Choose Or Die

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.7 - THE NEW FASHIONED WAY

2011-09-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.7 - THE NEW FASHIONED WAY

By Rashelle Workman

It seems impossible, but your gut’s telling you the fancy-fingered globetrotters, those guys you were counting on to help you solve this case, are involved. Maybe even the crazy mofo’s who’ve been killing the girls and keeping their insides. Sick. Sick. Sick!

How’d I miss the signs, you wonder, smacking your forehead.

Rage fills you. The idea of being duped and played like one of their basketballs rips through your brain, until you scream. “Aaaaaugh! It’s time for answers.” And you’ve got a plan.

Digging through Kareem’s tremendously large trunk of trinkets, you find a full body disguise. With a quick look around the alley, you strip and don a suit that looks remarkably like Clive, the Trotter’s old coach. Once you’re squished in, you search the trunk for a mirror. You’ve gotta check out your new face.

Amongst all the hairy wigs, dentures and masks, you notice, at the very bottom, a small red button. It seems to be screaming: “Push me! Push me!”

So you do.

And suddenly the trunk and the ground underneath you begin to tremor. It looks like the whole place is shaking. “Holy earthquake, that button broke the Universe!” The words sound ridiculous floating away on the sour smelling wind, but you’re freaked.

There’s a twinkle and then the shaking stops. Relieved you turn to bolt and notice you aren’t in the alley anymore. Instead you seem to be inside a glorious, glamorous hallway.

The maroon carpet under your shoes feels plush, the walls have been wallpapered gold and maroon. Unable to help yourself, you place a hand against the wall. It’s soft, like crushed velvet. The ceiling is high above you and expensive chandeliers dangle every five feet. The hallway seems to go on forever.

“Where in the world am I?”

Going for your gun, you reach into the holster. When your hand finds emptiness, you remember you aren’t wearing your clothes anymore. You’re wearing Clive.

Shuddering, you say, “On my own, just the way I like it.” The tremble of your bottom lip begs to differ. You’ve been in some crazy-assed situations in your life, but this wins—

“Hey, I thought it was my turn to feed her.”

You move toward the sound of the voice somewhere up ahead.

Part of you wants to shout for help. But experience has taught that announcing your arrival before you know where the hell you are, is a bad idea.

Instead you listen, searching for the whereabouts of the voice. Snooping’s your job. Quickly you’re rewarded. There’s screaming, laughing and arguing. It sounds like a party. And the Trotters are hosting. Here . . . wherever here is.

On your left is a door. Placing your ear against it, you eavesdrop.

“Hang on. I’m going to go check on Kareem. He should’ve been here already.”

The door swings open and you fall into Curly, knocking him and you to the floor.

“What the hell? Clive?” Curly says, pushing you off.

The other Trotters come over and two of them help you to your feet.

“Cllliiivvvvve. Right,” Sweetwater says, punching you in the gut.

“Grab the Clive wannabe,” Curly says.

Two of the Trotters take one of your arms in their hands and drag you over to a wall full of water. Yeah, that’s right. It’s a fish tank the size of a wall! If you weren’t so freaked you’d think it was awesome. The damn thing is full of fish, dolphins and . . . Sharks?

“What the hell’s going on guys? What are you playing at?”

“Watch,” Sweetwater says.

Three girls appear in the tank, their hair floating around them. Pointed teeth exposed cruelly as they wave at you. One of them points a finger at you and then curls it, beckoning.

Your mind tries to reject what’s in front of you. Because the girls in the mermaid suits look a lot like the dead women with the missing insides.

The Trotters start to laugh.

“She wants you.”

“You should see your face.”

“Yeah, let’s see his face.” Curly rips off the mask.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Within the mask stank of cement glue.

“Again, what the hell guys? I thought we were supposed to be working together to solve murders. These girls . . . why aren’t they dead?”

Sweetwater scratches his chin. “Let’s just say they aren’t dead . . . anymore.”

“Huh?”

Twiggy continues, “Look friend. The tricks. The stunts we pull on the court. It takes a certain kind of . . . magic to do what we do.”

“Maybe we should demonstrate.”

Twiggy and Curly take you over to a door. Sweetwater pushes it open. Your socks are knocked off at the smell. The ocean. You swear you can even hear seagulls. The Trotters drag you up the stairs and stop at the top.

The mermaids are waiting for you.

“They’re gonna take you to meet our boss. Don’t struggle and you might get to come back. Got it?”

“Don’t do this. I can’t swim,” you whisper, a new kind of terror stealing through your veins.

“No worries.”

They toss you in. And before you even have a chance to fight, the mermaids have you in their clutches and are dragging you down. There’s another door and one of the girls knocks. It opens. The girl to your right smiles.

And then they shove you in.

The room smells damp, but it’s dry. Your body is on solid ground. A drip-dripping catches your attention, but it’s too dark to see anything.

Except two glowing yellow eyes.

“Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you,” a voice growls.

Something hard splits your chest, grabs your heart and tears it out. Strangely, you still feel it beating.

“The boys will get five years of magic for you. Score!” The deep voice rumbles, like the Earth itself is laughing. “Let’s make the Trotters’ day and send you back as a crab.”

“Score,” you think as you’re tossed into the tank. One of your large pincher smacks you in the eye.

I’m hungry. Where’s the fish?

The End.

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.6 - THE OLD FASHIONED WAY

2011-08-30T07:01:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.6 - THE OLD FASHIONED

By Steven Novak

Kareem Abdul Jabar is lying dead at your feet. The damn dollywad munched a cyanide tablet to keep from yapping, but it really didn’t matter. You’ve already put the pieces together and you’re done playing games.

The ‘Trotters – they’ve been playing you like some goosed up house-dick in a hash-house packed with bees the entire time.

It’s time for payback.

You pop the empty cartridge from your rod and slide another in. A slug slips into the chamber. She’s purring like a kitten itching to spit a hairball full of lead. No more pawing for pancakes like some patsy peterman anxious for a pinch.

The best offense is a good offense.

“What the hell happened here?” It’s the Chief. He’s charging down the alleyway with his fist in the air and his belly bopping him in the chin.

By the time he reaches you, he’s out of breath. One hand drops to his knee and the other clutches his chest. A squawk of blue and blacks is already clogging the street behind him. They’ll figure out what’s going on soon enough. The seven-foot corpse of the NBA legend spread out in the filth behind you will make it real easy.

You need to get to the ‘Trotters before they do.

The Chief pokes his sausage finger square into your chest. “I want answers. Start singing.”

You brush the chubby digit aside and step around the Chief without so much as a word.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? Walk away and you’re out of a job! Do you hear me?”

Reaching into your jacket you retrieve your wallet, remove your badge and toss it to the concrete. It’s useless to you now. Time to settle the score the only way you know how. Time to punch a few bad tickets right in the tickers.

The Chief steps on your badge, points at you and screams so loud you can feel the alley move beneath your feet. “Answer me damn it!”

The kitten at your side continues to purr. She’s quiet for the moment, but she’s anxious to scratch. “Answers are like assholes, Chief…everyone’s got ‘em, but only sickos and perverts are anxious to tear off a piece. Tell the boys in the morgue to dig out five fresh body bags…cause I’m about to fill ‘em.”

Snagging a set of keys from one of the gap-jawed hoosegows called to the scene, you hop into his car and peel away. You know exactly where you’re headed – Gino’s. It’s the place all this mush started and it’s the place it was going to end.

The trip across town takes less then fifteen minutes. The sun is already beginning to set and the locals are headed home. This city isn’t safe at night for the normals. If you aren’t packing heat, every joe and junkie looking for a little jack will have their way with you when the sun goes down. Around here the night is for the hardened and the hard, and the hatchetmen and the heels.

The night is for people just like you.

Your car screeches to a halt just outside Gino’s. Though it’s an hour past closing, the lights are still on inside. You snatch your purring piece of alabaster, pull it to your face and press your lips to the barrel.

Time do go to work, darlin’.

The instant you exit the car, you’re charging full speed at the front door to Gino’s. Suddenly the lights inside go off.

Damn it.

They’re onto you.

The windshield of your stolen squad car shatters. When you turn around you spot a basketball wedged in the glass.

Sons of bitches.

Another basketball bounces off your head, and another still smacks you square in the gut. You can’t breathe. Your legs go as wobbly as a plate of Gino’s famous spaghetti. A third ball knocks the heater from your hand and sends it spinning across the concrete. A pair of lanky mitts snatches your trousers and pulls them down around your knees.

Damn, Twiggy!

When you reach for the knife stashed in your socks, another basketball slams into your knee and bends it in a way knees aren’t meant to bend. Bone snaps in two, and a moment later you’re flat on your keyster. For a fraction of a second you make out what you think is Sweet Lou, ten feet away and grinning through a mouth full of the pearliest marbles this side of the Mason Dixon.

He launches another basketball into your forehead and suddenly you’re flat on your back.

The world goes blurry – like you’re seeing it through the eyes of some lazy number hopped up on nose candy. Five dark, undefined shapes are standing over you and looking down with their hands on their hips.

The sound of Sweetwater’s voice finds its way to your ear. “You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”

Your leg is throbbing. You have a feeling one of your ribs is broken. You shake your head in a desperate attempt to clear the cobwebs, but it’s not working.

“Seriously, man.” The blurry image of, Sweetwater continues. “The hat, the jacket, the fact that you don’t own a cell phone. Plus all that stupid shit you’re always mumbling about…leadfoots and hoosegows, and gams and jingle-berried jaspers…what the hell is a jingle-berried jasper anyway? You know it’s not nineteen twenty-four, right? You do understand you were born in the 80’s, correct?”

When you try to get up, Meadowlark puts his size eighteen on your chest, cracks another rid and returns you to the unceremoniously pavement.

Sweetwater sighs. “Fuck it. We’re doing you a favor.”

Your vision returns just in time to see all five of the boys lift their respective basketballs over their heads. The muscles in their arms tighten. Their heads reel back.

Though your mouth full of blood you manage to squeak, “It’s a hooch-drunk hombre.”

The boys pause.

“What?” Sweetwater asks, a look of absolute confusion spread across his mug.

“A jingle-berried jasper…” You stutter in response. “A jiggle-berried jasper is a hooch-drunk hombre.”

Sweetwater sighs.

Three seconds later a barrage of basketballs puts an end to your life.

Oops...Return to Chapter 8

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.6 - THE CAVEMAN WAY

2011-08-29T07:21:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.6 - THE CAVEMAN WAY

By Jax Hix

Covered in a putrid mix of cyanide-vomit, blood and dead ballplayer so thick you know you’ll never wash it off, you curse under your breath and strip in the alley above Kareem. You realize your out of rounds so you toss the gun after a quick wipe of your fingerprints. Your blood boils in rage when you think that the Trotters double-teamed you and set you up with their foul play. You know you can’t hunt them down covered in Kareem, so you strip off your clothes and drop them in the dumpster half way down the alley.

“Such filthy perverts!” rings down the alleyway in your direction, and your eyes fall upon a group of high society do-gooders on their way to do their court-appointed charity work at the local soup kitchen. Figuring it isn’t worth explaining, you shrug it off and push your way through the crowd of stunned faces and condemning looks. You decide to wipe the blood on your hands off on the fur coat of the one of the stunned socialites on the street and scream “PITA” and run away laughing maniacally.

A little further down the street, you notice a steel pipe in the hand of a passed-out hobo on the sidewalk and pick it off him, figuring he won’t notice until the drunk wears off. The stench of the hobo is even worse than the one you left in the alleyway, and you unload your stomach on the unsuspecting lout’s sleeping face. He wakes up when your vomit hits his taste buds and swings at you, so bombed on Mad Dog his fist misses wildly and punches the sidewalk. You hustle off, leaving the socialites to care for the wounded hobo. You’ve got bigger issues at hand.

You manage to steal some clothes from a dead hooker on the corner stairwell. You slip on the spandex mini-dress. You catch a glance of yourself in the darkened storefront window and think you’d never get over a $5 blow job deal looking like this. For just a moment, you miss that chicken suit. You put on the shoes and are surprised to find the stillettos fit your feet. You then realize the hooker you stole clothes from was tucking a trouser snake. You decide you’d better steal his wig, too. Slapping the red curly wig on sideways on your head, you feel oddly aroused and disgusted at the same time, but shrug it off and wander to the pay phone down the street. It also occurs to you that you should sell this story to the Tabloids, but figure it’s too farfetched for even Elvis-alien baby readers to believe.

After a quick call to Curly, you find out the Trotters are slamming shots and shooting pool at the pool hall a block over. Ignoring the calls for dates from the cars driving by, you stumble down the block.

“How the Hell do women walk in these things?” you mutter under your breath as you pass another alley before you reach the pool hall. So bent on kicking Trotter ass and not breaking your ankles while you get there, you don’t notice the wildwoman in the shadows. Before you reach the pool hall door and the safety of the next street light, someone pounces you from behind and knocks you down onto the sidewalk. You hit with such force you lose more bile, several teeth, a lot of blood and unfortunately, the steel pipe you were carrying for Trotter kicking. Before you can get to your feet, someone grabs both your ankles and pulls you into the alleyway, leaving a trail of bile and blood as your chin bounces along the sidewalk.

Once in the alleyway, you are forcefully flung onto your back and you see a dread-locked banshee jump onto your chest. The banshee knocks the wind out of you as her knees hold your shoulders down against the wet pavement in the alley. A flint of light reveals the blade of steel right before it’s cold sharp edge is pushed harshly against your throat.

A car drives by and lights up the wildwoman’s face, with a shock you realize it’s Whoopi Goldberg, another honorary Globetrotter (1990), “Whoopi gonna whoop your ass!”

“Aw, sh—“ you mutter before Whoopi slides the steel across your throat and you start choking on your own blood. The last thing you see before you die is Whoopi smearing your blood onto her face like war paint.

Oops...Return to Chapter 8

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.6 - USE THE FORCE, MAN

2011-08-11T07:10:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.6 - USE THE FORCE, MAN

By Steven Novak

As the last of Missy’s finely aged honeypot escapes through the door you notice the old broad has left something rather peculiar behind: her face.

Spread across the hardwood just outside the doorway is a folded up mass of form-fitting latex and fake hair. She was wearing a mask. That cuckoo dame was wearing a mask!

Clive notices exactly what his mother’s left behind as well and seems as surprised as you. He drops to his knees and buries his head in his hands. “Ma? I don’t—? What’s going—?” His head flops to the floor and the waterworks begin to flow.

In a pinch you’re onto your feet and out the door, moving quicker than a snow-bird on his fourth bag of happy powder. There are clothes scattered throughout the hall; the dress Missy was wearing, her stockings and a lacy white bra stuffed with two cantaloupe halves.

That crazy sharp-shooting dame wasn’t a dame at all – just some shyster trying to pull the wool over your eyes!

Snagging the heater from the holster at your side you follow the trail of the fake Missy’s unmentionables downstairs. A single shoe and a pair of lacy panties with a maxi-pad still stuck to the crotch leads you right out the front door and into the street.

Even a maxi-pad? The gowed-up gink posing as the age, Mrs. Sinclair was certainly dedicated.

The city’s packed tight with flatties flopping flivvers, and eggs drowning their sorrows in eel juice. You hate this part of town: nothing but flophouses, flimflam men, derricks and dinguses. There are too many places to hide and too many people to hide behind. Some lousy bruno slams into your shoulder and sends you spinning. A leggy dame offers what’s hidden beneath her britches for everything in your wallet.

You’ll never find the pad-sporting son of a bitch in this mass of dummies.

That’s when it hits you: the Force. You’ll use the Force.

Don Forceman of Force Electric, that is.

He’s an old friend and his company has been hanging telephone wire in this part of town for over a week. You spot him at the end of the block, perched on a lift fifty feet in the air.

You scream in his direction at the top of your lungs. “Hey! Forceman!”

Surprisingly, Don hears you over the chatter of the city and waves in your direction.

You cup your hands around your mouth, shove past a pair of juiced-up hombres and yell, “Donnie! Did ya see some jingle-berried jasper come running out of this building?”

Forceman nods and points his finger in the direction of alley at the end of the block. You flash him a thumbs up and a moment later you’re plowing through the crowd of noodles with their oodles of nose-candy, sprinting full speed in the direction of Forceman’s all-knowing digit.

Don Forceman – a heck of a guy.

When you reach the alley you stop for a moment to catch your breath. Peeking carefully around the corner, you spot the red-hot you’ve been chasing, hidden in the shadows alongside a dumpster. His body is silhouetted against the lights from a neon sign a bit further down. He’s long and lanky and muscular. He’s a tall bottle of hooch to boot – well over seven feet. Unfortunately you can’t make out any specific facial features.

Once he’s done changing clothes, he reaches into a box at the foot of the dumpster, retrieves what you think is another mask and pulls it tightly over his head.

This roscoe’s no rube. He’s sharp. He’s well built and he’s quick. This trouble boy’s a master of disguise.

If he runs, you’ll lose him forever in the crowd. You can’t let him get away. You cock back the hammer on your rod, lift it to your head and spin around the corner. “Meathooks to the sky, palooka!”

