A Twist Of Noir 628 - Richard Godwin

I’M A LASAGNA HOG - RICHARD GODWIN

Editor’s Note: This is the first of two parts. The second half will appear later in the Challenge at 682.

A truck whizzed by outside the peeling apartment as Vic Rogers said, ‘I’m a lasagna hog. There ain’t nothing better than dipping my finger in the meat and licking it after I’ve killed someone. But you know what, I want to give up butchery.’

Sandra yawned, got out of bed, put on her slippers and sat peeing on the toilet as he scraped the bottom of the pan and, looking through the door at her, said, ‘Save me some, darling.’

Outside, the wind was kicking up some leaves as he headed down to Brooklyn.

He stood at over six feet and had a boxer’s build and gait. And he burned like fire.

Two men sat in a cafe and, as he walked past them, got out and followed him to a car lot.

Vic saw them in the glass of one of the Mercs and, as the bigger of the two took a swipe at him, Vic ducked, swung round and shot him in the side of the head.

The other guy began to move away and Vic caught him with a vicious right hook, knocking him to the ground.

‘You tell Jack I’ll come for him.’

‘He says you owe him.’

‘I owe him shit, you cocksucker.’

*

Jack Gnocchi sat in his office smoking a cigar when he heard.

He put it down slowly and said, ‘I’ll take care of him.’

He was a wiry man with deep scars on his face. He had a flattened expression as if years of coldness had killed all emotion there.

Later that day he met Salami Harry over at his club. He was a giant with such a deep voice he made paintings shake on the wall when he laughed and was so named because he always carried some sausage meat on him. It was rumoured he put parts of his victims in them and served them at barbecues.

They drove round to Vic’s apartment, kicked the door in and found Sandra asleep on the bed.

When Vic returned a few hours later, he found her dead. The place had been ransacked.

He fell to his knees, took his wife’s hand and began sobbing. Then he got out his Beretta and left.

He went straight to the Hall Of Mirrors at Jack’s club.

The Hall was a dance room for exclusive members, mainly small time gangsters and their mistresses or hookers.

The distorting mirrors served to disguise them. There were rooms off the back. It was dark and hard to see in there and Vic couldn’t identify Jack.

He did find Salami Harry in the john.

He was washing his hands when Vic walked in.

‘Well, well, turned up, have you? I screwed your bitch before I blew her head off, now you give me the money.’

‘I owe him nothing, I did a job for him.’

Harry was shaking his head and advancing towards Vic when he shot him. He hit him in the leg and Harry dropped to the floor.

‘Tell him I’m coming for him,’ Vic said. ‘This is a warning.’

He left through the Hall of Mirrors, seeing himself move in every direction, fat, thin, tall, foreshortened, and felt his life had turned into someone else’s dream now Sandra was gone.

All the way home, he repeated ‘I should have killed him’ like a mantra.

He sat with her and took her to the end of the garden and buried her that black night when his soul howled like some wounded beast and he drank all the whisky he had and packed up before dawn.

He found a room in a cheap hotel and rang Pedro in Mexico to arrange for the purchase of a villa there.

Then he called Jack.

‘This ain’t over,’ he said.

BIO: Richard Godwin lives and writes in London. His first crime novel ‘Apostle Rising’ is about to be published and will be released for sale onto the market on March 10th, 2011. You can watch a video ad for it at his website. His dark satire ‘The Cure-All’, about a group of confidence tricksters, has been produced on the London stage. His writing appears regularly at Disenthralled; Gloom Cupboard; Thrillers, Killers ’N Chillers; The New Flesh, Media Virus Magazine and Pulp Metal Magazine, among many other magazines and anthologies. His story 'Pike N Flytrap' is in this Fall's issue of Needle Magazine, his story 'Face Off' is in the latest Crime Factory, issue #5.  You can follow him at Twitter here.

His website is now all-new, complete with information on his upcoming novel APOSTLE RISING and a special page devoted to the critically-acclaimed CHIN WAG AT THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE interviews.

