by Michael Pool
THUGLIT
Issue Eighteen
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 Eighteen
ISBN-13:978-1514743393
ISBN-10:1514743396
Stories by the authors: ©Garnett Elliot, ©Angel Luis Colón, ©Dan J. Fiore, ©Amanda Marbais, ©Joseph Rubas, ©Michael Pool, ©Mike Madden, ©Matthew J. Hockey
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
Waylon, On Rerun by Michael Pool
Proof of Death by Mike Madden
Canary by Matthew J. Hockey
The Fair by Dan J. Fiore
The Kompanski Incident by Joseph Rubas
The Calumet by Amanda Marbais
X by Angel Luis Colón
Shadows of the Mouse by Garnett Elliott
Author Bios
A Message from Big Daddy Thug
Ahoy-hoy, Thugleteers!
I learned this past week the darkest pits of mankind's suffering.
The depth of pain that humanity can sink into, curled up into a ball like a mewling kitten that has been impaled on a shish kabob skewer…
What is this, you ask? What with the stories you publish, many of them featuring characters and acts that would make the Marquis de Sade defile his pantaloons and run screaming like a terrified Daffy Duck—what could possibly make Big Daddy Thug gnash his teeth and pray for a quick death?
Kidney stones, my brothers and sisters.
Holy Hell… Those little crystalline bastards are noir as fuck. At various times in my pain-filled existence, I've been maced, whacked in the noggin with a blackjack, stabbed with a broken beer bottle, and t-boned by a Cadillac right on the driver's side door. And lemme tell you…kidney stones win. Like I said—noir as fuck.
So, extra thanks go out to Lady Detroit for her editing acumen, taking the reins at the end from my trembling mitts, and riding this bitch of a magazine through the finish line—all the while restraining herself from smothering my groans of pain with a pillow over the face.
She's a hell of a lady.
And at almost the ten-year mark, Thuglit has still never, EVER missed a deadline…although we sure as fuck came close here. I just kept repeating our deadline motto:
Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor rocks coming out of our pee-pees will stay these editors from the swift completion of their beloved THUGLIT.
Hope you dig the ish for it's on-timedness as much as for the content within. Maybe more, this time out.
Meanwhile, I'll just be over here on the floor in a fetal position while Lady Detroit eyeballs those pillows…
IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:
Finders keepers.
Hot for teacher.
Some people deserve a good robbin'
Sometimes, dead is betta! (My apologies to Stephen King…and everyone from Maine.)
Good help is hard to find.
Fair is foul and foul is fair.
Wrestling is fake, until it isn't…
M-I-C! K-E-Y! Please don't suuu-uuuue meeeee!
SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!! (maybe)
Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug) 6/30/2015
Waylon, On Rerun
by Michael Pool
Waylon had already loaded up the microwave, the DVD player, a desktop computer and half the food in the fridge when the aging, mentally challenged man showed up at the chain-link fence that lined the back alley behind the house.
"Hi," the man said, squinting against the sun as Waylon moved past him to the back of his pumpkin-colored van. "This is Mr. Collins' house?"
Waylon nodded, even though he had no idea whose house it was. He tried to figure in his head whether or not the retarded grey-haired man he recognized from the thrift store a few blocks over would be able to identify him later. Maybe. But the goddamn television was heavy, and he couldn't move it by himself. The pock-skinned man stared off down the alley like a child might.
"What's your name there, partner?" Waylon asked.
The man did an about-face like Waylon had learned in ROTC back in high school, before he discovered heroin out on the rodeo circuit.
"Oh. I'm Bernie. Are you here helping Mr. Collins too?"
"You bet."
"Wanna know what?"
"What's that, bub?"
"You should get a mohawk, shawty." Bernie pointed at Waylon's shaggy hair.
Waylon sighed. Bernie had said the same thing when Waylon came through his line at the thrift store with some second-hand clothes a few weeks back, the day after he got out of the klink this last time. It had taken at least ten minutes for Bernie to ring him up. Enough time to tell the same two jokes four times each. Someone who volunteered there must have taught Bernie to use the term "shawty," without telling him what it meant.
"You think so?" Waylon said, keeping his voice friendly.
"Aww, I'm just jokin'," Bernie hollered, then grinned to reveal a mouth with half the teeth missing.
"What can I say, Bernie? You got me. Anyway, my name's Charlie Daniels, and Mr. Collins told me to ask for your help."
"Mr. Collins says I'm a good helper."
"Well it's my lucky day then, Bernie, because I could use a strong fella like you to help move his television set into the van here."
"Because Mr. Collins don't want to watch no more?" Bernie asked.
"Well—ah—not exactly. I wanna borrow it from him, but I can't carry it by myself."
"But how will he watch shows? I watch lots of shows."
Waylon forced a smile. "I guess he'll have to manage. Anyhow, could you come inside and give me a hand?"
"Sure thing, shawty."
"You are a good helper, Bernie."
"Missus Collins says God made me to be a helper."
