Turned out the Pussycat Dolls were unavailable for private engagements. Since they turned me down they must all be lestbians.

So I ended up going to the wee little riverboat Friday night.

Brought enough cash that I could have barely bouught 2 of these, but nothing would have been left.

Was there for over 5 hours. Played the same game.

When I left I only had a few chips left.

I had one of these:

2 of these:

One of these were left:

And the friendly dealer also gave me one of these:

I had fun.

Oh... And I had like 5 free Diet Cokes too.

Good times.

Well. Its Friday. Work's Over. Time for a Three Day Weekend.

Time for a little bit of fun.

I can certainly think of far worse ways to spend a Friday night.

I know for I fact I've done things no where near as much fun.

And were a hell of a lot more lonely.

But no matter what we do if we're not carefull, all roads lead to the same place.

And its always the same old story when you get there. Trust me.

And the bitch of it all is that some cog is going to drag your ass there.

And then just like the rest of us you would end up...

Its raining. The cat is affectionate.

Hard storms. Makin' for some major cat luvin.

Power held and internet is strong.

Now, if only I had some cookies. Life would be good.

FYI Lori Petty is hot

She has that look of crazy nutter girl that makes her more attractive than she probably really is.

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.

Quietly Caroling

There was a blissful moment in her slumber. Angels softly singing to her. Whispering of love and warmth, of sunshine and rainbows, ponies and dolls. Mommy had taken her to see a pony once, it was at a farm that belonged to one of daddy's friends. Mommy said they couldn't go back to visit the pony again. It made no sense, the man had seemed so friendly. He gave her a dolly and fixed her a cold sodapop. The nice man even patted her on her shoulder and gave her a big kiss on the forehead. And if mommy didn't like him why did she go off to talk to him like she did for so long? Mommy was funny at times.

When the harsh knocks arose from the doorframe, the small child awoke with a most frightful start. Bad men. Bad man. She wanted to call out to mommy. To yell no don't do it. But the dream angel hadn't flitted away to the corner like she normally did. Instead the bright spot in the little girl's dreams stood fast, hushing the her little charge as if playing a game of hide-and-go-seek with the boys down the block.

She liked that game. She could hide for hours. Why would you hide from mommy? Mommy had said you should only ever hide from daddy, and that's only when he smelled bad like the landlord. Still, little Anna knew she could hide better than anyone if the angel wanted her to.

Hours seemed to pass in the dark room for the confused girl during that span of a few moments. Only once did the deep fear touch her, a shadow seemed to pass through the door, but the angel stood strong against the shadow, like how mommy always stood strong between her and daddy's friends.

When the shadow had pulled back through the door living only the dim fear of what had passed within the room the angel motioned Anna. Somewhere deep down the little girl knew it was time to go. Putting on her slippers, grabbing her thick winter's robe with the whistle the officer gave her in its pocket, and taking her trusty flashlight, Anna was ready for her adventure.

Going out the window and down the trellace was easy. Last summer her and Little Jim had did it on a lark, he fell and broke his arm. But not Anna, she knew that she had to test the wood before blindly trusting herself to it, just like everything else in her short life. Always test it before cutting loose, that's what daddy always said and daddy was the smartest man in the world when he didn't smell like the landlord.

Only once going down did her slippers give the child trouble, and then the angel was close at hand to help her through it.

Once on the pavement, she didn't know where to go. Mommy would have known, but somewhere deep down Anna had begun to suspect she might not ever get to ask her mommy anything ever again.

The angel was close at hand though, and although the silent companion never spoke, it made plainly clear which way the little girl was to run. As Anna dashed along a soft white snow began to bathe the city in a blissful slumber. All the filth and grime born from the toils of men became covered in a downy blanket so that a child could be spared the squalor that men so easlly let themselves fall into. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the early morning save the steady slap of leather sandles on wet concrete and the heavy breathing brought on by the continued effort put forth by the child.

Never before had Anna seen the streets so empty. She liked it. Especially as the white flakes of renewal began to accumulate all around her. Mommy had said she missed snow, mommy would have liked this.

Once in the distance the child could hear the rhythmic beat of a cane, but the angel was quick to turn her away from that side road. No she had to keep going. She had to get to the bridge. Anna could see it in her mind. The angel was taking her someplace safe. Taking her to a place she would never be hurt again. The angel was her friend.

