The Big Easy

"Damn."
Just looking at her gives me a headache. Trouble with a capitol T. New Orleans is a hot and sweaty town and damn if this woman doesn't look much different. I came to this bar to relax. Unwind. A cold beer and a cigarette is all I needed. Leaning back in my chair, I let the cool liquid run down my throat while my eyes are riveted to the lone dancer. Those hips are gonna give me nightmares. It's been a long week and looks to be an even longer night. I'm just a man and temptation like that can get a man into a lot of trouble. It's time to call it a night. A cold shower and clean bed is all I can hope for in a town like this.

Heading for the exit a cool hand grabs my arm. The dancer. The realization slams into me before I even turn around.
"Leaving so soon." I hear her say above the dark and dirty rhythms of the music. Don't be a fool, Carl. You need to end this before it gets started - my inner voice. Damn I hate that voice. Apparently she has other ideas.
"Dance with me." She leans in to whisper. The chill that runs down my back has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the opening door at the front of the bar. Grabbing her arm, I quickly lead her toward the back.
"Where are we going?", she asks with a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye. There's no point in trying to explain. My legs move automatically toward the rear exit. Her soft body bumps into me as I push the door open and pull her into the darkness. I was crazy to drag her along but it was a reflexive reaction when connected by her touch. The door closing echoed the gunshots coming from inside the building.
"Dieu"
Her hushed exclamation reminds me that God doesn't care about this show. He's changed the channel a long time ago. It's a good thing I did my homework before entering the bar. My motorcycle is parked near the entrance of the alley. I kick-start the engine as she tucks in behind me. The road to freedom never looked so good.

I guess I wanted a little trouble after all.

Peruvian Heat

Getting Doves to clear through customs is like getting a hard-on while your arm is being chewed off by a bear. Being stuck at the airport in Peru for 2 days has mired my sense of adventure. The lukewarm coffee in my hand tastes like an ashtray and my translator keeps pointing and laughing at those damned doves like they are clowns at a circus. I'm nearing my breaking point the longer I sit here listening to the gentle coo'ing and high pitched cackle coming from the corner. Realizing the Styrofoam cup in my hand has had the life choked out of it, I release my iron grip. With coffee running down my hand, the cup falls to the ground in a muted splash. Closing my eyes briefly I take a deep breath and head across the room. Nearing the corner, my translator turns around and attempts to cut off my progress.
"Disculpe, señor but your papers are still being verified and..."
Grabbing the front of his shirt, I steer him over to the counter.
"Every hour that those doves are not loaded in the back of my truck, is another finger that I will cut off." Shaking the translator a little to get his attention, I direct him to repeat my threat to the individuals behind the counter. Turning the translator's attention back to me, I continue.
"And once I run out of fingers, I'll start on your other body parts."
Trembling in my grasp, he relays the message while apparently adding some of his own persuasive words. His attempt to sway the custom agents has worked. They busily shuffle papers around and head over to one of the back rooms. Releasing the translator I relax against the counter but keep my eyes firmly fixed on señor Dickhead.
"Don't move." I'm sure his quick steps back were only a vain attempt to put some breathing room between us, but I'm done screwing around with this jerk.

30 minutes later I hear the sound of the loading doors being opened while several individuals are rushing around grabbing dove crates. I feel no satisfaction. My life as I've made it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Shoving my translator ahead of me, we head for the loading doors where I see my rented truck being filled.
"You're coming with me." I announce while giving him another shove. I sign for my cargo while my companion climbs into the passenger seat. Climbing into the front seat, I start the engine. Rapid fire shots explode the passenger side window as I step on the accelerator. Looks like I'm on my own. Again. Life is forever handing me lemons. It's time to make some lemon-aide. Strapping several grenades to my dead friend, I reach across and open the passenger door. Kicking his lifeless body out to the street, I see several vehicles behind me. My low chuckle sounds forced even to my own ears. Seconds later a fiery explosion makes me swerve sharply as I attempt to control my vehicle. Thinking briefly of the translator I nod my head to the fire still raging behind me.
"He was a nice guy."

Nice guys always end up dead.

