Father McKinely had sat in the confessional, saying nothing, listening to the ditzy-voiced blonde recount her latest sexual debauches. She had spoken in a voice that was sensual, but cheap. Stupid, but arousing.

The poor husband, Father McKinely had thought.

"Now you have to understand, father, Joey's my husband. Burt he's his best friend. So one day Burt stops by when Joey is out working.

'Sorry,' I tell him. 'Joey isn't home.'

Father McKinely had felt tension go all throughout his body, muscles in his neck contracting, sweat beading down his priestcollar. This is better than Cinemax, he thought, as Mrs. Whitefield had started to get dirty.

Joseph Christopher McKinely had not always been like this.

A priest. In early adulthood he'd been many things. A coast guard, a prizefighter and even a disc jockey at a small-time college radio station. Becoming a priest had seemed like the thing to do back then--there was just no dodging it. His father had been a priest, his grandfather. Family tradition, family duty.

At first, stories like Mrs. Whitefield's had appalled him. He had been a firm believer in the sacraments of marriage: fidelity and the like. But ten years of being forbidden to so much as touch his penis had made things more difficult for him, unbearable.

On the eleventh year Father McKinely had started to do things differently, in his own way. Why not? The sinners were still getting absolution; he just needed to relieve his frustrations from time to time.

"...and then this Burt, he kisses me passionately on the lips, his tongue caressing both sides of my mouth! Oh, Father, it had felt so good, I just couldn't resist it."

Father McKinely could see Mrs. Whitefield through the screened-divider, knelt down on the bench, the sight of her perky, moca-colored breasts being more than he could handle.

Gently, and soundlessly his pants had gone tumbling down. There was a slight, barely perceptible sound of the zipper but Mrs. Whitefield didn't seem to have noticed as she kept on talking.

"And here I am, bent over, and Burt's really riding me good, you know? Showing me no mercy. And it was a beautiful day. A day like today. I could hear the birds chirping, barely a cloud in the sky and Burt he's just... well, getting me sore, to be honest with you. And then a couple seconds more he's finished. He zips his pants back up, real businesslike and tells me, 'tell Joey I'll call him tonight, all right?"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh." Father McKinely had groaned.

He had tried keeping the noise under control but the story had just been too much on him. He had wondered, at the very second after climax if his father and grandfather had done these things he was doing? He had hoped so. This was great--better than even making it with those bikini-clad bimbos on the beach. They knew what was going on, this woman on the other side of the screen she hadn't the vaguest clue.

"Is everything okay, Father?"

"Ahhhhhhhh." He groaned. "Ah, yes, Daughter. It's just this time of year I sneeze like a banshee. Allergies."

And then he told her her sins were nothing. "Say twenty-three Hail Maries, and sixty-eight Our Fathers. You are forgiven."

*   *   *

As she was leaving the booth he had looked at the Roster. Three-twenty--Mrs. Crawford. He smiled crookedly. She was even better looking than Mrs. Whitefield. Long, creamy legs. Pouty lips and a set of knockers that would have given even Hugh Hefner a semi.

He gazed down into his wristwatch with dueling crucifixes, the short, stumpier one was on the three, the longer one on the two.

"Ten minutes." Father McKinely had sighed.

A guy didn't have much time to clean up around here.

"Father McKinely"

Copyright: © 2011 Jack Bristow

-------------------------------------

Jack Bristow is a cross dresser from Nova Scotia. He enjoys riding Harleys and intimidating old people.

Frank Peodius was pounding away at his keyboard, frantically searching for the best dating site. So far this year, he's registered at five costly ones--Yahoo Dating and Plentyoffish--searching for that special somebody.

He had just finished entering his credit card information into another site when the cell phone rang. He picked the cell phone up and held it to his ear with the aid of his right shoulder as he continued filling out the required information for membership.

"Hello," he said into the cell phone.

"Frank. It's me, Dennis."

Dennis was Frank's shrink and best friend. They'd known each other since childhood, both spending the majority of their childhoods in the same orphanage.

"Frank," Dennis scolded, sounding more like a psychiatrist than a friend, "You're not wasting all your money and time on another dating website, are you?"

A pause. Frank was pissed. Why was this bastard speaking so patronizingly when he wasn't even on his couch? Finally, after his anger and shock had finally subsided Frank said, "No."

Dennis knew his friend was lying.

"Frank, how many hours, how many sessions have I spent saying it isn't healthful for you to meet women online?"

Silence. Dennis had waited for a response, but nothing came. Then he continued.

"That's why tonight I've decided to set you up with one of my clients, Rosemary. Beautiful woman--she's a good fifteen years older than you; but I know for a fact that that shouldn't be a problem, considering how you've always liked your women a little older than you."

Which wasn't exactly true. Frank had liked them a lot older than him. He was an avid collector of mature pornography featuring women in their sixties, seventies and eighties getting plowed by men young enough to be their grandsons.

At first Frank had protested, but Dennis had finally talked him into it. "Do you really want to get better? Do you want to, if not entirely forget how fucked up your childhood was, start living a semi-normal life? If so, you're going to have to learn how to cultivate normal relationships like everybody else. You must learn how to not fear intimacy; to accept it as a way of life." A pause, then Dennis continued, "Not everybody will abandon you like your parents did, Frank."

Ouch. Frank had gotten the point.