He doesn’t listen.

They never listen.

Instead the lousy good for nothing bastard kicks a trash can lid box in your direction. You slip the airborne steel and fire a few rounds down the alley. A pill blasts past your ear and knocks the fedora from your noggin. Apparently he’s got a stick of smoking lead of his own.

Before you know it, the bullets are flying.

The brick wall to your left explodes. Two slugs ricochet off the garbage can next to you and send it spinning to the ground. Diving forward, you somersault and unload what’s left in the cartridge at your shadowy opponent. Your aim is better than his. His body whips against a section of chain link fence and drops to the concrete.

By the time you reach him, he’s gasping for air and clinging to his remaining breaths like a dope peddler clutching a handful of hot dough. Though you don’t recognize the face of the mask he’s wearing, you can’t help but take note of the incredible realism. The mustache alone is a thing of beauty.

After popping a fresh cartridge into your heater you point the barrel at his head. “I’m only gonna ask this once, ya lousy bum, and after I’m done asking you’re gonna spill like you’ve never spilled before. Got it?”

He shakes his head, struggling to breathe with a hole in his chest.

“Who are you and who sent you?”

Behind his award winning ‘stache, the son of a bitch’s lips curl into a smile. “I’m just the guy hired by the guys, asshole.” He chuckles a bit before coughing up blood.

His jaw moves forward and he bites down on something in the back of his mouth. A foamy white discharge begins to pour from between his lips and seeps down the sides of his face.

The lousy good for nothing is munching on cyanide!

Your hands fumble their way into the collar of his shirt and snag the base of the mask covering his head. When you rip it from his noggin you come face to face with the last person you were expecting.

Half submerged in a puddle of alley-filth and hobo barf is none other than NBA legend Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. He was made an honorary Globetrotter in 1989.

The reality of what you’re looking at and what it must mean smacks you in the chest, and for a moment you stop breathing. Suddenly it all makes sense. You should have seen it from the beginning.

You know what you have to do.

A. Reload your heater, find the ‘Trotters and get some answers the old-fashioned way?

B. Snag a disguise from Kareem’s box of goodies, find the ‘Trotters and get some answers the new-fashioned way?

C. Strip naked, grab a steel pipe, find the ‘Trotters and get some answers the cave-man way?

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.5 - CALL THE 'TROTTERS

2011-08-10T07:16:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.5 - CALL THE 'TROTTERS

By Leah Crichton

“I need a phone, Nancy, er, Clive,” you say, holding out your wing.

Clive’s eyes dart to the door his ninja-like mother just fled from before shrugging and handing you a cell phone. It’s large and looks like a brick, and you briefly ponder where the cord and suitcase is that goes with it. Your fingers are not easily accessible, dressed as you currently are, so you do the most natural thing in the world and use your beak to dial the number.

“Good evening,” a voice says on the other end of the phone. “Kentucky Fried Chicken, will your order be for pick up or delivery?”

You scream in horror and throw the phone at Clive’s head. He ducks. You miss.

His eyebrows furrow, and with his face all crunched up like that, you see a strong resemblance between him and his mother. Wordlessly and with a calm that warns of an impending storm, he picks up the phone and hands it to you.

You beak-dial again, praying you get the numbers right this time.

“What up?” Curly’s familiar voice answers. You are sure the cadence of his voice saving your ass is the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard.

“Curly,” you say. “It’s me.”

“Who is me?” Curly asks.

“It’s the boss.”

“Wrong number, my friend. We don’t have a boss. He quit. Said something along the lines of takin’ on more than he can handle. Went all jellyfish. A nancy.”

“I changed my mind,” you say with as much conviction as you can manage, which isn’t much.

“Curly!” Sweetwater’s voice thunders in the background so loud, your eardrum actually vibrates. “GET. THE. FUCK. OFF. MY. PHONE.”

“Gotta go,” Curly says.

“Wait!” You practically scream. “Please Curly, I didn’t mean to get all nancy on you. I’m sorry.” You feel a river of tears welling in your eyes just like the nancy you don’t mean to be. Chalk it up to the chicken suit, but you’re an emotional wreck.

You spend the next two hours telling Curly your problems as Clive listens on. You tell him that you never quite fit in at school, that your mother babied you far past the appropriate age of being babied, that your first real girlfriend cheated on you, that when you look in the mirror you see a balding, middle aged bachelor, even though you know you have body dysmorphic disorder.

Curly gently tells you that isn’t the body dysmorphic disorder.

By the time Curly agrees to get the boys together to collect you and you hang up, Clive is teary eyed also and holding his arms out for a hug. Much to your disgust, you step forward into his waiting arms. You’re still wrapped in their comfort when the door flies open so hard it almost splinters.

Sweetwater is waving something in his hand above his head frantically. It’s a piece of paper. He’s screaming like a depraved lunatic. “This is your fault!” He says.

You look behind him, trying to see Curly or the rest of the trotters, but it’s only Sweetwater.

You step away from Clive. “What are you talking about, Sweetwater?”

“This!” He screams. “My god damned phone bill. It’s more than I make in a year!”

You step forward to calm him and notice his eyes are devoid of any kind of connection to you. They’re glazed over with hatred. “Calm down,” you tell him. As you reach your hand out to grab the paper, Sweetwater goes all kung fu and the next thing you know his hands are wrapped around your neck. And squeeze so hard, you think your beak might burst.

You gasp to catch your breath and look into his soulless eyes. As you feel your life slipping away, you can’t help but think he’s got the worst roaming charges ever.

THE END

Oops...Return to Chapter 5

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.5 - GRAB CLIVE

2011-08-09T07:59:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.5 - GRAB CLIVE

By James McShane

Clive is a blubbering mess on the living-room floor. You know you’ve made a deal with him, but your gut instinct (the one that told you that there was no way that girl was over 18) is knocking on the door and wants in. Seeing that you didn’t listen to it last time out, you think maybe it’ll do you no harm to find out what it has to say.

You’re being played for a patsy, ya schmo, your gut says. Momma Feeb has done a runner and I think she knows more than she’s letting on. Peck Clive some more!

“Don’t mind if I do,” you reply.

“Don’t mind if you do what?” Clive says, his face barely recognisable under a sea of blood and tears.

“This!” You jump on top of him and peck some more, opening new wounds and reintroducing old ones to a bright new world. You are immune to his screams for help, his struggling only adding to the excitement. You wonder why you never dressed up as a chicken before and figure there might be a spot in the WWF for you. You’re a natural.

Big Daddy Beak. You like the sound of that.

Then sanity returns, as it often must. Clive’s face is pure pulp. You take a deep breath and consider what line of questioning will work for you.

“Where’s your mother off to, Clive? Tell me the truth and I’ll call you an ambulance. Lie to me and I’ll call the morgue.”

“Phhhhkkkrrrr!” Clive splutters. “Phhhhhhkkkknngg klllll yooooo.” Clive’s left hand twitches like someone attached it to a generator.

“You’re gonna have to come up with something better than that,” you say. You can feel the bloodlust returning. Clive has only moments to spare himself another possibly fatal pecking. “I won’t be held responsible for my actions anymore.” To make your point, you touch your beak to what’s left of his nose.

“Owsh Ows,” Clive manages to say.

“What? Say that again – only this time with feeling.”

“Owsh Owse. Owsh Owse. Owth Owse.”

“Huh?”

“OWTH OWSE!” Clive cries out.

Now you have it. Clive’s mother has gone to Outhouse, an illegal gambling den by the docks. Why the hell has she gone there? you wonder. She wouldn’t cut it as a croupier. I better check it out. You get off Clive and head to the bathroom. You strip out of the chicken suit and find some of Clive’s clothes hanging on the shower door. He’s a size or three bigger than you, but needs must. He even has a hat. You like hats. As you leave the bathroom you cast your eyes longingly at the chicken outfit.

“I’ll be back for you later,” you say.

You throw a towel at Clive. “Clean yourself up, Sinclair. You look like you went twelve rounds with an emu.” You run out the door and head for the docks.

The Outhouse is run by the Bassoon Brothers, a shifty pair of greasebags from Chicago. You had a run-in or three with them over the years, sending at least a dozen of their staff to Sing-Sing. Needless to say, you won’t be getting something nice on your stocking this Christmas, unless you consider a garrotte a perfect Yuletide present. You’ll have to tread carefully.

The door is guarded by a gorilla in a suit. No really, it’s a gorilla. The Bassoons own shares in the city zoo. You don’t want to even think where they’ve put the sea-lions. If you want to find out what Mad Mel Sinclair is up to, you’ll have to take an indirect route. Maybe the back door is clear. You remember your training, so you crouch down and slither along the grass, watching out for escaped snakes. It wouldn’t do to get bitten in the ass by a rattler. You make the door in good time and get up slowly. You hear a voice from behind.

“Call my son a nancy-boy, do you?” It’s Mad Mel, and unfortunately for you she’s not alone. “That’s my prerogative, not yours.”

You’re not looking at Mel. Instead you’re throwing a wary eye at her bodyguard. He’s got at least two feet on you and he’s carrying what looks like a baseball bat in his feathered hand.

“When I said it was hard to find a good chicken these days,” she says, “I didn’t say it was impossible. Isn’t that right, Floyd?”

Floyd Bassoon. In a chicken suit. Carrying a baseball bat.

Bollocks!

Your hands are pulled behind your back. You smell salt water and turn around. “So that’s what you do with the sea-lions,” you say.

“Go get him, Floyd,” Mel shouts.

As the blows rain down on your head, as Floyd’s beak pecks out your eyes and ruptures your inner ears, the only thing you can think of is, who’s gonna feed my cat now?

THE END

Oops...Return to Chapter 5

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.5 - PECK HIS EYES OUT!

2011-08-02T06:31:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.5 - PECK HIS EYES OUT!

By MJ Heiser

Clive Sinclair is just standing there, smiling smugly at you, the poorly-trained muzzle of his gun meandering on and off mark. He is obviously expecting you to do exactly what he just demanded: Drop to your knees and start clucking. No matter how incredibly fun it had been to be the chicken while you were dancing with this psychopath’s mother, you aren’t a chicken. You’re a man, dammit, and you’re going to behave as such.

Full of your manly pride and swagger, you take Clive completely off guard and drive your plastic costume beak into his face.

It goes better than you expect. Clive drops the gun as if it’s on fire and starts flapping his hands, trying desperately to land a lady-like slap on the side of your face. You crow with delight over his failure. You’re too fast. You’re too accurate. You land blow after blow on his meaty cheeks. That’s not satisfying enough, however. You need blood, and you need it now. You seize the man, one feathery hand on either side of his head, and resume pecking in earnest, aiming now for the not-so-fleshy parts of his face: his nose, his forehead, and his tender, delicate eyes.

“Aiigh!” he screams, seizing your forearms and trying desperately to get you off of him. “No! Mother!”

You must be kidding, you think to yourself, and distantly you become aware of your own voice letting out another rooster crow. You’re calling for your mother? You pansy. You total nancy-boy. You—

“Let him go.”

You stop. Of course you know that voice, but the last time you’d heard it (excluding the scream, naturally), she’d been suggesting you join her in the shower. Now, in a reversal worthy of some sort of alternate-universe James Bond flick, you find that she’s half-dressed and standing just behind her son’s shoulder, his gun in her hand. Her hand is remarkably steady, unlike her son’s, and that muzzle is aimed for the beak.

Possessed by the thought that you’re some sort of Bizarro James Bond, you seize Clive harder, spin him around, and press him up against your padded, feathered form. “Drop the gun,” you say, your voice hoarse from all the crowing.

She shakes her head. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asks, but instead of her son’s aggravating smugness, she only shows sad resignation. “I’m Melissa Sinclair, and for thirty years I trained the FBI’s best sharpshooters.” She reaches out with the gun and taps you gently on the nose. “Plus, I’m this close.”

She pulls back the hammer and you can hear a bullet slide into the chamber. “Now, let him go.”

You do as she asks. You push Sinclair away from you, and he scutters to stand behind his mother. She still holds the gun trained with deadly stillness at your beak.

“Wait,” you say, “I did what you asked—“

“Yup,” she says with a morbid grin. “And you have nothing left to bargain with. Not only do you have something my son wants, but you called him a nancy-boy.”

“What if I give him what he wants?” you ask in desperation.

“Kill him, Ma!” Clive shouts from over her shoulder. He sounds like an over-eager five-year-old.

Meanwhile, the cold-blooded sharpshooter slides her eyes over your chicken costume with a mixture of regret, longing, and desire. She coughs once, but that damned gun doesn’t flinch. “Let’s hear what he has to say, kiddo. You have no idea how hard it is to find a good chicken.”

“Aww,” Clive whines, his bloodlust denied.

“You can have the ‘Trotters,” you say, and you milk your sadness for all it’s worth. It takes a little bit of a stretch, to be honest; you’ve had a great time with the guys, but lately Curly, Sweetwater, and the rest of them have been growing too big for their slick and retro-fabulous britches. This kind of behavior has to stop. A return to the hardwoods may be just what they need.

“Really?” Clive asks.

“Just – let me wrap up this last case with them, will ya? Let me say goodbye the right way.”

The gun that had been pointing at your beak drops. “Do what the chicken asks, son.”

Clive sighs. “Okay, fine. But as soon as you catch the killer, the ‘Trotters are mine again.”

“Deal,” you say, holding out your hand.

And as soon as you say that, Missy Synch bolts for the door with the kind of speed and grace you could have never imagined.

“Ma?” Clive asks the still, empty, rat-infested apartment.

You narrow your eyes. You smell a rat, alright, and it’s the kind of rat that likes to dance with chickens and kill people.

Do you...

A. Grab Clive and threaten to resume pecking his face unless he tells you where his mom is heading?

B. Call the ‘Trotters for backup?

C. Use the force to figure out where Missy Synch is running off to?

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - CLUCK FOR YOUR LIFE

2011-07-31T19:45:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - CLUCK FOR YOUR LIFE

By John Elrod II

Faced with the immediacy of your mortality, your mind scrambles, and you begin clucking maniacally. Sinclair struggles to process just what’s going on.

“Hey, what kind of jive are you trying to pull over?” he inquires, while taking a step back.

While continuing to cluck, you get your wits back about you and decide to use his confusion to your advantage. You stand from your crouched position and proceed to flap your arms while prancing around the room. Funnily enough, this isn’t much removed from your earlier dancing technique. The puzzled look on Sinclair’s face persists.

“Now, you quit this baloney, right now, you hear? You’re no hoofer, and you never will be!” Sinclair’s aggravation is only getting worse. You push the envelope further.

“Come on, Clive, don’t be such a bluenose. Your mother was into it.” This seems to strike a nerve.

“Horsefeathers! Leave my mother out of this. I’ll bump you off; I’m serious.” Sinclair’s sincerity seems scarce. Perhaps he isn’t the killer you’ve thought him to be.

From behind him comes a startled “Clive—” Sinclair pivots and pulls the trigger before thinking. He actually has shot his mother now. The fun, if it can be described as such, stands still for what feels like several tocks of the old ticker. Clive hot-foots it to his mother’s side, but it’s no use; he’s killed her.

He turns his attention back to you, “This is your doing!”

You lay an egg.

“Whoa, now, Clive, cool your hot box, pal.” You play the only card you have. “Look, I think she’s still alive!”

With his attention turned back to her, you scram out of there, with gunshots ringing out in your dust. In your haste, you make the tactical mistake of fleeing down a dead-end hallway. As you try to think of your next move, Sinclair catches up to you, cornering you near a window.

“What do you think you’re going to do now, copper? We’re six stories up, and you know chickens can’t fly.” His eyes are crazed over.

What does he know? Just a few days ago, you were a cop who regularly worked with the Globetrotters. Earlier today, you took on a job as a fetishized mascot, and you danced provocatively with an old woman whom you seriously planned on showering with. Honestly, your actions have gone against the logical at every turn. Why should this be the time you act rationally? He says chickens can’t fly? Well, there’s only one irrational reply that you could possibly provide him with.

“Nerts to that!” You yell, rushing the window and leaping through it. “This chicken can fly!”

You quickly realize the flaw in your thought process: you are, indeed, not actually a chicken, and you are now going to plummet to your untimely demise. Your final thought can only turn to the legacy you will have left behind.

The newsies are going to have a field day with this. QUITE THE FOUL UP: BALLED UP COPPER FALLS FLAT, the headline will read.

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 4

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

2011-07-30T16:17:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

By Rashelle Workman

You’re on your knees in a chicken suit with a gun pointed at your head. In this type of situation, there’s only one thing to do.

Breathe heavily.

You’ve seen the Lamaze techniques work for childbirth; maybe it’ll get you out of this situation as well. Plus, if you act like you’re trying to squeeze a chicken egg out your body, Clive might freak and leave.

“Ooooh. Ooooh. Eeen,” you begin.

“What the hell are you doing?” By the sound of his voice, you can tell he isn’t sure whether to laugh or shoot.

