“What’s the biggest pussy you ever fucked?” Hussein X yelled over the roar of the four engines mounted on their 1953 Coupe Deville. The gun turret scraped loud on the roof of the vehicle as they hung a huey.

“I once came on a picture of Alan Alda.” Israel Lansky yelled back.

The engines were set like this: UUU  U the space was so that the driver could kind of see where he was idling to at 40 MPH. It was toward a diner.

“The old diner owner looked up at X and Lansky from behind the cash register, mint candies, and toothpicks. Gasped. Lansky proactively yanked him over the counter by his collar. “I don’t wear pants.”

“ ” Said the old diner owner down the barrel of a 870 Remington 12 gauge shotgun with a 3” barrel. An American Icon. It was an old squad car model with wood furniture. It was duct taped around Israel’s waist and swiveled out for action. He wore just that and his spiked shoulder pads. And a golden toothed grin.

“You fellas could sit at my table.” The voice came from a small blonde in a waitress uniform. Flat-chested, but fun. Like a pixie.

She touched X’s black compression lycra. “Smooth.” She said.

“Just like me.” Lansky said, plopping the old diner owner back into his place.

“No.” She said. Touching him as she still touched X. “You’re rough.” She fingered his course body hair. “I like it rough.” She situated her small frame between them. “But I like smooth, too.”

“Three BLTs to go.” Roared Lansky to the old diner owner.

“ “

“NOW!” Up swiveled the Remington.

“My grandpa’s have deaf.” said Flat-chested. Then she took to her knees and…

The diner stopped. There was no clanking of flatware on ceramic. No buzz of conversational tone. She took their loads on her smiling and laughing face. In her short hair.

The old diner owner slid a brown shopping bag across the counter with a trembling hand. The threesome left.

“America is not dead.” Rick O’Shea said to the near empty bowling alley bar. His mic squealed. “America is the land of the undead.” He then lost his place. He scratched at his comb over and vomited up Jack and Coke. “We need BRRRAAAIIINNNSSS.”

A man with no teeth under a handlebar mustache and holding a polishing cloth, escorted O’Shea to the door.

“The media took our BRRRAAAIIINNNSSS. Screamed Rick over the man’s red lumberjack flannel shirt. From behind his CAT baseball cap. “The media is the Illuminati! The media is the NWO! The media has made us ZOMMBIEEESSS, man!!!”

He was on the other side of the glass double doors now. The side that didn’t pay for his gig. He caught the curious worried eye of a young girl, her toes frozen on the alley’s foul line. The pins looking back at her with limited expectations.

“Don’t look at Miley Cyrus’s tongue.” Rick O’Shea mouth toward her attentive face.

“Let me fuck your moist pussy with my tongue.” Read the girl’s father. He made his way for the door. Rick O’Shea tried to run, but vomited instead. The girl’s father clubbed him with a hairy fisted right, a hairy fisted left, and threw him into the wet gutter.

Hussein X didn’t know how the hell he saw the dog run out in front of him, but he swerved and missed it. Lansky yelled in the shot gun seat because his dick slipped out of Flat-chested as they swerved.

The gun turret sent off sparks as it slid across the roof of the Deville.

The dog howled something that almost sounded like “Monsanto-ooooo.” to the moon. Or the street light overhead. Or to nothing at all. “GMO-o-o-o-oooooo!”

The boys were having fun and it put a song in old Dr. Otto Von Jager’s black heart. Unfortunately it was Wagner. Always with the damned Wagner. His old tape deck played its cassette. Flat-chested was sitting with the look of the survivor of a terrorist attack in her eyes. The boys had given her the works. She shook and ran her hands over the welts in her flesh.

“Is…is that a Katana?” Flat-chested asked

“Yup.” Said Bettie Rage. She was over toward the good doctor’s end of the basement bunker, polishing her Japanese steel.

“Do you…use it?”

“Ask the old man.” Bettie motioned to him.

“Yes.” The doctor closed his eyes and heard his mother’s German lullabies.  They were quieter now. Further off. “She does.”

“Yet he never thanks me when I do.”

Once the specula were removed from Flat-chested’s asshole and pussy, her holes began to close slowly. Reform from their gaped state. Her mouth and lips was acting similarly from the hooks which minutes ago had propped it open. As her holes regrouped, she grew more and more wet. It was almost painful now. She also missed her grandfather’s diner. She knew she could never go back, but also knew she couldn’t stay here. She eyed the doctor.

Bettie Rage saw her eyes.

“I think she likes you, Doctor.”

His old dick remained flaccid in Flat-chested’s mouth. Bettie joined in out of curiousity and they took turns between his wrinkled balls and limp staff. Then gave up.