A Twist Of Noir 627 - Mark Joseph Kiewlak

THE TOWN THAT ATE SOULS - MARK JOSEPH KIEWLAK

Don’t try to flush the toilets in this town. They don’t work. I learned that early on in my rookie season on the force. The whores all laughed at me. That’s what whores are for. The city bus-faces rode by, indifferently blank. I started to scratch in places my mother didn’t know about. Thompson thinks there’s hope breathing like new skin under these scabrous streets. He hauls in every drunk and counts up the car crashes that didn’t happen. All I want is flowers in the restroom, maybe in a vase. There is no penalty for loving whores. So I partake. I trained my mind to be a detective. The rest of me does as it pleases. Halloween isn’t far off. It never is. The town puts on true-faces and the semen count rises. It’s easy to stare into the sidewalk cracks and wish they would widen. I’m not here for ice cream. Thompson has three teen-aged daughters then takes one back. A divine miscount. She turns up in an alley facedown, this plucky school reporter of his. Some girls aren’t allowed to age. Thompson eats bullets for breakfast. I count up one whore that didn’t happen.

It isn’t so bad, the way they make love in this town. They just want their dessert first. Hey, I only report the news. Yesterday I was twelve. Today, sixteen. Greedy eyes swallow parts of me I barely know. My father tells me not to get drunk, to avoid an accident. He’s like a traffic cop for my bedroom. I experiment with kindness, fail. The city-hall-faces ask me to be a whore. I’ll think about it. The rookie wears his costume year-round. Halloween is never far off for him. He asks what my father has taught me. I don’t report this news to anyone. The front page is reserved for bake sales and pep rally announcements. No one wants the desperate truth polluting their eyes.

One night we explore what’s under the covers in her bedroom. Facedown likes it facedown. Her heat warms my deepest hollows. Her inward smile penetrates where no one ever has. After the wet release I smell something like flowers in a restroom. She won’t report this news to anyone.

He ran the stop signs, Daddy. My mattress tells you I had a bad accident. One of us will be left on the curb for trash pickup. I wonder which one. I slip into fishnets and leave my undergarments showing, just in case. He whispers the I-love-you code just like you did, Daddy. He unlocks confessional secrets and gives me something worthwhile to repent on Sunday. The gun is a fatal lover, Daddy, without milk to wash the bullets down.

I have a scoop for my ice cream girl. We meet in a darkened alley just like the movies tell us to. There are patterns in the bricks that only the winos can decipher. Delicate hieroglyphics elusive to the everyday mind. I swing my sledgehammer intellect and her beauty gets in the way. So sorry, elegant Facedown.

He paints a bloody crack like a crooked grin on the back of my skull. I watch him with my heaven-eyes afterwards trying to solve his crime. He looks everywhere but in the mirror. The city helps him at last, its window glass and puddle reflections showing him the bad guy. He tears loose the pages of my reporter’s diary, tries to flush the evidence. But the toilets don’t work in this town.

I just wanted something more than vanilla. I just wanted my dessert first. Her chalk outline gets up to follow me home. Halloween midnight strikes and masks fall from their owners. A drunken car swerves in my direction. The sidewalk cracks widen and swallow me whole.

BIO: Mark Joseph Kiewlak has been a published author for eighteen years. In recent times his work has appeared in more than thirty magazines, including Hardboiled, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Thuglit, The Bitter Oleander, Disenthralled, Clean Sheets, and many others. His story, “The Present,” was nominated for the 2010 Spinetingler Award: Best Short Story on the Web. He has also written for DC Comics (FLASH 80-PAGE GIANT #2).

A Twist Of Noir 626 - Jim Harrington

WHY I SHOULD AVOID MARRIED WOMEN - JIM HARRINGTON

I awoke and saw a guy squeezed into the recliner across the room, his feet up. His right eyeball was fake, like an agate. The gun looked real.

“You know my wife, Betty,” he said.

Betty was blonde and petite. This guy wasn’t either of those. His voice came out higher pitched than I expected, given his build.

“How did you get in my apartment?” I asked.

He held up the gun.

I nodded. “Super let you in?”

