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.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.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

By James McShane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. You talk out loud a lot.”

“My therapist would agree with you.”

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

“I gotta go there dressed like a chicken?”

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

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

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

“My therapist would agree with that, too.”

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

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

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

“A drink?” you offer.

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

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

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

“Hello?” the voice says.

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

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

“Are you dressed appropriately?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Well yes . . .but . . .”

“No buts, just dance. Can you tango?”

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

You love being feathered fowl.

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

“In this?” you say.

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

You like the sound of schedules.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what’s going on?”

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

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

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

Will you...

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


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


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

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.3 - 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.3 - NO COINCIDENCES

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.3 - NO COINCIDENCES

By Ryan Hunter

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

“What now?” Curly asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“So I can text you the picture.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope, not that one either.”

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

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

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

“Paul?”

“Paul Nordic.”

“Paul No-Dick?” you say.

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

“How do you know him?” you ask.

“He works here.”

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

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

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

The girl giggles behind her hand.

“So he was on assignment tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So he’s not dead?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell is that?”

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

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

“Flip the page.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey man,” Curly starts to say. 

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

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

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

You’re not kidding, you think.

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

Do you...

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

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

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

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.2 - LET CURLY GO NUTS

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

Written by Annie Evett

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

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

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

The man groans and rolls to an unsteady crouch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END.

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