You’re Doing Too Much

A short story by Andy Rausch

Joel stared at his laptop. So far the only words he’d written were “Untitled Novel by Joel Wise”. He’d written those six words a week ago and hadn’t been able to come up with anything to add. Nothing. He couldn’t even force words onto the page. He had no idea what his novel was even going to be about. All he knew was that he wanted desperately to write one. He’d always felt it was his destiny to write the next Great American Novel. Not just any novel—certainly not a paperback original—but something iconic. He’d dreamed of this his entire life but had never actually sat down and attempted to write it. At least not until now. But here he was, and writing was a hell of a lot harder than he’d ever imagined. He believed if he could just come up with one interesting well-drawn character the words would start flowing and eventually he’d have an actual novel. If he could just write a line or two, that would grow and the words would come from some unseen muse. He envisioned such a thing as being akin to dictation. Joel had heard many famous authors explain it that way, but he himself was not a famous author. At this rate, he might not ever be an author at all. At the moment, a single good sentence seemed unattainable.

Joel had worked as a software designer. But now he’d made his nest egg and had retired at the young-adjacent age of forty-five. This, he’d believed, would give him ample time to finally sit down and write his novel. To be honest, it was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do. He’d dreamed of doing this from an early age and had always envisioned himself writing a single masterpiece and then walking away like his hero J.D. Salinger. If he could produce one great work, his life would have meaning and he would then be able to die a happy man.

But here he was, staring a nearly-empty screen, unable to produce anything. Disgusted, he closed the laptop and drank the last bit of scotch from the bottle. He looked across the room at his sleeping collie, Lizzy, and whistled for her. The dog’s eyes popped open and her ears perked up. Her tail started wagging happily and she scrambled to her feet and trotted towards him. He stroked her head, smoothing back her ears with his hand and giving her a few obligatory “good dogs”. As he did, it dawned on him that he’d been so wrapped up in his attempt at writing that he’d forgotten to feed her.

“You want din-din?” he asked. Lizzy’s ears perked up again and she went halfway to the kitchen, stopping to look back to make sure he was behind her. Whenever she heard “din-din”, she knew it was feeding time.

Joel walked to the kitchen and grabbed the box of dog food from atop the fridge. He pulled out a pouch and walked to the far end of the room, dumping it into the dog’s bowl. Lizzy immediately went to work scarfing down the food. Joel stood there for a moment, scanning the kitchen, trying to decide what to make for his own dinner. He decided to prepare himself a salad. He opened the fridge and removed the necessary veggies. He opened the cabinet and took out the cutting board, setting it on the counter before him. He extracted a knife from the silverware drawer and started dicing carrots. Once he had an adequate amount of carrots diced, he began dicing celery. As he did this, his thoughts returned to his would-be novel.

And that’s when it happened.

FUCK!” he screamed as pain surged through his finger. He looked down and saw that he’d done the unthinkable—he’d cut off his left index finger! The sight of his finger lying there on the cutting board shocked him and he became woozy, stumbling, the knife accidentally scraping the finger off onto the floor. Horrified, he looked down just in time to see Lizzy snatch the finger up in her teeth. “Lizzy, no!” he cried, but the animal didn’t listen. Trying to protect her newfound treat, Lizzy darted towards the backdoor. The room was spinning and Joel’s mind was hazy, so he just stood and watched the dog disappear through the swinging doggie door.

Joel stumbled to the door in horror, opening it, covering its handle in blood in the process, but Lizzy was gone. His eyes scanned the yard for a moment before he remembered his injury. He looked down at the nub where his finger had been—there was about a fourth of the finger remaining—and saw intermittent spurts of blood spitting from it. He felt woozy again, as if he might faint, but he steeled himself. He would not look at the wound. If he did, he knew he would pass out. He told himself to think of something else—anything else—but found this impossible. He looked around the kitchen for a cloth to wrap around the bloody nub. He grabbed a damp red dish towel with a chicken embroidered on it and wrapped the nub tightly, careful not to look. He took a deep breath and returned to the backdoor, still standing open. He looked out for Lizzy, but she was nowhere in sight. He called for her a few times, but eventually gave up.

By the time he climbed into his station wagon, blood had soaked through the towel, which was now a bloody red mess. He drove around the neighborhood searching for the dog. After searching for a few minutes, he gave up hope. If he waited any longer, he feared he might pass out from a loss of blood. Besides, he told himself, the finger was likely chewed up and/or inside the dog.

As he headed to the ER at Maimonides, Joel’s jumbled brain suddenly cleared and an idea presented itself with all the majesty of Jesus descending from the clouds. As unlikely as it was, Joel could see the beginning of his novel with great clarity. It was a fully-formed segment complete with the most intricate of details. The words formed in his head, fully composed, and they were flawless. It was a righteous moment and he felt overjoyed in a way he’d never felt before. He recognized that it was strange to experience such bliss in the midst of calamity and chaos, but that’s what happened. Marveling at what he saw as the perfect first chapter of a novel about a secretly gay schoolmarm in the late 1800s, Joel wished he didn’t need to go to the ER. Going there was never a good time, but it was even worse now that he had the perfect chapter mapped out in his head.

Joel thought he might be able to leave the hospital that same night, but things didn’t work out that way. A young blonde doctor, who looked like she was still underage told him he would need to stay for at least a night. Joel hated this, but he saw no way around it.

Once he was situated in a room and everyone was finished with him for the night, Joel started scribbling the story longhand on a notepad the nurses had provided. He was tired, high on Vicodin, and his left hand hurt liked bloody hell, but he kept right on scribbling. He was worried he might lose the idea, so he wanted to get it down on paper as quickly as he could. The drugs and pain and weariness might cause his writing to suffer some, but that could be corrected easily enough with a rewrite. He just wanted to get a rough first draft knocked out. He ended up writing for more than three hours. Joel suffered the worst writer’s cramp ever, but he managed to finish the chapter before dozing off.

When he awoke up the next morning, he was eager to revisit what he’d written. He read it again, reaffirming that what he’d written was good. So good, in fact, that it made him want to write more. So he touched the tip of his pen to the paper. Okay, go! he thought. But nothing happened. He sat there for two hours trying to figure out where to take his schoolmarm protagonist next, but nothing came. Once again, he found that he could not produce a single sentence.

What the fuck was this? He didn’t get it. The first chapter had come so easily; in fact, it had been one of the easiest things he’d ever done in his life. And it was good. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t just good, it was fucking great.

But here he was again, unable to squeeze out a single word. Pondering this, he wondered if the pain from his severed finger had somehow sent a jolt through his nervous system, knocking the chapter loose from his brain. Maybe the idea had come from the result of his pain. Or, and he knew this was the thinking of a crazy man, but maybe it was a magical transaction in which he’d somehow traded his finger for the chapter; a sort of sacrifice to the muse. He laughed aloud at this, thinking the muse was one cold-hearted bitch.

Eventually, he gave up the ghost and watched the Cooking Channel for a few hours. Somehow all of this had worn him out. He’d heard writing could be exhausting, but he’d never imagined simply thinking about writing could be tiring.

Joel was released from the hospital after two p.m. When he went home, he begrudgingly fed Lizzy and then returned to his desk.He sat down, switched on the laptop, and propped up the bloody handwritten pages. Looking back and forth, he carefully typed the words. When he was finished, he found himself tired again and decided to wait a few hours before trying to write anything new.

It was just before seven when he returned to his desk, intent on writing his second chapter. But when he did, it was the same result—nothing. Not a single word. Even after rereading the first chapter in the hopes that that might spark something, he still had no idea where his protagonist might go next. No idea what-so-fucking-ever. After a few hours, he gave up again. Joel would experience this same awful routine every day for the next four days.

After having sat down to write each day with no results, Joel found his mind returning to the crazy notion he’d had about pain summoning the muse. He knew it was crazy, but he was desperate. After having written the first chapter so easily, Joel had become like the gambler who’d won enough money to acquire a taste for it. Joel went to the kitchen and sliced the back of his hand with the same knife. He stood there staring at the blood emerging from the slit and waiting for an idea to come, but there was nothing. Eventually he gave up. After doing so, he started giving serious consideration to his other idea—the crazier one—about sacrificing fingers for ideas.No, no, he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t. The cost was too high. Joel needed his fingers. Besides, the idea was bugshit crazy. If he were to tell anyone what he was contemplating, they would lock him away in a padded cell and flush the key down the shitter. Saddened by the prospect of abandoning his new novel with its perfect first chapter, Joel took a couple of sleeping pills and drowned them with a slug of scotch. Then he went to bed and slipped immediately into a deep sleep.

Nine hours later, Joel thought about the novel the very moment his eyes blinked open. He remembered how good the first chapter had been and how good it had felt to write it. His heart started to sink when he remembered the struggles that had followed, and his mind returned to his nutty finger theory. What the hell, he thought. It was then he decided he would do it; he would chop off another finger. He knew it was crazy, but he didn’t care. If there was even the slightest chance this might allow him to press forward in writing his novel—not just the best thing he’d ever written, but probably the best thing he’d ever read—it would be worth it. All he’d ever wanted was to write a great, powerful novel that would live on long after he himself was dead and gone.

He told himself that slicing off the finger might not be as bad the second time. It would be no walk in the park, sure, but he was prepared now and had already done it once. Yes, he told himself, he could do it. As long as he kept Lizzy from absconding with the finger, he could simply take it to the hospital and have them reattach it. If he did that, there would be no loss—only gain. The finger might never work as well again, but he would be one step closer to completing achieving his dream.

He went to work drinking himself into the necessary mental state.

Drunk and determined, Joel put Lizzy out in the yard and attached her to her chain. Then he returned to the kitchen, where he lay his left pinky flat against the cutting board. He took the same knife—he’d considered tossing it out, but had decided it was stupid to waste a perfectly good knife—and cleanly sliced off the finger.

He screamed a shrieking scream that managed to even startle himself.

There was blood everywhere. This time there was much more blood, and it seemed to flow more quickly. It also hurt a great deal more than it had before. His idea that it might be easier the second time had been idiotic. Joel wrapped the nub tightly in a rag. Then he popped two Vicodin and sat down in front of the laptop. And just like before, Joel saw the second chapter fully formed in his mind. It didn’t feel like creating so much as it felt like excavating buried treasure. He had no idea how much time he had before he might pass out, so he typed as quickly as he could, trying his best to complete the chapter before going to the ER. Despite having to hunt and peck due to his missing fingers, Joel finished the chapter in just under eighty minutes. He clicked “save” and shut off the laptop. He then wobbled outside and hopped into his station wagon, heading to the ER.

When he arrived, the orderlies looked at him like he was insane. A plump black female nurse who’d been there on his previous visit said curtly, “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but you need to stop.” She stared at him for a long moment with a knowing look and then added, “You’re doing too much, Mr. Wise. Too damn much.” This second ER trip was awkward and filled with tough questions and judgmental stares, but the doctors reattached the finger. The hospital kept him for three days, which was fine since he’d already completed chapter two.

When he returned home, he immediately went to his laptop, opened it, and switched it on. He clicked on the file that read UNTITLED NOVEL. When the file opened, Joel was stunned to find his second chapter was gone. Feeling panicked, he felt like he might hyperventilate. He sat there with his mouth hanging open, staring at the screen through watery eyes. Then he remembered that he’d backed the file up on the cloud. Thank God, he thought. He went to the backup version of the story and opened it, finding that it was also missing the chapter. What the fuckity fuck? Had he somehow imagined writing it? Joel looked down at his reattached pinky, wrapped in blood-soaked gauze, and knew for certain he’d written it. So where was it?

A thought occurred to him—maybe it only worked if you lost the finger completely. Maybe it had to be a full sacrifice. Maybe there were no loopholes that would allow him to save the finger. He’d cut it off, the muse had given him his chapter, but then he’d undone his part, forcing her to undo hers. Maybe it was even necessary for him to allow Lizzy to carry the damned thing through the doggie door and go off somewhere to eat it. Who knew how far down this rabbit hole of exactness he needed to go?

Joel went to bed sad, depressed, and confused, his left hand throbbing in pain. Despite popping two Vicodin, he found himself unable sleep. Instead of resting, his mind focused on two things: his novel and his fingers. When he finally did fall asleep, he dreamed about sitting at his laptop, trying to write without any fingers on either hand. He then had another dream. This one was about the plump nurse telling him he was doing too much. This time she glared and said, “I told you your ass was doing too much.”

He woke up just after sunrise. He hopped out of bed, took a leak, and then went to the kitchen to slice off his newly-reattached pinky. Fuck it, he thought, he’d already lost it once. After removing the digit a second time—the third time he’d chopped off a finger this week—Joel tossed the finger onto the floor in front of Lizzy. After it bounced on the linoleum, she snatched it up in her teeth and bee-lined to the doggie door and disappeared just like before. Joel then returned to his laptop. When he put his bloody fingers on the keyboard, smearing blood on the keys, between the keys, and all over the desk, he found that the words came to him easily once again. He rewrote the lost chapter the same as he’d written it the first time. Exactly the same. The same words, same placement, maybe even the same typos.

He saved the file, closed the laptop, and headed for the ER. This time he drove across the city to Bellevue, where they didn’t know him. This way he wouldn’t have to listen to that damnable nurse telling him he was doing too much. The conversation at Bellevue was still awkward and he received similar probing questions and judgmental looks, but they released him two days later. Sure, he’d lost two fingers, but he’d also written two of what he believed were the finest chapters of any book ever written. This, in Joel Wise’s estimation, was a fair trade.

When he arrived home, he went to the kitchen and immediately sliced off his left middle finger. This one was thicker, so it was slightly more difficult to cut. It hurt like a sonofabitch and blood sprayed everywhere, even managing to splash onto the wall beside the stove this time, but Joel handled it like a champ. The fourth time was a charm. He already felt like an old pro at this finger-cutting business. He then tossed the finger to the dog, who started chowing down right there in the kitchen. Ever superstitious, Joel wanted Lizzy to follow the same routine as before, so he dragged her across the linoleum to the doggie door, soaking her fur with blood in the process, and he leaned down and shoved her thick body through the slot. He then grabbed a dish towel and wrapped his wound. After that, he walked to his desk. He sat down, bleeding like all hell, and hammered out an exquisite third chapter. He came close to losing consciousness, but he still managed to finish. Then he went to the ER, this time traveling all the way out to Montefiore Medical. The staff there made some of the same inquiries, but they didn’t pry much. The emergency room was packed, so Joel figured the reason the doctors and nurses probed less was simply because of the number of people who were there.

That night as he lay in his room, Joel thought about his book. He now had three superb, fully-detailed chapters. He started to consider potential book titles. He kicked around a few, such as Miss Annabelle and The Secret Life of Miss Annabelle, but none of them sounded right. He wondered if he would have to sacrifice a digit for the title, as well. Then his mind turned to the question of book length. How many chapters would this thing run? Since he didn’t have any idea where the story was going, he had no way to gauge. He stared down at his bandaged left hand, which had only two fingers remaining and thought, I hope there aren’t too many chapters. Then he considered something else—what if he ran out of fingers before the book was finished? He pondered this for a moment and then concluded that this would most certainly be the case. Each of the first three chapters had run roughly 4,000 words, and most novels ran longer than 40,000 words. What would he do? At that moment, a new idea occurred to him—perhaps toes could be sacrificed, as well.

He would have to try a toe sometime soon, he thought. That way he would reduce the chance of his ending up completely finger-less. He had no problem with sacrificing all his fingers if he had to, but he would rather avoid that scenario if possible. Maybe it would be a small novel. Something like Bridges of Madison County, which was only 35,000 words. Or more likely, it might be somewhere around 50,000, which meant he would only need to sacrifice twelve digits. If that were the case, and provided the muse accepted toes as payment, Joel would only have to cut off six or seven fingers and six or seven toes. This would allow him enough digits to still fully enjoy his success once the novel was published.

Joel was released the following day. When he got home, he was tired and in pain and decided it would be too much for him to cut off a fourth finger.So, he decided he would wait. When he woke up the next morning, Joel went to the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of coffee. Then he ate a bowl of Cheerios. Once breakfast was finished, he chopped off his left ring finger. When he presented the finger to Lizzy this time, a curious thing happened; she sniffed at it and then looked up at him, seemingly disinterested.

“What’s the matter, girl?” Joel asked. “You getting tired of eating fingers?”

A moment later, however, the dog picked up the finger, turned, trotted to the swinging doggie door, and disappeared through it. This time Joel wrapped the nub in an old green shirt that had long since shrunk. When Joel sat down at his desk, he raised his right hand over the dried-blood-covered keyboard and switched the laptop on. He opened the file and stared at the screen, but nothing came to him. Well fuck, he thought. Had his deal with the muse come to an end? Had he let the clock run out? Or maybe there were only so many times a person could do this.

He sat staring at the screen in terror for five long minutes, and then, finally, the words came. Joel was furiously hunting and pecking with his right hand, his left hand now having only a thumb. The pain was exruciating, and it took him longer to write this chapter than he’d expected. Each chapter was taking longer and longer. But Joel kept typing until he’d completed the fourth chapter. This time he went to Lincoln Hospital. He found that the ER process was getting easier with each trip. However, his stitches ripped open the following day and he was forced to spend another night.