“Yep,” he said. He waived the gun in anticipation of my next question. “Said he didn’t think the cops needed to know anything.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have the wrong--”

Before I could finish, he tossed four glossy pictures across the room. One of them made it to the bed. I turned it over and saw Betty and me kissing outside a Red Lobster. My hand rested on her ass. My groin twitched at the thought of Betty naked on her hands and knees. I pulled the sheet up and looked at the guy, Rick, I think she said his name was, and smiled. His expression didn't change. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and lit one. I inhaled and blew the smoke out my nose. He wasn’t impressed.

“Want one?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Hey, you a Raider fan?” I got up on one elbow. “I got a couple tickets you can have.” I didn’t lack for ideas on how to get out of this, but Rick’s disinterest in my offer made me realize he wasn't the kind of guy who could be bribed. Or maybe he wasn't a Raiders fan.

We stared at each other for a while until he put his hand on the chair arm and pushed himself to a standing position. I opened my mouth, but decided to keep quiet. Not only did he have the gun, he outweighed me by at least one hundred and fifty pounds.

He took a step toward the bed.

“Okay, I’ll stop seeing your wife. It was only six times.”

He stopped. I could tell by the look on his face I’d told him more than he knew. He started toward the bed, again. I slid to the other side next to the wall. The only window in the room was at the bottom of the bed. I would've considered making a run for it, but my place was on the fourth floor of an old building with no fire escape.

He pointed the gun in my direction, stepped to the edge of the bed, and laid a hand on my shoulder.

I had to pee.

“Calm down. I ain’t going to shoot you.” His face tightened. “Unless you stop seeing Betty.”

My mouth fell open.

“Hell, that woman’s a pain in the ass.” He stepped back. “You’ll find out. The others did.” He smiled for the first time. “Sneaking out with you has been the best thing happened this year.”

“But what about the gun?”

“This thing?” He raised the gun in front of his face. “Last couple of guys I spoke to got scared and dumped my Betty. I figure if I tell you I’ll shoot you if you stop seeing her, you won’t.” He lowered the gun. “Least when she’s with you I can watch the ballgame in peace.”

He walked to the door, turned back to me, and held the gun up once more. “If I have to come back, next time it’ll be loaded.” He tapped the barrel to his forehead in salute and left.
I slouched against the wall wondering what the hell I was going to do now. If I wanted to be with a nagging woman, I would have stayed married to Clarice.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For... blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.

Update on 600 To 700 Challenge

Still feeling under the weather. Headaches and backaches and ribaches and just feeling like shit.

But I’m going to try my damnedest this week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday to get a grand total of fifteen stories to you.

A Twist Of Noir 625 - Lee Hughes

STAGE LEFT - LEE HUGHES

Regis scratched his neck. Someone had done a number on the broad. Looked liked they’d tried combing her hair with a hammer. The tool lay caked in blood and blond beside her.

The police hadn’t been informed.

Regis’s boss had put the theatre on lock-down. The woman sprawled on the carpet was the boss’s niece. The boss had been watching the show from the boxes, he’d gone back to congratulate his niece only to find her mushed.

Regis had an eye for details. If one of the boys was found perforated in a dumpster then the boss sent Regis to handle the situation, figure out who the fuck had the brass-balls to fuck about with his business, that was where Regis came in, he’d hand them on a plate.

Regis took in every detail. He knew the theatre life.

His mother had looked like the dead woman. She’d trod the boards before winding up battered to death out the back of a gin-joint.

He walked the room.

A smile creasing his lips as memories of watching his mother ready herself for a show returned. He fingered a rabbit-foot charm in the untidy make-up box. He looked at his finger, there was rouge on it. His mother had applied rouge in the same manner. The dressing room was just as he remembered it. No shoes on the chairs, nor shoes on the tables.

Theatre folk were superstitious.

He stared at a bouquet. The flowers weren’t fresh, no tag, no wrapping. Just a bunch of flowers with a rubber-band about the stems. Its angle, as though cast aside, unwanted. He wondered if that had been the catalyst.

An infatuated lunatic? Definitely not a mob hit to wind the boss up. This had been done by someone who hadn’t an idea about her connections.

The flowers were his hint.