Bettie took Flat-chested aside and sat on her pixie face until she squirted all over her. The boys filmed it. Bettie Rage dismounted and walked over to the doctor. “If we were little German boys?”

Dr. Jager did not dispute.

The boys then began to show interest in going another round with Flat-chested. Her holes were still open. Still loose. She was still enlightened. Her 4.0 community college GPA seemed so silly compared to that. Her cherry bled down her legs as she walked to the Katana. Unsheathed it. Fell on it.

Fortunately, the desert is a big place.

The boys had film to edit.

The doctor had little blonde German boys to think of. Erections are rare treasures at his advanced age.

Rick O’Shea did not bat an eye as Lansky walked past him and out with a human shaped contractor bag slung over his wide, hairy shoulder. The icepack on the comedian’s head was doing the trick. The Shrooms, too, were doing the trick.

Just not well enough to understand this pipsqueak’s frantic Spanglish. All that held his attention was the tiny Mexican’s talk of some big tittied blonde whore…

Rick O’Shea was bottle fed as a baby. He listened intently. Or tried to.

Still.

They were miles apart.

 

Read Frank Ryan Mysteries #5. Trust me. -Kap.

“For Luke Johnson, this has been Noah S. Kaplowitz…and I forget the rest…but your mother’s a whore.”

This unnamed and soon to be deceased man chuckled and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. Those Grindbone boys always put on a heck of a funny podcast. Almost always. He returned to the keyboard and gave serious thought to listening to another “narrowcast.” Then realized the time and knew his wife and daughter would soon be home. They wouldn’t appreciate the racy content. The bitches. One made his life a misery; the other came along after and picked the bones clean.

There was a knock on the door.

This unnamed and soon to be deceased man expected to open the door to the bitches. He caught a glint of sun off an edge of steel. Then, for half a second, looked at his shoes. Then saw his body fall.

The bitches were in for a surprise when they finally came back from the mall.

What dastardly deed and the revenge thereof, led to the untimely demise of the unnamed and now deceased man? A week ago, he returned a neighbor’s lawnmower broken. His apology seemed insincere. When murder is for sale everywhere, and at a very decent price, human divinity ain’t worth a wooden nickel.

California Suede was moving west to east like a storm front riding the jet stream.

Mr. Cavendish inhaled deeply through his poorly wrapped and rapidly unwrapping cigar. He looked fatter. Fatter than the last time Pope Black laid eyes on him. That time, he was fatter than the last. His office smelled of bacon fat and Windex. And that cheap fucking cigar.

“How goes it, sir?” Mr. Cavendish asked through his fat throat and out his fat lips.

“Well.” Answered Pope Black, his oiled canvas duster enveloping his thin frame. “It goes well.” He let the brim of the bowler hat cover most of his face, less his greyed handlebar mustache. The Mexicali rose emblazoned holster on display from within the surrounding shadows.

“Have it go better, then. Let us not be satiated easily.”

“Sir.” Pope gestured the affirmative.

“Send in Maria on your way out, please.”

“Get her yourself.”

Pope Black’s spurs jangled their way down the hall and blended with Maria’s sad humming of La Sandunga. In Cavendish’s mind’s eye, he saw the Mexicali roses of Pope’s holster. Leather. He pulled a leather flogger from his desk drawer. Grew hard in his new and already faded $8.88 dress slacks as he fingered the metal tacks affixed to the end of each strip of leather.

He called to Maria like a prayer that only an angry God would accept.

The dice sailed up into the air and were struck down by two separate throwing knives. Each die was halved. Each knife came to rest on the bull’s-eye of one of two dart boards hung alongside each other. Thumbs Garza downed the whiskey he’d just won. Walked over and collected his blades.

The bartender was a hazel-eyed girl with mousy brown hair. She looked delicious. And was deliciously impressed with him. He strode toward her and tried real hard to hide his pointed teeth.

“You sure dress fancy, mister.” She said.

“A pretty little thing like you, I could eat all night.” He said.

She took it the wrong way and giggled. Tossed her hair back. The dice lay on the floor by the pool table. Four and three showing. Craps.

Red worked her mouth greedily up and down the length of Jack Dollar’s rock hard cock. She felt he was about to cum. His balls tightened. His cock hardened and twitched. He groaned and reached for her cock. It was rock hard, too. He stroked it awkwardly at first, then deftly. They came together. Red swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. Came and came and came. He’d never touched her there before. Always just fucked her eager asshole or mouth.

She was in love. She was allowed to be in love.

Then she woke up. The sun hung groggily in the overcast morning. Her hand went to her cock and she came as Jack snored next to her in their leaky tent. It would have to do until he awoke hard and she gave him her ass. She’d cum better then.

