BLIND DATE
by Bryan Norcross

What a night for a first date; cold, bleak, unforgiving.

The roads were icy and deceptive; the wind fierce enough to extinguish even the brightest burning fires of any charmed soul.

A night that felt full of doom, with enemies close and vulnerabilities exposed, yet here he was. The same place he goes every Thursday evening; a hole in the wall called the Kickstand. The owner had been a biker in his youth and ordained the walls of his bar with memorabilia and spoils from the war his life had once been.

Hal was his name and he wasn’t a biker. He was just a hard luck case; a hard luck case with a bit of a gambling problem. He was in debt with almost every bookie in town and the noose was tightening. He could feel it. He knew retribution was at hand, but he couldn’t see it coming.

Tonight wasn’t about that though. He shook the thought from his mind, chasing bad memories away with another straight shot of whiskey. He turned his attention back to the woman sitting across from him, signaling the waitress for another drink.

His first date in forever. And her mouth was on a rampage, battering his eardrums with the incessant ravings of a desperation that could’ve only been triggered by a long lonely life.

Hal had never been interested in this blind date and been sure the dimly lit cigarette-smoke filled bar would have been more than enough to turn away any normal woman. If only this was a mute date, maybe he could enjoy himself.

Hal turned his attention away from the barrage of noisy nonsense invading his ears and took in his surroundings. The waitress walked by briskly as if to avoid the thunderous stupidity spewing from this woman’s mouth, and set down Hal’s drink.

Hal grabbed the drink eagerly and sipped it, glancing at the table next to him. An extremely thin man sat at this table, tapping gloved fingers against the neck of a bottle of Killian’s. The thin man was wearing dark sunglasses and holding a metallic cane in his lap. The thin man brought the bottle up and drank; as he removed the bottle from his lips, he spilled a bit, creating a puddle on the table in front of him.

Hal scoffed at the sight, shaking his head. He was amused, watching this man feel around the table until he found the napkin dispenser. The thin man clumsily withdrew a napkin, letting go of his cane, and it hit the floor with a metallic clang.

Hal’s scoff turned to a laugh as he realized that this man was blind. The woman sitting across from Hal went silent in agitation.

The blind man looked in the direction of Hal, “Sir? Could you please find my cane for me?”

Hal scoffed, finishing his drink.

The blind man continued, “Please sir, I’ll pay you, I can’t find it on my own."

Hal shrugged, belching and looked at the blind man with amusement. “Well fella, I guess I ain’t got anymore pressing issues, and a paycheck is a paycheck, so sure why not?”

Hal bent down from his table, spying the cane under the blind man’s table. He went to the floor, crawling under the blind man’s table and wrapped a greedy hand around it. “Hey mister, I found your stick!”

Hal was driven back to the floor by the blind man as he was trying to rise. Confusion dominated Hal’s brain and all he could think to do was tighten his grip on the blind man’s cane.

Hal looked up to the dark sunglasses staring at him. A quick hand came up and removed the sunglasses. These eyes weren’t blind, they were dark, but they were not blind. His reaper had arrived. The collection “agency.”

Hal was gripped in panic and the last thing he heard before the silenced gunshot was, “Consider your debts paid in full.”     

BIO: Bryan Norcross is a 24-year-old former Marine

No Unusual Activity
by Wayne Scheer

Sam Jones, a man about as interesting as his name, would seem invisible at a ball game, a hotel lobby or a grocery store.  But for the second time in his life, he lived under the glare of a spotlight.

He was under surveillance by the FBI.

His checking account, mirroring his life, showed no unusual activity.  His monthly salary from Hampton Press, where he worked as an accountant, was electronically deposited into his and his wife's joint account the last day of each month.  He and Ellen withdrew most of it during the course of the following month to pay for routine expenses.  They had less than $500 in a joint savings account.  They paid their American Express and Visa cards monthly and Sam drove a four-year old Nissan Entrap.

Although Sam lived an existence as colorless as TV in the 1950's, the FBI watched him at work and as he drove the thirteen miles to and from his modest suburban home, where after dinner and some TV, he and his wife went to bed by 10:00.

