HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.5 - GRAB CLIVE

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.5 - GRAB CLIVE

By James McShane

Clive is a blubbering mess on the living-room floor. You know you’ve made a deal with him, but your gut instinct (the one that told you that there was no way that girl was over 18) is knocking on the door and wants in. Seeing that you didn’t listen to it last time out, you think maybe it’ll do you no harm to find out what it has to say.

You’re being played for a patsy, ya schmo, your gut says. Momma Feeb has done a runner and I think she knows more than she’s letting on. Peck Clive some more!

“Don’t mind if I do,” you reply.

“Don’t mind if you do what?” Clive says, his face barely recognisable under a sea of blood and tears.

“This!” You jump on top of him and peck some more, opening new wounds and reintroducing old ones to a bright new world. You are immune to his screams for help, his struggling only adding to the excitement. You wonder why you never dressed up as a chicken before and figure there might be a spot in the WWF for you. You’re a natural.

Big Daddy Beak. You like the sound of that.

Then sanity returns, as it often must. Clive’s face is pure pulp. You take a deep breath and consider what line of questioning will work for you.

“Where’s your mother off to, Clive? Tell me the truth and I’ll call you an ambulance. Lie to me and I’ll call the morgue.”

“Phhhhkkkrrrr!” Clive splutters. “Phhhhhhkkkknngg klllll yooooo.” Clive’s left hand twitches like someone attached it to a generator.

“You’re gonna have to come up with something better than that,” you say. You can feel the bloodlust returning. Clive has only moments to spare himself another possibly fatal pecking. “I won’t be held responsible for my actions anymore.” To make your point, you touch your beak to what’s left of his nose.

“Owsh Ows,” Clive manages to say.

“What? Say that again – only this time with feeling.”

“Owsh Owse. Owsh Owse. Owth Owse.”

“Huh?”

“OWTH OWSE!” Clive cries out.

Now you have it. Clive’s mother has gone to Outhouse, an illegal gambling den by the docks. Why the hell has she gone there? you wonder. She wouldn’t cut it as a croupier. I better check it out. You get off Clive and head to the bathroom. You strip out of the chicken suit and find some of Clive’s clothes hanging on the shower door. He’s a size or three bigger than you, but needs must. He even has a hat. You like hats. As you leave the bathroom you cast your eyes longingly at the chicken outfit.

“I’ll be back for you later,” you say.

You throw a towel at Clive. “Clean yourself up, Sinclair. You look like you went twelve rounds with an emu.” You run out the door and head for the docks.

The Outhouse is run by the Bassoon Brothers, a shifty pair of greasebags from Chicago. You had a run-in or three with them over the years, sending at least a dozen of their staff to Sing-Sing. Needless to say, you won’t be getting something nice on your stocking this Christmas, unless you consider a garrotte a perfect Yuletide present. You’ll have to tread carefully.

The door is guarded by a gorilla in a suit. No really, it’s a gorilla. The Bassoons own shares in the city zoo. You don’t want to even think where they’ve put the sea-lions. If you want to find out what Mad Mel Sinclair is up to, you’ll have to take an indirect route. Maybe the back door is clear. You remember your training, so you crouch down and slither along the grass, watching out for escaped snakes. It wouldn’t do to get bitten in the ass by a rattler. You make the door in good time and get up slowly. You hear a voice from behind.

“Call my son a nancy-boy, do you?” It’s Mad Mel, and unfortunately for you she’s not alone. “That’s my prerogative, not yours.”

You’re not looking at Mel. Instead you’re throwing a wary eye at her bodyguard. He’s got at least two feet on you and he’s carrying what looks like a baseball bat in his feathered hand.

“When I said it was hard to find a good chicken these days,” she says, “I didn’t say it was impossible. Isn’t that right, Floyd?”

Floyd Bassoon. In a chicken suit. Carrying a baseball bat.

Bollocks!

Your hands are pulled behind your back. You smell salt water and turn around. “So that’s what you do with the sea-lions,” you say.

“Go get him, Floyd,” Mel shouts.

As the blows rain down on your head, as Floyd’s beak pecks out your eyes and ruptures your inner ears, the only thing you can think of is, who’s gonna feed my cat now?

THE END

Oops...Return to Chapter 5

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.5 - PECK HIS EYES OUT!

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.5 - PECK HIS EYES OUT!

