Interlude: Richard Godwin's Apostle Rising Is Now An E-Book

If you don't already know, now you do.

As I said, Richard Godwin's kick-ass first novel, Apostle Rising, is now an e-book.

But there's more.

Not only do you get the entire novel, you get an excerpt from his stellar second novel, Mr. Glamour, as well as four of his tremendous noir stories and other extras.

If you're in the US, you can find the entire package here and in the U.K. here.

Less than the price of admission for a film, at just over three dollars US, and £2.05, Apostle Rising kicks the shit out of any summer blockbuster.

Introduction To Richard Godwin’s Battle For The Laughing City

Your friendly neighborhood editor/publisher here.

When Richard’s story Battle For The Laughing City was originally published at Thrillers, Killers N Chillers, it was met with both praise and derision. Mostly praise.

Those that didn’t care for the story seemed not to have a grasp of the English language (which is fine but a bit of brushing up never hurt nobody) or could not spell simple words or simply didn’t like the story and couldn’t help but get some of their frustrations out that it wasn’t a cookie cutter shiny vampire story (or the like).

Maybe it was because it wasn’t straight-up noir but rather a combination of various genres that had their underwear crawling up their asses (though, as it turned out, it was, in fact, not as many asses as previously believed; when it call came out in the wash, there seemed to be only one ass responsible for all the grief, using various names).

Whatever the case, I trust that this audience will have a better reaction to the story and those who do not care for it will simply move on about their day without feeling the need to spread any of their “love”.

Now, please enjoy Richard Godwin’s Battle For The Laughing City.

A Twist Of Noir 701 - Richard Godwin

BATTLE FOR THE LAUGHING CITY - RICHARD GODWIN

Previously published at Thrillers, Killers N Chillers on February 7, 2012

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 and 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 crime novels Mr. Glamour and Apostle Rising and is a widely published crime and horror writer.

Mr. Glamour is Hannibal Lecter in Gucci. It is about a glamorous world with a predator in its midst and has received great reviews.

Pulp Metal Fiction has published Piquant, Tales Of The Mustard Man, his culinary genius. His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are interviews he has conducted with writers and can be found at his blog.

You can also find a full list of his works on his website.

He lectured in English and American literature at London University before becoming a professional writer.

A Twist Of Noir 700 - Jimmy Callaway

SEVEN HUNDRED - JIMMY CALLAWAY

The guy lived in an airplane hangar, for chrissakes. Why not just wear a sign that says, “Please make more fat jokes.” Then again, it’s not like there are a whole lotta places to live in King City. And when you deals in this many comics—thousands and thousands on pallets like the one that had been shipped to Mr. Bob Romano—hell, you may as well just move in yourself. The room for Gorofsky’s considerable bulk was probably just a perk. Not that the guy was feeling to perky, duct-taped to his computer chair and pistol-whipped.

Ah, well. The cost of doing business.

Mr. Bob Romano had bought a pallet off the guy, curious to see if it would yield anything. A lotta dealers dealt in bulk like this: a hundred, two hundred bucks would buy you a thousand comics, selected at random. A giant grab bag, if you will. A lotta junk, but usually some fairly high-yield books to make it worth your while.

But this smart-ass Gorofsky. First he sends the thousand books, but seven hundred of them are copies of Marvel Super Heroes Special, Winter ’91. Barely worth the paper they’re printed on.

“The fuck is this?” Romano said on the phone.

“Well,” Gorofsky said with a giggle barely suppressed, “it is the first appearance of Squirrel Girl. And it’s by Steve Ditko. You do know who that is, don’t you?”

Gorofsky mighta gotten off light with the whole stunt, the disrespectful tone, and even that grave insult to Mr. Bob Romano’s intelligence. But then he had the nerve to hang up on Mr. Bob Romano. Hanging up on Mr. Bob Romano was like smoking—it might make you look cool, but it could send you to the hospital. Or an early grave.

“Found anything good yet?” Hughes said.

Bronson came over with an armload of books and half-shrugged. “Good, but not great. Some first printings of Wonder Woman #219, Captain America #25—”

“That the one where he dies?”

“Yep.”