"Well, she must be real proud of you then. Follow me, bubba." Waylon walked through the garage into the kitchen, which he'd torn apart looking for stashed money, then into the living room. Bernie stayed just behind him on his heels.
"The television is right over—"
"Ding-dong the witch is dead! Ding-dong the witch is dead! Ding-dong!" Bernie screamed, jumping up and down and pointing at something over Waylon's left shoulder. Waylon followed Bernie's eyes to a set of commemorative plates for The Wizard of Oz arranged on a built-in bookshelf. One of them had the Wicked Witch of the West's green face painted on it. Bernie's eyes swelled to the size of jawbreakers. Bernie pointed at the plate and shuffled his hips like he needed to pee.
"It's just a plate, Bernie, calm down," Waylon said.
Bernie's face turned bright red. "Ding-dong," he sang again. "I don't like the witch. She sets the Scarecrow on fire. Then shawty comes and throws the bucket of water all over The Witch, and she melts like ice cream. I'm glad she melted."
"Well I'm glad too, Bernie." Waylon walked over to the plate and set it flat, so that the face was no longer visible. "I'll tell you what. You like the Scarecrow?"
"Yeah. I like for him to dance."
"Well look at this." Waylon reached up to the top shelf, took a plate down with t
he Scarecrow painted on the center of it, caught mid-way through some sort of jig. "Mr. Collins has got a plate with the Scarecrow on it too. He said if you help me move the television out, it's yours."
"Really?" Bernie asked, the Wicked Witch gone from his mind now. "I can take it home?"
"You can take it home, eat dinner off of it, whatever you want."
"I can't use that for eating, but I could just look at it I guess."
"Hell Bernie, you can give it a mohawk if that's what you want. But for now, let's just get the television moved. I'm running a little late."
"But don't forget to let me have the plate after."
"I won't forget. Deal? Now if you'll just get the other side of this television…there you go, and now on a count of three we can lift it together and carry it out. Ready? One—two—three."
They lifted the television together. Waylon swung around so that he would be the one moving backwards as they took the television up the two steps into the kitchen toward the back door.
They made it up the steps and were halfway to the back door when Bernie dropped his end without warning, brought his wrists up to his armpits like wings and yelled "Cockadoodledoo!" He flapped his bent elbows up and down like a rooster. Waylon yelped and dropped his end too. The set landed right on Waylon's foot, and he knew without looking that both were probably broken. He gasped as a throbbing pain shot up his leg to his spine.
"Goddammit Bernie," Waylon yelled, hopping on his good foot now. "Goddammit goddammit. You stupid son-of-a-bitch. I think you broke my fucking foot. You definitely broke the TV."
Bernie looked horrified, but kept glancing beyond Waylon at the ceramic rooster on top of the fridge, almost reaching up as if to flap his wings more, then stopping and sinking back into the horrified look again. His lip quivered and his eyes welled up. Waylon wished right away he'd not let his temper go like that.
"I'm…I'm sorry," Bernie mumbled, "I didn't mean to drop the television. I'm so stupid." He repeated the last part again and then slapped himself across the face, hard. Then again. He threw himself to the ground next to the cratered television set and started banging his head against the linoleum floor. He'd already managed to leave a series of welts and splits in his forehead, as well as deep hand marks on his cheeks, before Waylon could shimmy over to try and make him stop,.
"Stupid, Stupid, Stupid," Bernie said. "I don't know why I'm so stupid."
"Hey, just take it easy," Waylon said, trying to sound authoritative. He tried to restrain Bernie's hands, but Bernie was much stronger than he looked. Bernie ripped his hands away and continued to go to town on himself, until finally Waylon said fuck it and bowled him over flat on his back. He sat on Bernie's chest like a horse. "Relax Bernie. RELAX," he said, pinning Bernie's arms to the floor.
Bernie squirmed and struggled. He didn't seem to want or be able to calm down. Waylon didn't want to hit him, but he couldn't afford to waste much more time. He needed to get Bernie under control, collect anything of remaining value, and get out. Bernie was slobbering and moaning, yanking at his arms more like he wanted to hit himself again than get free. Waylon held him down as best he could, not sure what else to do.
"What in God's name are you two doing in my house?" a gruff voice said behind Waylon. "My God. Bernie, is that you?"
"Hello Mr. Collins," Bernie replied, shifting gears in an instant, no longer struggling under Waylon's grip now. "I came to help after church, like you said. I could give you a mohawk now if you want? Just jokin'!"
"So you are, and so I see," the old man said, his voice barely able to hide the rage on his face, but maybe attempting to do so for Bernie's sake. "Mister," he added, "I don't know who you are or why you're in my house, but you'd best get off Bernie there before Mora comes in and—"
"Before I come in and what?" A woman's head with a daisy-topped straw hat appeared just over the old man's shoulder. She shrieked when she noticed Waylon sitting on Bernie. "Bernie," she said, her startled eyes taking in the scene, the busted television, emptied cabinets, everything really. "What are you doing to my sweet, sweet Bernie?"
