Concrete Jungle

At the centre of the Stonebridge housing estate in North London, no light could penetrate the shaded stairwells and the dirty net curtains. There were no views and inside the dingy flats cockroaches darted through bedrooms and the rank smell of blocked toilets wafted down halls. Those who knew the place said it was the darkest area in the city. And had the darkest heart. That’s where the undercover Officer Hislop patrolled daily, keeping his eyes on the neighbourhood hoodlums and arresting youths for drugs, knives and firearms offenses. He kept his distance, fighting any urge to sympathise with any of the kids he came up against. There was no point, they were on the road to self-destruction – empathy was a waste of his time. Except for one teenager, Gerald, part of the Skelter crew, who Hislop couldn’t help taking pity on.

One afternoon when some of the Skelter crew were rounded up and cuffed after a raid in the south side of the estate, rain lashing down on the concrete outside sounding like cracking knuckles, a small group of officers circled the gang who they’d forced to their knees by a wall. Officer Gauche frisked the crew. When he came to Gerald, he yanked his head to one side.

‘Hislop,’ ordered Gauche, ‘come over here. This kid’s cuffs are loose, I hope you’re not going easy on him.’

‘I didn’t cuff him, said Hislop, and I don’t go easy on anyone.’

‘Yeah, I don’t need any help from no cop,’ said Gerald, the crust of dried snot plastered across his upper lip.

‘Shut up punk,’ said Gauche.

‘Yeah, Gerald, shut the fuck up,’ said Hislop.

Gauche forced Gerald’s head against the wall. Hislop lit a cigarette and played with it nervously as he stared at Gerald and the stupid look he wore on his face, like he was confused by some complex maths equation. That poor sap couldn’t count to five, Hislop thought.

The police found nothing on the gang and eventually set them free. They scuttled off like a mischief of rats into all four corners of the building. Gerald went home to the fifth floor where his grandmother was waiting for him in the kitchen, smoking a joint that alleviated the pain from her cancerous breast.

When he came in the door his phone exploded with text messages. It was Gerald’s gang leader, Reece, checking on him to see if the cops had found anything.

Gerald’s grandmother beckoned him to join her.

‘Put the phone away, I have to talk to you,’ she said.

Gerald slipped the phone inside his jacket pocket and took a seat opposite his grandmother. His stomach growled with hunger as he wiped his nose and reached out for the joint.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I need your head clear for what I’m about to tell you.’

She laid the joint in an ashtray, letting it burn out by itself as it nestled amongst a cluster of other roaches.

‘I’m dying Gerald,’ she said, ‘you know that don’t you?’

‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, watching a fly try to wrestle itself free from a spider’s web.

‘But I don’t think you understand. It means you’ll be all on your own with no one to look after you.’

‘But you can come visit though, right?’

‘No – what? Gerald when someone dies, that’s it, they are gone, never to come back. Like your parents.’

‘Oh, they just went away, they’ll be back one day. I get it.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I do, gran, and I’ll save you, I promise.’

‘Listen to me Gerald, I have nothing to leave you when I die except this flat. I need you to promise me that you will sell it and leave this God forsaken place when I’m gone.’

‘Leave? But what about my job?’

‘Gerald, you’re selling drugs for a gang. It’s not a job. I know you don’t understand but I want you to find a way out of here.’

Gerald smiled and said, ‘It’s going to be alright gran, you’ll see.’

Gerald’s grandmother sighed, sparked up her joint and said, ‘You can go back to your phone now. Please try to think about what I’ve said.’

That night Hislop returned home to his wife and child late. As he searched his pockets for his keys he almost tripped on the front step. His wife, Marie, opened the door and said, ‘Jesus Patrick, this is the third time this week you’ve come back wasted.’

Hislop aimed a kiss at Marie’s cheek and brushed past her into the living room.

‘I’ve put Stanley to bed. Would you at least like to say goodnight to him?’

‘Can’t it wait?’ he said. ‘I need a cup of coffee.’

Marie placed her hand on her hip and gave him the look.

‘OK, OK, I’ll be up in a minute.’

Stanley’s room was illuminated by a night light that spread a gloomy fog. As Hislop entered, closely followed by his wife, he saw the boy, three years old, in Spiderman pyjamas, standing in his cot gently crying. Hislop scooped him up into his arms and whispered into his ear, rocking him back and forth. Hislop looked into Stanley’s eyes. The boy held a glazed expression.

‘He still doesn’t recognise me,’ Hislop said, as Stanley began to wail.

‘Give it time,’ Marie said.

‘Right. Time.’

***

A few days later Hislop was patrolling one of the blocks when he caught sight of Gerald dealing by the motorway that separated the estate from the rest of the city. The crackhead jetted off before Hislop could catch him but he managed to corner Gerald.

Hislop cuffed him and said, ‘Come with me,’ and he led the boy across the motorway where they found some semblance of civilisation. They stepped into a burger and beer joint.  Clean lines, white decor with splashes of red.

‘I didn’t do it, OK?’

‘Take a seat Gerald, I just want to talk.’

Hislop released Gerald from his cuffs and the boy rubbed his chafed wrists.

‘What would you like?’ Hislop said. ‘Pick anything, it’s on me.’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘No one needs to know Gerald; this is between us. I want to help you. You are hungry, right?’

‘Well, yeah.’

A waitress wearing her hair in a bun and an apron with a picture of a bull etched on the front came to serve them.

‘Give us a double patty diablo with the works. Fries and a chocolate milkshake too. I’ll just have a light beer, thanks,’ said Hislop.

The waitress jotted down the order but before she could leave Gerald said, ‘What are you looking at?’

‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘You know what I’m talking about. What the fuck are you looking at?’

‘Go easy Gerald,’ said Hislop. ‘Nobody’s judging you, right miss?’

‘Look,’ she said, ‘If it’s all the same, I think I’m going to let someone else wait on you.’

‘Fine,’ said Hislop, ‘but I’m sorry.’

Another waitress soon joined them and Hislop repeated the order. He flicked through the mini jukebox that was positioned on the side of their table.

‘I’ve been watching you Gerald. You may not know it but I’ve been looking out for your wellbeing.’

‘Looking out how?’

‘Just… Looking out. I know your grandmother.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Gerald said, all cagey.

‘We speak sometimes. She’s a good woman who cares deeply for you.’

‘I don’t want to talk about my gran.’

‘OK, we won’t. But listen, I don’t care that you deal drugs. I know you are a good person too.’

‘How?’

‘How what?’

‘How do you know I’m a good person?’

‘No idea, Gerald. Call it instinct.’

‘You don’t know the things I’ve done.’

‘Maybe so but I want to help you.’

The food came and Gerald tucked in ferociously.

‘I want to get you out of the hood,’ said Hislop.

‘I don’t need any help, I’ve got plans,’ Gerald said, manoeuvring his mouth around his burger then biting down hard.

‘Oh yeah? What plans are these?’

‘None of your business, and don’t worry about me. I’m going to be just fine.’

‘Right, of course.’

What, you don’t believe me?’

‘Honestly, no I don’t see it.’

‘Well, you’re wrong.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Fuck you, how about that?’

‘Now play nice, Gerald.’

Gerald wiped his mouth and sighed.

‘I’m going to save up for university, get a degree and become a doctor or something.’

‘There’s so much wrong with that sentence I don’t even know where to begin.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this bullshit. If you want to arrest me, arrest me. Otherwise, thanks for the food, but I’ve got to go.’

‘No wait, I’m sorry, please just hear me out.’

‘Why do you give a shit about me?’

‘Don’t ask me that question Gerald because I really don’t know.’’

Gerald stood and said, ‘People think I’m thick, well they’re wrong. I can achieve whatever I put my mind to.’

‘That’s all very well but if you stay here, in the hood, dealing for Reece you’re going to end up dead or in prison. You have to get out of this city where the Skelter crew can’t track you down. Please take a seat and let’s talk about it.’

Gerald stared out of the diner window, across the motorway and over to the looming presence of the estate. It seemed to look back at him, saturated in all its grey haunted glory. He sat back down.

An hour later, after an in-depth discussion, Hislop and Gerald went their separate ways. As Gerald crossed the motorway and approached the estate, he felt eyes on him, peering like black opals embedded in the concrete. As he jiggled his keys in his front door a text pinged from his phone. It was Reece.

The message simply read, ‘My flat, now.’

Gerald climbed the four floors to reach Reece’s apartment. He texted Reece to say he was outside his door. He was shown inside by one of the crew and the smell of high-grade skunk stung his nostrils. The living room had a couch and a coffee table next to it. A selection of guns was laid out on the surface and beside them was a mound of cocaine with tubs of detergent and baby powder to cut the drug. A one-year old baby with a soiled nappy roamed around the constricted space, dried tears on her face. The flat was hot and Reece wore a shirt cut off at the sleeves. But he was lean and had no muscles to expose.  He indicated to Gerald that he should take a seat.

‘Why did you text me, you idiot, if you’re just outside the fucking door?’’

‘Um,’ stuttered Gerald.

‘I’m not going waste time Gerald,’ Reece said, as the baby tugged at Gerald’s trouser leg.

‘You’ve been seen with… Wait, pass the little tyke over.’

Gerald picked up the baby and caught a glimpse straight into her eyes. He saw purity.

‘OK,’ said Reece laying the baby on one side of the couch, beginning to change her. He stroked the side of her face and made some goofy noises.

‘Gerald, you’ve been seen with Hislop. We know he’s been helping you. Let’s face it, any fool can tell you would have been locked up a long time ago if it wasn’t for him.  Honestly Gerald, do you actually like that shitbag?’

‘No, uh, he just wanted to talk and I listened.’

‘Talk about what?’

‘Well, you know, I guess, my plans to go to university and that. He said he could help me.’

‘University?’ Reece cracked a smile, chortled, then fell about laughing. After he’d settled down and picked up the baby, resting her on his chest, he said, ‘And what about your commitments to me and the gang? You have a lot of important work to do. And I’m sure you know what it means if you talk to the police, right? Listen to me now and listen well. I’m going to give you one of these guns and you’re going to take Hislop out. Pop pop, OK? It’s the only way I can be sure you’re on our side. I have to be able to trust you one hundred percent from now on. Otherwise you’re no good to me. Now I know this is a big thing I’m asking you to do, fuck me everyone knows you’re thick as two short planks. But I believe in you. I want to believe in you anyway. Prove to me that my faith is well placed. This is your last chance. Am I understood?’

Gerald gave a sullen nod and took the gun.

‘I’ll text you with instructions when the time is right.’

Gerald went home, his mind swimming with visions of death. That night he dreamt of his grandmother being strangled with a rope. He saw her blood vessels bursting out of her eyes, her bulbous tongue sticking out of her mouth. He couldn’t see who was murdering her but he felt it could be him. He woke in a cold sweat and checked his phone. Still no orders from Reece. He would have to wait.

***

After saying goodbye to Gerald outside the diner, Hislop went to the pub, but he didn’t stay long. Instead he journeyed home to spend some time with his family.

‘This is a pleasant surprise, to what do we owe this honour?’ said Marie as Hislop took a seat at the dinner table. She doled out some casserole for him. The baby sat in his chair and squinted. His lazy eye shifted about in its socket.

‘Just, you know, want to make some changes,’ he said.

‘Well great, about time,’ Marie smiled. ‘Wine?’

They finished the meal, put Stanley to sleep and climbed into bed. As they switched off their bedside lamps both of them remained wide-eyed and deep in thought. The night outside seemed to hiss with venomous intent.