“Well, those’ll be worth something,” Hughes said, “Right?”

“Yeah, well, they’re not giving them away, that’s true,” Bronson said, “but, man, with all this stuff in here? It’d take all night to go through ‘em, and even if we found a thousand more of books like these, a couple more years and they’ll be worth as much as Superman #75.”

“Which is?”

“Not worth the trouble, really.”

“Fuck,” Hughes said.

Bronson set the books down carefully. “But I’ve been thinking...”

“Yeah?”

“Hey, fatbody!” Bronson said.

Gorofsky looked up and peered at them through the blood dried over his eyes. He said something that was muffled by the duct tape over his mouth. Bronson came over and wiped some of the blood off Gorofsky’s face.

“Hey, man,” Bronson said, “This is some okay stuff you got in here, but really, most of it is junk. Right? So why don’t you just save us some trouble and tell us where your stash is, your personal collection.”

Even behind the duct tape, there was no mistaking his words: “Fuck you!” But he also couldn’t help glancing to his right. Hughes saw it too.

“The file cabinet,” they both said.

The bottom drawer was locked. “Shit,” Bronson said.

Hughes pulled out his .38. “Gimme just one second...”

“Whoa, wait, are you nuts! I’m no Bob Overstreet, but a bullet hole will really bring any book down a couple grades, man, I can tell you that.” Bronson checked all the other drawers in the cabinet and found a tiny key taped to the bottom of the top one.

Inside, there was a few high-grade Silver and Golden Age books, but nothing particularly spectacular. And then...

“Holy shit,” Bronson said.

“Is that what I think it is?” Hughes said.

Amazing Fantasy #15. The very first appearance of the amazing Spider-Man. Story by Stan Lee. Art by Steve Ditko.

“Holy shit,” Bronson said, “I mean, it’s not really high grade, but—but, still...I mean. Holy shit.”

Gorofsky struggled in his chair. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

Hughes went over and knelt in front of him. “Don’t take it so hard, big fella,” he said, “It’s just the cost of doing business.”

A Twist Of Noir 699 - Christopher Grant

WAITING FOR KEITH - CHRISTOPHER GRANT

 

I light up another cigarette and look in the mirror on my side of the car. Waiting for Keith.

 

Keith, the wannabe, the hanger-on. He might have a lot of backers, a lot of people that think he’s got the chops for this job. Unlike his backers, I’ve actually been on a job with Keith. He’s got a high opinion of himself and his skills. He’s hit or miss.

 

He ought to come with a warning label that reads, “Sometimes, you get what you paid for. Other times, you pay for what you get.”

 

Finally, after a half-hour, he comes walking around the corner of the building, his arm around a girl that looks like she’s barely out of high school.

 

Keith opens the passenger door and folds the seat forward. The girl climbs through, into the back seat.

 

“What the fuck is this?” I say, tossing my cigarette onto the street.

 

“This is Michelle,” Keith says. “Say hello, Michelle.”

 

Michelle says hello.

 

“You know what the fuck I mean,” I say, as Keith drops his ass in the passenger seat.

 

Keith just smiles through his goatee. “Just put it in gear and let’s get this over with, brother.”

 

I really hate it when assholes like Keith tell me what to do. Makes me feel like whipping out my piece and putting another hole in his fucking head. The brother is a cherry on the top of this pile of shit.

 

I slide the gear shift into drive, pull out into traffic and drive away from Keith’s apartment complex.

 

*

 

This is precisely the reason that you don’t bring an outsider along with you on a job:

 

The hit is a jewelry store. As soon as we pull into the lot, Michelle wants to come in and look around, thinking Keith’s bringing her here so that he can put a ring on her finger or get her something equally nice.

 

So when he tells her to stay in the car, she gets pissed off and throws a fit, drawing a bunch of attention our way. As if there isn’t going to be enough once we place the ski masks over our heads. This just adds to it.

 

I want to scrap the entire thing.

 

“Let’s just get back into the car and get the fuck out of here,” I say.

 

“Relax, brother,” Keith says. This is the second time he’s called me brother within thirty minutes. I want to punch him, break his fucking nose or something. Get my point across as violently as I can. But I don’t do it because if I do, I’m walking into the jewelry store myself. I might even have the asshole shoot me in the back and then I’m really fucked.