You look into his anger-filled eyes and continue—louder. “Ooooh. Oooooooh. Eeeeeen.” All the deep breathing is starting to make you dizzy. The room smells of mentholatum and Pepto Bismol: A terrible combination, but there’s no way you can stop now.

Instead you grab your stomach and hunch over, the big beak of the chicken suit smacking the floor, rattling your insides. A shock of pain zings through your body.

A contraction, you wonder.

“Stop that, you crazy . . . chicken!” By the quiver of his lips, you know he’s on the verge of serious laughter.

This may work, you think.

You shake your head. “Oh. Ah. Ohhhhhhh.” Another sharp pain starts at your belly button and ripples along both sides of your stomach toward your back. “Owwwwww,” you yell.

“I mean it—” Clive begins, but breaks off with laughter.

You shake your head again. “No, man! I think I’m actually going to pop a chicken egg right out of me. For. Real!” You try to pull the large chicken head off, but it’s stuck. Panting, you let out another cry.

“You do realize you aren’t really a chicken, right?” The guy asks in between guffaws.

“Righ—ri—bacaw!”

It just felt right. You start to peck at the floor, trying to pick up the dust bunnies with your sharp beak. “Bu. Bu. Bu. Bacaw!”

The pain inside hurts so badly, it’s mind-numbing. There’s a burning, ripping and tearing . . .

Plop. A large brown chicken egg lands on the floor behind you.

You look up. Clive’s got to be impressed with the remarkable feat you’ve achieved.

But the look on his face is anything but impressed. Horror’s a more suitable word.

“Bacaw . . .” you try.

Clive steps back, gun shaking and: POW! The gun goes off, smoke swirling from the end.

Sticky red trickles into your eyes. As the room, Clive and the giggling old lady get fuzzy and your world goes black, you think, But who’ll take care of my chick?

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 4

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

2011-07-26T06:54:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

By James McShane

You consider your options and realise that you’ve only got one choice. You need the cash. The last alimony check cleared out your bank account. When you brought this to your ex’s attention, you were told to sing for your supper. Lacking a voice to trouble Pavarotti or Bieber, you know it’s time to take the money and run.

“I’m outa here,” you tell Curly. “I’ve taken on more than I can handle and frankly this private dick isn’t as hard-boiled as it used to be.”

“What the f—?” Curly fumes down the phone. “Hey, Sweetwater, the boss has turned jellyfish on us.”

You hear Sweetwater yelling. “Get off my goddamn phone, you moron. You think I’m made of money? Let the sucker go. We ‘Trotters can take it from here.” Curly finishes the call without so much as a goodbye and good luck. You’re not surprised. Your relationship with the boys isn’t exactly a marriage made in heaven. They’ll get by, as they always do.

You turn your attention to the lady behind the desk. “Tell me more about this Chicken Fetish job?”

She’s surprised at your about-face. “Well,” she says, taking a card from beside her magazine. “The broad in question is a Missy Synch. Her address is here.” She hands you the card. “It’s not too far away. Ten minute walk, max.”

Something in the back of your mind urges you to steer clear from this madness. But you counter this “something” with thoughts of how you’re going to spend the five Gs. Barbados looks good for this time of year. Maybe the receptionist would like a trip, too.

“I don’t like long-haul flights,” she says suddenly. “So yes, Barbados would be nice.”

“Wait a minute,” you say, “can you read my mind?”

“No. You talk out loud a lot.”

“My therapist would agree with you.”

She points down the corridor. “The suit is in Room 5. Get ready as quick as you can and go see your client.”

“I gotta go there dressed like a chicken?”

“It’s in the manual, did you not read it?”

You remember skimming over a lot of the requirements. But hey, it’s not often you get the chance to earn easy money.

“There’s no such thing as easy money,” the receptionist says. “And you really must learn to stop talking out loud.”

“My therapist would agree with that, too.”

You find your changing room and go inside. Hanging up on the far wall is a bright yellow chicken outfit, complete with headgear and beak. There are fluffy white wings where your arms are supposed to be. At least there are holes from which you can see where you’re going. You’re glad it’s a cool night out there, otherwise you’d bake—and whoever found your dead body would serve you with chipotle.

You strip out of your work clothes and leave them in a crumpled heap on the floor. It takes you about fifteen minutes to get into the chicken suit, and you remark to yourself that it’s a very comfortable fit. It’s as if it’s been waiting for you. You hum the Sesame Street theme as you leave the room to check in with Lady Hotstuff at the desk. She whistles at you.

“You know,” she says, “when this is all over, and if you want to, you and I could head out somewhere for…you know…”

“A drink?” you offer.

“Maybe we can lay some eggs, too,” she giggles.

As you leave Different Happyness, you feel less like a private investigator and more like an advert for Chick-fil-A—but you don’t care, there’s money to be made. You cross the street and wait for the inevitable…and you’re not disappointed. A cabbie calls out, “Hey, why are you crossing the road?” You let this existential moment pass into the ether.

Ten minutes later (and after many calls of how you’d like your eggs in the morning), you arrive at your destination. You look at the card Hotstuff gave you and search for Missy Synch’s name on the apartment buzzers. You see an M.S. and reckon that must be the place. You press it and a voice answers, a female voice that doesn’t sound right. In fact, the voice in question does not belong to what you would call a spring chicken.

“Hello?” the voice says.

“I from Different Happyness,” you reply. “You asked for our services?”

The voice breaks into a coughing fit. There goes a lung, you think.

“Are you dressed appropriately?” she asks.

“If you call this an early Halloween party, then yes, I’m dressed appropriately.”

“I’m on the fifth floor. Number 512. The lift doesn’t work.”

That figures. She buzzes you in and you trudge up five flights of urine-stained stairs. The walls don’t bear looking at, so you stare straight ahead, thinking only of the money.

You knock on apartment 512. She opens the door and allows you inside. You get your first look at her and think God, how old is this woman?

“A lady’s age is her own business,” she cuts in. “And you really should stop talking to yourself out loud. I’m sure your therapist would agree. Now get dancing!”

“What?”

“That’s what you’re here for, to dance. Did you read the manual?”

“Well yes . . .but . . .”

“No buts, just dance. Can you tango?”

For an old bird, the lady can move. She grinds her pelvis against your own, pulling at your beak like it was a phallus. She ruffles your feathers in ways they hadn’t ever been ruffled before. You feel you were born to be a chicken. You move mechanically, remembering something called the Robot Chicken. The old lady laughs hysterically at your automatonic jerks. You cluck deliriously. If you could lay an egg, you would lay one here and now. You curse the heavens for not providing you with the relevant biological conditions. And all this to no music, not even The Chicken Song.

You love being feathered fowl.

But all good things come to an end. As soon as she stops her dancing, the old lady says, “I need to shower. Care to join me?”

“In this?” you say.

“No,” she replies. “You can strip off. When we finish, I’ll go get your money and then maybe we can, you know, work out a schedule.”

You like the sound of schedules.

You turn rapidly the second you hear a bang. It comes from the bathroom. There’s a shrill scream, then nothing.

“Lady,” you call out. “Missy Synch, are you okay in there?”

A figure emerges from the room. It’s neither old nor female. You know this man’s face, and then the penny drops.

“Hello Clive,” you say to the man. “Did I just dance with your mother?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s got some pretty good moves for a woman of her age.” He points his gun at you.

“Did you kill her?” You realize you’re unarmed. Your gun is back in the changing room at Different Happyness.

“No,” he says. “I just let off a shot and it made her faint. She is my mother, after all. What do you take me for?”

“So what’s going on?”

“I want my ‘Trotters back, dillweed. You’ve taken up too much of their time. I want you out of the picture and them back in mine. Capiche?”

“Did you kill the rest of those women just to get my attention, Sinclair?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Clive Sinclair, former head coach of the Harlem Globetrotters, says. “Now get down on your knees and cluck for your life.”

Will you...

A. Rush at Sinclair to peck his eyes out. Then find out what the hell is going on. The ‘Trotters are involved somehow.

B. Cluck for your life and hope Sinclair is merciful.

C. Attempt to lay an egg, which may provide enough of a distraction for you to make your escape.

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.3 - SWEAT OUT SOME ANSWERS

2011-07-23T07:23:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.3 - SWEAT OUT SOME ANSWERS

By Matthew C. Plourde

The broad from Different Happyness wasn't kidding; someone actually lived in those complexes beside the sewage processing facility. The smell here on those sweat-locker summer days must be as rancid as the Chief's daily swamp ass. Slowing down, you notice a few lights valiantly attempting to give the dilapidated apartments the semblance of civilized life. Even when you were desperate you had never lived in a place like this. At least, you hope you never would... good thing you refrained from popping the Chief.

Your rusty Ford Escort, with all 200,000 miles heaped upon its weary frame, shudders to inactivity and you sling your feet into a puddle.

"Shit."

You sniff the acrid air and aren't certain the puddle is composed entirely of water. Did someone actually piss beer in the parking lot?

Let's get this over with, you think as you approach the crooked apartment complex.

You light a cancer stick and inspect the scrap of paper again: Building 3, Apt 21. The cracked path winds behind the first complex and you see them. They beat you here and they are already on a basketball court.

Sweetwater notices you and trots in your direction.

"Where's my phone?" he asks.

You savor the moment by blowing a cloud of smoke in his face. Rocking on your heels, you smile.

"Give it up!" Sweetwater pleads as he reaches for your coat.

You push his hand away and produce the goods. "Simmer down, Nancy. It's right here. I only used it to call your mom and thank her for a great night last night."

Sweetwater snatches the phone and checks the device as he walks away, muttering to himself about someone's mother. Or, maybe it is some other phrase with the word "mother" in there. You didn't hear and you don't care.

You approach the scene with the rest of the team and groan.

"Are you guys really gonna play? Now?" you ask.

Twiggy does his one eyebrow up and one eyebrow down thing, bulging one eye comically, and says, "These kids think they can take us old men! You believe that?"

Curly slaps you on the back and says, "We'll be here if you need us for backup. Yeah, backup."

"Lousy, good-for-nothing..." You traipse off towards building 3, one hand inside your coat and your cig in your other hand.

Your ascent to the second floor via the concrete staircase is serenaded by the sound of bouncing basketballs and hoots. Unfortunately, the stench of the nearby sewage has now inundated your clothes. One more thing to throw onto the fire with your office chair. First, the pork-filled rage from the Chief, then the tiny flasher, and now the shitbox.

This is going to be one long night.

You find apartment 21 and you realize the night just got longer: bogus address. Nobody lives in building 3. Only building 1 appears to be occupied.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuccck..." you whisper to yourself as you check to ensure nobody is around. Nope, it's all clean. Well, dirty, but empty.

"Arrrgghhh!!"

You pull your pistol and scan the area. The scream came from the basketball court. Rushing to the scene, you see Meadowlark clutching his ankle.

"It's just twisted," he says.

"I'll call an ambulance," Sweetwater says as he touches the screen of his phone.

Meadowlark limps to the grass and says, "I told you I don't need no ambulance! Put that shit away."

"Aiight."

Curly looks in your direction and says, "You find yer guy?"

You shake your head and reach for another cigarette.

"You gotta play, then," he says and you nearly spit your unlit cigarette from your mouth. "Hey, I got fifty bucks on this game!"

You examine the other team: youthful and muscled teens from building 1, no doubt. They grin as they inspect your squat, just-shy-of-300 pounds frame. God certainly designed you better for sitting in a car (or couch) and navigating the occasional staircase, not basketball.

"Go to hell, I'm not playing," you say.

Curly puts his lanky arm around your shoulder and says, "If you do, Sweetwater will look up that address on his phone. It can find all kinds of wacky shit. Like, say, who used to live there. Maybe your guy gave an old address and you can still find him?"

Damn. The 'Trotters know their crime, no mistaken that. The idea makes sense. Heck, you played basketball in high school. Well, you went to a few games. That's gotta count for something! Doc said you need to exercise more, so maybe this can count for the month. —year?

"Fine," you say as you remove your jacket.

You do your best to stay out of everyone's way. The game flows from one side of the court to the other and you jog to at least feign some interest. Luckily the ball never comes in your direction.

After a few minutes (hours?), you start huffing. The lasagna sits like a cinder block in your gut and you swear it tried a jailbreak more than once. Panting at the center of the court, you decide you are finished. Heart thumping. Sweat drenching. Knees shaking. Screw the Harlem Globetrotters for blackmailing you into this. Screw them all.

"Look alive!" Sweet Lou shouts. "We need this score!"

Your sluggish brain catches up with the action around you and you notice one terrifying fact: that Spaulding is headed right for you!

Somehow, you wrap your meaty fingers around the ball's bumpy surface and your arm erupts in pain. Did he have to throw so hard? Then, your eyes widen. Those young boys on the other team are streaking towards you!

Like a maniac, you try to dribble and run towards the hoop at the same time. You reign in the ball using two hands and pump your legs faster to try and avoid the inevitable clash of athlete vs. lasagna-lovin'-never-has-been. Exhilaration arrives when you realize you are going to get your shot before they reach you.

You stretch skywards with the ball and collapse as your chest explodes in torrents of agony and ripping. You convulse and vomit some of the lasagna, though most of it just stays in the middle of your throat, stuck in traffic. Your chest constricts like someone is pulling your skin and bones from your spine. As everything tightens beyond your ability to remain conscious, you know what's happening. It's exactly how your father and grandfather died.

Before the world goes black you think you hear Sweetwater say "Heart attack!"

THE END

Oops...Return to Chapter 3

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.3 - TELL THE 'TROTTERS TO HANG

2011-07-21T17:06:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.3 - TELL THE TROTTERS TO HANG

By Tomara Armstrong

“Just hang tight. I need to talk to the chief,” you tell Curly over the phone.

“Yeah, well, you just missed him,” he says. “Said he had an appointment…”

“Appointment my ass,” you laugh as you look at your watch. “It’s Happy Hour at Manny’s Chicken & Waffles.”

Curly starts in on “nastiness” and “level of taste,” but you turn the phone over and set it on the counter. “Make it stop,” you eye the receptionist. She quickly flips it over, presses the red button, and returns it to you.

“Thanks, doll.” You wink before turning and exiting the premises.

A hop, skip, and a jump, and you’re standing in a parking lot full of black-and-whites. Inside Manny’s, every table is occupied by men (and the occasional manly woman) in uniform. Well, almost every table. Chief is plain clothes, but he sports the same copper belly as the rest of Manny’s.

He sees you through the plate glass. Rolling his eyes, he motions you in with a wave of his hand.

As you pull the heavy door open, the crowd looks up from their syrupy stacks and hot wings. A few grumble or make obscene noises on your behalf.

“Heya, chief! Your dick is lost again,” one meathead booms. The laughter follows.

“Shut it, McNally!” The chief yells.

You casually adjust your hat, flipping McNally the bird. He’s a little touchy—slams his beefy hands on the table and bolts to his feet, sending his chair flying into the patron several feet behind him.

His ugly buddies are on their feet too, trying to anchor the beast. He puts up little fight. You laugh, shoot him a wink, and make your way toward the chief in the booth in the back.

Sitting with his back in the corner, the chief has a view of the whole place. His napkin is tucked into the collar of his shirt and his hands and face are sticky with buffalo sauce. Your stomach turns at the sight of him—pieces of skin clinging to his bushy mustache and chin.

He slurps, sucking his fingers as you slide into the seat in front of him.

“Who else knows about this case?” you stare at him as he pops a wing into his mouth. “Jesus, chief. Slow it down.”

He eyes you and plunges his right hand—black fingernails and all—into his gaping hole to retrieve the chicken bones. Tossing them onto the plate in front of him, he says, “Waaah fugh gobbly-gorbin, muurtha fraknar misen pashla.”

You stare at him, wide eyed. What the… “Come again, chief?”

He returns your stare and repeats himself, attempting to accent each incomprehensible word, splattering your face with Tobasco and god-knows-what.

You force the bile back down your throat, shaking our head. “Someone planted the flasher as a distraction,” you say, reaching for a napkin as he pops another wing in his mouth. “For crying out loud! Stop stuffing your face and talk to me.” You slam your fist onto the table. “I will ask you again… Who else knows about this case?”

The chief slams his fists on the table, his eyes blazing red. Time stands still, the pressure builds, and the last chicken wing explodes from his distorted face at record speed. Your gaping pie hole plays catcher’s mitt.

You gasp, trying to expel the urge to purge the content of your stomach in Manny’s fine establishment, lodging the wing in your wind pipe. You feel the chicken barbs splinter and dig in.

You panic and grab your throat, falling backward in your chair, but the chief is already on his feet preaching about disrespect to the room of Manny’s patrons. Your gurgles are buried in a sea of “Yes, Chief!” and “No Chief!”

On the sticky floor of Manny’s Chicken & Waffles, your life flashes before your eyes—the good and the bad. You’re ready to accept your fate, ready to head to that big house in the sky, but you want to find that last memory that makes it all worth it.

To hell with it.

You close your eyes and leave it to fate. That comical genius blesses you one last time with some weirdo’s junk.

Crap.

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 3

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.3 - NO COINCIDENCES

2011-07-18T07:24:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.3 - NO COINCIDENCES

By Ryan Hunter

You stare down at the door mouse between the man’s legs. It’s like a car wreck, terrible to look upon but impossible to look away.