Pinning it on the handyman was like hanging the theft of a single shoe on the nearest one-legged man. There was no reason for the hammer to have been in the dressing-room. Superstition forbade pictures to be hung upon the wall.

He backtracked his mind to the corridor. A square of pristine wallpaper surrounded by nicotine stains. He remembered the two signs on the floor. One was crisp and new, the other just as filthy as the walls. The handyman had probably been caught short and hadn’t been able to finish putting up the new sign and left the hammer there to continue after the show.

Whomever had used the hammer on her head had picked it up on the way to see her.

Regis wondered.

If you were going to go promise undying love for a woman would you take a hammer?

It was someone she’d not tried to run away from. She’d cast aside the gift of grave flowers, for that was what they were. A bouquet stolen from a grave. Tradition, flowers from a grave to be given at the end of the run. Symbolizing that the show could be laid to rest.

Regis pulled out his wallet and removed a photograph and tore it in half.

He looked at the flowers. He’d seen them the day before. He walked to the door and came face to face with his boss.

The corridor was littered with nervous looking workers.

“Well?” His boss asked.

“Here’s your guy.”

The boss took the picture and looked at the man in it. “Who is he?”

“The man that killed your niece. One favour, though.”

“What?”

“Make it quick.”

“Why?”

“The man’s got problems.”

The boss nodded. “I’d say he’s got a big fuckin’ problem, me.” He handed the photograph to one of his hoods who took it and went looking for the ‘live’ version.

Regis pocketed his hands and walked.

BIO: Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink, MicroHorror, The Daily Tourniquet, FlashShot, Everyday Fiction, The New Flesh Magazine and, of course, A Twist of Noir. And in print in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Find out more at http://www.leehughes.net/.

A Twist Of Noir 624 - Des Nnochiri

24-6 - DES NNOCHIRI

He worked for a select clientèle. But what he did for them was very, very good. So he worked, a lot.

And when he wasn’t working, he thought about his - “job” didn’t quite describe it. Vocation. Religion.

Ways of perfecting his - he guessed, “art”.

Theory. Practice. Hardware. Software.

If he’d published an e-book, or five? He would have done pretty well. Of course, he’d also be in jail. Or dead.

And his employers would let it happen. He was replaceable; good, but not indispensable.

What he did was a necessary evil.

But, this was the day he didn’t. Work. Make his art. Ply his trade. Practice his religion.

Wasn’t the same, each week. Couldn’t be, with a “schedule” as flexible as his.

His clients understood. Most went out of their way to indulge him. To ask him which day. Before.

One 24-hour period out of every seven. His own. Exclusively. To relax. Unwind. Watch the world go by.

But stay aloof.

He loved crowds, though.

Bustling humanity. All shapes, sizes, social levels.

Private lives. Public lives. Secret lives. They fueled his imagination.

Public spaces were a problem. Not big, but still.

You had to pick your spot.

And, in the CCTV era, it was--

There, now. That wasn’t right.

Shades, greasy pony-tail. Sweat slipping down the jail-house tattoo beneath the right ear.

In a blind spot, between the CCTV cameras.

Working his way through the masses spilling in and out of the mini-mall.

Variations of the same stunt, as they approached the doors.

And here he was, about to do a number on the pretty blonde with the pink barrette in her hair. Standing in front of the kid - little boy, eight, nine years old - in the Coke bottle spectacles.

He sensed - knew - what Pony-Tail was going to do, even before he did it.

A shove, and the kid went flying into the blonde. Who stumbled to the ground, flail of arms and legs. Seven or so shoppers in front of her collapsing, like a stack of dominoes. Cries, curses, and dropped cellphones, as they all went. Pratfalling to earth.

In the confusion, Pony-Tail zipped forward, expertly lifting a purse here, an iPod there. Quick hands. Even made a show of helping one or two of the suckers back onto their feet.

That just wasn’t right.

That crowd? Someone could have been hurt.

And, in the days before plastic lenses, that kid would have been out one pair of no doubt very expensive eye-glasses. The boy was only bruised and bawling, but still.

It wasn’t right.