After returning home, he waited another two days before chopping off his right pinky toe. That little sucker came right off and Lizzy seemed to enjoy it. Maybe toes tasted different, Joel thought, because she seemed particularly excited about this one, her tail wagging rapidly as she chewed. That fifth chapter turned out terrific and ran slightly longer than the others, coming in at 5,219 words. When he finished writing it, Joel climbed into his car and drove all the way out to the ER at North Shore.

The process was starting to take a real toll on his body, wearing him down, each time making him just a little more tired, so he started spacing out the sacrifices a little more. Repeating the process over and over, he figured out the easiest ways to chop off the digits, as well as the easiest ways to make Lizzy take them outside. Everything went smoothly until Joel sawed off the big toe on his left foot—his seventh sacrifice in all. First, he’d come closer to passing out than he ever had before, and he’d nearly wrecked his car. Because of his inability to remain alert, he’d been forced to return to Maimonides. The only saving grace was that the black nurse was off duty.

Then, when he was released two days later, he discovered that Lizzy had run away. This worried him tremendously—not because he missed the dog as much as he worried that his sacrifices would not work without her. He drove around the neighborhood all day searching for her, but to no avail. He continued his search for another four days before concluding that Lizzy was gone for good. Maybe she was dead, maybe she had simply run away because she was tired of Joel making her eat fingers and toes. No matter the reason, she was gone and Joel was faced with a dilemma. He now had seven pristine chapters, but he wasn’t sure he could continue to rouse the muse without her.

Finally Joel concluded that he would have to get a new dog and hope for the best. He scoured the local Internet buy/sale/trade site, but found nothing, so he posted an ad himself. The ad read: “I.S.O. DOG, ANY TYPE. NEED IMMEDIATELY.” To his delight, he received a response within the hour. The message read: “Got germain shepperd boy male name Hagar. Sale him 2 u 4 65 dollar ok?” Joel messaged back, accepting the offer. He then drove to meet a shirtless tattooed Mexican who looked like he had a drug problem, in the parking lot of Walgreen’s.

“My ex ran off with some dick-shit,” the guy said. “But the bitch left Hagar at my house. I don’t much like dogs, and I especially hate Hagar. Hagar’s a real prick.”

“I’ll be glad to take him off your hands,” Joel said, handing him the cash. When he did, the man looked down at the blood-stained bandage on his hand.

“What did you do to your hand?”

“Lawnmower accident,” Joel said.

“That’s fucked up, man.”

Joel then took the bony, raggedy-looking mutt by its leash and led it into the station wagon. Hagar smelled rancid, had fleas, and took a runny diarrhea shit in the passenger seat before they got home.

That evening, Joel stood over Hagar in the kitchen, watching the starved animal lapping from its water bowl.

“You’re a hungry fucker, ain’t ya?” Joel said. “You’re gonna love this.”

Joel then squatted and went to work slicing off his remaining pinky toe, accidentally cutting into the linoleum. It hurt like a bastard, but Joel was becoming somewhat used to it. He would never have believed such a thing could be true, but it was.

Still squatting, Joel picked up the bloody toe and held it out towards the dog. “Hey there, Hagar,” he said. The dog turned from the water bowl and looked at the toe, its nose sniffing. Then Hagar looked up at Joel, studying his face to make sure it was okay to take the toe. After a moment, Hagar lurched forward and snatched the toe in its mouth. Joel then dragged the dog by its collar to the back door, forcing its big bony body out the doggie door. Since the dog was unfamiliar with the environment and would likely run away, Joel had planned to chain him just outside the door. Once Hagar was outside and the doggie door ritual was complete, Joel opened the door to fasten him. However, Hagar was gone.

Well fuck, Joel thought. He scanned the area for a moment, finally giving up. If the ritual worked and Hagar didn’t return, he’d get another dog. He’d buy another every day if he had to. Anything to finish his book.

Joel wrapped a kitchen towel around his toe and went to the laptop. He sat and stared at the screen, placing his hands on the keys. He kept staring, and his hands set motionless. Nothing came. Joel sat for as long as he felt he could without passing out, just staring at the blank screen. Nothing. Well, hell, he thought. He might never finish his book. Then what would he do? This thought made him sad, but right now he had to focus on getting himself to the ER. Having cut it too close to go anywhere else, Joel had no choice but to go back to Maimonides for the fourth time.

The doctor—the same skinny blonde who’d seen him all four times—looked at him with no shortage of irritation. With her hands on her hips, she said, “Either you’re just coming here for the Vicodin or something’s wrong with you mentally.” She sighed. “I’m going to give you the meds. If you’re doing all this crap just for meds, I guess you’ve earned them.”

Joel considered telling her his secret, but decided against it. Who cared what she thought? He told her he was fine and that all the lost fingers and toes were just random accidents. The doctor rolled her eyes, huffed, and then stalked away. After that, the heavyset black nurse came in and looked at him with a scowl.

“Why are you here again?” she asked. “I don’t know what the hell it is you’re doing, but it’s getting tired, Mr. Wise. Real tired.”

Joel nodded at her and said, “Duly noted.” She gave him the stink eye and left the room.

The hospital released him the following afternoon. This was a real problem, Joel thought. If different dogs wouldn’t summon the muse, what could he do? Maybe he would have to hire a ghost writer to finish. Maybe the seven solid chapters he already had would be enough to make it a good book. Not as good as it would have been if he were allowed to finish it the way he’d been working, but “almost as good” might have to be good enough.

Joel considered this for the next two days. Hagar, thankfully, never came back. Good riddance, Joel thought. He considered purchasing a new fingers- and toes-eating canine, but he knew it wouldn’t work.

Even if he figured out a way to complete the book at the same quality he’d been writing, he’d now completely wasted the toe Hagar had run away with. The thought of this made him irrationally angry and he decided he would track down Hagar and shoot him with the Luger his grandfather had given him. Joel still had enough fingers to pull the trigger. Besides, now that Joel’s writing had stalled, he had nothing else to do.

Joel went upstairs and rooted around in his closet, locating the old shoe box buried beneath a stack of nudie mags. He took the box down and set it on his bed, opening it and looking at the pistol. He took it out and felt the weight of it. The World War II relic still looked as nice and shiny as it had when his grandfather had given it to him decades before. And it was still loaded. Joel’s reasoning for leaving it loaded was that if he ever had a need for it, it would likely be an emergency situation, so keeping it loaded made sense.

With the Luger in the passenger seat beside him, Joel drove around the neighborhood searching for the stinky flea-ridden bastard. He searched for several hours, but did not find him. Instead he found something else—Lizzy! Seeing his collie standing between two houses, Joel parked the station wagon on the street and climbed out to get her. When he approached her, Lizzy looked at him hesitantly. Perhaps these past few days of freedom had given her a new outlook on life—a life that no longer included Joel. However, when he squatted down with his hand out, whistling, her ears perked up and she bolted towards him.

He patted her head and called her a good girl. “You wanna go home and get some din-din?” Hearing the familiar phrase, Lizzy allowed him to pick her up and carry her back to the station wagon.

After the six days he’d spent Lizzy-less and unable to write, Joel decided he would not waste anymore time. What if, God forbid, Lizzy died? Then where would he be? Within five minutes of having her back home, Joel had already chopped off another finger and tossed it her way. Hungry after her trip, Lizzy immediately snatched it up. She tried to eat it right there on the linoleum, but Joel dragged her to the backdoor and pushed her through the doggie door once again. Then he opened the door, went outside, and fastened Lizzy to the chain. He then ran to his desk and sat before his laptop, which was already on with the document open and waiting.

Joel started typing chapter eight. The blood was pouring through the dish towel he had wrapped around his hand, and there was blood all over the keys—somehow more than before. Nevertheless, Joel kept right on typing the chapter, which he believed to be his best so far. As he wrote this latest installment, he learned that Miss Annabelle, his lesbian schoolmarm protagonist was hiding a dark secret; as a young girl, she had stabbed her father in the neck when he’d attempted to molest her. As Joel wrote, he found himself feeling rather bad for this character, despite the fact that she was a figment of his imagination. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Even though Joel would be credited as such, he knew he wasn’t the author. But then, who was? The idea of where the story was coming from fascinated him.

Once Joel was finished with the night’s work, he hopped into the station wagon and sped to the ER at Mount Sinai. The routine was pretty much the same as it had been at all the other emergency rooms and the doctors advised him to seek psychiatric help, despite Joel’s insistence that this been just another in a string of freak accidents.

This gruesome routine continued for another two months until Joel was left with a single digit—his right index finger. Cutting this one off would be tricky since he’d have no other fingers to cut with. Before going about this task, Joel had opened “voice recorder” on his laptop. With the function, he could speak the words into the computer mic. Then, afterwards, he would hire someone to type up the chapter. This would be chapter nineteen, which he believed would, thankfully, conclude the novel. All the pieces of the story were in place—Miss Annabelle had found her one true love in Sister Dorothy and the two had decided to run away to Mexico. As Joel saw it, this concluding chapter would likely be about them happily living out their days on sunny beaches.

And then, even though he would have no fingers or toes remaining, Joel would have the novel. A really, really great novel. Perhaps the greatest American novel ever written. Then he could purchase some prosthetic fingers and live out his own days on a beach somewhere.

But first he had to get this last chapter completed. Joel walked into the kitchen. Lizzy was already there, sitting and waiting, as if she understood how important the day was. Joel stood in front of the cutting board where he had cut off all those fingers and stared at it. Instead of his usual knife, this time Joel had a cigar cutter he’d purchased specifically for the occasion, ready and waiting. Prior to his needing it, Joel had never even heard of a cigar cutter. He’d never smoked a cigar before, and when he saw guys on television smoking them they were just biting off the tips. The cigar cutter was a small metal device with a hole in its center and two handles on the sides that obscured a blade. When the two handles were pushed inward, the blade emerged, slicing the cigar or anything else pushed through the hole.

Joel looked down at Lizzy, and the dog stared back at him as if she understood. But hell, she was just as much a veteran of the finger-chopping ritual as he was.

“Lizzy, old girl, this is gonna be one hell of a day,” Joel said, sighing. “A rough one, I’m afraid. But after this, we’re done.”

Joel pushed the tip of his index finger into the cigar cutter’s hole and slid the device to the edge of the counter. Once it was just beyond the counter’s edge, he was able to push his finger all the way down through the hole. Once the finger was inside, he was able to use it to lift the cutter. He then leaned in and turned the cutter on its side. This would allow him to press his left arm down hard against the handle, chopping off this Last of the Mohicans.

Joel felt sweat beads popping up on his forehead. This severing was more frightening than the previous ones had been. Despite having done this nineteen times before—nineteen times, could you believe it?!—he was scared shitless. He stood there, hunkered down over the cutter for a few minutes, trying to muster up the courage to go through with it. He didn’t really want to do it, but if he didn’t, all of this would have been for nothing. So, he concluded, there was no choice. He had to do it.

“Here goes nothing.”

He clamped his teeth hard—so hard he thought he might break them or injure his jaw—and he pushed his left arm down hard against the handle. The blade emerged, swiftly slicing off the finger. Joel howled, momentarily fixating on the blood spurting from the nub.

Good Jesus fuck!”

The pain hurt tremendously. Joel was breathing hard and his face felt hot. Suddenly he was woozy. But he had to press forward. He had to do this or, again, all of this would have been for nothing.

Joel took a deep breath to help him regain his composure. He used his left arm to sweep the severed finger off the counter and onto the floor. This time Lizzy just sat there staring at it. She looked up at Joel with big dopey eyes.

“Eat the finger,” Joel said. “Please… Eat the fuckin’ finger!”

Lizzy watched him for a few seconds. Then she leaned down, as if she were a worker performing a tediously routine function and picked up the finger. She looked up at Joel with eyes that seemed to say “fuck you for making me do this shit”, and she trotted to the doggie door, disappearing through it.

Unable to pick up a dish towel without fingers, Joel pressed the open wound against the leg of his jeans. He went to his laptop and took a seat. The screen was in rest mode. Joel used his left hand to tap the keyboard and the screen came alive. The voice recorder was already up on the screen. The cursor was in the center of the record button just as he’d left it.

Joel used his fingerless hand to tap the touch pad. When he did, voice recorder began to record. As the words formed in Joel’s head, he said them aloud. It took him seventy minutes to talk out the chapter. But, to Joel’s horror, the story wasn’t finished. What he’d written led right up to what he presumed to be the story’s ending, but there was still another chapter to go.

Cursing with words no human had ever spoken before, Joel used his left hand to shut off voice recorder. He rose and stumbled towards the front door. He’d left the door standing open, so his only obstacle would be the storm door. He used the back of his profusely-bleeding right hand to press down against the latch and open the door. He had no way to shut the door and lock it behind him. He hoped his laptop would be safe, but there was nothing he could do about it. He stumbled down the porch steps, almost falling as he did. He approached the parked station wagon. When he went for the keys in his pocket, he realized his mistake. Without fingers he couldn’t retrieve the keys. Then, even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to get the car door open, insert the keys into the ignition, start the car, or steer. Joel was royally fucked.

And he was losing blood. Lots and lots of blood.

Maybe he could pay someone to drive him to the ER. He looked around the neighborhood, but saw no one. He stood there for a long moment, his eyes going from the empty street to the station wagon to his neighbors’ houses and then back through all of it again. He took a deep breath and started to say a prayer. He was halfway through the prayer when he blacked out and fell onto the grass.


When Joel awoke, he was in a bed inside a hospital room. There was no one in the room with him. Looking around at the walls and the layout of the room, he knew he was back at Maimonides, which was the closest hospital to his home.

Joel’s hand was hurting terribly. He tilted his head forward and looked for the controller that called the nurse. It was lying beside his leg. However, without fingers he couldn’t use it. He tried to use his bandaged hands to press against it, but had no luck. He then screamed and screamed until a nurse came to assist him.

After the chapter nineteen incident, Joel’s mother came to stay with him and assist with his day-to-day living. Joel waited nine days after his release to write his novel’s twentieth and final chapter. His mother had gone to the grocery store, and the Food Way she liked was thirty minutes away, so Joel knew he had time. He set up the computer so that voice recorder would be ready and waiting. Setting it up without fingers took a while, but eventually he managed.

Joel went to the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, he called for Lizzy. It took a moment, but the collie eventually came to him. He then led her into the bathroom and pushed the door shut. Since the removal of his last finger, Joel had worn pajama pants to make it easier for him to pull his pants down to use the restroom.

Joel used his fingerless hands to push the sides of his pajama pants down around his ankles. He opened the mirrored medicine cabinet. When he did, he found the cigar cutter inside where he’d left it. He used his fingerless hand to knock it down into the sink.

This was going to suck, but there was still one last chapter to write, and Joel had come too far to turn back now.

He had a difficult time getting the head of his penis into the cutter, but he did it. His dick became hardened as he attempted to push it further through the hole, its expanded width making it even more difficult. But finally he managed to scrape the length of his dick through the cutter. He then placed his nubs on the handles.

He looked down at Lizzy staring up at him.

“You want some din-din?”

Joel clamped the handles closed and the blade flashed out, cutting off his dick.

* * * * * * * *

Three years had passed since Joel cut off his dick. It had hurt like a sonofabitch, but he’d been able to write his twentieth and final chapter. It had been a hell of a price to pay, but Joel had completed his novel, The Schoolmarm’s Secret.

Joel now had state-of-the-art metal fingers, but he hadn’t been able to replace his dick, so now he pissed through a catheter.

But he’d survived.

He was sitting on the couch watching Days of Our Lives when Lizzy started barking, letting him know that the mailman had come. Joel leaped to his feet and made his way to the door. He stepped out onto the porch and went to the mailbox, where he plucked out a thick stack of envelopes. There were eight medical bills, a grocery advertisement, and the letter he’d been waiting for—a response from Beaumont House Publishing. Joel turned and went back inside, staring down at the envelope.

He set the rest of the mail down on top of a pile of books on his desk. The stack of mail immediately toppled over, but Joel paid it no mind. He went to work tearing the envelope open. He had received seventy-three rejection letters so far and had been turned down by almost as many literary agents. But Joel knew what he had; he knew The Schoolmarm’s Secret was destined for greatness. Sometimes, he reasoned, a work of art could be so far ahead of its time that very few people recognized its potential. But it would only take one editor to see it for the masterpiece it was. And that editor, Joel believed, would be this one.

Once he’d removed the letter from the envelope, he raised it to his mouth and kissed it for luck. Then he began to read:

Dear Mr. Wise,

I regret to inform you that your novel is not right for Beaumont Publishing. I considered sending you a form rejection, but I felt this novel demanded something more. I have been an editor for three decades, Mr. Wise, and I must tell you that The Schoolmarm’s Secret is by far and away the single worst manuscript I have ever had the displeasure of reading. I know this sounds harsh, but believe me, I am doing you a favor by letting you know in no uncertain terms that you are a terrible writer. Not just terrible, but something far, far worse. Read these words and let them really sink in, Mr. Wise: writing is not your forte. I am telling you this so you don’t waste your time and efforts (as well as the time and efforts of other editors) repeating the painful process of writing things that will never be published.