Maybe I could live with the angel.

Anna had always enjoyed such fancy notions, but now maybe, just maybe, it could come true. Angels were never hurt. They never felt cold the way Anna had been feeling for some time now during her mad adventure through the city.

Taking a short cut through a narrow alley Anna knew she was getting closer to the bridge. She could sit down when she got there. Maybe she could even fly.

The metal door was thrown open, crashing hard into the building's brick. The sudden noise caused Anna to trip over the hem of her robe and take a tumble into the hard wet pavement.

A big man came out from the abrupt opening. He stank worse than the landlord thought Anna.

The big man, drunk from all the holiday spirits he had been buying and still not satisfied after the Christmas whores he had endulged in, staggered forwards a few more steps and eyed the girlchild sprawled out in the night before him. Soft blonde hair, the smell of innocence. The harsh man was beginning to allow his thoughts to go down the very darkest parts of his soul.

Anna had seen that look only a few times before in a man's face, and each time mommy had been there to shove her out of the room. This time she was with an angel, and the angel couldn't touch her. Could take the bad man away.

With two more steps the drunkard wobbled towards his gift from heaven. His sadistic, drug inspired choice, damning him to the hottest fires of hell even before getting to act on the evils his lust had inspired him to.

Scrambling to her feet, Anna knew she had to run. Had to run harder and faster than she ever had before. The angel always just a half-step ahead encouraging the frightened little girl to not look back to keep going.

Somewhere back over her shoulder she heard a man shout out something she didn't quite understand and then two firecrackers went off, each louder than any she had ever heard on the fourth of July. Anna never looked back. She had to get to the bridge.

Rounding the corner and taking across the open road Anna could see the rusting metal arches, the sidewalk rails, she had made it.

Stopping short of the sidewalk. Anna began to lose faith in her angel. The angel was wanting her to fly. Anna thought the medicine mommy gave her must be all used up like when the coughs came back last year. She was no longer so sure she could fly.

Standing still, lost in trying to puzzle out what the angel was wanting, Anna didn't hear the engine or see the headlights until the car had swung onto the bridge.

Minor Keys

Staggering out from the cast off safety once offered by the once classy flophouse, Margo was barely able to stay on her feet. The surge of power she had felt only moments earlier washed away by the bleak fear of an unknowable tomorrow. She had to get away. Far away. She could feel the sirens. They screamed at her from the alleys, shrill squawks of patrol cars crawling up from the sewer grates, hounds barking from shadows. All the whispered voices calling out shouting the worst parts of her for all the world to embrace. Harlot. Liar. Murderer.

Reaching the black packard took all Margo felt she had left. Clawing open its heavy door Margo collapsed into the driver's seat. Tears flowed freely from her cheeks. A violent fit of trembling threatened to overwhelm her. There was too much blood to wipe away now. How can there be a tomorrow if you've bartered away all your happy endings?

With no strength left to hold her head up on her already overweighted shoulders, Margo fell into the still machine's steering wheel. From somewhere inside her. Some forgotten bit of yesterday she could hear her mother's voice, Margaret Temperance Thatcher, sit up straight. The good lord didn't make my girl weak. You stand up tall and show them a girl gives as good as she gets.

Memories of stickball and fist fights brought about the oddest little giggle, "Mama, the bullies got big. Maybe too big." The words were spoken to no one in particular, but just saying them somehow began to sort out things.

Then get a bigger stick. That sounded like mama. Mama could always make it so simple.

Bloodshot eyes still filled with tears of tomorrow slowly scanned the dreary street staked out before here. Hidden beneath the mocking lights of a streetlamp Margo caught glimpses of shallow movement. That bastard. I said no. She was not going to give herself over to some devil-sparked double-dealing wanna-be.

The shadowed figure realized that it had lingered too long. Been too cavalier in its harvesting.

Wiping away the soul stealing tears of despair, Margo found that place her mother had forged in her over the years. Switches and belts, words and silence. All the vindictive traps and tricks parents use to shape the someday grown-ups under their charge.

Maybe there will be sunrises and star-topped pines after all.