“What now?” Curly asks.

His voice shatters your reverie like a sparrow flying into a plate glass window. “Get a picture,” you say to him, looking away before you can be ensnared again by the siren draw of tiny junk.

“You need something to look at later tonight?” Twiggy asks.

“That’s cute,” you say. “Just for that, you fellows get to take Wee Willy Winky’s bare ass down to the station.”

“That’s nice,” Sweetwater says, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket and snapping a picture. “What’s your number?” he asks.

“What the hell do you need that for?” you ask.

“So I can text you the picture.”

“I’ve got a rotary sitting on my office desk, can you text to that?”

“You know I can’t text to that,” Sweetwater says.

You reach out and pluck the phone out of his hands. “In that case, I’m just going to have to hold onto this for a while.”

You walk down the alley away from the ‘Trotters. Sweetwater yells after you, “Man, you better not be using up my minutes. Don’t think I won’t be checking that bill.”

Without turning you offer him a one-finger salute as you tuck your heater back into its holster under your coat.

“And what are you going to be doing while we’re playing delivery boys?” Curly asks.

“What I do best,” you yell back to him as you turn out of the alley.

As you head back to the scene of the crime, you pull the brim of your fedora down low on your forehead, stuff your hands deep into the pockets of your overcoat and cast your eyes down to the sidewalk. The last thing you want is to be noticed snooping around the body.

Of course, with the circus of reporters, police and rubber-neckers milling around, you probably wouldn’t be noticed if you stripped bare and ran around the block jumping up and down. Actually, you think, that might be the only thing that would distract people from the excitement of a poor woman robbed of her life.

Still, you keep your eyes fixed on the ground, watching the litter dance around your feet. It only takes you a moment to realize there’s uniformity to most of the litter. White 1 X 3 cards have been sprinkled over the sidewalk like confetti after a parade.

You scoop one of the cards off the ground and examine it. It’s a business card for a place called Different Happyness. You arch an eyebrow at the Y in happiness and wonder if it was intentional.

The card is clean and smooth; it obviously hasn’t sat outside under heavy foot traffic for long.

You tap the card absently against your palm, thinking over the events of the last few moments. A woman was killed scant feet from where you were sitting at dinner, most likely by the very person you’d just been hired to find. Then, when you went out to investigate, you were distracted by a small-penised flasher. It is possible that these are nothing more than a series of coincidences, but you’ve never been fond of coincidences.

You’re sure there’s something going on, and you think the road to answers just might begin with Different Happyness.

You turn your back on Gino’s, promising to never darken their doorstep again. It’s the same promise you made last night and the night before and every other night for the past five years, and it will likely be the promise you make tomorrow.

The lobby of Different Happyness is furnished nicely with a blend of wicker and watercolor. Musak pours out of speakers mounted in the ceiling and a woman sits alone behind a desk on the far side of the small room.

She looks up from her Vanity Fair as you enter. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“I hope,” you say, crossing to her while pulling Sweetwater’s phone from your pocket. You glance at it, expecting buttons, but all you see is a screen. You never had much to do with these contraptions, but you’d assumed there’d be buttons. You hold the phone out to the desk clerk. “You know how to work one of these?”

“Um,” the woman says, taking it from you and examining it. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I have one like it.”

“Great, pull up the pictures, would you?” you say.

The woman pokes the screen a couple of times and, through some magical incantation or other, brings a picture up on the screen. It is not one you were expecting.

“Did you want this picture of the naked African American man hanging from a trapeze with one, two, three…six equally naked women?” the woman asks, her expression a blank.

“No, that’s not the picture I wanted at all,” you say, turning your head to look at the picture of Sweetwater and his harem from a different angle.

The woman swipes her finger across the screen and another picture appears. “Perhaps you wanted this one of the same African American man with the same lack of clothing jumping through a ring of fire with what appears to be eight other women.”

“Nope, not that one either.”

She pulls up another picture and says, “What about the same man, same naked, what appears to be a baker’s dozen naked woman and a tiger?”

“Keep going,” you say, sighing and wondering what else Sweetwater has been keeping from you.

She continues, pulling up picture after picture of Sweetwater and his erotic, circus-themed orgies, each picture more disturbing than the last until, at last, she stops. “Oh my,” she says as she looks at the picture Sweetwater took of Wee Willy. For the first time her face shows emotion. “That’s Paul.”

“Paul?”

“Paul Nordic.”

“Paul No-Dick?” you say.

“Nordic,” she corrects. “But I suppose that would be appropriate.”

“How do you know him?” you ask.

“He works here.”

“And what exactly do you do here?” you ask, spying a jar of lollipops and grabbing one.

“We are an adult entertainment business specializing in… unique desires.” She nods to the picture on the phone in her hand. “Paul was a flasher. People paid him to run up to someone on the street, flash them, and then run away. He was very popular because, well… his presentation was memorable.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be hard to forget getting flashed by a Ken doll.”

The girl giggles behind her hand.

“So he was on assignment tonight?”

“Oh gosh, he must have been. Paul never moonlighted.” She giggles again and says, “No pun intended.”

“Mm hmm,” you say, not paying much attention to the conversation. If Paul was hired to be outside Gino’s, then he must have been there just to distract you. If he was there for you, somebody knows you’ve been put on the case. The only person who should know that, outside of the Trotters, is the Chief.

“Any chance you can get me the name of the guy who hired him?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think that’s confidential,” she says.

“Look, your buddy could have been killed tonight,” you say.

“So he’s not dead?”

“Nah, he just took a Spalding to the place where he’s balding.” You wink at her at pop the sucker in your mouth. “But he could have, and I think the guy who hired him set him up.”

“Oh,” she says, flipping through a box presumably filled with records.

“How does somebody get involved in this line of work anyway?” you ask as she searches.

“Oh, different ways, some answer ads on the internet, some are referred to us by employs, some just come in off the street. I was sort of hoping you were coming in for a job; we have a request for someone with just your body type.”

You look skeptically down at your gut and then back at the girl. “Well, I’ve never been much for flashing,” you say.

“Oh, it’s not a request for a flasher. This job just needs someone in a chicken suit willing to Fetisherize.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Oh, it’s detailed in this manual,” she says, handing a booklet over the counter to you.

You take a moment to read it over, spitting your lollypop out halfway on the chance that it may have been involved in something like this. “Good God, why would anyone do that?”

“Flip the page.”

You do and you’re almost as shocked as you were when reading the Fetisherize description. “Five thousand bucks for one night?” you say.

“For one hour. If they want you longer, they have to pay extra.”

“Hmmm,” you say, flipping back to the description and reading it over again with a slightly broader mind.

The phone rings in the girl’s hand just as she pulls the name of Paul’s client out of her records box. She presses a green box on the screen and hands it over to you.

“Hello,” you say, hoping this thing works like the phones you can actually operate.

“Hey man,” Curly starts to say.

Sweetwater yells in the background, “You know this is costing me minutes, make it quick.”

“Okay, shut up,” Curly says, obviously not to you. “We got naked-guy booked, what—”

Again Curly is cut off when Sweetwater yells, “And tell him not to be looking through my pictures. I’ve got… personal stuff in there.”

You’re not kidding, you think.

“All right, don’t look at his pictures,” Curly says to you. “Now, what do you want us to do next?”

Do you...

A. Tell the ‘Trotters to hang out at the station because you’re heading over to confront the chief about who else knew you were on the case?

B. Tell the ‘Trotters to meet you at the address of the guy who hired Paul so you can sweat some answers out of him?

C. Say, “Screw the case,” send the ‘Trotters home, and take the lucrative Chicken Suit/Fetisherize job?

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.2 - LET CURLY GO NUTS

2011-07-16T08:17:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.2 - LET CURLY GO NUTS

Written by Annie Evett

You stand up and swallow the bile in your throat. The Globetrotters continue to stare slack-jawed at the naked man on the ground. You wave your hands at them, attempting to break the horrified spell the flasher’s junk cast over them. You grin and correct yourself. Not enough to be junk, gotta be litter or dregs.

Curly demands to be let loose on the man. You push him back. “Just leave him. He’s not our man.”

Twiggy hoots and rotates a ball around his trunk. “He ain’t even a man.” You all laugh.

The man groans and rolls to an unsteady crouch.

“Stay down, you pervert.” Curly ricochets a ball towards his head.

The little man catches the ball, and his beady eyes glitter murderously at Curly as his lip twists in an uncomfortable grin. “Caught me unawares once, but not again, Fred.”

You notice Curly’s normal jovial behavior suddenly drop as he stares at the man on the ground.

Wilt smooths his moustache and spins a ball on a finger. “Caught ya with your pants down, too. Not that anyone would notice.” You notice everyone laughing except Curly.

Goose slaps Wilt on the back as he calls over to the flasher. “Slink away, you weirdo. Come on fellas. We are wasting time.”

You notice Curly bouncing his ball from hand to hand, flicking it deftly behind his back.

With a flurry of heavy material swishing like a cape, the flasher leaps to his feet and crouches low, growling animalistically, his long coat settling around him.

Curly’s grin is wider that the harbor. “Now this is what I’m talking about. You lot, go. I want to have some fun here. I’ll sort out this perv.”

Twiggy and Wilt nod and stretch their elongated limbs out toward you. “Yeah, come on man–the murderer will be blocks away. Chief ain’t goin’ to be real pleased if we dust up a citizen and leave a murderer on the loose.”

The rest of the team begin jogging down the alley way. You are left between the flasher and Curly’s big smile.

“I got this.” His grin never leaves his face. “You run along. Let me at him.”

You frown. Curly’s mouth, stretched into that plastic smile, is near cracking his face. Something ain’t right about the scene.

Curly kicks a trashcan over and bounces his ball at the lid. It spins up and scatters across the cobblestoned pavement, knocking the flasher to the ground again.

You grab Curly’s arms. “Come on Curly, snap out of it. He’s just a pervert. We got a killer on the loose. Let’s go.”

You feel a tight grip around your ankle before you are tipped, overbalanced. That last slice of lasagna has done it. You land on your swollen belly; the bile that had threatened to erupt before makes a loud and theatrical appearance. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have the grace to majestically burst like a fountain away from your body. It gurgles and weeps in hot lumps down your chin, seeping into your collar, pooling in an armpit.

You try to ignore it and turn your head to face the leering mug of the flasher. Curly leaps on top of him and begins to swing punches at his face. You try to sit up but slip in your own vomit. The flasher bucks and twists, unsettling Curly’s position, forcing him to the ground beside your second-hand lasagna. The flasher fluidly stands and forces his coat back to display his naked glory to the two of you.

The coat theatrically sweeps upward again as the flasher fumbles inside it. Too late you see slender stiletto knives being withdrawn from their secret spaces in the hemline. Your mouth is still full of chunky tomato paste and badly chewed lasagna sheets. Curly’s face crumples in disgust, but is immediately replaced with a look of blank shock. One of the knives appears in his chest as seeping claret begins to color his shirt.

A dull pain spreads across your chest. You think it strange, as you expected it to be sharp and hurt more. Your mouth empties the remains your stomach had retched up, and you now taste the acrid thin flavor of blood.

The flasher strides over to you, places a foot on your chest, and pulls out the knife. He looks at it momentarily and plunges it into your throat.

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 2

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.2 - CALL IT A NIGHT

2011-07-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.2 - CALL IT A NIGHT

By Mandy Ward

Sighing, you put yourself between Curly and the Flasher. “Don’t bother. He’s not worth the effort.”

“What now?” Sweet Lou’s lip curls and he looks like that cur dog you ran past to get here.

“I asked you to help me find this bastard that likes to gut whores, so go and see what you can find ‘im.” You sigh again and whip out the handcuffs. “I’ll take this misshapen idiot into the station and meet you back at Gino’s in a couple of hours.”

The Sweetwater nods. “Sure. You need any help?”

Hauling the flasher up by the wrists, you snort. “You think I need help with him? Come on, I’m a cop, not a Meter maid.”

The Trotters laugh and lope off up the alley, already discussing how they’re going to proceed.

The Flasher groans and you suppress the urge to puke as you wrap his Mac around him and tie the belt up. “Come on. I’m arresting you on the charge of indecent exposure…” You drag him back the way you came reciting the Miranda in a low mutter, hoping that you can find a uniform to take him in so you can get back to some real police work. That sets you thinking about the case, and you lapse into silence.

Just before you reach the entrance to the alley, the flasher takes advantage of your distraction and pulls his wrists out of your hand.

“You want me, pig? You’ll have to kill me to take me in.” He stands there, garbage juice running off his Mac and stinking to high heaven.

“Don’t be stupid. You won’t get more’n a slapped wrist for indecent exposure. Why would I want to kill you?” You step closer, trying hard not to breathe his breath, which smells like rotting meat.

“I won’t be going anywhere, Flatfoot.” He seems incredibly calm for someone trying to commit suicide. “You’ll have to put me in a body bag to get me anywhere near the station.”

You step closer. “I haven’t got time for this.” Grabbing at his wrists, you manage to catch the belt of his Mac, and it falls open again. You avert your eyes, but not before you catch sight of a change to his body.

“Go on Campo, take a good long look. It’ll be the last thing you ever see.” He thrusts his hips out at you, waving what had been a scar at you.

“What the hell?” You step backwards and find yourself up against a rusty dumpster.

The creep moves closer. “You want a taste of me, cop? Well I’m feeling good and generous tonight. I’ll let you sample my delights.” He slides his hands out of the cuffs and drops them to the floor as he moves in close enough that you can feel… it …brushing against your groin.

His eyes capture yours and you feel your will draining away as his mouth opens. “I’m gonna feast on you tonight, like you in that restaurant earlier. I’m gonna savour every last mouthful and I won’t need a knife and fork.”

There’s the sound of ripping fabric as it tears through your clothes and plunges into the plentiful flesh.

Pain erupts and you scream—just once, though, as his mouth comes down on yours and you feel something slide down your throat toward your chest.

His eyes are still boring into yours as he wraps himself around you and the last thing you hear is his voice in your head.

“You wanted to find the Body Ripper? Well congratulations, Filth… you did it!”

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 2

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.2 - DANGLY BITS

2011-07-08T07:51:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.2 - DANGLY BITS

By Leah Crichton

You eye the dead girl. Should you call the chief? Why are you even debating this? He’s useless as the day is long. There’s no time. The only back-up you need is right here with you. You’re unsure how much help Sweet Lou is going to be. His skin has taken on a horrible shade of green, like split pea soup mixed with the Chief’s pit juice. Sweet Lou looks like a nancy about to cry. In fact, you’re fairly certain you see tears pooling in his eyes.

Curly points a finger longer than your . . .. “He’s getting away!”

“Follow me, boys!”

You give chase, almost slipping on the intestine-littered sidewalk. It reminds you of that time you and the Chief went boxing together. You’d been surprised that he didn’t disintegrate in front of your very eyes. His perspiration was like Niagara Falls, and you almost slipped then, too.

As you pick up speed, you wish you hadn’t loosened your pants after consuming the three-meat lasagna. Right now, they’re trying to make an escape much like the trenched henchman. That bastard is fast; fortunately, your pants are not.

You wave your gun in the air frantically. “Not on my watch, you lousy good for nothin’!”

The man in black weaves through the alley. The pavement is uneven, and you’re having a hard time keeping up. To make matters worse, he’s looking back and overturning trash cans, complete with mice, to trip you up. You take pause as you notice the trash can from directly behind Gino’s is home to a particularly large swarm of rodents, and you feel the bile rise in your throat, the lasagna on the verge of making a second appearance.

Who is the nancy now? You think to yourself. Who is the nancy now? You give yourself a mental slap and get your head back in the game. You launch yourself up and over, hurdling the trash cans with so much ease that you surprise yourself. Your gut doesn’t slow you down nearly as much as it should, even though it jiggles a little like Chief’s jowls when he talks.

The darkness of night descends upon the alley, offering the fast bastard even more camouflage. The weather changes suddenly too, as you feel the air around you shift in a windstorm. Wait! That’s not the wind! It’s a tornado. A tornado of red and blue and stars and stripes. A tornado of limbs. A tornado of badass. Skilled hands like surgeons, powerful legs like workhorses. It’s the boys you know you can always count on. It’s the Globetrotters! Sweet Lou’s nancy moment has passed, and now you can only see a steely look of determination plastered on his face.

It’s this moment your brain chooses to send a signal to your body, a friendly reminder that you are no longer the young beat cop you used to be. Age has caught up with you and she hasn’t been kind. She’s been a sultry bitch. Your feet slow, your breathing becomes labored. You’re wheezing and can’t catch your breath.

You stop and put your head between your knees, just for a moment. Just until everything stops spinning. You can still see the bandit ahead and the Globetrotters closing the space between them with formidable speed.

“Get him!” You shout to no one in particular, waving your gun again. “Get the murderer!”