You possess no talent, Mr. Wise. None whatsoever. I have read thousands upon thousands of manuscripts, and you are, by far, the worst, most untalented hack whose work I have ever encountered. I recommend you go and find something else that you are better suited to. Maybe something with your hands. But please, Mr. Wise, do the world a favor and stop writing now.

Yours truly,

Samuel H. Janakowski

Joel crumpled up the letter and let it drop to the carpet. He stood there for a moment, wobbling and woozy, feeling like he might pass out. When he felt stable enough, he lowered himself to the floor and lay face-down, sobbing.

As he did, he remembered the nurse’s words: you’re doing too much. And she’d been right, he had done too much. Even worse, he’d done it all for nothing.

Drinks at the Arkadia: An Orlando Williams Story

by Andy Rausch

This story is a prequel to my novels The Suicide Game and Layla’s Score (and more to follow) featuring the character Orlando Williams.

Orlando Williams made his way into the Hotel Arkadia, walking through the light rain, so light as to be just enough to annoy. As he did, he remembered a song he’d once heard saying that it never rained in Southern California, which was bullshit. The night air was muggier than usual, but Orlando enjoyed it for its rarity. Despite the life he lived and the things he saw, he remained a glass-half-full kind of guy.

As he strode through the lobby of the rundown hotel, he saw a dark-skinned desk clerk and was happy to find he wasn’t the only black man in the place. The Hotel Arkadia was a dingy relic from days gone by, and it looked like it hadn’t been renovated since it was opened in the 1920s. It looked (and smelled) like shit now, but he figured it had probably been nice once, maybe even swanky. As he made his way to the bar, he heard the sounds of his Bruno Maglis clicking against the cracked tile floor.

Once he was inside the bar, he ordered a Diet Coke from a pretty blonde bartender in her twenties, thinking she wore too much make-up. She wasn’t one of those girls who applied the stuff with a paintbrush, but it was still a tad too much. From a distance you couldn’t tell; it was one of those upon closer inspection type things. The bar was mostly empty, a few customers sprinkled about. When the bartender gave him his drink, she flashed a seductive smile to show him she was interested. He smiled, taking it in stride, just as he had a thousand times before when his students had done the same. “The shaved head suits you,” she said. “White guys can’t really pull it off. Why do you think it is that black guys can?”

“I guess it’s a trade off,” he said dryly. “White people get to live in peace outside the ghetto and don’t have to worry about getting killed by cops for running a stop sign. But, we get to look nice with bald heads. Fair trade?”

She blinked, not knowing what to say, so she said nothing. Instead she told him the Diet Coke cost $3.50, which he thought was too much, but he handed her a five without protest, telling her to keep the change.

Orlando turned away from the bar, his eyes scanning the room for a suitable table, landing on one across the room by the wall. He went to it and sat down, sipping the Diet Coke. Some would have found his having a soft drink in a bar humorous, but he didn’t. Orlando’s father had been a drunk, and he’d done all he could to avoid following his example. He drank occasionally, but not often. Looking across the room now, he saw a face he recognized. The man, entering the bar, was an older white man in his mid-seventies. He was gaunt and pale, and had seen better days. He wore a golf cap and had a thin, neatly-kept mustache that might have been in fashion when Burt Reynolds was young. His clothes were average, certainly less stylish than was the norm for LA, and there was no way anyone would have guessed that he’d written a dozen highly-respected books about the mob. He wasn’t as big a success as the big shot movie stars who roamed the city, but his success was undeniable. He wasn’t a household name who’d penned bestsellers for one of the big five publishers, but the work he’d done was exceptional. In the city of angels, the man would be seen as a nobody, a less than, which troubled Orlando, who not only knew who he was, but respected him greatly. Were Orlando to acknowledge that he had personal heroes, Charlie Bly would have been high on the list.

Orlando watched Bly order and pay for his drink. When he saw him sit alone at a table near the bar, Orlando decided to approach him. He stood and walked across the room. Bly saw him approaching when he was still a couple tables away, and watched with curiosity rather than reluctance.

Orlando spoke first. He was carrying his glass, hoping Bly would invite him to sit. Orlando pointed at him casually. “I know you,” he said.

“You do, huh?”

“I do.”

“Tell me then, who am I?” Bly asked, grinning.

“Don’t you know who you are?”

Bly chuckled. “I’m the only one who does.”

“Well, I know who you are. I’ve long enjoyed and admired your work, especially your book on Frank Nitti and the Chicago outfit.”

Bly looked surprised. “You really do know me.”

“I’ve read every book you’ve written.”

“Really?” asked the flattered Bly. “Not many people read every book a nonfiction writer writes. Those big name people like Dan Brown, sure, but not me.”

“Dan Brown sucks,” said Orlando. “You’re a better writer than he is.”

Bly’s grin grew wider. “Tell that to my bank account.”

Orlando nodded towards an empty chair. “Mind if I sit?”

“Oh, please do,” said Bly, sounding genuine.

Orlando sat, setting his drink on the table.

Bly looked at it. “You a tea totaller?”

“I guess so,” said Orlando. “I don’t drink much.”

Bly nodded. “Wise path, my friend. I know a lot of guys who drink too much, it becomes their primary focus.”

Orlando shifted the conversation. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bly.”

“I appreciate that. I don’t get that much. Not even my kids wanna see me these days. I have to pretty much take them by force and keep them captive to make them see me.”

“That’s too bad,” said Orlando.

Bly shrugged. “That’s kids. You got any?”

“Just one, a girl. Keisha. She’s three.”

“Oh, they’re fun when they’re that age. They get less fun when they become teenagers.”

“So I’ve heard. Luckily I’ve got a little time before I get there. But sometimes I do wonder what she’ll be like when she’s that age.”

“A handful,” said Bly. “They all are, especially girls.”

“She’s a pretty well-behaved kid.”

“That’s good,” Bly said, taking a drink of his Scotch. “So you know me. Now tell me about you.”

Orlando reached across the table, and the old man shook his hand. “My name’s Orlando.”

“Are you familiar with As You Like It? There’s an Orlando in that.”

“Of course.”

“You like Shakespeare?” Bly asked, sounding surprised.

“What? You thought I wouldn’t because I’m black?”

The old man looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It’s okay. Yeah, I know Shakespeare.”

Bly grinned. “Let me ask you, am I a better writer than him, too?”

Orlando smiled. “Do you want me to lie to you?”

“I was joking. But I rank somewhere between Dan Brown and William Shakespeare. Hmm. I wouldn’t wanna know where exactly I fit in there. Closer to Brown, I think.”

“I’m closer to him, too,” said Orlando.

Bly’s face brightened. “You’re a writer?”

“I dabble. I write nonfiction, like you.”


Orlando nodded. “I’ve written a couple books.”

“About what?”

“Fydor Dostoevsky.”

Bly was impressed. “Dostoevsky, huh?”

“You surprised?”

“Yeah, but not for the reason you think. It’s because I don’t know shit about Dostoevsky either, so it’s not a race thing. Frankly I’m surprised when anyone knows about that shit.”

“I teach Russian lit at UCLA,” said Orlando, not mentioning his second job.

“You do?”

Orlando nodded, taking a drink.

“Have you read my newest book?”

“I have,” said Orlando. “Lesser Kings.”

“What did you think?”

“It was very well-written, meticulously researched, as usual. But also very ballsy, writing about present day mobsters. It was truthful in a way I can’t imagine them appreciating. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

Bly spoke, his tone serious. “I’m an old man, Orlando. My days of being scared are behind. I’m seventy-seven, but my body is a hundred. I’m tired, and I’ve lived a hard life.” He looked at him. “You don’t even wanna know. So what I’m saying is, if they were to kill me now, they’d be doing me a favor.”

“You think that could really happen?”

Bly shook his head. “It’s unlikely. Since the RICO act tore the mob apart in the Eighties, the organization is just a shell of what it once was. Now it’s a clusterfuck, just thugs and drugs, a disjointed mess, nobody knowing what they’re doing. They probably couldn’t orchestrate a gas station robbery at this point. They’re pretty worthless now.”

“I was kind of shocked by some of the things you wrote.”

The old man smiled proudly.

“The publisher wasn’t sure about it. But I insisted. I told them it was well-researched, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it legally.”

Orlando pointed at him again. “That’s the key word, isn’t it? Legally.”

“I think the only person who could really be angry about anything I wrote was Angelo Vitelli, the boss here in LA, but he’s one of the weakest of all. The guy has zero power. He couldn’t do anything if he wanted to.”

“You think those guys read this stuff?”

“Honestly, I doubt any of them know how to read. I suspect all those guys read are racing forms and obituaries.”

“Where do you live? Since you’re staying here, I’m assuming you don’t live in LA.”

“The Big Apple. I live on Hudson street, across from a place where Jack Kerouac used to live.”

“That’s cool,” said Orlando. “Two great writers on one block.”

The old man smiled. “I wish I was in his league. But if I’m being honest, I moved there hoping some of Kerouac’s mojo might rub off.”

“It appears it worked.”

“Maybe,” said Bly, rubbing his chin. “I don’t know if I agree with that, but I like hearing it, so feel free to repeat it.”

They both laughed. Orlando asked Bly if he wanted a second drink, to which he said yes. Orlando said the drinks were his treat and he went to the bar and got them. When he returned, he observed, “The part in Lesser Kings where you suggested that Vitelli might have been molested by his dad was kind of shocking. That was the part that stood out. I think if you were gonna have problems, that would be the reason.”

The old man nodded. “I do too, but I feel safe.” This time he put a spin on his previous joke, saying “I don’t think these guys could orchestrate a robbery at Burger King.” He smiled, proud of himself. They both sat in silence for a moment, comfortable, neither feeling the need to speak for the sake of speaking. Finally Bly asked, “What do you do for fun?”

Orlando smiled, sighing as he did. “Teaching.”

Teaching? Your job is the thing you do for fun?”

“It is,” said Orlando, nodding, not wanting to tell him that teaching was his side job.

They sat for another hour, making chit-chat about their lives and their kids. The old man told Orlando about his three divorces, and Orlando told him about his wife, Maralys. They discussed literature and the obstacles of writing, each of them having a good time.

Finally, after having talked for nearly two hours, Bly said, “As fun as this has been, I need to go to bed. I’m an old man and I need to get up early.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Orlando. “What’s going on?”

“I’m speaking at a symposium tomorrow. You know, I still can’t believe people actually pay to hear me talk. As I know you know, the funny thing about being a nonfiction writer is that people look to you for answers, expecting you to know everything. They don’t realize that writers write about the things they themselves want to know more about.”

“Right,” said Orlando, nodding.

“That feeling of being a fraud never goes away. God knows I’ve tried to shake it, been trying to shake it for almost eighty years, but it’s still there. But tomorrow I’ll get up there and put on a straight face and bullshit those people, convincing them I know all there is to know about the Mafia.”

“I don’t think you’re a fraud at all. You know your stuff, and it shows.”

“Research,” said the old man. “Lots and lots of research.”

They both stood, leaving their drinks on the table.

“You leaving, too?” asked Bly.

“I was only gonna stay for a few minutes, but then I ran into you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“So am I.”

The two men left the bar and made their way across the lobby to the elevator.

“What floor you on?” asked the man.

“I’m on three.”

Bly’s face brightened. “So am I.”

They boarded the elevator and the doors closed, the elevator coming to life. Orlando said, “What made you wanna write in the first place?”

“I always knew I was gonna be a writer, I just didn’t know what it was gonna be. I thought I was gonna be a novelist, write the next great American novel.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t have the necessary talent.”

The elevator opened and the two men stepped out into the hall. The old man looked to the left and said, “Well, my room is this way.”

“So is mine.”

“Oh, okay.”

They started down the narrow hall, Bly leading the way. Bly stopped in front of a door, pulling a key out of his pocket. “This is me,” he said. As he unlocked the door, a thought occurred to him. “If you teach at UCLA, why are you staying here?” He turned to face Orlando, finding himself looking at a silenced .45. He sighed. “You got me,” Bly said. “I really believed you were a professor and an author.”

“I am,” said Orlando. “That was true. I’m both of those things, and also this. I multi-task.”

“I wish I was better at that.” Bly paused for a moment before adding, “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

Orlando looked at him with sad eyes. Clarlie Bly was the only man Orlando had ever been asked to kill that he’d felt bad about. “I really am a fan,” said Orlando. “You’ve been a huge influence. I’m sorry about all this.”

“Did Angelo Vitelli send you?”

Orlando nodded. “He did.”

“I figured,” said Bly. “I guess I was wrong. I guess he can read after all.”

“He can, but his lips move when he does it,” said Orlando.

Bly chuckled. “Since when does the mob hire black guys?”

“They don’t do it often. I’m only the second one ever.”

“You must be good at what you do.”

“I’m a better hitter than I am a writer.”

Bly smiled, looking tired now. “It was nice meeting you, Orlando. Good luck with the writing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bly. It was nice meeting you, too.”

Bly closed his eyes, and Orlando squeezed the trigger. The old man’s head shot back before he toppled to the floor, falling into the door. Orlando stuck the .45 back inside his jacket. He looked down at Bly, whose work had meant so much to him, and he whispered, “I’m sorry, Charlie.” He dragged Bly’s body into the room and closed the door. He pulled out his cell phone, hit a button, and raised the phone to his ear. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said. “Send Teddy and his boys to clean up. Room 222 at the Arkadia.”

Later, after Teddy’s crew had come to relieve him, Orlando was walking through the lobby, considering Bly’s death. He felt happy to have met an idol whose work had inspired him, but also sad because he’d had to kill him. As he stepped out into the rain, Orlando thought of the old maxim that a writer should kill his darlings. He smiled, thinking Bly would have appreciated this.

Short Fiction: “The Day Henry Came Calling”

by Andy Rausch

Goddamn you, Henry. This was Tom’s first thought upon seeing his brother for the first time in 43 years. He watched his brother get out of the yellow Buick and approach the house. Tom had been sitting in a chair on the porch, reading a Harlan Coben book. He set the book down and stood, steeling himself for confrontation.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “Do I need to go get my gun?”

Tom looked at him with tired eyes and held his palms up. “No, brother. I came to bury the hatchet.”

Tom wasn’t convinced. “Where you gonna bury it? In my head?” He squinted at Henry. “You better not try anything.”

“Or what?” asked Henry, almost to the steps now. “You gonna fall down and break a hip?”

Tom muttered to himself and sat down. Henry made his way up the steps and onto the porch. He looked around at the house. “I see you’ve kept her up in good pretty good shape.”

“I done what I could.”

Henry nodded towards the empty chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Tom shrugged. “Last I knew, it was a free country.”

Henry sat and looked his brother over. “You’ve turned into an old man.”

“Well, shit. What the hell do you think you are?”

Henry chuckled. “You’re older than me.”

“By one goddamn year. I might be 82, but you’re still 81, and 81 ain’t no spring chicken.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Henry, nodding.

Tom looked him square in the eyes. He’d waited for decades to see his brother again, but now that he was here, he just wanted it to be over. In his mind, the window for reconciliation had long since closed.

“What do you want?”

Henry sighed. “I just want to make peace.”

“Why now? It’s been a long time.”

“It’s been too long,” Henry said. “I figure 40 years is enough.”

“43, actually.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Henry asked, chuckling. “Here I am coming to you with my hat in hand, trying to say I’m sorry, and you’ve gotta be hard about it.”

“I don’t see no hat in your hand.”

“I don’t wear hats. But maybe I should. The docs say I got skin cancer.”

“That’s it?” Tom asked. “You just came to talk about hats?”

“There you go again, being hard.”

“As I recall, you were pretty hard yourself,” Tom said. “Last time I saw you, you swore you’d get revenge against me if it was the last thing you ever did.”

Henry just chuckled.

“So what then?” Tom asked. “You don’t want revenge now?”

“I changed, brother. Don’t a man have the right to change?”

Tom gave him a hard look. “You ain’t changed. You’re older is all.”

“How do you know I haven’t changed?”

“Don’t nothin’ change but the weather.”

“And you had the nerve to call me hard,” Henry said. “I’ll be straight with you. I lost my wife Lottie a couple summers back. That was hard. Real hard. And my kids never come to see me. I’m not even sure they know I’m still alive.”

“Well,” said Tom, “I didn’t know you was alive either. And now that I’m looking at you, I still can’t tell.”

“You think I look that bad?”

“You look worse. You look like a hundred pounds of monkey shit.”

“What does monkey shit even look like?

“Look in the mirror,” Tom said.

Henry ignored this and continued. “Anyway, Lottie dying put things into perspective for me and I got to thinking about the things that are important.”

“And what do you figure those things are?”

“Family and loved ones,” Henry said. “You and my kids.”

“When did you say Lottie died?”

“Two years ago.”

Tom said, “Her death made you think about those things, but it still took you two years to come here? You’re a stubborn old bastard. You’ll never change.”

“You’re wrong about that,” Henry said. “I have changed. I’m offering you an olive branch here.”

Tom stared at him for a long time, trying to decide what he should say. Then he said, “I never did understand why you were so upset in the first place.”

“After Mom and Pop died, you took everything. This house, their belongings, their savings. You took it all.”

“I took what they left me,” Tom said. “I didn’t ask for any of it. That was what they decided.”

Henry glared at him. “You should have shared it with me, Tom! You should have done what was right!”