By MJ Heiser

Clive Sinclair is just standing there, smiling smugly at you, the poorly-trained muzzle of his gun meandering on and off mark. He is obviously expecting you to do exactly what he just demanded: Drop to your knees and start clucking. No matter how incredibly fun it had been to be the chicken while you were dancing with this psychopath’s mother, you aren’t a chicken. You’re a man, dammit, and you’re going to behave as such.

Full of your manly pride and swagger, you take Clive completely off guard and drive your plastic costume beak into his face.

It goes better than you expect. Clive drops the gun as if it’s on fire and starts flapping his hands, trying desperately to land a lady-like slap on the side of your face. You crow with delight over his failure. You’re too fast. You’re too accurate. You land blow after blow on his meaty cheeks. That’s not satisfying enough, however. You need blood, and you need it now. You seize the man, one feathery hand on either side of his head, and resume pecking in earnest, aiming now for the not-so-fleshy parts of his face: his nose, his forehead, and his tender, delicate eyes.

“Aiigh!” he screams, seizing your forearms and trying desperately to get you off of him. “No! Mother!”

You must be kidding, you think to yourself, and distantly you become aware of your own voice letting out another rooster crow. You’re calling for your mother? You pansy. You total nancy-boy. You—

“Let him go.”

You stop. Of course you know that voice, but the last time you’d heard it (excluding the scream, naturally), she’d been suggesting you join her in the shower. Now, in a reversal worthy of some sort of alternate-universe James Bond flick, you find that she’s half-dressed and standing just behind her son’s shoulder, his gun in her hand. Her hand is remarkably steady, unlike her son’s, and that muzzle is aimed for the beak.

Possessed by the thought that you’re some sort of Bizarro James Bond, you seize Clive harder, spin him around, and press him up against your padded, feathered form. “Drop the gun,” you say, your voice hoarse from all the crowing.

She shakes her head. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asks, but instead of her son’s aggravating smugness, she only shows sad resignation. “I’m Melissa Sinclair, and for thirty years I trained the FBI’s best sharpshooters.” She reaches out with the gun and taps you gently on the nose. “Plus, I’m this close.”

She pulls back the hammer and you can hear a bullet slide into the chamber. “Now, let him go.”

You do as she asks. You push Sinclair away from you, and he scutters to stand behind his mother. She still holds the gun trained with deadly stillness at your beak.

“Wait,” you say, “I did what you asked—“

“Yup,” she says with a morbid grin. “And you have nothing left to bargain with. Not only do you have something my son wants, but you called him a nancy-boy.”

“What if I give him what he wants?” you ask in desperation.

“Kill him, Ma!” Clive shouts from over her shoulder. He sounds like an over-eager five-year-old.

Meanwhile, the cold-blooded sharpshooter slides her eyes over your chicken costume with a mixture of regret, longing, and desire. She coughs once, but that damned gun doesn’t flinch. “Let’s hear what he has to say, kiddo. You have no idea how hard it is to find a good chicken.”

“Aww,” Clive whines, his bloodlust denied.

“You can have the ‘Trotters,” you say, and you milk your sadness for all it’s worth. It takes a little bit of a stretch, to be honest; you’ve had a great time with the guys, but lately Curly, Sweetwater, and the rest of them have been growing too big for their slick and retro-fabulous britches. This kind of behavior has to stop. A return to the hardwoods may be just what they need.

“Really?” Clive asks.

“Just – let me wrap up this last case with them, will ya? Let me say goodbye the right way.”

The gun that had been pointing at your beak drops. “Do what the chicken asks, son.”

Clive sighs. “Okay, fine. But as soon as you catch the killer, the ‘Trotters are mine again.”

“Deal,” you say, holding out your hand.

And as soon as you say that, Missy Synch bolts for the door with the kind of speed and grace you could have never imagined.

“Ma?” Clive asks the still, empty, rat-infested apartment.

You narrow your eyes. You smell a rat, alright, and it’s the kind of rat that likes to dance with chickens and kill people.

Do you...

A. Grab Clive and threaten to resume pecking his face unless he tells you where his mom is heading?

B. Call the ‘Trotters for backup?

C. Use the force to figure out where Missy Synch is running off to?

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - CLUCK FOR YOUR LIFE

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - CLUCK FOR YOUR LIFE

By John Elrod II

Faced with the immediacy of your mortality, your mind scrambles, and you begin clucking maniacally. Sinclair struggles to process just what’s going on.

