THUGLIT
Issue Sixteen
Edited by Todd Robinson
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in the works are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
THUGLIT: Issue Sixteen
ISBN-13:978-1508643326
ISBN-10:1508643326
Stories by the authors: ©Rob Hart, ©Ed Kurtz, ©Mark Rapacz, ©Eric Beetner, © Bracken MacLeod, ©Scott Loring Sanders, ©Erik Arneson, ©Devon Robbins
Published by THUGLIT Publishing.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the Author(s).
Table of Contents
A Message from Big Daddy Thug
The Split by Eric Beetner
Alchemy and Atrophy by Devon Robbins
The Beard by Ed Kurtz
It Bothers Me by Erik Arneson
Blood Makes the Grass Grow by Bracken MacLeod
Dick Joke by Mark Rapacz
That Time by Scott Loring Sanders
Drone by Rob Hart
Author Bios
A Message from Big Daddy Thug
Welcome back, Thugketeers!
New York City, home to the Thuglit Offices (okay…the desk in the kitchen…shut up!) recently went twelve consecutive days without a murder!
Wanna know why? Because even murder can wait until this fucking city defrosts. With that in mind, I'm pretty sure that the dude who got killed on Day 13 wound up gakked because he was one of the soulless pricks who sang that goddamn song from Frozen ironically.
Justifiable homicide, if you ask me.
SO, as I type this intro with frostbitten fingers, I'd like to offer a hearty "go fuck yourself" if you're reading this in Southern California, Florida, or any of the warmer climes.
Just kidding. We love you, wherever you are, oh Thuglit Reader O' Mine. We just love you a little less if you live somewhere temperate.
Just a little…
Ya bastids.
It's cold.
That said, we close out the winners of the LitReactor ARREST US writing competition this issue with the third and final winning story. And if you read the last two issues, you know that I'm not going to mention which one it is. READ THE DAMN MAGAZINE AND FIGURE IT OUT!
Nevertheless, we want to thank the good people at LitReactor and double those thanks to everyone who sent in a story. Maybe we can do it again sometime…
IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:
Aaaand boom goes the dynamite.
Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's…
I'd have gone with fertilizer, but whatever.
Whadda you know from funny?
Who says you can't go home again?
Beards make the man…kinda.
The past can burn you the same as fire…
…and so can Daddy's freezer. Freezer-burn ya. Get it? GET IT?!? Oh, fuck off.
SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!!
Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug) 2/28/2015
The Split
by Eric Beetner
When Leon lit a cigarette, stinking up what was already a stuffy and cramped room, Walter wondered why he didn’t get it over with and kill the jerk already. He was going to do it, so why not now? Was there really any reason to wait until Callaway got there?
"Do you mind?" Walter waved a hand in front of his face. Leon looked at the tip of his cigarette curling smoke up to the bare lightbulb overhead.
"This?"
"Yeah, that," Walter said. He waved twice more, harder.
"Jesus, I can’t even have a smoke anymore?"
Walter gave him a hard look until Leon stubbed out his Marlboro on the bottom of his shoe, then flicked the butt away into the shadowed corner of the room.
The back of Zafiro’s bar was a good place to do the split because you didn’t want to be in there any longer than you had to be. A scuzz covered the walls like unbrushed teeth and a smell lingered in the air like a mixture of old cheese and new death. The perfect place to get in and get out.
They’d already been waiting for Callaway over twenty minutes in the tiny office. With no smoke to fill his mouth, Leon started talking again. "Callaway’s late, huh?"
"Yeah, and the sky is blue. Tell me something I don’t know."
Walter’s plan had been to wait until Callaway and Leon were both there, the money was out on the table, and then tap them both. Take all three shares for himself. But if Leon kept jawing at him, he might have to split up the fun into two parts. That is, if Callaway ever showed.
"How about a drink, Walt?"
"We don’t drink on the job," Walter said. A rule, written in stone, said with as much hardness.
"The job’s over, Walt. All we got left is the split."
"If we got something left, then the job isn’t over."
"Yeah, but…just the split."
Walter regretted going in on a job with a guy who didn’t understand basic logic. A job starts when it starts and ends when it’s over. A white line, easy to see.
Leon shook his head, snorted out a laugh. "Y’know, Walt. I say the job’s over. And that means you can’t boss me around anymore. I’m a grown fucking man and I’m getting a drink." Leon stood.
"Sit your ass down, Leon."
"No. You shut the hell up. I’m not your bitch and I…"
The suppressor on his gun didn’t work for shit. It cut the volume of the shot maybe by half, that was it. Another thing Walter liked about Zafiro’s was the jukebox cranking Bob Seeger, Springsteen, and ZZ Top night after night at near-concert levels. His shots would go unnoticed.
Leon swayed for a second or two, his eyes big and starting to water. The leaking red on his chest showed Walter’s shot had missed the heart, but only by a little. It had been a quick draw, so Walter felt okay about his marksmanship.