‘You never bring your work home with you,’ Marie said, ‘but for once I want you to talk about it with me. Let me in. I know something is going on.’

‘I thought I could keep it from you. That was the plan. But you’re right, there is something. There’s some boy at work. He needs help Marie.’

‘And you think you’re the one to give it to him?’

‘Maybe, yes, I mean, I don’t know.’

‘Let me tell you what you do. You steer clear of this kid as much as is humanly possible. You don’t talk to him; you don’t think about him.’

‘But you don’t even know who he is and what his situation is like.’

‘I don’t care. I know your job and the scum you work with. They are animals, degenerates. Keep away, do you hear me?’

They were quiet for a while and then Hislop broke the silence, saying, ‘I’m having dreams, nightmares. I’m afraid I’ve already let him in and I can’t push him away. I’ve opened the door and now I can’t shut it.’

‘The only door you need to open is for Stanley, no one else. He’s the one who needs your help and attention. Can’t you see we’re losing you to this job of yours? And God knows what danger you’re putting yourself in by associating with some crackhead.’

‘He’s not a crackhead. Marie he’s actually given me hope. I can do something worthwhile for once in a job that’s been meaningless for years. If, that is…’

‘If what?’

‘If he doesn’t screw it up.’’

‘Please, I’m begging you, stop this madness and focus on what’s important – your family.’

That night Hislop couldn’t sleep so he took a pillow and a throw and crept into Stanley’s room where he laid down on the floor. Hislop finally nodded off an hour or two before dawn. He slept beside Stanley every night that week. He and Marie didn’t talk about his new routine and why it was happening because, although Marie wanted to feel happy about it, she wasn’t completely sure if she liked the motives behind his new behaviour.

***

The week after, Gerald was taking a snooze late in the afternoon. His dreams incorporated the sounds of an audience applauding from the television set next door. He was woken by a text from Reece. It spelled out the details of when and where the hit was to take place. Reece signed off by saying, ‘Don’t fuck it up.’

Gerald wiped the sleep from his eyes, slipped his feet inside his trainers and picked up the gun from inside the dresser. The weapon glinted in the shaft of light emanating from the half-open door. He swallowed. He reached out to his ashtray, took a couple of puffs from a spliff and then tried to sneak out of the flat before his grandmother could notice. As he opened the front door it creaked and alerted her to his presence. She was sitting in the armchair in the living room watching a game show shrouded by a cloud of weed smoke. Buzzers and ticking clocks frayed Gerald’s nerves.

‘What, you don’t want to give a kiss goodbye to your gran?’ she said.

Gerald’s shoulders slumped and he shuffled back inside.

‘What’s wrong Gerald? Don’t hide anything from me. Grandmas always know when there’s something up with their boy.’

‘It’s nothing gran. How are you feeling?’

‘I’m coping darling, I’m coping. I don’t know if I should tell you this but that nice police officer paid me a visit the other day. What’s his name? Henry? Harold?’

‘Hislop.’

‘Yes, that’s it. Well we’ve been talking about you, and me, but mostly you and I have to say he really does speak sense. He seems like a good man and I truly believe that he has your best interests at heart. One day soon I’d like us all to sit down and have a chat. Now, I don’t want to keep you, I just need my kiss and I’ll let you be on your way.’

Gerald dutifully bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. He was close to tears. He walked out of the flat and told himself under his breath, ‘Fix up, look sharp, you can do this.’

Reece’s text had directed Gerald to wait in a stairwell on the second floor. The message said Hislop was expected to arrive, one flight of steps lower, in the hall by the elevators around five pm. Gerald leaned up against the cold wall with his gun held aloft, resting it near his cheek. He noticed his shallow breaths. In out, in out. He noticed the sweat dripping from his forehead. Then he heard voices echo below. Calling him from hell.   It was a conversation between Officers Gauche and Hislop. He eavesdropped.

‘I gotta say, I’m getting a little tired of this place, said Gauche. Frankly I don’t know if I can carry on much longer.’

‘Who do you think you’re fooling? You’ve said the same thing every day for the last ten years,’ said Hislop.

‘Nevertheless. And what about you? You seem to have a new found spring in your step.’

‘Really? No, I don’t think anything’s different.’

‘I have a feeling I know what’s going on.’

‘Oh yeah, what?’

‘Do I have to spell it out?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid you do, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘OK. It’s Gerald isn’t it. Tell me, what have you got yourself into?’

‘Come on Gauche, I’ve told you a million times I have no connection to that kid. Now lay off me.’

‘I wish I could but this is too important to be brushed under the carpet.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Say you’ve been having secret meetings with Gerald and his grandmother. Say you’ve been looking the other way when he’s dealing on the streets or beating up crackheads. For chrissakes, say you’re obsessed with him.’

Gerald knew it was time to act. But the words of his grandmother reverberated through his mind, ‘He wants the best for you, he’s a good man.’ Gerald remained frozen in the stairwell, caught between two worlds. The darkness and the light. All he could do was continue to listen into the cops’ conversation and delay the inevitable.

‘You really want to know what I think of that retard Gerald and his crippled nan?’ Hislop said. ‘I’ll tell you. He’s degenerate scum just like the rest of the bacteria in this hole of an estate. Yes, I thought I could help him, yes, I thought I could fix him somehow. But I was wrong and he and his gran can rot six feet deep for all I care because they have brought me nothing but misery since I met them.’

‘Jeez,’ Gauche said.

‘OK?’

‘OK, OK, I believe you. I never knew you felt that way. I just thought…’

‘You thought what?’

‘Never mind. It’s history.’

Gerald leapt out of his hiding place and aimed his gun at Hislop’s temple. He fingered the trigger lightly but couldn’t bring himself to shoot.

‘I believed in you,’ he howled, the anguish and confusion painted on his face. ‘You said… you said, and my gran she trustedyou. I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!’

Just then the sound of trainers squeaked on the concrete from behind him.

‘Gerald, watch out!’

A gun fired and Gerald collapsed, his blood and brains splattered against the elevator doors as the lift descended past. Down the hall, a figure raced off and disappeared into the maze of the tower block. Gauche immediately gave chase after him.

Hislop knelt down next to Gerald’s body and wiped blood from his cheeks. His eyes were open, grey and gone.

‘Shit Gerald, you idiot, what have you done? I didn’t mean it; I didn’t fucking mean it…’

It wasn’t long before Gauche returned to the scene with the killer in tow – Troy, one of the  other Skelter crew.

‘You certainly do a good impression of not caring for the retard,’ Gauche said, observing Hislop’s grief.

Troy had a blank give-a-shit stare plastered across his face, yet it was clear he was trying his best to avert his gaze from the dead body before him.

‘Looks like Troy here just saved your life, Hislop,’ Gauche said. ‘And now we’re going to take him to the station to find out why.’

‘No need to wait, I’ll tell you right now’ Troy said, ‘It was a warning – to mind your business and leave the Skelter crew alone. Gerald crossed the line, there was no helping him. So, now you know that if you want to get involved again, you can expect the same thing to happen. Without question.’

Hislop flipped. He grabbed Troy by the back of the neck and forced his face up against Gerald’s.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ he cried. ‘Don’t you care what you’ve done?!’

‘That’s enough Hislop,’ said Gauche. ‘Let him go.’

Hislop released Troy who staggered to his feet, shaken.

‘Better him than wiping out some cop. We’re not that stupid,’ Troy said.

‘OK that’s enough out of you,’ said Gauche. ‘You’re gonna be in a world of pain. Do you believe in karma? Hislop go see Reece.’

‘Reece can wait until tomorrow,’ said Hislop, ‘he’s not going anywhere. He’ll be waiting for us, he’ll be clean. But someone’s got to tell the grandmother. I don’t think I can do it.’

‘I’ll get Rawdon to pay her a visit. Go home, have a shower, try and forget about today. Gerald’s not your responsibility, never was.’

Instead of going directly home he decided to walk a lap around the estate in an attempt to clear his mind. He saw rival gangs loitering here and there, continuing to go about their business, not even scared of dealing in front of him. A statement had been made. He hated them and yet he realised Gerald was once one of them too. Maybe Gerald was the same as all the rest. But maybe they were all like him – just kids who needed proper help and guidance. Or they were all psychopaths. Hislop took one last glance behind him as he left the estate and caught sight of two rival gangs, ten on each side, formed in a huddle, hurling punches at each other, grunting and groaning. Hislop let it pass. Not today. And what did it matter if he got involved anyhow? They’d only be at each other’s throats again the next day. It was insanity.

He hit the pub – propping up the bar, still, quiet, throwing back pint after pint as punters buzzed around him. Laughter rang out intermittently as strangers bonded over the pool table and old drunks slept in booths.

Then he went home and tried his best to be quiet as he entered the building. Something told him his wife knew he was there but was giving him a wide berth because, as he crashed about the kitchen searching for coffee, she made no appearance. He was relieved. He gave up on the coffee and with a shaky hand drank five glasses of water. He grabbed a bag of tortilla chips from a cupboard and climbed the stairs. He walked into Stanley’s room, closed the door, and took a seat on the carpet by the cot.

He prised open the crisps and began stuffing them in his mouth, crumbs falling from his lips, scattering around his feet as he sat cross-legged. He put the bag to one side, still munching away, got to his feet and arched his head over the cot to peer in at his son who was ensconced in a blanket, fast asleep.

Hislop picked up Stanley and carried him around the room on unsteady feet. Stanley opened his eyes and yawned. He pawed at Hislop’s chin and looked straight into his father’s eyes. The baby seemed to smile.

‘You see me,’ said Hislop in astonishment. ‘I don’t believe it, you see me.’

He hugged the baby. He hugged him tight. Too tight. Stanley wriggled around and tried to cry but his breath was trapped in his diaphragm. He began to turn blue as his father continued to squeeze the life out of him.

The sun began to rise on another day, a day like all the rest, where the weak were swallowed by the strong and no one dared to think twice.

Deca Dick

The lads at my gym told me I needed to have my fucking head read for shooting Deca. There were horror stories everywhere about this type of juice. 1 bloke couldn’t get a horn for 3 weeks after a cycle. Another bloke went off fanny for a month. Were the stories true? I thought it was a load of old fucking flannel, like saying a poke of Test could give you a heart-attack. So, I got hold of a few vials, cut-price, and shot the shit. I didn’t even stack the Deca with Testosterone to smooth out the side-effects, because I was on the bones of my arse skint.

3 weeks in, and everything was sweet. Had a dick like a truncheon in the mornings. Sex drive was bang on. Then 1 night I was taking a waz, looked down, and it was if my bell-end was fucking retreating into my dick. I could still get a little chubby, though, and it least it meant that I hadn’t been sold a vial of piss, you know?

A couple of days later I stopped getting wood altogether, and that’s when I started shitting it. The desire was still there, but I couldn’t get a rise out of the bastard. Porn was useless. I even rang up a list of my ex-birds to see if any of them would wrap their lips around it, but none would so much as stoop to a hand job. Fat lot of good it would have done me, anyway, with a prick like a burst balloon.

I was propping up the bar in The Moonraker’s 1 night, waiting for my training partner Jonty. We’d pre-drink at The Moonrakers, and then head up town on the lash proper. The barman swung on the Coors Light pump in front of me. He was a sliver of a bloke with a weak beard and a boss eye.

Reload? he went.

Yeah.

You weightlifters sure can drink.

