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

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.2 SEARCH THE MACHINE ROOM

RED PLANET STOWWAY CH.2 - SEARCH THE MACHINE ROOM FOR A WEAPON

By RaShelle Workman

You decide to head in the direction of the chugging noises.

Where there’s a machine there’s a weapon, right? you try to convince yourself.

There’s a big sign on the door from which the obnoxiously loud sounds are coming. It’s a depiction of a human inside a red circle with a big, red line going through it. Across the top, in bold, it reads: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

“Wouldn’t you know it, I just became authorized,” you tell the sign as you pull on the handle.

The door opens with a hiss, and smoky vapors leak into the hallway.

“Oh hell,” you say, quickly closing the door behind you. It’s dark and loud – so loud you think your head will split in two at any moment. Putting both hands over your ears, you try to keep it together.

“Aww,” you scream, frustrated. There’s no turning back now though. Malloy is surely only seconds behind you. Using both hands, you feel along the walls on either side of the door to search for a light switch.

“Bingo.” You flip it on. The room is large and lit with strange orange lights.

It sounds like a bunch of people are running. Even over the noise, you hear shouting. “Hurry. Go! Go! Go!”

A herd of elephants, you think, shaking your head.

Heading down the first aisle, you start looking for anything to use as a weapon. You need one. Fast!

Machines of all shapes and sizes are everywhere. You have no idea what any of them do. Being an accountant, the types of machines you use involve adding and subtracting, the occasional search of an online website or the press of a button

You run up and down aisle after aisle, searching between the machines. Above them. Underneath them.

Nothing.

You run down an aisle that has a lot of knobs and buttons against walls of computers on either side. Blues, greens and reds are lit up all over the consoles. You don‘t stop, even though you‘re starting to get a little light-headed. There is nothing here that‘ll be of use.

“Damn,” you think, turning left and left again, slamming into something. “What the –?”

Taking a step back so you can get your bearings, you realize you’ve run into some sort of robot. You’ve also noticed your head is heavy. The thing is typing away on a keyboard. It turns and looks at you. “No. Humans. Allowed. You. Are. Not. Authorized.” Its yellow eyes look at you and back at the computer screen. It’s still typing away.

“Hey R2, you wouldn’t happen to have a weapon I could borrow, would ya?” You can’t help letting out a giggle. What the crap?

The robot is about your height, maybe taller. It has a rectangle head and a round body. The neck, arms and legs look to be made out of metal pipes. The thing looks like something you could have built in junior high shop class. It also seems to be getting wider and thinner; taller and shorter. Suddenly there are fifty more of them just like it. You figure you must be hallucinating, but can’t seem to care.

Smacking it in the head, you say, “Hey Roboturd? A weapon—mind if I use your arm?” Wobbling, you reach out to grab it.

“You. Are. Unauthorized,” the robot says, facing you.

It grabs you under the arms and lifts you into the air. Feet dangling, you start laughing and stick your hands in the air. “Weeee,” you yell, unable to help yourself. Inside you‘re scared to death and wonder where it‘s taking you.

You hear a whoosh and some doors slide open. The robot drops you into a container with grates along the bottom. One of your legs falls through as well as some ashy looking substance.

The robot looks down at you, its yellow eyes glowing, and says, “As. My. Favorite. Group. The. Coasters. Like. To. Sing: Take Out. The. Papers. And. The. Trash.”

It waves and there’s a whoosh as a set of big metal doors closes above you.

You wave back and chuckle because you can’t help it. Whatever was or wasn’t in the air has affected your brain beyond your control. Even Malloy and his nasty junk seem kinda funny right now. You realize Malloy must have set off an alarm. Those who worked in the machine room left so that they could put something in the air to cause your hallucinations. You can’t help but wonder what or who picked you up and carried you over to the container. Maybe Malloy in a space suit? You’ll never know because an extreme heat starts to rise. You look down. Massive flames are seconds away from incinerating you.

Before screaming, you think, Yackety yak, don’t talk back.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2

RED PLANET STOWAWAY - CH.2 TAKE THE LADDER TO NOWHERE

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.2 - TAKE THE LADDER TO NOWHERE

By R.A. HUNTER

Malloy’s voice booms from behind you, you can’t understand what he’s saying but that really isn’t your concern now. You consider the door to your right. With all of that noise there might be something heavy in there that you could use for a weapon but there are almost certainly grinding gears into which Malloy could easily chuck you if he so desired. You don’t even want to think about the room to your left.

You choose the ladder.

You close the distance in seconds jumping up onto the third rung of the ladder and not pausing to think before you begin your climb. You look up at the circular opening five rungs above you. You still can’t make out where it leads; all you can see is a sea of white.

You pop your head through the opening but don’t stop until the rest of you is through as well. At last you step off of the ladder and turn to look around. You discover you are in a large, round room painted a sterile white, unblemished saved for several cans strewn about the floor and surrounded by dots.

You walk carefully over to one of the dots and crouch to examine it. It appears to be a bean. Timidly, you reach out and pluck the dot from the floor. Indeed it is a bean and it is cool to the touch. It is a cool bean. You are surrounded by hundreds of cool beans.

Actually, you’d go as far as to say that they are cold beans. Very cold.

Well, you think to yourself, I suppose this goes a long way toward explaining the stench downstairs, but what’s the deal with all of these beans?

You step over to a can. No surprise, it once contained beans. You pick it up but drop it immediately when it is so cold that it burns you. It shatters to the floor.

“There you are,” Malloy’s voice growls from behind you.

You turn and see his head poking up through the opening. You can tell by his bare shoulders that he hasn’t bothered with a shirt and you wonder for a moment what the view is like from below.

“What’s up with the beans, Malloy?” you ask, forgetting for a moment that you are running for your life from this man.

“You didn’t expect us to just sit up here unprotected because the president wants to make nice with the grays, did ya?”

“So you froze a bunch of beans for protection?”

Malloy sneers. Good God, that must be what he looks like when he’s happy.

“The beans were just target practice,” he says. “But now we’ve got something much better.” Malloy offers one last sneer before turning and climbing back down the ladder.

For a long moment you are alone in the room. Suddenly, there is a whine of a hidden motor and a dozen doors open in the wall. Twelve men step into the room. They’re wearing helmets and goggles, which hide their identities, and are carrying white, bulbous rifles with blue streaks swirled on them.

The first man sneers so much like Malloy he could be his son. The thought of that man reproducing sends a chill down your spine.

“Do us a favor,” the sneering man says. “We’ve had nothing to shoot but bean cans. Run around a little, make it interesting.”

You stand dumbly. Your brain can’t process what your ears are hearing.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. He nods at the guy next to him who hoist his rifle to his shoulder and fires.

A beam -- the same color blue as the swipe on the rifle -- flies out of the barrel and hits you in the left arm. You scream as cold fire swallows up you left side. The force of the blast pushes you against the back wall. Colliding against it, the appendage you once used to write with and, on certain nights, used to relieve a little tension, shatters.

You gape at the cavity which was once your shoulder. Since the initial burning faded to numbness, there is no feeling. No physical feeling anyway. Inside you feel violated and betrayed -- but a surprisingly large part of you wants to yell, “That was awesome!”

Before you can do anything, though, another blasts freezes your leg. It shatters under your own weight, sending you careening through the ladder opening and crashing in a heap on the floor below.

“Good, I was hoping to get at least one in,” Mallow growls from somewhere to your right.

You turn your head and immediately wish you hadn’t when you discover the shirt isn’t the only piece of clothing Malloy decided not to bother with.

Your last thought as Malloy raises his own rifle is, Why does his junk have to be the last thing I ever see?

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2