Monday, December 18, 2017

Dollar Sign on the Baby by Paul Greenberg

Dollar Sign on the Baby

“Excuse me, Mother Superior,” said Lolly as she elbowed her way past the Nun. “No need to push.” Said the Nun to Lolly, who elbowed her shopping cart through the mass of humanity flooding the parking lot of the Market Basket Grocery Store.

Lolly, at 5’3” barely fit behind the wheel of her 2009 Toyota Corolla. Once a petite 120 pounds, she had managed to put on an extra hundred over the last few years, thanks to a diet of Mountain Dew, Pop Tarts and vodka.

Her trip to the grocery store yielded a trunk load of crap food and cigarettes for her boyfriend, Jimmy LeBlanc, but also something she had picked up while pushing through the parking lot. A two-year-old boy.

Lolly had decided to call him Henry, after her father, despite the fact that Dad had tossed her and Jimmy out on there ass's back in Plantation, Florida.


Lolly didn’t know why she had plucked the kid from the woman’s carriage. The conditions seemed right, so she did it. An impulse purchase you might say. Something in her subconscious was screaming, “dollar signs.”

When she pulled into the driveway of the trailer park, Lolly could hear Jimmy in the middle of a coughing jag. He was already asking for his carton of Camels, as she was walking through the door.

“I got your cigarettes and your cheese curls and all the other shit you eat. She said as she popped open a can of Mountain Dew.

“Look what else I got you, Daddy.” She sang playfully as she walked into the TV room. Lolly held the boy in front of her swinging him gently back and forth, his legs dangling, dirty diaper sagging from his tiny pants.

“What the fuck did you do now, you stupid cow?”

“Jimmy, this is Henry, but you can call him Money. Do you know how much his parents will pay to get him back?”


“No, I don’t know. Did you ask them my sweet cookie jar?”


“Do you know who the parents are my lovely potato chip?”


“Then how the fuck are you going to get any money out of them ya ignoramus?”

“Cause Henry is going to give us their phone number. Isn’t that right, cutie?”

“He’s a fucking baby you stupid clam plate. All he knows is; I got to eat, shit and piss. Now find Sesame Street on the fucking tube and put him down, so we can figure this thing out?”

Jimmy paced the room wondering why he didn’t haul back and smack her all the while congratulating himself for not doing so.

“Where’s the food?”

“In the bags, dumb ass.”

Jimmy rummaged through the three plastic bags looking for anything resembling red meat. “We could eat ‘em, I suppose.”

“By now the cops…” He smacked his hand to his forehead and flicked on the radio, near the kitchen sink.

“An Amber alert has been issued for Simon…”

“Simon. Who names their kid, Simon?” Lolly said.

“Who names their kid, Lolly? Now, will you shut the fuck up,” said Jimmy.

“Simon Chalmers is two and one half years old, has brown hair, brown eyes and was wearing a Tom Brady T-shirt, blue pants and white sneakers. He’s the son of Mary and Anthony Chalmers. If you have any information or were at the Market Basket in Middletown this afternoon around 2:00 pm, please call…”

Jimmy looked at the boy. “That’s him all right.”

“Simon Chalmers. Sounds rich,” said Lolly.

Jimmy knew that he was in a world of shit that he never asked to be in, and his choices were few. He had to move fast. Come up with a story. Get the kid to safety and put a thousand miles between him and Lolly.  His window of escape was closing fast.

“Honey, here’s twenty bucks. Go down to the CVS and get the kid some diapers, milk and baby food. A kid shouldn’t be eating Doritos and swilling the Dew. OK?”

“Sure Jimmy. I knew you would figure it out. You want me to take the baby, with?”

“No, no, no. Let the boy sleep, I’ll be fine.”

While Lolly made her way to the CVS, Jimmy made his way to his closet where his 7MM Remington long-range hunting rifle was stored. He loaded it and stuck it behind a trash barrel in front of the trailer.

Jimmy LeBlanc spent the time he had alone revisiting the past seven years of his life. Leaving Florida, stealing cars, the booze, the coke and the meth. Pan handling and petty theft, odd jobs and now the God forsaken New England winters. This life if for shit. Now kidnapping? And for what? A once nice looking broad that turned into a cow overnight? A whining, never happy with anything I could possibly do, including trying to go straight?