I went: You can’t get drunk twice in 1 session. You just drink through the drunkenness. Leave the dead bottles, will you?

Why?

I like watching them stack up.

I turned around to see if there were any lookers in the place. The music was going loud and the strobe lights were cutting people to pieces. I could make out a bird sat at a table in the corner who was big in the rack, but she had some weight on her. Big tits on a fat bird are like big biceps on a fat bloke. Who gives a fuck?

I was peeling the label off my bottle when this fucking fit bird parked up next to me. I’m talking a 10 out of 10 if ever I saw 1, perfectly poured into a black dress. The barman’s boss eye straightened up as he gave her a once over.

Drink? I asked her.

No, thanks.

I sat back on the stool. I went: I’ve got this theory about blokes who are good at pulling birds. They’re basically stone-cold bastards, but they know this, and actively work to address it by giving birds lots of attention. That burns your Mr Nice Guy, because he’s always operating at his everyday level of niceness and no fucker notices him.

And you’re the Mr Nice Guy?

I’m the bastard.

She looked at me for the first time. I could feel her stare rubbing against me.

You lift weights? she went.

No, I put them down.

She laughed, and it was like some sort of surrender.

We had a few drinks, a few more, a fag in the smoking area outside.

Conversation was fucking easy, a smooth back-and-forth. I couldn’t believe it. The times I’ve dogged birds to get into their knickers, and here she was throwing her fanny in my face. She kept touching my arms, and I had my hand resting on the small of her back, and I could see every bloke in the place looking over ready to mop up if I spilt.

That’s when I remembered that my dick was broken.

You alright? the bird went, smoke from her fag climbing the air like a vine.

Yeah. I’ll be right back, I went, and headed to the lavvy. As I pushed through the crowd, I cursed myself for not getting some Viagra from Marcus. He was a gear dealer first and foremost, but he had his fingers up all sorts of arseholes.

2 blokes were in there, unloading into the pisser.

1 bloke said to the other: Fucking hell, you seen that smoking hot bitch at the bar?

The other bloke said back to him: I wouldn’t kick that out of bed for farting. Who’s that lump she’s talking to?

Dunno, but he’s a lucky bastard. She’s 1 fine bird, and he’s 1 shitpan ugly prick.

I walked up the condom machine. Buying rubbers was a fucking high hope. No – I wanted some of those herbal pills that are supposed to stoke your dick up. Probably a load of shite, but I couldn’t even give them a shot. Some fuckbag had smashed the brains out of the machine.

The lads at the urinals were still talking, hadn’t seen me: He must be on some juice, mustn’t he?

Course he is! His tits are bigger than that bird he’s with. I want a bit of tonk on me, but I wouldn’t want to look like that. He’s too big. It’s a mental illness lifters get when they start training, a bigorexia. They’re never hench enough. What a puffed-up…

That’s when he slung a glance over his shoulder and saw me.

…slag, he finished, his loud voice somersaulting into a mouse’s squeak. The stream of piss between his legs wobbled to a halt.

I opened the door, and went: It’s mental illness alright, but at least it got me jacked, you piss-ant shower of tossers.

The bird was at the bar waiting for me.

You want to go somewhere? she went, a hand on my forearm.

Yeah.

Your place or mine?

Your place, I replied. Limp dick or not, I couldn’t take her back to the mine. Open the cutlery drawer and there were fucking needles looking at you.

She grabbed my hand, and we made for the door. As we walked out, Jonty Jackson was trying to get in. The doormen were pushing him back, telling him he was too steamboated. His eyes were like frogspawn and he was giving them mad jip. Jonty was my boy, my training partner and best mate, so I should have waded in.

You know that lary bastard? the bird went, with a scowl. We were walking to a taxi on the curb.

I held the door open for her, and went: Never clapped sight on the prick before in my life.

She told her address to the drive, and we pulled out. As soon as we were rolling, she was all over me. Fuck, I’d never known a bird to be so game. She was giving me the tongue and I could taste her cherry lip gloss. I went for a classic move, and slid my hand up her thigh, rifled past her knickers to her pussy. There was playful resistance, but she was pumping out wet heat, so I let her have a fingertip. Her pussy was gobbling at it like the mouth of a hungry fish, and she was moaning away, pushing down further on my digit. I caught the driver’s eyes in the rear-view, and gave him a savage look until he went back to staring at fucking street. I pulled my finger out and chased her clit around like it was the last pea remaining on a plate.

The taxi pulled up at the curb of her house, and as she was adjusting her G-string, I gave my fingers a good sniff. Standard.

She lived on that rough Pinehurst West estate. Tiny houses, a criss-cross mish-mash of living. At any given time, you could smell either shit or food cooking, or shitty food being cooked.

At the door of her house, she spun around to face me.

You don’t take roids, do you? I’ve known blokes in the past who took gear, and they were all nutters.

She was feisty. I wanted to fuck that out of her.

I went: I think roids are for cowards and fucking bullies.

I stared out through the roid bloat that was pinching my eyes shut.

Come in, she went.

I did that, and then we were in the kitchen. I thought it was a right dingy shithole, all shadows and corners.

Nice place, I went.

You want a drink?

What you got?

She bent down to look in a cupboard, and her fine teardrop calfs rode up her lower leg. Still no pulse from my dick. I tried not to think about it but trying not to think about it only made me think about it even more, you know?

She went: All I’ve got is wine and…wine.

Bit queer, isn’t it?

She laughed and poured herself a drink, went: You’re a real throwback, a tough guy. How much can you lift?

Bench-press? About 4 of you.

That makes me so fucking wet. I’ve got no time for those poofy blokes who have long hair and wear skinny jeans. I’ve been there and shagged that. I couldn’t tell if they’re fucking me or I’m fucking them. I want a real man for once, 1 who’s gonna dick me right.

You got a boyfriend? I went.

No – do you?

She moved in for another fierce kiss. Her eyes were closed. Mine weren’t. I knew I was outgunned, but the only way out was to keep on going in.

After she’d necked her wine, we headed upstairs. Her arse was a few inches away from my face and it had this hypnotising little wiggle, this shimmy-shake. I could feel through my jeans that my dick was still like overcooked spaghetti, but I gave that arse a few slaps, and she giggled her way into the bedroom, with me chasing behind. She flicked the light on, closed the door, and pushed me to the bed.

Stay there, she went, and lifted my finger to her mouth, sucking it to the tip with lips that formed a soft, wet, tight O.

Before long, her dress and bra were in a pile on the floor. She left her knickers and heels on. Somehow they managed to make her look more naked. She had the sort of body that was so fit that you wished you had 2 dicks to do it justice. I didn’t even have 1 dick, and didn’t I fucking know it.

I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, she said, said it like a threat.

The bed springs squeaked as I shifted my weight.

She walked over with a look on her face like she was about to get wrong with me, like she was a wild fucking animal. Dropped to her knees, undid my belt buckle, and whipped the fucker clean off – slung it against the wall. In a quick second, she’d had my trousers and boxers down and was giving me brain. She was running her hand across my hard quads, but my soft dick was like a piece of chewed gum, stretching back and forth in her mouth.

Shame pinching up my face, I was rubbing my brow and going: Fucking hell. Oh, fuck me sideways.

She thought I was fucking loving it, went: You like that, huh?

She switched from my dick to my bollocks. It was like she was stuffing the hanging wattles of a tired old turkey into her mouth. She was working it and slurping it, but after a bit her eyes shifted from being sexy challenging to just plan fucking challenging, proper drilling into me. I raised my face to the ceiling, and prayed to God Almighty that she didn’t know anyone from my gym. The fallout from this would be worse than the time I shagged that brunette piece who we later found out was a prostitute. But that’s a story for another time and maybe not even then.

Still nothing from my dick. Sweet bugger all. She was absolutely fucking ruining me.

It was too painful to watch. I pushed the bird over to bed, and had her knickers down around her ankles. It has been said that I am a very lazy bastard when it comes to foreplay, but just to distract her from my limp dick, I gave her a right old finger chug. Soon she was grabbing 2 fistfuls of duvet and moaning my fucking name. I flicked the bean with my tongue for a bit, straightened up, and wiped pussy juice from my beard. It didn’t matter how fit the bird was, pussy still tasted like a week-old bucketful of piss and sweat.

Her hand was groping for my limp prick, and she was staring at it like it was a busted toy.

When are you going to ram me? she went.

The walls were closing in. I had to think of something quick, something that wasn’t embarrassing. I couldn’t think of anything. And then it hit me. I went: Wait. I need to take a shit.

She looked at me with her mouth slightly open, eyebrows curled into a question mark.

Where’s your crapper, or do fit birds not shit? I went, stepping into my boxers.

She started diddling herself, went: Down the hall. Second left. And hurry up, for fuck’s sake. My cunt’s making a sound like batter being mixed.

As soon as I’d bolted myself in that shitter, I started furiously pumping my dick. I was trying all sorts of different grips – standard right-hand tug, reverse grip, double-fisted. I even filled the sink with warm water and slapped the fucker in it. I looked like a great big elephant taking on water through a tiny little trunk. I was speaking to my dick, snarling through my teeth: you shit, you bastard, you son of a motherfucker! There was a mirror on the wall, and I kept looking from my jacked body to my limp dick, from my limp dick to my jacked body. I had it all. My biceps were screaming big and the pipes of muscle running up to my neck looked fucking sick good. But what’s the point of being hench if you can’t even fuck a stunner? I thought about bailing through the window, but the drop was a brute. That would be 2 broken legs, and my squat would be fucked for time.

Beyond the patchwork of tiny gardens, the tallest building in the town’s skyline rammed up into the air like an awesome piss-take.

No choice, so I tucked my meat away and went back to the bedroom.

There was this mad loud vibrating noise coming from in there. I hung my head around the door. The bird was resting against the headboard of the bed, legs spread wide. She was wanking herself with this fucking massive vibrator. Damn thing was like a wrist around, no lie. Her face was flushed to fuck, and she was proper going for it, flapping away.

I just stood there.

What’s wrong? she went,

I didn’t say shit, but we both knew that I was in no condition to be the second act following that big bastard.

She suddenly got very angry. Her angry face was very similar to her wank face. She went: This pussy not fucking good enough for you, or what?!

I smiled. You know how prissy birds get when they think their looks are on the way out.

Find me fucking funny, do you? she went, mardy as fuck.

She tugged the vibrator free, and launched it at me with a grunt like a female tennis player smashing a serve. I dipped to the right. That vibrator cartwheeled end-over-end past my head, and bounced across the floor. Thing must have had some guts, because it was fucking pulling itself along the carpet.

The bird scrambled from the bed, threw on a nightgown, went: I should have fucking known as soon as I saw you sitting there all buffed out at the bar. You’re a fucking queer, aren’t you? Fucking looking at yourself in every reflection you can find, like a little bitch. Real man my piss-hole!

I went: I’m no fucking queer!

She grabbed my clothes, and legged it out the bedroom. I saw the tail of her nightgown flap around the corner. I bundled behind – skittering over that vibrator that was still thrashing its way down the hall like a headless snake. Quick thud of feet on stairs. The bird opened the front door, and tossed my shit out onto the street.

I bolted out, limp dick swinging inside my boxers, and then turned around to face her. I pointed my finger at her and opened my mouth as if to speak.

What? she went, with both hands on her hips.

There was something very important I had to say, something that would claw this situation back, but I had no fucking idea what it was.

