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

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.2 - FIRST PROCEDURE

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.2 - FIRST PROCEDURE

By Yasamin Alisha

You wake up the next morning feeling like the decision was just a good sleep away. You pull the face mask from your eyes and ignore your maid as she wanders around your massive bedroom opening the blinds and setting out breakfast. You stand from your bed, not caring that she is still there, and walk naked to the bathroom.

“Your PA called again.” She mutters as she fixes your bed.

“What’s the message?” you yell from the shower.

“Call back now or kiss your career goodbye.” She hustles out of the room before you can reply.

You walk out of your shower, air dry as you walk into your bedroom again, and smile at the thought that it looks as though you never slept in it. She may have had a smart mouth but she’s the best help in town.

You decide it’s definitely a silk-pajama day; there’s no way you’re leaving your house today. You slip them on and eat your breakfast. The more you think about the options given by Dr. Skin, the more you know how you plan to answer.

You pick up the phone and dial his number. The receptionist answers and you let them know you want to book the first surgery. You think that with technology these days, maybe it’s time you take a workout regimen seriously for once.

She tells you that the next available appointment is in three days. You agree to that. She tells you to fast for 24 hours and to avoid doing anything strenuous to keep your muscles as relaxed as possible. You agree and ask about pain level.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Skin will prescribe you only the best in pain meds.” She hangs up on you and you sit for a second, seething at her rude behavior.

You take a deep breath and call your PA. “I know.” You say the moment the phone is answered.

“This is beyond damage control. We are going to have to take a vacation for a bit. Reebok has decided to go with another ‘Legend’ for their Legend shoes this fall. We need to lay low and do recovery.”

“I’ve decided to have some work done.”

“What kind of work?”

“Basic stuff. A lift, maybe a tuck. Nothing to worry about.”

“Who’s the doctor? You don’t want to come out looking like a goddamned clown.”

“I won’t. He’s the best.”

“Get me his info and I’ll do some checking.”

“I’ve already booked the appointment.”

“It can be canceled if I find anything hardcore. Just send me the shit and I’ll do the search. In the meantime, don’t talk to anyone. Just stay home until I get you some tickets for you. You’re going on vacation. Maybe we’ll go save some remote village somewhere. We’ll bring food or some shit like that.”

“You’re awesome.” You respond to the sheer lack of caring. You have a real love/hate relationship with your PA.

“Trust me.” The click on the line tells you it’s time to maybe have a mimosa by the pool.

You wander closer to the glistening water and think about everything you’ve been through. Your fucking career is in the toilet. Your life is pretty much over at this point. This surgery has to save you or you have nothing left.

You feel a soft oily cloth under your foot just before it slides out from under you and you tumble forward. The damned maid left the dust rag on the tile next to the pool again.

You fly into the air, your head slamming against the tile at the edge of the pool. The excruciating pain suddenly fades as you feel fluids pouring from your body. Blood streams from your nose and ears as you slowly slide into the cool water.

The water creeps up your body but you have no control of your muscles to scream. It laps past your head and you can do nothing as the water fills your lungs. You cannot move but you sure as hell can feel as your lungs convulse and your heart squeezes in the attempt to keep you alive. Your whole body is paralyzed as you slowly drown in your pool, and all you can think is:

Well shit. There goes damage control.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2