65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

“I’m unemployed,” the bum said.

  I shoved the multicolored mélange of latex into his filthy mouth, and while he sputtered and choked I blew up a pink one and expertly twisted it into a horsey. I dropped it by his twitching corpse. Street person dies making balloon animals. We’ve all seen it on the news many times.

  I tugged off the gloves, balled them up inside out, and shot the three pointer at the open can.

  Missed.

  “What’s going on?”

  A man. Joe Busybody, sticking his nose in other people’s business, watching from the sidewalk. Linebacker body, gone soft with age.

  I reached for another pair of gloves. “Sir, this is police business. Would you like to give a statement?”

  The guy backpedaled.

  “You’re no cop.”

  I didn’t bother with the second glove. I removed the aluminum mallet from my holster. That, along with a little seasoning salt and the pork chop I kept in my shoe, would make his death mimic a meat tenderizing gone wrong.

  But before I had a chance to tartare his ass, he took off.

  I keep in shape.

  Rule #13: Stay fit.

  Any self-respecting hitman worth his contract fee has to workout these days. Marks were becoming more and more health conscious. Sometimes they ran. Sometimes they refused to die. Sometimes they even had the gall to fight back.

  I do Pilates, and have one of those abdominal exercisers they sell on late night television. I bought it at a thrift store, with cash.

  Rule #22: Don’t leave a paper trail.

  The witness had a head start, but I quickly closed the distance. When the guy glanced, wide-eyed, over his shoulder, I was able to smash the mallet on his forehead.

  See ya. Wouldn’t wanna be ya.

  The mark stumbled, and I had to leap over the falling body. I skidded to a stop on thick rubber soles.

  Rule #26: Shoes should be silent and have good traction, and good arch support.

  I took a moment to scan the street. No one seemed to be watching.

  I played Emeril on the mark’s face, then put the mallet in his right hand and the pork chop in his left.

  I was sprinkling on the Mrs. Dash when I heard something behind me.

  My head snapped up at the sound, and I peered over my shoulder. The number 332 commuter bus had stopped at my curb. Right next to the big sign that said BUS STOP.

  I cursed under my breath for breaking Rule #86: Don’t kill anyone where people are likely to congregate, like bus stops.

  I stared. A handful of riders, noses pressed to window glass, stared back.

  The bus driver, a heavy-set woman wearing a White Sox hat, scrambled to close the bus door.

  But I was fast. In three steps I’d mounted the stairs and withdrawn a can of oven cleaner from my holster. Nasty stuff, oven cleaner. The label is crammed full of warnings. The bus driver stared at the can and got wide-eyed.

  “Drive,” I told her.

  She drove.

  I faced the terrified group of riders. Two were children. Three were elderly. One was a nun with an eye patch.

  Rule #7: No sympathy.

  I snapped on another latex glove.

  After counting them twice, I came up with nine people total. Just enough for a soccer team.

  Perfect.

  I removed the uninflated ball and the bicycle pump from my holster. Soccer games got rowdy. Casualties were common.

  After screwing some cleats into the bottoms of my thick, rubber soled shoes, I spent a good ten minutes stomping on the group. The nun was especially tough. But I had training. I was a fuscia belt in Jin Dog Doo, the ancient Japanese art of killing a man using only your hands and feet and edged weapons and blunt weapons and common household appliances and guns.

  Eventually, even the nun succumbed. Some torn goal netting and a discarded ref’s whistle completed the illusion. Only one last thing left to do.

  “Stop the bus!” I yelled at the driver.

  The driver didn’t stop. She accelerated.

  Rule #89: Don’t attract attention.

  This bus was attracting more than its share. Besides speeding, the driver had just run a red light, prompting honks and screeching brakes from cross-town traffic.

  This simple hit had become a bit more complicated than I’d anticipated.

  “Slow down!” I ordered the driver.

  My command went unheeded. I took a Chilean Sea Bass out of my holster. It used to be called the Pantagonian Toothfish, but some savvy marketers changed its name and it’s currently the hottest fish on the five star menus of the world. So hot, that overfishing has brought the Chilean Sea Bass/Pantagonian Toothfish to the brink of extinction.