The front door slammed in my fucking face. I bent down to pick up my clothes. The moon was sitting high in the sky, watching, and it didn’t give a flying fuck.

I stood staring at that door for a long time, and then gathered my shit. Got my jeans on. Walked off down the street carrying my t-shirt and the weight of having almost fucked 1 of the fittest birds in town. There was still time to get mashed, though, so I headed to the High Street and got on it like a car bonnet.

I woke up the next morning, face-down on the floor, in a bus shelter on Havelock Street. I was holding a bag of cold Chinese takeaway. Crispy duck and pancakes. I walked home under a sky the colour of breeze blocks, and ate the Chinese for breakfast at my kitchen table. I showered, and drove to work still sick drunk. I was seeing 2 lines running down the middle of the road, and I could have flipped a coin to decide which was real. I did my 12 hours on the timecard. The thing with factory work is that the boredom is enough to kill you, but not quite, and that’s the fucking tragedy.

I went straight to the gym after work. I started off on shoulder press, but even my warm-up weight felt heavy as fuck. I slung the bar to the floor. Another fucking thing I couldn’t get up.

Big Dave sauntered over, went: You’ve got a face like a slapped arse. What’s wrong?

Had a rough night last night, Dave.

Rougher than Jonty?

What happened to that prick?

Spent a night in a cell for getting sparky with some bouncers outside The Moonrakers. He was in earlier, bragging like fuck about how the law had to use 2 pair of handcuffs to lock his hands behind his back because his lats are so jacked.

He’ll be fine, he’s taken more beatings than wet-mix cement. At least he got free bed out of the bastards.

Why are you so pissy, then?

I looked over my shoulders, and said on the down-low: Been running Deca without Testosterone. I’ve got Deca Dick.

Big Dave jolted back, as if just mentioning Deca Dick was enough for him to catch it like a cold. He went: Are you lacking in frontal lobe, or what? Good luck getting a shag any time soon.

I went: This coming from a bloke who couldn’t get a fuck in a woman’s prison whilst holding a box of Durex? God almighty, and when you do pull – the state of the bastards. I wouldn’t even ride them into battle.

Piss off! When was the last time you fucking pulled, then?

It was my pride that roped me into telling him the story of the night before.

At 1 point during the process, 2 lads walked over to the nearby mats. I’d seen them around, but didn’t know them by name. They started doing sit-ups – taking it in turn to hold each other’s feet.

I shifted the gears of the conversation sharpish: Uh, so, say Dave – did you watch the boxing on the telly on the weekend?

Boxing? What the fuck you on about?

Yeah, the boxing. You know, I said, rolling my eyes towards the chavvies in the corner.

The penny finally dropped, and Big Dave went: Oh yeah, uh, the boxing. I watched it, but it was a bit of a fucking limp fight if you ask me. The lad had it all to play for, but he didn’t rise to the challenge.

I wanked the air. Dave smiled.

The 2 lads wandered off after finishing their work. We snapped back to our conversation like a twanged elastic band.

I put the rest of the tale down for him.

When he’d finished laughing, I went: Thanks for your fucking compassion.

I’m sorry, bruv. But if you was me and I was you, it’d be hanging out of your arse right now.

So what’s your advice? I went. Although Dave was as thick as fuck, I often asked for his advice about shit, if only to do the exact opposite of what he suggested.

Big Dave said: I’ve got 2 pieces of advice. Firstly, you need to get some HCG into you. Restart your bollocks.

Human Chorionic Gonadatropin? I went.

Inject it into your gut fat with insulin pins. That’s standard, otherwise you’ll never get a rush of blood to the dick again.

What’s the second piece of advice?

This is when Big Dave leant in close and said that the second piece of advice he could give me is to not tell another living soul about the story. Bury it. Forget it. Save myself any future embarrassment. Put it in a rocket and fire the fucker into deep space.

I thought his advice was bang on the money, so I’m taking it to heart. I’ve bought some HCG, and I’m not going to tell any fucker about my Deca Dick ever again.

A Hard Case (Part 7)

“Camera meltdown. Break!”

The words tunneled in through a thick fog. Where and why was life going on? Who revealed its secret? Whoever I was never wanted whatever had happened to end, but it ended anyway.

Life is like that.

Other times, you get stuck in the wrong life for too long. 

Someone threw a blanket on my shoulders. That meant I had shoulders. Or maybe it was a towel. Whatever it was felt soft. Life didn’t have to be hard. Not all the time. 

The world was warm, and dark. The lights had burned so bright. Light needs a rest too. The stars close their eyes when the day starts. 

The light spoke itself alive. “Think you can give us another take in about half an hour?”

“How ‘bout half a minute?”

“Stand by.”

Life doesn’t stand by. Life moves through space and time. Life finishes, especially when you don’t want it to.

The bright lights blazed again.

“There you are.” 

The soft voice cut through the glare. A touch that meant another life was there. Everything became clear again.

“OK now do the scene where you…” the big voice was unsure. “Do whatever you want.”

Another facet of the mystery dazzled. The director knew what we were supposed to do together in the light. He just couldn’t put it into words, at the moment. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was out there in the light.

Light-years flew by in all directions and exploded in liquid heat.

“Got it. That’s a wrap.”

Whichever world this was grew darker and cooler. Time flowed. Breathe in, breathe out.  Someone said, “Listen, you can’t stay here. We need to clear the set for the maintenance crew.”

You find a place where you want to be and then you have to leave. The clothes neatly folded on a folding chair fit. I still knew how to put them on. The gun was a leftover from the wrong job. “I don’t want this anymore,” I said, and handed it over to a young woman with a clipboard at her breast. 

“I’ll take care of it,” she said.

Doris had a car outside. The motor started with no fuss. She let it warm up. 

“Are you from Mexico?”

Usually I was the one who asked questions. The answers were for people who had problems in their lives that made them unhappy. My job was to change that. Or that’s what I thought the job was. “I speak English,” I said, eventually.

She put the car in gear and crawled out of Project X’s lot. The words welded onto the gate sounded familiar.

“Work makes you free,” Doris Frawley said. “At least here it does.”

A green light came on and we drove off together into the North Hollywood night.

A blue light came on, and another one, too bright, both headed in the wrong direction. A siren yawped. We stopped.

“Get outta the car,” a too-loud voice said. “With your hands up.”

A Hard Case (Part 1)

A Hard Case (Part 2)

A Hard Case (Part 3)

A Hard Case (Part 4)

A Hard Case (Part 5)

A Hard Case (Part 6)

Kids

May 1, 2012. Chance-Loeb, Texas. Day.

“Marcus and I will deal with this,” Colt nodded to the mud-filled canoe between us. His dad had built it in a fit of nostalgia two weeks after his last deployment, wore his white sailor’s hat the whole time. Colt rested the backs of his hands on his hips, scrawny arms jutting out awkward like a newborn bird’s. “And you go in and get a plastic spoon from the drawer beside the corn snake.”

The snake was six feet long, and Colt thought it was mean to leave the top of the terrarium shut. I ran. They hadn’t dumped enough mud before re-launch, and I returned to see Colt and Marcus knee-deep in the marsh behind Colt’s doublewide. They heaved the canoe just far enough into the reeds that it couldn’t float away and stripped to striped boxer briefs, algae clinging to their scant leg hairs so that it looked like they’d waded into a leechbed.

“Let’s just fish from the bank.”

Colt taught us how to make rods from downed cypress branches, and we tied off and sat on upturned ten-gallon buckets, fidgeting as the drums’ bottom rims indented our hamstrings. Marcus caught a bream, maybe three pounds, and filled his bucket with water for it. Feeling, for a moment, superior, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and grinned at us.

“Wanna see what my brother taught me?”

The first fuzzy wisps had colonized his pale face a few months prior, and he tore the safety off the top of the lighter and shot a jet of flame so that it barely licked beneath his chin. After a couple swift passes he brushed the charred curls from his neck and winked. “Never have to buy a razor.”

August 5, 2019. Interior, Nursing Home. Dawn.

“I’m gonna go do another autopsy. The nice man told me last night.” The man retains something of the aura of intelligence that defined him in his youth, but whatever that something is, it lies. Four days prior, he poured marinara over a shoelace–the twisty kind you don’t have to tie–and chewed it for an hour before a panicked nurse noticed faint choking noises.

That same nurse now places a small plastic cup of pills on his bedside table. He reaches a shaky, liver-spotted hand for it, but his fingers close several inches to the right. The nurse patiently takes the cup, afraid he’ll spill it, and stacks several pillows under his back before feeding him the pills one by one.

“That’s wonderful, Michael. Will it be Kennedy’s again? I recall you were very excited about that one last month.”

“Oh, no, Janet, this one is for a man named Jackson. No, no, it’s Jeremy. I’m sorry. The man came late at night, and I can’t seem to recall our exact conversation.”

“It’s alright, Michael.” She takes special care to emphasize his name. The heirs always hate it when the loved one forgets its name. “Take your time. Tell me, Michael, what did this man look like?”

He cackles weakly. “Well, it was dark, Janet.” Thinking that the overpronunciation of names must be an important custom of this new land, he has taken to mimicking it. “He wore a suit.”

“Did it fit him well?” Preoccupied with thoughts of the besuited man who read next to her on the subway on Wednesdays, she has forgotten that it was dark.

He waxes agitated. “You’re missing the point, Janet. A limousine will be here on Sunday to bring me to the examination. I simply wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t worry.”

She feeds him the last pill and pats his back to help him swallow. She needs to remember to call that speech pathologist. “Yes, I’m sure it will, Michael. I bet you’re very excited.”

May 1, 2012. Chance-Loeb. Day.

Colt built a small fire with the remnants of our rods. He instructed Marcus and I to wrap our single bream in tin foil. No cutting, wrap it whole. We walked to the front yard and played dodgeball with disc golf putters while the fish cooked. Marcus and I had shit aim, so Colt bounded back to retrieve the fish while we gathered ice from a cobwebby cooler in the garage to nurse our bruises.

While we sat on the back of an ancient ATV with Ziploc icepacks on our shins, Colt dashed inside and outside and laid the makings of a veritable feast on the once-white folding table under his dad’s tool rack: A paper bag of fried chicken livers from the Walmart deli, a brown jar of mustard, the unwrapped fish on its foil beside the plastic spoon, and three Dixie plates with purple and green floral rims.

We sat on our respective fishing buckets and Colt slipped into an impersonation of our hunting safety instructor. It had been his running bit for the past month. Thick Cajun golfball-gargling. “Firs’, boys, we clean de piece wi’ de proper tool.” He held the fish by its tail in one hand. In the other he displayed the plastic spoon. “You want to skim just along de surface so you don’ corrupt de riflin’. O’ de flesh, as de case may be. Get buku meat outta lil’ fish iffy clean ‘er right.”

He sloughed off a row of scales and offered the spoon to Marcus and I in turn. We’d left the bream to cook just long enough that the scales slid off with no pressure at all, and Marcus and I each removed thin chunks of filet meat on our first passes. “You wan’ get jus’ de scale, no lagniappe. Go mo’ gennle.”

We fidgeted on the buckets in our boxer briefs for about half an hour of steady scaling and then scarfed the whole spread in fifteen minutes.

August 12, 2019. Interior, Manhattan Medical Examination Facility. Mid-morning.

A long body with a long face lies on a long autopsy table. Naked, its grey body hairs sparkle in thick fluorescent light. The assembled note its egg-shaped penis: Thick at the base, it tapers to a narrow curve at the circumcised glans. The body has died by hanging, so its egg is crusted with semen, like a hard-boiled left too long in brine.

