Tuning Up

They squirmed like kittens. Mewling and whining, begging for release. And beggars get what they deserve. Can’t let’em go. Can’t let yourself get fooled by their soft fur and sweet purrs. That’s the trap, cause they always got claws and they will use’em. Cut you good boy if you let’em, that’s what his Pa always said. Only one way to deal with the kittens made by that whore cat out walking the streets. In the well. Always in the well. With the pain of memories always too close to the surface, he began to talk.

“Ya know I only cried when me n’ my Pa did it the first time.

“Ma said I could have the little brown spotted one, could make it my own. Course Pa said it plain that no son’o’his gonna play nursemaid to a whore cat. Pa made ma break a window over that’un. Said she could bandage up while we men took care of the cats.

“I just thought that the kitten would be nice. It was going to be a playmate, since Pa said that the jew-boys and niggers round the neighborhood weren’t fit to burn, much less visit with. And the girls, well Pa said girls was good for only two things and ma stank at both. When I tried to get Pa to let me keep the brown one out of the bag at least for a little while Pa made his mind plain, "No, an if you try and act all girlie-girl again I’ll treat you like a girl, and if you start crying I’ll shut your fuckin’ tears up.”

For only the briefest of moments it occurred to the small man that he could remember the scene clear as day and new all its lines by heart, but he had no real memories of the day before. He shrugged off the distraction giving credit to his Pa for being a good teacher. Then with a further tensing of his arm muscles, he continued.

“Well, I did cry and Pa made good on his promise, and it only took a single swing to shut me up tighter than a virgin on Sunday. Course Pa was good about that. Always made it plain when you broke his rules.

“I never asked to keep a kitten again, never cried again. I understood Pa. Get this, even though I didn’t get that whore cat for a pet, Pa did let me stay out a school for a whole week. Said why go n’ bitch ‘bout not being able to read the teacher’s writ, until I could see proper out a my right eye again.

“Pa was good about that sort a thing.”

As the water within the tub grew still the smallish fellow was pulled back from his ever present past and forced back into dealing with the situation at hand. The little fellow looked before him, the young woman’s body had grown still. Relaxed.

That’s how you had to deal with whore-cats.

The small man thought again of his mother as he looked at that peaceful sleep the young hooker had finally found. She had told him he was her first. That she would “do him” for a warm place to sleep for the night. She was a little thing, just like a kitten, and he had learned that if you could get them first, well you could give them the peace that the reverend had preached about on Sunday. Ma looked just like that before they took her away. She went to sleep in the tub too.

She had to. He and heard his Pa and ma arguing about her talking to the mailman. Said she was just like the cat, out walking it up and down the street. He had never told Pa he did it, and the judge gave his Pa the credit for it and took him away to live in some fancy big house up state, still he was confident Pa knew who set things right for the family.

In the distance he heard the soft tapping of a cane. There if he looked hard enough squinting the touched eye, he could just make out the Old Man. It wasn’t Pa, but somewhere deep down the small man knew they were doing the same good work.

As the figure grew ever closer the tapping became more distinct, more substantial. Finally, when the Old Man’s shadow cast itself across the doorway, he could just hear the soft whisper that he was always waiting so anxiously for, “Davy, I have a kitten that went stray. Could you do an old man a favor and chase it down for me?”

A Momentary Waltz

The derringer emptied into the poor drunkard, Mike took advantage of Lace’s momentary weakness. Snatching up his shot glass into a desperate grip he flung the makeshift weapon with the force greater than anything a Yankee pitcher could ever hope to muster. Taking on a brief life all its own, the glass project stay true to its course, striking the hot-blooded fem-fatale square on the ridge of her left eye. With a harsh high-pitched shrill the aging glass shattered setting free its small splinters deep into the vixen’s eye, murdering her once deadly aim.

Lace screamed out in horrified pain, admitting to the world that she was capable of feeling something. Her hand grabbed at the ribbons of flesh and tissue that once made up her eye and still mostly covered her skull’s crushed eye socket. Her brain flashing bright waves of pain forcing nausea to replace a now distant calm and a deep sense of vertigo fueled panic claimed what was once a narrowly focused center. Helpless, I might be helpless, was the only coherent thought left to her mind, other than a fast smoldering hatred, she could spare no time for Mike.

No, his time would be later.

Unprepared for twisted fate that greeted him on what should have been a friendly holiday shakedown, the beat cop struggled to free his service revolver from its leather holster with one hand while catching the booze soaked corpse with his other arm. With his meat shield held close to his breast the desperate young man brought his pistol to bear. It was only a fraction of a breath that past before he squeezed the trigger, fear and confusion induced panic set in motion actions he might regret someday, if only he lived that long.

The thing called Grady had in that moment of calamity found the last bit of defiance still hidden deep in that remnant of a soul. He claimed the rusting scattergun kept under the bar one last time. Forcing his leaden hands to bring the long barrel up he took aim at his golden-tressed tormentor. Finally, he thought, I will get my peace. As the shotgun’s barrel centered on the blood-splattered cleavage that had been denied to Grady for so long the officers bullet drove deep into his chest, piercing heart and lung as it danced from bone to bone inside the tight space.