Curly stops. “I’m not playin’ anymore,” he yells. You look up in time to see him raise his arm over his head, armed with the deadly force of his favorite weapon: His basketball. He pitches the thing with no effort at all. From its current trajectory, the cop in you knows the trenchcoat killer is going down. Hard and fast. Still trying to catch your breath, you can’t help but wonder why Curly didn’t just do this in the first place.

The ball sails through the air. When it makes contact, you’re pretty sure Curly killed him. He falls to the ground, the only noise his head cracking on the pavement.

You summon the last of your energy and surge forward to catch up with the Globetrotters. Curly is now strutting like the hero he knows he is. “Nice job, kid,” you say, even though Curly probably isn’t that much your junior.

The man who fled is lying face down. You take off your fedora and bring it to your chest, bowing your head. Murderer or not, you’ve still just seen his life slip away. You are about to order a moment of silence until you see his chest moving ever so faintly. The bastard is alive!

You let out a scream, then recover by clearing your throat. “He’s alive!” You say.

Twiggy flips the man over with his foot.

You scream again.

In your worst possible nightmare, you couldn’t have imagined this. You’ve seen the Chief in the shower at the station before and you were sure nothing could be more terrifying than that. You were wrong. You make a mental note to find a therapist.

Underneath the grandeur of the trenchcoat, the man is naked. Naked as the day he was born. You inadvertently notice something else hasn’t changed much since the day he was born either. You squint and try to adjust your eyes. The last thing this fellow needed was a ball to the head. He’s got enough problems.

“You think it’s real?” Curly asks.

You shake your head. “I’m not sure. How could nature, how could God, be so cruel to one man?”

“Naw,” Twiggy shakes his head. “It can’t be real. It’s like part of it is missing.”

As much as the size—or lack thereof—of the man’s manhood—or lack thereof—intrigues you, you can’t waste any more time talking about it. “Someone has to pat him down,” you announce. “Check for the murder weapon.”

The Globetrotters look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you look at the Chief when he attempts to tell you about his relations with his lady friends. You roll your eyes and sigh. “You’re a bunch of nancys! The whole lot of you!”

Twiggy steps forward in a threatening stance until you point your gun. “Don’t test me, Twig. Not today.”

“You’re the cop,” he says, “you pat him down.”

The bile is back in your throat. Obviously he’s got nowhere to conceal a weapon aside from the coat, so it can’t be all that bad. You force the bile down and inhale sharply. “I’ll do it.” You mutter something else about nancys under your breath as you check the man’s pockets. You check a second and a third time just to be sure.

There is no weapon. “He’s clean. He’s got nothing,” you say.

It appears your killer has made a stealthy escape. The man who ran is merely a flasher. A meager, meager flasher.

Curly’s temper erupts. “All that for nothing! Nothing! I’m gonna kill him myself.”

Should you...

A. Allow Curly to let loose on the little man, sure that you’re doing him a favor?

B. Instruct the Globetrotters to haul the flasher into the station, then go back to the crowd to look for evidence of the real killer’s whereabouts?

C. Bring the flasher into the station yourself and call it a night?

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.1 - GO BACK FOR SOME LASAGNA

2011-07-07T12:20:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.1 - GO BACK FOR SOME LASAGNA

By Yasamine Alisha

Just as you are about to take off, Sweetwater pops his meathook onto your shoulder. “Best to pass the buck to the other Joes for now, ya jive?”

“Sure. No point in getting all roughed up before dinner.” You walk back into the restaurant, step behind the front desk and pick up the phone in front of the pretty young olive skinned girl sitting at the desk. You flick the receiver clip a couple times and tell Bernice the operator to connect you to the precinct.

“Got another one.” Pause. “Sure.” Pause. “Dead as a doornail.” Pause. “Okay, okay, spare me the gobbledygook.” You hang up the phone, pinch the girl's cheek, and wink before heading back to the table.

You sit at the table with the ‘Trotters and enjoy a nice bottle of wine. Other than the murdered dame out in front, the restaurant isn’t really that bad. You figure whether or not it’s true what they say about the I-talians cooking rat in the meatballs, the joint still made the best lasagna you've ever had.

"Ah! Longa time noa see!" The owner walks up with another bottle of wine.

"What's the good word, Rocco?” You ask, knowing the owner always has something up his sleeve.

“Molto Bello! You looka good! You losea weight? Ah! You needa my mama's lasagna!” Rocco pats you on the shoulder and walks away, only to return to your table with a large platter of steaming lasagna. “Even the deada bird will not stop the lasagna!” He shakes his head as he serves you and the ‘Trotters each a heaping chunk of meaty, cheesy layered pasta.

You stuff your face. The Sweetwater is arguing with Twiggy about the importance of parmesan cheese. Everyone else is silent in their feasting as you listen to the beat cops cordoning off the crime scene.

“Got anything new on the menu?" You ask.

"I bringa new dessert!" The rotund owner says as he walks back into the kitchen, his thick accent hanging in the air.

“He stinks of garlic, but damn can the man cook." you mutter as you start to imagine the owner's mother's special cannolis.

Rocco walks out with a tray laden with plates of what looks like custard. "Marcello is back from that French school for the summer. Is called crème-a brooley." he sets the plates down and pulls out the blow torch.

"Whoa, what are you, a blockhead? That's for buildings, not pudding. Geez." You instantly back up from the torch.

"No, paisano! Trusta in Rocco!" He lights the torch, lowers the flame, and brushes it gently over the top of the custard. It caramelizes as the sweet smell makes your mouth water.

“I'll be damned. Ain't that about a bitch. It’s crispy!” Twiggy says as he drops his ball and shovels a spoonful into his mouth.

"Well I’ll be a monkey's uncle," you mutter as Rocco wanders around the table blasting everyone's pudding, yours being last.

"Prego!" He says, waving the torch dangerously close to your head.

"Watch it, bub."

"No, no, I havea the perfect control!" He spins the lit wand. It slips from his fingers and brushes past your head as it hits the table. The flame blasts to life and lights your hair on fire. The pomade is like butane in your hair and on your forehead as you suddenly burst into flames! You scream for help, but your aftershave ignites the fire further down your neck and over your entire body.

You stand and run from the table through the front door and trip falling onto the corpse, incinerating the evidence. You live just long enough for Rocco and Sweet Lou to douse your fire with a boiling pot of spaghetti. You die in agony, burnt to a crisp as the ‘Trotters, standing around you, eat cannolis dipped in the creme brulée.

"Well damn, there goes our free throw backup,” Meadowlark mutters are he licks his spoon.

Oops...Return to Chapter 1

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.1 - CHASE THE GOON YOURSELF

2011-07-02T16:11:00.001-07:00

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.1 - CHASE THE GOON YOURSELF
By Jason Campbell

“Curly, you keep an eye on things here, I’m going after the killer,” you shout over the ever growing crowd.

“Wait!” Is the last thing you hear as you slip around the corner. Somewhere ahead of you, his footsteps echo like a thunderstorm slipping through a mountain pass. This was possibly your worst of bad ideas, chasing a man who had viciously murdered multiple women through a dark alley.

The alley smells of urine and feces, not much unlike the men’s washroom back at the station. The asphalt was cratered like the moon, each hole fully submerged in a stagnant pool of water. Flies the size of small ponies zip back and forth across your vision, yet up ahead the footsteps keep moving forward, always the same pitch, as if he is matching you step for step.

The alley comes to a ‘T’ and you stop, pausing and allowing the smells of the alley to take an all-out assault on your nostrils. You begin to think the sweat and smell of the Chief would almost be better. Then you hear it: A slight noise to your right, a shuffle of feet, and a quiet snarl. You veer in that direction. You wipe the sweat from your brow and think to yourself: That’s it, only two doughnuts tomorrow.

Breathing heavily, you launch yourself down the alley, positive that you’re catching up to the killer. Darkness begins to wrap its arms around the alley like the sultry grasp of a two bit whore. Still, there is no obvious sign of the killer. The sound of multiple footsteps draws your attention behind you. Turning, you expect to be greeted by the Globetrotters, but what you find is a group of homeless men.

Their body odor is almost as offensive as their attire. Green, white and yellow basketball shirts and shorts create a wall of eyesore. “The Washington Generals! Wow, life hasn’t been good to you, has it?” you say, purposely antagonizing them. If the ‘Trotters can do it, why not you?

They take your verbal jab like a boxer with a glass jaw. Their eyes glaze over with anger as they advance on you. You stand your ground like any good beat cop would when faced with innumerable odds. Wait…

“You never hire us to help with the big cases,” they say in unison.
“Because it’s too easy to beat you,” you respond.

“That’s alright,” they answer, with a smile like a kid with a candy bar. It’s a very disconcerting image to see on grown men. “We have new coaches, and this time we’ll beat the Globetrotters—but first, we start with you!”

Coaches? You think as a wave of fear washes over you like that time you watched the Chief bend over and his pants split at the seam. You are sure you were going to gouge your eyes out with spoons that day. This was very much the same fear. Who wants to lose to the Generals?

The Washington Generals stand in front of you in a small huddle, discussing what horrible way to do you in. You hear them suggest Chief’s underwear and figure it’s time to act. Taking advantage of their momentary distraction, you run up and pants one of the players, tie another one’s laces together, and slip past them.

A voice echoes out of nowhere like some bad voice-over in a pulp fiction novel: “Get him!”
The voice is vaguely familiar.

As you splash through the oceans of puddles, you pass a small alcove, the home of a Great Dane and some loser hippy in a green shirt and brown pants. “Rook, Raggie!” The Great Dane says.

As you consider the fact you are pretty sure you heard a dog talk, you step into the grand canyon of puddles, trip, and fall flat on your face. A mouthful of rain and sewer water delights your taste buds with all kinds of nastiness.

You try not to add your partially digested lasagna to the taste and almost succeed in doing so until a long white-as-bleach leg stomps down on your back, forcing wonderful shades of red, brown and yellow chunks from your mouth.

The green and yellow trim you see just out of the corner of your eye lets you know the Generals have caught up to you. “He’s all yours Fr¬—, I mean, Boss,” says the Washington General who is trying to push his size 42 shoe through your back.

A new voice whispers just behind your head: “Steal our team, will you?”

A red ascot slips past your eyes and over your throat and begins to tighten. Lifting your eyes, you see the man in black watching from another alleyway, a smile emblazoned across his face.

The last thing you remember thinking before darkness takes you: I would have caught you if it wasn’t for these meddling kids and their dog.

The End.

Oops...Return to Chapter 1

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.1 - HOTHEADED OLD GOON

2011-06-27T06:45:00.000-07:00

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.1 - HOTHEADED OLD GOON
By Steven Novak

The Chief is covered in sweat. His shirt is wrinkled, and the awful yellow stain of his pit juice is peeking out from underneath the crooks of his arms. He looks tired. He looks tired and beaten, and his face is more worn than the notoriously overcooked steaks at Rocco’s on the corner of 5th and Vine. He rubs his eyes, groans and sighs deep. When you offer him a cigarette, he waves it off. When you offer him a handkerchief to clean the rivers of perspiration running through the wrinkles on his forehead, he instead uses it blow his nose — then has the moxie to hand it back.

Lousy good for nothin’.

For a moment you consider reaching across the desk and bopping him square in the beezer. That would be stupid though — wouldn’t accomplish anything. Instead you opt to zip your gums and uncoil your meathooks. While it would be fun to put the old goat in his place, it isn’t worth your job and it sure as hell isn’t worth an unceremonious return to one of the flophouses downtown.

The Chief leans as far over your desk as he can before his belly impedes his progress. “We found two more this morning…both of them high priced girlies with gams for ages. He plugged ‘em both in the forehead, opened their chests like cans of sardines, pulled out their insides and tossed what was left in the dumpsters behind Rocco’s.”

Rocco’s? Yet another reason to stop waddling into Rocco’s at three in the morning, hopped up on goofballs and hungry for a tall stack of wheats.

The Chief makes a fist and wallops your desk so hard you’d think it was his wife. “Find this son of a bitch! Do you hear me? When you find him, don’t you dare bring him in! The press is so far up my keyster on this one, I’m smearing them on my finger when I pick my nose!”

His eyes wide, his teeth clenchedb and his chest heaving like a doll on her back getting it all sorts of good, the old bull waits for a reaction after putting the period on his sentence.

You don’t give him one.

A second later the big lug is on his feet and heading for the door. Halfway there, he stops and turns again in your direction. “I want this egg boiled, peeled, and dropped in a Chicago overcoat by the end of the week. Got it?”

After another puff of your cigarette, you nod. The Chief shakes his head and turns with a grunt. The fact that the seat of his britches is as soaked at the pits of his arms isn’t lost on you.

You’ll need to burn the chair he was sitting on.

“There is one thing, Chief.”

The hotheaded old goon stops in the doorway. His back pops audibly when he turns toward you once more.

“Can’t do this one on my own. This jobbie’s playing with a full deck and I’ve got a hunch there’s a field full of dirty lettuce backing his operation. I’ll need some help.”

The Chief immediately knows exactly what “help” you’re talking aboutb and he’s immediately against the idea. “Oh no. No. No. No. You do this on your own. I don’t want those numbskulls anywhere near this case.”

You take another drag of your cigarette, lift your head and blow the smoke into the air. “You want this trouble-boy pinched? This is how he gets pinched. We need to take the direct route, Chief. No more fiddle-faddlin’ around the edge like a couple of crumb-bums betting on the bangtails.”

The Chief lowers his head and stares at his shoes over the mound of his gut. He knows you’re right. He knows you’re right and understands all too well it’s the only way. The aftermath of burger he swallowed down for lunch lurches up his windpipe and pops from his yap. You can smell half-digested onions from across the room.

“Fine. Do whatever you have to do. You bring those boys in and it’s on you. Got it? I’ve got nothing to do with this. If they drop the ball you’ll be dealing with the high-pillows, not me.”

When he leaves the room, he slams the door.

Lousy good for nothin’.

Two minutes after that you’re on the horn with the only cats in town capable of finding the button man who’s been offing professional dames for the past month.

They offer to meet you at Rocco’s. You suggest Gino’s.

Thirty minutes later you stroll into Gino’s and spot your boys at the opposite end of the room. They’re in full gear — dressed to the nines in pinstripes and stars — afros reaching for the clouds.

They’re the best damn gumshoes the city has ever seen: Fred “Curly” Neal, Nat “Sweetwater” Clifton, George “Meadowlark” Lemon, “Sweet Lou” Dunbar and James “Twiggy” Sanders. They’re the Harlem Globetrotters, and there ain’t a jingle-brained jasper been born that can put one over on them.

While Meadowlark meets you with a smile and shakes your hand, Twiggy sneaks up behind you and pulls your trousers down. The regulars at Gino’s erupt into laughter.

Despite the Chief’s reservations, you know you’ve made the right choice.

You fill the boys in on the situation over a family style plate of Gino’s three-meat lasagna. Sweet Lou dives in for seconds before everyone has finished their firsts. You let it pass — only because it’s Sweet Lou.

When dinner’s done and Curly has licked his plate clean, you loosen your belt, let your lasagna-laden belly flop free, and ask the boys if they’re willing to help.

Sweetwater retrieves a basketball from under the table, spins it on his finger and transfers it to the tip of your fedora. As expected, the trick elicits a round of cheers from Gino and his loyal patrons.

With a smile and a wink, Sweetwater adds, “Does that answer your question?”

Honestly, you’re not exactly sure.

Before you can respond, the sound of some chickie screaming just outside the front door fills the air. Sweetwater’s ball still spinning on your noggin, you and the ‘Trotters are on your feet quicker than a con in a creep joint. By the time you make it to the street, the leggy broad with the impressive screambox is already dead. Her chest’s ripped open and her intestines have been pulled halfway down the block.

A crowd of onlookers is already beginning to swell. The dames are in tears and a few of the Brunos don’t look much better. The damn newsie-leeches are already on the scene, forcing their way into the swelling crowd and starting a ruckus.

Out of the corner of your eye you spot a tall drink of water in a dark trench darting into an alleyway on the opposite end of the street. You retrieve the heater from the holster on your hip.

Time to go to work.

A. Round up the 'Trotters and hunt down the man in the trench?

B. Leave the 'Trotters to deal with the newsies and the crowd, and go after the jacketed goon yourself?

C. Forget about everything and go back into Gino's for another plate of lasagna?

SEASON 3 WINNER ANNOUNCED!

2011-06-20T13:07:00.000-07:00

The polls have been closed and the story for the first half of Season 3 has been announced.

You picked it and we're giving it to you.

The fun starts next week!

CHOOSE THE STORY FOR SEASON 3!

2011-06-17T06:48:00.000-07:00

We've kept you waiting long enough.

It's time for the insanity to begin anew.

It's time for, Season 3!

As always, the choice of story is in your hands. Read through the choices below and cast your vote for what story you'd like the COD Crew to take a stab at. You pick it and we'll write it. It's as simple as that.

Be nice.

The polls close on Monday afternoon!

THE CHOICES

1. You step out of the shower and discover you've entered the 1st circle of hell. You've got to escape the 9 circles within 6 days or you'll burn in hell forever.

2. You wake up one morning to find you've grown a tail and pointy ears. Now you have to figure out why and run from the crazy scientist who wants to turn you into a lab rat.