  Beating the driver to death with the fish would look somewhat…well…fishy. At first. But when I planted a deboning knife and a few slices of lemon in her pockets, the cops would get the picture. Just another endangered species taking revenge.

  I walked up to the front of the bus and tried to recall if “The Complete Amateur’s Guide to Contract Killing” had a rule about whacking a driver while you were a passenger. Nothing sprang to mind.

  Still, it didn’t seem like a wise idea. I tried another tactic.

  “Stop the bus, and I’ll let you go.”

  That was Rule #17: Lie to the mark to put her at ease.

  Or was that Rule #18?

  I reached for the cheat card that came with the book, folded up in my pants pocket.

  Rule #18: Lie to the mark. Rule #17: Get in and out as quickly as possible.

  I’d sure blown that rule to hell.

  I shook the thought out of my head, recalling Rule #25: Stay focused.

  I put the crib sheet back in my pocket and poked the driver in the hat with the bass.

  “Stop the bus, and you’ll live. I give you my word.”

  I grinned.

  Rule #241: Disarm them with a smile.

  The driver hit the brakes, catapulting me forward. I bounced off the front window and into her back. The Sea Bass—my weapon—went flying, which broke Rule #98 and Rule #104 and possibly Rule #206.

  Dazed, I sat up, watching as the driver shoved open the door and ran off, screaming.

  I did a quick search for the Toothfish, but couldn’t find it amid the soccer massacre. I’d have to leave it behind, a blatant disregard for Rule #47. Luckily, the fish had been wiped clean of prints (Rule #11) and was unregistered (Rule #12) so it wouldn’t lead back to me.

  Now for the driver.

  I sprang from the bus and saw her beelining for Comiskey Park, where the White Sox played baseball. There was the usual activity around the stadium; fans, hotdog vendors, people selling programs, and no one seemed to pay any attention to me or the screaming fat lady.

  The South Side of Chicago; where screaming fat ladies are commonplace.

  Doubling my efforts, I managed to catch up with her just as she reached the ticket counter. I took a 1/10,000th scale replica of the Washington Monument out of my holster and pressed the pointy end to her back. She was about to become another sightseeing souvenir victim. But before I got ram the monolith home, the ticket attendant caught my eye from behind the thick bullet proof glass.

  I had a hunch the glass was also souvenir proof, and I couldn’t kill the bus driver with someone staring straight into my eyes, practically salivating to be a witness for the prosecution.

  So I did the only thing I could in that situation. I whispered to the woman to keep quiet, and then smiled at the attendant.

  “Two for the cheap seats,” I said.

  I paid, then walked arm in arm with the driver through the bustling crowd. The picture presented to me was disheartening. People were everywhere.

  There was no private corner to drag the woman into. No secluded nooks. The bathrooms had lines out the door. Every square foot of space was crammed to capacity.

  How do you kill a person in a crowded space without anyone seeing you?

  I closed my eyes, trying to remember if this situation
ever came up in the book. Rule #90? No, that had to do with airplanes. Rule #312? No, that was for killing a mark in a rain forest.

  At times like this, I really wished I’d kept my job at the grocery store. Or bought that other book, “The Complete Amateur’s Guide to Kidnapping and Extortion.”

  “Let me go or I’ll scream,” the bus driver said over the pipe organ music.

  “If you scream, I’ll kill you,” I answered.

  A classic stalemate. It happened to me once before, in the Har Dong peninsula, on the isle of Meenee Peepee, in the city of Tini Dik. I was at a hotel (I recall it being the Itsee Wang), and came upon a gorgeous Mossad agent named Desdemona, who I managed to manipulate by engaging in massive quantities of athletic sex with her. Later, when I sobered up, I realized I’d been duped. Rather than a beautiful double agent from Israel, Desdemona had actually been just a large pile of dirty towels.

  I had no idea what that had to do with anything, or how it could help me now.

  No other options open, the bus driver and I made our way to the seats. They were in Section 542, way up in the nosebleed part of the stadium.

