Archive for the ‘Jack Dollar Adventures’ Category

“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.


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.


“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.




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.


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.

She was in the shower now, with her cute little round ass facing him. She had a full back piece of a ship sailing off into a setting sun, being followed by the slight outline of birds tattooed into her thin, pale, almost blue skin. Porcelain. She put her foot up on the side of the tub and lathered her slender, long leg all the way up to her tightened balls. Her hard, throbbing cock. Jack’s stomach jumped into his stubble covered throat. She looked over her shoulder at him. Waved him toward her with a soapy bubble gum pink chipped nailed finger. Jack was surprised as to how long he contemplated. In that he did not.

That was some time ago. Now, she lay asleep in the pleather backseat of the purple metallic flaked Road Runner. Jack brushed a stray clump of curls from her face. Carl Perkins and his Blue Suede Shoes trampled much of the sound of the night’s bone saw. He looked up at the billowing clouds coming up from the smoker out behind the trailer. He woke up predawn, as usual. He dreamed of video poker. Of losing, losing, losing as usual—but always hitting on a royal flush jackpot before his budget was tapped.

He shifted his weight from one ass cheek to the other behind the wheel and in doing so, shook an Elmore Leonard paperback from his lap to in between the gear shift and seat. It wasn’t worth digging out…fuck, it wasn’t worth much. Just something to read himself to sleep with. He fumbled the handle to get out and stretch. Then he felt it: felt closed in like a cuckold husband’s cock in a chastity device.

The woods were alive. The woods were closing in.

He imagined he saw black figures jumping from the trees. Or were they?

Mr. Cavendish squirmed just a bit. Worse, the man across the desk from him saw it. This made Cavendish angry. More importantly, though, this made him want even more to do away with pleasantries. He had little time for human interactions, or the traditional going through the motions thereof.

“Have we a deal?” He exhaled along with a heavy gust of blue grey smoke.

“Have we?” Came the reply. Pope Black looked every bit the part of a gun for hire. In the 1860s. He put his feet up on Mr. Cavendish’s desk. His spurs ate into and through the thin wood veneer. His oiled canvas duster draped his tall thin frame.

“I believe we do.” Said Mr. Cavendish. “I believe we do.” He opened a faux leather bound book, scribbled on a check, tore it free, and handed it across the desk.

“Good.” Said Pope, taking his spurred heels to the floor in order to lean across the desk.

“One thing.” Cavendish’s hand stopped its travel toward Pope’s. “Respect is very important within my organization.” One of the two guards who stood at the door of the office pulled a Katana out from under his trench coat. Pope spun to face him, fingering the pearl handle of his refurbished 1851 Colt revolver. The Katana sliced through the neck of the other guard without so much as a mouse’s hiccup and was re-sheathed.

Pope Black twirled his greying handlebar mustache for a cold second. Cavendish did not flinch. If you took half a blink, you’d have missed the 1851 Colt coming out of and going back into the oiled brown leather of his holster, hand tooled with a bouquet of Mexicali roses. You’d maybe smell the gunpowder a full beat after hearing the bang. It might take you a bit longer than you’d expect to notice that the other guard was dead. Shot between the eyes. It may have taken the dead man as long to realize as it did you.

“Very fast, indeed.” Mr. Cavendish applauded. He quieted. “The
headless gentleman owned the previous set of feet set upon my desk.”

“One thing,” said Pope Black as he tore the check into slow, small squares and dropped them to the floor. “I only take cash.”

Respect means different things to different folks, thought Pope Black. He didn’t for too long think of pulling on the fat bastard. He reckoned that was some form of respect. Respect for the bottom line. Times were tough. Steady cash was steady cash. He put his black bowler back on over his greying hair. Tipped the brim toward Cavendish’s general direction. Took his leave of the cursed place.

Mr. Cavendish called for Maria to clean the mess. He was quite happy for her return. Mother Maria, full of Grace. The dried cum stuck to the 60/40 cotton/polyester blend of his underwear was this morning’s proof of that. It would take her a while to get here from across the house, he thought. The poor, sore thing.