This, he decided, has got to end.

When Lolly pulled back into the park, Jimmy was pacing out front, chain-smoking Camels, coughing and spitting up phlegm. He hurried Lolly out of the car, suggesting that she “get in there and change that kid’s diaper and feed him and shut him the fuck up so no one hears him crying.”

As Lolly entered the trailer, Jimmy opened the trunk of the car and wrapped the rifle in a blanket. He closed the trunk and hurried into the trailer before Lolly poked her head out to see what he was up to.


“Lolly, I spoke to my friend Dan Comeau, you know the guy I did construction with for awhile? He said that he’ll get us ten grand for the kid, but we would have to get it to him tonight, cause the heat is really on and he’s got to flip the kid to someone who wants to adopt and so on.”

“Ten grand, that’s awesome,” she said.

“So, tonight at nine we gotta drop the kid off behind the church on Lowell Street.  At 9:15 Danny will come by, leave our money in a bag and take the kid. Sounds easy enough, huh?”

When 8:30 came around, Simon Chalmers was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping in a big blue plastic recycling bucket. Lolly got in the back seat with him and Jimmy drove down to the Saint and Angels Church. He parked at the back of the church parking lot by the Donate Books bin, about 50 yards from the church.

“You go up there by the exit door and lay the bucket down. Then we take a little drive. Danny will pick up the kid and drop the cash by the door. Then we come back and pick up the money. OK?”

“You think Simon will be safe?”

“He’ll be fine. Now go. We have a schedule to keep.”

As Lolly waddled the length of the parking lot, Jimmy slipped out of the car, popped the trunk and grabbed the rifle.

He looked through the scope as Lolly walked up the stairs to the door. She was moving the bucket around like a shaker of salt over corn on the cob.

Lolly kneeled down to gently place the bucket on the top step. She adjusted the blanket around the boy and as soon as she straightened herself up, Pop, Pop, Pop. Jimmy got off three shots in a group, around her heart.

“God damn, that’s some good shooting.”

He got in the Toyota tossed the gun on the passenger seat and Pop. The Remington went off sending a round right through Jimmy’s neck. He fell forward on the horn.

The blaring of the horn alerted a Nun, who was working in the church. She came out the back door to find a dead Lolly and a sound asleep Simon Chalmers. “I’ll be freaking damned.” She said. “It’s that pushy girl from the grocery store.”  Sister Winnie Patrikas pulled out her cell phone and called the police.

She was about to become famous.


Bio Paul Greenberg’s crime and flash fiction can be found at Out of the Gutter, Shotgun Honey, Thrills Kills and Chaos, Near to the Knuckle, Horror Sleaze Trash, Yellow Mama and his story Next Stop, Hell is in Issue 2 of Switchblade Magazine (available at Amazon). He lives on the North Shore of Boston, Massachusetts. 

Paul blogs at  Follow him on Twitter at pgreenbergcrime and on Facebook look for Paul Greenberg. Not the Paul Greenberg that wrote the book about fish.

