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.3 - SWEAT OUT SOME ANSWERS

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.3 - SWEAT OUT SOME ANSWERS

By Matthew C. Plourde

The broad from Different Happyness wasn't kidding; someone actually lived in those complexes beside the sewage processing facility. The smell here on those sweat-locker summer days must be as rancid as the Chief's daily swamp ass. Slowing down, you notice a few lights valiantly attempting to give the dilapidated apartments the semblance of civilized life. Even when you were desperate you had never lived in a place like this. At least, you hope you never would... good thing you refrained from popping the Chief.

Your rusty Ford Escort, with all 200,000 miles heaped upon its weary frame, shudders to inactivity and you sling your feet into a puddle. 

"Shit."

You sniff the acrid air and aren't certain the puddle is composed entirely of water. Did someone actually piss beer in the parking lot? 

Let's get this over with, you think as you approach the crooked apartment complex.

You light a cancer stick and inspect the scrap of paper again: Building 3, Apt 21. The cracked path winds behind the first complex and you see them. They beat you here and they are already on a basketball court.

Sweetwater notices you and trots in your direction.

"Where's my phone?" he asks.

You savor the moment by blowing a cloud of smoke in his face. Rocking on your heels, you smile.

"Give it up!" Sweetwater pleads as he reaches for your coat.

You push his hand away and produce the goods. "Simmer down, Nancy. It's right here. I only used it to call your mom and thank her for a great night last night."

Sweetwater snatches the phone and checks the device as he walks away, muttering to himself about someone's mother. Or, maybe it is some other phrase with the word "mother" in there. You didn't hear and you don't care.

You approach the scene with the rest of the team and groan.

"Are you guys really gonna play? Now?" you ask.

Twiggy does his one eyebrow up and one eyebrow down thing, bulging one eye comically, and says, "These kids think they can take us old men! You believe that?"

Curly slaps you on the back and says, "We'll be here if you need us for backup. Yeah, backup."

"Lousy, good-for-nothing..." You traipse off towards building 3, one hand inside your coat and your cig in your other hand.

Your ascent to the second floor via the concrete staircase is serenaded by the sound of bouncing basketballs and hoots. Unfortunately, the stench of the nearby sewage has now inundated your clothes. One more thing to throw onto the fire with your office chair. First, the pork-filled rage from the Chief, then the tiny flasher, and now the shitbox. 

This is going to be one long night.

You find apartment 21 and you realize the night just got longer: bogus address. Nobody lives in building 3. Only building 1 appears to be occupied.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuccck..." you whisper to yourself as you check to ensure nobody is around. Nope, it's all clean. Well, dirty, but empty.

"Arrrgghhh!!"

 

You pull your pistol and scan the area. The scream came from the basketball court. Rushing to the scene, you see Meadowlark clutching his ankle.

"It's just twisted," he says.

"I'll call an ambulance," Sweetwater says as he touches the screen of his phone.

Meadowlark limps to the grass and says, "I told you I don't need no ambulance! Put that shit away."

"Aiight."

Curly looks in your direction and says, "You find yer guy?"

You shake your head and reach for another cigarette.

"You gotta play, then," he says and you nearly spit your unlit cigarette from your mouth. "Hey, I got fifty bucks on this game!"

You examine the other team: youthful and muscled teens from building 1, no doubt. They grin as they inspect your squat, just-shy-of-300 pounds frame. God certainly designed you better for sitting in a car (or couch) and navigating the occasional staircase, not basketball.

"Go to hell, I'm not playing," you say.

Curly puts his lanky arm around your shoulder and says, "If you do, Sweetwater will look up that address on his phone. It can find all kinds of wacky shit. Like, say, who used to live there. Maybe your guy gave an old address and you can still find him?"

Damn. The 'Trotters know their crime, no mistaken that. The idea makes sense. Heck, you played basketball in high school. Well, you went to a few games. That's gotta count for something! Doc said you need to exercise more, so maybe this can count for the month. —year?

"Fine," you say as you remove your jacket.

 

You do your best to stay out of everyone's way. The game flows from one side of the court to the other and you jog to at least feign some interest. Luckily the ball never comes in your direction.

 

After a few minutes (hours?), you start huffing. The lasagna sits like a cinder block in your gut and you swear it tried a jailbreak more than once. Panting at the center of the court, you decide you are finished. Heart thumping. Sweat drenching. Knees shaking. Screw the Harlem Globetrotters for blackmailing you into this. Screw them all.

"Look alive!" Sweet Lou shouts. "We need this score!"

Your sluggish brain catches up with the action around you and you notice one terrifying fact: that Spaulding is headed right for you!

Somehow, you wrap your meaty fingers around the ball's bumpy surface and your arm erupts in pain. Did he have to throw so hard? Then, your eyes widen. Those young boys on the other team are streaking towards you!

Like a maniac, you try to dribble and run towards the hoop at the same time. You reign in the ball using two hands and pump your legs faster to try and avoid the inevitable clash of athlete vs. lasagna-lovin'-never-has-been. Exhilaration arrives when you realize you are going to get your shot before they reach you. 

You stretch skywards with the ball and collapse as your chest explodes in torrents of agony and ripping. You convulse and vomit some of the lasagna, though most of it just stays in the middle of your throat, stuck in traffic. Your chest constricts like someone is pulling your skin and bones from your spine. As everything tightens beyond your ability to remain conscious, you know what's happening. It's exactly how your father and grandfather died.

Before the world goes black you think you hear Sweetwater say "Heart attack!"

THE END

Oops...Return to Chapter 3

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?