“Hey, what kind of jive are you trying to pull over?” he inquires, while taking a step back.

While continuing to cluck, you get your wits back about you and decide to use his confusion to your advantage. You stand from your crouched position and proceed to flap your arms while prancing around the room. Funnily enough, this isn’t much removed from your earlier dancing technique. The puzzled look on Sinclair’s face persists.

“Now, you quit this baloney, right now, you hear? You’re no hoofer, and you never will be!” Sinclair’s aggravation is only getting worse. You push the envelope further.

“Come on, Clive, don’t be such a bluenose. Your mother was into it.” This seems to strike a nerve.

“Horsefeathers! Leave my mother out of this. I’ll bump you off; I’m serious.” Sinclair’s sincerity seems scarce. Perhaps he isn’t the killer you’ve thought him to be.

From behind him comes a startled “Clive—” Sinclair pivots and pulls the trigger before thinking. He actually has shot his mother now. The fun, if it can be described as such, stands still for what feels like several tocks of the old ticker. Clive hot-foots it to his mother’s side, but it’s no use; he’s killed her.

He turns his attention back to you, “This is your doing!”

You lay an egg.

“Whoa, now, Clive, cool your hot box, pal.” You play the only card you have. “Look, I think she’s still alive!”

With his attention turned back to her, you scram out of there, with gunshots ringing out in your dust. In your haste, you make the tactical mistake of fleeing down a dead-end hallway. As you try to think of your next move, Sinclair catches up to you, cornering you near a window.

“What do you think you’re going to do now, copper? We’re six stories up, and you know chickens can’t fly.” His eyes are crazed over.

What does he know? Just a few days ago, you were a cop who regularly worked with the Globetrotters. Earlier today, you took on a job as a fetishized mascot, and you danced provocatively with an old woman whom you seriously planned on showering with. Honestly, your actions have gone against the logical at every turn. Why should this be the time you act rationally? He says chickens can’t fly? Well, there’s only one irrational reply that you could possibly provide him with.

“Nerts to that!” You yell, rushing the window and leaping through it. “This chicken can fly!”

You quickly realize the flaw in your thought process: you are, indeed, not actually a chicken, and you are now going to plummet to your untimely demise. Your final thought can only turn to the legacy you will have left behind.

The newsies are going to have a field day with this. QUITE THE FOUL UP: BALLED UP COPPER FALLS FLAT, the headline will read.

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 4

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

By James McShane

You consider your options and realise that you’ve only got one choice. You need the cash. The last alimony check cleared out your bank account. When you brought this to your ex’s attention, you were told to sing for your supper. Lacking a voice to trouble Pavarotti or Bieber, you know it’s time to take the money and run.

“I’m outa here,” you tell Curly. “I’ve taken on more than I can handle and frankly this private dick isn’t as hard-boiled as it used to be.”

“What the f—?” Curly fumes down the phone. “Hey, Sweetwater, the boss has turned jellyfish on us.”

You hear Sweetwater yelling. “Get off my goddamn phone, you moron. You think I’m made of money? Let the sucker go. We ‘Trotters can take it from here.” Curly finishes the call without so much as a goodbye and good luck. You’re not surprised. Your relationship with the boys isn’t exactly a marriage made in heaven. They’ll get by, as they always do.

You turn your attention to the lady behind the desk. “Tell me more about this Chicken Fetish job?”

She’s surprised at your about-face. “Well,” she says, taking a card from beside her magazine. “The broad in question is a Missy Synch. Her address is here.” She hands you the card. “It’s not too far away. Ten minute walk, max.”

Something in the back of your mind urges you to steer clear from this madness. But you counter this “something” with thoughts of how you’re going to spend the five Gs. Barbados looks good for this time of year. Maybe the receptionist would like a trip, too. 

“I don’t like long-haul flights,” she says suddenly. “So yes, Barbados would be nice.”

“Wait a minute,” you say, “can you read my mind?”

“No. You talk out loud a lot.”

“My therapist would agree with you.”

She points down the corridor. “The suit is in Room 5. Get ready as quick as you can and go see your client.”

“I gotta go there dressed like a chicken?”

“It’s in the manual, did you not read it?”

You remember skimming over a lot of the requirements. But hey, it’s not often you get the chance to earn easy money.

“There’s no such thing as easy money,” the receptionist says. “And you really must learn to stop talking out loud.”

“My therapist would agree with that, too.”