How Jack met Red. There are different versions, but most go something like:

One head exploded, then another, then a third. Three assault rifles fell to the asphalt. Jack Dollar pulled fast. Jack Dollar pulled the motherfucking fastest. His hand canon Smith & Wesson Model 500 .50 caliber, a blur of death. Now he needed a new ride. They’d set fire to his old rusted out Ford as part of their ill-fated ambush. Looked like he’d be getting an upgrade—a slightly less rusted out two tone Chevy with Simex Extreme Trekker tires. Fuck, those guys sure as hell didn’t need it anymore.

Jack drove away from the wailing sirens at a responsibly moderate rate of speed. Merged onto the highway following all rules of the road, past and present—and was gone. When he pulled off into a rest stop some three hours later, he took a piss through his button fly jeans and further inspected his new ride. He kicked the Simex rubber and pulled back the blue tarp in the truck bed…

Enter Red.

She was tied up and gagged with clothesline and duct tape. Her hair spilled out its red mess in curls upon her clear porcelain skin. Her blue veins. The three would be killers were on their way to delivering her somewhere.

“It’s not my birthday.” Said Jack and screwed a Marlboro into his lips before setting her free.

She’d fucked the wrong man. That was her crime. The wrong man being a local crime boss who didn’t know until after that Red had a nine inch cock and a big set of pink balls. She was on her way to losing most of it at the hands of said local crime boss and his somewhat sharpened jack knife.

Until Jack Dollar.

Red cursed the dream. Cursed waking up from it. Yet remained thankful for Jack Dollar watching over her, teaching her to handle herself. Maybe she loved him anyway.

Pope Black laughed at the thought of ever being satiated.

Mr. Cavendish, currently, was satiated.

The welts rose on Maria’s back, her sagging ass, and her upper thighs as she lay sobbing in the fetal position. As Cavendish buckled his belt, cum dribbled into his cotton/poly blend boxers. As the divots in her skin sunk deeper and bled.

As the bitches came home and squealed like the stuffed pigs they are, at the unnamed and now deceased man’s severed head and lifeless body.

 

 

YOU can LISTEN to GRiNDBONE by clicking HERE.

It all made sense to Clyde Brogan. He just didn’t know whether or not to believe it. He’d call Mother. It really only mattered to him as far as the handing off of information. What she did with it was not his concern.

The roofer lays the tiles and hammers them down. He then collects his pay. He does not care if you decide to tap dance on your new roof while wearing golf shoes. His work is done. It was similar here. Clyde had dealt in information most of his life. His frail build and sick childhood precluded him from dealing in brawn. The hope here was that information sent Mother’s way would eventually be enough to make her attention turn back toward him. For her to want to free him, her only son. Her wayward son. He knew she could.

Hell, if anyone could, it was Mother Bungo.

The two bodies bled out all over the once white bed sheets. They were caught in the act, alright. Naked and fallen out of doggy style. Her collapsed forward onto her belly. He, felled to the side and somewhat forward, behind her.

They were shot first, judging by the bleeding. The knife wounds, which included partial beheadings for both victims and multiple stab wounds to the chests and faces, bled far less. Some not at all. Postmortem wounds.

The sheriff knew hate when he saw it. The ritzy twat’s son was already cuffed and stuffed in the back of his squad car.

Neighbors had reported gunshots. Two shotgun blasts. No screaming. No fighting. They almost didn’t call. They did. When the cops arrived, the twat’s son, William, was sitting coolly in his living room. The TV was on and the Cubs were up by two runs in the seventh. Their closer was warming up and the faces of the fans in attendance were twisted nervously. Two innings was twice his normal outing.

William walked in on his wife fucking another man. Heard them going at it when he pulled into the driveway. He’d never heard her groan that way. It was throaty and feral. He grabbed the shotgun from the garage and paid them a visit.

The heroic sheriff reenacted.

He’d shot them both in the back, from the doorway. Him first. He fell against her ass and to the side. Then her. She barely knew what was happening. Maybe she didn’t. She fell forward. Her face in the pillow. William then became curious. What’s the guy look like? His face was plain. Serene. Forever fucking the cunt of William’s woman. An eternal hard on, sitting at the side of our Lord and Savior.

He looked at her next. Grabbed her head up from the pillow by her auburn curls. Smiling. She was smiling, the bitch. William always carried a fixed blade knife. Occasionally, when someone asked him why, he’d tell them what Sonny Barger used to say: “In case I need to pop a balloon.”

Once he started stabbing them, he could not stop. Her first, then him. The rage. The hurt. The blade broke off in her face. Her nasal cavity. The wounds were even worse on him. His face and neck perforated by blunt steel.