“No. Maybe it was right to you. Maybe it was even right to me. But it wasn’t right to them or they wouldn’t have drawn up the will the way they did. It would have been disrespectful to them for me to cut you in after they specifically said they didn’t want you to have any of it.”

Henry stared at him in silence.

Tom continued. “You might not have thought it was all that big a thing, but when you stole all their money to run off and get married to that Mexican gal…”

“Estrellita,” Henry said.

“I don’t give a damn what her name was. That ain’t the point. The point is you hurt them. Hurt ’em bad. Even after y’all made up and you came back, they never did get over that. It still hurt. You were their son, Henry. You disrespected them and you hurt them. Don’t you understand that?”

Henry looked at him with wet eyes. “They didn’t approve of Estrellita, and it was just because she was Mexican. What the hell did you expect me to do?”

“Maybe they screwed that up, sure, but that’s how it was back then. You know that. I’m not saying it was right, but Mom and Pop were good people doing the best they could. Besides, it turned out they were right anyway, didn’t it? How long were you and that gal married?”

“Almost a year,” Henry said.

“Almost a year. And you screwed over your own blood, your parents, for a relationship that went to shit almost immediately.”

“But it could have worked,” Henry said. “There was no way to know it wouldn’t.”

“You’re right, there wasn’t. And I wouldn’t begrudge you that. She was a pretty gal and she was sweet. If you were in love with her, which I think you were, you shoulda been able to marry her.”

“But you still think I did wrong?”

“Hell yes, I do. You were wrong because you took the easy way, Henry. Instead of working and saving your money like decent people do, you took Mom and Pop’s money and ran off without saying a word. They were worried sick about you. I was worried sick. And after you left, money was tight. Things were hard.”

“But they made it,” Henry said.

“They made it, but it was no thanks to you.”

Henry stared at him and there was a long pause. Finally he said, “Look, I was wrong to do that. I’m sorry.”

“It ain’t me you owe the apology to.”

“That’s true, but they ain’t here for me to say it to, so you’re gonna have to do.”

“You didn’t even come back for the funeral.”

“What the hell was I supposed to do? Everybody was mad at me.”

“But you still came back for the reading of the will.”

Henry looked down with shame.

“What the hell do you want?” Tom asked. “The money’s gone and there ain’t nothing left to give you. And I live here in the house, so you’re not getting that.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“You must want something,” Tom said. “You’re here.”

“All I wanted was to make peace with you, brother. I don’t want nothing else.”

Tom just sat there for a few minutes, staring out at the passing traffic. Then he turned back to his brother. “You said you were gonna get revenge against me. That was the last thing you said to me. I still remember it like it was yesterday.”

Henry said, “But it wasn’t.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was 43 years ago, and you ruined any chance of us ever having a good relationship. You wasted those years, Henry.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Henry said, “I just wanted to try to make things right.”

“It can never be right.”

Henry nodded. “Okay then, at least as good as possible.”

Tom just sat there staring off, thinking. As he did, tears welled up in his eyes. He looked at his brother. “Why should I trust you now?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, brother. I don’t know how to prove it to you, but I’ve changed. I want to try to get to know you before it’s too late. Like you said, we ain’t young no more.”

Tom stared into his brother’s eyes. “Okay, I forgive you, Henry. I don’t know if you’ve changed, but…”

“Let me prove it to you.”

“How? How you gonna do that?”

“Get to know me, big brother,” Henry said. “Do that and you’ll see. I’m not the same man I was when we were younger.”

Tom stared into his eyes again. “That’s good because you were an awful, horrible, mean sonofabitch when you were younger.”

Henry nodded, giving him a sad look. “I can’t deny that.”

“What now?”

“Well, I figure we get together soon, sometime when I’m in town longer, and we can spend some time together. We can catch up.”

Tom considered it. It sounded good, but he didn’t want to get hurt again. Finally he said, “That sounds good, Henry. I’d like that.”


“You’re just in town for today?”

Henry nodded. “Yes, but I’m free in July.”

“July? That’s two months away.”

Henry shrugged. “July 23rd.”

“That’s a very random, specific day.”

“Do you want to get together or not?”

“I do, little brother. And I don’t have anything scheduled beyond the next piss I take. I don’t make plans.”

“Well, plan for this. It’ll be a special day. A day to remember. That’s when you’ll see me.”

“Okay,” Tom said, nodding. “I look forward to it.”

Henry stood and held his boney hand out for Tom to shake. Tom took it in his own boney hand and pumped it. “I’m sure glad I got to see you today. I’ve missed you.”

“Likewise.” Henry turned toward the steps. “Mark it on your calendar, brother.”

“Are you sure? You’ve always been flakey.”

“I guarantee it. No matter what, we’ll be together on July 23rd.”

“You promise?”

Henry winked at him. “You couldn’t stop it if you tried.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’ll see you soon, brother,” Henry said, making his way back to the old yellow Buick. Tom watched him climb into the car, start the engine, and drive away.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tom said. Miracles really did happen.

He thought about Henry for the rest of the day. He was glad he’d changed. Henry had always been a terrible person, so the fact that he’d changed made Tom happy. And despite it all, he really did love him. Thinking about the two of them getting together in July excited him.

A few hours passed and Tom was sitting in his recliner watching Jeopardy when the phone rang. Tom muted the television and then reached over and grabbed the phone. He raised it to his ear.


“Tom?” asked a woman on the other end.

“This is Tom.”

“This is your cousin, Evelyn.”

“Oh, hey, Evelyn. I didn’t recognize your voice.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s understandable. It’s probably been 20 years since the last time we spoke.”

“I suspect that’s right,” Tom said. “What can I do for you?”

“The reason I’m calling is…Well, it’s your brother.”


“Do you have any other brothers?”

Tom chuckled. “No, just the one. And that’s plenty. What about him?”

“This is hard for me to say, but he’s dead, Tom.”

This startled Tom. “I can assure you he’s not.”

“He is, Tom. He was killed in a car accident last night on 400.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, Tom.”

He was confused. “It’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Evelyn said. “I was the one who went to the morgue and ID’d his body.”

Tom started getting angry. “What the hell is this, Evelyn?”

“I understand you being upset, Tom, but…at least he died quickly. He was in that old Buick LeSabre of his.” She paused. “I don’t think you two had spoken since he’d gotten it, but it was a pretty old thing.”

“Was it yellow?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, it was. How’d you know?”

“I must have seen a picture.”

“Well, another car tried to pass,” Evelyn said, starting to sob. “They were in the other lane… But they…they ended up pulling out right in front of Henry’s car, and…they…collided head-on.”

“You’re sure it was Henry you saw?”

Evelyn started sobbing harder. “Oh, it was awful, Tom. Just awful. But it was definitely him. The service is gonna be next Wednesday if you can make it. It’s in Lackley, over at the Donovan Funeral Parlor on Seventh.”

“Maybe it wasn’t him.”

“It was definitely him, Tom” she said. “He had a tattoo… I didn’t know he had a tattoo.”

“He had a couple,” Tom said.

“This one was a half naked woman.”

“He got that when he was in the Navy.”

Evelyn said, “That was the one I saw.”

Tom sat there, trying to work it all out in his head. Evelyn could have been lying, but he knew she wasn’t. She was crying and he could hear the earnestness in her voice. She was still talking when he hung up in a daze.

He didn’t understand it. How could it be?

Then he thought, what if Henry was a ghost? But that was nonsense. There was no such thing as ghosts, right? But…what if there was? And as he thought about it, he figured it out. Yes, Henry was a ghost. A piece of shit ghost.

Henry had been a piece of shit in life, and now he was a piece of shit in death. Henry had come for revenge, letting Tom know exactly what day he was going to die. It could have been something else, but he was certain this was the purpose of his brother’s visit. Henry was finally getting his revenge. He’d vowed that he’d get it if it was the last thing he ever did. Tom had obviously believed that meant before Henry’s death, but that hadn’t been the case.

“No matter what, we’ll be together on July 23rd,” Henry had said. And that other line… What was it? Oh, yes, “You couldn’t stop it if you tried.”

He heard the oven timer buzzing now to let him know his TV dinner was done cooking, but Tom had lost his appetite. He was going to die on July 23rd, and thanks to his dead brother, he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else until that day. By telling him the date on which he’d die, Henry had made sure Tom could not enjoy the last months of his life.

Goddamn you, Henry.

Short Fiction: “A Snowy Night in Brooklyn”

by Andy Rausch

DISCLAIMER: This is one of those “inside baseball” stories where a knowledge of hip-hop music and/or Biggie Smalls is required for the story to make sense. If you don’t know anything about them, you’re gonna be lost.

Big and Cease were in Big’s Suburban, making their way down Fulton Street. It was dark now, a light snow falling against the windshield.

“Crack that window,” said Big, choking on the smoke from Cease’s blunt. “You ’bout to kill me with that shit.”

Cease protested. “But it’s cold, man.”

Big looked over at him. “And?”

“I’ll be fucking cold.”

Big gave him an exaggerated look like he was stupid. “There’s two other solutions.”

“What’s the first?”

“You could put that thing out and stop smoking in my shit.”

“And the second?”

Big grinned as he said, “I could pull over and let your ass walk the rest of the way. Then you’ll really be cold.”

Cease slumped. He rolled the window down a little, tossing the half-finished blunt out. “You happy now?”

“I’m as happy as Shaq makin’ free throws.”

“Where we goin’?”

“There’s someone I gotta see.”

“Who’s that?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll know when we get there.”

Big slowed the Suburban, staring up at a shop window on the right. Cease couldn’t make out what the words on the window said, but there was a light on inside. “You see anyone in there?” asked Big.

“In where?

Frustrated, Big said, “In the window, man.”

Cease stared at the shop, squinting, but couldn’t make out anything inside.

Big pulled the Suburban over next to the curb. Other businesses on the street, like the Jewelry Exchange and the Metro King, had big signs and/or canopies hanging over their entrances, but this one didn’t. As Big turned off the motor, Cease was still squinting at the window, trying to figure out what this place was. He had been down this way a million and one times, but had never paid any mind to the place.

Big opened his door carefully, trying to avoid being hit by oncoming traffic. Cease climbed out the passenger side.

“Make sure you lock it,” said Big.

“I did.”

“You sure?”

“Damn, Big, I’m sure.”

Big walked around the vehicle, his Tims stepping up onto the sidewalk. He and Cease stood there for a brief moment in the falling snow, staring at the window. Now Cease could see it for the first time: “Madame Sylvia, Psychic and Medium.”

Cease looked over at Big, now walking towards the business. “Fuck we doin’ here, Big?”

“Don’t worry, man. I got this.”

“But Big—”

I got this,” growled Big, ending the conversation.

As they approached the door, they saw the closed sign facing outward. They could also see a figure moving around inside. Big stepped up to the door, made a fist, and banged hard. A moment later an elderly white woman—likely Madame Sylvia—came to the door. She peered out nervously, pointing at the closed sign. Big then pulled out a roll of hundreds and held it up to the window. The old woman’s face brightened, relaxing a bit. She shrugged, opening the door. As she did, an overhead bell clanged to life.

“Are you open now?” asked Big, enjoying the power of his newfound money.

The old woman looked nervously at the cash in his hand, clearly afraid it would disappear back into his pocket. “I could be persuaded to make an exception,” she said with a thick accent Big thought was Russian.

“I thought you might,” said Big, peeling several bills from the roll.

The old woman reached up and plucked the bills from his hand. She stood there, holding the door open and allowing them entrance. Once Big and Cease were inside, she closed the door and locked it.

The place smelled as if approximately 234 incense sticks had been burned simultaneously.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“You’re a medium?” asked Big. “That means you can talk to dead people, right? Like Whoopi Goldberg in that movie with the Dirty Dancing guy?”

The old woman nodded. “My body is a vessel through which the dead can speak.”

Big glanced at Cease uncomfortably. “Yeah, that’s what I need. I wanna talk to a, uh… a spirit.”

The old woman smiled nonchalantly. Such a statement would have startled most people—it certainly startled Cease—but this was an everyday occurrence for her. After all, she was Madame Sylvia, Psychic and Medium.

“You can really do that?” asked Big. “It’s for real?”

The old woman nodded. “I can do it,” she said, her voice sounding tired.

She led them past a bevy of weird shit that included a jar with a human embryo inside, an inverted cross hanging on the wall, and a collection of painted skulls. She led them through hanging beads and into a second dimly-lit room, which also smelled of incense, but this time combined with the faint odor of cat shit. Big looked around the room, but saw no cat. The old woman led them to a round wooden table, motioning for them to sit. They did. She sat down on the other side of the table, facing them.

“What is the name of the deceased you wish to talk to, Christopher?”

This startled Big, who paused for a second, looking at Cease. He turned back towards Madame Sylvia. “How you know my name?”

The old woman grinned, exposing one black rotten tooth sitting among what looked like a mouthful of yellowish-brown Chiclets. “This is what I do.”

Big composed himself, staring at her. “Okay, the person I wanna talk to…”

She stared at him, that big creepy grin still plastered across her boney face.

“His name is Tupac,” said Big. “Tupac Shakur.”

The old woman’s head fell back slowly, her cataract-obscured gaze lifting to the ceiling.

Cease stared at Big, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“I don’t like this shit,” said Cease. “I don’t believe in this stuff, but if it’s true, we don’t need to be fucking around with it. It ain’t right, Big.”

Big said nothing, paying his cousin no mind.

The old woman’s frail voice no longer sounded so frail and tired as it came screeching from her mouth. Her head was still tilted all the way back as she said, “I’m calling for Tupac Shakur… Tupac, can you speak with us?” She paused for a long moment, neither Big nor Cease saying anything. Then, finally, she called out again. “Are you there, Tupac?”

Almost the second she completed the question, the old woman started to shake violently. Big tilted his head, staring at her, wondering if she was having a seizure. He was trying to remember what you’re supposed to do if a person has a seizure; do you put a pencil in their mouth so they don’t bite off their tongue? Or was that an old wives’ tale? Big wasn’t sure. Cease looked over at Big again, but neither of them said a word. The old woman’s shaking slowed and she started to cackle now. Her head lowered, her cataract-covered eyes now filled with the shimmering glow of sunlight on gold.

She looked directly at Big. She smirked, but said nothing. She just kept staring at him awkwardly.

Big didn’t know what to say, but the creepy bitch was making him nervous.

Finally the old white woman said, “Nigga, is that you?” Her voice was upbeat now, and she spoke clear English, the accent now gone.

Big was stunned, unsure what was happening. He sat back in his chair, trying to make sense of it.

The old woman spoke up again. “What’s up, Big?”

Now Big knew.

“I’m chillin’, Pac,” he said. “How about you?”

“Nigga, I’m dead. That’s how I am.”

Cease was sitting on the edge of his chair, watching this exchange with his mouth hanging open. He said nothing.

“I can’t believe you’re coming to see me,” said Tupac. Big couldn’t read the tone; he couldn’t properly assess whether or not his old friend was angry.

“I just wanted you to know that I didn’t have shit to do with your death,” explained Big. “God as my witness I didn’t. I know people were trying to put it in your head that I was your enemy, but the truth is that I never had nothin’ but love for you, man.”

The old woman stared at him in silence for a long moment, unblinking. “I know that, nigga,” said Tupac. “You’re right though. I didn’t know it then. I was in a bad place after the Quad Studios shooting. I had a lotta people getting in my ear, tryin’ to tell me shit, tryin’ to tell me it was you and Puff did it.”

“It wasn’t me,” insisted Big. “We had nothin’ to do with that.”

The old woman nodded. “I know.”

They sat there staring at each other for a beat.

“I hated that we became enemies,” said Big. “I never wanted that. I didn’t like it at all. I told my crew to just back down and leave it alone, even though you were saying all kinds of wild shit…”

“Yeah,” Tupac said, grinning, the old woman’s hand rubbing her chin. “I did say some shit, didn’t I?”

“You had cats in the street thinking maybe I was soft because I wasn’t going in on you, wasn’t throwing darts.” Big paused. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask me anything, nigga,” said Tupac.

“You said you slept with my wife.” He paused for a moment. “Tell me, was that true?”

Now the old woman’s face stared at him very seriously. “Nah,” said Tupac. “That wasn’t true. I shouldn’t have said that shit.”

Big nodded. “You’re right, you shouldn’t have said that shit.”

“What can I do about it now? I’m dead, Big.”

“And Faith and I are separated, mostly because of what you said.”

“That’s fucked up. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry.”

Big nodded, looking over at Cease. “You got another blunt? If not, there’s a couple out in the glove box.”

Cease felt around in the pocket of his Girbauds, finally producing a crinkled, slightly bent but intact blunt. He held it up to Big, who took a moment to locate his Zippo. As the two men worked out the blunt situation, Tupac smiled and said, “Hell yeah, that’s what the fuck I’m talking about. You know how long it’s been since I smoked?”

Cease asked, “How long, Pac?”

“Well, how long have I been dead now?”

“About three months.”

“Then that’s how long it’s been. Three months. That’s too long.”

Big now had the blunt in his mouth, lighting it. He removed it from his mouth and held it out to his dead comrade. Tupac reached out with the old woman’s frail hand and took it. He put it to his lips and sucked at it, filling his lungs with thick smoke. He exhaled slowly, starting to laugh as he did.

