by Angel Colon
THUGLIT
Issue Fifteen
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 Fifteen
ISBN-13: 978-1505806120
ISBN-10: 1505806127
Stories by the authors: ©Angel Luis Colón, ©Patrick Cooper, ©Timothy Friend, ©Hugh Lessig, © Steven Murphy, ©Bryan Paul Rouleau, ©Tom See, ©Liam Sweeny
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
Miranda's Corner by Hugh Lessig
Wake Up, Little Susie by Patrick Cooper
Hole by Steven Murphy
Pigs Get Fat, Hogs Get Slaughtered
by Timothy Friend
Turnpike by Bryan Paul Rouleau
Bear Mountain by Angel Luis Colón
The Wrong Hammer by Liam Sweeny
Prairie Color by Tom See
Author Bios
EXCLUSIVE NOVEL PREVIEW
NEW YORKED by Rob Hart
A Message from Big Daddy Thug
It's Singalong Time, Thugleteers!!!
(ahem)
Should auld felonies be forgot,
and never brought to court.
Should Thuglit readers not get shot,
aaand dirty cops get bought.
For auld laaaang syne, my punks,
for auld lang syyyyne,
Ohhh what the fuck is auld lang syne?
and Tarzan swung on viiiines.
…I kinda ran out of steam at the end there.
Either way, it's a new year and a new issue of Thuglit! With eight new stories! Newnie-new-new!!!
Sorry. I've been chugging egg nog and champagne for two weeks without a lot of sleep to compensate. I'm a little punchy.
What this issue ALSO has is the second of the three LitReactor ARREST US contest winners. Wanna know who it is? TOO BAD! Just read the goddamn magazine.
Sorry…sorry. It's the nog talking.
I'll see myself out.
IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:
Not every mountain can be overcome.
This motel has early check-out. REALLY early.
Oink.
The Ingalls don't live here any more.
Tossing one to the tight end.
STOP………….Hammer Time.
First comes cash, then comes marriage, then come horses with a funeral carriage.
It's time to come home.
SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!!
Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug)
12/29/14
Miranda's Corner
by Hugh Lessig
Crew chief Randy Cartwright was 28 years old and sideways on his mortgage because the bitch moved out. His words. It made him a classic candidate, Emmanuel said, someone young and alone, someone long on obligations and short on brains.
At mid-shift, I found Randy in the break room. He did not look up as I sat down and patted his knee.
"Don't tell me you're missing quota," he said. "Because that's being a bad girl."
Randy put the moves on when I first arrived. It took him a couple of weeks to realize that a laid-off software engineer wouldn't go home with a man who drove a dual-axle pickup and sang "Stacy's Mom" at karaoke after one too many mojitos. He said I was too angry.
He had no idea.
"Quota is no problem," I said. "I'm here for a business proposition. If you could have four thousand dollars free and clear, never pay it back, would you be in?"
"That a joke? Don't poke the bear. My bills weigh more than your ass."
But I saw something in his eyes, maybe the same flash of desperation Emmanuel saw in mine. You can't hide that. Not when it's deep and settled like a splinter you just want to yank out. We went to a corner of the break room where I described Emmanuel's proposition. As Randy began to connect the dots, the weathered look of hopelessness began to fade like beach fog in August.
"This guy," Randy said. "He arranges…marriages? He'll pay me to marry someone?"
"Correct."
"And this guy is . . ."
"He's Haitian." As if that explained everything.
Randy turned it over in his head. "I get four thousand dollars if I marry some Haitian chick who wants to stay in this country."
"For her, marrying an American is a quick path to citizenship," I clarified.
"I don't have to live with her? I don't stick my dick in that?"
"Dick-sticking is optional. Six months after the marriage, you'll meet immigration officials for a progress report. You'll make up details—what side of the bed you sleep on, who snores, who's the breadwinner. It has to sound like a real relationship. Technically, immigration frowns on marriages of convenience."
Technically, it's a felony.
"I would be the fucking breadwinner. We'd get that straight."
"This kind of girl wouldn't care," I said. "We both know that."
Randy rubbed a calloused hand across his face. The light faded from his eyes, as if he could only experience hope for short stretches at a time. Then the nickel dropped.
"Wait a damn minute. What's your interest in this?"
"I get three hundred dollars for introducing you. I'm what you call a contractor."
I arranged the meet for Wednesday at Kegs 'n Karaoke. The woman's name was Miranda and she would wear a purple dress. Emmanuel said that was all I needed to know. As long as I was introducing her to a friend from work, it would be fine.
I found her sitting near the beer taps, skinny legs curled behind the barstool, hair tightly braided, fingers intertwined under her chin. She had curled herself into knots waiting for this moment, hoping the new dress would hide the worn flip-flops.
"Miranda?"