Chuck Cunningham was leveled by the forensic news that the Sherriff had it backwards. The knife wounds came first. He was further leveled by the evidence that Mother Bungo brought to light in his office. How the hell did she know?

“Why do you want to be here?” Asked Clyde, easing off his shiv. They’d been talking for almost five minutes. His hand was numb then tingling in his pocket as the blood returned.

“I got a taste for prison loaf.” William answered.

The sheriff canceled his next two news conferences in which he was set to address the media. Announced he would not run for reelection. Chuck Cunningham ran a story praising his term and wishing the old lawman well as he rode off into the sunset. He buried the story of the forensics findings. No need to confuse the readership. They had their man.

The Busted Cherry was in near riot. One of their own was being sent off to marriage the next morning. Mother Bungo’s hubby closed the bar down with an eloquent toast. He praised the institution of marriage in bawdy style to much rowdy laughter. Then lowered his voice and brought a tear to every eye. Brought every heart into every throat.

The greasy back of Bruno Sinatro’s hand slammed across his wife’s face, sending her to their bed. He thought of fucking her. She had just told him that there was another man. He thought of another cock in her. He dragged her to her feet and struck her back down to the twisted sheets. She sobbed and called him a bastard. He called her a whore. Thought again about fucking her. Left their home instead. The damned cursed place.

Gorgeous George the Fourth rolled a joint, screwed it into his lips, and lit. Every muscle in his body ached. He’d been at the game a long time. Too long time. He rubbed his tired brow and felt scar tissue. He wore a stained wifebeater and a torn pair of sweats. His Walmart shoes were of the Velcro variety. Easier on and off than the leaning over of shoelaces. His back seldom allowed him that. His hair was freshly bleached, quaffed, and perfumed. The grey covered once again. He leafed through the sequined robes in his too small closet. Chose a floor length powder blue number with a darker blue feathered color. He paid nine grand for it six years back in Tijuana. Downed the last of a Schlitz and left.

Sinatro and Gorgeous waited for Cas to come out the front door and hop in the old Buick. They allowed themselves the usual time to get a round of fat burgers prior to the night’s fight card. Impatient, Sinatro walked up to the door and knocked after a few moments. No answer. Then he heard rustling around back He waved Gorgeous over and walked around the house. Gorgeous cursed, sighed heavily and swung his stiff legs to the hard cement. Hefted himself to standing using the rusted door frame.

“Hold on, you fucking wop.”

Sinatro stopped. Went to Gorgeous and lent him his shoulder for a few strides.

Casimir “The Russian Hammer” Brodowski was holding his own but beginning to fade. His attackers were going for a quiet kill in a residential area. They were armed with knives. The occasional blackjack or such. The Russian Hammer disarmed by isolating joints and then knocked the fuckers out. Three so far and working on the fourth. He positioned himself in a corner of the gazebo with his back to the rail. They were forced to attack one at a time. Still. Cas was tiring. He was beginning to get hit. It was a matter of time until a knife found its target. A blunt instrument knocked him senseless.

Bruno Sinatro yelled something in a booming voice and ran toward the fray. Three of the original attackers remained a threat. Sinatro grabbed two and clunked their skulls together. Cas, spent, rolled to under the built in bench that lined the structure’s sides and licked his wounds there. The Italian began to dissect his prey. He put his wife’s thin features on the ugly mugs of the attackers, and then mashed them. The last attacker made a move to break free and ran right into Gorgeous. He swung a panicked roundhouse that never landed. What landed was george’s stiff right. A straight punch right to the point of the attacker’s chin. He fell like a sack. Gorgeous rubbed his sore knuckles. Inhaled on his joint and coughed.

“Put that shit away.” Said Sinatro.

Gorgeous shrugged. “Check on the kid.”

Cas was fine. Shaken, but fine.

Mother Bungo was due home any minute. The attackers were tied up, gagged, and stacked in the gazebo. The three professional wrestlers had a card to get to. Cas prayed that Mother not find the men while he was gone. There was no telling what she’d do to the men without Cas there to moderate.

For all the damage he’s done to keep Mother Bungo safe and to follow her orders; it was nothing compared to what he knew her capable of doing.

The young police captain was silent. He actually didn’t look so young any longer. Not as clean. He brushed his straight strawberry blonde hair from off his wrinkled forehead. Frank never saw those wrinkles before. He’d have recalled them. Etched deep and vulgar on his fresh skin.

Frank left.

He found himself at the end of a quiet bar in an unfamiliar neck of the woods. He found, also, three empty shot glasses before him and a third filled one being raised to his dry lips by a hand that looked strangely like his own. It was a thick, short hand. More palm than fingers and strongly inflexible. The glass looked ridiculously small in the hairy knuckled meathook. He downed it. Pain seered its way through his right side and came to rest near his core in a dull throb.