3. You arrive for a vacation in Cancun to discover a hurricane is headed right for your resort.

4. You awake on the back of your horse trotting along the edge of a desert canyon. Within the canyon is a pirate shipwrecked, on the horizon is a town set ablaze, and you're soaking wet with salt water.

5. You are on a beach holiday and a Bottle washes up on the shore at your feet. Inside the bottle is a ring and a message; message reads "Put me on". You put the ring on...

6. You wake up laying on a gurney in the hospital morgue. You notice the medical examiner currently has his back to you, talking with the officer who shot you after you murdered the shop keeper. Do you slip off of the gurney and go for the cops gun or do you slip out the door while no one is looking.

7. You are a camerman for the hit TV show Jurassic Jaunt and there's only 2 problems: A) the scientists created monstrous versions of nature's extinct reptiles and B) most of the contestants and TV control building just got made dead by the restored creatures. The last thing you heard was a radio call from an incoming helicopter and you have 16 hours to make the harrowing journey through the dino-infested jungle and past any surviving contestants to secure your spot on rotored salvation.

8. Your shadow won"t stop farting and there's no way to get away from it.

9. You’re a genius; a very bored genius working as a janitor in top secret government compound that houses advanced weaponry. A chain of unfortunate events has you quit your job, torch the place, and take off with a shit-ton of big-boy (or girl) toys. You turn to your comic book collection to determine your fate. Shall you become a hero, or the villain?

10. Election Day and you're the shit-hot favourite to be the next president of the United States; that is, until your mother turns up and says you're not her child, you're not even an American...and you're not even from Earth. Do you keep quiet and hope this goes away or do you seek out the truth? The clock is ticking...

11. You're a hard-nosed gumshoe and you're hot on the trail of a killer known only as Dead Hooker Harry. Unfortunately you can't solve this one alone. It's too tough. You'll need the help of your old friends, The Harlem Globetrotters.

12. You're an author locked in a mansion with 13 other authors writing a Choose or Die story. Unfortunately one of the other authors wants to take all the credit for the amazingly well written story and is killing the rest of the other authors off after every chapter. Who is it and how will you survive?

13. Walking home you're struck by lightning. Instead of a good zap, you are warped into an alternate world filled with creatures of myth and folklore and everything else. The only way to get home is to successfully complete a series of tasks each with it's own risks and temptations purposely masterminded to cause you to fail. Danger lurks at every corner. Will you make it out alive?

14. You stumble out of bed, rubbing your eyes. You blink trying to make out the bleary shapes within your bedroom. A scorching spotlight is suddenly switched on and you feel your retinas burning with the intensity. A booming voice surrounds you. “For your crimes against humanity, you will be punished. Clemency has been granted however and you have the choice of three doors. The first will take you to a space in time where can alter those decisions, the second will take you to a space in time where you must live with the results of your crimes, the third will take you straight to the courtroom where you will be tried. Choose wisely.”

A NEW SPONSOR AND A NEW SEASON!

2011-06-13T12:19:00.001-07:00

We promised that we'd be back and we like to keep our promises.

The crew will be returning for Season 3 in the near future!

Expect an official announcement in the coming weeks. Until then, feel free to check out our fully archived seasons HERE

TIME DOUCHE CH. 6 - DAWN OF THE DOUCHE

2011-03-18T07:52:00.000-07:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.6 - DAWN OF THE DOUCHE

By Steven Novak

Napoleon smiles at you in that greasy-gross way only he and his weird little face can. For the first time since meeting him, you realize that he looks an awful lot like a used car salesman. History’s most feared general looks like he should be selling you a Honda Civic at a jacked up price.

“Is this what you are looking for, my friend?” Napoleon says with a snarl and an almost comical raise of his eyebrow.

The gesture makes you want to punch him right in his sweaty round face. Marie’s grip tightens on your arm and her head peeks out from over your shoulder. Napoleon is laughing now, chuckling to himself while he dangles the translator in his hand. You want to grab him by the little strand of hair hanging over his forehead, spin him around and slam him into a tree. At that same time, you are completely aware of the fact that you won’t be doing any of those things. Sure, Napoleon’s a five-foot-nothing pipsqueak, but you’re not exactly the world’s most intimidating dude either.

He also has the advantage of knowing how to use a sword.

You once needed six stitches after slicing open your finger while chopping broccoli.

Car salesman or not, you’d be smart to keep your distance.

At the same time, you’ve seen enough time travel movies, and watched and enough episodes of Star Trek, to understand that leaving the translator in Napoleon’s hands probably isn’t the brightest thing to do.

Oh, well.

Without warning you shove Marie backward and into the time machine. She trips over her own feet, clonks her head on the rear paneling, and yelps. You follow her inside and shut the door behind you, but not before flashing Mr. Honda Civic the finger.

He has no idea what the gesture means. You honestly don’t care.

Once you’re inside, the machine begins to honk and beep and flash and whir exactly as it did when you first stepped in at Nubleman’s place. A green light emerges from a bulb behind you, illuminates the back of your head, then begins to slide downward until it reaches Marie. You can hear Napoleon outside. He’s banging on the machine and whacking it with his sword.

Though you have no idea what you’re doing, you start pressing buttons. Marie is on her feet now. She’s standing behind you with her hands on your shoulders, pinching at your skin nervously and gnawing at her lower lip like a side of beef.

“What are you doing?” She screams at the top of her lungs as the machine begins to hum and rattle, and Napoleon’s sword continues to whack against it from the outside.

“I’m not . . .entirely . . .sure.” You answer respond honestly, because you aren’t—at all.

The chair you’re sitting in starts to wobble and the panels in front of your face flash like something out of a video game. Suddenly you feel Marie’s mouth on your neck. Her tongue bobbles your earlobe. She rips your shirt backward and mumbles something breathily into your flesh that sounds a little bit like, “This is so hot.”

This girl is a real freak.

By the time she has her hands down your collar and has begun tweaking your nipples, the beeps and boops crescendo into a sustained tone. The very instant she bites your neck there’s a flash of light a hundred times brighter than any of the ones prior. For a moment, everything goes black.

When you open your eyes, you realize that you’re sprawled out awkwardly on the floor of the machine. Your head is pounding and you’re covered in sweat. Someone is tugging at the waistband of your pants and your blood is rapidly rushing to your genitals. It’s Marie. She’s trying to get your pants off.

Oh yeah, she’s a freak and a half.

You’d like nothing more than to see just how freaky she really is, but you decide it might be in your best interest to take a look outside and see where Nubleman’s piece of junk has taken you. After successfully prying horny Marie, The Eighteenth Century Nymphomaniac, from your bloomers, you reach up and smack the door-opening button with your palm. The metal slides open with a whoosh.

Unfortunately, it jams half way.

There’s a black, foul smelling smoke rising up from under the machine, and the outside is covered in dents. Flashes of electricity occasionally spark from the areas where the dents look more like gashes.

It seems the little car salesman did a heck of a lot more damage than you thought he could.

The moment you step out of the machine it bursts into flames. The fire singes the hairs on the back of your neck and something explodes under Nubleman’s pile of junk. You snag Marie around the waist, pull her away from the fire, and tumble together to the ground.

A puddle of greenish colored goop softens your landing.

Despite the fact that you’re partially submerged in what is essentially Nickelodeon Gack, almost instantly Marie has latched onto your neck again. In between kisses, and licks, and full on slobbers, she’s mumbling something about the fact that she’s “waited long enough” and that she wants you to “spank her, ravish her,” and remind her what it’s like to be with a “real man.”

Not only is she freaky, she’s obviously confused.

Through Marie’s flailing strands of hair, you notice that the sky overhead is remarkably red—far redder than you’ve ever seen it, or than it ever should be. The air smells like sulfur. It’s a bit thicker than you’re accustomed to. The temperature is absolute sweltering.

Marie’s hand slides down your shirt and heads south.

The landscape on either side of you is mostly rocky. Everything seems to be covered in a layer of reddish sand and dirt and there’s not a single bit of foliage to be found. Though you can’t tell for sure with Marie’s limbs flailing the way they are, you think you spot a volcano in the distance.

Speaking of crazy-Marie: she shoves her tongue down your throat.

That’s when it hits you. Though your knowledge of earth’s history is rudimentary at best, you suddenly know where you are. Nubleman’s machine really did a number on you this time. You’ve gone almost as far back in earth’s history as you could possibly go.

The goop your sliding around might just be the very same goop from which life itself will eventually spring.

Marie climbs on top of you, rips open her shirt and flops out in all her glory.

Oh, well. Marie was right about one thing; this is going to be pretty hot.

THE END

TIME DOUCHE CH. 5 - TAKE ON NAPOLEON

2011-03-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.5 - TAKE ON NAPOLEON

By MJ Heiser

The fires of a red-hot rage fueled by injustice and fatigue spread through your limbs. Damn it! This isn’t fair! You only wanted to eat some chicken. Instead you end up scrambling for a new wardrobe and getting blasted back to Revolutionary France to deal with a runaway royal and her douchebag boyfriend.

All you know is that you aren’t going to take this anymore. You frown. “Oh yeah, tough guy?” you say. There’s a strange, breathy, needling quality to your voice, and you realize that you sound a little bit like Sugar Ray Leonard. Or Mike Tyson. Through the scrim of your exhaustion, you’ve also noted that you’ve started the “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” shuffle made famous by Muhammad Ali. The adrenaline in your system is making you giddy. I don’t know how to fight! you think gleefully to yourself. And I haven’t watched wrestling since Hulk Hogan’s day!

Napoleon watches you carefully. Suddenly, you see it: That strange twinkle in his eye that tells you that not only does he understand combat, he really, really enjoys it. He’s studying your moves for danger. A smile on his face makes it clear he knows there is no real danger.

“Monsieur,” he says politely with a deferential nod, “are you in need of a way to relieve your bladder?”

Marie giggles.

You stop shuffling and gape stupidly at him. “Huh?”

With a lightning quickness you can hardly believe, he draws his sword and draws a line across your guts. You feel warmth spreading down your abdomen. Blood. You also feel warmth spreading down your thighs. Piss.

“Or shall I do it for you?” he laughs, as the lights in your mental attic dim and go out.

The last thing you hear is the electronic squawk of Nubleman’s voice: “You ridiculous moron.”

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

TIME DOUCHE CH. 5 - Hold Marie Hostage

2011-03-08T06:54:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.5 - HOLD MARIE HOSTAGE

By Mandy Ward

“Um… yes actually, that is what I’m looking for, thank you mon ami.” You dredge the high school French from your brain and hold out your hand. “Can I have it back, please?”

Napoleon tilts his head. “First you will tell me what you are doing with Marie.”

“Nothing. We were just taking . . .a walk.” She frowns at you. What else am I supposed to say? Sorry mate, I was just going to run away with your bird and take her back to my own time?

Napoleon snorts. “No one just walks with a lady, especially with one as beautiful and important as my Marie.”

“I do.” You shrug.

“I don’t believe you. You were going to steal her away from me.” Napoleon tosses the communicator from hand to hand.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” You look at Marie, trying to communicate to her that she needed to corroborate your story.

Napoleon looks at her as well. “Well, Marie? Is he right? Or were you about to leave me for some unknown foreigner?” The communicator makes another bounce from one hand to the other.

“Non, I would not do that, mon cher. He dragged me out here, muttering about finding something and leaving,” Marie tells him. She takes a step forward. “I want only to be with you!”

Napoleon’s face softens as she reaches towards him and takes another step. “I believe you, ma cherie.” He looks at you and you shudder at the rage in his eyes. “I will take this insult out of your hide!”

“Hey, I don’t care. I just want to go home.” You point at the communicator which still rests in Napoleon’s hand. “Give me that and you take your bitch of a princess back to your shack, where you can poke her all you want.”

Napoleon’s face turns puce. “You pig! How dare you insult her yet again? I would have merely let your blood a little. Instead I shall kill you!”

Drawing the dagger on your belt, you leap forward and grab Marie, holding the dagger to her throat. “You make one move towards your sword and your princess gains a new smile.”

Marie tries to scream and struggles against you. You push the dagger against her slender white throat and a drop of blood dribbles down, leaving a scarlet trail behind. “Don’t move sweetheart, I really don’t want to hurt you.” She stops moving. Thank God for that. I wouldn’t be able to hurt her, you think. I’d rather take her to heaven a different way. Marie’s perfume and the warmth from her body are making you wish that the two of you were somewhere private right now.

“Enough. What do you want, pig?” Napoleon’s tone is softer.

“Throw the communicator over here and I’ll let her go.” With you free hand you point to a spot to your right that is clear of stones.

“Dog. Pig. Let her go first!” the petite soldier spits, his face flushing puce again.

“What on God’s Green Earth are you doing now?” Nubleman shrieks from the communicator. “I told you to get back to the Time Machine and get out of there!”

The voice coming out of nowhere startles Napoleon and he literally jumps a foot into the air. The communicator flies out of his hand and drops hard onto a large rock, smashing into a hundred shreds of plastic, a scattering of computer chips and other electronic components.

You groan and drop the dagger from Maria’s throat, not caring that she dashes back to Napoleon as you wrench the door of the time machine open and start pressing buttons left, right and centre.

“What are you doing, you ignorant piece of filth? Come out of there and fight me like a man.” Napoleon shouts . . .except it comes out as "Que faites-vous, vous ignorant pièce d'immondices? Sortez de là et me batter comme un homme."

You ignore him and keep bashing buttons. Damn, without that translator I don’t understand a thing they are saying and without Nubleman, I don’t know how to work this thing! That red button looks promising, maybe it’s the starter? Jamming your thumb onto the red button, you are surprised to hear a genteel female voice say:

“Thank you for choosing the ten second self-destruct sequence. Please exit the Time Machine and retreat to a safe distance. This Time Machine will self-destruct in ten… nine…eight…”

Staring at the machine’s dashboard you mutter to yourself “Self-Destruct sequence? Nubleman, you really are crazy.”

“…seven…six…five…”

You back out of the machine and try to scramble up the hill as fast as possible, but Napoleon grabs hold of the back of your shirt and shouts at you again. “Où pensez-vous que vous allez? Revenez!”

I think I know what that means. I have to get out of here before the Time Machine blows up. You dredge your French language memory again. “Um…laissez-passer!”

“Non, chien. Le seul endroit où vous allez est en enfer.” Napoleon hauls you backwards with surprising strength for such a small man.

“…four…three…”

You land right in front of the time machine. You can smell acrid smoke drifting out from inside the dashboard and there are tiny sparks starting to flicker over the keys, so you try to roll away and Napoleon jumps on you, punching you hard in the face.

“…two…one… this Time Machine will now self destruct. Have a Nice day!” the voice says calmly and the dashboard explodes with a blast of flame, scattering glass and plastic like bullets.

Time slows down for you and you see Marie torn to shreds by glass, falling slowly to the ground as one piece of glass pierces her barely contained chest and kills her.

Napoleon is knocked off you by the detonation and comes crashing down onto the same rock that the communicator shattered on, his skull caving in, grey brain matter and red blood mingling as it flies out.

Above you, the machine rocks in the burst of energy and topples over. A torn steel strut twists and drops like a javelin towards you. Abruptly time speeds up again and you just have time to think Maybe I shouldn’t have threatened Marie after all… before it all goes black.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

TIME DOUCHE CH. 5 - Caught With Your Hand In Your Pants

2011-02-25T06:18:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.5 - CAUGHT WITH YOUR HAND IN YOUR PANTS

By Tomara Armstrong

“Okay.” You look around. How is it that you find yourself in a situation once again? Big French guys have busted in on your chance to score with a royal hottie in hiding, and you’re not supposed to be upset? You’re either incredibly unlucky or someone has had it out for you from the beginning—some sick, sick sadist is controlling your fate. Regardless, you’ve had enough.

“Dude, do I look like I know what’s going on here?” The brutes glance at each other and eye you up and down. They seem to have come to the general understanding that you are not French. “Look, I’m a guest of Napoleon. Yeah, I helped him out earlier, maybe saved his life and stuff, but I don’t have any idea what all of this is about. Who’s Marie Therese?” You shrug and shoot a wink at the girl. “And what’s with the entrance? Aren’t you on the same side? And you just come busting thru the door? If I was Napoleon, I’d be pissed.”

“Uh… um…” both men shift their weight, looking nervous.

“I know your type, throwing shit around, trying to be all tough. Napoleon’s in the other room; dude’s gonna come unglued when he sees you’re tearing shit up.”

You’re loving every second of making these men sweat. In all probability, they could stomp you into a pulsing mass of goo on the floor. “You know what? Let’s get Napoleon in here,” you smile, but notice that Marie looks nervous. “Strike that. Why don’t you two dipshits go and find him?”

The two share a look, shrug, and sulk out of the room.

You’ve got a goofy grin on your face, replaying the moment in your head: tough talk, ninja moves, and naked girl slathered in chocolate.

Slap.

You barely have time to cover the stinging handprint on your face when Marie grabs the front of your shirt. “Why did you do that? Are you out of your mind?”