Waylon had never felt so low. He released Bernie's arms and started to stand up. Though her husband seemed to be in shock, Mora didn't have the same problem.
"You were abusing Bernie," she screamed. "How could you? He's—special. You're a monster."
"Now just hold up, ma'am," Waylon tried to explain as he moved to stand up. "He was hitting hisself and—" Before Waylon could finish, the woman snatched the ceramic rooster from top of the fridge and swung it with both hands like a sledgehammer. The rooster shattered against the side of Waylon's face and he crumbled to the ground, unconscious.
Waylon came to with a splitting headache and blood running down his face. He tried to reach up and massage his temples, but discovered his hands were bound behind his back instead. He remembered where he was then. His eyes wouldn't focus for a moment. When they finally did focus, he was staring straight into the long chrome barrel of a .357 pistol.
"You just stay still and take it easy there mister," said Mr. Collins, who Waylon recognized now as the manager of the thrift store where he'd first seen Bernie.
"I don't think I could move if I tried," Waylon replied.
"That's good. You probably wouldn't live long enough to try anything else if you did. Police are on their way. In the meantime, maybe you'd like to explain how you came to find yourself abusing a poor, mentally-handicapped man like Bernie in my house?"
"I don't guess I've got much to say," Waylon replied.
Collins cocked the hammer on the pistol and poked Waylon in the forehead with the barrel's tip. "Still got nothing to say?"
Waylon sighed and let his shoulders slump. "Okay, I get your drift. What can I say? I was robbing the place when Bernie showed up at the back fence. I knew it was stupid when I done it, but I couldn't carry the television by myself. Goddamn thing's so old I probably couldn't have gotten twenty bucks for it anyway, with all these flat-screens around these days. Fact remains, I needed that twenty. So I got Bernie to help me carry the television out. Except he dropped it. Apparently he's got a thing for roosters."
Collins released the hammer and let the gun's barrel pan down to the floor. Waylon took a deep breath.
"You some kind of addict, or just an idiot?" Collins asked. "Because those are the only two reasons why I can imagine a man robbing a house in broad daylight. Given that you got Bernie involved, I'm assuming it's probably a combination of the two."
"When you're right, you're right, I reckon," Waylon said, measuring his words. "But I want ya'll to know something. I wasn't hurting Bernie. I might be a thief, but I ain't no bully. My daddy bout whipped me to death way back when, and I'd never lay my hands on someone like that. After Bernie dropped your television, he got all worked up and started whipping on hisself. I was trying to stop him when ya'll come in and jacked me up with the rooster." Waylon wanted to rub his head where the rooster had connected.
"I see. Well, he's been known to do that, unfortunate though it is. I think it's probably pretty frustrating being Bernie, wouldn't you say? I hope you're happy, though. This whole thing's scared the daylights out of him. Mora's back there trying to calm him down now. Not to mention you've destroyed our home."
"I get it, I do. I'm actually surprised you didn't shoot my dumb ass, though I'm thankful. I'm sorry for all this, really I am. Truth is, I'm a junkie. It's a hell of a thing. I just can't keep my country ass off the dope. Even sitting here right now, feeling like the low-down piece of shit that I am, part of me's thinking whether or not I'll be able to score a hit in county lockup. The answer is maybe. I know you probably don't want to hear that, but it's the truth."
"There's a certain irony to it, Mr…I didn't catch your name?"
"Name's Waylon Tompkins. I'd say pleased to meet you, but I don't want to feed ya'll any more bullshit today."
"Mr. Tompkins," Collins said, as if trying out his name. "Waylon. I understand you more than you think, Waylon
Tompkins. As it happens, my son Jacob died from a heroin overdose. Only way Mora and I managed to survive it was to make our mission in life to help addicts. Addicts, and also some of the mentally handicapped, though someone watching us here right now might say there's not much difference in the two when it comes to decision making."
"Yeah, they might say that, I guess," Waylon said.
"Now let me give you some truth. I'd like to help you too, Waylon." Collins using his first name now, getting comfortable with him. "From where I'm standing, a person has to be out of their mind with sickness to trick a mentally disabled man into helping him rob the home of people who would give him the shirts off their backs anyway. The only people around town who provide work, shelter and stability for a man like Bernie. And also for a man like yourself."
Waylon frowned, still wanting to rub his swollen head. "Had I known it, I would've picked someplace else."
"You see, that's just it, Waylon. There is no place else. It's all one place. That you would victimize anyone is a sign of a deep upheaval within yourself. I'd like to help you rectify that, if you decide you want to try."
"So you're not gonna press charges, then?" Waylon asked, hopeful.
"I didn't say that, Waylon. Accountability is the currency of civilization. You've accrued a debt, now you'll have make things whole again. But once you get free from that, if you want to, you could come work at the shop and stay at our shelter. So long as you stay clean and work our program."
Waylon started to reply, but someone pounded on the front door and they both looked up instead.