A woman in scrubs reaches for a scalpel, but an elderly man, leaning against his cane on the other side of the table, coughs conspicuously into his mask. The woman jerks her face up and glares at him. “What now, Michael?”

“It’s not time for that yet. Are you sure the rope burn has been thoroughly examined?”

She grits her teeth so hard the squeak echoes. “Five times, Michael.”

“As Chief Medical Examiner, I urge you to examine it a sixth time then check his hands for fibers. If you find matching fibers on the neck and hands, I daresay that’s incontrovertible evidence of suicide.”

“Have you ever seen a hanging victim who didn’t clutch at the rope, Michael?”

“Good point. In that case, give his penis another once-over. I assume you’ve read its psych profile: This was surely the type of loved one who jerked off before he kicked the stool. If you find fibers there, we can call our job done.”

“What if some fell, Michael? Nothing you’ve mentioned is conclusive. Have you not wondered how he found a rope and a stool in a maximum security prison? And enough me-time to rig them up?”

“It’s not our job to speculate. It’s our job to examine.”

A nondescript suited man standing beside the door bursts into vicious laughter, doubled over with his face between his knees. He looks up and finds the woman giving him the evil eye, and he straightens.

“You’re not gonna last long in this line of work, dear,” Michael croaks. “Too many scruples. You know I’ve penetrated the necrotic assholes of JFK and MLK? Marty was tighter. I suspect that Johnny had quite a vigorous priest.”

The woman picks over the loved one’s neck and hands with a magnifying monocle and a pair of tweezers.

“Nothing, Michael. Absolutely nothing. As though he were dead before he hung.”

“Oh? Well, I’d check again. And don’t forget the penis this time.”

“Dammit, Michael, there’s a time limit on this autopsy. We’re not gonna get the body open if we don’t do it now.”

“Why open the body? We’re investigating a hanging, not a poisoning.”

Another squeak. “How do we know if we don’t open the body?”

Michael points to the red marks on the loved one’s neck then folds his hands atop his cane. “This is mildly off-topic, honey, but have you ever had anal?”

The man by the door steps in front of it and crosses his hands over his crotch menacingly.

Watermelon Round-up Run

“Hey man, wake up! Dude, we’ve got a problem. Santiago, Goddamn it hear me? There’s Border Patrol up ahead and they’re searching every car!”

My overexcited companion is Andy, an acquaintance I met in Tucson. He’s a nickelbag, quarter ounce, small-time dealer that for some reason enjoys people being familiar with his activity. It gives him a sense of self-worth for others to know he’s a “dealer”.

Myself, I always made it clear that I was not a dealer. Neither did I sell nor wish to purchase any type of drug, narcotic, or controlled substance in any form. It was a rare instance when I took part in consuming such substances in public. Sure, some had their suspicions but they never voiced them to me. That was just the way I liked it — always keep them guessing.

Now Andy, he had been asking, begging, nagging, and being a downright pain in the ass to accompany me on a run. If it wasn’t for my ex-wife and her mouth of a thousand truths, he would have never even known my vocation. However, when she doesn’t get her way, which according to her is never, every bit of information that can be in anyway harmful to me, she spills. It doesn’t matter where or in front of whom, she reveals privileged and damaging information. In one case, Andy happened to be present during one of her ranting testimonials. Since then, Andy has been a fucking pest. So I allowed him to join me on this mission to Culiacan, Mexico to pick up two hundred pounds of Marijuana, then back across the border loaded down.

I don’t like these border runs myself, but every once in a while, you get chosen, asked, told by “El Jefe” (The Chief) to make one as a favor. It pays very well, and usually Border Patrol has been taken care of ahead of time, guaranteeing safe passage across the border. You’re on your own after that.

We’re crossing at Naco, about eleven miles or so south of Bisbee, Arizona. It is a small border station, manned by only three or four guards, and is less crowded than the Nogales or Douglas crossings. I’m familiar with most of the border patrol officers at this station and have been entering the United States through here for ten years. I am not going to inform Andy of any of this information, however. Figured I’d just let him sweat it out instead.

We’re driving a Ford F-250 pickup with reinforced suspension so the ass end wouldn’t be dragging from the weight of the load. There’s a false bed that has every available inch packed with kilos. Besides the marijuana, we’re carrying close to one hundred and fifty watermelons. It’s back breaking work to unload each individual watermelon to search beneath them. It’s approximately 103 degrees and the sun is brutally scorching the Sonoran Desert countryside. Can’t think of anyone that would want the task of emptying the bed in this heat.

I slide over and switch places with obnoxious Andy, slipping in behind the steering wheel. We’re five or six cars in back of the line to be inspected.

“What the fuck are we gonna do, man?” he asks with a quaver in his voice. “Do we skip out and run?”

“No, fuckstick. First, calm down! You’re so nervous, your shaking is rocking the entire truck. Just have your visa, passport, and Arizona driver’s license ready. Don’t wanna be rummaging around for that shit at the border, in front of the guards.”

I have my own documents ready at hand: the truck’s registration, insurance, and produce certification all safely packed in one envelope and ready for inspection. I am a professional, after all.

“Now, they’re gonna ask your citizenship. Answer United States, don’t say American.”

“Why not?” he asks. “I am an American.”

“And so are Canadians, Mexicans, Hondurans, Colombians, and a few million more people from any country in North, Central, or South America. Do you get it, dumbshit? Just do what I say and don’t give me any bullshit. Okay?”

“Don’t hand them any documents unless they ask for them, then comply with their request, ya got it? And for Christ’s sake, please stop shaking and looking around. You’re acting all squirrelly and drawing attention to yourself, which looks suspicious, so stop it!”

I turn off the AC, roll down the window, and instruct Andy to do the same. He’s sweating like someone who’s just run a marathon. His shirt is soaked with perspiration. The heat outside instantly pervades the inside of the cab, and soon I am sweating too.

“How are you so calm, man? You aren’t nervous or worried at all?”

“Of course I am, but I figure the worst thing that can happen is going to prison, and there’s three meals a day, a bed, television, arts and crafts, and plenty of guys for establishing new friendships. Shit, sounds so good I just might turn us in! I’m due for a vacation.”

“Don’t fuck around, we’re gonna be okay, right?”

“Only if you straighten up, get your act together, and find some fucking balls.”

We pull into the receiving area and a Border Patrol officer walks up to the window. An Arizona Highway Patrolman sits in his cruiser nearby, notices me and gives a wave. I recognize the officer, Carl Jenkins from Bisbee. I don’t wave back so as not to bring any attention to our familiar relationship.

“Well, what do ya know,” the Border Patrol officer says as he walks up to my window. “Look who decided to honor us with his presence. Are you lost, Santiago, or do have some legitimate reason for showing up in these parts?”

I’ve known Officer Rick Larson since he started as a cop back in Tucson, eight years ago. He’s always been on the take since day one, shaking down drivers for cash to let them go from a traffic citation that in most cases they didn’t deserve in the first place.

“Well, Officer Larson, figured you were missing my company, so I thought I’d stop by and see how you were getting along.”

“What you got in back there? Watermelons, huh. Sure do love me some watermelon, so do my kids.”

“Just trying to make a little extra money,” I tell him. “Gonna sell these at the Swap Meet this weekend.”

“Uh huh, I certainly imagine that’s so!” Officer Rick says with a sarcastic grin.

“Why don’t you grab a couple for your family and the other officers, as well as the State Cop as my gift from Mexico. Hey, by the way, did you get your birthday present from my cousin in Sinaloa?”

“Yes, I received the gift, quite generous. The watermelon is a nice offering, I’ll surely take you up on your offer and grab a few. And your nervous passenger there, looking like a deer in headlights — is he your partner here in this little watermelon roundup?”

“Yeah, that’s Andy. He’s been worried about the sun baking the melons, over-ripening them and ruining their flavor.”

“I’m sure that’s the reason,” Officer Rick says. “Be careful up ahead, there’s a speed trap on Highway 80 just before Tombstone. Have a safe trip.”

And with that, he waves us through.

“Thank you Officer!” I call out the window, after they have grabbed about six watermelons.

“You son of a bitch,” Andy says. “You knew it had been arranged ahead of time all along, that the cops had been paid off in advance, and you just let me freak out back there!”

“First of all,” I tell him, “my mother is not a bitch. She is a very nice lady. Secondly, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. Who paid what to whom, where, when, what? Man, you must think like this is like some TV show…”

He doesn’t have any response to that.

“Andy, best you forget all about our little watermelon run,” I continue. “These people do not fuck around. They’ll kill your dog, cat, children, wife, brothers, sisters — your whole entire fucking family, gone. They leave you alive until last, so you can live with the guilt of having caused their deaths. Then, when you least expect it, BOOM just like lightning you’re dead.”

There’s over 95 kilos (200 pounds) of some high-grade Mexican weed in the false bed of the pickup. It’s got dual gas tanks, so I’m sure one of them is packed with pot as well as the spare tire. No vacant area or empty cavity has been left unpacked with contraband. Now, a rookie working the run would expect payment for only the original 95 kilos. However, the seasoned veteran knows the “trucos” (tricks) that these traficantes employ. There’s probably an extra 35 to 50 kilos hidden away that they assume you’re not aware of and will not have to pay you for. That is somewhere around another 100 pounds of salable product, give or take.

When I am hired on for an undertaking such as this, I always prefer to get compensated per package instead of the entire load. It always works in the wheelman’s favor to request that type of compensation. Otherwise, they may throw some cocaine in with the load, maybe some speed, ice, crack, or any variety of prescription drugs as well. Some knock-off watches, clothing, shoes, purses, and all types of extra shit that you are basically transporting for free. I name my terms of the contract, and because of my sterling reputation, seldom is there any protest.

They’d originally offered me the run at $30.00 per pound. Over the border runs are much more risky than a standard one, however. There are so many other factors that could come into play and contribute to a tragic outcome. “Nunca” (never) accept the first offer if you’ve been employed by the organization for a reasonable length of time or have a strong, righteous relationship. My price was $50.00 per pound or a discount at $100 per kilo, which El Jefe readily accepted, and we drank a shot of Mescal to the agreement. Roughly calculated, it came out to around $15,000 in profit, including the hidden stuff. Most of the produce would be donated to the Tucson Community Food Bank and Salvation Army.

“Hey Santi,” Andy says, “I don’t need to get paid for coming along with you. And as I told ya before the trip, I won’t say anything to anybody, I promise.”

“I don’t remember offering any kind of payment,” I reply. “Tell ya what, I’ll throw a couple pounds your way as a gift for your company and towards hoping I never have to spend this much time with you ever again! You drive me out of my fucking mind. You’re like a child with all your dumb questions and stupid comments!”

“Sorry,” Andy says, “didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe we could stop in Tombstone for something to eat and a couple of beers. What do ya say?”

“Maybe I should just drop your ass of in Tombstone and be done with you. We’re an hour and a half from Tucson, seventy miles or so, and you wanna stop for food and beer? Best keep to selling nickelbags, Andy. No, I am not going to stop for lunch and especially not for fucking beer! I’m working, understand? We’ll need to stop for gas soon, and when we do, you can grab something from the station.”

“Jesus Christ, ya don’t have to holler…”

“Don’t use the name of other people’s deities in vain. And how many times have I told you, no drinking or drugs while on the clock?”

“Your clock is always runnin’, man. It sucks!”

