The Last Stand
by J.B. Christopher

And she took one look at him and said that he would never be cool and he never would understand.

She shook her head disdainfully, took one last drag off her cigarette, deep this time, and forced the smoke from her thin lips in a steady bluish stream at him, until her disgust was evident to those sitting near in the restaurant.  She unwrapped her long legs from beneath her, exposing six-inch stiletto heels.

She didn’t know why she hated him, but she just did, but that’s what made her job easy.  She wished he was cheating, wished he was a drunk, wished he was abusive.  But he wasn’t.  He was Drehfuss Randolph, handsome, wealthy, charming in his nonchalant detachment to the world about him.

Her last boyfriend said things like shudthefuckup and fuckoffbitch and he moved around their Bronx apartment like a caged lion in the heat of summer. He only screwed her from behind. Drehfuss was different from the start.

Tonight, she was making things happen in a low cut skin-tight red dress, but he was having none of it.  He just sipped at his water and reminded her it was time to go.  The award ceremony starts in 30 minutes, he cautioned.

*  *  *

“I thought you didn’t like guns.”

“I said I don’t carry one. That doesn’t mean I don’t own one or know how to use it.  Sometimes the situation requires it. This is one of those times.” Irritated, she said,  “See – you don’t listen. You never listened.”

“How much they pay you?”

“Nothing. I told him I would do it for free. I told’em I don’t like you and I’d enjoy watching you die.”  She let that sink in watching his face wrinkle in a quiet agony, like he just got he wind knocked out of him.

She was beautiful but in the way a designer chair or a Ferrari was beautiful.  Her perfection made her nearly untouchable. His eyes traced the shape of her svelte body in the dimly lit room back lit with glow of a flickering oversized television set in his study.

He stared at an oversized silver pistol aimed at his chest.  He didn’t know what to say, he remained sitting, while his fiancée stood beforehim, her legs shoulder width apart, her face rapt with anger – or was it confusion?

The voices came at her fast and harsh, until her mind couldn’t keep up with what was happening around her, and at once she felt like she was being ripped apart by the high frequency wail, the innards of her brain, she imagined, stirring in her skull, pressing and pressing a the spot right behind her eyes, until her eyes blinked with bright points of light.

“Let me help-“

“Sit the fuck down.” She touched the side of her head with her free hand.

“Just tell me what you want. I see you’re getting the headaches still.”

Her eyes jet like black coffee.  He started to get up.

“Sit down,” she screamed. Her voice startled her, edged with fear.

“I’ve always loved you.”

The gun, heavy, swaying left to right: she tried to steady it with both hands. He could see a single bead of sweat against her temple. She rubbed at it with the back of her hand.

“I have always loved you.  And I always knew.”

Her face wrinkled in concern.

“How much did they pay you?” He asked again.

“Shudddup,” she screeched.

“How much did they pay you to do all this?”

“I just want the prototype. And I’ll let you live.”  She swallowed the thick spit in her mouth, raised the gun one last time and said, “Give me the fucking prototype.”

Drehfuss did nothing.  This infuriated her even more. Even with a gun pointed to his head, he showed an absence of passion, of life, of anger. She wished he would just raise his voice just once…

Suddenly, her legs buckled and she collapsed, the gun clattering free, sliding across the parquet flooring until it stopped under the sofa. She hissed, “They’ll get you.”

He quickly moved to her side, checked her pulse, kissed her on the
check. Her eyes, no longer jet black, but cloudy, and inert.

“I knew they sent you from the moment we met. But I did love you.”

He brushed the hair from her brow, and kissed her one last time.

Out loud, he said, “If I saw you coming, surely I will see the others.”

THE END

BIO: JB has lived all over the United States, but recently settled in the Pacific Northwest. He has published short fiction at Twist of Noir, ShriekFreak Quarterly, Darkest Before the Dawn, Yellow Mama, and SNM Horror Magazine. He is currently at work on a crime novel set in Reno, Nevada.

When he is not writing, he can be found writing software and when he is not writing software, he can be found playing with his two small daughters.

Missing Sarah
By Jim Winter

My wife found our daughter in the garage one afternoon. She hung from the ceiling by a noose she fashioned from a belt. That was the beginning of the end for me.

