by Graeme Hurry
“That’s what you said before Hi-Love, now don’t you make me do it again because I will, I surely will and you know I will … I still have your—”
“Ah-er-ughhhh-ummmph …” I willed all my energy into my arms and pushed with all my might—I bench-pressed 300-pounds and Loretta was 150—and, even in my state of exhaustion and hunger, I threw her body off of mine and the bungee-cord—whose ends had not yet been fully attached—flew off with her. I stood up and began running towards the trail which led to her beach home. It was a man-made wooden bridge-like structure that was nailed together and had a railing about three-feet high nailed onto 2 by 6’s that I was running, or stumbling, as it were, on. I could see that the house was about the length of a football field away and I was already struggling to catch my breath. She had injected me—I found out later—with large doses of heroin and it was still slowing all my senses down. I ran as fast as I could and when I finally made it to the house I had to break a pane in the back door to get in. I saw the kitchen immediately but instead of going for a knife or telephone, which was on the countertop, I—still being under the influence of the heroin flowing through my blood-vessels—opened the refrigerator and grabbed the first liquid container I saw, a half-gallon container of orange juice, which I guzzled down immediately. I then grabbed a box and opened it to see two cannolis and a creampuff, which I began stuffing into my mouth as fast as I could. I heard what sounded like a door slamming and then someone running through the house. I shoved the last cannoli into my mouth, washed it down with the rest of the orange juice and then opened a drawer that contained the silverware. I pulled out a large kitchen knife and turned just as the door opened and I stood facing Loretta, who just so happened to have what I knew was a .357 Magnum—or as Ant would say, in street lingo—a Tre Pound Seven. This one was a Snubnose, a.k.a. the 60-15, which had a 3-inch barrel.
“You know you aren’t hungry Hi-Love, so why are you eating?”
“Well, I ah-er-um, what do you have the gun for?”
“You still don’t understand do you? You still don’t play sandcastles in the sun the way we first did—like only love-bugs can. Must I do it to you again Hi-Love just like I did it last time?”
I swallowed a lump in my throat—then leaned over and spit up half of an uneaten cannoli.
“Oh Hi-Love what’s wrong are you …”
She had run over and banged me on the back and I could see the .357 Snubnose in her right hand; it was close enough for me to grab it and I did. I pushed her hand upwards and she fought me back with everything she had, which was—apparently—enough to throw me off balance and to grab my right hand, the same one that had her by the right wrist—her gun-hand—and we stumbled backwards, where she fell against the food cabinets. I began twisting her wrist upwards and the gun went off sending a bullet through a toaster sitting on top of the refrigerator and slamming it onto the floor. Her body was still covered by love-bugs and they were flying onto my face and crawling across my cheeks and into my mouth—they were in her mouth too but she didn’t seem to care—and I nearly gagged when I swallowed a mouthful of them and as I twisted sideways I put all of my energy into shoving her hand against the side of the cabinet and saw her eyes narrow as her right thumb cocked back the trigger but then I slammed her gun-yielding wrist against the corner of the cabinet and it flew through the air and landed with a thud on the
marble-tiled floor, where it went off, the bullet whizzing just past my ear so close that it grazed it and took a piece of the lobe with it, just before slamming into Loretta’s bug-filled mouth and through the back of her head. It splattered the cabinets, the ceiling and the floor with bits and pieces of jagged and bloody bits of brain-matter, jagged bone and flesh and I deposited the rest of the last cannoli I had ingested onto the floor just before I passed out and fell—still naked—on top of her now still, cold dead body.
EPILOGUE
There will come a time when you believe everything is finished.That will be the beginning.
—Louis L’Amour (1908-1988)
When I came to I was staring into the face of none other than Lt. Anthony J. Carpone Sr. He was bending at the waist and slapping me on the cheek and I smiled thinly. “Hey sup Lou-ten-nun?” I queried and Anthony Sr. nodded.
I noticed there was a C.S.I. team there and several technicians, criminalists and detectives scurrying around and when I was helped outside by two of them and sat in a rocking chair that was on the porch—a criminalist that I vaguely recognized asked me what happened and said he was going to record it. I told the whole crazy, insane story and when I was done, Anthony Sr.—who tried to sit next to me in another rocking chair but couldn’t fit his enormous bulk into the seat—dragged a foldable chair—that almost collapsed under his 300-plus pounds—onto the porch and finally sat down. He handed me a cold glass of Sweet Tea and I smiled and gulped it half-down. “We already know you two struggled in the kitchen and that somehow the three-fifty-seven hit the floor and the hair-trigger went off, hitting her in the mouth.” I rubbed my ear and felt a taped-up chunk of gauze on it. “Yeah, we had to tape you ear up, the bullet that killed Missus Love, took a piece of your ear-lobe first. In fact the tech’s got a piece of it on her lower lip and eye-deed it already,” he said and a shot of adrenaline coursed through my veins. I felt good for the first time in over 48-hours and rubbed my hand over my now 24-hour-plus old whiskers. Anthony Sr. smiled at me and I smiled back. “Where’s Ant?” I said.
