“You fucked Butcher,” the message said. “Now . . . you die.”

Just like that. From a blocked number, but it was her, all right. Only Stephanie had that voice. That throat full of broken glass. And it was her old man you were fucking.

Were, is right. When things got hot, he split. Even his smell was gone from your rooms, your sheets. You were left with an empty twat, and a pipe bomb in your guts.

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“Yeah!” they all cheered, as Hank stumbled in Bar 13.

In a snowstorm like this, only the diehards came out. Tina had just three customers since 3 P.M.: twitchy Speed; Ringo, the bald biker; and Carolyn the crack whore. And now Hank.

“The more the merrier,” Tina said.

And meant it. She was sick of these clowns. Hank was the nicest of all her regulars.

Continue reading Death Takes A Snow Day by Cindy Rosmus →