ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - CALL IT QUITS

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - CALL IT QUITS By

“You got that right,” Sneedon says. “Artie is out baying for blood. Your blood.”

“What do you mean?” Madge asks before you can even formulate the question yourself.

“My man at the West Wing says China, Russia and the entire Arab nation wants your head on a platter. They’re having their own problems and the only way they can placate their citizens is to ask for your public execution.”

You gulp.

“Oh… uh… I can understand that.” You stand up. “Well in that case I’d better head over and give myself up.”

Madge stares at you. “You serious?”

“I… well… um. I did cause it…” You smile uncertainly. “I’ll pop over to the White House and do it publicly.”

Madge begins to stand up. “I’ll come with you.”

You shake your head. “No, you stay here, sis. You’re safe here and you can help get the changes rolled out. I’ll zip over in my ‘copter.”

Every one in the room stares at you and you slide out the door like a slug from a lettuce; slowly and carefully, looking around to make sure no one is following you.

As the door shuts, you hear Sneedon say: “What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know.” Madge replies. “Before today I would have said that he was going to run away, but after what I’ve seen him doing to fix this catastrophe today, I think he might just do it.”

You sigh with relief and head up to the roof.

As you take off, you try to think what you are actually going to do. You can’t go and hand yourself in, that would mean you’d end up… at best… in jail for the rest of your life. At worst, the new president (being the bastard that he is) would probably hand you over to the Middle East for execution.

“I’m too young to die.” You murmur, heading north as slowly as you can. “Why should I die for something that wasn’t my fault? It was the board’s money pinching that caused all this…”

A sudden blast of air pushes the ‘copter to one side and you see a pair of jets coming round to flank you. The radio crackles.

“ECOGen One. You are instructed to keep pace with us. We will land at the Airforce base where you will be taken into custody. Over.”

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! What do you do now? There’s no way this little helicopter can outrun F16’s.

Experimentally you weave a little and predictably, the radio crackles into life again.

“ECOGen One. Do not try to resist arrest. We have orders from the president to shoot if you run. Over.”

Damn. You’re dead either way. How on earth do you… an idea occurs and you take a deep breath, slapping the radio button on the joystick.

“ECOGen One to escort. I’m low on gas and I can’t keep up with you. Over.”

You let your airspeed drop and the jets slow as well. Now what speed was a stall for this helicopter? Oh, that’s right… Now if you can just bring her to rest somewhere safe and get away from the jets before they can react.

“ECOGen One. We will keep pace with you. Keep moving forward. Over.” The pilot seems more than a little pissed off.

A field bounded by a large wood appears and you let your airspeed drop further, feeling the craft shudder and the nose tip upward. Now, if you just…

A whoosh of air on both sides of the helicopter buffets it from side to side and the resulting turbulence  knocks the pitch of the blades awry.

“Thanks Escort, that was a great help…Not!” you snap into the radio as you fight to keep the craft level. You speed up a little, but the turbulence from the low flying, circling jets as well as the wind scrables your pitch further and…

Shit! Not  retreating blade stall, anything but that, you’re too close to the fucking ground to…

The helicopter tilts left.

Time slows.

You drop the controls hoping that the autocorrect will kick in, but the tilt continues and you watch the advacing blade bite into the soft earth of the field. It ploughs into it deeply and you fight with you harness, hoping to get free of the helicopter before…

The blade snaps.

The suddenly freed rotor spins faster and the second advancing blade follows the first. The helicopter cartwheels and the tail rotor comes into contact with the ground. The tail snaps off, there are sparks and a sudden plume of fire heralds the fact that the fuel line has bought it.

Your harness lets go and you tumble out of the craft, a sudden flare of hope making time speed up again. As you hit the grass and turn to try and run, the helicopter’s body is catapulted toward you by the fire from the tail.

“Oh shit…” you moan.

* * *

“Well that was anticlimactic.” President Gantly says having reviewed the pilot’s footage of the air accident. “I was looking forward to listening to the idiot’s explanation of his company’s antics in this matter. Besides, I wanted to shoot him myself.”

He turns to an aide. “Was there anything recovered?”

The aide nods. “We have his head. It was apparently chopped off by a stray piece of rotor, long before the helicopter actually hit him.”

Gantly smiles, a red glint showing in his eye. “Did Doctor Skin take it?”

The aide looks faintly sick. “Yes, Mr. President. He’s working on the process now.”

“Good.”

You wake up.

You’re vaguely aware that the sun has risen. Shades of pink paint the inside of your eyelids, while the memory of last night is a blur of fire and dirt coloured nightmare. You just want to sleep it off, but your eyes are forced open by insistant fingers.

“Welcome back. Although I’m not sure how welcome you are going to be.” A face with a surgeons mask and cap appears in your eyeline.

“Where am I?” Your voice has a vaguely artificial sound. “Why can’t I feel anything?”

“Good, he’s awake.” President Gantly’s braying baritone brings you fully awake. “Turn him so he can see me.”

You are turned and liquid swirls in front of your eyes. “What the shit?”

“Shit is right. You’re in it.” The president stands and moves up close. He looks a little green and you realise this is because you are in a glass vat of green liquid.

“I appear to be in water.”

“Shut up. You didn’t survive intact, but Dr Skin is a genius when it comes to brains and revival. You shall pay for your crimes… more than once.”

“What?” Gantly is right in front of you so you can’t see what’s behind him. “What on god’s green earth are you talking about Arthur?”

“This.” He steps aside and you blink in astonishment. Behind him, in shackles stand rows and rows of you.

“You cloned me? Why?”