At first, it baffled us. Sarah had a doting boyfriend, plenty of friends, and terrific grades. She’d just gotten her license, and Karen and I were in the process of buying her a car. She had just taken her SAT’s, and we’d scheduled a visit to Ohio State in a month.

All that ended that afternoon in the garage.

Once we cut her down and turned her over to the paramedics, we became numb. We stayed that way until after the funeral. And then…

Then the questions started. We asked her boyfriend, her friends, her teachers. What set our daughter off? Why would this beautiful young lady with everything ahead of her kill herself? No one seemed to know. Or if they did, they weren’t saying.

Finally, my nephew Brandon came over to get into her laptop for us. He hacked her Facebook account. That’s when it became apparent.

“Whoever these guys are,” he said, “they’re vicious.”

They were. Among the more polite terms they used included “slut” and “whore.” I knew some of the boys, and a couple of girls, who posted. Most were followers.

Not Kyle Harmon. He led the attacks. It seemed to start when Sarah began seeing her boyfriend, a nice kid from another school named Keith. Apparently, Harmon didn’t approve of my daughter dating Keith.

“Do you want to print this out?” Brandon asked me.

“Why?”

He looked up at me like I’d just asked him why I’d want an umbrella during a thunderstorm. “This is bullying.”

“My daughter’s dead, Brandon,” I said. “It’s bad enough I have to see this.”

“But the school hasn’t seen this. Schools go after bullies these days. If someone commits suicide, there might be criminal charges.”

I thought about that for a moment. Karen might not want to face the scrutiny of a trial, but our daughter deserved justice.

“Print it out. Print it all out.”

*    *   *

We took the hardcopies to Sarah’s principal the next day. She pulled up their Facebook pages using a dummy account she had created for just such an occasion. The boys had taken down their offending posts.

“I’m sorry,” said the principal. “I have to have actual proof.”

“The printouts are documented evidence,” I said. “What more proof do you need?”

“I sympathize, but the boys’ lawyers could simply say your printouts were Photoshopped.”

My wife broke down right there in the office.

She still sobbed as we sat in the car. I started the engine but could not drive. My knuckles whitened as I clenched the steering wheel. I just sat there with the car in drive, my foot on the brake, unaware I was even sitting there idling.

At least until I spotted Kyle Harmon walking across the parking lot.

They say he died the first time I ran him over.

BIO: Jim Winter is a computer programmer, middle-aged college student, and writer. He is the author of Road Rules and Northcoast Shakedown, both available on Amazon and Nook. His short stories have appeared in Spinetingler, Thug Lit, and West Coast Crime Wave. Jim lives in Cincinnati with his wife Nita and stepson AJ. Visit him at www.jamesrwinter.net

Saving Cletus Brockton
by Jim Harrington

The phone startled Edward. He laid his book on the end table and placed his pipe in the cereal bowl.

"Hello?"

"Is this Edward Hairston, the attorney?"

"Retired attorney." Edward sat forward in his chair. "Is this another one of those telemarketer calls?"

"My name is Billy Gilbert. Moose Mankowski gave me your name. Said I could call you the next time I was in trouble."

"The next time?" Edward's eyebrows tightened, wrinkles outlined a V on his forehead.

"I've had a string of bad luck."

Edward heard a sniff on the other end of the line and imagined a man wiping a tattooed arm across his nose.

"Anyway, Moose told me you got him out of a sticky spot."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Billy Gilbert."

"Well, Billy Gilbert, I have an appointment in--"

"Wait. Don't hang up. I only get one call."

Edward placed the tip of his middle finger to his forehead and began massaging in tiny circles.

"I got arrested, but I didn't take the wallet. I found it."

Edward rubbed faster.

"I can't help you, sir," Edward said. "Like I stated, I'm retired."

"According to Moose, you're a damn good lawyer."

Moose. The curse that wouldn't go away. Edward fell back in his chair and lowered his hand. "What did you say?"

"Sorry. I was talking to the guard. He said I need to get off the phone. I told him to go screw himself. I have rights."

Edward shook his head. He'd had big plans when he applied for law school. Plans that didn't include guys named Moose and Billy.