You find your changing room and go inside. Hanging up on the far wall is a bright yellow chicken outfit, complete with headgear and beak. There are fluffy white wings where your arms are supposed to be. At least there are holes from which you can see where you’re going. You’re glad it’s a cool night out there, otherwise you’d bake—and whoever found your dead body would serve you with chipotle.

You strip out of your work clothes and leave them in a crumpled heap on the floor. It takes you about fifteen minutes to get into the chicken suit, and you remark to yourself that it’s a very comfortable fit. It’s as if it’s been waiting for you. You hum the Sesame Street theme as you leave the room to check in with Lady Hotstuff at the desk. She whistles at you.

“You know,” she says, “when this is all over, and if you want to, you and I could head out somewhere for…you know…”

“A drink?” you offer.

“Maybe we can lay some eggs, too,” she giggles.

As you leave Different Happyness, you feel less like a private investigator and more like an advert for Chick-fil-A—but you don’t care, there’s money to be made. You cross the street and wait for the inevitable…and you’re not disappointed. A cabbie calls out, “Hey, why are you crossing the road?” You let this existential moment pass into the ether.

Ten minutes later (and after many calls of how you’d like your eggs in the morning), you arrive at your destination. You look at the card Hotstuff gave you and search for Missy Synch’s name on the apartment buzzers. You see an M.S. and reckon that must be the place. You press it and a voice answers, a female voice that doesn’t sound right. In fact, the voice in question does not belong to what you would call a spring chicken.

“Hello?” the voice says.

“I from Different Happyness,” you reply. “You asked for our services?”

The voice breaks into a coughing fit. There goes a lung, you think.

“Are you dressed appropriately?” she asks.

“If you call this an early Halloween party, then yes, I’m dressed appropriately.”

“I’m on the fifth floor. Number 512. The lift doesn’t work.”

That figures. She buzzes you in and you trudge up five flights of urine-stained stairs. The walls don’t bear looking at, so you stare straight ahead, thinking only of the money.

You knock on apartment 512. She opens the door and allows you inside. You get your first look at her and think God, how old is this woman?

“A lady’s age is her own business,” she cuts in. “And you really should stop talking to yourself out loud. I’m sure your therapist would agree. Now get dancing!”

“What?”

“That’s what you’re here for, to dance. Did you read the manual?”

“Well yes . . .but . . .”

“No buts, just dance. Can you tango?”

For an old bird, the lady can move. She grinds her pelvis against your own, pulling at your beak like it was a phallus. She ruffles your feathers in ways they hadn’t ever been ruffled before. You feel you were born to be a chicken. You move mechanically, remembering something called the Robot Chicken. The old lady laughs hysterically at your automatonic jerks. You cluck deliriously. If you could lay an egg, you would lay one here and now. You curse the heavens for not providing you with the relevant biological conditions. And all this to no music, not even The Chicken Song. 

You love being feathered fowl.

But all good things come to an end. As soon as she stops her dancing, the old lady says, “I need to shower. Care to join me?”

“In this?” you say.

“No,” she replies. “You can strip off. When we finish, I’ll go get your money and then maybe we can, you know, work out a schedule.”

You like the sound of schedules.

You turn rapidly the second you hear a bang. It comes from the bathroom. There’s a shrill scream, then nothing.

“Lady,” you call out. “Missy Synch, are you okay in there?”

A figure emerges from the room. It’s neither old nor female. You know this man’s face, and then the penny drops.

“Hello Clive,” you say to the man. “Did I just dance with your mother?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s got some pretty good moves for a woman of her age.” He points his gun at you.

“Did you kill her?” You realize you’re unarmed. Your gun is back in the changing room at Different Happyness.

“No,” he says. “I just let off a shot and it made her faint. She is my mother, after all. What do you take me for?”

“So what’s going on?”

“I want my ‘Trotters back, dillweed. You’ve taken up too much of their time. I want you out of the picture and them back in mine. Capiche?”

“Did you kill the rest of those women just to get my attention, Sinclair?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Clive Sinclair, former head coach of the Harlem Globetrotters, says. “Now get down on your knees and cluck for your life.”

Will you...

A. Rush at Sinclair to peck his eyes out. Then find out what the hell is going on. The ‘Trotters are involved somehow.


B. Cluck for your life and hope Sinclair is merciful.


C. Attempt to lay an egg, which may provide enough of a distraction for you to make your escape.