Monday, December 4, 2017

The Last Load by Douglas Anderson

The Last Load

Leaving El Paso
Rolling down the open road through the desert always calms me, but not today. Too much dope ridin’ in the trunk. “Stay cool, you own the fuckin’ road,” I tell myself checking the mirrors again. There ain’t another car in sight. “Fuck man, quit lookin’ in the mirrors!”
Jorge’s ridin’ shotgun, the fat piece of shit. He makes me sick. All them fuckers like him in the joint make me sick. I hope he sleeps all the way back, or dies.  Either way is good, as long as I don’t have to deal with his ass. Fuckin’ Tio. Why’d he send this cock sucker?
I must be getting paranoid. I gotta quit looking in the rear view mirror. I flip it down a little, there’s Chico - arms all stretched across the top of the back seat. Fuckin’ kid. Fifteen years old and ain’t got a care in the world.
“El Paso’s a shithole,” I tell him.
 “Yeah,” he says “Place is full of mojados tryin’ to hitch a ride north.”
“I tell ‘em all the same thing – fuck off.”  Dirty mother fuckers. Just like that filthy fuckin’ Jorge.
I hate El Paso, couldn’t get outta there fast enough. Every time I go, I hate it more. It ain’t just the mojos, they ain’t the worst by far. Los Muertos are everywhere. They strut around like a bunch of extras from a shitty cowboy film. Vaqueros. Ha! They all think they’re fuckin’ cowboys.
They ain’t cowboys but they are dangerous…and ruthless. Los Muertos started off as a bunch of crazy Mexicans smuggling illegals over the border. Maybe gitten’ em fake Id’s. It wasn’t long before they was full on into dope, guns, whores, stolen cars, kidnapping, extortion, hits, or whatever.
They have a hell of a strategy, if anybody fucks with ‘em at the border they spray ‘em with full-auto AK’s or toss a grenade their way. Pretty good deterrent for the Border Patrol and the ICE guys. They got a shitload of soldiers and guns stacked up on both sides of the border. Any problems guns can’t solve money can. They got plenty of that too.
I can’t fuckin’ stand ‘em. Always try’n to prove how fuckin’ tough they are. Hard to believe Chico’s one of ‘em. I’ve only known him for a few days, but he don’t seem to fit the mold. Picked him up in El Paso with the load. Los Muertos guys insisted, said I needed a babysitter. Tio said the same bullshit when he sent Jorge with me back in KC.
“Ya need to get some gas.”
Fuckin’ Jorge.
“In Albuquerque…mi hija.” He says blowing kisses at me. 
That fuckin’ mi hija shit pisses me off.
Mi hija!” The fuckin’ joto is still blowin’ kisses at me.
“Fuck you.” I better check the mirror - make sure nobody’s following us.
 “This ain’t prison,” I turn glaring at him, “And I sure as hell ain’t your bitch to be blowin’ kisses to.”
Jorge laughs and licks his lips, “You might like it!”
The cock sucker’s still laughin’ when we pull up to the pumps at the Gas-R-Fast station.
“No bullshit in there,” I tell Jorge. “Take a piss, get a fuckin’ bag a chips or whatever, and then get back in the fuckin’ car.” He just looks at me with this stupid grin and laughs. Asshole.
“I’m fuckin’ serious, no bullshit.” 
Chico stretches getting out, “What’s up with that?” nodding towards the gas station door.
“He could fuck this whole deal up,” I tell him. “He ain’t got no sense at all.”
Filthy Fuckin’ Jorge.

The Escape
Scrambling for the back door, he didn’t even hear the shot. The molten lead tore through his ribcage branding his innards.
“Uh…Uh...” he pants, “Uh…Uh…” the pain is like nothing he could imagine. Blood stains the ground as it drains from the wound. The frantic dash to escape has faded to a stumbling trot down a dirt alley.
“Eh, you OK man?” He hears from behind him.
“He looks fucked up!”
“Ya he does!” Laughing and mocking.
“Hey princess!” He turns and sees three of them, “What you got, trick?”
“I’ll give ya whatever…” The bloody man gasps in pain, “Just get me to a hospital.”
“Real shit,” one says, “Ain’t tryin’ to fuck with all that.”
“Give it up.” One of them says, “All of it.”
Reaching into his pocket there’s a syringe. “Here ya go,” he says drawing it from his pocket, “Mother fucker!” He stabs desperately at one and  misses - by a long ways.
The first punch crushes the left side of his head.
Falling forward, the second punch hits him right where the bullet did. The pain is so intense, he can’t even scream.
“Tryn’ to stab me,” kicking his head, “Huh?” Kicks it again.
The ringing in his ears is interrupted only by hollow thuds from the boots and grinding of gravel into his face. In desperation, he pulls the little bit of dope and cash that he has out of his pockets. He throws it on the ground, and somehow manages to scurry away toward the street.
“Help…” spitting bloody foam, “Somebody…Please!”
Trying to flag someone down, “Uh…Uh…”
Stooped over holding his stomach he staggers into traffic.
“Get the fuck outta the street,” someone yells out.
“Wait…” stumbling around the front of an old rusty Buick, “Please!”
Smack! He’s plowed by a white panel van.
“Uh…Uh…” The struggle for breath resonates in his head, “Uh…Uh…”
“Oh shit!” The van’s driver says as he jumps out, “Grab his legs,” he says slightly smiling to his passenger, “We better get this guy to a hospital!”
They quickly toss the bloody man into the back of the van, and slam the side door shut. Tires squeal as they speed off right through the red light, never once hitting the brakes as they swerve through traffic.    