 

“Then calm her the fuck down,” I say.

 

Keith turns around and tells Michelle that he wants it to be a surprise what he gets her.

 

Yeah, I think, if we fuck it up, congratulations, honey. I got you three to five as an accessory.

 

And here I am again, waiting for Keith.

 

*

 

Part two of why you should never bring an outsider along on a job rears its ugly head when we make it to the car.

 

Michelle sees us and screams like she’s the one that’s been shot.

 

My right leg is dragging behind me and I’m barely keeping Keith upright. He’s turning a different shade of pale.

 

“Get out of the back seat,” I say to Michelle, my gun still in my hand, waving back and forth. “Now!”

 

The hero guard comes barreling out into the lot, finds me and Keith and the screaming girl. He probably thinks we’re car-jacking her.

 

He fires another couple of shots at Keith and me and scores again, this time hitting me in the back. I fall onto the hood and then slide down next to the front tire. My gun goes sliding off the hood in the other direction and skitters away across the pavement.

 

I look over to my right, my head moving like a snail.

 

I look at Keith and realize that he’s going to make it and I’m not.

 

I promise you this, though:

 

I’ll be waiting for Keith.

A Twist Of Noir 698 - Eric Beetner

BREAK-IN - ERIC BEETNER

The gun was still warm from the stranger’s hand.

Michael stared at the figure face down in the entryway of his house. His eyes moved from the body to the broken lamp he’d used to cold-cock the guy.

He tried to remember the last thirty-seconds, but it was a black hole.

He could still recall the brief conversation through the door, the stranger knocking after midnight and pretending to have car trouble. Even before he opened the door, Michael thought it strange that someone would wander so far off the highway to make it to his front porch. The pleasure and peril of living far away from town: seclusion.

Michael remembered seeing the gun, the man commanding him to step back, stay quiet. The memory ran out a second before the moment he smashed the man over the head with a marble-based lamp.

Michael set the gun down on the small table by the door where he normally tossed his keys. The man on the floor continued to breathe and the pool of blood around his head continued to grow.

It was no life threatening blow. Michael knew the stranger would come around soon.

“Michael?” Amy called from upstairs.

“Stay there.” He could hear the whining nighttime cries of Dylan, his two year-old and that was sure to wake Kaitie, his four year-old. “Amy, listen,” he said. “Call the police. Tell them someone tried to break in.”

“Oh my God.” Michael heard her footsteps reach the top of the stairs. She gasped. “Michael!”

“It’s okay. Just call them. See how fast they can make it out here.”

“Is he...?”

“No, he’s not dead. Now, go.”

Amy padded away to make the call.

Michael thought about how it might be better if the stranger was dead. The intruder would wake up any second, angry. He was obviously capable of violence whereas Michael had just drawn his first blood on another human. Applied Physics professors don’t have a reputation for bloodletting.

His eyes drifted to the gun. If the man stood up and attacked, could Michael use deadly force? The lamp had been beyond what he thought himself capable of already so he didn’t know the answer himself.

Dylan’s cries intensified. The man on the floor stirred. Michael heard Amy’s feet move quickly down the hall to Dylan’s room and the crying soon stopped.

The old farm house was easily twenty minutes from town. If the police were anywhere but sitting right by the phone it could be as much as a half hour before help arrived.

A decision would have to be made before then.

Michael stepped around the body to close the front door. The invader had dropped a small bag, now blocking the threshold. Michael kicked it aside to make room for the door to swing shut. Inside the pack, metal clanked together. Curious, Michael opened the worn black gym satchel.

Duct tape, wire, a hammer, a hunting knife. These were not the supplies of a stick-up, a simple, “Give me all your money and jewelry” home invasion. This man was prepared to stay.

Michael thought of the children. He felt sick to his stomach. Bikes, a sand box, a rope swing all decorated the front yard. Advertising that young kids lived here. The house was far enough away from everything, a man could stay for weeks without anyone noticing. Fall semester at the University didn’t start for another month.

A chill ran through Michael. The stranger on the floor groaned.