“I wasn’t about to let you get away with dying cleanly in an air accident. Every single country of the world has a grievance against you…”

“What, even Taiwan?” you quip, feeling more worried by Gantly’s smile than the clones. “Wow, we’re a good looking bunch, aren’t we. Ladies beware.”

“Enough. Each Clone is wi fi’d into what is left of your nervous system,” He picnches the clone closest to him. You wince, feeling the sharp pain. “you will feel the pain that the clone is put through.”

“But…”

Gantly plows on relentlessly. “As you have been sentenced to death in every single country of the world, you are going to die one hundred and ninety six times. I hope you survive, because after that, I am going to make your afterlife hell.”

Oops...Return to Chapter 6

ECOPOCALPYSE CH.3 - ROOKIE BLUE POOP THUNDER

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - ROOKIE BLUE POOP THUNDER By James McShane

On any other day, flying your helicopter over the vast metropolis would be a thrill akin to becoming the world’s first triple Nobel Prize winner—of course, seeing that you are unable to make change of a ten, write a poem worth reading, or even know what a goddamn quark is, Nobel is no-dice—but this is not just any other day. Mankind is smothering under the weight of its own shit, and it’s all your fault.

         “Mexico will have to wait,” you shout over the sound of the chopper as it veers first one way, then another.

 “So where to?” Milo screams back. You suddenly remember to turn on communications. No use wearing headphones if you can’t hear for shit, right?

Shit. That word again. If you make it out of this alive, you’re going to petition Webster to remove it from the dictionary. The guys over there owe you—big time. It was you who asked them to include iPoop as a new word.

You still have to answer Milo’s question. You hover over the city for a while, taking in the disaster below. You look around and see the police station. As you fly closer you see that the cops are performing their civic duty as only they know how: They’re shooting at anything that moves. Political correctness be damned!

“We’re going to need guns,” you say into your mouthpiece.

“Lots of guns,” Milo says.

You've always wanted to use that line and are pissed off with Milo for stealing it from you. “Yeah,” you mutter. “A fuck-load of guns?”

“Is that bigger than a shed-load?” Milo winks from behind his visor. Okay, you can’t see him actually wink, but as sure as eggs is eggs, the twerp is winking.

“Let’s go and see if the boys in blue have any spare weaponry. See if we can shoot our way out of this.”

“Would be better if we just flew our way out of this,” Milo whines. “I don’t see how we can help them.”

You ponder this as you look for a place to land, then nod in agreement. “Okay, they’re on their own, but we will still need to defend ourselves one way or another. We’ll stop here, on the roof, bail downstairs, grab some guns and ammo, then fly the fuck back to the lab.”

“The lab?” Milo is agog. “Why the fuck would you want to go back there?”

“I started this,” you say as you expertly land on the roof of the police station. “And I’m going to finish it. Properly.”

Milo opens his side of the chopper and jumps out. “This is where I bail, boss,” he says. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you’re on your own.” He runs in the direction of the door at the far end of the roof. You shake your head. All these years, having my back, and he has to bail now, when I need him the most. You’ve given Milo enough room in your thoughts. Now it’s time to do what needs to be done. You follow him, head through the door, and run down the stairs. There is an elevator, but you’re over elevators now. Stairs are the only way to go.

The further you go down, the louder the commotion becomes. You hope you’re not running straight into a Cop vs. iPooper free-for-all—that shouldn’t be the case, because as you flew over, you saw the cops shooting out of rather than back into the station. You gamble that the station is free of iPoopers.

No, the commotion is something else entirely. The cops are fighting amongst themselves, and at the heart of it all is Milo. He points up at you and shouts to one of the cops nearby. All of a sudden you’re the centre of attention, like at a Playboy party when all that the guests want is a piece of you. These cops want a piece of you all right—but not to play with. There is vengeance in their eyes. They wish to call down the wrath of the Maker and smite you from where you stand.

“Smite this, motherfuckers,” you rant, grabbing a service revolver from a nearby cop. (There are a lot of nearby cops, by the way. Well, there would be; it is a police station, after all.) You shoot in the air. “This is your last warning, gentlemen. I need some guns so I can put things right again.”

Milo stands near the front of the vengeful policemen. “See what I mean, guys? My ex-CEO wants to cure the world once more! My former employer wants to return to the scene of the crime and bring more madness upon us. I say it stops. I say it stops now! What say you all?”

The shot that hits your thigh is answer to Miles’ question. Maybe coming here was a bad idea after all. Back to the chopper! You beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You thank the Maker for all those hours you put in the gym, but the pain in your wounded thigh isn’t getting any better. The higher you climb, the fuzzier your head gets. You can’t slow down. Milo and his Keystone friends are hot on your tail.

You make it up to the roof and into the chopper before you just about pass out from blood loss. You start the motor running and slowly ascend into the sky. You feel a weight from underneath the helicopter. You look out and see Milo and some cops hanging on the landing blades. There are enough of them to keep you from climbing too high, but not enough that you can’t move away from the roof. Your awareness of what’s happening around you begins to fade. You wish you had more time to stem the loss of blood. There are things you must do to make this right again. You have to atone for your own misjudgements and the actions of your motherfucking Board. They are too dead to answer for their own crimes.

But you can’t atone now. You are powerless to do anything except glide the chopper along the roof. In a moment you’re over the city, with Milo and Company keeping you company. Your demise is imminent, you know. Perhaps you can take a few fucking iPoopers with you. You barely have enough strength left in you to position the chopper over a hoard of shit-stained, shit-smelling, shit-excreting maniacs. You switch off your motor.

You plunge.

You sit back and enjoy the ride.

YEEHAW!!

Oops...return to Chapter 3

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 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.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

SEASON 3 WINNER ANNOUNCED!

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!

TIME DOUCHE CH. 4 - Betray Marie

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