Oklahoma Cops
It’s been a long fuckin’ day. Most of I-40 is behind us now, I can see it disappear in the mirror. Fuck man! Stop lookin’ in the goddamn mirror!
 “These Oklahoma highway cops,” I tell Chico, “are pricks.” Jorge opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “We don’t wanna get pulled over around here.”
Chico nods in agreement, “We don’t wanna get pulled over nowhere!”
Jorge smiles, “Back in the joint…”
Fuckin’ Jorge. He hasn’t shut up since we left Albuquerque. All he talks about is fuckin’ prison! How he loves gettin’ ahold them new “gurls”.
He says it all the time, “Can’t wait to go back so I can rape a mother fucker’s ass.”
Sick fuck. Last fuckin’ thing I want to think about right now is prison!
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, “you’re wearin’ me out.”
“Yea,” Chico says, “I’m sick of your mouth.”
“Hearin’ all your prison shit is startin’ to make me paranoid.” I try to convince myself to just stay cool.
 That pissed Jorge off. “Fuck you,” he says, “Back in the joint, you’d both be my bitches.” He laughs and starts that kissy – kissy bullshit again. “Mi hijas!”
Filthy fuckin’ Jorge. I’d like nothin’ more than to shoot him in the face.
I look back in the mirror, that fucking mirror! I can see Chico’s real pissed, and he’s got a screwdriver, or somethin’.
Chico leans right up behind him. “How bout I stick you in the back of the head puto?”
“How bought I stick you in your culo?” Kissy – kissy, “Mi hija!”
Chico flipped like a switch. I could see it in his eyes. They weren’t like a kid’s eyes no more. He had the look of a predator, a killer. He wasn’t just mad, he definitely wanted to kill him. I wouldn’t mind killing him either, the filthy fucker.
“Whoa - whoa! Easy now,” I tell them while I scan the road for cops, “Let’s all just chill the fuck out.” Better check behind us in the mirror too.
I need to put a stop to this shit. The last thing we need is for one of them asshole Oklahoma cops to be rollin’ by while Chico’s probing the inside of Jorge’s brain with a screwdriver. It’s nothin’ officer, sir…he’s just got a couple screws loose!
“Let’s stay focused,” I tell them. “Did you forget there’s enough shit in the trunk to keep us all in prison ‘til we’re old men?”
I’m fuckin’ irritated and paranoid. I can’t stop lookin’ in the mirror. I gotta get out of this fuckin’ car soon.
“We’re stopping in Fort Smith,” I tell them, “I’m starvin’.”

The Rescue
The van blends right into traffic at 6:30 in the morning. It looks like something you’d see in a cop movie. Plain white with blacked out windows and factory hub caps. “This is the spot.” Hector says to Tio from the behind the wheel.
“Pull up right there,” Tio says, “Behind that dumpster.”
“You gonna be long?”
“I shouldn’t be,” he says quietly, pushing the door shut, “But be ready.”
“Fuck,” Hector thinks, eyeing all the broken windows, graffiti, and trash. “What a shithole,” shaking his head as he watches Tio go into the building.
Less than a minute passes and Tio comes trotting back to the van. Hector leans over the passenger seat and opens the door.
“Come on,” Tio says, “I need you to come with me.” His voice is unsteady and shaky.
Hector knows something’s wrong, “What’s goin’ on Tio?” He doesn’t rattle too easily.
Tio just shakes his head like he’s saying no, and gestures Hector to come on. He doesn’t say a word as they step over trash and crunch syringes getting to the front door. Tio points to the first door on the left, “Shhhh,” raising one finger to his mouth.
Hector nods, and pulls his piece, a stainless steel Ruger Mark II with a screw on silencer to cover Tio.
Tio counts down with his left hand 3…2…1… and kicks the door open. The place looks even worse on the inside. 
“What the fuck!” says Hector, “Is that fuckin’ smell?” There’s flies everywhere. A skinny junkie is laying on the couch, he’s so high that he doesn’t even blink. “Don’t they ever take out the trash?” The smell of piss is overpowering, and needles are everywhere.
“Cover me,” Tio says kicking garbage out of the way, “Back here,” pointing to the bedroom.
Tied face down to the bed is a teenage girl. She’s incredibly skinny and dirty.
 “Is she dead?” Hector says, still on point.
“No, keep your eyes out,” he says as he starts to untie her. “Throw me that robe,” pointing to the dresser, “Let’s get her the fuck outta here.”
Hector grabs the robe and shakes all the needles off it, “What about that piece of shit on the couch?”
Carefully cradling the unconscious girl, “His tomorrow’s a bitch,” Tio says.
Hector leans in for a closer look, “Just him?” he can see small blood splatters around the junkie’s right ear. The rolled up blanket he was using for a pillow soaked up most of the brain juice and hair that came out the other side of his head.
“I hit the other one in the belly,” Tio says as he carries her out the door, “He took off out the back patio door.”
Hector looks intense and agitated, “Fuck!” He says looking toward the blood streaked back door. “He better hope he dies before I catch his ass.”

