THE BAD NEIGHBOR
by Matthew McBride

He watched his phone ring a couple of times before he finally picked it up. He already knew who was calling, the only person who ever called this phone. He went by the name of Durham, and not because it sounded cool, but it was easy to remember, at least for him anyway. It was the name of the street he grew up on, in the house where he fingered his first girlfriend. That was a long time ago wasn't it? He couldn't remember anymore. He'd killed a lot of people since then, and at the end of the day, all the faces look the same. Durham answered with a whisper. “Hello.”

There was nothing for a second, then the same voice that always called offered him a job.

“Want some work?” Durham had to think about this for a minuet. The last job didn't go so well, and he had the scars to prove it if anybody asked. But nobody ever would.

“What kind of work?” he wanted to know.

“Deliver a message,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

That was the kind of work he liked. Delivering messages. It was quick and easy and safe. He thought about it for a second before he said he would take it on. He thought about the last job and how it went sideways. He looked down at his scar and said he'd do it. He was now committed and there was no turning back.

“What's the message?”

There was a long silence as Durham waited for a reply.

“Your the message,” whispered the faceless voice on the other end of the line, then click.

Durham stood up slowly and dropped the phone onto the floor. They found him.

Suddenly there was a loud crash out in the hallway and he instinctively threw himself onto the floor and rolled behind the closest chair. He heard it again, the unmistakable sound of a door crashing in, a sound he was familiar with. Before he realized what he was doing there was a gun in his hand and experience was taking over. In an instant he knew what was happening, they were coming for him, but that was impossible, he didn't exist. There was only one thing connecting him to that room, and that was the telephone line that was connected to the neighbors apartment, which meant his neighbors were dead.

There was a loud series of gunshots which just conformed what he already knew and Durham wasted no time making his way to the hall. There would be two guys, maybe three since they were looking for him, and he didn't have much time before they traced the phone wire from their apartment to his. He walked across the hallway through the broken door of his neighbors apartment and shot the first guy he saw in the back of his head from close range. Durham turned his gun to the right just in time to catch another guy walk into the room, and he shot him in the face as he walked toward him.

Durham crotched down against the wall and waited to see what happened next. He was sure they sent more than two. He looked down at the both bodies on the floor and he was glad they were dead. He was pissed off about the neighbors too, because they weren't bad people far as he knew, they just had the misfortune of living next to the wrong guy.

His back was up against the wall now and he was listening as hard as could, but his ears were still ringing from the gunshots. He thought he heard something move on the other side, then a shot came through the wall in front of him and there was plaster in his face. He ran around the corner fast and got lucky, there he was, a look of desperation across his face. Durham unloaded his gun into his chest then walked away, stepping over the body of Mrs. Reynolds as he left the room.

BIO: Matthew McBride lives outside the beautiful wine country of Hermann, Mo in an old farmhouse along the river. The kind of house where there's a gun in every room, and all of them are loaded. He's been published at A TwistOf Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and this month he will have a story comming out at Darkest Before The Dawn. He currently has a novel under review at DHS Literary Agency. Follow him on Twitter http://twitter.com/matthewjmcbride

Good Night Durham
by Matthew C. Funk

Durham woke to find his memory gone and his dick getting hard. It took him a moment to shake off the old dream—the one about his sister—and take notice of where he was. The first thing that assaulted him was the motel room’s stink.

He lay there for awhile. The fear was starting to settle down and a hangover squatted on his brain in its place. It was time to put the pieces together.

Durham got off what remained of the bed and upended a plastic plate of cocaine on his naked body. Its content snowed on the blankets and used condoms on the floor.

It had certainly been a night, he figured, if not one to remember. He pinched his nose. It felt like a rain gutter. His whole body did.

Durham hit the can, kicking a pair of empty Wild Turkey bottles on his way. The discovery of his clothes on the floor got a grunt of relief. No wallet or cellphone in them, though, but no matter. He had other business to see to first.

He flipped open the toilet. There, in a plastic bag, was a human hand.

It took awhile for him to get his mind back out of the quicksand. Durham looked at the hand and had the vague feeling of the hand looking back to him. For awhile, his only thoughts were a replay of the Internet meme that had echoed throughout the office last summer—Bill O’Reilly’s hysterics caught on a candid camera, raving about doing it live.

Durham was definitely doing it live today. And just like Bill said, it fucking sucked.

As he emptied his bladder of the acid in it into the sink, he noticed a plastic cup on the counter with lipstick stain on it. He rubbed his blond whiskers. No sign of lipstick. Well, that explained the condoms.