“Goddamn,” he said. He looked at the blunt for a moment, and then up at Big and Cease. “You mind if I have another hit?”

“Whatever you want, Pac,” said Big.

Tupac took another deep drag, letting the smoke float from his lips. He held the blunt out to Cease, who then took his turn.

“So what’s it like?” asked Big. “Is there, you know…is there a heaven?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” said Tupac. “There’s nothing, and yet I continue to exist. It’s crazy, nigga. It’s nothing but blackness, but somehow I’m aware of everything going on in the universe as it happens. I even know the future.”

Big looked at him. “Like what? What kinda shit you know?”

“I know you didn’t have anything to do with the Quad Studios shooting or my death,” said Tupac. “I know everything.”

Big bit his lip, considering this. He looked up. “So you know who’s responsible for your death?”

The old woman’s body sat back, her facial features lighting up almost as bright as her eyes. “Oh yeah,” said Tupac. “I know who did that shit. It’s someone I knew real well. And believe me, I’m gonna take care of it.”

“Who was it?”

Tupac grinned, revealing that nasty black tooth again. “I’m not gonna say, but believe me, I’m gonna get that nigga. He ain’t gonna die—not yet—but his life and career are about to end.”

“Do I know the cat?”

“You’ve met him,” said Tupac. “But let’s not worry about it.”

It was Tupac’s turn to hit the blunt again. Big passed it to him, and Tupac smoked it, eventually handing it to Cease.

“So you know everything?” asked Big.

“Pretty much,” said Tupac.

“Can you tell me who’s gonna win the NBA championship this year?”

Tupac stared at him through Madame Sylvia’s eyes, grinning. “You’re funny, nigga. I shouldn’t say anything about it. But I think I owe you for all the shit we’ve been through.”

“So what you saying?”

“The Bulls,” said Tupac. “The Bulls gonna win again.”

Big nodded. “Who do they play?”


“What kinda series is Jordan gonna have?”

“Jordan gets hurt in the playoffs,” said Tupac. “He’s not gonna play in the series.”

Big looked at him, his disappointment visible. “Really?”

“It gets worse, too.”

“How’s that?”

“The injury is gonna end his career.”


Tupac stared at him, grinning, just letting it sit there for a moment. Finally he said, “Nah, nigga, I’m just fuckin’ with you. Jordan’s gonna have a great series. In game five he’s gonna score 38 points. But get this… He does it with the flu!”

“What?” asked Big. “You’re fuckin’ with me.”

“Nah, I’m serious. He ends up being series MVP.”

Big nods. “That’s cool.”

“It’s been good catching up with you fellas,” said Tupac. “But I gotta go back.”

“Back where?”

“Good question. I dunno. Wherever the fuck I came from.”

“But you and me, we’re good?”

Tupac smiled, extending the old woman’s tiny hand. The two friends bumped fists. “We’re good,” said Tupac. “We’re real good.”

“I’ll see you soon,” said Big. He paused before adding, “But not too soon.”

Tupac stared at him, knowing Big’s future but saying nothing. Tupac knew Big would never see Jordan perform in the Flu Game, as he would be dead by then.

Big watched as Madame Sylvia’s body started to convulse again, Tupac’s spirit exiting. The old woman slumped over, her face hanging down towards the table. After a moment she sat up and looked at Big, visibly exhausted.

“You okay?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

The old woman stared at him with her yellowed eyes, but said nothing. She just nodded, possibly too tired to speak. Big stood, and Cease followed suit. Big reached into his pocket and produced the roll of cash again. He tossed the whole roll onto the table in front of the old woman and turned to leave.

When they stepped out into the light snow, Cease remarked, “That shit was crazy, Big.”

Big nodded, looking up at the falling snow. He felt the burden of guilt regarding Tupac’s death and their unresolved issues now lifted. He felt alive and rejuvenated. “Things are gonna be good from here on, man. We’re gonna keep working on this music and really doing the damn thing, you know? We’re gonna live our lives to the max and live the long life that Pac didn’t get to.”

Cease nodded, “Can’t nothin’ stop us.”

The two men climbed back into the Suburban. Big turned up the stereo, playing a song he’d recently recorded with Easy Mo Bee called “Going Back to Cali.” As the music thumped from the Kenwood speakers, the two men nodded their heads rhythmically. Big pulled away from the curb, and they drove off into the Brooklyn night.

Short fiction: “Santa’s Little Helper”

by Andy Rausch

This was Carl’s third house of the night, and he still had two more he wanted to hit before morning. As he’d gotten older, he’d become a much better robber, but the downside was that he’d come to loathe his work with a fiery passion. Maybe it was the two falls he’d already taken for B&E, or maybe it was because he felt like the Last of the Mohicans now that all his old road dogs were behind bars. But mostly Carl believed it was just a part of getting older. Even as he’d become wiser and had learned to take less chances, he still had to take some. Chances came part and parcel with this line of work. And topping it off, Carl’s body was showing signs of fatigue. He became tired much more quickly these days, and the treasures he carried out of the houses were getting getting heavier and heavier.

Carl hadn’t wanted to go out robbing tonight, but he had no choice. He’d been dating Porcupine Tina for a couple weeks now, but she refused to put out. She said she’d only screw him if he agreed to take her to this new highfalutin’ expensive-ass restaurant in Manhattan. She’d read about it in the Times, and had told him it was all the rage. “Movie stars go there,” she said. “There was a picture of Nicole Kidman eating there!” She thought going there might somehow give her class, but Carl doubted it, just as he doubted that all the women in the place combined had seen as many dicks as Tina had. When Carl was growing up, his dad had a saying about girls like her—if she had as many dicks sticking out of her as she’d had stuck in her she’d be a porcupine. Hence the name Porcupine Tina.

Carl was in the dark house, shining his flashlight down on a laptop. It was an older model, probably five or six years old. That wasn’t old for most things—Carl had underwear that were older by a mile—but it was literally a lifetime for a laptop. “Fuck it,” he muttered, sticking the laptop in his bag. He turned around and was shocked to find himself face to face with a little boy.

“Who are you?” asked the boy, squinting into the light. “Are you Santa Claus?”

Seeing his way out, Carl jumped on this. “Yeah, I am,” he said. “I’m Santa Claus.”

The boy tilted his head. He looked unsure, like he was trying to work out a mathematical equation in his head. “Are you sure?”

“What? You don’t think I know who I am?”

“Why are you here?”

Carl paused. “Well, I’m here, you know, doing Santa stuff.”

“But Christmas is eighteen days away,” said the boy.

“Eighteen days, huh?”

“Yeah, I count ’em off every day. I got a Santa Claus face calendar with cotton balls on his beard over each day. I remove a piece of cotton every morning until Christmas, and right now there are eighteen cotton balls left.”

Carl nodded. “That’s a good system.”

“But my Daddy told me you didn’t exist,” said the boy.

“He did?”

“He sure did. But I knew he was wrong. I knew it!

“Why do you think he did that?”

The boy scrunched up his face, looking perplexed. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I know,” said Carl.

“You do?”

“He did it because he was naughty.”

The boy’s eyes got big. “Daddy’s naughty?”

“He lied about me not being real. You know what that is? Naughty with a capital N.”

“Maybe he just didn’t know,” offered the boy.

“No, he knew. He just did that to be naughty. He was lying to you, trying to hurt your feelings. So that’s why I’m here. Normally I only come to houses and leave presents on Christmas. But this is something different. This is a special occasion. Your Daddy’s been naughty, so I had to come to teach him a lesson.”

“Good,” said the boy. “Daddy needs to be good and stop lying. It was shitty that he did that.” The little boy looked at him. “Can I say that? ‘Shitty,’ I mean?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Carl. “It’ll be our secret.”

The boy’s eyes dropped to the bag in Carl’s hand. Next his eyes moved to the spot where the laptop had been. Then he looked at Carl.

“You lookin’ for the laptop?” asked Carl.

“Yeah. Where is it?”

“I gotta take it for a while, to teach Daddy a lesson.”

The kid’s face brightened. “But the laptop’s Mommy’s.”

“Oh,” said Carl. “Well, she let him lie, so she’s in trouble, too. I’m gonna take some of their stuff for a few weeks. Then I’ll bring it back on Christmas after they’ve learned their lesson.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

This confused the boy. “Don’t you know?”

Carl knew he’d said the wrong thing. “I’m not gonna lie to you, kid, it’s hard to keep everybody’s names straight. Sometimes I forget.”

The boy nodded. “I forget stuff, too. I got an aunt that’s got a big mustache like a cowboy. Sometimes I forget her name. My sister Tammy and me call her Chewbacca, so then when I see her I wanna call her Chewbacca, but I know that’s not the right name.”

“What is her name?” asked Carl.

“I still don’t know.”

“Fuck it,” said Carl. “Call that bitch Chewbacca.”

The boy started to laugh and then caught himself. He looked at Carl. “You said a bad word.”

“Actually I said two. So, what was your name?”

“Billy,” said the boy.

“Oh, now I remember,” said Carl. “Well, I gotta get back to work. I’ve got other houses I gotta go to tonight.”

Carl turned to take a second look at the TV he’d passed in the dark living room. It was a decent set, probably middle-of-the-pack in terms of price and quality, but he wasn’t sure he could get it out of the house without making a lot of noise.

“If you really wanna teach my Daddy a lesson, you should take his baseball card collection,” said Billy.

This caught Carl’s attention, and he turned back to Billy, shining the flashlight on him. “Your Daddy collects baseball cards?”

“Oh yeah. It’s his favorite thing in the world. He’s always bragging about how much they’re worth. He says the Hank Aaron card he bought this summer cost about the same as a ski boat.”

Carl’s eyes got big. “Really?”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “And he’s got a whole bunch of Mickey Mantle cards, too. Mickey’s his favorite player, even though he retired before Daddy was even born.”

“He’s got a bunch of Mickey Mantle cards?”

“He’s probably got about twenty, all expensive and locked in a glass case in the study. Well, most of ’em anyway.”

Carl felt his heart drop. “They’re locked away?”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “But I know where the key is.”

“Lead the way, kid.”

As they walked through the house, Billy turned and asked, “Do you need another bag? I can get a trash bag. There’s a whole bunch of cards. Daddy says there’s probably enough to pay my way through college.”

Carl said, “Sure, I’ll take a trash bag.”

Billy went into the kitchen and switched on the light. He grabbed a trash bag from beneath the sink, and then turned and led Carl to the study. There was a big glass case full of cards along the wall. Carl could have broken the glass easy, but it would have made a helluva racket. Billy walked across the room and grabbed the key out of a desk drawer. He unlocked the case, and the two of them cleaned it out, putting all the cards in the trash bag.

When they were done, Billy asked, “Do you think that’s enough to teach Daddy a lesson? Or do you need more stuff?”

“I should probably go, kid.”

Billy nodded. “Are you sure?”

Carl almost laughed. “I think we’re good.”

He started towards the door when he heard Billy ask, “What about the safe?” Carl stopped and turned around. “What safe?”

“Daddy’s got a safe in the study.”

“What’s in it?” asked Carl.

“Stacks of money and some papers.” He looked at Carl for a moment, still thinking, and then said, “Oh, I forgot! And Daddy’s favorite thing.”

“What is it?”

“Daddy’s got a baseball card he spent $60,000 on. It’s a Mickey Mantle rookie card. Daddy says it’s mint.” Billy stopped for a minute, his face twisting into a confused expression. “If it’s mint, does that mean I can eat it?”

“No,” said Carl. “It’s a different kind of mint.” He paused for a beat before saying, “Let’s go to the safe. I really need to get going.”

Billy led him back to the study. They walked past the empty card case and Billy approached a framed painting of Babe Ruth, pointing towards the outfield. “It’s behind there,” said Billy.

Carl approached the painting, sitting down his bags. He pulled back the picture, finding that it was on hinges. When he did, he saw the face of a gray safe staring out at him. He looked at Billy. “Do you know the combination?”

“Yeah, it’s my birthday.”

“When’s that?”

Billy studied him. “Don’t you know?”

Carl sighed. “I forget stuff. Cut me some slack, kid.”

“My birthday is May 4, 2010.”

Carl turned back to the safe, twisting the nob to five, then four, and then ten. He turned the handle, and he heard the bolt unlock. He opened the safe and saw two fat stacks of hundreds, which would be more than enough to take Porcupine Tina to that rich la-di-da burger joint. He pulled out the cash and tossed the stacks into the bag. Peering into the safe, he moved a stack of documents and found the Mickey Mantle card lying there inside a hard plastic sleeve. He pulled it out and stared at it for a moment, admiring it. “She’s a beaut,” he said, sticking it in his back pocket.

He picked up the bags and looked at Billy. “I gotta go, kid. Santa’s got shit to do.”

Carl walked out of the study and through the dark living room, moving towards the door. When he reached it, he realized Billy was standing behind him. Carl turned and looked at the kid, slightly illuminated by the light from the kitchen. Carl turned back towards the door, pulling it open. He opened the storm door and stepped out into the cold night.

“Goodbye, Santa.” And for a moment Carl felt bad about all this. He stopped and turned towards Billy. “I got something for you, kid.” He reached into the bag and pulled three hundred dollar bills out, handing them to Billy. “Go get yourself some candy,” he said. Billy’s eyes were as big as silver dollars. “But whatever you do, don’t tell your Mommy and Daddy about this. No matter what happens, this is our secret and the money is yours. Deal?”

Billy looked at him, smiling big, a gleam in his eye. “You bet, Santa!”

Carl turned and walked towards the stolen Chevy pickup parked at the curb.

Billy watched him climb into the truck, hoping he’d look back so they could wave at one another, but he didn’t. But Billy didn’t care, because he knew he’d definitely be on the nice list now. He’d helped Santa, which was a thing none of the other kids at school had done, and this made him special. Billy smiled, closing the door. He looked down at the bills in his hand.

“Thank you, Santa,” he whispered.

And he went to bed, dreaming sweet, innocent dreams about he and his new friend Santa Claus.


Short fiction: “She Had a Good Heart”


by Andy Rausch

I’d had my heart ripped out numerous times throughout my life by a variety of guys who didn’t deserve me and didn’t appreciate what I had to offer. But this last time I had my heart cut out was different. It wasn’t done by some silly boy I’d fallen head over heels for; this time it was done by a surgeon inside an operating room. Somewhere along the way I’d contracted heart disease, and had been told I needed a new heart if I was going to continue living. On February eighth, after a year on the transplant list, I received a new heart.

“You’re such a brave girl,” my dad told me. That was four days after the surgery. This is my first coherent post-transplant memory. I had been awake for most of the days leading up to that, but was so heavily medicated I no longer remember them. Everyone says that same thing: “you’re so brave.” But the thing is, I would never have chosen to undertake that procedure if there had been any other way to survive. Because of this, I didn’t feel brave. I just feel like a woman who was pushed into doing something she didn’t want to do and had lived to tell the tale. But I suppose there was bravery involved. There had to be. Simply steeling oneself for such a dangerous and traumatic ordeal requires it. Allowing yourself to be put into a sleep that you may not wake up from is something beyond horrifying. In truth, I still don’t know how I did it, other than to simply repeat there was no other way.

My recovery was pretty quick. While it’s true that I stayed in the hospital for two months, which most transplant recipients don’t, my road to recovery was relatively smooth. I had trouble walking more than a couple feet for the first month or so due to the time I’d spent in bed, but I pushed myself, and the difficulty became less and less. Four months after the surgery I returned to my job as a receptionist at the college. “You’ve done such a great job recovering,” everyone said. But again, very little of that had anything to do with me beyond my will to return to normality. Most people who’ve had transplants eat better than I do, and they exercise with more frequency, and yet I’m doing better than they are. At my last check-up, my transplant coordinator told me she sees “very, very few” transplant patients who rebound as well as I have. This makes me happy, but I try not to get cocky about it or take any undeserved credit.

I was almost eight months post-transplant when I was told I could write a letter to the donor’s family. This was a big moment and this news was heavier than I had anticipated. Even though there had been several months where the mere thought or mention of this unknown donor made me cry, I’d wrongly believed I now was past that. But when I was told I could write the letter, it all came flooding back again, and suddenly I was overcome with a plethora of emotions. I couldn’t easily identify them. Was it sadness? Was it joy? Was it grief? It was, I think, all of those simultaneously.

So I sat down to write the family, crying as I did. In the letter, I apologized, although I don’t know why. The reality is that the donor would have died either way, whether or not I had existed. But that realization changed nothing; I still felt guilty. Once I got past the apology, I told them how exceedingly grateful I was for this gift I’d been given. I made a point to write that I was happy their deceased loved one lived on through me. I know it’s corny, but that’s what I wrote. I wrote it not only because I thought it sounded good, which I did, but also because I believed it. Those kinds of thoughts make it easier to cope with the guilt, I think. I wrote about how happy I was, and how great I felt, making a point to tell them I would not have felt this way, and probably wouldn’t even be alive at this point, had it not been for their loved one. “I want to know more about my donor,” I wrote. That was true. Everything had been done confidentially, and I ‘d been told nothing beyond the fact that the donor had been a young woman.