A Good Night in Hell

Sometimes night can play tricks on the senses. You lie awake in bed and see shadows creeping across the balcony outside. You hear the snick of a lock being picked with quick efficiency. You smell the stink of hot sweaty bodies on the breeze created from an opening door. If you close your eyes, you can almost feel the sweet caress of a bullet gliding across your cheek - and the hot sting of fire blooming in it wake. It's a good thing night swallows the screams of pain that erupt, like a lovers kiss in the heat of ecstasy. Reality sets in as I realize my arm has already grabbed the gun under my pillow. Firing in quick repetitions I am vaguely aware that the screams are not my own. The weeping coming from the corner of the room is not my inner child crying to be heard in a world without ears. The blood splattered on my bed is not my life spilling forth in a gruesome effigy.

They are all dead. Why hasn't the weeping stopped?

Smuggler's Blues

Two weeks after Rico's death, my life took a turn for the worst. Sitting in a chair with my wrists tied behind my back usually means I am about to get what I paid for. Unfortunately, at this moment, I was gonna pay for what I got. Yesterday, the job ran smoothly. I delivered the doves and got my payment - plus a bonus. That bonus would end up giving me the shits for the next 3 hours. 3 hours after that, I was face down in a pool of my own vomit. 5 hours after that? Well, lets just say I recovered enough to go looking for some action. Her name was Gwen and she had a head full of beads and legs as black as midnight dreams. Those legs turned out to be the stuff nightmares are made of.
slap
"You stink like bird shit!"
slap
"I bet you have feathers in your pants!"
slap
"So tell me, who did you sleep with to get those birds?"
slap
"Markita! Enough. We don't want him to pass out before we get the answers we need." This new voice was rough and deep. He must be the boss, but I had no idea what answers I could provide.
"Please, Frank. He hasn't even pissed himself yet."
As Markita went to lean against the wall with her hands folded over her breasts in a pout, Frank's meaty face blocks out the only light in the room.
"Now tell me, little mouse. Who are these wealthy industrialist you provide your stinkin' birds to?"
I had no answer to that. I only deal with the delivery man who contacts me and pays me. If I could not provide the answers they needed, would they just kill me? I had to stall for time.
"Uh..."
"Enough of this, Frank! Let's just cut off his balls!"
Turning around to face Markita, Frank takes her in his arms for an impassioned kiss. Perfect. It was just the distraction I needed. slipping the bindings off my wrist, I stand and grab the back of the chair. The satisfying crack of broken wood reverberates through my skull as Frank collapses in a heap taking Markita with him. I punch her in the face before she can unleash what I'm sure would have been a blood curdling scream.

Lighting a cigarette as I head out the door to whatever room I was being held in, I toss the match toward the sleeping couple. I feel the flames lick my neck as I make my way from the inferno at my back.

Doves

I was being followed. As sure as I knew my name was Carl Weevilberry, I knew I was being followed. The sweat running down my back told me it was too damn hot to be driving a van with no air conditioning. All the coo'ing coming from the back of the van was like someone stuffed a raccoon in a sack and then put it over my head. I'm not sure why I agreed to this arrangement in the first place. The best I can figure is I wanted a change. This wasn't what I had in mind.
My hands were sweaty, my bowls clenching - I shouldn't have stopped for that meat stick - and these damned doves were driving me crazy. I had to lose my tail but with my "precious" cargo I couldn't take any changes. It was time to call in a favor. 2 years in the Tonga Islands has given me an extensive knowledge of the area. Rico is a local yarn merchant in the better part of town. He owes me for saving his wife from an angry swarm of bees a while back. I'll start there.
ring, ring
"Pick up the phone Rico."
ring, ring
"Yeah, this is Rico."
"Rico, it's Carl. I need a favor and I'm cashin' in"
"God damn Carl, you know I don't like it when you call me with those damn doves in the back. It makes me think of that time I got swarmed by a pack of pigeons out lookin' for a good time"
"Sorry Rico, it can't be helped. I'm being followed and I need you to lose them for me."
"Damnit Carl! That bloody smuggling job of yours is going to get you killed one of these days. You know I wouldn't survive anything happening to you."
"Don't worry about me, man. This feather in my hat isn't just for bangin' chicks."
"Yeah yeah, I know. I'll think of something. Just tell me where you are and I'll make it happen."

