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They come in looking around Little King’s, it’s a glance that says look at me. They pass by the mirrors, eyes for themselves only, feasting on the couples that hide in the recesses. They don’t see you, they don’t see me. They come to eat. They eat to come. The food is meat. The food is people, names, diaries, lunches, cock. I wait on them. Same crowd. They pass through the square restaurant, past the hunchbacked busboys Danny and David, looking like a pair of comic statues. I’ve served this crowd for months, they don’t even know my name. Not that who I am would be of interest to them. Little King’s used to be called Viande Exotique. Now we have Rupert running the show. Rotund snotty Rupert who needs a blow job more than anyone and will never get it. Not from this crowd. They sit there and talk. My customers.
There’s Bertha, married to Don. I call her The Snatch, he’s The Wallet. She’s mid- forties, overweight, good thighs, wears her skirts too high, shows her cleavage in La Senza, likes to wear her blouses unbuttoned to where you can make out the hint of a black lace, a neat line of the cup on her full tits. She wears too much makeup and yaks about shopping and sex. Don doesn’t hear her, they’re engaged in monologues, he boasts of the money he’s made and talks of his secretary in a lewd manner, thinking his wife doesn’t notice. He wears suits, grease stains on his shirt front, a smutty man heading towards old age with no inhibitions. He touches his phallus from time to time as he eyes passing women. I reckon he likes the company of women with a meretricious streak, makes a low bid and ups it until they let him slide it in. He’s more money than dick, a guy who lives for the moment when he can tell his buddies.
Continue reading VACUOUS DOLL AND THE GRATUITY SHOW by Richard Godwin
The long-legged blonde with a tattoo of St. Jude on her left arm staggers into the abandoned building, stumbles across a long dark hallway, and descends the stairs into the dimly lit basement. She knocks on a wooden door. Someone looks through a peephole. Slowly, the creaking door opens.
She enters the House of the Dead, a subterranean candy store with a cornucopia of mind-altering drugs. The laconic guard with one eye, an empty socket and a piece in his right hand, mutters, “Okay,” and lets her pass.
She scurries down the corridor like a rat in a maze approaching its coveted reward. At the end of the passageway she turns left and collides with The Ghost, a skeletal albino in charge of the drug den.
“Whatya got for me, Laura?”
She hands him the money.
“You need a fix, Laura,” he says maliciously, as he glances at her convulsive body and trembling hands. “Go sit in the corner and wait.”
*
After she shoots up and mellows out, she smokes and ingests a smorgasbord of poisons. Nikki, the androgynous necromancer, slithers up to her. Looking up at the pretty sorcerer with lapis lazuli eyes, she whispers, “Come back another time, darling. Don’t feel like talking to the dead now. Just chilling.”
“Of course, sweetie. But how about a quick Tarot reading?”
Gazing quizzically at the adept magician, she asks, “How much?”
“For you, me lovely princess, in this beautiful moment, here and now in the House of the Dead, it’s free.”
In his own words…
“I draw in a variety of styles however pen and ink is my favorite way to draw. Each piece is not really inspired by anything other than random thoughts that I put on paper. I am a naturally anxious person and it comes out in the drawings. That is the reason for the drips, splatters and odd details. It is my way of making a positive out of a negative. I want my audience to enjoy and get lost in my illustrations just as I do while I make them.”
“Baker one oh three, Baker one oh three and a backer, respond to a disturbance at 1301 N Trenton Circle,” crackled over Jake Dillon’s radio as he sat slumped in the driver’s seat of his police cruiser.
Pausing the movie on his laptop, Jake closed the lid and slid it into the backpack in the passenger seat. Jake pulled the mic from its cradle and keyed the send button.
“Baker one oh three, go ahead.”
The dispatcher continued, “Baker one oh three and backer, anonymous caller reports a fight and a woman screaming at this address. Break”
“Go ahead,” Jake responded.
“Baker one oh three, caller states that disturbance has been ongoing since midnight and it’s getting out of hand. Time now oh one thirteen”.
Parked beside Jake is his academy buddy Lane White.
“You comin’?” Jake asks.
Lane looks up groggily from a book leaning against the steering wheel.
“Sure,” Lane yawns.
Mic still in hand, Jake keys up. “Dispatch, put Charlie one fifteen with me,” and slides the mic back in its carriage.
“Baker one oh three copy. Charlie one fifteen will be backing,” the dispatcher acknowledges.
“You know this address don’t you?” Jake asks, putting the car in gear.
Lane rubs a hand across the stubble of his military haircut, an eyebrow raised in thought.
Sarah’s so-called boyfriend was Joe. Not much of a man, or young adult as they pigeon-hole them now. It was easy to get him drunk since there’s not much else to do in this forgotten part of Connecticut except shoot deer or shoot pool.
Four days ago, when you stumbled out drunk from the nightclub, you stopped short and felt a painful stirring deep in your belly. Continue reading Fetus in Fetu by A.C. Glasier
My beloved in Ziggy—transplendent be his name!—there are some troubling trends of late in our nation. Despite the ubiquity of our faith—it’s rare to see anyone not wearing a lightning bolt, admittedly, whether on a chain around their neck or in a discreet Continue reading The State of the Church of Bowie in 2525 by K. A. Laity
Her skin is pale with a hint of blue, like a porcelain doll crafted by a mortician’s hand. Crystalline-like eyes sit in sockets too large for her pixie-like skull and when she brings the poison apple to her lips for dramatic effect, she looks human. But she’s not. She’s a Dolbot: G-43 model, the most realistic android in production. For me, they aren’t hard to spot. I build them for a living.
Homicide Detectives Dan Morrison and Hector Ramirez are speeding down a quiet tree lined street in Canyon Springs, just north of San Antonio. Big homes and well-manicured yards. Long driveways, with four car garages around back that hold luxury imports.
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