She turned and nodded, her eyes dark and full of secrets. A glass of water with a slice of lemon sat before her. I dismissed it with a wave.
"Listen, they have shooters on Hump Day special. Or if you like the frou-frou drinks, try an appletini. Fuck, I could use one."
"I don't drink, ma'am. Thank you anyway."
Her voice was crisp and flat and belonged in a conference room. She shifted on the stool and pulled out an old flip phone.
"It's past time. I don't trust people who are late. Can you vouch for him?"
"Randy? Oh yeah, he has a big heart. And he loves to have fun."
She dug into her small purse and pulled out a stick of gum. "This is costing me ten thousand dollars. Fun is the last thing I have in mind. Does he have good health insurance? My son has diabetes."
"The health plan is decent. I just had a biopsy."
"Oh?"
"A lump. It was benign. Back to work, right?" My nervous laugh hid the skip in my voice whenever I said the L-word.
She smiled joylessly. "I'm an executive secretary. I keep my boss from looking stupid and work thirty hours a week. I do his job and mine together, and I don't get benefits."
"I hear you. Me? I'm a software engineer. Designed role-playing simulations for the Defense Department. Then sequestration hit—these damn budget cuts—and my business dried up." I flipped a lock of hair from my ey
es. "I'm known for my work in Seychelles."
She gave me a second look. "I thought you worked with Randy at this…factory?"
"I do now. But that's not my career."
"Your career is teaching cultural sensitivity to others?"
"Well…yeah. That was one contract. It was like a game. But very sophisticated."
Her stare was deadpan.
"The game made you think," I said. "It gave options, taught critical thinking."
She blew a tiny bubble with her gum and patted my arm.
"Of course. And here we are."
Randy showed up buzzed, his blue jeans creased and hair newly feathered. He made a show of kissing Miranda's hand and led her to a table. I stayed at the bar to make sure they didn't start fighting. When karaoke started, Miranda was the first one to volunteer. Taking the microphone in one delicate hand, she said, "This is for my son," and began to belt out "I Will Always Love You," by Whitney Houston. Her voice filled the room, and people stopped in mid-sentence to listen.
Randy ordered two mojitos and smiled like a retard.
The next morning, Emmanuel texted me at eight o'clock.
Contact me immediately. Re: headlines.
I fumbled with my phone and found a TV news station. The lead story carried a photo of Miranda pulled from a driver's license or passport. Her smile was full of hope, and for a moment I thought this was her perky twin, the one whose dreams had been fulfilled. The story said she had been found beaten to death behind a hardware store in the Ocean View section of Norfolk.
My phone chimed again.
Where are you? I have questions.
Emmanuel and I met two weeks ago at a military conference in downtown Norfolk. I got into a shouting match with the moderator of a panel who didn't know his ass from a surveillance drone. Then someone saw I didn't have a lanyard around my neck, which meant I wasn't registered, which meant I breached etiquette by leaving business cards on empty chairs, although "Paula Boxer, freelance IT consultant," sure had a nice ring to it. To make matters worse, this particular panel required a security clearance, which I technically no longer had. After being escorted out with great fanfare, Emmanuel tracked me down on the sidewalk, correctly assessed my desperation, bought me a drink and made his pitch.
But he only revealed so much.
I didn't know where he lived or his last time. Hell, I didn't know if Emmanuel was his first name.
And if he had questions, I had no fucking answers.
The doorbell rang thirty minutes later. I ignored it. When I looked up again, Emmanuel had come around back. He slid open the glass door and stepped into my living room as if invited. Fuck, who locks glass doors? He wore a yellow tracksuit and running shoes and carried a brown paper bag. Without a word, he put the bag on the coffee table and motioned me to sit.
"Paula, not answering your front door falls short of a plan. We must act promptly on this business with the girl."
"Her name was Miranda."
"Of course it was."
"You don't seem to care. Let me tell you what happened."
He held up a hand. "Keep the details to yourself. The less I know, the better."
His skin was deep black, almost purple, and his bald head held a mirrored shine. From the bag he removed a handgun with a fitted silencer, plus a slip of paper with an address. He pushed the gun toward me. It was a Glock 17, something I remember from my games. I turned it over in my hand and fought a rising tide of panic that brought back old memories.
"Paula, are you listening? This is the plan."
When I was a little girl, I dreamt of getting on the wrong bus to meet my mom after work. I would realize my mistake and scream for the bus to stop, but no sound would come out. I had no voice. Things were in motion and I couldn't stop it.
Emmanuel leaned forward.
"Please focus. Drive past the Cartwright house late tonight and watch for unmarked cars. Then go inside. You can go around back just as I did here." He pointed to my sliding door. "If he's not at home, wait for him. If he doesn't come in twenty-four hours, go to a convenience store and purchase a cheap phone and call me."
His eyes were like two stones. He spoke with clipped precision.