  Even that section was full, fans packed shoulder to shoulder. We stepped on several toes and spilled a few beers wading through the crowd.

  “These seats suck,” said the bus driver.

  I told her to shut up.

  To keep her quiet, I decided to appeal to her inner overeater, and bought two red hots from a hawking vendor.

  She took both of them.

  Then we settled in to watch the game.

  It was the bottom of the fifth, Sox down two runs.

  I chose to make my move at the seventh inning stretch. By then, all of the drunken fans around us would get up to relieve their bladders, and I’d be able to off the bus driver and slip into the stream of moving bodies. Then I could…

  The next thing I knew, the bus driver was shoving a hot dog with the works into my face, trying to blind me.

  “Help!” she screamed, at the same time trying to get her big ass out of the stadium seat.

  First one cheek popped free, then the other, and then her big butt was out and shaking in my face.

  I wiped ketchup out of my eyes and looked around.

  No one paid any attention to the bus driver. Someone behind us even yelled “Down in front!”

  I stood and wrapped an arm around her fat shoulders, under the pretense of helping her back to her seat.

  Then I jammed the souvenir monument into her throat. Hard. Six or seven times.

  An eerie silence settled over the crowd. Then the stadium exploded in screams.

  I looked onto the field, wondering if there had just been a spectacular play.

  The game had stopped. Instead of baseball players, I saw myself on the Jumbotron monitor, forty feet high, the bloody Washington Monument in my hand.

  Oops.

  I did a quick scan of the ball park. Thirty, maybe thirty-five thousand people.

  This was going to be tough.

  I reached into my holster for the roll of fabric softener and the Perry Como LP, and got started.

  A humorous horror story that harkens back to the alien invasion movies of the 1950s. I wondered what would happen if an alien landed in modern day California.

  “I have traveled many billions of light years to mate with an earth woman.”

  Debbi eyed the john and licked her cherry red lips. Freak, she thought. But all the freaks were out tonight. Halloween in LA was crazier than Mardi Gras.

  He was dressed up like some kind of gooey alien, and she had to admit his make-up was pretty good. His mask had scales on it, like a fish, and his mouth had little dangly things that moved when he spoke. The spacesuit, made of some kind of metallic silvery fabric, was Hollywood-quality — not surprising, considering they were on the Sunset Strip. It was probably an old movie prop.

  The only fake thing about the costume was the eyes; big yellow orbs that were attached to his head on stalks. They looked like tennis balls.

  The freak leaned closer to Debbi. “Will you mate with me?”

  Any other night, she would have told him to take a hike. Weirdos were best avoided. But rent was due tomorrow, and business had been slow. Besides, her horoscope said today was a day for taking chances, and Debbi always put her faith in the stars. She launched into her pitch.

  “Straight is twenty-five, half and half is fifty. And for seventy-five I’ll take you around the world, sugar.”

  “I have already been in orbit around your world eight hundred and forty-two times.”

  “Couldn’t find a parking space, huh?” Debbi smacked her gum. “How much money you got, Mr. Spaceman?”

  Mr. Spaceman stuck one of his lobster claws into his tunic and pulled out a roll of cash that would choke a horse.

  “Don’t flash money like that around here!” Debbi looked up and down the street, scanning for predators. “This isn’t a nice neighborhood.”

  “I thought this was the city of angels.”

  “The angels carry knives and guns.”

  She took the john by the claw and led him down the block to the flop house. The desk clerk, a fat, greasy guy named Larry, raised an eyebrow.

  “Does Mars need women?”

  “Screw you, Larry. Gimme 214 for the rest of the night.”

  Larry handed her the key and winked.

  The room was dark, dingy, the bed still rumpled from the previous rental. Debbi took off her halter top and hot pants, nudifying herself.

  “See anything you like, ET?”

  The john nodded several times. “I am aroused at the sight of your mammalian infant feeding vessels.”

  “You should be. They cost six grand.”

  She sidled up to him, her hand seeking the front of his shiny outfit.

  The things I do for a buck…

  “So, can Mr. Spock come out and play?”