A headless lackey. Another with a hole between his eyes. A maid with an industrial sized butt plug in place, scrubbing it all clean, sober as ol’ Wyatt Earp. It was a good day, thought Mr. Cavendish. Most important of all, he had his man, Pope Black. He wasn’t Jack Dollar, but fuck…Jack Dollar might already be dead.

The moon hung as low as Ron Jeremy.

Throngs of modern day ninjas stood between Jack Dollar, his transsexual sweetheart, and the relative safety of Garza’s trailer. He floored the pedal and shot back in his seat. The trailer was coming up fast. Then it was there. He felt Red hit the back of his seat. His braced head came within inches of the windshield. The trailer rocked and settled. Thumbs was already in it, wielding his machete against three members of California Suede. Jack saw this through the window he crashed under. It was open. They were everywhere.  Jack shot out the windshield and instructed a dazed Red to hop over him and through the window. He followed, hand cannon ablaze. Red had out her little derringer. It didn’t look good…but all he had to do was stay alive for the jackpot royal flush draw.

…and for his own little booby trap to spring. He set it before picking up the Elmore Leonard shitfest. The Road Runner was set to explode on impact. A trick Jack learned a long time ago from an old hand. A mentor of sorts. His name escaped him.

The whole shit went boom. He’d managed to get Thumbs and Red to a relative safe spot. Jackpot. Plus, he still had some matches left.

Now they had more even odds. And that was all a man like Jack Dollar wanted.

Black…Pope Black…That was his name. Jack smiled in remembrance of the man. He was probably dead by now, the old coot. Black figures were dying fast. Red commandeered his Ka-Bar and was a wiz with it. Garza’s machete was drenched in red and the occasional swatch of black fabric.

Maria was finished cleaning. “Get that ass over here.” Instructed Mr. Cavendish, unzipping.

A machete’d head rolled past Jack’s feet. Its mask fell off when it came to rest against the floorboard. It had blonde hair.

Jack put a single bullet through two California Suede ninjas to save time. Made his way to the Caucasian head, a novelty in an Asian organization.

He was shocked to recognize it as once belonging to Mack Guinness. A new kid to the business, but one with great promise.

California Suede was improving.

Wrangler and Levi’s both lent their names to Walmart product lines.

He heard the throaty growl of approaching vehicles in the distance.

Maria came with Cavendish’s 4 ½ inches buried in her ass and a copper wire brush in her cunt. She yelled something in Mexican as she did. Apologized in American after. Cried in the universal language of her situation.

Red couldn’t tell if it was finally dawn, or the fires set outside the trailer and the surrounding property were lighting the sky. The Ka-Bar was slippery with blood and sweat in her hand; her derringer was done.

Hell had followed them up the damned mountain.

She thought she saw Garza smile…

Mr. Cavendish’s chair moaned its disapproval and weak threat of revolt as he pivoted himself and it from his desk toward his window. Outside, new recruits to California Suede were being put through their paces. A nice sized crop. Each crop was larger than the last. Each man willing to kill at Mr. Cavendish’s fiendish but mostly bottom-line whims. He swelled with pride, sweat (even in his air conditioned office), and lard. He thought of calling in poor sore Mother Maria, full of grace [Jack Dollar Adventures #2] but then realized he’d not seen her for a bit. My, how she squealed at the copper wire brush treatment…

The man in charge below Mr. Cavendish’s window bellowed his disapproval toward a youngish looking recruit. A kid, really. With a hairless, ruddy face and body by Nintendo. These kids are raised on entertainment consisting of wanton violence and also a Puritan view of the human body. Look at your television. People blown to bits…real people…real wars. Alas, no tits. They were born into a culture whose sole purpose seems to be creating out of them psychopaths. Thankfully most, due to an overall softening, looked as though they were shit out by slightly more robust and less pasty men. The fucked up mind was willing–the fucked up body needed tutoring.