In the process of wrapping the hand bag in his tan overcoat, a set of keys to a BMW dropped out. Durham was certain of little from last night, but he was positive he didn’t drive a BMW. Not on his salary. Mercifully, a pack of cigarettes and a little pink lighter also dropped free.

Shit was getting better all the time. Not much better, though—the lighter and smokes were definitely not his: Virginia Slims. Sissy cigarettes.

Durham walked down the street puffing on three Virginia Slims at the same time, clicking the Beemer keys. After about a block of New Orleans row houses, their colorful paint peeling in the fashion of the Florida District, he got a chirp of satisfaction.

Satisfaction didn’t last long. The car was driven into a dumpster, the container’s metal caved in almost halfway and the contents puked all over the BMW’s hood.

Durham got the car’s engine to turn over. It sounded more like a John Deere riding mower than German engineering. Lighting three more Slims, Durham checked the registration: Timothy Taylor of Picayune Street.

Timmy Boy might know more about Durham’s night. He spent a shaky fifteen minutes trying to keep his hangover from turning the drive into an impressionist painting.

The house at the Picayune address looked like a real estate posting. Everything shiny; even the lawn had a fresh haircut.

Durham knocked on the door. No answer. He tried around the car port to the back.

The back door was open and the contents of the back room reeked worse than the motel room had. The reason for the reek was a bunch of wrecked meat that used to be a human being, its upper half crammed into a massive meat cooler, a bloody tire iron perched against it. The discovery made every empty space into a threat. Durham covered his nose and checked out the surroundings. No gun men lurking. No suspicious footprints. Martha Stewart décor was the most offensive force present. Timmy Boy lived in a Better Homes and Gardens spread. Even his post-it notes had post-it notes.

Durham covered his hand before lifting the cooler’s lid. He almost flinched. Whoever had done Timmy in had saved most of the wrath for his noggin. That wasn’t the worst of it. Inside the cooler were piles and piles of plastic bags, each with a neatly preserved part of a human body.

Durham was still pondering what to do when the squashed remains of Timmy’s head began to play “Freebird.” With the Slims sticking from a scowl, Durham fished his missing cellphone from Timmy’s brains.

He ruined Timmy’s towels in time to answer the call—one of four missed ones, according to the phone.

“Yo.” Durham said.

“‘Yo’ yourself, wigger. Where you at?” It was Andsell.

“I dunno.”

“Still standing?”

“Barely.”

“How’s that HIV feeling?”

“What?” Durham was fairly sure the only VD he had was the clap, and that had been, what, two months ago?

“You ran off with Sally Blues last night.”

“Shit, she’s not positive.” Durham walked outside with the phone. “Just got sores is all.”

“Well you were all up in that shit at Saturn Bar last night.” It could happen. “Ran off with her and all our blow, ranting you were going to catch a killer.”

“No shit.” Durham picked up the tire iron just in case.

“Mhm. Sally Blues was dead certain she’d spotted the Industrial Canal Killer in the bar. Had you convinced, dog.”

“Could happen.” Durham got the BMW running again. “Let me call you back.”

“Tight.”

It was another fifteen minutes back to his apartment. The tire iron took a bath in the Industrial Canal on the way. Durham took a thirty minute shower.

Cleaning the white sump from his nose, he slid into his work clothes. The uniform felt like sackcloth. The New Orleans police badge wouldn’t set straight.

Durham figured that was about right. The only worse thing than a bad night for a detective in the Big Easy was a good one.

BIO: Matthew Funk is a professional writer in marketing for corporate America, a writing mentor and the author of several manuscripts that illuminate the beauty of human extremes. A graduate of the Professional Writing MFA at USC, his work is also featured on his Web site.

A Crumby Way to Die
by Thomas Faughnan

She had told him the last time she would kill him if he did it again. Oh, he had apologized, promised it wouldn’t happen again, practically groveled at her feet for forgiveness, but all the time he was saying he was sorry she had the distinct feeling that just below the surface he didn’t take it very seriously, didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Him and his little eat-shit-and-die grin.

But it was a big deal, dammit, it was a big deal to her. And now he had done it again, she had the evidence right in front of her on the kitchen counter. Tears filled her eyes as she looked down at the evidence. She had given him the best years of her life and he had done this to her. But with the evidence he couldn’t deny it, couldn’t lie about it. She did not want more insincere apologies or empty promises.

It was too late for that.

*    *    *

When he came through the door after work he knew there was going to be a shit-storm. She was seated on the sofa, smoldering like the cigarette between her lips. Her legs were crossed and the top leg was bouncing ominously like it always did when she was agitated. The ashtray was nearly full, she had been sitting there for a long time. Waiting.

“Something wrong, hon?” he asked innocently.