On a proper working day, he’d--

He glanced down at the cigarette packet in his hand, and grinned ruefully.

Seemed his working instincts had kicked in, of their own accord. Must have thumbed the switch on reflex, the moment Pony-Tail made his move.

Well. Sayonara, my light-fingered friend.

He flipped the switch again, and the spycam in his own extremely expensive mirrored shades powered down.

On the viewscreen at the back of the pack, now. Reviewing the footage.

He’d been thorough. Even zoomed in on that tattoo. Guy would be very easy to identify.

Crisp, clear video, too.

His customers demanded top-notch surveillance, and that’s what he gave them.

He’d have to dirty up the video a little, before posting it on the Web.

Cover his tracks.

He’d use one of his aliases. Orb624? No. News24-6. He’d something of a reputation as a crusader, that one.

Worse case scenario, Pony-Tail becomes an unwilling media star. Best case, he’d bring down some serious heat. Possibly, more jail time.

So, he’d post the vid. Might even sneak a copy to law enforcement. Let them do what they were paid to do. For once.

After all, this wasn’t a working day.

BIO: Desmond (Des) Nnochiri spent his early years traveling with his parents, and was educated in England, the USA, and the Republic of Ireland (Eire). He writes freelance now, and has taken his first steps into the world of screenwriting. He has contributed stories to A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Powder Burn Flash. He blogs at Des Nnochiri’s Write to Speak.

A Twist Of Noir 623 - Chris Rhatigan

KLEPTOMANIAC - CHRIS RHATIGAN

My shoulder twitches as I open the freezer and curl my fingers around the half-gallon of Neapolitan ice cream.

I imagine bringing the ice cream back. Jo would stop by my place and her spring green eyes would brighten—she loves everyday surprises. We’d eat the strawberry and chocolate from the box and mock the first round of American Idol rejects.

I turn to find the clerk staring at me. He kneels next to a box, pops open a box cutter, rips through packaging tape. Judging from his scaly skin and the slump in his spine, he’s been working the night shift at the Pump N Munch for many years. He knows better than to chase me. Protocol is to hit the button, wait for the cops.

Yet he’s challenging me. I’m sure of it. He props his elbows on the glass counter, steeples his fingers.

I try to control my twitching shoulder. No dice.

My heart bumps against my rib cage. Deep down, I hope he’s like the Loss Prevention guy from Sears. That dude chased me through an entire mall for swiping a parka. He didn’t catch me, but I give him points for playing the game.

Back then, I thought I was clever, scraping off security tags with a pocket-knife or sliding a baseball card up my sleeve.

Not anymore. Now my methods are direct.

My first move is quick. Outside in two steps. Bells on the door clanging.

I run past the empty gas pumps, cradling the ice cream in my arm. The bells ring again.

I accelerate down the sidewalk, bounding in and out of the beams of streetlights. Suck down gulps of humid air.

Sirens wail in the distance. Too soon for the cops. Unless there was another clerk or a manager I didn’t see who made the call.

A reflection of a shadow trailing me bounces off the abandoned storefront windows across the street.

Sweat trickles into my eyes. A cramp stabs under my ribs like an ice pick.

The sirens fade, the sound replaced by another set of feet striking the sidewalk, persistently echoing my steps.

What kind of clerk chases a guy who stole ice cream? What would he do when he caught me? That box cutter. He could’ve taken that.

Maybe he’s not just a convenience store clerk. Maybe he’s a serial killer.

Maybe I crossed the wrong guy. Why couldn’t I’ve paid for the ice cream like anyone else would have?

Turning around will slow me down. But I want to see him gaining on me.

I look behind.

And see the Sears LP guy.

What the fuck?

I’m still looking in the rearview when my toe snags a lip between two sidewalk panels. The carton catapults. I fall hard, face-first to the concrete.

My head throbs when I come to. Bruises everywhere. A gash on my elbow. Blood trickling from my temple to my jaw.

The LP guy stands above me, sucking down a cigarette. He resembles a smaller, more wiry version of Mr. Clean down to the white tee shirt tucked into jeans.

I sit up, joints screaming, lean against a slimy brick wall. Realize that he must have dragged me into an alleyway.

