Out of the Past: Kiss Your Ass Goodbye

Another older piece, again from a flash fiction challenge courtesy of Dan O'Shea.

All right, here we are again. Dan O'Shea put forth another flash fiction challenge, a call to enter our respective places of worship and let fly with a thousand words. Personally, I am not a church going guy. I grew up in a Baptist church and, regarding that, I'll go on record as saying I witnessed both the very best and very worst that people have to offer during those years. Though it never resembled the story that follows here.
So, I hope you enjoy this one, and I thank you for taking the time to read it. Be sure to drop in on Dan's blog and follow the links to all the other stories in the challenge. I'm heading over there now myself.

Kiss Your Ass Goodbye
- or -
Satan Is Real

(with apologies to The Louvin Brothers)

Hector Durbin cursed as the big Lincoln went into a slide and plowed into the back of a white panel van. Hector’s head bounced off the steering wheel and bursts of light went off behind his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth as he groped around the floorboard. His hand found the revolver under the passenger seat and took hold of it. He got his door open and pulled himself up out of the car. He got a glimpse of his reflection in the door glass. His nose was busted, and his eyes were already starting to blacken. “Shit…”

Hector turned away from the car and noticed the illuminated stained glass windows of a church on the corner of the street. He headed across the street and wiped his bleeding nose with his sleeve.

“Loving Arms Church of the Redeemer,” he said as he read the sign pounded into the ground outside the yellow brick building. He put the revolver in the pocket of his long wool coat. “If there’s anywhere safe…”

He went up the steps and took hold of the iron handle and pulled the door open. Warm air hit him and he stepped inside the foyer. He could hear voices… Murmuring.

Then it hit him.

Praying.

They were praying.

Hector stifled a laugh, unbuttoned his coat, and went into the auditorium. Two sets of a dozen pews filled most of the space, and centered at the front of the room was a huge carved wooden ambo. Most churches he’d been in had the duo of lectern and pulpit, but not this place.

The first few rows of pews were filled with people with their heads bowed. Some were praying audibly, others prayed silent. Behind the ambo was a thin man with dark hair greased up into a pompadour that would’ve thrown the King himself into a jealous rage. Hector decided then and there, if the day ever came where he stood before the Almighty, if there was indeed an Almighty to stand in front of, he’d just have to ask how He could ever have allowed that hip shakin’ hillbilly to go off and croak on the can. It just wasn’t right. Hector walked down the aisle. As he got closer to the ambo, the words from a Zevon tune kept running through his head...

His hair was perfect.

Hector cleared his throat. “Hate to interrupt your prayer session, Reverend, but I’ve had an accident.”

The man raised his head and looked Hector in the eye. “I’m no preacher,” he said.

“Sorry,” Hector said, “I just assumed, you being up here front and center and all.”

“Here at the Loving Arms we have only one shepherd.”

“Gotcha. The Man Upstairs.”

“Him?” The man laughed. “No. The Redeemer.”

“Right. That’s who I meant.”

“Is it?”

“Look, I crashed my car.”

“We heard.”

“Yeah?”

“The Lord sent you to us.”

“Think so?”

“I know it, Hector Durbin.”

Hector heard the man speak his name and his hand went into the pocket of his coat and closed around the revolver. “Who the fuck are you?”

“A friend.”

The people in the pews had stopped praying. All eyes were on Hector.

“Got a name?”

“My fellow servants here call me Brother Charles. But you can call me Charlie. Or Mr. Bunker, if you prefer.” He stepped out from behind the ambo and extended his hand to Hector. “I used to be just like you.”

Hector ignored the offered hand. “You think so, Charlie?”

“I know it. He’s got his hooks in you. Deep. And now you’re running.”

Hector licked his lips and tried to work up a sneer. “You’re full of shit.”

“It was a long time ago…” Bunker opened the collar of his shirt and unbuttoned his shirt far enough to reveal a jagged scar in the shape of a pentagram covering his chest. “Just like you, Satan had my soul on layaway back then.”

“Satan?” Hector laughed. “You’re crazy, man.”

“You don’t hear those dogs barking outside?”

“What dogs?”

“Hounds. They’re looking for you, Hector. He’s coming to collect what’s due.” Bunker poked him in the chest.

“Don’t touch me.” Hector brought the gun out and pointed it at Bunker.

“Time is running out,” Bunker said. “You need to find your way.”

Outside the doors of the church a pack of dogs howled and scraped at the doors with their paws. A long white ’57 Cadillac came to a stop at the curb and gave the horn a blast.