I pretend to slap at him in anger but end up laughing instead. He starts yucking it up as well.

We reach Tucson and I drop him off at 1st and Prince, near his house. No way I was taking him to the drop house with me. The Mexicans there would cut my balls off and use them in albondigas soup. I was going to have to backtrack to Pueblo Gardens at 36th and Campbell. Thought it would be best not to drive immediately to my destination, just in case I had been tailed. Also, this kept Andy from putting together any clues himself.

“Hey Andy,” I say as he gets out of the truck. “Grab a couple of watermelons for your girlfriend and her kids. I’ll give ya a call tomorrow, concerning your compensation that we talked about. Okay?”

“Yeah, but what about the pot you said you’d lay on me?”

“Really? I will call ya tomorrow.”

He walks off with a watermelon under each arm.

As I drive away, I notice his ID and other items still sitting on the dash. I shake my head in disbelief and throw it all into the glove box.

He got busted three days later with the kilo I gave him, selling half a pound to an undercover cop.

Who didn’t see that one coming?

The Girl Next Door

Seven heists in seven days—in seven different cities. And Danny O’Day felt amped as he wheeled the clacking Samsonite up the brownstone steps. Twenty-five rigorous years in business, and he’d just stolen his last paintings. Fuck, yeah, hallelujah. Only forty-three—and officially retired.

He entered the marbled foyer: where his eyes embraced a series of extraordinary curves ….

“Hey—look who’s back.”

She’d lived across the hall for six months now. Only twenty-six. And he didn’t see her often. But Danny had a type. And knew that he was smitten.

“Indeed I am. So how ’bout dinner? My place? Eight o’clock?”

“Yes, yes, and yes—but right now I need to run.”

Danny didn’t believe in kismet. But he couldn’t combat the notion that the two shared something cosmic. While both Chicago natives, here they were in Boston. And beyond that he discovered, they read the same authors. Enjoyed the same movies. Even hated the same foods.

But sometimes he felt eerie: some strange sense of deja vu. And oddly, Danny noticed … she never spoke his name.

***

Danny read the New York Times: where he’d made the news again. Back in ’95 the FBI dubbed him Houdini—he made paintings disappear—then disappeared himself. The press loved the moniker. And the silly name had stuck. But just like he suspected, the piece proved short on facts.

Since he’d been out-of-town for weeks, Danny knew the fridge stood empty. Deciding to cook a pot roast (along with all the fixin’s), he snagged a cab to Muldoon’s Market. Besides selecting a prime roast, he grinned wickedly at the high school clerk, and asked for a box of lambskins.

“And what dish would you cook with lambskins” she asked, her cheeks still burning crimson.

“The kind you heat with your eyes—and eat on the kitchen floor.”

Though Danny felt confident with women … he knew nothing about relationships. There’d only been one girl he’d slept with more than once. They’d dated for two years. But that day when she discovered her boyfriend was a thief? She dropped his sorry ass like a bloody hot TV.

Jilted over ethics, rather than see her every day, Danny ditched school as well. He would’ve rather wanked his carrot then spend prom night with some floozy … like Donna “Wanna” Johnson—better known as Carrot Top (not just for her orange hair). So before the year was over, he boosted a car and drove to Boston—where he hooked up with a crew.

He’d never returned to the Windy City. But inevitably (so it seemed) every woman he’d ever bedded bore a semblance to her.

***

Danny answered her firm knock at eight o’clock sharp—

Goodbye, girl next door. Hello, slinky minx. No dull flannels or denim blues tonight. A spaghetti-strap blouse of silky cherry red perfectly matched her lipstick, and enlivened her brown eyes. Danny leaned in … and kissed one rouged cheek. Which afforded a tourist’s view of yawning blue-veined cleavage—a canyon that surely put Arizona’s grand to shame. Right hand tucked below the waistband of her taut black pencil skirt, he guided her to the dining room: her modest four-inch pumps tapping a sultry rhythm on his oak hardwood floors.

Seating her at the table, he laid a hand on her shoulder. Ultra-sensitive touch was one of Danny’s many skills. And letting his fingers graze the hollow (at the conclave of her throat) he detected the slightest flinch; a sudden flutter in her pulse …. Though she garnered her composure: caught his gaze and smiled.

He’d encountered this before—in women that men had battered. Perhaps a secret reason why she’d left Chicago.

They went easy on the wine, but remained relaxed through dinner. Though just as he intended, she couldn’t stop glancing at the boxes he’d arranged on the table to her left.

They’d played this game before.

And she quite enjoyed the ritual.

Meanwhile he tried his damndest to stop glancing at her tits.

***

As Danny made and served espresso, she opened each white box; and smiling … but almost teary-eyed—lined each snow globe on the table.

Brattleboro, Vermont.

Rochester, New York.

Gary, Indiana.

Biloxi, Mississippi.

Hartford, Connecticut.

Baltimore, Maryland.

Buffalo, New York.

Mementos from seven cities. In the order he’d pulled the heists.

“Thinking of snow, I’ve leased a suite in Amsterdam overlooking the Amstel River. I’m flying there for Christmas. And I won’t be coming back. I know it’s rather sudden—but I’m hoping you might join me. And at the very least, perhaps, stay thru New Year’s Day.”

She briefly touched his hand; he marveled at its heat.

“I think if you’ll excuse me … I need to use your bathroom.”

He pondered her response; watched her navigate the hallway.

Just his imagination? Or was the poor girl reeling? He fingered the lambskins in his pocket. And wished he could steal her heart as easily as a painting. He heard the toilet flush. But then five minutes passed … his hopes slipping with them.

“O’Day!”

Startled he stared down the hall.

Propped in his bedroom doorway—

She wagged a beckoning finger … and twirled her lacy black bra.

Dear sweet wonderful Jesus. She’d finally said his name.

Yeah, she’d used his last name. But, hey, it was a start.

Springing from his chair, he tripped on the maple table leg … mother fucker… and fought the urge to run.

Finally scooping her by the ass, Daniel O’ Happy Day ran his tongue across her neck, and set her on the bed. What a way to start retirement.

Clawing at his shirt … Danielle shoved him on his back. Zing—she whipped off his belt, and lashed him to the headboard. Panting, she straddled his waist. And hiked that pencil skirt. Eyes tracing those milky-white legs, Danny’s eye popped. Enviously nestled on her glorious right thigh perched a black lace bulldog holster.

And rather than flashing her top, she slid a sleek Beretta artfully from that holster—and flashed a badge instead.

“Tell me Houdini,” she gulped—swiping her wet neck with a Kleenex.

“Was that any way to treat your daughter?”

Flare-Up

There’s blood in the spider ivy by the bay window when Dale gets home. Blood splotches on the jamb, blots on the carpet. Boisterous blood drowning out the mechanical drone of television from another room.

“Charlie?!”

“Dad?” an adolescent voice calls from the bathroom.

Dale drops his hardhat and lunchbox, hurrying to the bathroom. His son’s sitting on the edge of the tub, naked, back to his father, ankle deep in lukewarm bathwater. It smells like raw porkchops turning seasick green. “Charlie? What’s wrong?”

“The armpit rash,” Charlie says, speaking towards the pale tiled shower wall.

“From that new deodorant?”

Charlie twists towards his father, his torso warped with blood and abscesses. A deep hole stretches from chest to shoulder, exposing muscle and sinew.

“Oh my God, son!”

“It started burning so I tried to open a window to air it out, but it’s getting worse.”

Dale flips on the shower. “Rinse it off, we’ve got to get you to the hospital!” He reaches for his phone, but it’s not in his pocket. Fuck. The lunchbox, it’s still in the lunchbox. “I’m calling an ambulance.” He scrambles to his lunchbox, fumbling with the piece-of-shit latch that hasn’t worked right since he dropped a hammer on it a few years back.

Come on, open! You fucking thing.

He crushes it open, lunch wrappers spilling out onto the matted carpet. He snags his cell phone, slams the 9-1-1 emergency call button.

Beep—beep—beep.

Fucking busy signal?!

Charlie screams—a hideous squeal. Dale crashes back into the bathroom, finding his son squatting and whimpering in the tub. The armpit rot’s spreading, revealing bare shoulder bone, flesh turning putrid and flaking away, muscles withering and peeling from tendons like carved meat.

“We’ve got to get you to the ER,” Dale says, grabbing a nearby towel. “Come on.” He pulls Charlie to his feet, fetid skin shifting when touched like it’s a sheet draped over muscles, and helps him pass the barrier of the tub, cold shower ricocheting everywhere, fleshy pulp spattering all over the walls, floor, ceiling—morsels of his little boy dripping from Dale’s face.

Portions of ribcage start to show, seeping pus and muscle mucous. Chunks of Charlie flopping into the water below.

Dale’s stomach whips as he covers Charlie in the towel, wrapping tightly to keep his body from crumbling. The rot has already crept up his neck, part of his jawbone now visible. They hustle past the spilt lunchbox towards the door, towards the old Chevy work truck, towards help—Charlie slowing with each step.

“Dad?” Charlie’s voice sizzles, his breath like vocal cord decay.

“It’ll be okay son, you’ll be okay!”

Slices of Charlie’s scalp shed from his skull, bloody crumbs of cartilage from his nose and ears stick to the towel. His legs stop responding as the rot rips towards his feet. Dale drags his son towards the door. “Come on, Charlie. Stay with me!” Charlie doesn’t respond. Teeth tumble from his mouth, flesh drizzles off his fingers.

Dale’s dragging a corpse by the time they get to the entryway.

“Charlie?” he yelps, eyes gushing with grief. He coils into a fetal crouch near Charlie’s body as the world twists and compresses, strangling the breath from his lungs. Bile and stomach acid surge up his throat, rupturing from his mouth.

Dale pleads to his God.

Wrapped in tears, blood, and vomit.

Until the tingling on his palms start to burn. Carnage and boils consume his hands, skin-rot sinkholes slashing through intrinsic muscles and tendons. He sways to his feet, towards his Chevy, towards the hospital—ignorant to the newscaster’s warning from the TV in another room.

…pheromone-induced chemical reaction to a new deodorant product…flesh-eating fungus…highly contagious…hospitals overwhelmed…stay inside…keep away from others…

THE TIME I ROLLED WITH THE PRINCE OF DENMARK AND WE TOOK IT RIGHT INTO THE DANGER ZONE

The best thing about immortality is knowing you’ll never lose your edge when you ride into the danger zone.

Not that Princess Ardala, commander of the flagship Draconia, knows this fact. I never told her I’m immortal. Nor did I expose Her Highness—given her contempt for ancient entertainment—to any of my favorite old-school jams. In particular, the Kenny Loggins hit single off the Top Gun movie soundtrack released in 1986, “Danger Zone.”

The princess won’t watch Top Gun, either, one of the greatest cinematic events in Earth’s history. She’s pretty snooty for a glorified space pirate.

And to think I called her my boo. Not only does Princess Ardala dump me in front of Tigerman, her bodyguard, she wants to kill my main man and me by ejecting us into the void.

While we wait for her to send us off—as if space can harm two straight up superhumans—I squeeze the clutch and turn on my Kawasaki Hyperspace Ninja. The newly upgraded, superluminal motorcycle hums to life.

“You and that silly conveyance.” The princess gets one last dig in over the airlock speaker. “Well, we’ll always have New Paris. Farewell, Pete Mitchell. Kane—you may open the outer hatch.”

It’s time. Behind me, my main man, Ham Dogg, the Prince of Denmark, wraps his arms around my waist.