15 minutes later I see a familiar Red SUV barreling down the road in the opposite direction. Rico. He picks up speed as he recognizes my van and veers dangerously close to the median. Once he makes it past me, I follow his progress in the rear view mirror. Tires screech, metal crunches and a huge fireball plumes skyward. I can feel the blast of heat as I continue my forward progress. Rico has taken out my tail. That glorious bastard. I hope he said his peace with God, cause the devil sure as hell doesn't need another yarn merchant - he has plenty already. As I salute the flaming wreckage that used to be my friend, I step on the accelerator.
This day can't be over soon enough.

Angry Old Man

Anger - My Mistress

It was 1989. I had just come back from the Congo with a bad case of Malaria.
(flashback)
It should have been a trip like any other. Hike, kill things, hike, eat potato sandwiches, and search for the extremely rare Cuckoo-Clock bird. This bird was to be the pinnacle of my career - all of our careers. Instead, that damn bird cost me my life, my joy... my sanity!
As the days stretched into weeks, there was no sign of our elusive foul. No stray plumage or chartreuse colored droppings. The sounds of the forest grew to deafening tones in my own head. The hoots of monkey's and shrieks of wild animals transformed into groans of despair and wails of madness. Our only reprieve came when we begged each other to punch us hard enough to knock us out.
But that also came with a price. The last man standing had to suffer with the voices in his own mind - alone. In most cases we came to only to find a dead body. The details more gruesome as the weeks dragged on. Poor fools didn't know when to quit. I begged them to turn back; to abandon this ridiculous quest. I tried to bribe them with my ration of sandwiches and water... even my body. I tried to bargain with them, promising a night of entertainment like they've never seen. My desperation knew no limit. But in the end - they all fell. 12 of us started out, but only one returned.
(/flashback)
Do not ask me how I escaped the madness in the Congo. Or how I managed to single-handedly capture, kill and cremate the only Cuckoo-Clock bird in the Congo.

All I remember is laughter... as I opened the door to the only home I've ever know. My sanctuary, my refuge from the cruel world or the nightmares that assaulted me.

It all ended with laughter - the last thing that ever meant anything to me.

To this day, the sound of laughter is like nails driving into my coffin. I'm bitter and angry at the hand I was dealt. The spit in my face and the sweat on my back is the only comfort I get. My only meal - a demoralizing soup of rocks, snails and tacks (Poor Man's Burden Soup). The company I keep - brainless zombies who gnaw and chew at the fat around my heart.

My life - DEAD

Who invented robots, anyway?

Write an excerpt from a story involving two robots, an ongoing war with cattle, and a small grocery store chain on the moons of Jupiter


"…I keep telling you, there ain't no cattle here. Just huge rocks with – OH MY GOD! MY LEGS!!!…."

The five bounty hunters scatter as Clyde gets his legs chewed off by the fiercest of all dairy cows, The Brown Comet. Taking aim with their rifles, they shoot Clyde in the head (out of respect) and then reaim on the Comet. Booger goes down before the next round is off. The Comet prepares for his next target when a cornucopia of shots ring out from all directions. Pitiful moans are heard from the Comet, making some feel almost sorry for the dying creature. Almost.

"This time, the devil was on our side." Clownt whispers as his rifle smokes under a haze of debris.

Victor spreads his jacket over Booger's upper body and looks up at Clownt. "The bastard didn't stand a chance. He had no warning! How are we going to stop these attaches if good men, like Booger, keep dying?!"

Clownt rolls his eyes in frustration. "Keep it together Victor! Don't you see? It's BECAUSE good men like Booger keep dying, that we HAVE to stop these attaches!"

Breaking the eerie silence that follows, a loud wheezing and grinding sound can be heard. Clownt and Victor turn to the two robot bounty hunters named Pete and Beagle Valdez, who are displaying their neutron rods. Beagle Valdez addresses the humans, "We can no longer wait to reach the exchange depot inaccurately named 'Vapors'. We must recharge our neutrons now."

As Victor and Clownt watch, the two robots join their pelvic rods together and begin vibrating.

"I hate it when they do that." Clownt says as he looks away.

"If I ever find the guy who designed those things…"
As the gentle vibrating hum falls to the back of Clownt's mind, he can only wonder how things came to this. The universe is so different now. Life on this desolate moon consists of a daily regiment of death and food purchasing. The only grocery store here is the universal chain "Vapors". But in order to get there, you have to cross a veritable mine field of notorious cattle. The next more dangerous than the last. The Brown Comet will bring in a hefty bounty, but not nearly enough to get us off this moon. We should have known better than to trust the moons of Jupiter to be a haven. What fools we were.