Tutoring, is what the man in charge was doing when he had a dozen other recruits jump the one hairless, ruddy faced lad. When they finally relented, the scene looked like the aftermath of a Pit Bull fight. Just following orders…

The Backseat of the Road Runner was much like a sofa. Thumbs Garza made himself at home on it, his legs up and crossed. His machete with the custom grip showing. He toyed with its handle. Red looked at his hands, nubs really, and felt a clump rise in her throat. He knew she was looking. When their eyes locked, he whispered “That’s what I do to myself.” He continued to smile at Red even as Jack Dollar warned him to shut up.

They were going further up, then over the mountain. Then halfway up the next to where Thumbs was currently residing. It would take several hours. Only Red seemed uneasy. She placed her hand on Jack’s lap as one comforts oneself under the guise of comforting others. Thumbs imagined the tender meat under it. Night was coming and all were kept sharp by its crispness. Jack Dollar wondered if he should have just killed the Injun. Also, he wondered if he could. He’d never wondered that about another man. It made him smile. He pulled Red’s frail hand up toward his cock. Thumbs groaned at the display. Closed his eyes and laid his head back.

The trailer had taken a long time to find. It took even longer to deactivate its assorted booby traps. The cream of the California Suede crop, however, was up to task. Two of the six man team sat at its small kitchen table, trying to make heads or tails of the totem which sat on it. “Superstitious bullshit.” Said one. “Spooky.” Said another. Eventually all agreed it was best left alone. You just don’t touch a man’s stuff. Even if it’s a man you’ve been sent out to kill. Even if the man is a piece of shit Indian cannibal your boss needs out of his way. Although the six men of California Suede were not allowing themselves to think of cannibalism…or that damned totem…or much of anything, really.

Hours passed in this avoiding way until they heard the leaves outside being trampled by angry tires. Or did they? It was hard to tell.

For ten miles now, Thumbs Garza had known there were men waiting for him in his trailer. Sloppy men. Six of them. Jack Dollar knew, too. He knew that Thumbs would never be so careless as to obviously ruffle his surroundings. They pulled up to the trailer and exchanged looks. Exchanged murderous smiles. Red was instructed to stay outside.

Thumbs put his size 12 A. Testoni moc toe lace up oxfords through the flimsy door and in one motion, beheaded two men with his machete. Jack Dollar, his Smith and Wesson 500 in hand, rolled underneath Thumbs and came up firing on his knee. His eight inch barrel poked at the middle of the small room. Two shots. Two buckets of blood, brain matter, and last words left in skulls.

Two remaining men of California Suede. Thumbs hacked his machete halfway through one. Wriggled the blade into and through the spinal column. The last dove out a window which was not open, and into the night air. He was the only one to make a sound, as the derringer took two tries to off him.

“Welcome to my home,” smiled Thumbs with a twinkle of evil. “I’d love to have you for dinner.” Jack Dollar just then realized that all of the Injun’s teeth were filed to small points. He wondered how he had missed that.

“Not too much for me. I get stuffed on a couple of cocks.” chimed in Red as she made her way inside.

“I’d like to see that.” Said Jack Dollar, holstering his gun and wondering if the Injun kept any bleach in his trailer. He went to ask, but Thumbs was already dragging the men out back, licking at those damned pointed teeth of his until his tongue trickled out blood. Jack was thankful for the large backseat of the Road Runner…and the small backseat of Red. Not a bad way to spend a night.

Until the bone saws started their wailing. Even then, there was a Carl Perkins Matchbox tape in the cassette player.

I ain’t got no matches, but I got a long way to go.

Jack Dollar smiled at the thought of all his marvelous matches as he hunkered down behind the mother of pearl buttons of his western style denim shirt.