“Amy? Did you talk to the police?”

Her feet padded urgently down the hall. He turned to her. She cradled Dylan in her arms, his head lolling slack, asleep. She whispered. “They said they’d send someone.”

He whispered back. “How long?”

“They didn’t say.”

There was movement from the carpet in the entryway. “Go back to the room. Get Kaitie. Lock the door.”

There was panic in Amy’s whisper now. “Michael –”

“Just go.”

Michael turned back to the stranger, Amy’s feet shuffled away above him.

The man rolled, brought a hand to his head and felt the blood, opened his eyes.

Michael reached out. This time, the gun was cold.

A Twist Of Noir 697 - Ian Ayris

TINA THE DWARF PROSTITUTE – A LOVE STORY - IAN AYRIS

 

I am in love with Tina the Dwarf Prostitute. She is not here. The circus is in town. Her public awaits.

 

'Oy! Fuckface! Where's my bleedin cuppa?'

 

I tear my gaze away from the kitchen window. Away from the world. Tony. Flatmate. Arsehole. Rich city boy arsehole. Whilst I am 'between jobs', and Tina's income is, so to speak, 'sporadic', we rely on Tony to keep us. And he does. But as I have alluded, the man is an utter moron. He has been off work for two weeks now, lazing about.

 

So, with Tina 'otherwise engaged' today, it is just him and I. Lovely.

 

'Come on, cunt! Hurry up!'

 

I stir Tony's tea, trying not to think of Tina and the Strongman. Tina and the Fire Eater. Tina and the Clown. We are not an item, Tina and I, merely friends. Yet, of late, I have begun to think of her in different ways. Ways that shame me.

 

I retreat to the lounge to break my train of thought, and give Tony his tea. His eyes are glued to the television screen. He holds out his hand to take the tea without even so much as a 'Thank you'. I glance at what it is he is so engrossed in, and quickly look away.

 

Daytime television. Voyeuristic mediocrity in a box presented by parasitic slimeballs in shiny suits, preying on the scum of this earth. For Tony here, something to aspire to. To learn from. To laugh at.

 

'Look at these fuckers,' he says, sipping his tea. 'She's been shaggin his uncle, and the old man's been havin it off with her mum. Fantastic!'

 

I'm thinking of my Tina.

 

The adverts come on.

 

'We got any biscuits?' Tony says, as if I'm the only one in this God forsaken place that knows.

 

I shake my head, and I can't help sighing. Not for the lack of biscuits.

 

'What's up with you?' Tony says. 'Cos that midget's gone out?'

 

Muscles tighten all over my body.

 

'What you see in her anyway? Is it her little teeny hands, is it? Them little feet? The way she waddles like a fuckin duck?'

 

The ice comes in my veins.

 

'Quack quack,' Tony says, waddling around the lounge on his knees, speaking in a squeaky voice. 'Quack, quack. My name's Tina, and I'm a dwarf fucker.'

 

I close my eyes, let the darkness fill me.

 

'Tell you what, though,' Tony says, getting to his feet, 'in all seriousness. She's just the right height, ain't she. I mean, you know, eh? Eh?' He's winking now. Winking at me. Casting aspersions.

 

And that does it.

 

I've had two weeks of this. Every day. Every minute of every day. When you're in love, it's written all over your face. There is no need to feel shame. And it's time I stopped.

 

I jump out of the armchair and brush past Tony, into the kitchen. I can hear him laughing. Laughin at me. At me and my Tina. Wailing like the buffoon he is. 

 

I grab the bread knife from the cutlery drawer and I'm back in the lounge flailing it in his face.

 

Tony is screaming. Blood is spurting. The adverts have finished.

 

There is a knock at the door. I ignore it and continue cutting Tony to shreds on the beige patterned carpet to the accompanying inanity of daytime television.

 

Knock knock.

 

It's too early for Tina. She still has the matinee show to contend with. Queues of freaks and oddities craving her specialist services.

 

Knock knock.

 

This won't do. I'll have to get it. After all, it is rude to leave someone waiting. I open the door, aware I am soaked in Tony's blood, the bread knife dripping in my hand.

 

And there stands a clown, rubber nose and painted smile. Everything inside me breaks.