"So when can you get here to bail me out?"

"Bail you out? How about April Fool's Day?"

"This ain't a joke, Ed? I got a party to go to."

"Well, Billy, I think you're going to miss the party."

"But Moose said--."

"Moose was wrong."

Edward loosened his grip on the phone, sensing the conversation was about to end.

"Do you live near Dallas, Edward?"

"Yes. Near there."

"I knew your name sounded familiar. You went to Garland High. Right?  Class of '87?"

"Y-e-e-s." Edward didn't like where this was going.

"Still live in your parents' house on Buckingham?"

"Maybe." Edward felt sweat forming on his forehead. He'd returned home after his father passed and his mother moved to the nursing home.

"Bingo. Billy Gilbert is an alias."

"You need to speak up. I can hardly hear you."

"I don't want the guard to hear. My real name is Clete Brockton."

"Name doesn't..." Edward paused. "Cletus? The guy who gave principal Brown a wedgie? The Cletus who wrote my name on a Whoopie cushion and put it on Mrs. Flatston's chair?" Edward remembered his classmate as being 6' 3", 265 pounds, and mean.

"Yep. Ain't this a coincidence?"

Memories of Cletus flashed through Edward's mind, none pleasant. "Yes. A coincidence." His body tensed, and his finger gravitated back to his forehead.

"So now that you know me, you can help me. Right?"

"Why would I want to help you, Cletus?" The pulsing in Edward's forehead returned.

"Well. . .because I'm sorry for what I did, and I'd like to be friends now."

"Huh. Friends. Let me think about that." Edward counted to ten before responding. "Remember what you just said to the guard, Cletus?"

"You mean to go screw himself?"

"Yes, that." Edward sat up, spine stiff. "And I say to you ditto."

"Come on, Eddie. Can't you help an old friend just this once?"

"No."

"I could pay you back--with interest."

"If you have money, why did you steal the wallet?"

"I told you I found it."

"Okay, why did you "find" the wallet if you have money?"

"Well, I don't exactly have the money at the moment, but I can get it no problem."

Edward shook his head and let if flop forward into his palm. He supposed he could be wrong about Cletus, but he doubted it.

"You still there? The guard's threatening to zap me if I don't hang up the phone."

"Tell the guard I'm thinking." Edward heard Cletus say something and a long time smoker's voice reply.

"He said one minute."

Edward made mental lists of the pros and cons of helping Cletus. Neither was very long. He inhaled a deep breath, and by the time it oozed out, he knew the best thing he could do to save his former classmate. He hung up the phone.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His recent stories have appeared in Flashshot, A Twist of Noir, The Short Humour Site, Dew on the Kudzu, and others. Jim's Six Questions For blog (sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/) provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.”

Tight
by John DuMond

Ernie Keller was cold. And tired. His whole body was starting to go numb and he was having trouble breathing. How the hell did this happen? This was supposed to be an easy score. In and out. A couple hours work, tops. No problem. Piece of cake. But nothing's ever as easy as it sounds.

It was Perry that came up with the job. His cousin Zach worked as a chimney sweep. Zach had done a job at this house in the suburbs. Nice neighborhood. Nice house. Well-to-do family. With Christmas just around the corner, they wanted their chimney clear. Probably for roasting chestnuts on an open fire, or some kind of holiday bullshit.

While Zach was there working, he saw the lady of the house wrapping presents. A Mac notebook, a couple of the latest iPads, two of the newest model iPhone (Did these people own stock in Apple or something?), a set of high-end golf clubs that had to be worth at least a grand. Not to mention all kinds of clothes. Expensive name brands, no doubt. These people weren't the type to shop in Walmart. And who knows what kind of goodies the man of the house got for the little woman. Jewelry was a good bet. The guys in this neighborhood were the kind who went to Jared.

Zach wouldn't take candy from a baby. But he made the mistake of telling his cousin Perry. And Perry would steal anything of value that wasn't nailed down. He also told Perry something else: the house had one of the larger chimneys he had ever worked on. Once Perry heard that, he just had to hit this place before Christmas. In order to do that, he would need an accomplice. Enter Ernie Keller.