One of the men was Big Shit Collins, because that’s what happens when a four hundred pound Mick eats seventy-five tacos. A feat that made him quite renown. A feat that had him shitting in a stall while his comrades were mowed down by a rival gang. Other feats added to his reputation, but those mainly included murder and mayhem he aimed outward, not toward his own sphincter. The other guy was a familiar enough face…or perhaps he just had one. His facial tattoo did little to mask his soft features. Big Shit concerned Jack, and Red seeing this, cast her gaze to the other man…

Mr. Cavendish broodingly waddled the aisles of a Wal-Mart Supercenter, as he often liked to do. The cheap threads of his cheap suit pulled to their collective cheap limit by his ever widening frame. He was a millionaire several times over, so he rarely came to partake in the shopper frenzy sales of shoddily constructed merchandise. Unless he needed a new tie. Or, as today, a replacement for his broken pocket watch–another soon to be broken pocket watch. What he always came for, however, was to marvel at the homogenization of it all. How the stores back east looked the same as the stores here out west. He came to marvel at the drones that stocked the shelves, at the misfits who loudly greeted him at the door, at the washouts who rang up the purchases of the unwashed masses. He came to marvel at all the walking money that was here, zombie like filling up carts to drag their dead eyes behind. Such a gloriously uniformed, cookie cutter efficiency, he planned to take this business model and apply it to what he knew best… Murder for hire.

He rolled over the cheap fat cigar, its wrapper coming undone, in the fat lips of his fat face and smiled, adjusting the vest of his three piece suit. Each piece an inadvertent hue or maybe two off from the others. Soon the west coast would be his. Soon the country. Soon the world. Soon if anyone wanted someone dead, they’d have to go through him. He’d pay the killers of his California Suede a fraction of what they were worth and they weren’t worth much at all; but they’d be powerless to deal with anyone but him. In turn, of course, clients would be able to buy murder at everyday low, sale prices. All he had to do was to first eliminate a couple of thorns in his side. A couple of thorns that he was sure wouldn’t play along.

“You have a good day, sir!” The greeter said in an oddly loud perhaps crippled voice, as Mr. Cavendish waddled through the somewhat uncomfortable gust of warm ventilated air, toward the parking lot.

“Fuck you.” came the reply.

Thumbs Garza sat waiting. Thumbs Garza knew a thing or two about waiting. He preferred his prey come to him. He was above tracking from a step or three behind. A good tracker, a tribe elder once told him, drew his prey to himself. He remembered the elder’s breath and how it made his eyes tear. Just like his father’s breath did. Thumbs fumbled the knife in his pocket. Collected his focus and fondled the other knife. The one harnessed to under his left ribcage. Its handle customized by his own hand, to his own mangled hand. He waited. He needed to talk to Jack Dollar and went over what needed to be said in his mind. Then went over it again. Then grew hungry.

He wondered if he had time for a quick snack. The pair of high school lovers parked further down the mountain. He imagined her soft thighs; hot and wet and ready to sear over an open flame…

Big Shit went big splat. His brains did, anyway. He managed to squeeze off a shot straight into the air. It was too close a call for Jack, who shivered a bit as he holstered his .500 caliber hand cannon. Waved over Peroxide for another cup of java…where the hell did she go to? Reflected in her tip, he thought. Reflected in her tip.

Red flinched a second. The man with the soft features flinched forever. Or at least for two seconds. His double barrel dipped as she sprung forward, pulling a pearl handled Derringer from her garter, like a proper lady would. She put it to his throat and squeezed the trigger. His soft features tightened up in fear. Then loosened beyond even before as he gurgled a final sentiment that no one in attendance strained to hear.

Jack Dollar had forced Red’s hand. He knew there was more to her than she showed. In the melee, her cock had come untaped and wreaked odd havoc with the pleats of her plaid skirt. Jack already was aware of her cock. He was, at this moment, more interested in the size of her skill. He gave up on Peroxide when he caught a glimpse of her well-worn Payless heels peeking out horizontally from behind the waitress station. Red took his cue and made for the door. He walked slowly and tipped his hat to onlookers. She ran hurriedly behind, awkwardly apologizing for any inconvenience.

They’d left their Road Runner idling, Big Shit and soft features. Jack slid behind the wheel, Red took shotgun and they burnt rubber into the crisp air as sirens rose behind them.

In an hour, maybe more, they were pulling into a rest area halfway up a mountain. Jack Dollar saw Thumbs Garza sitting on a picnic table looking as out of place as an Italian suit wearing Injun cannibal with mangled hands, well, sitting on a picnic table. The lack of surprise in Jack’s eyes came as no real surprise to Thumbs.