“As soon as I saw you on the closed circuit, I remembered you,” he says. “Punk that stole that jacket.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Own that store now.”

“You call the cops?”

“Hell, no. Worse they’ll do is throw you in jail for a night. That won’t teach fuckers like you. You don’t respect a man’s property.”

He slides on a pair of brass knuckles. I scramble, but he grabs me by the scalp with his left.

And pummels me with his right.

BIO: Chris Rhatigan is a student and freelance journalist living in Iowa City, Iowa. He has worked as a reporter for the New Haven Register and the Iowa City Press-Citizen. He always appreciates feedback, and you can reach him at chris.rhatigan@gmail.com.

A Twist Of Noir 622 - Sean Patrick Reardon

CRANK SHOT - SEAN PATRICK REARDON

No blood. And the little Puerto Rican cocksucker needs to be alive, when the concrete vault is dropped on top of him.

I love simple instructions.

The no blood tenet meant my initial idea, a cricket ball, was out. The raised seam would easily lacerate flesh. This bummed me out, because I have really improved the pace on my inswinger. Plan B, a lacrosse ball, works perfectly. Delivered at ninety miles per hour, it will hurt like hell, bruise internal organs, break ribs...crush testicles.

I’m sure Armando, street name Striker, follows a code of stereotypical ethics on the streets of Lawrence, Massachusetts. The usual bullshit: no ratting, never go against, or leave the gang. Striker will now learn ours.

Never fuck with the elderly, children...or the Irish.

My well practiced brogue is sweeter than Tim Finnegan’s when I ask him, “Where is she, you piece of shite?”

“Fuck you,” Esse says.

Distance: fifty-feet. Coordinates: left rib cage. Clear for crank shot.

David Lee Roth pops into my head...‘One break...comin’ up.’

Fire!

Whammo!

Striker gives up a cough scream. I realize I must have nicked a lung. Coach would be proud.

Striker screams, but sees nothing. He’s got a severe case of Super Glue conjunctivitis at the moment. He’s naked and facing me, but his uncircumcised welfare check missile is a huge distraction.

I’m weird about shit like that.

He’s probably never seen a lacrosse net. Doesn’t know his hands and feet are duct taped to each of the four corners, spread eagle style.

This is the tenderizing of Striker stage of the game. I’m hoping the fear of the money shot is weighing heavily on his mind.

It’s not a fear of heights. It’s the fear of falling.

The Clancy Brothers are doing ‘Wild Colonial Boy’ on the boom box I set up and it sounds great reverberating off the cement walls of warehouse. Senor Shitforbrains thinks he’s being tortured by some crazy fucking Mick, not the long haired, hippy freak I used to be.

*

I drop his body, which I duct taped in a coffin chic pose, into the trunk of the Charger. He’s breathing, but in bad shape, covered in welts and bruises that look like red bulls-eyes, with black centers. If he was going to live another day, they would each expand to the size of purple softballs.

I call Tommy, tell him where his daughter is and that I’m on my way. He tells me everything is cool, proceed as planned.

As I drive through the pre-dawn darkness, I’m thinking of the tattoo that runs the length of Striker’s right forearm. It’s an upside down cross, DAD, near the wrist, REST IN PIECES just below the elbow joint. Everyone has their anchor to drag. I have a small dick, at least he had the option of a seeing a shrink.

When I pull up to the cemetery gates, Tommy’s connection is waiting in the backhoe. He climbs down, opens the gates, and walks over to me. I hand him an envelope with five large in it, and pop the trunk with the key fob. We carry Striker’s half dead carcass over to the backhoe and roll him into the front loader. We shake hands and he climbs up into the cockpit.

As I walk away, the engine fires up and I see the front loader start to roll up and then raise into the air. On the drive back to my place, I’m thinking of the mourners, who won’t know they are getting a two-for-one special later this morning as their beloved’s casket is lowered into the vault. If there is an afterlife, I’m hoping Striker gets to sort things out with his old man.