I thanked the family profusely in my letter, maybe going overboard, but I felt it better to go that way than to appear under-appreciative. I told them I looked forward to getting to know them, and that I hoped we could meet. I signed the letter and sealed it in an envelope. I put a stamp on it and stuck in the mailbox, sending it off to the transplant coordinator. After a few days had passed, I started checking my mailbox religiously, hoping to hear from the family, and also knowing I might not. Some transplant recipients don’t. I’m not sure why this is, and can only guess. I suppose it’s because some families doesn’t want to dwell on their loved one’s death any more than they have to. I think that’s a shame, because it would probably benefit people to know their loved ones are responsible for saving the lives of others. Maybe it would help them find meaning and make some sort of sense of otherwise senseless tragedy.

The response letter came back much more quickly than I’d expected. I received it in just over a month. It was a letter from my donor’s mother. It read:

Dear Kasey:

I’m glad to hear from you. I’m glad to know my daughter Tricia’s heart lives inside you. That fact makes me extremely happy. Believe it or not, I’m crying right now as I write this. My Tricia was only 24, which is a very young age for a woman to die. She was just a year younger than you. I wish you could have known her, although in a way I suppose you do. She got good marks throughout school—primarily As and Bs. She went to college in Maryland, and then became a pharmacist here in Tulsa.

I and Kasey’s siblings—she has two older brothers, Dave and Bryan—would love to meet you. Since we all live here in the same city, would you like to come and have dinner with our family on Thanksgiving? We don’t get too fancy around here. We just have the normal stuff—turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes… But I’m told it’s pretty good. And we have macaroni and cheese. I’ve heard people say that’s a weird thing to have for Thanksgiving dinner, but I don’t see what’s so weird about it. The kids all like it—it’s was Tricia’s favorite—and I make it with tons of ooey-gooey cheese.

I hope you can come, but you may already have plans since it’s the holiday. Certainly we will understand if that’s the case. I’m enclosing my telephone number here. Give me a call and let me know that you received this letter and whether or not you intend to come. Thank you so much for reaching out, Kasey. We are really happy to know you are doing well and that you successfully received our beloved Tricia’s heart. You sound like a very sweet girl and we can’t wait to meet you.

Warmest regards,

Dorothy Waxman

I read the letter through glistening, tear-filled eyes. I took a deep breath and read it again, finding myself overwhelmed with joy. This first contact had gone much better than I could have anticipated. Thanksgiving was only a couple weeks away, so I called Dorothy Waxman immediately.

“It’s Kasey Daniels,” I announced.

“Kasey?” the woman asked.

“I received your letter.”

There was a pause, and then recognition. “Oh, Kasey!” she said happily.

“I’m calling to say that I can come for Thanksgiving.”

“Great!” said Dorothy. “That would be fantastic!”

“Thank you for inviting me, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. That’s for old women. Call me Dorothy, please.”

I thought about calling her “Dorothy please” as a joke, but instead said, “Okay, Dorothy.”

“Will you be bringing anyone along with you?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “I guess I’ll be coming alone.”

“Fine,” said Dorothy. “I just wanted to know so I can make the appropriate amount of food. We’ll be eating at two o’clock sharp. Do you have our address?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was on the envelope.”

“Good. Then we’ll all see you on Thanksgiving.”


“Okay,” she said. “See you soon, Kasey.”

“Goodbye,” I said, hanging up.

The days passed quickly, and I spent more time than I should have wondering about what I might say when meeting the Waxmans. I hoped it would go well. Dorothy seemed excited enough, so I guessed it would. But I was a worrier by nature, just like Mom had been. It was in my DNA, and there was nothing I could do about it.

When I told my dad about the letter, the call, and the impending meeting, he was overjoyed. He offered to come along, but I felt like this first meeting was something I needed to do alone. After I had realized that I could do anything I set my mind to post-transplant, I sometimes felt a rush of empowerment doing things that scared me. This was one of those things, so the thought of going into this foreign place alone in the face of unusual circumstance thrilled me.

When Thanksgiving finally came, I spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror trying to ensure that my hair and makeup were perfect. After all, I didn’t want the Waxmans thinking Tricia had given her heart to an ugly girl. That was silly, I know, but it was an actual thought I had.

I drove over to the Waxman’s house. I thought I was ready, but when I came to their street, I panicked and kept driving, right past the house. I drove around the block. I took a deep breath and went back. I sat outside the house in the car for a bit, trying to prepare myself. I looked up at the house, relieved that no one seemed to be watching, and got out. I walked up to the house, trying to act normal, but I felt as nervous as a person could possibly feel.

I knocked. I waited a moment and the door opened. A blonde woman, probably about sixty, looked at me. She lit up, smiling. “Kasey?”

That was when I lost it. I felt another rush of those emotions, all at once, and I burst into tears. Dorothy just smiled knowingly and said, “Bless your heart.” She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close. We hugged for a moment, and then Dorothy released me, stepping back inside the doorway. “The food’s ready, dear,” she said. I stepped in behind her, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. I saw two guys who were roughly my age standing there, both wearing ugly holiday sweaters.

“This is Bryan, he’s my oldest, and this guy over here is Dave,” said Dorothy. “He’s 25, the same as you.”

I smiled and moved towards them, feeling awkward. They both smiled and gave me obligatory hugs. They were warm, but their hugs were a bit more forced than Dorothy’s, which had felt as natural as a mother hugging her child.

Dorothy led us all into the dining room, where the table was set. There was a nice big turkey in the center of the table, along with some cream corn, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, gravy, and wine. “There are two pies for dessert in the kitchen,” said Dorothy. “There’s a pumpkin pie and there’s sweet potato, too, if you like either of those.”

“I do,” I said. “I like both.” I patted my stomach. “I’ve been eating more lately now that my appetite has come back.”

“That’s good,” said Dorothy. She motioned towards a chair. “Have a seat.”

We all sat down. It was a rectangular table, big enough for ten people, but there were only four of us. Dorothy and I sat on one side, and the brothers sat across from us. “Bryan, will you say the prayer?” asked Dorothy. Bryan smiled politely, and delivered a short, stock prayer that sounded like it had been recited verbatim hundreds of times. When he finished, Dorothy raised the bottle of wine and looked at me. “Can you have this? I didn’t know.”

I felt myself blushing, unsure what to say. “They, uh, they let me have some…in moderation.”

Dorothy smiled. “Everything in moderation, right?” She poured me a glass, and then filled her own. She then passed the bottle across the table to Bryan. After the boys filled their glasses, we started to eat. The food was good, not great, and it reminded me a little of my mom’s cooking. I decided to tell Dorothy this, leaving out the part about it being mediocre. “This tastes like my mom’s cooking.”

Dorothy smiled. “Is she a good cook?”

“She was,” I said. “When she was alive.” I came to the end of that sentence and found I didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh,” Dorothy said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. She died when I was fifteen. She was in a car accident.”

“Just like Tricia,” Dorothy said, her voice cracking.

I felt bad. I hadn’t known how Tricia had died. I put my hand on her shoulder, and Dorothy looked at me. “It’s okay. No fault of yours. It happens to all of us eventually.” Dorothy regained her composure. “I hate to ask this, with us still eating…”

“Yes?” I asked.

“I really wanna show you something, and I just can’t wait. Would that be okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

Dorothy stood. “Come this way.”

She led me back through the living room and into a hallway on the left. She took me down the hall to the second of three doors. She grabbed the doorknob and looked at me. “This was Tricia’s room.”

“Okay,” I managed, unsure how to react.

Dorothy opened the door and went in. I followed. The room was still decorated with all the trappings of a high school girl. There were posters and photos of cute male stars, mostly actors and bands who were no longer relevant. They were people who were popular among teen girls back when I had been one myself.

“I restored everything,” said Dorothy, turning towards me, spreading her arms to display the room. “I’d kept most of it in place after Tricia went to college, but after she died, I put everything back up the way it had been when she was still in school. This is my shrine to Tricia. I wish you had known her. She was a very sweet girl, like you. She had a good heart.”

I looked across the room at a congregation of tennis trophies sitting atop a tall dresser. Dorothy saw me and said, “Go ahead, take a look.” So I walked over and looked at the engravings on them. They were all first place trophies. “These are amazing,” I said, still reading.

“She was a terrific tennis player,” Dorothy said.

I turned around to see Dorothy standing in front of me, now holding a huge butcher knife. What was happening? She had a weird look in her eye. I didn’t know what it was, but suddenly I felt scared. I looked to the door, and saw that Bryan and Dave were now standing there staring at me, as well.

“What are you doing?” I asked, starting to panic.

Dorothy held the knife up between us. “I’ve collected everything that belonged to Tricia, Kasey. My collection is complete.” She paused. “Well, almost.” She moved towards me slowly, her eyes locked with mine.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

Dorothy stared at me, smiling a twisted smile. “I’m gonna need that heart back.”

She moved towards me. I tried to push her away, and now saw the boys moving towards me, as well. I stumbled back against the nightstand, and there was nowhere to go. I was trapped.

“Please, no,” I begged.

Dorothy’s arm slashed out, and I felt the blade rip across my stomach.

“Grab her, boys!” screamed Dorothy.

This was when I felt the blade cut my stomach the second time. And I knew then it was too late. I had been saved by the transplant only to die now because of it. I closed my eyes and started to pray.


Aborted Novel: Kansas City Shuffle

valentine's day

by Andy Rausch



The date was September 19, 1974, and Michael Russo had seen better days. But hell, he was doing better than a lot of fellas he’d known. Most of the guys he’d run with back in the Chicago days had been dead for decades.

Frank Nitti had shot himself in the head back in 1943.

Big Al Capone had died of a heart attack back in 1947.

And lots of other guys with less well-known names had bought the farm in a variety of ways over the years.

Sometimes Michael wondered if he was dead, too, and no one had bothered to tell him. Most days he felt like shit. His bones had become brittle, and his liver-spotted skin had become as thin as paper. He had a bad heart, and a memory that was almost as faulty. Nowadays he needed bifocals just to read the sports page. The doctors had him on enough pills to medicate an army, and his plumbing didn’t work so good. Maybe there were worse things than being sixty-nine-years old, but Michael didn’t know what in the hell those things might be.

Times were tough financially, as well. Back when he’d been a part of the Chicago Outfit, Michael could never have imagined the life of poverty he’d live as a senior citizen. Things had been all right once, but that was before his Beulah got cancer and died in the summer of 1961. Her extended stay at St. Luke’s had wiped them out financially. Then her funeral service, which was meager at best, put Michael in a financial hole he had never been able to dig himself out of.

He was sitting in his apartment, nursing a hangover and watching The Young and the Restless, when someone knocked on the door. Before he even got up to answer it, Michael knew it was trouble. At best it would be Mrs. Rodgers, his landlord; at worst it would be Blackie Cromwell’s goons here to collect the five hundred bucks he’d lost on the Browns game. (Michael had made the unfortunate mistake of betting on the local team. The Bengals won in a 33-7 rout.)

Either way it didn’t really matter. Be it Mrs. Rodgers or Blackie’s boys, Michael didn’t have the money to pay either one of them.

He opened the door, and as luck had it, it was Blackie’s boy, Greasy Dunleavy, and some other musclebound goon he’d never seen before. Greasy grinned as though he was genuinely happy to see Michael, every other tooth in his grin missing.

“Mike,” he said, putting out a beefy hand for him to shake.

Michael shook it, and ushered the men into his tiny apartment.

“Good to see you,” Greasy said.

Michael shrugged. “Wish I could say the same.”

Greasy laughed at this. He looked at Michael’s old basset hound looking dead on the couch.

“Who’s this guy?” he asked.

“His name is Arthur.”

“He do any tricks?”

“He’s alive.”

Greasy looked at Michael. “That’s a trick?”

“When you’re his age it is.”

Greasy chuckled at this.

Michael nodded at the other guy. “Never seen this one before. What happened to Big Jake?”

Greasy shook his head solemnly. “They got him in lock-up.”

“You don’t say.”

“Some guys are lucky, and some ain’t,” Greasy said. “And Big Jake ain’t.”

“What happened to ‘im?”

“He comes home one day,” Greasy said, “and catches his old lady in bed with another guy.”

“He kill him?”

“Big Jake shot the both of ’em. Unloaded his pistol on ’em, then reloaded and shot ’em another six times.”

“Shit deal.”

“Hell yeah, that’s a shit deal. I mean, what else can a guy do in that situation?”

“Yeah. That’s too bad.”

“Speaking of luck, you haven’t been too lucky yourself lately, Mike.”

Michael said nothing.

Greasy grinned. “You don’t bet on the Browns when they’re on the road. Hell, if I’m being honest, you don’t bet on the Browns under any circumstances.”

“What can I say? I like the Browns.”

“And how’s that working for you?”

“Not so good, I guess.” Michael grinned uneasily, knowing what was coming next.

Greasy reached into his pants pocket and fished out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

Michael shook his head no.

Greasy offered up the pack. “You want one?”

Michael nodded, and took one of the Pall Malls. He put it to his lips, and Greasy lit it for him with a tacky gold Zippo with a naked woman on it.

Once Greasy had lit both of their cigarettes, he asked, “You got the money?”

“I don’t have it all.”

A grim expression washed over Greasy’s face. “How much you got?”

Michael shrugged. “None of it.”

“There’s not much I can do if you don’t have any of the money, Mike.”

Michael nodded, already knowing the score.

“You’re not much of a gambler, Mike. Why don’t you just hang it up before something happens to you that you’re not gonna be able to walk away from.”

Michael said nothing, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

“I like you, Mike. Tell you what: I’m gonna let you pick the hand.”

Michael could have killed them both without so much as batting an eye. Back in the old days, had someone threatened him with bodily harm, he’d have unloaded on them like Big Jake had unloaded on his old lady and her lover. But these were different times, and Michael couldn’t begrudge the guy; Greasy had a job to do, and this was no one’s fault but Michael’s.

“I’m right-handed,” Michael said. “So if it could be the left, I’d be much obliged.”

Greasy nodded. “You got a nice, solid drawer I can use?”

“Yeah.” Michael made his way into the tiny kitchen where the silverware drawer was. He opened it, and a variety of silverware, knives included, was visible. Greasy looked into the drawer and said, “You gonna stab me with one of those steak knives?”

Michael laughed. “This is my fault, not yours.” He began removing all the silverware from the drawer and sitting it on the cabinet top.

“Good man,” Greasy said. “If only a tenth of my clients were as understanding as you.”

Once the drawer was empty, Michael pushed his left hand into it, half-in, half-out.

He took one more drag from the Pall Mall.

“Sorry, buddy,” Greasy said just before he slammed the drawer shut on Michael’s hand, breaking just about every bone. Michael screamed loudly, but quickly stifled it.

“You’re a pretty tough old sonofabitch, you know that, Mike?”


Michael curled up in bed with his broken hand out, his right hand gripping the bottle of Early Times. His hand hurt like a sonofabitch. The pain was intense, and Michael fell asleep immediately, attempting to outrun it.

And, as usual, the nightmares were there, waiting. Michael knew they were nightmares, but he still hoped he might change their outcomes. Somewhere deep down in his mind he believed altering the dreams might make them go away once and for all. But somewhere even deeper in his mind, he knew that it was a rigged-game, and that changing the outcomes was impossible. These nightmares, which now came to him on a daily basis, were memories that were now set in stone.

Each night they awaited him in his slumber. His only hope of avoiding them was getting black-out drunk and passing out. He attempted this each night, but rarely succeeded.

And so the nightmares came.

Today was no different.

His nightmares were like a greatest hits reel from his days as a hitman. Each night the faces of those he’d killed or helped kill came to him, each of them desperate and pleading for the lives they’d never know. And as the nightmares became more and more intense, Michael would find himself pleading to the God who must be overseeing these dreams for the exact opposite—he would beg for his own death. But life was merciless, just as Michael himself had been in his heyday, and death would not come.

The first nightmare was always the same—it would be the one with the little girl.

Michael hadn’t murdered the girl, hadn’t even wanted to kidnap her, but it didn’t seem to matter to the God of his nightmares. Each and every night, without fail, she would visit him in his dreams, just as doe-eyed and innocent as she had been on the day of her death.

Michael opened his eyes to sunlight, and he knew at once where he was. He and two other men, Sharky Tambini and some other guy whose name Michael could no longer remember, were standing around the parked Model T. They were on a hillside about a mile from a small town called Westchester, Illinois, and they were about to rob a bank.

And each night in the dreams, every minute detail would be the same.

They would joke around and discuss the job they were about to pull.

“Why Westchester?” the man whose name Michael could not remember asked.

“Because Al says there’s money in there,” Michael said.

“The man’s got a nose for money,” Sharky said. “If he says there’s good money in there, you can bet your ass he’s right.”

Michael and Sharky would light their cigarettes at the same time each night. Michael was still smoking Luckies; he could never see what brand Sharky was smoking.

As they stand around shooting the shit, Michael the observer remembers Sharky, and remembers why he never liked him. Sharky, or “Shark” as he liked to be called, was an arrogant prick. He was the guy who had done everything you’ve done at least twice as many times, and always had to tell a story that would one-up yours. In short, Sharky was a liar. But then hell, most of the criminals Michael had known in his day were liars. But there had always been something different about Sharky, and the truth was that Michael had been itching to put a bullet in him since the day they’d met. Thing was, Al Capone liked Sharky, and if Al liked somebody, they were pretty much a fixture. Nobody went against Al—not ever.

