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

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - JUST SAY NO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marie stops abruptly. “What was that?”

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

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

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

“I assure you, Madame, it is not.”

“Oui,” she says. “It is.”

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

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

“I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

“Zut Alors! What is going on here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YOU LIE!” He screams.

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

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

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

“Arrrgh!”

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

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - O.M.G.

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - O.M.G.

By Debbie Davis

You twitch your neck to stop the blinding fury that is racing through your veins, but you only succeed in making your hair fall perfectly into place. Skin’s ass is mine, you think to yourself -- until you realize there is no time for anger. Your soul is hanging precariously in the balance, for God’s sake!

Forgetting you’re nothing more than a frail teen pop phenom, you hunch down as if you were a linebacker, and barrel toward the vault which holds your soul. The pain you feel on impact makes your blinding rage turn to blinding stars as you fall to the ground, stunned. That wasn’t like the movies at all.

You debate a second run at it but the throbbing in your shoulder stops you. You pull yourself together and stand to ponder your options. The damn neck twitch is back, but this time you notice the door is ajar -- but only slightly. You twitch again, and it opens a little more. Yes! You think. Yes! It’s all in the twitch! You twitch and twitch and twitch and finally the door opens completely.

The jar which contains your soul is placed on a podium about fifty feet ahead. Red laser beams are everywhere, like in Mission Impossible -- only you know it is, indeed, possible. You’ve played a cat, a comic book villain, and a computer in your career. This is the first time since you woke up that you’re grateful for Bieber’s mini size. Easy as taking candy from a baby…

In minutes, you possess what you covet the most, your soul. You twist the lid on the jar, but it won’t budge. You place it gently back on the podium and bring your hands to your mouth to blow on them. Retrieving the jar again, you try a second time. Nothing. You can’t throw it in here, or it will trip the beams and set off alarms, so you make your way back outside the vault.

Once you’re safely in the lab, you throw the glass jar to the floor with all the strength you can muster, but it does nothing more than bounce like rubber. Damn it! You’re about to kick it when a loud buzz begins to ebb through the room. You cover your sensitive ears as you see a hologram take shape.

Skin appears before you. “I knew you’d try and steal what’s mine,” he says.

“The soul is mine, Skin,” you reply through clenched teeth. “This soul belongs to me.”

Skin looks pensive. “I believe we’ve been over this. No refunds, no exchanges.”

“I want my soul back!” You scream, your voice cracking with each word.

“I am a fair man,” Skin replies. “A fair man indeed. I shall give you an opportunity to get your soul back in due time. A car awaits you outside. You will be taken to your new home. You can spend the night there. At dawn, meet me at Rodeo Plaza for further instructions.” The hologram begins to fade.

“Skin? Wait! Skin?”

But he’s gone.

“Skin!” You shake a fist in the air.

You take the jar and tuck it into the crook of your arm. When you get outside, just like Skin promised, a large black sedan is waiting. As you get in, you think you hear someone scream “Justin!”

You slide into the leather seat of the car and try to relax as the driver starts the ignition. In what seems like only moments, you pull up to a large mansion. Is this where I live? You thank the driver, because it’s the polite thing to do, and go inside.

You spend the night dreaming of Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush going at it like pigs, and at 5AM you change into skinny jeans (that look like they’d fit a five year old girl) and an Ed Hardy hoodie with some crazy purple shoes. It’s time to reclaim what’s yours! As the car pulls into Rodeo Plaza, Skin, the bastard, is seated at a bench with a coffee and a paper. As you approach, he lowers the paper and you notice his once very green eyes, the same eyes that haunt you, are now brown.

You squint to make sure you’re seeing it right. “What the fuck is wrong with your eyes, Skin?”

He smiles his evil, sadistic grin. “How…observant.”

You don’t want to play his games anymore, but you also notice his hands, previously white as paper, have a beautiful dark color to them. “Skin,” you say, pointing, “your skin. It’s changing color.”

Skin begins to laugh the kind of cackle you’d hear in the most horrific of nightmares and transforms before your eyes. His bones crack and his face distorts and when it's over you scream--again.

“Oh my God, Usher!” You don’t know if you should run, punch him, or call 9-1-1.

“Who else would I be?” He smirks.

“Uh, Dr. Skin?” You raise an eyebrow like the answer should be obvious.

“Not so. Little brother, I am Skin and Skin is I.”

You’re suddenly courageous and move toward him, giving him a hard shove. For some reason, your eyes are welling with tears and you feel as if you’ve been cheated on. “B-b-b-but why, Usher? Why? I thought you were his friend! My friend!”

“Yeah well JB is a fame whore. He needs to be brought down a notch.” He shrugs. “Sorry you happened to get in the way.”

“What did I ever do to you, Usher? I even bought your album!” You exclaim.

“Right, well, this is Hollywood, baby, not the romper room.”

“I want my soul, you horse’s ass!” Your scream is loud, but it’s faded by a pack of wild preteen girls screeching in the distance. They are approaching with as much force as a herd of buffalo. Your eyes flicker and you say Traywen and Drevor sipping lattes in the plaza. Perfect. The day couldn’t get any better.

Usher crooks a finger at you. “Like I told you. I’m a fair man. I will give you the chance to win your soul back.”

You want to focus on what he’s saying, but the screams are just getting louder and Traywen is making googly eyes at you, right there in front of Drevor. You can’t help but smile and flip your hair. You think maybe you even wink.

“Pay attention,” Usher scolds.

“What?” You hiss. “How can I win my soul back?”

Usher gives another Cheshire grin as you clench your fists. You really want to knock his teeth out. “I said I challenge you to a dance off.”

“Fuck off.” You tell him. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“A dance off.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I said fuck off.”

“A dance off.” It’s like he’s one of those dolls you pull the string on that do nothing but repeat themselves.

“Fuck off.”

Usher makes a face. “Whatever man. It truly is your loss,” he turns to leave.

“Wait!” You hold out your hand to stop him. “Can I kick your ass instead?”

“You can try, but I might warn you, I’m a third degree black belt.”

“Fuck off.” You say again. You can’t dance. You might be eight thousand times more limber in this body than your old one, but it still can’t give you rhythm.

“It’s the only way. You either need to win or I need to die. That’s the only way your soul will once again become your own.” His fingers are steepled as he awaits your response.

The pack of girls starts to sound like they are milliseconds away. You need to think—fast—or you might be the victim of a skirted stampede, which at this point, might not necessarily be a bad thing. But you can’t dance!

The screams get louder. Only seconds left…

Do You...

A. Accept Usher’s challenge to a dance off and pray to the God you are positive isn’t real that you can win

B. Allow the herd/pack of girls to rush forward and trample Usher in the process, thereby releasing your soul for the taking

C. Forget about your soul for now and go show Traywen what she’s been missing this whole time. Size doesn’t really matter, does it?