BIO: Sean Patrick Reardon lives in Massachusetts and is the author of the crime thriller Mindjacker. His stories have appeared in Thrillers, Killers -n- Chillers. He’s blogging at Mindjacker.

A Twist Of Noir 621 - Thomas Larsen

ALMOST - TOM LARSEN

The plane drops and Ripper loses it. Like going over on a roller coaster and running out of track. They strain for any sign of control. The nose loops and the shock and the vertigo trigger a scream. Jack, the record rep, grabs his arm but Ripper keeps screaming. Details register, the whine of engines, crap flying, Willie T white as a sheet. The spiral tightens. It takes forever.

Cold. Firelight. The ground smells like backyard. His eyes open and it comes back in a flash. He turns his head and watches the flames.

Cuts and bruises, pant leg shredded but nothing broken. Walk away from a plane crash, Christ. Keeps seeing their faces, Willie and Dag. Calls out to them but he will not go looking. Waits as the fire burns to scattered patches. No one comes.

Ripper picks a direction, starts walking. Two days into a three record deal.

Make that one record.

Another ploughed field and the thought it might be endless. Walk away and die anyway. Just hours ago, the crowd gone wild to Dag’s slide, Skeets and Ricky trading licks.

Something crashes in the windbreak, a white dog tracking him through the brush. Ripper looks around for a rock but there is only dirt. The dog stands in the moonlight watching.

“No stopping,” Ripper tells himself. “If he’s gonna come he’s gonna come.”

Another field, another dog, bigger, then a third. Ripper wraps his belt around his wrist. The dogs trail him but keep their distance. He thinks of Jimmy Wales and his Dobermans, ripped him up one night for no good reason.

“First they knock you down, then they go for the throat,” Jimmy traced the scar.

The next field slopes to a wide stretch of woods. Ripper stands there staring at it. His nose keeps running, he can’t stop shivering, the moon clouds over and it is hard to see. How it plays out this way, his big night ends in a shithole cornfield, friends dead, hellhounds closing in.

From behind, one peeling off to box him in. Ripper picks up the pace, get to the woods, climb a tree, almost there. Dogs locked in and he knows it’s crazy but he starts to run. Feels them gaining. Reaches the woods but it’s too dark to see then the lights go out.

He comes to with a groan. More scrapes and bruises, blood down the front of his shirt. Ripper listens but there’s only silence. Crazy to run, just dogs wondering what he’s doing. Should not have wandered off. Should have looked for flares or a cell phone at the crash site.

He climbs the embankment, sees the field through the trees, halfway to it when the rain comes down. Ripper heaves a sob and drops to his knees. Lets it go, shoulders chugging, battered, beaten and so cold. Feels the fear turn to rage, throws his head back and screams to the heavens.

“KILL ME, YOU FUCK! COME ON, GET IT OVER WITH!”

The dog pounces then tumbles off with a chunk of his ear. They spring at each other and Ripper goes off. The dog yelps once then sags in a whimper.

The shack looks deserted but he knows he saw a light. Ripper stumbles toward it, tries to call but his throat cuts off in a croak. He follows the flagstones, weaving and lurching, almost rock star on his last legs. His boots clomp like concrete, up the stairs, across the porch. Rain blows in sheets behind him, sky mottled in grays to the east. He pounds twice then bends to listen. Thinks of that song, Dag doing Hank Williams. The door swings open. A shotgun blast takes out his chest.

BIO: Tom Larsen has been a fiction writer for fifteen years, his work has appearing in Newsday, New Millennium Writing, Puerto del Sol and Antietam Review. His short story “Lids” was included in Best American Mystery Stories – 2004. His novel FLAWED was released in October.

Day Five Of The 600 To 700 Challenge Coming Tomorrow

It’s back!

Tomorrow.

Stories include...

Thomas Larsen’s ALMOST

Sean Patrick Reardon’s CRANK SHOT

Chris Rhatigan’s KLEPTOMANIAC

Des Nnochiri’s 24-6

and

Lee Hughes’s STAGE LEFT

If possible, the installment after this will be coming on Friday and perhaps there will be a third on Saturday.

Sorry for the delay but I’ve been under the weather.

See you tomorrow.