We’ve been on the road now for like thirteen hours. I gotta get out of this fuckin’ car.  Bad breath and fuckin’ body odor is burning my nose. It’s gotta be that filthy fuckin’ Jorge. Did that mother fucker piss himself?
In the back seat Chico’s still staring at the back of Jorge’s head. At least that’s what it looks like through those super dark Wayfarers. “Hey Chico,” I ask him, “You awake?”
He leans forward, “Yeahhhh,” stretching his arms out, “Are we there yet?”
Joking I ask him, “Are we where yet? If you mean Hell,” pointing at that filthy pile of shit in the passenger seat, “Then fuck ya man we’re here.” Filthy fuckin’ Jorge.
Denny’s is up ahead about a block on the right. The parking lot’s almost empty, good. I check the mirror again to make sure we’re not being followed. Startin’ to hate that fuckin’ mirror. I park the car right in the middle of the front windows where we’ll be able to keep an eye on it.
“Wake up ya fat fuck,” I say to Jorge, “Get ‘outta the fuckin’ car, time to eat.”
Jorge looks at me still dazed, “Fuck you. Meeee – HAAA,” he yawns.
“I can’t eat lookin’ at that greasy fuck,” Chico says.
“Don’t eat then,” I tell him, “But you ain’t sittin’ in the fuckin’ car.”
Frustrated, Chico grabs the door and goes in. I stop Jorge at the door, “No bullshit. Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut in there.”
“Or what?” blowing a kiss at me, “Mi hija.”
Just when I’m about to tell him, “Or I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat, right here in the fuckin’ doorway,” two black and whites roll in.
“Just shut the fuck up,” I tell him through my teeth.
Sure as shit, when I come ‘outta the bathroom, there’s four fuckin’ cops sittin’ two tables away from Chico and Jorge. I hope that stupid fucker keeps his goddamn mouth shut.
I sit down and fear turns to outright, full blown paranoia, “You guys order yet?” My mouth is so dry, I can barely peel my lips from my teeth. Relax, stay calm, those pigs don’t know shit about nothin’.
I look up and there’s a blank, vacant stare, “Hi! My name is…” it says on her name tag, “What can I get for you guys?” The waitress with no name says, “Something to drink, water, or some coffee?”
“A pot of coffee,” I tell her tryin’ to ignore the burning in my gut from those cops staring at me, “Three cups…and ice water.”
Jorge starts to open his fuckin’ yap, the stupid fucker, but I cut him off, “Three grand slams, with extra bacon.” The cops look at me, waiting for me to order the Drug Runner’s Special, “And some sugar… for the coffee please.”
I look at Chico and Jorge to see if they too can feel the cops sizing us up, “static -214 – static -eastbound I - 40,” the cop turns down the volume, and looks directly into my eyes.
“I – 40?” I think, “That ain’t us, no fuckin’ way!” Fuckin’ radio. “Did they hear that too?” My mind is about explode. “Where’s the fuckin’ food already?”
The clanking of the plates scares the shit ‘outta me, “Anything else for you guys?” she asks through her yellow teeth.
Filthy fuckin’ Jorge looks at me like he’s about to say somethin’ stupid.
“No thanks,” Chico tells her, “Just the check, when ya get a chance.”
He don’t seem a bit scared, but if those cops see me all jumpy, they’re definitely gonna want to take a look at all that dope in the trunk of the car.  Fuckin’ cops. I gotta get the fuck ‘outta here.