It was just how he remembered his hand. Although this hand had a liver spot between its thumb and forefinger. The years do pass.

He’d been to clinics to see doctors. Clinics that were less humane in their design and staff than were the veteraniarian offices he brought Shel to for shots and to be told to brush his teeth. He barely fucking brushed his own.

Never trust a man with a perfect set of teeth. Frank’s dad told him through ill fitting dentures. He rarely thought of his dad now. He’d last year reached an age his father had failed to meet. He thought of her, though. In this heavy with quiet bar. As he ordered another.

Little illnesses were ruled out and the smart money was being laid on cancer. So Frank quit going to the damned clinics. If drink killed him, so be it. If drink was good enough to kill her, it was more than good enough to do him in.

He hadn’t prayed. Not so much as a “Fucking Christ” passed his yellowed and chipped teeth on the way to meeting his maker. Captain Roger Tompkins and his creased brow, his sunken eyes. They were a blue green, bright and clear…just not right then. Frank played it over in his mind. The serpent-shaped dagger, his lack of prayer, the gunshot.

He had to shoot.

There was no time for a warning. Captain Roger Tompkins saved his life, and he dares question. Just like when the good lord saved his life, and he dared question. The pain was leaving his gut. He pushed the bar away from himself, or himself from the bar. Stood.

A surprised Frank Ryan hid from Candy as she walked by the bar; arm in arm with a man so black as to out spade a rural night. He was fairly certain she hadn’t seen him. Although Frank was a hard man to miss. Unless you were a serpent-shaped dagger. Or a painted whore.

Her.

Not Candy. He’d hash that out when the time came. Her. She that he had loved so, and finally murdered. The court system often is forced to forgive a man what he won’t forgive himself.

They destroyed each other so beautifully. The fucking. The fighting. The love. The hate. The crash. The night was dark; as nights are prone to be—and wet. As she was prone to be. He drove through the slick reflections with one hand’s fingers up her moist cunt. They had just closed down another bar in another unfamiliar spot.

The semi T-boned her side of the rust pot Buick. Her light went out like the undramatic hanging up of a cell phone. No cradle to slam a receiver down upon. His phone rang in his jacket pocket. He was a rotary phone, was Frank.

“Marty?”

“Kid. Get here.”

Frank Ryan hit up a donut shop for its cheap coffee and pointed the mission’s van to the dog track.

The scene was cleaned up now. Jesus stayed with Shelbourne the Miller, retired race hound  extraordinaire. He looked at the dog’s eyes and listened to their story. He only worried a bit as to why Candy hadn’t answered their phone. She was red again. Drenched in it. Drenched in what they both knew he needed. Whether they liked it or not. The dog whined for sleep.

Jesus’s mind went to Candy’s creamy tits. Their heft. Warmth. Her hips. Pussy.

She slipped out of her red dress without taking off her red heels and it fell around her like a murder scene. Ebony’s cock was enormous. She took it with ease and he feared being swallowed whole in a cheap motel room in an unfamiliar side of town. She milked more cum out of him than he knew he had; redressed and left. His spunk rolling down her leg from her asshole and cunt, as she stepped up into the bus toward home.

Jesus Guadalupe Guerrero was home now and visited his sleeping children. The pink room, then the blue. Safe. He had finally convinced himself they were safe. He clicked off the TV and sat with his rosary. He prayed to the Virgin while having a hard on for a whore. He wondered when either might return.

Marty Murphy called for Frank Ryan from the stalls. Frank gingerly walked that way. The night track had a certain romance that he wanted, needed, to take in.

“Marty?” He called into the shadows.

“Right here, kid.”

A swinging lightbulb came to life. It lit all the way down the cop issued barrel that pointed to between Frank’s eyes. The lines etched deep and vulgar on young skin, swayed in and out of the light beyond the gun. The eyes set back in the head by a million fucking miles.

“Frank.” Said Captain Roger Tompkins softly. Almost gentlemanly. His finger moving from guard to trigger…

The .557 T-Rex cartridge pushed 220 pounds into the front of Rick O’Shea’s shoulder. Violently. The rifle fell to the ground. He thought, perhaps, that his arm had, too. He looked at it dangling but still attached. Smiled. Inhaled.

“Air?” He yelled to the desert air. “Air!”

Still smiling although upset at the inhalation of just air, Rick looked around at the immediate sand. There it was. He tucked his numb arm under his pit. Scooped up the joint with the other. Son of a bitch kick knocked it clear outta his mouth. He pulled deeply. The tip of the paper came back red. Bit his tongue, too. At least he held onto the rifle this time. He looked for it in his hands. He hadn’t. That’s right. Fuck, he was high.