  “Who is this Mr. Spock? My name is Gnerlok. I am from the planet Norbulon in the second quadrant of the Xaldorgia Galaxy.”

  “A tourist, huh? I had a feeling. Isn’t Norbulon somewhere east?”

  To a Los Angeleno, everyplace was east.

  Gnerlok narrowed his bulbous eyes. “Yes. It is east. Near the state called Florida.”

  “I can spot an out-of-towner a mile away. How about slipping out of those tin foil pants?”

  With the deft move of a pro, Debbi southicated Gnerlok’s zipper. His outfit fell with a clanging sound.

  “Oh my.” Debbi bit her lower lip to keep from laughing, Fire Engine Red #03 rubbing off on her teeth. “I’ve never seen one that small before.”

  Gnerlok frowned.

  “I assure you, that this is an average size for a male from Norbulon. I’m actually a bit larger than most.”

  “Go ahead and think that, sugar. You want to take a shower, get all that make-up off?”

  “I am fine.”

  You’re about as far from fine as you can get, Debbi thought.

  “Okay, Mr. Spaceman. What would you like to do first?”

  “Please give my full access to your urteran cavity.”

  Debbi laid back on the bed. “Like this?”

  “That is perfect.”

  Gnerlok climbed on, then immediately climbed off.

  Debbi frowned at him. “What’s the matter, sugar?”

  “Nothing is the matter. The coupling was most enjoyable.”

  “You’re done?”

  “Yes I am. Was our mating pleasurable for you?”

  Debbi sighed. She sat up, giving him a pat on the claw. “You’re a machine, honey. I’ll never have better.”

  Gnerlok pulled up his pants and dug out his wad O’bills.

  “Here is three hundred earth dollars. Thank you for procreating with me.”

  Debbi reached for the cash. “Anytime, sug —”

  Her words were cut off by a rumbling sound. It came from her abdomen, loud enough for them both to hear.

  “Excuse me. I had a couple chili dogs f
or dinner, and it sounds like those dogs are barking.”

  “That is not the sound of your digestive system.”

  The sound repeated, louder this time. Debbi looked down, unable to comprehend what she saw.

  Her belly was expanding.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “We have successfully mated. My brood incubates inside of you.”

  Her stomach was now the size of a basket ball, and the growth showed no signs of stopping.

  Even worse, Debbi felt something deep within.

  Something moving.

  “You freak!” Debbie screamed. “Take off that stupid mask and tell me what you’ve done to me!”

  She bolted to her feet and reached for Gnerlok’s face, her fist closing around one of his eye stalks.

  “Please do not tug at my face, earth-woman.”

  Debbi recoiled. It wasn’t a mask.

  “My God! What part of Florida are you from?”

  “I am not from Florida. I have used deception to gain admission to your birthing portal. Now my progeny shall be born, and we shall enslave the world and —”

  “I’m not ready to be a mother!” Debbi cried. “I haven’t finished Junior College yet!”

  “Nor shall you ever, earth-woman. My species shall destroy —”

  Debbi slapped Gnerlok across the face.

  “Our agreement was for sex, not motherhood! You owe me a lot more money!”

  Gnerlok held his cheek, his bulbous eyes widening.

  “But money will not be necessary when we take over —”

  There was a popping sound, and a flood of green cascaded down Debbi’s legs.

  She stared, horrified, as her uterus contracted and a tiny yellow crustacean, the size of a golf ball, shot out of her and plopped onto the floor.

  “Waaa,” it cried.

  Debbi’s eyes got moist. She swallowed back the lump forming in her throat. “My baby.”

  She bent down to pick it up, and the motion caused more creatures to shoot rapid-fire from her womanhood.

  “Don’t just stand there like an idiot!” she hissed at Gnerlok. “Pick my children up!”

  Gnerlok didn’t move until Debbi slapped him again. Then he moved as fast as he could.

  It was hard to keep up. Debbie’s body spit them out like watermelon seeds.

  For five minutes, the room was a combat zone. Multi-colored alien crayfish flew through the air—BING! BING! BING!—Gnerlok scurrying after them, mindful where he stepped.