Only as the bartender fell back into the great mirror behind him did the officer realize the man he had killed was trying to put down the woman that had tried to kill him “Oh, shit,” muttered the stunned young man. Then after a pause he added, “I killed him.”

Grabbing the uniformed thug’s wrist, Mike twisted the taught limb backward with a violent jerk. Bones were heard to snap and ligaments were torn free. Mike had made some retort to his victim, but the words were lost beneath the legal bully’s screams.

Catching the pistol as it fell from now useless fingers Mike discarded the moaning heap, and dashed out into the sanctuary of the night. Thinking himself armed and free of Lace’s deadly poison, Mike’s confidence kept him warm, despite the ever falling white flakes from above.

Less than a minute had passed from start to finish back there, not bad, silently praised Mike to himself. As he rounded the next street corner he paused only a moment so that the sterile glare of a passing truck didn’t focus on him for too long. Mike was a man of purpose, and he couldn’t risk anymore distractions like Grady’s. Consumed again with his own agenda the restored man reached into his pocket for the poker chip, its cracked face still smooth, the engravings long faded. Time was closing in. Mike knew that Grady’s was over, new it with such certainty that he never bothered to learn of the fate that had fallen on the seedy dive and its cast-off remnants.

By sunrise only ash and the barest hints of its frame would be left, the fire department would chalk it up to bat liquor storage and poor wiring. Others though, those who looked deeper into the truth, would claim that an avenging angel set a holy pyre using watered down booze, stale beer, and dead souls as fuel.

Hollow Echo

The street was a lonely place. Once, long ago he had friends, People he liked to think cared about him. But they were gone now. The thought that there were once people who bothered to use his real name, a woman that was once willing share secret kisses with him without asking for money up front was supposed to be some kind of a comfort. That's what that bitch doctor would say at least, but what the fuck did that closet dyke know? She wasn’t even honest with herself.

The last time he was in that damned hospital the doctor had conned him into letting his guard down, to give into those emotions he had held back for so long. Thought he could trust the doc too, when those forgotten feelings finally came up it forced some kind of a break down. That was the first time he had cried, hell sobbed, since he had been a little boy being cuffed around by his dad. Made him feel weak, relieved, but weak. Then afterwards, when he was coming down the doc came over and gave him a pat on the back, then a hug, then a little kiss, then a longer kiss.

Felt nice. First good thing he had felt in years.

Then what did the bitch say? “Carl, no. We can’t… I’m not… This isn’t right,” then when she pulled back she followed it up with, “you better go.”

I better go? What the hell was she thinking? He had wanted to eat the end of a gun, but it was that crazy bitch that kept him from doing it back when he could still afford a gun. Wasn’t long before even the cheap crap you could buy on the streets had become too expensive for him to consider. He had to settle for trying to kill himself with cheap whiskey and gin. One bottle at a time, it was a slow way, but the store bought anesthetic made sure that it was painless, at least physically.

Still, with enough whiskey in him to provide that much needed warmth of liquid courage, Carl knew he would soon find himself standing in front of that dyke doctor’s apartment. He knew she felt the same thing he did that time they kissed. He was certain that he could straighten her right out. Once she felt what it was like to be with a real man she would love him. She would have to.

Carl planned to make her. This time when a woman touched him she wouldn’t be screaming out for money. Not this time.

One more shot should do the trick.

As he readied himself to order that last round it occurred to him that the bitch might not open the door for him. Well, he knew that there was enough strength in him to beat down any false pretense of denial a cheap door might provide her. No, she was going to feel the strength of a real man tonight.

Taking his last hit from the shot glass sitting in front of the passed out fool that had chosen a table too close. Carl stood up and got ready to leave while ignoring the glare of the bartender. He thought about yelling out some kind of threat to the old boozer turned bottle jockey, but Carl wasn’t totally ignorant of the brooding mood choking the life out of the bar.

With a last quick glance around the cheap joint, Carl turned towards the door just as it opened, his last thoughts were not on his lust and rage induced plans, instead they formed a much more basic question, A Cop? What the Hell?

Carl was the only person in the bar to not hear the gunshot, but despite his momentary deafness, he felt soft sting of the bullet as it kissed deeply into his flesh. As the dim lights of the bar began to fade away the dying man tried to reform the image of the cruelties he had managed to twist into thinking of as love that he had hoped to share with his doctor, but all he could was manage was that moment of surprise again and the image of the beat cop he had just stepped in front of.

Across the city a young and aspiring psychiatrist would sleep peacefully until morning.

It's Friday.... and everyone lives on a Friday

Been quiet for almost a month. That's most likely very unforgivable. But the my modest story about bad people doing bad things will continue very shortly. Look for its continuation within the next three days. And if it isn't back to going, I am giving permission to Ray to thrash me about the noggin until such time as I am bounced back into my right mind.

And remember, for better or worse, everyone lives on a Friday.