Sam and Ellen generally stayed home Saturday to work around the house and watch a video rented from Blockbuster.  They preferred romantic comedies, although they viewed an occasional action film.  After church on Sunday, they visited with her family and in the evening ate at a local restaurant where Sam overindulged on the all-you-can-eat fried shrimp dinner.  They were home by 7:30 and returned to their workweek routine.

Ellen Jones worked three days a week at the local library.  She had worked there full-time until the previous year when, due to cutbacks, her hours were reduced.  To make up the lost income, she added a part-time job at a nearby daycare facility.  Her weekly salary checks were also deposited into their joint checking account.  She drove a seven-year old Ford Taurus.

Sam and Ellen had been married for twelve years and had no children.  Six months earlier, they had registered with an adoption agency.  The routine background determined that in 2001, Samuel Ronald Jones, then 24, was investigated for robbing a bank in suburban Chicago.

His FBI files claimed the investigation inconclusive.  Still, Sam and Ellen were denied adoption eligibility.

In fact, back in 2001, the FBI had questioned him because a grainy video showed he might be the bank robber. More than seven hundred thousand dollars had been stolen.  Of the four potential witnesses, one identified Sam while the others said they couldn't be sure.  He supplied a detailed account of his whereabouts at the time of the robbery.  Although there were some minor inconsistencies, a number of witnesses claimed to have seen a man who looked like Jones at the places he said he'd been.  The FBI followed up by questioning his family, friends and employer, and after much unpleasantness and the loss of his job as a financial planner, the FBI suspended the investigation.  The case was never solved.  The money remained missing.

A year later, Sam and Ellen moved to Pennsylvania and they began their new life.  Now the nightmare returned.  Once again, The FBI questioned their employers, family and friends.  Ellen lost her job at the daycare.  Their application for adoption was rejected.

"We should get a lawyer," Ellen told her husband.

"No, no," he said, when she called him at his job.  "Do you realize how expensive it would be to fight a government investigation?  I don't want to cause trouble.  I'll answer whatever questions they have, just as I did the last time."  Suspecting their telephone was bugged, they said no more.

When two FBI agents came to his home, he patiently explained where he was at the time of the incident and once again the FBI investigated his alibi.  With the passage of time, none of the witnesses could be certain they saw or didn't see Sam Jones. The bank video remained inconclusive.

The FBI found nothing new and determined the case against Samuel Ronald Jones closed.

In the meantime, many of Sam and Ellen's friends avoided them and he was passed up for promotion at his job.

But it hardly mattered because a few months after the investigation ended, Sam met Ellen at the airport where, with false identification, she had already purchased two tickets to Tahiti, which had no extradition arrangement with the United States.  The seven hundred thousand dollars, sheltered in various accounts around the world, and wisely invested, was now worth three times that much.

After establishing residence in Tahiti, Sam and Ellen Jones, now Tom and Marilyn Williams, adopted a baby girl.

BIO: Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Web.  His work has appeared in a variety of print and online venues, including The Christian Science Monitor, Notre Dame Magazine, Pedestal Magazine, flashquake, Flash Me Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, Pindeldyboz, and Camroc Press Review.  Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, is available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm.  Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.

Hole Diggers for Hard, Manual Labor
by Joshua Andra

Help Wanted: Hole Diggers for hard, manual labor. I need to dig a hole on my back forty that’s big enough to fit a trailer home, and I aint renting no gasoline powered contraption to dig my hole for me. The hole’s gotta be eighteen feet deep and as big as a barn. The ground will probably freeze next week so we gotta get started. Pays $20 a night plus beans and cold water, or I can pay you in dirt. No experience necessary. Wear dark clothing and bring your own shovel. Just go a quarter mile south of Lucas Avenue and 3rd Street, and stand under the billboard at midnight tonight. I’ll pick you up in my truck. I aint a gay so don’t get no ideas. Also, if you have a plow, I got an ox so we could use that. Can also pay for explosives. Wear boots. My name is John and my pick-up is red.

BIO: Joshua Andra (Pittsburgh, PA) just started sinking his teeth into the art of fiction writing. He appreciates sunsets (for the smog effect), walks on the beach (to collect animal bones), and steel-toed, kick-in-the-mouth blockbuster endings (see McTeague by Frank Norris). He has been published at A Twist of Noir and The Truth Magazine, and has an upcoming story this month at Beat to a Pulp. Joshua can be reached at kitchenpancho@yahoo.com and is a woodworker by trade.