They have been raping her for days in this filthy apartment. At first she tried to fight, but it’s no use now. She’s exhausted, tied face down to the bed, and beaten severely. The drugs keep her from staying conscious for more than a few minutes at a time.
“Where am I?” She tries to think clearly, “I’ve got to find a way to get out of here.”
She struggles to turn her head, “Get off me!” She tries to scream but it’s muffled by the blood and the dirty sock in her mouth. “GET OFF ME!” It’s no use. She closes her swollen black eyes, “Please God, please help me,” and prays for it to end, “Please.” She tries to remember the good things in her life, before this. It’s no use.
“How could I let this happen?” She thinks, “I’m going to die here.”
The skinny one licks the back of her head as he climbs off her, “Hey, you’re up.” He says, “Hey!”
She hears him leave the room, thank God, but she can still feel him on her skin. He could be back any minute, him or the other one, the monster. She hates him the most.
“I will never be able to forget this,” she thinks, “No one will believe me, they’ll all say it’s my fault. They always say it’s her fault.”
She hears them talking in the other room, “You gonna fix one up for me?” The skinny one says.
“Yeah, hang on a second,” the monster says, “just gimme a minute.”
“What’re we gonna do with her?”
“Leave her there I guess, she ain’t goin nowhere.”
“Should we hit her with some Dilaudid again just make sure?”
“Maybe another 30cc that should keep her down for a while.”
She hears footsteps coming back. “Don’t touch me!”
“There ya go,” feeling the needle pierce her skin, “There ya go…”
“Please, please God…please help me.”

Tio Calls
I’ve never been, so fuckin’ paranoid, so happy to get back on the road. I thought the fuckin’ cops were gonna grab us up as soon as we walked out the door. I can’t wait to get back to KC and get this load ‘outta my hands. I’ve had a bad feeling about this one from the start. Maybe because Jorge’s with me this time. I never did trust him, the filthy fuckin’ cock sucker.
“Low-ri-der” chimes from the cell phone, Chico answers it right away. “Bueno,” (pauses), “Si,” (pauses again), “OK,” handing the phone to me, “It’s Tio.”
Now I got a real bad feeling, Tio never calls while I’m travelin’. He don’t want no ties to nothin’ in this car, especially while it’s on the road. “What’s up?”
“We have a problem,” Tio says flatly.
My heart drops into my gut. “How big a problem?” I check the rear view mirror, no one back there but Chico relaxed with his arms stretched across the top of the back seat. Fuckin’ kid ain’t got a care in the world.
“No big deal,” he tells me, “Now listen…you just need to take a small detour.”
“A small detour?” I ask him, “What exactly does that mean?”
Tio tells me to, “Listen very carefully,” his voice lowers as he gives me directions.
“Yeah,” I try not to sound rattled, “Then what?” I try to maintain as the phone disconnects.
Jorge looks over at me, “What’s with the detour, mi hija?”
“Shut the fuck up!” He knows I’m pissed, “One more fuckin’ word ‘outta your mouth, and I’m gonna let Chico stick ya in the head with that screwdriver!”
He sulks down in the seat, “You’re gonna let him, huh?”
I think to myself, “We’re goin’ where they cut the heads off the chickens.”