Leon reached out a hand, but missed the chair and stumbled back, set one ass cheek on the seat and then toppled to the floor. Walter was glad he didn’t have to use two shots to put him down.
Through the wall, Lynyrd Skynyrd begged for someone to give them three steps for the door. The framed liquor license and spare cases of Jim Beam and Stoli rattled with the bass line. Walter pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Callaway.
He answered with a steady whooshing sound behind him, like Callaway was speaking from a raft on a whitewater river.
"Walt. Didn’t figure you’d take this long to call."
"The fuck are you, Callaway?"
"I’m not there, that’s for sure." He laughed. Not a good laugh—not for Walter anyway. The sound he heard? Wind rushing through an open window.
"Are you driving?"
"Give the man a cigar," Callaway said. "Long gone. And if you don’t mind skipping the next question, I’m not telling you where I am or where I’m going."
"You son-of-a-bitch."
"Well, if that’s all you got, then this is going a damn sight better than I thought it would."
"Fuck you."
"Better. But did you really think I was going to split this with you two?"
"I’ll find you."
"No, you won’t."
"Wanna bet?"
"I got almost four hundred grand here says I already won that bet."
Walter could picture Callaway behind the wheel of his big ass Li
ncoln, looking down at the case holding the money. His graying hair whipping in the wind, smug smile on his face. But Walter didn’t know what damn direction he was driving in this vision. All he knew was that Callaway had his share of the money, and that was unacceptable.
Walter never stopped to think of the double standard—how he was planning to kill both Leon and Callaway and make off with the whole lot himself. It didn’t bother him that he was a hypocrite, or that Callaway had managed a way to go through with the same basic plan, minus any bloodshed. Not least of all his own.
Walter pocketed his phone again, the sound of the highway wind still in his ear. He leaned over the table and watched Leon’s chest. It wasn’t moving. No rise and fall.
He’d owe Zafiro for the mess. He’d have plenty for the payoff if he could find Callaway, get his share of the split. The other two shares, too. Leon wouldn’t miss it, being dead and all. And if Walter managed to lay eyes on Callaway, he would be joining Leon right quick.
Walter made an appointment to see The Bishop.
He’d made most of his living as an independent. Crewing his own scores, planning some, hired on for others. But everything in town had to be cleared through The Bishop. He wasn’t even greedy, The Bishop. Didn’t always want a cut, just wanted the respect of knowing what went on in his backyard. And don’t try to sell drugs or run girls. That was sewn up by The Bishop and his guys. No discussion about it.
Thing about this particular crime kingpin—this drug-dealing, pimping, murdering, palm-greasing, kneecap-breaking tough guy—and the way he got his nickname…
He was an actual Bishop in the Catholic church.
Walter arrived at the archdiocese and announced himself. "I have an appointment."
"Yes," said the girl behind the desk. "Have a seat. He’ll be with you in a moment."
Walter never specified what the meeting was about or what business he was in, but the girl didn’t ask. Walter figured the everyday dealings of the Catholic church were shady enough that guys like Walter could come and go all day long and nothing would seem the slightest bit unusual.
"He’ll see you now," the girl said with a smile.
Walter entered an office bigger than his apartment. The Bishop sat behind an ornate desk in what was modest attire for him. Not the Sunday best with the pointy hat and all that, the getup that made Walter think of a chessboard. He wore a wine-colored topcoat-looking thing and a small skullcap. As Walter walked across the massive room, transferring from one oversized rug to another, he wondered if he was expected to kiss the man’s ring or anything.
"Walter," The Bishop said. "I know you by reputation, but it’s nice to put a face to the stories."
"Thanks, Father."
"Please…it’s Your Excellency."
Yeah, fuck that, Walter thought. He smiled and nodded like a foreigner waiting until the translator got there.
"So, how may I help you today?"
"Well, it’s like this," Walter said, "I need to find a guy."
"And you think I might know where he is?"
"If anybody can find him, you can." A little flattery, add a dash of charming smile.
"You have his name? His last whereabouts?"
"Yeah, yeah, all that shit." He stopped, pursed his lips in an embarrassed pucker, and waited to get chewed out for language. The Bishop chose to ignore it.
"And you want him back why?"
"Does that matter?"
"Yes, it does. Am I sentencing this man to death? Does his return threaten me in any way?"
Walter shifted on his feet. "He stole something from me."
"Given your line of work, I assume you stole it first."
"Well…yeah."
"So you stole something—the two of you together—then he stole it out from under you and now you wish to reclaim your lost goods. Is that it?"
"Yeah. Something like that."
Even knowing what The Bishop was capable of—the rackets he ran, the vice he supplied to thousands of people—Walter couldn’t reconcile what he knew of the man with the kindly old face in front of him.
"And what will you do for me in return?" The Bishop asked.
"You mean, like, an eye-for-an-eye thing?"