Join The Band
by Sean Monaghan

"Give me a minute," Toby Toby said pulling his Camaro up at the end of an alley. "I'm going to score so we can celebrate tomorrow."

I looked down the alley, some dumpsters and abandoned supermarket trolleys. "Don't do it Toby," I said. "It's nasty down there."

"Felix," he said. "Stage name. Toby Toby."

I shook my head as he got out of the car. He closed the door and looked back in. "I gotta maintain the image," he said.

"That doesn't have to include getting drugged up." Toby was the only one in the band who got high, but he was our energy, our light.

"Tomorrow is our big night. We're opening for-"

"I know how big tomorrow is-"

"Crimson Tat. They'll want us to get ripped with them." He turned and that was the last time I saw him alive. He was down the alley maybe three minutes before I heard a gunshot. When I looked I saw muzzleflash from the second shot. Then a big man thundered out of the alley, glanced back and followed the sidewalk around the corner.

I found Toby Toby prone, his blood draining into the old newspapers and rat faeces. He died in my arms.

After the cops and the clean-up, I drove Toby's car to find the others. Tomorrow's gig, our first in Vegas this year, was supposed to make our name, get us in front of booking agents and the record people. Opening for Crimson Tat at The Hard Rock Cafe. Opening at a big venue and our guitarist gets offed by his dealer's man.

"I know a guy," Jimmy told me. "Plays lapsteel."

I pressed my palms over my eyes. Toby was dead and Jimmy tells me he knows a guy. Our set is six originals. Twenty-five minutes. Toby Toby would leap around stage in a maniacal frenzy controlling the audience, exploding the show. Lapsteel couldn't compete. I looked at my watch. "We go on in nineteen hours."

"So?" Claire said.

"We can't be ready."

"Give him a chance," Jimmy said. "He's listened to our demo. What's to lose?"

So Jimmy phoned and we took the Camaro around. Our demo was playing through the monitors in the home studio and a pedalsteel was set up on a big complicated stand.

The studio was small but professional, with some nice Adam's monitors and a desk that looked like a retrofitted Soundcraft 32, with parts I couldn't identify. This guy was serious.

"Mike MacRuddy," Jimmy said, "This is Felix."

As Mike turned I saw that his left arm was shorn off at the shoulder and I understood the reason for the modified desk.

"Hi," I said, and shook his right hand. "Where's our guitarist?"

"That's me," Mike MacRuddy said.

A one-armed guitarist. I sighed. Why did I let Jimmy get my hopes up?

"It's okay," Mike said. "Let's see if I can do this one." He sat down at the pedalsteel and began playing along with the song. It was All The Bullets Bright, not our most complex song, but as he began I realised that the guitar stand included extra pedals and some computer hook-up. Those custom-built clamps pressed onto the strings to build chords. It was pretty tightly engineered. There was even a slider with a steel on it that he could move with his knee. The thing was, with the clamps, pedals and slider he was keeping up with Toby Toby on the CD. One-handed.

"Magic," Claire said.

Jimmy grinned at me. "Def Leppard." I remembered the old band with a one-armed drummer who had a customised kit. He could out-drum me.

"Okay," I said. "Let's give it a try."

Back at the hotel, we spent the night letting Mike work his way into our set. Really, though, it was us learning from him. He'd found a whole new way to make the guitar his own. It wasn't like any lapsteel I'd heard before. Sure, he could slide like a demon, but what he did with our songs defied belief.

"You made a pact with the devil?" I said to him on a break.

Mike smiled. "Just with myself."

Exhausted after all night making the new line up work, we still rocked the casino. Back in the dressing room we were pumped. A different band, edgy, exhilarating. Jimmy had launched himself and his bass around in a way I'd never seen and Claire had sung like an angel, crooning at Mike on his stool. Without even time to grieve for Toby Toby we'd seduced our audience.

We were tearing apart the remains of the rider when a big guy strode in. I remembered him from the alley.

"Toby Toby still owes us money."

"He's dead," I told him.