Both smiled murderously at themselves. At each other.

Birds and clouds stopped mid air. Parents ran for their minivans without first rounding up their children. Red had a hard on the size of the Spear of Longinus…bigger.

The Harley hunkered down hard around the curves, forcing itself to become almost one with the asphalt. The road snaked black, a darker black even, than the night. With every curve, every mile, the safety of distance warmed them a bit more even in the autumn night’s chill. The rain eventually relented and no sooner than it did, the tank gave up its last drop of gas and chugged to the side of the road. Not too far off from a well-lighted truck stop.

Word got back to Mr. Cavendish and was greeted poorly if not expectedly. He rolled a cheap fat cigar in his cheap fat fingers. Called in Maria, the new girl the maid service sent out. The sun was almost all the way risen, a faint purple reminder of the night still clung around the branches of a tree outside his study. Maria was forty- something. She smelled of Windex, motherhood, and the Catholic Church. Mother Maria, full of grace—but not a word of English. She stood before his desk, a feather duster at the ready. He liked her strong haunches a good deal; a good deal more, the suffering in her eyes. He pulled out his cock. As he did, he noticed the zipper had broken. Made a note to pick up a new pair of $8.88 slacks tomorrow. The sadness in Maria’s eyes turned strangely dutiful as she lowered her head into his lap. His dick was short and smelled strongly of unwashed foreskin. Mr. Cavendish slid open his drawer and rose to a full four inches as he surveyed its contents. He dramatically parted his cheap sports coat in prideful display of his meat.

Maria came up for air and all the stoicism left her deep brown eyes when she saw what he fumbled menacingly in his hands. He stuffed himself down her throat as she began to cry. Four and a half inches. This would help him construct a new plan for an old thorn in his fat side, Jack Dollar.

The waitress poured her peroxide hair atop her head and made certain it was still there as she neared the table. She leaned to pour Jack’s first cup of joe and let a well-practiced tit peek out its soft flesh. Jack Dollar liked what he saw, and what he saw were stretch marks. Red cleared her throat and awaited her pour. No well-practiced tit was involved. She would not have minded. She might have liked it. She’d fucked plenty of women. Size queens, mostly. Although a mother’s breasts reminded her sadly of her own biological limitations.

Jack poured sugar into his cup and swirled a spoon thoughtfully. Cavendish was going all out, trying to do away with him. They’d met just once. Briefly enough for Jack to turn down an offer. Well, to say “Fuck off, fat ass.” Cavendish wanted him to head up California Suede. To cook and to do the shopping, ie: recruiting. It sounded to Jack’s ear like the offer of shift manager at Taco Bell might sound to a down on his luck Liberal Arts graduate. Beneath him, but painfully necessary. It promised stability and cash. Times are changing the fat man told him.

“Let them.” Said Jack Dollar as he snuffed a spent Marlboro out on the top of Cavendish’s wood veneered desk.

Now, Jack recognized two hulking figures making their way through the truck stop’s double doors. Mountains of men and beards and road dirt and death.

The peroxided waitress let loose a gasp as the two assassins leveled their shotguns.

Thumbs Garza walked around the general store pretending to stare at the faded shelves housing items he couldn’t care less about. The creaky floorboards annoyed him as he detested unnecessarily giving away his position. Unknowingly, he stumbled upon an aisle of men’s razors and shaving cream. Holding a bag of disposable Bics, he marveled at their sharpness.

In his mind the bag of razors sent him back some 40 years to his childhood. He grew up on a reservation in New Mexico, just as poor as you’d imagine. His father was barely ever home, making appearances only when he was running low on firewater money or felt the need to beat his wife. His mother worked overnight in a truck stop, pouring coffee and getting her ass pinched and tits critiqued. Thumbs spent much of his childhood moonlit hours alone in their darkened trailer. Always, it seemed they couldn’t pay the electric bill.

