HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.7 - THE NEW FASHIONED WAY

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

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

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

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

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

By Debbie Davis

“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

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!

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

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.3 - TELL THE 'TROTTERS TO HANG

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.2 - CALL IT A NIGHT

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

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.2 - DANGLY BITS

By Debbie Davis

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

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

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