He meandered over to his target.

He’d missed.

Robert Anton Wilson’s autographed face smiled back at him. He was almost as stoned as Rick. The underground comic who couldn’t find a damned booking in over three weeks, sighed in relief.

“If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.”

He hadn’t yet. Killed him. Been trying this way since 2002, too. Maybe. Around then. When RAW came to a Rick O’Shea Vegas Strip show and liked what he heard. Then it was Rick’s turn to like what he heard. After the show. At a bar somewhere. He remembered standing water and a trailer out back. A hooker with stretch marks and stubble covered legs.

The Guns and Dope Party. It was a parody political party Robert Anton Wilson envisioned. You see, if all the Leftist dope smokers and the Righty gun fuckers got together and allowed each other’s hobbies—they’d be an unstoppable political force leading to something like a Libertarian utopia.

Rick said he’d also add into the equation the automobile. Each American’s taste of freedom, of personal Manifest Destiny. American industry. Drill for the dinosaur bones stateside, baby. America at long last once again being American:  self-sustained and proud and filthy fucking rich from the bottom up.

Why the fuck was he hearing gunshots? This is some good shit, he thought and looked at his blood red joint.

The empty house allowed itself to be snuck up on, its inhabitants busy being shot full of ungodliness in its basement bunker. By the time Israel Lansky and Hussein X made it upstairs, they were met at the threshold by a swarm of ninjas.

They clashed. Not a word uttered between them. Izzy and X were the Battle of Thermopylae. Albeit with scaled down numbers and heavier artillery. The door frame acted as the track along the shore of the Malian Gulf. So narrow that only one chariot could pass through at a time. California Suede was bottlenecked coming through the door. One by one, they were picked off by the boys as they tried to gain entry against a tactical retreat to the faded red threadbare couch; a remnant from Rick O’Shea’s favorite whorehouse. Robert Anton Wilson once sat on it there. Right up until Rick vomited up cheap tequila into his lap, or so the story goes and often changes.

The dogs, mostly pit mixes and kept hungry, helped seal the sides from being flanked.

One blackened figured slipped by them and through the back door.

Rick O’Shea thought he caught a glimpse of him. Why the fuck were the dogs barking? He took another shot at RAW. Dropped the rifle at its recoil. Shouted in pain. Missed.

The ninja was bit and bit hard, leaving a trail of blood.

Israel Lansky advanced barking louder than the dogs and began bludgeoning the shrinking adversary with a sawed off pump action Mossberg. The studs on his own football shoulder pads caused him more damage on his backswing than any of the California Suede. He had loose duct tape wrappings around his arms and legs from where he pulled free various firearms. He wore nothing else but coarse hair and a large belly. Full to exploding nut sack. From a strap of tape around his lower shin, he pulled a grenade. Pulled the pin in his gold teeth and tossed it through the door and beyond.

Hussein X danced. Well…twirled in a lethal yet graceful way. A pretty economy of motion. A hugely muscled long limbed dark as night black man. His body armor was jet black and half a shade darker than he. His picked clean one, sometimes two California Suede at a time. Juggling a pair of MAC-10s in a sweeping yet surgical manner. Emotionless. His arms lengthened as he advanced upon their retreat. Long catlike strides. Prowling.

Dr. Otto Von Jager was frozen in fear. The black figure before him, bloodied and pointing the barrel of a Glock to between his old eyes. Not old enough, the good doctor thought. Not like this. The figure came forward.

The doctor closed his eyes and heard his mother’s German lullabies.

The sword ran through the ninja from behind. It entered in his lower back and came out his chest. It was removed. Ran through his neck. The head rolled out of sight.

Rick O’Shea reloaded and dropped the rifle. Staggered toward a beach chair woven on an aluminum frame with colorful nylon straps. It was on the moon. On Mars. On Pluto when it was a planet, poor Pluto.

Another Ninja made his way around and through the dogs. He was the last California Suede both on the property and alive. He saw Rick stagger. Leveled his weapon. Lansky had followed. He picked up the underground comic’s stopping rifle. Leveled his weapon. Like a pistol. In one hand. Pulled. The recoil didn’t bother him much more than being impressive. The black drenched body was propelled forward some twenty feet and mangled.

Bettie Rage sheathed her Katana.

“The bitch is back.” Said Dr. Jager. “Die Hündin ist zurück.”

The stars looked like long dead heroes to Rick O’Shea, sprawled on his back in the dirt. A dog licking at his blood.