“Ah, he’s got finals coming up soon—he goes to school all year round, y’know that?”
“Yeah, I know, smart kid, he’s gonna make a great lawyer someday.”
“Yeah—probably—what you gonna do now J.D.?”
“Wha’ … what ah yah mean? You mean ‘cause ah this I should be scared off the job? C’mon Anthony, I’m gonna stick—I mean what else can I do? Man, I dunno, come to think ah it, maybe I should do somethin’ else, y’know? I mean … I could probably—do somethin’ else?”
“Weren’t you a carpenter for awhile up north? I seemed to remember you was from New York and you worked for six or seven years up there, didn’t yah?”
“Yeah, I was in the union for about eight years and up in Canada for awhile too.”
“Yeah, well maybe you could—”
“Yeah, maybe I could get a pension—huh Anthony?”
“Yeah, c’mon J.D. , man I know you got a raw deal wid the Captain—we all heard about it and a couple of the guys even knew Widden—guy was a real dog but he had rank, y’know?”
“Yeah, well I dunno maybe I’ll go up north, y’know, get a real woman, get back in the Carpenters Union, y’know, get a pension in 15 years—hell, I’m 50-years old.”
Anthony Sr. smiled and nodded. “Yeah, twenty-twenty-six, huh Jay-Dee …?”
“Wha’ … Twenty-twenty-six … wha’ …”
“You’ll be sixty-five then … y’know pension time, huh?” Anthony Sr. stood up and we shook hands. “See yah around then huh Jay-Dee?”
“Yeah, see you around Anthony, see you around,” I replied.
AFTERWORD
2026—Back to the Future
A hard beginning hath a good ending.—James Howell (1593-1666).
The year came and went and I didn’t get a pension but then—in 2026—the only ones still getting pensions—besides the military—were the police, fire and emergency technicians. Yeah, the unions had all gone broke too, too many of the business agents and officers were dishonest and—worse than that—they were stupid and greedy, they put all their money in Hedge Funds and went broke in 2017, when the country went $900 trillion in debt.
Well, sorry to say that my good friend Anthony Carpone Sr. didn’t make it—he got shot and killed. It wasn’t even on the job—he had just retired the previous year and was arguing with a guy who he had seen slap a woman and the guy pulled his piece and shot him in the head.
Anthony Jr.—Ant—fared better—or—depending on how you see things—maybe he didn’t, because he
became a lawyer and made a lot of money. I did a couple of jobs for him but then he took on a partner and got so big chasing ambulances that he was too busy to even get on the phone with me. He doesn’t ever use a slang term anymore and you see him on television commercials—on almost every station—and he’s on billboards, computer lines, you name it. Last time I saw him he said he was happy but then he had a cell-phone call almost before we could even say hello and left me standing—all alone—by myself.
Aw well—and me—well I stayed in detective work and bought a nice house down by the beach, no, nowhere near there, nope, and sandcastles don’t even bother me—anymore—but then I don’t dwell on the Love case or any other case and I had a lot of cases—a lot of cases—maybe I’ll tell you about some of them sometime if you have some extra time—and I’m happy, I really am happy—well, as happy as you can be—I think—in this life and—like I said—I like to tell stories, I really do—it makes me happy and so let me know when you got some extra time—cause I know how busy everybody is and how important and valuable your time is so when you have a little extra—why, just let me know and I’ll tell you another and I’ll think you’ll like it—hell, it might even make you happy—I mean, for a little while anyway—know uh I’m sayin’?”
AN UNWILLING AVATAR
by Billy Wong
Slashing her way after her husband through the demon horde, Clara of the Faery Knights wished he would slow down. Why did Tristan insist on barging carelessly forward, when enemies still stood to his sides and back? Times like these made her glad for her twin longswords; at least, she had twice the steel to mop up his gibbering leftovers. Not retching at their stench, now that was a challenge.
She intercepted a toadlike humanoid’s leap with a downward chop, splitting its skull to the teeth, then impaled a giant worm before it could erupt from the dirt. Red lightning showered down from the sky above, birthing new monstrosities where it struck the wasteland.
“We have to stop him soon,” Tristan said with a look at the armored figure chanting atop the pyramid ahead. “Our allies won’t last much longer.”
All around, the advance of their forces had almost ground to a halt. Clara cleaved both arms from a simian foe. So perhaps Tristan did have a reason to rush, but she still didn’t like seeing him leave himself so unguarded.
Tristan chopped a snake man in half as it reared up on its tail, and stepped right over its twitching corpse. He showed no awareness of the sword being drawn back to thrust into his spine.
“Watch out!” Clara cried, darting forward. She deflected the blow aimed at Tristan, but her hasty lunge left her off balance. Before she could recover, a massive blade plunged through her stomach. The bat-winged wolf man that wielded it twisted, ripping her insides to pieces.