Hector looked back over his shoulder. “What the Hell is going on out there?”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

“Hell. Hell is outside that door,” Bunker said. “Will you pray with us now, Hector?”

“Fuck you.”

Bunker sighed and looked to the people in the pews. “This one is lost to us,” he said.

They all nodded their agreement in unison.

“Brother Al?”

A stocky man with a long beard stood. “Yes?”

“Open the doors.”

Brother Al nodded and moved to the back of the auditorium and out to the foyer.

“He’s letting the dogs in here?”

“Not the dogs.”

Hector ground his teeth together. “Who’s out there?”

“Time to kiss your ass goodbye, Hector Durbin.”

Hector wanted to pull the trigger. Put a slug right between Bunker’s eyes. But, much as he wanted to, he couldn’t do it.

The sound of hooves moving on the hardwood floor filled the auditorium. Hector turned and his mouth dropped open.

“Good evening, Charlie,” the goatman said as he approached the place where the two men stood.

“Can’t say it’s good to see you again, Scratch.”

“No?” The goatman laughed. “I’m the one who should be the sore loser here.”

Hector pointed the revolver at the goatman’s head. He pulled the trigger and the gun crumbled in his hand as the goatman laughed. Hector turned to Bunker. “Please!”

“Too late,” Bunker said and stepped away from Hector and the goatman.

“No!”

The goatman took hold of Hector’s arm. “You can scream now, if you’d like.”

Out of the Past: A Can of Gasoline and a Big Damn Roach

An old one from an online flash fiction challenge put forth by Dan O'Shea. This is probably... I don't know, at least 4 years old, maybe older than that. 

....
 

The kid behind the counter at the gas station looked and smelled like he was using the 40-weight oil for both a hair tonic and an aftershave. He had the manual for a '68 Barracuda open on the counter in front of him, and from the right angle it appeared the pin-up on the 1986 Snap-On Tools calendar was almost as engrossed in the reading material as he was. I decided I should try to remember the pin-up's big hair and curves in case I took a break at a rest stop on the drive back to Cincinnati.

I went over to the cooler, grabbed out a can of Coke and walked to the counter.
"Can of Coke and a gallon of gas." I tossed two dollars on the counter. "Keep the change."
"Thanks."
I turned and headed for the door but stopped before I got there and faced the kid again. "Your calendar is out of date."
"What?"
"It's 1987."
"So?"
You just can't be friendly with some people.

#I'd never had any intention of stealing a car when I first set out on the road from Cincy. But by the time I got to Denver, my old Buick Skylark was done. And that would've been fine, but it turned out Cotter had already moved on, and I was about out of cash and still short a set of wheels.
The first car I stole was a Trans Am.  Black with a big gold eagle. Its owner had a respectable collection of Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash tapes, too. I got rid of that car in South Dakota, but I kept the tapes.
I might've lost Cotter's trail for good, but then I ran into this woman called Arlene in Madison, Wisconsin. I didn't remember her right away, but she remembered me.
"You're Cotter's friend." It came out of her mouth like an accusation.
"I wouldn't say that. Not anymore."
"Do you remember me?'
I decided to go with honesty at that point. "I can't say I do, but, you know, when I was running with that guy..."
She waved me off. "I remember you. Randy from Cincinnati. You had a big appetite for pills."
"That's me."
She tossed her peroxide blonde hair over her shoulder and sat down next to me. "Arlene."
Hearing her name made something click in my head. "From Houston."
"That's right." She seemed pleased that I remembered that little detail.
"You're a long way from Houston, Arlene. How about a drink?"
"How about two or three?"
That sounded good, so I started buying drinks with money that I hadn't earned and she brought me up to date on Cotter.

#The sky opened up and started to dump rain as soon as I pulled out of the gas station in Munster. I'd been to Chicago a few times, but never to Indiana, though Munster, to be honest, felt more like just another southern suburb of the city. I had directions to Cotter's place, but the rain pounded down so hard the Grand Prix's windshield wipers couldn't keep up.
I spotted a parking lot and pulled off the street to wait out the storm and listen to some music.  After awhile, I opened the glove box and checked out the registration. One Larry Wilder of Madison.  Maybe, I thought, when I was done with Cotter, I'd use a payphone, call this Larry guy collect, and tell him where to find his car down in Munster.
I opened the ashtray next. Inside was a roach.
A big damn roach.
I had to laugh. Larry Wilder of Madison was probably really bummed that someone had stolen his car.
I got the roach out of there and fired it up as the sound of a tornado siren filled the air.

#

I didn't see a tornado, but after an hour or so, it had gotten dark and the rain let up a bit. As I drove toward the place Cotter was supposed to be, I saw some downed tree branches and bit of destruction.