 

 

A Pig for Freedom

Posted: September 3, 2013 in One-Offs

Marty was always a very thoughtful, helpful pig. He was also very bright and quite well read. So much so, that he quickly became a well sought after thinker. At night the other animals would come to him for advice and assistance. He told the horse how to make clear to the humans that he liked sugar cubes far much more than he liked carrots. Soon the horse was so fat and happy that it sang Marty’s praises to no end. Another time, when the rooster complained to Marty about constantly getting splinters from standing on the weather roughened wood of the fence; Marty offered him the solution of perching instead atop a smooth rock. The rooster, too, sang Marty’s praises to no end.

Marty also grew into the role of mediating disputes among his fellow farm animals. Once, when two goats argued over whom the proper owner of a particular plot of grass was, Marty offered up the solution of having the barn’s old mangy dog simply tear it all up, killing it and ending the debate. One of the goats loved the plot of land so much that he couldn’t stand the idea of anyone hurting it, so instead offered to let the other goat keep it all. Marty knew then who the rightful owner was. The animals all spoke very highly of that judgment for a very, very, very long time.

One hot July day Marty was lolling around in the mud. He was very sleepy and very, very happy. The night before he’d been kept awake by loud explosions and bright lights. That morning the men who fed the animals spoke much about freedom. Being a very smart pig, Marty knew the sound of a grand idea. Freedom. Right then and there Marty pledged to pursue this freedom. He quickly thought of all the things in the world that might impede one’s freedom and pledged to avoid these at all costs. Marty felt if he could simply be as free as possible, he’d be so very, very, very happy.

Marty first noticed that the troubles the other animals came to him with were, at times, interfering with his freedom. What if, he thought, he did not want to help an animal any old time it needed it? Marty pledged right then and there to not help other animals unless he truly wanted to. Soon he barely wanted to help at all. He was so very busy enjoying all the extra time he had to lavish himself in the mud.

But then Marty thought a bit harder. He thought of helping settle disputes and all the time it took from his day. He liked settling disputes, mind you. But what if there was a time he didn’t want to, yet the other animals expected it of him? That was by no means freedom. He should have the right to choose. So Marty gathered all the animals together and told them the news. They were quite surprised at it. Soon Marty hardly handled any disputes at all. He was so very busy enjoying all the extra time he had to lavish himself in the mud.

Shortly after all of that, Marty got to thinking again. The slop the men fed him was delicious. But there were times when he ate even if he wasn’t hungry. Sometimes Marty wasn’t happy unless he was eating the slop. A couple of times, the humans even tried to bribe him into doing silly tricks for the slop. He realized how degrading this was. Marty felt that made him a slave to the slop. Slaves can’t know freedom, he reasoned with a trained logic and a keen mind. And pledged to only eat the slop when he was very hungry, and also only just enough so that he was satisfied. Maybe even a little less than satisfied. Marty soon ate less and less. Because he’d reasoned that “satisfied” was one of those words that can enslave its user. As such, it must be handled with great care. A benefit of all this was that since Marty spent so much less time eating, he had all the more time to lavish himself in the mud.

The leaves began to change color then. The humans wore flannel shirts in the mornings. Marty had went from being a very thoughtful, helpful pig, to a pig who spent all his time by himself and focused only on his own freedom. Refusing to do what he didn’t feel like doing, even refusing to do what he liked to do. All this in the name of being ever vigilant against his own enslavement. The mud had a nice chill to it. He couldn’t imagine spending a day without its embrace. He then saw he was nothing more than a slave to this mud.

When the humans had begun to layer their flannel in the growing colder mornings, they showed concern for poor Marty. He’d stopped growing and had an increasingly unhealthy color to his skin. He did not interact with the other animals, instead stood still all day in the sty’s corner, looking almost too scared to move.

Marty noticed he could see his fogged breath on the morning he heard the beeping of the backing up truck come to take him to market. He knew what it was, since he was still a very bright and quite well read pig. And he was quite happy it had at long last come.

Some time ago. Outside of Lebanon, Kansas. US Highway 281.

Because with a center, comes balance. With balance, strength. A young Jack Dollar at a truck stop. A travel plaza. Drinking black coffee with a trembling hand. Wishing it was hot cocoa. Killing that wish. Killing those men. His hand refusing to calm.

“You did good there, son.” Pope Black says and my, what a moment it would have been to lay a steady hand on the youth’s back. He did not. “Line of urinals in there. Far as the eye can see. Felt like an animal lined up at the trough. Bright lights everywhere. Fluorescent.” He looked around in a disgust so strong as to break through Jack’s trauma.

“America.” Said young Jack. “Truckers. Freedom. Shirts with fucking wolves howling at fucking moons.” He waved toward a cash register and its strategically placed impulse buys. Key chains. Shot glasses. Sunglasses with colorful mirrored lenses. He was not being ironic.

Irony is for people with too much time on their hands.