“To what dreams may come,” he says.

“For shizzle, Ham-Dizzle. And in case I never told you before… I love you.”

I throttle the hyper drive engine and shift into first gear. Kane releases us to the blackness of space.

Like Kenny Loggins, we take ourselves right into the danger zone.

***

Speaking of Kenny Loggins, here is how I ended up on a pirate spaceship in the year 2491.

My journey to the stars began in the year 2019. I, Pete Mitchell, was riding my newly restored Kawasaki Ninja GPz900R on I-5, through Portland, Oregon, when I saw a minivan driver flip off a pickup truck driver who had cut her off. Eager to bust a cap in misogyny’s ass, I told myself, “Pete, here is someone who needs to know not all the men in the world are hyper-aggressive scumbags.”

I switched from the fast to slow lane and pulled up alongside the fuming, middle-aged woman. I meant to tell her: “Ma’am, that man is a disgrace to the International Pickup Truck Consortium for Human Decency. I’m going to place him under citizen’s arrest and report him to the consortium.”

Unfortunately, to my eternal shame, I flipped the driver off instead. I gave her the bird for several seconds, too, like actor Tom Cruise as Maverick flying inverted above the MiG fighter pilot in the opening dogfight scene in Top Gun.

“Here ya go, pig-face,” I shouted, through the woman’s passenger-side window. “LET’S SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT!!!” A total dick move. And decidedly not a win for Bros Against Misogyny (a campaign I supported on behalf of the International Bros Consortium for Human Decency).

I couldn’t help myself, though. I felt as if I’d been possessed by a demon that sounded like Kenny Loggins barking orders inside my head. Which humbled me for reasons I’ll explain in a minute, and disturbed me because I enjoyed Kenny Loggins’s music.

As you might imagine, my gesture did not sit well with either the International Motorcycle Consortium for Human Decency or the International Bros Consortium for Human Decency. After their investigations, I lost my IMCHD and IBCHD voting privileges, my access to IMCHD and IBCHD events and activities, and my IMCHD and IBCHD real-estate holdings. My fellow riders and even many of my fellow bros ceased to acknowledge me.

My grandfather—who was also banished for harassing a motorist, albeit before the founding of the IBCHD—used to call the highway “The Great Lonesome.” Now, I understood why.

An outcast, I rode across America for the next six years. Desperately, I sought an expert to cure the neurological disorder that made me flip people off and taunt them in response to an inner voice that sounded like Kenny Loggins. I had always known the condition prevailed on my dad’s side of the family. But, being told I looked like Tom Cruise all my life, I figured I was too slick to inherit such a weird, self-sabotaging disorder. Talk about a lesson in making assumptions.

My vagabond lifestyle proved a grim one-eighty from the hellraising, high-fiving life I had once led. Thankfully, my fortune shifted when I met my main man, Ham Dogg, the Prince of Denmark. I had outrun a biker gang that didn’t appreciate being taunted by me when I ducked into a bar and saw Hamlet at the counter, staring into his beer. We were in a dusty little burg called Higgledy Piggledy, South Dakota.

Blue-eyed, bearded, and brooding, the handsome patron looked like movie star Mel Gibson with a Caesar-like haircut. I took his presence there as a sign we were meant to become the closest of homeboys. I ordered two cold ones and sat beside him.

“Thanks for the replenishment,” he said, in an English accent. “But… do I know you?”

“Nah. I know you, though. You’re Mel Gibson, right? I’m a big, big fan. I’ve seen I Never Promised You a Rose Garden one-hundred-and-twenty-nine times.”

“Hmm, I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I am not Mel Gibson. My name is Hamlet.”

“As in, ‘To be or not to be’ Hamlet?”

“That is the obvious quote, but yes. And you are?”

“Pete Mitchell. My parents named me after Tom Cruise’s character in Top Gun.”

Intrigued by the title, Hamlet admitted he had never seen the movie that inspired me to become a ruggedly individualistic motorcycle studmuffin. He had seen Tom Cruise’s earlier movie though, Losin’ It, one-hundred-and-twenty-nine times.

With his eager permission—and over the noise of locals discussing the upcoming International Tractor Consortium for Human Decency rally—I gave the prince a thorough plot synopsis of director Tony Scott’s turbo-charged, aviation thriller. He teared up when I told him about Maverick’s main man, Goose, losing his life in a training engagement. “Alas, poor Goose,” he said, squeezing my leg.

Hamlet excused himself to hit the head. When he came back, he looked extra brooding, like Mel Gibson giving the famous “To be or not to be” speech in director Franco Zeffirelli’s film adaptation of Shakespeare’s play about him (which I had seen, but had to watch again later to compare with the real deal). We toasted our luck meeting each other in a bar in Higgledy Piggledy, South Dakota.

“Pete, you’re my new main man,” my new main man said, leaning in. “So I feel there is something I should tell you.”

“Anything, Ham Doggy Dogg.”

“I am immortal.”

I almost spit my beer up. “Come on, homes, I’ve read the play. You spend all your time pondering your mortality.”

Hamlet shrugged. “I know. Stupid, right? Now I spend all my time pondering my immortality. But the reason I’m coming out to you like this is because pondering my immortality nonstop can become unbearably lonely. For centuries, I’ve been searching for someone companionable and—well, mobile enough, to join me as I wander the earth thinking about what it means to not die. On my father’s grave, Pete, I swear I would give you immortality for your company on my peregrinations. Would you accept this?”

“Hells yeah!”

“Then drink this.” The prince pulled a vial of pinkish liquid from his fanny pack. “It’s an experimental elixir I concocted to distract myself when my uncle forced me to consider killing him for poisoning my father. I thought it would help me speak with a Danish accent when thinking aloud in English… but instead, it made it impossible for me to not be. One sip of this potion, and you will not be able to not be, either.”

And that is the start of how I ended up on a pirate spaceship in the year 2491. Because life moves on a different time scale when you’re eternally youthful and roll with an over-analytical Hamlet who unintentionally arranged it so he can’t not be.

Unfortunately, my immortality did not eliminate my neurological disorder, but at least I had forever to find a cure for it, and, more importantly—with Hamlet’s support after fifty years of considering the matter—to fulfill my dream of jockeying jet fighters and graduating from TOPGUN.

It took us a hundred years, but once the prince and I got the hang of flying ultra-sophisticated military investments, we gained a reputation for being hell in the air and eventually in space. I just wished we’d gotten better call signs than “Bird Spasm” (for my compulsive hand gestures) and “Weird Caesar” (for Hamlet’s haircut).

For two centuries, on this world and beyond, we flew combat missions, macked on fly honeys, and whizzed around on my newly upgraded Kawasaki Sky Ninja. But finally, after the Darnivian Insurrection in the year 2390, we retired to Hamlet’s underground bunker outside Chicago.

Every summer, we traveled the country on my self-repairing, fuel-recycling, flightworthy motorcycle. Other than a “bird spasm” that struck me in a biker bar in Zip-A-Dee-Ay, Nebraska, nothing much happened on these trips, although we did manage to see the Kenny Loggins Museum. I still appreciated the man’s music, despite my inner voice.

Our road trips ended shortly after the biker bar incident. My main man and I spent the next fifty-five years hangin’ in the bowels of the underground bunker.

Hamlet converted the garage into a science laboratory. His experiments saved him from the gloomy meditations he had cherished before he became sharp-witted radar intercept officer, “Weird Caesar.” As for me, I felt sad that I no longer had anyone to subject to my “bird spasms” except my main man and the walls of our domicile.

I got to thinking about this, because being sad about not bullying people is messed up.

After months of researching my family history, while Hamlet tinkered with a Losin’ It-themed lunchbox that took pictures, I came to this conclusion:

I don’t have a neurological disorder that afflicts men on my dad’s side of the family. I have a rogue element inside me that randomly takes over and acts like a dick. From what I can tell, all the Mitchell men carry this rogue element inside them.

It shows up shortly before middle age. Something about this stage of life triggers feelings of inadequacy that cause us to lash out at others. To take the blame off ourselves, we turn these feelings into a sort of evil spirit that commands us in the voice of someone famous. My great-grandfather, Dr. Atticus Mitchell, took our frontin’ a step further by attributing his John-Wayne-prompted outbursts to a hereditary neurological disorder. And so we’ve been framing our bad behavior ever since.

When I told Hamlet my theory, he took my picture with his lunchbox and showed me how enlightened I looked.

“Look, Pete,” he said. “Not to sound harsh, because you’re my main man and all, but I’ve always known you’re kind of a dick. That’s great you’ve finally realized it yourself, though. It looks like being cooped up in this place has been good for you. For me, too, actually. It’s funny… since we stopped our adventures, you’ve become more reflective while I’ve become more active. And now you’ve learned what you needed to and I’ve had my fill of inventing crap inspired by movies no one’s heard of. Maybe this means our work is done here.”

“So what? We join the Space Marines and—”

“Come on, Pete, we’ve seen enough war, haven’t we? I feel we should take on a creative project. And I have just the idea for it. If done well, we could fatten our bank account and help you get over your ambivalence toward Kenny Loggins… given your behavioral problem.”

“All right. Hit me, Ham Deezy.”

“We form a Kenny Loggins cover band.”

“Oh snap, homes. Right on!”

It took us thirty-five years to arrange our Kenny Loggins routine. But once we got the hang of harmonizing, we became hell at paying tribute to the singer-songwriter behind some of the most iconic movie songs of the 1980s. When the “Kenny Log Clones” hit the big time, all of civilized Earth would cut loose like in Kenny Loggins’s hit single, “Footloose.”

That was our dream, anyway. We found out the universe had different plans when we headed for Chicago.

For one thing, there was no Chicago anymore, only an urban ruins. For another, the streets teemed with badly burned, subhuman creatures that pelted us with rubble. They didn’t do much damage, seeing as my motorcycle repaired itself and my main man and I couldn’t shuffle off this mortal coil. Still, this was not how the Kenny Log Clones wanted to kick off its open mic tour.

Hamlet pointed at a city shining in the distance. Switching the bike to aerial mode, I got us to the city limits lickety-split. Outside the dome, a guard in a sky car escorted us inside.

“Perchance to dream,” Hamlet said, while we gawked at the towering spires, serpentine monorails and fountains of dancing light all around us. The city looked the way twentieth-century special effects artists imagined future cities would look.

Our escort led us to a building shaped like one end of a half-pipe. On the rooftop, we were met by Dr. Elias Huer, Colonel Wilma Deering, and Twiki, a child-sized robot. They welcomed us on behalf of the Earth Defense Directorate. They were shocked to discover we’d had no idea a nuclear war had ravaged the entire planet while we were down in the bunker honing our Kenny Loggins routine. Our magnificent surroundings, “New Chicago,” numbered among a handful of domed cites that had been constructed after the holocaust.

I took the news with due seriousness. Secretly though, I couldn’t help but laugh… because what a way for humanity to produce a dystopia. With a few nukes, it had recreated the premise of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, a film and television show I had watched in the ancient times via endlessly syndicated reruns. It was as though my ten-year-old self were writing this story.

With that said, please don’t think I failed to see the enormity of the most devastating war in human history. I just wanted to direct my energy toward happier thoughts.

Because there we were, a Danish prince and a Tom Cruise look-alike with a futuristic Top Gun motorcycle, in a Buck Rogers future with an opportunity to introduce the Kenny Log Clones to a post-apocalyptic population. If there was one good thing about our time in the bunker, it was that we had strengthened and composed ourselves for just this sort of scenario. My main man and I wanted only one thing, now: To make New Chicago cut footloose.