I'd seen the aftermath of tornadoes before, and it looked to me like the folks in Munster had dodged the bullet for the most part.

I popped the tape out of the deck and switched on the radio. The best thing I could find was Murray Head singing 'One Night in Bangkok'.

Finding Cotter's place was easy enough. Just a little house with a black Olds parked out front. I pulled to a stop across the street, cut the engine, and rolled down my window.

Almost four hours went by before I saw Cotter at the front window. He had a can of beer in one hand, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and he was talking to someone on the phone.

In a way, it was good to see him again.

#

I got as much as I could out of that roach while I waited for Cotter to call it a night.

I was about to get out of the car as soon as the lights went out in his place, but a cop car came rolling up the street real slow and I started to get a little paranoid.

The cop never even looked in my direction.

Still, I waited for another hour before I got out of the car.

The rain had started coming down again. Thunder boomed and the rain came harder as I took the gasoline can from the trunk and walked toward Cotter's place.

It was a little cold but I didn't mind.  I'd be good and warm soon enough.

 *

 Check out the rest of the stories in Dan O'Shea's Tornado Relief Flash Fiction Challenge right here.

Noir at the Bar - Milwaukee - The Bachelor Party Variation

Last night was the second Noir at the Bar - Milwaukee and this time it was The Bachelor Party Variation in honor of the quickly approaching marriage of Bryan VanMeter. Jon Jordan of Crimespree Magazine hosted and put the event together which was held at the Great Lakes Distillery.

Up first was the soon to be married man himself, Bryan VanMeter. As I understand it, last night was his first public reading, but you would never have known it. I had the next slot and I read my story from the Beat to a Pulp: Hardboiled anthology. Jake Hinkson then read from his recently published short story collection The Deepening Shade. Frank Wheeler, Jr. then read portions from his novels The Wowzer and The Good Life. Dan O'Shea was the evening's closer, and he read from his short story collection Old School. I can't say enough good things about any of these writers, and you should really make it a point to read their work. It's good stuff, and you won't be disappointed.

Sarah and I drove up to Milwaukee yesterday afternoon and got to spend some time with Tim and Carrie Hennessy along with Jake before the event. Chris La Tray happened to be in the vicinity and he made it to the event, which was great, especially since the last time I had a chance to hang with Chris I came down with some variation of the plague and wasn't able to make it off the couch.

It was a great time, Sarah and I both really enjoyed ourselves, and hope to see everyone again soon.

The above shot was taken by Sarah as we left for Milwaukee.

Coming Soon: Noir at the Bar - Milwaukee

The second Noir at the Bar - Milwaukee is coming up in two weeks. Jake Hinkson, Dan O'Shea, Frank Wheeler, Jr., and I will all be reading at the Great Lakes Distillery.

Spiffy event poster by Jon Jordan.

It's going to be a fun evening, and I'll post a bit more about it as we get closer to the date.

If you happen to be in striking distance, I hope you'll drop by.

Front Page Detective

At first I thought of calling this blog True Defective or Hardboiled Defective both after old crime magazines (and much later, the TV show True Detective which swiped its name from an old mag, too). Then I remembered that the artist Charles Burns had done a comic called Hardboiled Defective, so that was out. And it turns out things have been written about that HBO show using True Defective as a title. So, yeah, out with that. Then I thought about how I used to look through all the detective magazines at the drug store when I was a kid, most of the time while waiting for my brother to be done with a doctor appointment at the clinic across the street. Front Page Detective was one of my favorites, though, really, I got a kick out of them all. Probably warped my young mind a bit, too, but I'm good with that.

Having the word defective stuck in my craw for whatever reason, I decided to go with Front Page Defective because, for one thing, it scratches that itch, and for another, it's the one I've come up with that I like that most. It's not bad, and it's good enough.

Noir at the Bar - St. Paul

The new year came and near the tail end of January, Sarah and I drove up north to St. Paul where I read a bit of something called Bury You Later for a Noir at the Bar event. It was held at the Bent Brewstillery and there was a nice turnout.

The talented Brent Schoonover did the cool poster.

This was the third Noir at the Bar I've had the pleasure of reading at, and I'll be doing another one next month, this time up in Milwaukee. More on that a little later.

Noir at the Bar - Chicago

Noir at the Bar - Chicago style! This one went down in a snowy night back in December. Jake Hinkson organized the event and made the flyer. This was the first reading I'd done since Noir at the Bar - St. Louis back in November of 2012.

It was a good night, and if you check to the right, you'll see a link where you can listen to the story I read courtesy of the always excellent Booked. podcast.