HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

By Rashelle Workman

You’re on your knees in a chicken suit with a gun pointed at your head. In this type of situation, there’s only one thing to do. 

Breathe heavily. 

You’ve seen the Lamaze techniques work for childbirth; maybe it’ll get you out of this situation as well. Plus, if you act like you’re trying to squeeze a chicken egg out your body, Clive might freak and leave. 

“Ooooh. Ooooh. Eeen,” you begin.

“What the hell are you doing?” By the sound of his voice, you can tell he isn’t sure whether to laugh or shoot.

 

You look into his anger-filled eyes and continue—louder. “Ooooh. Oooooooh. Eeeeeen.” All the deep breathing is starting to make you dizzy. The room smells of mentholatum and Pepto Bismol: A terrible combination, but there’s no way you can stop now. 

Instead you grab your stomach and hunch over, the big beak of the chicken suit smacking the floor, rattling your insides. A shock of pain zings through your body. 

A contraction, you wonder. 

“Stop that, you crazy . . . chicken!” By the quiver of his lips, you know he’s on the verge of serious laughter. 

This may work, you think.

You shake your head. “Oh. Ah. Ohhhhhhh.” Another sharp pain starts at your belly button and ripples along both sides of your stomach toward your back. “Owwwwww,” you yell. 

“I mean it—” Clive begins, but breaks off with laughter. 

You shake your head again. “No, man! I think I’m actually going to pop a chicken egg right out of me. For. Real!” You try to pull the large chicken head off, but it’s stuck. Panting, you let out another cry.

 

“You do realize you aren’t really a chicken, right?” The guy asks in between guffaws. 

“Righ—ri—bacaw!”

 

It just felt right. You start to peck at the floor, trying to pick up the dust bunnies with your sharp beak. “Bu. Bu. Bu. Bacaw!”

The pain inside hurts so badly, it’s mind-numbing. There’s a burning, ripping and tearing . . . 

Plop. A large brown chicken egg lands on the floor behind you.

You look up. Clive’s got to be impressed with the remarkable feat you’ve achieved.

But the look on his face is anything but impressed. Horror’s a more suitable word. 

“Bacaw . . .” you try.

Clive steps back, gun shaking and: POW! The gun goes off, smoke swirling from the end. 

Sticky red trickles into your eyes. As the room, Clive and the giggling old lady get fuzzy and your world goes black, you think, But who’ll take care of my chick? 

THE END.

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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.

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