“Something wrong?” she asked back. Her eyes burned with raw hate. “I don’t know, Dan, why don’t we go into the kitchen and see if something’s wrong.”

He had been down this road before and he knew there was a hell of a storm brewing but he marched dutifully to the kitchen, like a man walking his last mile. What did they call it in prison? Oh yeah, dead man walking. In the kitchen the evidence was right there on the counter, in front of God and everyone so there was no use in pretending. After taking a deep breath he said, “Marge, I am so sorry.”

“You’re always sorry,” she said from behind him. Even now she could sense him being dismissive, belittling her feelings. “You swore it would never happen again.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen again, I slipped up, that’s all.” He kept his voice quiet. “Look, we can work through this together, we can get some counseling…”

“I don’t need counseling!” she shouted. “You need counseling!”

He felt his patience beginning to slip. “Dammit, Marge, I’m a man and sometimes men do things like this.”

“Well I’m a woman,” she said as she picked up the cast iron skillet her mother had given her for a wedding present , “and sometimes women do things like this.” She swung the pan like Hank Aaron going for the fence. The skillet made a sickening thud when it connected with Dan’s skull, bouncing his head into the kitchen cupboard. He fell to his knees, stunned, and she followed with another home run swing that crumpled him to the floor. She hit him once more with a two-fisted overhead to finish the job.

Then she stepped over his lifeless body and calmly called the police. She left the evidence, the butter dish with the crumbs in it, crumbs all over it, on the counter so they could see he had given her no choice.

She had to do it.

End

BIO: Tom Faughnan lives in Anchorage, Alaska with the love of his life Sherri and is careful never to double-dip in the butter dish.

HEARTSICK
by Charles Schaeffer

Eddie Morton’s dream of  medical school died the day  admissions  diagnosed his doctored essay on the college entrance exam. Eddie swallowed the bitter medicine, enrolled in the local two-year community college, and switched his career to laboratory assistant.

Eddie brooded a lot. Weekend benders drowned his troubles.  Red spider veins wove a web on his bulbous nose.  Wrapped in alcohol’s warm haze, Eddie wondered why life had dealt him  a bum deal.

This evening Eddie’s thought about  his elderly maiden aunt, who hoarded a small  fortune in stocks, bonds, and  cash. Life was unfair, moped Eddie, leaving the bar at twilight, unlocking his motorcycle from the lamp post and kicking  the engine to life.

Eddie was Aunt Abigail’s sole relative. Eddie knew he was in the will. But how to  muster the patience to wait out the inevitable while sticking to his dead end job?

Letting nature take its course would be smart.  But then he discovered how treatment could extend a heart patient’s life. Eddie’s mood darkened.  Aunt Abigail had developed paroxysmal atrial fibrillation, a disorder causing the heart, unpredictably, to race beyond its normal rate. Untreated, fibrillation could be fatal.

Medical texts affirmed all this, bringing a frown to his round, bland face.  A device called a pacemaker the size of a pocket watch, implanted under the skin during a two-day hospital stay, could keep  a fibrillation sufferer going indefinitely. And put Eddie’s future  on indefinite hold.

Then the pacemaker’s downside  turned up.  Wearers, Eddie read, were warned away  from electromagnetism emitted by gadgets such as cell phones.  The real danger, though,  lurked in  more powerful magnets.

Eddie glumly imagined Aunt Abigail perking along into her 90’s while he trudged on, denied the good things of life, mainly a  long-admired convertible Beamer, a sort of magnet itself for babes. Time for familial concern, he decided. Before the day of the procedure, Eddie phoned,  assuring  Auntie his thoughts were with her. 

* * *

His aunt sailed through the operation the morning before Valentine’s Day.  What luck! Tomorrow  for a special person he would appear bedside with a box of her favorite chocolates.  No harm in a little buttering up.
Candy is dandy, he recalled the rhyme,  but magnets aren’t stagnant, adding his own little spin. A smirk replaced his frown. To Eddie the plan was ABC simple.  Get hold of a set of strong magnets like Ace Electronics sells, visit Auntie’s bedside, and  hover close over her in a gesture of family concern.

The magnetic waves would disrupt the pacemaker.  Her heart would flutter rapidly and then quit.  No trace of foul play. A statistical flook--one of the pacemaker technique’s rare failures.

At Ace Electronics, Eddie selected four flat magnets, each five inches long and a quarter inch thick.  He struggled to pull  them apart.  Perfect, he figured, as he headed for the cash register, flashed his credit card, and paid for his purchase. The clerk  dropped the receipt in the plastic bag. 