Jack knew he needed to be on the move. On the run. He had no time. He had all the time the world made up. It was as kneejerk as a hiccup. It excited him.

“America, my ass.” Said Pope Black. “This is some Chinaman’s dream of America, nothing more.”

Jack Dollar sipped his coffee from a steadying hand. He couldn’t tell if it was hot from the mug, or from the firing of his gun. Pope’s gun. He felt its handle with his newly steadied hand as it rested heavy with new death under his Richard Petty jacket; well-worn and powder blue dirty and emblazoned with well-worn patches.

Pope Black’s oiled canvass duster fell around him like night. His eyes were hidden by the brim of his bowler. He toyed with his black handlebar mustache and spun his spurs against the bottom of his seat at the booth they shared. Jack Dollar was certain now only of his spurs and handlebar mustache. Minutes ago, too, of a gun that looked too old to fire and eyes so blue as to seem gone.

“We gotta get gone.” Pope Black said.

“We?”

“If you wish.”

Jack Dollar couldn’t even remember how he got to the point of meeting Pope Black. More precisely, life prior seemed poorly drawn. Like a sketch that someone was erasing as you watched. As you looked at it, trying to get your bearings. This booth was an oil painting.

Jack Dollar killed three men in under five seconds that felt like five years. Five years of balls dropping and growing hair. They were trapped, he and Pope Black. Then all went red. An eruption of sound. Then they were not. All the while, Pope’s voice was steady in Jack’s ear.

“Fill ya up?” Asked the waitress.

Pope Black placed a surgeon’s hand over his cup. Looked up at her and winked a nothing blue eye from under his hat’s brim. She giggled in surprise.

“I’ll have another pour,” said Jack Dollar. “Oh, and you dropped your nametag.” He said and slid a sugar packet toward her with a hot hand. The tops of her tits jiggled as she laughed.

“Ma’am, the check.” Spoke Pope Black.

She jiggled away and Pope Black Shifted his blue stare to Jack. “America is Hold ‘em Poker. Quiet patience and steely nerves on the gamble.”

“Video Poker has better odds.” Jack Dollar said and wondered if Pope Black understood all of this.

“Times don’t change.” Pope said. “Men do out of weakness and blame time.”

He understood.

Then.

Now.

Time.

Mr. Cavendish was expanding in every way. The seams of his cheap suits and the state lines of his country all strained and were losing at the growth of his own personal manifest destiny fueled by red meat and murder.

He lit a cheap cigar and sat back in a whining chair.

Maria, Mother Maria full of grace and a newly upsized butt plug shakily hummed something of Mexican origin in another room.

A fresh load of California Suede was expected to arrive today for Pope Black to train. Cavendish decided to kill the first red head off the bus. He sighed and waddled toward the door.

Now.

Jack Dollar cleaned and reloaded his guns. He had to pull on his back up. Good fight. California Suede might yet make him regret his decision. He’d be alright with that. He’d stand by that. Red handed him his hat with a bloodied hand. It was accepted with a bloody hand. Garza was in a far corner some million miles away. He shook his head at the blade of his machete.

A second wave.

A collective deep sigh and readying. The door and most of the wall blew off and figures of shadows advanced on them. Their forms dancing against the backdrop of fire against the backdrop of night against the backdrop of a mountain no one bothered to name.

Red was thrown to the ground and Jack stood over her. Both hand canons ablaze. Thumbs Garza’s machete was blunt and its hacking loud. The trailer was red. A loud color that filled the ears and stuck in the throat. Welled up the eyes.

At dawn, California Suede was no more. The attackers were hacked to jagged bits or had basketball sized portions of themselves missing. Red had regained herself, commandeered an automatic weapon from a downed ninja assassin and did some no small amount of damage. She was coming alone fine and Jack Dollar remembered smiling.

Again, two hand canons were cleaned and reloaded.

A machete was sharpened this time around.

A pearl handled Derringer was lovingly recovered.

A trailer allowed to burn.

The three survivors walked down the unnamed mountain, fire licking at their backs.

An Injun in shredded designer scraps with pointed teeth, brandishing a custom handled machete in a mangled hand for lack of a place to hide it.

An untucked and well hung transsexual assassin in training, her cock peeking out from a miniskirt. Its pre-cummed head nearly reaching a Derringer’s handle tucked into a blood soaked garter.

A cowboy. Stetson and mother of pearl buttons. Denim everything, and everything shredded. What wasn’t shredded, purpled from blood. His brim down. The corners of his mouth up.

Jack dollar had a posse. They were rounded up now and California Suede was about to receive bad news.

Mr. Cavendish was cautiously approached by a lackey with a message just as the bus’s wheels on gravel became available to the ear.

Pope Black stood at his side. Tall thin ready.