"Paula, you had a lump. This time it was just a cyst. But a biopsy is a biopsy. It cost you what—a thousand dollars from your own pocket?"
"Fifteen hundred."
"And you go back in six months. What if your car breaks down in the meantime? What if the factory reduces your hours or lays you off? You said it yourself, homeless people are not just those who hold cardboard signs along the road."
I was frazzled when I met Emmanuel, having just been tossed from a four-star hotel. So I spilled my guts after the second or third beer. Mentioned the biopsy, mentioned that Dad ran a food cart and Mom cleaned houses and they died together in a car crash during my senior year at Virginia Tech, having never taken a vacation or acted on their dreams, maybe never having dreamt at all. I mentioned the biopsy again and started to cry. I may have said something sitting in the park after my procedure, chatting up a homeless man who tugged at his hospital bracelet, his backpack rattling with pills, describing his pride at welding steel on aircraft carriers before booze caught up with him. And I'm pretty sure I mentioned how factory life had worked its way into my bones, all the way down to my ill-fitting steel-toed shoes, and how I came home every night to canned soup and public television and cried for reasons I couldn't even explain.
I may have said all that.
Emmanuel's smile morphed into a rictus grin. He spread his large hands. A gold ring adorned one pinky.
"Randy Cartwright is your responsibility. Afterwards, dispose of the gun in a storm drain. Money is to be made. Independence is to be had. It is time to move on."
"Move on?"
"You will be shocked at how easy it is."
I had sent a woman to her death for three hundred dollars in small bills. Somewhere, a diabetic son cried for her. Yet he wanted me to move on.
I thought of Miranda in her final moments of life. Did she curse me? Cry out for her son and find she had no voice? Damn right it was my responsibility. I had to fix this.
"Get out," I said. "I'm finished."
"You are not finished, Paula. You have barely started."
I waved the gun toward him. "Don't make me use this."
Something about his smile pissed me off. He was absolutely without fear, as if I would never stand up for myself. I aimed the gun six inches to the right of his head and pulled the trigger. Just to scare the motherfucker.
Click.
Emmanuel's smile disappeared.
"Oh Paula."
I could almost feel Miranda over my shoulder, shaking her head in disappointment. Of course the gun was defective. I would confront Randy with a useless gun and he'd kill me. Then Emmanuel would be free. Randy couldn't implicate him.
Emmanuel stood up and smoothed his track pants. "You are not well, Paula. Do not leave this house. I will find another way to deal with this."
His hand went to his pocket.
Miranda screamed inside my head.
He's not reaching for his keys, idiot.
I rammed the barrel at his face, intending to push in those nice white teeth. Instead, the barrel went into his eye. I mean into his eye. He screamed and fell to the carpet, blood and viscous matter running down his cheek.
Christ, his eye had popped like grape.
The screams grew louder. Blood seeped between his fingers and into the carpet. I had crossed a boundary now. With blood and eye junk on the carpet, might as well ratchet it up.
As his screams turned into a pitiable moan, I ran to the kitchen and found my good butcher knife. Curled into a fetal position, his face hidden with both hands, he seemed something less than human. I inserted the tip of the knife just behind his ear and made one deep slice. It cut like chicken. He gasped as blood began to soak through his track suit. A couple of hiccups and then silence.
Miranda's voice again.<
br />
Check his pockets.
He had knife with a six-inch blade and a cash roll of two thousand dollars.
At Randy's bungalow, a soft light shown in the front window. I circled around to the back as the crackle of a bug zapper serenaded me. His unlocked door opened to a tiny kitchen. On the refrigerator, magnets held three official papers. The first was an emergency protective order. The second was a preliminary protective order. Both were filed by one Alison Parker, 28. A third document listed a court hearing for next week.
So Randy practiced beating up his girlfriend before meeting Miranda. Alison had the sense to move out and take him to court. Miranda came from the same take-no-shit school, but she had nowhere to run.
You saw to that. For three hundred dollars.
I found Randy asleep on the living room couch in camouflage boxer shorts and a T-shirt, one arm thrown across his forehead, the knuckles skinned red, and five empty beer cans lined up neatly on the floor. Miranda talked me through it, pushed me to think clearly. I grabbed a pillow from the couch and pressed it hard over Randy's face. His fists pummeled my neck and ears, but I kept my focus and counted to thirty. His strength ebbed. He farted horribly.
Then it was over.
I had brought the butcher knife stained with Emmanuel's blood. Wiping the handle clean, I pressed it into Randy's limp hand as a black-and-tan Chihuahua walked in from the bedroom. The little dog watched me work, its ears laid back, probably expecting a beating.
"Come here, buddy."
We toured the rest of the apartment. I came away with a hundred dollars from Randy's wallet, a pet carrier and a four-legged dose of unconditional love.