"That’s not typically how that expression is used, Walter. An eye for an eye is more of a phrase of revenge. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that."
A chill ran through the conversation. Walter stammered to get it back on track. "I mean, like, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?"
"More like that, yes."
"I don’t got much money until I find this guy. I can cut you in ten-percent finder's fee."
As soon as he said it, Walter knew the figure was too low. He hoped The Bishop would see it as the first salvo of a negotiation, and not be insulted by Walter’s offer.
"I was thinking more of a trade of services. You’re a resourceful man, Walter. I’ll provide this service for you and you provide a service for me."
The Bishop already seemed to know Walter was in the thievery business. He expected a heist job as the trade.
"What’s the job?" Walter asked.
The Bishop leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of his chest and continued to speak in his quiet, almost monastic voice. "Not too dissimilar from your predicament, actually. You see, I have a man who has been doing work for me. It’s recently come to my attention that his accounting does not match with my accounting of his intake from this venture. I need someone to go collect the difference."
A collection job. Easy. Walter hadn’t done that sort of work in over fifteen years, but the rules of the game hadn’t changed. And if he could walk in as an invited guest of The Bishop? Well, anybody who is not an idiot would fork over whatever they owed.
"Yeah, sure. I can do that. Just round up what he owes you?"
"Yes. As simple as that."
"And you’ll find Callaway for me?"
"Like you said, Walter, if anyone can, it’s me."
The Bishop smiled and it creeped Walter out. For the first time, he could see the man behind all the rumors. It was there in his eyes, his yellowed teeth, the purple tongue that moistened his lips. There was the guy who could order you dead with a phone call. There was the man who was said to try out every prostitute first, male and female, as a test before they could hit the streets for him. There was the man who once sent back twenty pounds of heroin to a dealer in Mexico because he didn’t like it when the dealer tried to change the terms of a deal. He also included an extra four pounds of C-4 explosive on a timer that blew the compound heavenward while sending the dealer to hell.
Walter bowed a little, for lack of anything better to do, and backed his way out of the massive room.
There was no hunt. Walter was given an address and a name—Roy.
Roy owed twenty-two thousand, four hundred dollars to The Bishop. Walter had the figure written down on a scrap of paper in his pocket just in case he forgot.
The house leaned slightly to the left. Paint flaked off the exterior like dandruff and several of the boards had been replaced by unpainted pine planks. Roy wasn’t using his twenty-two large for home improvements, that was for sure. The steps up the porch groaned as Walter reached the front door, wondering to himself if this sort of quid pro quo was how The Bishop got free labor. If he knew this joker owed him money, why not have someone already on his payroll collect? Walter figured it must be more of a power play. If he gave up Callaway for free, every jackass with a favor needed would crawl out from under their rocks and press The Bishop for freebies.
Could be worse. A lot worse.
Walter knocked. Before he left, The Bishop gave orders not to kill Roy. He was still a viable money-making part of the apparatus, after all. A little skimming off the top was to be expected.
The door cracked open and a watery eye searched hard for focus on Walter.
"Roy?" Walter asked.
"Who wants to know?"
Walter leaned a hand on the door frame, p
ut a simple grin on his face as he prepared to name drop. "The Bishop sent me—"
Before he could get to what for, the door slammed shut. Walter jerked his hand away, but not fast enough. His pinky finger was caught between the heavy door and the frame. Decades of paint layers made the seal a tight fit. Walter howled in pain.
With his left hand, Walter turned the knob. Roy had been in such a hurry to get away from the door that he hadn’t locked it. Walter pushed the door open and freed his pinky, which now hung limply in his palm. The skin around the knuckle was torn and bleeding, but Walter bolted through the door and after Roy, ignoring the pain.
Roy was a short man, nearly as wide around as he was tall. His labored breathing sounded like gravel in a blender and his retreat was less than swift. Walter pounded through a dark living room, past a narrow galley kitchen and caught Roy a few steps from a back door that led onto an overgrown patch of grass surrounded by cinderblocks and bricks strewn by an overturned wheelbarrow.
Walter slapped a hand on Roy’s back, tried to grab and fistful of his t-shirt, but the sweat-soaked fabric slipped from his fingers on first try. Holding his twisted and bleeding hand high, Walter kicked at Roy’s feet and the fat man collapsed to the floor in a puddle. He grabbed Roy’s foot and dragged him back six feet to the opening of the kitchen and the tiny breakfast nook beside it.
Sore with the effort of moving the fat man, Walter sat back in a cushioned chrome chair with a torn seat, breathing hard.
"So you know why I’m here, huh Roy?"
Roy coughed twice, clearing a path through phlegmy lungs. "You’re here to kill me."
"No, Roy," Walter said. He lifted his hand higher, keeping it above his heart. The blood ran down his forearm. The pinky completely detached from his hand except for the flap of skin holding it on. "I’m here for the money you owe."
THUGLIT Issue Sixteen Page 1