Clara screamed, swung both swords across the demon’s furry face and throat. It toppled away, leaving its sword in the ruin of her abdomen. Catastrophic pain drowned out all else she felt. Dropping one sword, she put a hand to the huge wound as her body bent forward.
“Clara?” Tristan asked, turning to gape at his wife standing dazed-eyed with blood gushing through her hand. He went to her and took her in his arms, gently lowering her to the ground. Allied soldiers passed them by, forming a temporary wall between them and the enemy. “Easy, love. I’ve got you.”
On her back, she blinked to focus on his face and tried to fumble off her metal gauntlets. She preferred her own slender fingers to those clumsy things, when dealing with her body. But Tristan grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands up to his face.
“Gods, Clara, please,” he begged with streaming tears, “don’t die. You can’t die.” He leaned close, touching her forehead with his. “As your senior in the company, I order you not to die!”
“Can you let go of my hands?” she asked, spitting out mouthfuls of blood. “I want to use them.” He released her, and she dragged the sword from her guts before pressing a hand into the resulting mess. “Oh gods, that hurts.”
Helplessly, Tristan held her. “We have to get you to a healer,” he said as blood soaked the dust below. He started to lift her.
With what strength she had left, she pushed him back. “No, you have to keep going. I’ll be fine by myself.”
“Are you sure? Your eyes are… glazing…”
Her eyelids were getting very heavy, but she forced them to stay open with sheer willpower. “Just go. Please.”
He gave her face one long, resigned look before turning away. Even as he ran off, she thought she heard him sobbing.
Clara too shed bitter tears. Only months after their wedding, fate was forcing them to let go. She hoped he could find someone else soon. She closed her eyes and waited for the light to take her.
Suddenly she realized the thunder had stopped. Did that mean someone had reached the dark lord? Her eyes snapped open. Mustering the strength to raise her heavy head off the ground, she looked. Tristan had ascended the pyramid, and now matched blades with the armored giant who dwarfed him. Great warrior though he was, one of his primary strengths was, in fact, his strength. Could he overcome this adversary, when he would be at a disadvantage there?
The answer seemed to be no. Tristan found himself battered around by his larger foe, and abandoned his typical aggressive approach for a more cautious hit and run. Even so, he could not penetrate Damnarg’s defenses. Would he soon join Clara in death?
Her hand closed tightly on the hilt of her sword. No, she decided. As long as the slightest bit of life remained in her, she would not sit by and do nothing while her husband got killed. Wailing with agony, bloody spittle flying from her lips, she sat up. Her sight was failing, but she refused to quit. She could do this. When she set a hand to push herself up, however, she received an unexpected surprise. Upon touching the earth, she felt a jolt of power travel up her arm and through her body.
Though not completely gone, the pain faded considerably. Clara came to her feet, swords held ready once more. Aided by divine intervention or her own untapped reserves of strength, she didn’t care. All that mattered was that she save Tristan.
She streaked towards where he fought Damnarg, a human lightning bolt. The monsters in her way she killed without slowing down, her swords cutting through them like they were made of paper. She flew more than ran up the pyramid’s face; and just as Damnarg aimed a fatal chop at the downed Tristan, she hammered him back with a double strike to the helmeted head and shoulder.
“Clara?” her husband asked in wonder. “But you were dying.”
Only now did she bother wiping at the blood on her chin. “If I’m to die, let it be fighting with you. Face me, Damnarg.”
“I will not be stopped!” the giant rumbled. His fist glowed a violent red, and he launched a firebolt her way. She blocked with her swords. He dashed in, punching through the cloud at her face. The blow lifted her into the air, sent her bouncing down the pyramid’s side. Her eyelids fluttered as she gasped for breath in the dirt. What strength she had still paled before Damnarg’s.
“Clara!” Tristan yelled. He started towards her, only to be interrupted by the dark lord’s kick from behind. Driven to his belly, he reached over the pyramid top’s edge. “Clara…”
Half conscious, her thoughts a jumbled mess, she realized one thing. She had to get up. Again she felt energy course into her body from beneath, allowing her to rise with ease. Before Damnarg could deliver the killing blow to her husband, she had shot back up the pyramid to parry and knock him back. He raised both fists to fire a blast. Feeling an unexplainable urge build in the depths of her throat, she decided to scream at him.
The effect was unreal. A shockwave emanated from her mouth, canceling out Damnarg’s projectiles and ripping a furrow in the floor between them. The dark lord himself staggered, seams breaking open on his armor. “What? What is this?”
“Clara?” Tristan asked, voice small. “How are you..?”
“I don’t know! But I seem to have magical powers.”
Damnarg recovered his b
alance and charged. “No! You will not stop me, not after this long!” His axe swept down, splitting stone as she dodged. Clara brought her swords together like scissors against the sides of his neck, but failed to reach flesh through his gorget. She did, though, hear something give in his armor. Ducking a massive horizontal swipe, she jumped, grabbed onto the horns of his helm, and drove her knees into his chin. Launched away by the force of her attack, she rolled up holding his empty helmet.