"Boss says you can pay it off. With band contracts his estate keeps earning. Especially now you're hitting the big time. We'll figure out a percentage."

I stared, dumbfounded.

"Or do I gotta start breaking fingers?"

"No need for that," Mike said, standing up. Mike was big, but beside the man he seemed tiny.

The big guy smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Your boy was into us for over ninety grand."

Mike stepped forward. "The debt died with him."

"You're not understanding me."

"I think it's time you left."

"Mike," I said.

The man shoved Mike. "Payments can begin right now."

Mike drew his arm back and smacked his fist into the centre of the big man's chest. It was so fast and sudden, and so balanced, that for a moment I wasn't sure it had happened at all.

But the man's face went blank and he crumpled. He shook for a moment, then fell still.

"Oh, boy," Claire said, going over. "Dead."

"I was done with brawling long ago," Mike said. He touched the vacant shoulder. "I didn't mean to bring any trouble."

"Cardiac arrest," Jimmy said.

"Yeah," Claire said. "I witnessed it. He just collapsed."

I looked at Mike, nodding. "I guess you'd better join the band."

BIO: Sean Monaghan wishes he could play a real musical instrument.  His stories have appeared in Horror Through The Ages, Bewildering Stories and PowderBurnFlash, amongst others.  More information at his website, www.venusvulture.com
copyright 2010

EAT ME
by Keone Haley

A mischievous grin formed on my face when I read the bumper sticker that stuck to the back of his blue car. Think I drive slow? Eat me! It read in large red murderous letters on a sky blue background.

“What a piece of junk,” I thought. “Who actually still drives around in these types of cars anyways?”

It was ancient, we're talking 90s style. I stood behind the car, squatted and took a look at what type of car it was. It read: 1990 Toyota Corolla. I stood, backed up and kicked the bumper for fun.

I nodded in disgust, “Oh! Mr. Smith, maybe if you weren't such a prick of a boss I wouldn't have done that.”

Of course, after kicking his car I realized it could have been a big mistake and quickly looked around to make sure know one saw me.

“Who does he think he is?” I continued. “Firing me just because I was late for work 3 times!?”

“And who tells people to eat them? Well I'll show him! He wants people to eat him. I'll give him something to eat!”

I looked around and spotted the most perfect gas station across the street. I smirked and headed towards the mini store.

“Alright, Mr. Smith, you want someone to eat you, well hear you go!”

I entered the store on a mission to buy some food to dress his car with. There were all sorts of food but I particularly took a liking to the sub sandwiches as I thought they would be the easiest the smear. The gallon of milk sitting in the corner was also a good pick. I grabbed a food cart and started shopping. I Picked up 3 bags of pre-made sub sandwiches and then headed over to the milk cartons. I now had all the items I needed sitting in my cart and a few bucks in my pocket. I walked over to the cashier to checkout.

“Hi, how are you?” the clerk asked.

“Oh, I'm great! Just great,” I replied.

I laughed an evil laugh, “I'm on a mission.”

The clerk looked up at me as if I was a madman. But I just continued to smirk with my evil smile. He quickly rang up my items. I said my goodbyes and thank-yous and then I was on my way.

I walked back to Mr. Smith's car and decided to check out the inside just for kicks. The inside was surprisingly new, with new gray furnishing and a CD player intact. The whole car smelled of new and an air refresher was placed in the middle. There on the front ground seat scattered paperwork and in the back seat, a toddler’s seat. Looking at the toddlers seat almost made me feel bad about what I was about to do, knowing he had a child and all. But I didn't care, he fired me and that was more important.

I reached over back to my cart and was unpleasantly surprised to find Mr. Smith standing behind me with his arms crossed. He stood their staring at me, breathing long and deep, his face began to turn red. His tall posture scared me.

“What do you think you're doing, Robert?”

“Um, um,” I stammered. “Um, ah! I'm out of here.”

I knocked him out of my way, grabbed the shopping cart and ran off like a thief in the night.

BIO: Keone Haley lives down south where the sun is hottest. She lives in a house in the middle of the forest with her family, a brother, father, mother and dog. During her spare time she enjoys walking her dog Chewy and feeding him worms if he’s being a bad boy.