It was early evening when Perry approached Ernie in a local bar. He laid out his plan: One man goes down the chimney with an empty laundry bag. The other stays on the roof and feeds some rope down the chimney. The inside man fills the bag with valuables, ties it to the rope, then the outside man pulls it up the chimney. The golf clubs wouldn't fit in the bag, but hell, they came in their own bag. Once the job was done, the inside man would use the rope to climb back up the chimney. Perry knew a guy who could move the merchandise. He even had some cheap walkie-talkies they could use to communicate. Couldn't be easier.

"No!"

"What?"

"Not interested."

"But it's a juicy score."

"Then do it yourself."

"Can't, it's a two-man job. Besides, I couldn't fit down a chimney, even a large one."

Perry had a point. He was, to put it politely, a bit on the husky side. Agile, though. Damned good second-story man. But fitting into tight spaces wasn't in the cards. Physics were working against him.

"Listen, I can't climb a rope for shit. Couldn't do it in junior high gym class, and I sure as hell can't do it now."

"Just hold on to the rope, I'll pull you up."

"What if I can't?"

"Then dart out the front door when we're done."

"Which will be alarmed, like every other front door in that neighborhood."

"I'll have the car in front of the house. Run out and hop in. We haul ass. By the time the family gets downstairs, we're gone. And when the cops finally show up, we'll be home, nestled all snug in our beds, visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads."

It sounded like Perry had all the angles figured. Ernie still had doubts, but Perry kept at him. It was Friday night. Christmas was Sunday. Now or never. By last call, Ernie was convinced.

An hour after leaving the bar, they were on the roof of the house. Perry had brought an old extension ladder they used to climb up. He said they'd just leave the ladder when they were done. Perry motioned to the chimney. "Let's do it."

Ernie had the laundry bag folded up inside his jacket. Before he climbed in, Perry handed him one end of a rope.

"Tie this around you waist, just in case."

"Good idea."

Once Ernie had the rope tied around his waist, he climbed into the chimney. It was surprisingly spacious. He used his hands and feet in an effort to control his descent. Perry, used the rope to keep Ernie from dropping suddenly.

About halfway down, Ernie came to a stop.

"Perry!"

"What?"

"I'm stuck."

"Your clothes caught on something?"

"No. Too narrow."

Weren't chimneys supposed to get wider near the bottom? Who the hell built this house?

"Pull me up."

It took a couple minutes, but Perry managed to pull Ernie loose. Ernie was four feet from the top when the rope broke. He came to a stop about a foot below where he had gotten stuck before. Now he was wedged in even tighter.

Perry lowered the end of the rope to Ernie and tried pulling him out. About a half hour, and multiple failed attempts later, he poked his head in and said, "Hey, I'll go get some help. Be right back."

"Perry!"

Help? Bullshit. He just cut and ran. Bastard.

Ernie decided it was better to swallow his pride and get arrested than to spend the rest of his life in the chimney. So he called for help. He yelled. He screamed. He cried. No response. Nothing. No one could hear him. Probably still asleep. All he could do is hope someone in the house would hear him in the morning.

Ernie wondered if he'd be in the news tomorrow night. One of those funny "stupid criminal stuck in a chimney" stories you hear. Or would it be a few years before he made the news? One of those creepy "unidentified skeleton found in a chimney" stories. He laughed. The only option he had left was to pray for a Christmas miracle.

"Please, God, take me to jail."

BIO:  John DuMond lives in Albany, NY.  His short stories have appeared in Jake Magazine, Flashing in the Gutters, Defenestration, DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash, Powder Burn Flash, and the ebook anthology DISCOUNT NOIR.  He blogs at armedrobbery.wordpress.com.

HAIL, TIGER!
by Cindy Rosmus

“Come on, baby!” Tony said. “You can’t mean that.”

Giuletta just smiled.

“Torn up by a tiger.” Tony shuddered. He appealed to Lou, the bartender. “No girl would let her man die like that.”

“’S’ only a story,” Lou said wearily, “in my kid’s eighth-grade reader.”

“But it’s timeless,” Giuletta said. “‘The Lady or the Tiger?’ is all about human nature. Obsessive love, and . . .”