In the nightmare, the three men were now driving through the countryside, heading toward Westchester. The man whose name Michael could not remember was driving the Model T, and Sharky was riding shotgun. They were yammering on about how Rogers Hornsby had just won baseball’s triple crown with a .403 average, 39 homers, and 143 ribbies. But this was of little interest to Michael, who just sat in the back with his mouth shut, thinking about the job they were about to pull.

The passage of time in his nightmares was of interest to Michael, because it made no sense. Every night it was the same, and every night the nightmares skipped scenes. For instance, the nightmare now took Michael directly from the ride through the countryside to the robbery itself.

The three men each had Tommy Guns. The bank was relatively empty. There was the manager, a meek little sonofabitch, a couple of cashiers, and a smattering of customers. Tonight, as always, the robbery went off without so much as a hitch. Michael threatened to murder the bank manager’s family, and the little bastard opened the vault, whimpering as he did so. Things didn’t get messy until they heard the far off sounds of a police siren. That’s when Sharky grabbed the little girl. A pretty little thing, she couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, with stringy blonde hair and big blue eyes.

And every night in his nightmare Michael heard Sharky make the same declaration—“I’m taking the girl!”

And then they were all three out the door and gone before the cops arrived.

Now the nightmare skipped directly to the Model T pulled over on the side of the road about twenty miles outside of town. Michael the observer knew what was going to happen, but Michael the active participant in the dream had not a clue; the whole thing happened so quickly he hadn’t had time to react. Sharky had the girl out on the side of the road, cutting her down with the sub-machine gun, killing her instantly.

“What the hell you do that for?” Michael cried out.

Sharky, unaffected, said, “She saw us. She got a good look at us. Besides, we don’t wanna go down for kidnapping. The little girl had to go.”

And every night Michael says the same thing: “No, you’ve gotta go.”

And before Sharky can react, Michael’s gunning him down with the Tommy, Sharky’s bloodied body falling on the side of the road right next to the little girl’s.

And even in his nightmare, Michael felt no remorse for killing Sharky. Sharky was a lowlife and he had it coming. But the sad truth was, even in the dreams, Michael had no real remorse for any of the people he murdered. For him, these dark dreams weren’t so much an indication of remorse as they were a longing for remorse he just wasn’t capable of feeling. He felt remorse for not being able to stop the little girl’s murder, and he felt remorse for not being able to stop his Beulah’s painful march through the valley of death. But the deaths he felt remorse for were few and far between. The loss of life was just part of the job. His victims’ faces, sometimes yearning for life and at other times contorted gruesomely in demonic expressions, may have scared the shit out of Michael, but he rarely felt remorse for them.

The second nightmare that came to Michael each night was February 14, 1929—the day that had since become dubbed the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. A rival, Bugs Moran, had tried to gun down Al Capone and his men while they were eating dinner in a downtown Chicago restaurant. They showered the building with more than a thousand bullets, but they had missed Capone completely. Then Al learned that Moran had put a $50,000 bounty on his head.

“Something’s got to be done about this asshole Moran,” Al said, trying his best not sound frightened. “I can’t have every looky loo with a gun in Chicago tryin’ ta put a bullet in my ass.”

“No,” Nitti said. “We can’t have that.”

“So the question is, how do we get that sonofabitch?” Al said.

To this, Michael answered, “I guess it depends on how many of his men you want dead.”

“All of them,” Al said calmly. “Every last motherfucking one of them. I want them all dead.”

And that was when Michael explained his plan. Al had just received information that Moran was to receive a large shipment of whiskey on Valentine’s Day. The tipster had also revealed that the shipment was to arrive at Moran’s headquarters on North Clark Street. This, Michael explained, would be the perfect time to get the drop on them.

“What?” Al asked. “We just drive by and shoot up the place?”

“No,” Michael said. “We go inside, line ’em up against the wall, and shoot every last one of the cocksuckers.”

“How do we get inside?” Nitti asked. “How do we get past the door?”

Michael grinned. “We dress up as policemen and we act like we’re raiding the place. Then we line ’em all up—you know, the way the cops do—and we gun ’em all down like the filthy vermin they are.”

Al nodded happily, looking at Nitti, and then back at Michael. “I love this kid.”

“So who do we get to do the shooting?” Nitti asked.

Al nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe we hire guns from out of town.”

“Nah, I know just the guys,” Michael said. “I’ll put together a team.”

“Are they trustworthy?” Nitti asked.

“As the day is long,” Michael said.

Nitti asked, “How many guns are you thinking?”

“Four, maybe five,” Michael said.

Al pointed at Michael. “Well, I want you there. You wait outside until after our cops have corralled Moran and his men. Then you step inside and everyone starts firing. We’ll have a good old fashioned mobster’s ball.”

Al and his men all laughed at this.

Michael then put together his team. First he selected John Scalise, his oldest friend. He trusted John and knew that John was a good triggerman. With the selection of Scalise came Scalise’s partner, Albert Anselmi. Michael had no love for Anselmi, but he trusted him and also knew that Scalise wouldn’t do the job without his partner. Next Michael selected “Machine Gun” Jack McGurn, a tough bastard who worked for Al and had once been a professional boxer. The fourth gun Michael chose for the job was Joseph “Hop Toad” Giunta, a gunman he didn’t really know that well but was suggested by Al himself.

Each night the nightmare began with Michael and the other men standing around the corner from Moran’s hangout at 2122 North Clark Street. They wait there, watching for Moran to arrive. But Michael never sees Moran arrive because the nightmare skipped ahead again.

Now John Scalise and the other three uniformed assassins were inside, and Michael waited outside alone. He checked his pocket watch and finally decided enough time had passed. He made the corner and rushed into Moran’s headquarters, where his team had seven gangsters lined up against the wall. Michael looked them over. It was a virtual who’s who of the North Side Irish gang. Everyone was present—except Moran.

“Where the fuck is Moran?” Michael asked.

“He ain’t here,” said Moran enforcer Frank Gusenberg.

Michael looked at John Scalise. “I thought you said you saw Moran enter the building.”

Gusenberg chuckled.

John Scalise pointed at one of the men against the wall. “I thought that was him.”

“It ain’t,” Michael said grimly.

“So what do we do?” asked John Scalise.

Michael nodded. “Mow ’em down and let’s get out of here.”

And the gunfire began. The men lined up against the wall made ghastly faces as their bodies danced rhythmically under the hail of machine gun fire. They fell to the ground in bloody heaps, now nothing more than hunks of meat wearing tattered clothing.

One of the dead men stared up at Michael with what looked to be accusing eyes. Of course the man was dead, so his eyes weren’t really saying shit, but Michael saw them staring at him. Through him. Even now, as he slept, he felt a shiver run down his spine.

And the nightmare skipped ahead again.

Michael talking with Al and Nitti.

“The heat’s really on us for this St. Valentine’s Day Massacre thing,” Al said.

Nitti chimed in. “We can’t take any chances.”

“What do you mean?” Michael asked, already knowing the deal.

“Your men,” Al said.

“What about my men?”

Nitti looked at him solemnly. “They go down for the dirty nap.”

Michael searched for the words. “They—they won’t talk.”

“Everyone talks,” Nitti said. “Everyone.”

Al nodded. “It’s just a matter of circumstance.”

“Right,” Nitti said.

“If the circumstance is right,” Al said, “they’ll sing like fuckin’ canaries, and we can’t have that.”

“So what are you saying?” Michael asked.

“Everyone involved with the murders goes down for the count,” Al said. “Everyone but you. And you’re welcome for that, by the way.”

Michael tried to explain to Al that John Scalise was his closest friend, but Al wouldn’t hear of it.

“Friends,” Al said. “They come and go. You lose a friend today, maybe you’ll make a friend tomorrow. But that’s not what matters. You know what really matters, Michael?”

Michael said he did not.

“Loyalty,” Nitti said.

“Right,” Al said, nodding. “Loyalty is the most important thing in the world.”

And that was it.

The nightmare skipped ahead, and Michael saw a montage of scenes featuring him killing Anselmi, McGurn, and Giunta, and dumping their bodies in ditches.

The nightmare skipped again to a scene in which Michael held his Colt .45 to John Scalise’s forehead. Michael didn’t want to do this—inside his mind, he pushed back, rebelling, trying to find an alternative path for this nightmare—but Scalise’s fate was sealed.

Making matters worse, John Scalise, one of the proudest men Michael ever knew, dropped his pride and began begging for his life. “Please,” he says, “don’t kill me, Mike. I’ve got kids. I’ve got a family.”

And Michael squeezed the trigger, closing his eyes as he did it.

And voila, John Scalise was nothing more than a footnote in history.

“The $10,000 John Wayne Magnum Opus”


by Andy Rausch

Edison Mayhew was sitting in a corner booth in Bob’s Pizza Palace, chatting up an actor over all-you-can-eat pizza buffet. He was paying for the meal, so he got to explain the project to the actor, Jimmy Donovan. Jimmy was hot shit at the moment as he had just appeared in the TV movie B-Lizzard, about giant reptiles who attacked and ate people during a snowstorm.

“This movie’s gonna be the fourth installment in my Titty Zombies series,” said Edison. “Have you seen the other three?”

“Well, I’ve seen one of them,” Jimmy said. “I think it was Titty Zombies 2.”

“Ah, yes; A Tale of Two Titties. That’s my favorite in the series,” said Edison. “Until now.”

“Why now?”

Edison smiled proudly. “Because this one’s gonna be my greatest film ever. My magnum opus.”

“What’s the budget?”

“We got $10,000.”

“What would my role be?”

“Your role would be Miles Macklemore, a private eye with a taste for broads.”

“So this is noir?”

“Not really, but it’s going to have some noir flavor to it.”

“And the film, it’s guaranteed distribution?”

“Yes, sir,” said Edison. “Bloody Mess Pictures made a fortune off the first three, and they’ve committed to putting out a fourth one.”

Jimmy nodded. “What would I get paid?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“How many days?”

“We would shoot you out in two days.”

“And the role, is it a lead?”

Edison squirmed. “Not exactly. But here comes the reason you’re gonna wanna make this movie…”


“You’ll be the second lead.”

“Who’s gonna be first?”

“I’m getting to that,” said Edison. “Rule number one of no-budget filmmaking is to either have a ‘name’ actor in the lead or to have something to exploit. Well, I’ve got both.”

“Who is it?”

“John Wayne.”

“John Wayne?” Jimmy didn’t understand. You’re gonna have to explain this to me, because first of all, John Wayne’s deader than disco. In fact, I think they both died at about the same time. Second, I’m pretty sure John Wayne was making more to appear in a picture back in the Seventies than your entire movie’s got for a budget.”

Edison laughed, pointing to his temple. “I’ve got all the bases covered.”

Jimmy just stared at him, cutting off a corner of pepperoni and anchovy pizza with his fork.

“My girlfriend, Bree, practices witchcraft,” Edison said. “She’s got a spell book that’s supposed to raise the dead and make them do your bidding. Well, we’re gonna use that spell to raise John Wayne and make him appear in our movie.”

“You’re crazy,” said Jimmy.

“Like a fox.”

“Okay, so why John Wayne?”

“Why not John Wayne?” Edison asked. “He’s my favorite actor. I’d love to be able to say I directed him in a movie. The man’s a friggin’ icon.”

“Will he be able to speak? I mean, he’s been dead for almost forty years.”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“Your girlfriend has never used this spell before?”

“No,” Edison said. “That kind of thing doesn’t come up every day.”

“He probably looks pretty rough these days.”

“Which will be just fine since it’s a zombie movie. So whaddaya think?”

“Well,” Jimmy said, “It would look good on my resume to have made a movie with John Wayne.”

Edison nodded. “Now you’re talking.”

At that point the waitress came over and asked if they needed anything.

“I’ll have orange juice,” Edison said.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have orange juice.”

Edison grinned. “Why don’t you go in the back and see if you can find some. After all, I’m a famous movie director, and you’re gonna want my business.”

The woman grimaced and walked off towards the kitchen.

“That was kind of a dick thing to do,” Jimmy said.

“Hey,” Edison said, “all the big directors do it. So are you on board?”

“It looks like I am. But I’d like to talk about my financial package.”

“How so?”

“I’m gonna need three hundred dollars to make the movie.”

Edison raised his hand and they shook on it.

Two weeks later, Edison, his buddy and producer Parker, and his girlfriend, Bree, were standing over John Wayne’s grave at the Pacific View Memorial Park Cemetery in Corona del Mar. There was a full moon out, which Bree said was a must for such an occasion. It was dark outside otherwise, and there was a cool breeze blowing. Bree had used sidewalk chalk to draw a humongous pink pentagram over the grave, as well as some words in a dead language around the grave.

“You think this’ll work?” asked Parker.

“I do,” said Bree. “I’ve used several other spells from this book and they all work.”

Bree opened the book and started reading from the dead language of Akkadian. “Cheepa, cheepa, burga, cheep,” she said. Edison and Parker repeated the words, and Bree continued. Finally, after about ten minutes of this, the wind picked up and it started to rain.

“What the fuck?” asked Edison.

“We’re upsetting the gods,” said Bree.

“Does that mean it’s working?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I think so.”

She read more Akkadian. “Beygo, teehum, daydo, bohah…”

After several minutes of this, she closed the book and stood silently. Suddenly the rain stopped.

“What is it?” asked Parker.

“The spell is complete,” she said.

“But I don’t see John Wayne,” said Edison.

Bree pointed down at the grave. “He’s reanimated, but he’s down there, in his coffin, unable to get out.”

“So now what?” asked Parker.

Edison shrugged. “We go to the car and get the shovels and we dig.”

And they did just that. Edison and Parker dug for two hours. Bree sat on a nearby grave and painted her fingernails and toes.

Chunk! came the sound from inside the grave.

“Hey, I’ve hit the coffin,” Edison said. “We’re almost there.”

Once they had the coffin fully excavated, they found great difficulty in getting it open inside the hole they had dug. But finally they did just that. When Edison opened the coffin, a wickedly rotten stench emerged. With the moon behind the clouds and the flashlight lying on the ground, they could barely see inside the box.

And then, suddenly, the reanimated corpse lunged out of its coffin and seized Parker, chewing on his face.

“Arrrgggghhhh!” screamed Parker.

The corpse was gnawing off Parker’s nose.

Edison backed away, watching his friend being eaten.

“Should we help him?” asked Bree.

“By ‘we’ you mean ‘me,’” remarked Edison, still watching the gruesome sight.

The reanimated corpse of John Wayne was grotesque, like something out of an Italian horror movie. He was missing an ear, his skull was exposed under rotten, leathery flesh, he smelled terrible, and there were tiny maggots falling out of his ear holes and empty eye sockets. And now what was left of his face was covered in Parker’s fresh blood.

“What do I do?” asked Edison nervously.

“You command him to stop eating Parker.”

“John Wayne,” Edison said. “Stop eating that man—now!”

And the reanimated corpse of John Wayne stopped feasting on Edison’s dead friend and producer. Through the power of command, Edison was able to subdue the corpse while he filled in the grave over Parker’s half-eaten body. Although Bree wasn’t fond of having maggots falling all over the back seat of her Honda Civic, the three of them drove back to Edison’s house in silence.

They were two days into shooting, and Edison and his two-man crew were filming on a hand-held digital camera inside an apartment in Silver Lake. The reanimated corpse of John Wayne was hitting his marks. Of course he couldn’t talk, but Edison filmed him staggering around and waving his arms just the same.

“Unnnnggghhhhh!” growled John Wayne.

It was a scene between John Wayne and Sarah Newsom, one of Edison’s regulars. Sarah was topless and in the middle of a lengthy monologue when John Wayne reached out and grabbed her head at both sides, twisting it hard. Her neck made a sickening crunching sound as he did this.

“Dammit, John Wayne!” Edison said.

But John Wayne didn’t give a damn. He was leaned forward and was chewing into the dead actress’s skull.

“John Wayne, stop that!” Edison said. John Wayne just looked up with a mouth full of brains, chewing. The bottom part of his jaw fell off as he did this, and a bunch of maggots fell out of his mouth into Sarah’s skull.

“Phil,” Edison said. “Can you please find a way to reattach John Wayne’s lower jaw?”

Phil, the film’s P.A., nervously walked towards John Wayne, still trying to feast on the dead Sarah with his bottom jaw missing. Phil turned his head, sizing up the damage. “I think I can reattach it with some putty,” Phil said. But just then, John Wayne reached out and grabbed Phil’s hand, pulling it to his face. He attempted to chew off Phil’s fingers, but got nowhere without his bottom jaw. Phil tried to pull his maggot-covered hand away, but John Wayne dropped Sarah’s body and grabbed Phil’s arm with both of his own, tearing it out of the socket.

Phil screamed in agony.

“Goddammit, John Wayne!” Edison said, turning to his crew. “This is why I don’t like using ‘name’ talent. They’re all primadonnas. If they’re not rewriting the dialogue on set, they’re eating the cast and crew!”

Edison sat down the camera and turned to go and grab a tuna fish sandwich from the craft service table. He exhaled heavily as he walked, now fully irritated. He heard more screams behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He was now second-guessing his decision to reanimate John Wayne. This was gonna be one hell of a long shoot. They were only two days in and already way behind schedule.