She’s not really pissed—she totally digs you. Naked girl… chocolate…mmm.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Shaking your head, you grab Marie’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

She doesn’t resist. You’re feeling pretty confident as you head out into the night with Marie in tow. You just stole a girl from Napoleon Bonaparte. How cool is that? Of course, he would probably kill her if he knew who she really was, but still, pretty cool.

You’re overly zealous, jumping logs and lifting Marie over brush and puddles of mud. You’re pretty sure you’re getting close when she collapses to the ground in tears.

“Oh man.” Leave it to a woman to lose her cool at the worst possible time. You try to comfort her, but what started as a few tears has now turned into a full blown boo-hoo with accompanying snot bubbles. “Shush now,” you pat her on the back. “It’ll be okay.” She tries to speak but you can’t make out any of it. You glance around trying to determine how close you are to the time machine. “We’re close.”

“Close to what?” Finally the girl is making sense again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe,” you say as you heave her into a secure piggy back. She wipes her nose on your shirt and kisses the side of your neck softly. Does this make her my girlfriend? You smile and trudge on toward the machine.

You see the machine in the distance, slide Marie onto her feet, and hurry toward it. “What is that?” she asks.

“Never mind what it is, Marie, we need to get in it and get out of here.” You start pacing in front the machine trying to think what to do. “Damn it, Thomas. You’re being quiet.”

You reach in your pants, and look at Marie in shock. She blushes.

“Oh no,” you panic, running around the perimeter. “Where is it? Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Oh god… I didn’t lose it, did I?"

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Napoleon steps from the brush holding the communicator in his hand. He looks pissed and your hands are still in your pants.

Will you...

A. Screw Nubleman--get in the machine with Marie and start pushing buttons.

B. Take on Napoleon. You’ve watched plenty of WWF, and he’s particularly puny. You can take him.

C. Pretend to hold Marie hostage and offer to trade the communicator for the girl.

TIME DOUCHE CH. 4 - Greatest Rouse Ever

2011-02-21T06:51:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.4 - GREATEST ROUSE EVER

By Cathleen Holst

You open your mouth to speak, but the brutish men tell you to shut it, informing you that you’ve made a grave mistake by coming here. “Oh, really,” you say, sitting up in bed and suddenly you see a flash, and it’s over.

You’re dead.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

TIME DOUCHE CH. 4 - Betray Marie

2011-02-18T06:31:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.4 - BETRAY MARIE

BY Mandy Ward

You look from the brutes to Marie, wondering if you really ought to defend her. After all, she seems ready to sleep with just about anyone who takes her fancy and certainly doesn’t care about the common folk, despite her intention to live as one of them. So what if she’s sexy and curvy and everything you like in a woman? Underneath it all, she’s still as sluttish and unfaithful as a camp follower.

“I’m glad you guys turned up,” you drawl. “I discovered this bitch lying in wait for Napoleon. I think she was going to murder him.”

Three of them look at her and she whimpers, but stands her ground. The fourth frowns. “It looks more like she’s trying to seduce you.”

“Of course she’s trying to seduce me. She’s attempting to leave this place alive.” You bluster a little, hoping they’ll take it for anger when all of a sudden you’re actually rather scared.

“Why would a woman like this want to murder Napoleon?” the fourth man asks.

Great. Trust one of them to have brains and brawn. You were trying to get them to arrest her and then you were going to wake Napoleon to come to her rescue, but you’ll have to spill the beans now. “She’s a member of the royal family. I mean, for God’s Sake, look at her; the bearing, the accent, the figure!”

Marie draws in a deep breath and, almost as one, the men’s eyes are drawn to her ample assets. Yes, that’s right. Go on, scream for help and watch Napoleon appear to find four men smirking at your chest.

But you realise that only two of the men are leering. The other two have drawn their swords and, with only a second’s pause, they lop the heads off the two drooling brutes. Then they both drop to their knees, their sword points grounded and heads bowed. “De la naissance à la mort, que nous servons notre reine,” the brainy one says softly.

From Birth to Death, we serve our Queen. The translation makes you shudder. So she’s not given up on her birthright after all.

The blood from the slaughtered men pools out around their bodies. Marie delicately steps away from it, holding her skirts out of the crimson liquid.

“Thank you, gentlemen. It is a relief to know that I can count on such loyalty still. You may rise.”

They stand up. “What do we do with him, your majesty?” the brainy one says.

“He saved Napoleon’s life today, but was about to force himself on my person,” she says, her head tilting back slightly as if she’d smelled something rotten. “That is against the law and is punishable by death; but for the act of saving My Love’s life and returning him to me, I reward him with a quick death rather than being drawn and quartered.”

“Oh now, hang on! You were coming onto me, not the other way round,” you protest loudly as they advance towards you.

“What’s going on?” Napoleon emerges, chest bare and blinking sleep from his eyes. “Marie, is there a problem? Why are two of my men dead?”

Her lovely eyes go wide and her bottom lip trembles before she flies to his side, ignoring the blood that splashes up her skirts in her haste to reach him. “Oh Napoleon! This . . .this . . .thug tried to force himself on me!”

Lying bitch. You think fast, trying to come up with some reasonable explanation. In your pocket you can hear Thomas muttering something, but it’s not loud enough for you to hear properly. He’s probably just cursing me again.

“What?” Napoleon’s gaze drops onto you and you shiver at the fury in his eyes. “Captain, what is the truth of this matter?” his arm curls around Marie’s waist and pulls her to him protectively.

The intelligent one replies. “Sir, we were passing by your door when we heard muffled cries in here. We forced our way in and found this man—“ he points his bloodied blade at you, “—and his two confederates attacking Madame Marie. He insisted that she is the Fille de France and that she should be executed. His confederates suggested having some fun with her first and that was when we entered.”

The other man nods as Napoleon looks at him.

Oh come on, Napoleon, you’re smarter than that! Use your brain, they have blood all over them and are carrying bare blades, for Christ’s sake.

“We beheaded the brutes and were about to administer the same fate to their leader when you entered,” the Captain finishes.

You sigh as Napoleon looks at you. “You saved my life so that you could kill my love? How dare you.”

You try to appeal to his political side. “Look, I swear that I am innocent of this! She was trying to seduce me and she admitted to being Marie Therese, the French Princess. Of course she’s going to lie about it, she’s a noblewoman!”

He holds out his hand and the captain places his sword into it. “Stand back, my love, I must dispatch this ruffian!”

“A man in love is only as intelligent as his todger,” you mutter, sighing and attempting to put some distance between you and the enraged Napoleon.

The two soldiers place themselves between you and Marie, while Napoleon advances towards you. You back away and slip in the blood pool surrounding one of the bodies. Catching yourself against a chair, you pull yourself upright, turn and trip over the second body.

“Aha! I have you now.” Napoleon springs forward and lunges smoothly, the blade piercing your back, carving through your ribcage and as the point touches your heart. You think Oh, well, Nubleman isn’t going to get his time machine back.

Your heart bursts and blood flows out of every upper orifice, adding to the pool on the floor. Your last sight is of Marie. The damn bitch has a smirk on her face. What a nasty piece of work; I’m glad I didn’t do her now…

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

TIME DOUCHE CH. 4 - Let's Get It On

2011-02-14T07:48:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.4 - LET'S GET IT ON

By MJ Heiser

Napoleon Bonaparte has a reputation for being cagey, smart, relentless, and incredibly short-tempered. He experienced a meteoric rise to power, and it began shortly after the end of the French Revolution. Yes, before long, he will be one of the most powerful men in the Western World.

But Marie is effing sexy, and there is no way you're letting this hot piece get away from you.

Besides, you think to yourself as you sink further into irrevocable arousal, I have a time machine. He does not. I can totally get away with this.

She whimpers as you pull her bustle-bottomed body closer to you. Curly tendrils of her soft, fragrant hair fall in your face. She straddles your leg and slowly starts to grind her delicious, curvaceous, straight-from-a-period-romance-novel body against yours.

"There is something so different about you," she whispers heatedly into your ear. "I saw it when you first arrived. You are – cleaner? Different grooming? You stand differently –"

Nubleman's totally unwelcome voice intrudes on this very sexy moment. "Please, dear God, tell me you're not about to boff Marie Therese."

"Who?" you ask your pocket.

Marie screeches and bounces away from your prong-accented lap. "Merde! What was that?"

Damn, you think, and you slap your hand over your forehead. You addressed Nubleman before you addressed the woman you were about to defile. You drag your hand down your face, then return your attention to Marie. She's wide-eyed and frightened, pressed into the far corner.

"Shh, it's okay," you whisper, approaching the young woman and trying to find a way to keep her from screaming. As the blood returns to your brain, you find it suddenly easy to reflect on how fear is a total turn-off.

"Someone referred to me as Marie Therese!" she whispered. This whisper is a far cry from the silky purr she'd slid into your ear just a moment ago. This one is harsh and accusatory. "Who said it? You tell me now, you peasant scum!"

You frown at her. Peasant scum? Who is this broad?

"Uh, I didn't hear anything." You want to slap your hand over your forehead again. You sure aren't going to be winning any Nobel prizes for rhetoric. –Oh, right. The Nobel prize guy hasn't even been born yet, has he?

The young woman's manner stiffens, and you see something almost regal in her bearing. "You lie, pig."

Pocket Nubleman has gone quiet. You want to ask him who the hell Marie Therese is, but she doesn't seem to respond well to him, and the last thing you need is evidence of what you're trying to convince her didn't happen.

There's commotion in the next room. Marie pulls you close, but it certainly isn't a move borne of desire or any of that lovely lust that was so thick in the room a moment ago. She hisses in your ear: "You listen to me now. No one is to know I am Marie Therese. As far as anyone is concerned, Marie Therese is on her merry way to Austria to escape the fate of her parents. I want no part of beheadings or anything having to do with my royal past – I want only to live my life as a common woman, and perhaps even the consort of Napoleon."

You think you hear a deep intake of breath from your pantaloons pocket. You wonder if Nubleman is rubbing his fat fingers together in glee over these dark intrigues. You don't really care. You suddenly feel the sleep deprivation down to your toes. Lust overrides fatigue, but the effects don't last forever.

What I wouldn't give for a Starbucks, you think wearily to yourself.

"Do you understand me, pig?" Marie adds.

"So I can't tell Napoleon that you're – whoever you are."

"I am Marie Therese," she says haughtily, drawing herself up to her full height. "I am Madame Royale, Fille de France, and eldest child of Louis and Antoinette."

"So – Napoleon won't like that."

She giggles. "He'll probably want to kill me."

You sigh. "That's not even a little awkward for me, is it?"

Her smile falters. "What isn't?"

French royalty was apparently not well-schooled in sarcasm.

Oh, well, it hardly matters. You're out of here tomorrow – right? Then Marie can play her little black-sheep, naughty-princess games with Napoleon and all of his other friends. In the meantime, you need sleep.

"Never mind. I won't tell Napoleon – but may I get some sleep now?"

"I still want to have you," she says, and that gorgeous sex kitten has suddenly made her reappearance in the room. She glides closer.

And right at that moment, the door to your private little hidden shelter explodes inwards, showering your head with wooden shrapnel. Four large brutes (really? France was capable of making men this big? What happened?) shoulder their way into the cramped space.

"What have we here?" says the biggest of the louts. He is obviously unaware he has uttered a total movie-line cliché. "Where is Napoleon? He is due back at camp. We have reports that Marie Therese has escaped."

Marie looks at you. Once again the fear in her eyes proves to be a total turn-off.

Should you...

A. Betray Marie's trust and tell the men that she's the escaped royal?

B. Defend Marie, hoping to get into those royal knickers at a later time?

C. Try to rouse Napoleon in the hopes these men stop asking uncomfortable questions?

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - DIREGÉ COMME L’ENFER (Run Like Hell)

2011-02-11T06:21:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.3 - DIREGÉ COMME L’ENFER (Run Like Hell)

By James McShane

Okay, Boney’s lady is smokin’ hot and you know that in your finest hour you’d give her the loving of the century. But this is not your finest hour; it’s not even your century. And no matter how your heart says otherwise, discretion is the better part of valour – especially in your situation. You kiss her lightly on the cheek and say in your best historical French, “Not tonight, Josephine.”

She spits in your eye. “Never mention that woman in my presence again, you scum bucket. He loves me more than he loves his wife.”

“Lady,” you whisper, “some dudes will say anything to a woman, if it gets them a free pass through your corset.” It is at this point you want to say vive la revolution, but you think something will be lost in the non-translation. “Thomas,” you say to the air, “I’m making like Moses and getting the flock out of here.”

"Now is not the time for bad jokes!" Nubleman screams. "Don’t forget my machine. Get your ass back there, as quick as you can."

“On my way, TN.” You bid the mademoiselle au revoir. (This comes out as “until the next time” due to the inbuilt translator.) To which Marie replies, “There will be no next time.” Ever the pessimist, this Marie is. C’est la vie!

Using your memory, you manage to reach the outside once more. You look around, but you see no one in pursuit. You breathe a sigh of relief. To the time machine, you think. Tout de suite! Now where the hell did you leave it? Oh yes, further up the hill, you remember. Your stomach lurches at the memory. You pick up your pace, hoping that you’re one step closer to the machine, and one year closer to your own time. Then something out of the ordinary happens.

In front of you, about thirty paces from where you are, the air shimmers. You stop in your tracks as you feel a wave of energy surround you like a tornado. But this, as you know, is not Kansas anymore. You’re quite sure, from what little you learned from history books, that 18^th century France never experienced tornados. Whatever is happening in front of you is caused by science, not Mother Nature.

Merde! you think desperately. Sacre-fucking-bleu! Nothing like a little Franglais to get the blood boiling nicely. The shimmering air and energy wave intensify but seem centred on one spot. Out of nothing something altogether different materialises. You half expect a blue telephone box, with some bloke in a bow-tie coming out of it, waving madly at you. But it’s not a box of any sort; it’s a 16 foot replica of the Washington Monument. At its base, there is a hatch, and you shiver as it begins to open.

“Thomas,” you say through the confusion, “did you by any chance send out for reinforcements?”

"Why do you ask?" Nubleman says.

“I think I’ve found another time machine. And someone is coming out.”

"Fucking NASA," your host spits. "I have a spy in my company. Someone has sold my secrets to the bloody government."

“Welcome to the big bad world of business,” you retort. “So what do I do now?”

"Go with whoever it is and see what they know. Then steal their secrets. I’ll pay handsomely."

You shrug. As long as it gets you back to your own time, and away from the smelly French, you’d go with Doubya if that’s who it was in the monument. But it’s not the former U.S. president; it’s someone more famous, more deadly and better dressed.

The new arrival is leather-bound, wearing sunglasses, built like a brick shithouse, and sporting a crew-cut that is instantly recognisable. He walks over to you, and then holds out his hand.

“Come with me if you want to live,” he says. You take his hand and immediately feel your bones crushed by his incredible strength.

“Oy, be careful, will you?” you shout. “I use that hand for nocturnal entertainment.”

“Where is Bonaparte?” the Governator says gutturally. You point behind you with your good hand. He nods and looks down at you. “Your presence here has disrupted FoxNet’s plans. You must be terminated.”

You freeze. “I thought you were here to save me.”

“I lied,” he monotones. “I am to wipe the French from history, and it is unfortunate that you have allied yourself with cheese-eating surrender monkeys. For that you must pay.” He grabs your head and squeezes until your brain mass seeps from all your facial orifices.

You know you should call for your mother, but all you can think as you die, as the last of your grey cells exits through your nose, is Fucking Republicans!

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - JUST SAY NO

2011-02-09T06:51:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.3 - JUST SAY NOBY Leah Crichton
You laugh nervously and move her hand away. “We don’t need to do that,” you whisper.

She smiles and puts her hand back on your chest and you try to remember the last time a chick this hot was throwing herself at you. Oh. Right. That’d be never. “I would like to say thank you for saving Napoleon, Monsieur Fred.” She brings her mouth close to yours and tries to kiss you. “So, merci.”

Her accent is spot on. At least from your vague memory of French class. The way the words flow from her lips makes you want to put yours there….No! Stop! You jerk your head away. “Wait, aren’t you from Austria?”

“Oui,” she nods. “How is it that you know this?”

Shit! You shouldn’t know that! Unless, of course your from hundreds of years in the future. Shit! Shit! Shit! Faux pas, even.

“You told me,” you offer. Her hand has now moved to the task of loosening the God forsaken shirt you’re wearing and your eyes dart around. Her bedroom door is closed, and the fireplace in the area you’re in flickers as if it is trying to set the scene for you out of some romance novel like the ones your mother used to read.

“I told you no such thing.” She smiles at you. “You would only know this if you were following me. Were you following me, Monsieur Fred?”

“I wasn’t following you,” you tell her.

“Monsieur Fred,” she shifts her body, rolling it closer to yours, and brushes her lips on your neck. Sweet Jesus. “It is not good to lie.”

“Napoleon told me then,” you try. “Earlier, before we came here. He wouldn’t stop talking about you,” you add, hoping she may allow this knowledge to sway her from the original mission. As much as you’d like to bone her, you’re no fool. She belongs to Napoleon Bonaparte, the emperor of France, for God sakes!