He had no toys, so he began to use his hands as play things. As soldiers. His middle fingers and thumbs acted as arms, while his folded forefingers were heads. He’d spin elaborate stories of epic battles between his left and right hands. War is an ugly business. There are casualties and bloody injuries. To enhance the realism in his playtime, or to further hide from his reality, he began to mimic these unfortunate injuries that brave soldiers are all too often forced to endure. The razor sharp pocket knife was a gift from his father, the only gift from his father.

At first it hurt, digging out chunks of flesh from his little hands, but as he grew and became accustomed to the pain, the war wounds grew to crippling proportions. The only thing he spared from disfigurement were his thumbs. A 3rd grade teacher once told him that the only thing that separated humans from animals were our thumbs. Every other adult in his life treated him as if he were an animal. This was his protest. He himself took the moniker of Thumbs, he originally wanted to have it spoken in his native tongue, but could find no translation and was scolded whenever he asked of it, even by the tribe’s elders. Yet he wore the name with immense pride.

Of all the many people he cut to ribbons with his many blades, their thumbs were always the first thing to leave them. After all, he deemed them animals and was merely butchering them appropriately, their flesh warming his full stomach. He replaced the razors to their shelf and pulled his black leather trench coat closed in eerily smooth fashion over his designer black dress shirt and black pleated pants. He monochromatically stepped outside; headed north toward the motel, insatiable hunger burning in his gut.

The night sky has a strange way of reflecting back your own loneliness. This is what instills fear of the dark in man. Now this particular night sky was closed in by mountains; the torment dammed up on all sides.

There was a leak in the tent. Light, steady rain snuck in and wrapped around the canvas, clung to the sun and time faded ceiling, wound to its side, and down. A trail which ended wetter ever wetter at the cotton socked feet of Jack Dollar.

Nights like this bore the romance of adventure. Just not during them. He shortened his legs. Closed his eyes. Imagined a Super 8. Red adjusted her body to match his, her pale skin gleaming in the dark. He toyed with a fistful of ideas. A couple involved her paleness. One, her fire red hair. Another was sleep, but at a certain point when sleep won’t come, forcing it only chases it further away and invites madness. The last, the one that won out, was the last can of pork and beans. Or was it chili? The label had fallen off some time back…

Outside seemed strangely drier than inside. The tent had taken on the feel of a bucket. Outside was a far larger bucket. He strode to the decade old or so Fat Boy. Its chrome was blacked out by either exhaust tape, flat primer, or both. He almost stumbled over the beast in the dark. Over the sissy bar was draped an army issued knapsack. The can of pork and beans or chili or fuck…was it creamed corn…was about the only thing in there. Jack went to work on it with his Ka-Bar.

He hit the top of the can with the point of the blade. Hit it a second time. He heard three raps. Three beats. Stopped.

Red bleary-eyed stretched her way to standing out of the pup tent and the silence of her night was broken by the thunder of a fifty caliber bullet forced out the end of a 500 S&W Magnum big ass motherfucking gun. She hadn’t enough time to regret her mistake when she heard the bullet slam into flesh no more than five feet behind her. The body fell into leaves. Her senses alive in fear, she could hear blood pour from the basketball sized hole in the stranger’s chest. Its sound mimicked the rain on the tent’s floor, but heavier in both mood and actual weight.

Jack felt there were others. He mounted the muted beast and roared it to life. A figure drenched in black stiffened at its sound and gave itself away. Jack left nothing of its masked face on its shoulders with another thunderous clap of his hand cannon. He rode toward Red and spun out, offering her up the bitch seat. She jumped on and wrapped her arms around his waist. Pressed her warm flesh to him. He picked off another blackened figure. California Suede. They were really out to send him a message. That message being his own eulogy. He pictured it being read by Thumbs Garza, his only friend and not a very good one. The Injun would say a few glum words and shed a tear afterward as he ate the haunches of the preacher; cooked well done because you simply never can tell where a man of God might have been.

Red clung closer now, they’d hit a road and it looked to open up ahead. All the horses under them were running free now. He felt her hard cock in the small of his back and smiled.