 

Shatters.

 

All that remains are visions of Tina and the Strongman. Tina and the Fire Eater. Tina and this Clown.

 

I focus on the painted smile. The painted smile that never moves. Fake. Plastic. Unjust. Shameful.

 

'You think this is fucking funny?' I scream.  'Do you?'

 

And I lunge at him hard, blinded by my own tears.

BIO: Ian Ayris is the author of Abide With Me, which you can check out here.

A Twist Of Noir 696 - Cameron Ashley

THE TOUGH ASK - CAMERON ASHLEY

They've put a cuddly new face on the art of the interview.

They call it PEACE.

(Plan and Prepare; Engage and Explain; Account; Closure; Evaluation).

No, really, it’s called PEACE. A fuzzy acronym. A smooth shape some psychiatrist hammered out on the anvil of his concept. Adopted by governing bodies desperate for results in an electorate that’s turned its back on them.

Neck ties are loosened in anticipation of relatable plain clothes, like they’ll shed the skin of their suits, be seen as regular blokes. Guys you’d see in the supermarket, the pub, down the beach.

Not buttoned-down authority figures swinging a phone book.

They're teaching them to act, to feign empathy, to perform. Granted, there is always an element of the performance in the interview – you have to dial it up to instill terror – but there was always honesty in my performance, truth, fact, authenticity.

See, I went by WAR.

(Wrest Control; Aggression Increased Incrementally; Rough Justice IS Justice)

And this is why I am no longer in that line of work. Strictly speaking.

*

Interview rooms aren't particularly impressive, but they serve a purpose – they remove the individual from familiar surroundings and encase him/her in a territory that is essentially yours.

You know it. You control it. In controlling the space, you control the occupant.

This is a principle I have kept. The world is now my interview room.

If he is an urbanite, we go to the bush. The smell of damp earth from a pre-dug grave, weird night creatures skittering above and around, a torch-beam in the face. These things are my tools.

If he is from the country, we go to some abandoned urban wasteland. Ghosts of bygone industry visible in broken windows, forgotten equipment gone Gothic with rust and neglect, the spray paint of illegible tag-scrawl. These things are my tools.

I ask the tough questions on behalf of those who need answers, but who lack the constitution to actually do the asking themselves. The answers determine the outcome. The bush grave, the river dump, and, yes, sometimes even freedom – these conclusions form a crossroads.

And I give the directions.

*

So I ask and I ask and I ask.

There is never any doubt. None. There is nothing but certainty.

For a time.

Then, inevitably I suppose, there is doubt. Was it a particular look in their eyes? A convincing denial? No idea.

All I know is uncertainty.

Once there is uncertainty, there are different questions to be asked. They are:

Have I always been right?

Are there shallow bush graves and weighted bin bags in the Murray filled with innocents?

Are there guilty I've freed?

More importantly perhaps:

Have you had a breakdown?

Are you insane?

I can't answer these questions.

*

I slice myself. I drink a bottle of bourbon, take two fingers from my right hand.

I can't coerce myself to tell me what I need to know. Perhaps I black out before I can speak.

I call my mother, cry into the phone. She tells me I was always a good boy, asks me where I am.

I can't coerce her into telling me what I need to know. Perhaps I hang up before she can speak.

*

The mirror shows a man with a lot to hide. It is not a comforting sight. It is the face of the guilty wearing the expression of the damned.

*

I visit some parents I know. They are terrified. Worse than that, my uncertainty shatters their peace.

They say to me:

You did the best you could for my child.

But in their eyes, I see my doubt has infected them. I have re-broken them.

*

I take the list of others I planned to visit and tear it up.

*

My .38 Special Smith & Wesson Model 10.

Police Issue.

Loaded with hollow points. Clean as. Good to go.

Look at it. It's an answer.

But it's not the answer I need.

*

I take a call.  I go to work.

I can't answer questions, but I can ask them.

I just have to make sure, that's all.

I just have to make sure.

Please, let me be sure.

BIO: This one’s for Christopher Grant. You’re a class act, mate. Thanks, as always, to Jimmy Callaway, who is like a missing slice of my writer-brain.