* * *

On Valentine’s Day, entering the hospital’s main swinging doors, he shot  a brief glance at a sign, begging visitors to “Excuse Our Dust,” while improvements to security   progressed.   Two workmen wrestled with a door frame-like structure. Fear of terrorists even in hospitals, Eddie cluck clucked.

Aunt Abigail’s was in  room number, 207, the Cardiac Ward.  Stepping off the elevator, he turned right, and looked straight ahead. The nurse’s station was preoccupied. He shifted the box of chocolates under his left arm and with his right hand  pulled the magnets from the plastic bag and slid them into the breast pocket of his  jacket.

From her bed, Aunt Abigail looked up from solitaire, and turned toward her nephew, who removed his Red Sox cap. “Sweets for the sweet,” Eddie chirped,  holding the “Martha M” assortment aloft.

“Oh,  yes, it’s Valentine’s day,” she said vaguely.  “They won’t let me eat them.”

“Take them home,”  Eddie replied with feigned good cheer. “Mind if I give my favorite Aunt a kiss on the cheek?”  He bent over her, delivered a peck, and lingered, explaining how concerned everybody was, but not to worry.

After a moment or two, her face tightened.  “Oh my, my heart. It’s beating so fast. Quick get the nurse!”

“On my way!”  Eddie  exclaimed, grabbing his cap, then hurrying down the hall to the elevator, which  seemed to stall forever on the fifth floor.

At last  Eddie boarded. Exiting into the lobby, he observed a man in a Security Uniform, revolver holstered,  approaching. “Pardon me, sir, would you mind helping us?  We’ve just plugged in the new  metal detector,” he explained. “You’ll  be our first test. Please step through. Just a formality.”

As Eddie walked through the detector, a loud buzzer sounded.  Nearby workmen laughed. “Well, it works,” they crowed.

“Of course, you can go, sir,” the Security Guard said. “You were leaving, weren’t you?”

At that instant the Guard’s cell phone rang.  He answered and looked darkly at Eddie.   Minutes later in the Administrator’s office, Eddie stood, surrounded by the Security Guard, the Administrator,  a white-coated technician, and a nurse holding a small rectangle of paper, which she showed the Guard.

“Please give me  your name and hand me your credit card.”

Eddie peeled it out of his wallet.

“The numbers match his credit card,” the Guard said.

“We found the pacemaker patient in 207 dead,” the nurse exclaimed.  “And  Scott here,”  nodding at the technician,” was watching  the corridor security tape, showing this man, recognizable by that baseball cap, taking rectangular objects out of a bag.

“When he put them in his breast pocket, he didn’t notice the paper floating to the floor.
Just before he went into 207. Now we know. The paper is a receipt  for the purchase of magnets--the pacemaker’s worst enemy. We called your station at once--hoping he was still  in the building.”

Lifting the magnets from Eddie’s pocket, the Guard said, “I’m afraid, Mr. Morton, “our next call will be to the police.”

BIO: Charles Schaeffer has published more than 20 mystery stories in a variety of outlets, including Woman’s World, Dana Literary Society’s Online Journal, Mysterial-E, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine. He writes from Bethesda, MD, and  is a back to back winner of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s “Mysterious Photo” contest. 
THE END

Jersey’s Good Time
by Chad Rohrbacher

The beach wore the bottoms of Jersey’s feet raw so when he walked over the blacktop to his Monte Carlo, all he felt was the static of his white noise on his soles. Music blared from the seaside bar that sported a driftwood façade and a plastic swordfish over the door. He got in and sat down. The car rumbled to life and he sat with his door open, the AC blowing over his face, mixing with the evening heat. He smoked and watched the lot and smoked some more.

Families with kids and small life vests trickled out while young tourists trickled in. Soon the place would be packed, college kids, middle aged men who wish they were, drunk women gyrating their hips as if they didn’t know who was ogling what, and they would be there, body to body, in one critical mass of sweat and beer and jello shots.

When he saw the couple pull up in their Mercedes Benz, which easily cost 100k, Jersey put out his cigarette and followed them in.

They looked like perfects WASPS, blond hair, blue eyes, bodies built like they had time to care, and clothes no one knew how to pronounce. They were slumming. Jersey gritted his teeth as he went in.

Jersey was a little guy, Cambodian, weighed 165 after gorging on fried chicken and bacon wrapped hotdogs, which he particularly enjoyed. He scanned the room and spied the couple at the bar ordering hurricanes or sex on the beach or some other fruity vodka drink. Jersey waited till they took a table near the corner of the bar where they could watch all the regular people put one on.

Meandering over, Jersey eyed the blond. In her sundress, she was like a warm smile. He buried his hands in his pockets. He stared.

