things was a good thing. The fact that a lot of his insides were now outsides and doing a piss poor job of redecorating my rented bedroom wall in glorious poinsettia red wasn’t as pleasing. On the plus side, he was no longer in a position to threaten me and I no longer owed him a colossal amount of money, and if I could stop throwing up long enough to let that sink in, I might even be relieved.

As it turned out, Fast Eddie wasn’t so fast. We’d both reached for the gun but my spontaneous female adrenaline turned out to be far superior to his calculated male reflexes. In actual fact, his name wasn’t even Eddie but in a moment of inspired genius I’d decided weeks ago Fast Malcolm just didn’t have the same sleazy ring to it. I’m clever like that.

Mr and Mrs Rozniak were going to be less impressed with my wit though, when they got home. They weren’t the sort of people who would appreciate having Malcolm’s innards spread across their delicate lilac print wallpaper; not even if those globs belonged to a no-good, stinking, scuzz bucket who deserved everything he got.

The Rozniaks were the sort of people who covered their spare toilet rolls in frilly material and didn’t let you inside the house with your shoes on. They also didn’t allow smoking in the yard, television after 10pm, animals on the property or members of the opposite sex to visit boarders in their rooms, and seeing as how Fast Eddie ticked the last two out of those four boxes, I was pretty certain they were not going to be pleased he’d met his maker on their faded lime green 1970s shag pile. Actually, I thought, as I balanced over the toilet and retched again, this might even give them cause to evict me and that would really, really suck.

As dealing with trauma had never been one of my strong points - I used to get light headed when Wile E Coyote fell under a boulder - the daunting prospect of facing the chaotic scene in the bedroom again loomed ever present in my mind. I considered remaining in the en suite bathroom hugging the toilet bowl until help arrived but the phone was in another room and I hadn’t actually got around to calling for any assistance.

I figured there were only two ways out of the mess; to face it head on or avoid it altogether. My personal philosophy has always been that avoidance is the preferred option - just staple feathers to my skin and call me chicken - but unless I made a move soon, I might be stuck in here performing intestinal acrobatics until Sunday afternoon when Mr and Mrs Rozniak returned from their out-of-town Christmas shopping expedition. I’d just have to make a run for it. It was a simple plan because I was a simple woman. Not so simple, of course, that I’d consider sleeping with Fast Eddie again though. Oh no, no no.

I’d had a stinker of a week. Sometimes you just have to say enough is enough and any man with shit for brains knows you don’t wave slimy intimidation in the face of a woman who’s had a stinker of a week – not even if you have a gun to hide behind. Either Fast Eddie didn’t know the universal rules about dealing with PMT or he didn’t have a brain at all, else he would’ve left his attempt at playing macho dirtbag for a more appropriate time on my calendar. I was not in the mood to be trifled with today. I needed an unhealthy dose of cholesterol-laden greasy food, not a horizontal tango under my threadbare Holly Hobbie sheets.

I’d trudged my way home in the middle of the afternoon through last-minute-shopper chaos from my part-time shift work job as one of Santa's helpers at the department store to find Malcolm in my bed with nothing on but his wristwatch and a seedy leer looking for a little afternoon delight.

“Delight this,” I’d said, waving a solitary finger in the air. I was the queen of biting comebacks so I hoped that glib retort would stop him in his tracks. It didn’t.

That’s when he threatened me with the gun before being smug enough to return it to the bedside table. He had the nerve to lay it right alongside my little tin Santa with the wobbly head. Now that was just rude. I may have been behind in my payments but I wasn’t desperate enough to be coerced, cajoled or cornered into sleeping with the slime ball again. The one time I’d relented and had done the deed - under pressure and in sheer desperation - with Fast Eddie in lieu of an overdue payment it had been…well…fast.

I might be stupid sometimes but I’m not dumb. Even when threatened with death or disfiguration by illegal firearm up close and personal, closing my eyes and thinking of England through a repeat performance of The Bad, The Worse and The Ugly would be just plain sad and my life was already depressing enough as it was. I was a less than svelte - okay, moderately plump - thirty three year old, wearing a too-tight pixie outfit under my coat, up to my over-plucked brows in debt and renting a back room from a couple whose idea of a wild time was playing Trivial Pursuit with the next door neighbours. I didn’t need another of Eddie’s premature demoralisations to remind me of how much lower my life could plummet. So I shot him.

I supposed the Rozniak’s perspective on their comfortable suburban life might now take a sudden unexpected turn for the worse. Sad, I know, but we’ve all gotta face reality some time. It was my turn now. I had to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom or stare malnutrition in the face. Hey, I’d just thrown up my Maccas breakfast with extra bacon and cheese and the six doughnuts I’d had to tide me over for lunch so if ever there was an excuse for comfort eating, now was as good a time as there’d ever be.

I opened the bathroom door and took a steadying breath, making a mental note to force open my eyes as soon as I started for the opposite doorway leading to the lounge. I took tentative steps and kept my eyes averted from the schizophrenic Picasso abstract on my duvet, all the time crossing my fingers I wouldn’t do a Torville and Dean in the splatter.

I phoned the cops and reported the fatality, then with shaking hands, tore open the foil packaging around a family block of Cadburys before sitting back on the couch to wait for reinforcements to arrive. I had a lot of pondering to do about my future. I didn’t think I’d have the stomach to sleep in that room again. Merry bloody Christmas.

I also wondered how Mr and Mrs Rozniak were going to take the news their son Malcolm wouldn’t be around to partake of their seasonal ham this year.


BIO:
Anna shares her house in Australia with her husband, a dog, a tank full of tropical fish and is now down to two teenagers out of seven children still living at home. She juggles her days between that lot and work, sketching portraits, writing, reading and chasing her own tail. Any wonder her fantasies include living on an unchartered, deserted island. Anna blogs here.