The back door buzzed open, and two giggly blondes came in. One short, one tall. The tall one caught Tony’s eye.

“. . . Jealousy.” Giuletta dug her nails in his arm.

Bitch, Tony thought.

The blondes sat far enough away not to look suspicious. Maybe too far away.

Here, at Royal Flush Giuletta called the shots. It was the classiest bar her family owned: shiny hardwood floors, top-shelf booze.  Swarming with cougars and wiseguys. And the occasional model-svelte blonde.

If you knew, he thought smugly, who I fucked last night.

“She loved him to death,” Giuletta said. “Literally.”

“It’s the old man’s fault,” Lou said, after he’d served the blondes. “The fuckin’ king’s. He made her choose.”

“He made him choose,” Giuletta said. “Lowlife scum. Daddy was pissed he loved his daughter.” With a side look at Tony, she said, “Can you blame him?”

“No,” he said, wearily.

Like that king, Giuletta’s dad would kill Tony if he knew they were fucking. “Nino the Ice” was a tiny mobster whose pinky ring boasted a diamond twice his size. You could see your face in it.

But “the Ice” didn’t stop there.

Tony shivered. Nino was the coldest fuck out there. He’d order a hit with his morning coffee, want it done by the last bite of breakfast.

Nino’s look could freeze you to death. Even if he liked you.  And I don’t like you, shithead, Nino told Tony more than once. God knows why Nino kept him on.

‘Cos I shut up good, Tony knew. Like about fucking his daughter.  Besides fucking every. . .

Again he eyed the tall blonde, who pretended not to notice.

“Can you blame her?” Giuletta asked Tony.

“Huh?”

“For choosing the tiger.” Her smile unnerved him. “She’d rather see him get torn apart than be happy . . . with some blonde.”

Tony’s chest felt tight.

“Wait a minute!” Lou swung around from the register, “It don’t say that.” On his stubby fingers, he began counting. “Number one, shithead loves princess. Number two, king finds out. Surprise, surprise!”

Tony wiped his sweaty forehead.

Lou kept going. He ignored customers waving for drinks. By the time he got to,“ ‘One of the fairest damsels’ in the king’s fuckin’ court,” Tony wished he were on a plane to fucking Cancun.

“In other words,” Lou said, finally. “The story don’t say nothin’ about her bein’ a blonde.”

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“You’re right.” Giuletta had the Ice’s chilly blue eyes. “It don’t.”

Shit, Tony thought. She knows.

He forced a smile. “It’s a dumb story,” he said. “No girl who loves her man, like . . .” He slid his arm around her stool. “Like you love me, would hurt him. Not on purpose.”

She smiled up at him. “No?”

“If I were a chick,” Lou said, “I couldn’t do it.”

Giuletta didn’t see Tony wink at Lou. “She didn’t do shit,” she said stubbornly. “It was the tiger.” Bracelets jangling, she held up her hands. “Her hands were clean.”

The moment Tony saw the blonde texting, his cell vibrated. Oh, yeah! he thought, in the midst of all this. Pictured those luscious pink lips around his cock. His pants felt unbearably tight.

“Louie,” Giuletta said, “Buy the house.”

As Lou set up free drinks for everybody, Tony peeked at his cell. His heart leapt: “cum outside 4 a BIG surprise!” the text read.

He slid off his stool, flashed a Marlboro. “Smoke,” he told Giuletta.

Usually, her icy stare would’ve sat him back down. But tonight his cock was doing the thinking.

“No jacket?” she said. “It’s cold out there.”

He turned, suddenly, to Giuletta’s strange smile. Her bracelets jingled as she stroked his leather jacket on his stool. It was butter-soft leather, a Christmas gift from the Ice, himself.

As Tony passed her on his way out, the tall blonde didn’t look at him. Again she was texting.

Now what? he thought.

But it wasn’t for him.

Outside the back door, the Ice’s boys were waiting.

“Shii—” Tony said. Before he found the “t,” he was down.

Never felt the next shot.

BIO: My stories have been published in the usual places, such as Hardboiled, Beat to a Pulp, Mysterical-E, Out of the Gutter, and A Twist of Noir. I'm the editor of the noir/horror ezine, Yellow Mama: blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/index.html

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