She smiles. “Ah, yes Napoleon is a great man, which is why I must thank you for saving his life.”

“Words are enough!” you say frantically. “Truly!”

A voice comes from your pocket. A voice that is going to be haunting your dreams for all of eternity. Thomas. “Could you stop talking you bloody eediot! It’s three thirty in the morning.”

Marie stops abruptly. “What was that?”

You shrug and shake your head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A disturbingly evil expression paints her face right before she grabs at your manhood roughly. You yelp. “You think I am stupide, Fred? Your crotch is talking.”

Actually, your pocket is talking. More aptly speaking, Thomas is simply back with his mindless babble. Blah. Blah. Blah.

“I assure you, Madame, it is not.”

“Oui,” she says. “It is.”

Maybe she’s as pretty on the inside as she is outside. Perhaps the truth will work. You move her and sit up. “Marie, I am from far in the future. I came here in a time machine and I just want to get home.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. This story you tell is ridiculous and impossible.”

Okay, so that didn’t go off as well as you thought it would. You try the next best thing… rejection. “Listen Marie, I don’t know what you were hoping would happen between us, but I just don’t see you that way.”

She takes a lot of air in and before you realize what she’s about to do, and far before you can stop her, she screams, “TRAITOR!”

The word works like a flipping dog whistle and you jump to your feet just in time to see Napoleon storming from the room, naked as the day he was born.

“Zut Alors! What is going on here?”

You look down at yourself: your shirt is unbuttoned, and despite how much you tried to think of your big toe while she was throwing herself at you, there’s a tent pitched in your pantaloons.

“N-n-nothing,” you say with as much confidence as you can find.

Napoleon's eyes dart to your pants. Since he’s naked you know he’s about to get a serious case of envy. “It does not look like nothing.”

Marie rushes to his arms. “Ah, Napoleon. This man Fred, he is a brute. He came here as your friend and confidante and now he tried to take advantage of me. The worst kind of animal.”

Napoleon is eerily quiet but he doesn’t need words. Anger swirls in his eyes, and he mumbles something to Marie that you cannot hear. She retreats into the bedroom and you look for something, anything you can use to defend yourself, but the only thing around is the blanket Marie tried to take advantage of you on.

You hold your hands up. “Listen man, your woman came on to me. I rejected her, end of story.”

“YOU LIE!” He screams.

“No,” you shake your head, “I swear, it’s true.”

“My woman is not unfaithful.” As he says it, Marie returns from the bedroom with the biggest sword you’ve ever seen.

“She’s unfaithful!” You yell. “And if she isn’t, it’s not for lack of trying!”

“Arrrgh!”

Napoleon lunges forward wielding his sword like the fencing people you’ve seen on TV. Only his sword is ten times as wide and three times as long. The frigging thing is huge. Well, we all know what he’s compensating for, you think to yourself in the seconds before he takes your head clean off your shoulders.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - FOLLOW THE LITTLE GENERAL

2011-01-24T07:43:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.3 - THE LITTLE GENERAL

By Yasamin Alisha

You take off behind the young man in front of you, clutching the communicator in your pocket.

“That's it! You've... mmmfffphh really screwed up... grrggg... mrrrfff... damnit!” Thomas is screaming muffled phrases at you through your hand and two layers of fabric.

“Shut up! You're going to get me killed and then you aren't getting your stupid machine back, so just shut up for once, you damned windbag!” you growl into the communicator angrily.

“I'm sorry, did you say something?” Bonaparte asks as he turns a sharp corner, grabbing your elbow to take you with him.

“Oh, no, not at all. I'm just trying to survive.”

“Are not we all, friend?” He hustles you around another corner down a small alley and through a low door.

You stop and let your eyes adjust as the door is closed behind you. Thomas is being oddly quiet and the gravity of the situation starts to really kick in. You're stuck. You've just run off with one of the most famous conquerors in history. What the hell was Thomas thinking?!

“Quickly, they will be here soon,” Boneparte whispers from across the room.

You blink as you look around, finding him kneeling in a corner and holding up a trap door. You take to the stairs, as he seals the door above your heads.

As you reach the bottom of the stairs you realize you're not alone.

“Mon Dieu!” a soft, lilting voice says as you see her serving bowls of some strange stew.

“Marie, be calm. He's a friend.”

“Is it over? I see you are alive.” She runs to him and you try not to stare at her breasts, which barely stay confined in the top of her low collared, simple brown dress.

“It is. This is...” He turns to you and you shrug.

“Fred.” you mutter. “Uhhh... Do you have a bathroom down here?”

He directs you to the small hall leading to two other rooms: one a small bedroom, the other like an outhouse. You close the door behind you and pull out the communicator.

“Listen here, pal. You built a time machine in your freaking house next to your guest bedroom? What idiot does that!? You want to be a mad scientist you do it right; you build a proper lair like everyone else, preferably underground or in a mountain, or if you're lucky you'll find an unoccupied volcano! BUT NOOO, you had to build it in the shape of a damned shower in your house next to your guest room!”

“Are you quite finished?” Thomas replies calmly.

“No. No I'm not. You deprived me of dinner, you jackass. You're lucky I didn't piss all over your stupid time machine! Get me out of here, and do it now!”

“I need you to get back to the machine. I can instruct you on how to get back here, but you need to get back to the machine!”

“I'm kind of stuck right now, so I'm in charge here, pal. I'm on the run in France of all places, with Napoleon outside this door making kissy face with some hot chick. So As soon as I get back, I'll call you. I'm going to try not to step on any damned snails and change history any further than I've already done. Okay?”

“Fine.” You can tell Thomas is angry but he has no choice and you like that idea.

You shove the communicator back into the little pocket of your puffy pants and head back out to Bonaparte. “Sorry, just a little stressed.”

“Understandable, my friend. I want to thank you for your help today. This is Marie, my love.” He points to the pretty girl with blonde curls who hands you a bowl of stew. You try not to stare at her, but God, is she hot.

“Hi there.”

“Hello.” She's shy and you can't help but like that.

“So where are you from? Your accent is impeccable.”

You reach up and cup your hand over the translator and blush. “Oh... here and there. I am a wanderer.” And apparently a really good liar, you can't help thinking to yourself.

You sit at the bench table and devour your stew. The lovers coo at each other as they feed each other and you can't help thinking about French girls and the ones you might be missing, hiding underground. “So, I need to get back to the glen where I left my... carriage... yeah.”

“Impossible for now. The palace guards are on the hunt. You will have to stay with us at least over night before you can go any further.”

“Oh that just sucks.” you mutter.

“Excuse me?” Bonaparte is staring at you strangely. “What is sucking?”

“Uhhh... Never mind.” Shit! You think to yourself. You'll have to watch your words around this guy. You don't need Napoleon walking around France screaming “It sucks!” instead of “Charge!”

“Shhh... they come.” Everyone stills as you hear the feet on the floorboards above you.

“We are looking for that upstart Bonaparte and a stranger with him! An accomplice in his murderous ways!” Guards are yelling at someone above you.

“There is no one here, but please feel free to turn my shop upside down as you do every time you feel the need to search for someone.” says the voice of an elderly woman. You can barely hear her but her tone is exasperated, even to you. There is much tumbling above you as the guards turn the shop upside down and leave.

“They sicken me, those palace pigs.” Bonaparte says as he eats his stew with anger.

“I want to fight them, now!” Marie is shaking a ladle above her head.

“Mon Ami, we cannot. You will stay here, be safe and tomorrow I will take Fred back to the glen. I will return for you and we will run, you and me.”

The stew is finished and Bonaparte leads Marie to the small bedroom. He peeks his head out and says, “There is a pallet for you to sleep on by the fire and blankets for warmth. Sleep well and I will wake you early. Do not worry, we will get you back to your carriage.” and with that you are left alone.

You pull out the communicator and start to whisper, “Thomas . . . shhh, keep it down. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I will be back at the time machine by morning and you can stop shitting bricks.”

“Do not do anything stupid! You will change the face of time, you fool!”

“Stop squawking at me. Everything will be fine.” You turn the volume on the communicator down and go to sleep.

As you doze, dainty hands wrap around your chest and you turn only to face Marie.

“You saved my Napoleon, no?” Her soft accent makes your toes curl as she lies next to you and presses her body to you.

“Not really. I just ran with him.”

“You do not have to lie to me.”

“Uhhh... Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“I am... Let us commence...”

Should you...

A: Sleep with Marie, hoping to get away with it?

B: Not sleep with Marie and tell Bonaparte that his woman isn't faithful?

C: Run like hell?

TIME DOUCHE CH. 2 - GET TO RUNNIN'

2011-01-24T07:35:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH.2 - GET TO RUNNIN'

By John Elrod II

“Actually, it is Buonaparte. Napoleone di Buonaparte… although, now that you mention it, Bonaparte sounds much more French. Plus, it totally sounds sexual, as in: You hear that, old man? I’m going to be boning your daughter apart!” An unexpectedly immature Napoleon stands before you, gloating over a dead body of his making and thrusting his hips into the air.

You make the decision to run for it, leaving Bonaparte to himself.

Bolting for a nearby wooded area, you reach the tree line and duck behind one of them. The three men are speaking with Napoleon; they’re smiling, so maybe he -- nope, no he’s pointing them in your direction.

“Bastard,” you say to yourself.

“What?” From your pants, Nubleman’s voice carries genuine concern; it’s likely not for you, however. “What have you done now?!”

As you pull the communicator from your pocket, you place it near your mouth and whisper, “Nothing, now be quiet. I’m hiding.”

Napoleon and the three men are still speaking with each other, but that quickly vacates from the list of things with which you’re concerned. A series of bright white lights flashes before your eyes. You’re momentarily blinded, and you let out a girlish squeal and fall to the ground.

“I… I feel strange, Thomas.” Your speech is slurred.

“What happened? I hate this! I’ve been relegated to endlessly wondering what the hell is going on, while you experience everything!” Nubleman’s voice no longer carries any concern whatsoever.

You manage to stumble to your feet, not having heard a single thing Thomas said. Propped against the tree now, you turn you attention back to the four Frenchmen.

Wait, your thoughts pause.

Where the four men were, there are now two. The others must have come searching for you. In a panic you try to scramble away, but your body feels as if its bones are missing. You fall forward, back into the propped position, and concede that you will simply have to be captured; you are unable to run any more.

Wait, your thoughts return to the two men from before.

That one guy, he’s not wearing the correct clothes; he’s wearing clothes more closely resembling yours. It… it is you.

“That’s ridiculous. I must be hallucinating.” you speak directly into Nubleman’s box, absentmindedly.

“What’s ridiculous? Tell me what is going on! I demand it! Or so help me…” The mighty Thomas Nubleman musters all of the empty threatening power he can.

You continue to ignore Nubleman, as your gaze has been enraptured by what the two men are doing. The you one just hit himself in the crotch; what the hell?

More flashes blind you, and this time they are extended in duration by nearly ten seconds; they are painful.

Grimacing and sweating profusely, you see the men are now fighting, but it’s no longer you; it’s the old man from before. Just then, a man surfaces over a hill beyond the dueling men--it’s you!

The flashes return, once more, but they are no longer surrounding you; they are radiating from you.

You desperately cry into the speaker, “Thomas! I’m seeing flashes--I am flashes! It hurts like crazy! I see other times! Why am I?!” Your cognitive dissonance has imploded.

“Oh god.” Nubleman’s voice finally expresses concern for you. “I’m sorry. Your matter has been corrupted, and the resonating chronotons must diffuse you to stabilize the continuum.”

“Diffuse me? What does that mean?” You force through your painfully clouded mind.

“In layman’s terms: time particles will attach to your atoms, tear you into microscopic pieces, and spread those throughout the wormhole reparation.” His voice cracks. “If it’s any consolation, my machine will suffer the same fate.”

“No it’s not any consolation!” You scream, throwing the transponder against a tree; it disappears in a flash of white.

You stumble out of the trees, toward the men. Your body is now a confused mess of luminosity, varying from head-to-toe and accompanied by a bit of periodic tonal ringing. The men can’t see you, yet you attempt to speak with them; a beam of white light replaces your words. With every movement of your mouth, the light becomes hotter. Your sight is still with you, but your eyes have become empty, glowing, white-hot torches. You drop to your knees and look again at the men; the other you has dropped to the ground and his crotch is smoking. You stop fighting the inevitable and give in to time. Your last sight is of a Frenchman putting a bullet through your head, before your entire body flashes three times and disintegrates into empty space.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2

TIME DOUCHE CH. 2 - FIGHT YOUR WAY BACK!

2011-01-13T06:45:00.000-08:00

TIME DOUCHE CH. 2 - FIGHT YOUR WAY BACK!

By Steven Novak

“Get the hell away from Napoleon! Do you hear me you buffoon? Get away from him right now!”

It’s Nubleman. He’s screaming at you from your pocket and he’s apparently pretty pissed. Napoleon looks at you quizzically. His eyes drift slowly downward to the voice emanating from your crotch where his expression changes from confusion to revulsion.

“Pardon me,” He mutters while scratching his head, “but it seems there is a spirit haunting your genitals.”

Nubleman’s excited voice interrupts, “YOU IDIOT! GET AWAY FROM HIM NOW! YOU’RE THREATENING TO DESTROY THE VERY FABRIC OF TIME-SPACE!”

You don’t know what to do. Everything is happening so fast. Napoleon is eyeing your groin like it’s one of those stupid Sudoku puzzles your sister won’t shut up about; three very angry men are charging in your direction from behind; and that pompous son of a bitch Nubleman won’t stop calling you names from your pocket! Out of sheer frustration you punch yourself in the baby maker. Nubleman’s voice disappears with a crunch.

Admittedly, it’s not the smartest decision you’ve ever made.

No time to worry about that now. Three pissed off French dudes are less than fifty feet away, cursing at you from underneath elaborately curled mustaches and waving clenched fists in your direction.

Napoleon is still staring at your crotch, listening intently as the shattered piece of technology in your pocket hisses, pops, and occasionally sparks.

“Guess that killed the ghost,” you state with a nervous smile and half a chuckle. “I’m a regular Peter Venkman.”

He doesn’t get the joke. It’s not a very good one anyway.

With no time to run and nowhere to run to, you decide that you’re left with only one choice. It’s the worst choice and it’s the one with the absolute least chance of success. The only way you’re getting out of this mess is to fight your way out. This is the olden days after all, right? No one respects a pussy in the olden days. Time to knuckle up. Time to grow a pair.

Reaching forward, you snag Napoleon’s dueling sword. “I need to borrow this for a second.”

He lets it go freely and begins to slowly back away. Quickly leaping into the air you spin to face the charging Frenchmen and land in what you think is a “sword fighting” stance but looks more like you’re squatting in the bushes to drop a poop.

The first words out of your mouth are, “En garde, you ruffians!”

It’s stupid – stupider than your Ghostbusters joke even – which was pretty stupid.

Surprisingly, and for all the wrong reasons, it succeeds in stopping the mustachioed Frenchmen in their tracks. You begin flailing your sword, jabbing at the air and yelling “Ah ha!” over and over again. You’re not sure why you’re doing it. It looks stupid, but it somehow feels right.

The same as Napoleon minutes before, the confused eyes of Frenchmen drift slowly to your crotch. One of them removes his hat and scratches his head. Another begins to chuckle. Your nose catches wind of something – it’s smoke. Something’s burning. It smells like hair.

It’s your crotch.

The sparks from the shattered device in your pocket have lit your pants on fire. Your sword goes flying and within seconds you’re screaming at the top of your lungs while hopping around and smacking your burning pubes in a vain attempt to douse the flames. Remembering that corny fire safety video you had to watch in the first grade, you stop, drop, and begin to roll. Turns out those videos were more accurate than you thought, because it works.

Breathing heavily you roll to your back and begin to chuckle. You did it. You’re alive and your most private of areas remains relatively unscathed. Black smoke is still rising from your pants. You really dodged a bullet this time.

“Ceci doit être une certaine sorte de plaisanterie.”

Oh crap, the Frenchmen. You forgot about the Frenchmen.

Wait a minute, why are they speaking French again?

Propping yourself onto your elbows you look toward the three men and notice that they seem to be talking to each other rather than you. Half smiling and half confused, you aren’t sure what to make of the expressions on their faces.

“No me mire. No tengo cualquier cosa hacer con esto.”

That wasn’t French. That was Spanish. You took half a semester in Community College before flunking out – you’re eighty-six percent sure that was Spanish.

The universal translator – you must have broken it while rolling around.

The lead Frenchman – who happens to be the one with the largest mustache – shrugs his shoulders. “ดังนั้นสิ่งที่เราควรทำอย่างไร?”

What the hell language was that?

With an annoyed sigh, he pulls an elaborately decorated pistol from his side and points it in your direction.

“pItlh vam jIH 'oH” He mutters with a chuckle before pulling back on the trigger and blowing a hole in your head.

That last bit was Klingon.

Nubleman is such a nerd.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2