 “You’re a real tough guy.” Hector says as he stabs a razor knife deep into the man’s right cheek. “You better start talkin’ tough guy, while you still can.” He yanks the knife forward splitting his cheek in half, exposing all of his teeth.
Tio clamps one of the cables onto the bottom half of the man’s cheek that hangs like a steak from his face.
“Hit him,” Hector says looking the man directly in his eyes, “Yeah, stick it right there in his piece-of-shit mouth.” 
Tio cranks up the car battery jump-box to about thirty amps, and shoves the other clamp into the man’s bloody mouth. The box hums and the lights flicker as the man’s mouth blisters and smokes. His screams echo off the concrete walls while Hector casually smokes his cigar.
“Ok,” Hector says, making a cutting motion, “We don’t want to kill him.”
Tio pulls the clamp from his mouth. The man’s head falls forward as Hector rips the other clamp off of his cheek-steak.
Hector grabs the man’s face, “Now, tell me about the girl.” He stokes his cigar to a bright red cherry. “Why was she in your apartment?”
“Why should I tell you shit,” the man says, “I’m about to die here anyway.”
“You’re probably right.” Tio says calmly as he sticks his finger into the bullet hole in his ribcage, “But let me tell you this, dying can be short and sweet or it can be a very long and painful road.”
“She came with Stick,” He says spitting bloody foam on the floor, “The guy on the couch.”
“Stop, stop for Christ’s sake!” He screams as Tio wiggles his finger around in the bullet hole. “Stick and his dope man Jay showed up with her. They were all fucked up. Jay gave me a ball to use my bedroom for a couple hours.”
“Use your bedroom?” Hector’s face twists up, “For a couple hours?” Punching him in his mouth, “She was tied up in there for at least a week!”
“What the fuck? She’s just a dope whore any…”
Hector shoves his cigar into his left ear before he can finish, “That dope whore,” twisting it in deeper, “Is my fucking niece.”
As he listens, Tio slowly wraps a 10mm HK in a bath towel and puts it firmly to the man’s forehead. “You no longer have value,” Tio says to him as he squeezes the trigger.
“Let’s throw this hunk of shit back in the van.”
“Let me make this call first.” Tio says.
I follow Tio’s instructions and head down the farm road. After about a mile and a half, I see it, a black Yukon with some ridiculous huge wheels. In the back window there’s a decal, “Los Muertos” over the top of a hooded skull and praying hands, “No Nosotros Son Santos” on the bottom. “Not all of us are Saints.”
I don’t like surprises, especially surprise detours when I got a shitload of dope in the car.
I slam the shifter into Park, and start to open the door. “Hey,” Chico says, “You don’t know these guys.” He taps me on the shoulder as he gets out, “I got this.”
Chico slides his shades up on top of his head and casually strolls up to the Yukon, rolling up his right sleeve. There’s the skull and praying hands.  The driver gets out and does the same. They shake hands and walk to the front of the truck.
Jorge looks at me, “What the fuck is this shit?” I can see beads of sweat on his head, “I bet that little fucker’s gonna rob us.”
“Rob us?”  With a confused and irritated look I ask him, “How the fuck does that make any sense at all?” Stupid fuckin’ Jorge.
“I don’t trust the little fucker,” he says, trying to sound serious. “I don’t trust him at all.”
“Tio trusts him,” I tell Jorge,
Chico trots back to the car and leans in the window on my side. “Pop the trunk,” he says, “Tio said to give these guys five.”
“I told you…” Jorge starts to say.
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him as the trunk pops open.
“Help me with these,” Chico says to Jorge as he turns to the back of the car. “Let’s go, come on.”
Jorge just looks at me. “Go on, move your ass,” I tell him, “So we can get the fuck ‘outta here.”
Jorge gets outta the car and Chico tosses him two, “We just gotta put these in the back of the truck,” he says pointing to the Yukon. Chico swings the back doors open and tosses in the dope. “Right here,” he says to Jorge, “Put ‘em right here.”
Jorge bends over just a little bit to put the dope in. Chico says, “Yeah, you- fuck-ing- piece- of -shit -puto,” and stabs him in the side of the neck, “Right fuck-ing there!”
“Ahhhh….Ahhhh…Ahhhh,” screams Jorge as Chico sinks the screwdriver deeper into his neck.
“Ahhhh…Ahhhh,” Chico mocks him, “Fucking puto!” He pulls a white tube sock from his pocket and shoves it in Jorge’s mouth, “You know what you done!!” He yells in his ear, “You fuck-ing pussy mother fuck-er!” Chico stabs him at least twenty times in his neck and head before he falls to the ground.
The two guys from the Yukon jump out. One of them has a heavy canvas drop cloth like painters use, and the other one has a can of gas.
Chico stabs him another ten or fifteen times in the face before they roll him up in the drop cloth, soak him down with gas, and light him on fire.
Holy shit! The fire’s like a demon dance. I can’t look away.
Chico slips back in the car, “It’s cool, relax,” he says patting me on the shoulder, “Problem solved, now let’s get the fuck outta here. I gotta get some new socks.”
“Fuckin’ cowboy!”


Bio Born and raised in the middle of a small neighborhood surrounded by slaughterhouses in the Stockyards district in South Omaha, Ne. I am known for my, “often degenerate and uncensored mouth” and for speaking my mind “anytime, anywhere.” I also write poetry, social commentary, and essays about people and life. You can catch me on Facebook – Douglas Anderson – job title “Poet.”