If you liked this story, it and many others are available in Andy Rausch’s short story collection Death Rattles, available in both physical and Kindle formats.

“The Dog and the Sparrow 2.0”

sparrow 2

by Andy Rausch (based on a story by the Brothers Grimm)

Kesey was an Australian Shepherd with a beautiful, shiny black coat. Everyone who saw her commented on her beauty. But her fur was the only aspect of Kesey’s life that was beautiful, for she had a very cruel owner who beat her and often forgot to feed her. (This was usually when he was drunk, which was a great deal of the time.) Because of this, the outline of Kesey’s ribs soon became visible through her fur.

Each day Kesey diligently chewed at the rope that bound her. Finally, after many days, she managed to chew through the thick cord and free herself. She quickly dug a hole under the wooden privacy fence which surrounded the yard, hoping her master would’t discover her digging. After several hours, the hole was big enough that she was able to squeeze through it and escape.

She walked along the street hungrily for some time. She stopped when she came to a dead bird in the street, and briefly considered eating it. Only moments later, a sparrow landed on the pavement before her and asked, “What’s the matter? You look sad.”

“I haven’t eaten in days,” Kesey replied. “I’m weak and my stomach hurts.”

“Well then, let’s correct this at once,” said the sparrow.


“Follow me and I’ll feed you.”

So the hungry dog followed through the alleyways of the city. Finally they came to a dumpster behind a butcher shop. “Let me get you some meat,” said the sparrow, and off he flew, into the dumpster. He then returned a moment later with a large piece of steak. He dropped it at Kesey’s feet, and the ravenous canine quickly consumed it.

“I’m still hungry,” said Kesey, licking her lips.

“No problem,” said the sparrow. “I’ll get you another piece.”

The sparrow returned to the dumpster and retrieved a second piece of meat, this one larger than the first. The hungry dog quickly scarfed down the meat, barely taking time to chew.

The sparrow asked, “Are you satisfied now?”

To this Kesey replied, “I could use some bread to wash down the meat.”

“Then follow me and I will get you bread.”

The dog followed the sparrow through a labyrinth of alleys until at last they came to a dumpster behind a bakery.

“Wait here,” said the sparrow, and off he flew into the dumpster. A moment later he returned, dropping a loaf of bread at Kesey’s feet. The hungry dog devoured the bread, and was now quite satisfied.

“Thank you very much,” she said.

The two continued on as traveling partners, eventually going so far they exited the city. They followed the road several miles before Kesey finally stopped and said, “I’m very full from having eaten so much. I think I’ll take a nap.”

Kesey lay down in the road.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” warned the sparrow.

“Nonsense. I’ll just sleep for a short time and then we can proceed.”

Within seconds the dog was fast asleep.

After a while, an old Ford pickup truck came roaring down the road on the opposite side from where the dog was lying. The sparrow was alarmed at first, but relaxed once he realized Kesey should be safe. The man driving the pickup truck, however, did not share this sentiment. When he reached the sleeping dog, he went out of his way to swerve into the opposite lane and run it over. Kesey died without waking from her slumber.

“You son of a bitch!” cried the sparrow. “I’ll have my revenge!”

The driver heard the bird’s proclamation, but only spit a glob of chewing tobacco out his window in response.

Seeing the truck was hauling a load of furniture in its bed, the sparrow had an idea. The truck was missing its tailgate, and the furnishings were held in place by a single rope. “I’ll have my revenge!” cried the sparrow. But the man didn’t hear him this time, as he’d turned up the volume of his stereo, which now blared Led Zeppelin. So the sparrow went to work pecking at the rope, until finally it snapped. Immediately items of furniture began falling from the truck and breaking to pieces all over the road. But the man was oblivious to this, as he was listening to Robert Plant screaming “Whole Lotta Love.”

When the man finally noticed he had lost half his load, he stopped the pickup and hopped out to see if any of the fallen furniture could be salvaged. He quickly assessed it could not. While he was arriving at this conclusion, the sparrow started to peck at the old pickup’s front driver’s side tire, flattening it immediately.

When the man saw this, he screamed, “You filthy little bastard!”

He reached down to the road and picked up a broken chair leg, and came up swinging at the bird. The sparrow quickly moved, and the man accidentally broke the back window of his truck, causing him to become even angrier. The sparrow then flew around the vehicle, and the man gave chase, still swinging the chair leg like a madman. Finally the sparrow landed on the windshield, and the man brought down the piece of wood hard. But the sparrow moved, and the chair leg smashed through the windshield.

“Goddamn bird!” screamed the man.

“It’s not enough,” said the sparrow. “I’ll have my revenge!”

And the bird flew away down the road, leaving the man to walk back to the city alone. Several hours passed, and finally the man reached his old ramshackle house. When he arrived, his wife was there waiting for him.

“Where’s the truck?” she asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“Thank goodness you’re here.”

“Why is that?”

“Because a bird flew into the house,” she said. “Soon it was followed by hundreds of other birds, and they’re pecking on the walls and shitting all over the house!”

This angered the man. He grabbed a hammer from the shed and went running into the house like a crazy person, swinging at every bird he saw. But he struck none. Instead, he hit his own furniture, breaking it to kindling. The wife saw what the man was doing, and tried to stop him from swinging the hammer, but to no avail.

Finally the man grew tired and gave up.

“Look what you’ve done,” said the wife. “You’ve broken every piece of furniture we own!”

“Still not enough!” said the sparrow, fluttering around the man’s head. “Still not enough!”

But the man got lucky as the sparrow grew cocky, and he reached out and snatched the bird. Now holding him in his arms, he instructed his wife to retrieve his hunting rifle. The woman disappeared into the next room, finally returning with the weapon.

“What do I do now?” she asked.

“Shoot this goddamned bird!”

He expected the woman to know enough to shoot the bird from a side angle, but she did not, knowing nothing about guns. So she fired at the bird, but only grazed it. She did, however, manage to shoot her husband in the chest, killing him instantly.

“No!” she screamed, falling to her dead husband’s side.

“I told you,” said the sparrow, “I’d get my revenge.”

And off he flew through the open door, singing as he did.

“Sandwich Bitch”

bologna sandwich

by Andy Rausch

The day had been a piss-poor one so far, but at long last lunch break had come to the rescue, offering Donny Mead a brief reprieve from his monotonous factory work. The breaks were staggered so only a handful of workers would be away from their positions at any given moment. Because of this, the bright white, overly-sterile break room only contained a couple of occupants at present. Donny approached the old fridge, surveying it to ascertain whether or not the Break Room Bandit had left any messages posted there. Unfortunately, he had not.

The much-ballyhooed Break Room Bandit was some heretofore unknown employee who had repeatedly eaten another worker’s bologna sandwiches. This caused the rightful owner of the sandwiches to become angry and post an ignorant, misspelling-laden threat that he (you just know it was “he”) would beat the shit out of whomever was eating said sandwiches. This, in turn, caused the perpetrator to go right on eating them, leaving mocking missives on the refrigerator door. One such message read: “It’s me, the Break Room Bandit, and I have once again eaten your sandwich. But the thing is, I really, really hate bologna. So, with this in mind, could you please bring either ham-and-cheese loaf or pickle-loaf next time? (I’m really fond of the various loaves.) If you could do that, I would be forever in your debt. Thanks! Yours truly, the Break Room Bandit.”

Being mocked infuriated the other guy (Donny still didn’t know who the identities of either party), prompting him to write the ever-so-eloquent pronouncement “THIS MY SANDWICH BITCH” on the top of his wrapped sandwich each day. One might think the questionably-literate person scrawling these oh-so-clever declarations might get lucky one day and actually write something semi-intelligent. But no, this did not occur. Each and every day, without fail, the message was the same: “THIS MY SANDWICH BITCH.”

As Donny reached into the fridge, stretching his hand beyond the freshly-labeled sandwich, to retrieve his blueberry yogurt, it occurred to him that the person bringing the sandwiches should simply poison them. Of course. It was so simple. Why didn’t he just do that? Donny could produce no adequate answer for this question. It would, he believed, be the perfect crime. If the illiterate sandwich scrawler used the right poison, the Break Room Bandit would eat it and then scurry back to his home, dying there as poisoned cockroaches do. This was perfect. How could anyone possibly know the sandwich had originated at the factory? There was no way. Making this scenario even better, if the victim lived with another person, that person would be a suspect long before any coworkers. Since the killer and the victim probably didn’t know one another, no one could connect them. Maybe this wasn’t quite as clever as stabbing someone with an icicle, which was said to be the end-all be-all perfect murder, but it was still pretty damned good. In fact, this plan was so good that it bothered Donny to think of it going to waste.

Donny sat down with his plastic spoon, digging into the yogurt container, considering possible outcomes of such a poisoning. Then it occurred to him to poison the sandwich himself. He had no way of knowing who might eat it and die. It could really go either way—either the sandwich’s owner or this Break Room Bandit fella. Donny found he didn’t really care which of them died. This, he thought, would be a grand experiment. He’d always been intrigued by the idea of murdering someone. Here, with the person being completely random and unknown to him, it seemed perfect. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I will poison someone and see what happens.

That night when he finally got home, Donny couldn’t get to the Internet fast enough. His plan was to investigate different types of poisons and find something suitable for the task. He went to a search engine, stopping. He considered for a moment, trying to decide what he should type. Finally he submitted the words “types of ingested poison lethal.” The search produced a variety of websites, and he scanned them carefully. When he came to a listing of the top ten most lethal poisons, he knew he’d struck paydirt. Reading through the list, he passed on a couple of substances, either due to their killing someone too rapidly (when they would still be at work) or their being too difficult to obtain. Then he came to a listing for Strychnine. Donny didn’t know much about poisons, but he’d heard of Strychnine. Here he learned it was easy to obtain and that it was a common pesticide that could be purchased anywhere. The thought of the particularly gruesome death it brought about—every muscle in the victim’s body simultaneously spasming violently until they died of exhaustion—appealed to him greatly.

After completing his research, Donny scarfed down a bowl of beef-flavored ramen. Then, after he finished, he drove out to Walmart, where he purchased some generic blue after shave, a Star Wars t-shirt, a bag of Lemonheads candies, and a $12 bottle of Martin’s Gopher Bait, comprised almost entirely of Strychnine. This could work, he thought gleefully as he scanned the items through the self-check reader. He paid for the stuff, grabbed the bags, and made his way back out to his Honda Accord, wondering if the taste of Strychnine would be obvious when his mark bit into it.

The next day at work was hell, Donny waiting anxiously for lunch break. He was ready to do this. So when lunch time finally arrived, he made a beeline to the break room. He was the first one in, and he glanced around furtively. There was no sandwich-related correspondence posted on the fridge today. He pulled the door open, looked behind him one last time, and reached in and grabbed the sandwich. He took it to the closest table, holding it close to his body, then lying it down with its proclamation/threat facing down. A couple of gargantuan women meandered into the room, heading directly to a table in the corner. Donny could hear them gossiping about someone being a “dumb sonofabitch.” This was good. They were paying him no mind. Donny went to work opening the wrapped sandwich. Once the plastic was peeled back, exposing the food, Donny popped the lid off the yellow mug he’d been carrying. He tilted it over the sandwich, pouring the tiniest bit of gopher bait onto it. The substance puddled up there, resting atop the deli mustard. After looking around to make sure no one would see, he re-wrapped it.

Donny stood up and returned the sandwich, sitting it where he’d found it, its moronic “SANDWICH BITCH” warning on full display. He then reached back further and seized his yogurt. Strawberry today. He returned to his table, listening to the heavyset women carry on about various dumb sonsofbitches, as visions of dead coworkers danced in his head.

The wait for the following day felt like an eternity. When it finally came, all of Donny’s coworkers were talking about a dead coworker named Susan. Donny didn’t know any Susans, so it didn’t seem like any deal to him. No one possessed any details regarding the circumstances of her demise, so he had no way of knowing if she had died by bologna-and-Strychnine sandwich. He figured this was mere coincidence considering the unlikelihood that either party had been female. (Their posted correspondence displayed a type of macho one-upsmanship that was uniquely male.) At lunch, Donny was startled to see a freshly-wrapped and labeled sandwich in the fridge. Now certain that Susan’s death was unrelated to the Gopher Bait, Donny went about his workday just as he had a thousand times before.

It wasn’t until the following day he heard someone saying the police believed Susan might have been murdered. Poison, they said. But there was nothing beyond that, no details to speak of. Had Donny killed her? There was no way to be certain, but he now found it probable. After all, someone had eaten the sandwich. Who was to say it hadn’t been given to Susan, or even stolen by her?

At the end of his shift, Donny saw a flyer taped to the wall. It had a photograph of Susan, announcing her death. Looking at this, Donny recognized Susan as a curvy young woman of about twenty or so that he’d frequently gawked at from afar. She looked a lot like Taylor Swift, at least to him, only a dirtier, meth-using, trailer trash, tattooed version. Because of this, Donny had always thought of her affectionately as “White Trash Taylor Swift.” But now she was dead. Donny wondered what name might be appropriate for her now; “Deader-Than-Hell Taylor Swift”? “Worm Food Taylor Swift”? These thoughts made him smile, and then her proper nickname came to him: “Sandwich Bitch.” This seemed fitting given the circumstances. While she had (apparently) been neither the person who’d made the offending sandwich, nor the Lunch Room Bandit, their actions, inexplicably, had led to her demise. In considering this, Donny found that he didn’t feel one way or another about any of it, but thought he might miss staring at her passably-attractive features.

Several days passed before the local newspaper ran a front-page story explaining that police had concluded Susan had in fact been poisoned. The article made a vague reference to leads the cops were pursuing. Reading this, Donny grinned, feeling proud of what he’d done. This, he congratulated himself, was a perfect murder.

One day in the break room, Donny, eating his yogurt, overheard the two old cows from before, discussing their co-worker’s death. “They’re pretty sure it was her boyfriend,” said Cow Number One. “They got him in custody.”

Cow Number Two nodded, mulling it over. “They lived together?”

“Yeah, but they wasn’t married. That was part of it, the reason why Jesus saw fit to take her so young…because of the sin of her living with a man.”

“Maybe they weren’t having sex.”

“No,” said Cow Number Two. “They was.”

“How do you know?”

“Did you ever look at Susan? She looked…dirty, like the kind of girl that would have sex before marriage. Probably even butt sex.”

Listening to this, Donny nodded his head to the melody and cadence of their words. It was literally music to his ears. Not only had he gotten away with murder, but someone else was getting the blame.

Donny found a a level of enjoyment in having killed Sandwich Bitch that was unlike anything he’d experienced previously. This led to the inevitable question: should he do it again? He thought about this long and hard, giving it due consideration, but ultimately decided against it. While it was true that the two idiots trading barbs over the sandwiches were still engaging in this childish behavior, making it possible for him to repeat the act, it was dangerous. It was also selfish, the type of blood-drunken mistake killers made that led to their being captured.

Six weeks passed and Donny’s life had gotten back to normal. So much so that he no longer gave any thought to his having poisoned the girl. On this day, however, he was reminded of his actions by the most insignificant of things—a pack of Twinkies.

It was a Saturday afternoon and Donny was visiting the sky-rise where his Grammy June was spending her final days. Donny visited her every few weeks, but he hated going to the apartment building, overflowing with the elderly and disabled, seemingly passing time until their death. On first glance, it looked like any other apartment building. But this one was different. The first indication this was a death house was the shuffle board just inside the entrance, a sure sign of old people, which, in Donny’s hundred or so visits, he’d never seen a single person playing. Then there was the television area in the lobby, with a TV that seemed to air unlimited episodes of Judge Judy and Oprah. There was occasionally one or two residents situated there, watching Sean Hannity or the like, but sometimes there would be a single lonely old man sitting there, raptly watching the television, which no one had thought to switch on.

There was an elevator there, with a table beside it. There were religious tracts and stacks of coupons for a nearby pizza delivery joint sitting on it, and occasionally there would be one or two items of food. These random foodstuffs, which ranged from a can of green beans to a box of corn bread mix, were left by residents who had decided they didn’t want them. They were up for grabs, free to anyone. Maybe the person who inherited the green beans left behind a food item in its place. Donny wasn’t sure how it worked.

But today there was a pack of Twinkies. Donny made a mental note of them, not sure why they were important but nonetheless aware they were. He went up to the third floor and spent time with Grammy June, watching The People’s Court and discussing life events. (He did not share his murdering Sandwich Bitch with her, which, when left out of conversation, made his life seem awfully dull.) When their visit was over, he left, getting on the elevator once more. When he came to the bottom floor and stepped out, he saw that the Twinkies were gone. He still wasn’t sure why he was interested, but found himself thinking about them on his drive home.

Thinking of the Twinkies sitting there, waiting for some stranger to pick them up and carry them back to their apartment, made him reflect on Sandwich Bitch once more. This scenario, he saw, would provide him the opportunity to do it all over again, still going unnoticed. He smiled, feeling proud of himself for being smart enough to recognize this opportunity. Still driving, he saw a Mini-Mart on his right. He flipped on his turn signal, preparing to make a quick stop to buy Twinkies.