Unfortunately, my inner voice still took control sometimes. It was on a luxury sky liner, popping out from behind Hamlet to serenade Wilma Deering with “That Lovin’ Feelin’”—like Maverick does to Charlie in Top Gun—that I told the colonel she looked like she wore a fat suit painted to look like a metallic, purple jump suit. As a result, Colonel Deering schooled me in the art of face-planting with her metallic, purple stiletto boots.

Needless to say, my action did not sit well with either the Earth Luxury Sky Liner Consortium for Human Decency or the Earth Defense Directorate. Captain Buck Rogers ordered us to return to the mutant-haunted, radioactive wastes beyond the dome. Rather than head back to the bunker, however, Hamlet and I decided to visit the lunar colonies. Using parts he salvaged from bombed-out “Old Chicago,” he upgraded my Sky Ninja into a Space Ninja.

Halfway to Luna, the Draconian space pirates seized us during a stop on a gentlemen’s star liner. Kane took Hamlet in as his drinking partner, and Princess Ardala made me her boy toy. She adored my obscene outbursts against her.

Around this time, I discovered something else about myself: I have a contrary, rebellious streak. Go figure. At the height of our romance, my Kenny Loggins voice told me to do a one-eighty with the princess. The moment I massaged her royal shoulders and said, “I love you, boo,” I knew Hamlet and I were going to get kicked to the space curb.

“Sorry about that, Ham-my-man,” I said, moments before the princess got her dig in about my motorcycle.

“That’s all right, Pete Mizzle Dizzle.”

And now we’re caught up with my story, living in the present moment again.

Taking it right into the danger zone.

***

Whizzing around in hyperspace—AKA the danger zone—presents hazards unique to the adventurous interstellar motorcyclist. Good thing I’m hell with a sport bike, even a Space Ninja that has been upgraded to a Hyperspace Ninja, thanks to Hamlet’s appropriation of Draconian hyper drive tech while Kane slept off his hangovers.

A spill in hyperspace won’t seriously harm us, considering our unable-to-not-be status, but a mistake could kill the Faster-Than-Light-Speed buzz.

The prince and I are racing through fields of pulsating, multi-colored light. The bike’s hyper drive engine sends vibrations that shoot up my thighs to the top of my skull. I am simultaneously at war and in harmony with the upholstery, handlebars, and foot pegs shaking against me with superluminal acceleration. And why wouldn’t we speed up? We’re riding the ultimate crotch rocket, not some dingy old space tug. With my main man, Ham Dogg, the Prince of Denmark, hugging me tight, I shift up to sixth gear and see just how close we can get to the walls of the throbbing light vortex.

God, this feels good.

For extra dopeness, I hold a wheelie on the final stretch. One click of the Normal 3-D Space button and we jump into… wherever we are.

And what do we have here? Looks like Earth.

Must be an alternate version. And what will we find on the surface? Armies of talking apes? Biker gangs roaming a desert wasteland? Hardened criminals in a maximum-security prison formerly known as Manhattan Island? Some other recreation of a Seventies or Eighties science-fiction movie? Whatever awaits us, the Kenny Log Clones are going to make the world a nicer place. Because no matter what Earth you inhabit, you can always use more of Kenny Loggins’s music in your life.

We are descending into the planet’s atmosphere, now. Thanks for listening to me, homeboys and homegirls and other homepeople. You’re the best.

And in case I never told you before… I love you.

Dish by Dish

The entire point of dishwashing is to do so in peace. Being a good dishwasher means focusing on the dishes, and nothing else. I was good at it. So dish by dish, I forgot to hate her. By the time of the Christmas roasting trays, I was thinking of moving out of our old place. By the time of the Valentine’s Day champagne glasses, I’d moved.

I’d moved into my co-worker Jeff’s closet. It was yellow and smelled like bugs. If I wanted to sleep, I had to lay diagonally. It was hell. I never said anything about it to Jeff, but looking back, it’s amazing I put up with it.

Jeff was my dishwashing partner at the restaurant. He put the dishes away after I cleaned them. We were supposed to switch jobs every once in a while but we didn’t. On my first day, Jeff told me he preferred to put dishes away. Not really thinking, I told him I preferred to clean. So that was that.

Sometimes, when there were no dishes, we leaned against the dishwasher, me on the dirty side, Jeff on the clean side. We chatted politics. Jeff was an anarchist. I was a socialist. We found this delightful to talk about.

When there were dishes, which was usually the case, we didn’t talk. We became one with the machine. We meditated to the mantra of dirty dishes in, clean dishes out. It was nice, thinking about just the one thing. Hours slipped by in what felt like minutes.

That’s how I forgot to hate her. I was halfway through washing a stand mixer caked in cookie dough. The sprayer wasn’t doing much. A chocolate chip came unwedged, and I remembered her. There was no good reason for it. She just popped into mind.

She was kneeling in the grass in front of the Washington Monument. I was sick. There were geese all around. They wanted to eat my vomit. She was rubbing my back, humming a song. Fly me to the moon. It was an important song for us. We danced to it often. Or maybe we only danced to it once. Either way, it felt like we were dancing to it all the time.

We were drinking a lot those days. That’s why I was sick. We’d filled travel mugs with rum and coke. I’d made up a drinking game based on the tourists. They were all taking the same photo, where they positioned the camera so it looked like they were touching the top of the monument. The game was, every time you saw one, you drank. She was cheating. I know because I looked in her mug when she went to the bathroom. It was full.

While I was thinking about this, the bowl of the stand mixer had filled up with water. I stuck both arms in. It came up to my elbows. Most people would’ve found the water scalding. They would’ve cried like little girls. To me, it felt like a warm bath. The image of her melted away.

“I hate that stupid bitch,” I said to Jeff.

Jeff raised the lever that opened the dishwasher. My glasses fogged with steam. I pushed the rack out the other side.

“Did you hear me?” I said. “I hate her.”

On our way home, we saw a homeless woman in the subway station. She was playing a kazoo. It sounded like she was speaking into it. It seemed like she was talking about the people in the station. Her hat was empty. I put a dollar in it. Jeff laughed when I did it.

“God bless you,” the woman said.

“He doesn’t believe in god,” Jeff said. “He believes in himself.”

The woman spat on Jeff’s shoes. They were shiny black work shoes.

Jeff laughed. “Free shoe shine,” he said.

When his back was turned I spat on the woman’s shoes. I felt bad about it though, so I gave her an extra quarter.

When we were on the street level, Jeff accused me of assuming the best of people.

“You don’t know that,” I said.

“You know she’s just gonna spend it on drugs,” he said.

We went to the weed store. Jeff bought a strain of indica. One hit of indica knocks me out. He bought it to shut me up. I’d been talking a lot. Ever since the stand mixer I’d been sort of stuck on her. Jeff liked to do back-handed things like that. Like he’d compliment my hair, even though we both knew it’s my worst attribute. Or he’d give you gum as a way of saying your breath smelled bad.

On a blackboard behind the counter, they’d written the specials. There was a sale on a strain of sativa called Bruce Banner. Next to it, someone had drawn an angry man tearing his shirt off. There were flames behind him. I bought a little.

“Will this make me mad?” I asked the budtender.

She squinted at me. She had a tattoo on her forehead of a lotus flower.

“Super,” she said. Her voice sounded stupid and far away. “Suuuuper.”

I wanted to kiss her stupid mouth.

Jeff and I smoked on the fire escape. I was always a little stressed smoking on the fire escape. We had to be careful not to drop anything.

There was a gentle breeze. The sky was pink. There was a group of kids playing basketball down in the courtyard.

We smoked out of Jeff’s bong. He tried to get me to smoke some of his indica.

“Not today,” I said.

Jeff went into his phone. It was his way of telling me to stop talking. I guess I’d been talking a lot about her. He smoked. When he was done he went inside.

I loaded my bowl and sat. I thought about the person living on the floor below. It smelled like garlic down there. Who was cooking for who, I wondered, and were they about to split up.

Bruce Banner burned all at once. It made my eyes water. I got paranoid. The kids playing basketball laughed. A police siren in the distance got louder. These were the things I was paranoid about. My hands were shaking. I felt cold. This happens to me when I’m paranoid.

The day she left me was the day before my birthday. I was sleeping on the couch. She shook me awake and there she was, suitcases all packed. The TV was flashing behind her. There was a nature documentary on. All these baby sea turtles were racing across the sand. A big yellow crab was trying to get them. They had to get to the ocean before it gobbled them up or something. She put her key on the coffee table. She said something at the door. It was important. She stopped and turned around to say it.

It blind-sided me, her leaving. I had tickets for us to go to the circus the next day. She’d said she was excited.

Jeff put on some music. The bass made the fire escape rattle a little. The vibrations shook the water in the bong. It was a big nasty thing. The glass was coated in brown slime. Little flecks of ash stuck to the stuff. Jeff said it was impossible to clean, but a little salt and rubbing alcohol would’ve taken care of it. Maybe I’ll clean it, I thought. Then I threw it off the fire escape.

A Hard Case (Part 6)

The scene was macabre. A beautiful woman held prisoner by the book in her lap.

“This some new kind of torture?”

The guy who’d led me into Project X HQ hadn’t taken my gun. No security goons had appeared. No cameras whirred, no hot lights shone, no microphones listened in, or at least it didn’t feel that way.

“Are you kidding? She barged in here and offered us a cool grand if we’d take her on,” he said. “We don’t usually go for mercenaries, but we gave her a chance. We want performers with souls. The other outfits extrude more than enough feed for the masses. We go deeper.”

Doris Frawley looked up, annoyed. “This was supposed to be a break. If you’re going to talk, I’ll go read in the commissary.”

“Sorry, toots.” The man herded me through a door off to the side, into a small soundproofed room. “Take a seat,” he said. The director’s chair in the corner had a stack of books beside it. “Get ready for your scene.”

“What’m I supposed to do?”

“You’re the detective. Take all the time you need.” He closed the door, quietly.

At the top of the book-pile was Daniel Fuchs’ The Golden West, a love song to Los Angeles. Happiness radiated from solid blocks of print that looked like home.

A woman with bright red hair stuck her head in the door, winked, and left me alone. That might’ve been some sort of movie-set signal. I ignored it, picked up F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Pat Hobby Stories. Time passed seamlessly.

The light in the room dimmed a shade or two. Fresh air came in from an invisible window somewhere.

The crew had lost patience. The producer, or director, whatever he was, came back in. He tossed Jim Thompson’s Savage Night somewhat painfully. “Here. Give this the once-over, and then let’s go.”

Not a long story, but a hard one.

The light went all the way out.

Music oozed from under the wooden door, heavy on the vibraphones and drums. Doris Frawley knocked, entered, shimmied to where I was. She took my hand. We went out of the reading room into the light.

‘This is a dream,’ I thought, and then, ‘This isn’t a dream.’

Whatever we did on that blindingly lit set had purpose. It was up to us to find out what the action meant. We went deep, and then we went deeper. There was no bottom.

Someone yelled, “Cut!”

Doris didn’t even open her eyes. “We don’t want to cut,” she said. “We want to bring everything together.”

Whoever had the megaphone said, “Roll on!”

A Hard Case (Part 1)

A Hard Case (Part 2)

A Hard Case (Part 3)

A Hard Case (Part 4)

A Hard Case (Part 5)