The woman glanced up and smiled. Jersey didn’t smile back. The woman averted her eyes and watched the dancers. She peeked at Jersey again and then, thinking he might be looking at something behind her, looked around. Nothing but wall.  She grabbed her boyfriend’s thick thigh.

The boyfriend was built like a racehorse, veins bulging from taught muscles. She nodded toward Jersey and the boyfriend followed her eyes. Only then did Jersey smile and walk up to the table.

“Hey,” Jersey said.

“Hey,” the boyfriend responded. The girlfriend’s polite smile faltered.

“I was just looking. Don’t mean nothin’. Just lookin’ at her, you know.”

“Well, I prefer if you don’t,” he said turning back to sip his drink.

Jersey didn’t move.

“What?” he growled.

Jersey broke into a big smile. “You know, I was just thinking, I bet she sucks a mean cock.”

“What?” he said.

“What?” she said.

“Not the cock is mean, but you suck it good. Yum, yum.”

The girl’s eyes widened when Jersey put his hand on her boyfriend’s back. “No, no. No offense. I mean, just looking at those big, pouty lips, Indonesian lips, very nice for sucking cock. And that jaw line. I bet your nuts bang her chin. Don’t they?”

The boyfriend jumped up and grabbed Jersey’s hand, almost breaking it in three places.

“Man, this compliment,” Jersey howled.

The girlfriend scurried away as the boyfriend growled. Jersey wriggled from his grasp and threw a punch, a wild one-two to his kidneys and the boyfriend didn’t budge. Solid. The boyfriend’s fist closed and connected to Jersey’s nose. Blood squirted and the girlfriend screamed. In a stupor, Jersey stumbled into the wall and held himself up with one hand while covering his nose with the other. Blood poured between his fingers.

The bar stopped while the music bumped on.

Jersey spun around at the boyfriend, made for a leg sweep, and the boyfriend charged. Putting Jersey in a bear hug, the boyfriend rammed Jersey into the wall. Pictures of fishing boats and stuffed Marlins fell to the floor. Jersey felt his chest exit through his back and fell to the floor.

The boyfriend was advancing and Jersey raised his arms in surrender. When the girlfriend grabbed her boyfriend’s arm, holding him back, he nodded and eyed Jersey. He had hardly broken a sweat.

Jersey used the wall to prop himself up then floundered toward the door. People spread like the Red Sea allowing him to pass. The girlfriend shakily stroked the boyfriend’s face as he pointed to the bartender for more drinks.

Outside Jersey used the back of his hand to wipe the already coagulating blood from his face, and made his way to his car. He got in, turned it over, and listened it rumble to life. He backed out, but didn’t go far.

Sliding his Monte Carlo next to the Mercedes, Jersey smiled. He appreciated the subtle contours, the leather seats, the craftsmanship that went into a car like that. Jersey could because he was an artist. Someone creative. And Bopa loved creativity in this business.

Jersey popped his trunk and stepped out into the evening air. Then from his front pocket he pulled the boyfriend’s keys from his front pocket. He had lifted them during the fight pretty easily. Then, with a simple press of a button, he disabled the alarm. And with another simple depression of a button, he popped the trunk.

Jersey was focused, purposeful in his movements. He went to his car’s trunk, rummaged inside, and grabbed hold. Involuntarily he turned his head, nose scrunching up, and bile reached toward his throat. The heat had done a number on it. He heaved a large form wrapped in thick plastic as best he could. He could feel it slip, jelly inside, purling goo under his hands, and he practically threw it toward the Mercede’s trunk. The head banged against the catch releasing an awful odor, but Jersey was almost through. He shoved it in and slammed the lid down. He threw the keys toward the driver’s side door making it look like the boyfriend dropped them. Jersey was the best in the business, and Bopa had a lot of business.

Jersey went back to his car and slammed his trunk lid down. That’s when he noticed him, the bald man sitting in his front seat. The bald man was stock still as Jersey peered through his car’s back glass. The bald man’s arm hung lazily out the passenger window.

Jersey got in and noticed the 9mm laying in the bald man’s lap. While Jersey cranked the AC up, the bald man dabbed sweat from his forehead and fanned his Hawaiian shirt. “What the fuck took you so long, Jersey” the bald man asked. Then he did a double take and leaned in to examine Jersey. “And what happened to your face?”

“Decided to have a little fun this time.”

“You got a fucked up sense of fun,” the bald man said while Jersey tapped his fingers to the radio. Jersey smiled.

He loved his job.

BIO: My stories, poems, and non-fiction have appeared in multiple magazines and journals, most recently The Flash Fiction Offensive and Word Catalyst.