Interlude: A Few Links That Might Be Of Interest

Have a look, see what you think.

http://www.thedamnedinterviews.com/2012/06/private-parts-the-early-works-of-ian-ayres/

http://www.thedamnedinterviews.com/2012/05/documentary-filmmaker-ian-ayres/

And

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWmMQRrFuPA&feature=results_main&playnext=1&list=PL58B8B0664BC75074

A Twist Of Noir 695 - Phil Beloin Jr.

BEER RUN: A Nick Constantine short story - PHIL BELOIN, JR.

The rundown market had bars hanging over the windows, glitzy ads for beer and smokes plastered the outside. Looked like my kind of place. I parked curbside, crossed the dark street and went in. The register was on my left, the towel head clerk stood by the cigarette displays and lotto accoutrements, of which there were plenty, the state exploiting addicts just like drug dealers and casino operators.

I heard giggling down an aisle— checked it. Never can be too careful in the ghetto. Two punks in do-rags were perusing a centerfold by the magazine racks. They were the only other costumers.

I went to where the fridges hummed, the kids hooting at the nudies. I scanned the beer choice, found kingers—what a treat—and grabbed those lovely tall cans, a chill caressing my fingers and twinkling the back of my head like a beer buzz.

It happened as I was strolling to the register.

“Give me all the fucking money in the register, man!”

“Come on! Give us the money!”

A do-rag had a gun on the towel head. The other do-rag was unarmed, but his mouth was firing threats. In this fucked up neighborhood, there was no way the towel head didn’t have a bazooka under the counter. If he let it go, he would splatter them do-rags and get me, too.

I came up behind the punks, the clerk shaking his head, no, no, no, while his hands slipped down his sides. The unarmed one was asking if the towel head understood American and if he didn’t, how could he get a job like this? It seemed like a pretty good question.

Using my .45’s barrel, I tickled the do-rag of the pistol toting fella.

“You boys better get outta here,” I said.

Three sets of eyes met mine.

“Sheet,” the one without the gun said. “This ain’t your bizness, dude.”

“Yeah, take off,” the other one said.

“Well, guess what?” I said. “I haven’t gotten my carton of smokes.”

“Get this man some cigarettes,” the gunless punk said to the clerk.

I noticed his cohort’s knees were quivering.

Towel head was still moving his hands downward.

I cocked the trigger, the little adrenaline forces doing the double quick through me. “Leave the gun on the counter before I send your brain over to the wall.”

The quaking worked its way up to the do-rag’s gun arm. He was young—sixteen, seventeen years old tops.

“Hey, you,” I said to the clerk. “Stop moving your hands! I got this.”

His hands froze but then his mouth took over, blabbering at the do-rags to listen to me, the gunless one saying he knew the towel head spoke American.

The kid lowered the pistol to the counter and headed for the door, his buddy pushing him outside. When I turned back, the barrel of the towel head’s rifle was an inch from my face.

“You no get the money,” he said.

“How ‘bout that carton of smokes?”

“You put gun away first.”

I placed the beer on the counter and holstered the .45.

“Okay, you my friend,” the clerk said.

He scooped up the do-rag’s pistol and returned the shotgun to its hiding spot.

“No sell beer now,” he said. "After eight o’clock.”

“What?”

“It the law.”

“I just saved your ass.”

“I get big trouble sell beer after eight o’clock.”

“You get big dead if it wasn’t for me.”

“Tell you what, my friend,” he said. “You give me twenty for six-pack. I look other way when you go.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Didn’t black male just leave?”

“No, you don’t understand what I’m...”

“This is what I say to you now; you want beer, twenty-five dollar.”

“You said twenty before.”

“I said twenty when we not argue.”

“You’re a god-damn disgrace.”

“You want chilly beer, no? I here to make money—not for health.” He punched some buttons on the register.

“Okay, my friend. Sixty-seven and six cents for cigarettes.”

I gave him ninety-two bucks.

He moved to put the beer in a paper bag. “Have nice night, my friend.”

“Turn your head. I’m leaving now.”

“No turn head on you ever.”

This is a short excerpt from Phil’s novel, The Big Bad. Check out the entire book out on Amazon.