As if sensing the fires of passion once more stirring within its metallic hulk, the deep black of the packard let the intensity glitter off its over polished surface giving a subtle halo in the long dark of the night. With a mighty roar the car had forgotten possible it sprang to life, its brighter than life eyes chasing away misspent shadows as it began to sprint towards a new freedom for its sole master.

The lonely figure stood close by as the car fled. It wouldn't be alone long, the sirens were coming.

Pulling away from her own self-pity Margo began to size up her situation again.

Keys. Coat. No shoes. No dress. No rags to help wipe away the memories and stains of her grim exploits.

Late night. This night. There won't be anyplace left open for a girl in trouble. The reminder of futility called to the little girl parts of Margo to bign flirting with that ever present and fatal despair. All at once the name Golden's flashed across her mind. Of Course, he always stays open tonight for the working girls. Besides why does an orphan Jew want off for holidays?. Making a hard right at the next narrow intersection Margo changed her course. The night might not be quite so bleak after all.

Barely five minutes waltzed by on the courthouse's clockface when the rumbling engine of her makeshift haven pulled up to the fog tinged windows of Golden's, or more precisely Golden's Second Chance Goods and Finery. It was a well known fence, most every sort of scum seen walking in the shadows of daylight had darkened the business's paint stained stoop. Almost anything could be found in there if you looked just hard enough, but the stink of contempt and loathing that Golden bathed his suppliers in was almost too much for most casual lookers to endure. Margo knew why the store had collected the treasures and trash that littered the cramped store's aisles.

Desperate people do desperate things. Sell their most cherished bits and baubles for a moment's release. Then when you have nothing left you steal away and sell the bits and pieces of those around you. And there was always someone like Golden there to hand over a few dirty bills and a claim stub that will never see its mate again.

It was something she didn't want to think about right then. Margo needed that greedy bastard tonight and needed him bad. Killing the great engine of her consort, Margo entered the store.

The cheap radio crackled out a jolly tune trying to lift the holiday spirit into a world that had forgotten what joy and peace meant. Her vision slowly adjusting to the glaring lights strung about the store, she made her way back to the small selection of women's clothes. She understood what it was that she needed. The clothes were there. Every worn thread and patched spot. The grey dress with black frill whose neckline would tease with barely concealed breasts. A white slip with fancy lace along the bosom. Comfortable shoes and a pair of stiletto heels to serve as a reserve. Every scrap she needed.

Only when she dropped the heap on the counter did Golden bother to look his last customer square in the eyes. Giving over only the slightest effort to poke through rags the waif had placed before him he flatly stated, "Thirty-two dollars. Not a penny less."

Keys. Coat. No shoes. No dress. No wallet. No purse. Margo gave a pensive bite to her lower lip. Thinking of anything she could do to cover herself she slowly rsponded, "Listen I don't have any cash. But this is overcoat is an Imperial, they go for three times that uptown," Margo sought for any tell that might give some hint, still the grimy little man just stared through her. "Well? Willing to trade?"

Finally he let slip a tell. His eyes rolled only for an instant over her form in the just unbottoned coat, "Oh yeah miss, we can trade." He saw the blood stains and didn't care. She wasn't the first dumb broad to off an asshole for hitting to hard, wouldn't be the last as long as the world kept spinning. Still, figured Golden, she sure as hell is going to make my holiday a little nicer.

"You'll take the coat?" Reaching for the lapels to remove it she understood all too well what the little man was thinking. She just had to hear him say it before she could accept another degredation tonight.

"Tell you what little lady, why don't you keep that coat so you don't up and catch a sniffle. In fact why don't you come round this counter and I can maybe help warm you up a little more and we can do a bit o' proper bargaining?" Reaching over the lecherous shopkeep dropped the latch that kept him locked inside his small counter.

What's one more, thought the again defeated woman. As her right hand fell to her side it bumped into the small hard object in the overcoat's pocket. Again she recalled the list of her few prized possessions at the moment.

Keys. Coat. Gun.

Reaching into the furlined pocket she felt the false sense of strength given to her by the small pistol. It still held three bullets. Three small lifelines in a world that had bet against her. Her delicate fingers worked over the grip andhammer, stroked the trigger in its guard.

Revealing for the second time in a single night her seemingly preturnatural speed, she had the .38 pointed straight at Golden's head. "Fuck you and bag the goods."