He ripped a piece of paper from out of his printer and then he asked Dennis, "Okay, Mr. Know-it-all, where the hell am I supposed to meet her?

*   *   *

The place was a cozy little Italian eatery. Every table was draped in red-and-white checkered design tablecloth, and at the far end of the restaurant, near the restrooms and bar area, stood a middle-aged man in a blue pin-striped suite singing Sinatra via a cheesy little karaoke concoction.

"And now, the end is near, and so I face, the final curtain..."

He noticed an elderly woman, of about sixty, sitting alone and expectantly at a table in the middle of the restaurant.

He approached her.

"Rosemary?"

"Sit down, hun." She smiled pleasantly. Her voice had seriously aroused him, having a gravelly-yet-sensual sound to it--like Lucille Ball, when she got really old.

They sat there for two hours--talking, drinking wine, and having an all-around good time.

It was ten o'clock, and three tall glasses of White Zinfiendel later, when she suggested they take a cab back to her place.

"Why not?" Frank beamed.

*   *   *

The second they got in the apartment she started kissing his neck, and then biting at it; he pushed her on the bed and then he jumped on top of her.

Giggling ensued. "Oh Rosemary; Rosemary!"

They went at it three separate times that night, then one time in the morning. After the fourth serving Rosemary lit a Virginia Slim cigarette, puffed at it and then she passed it over to Frank.

Frank, for the first time in his life, was content. I am truly blessed, he thought. The next time I see Dennis I'm going to give him a big hug. Bless that man and his sound advice; bless him to hell!

As he fumbled his left hand carelessly on the nightstand for his glasses he accidientially knocked something over. Crack.

It was the sound of grass breaking.

"Sorry, I'll get that," he said. Then he said again, "I'm so sorry!"

"Don't worry about it," she said, exhaling smoke.

It was a framed photo of a young boy--wait a minute! He looked oddly familiar.

"Rosemary--who is this?"

Rosemary sighed, looking a little sad. "That's my boy, Frank. I was forced to give him away for adoption when I was seventeen and--"

Frank, red-faced and crying, collapsed to the floor.

"What's wrong, lover?" Rosemary had said.

"Peodius Complex"

Copyright: © 2011 Jack Bristow

------------------------------------

Jack Bristow, an all-out weirdo from New Mexico, has written for several online magazines and even one print one. Follow him: @Jackbristo

Eddie Fullbright sat in the doctor's office waiting room, restless. He had on three-day-old unwashed chino pants and a white wifebeater. His face was masked in three-day-old beard stubble; it looked sweaty and nervous.

"Mr Fullbright?" the large nurse had called his name.

She guided him into a small white room and strapped the bloodpressure cuff against his arm and then she said, "Oh my gawd; yours is astronomically high... I will go get Dr. Winslow."

Dr. Winslow looked younger than Eddie even. Eddie was only twenty-seven but the three-day-old beard growth had made him look older and more masculine.

"Eddie," Dr. Winslow said warily. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh I'm in pain."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. My right arm. Carpal tunnel, I believe."

Dr. Winslow had tapped on Eddie's right arm with his splayed fingertips. "Can you feel this?"

Shit, Eddie thought. Wily bastard. Should I tell him it hurts or that I can't feel anything? Shit. I'll go with hurting.

"Oh yes. The pain is excruiciating."

Dr. Winslow nodded and then he scribbled onto a little white note.

"The best treatment for carpal tunnel, Mr. Fullbright, is Ibuprophen. An anti-inflamitory. I am also going to recommend you wear an arm brace."

"Ibuprophen? Don't you think I should get something a little stronger. Like Vicodin, or, ahem," Eddie coughed into his hand and then looked at Dr. Winslow innocently enough, "Percocet?"

"No, Mr. Fullbright. I don't believe that would be necessary. Both those drugs you described come from a pharmacutical family called opiates, which are highly addicting. Further, they are prescribed to numb extreme pain and, unlike the Ibuprophen, they do not reduce swelling."

"How high do you rate Ibuoprophen as a pain killer/reliever? I ask because I write for the East Mountain Courier and my fingers have to be nice and numb to work the keyboard."

Dr. Winslow smiled to himself knowingly and then he said, "Oh, Mr. Fullbright. It's as good for numbing pain, if not better, than opiates. It just doesn't get you high."

Eddie took a good look at Dr. Winslow for the first time. He was much shorter and thinner than Eddie. Eddie had started to consider whether or not it would be wise to seize Dr. Winslow by the neck and threaten him for the prescription at knifepoint. Look at those ropey arms. There is no way they could break free of my grip. I bet that slim little Dookie Houser-looking sonofabitch doesn't bench press a hundred pounds every two days like I do. But what if he knows Karate? It's always the shortest people that know karate....

Eddie decided against it. The pros had not outweighed the cons. He shook the doctor's hand and then he cradled his own right arm when walking out for dramatic effect. Maybe next time the little prick will come to his senses and prescribe Eddie with what he needs.

It was partly true what Eddie told the doctor--he did need the opiates for work. But not on account of any actual pain. After having surgery on his knee the year before Eddie was prescribed the highest dosage prescribable of Percocet. He found it had somehow made his writing smoother than it had ever been before. But just last week his primary doctor had stopped prescribing it for him--"Your knee is fine, son," he told him.

Doctors. They knew everything, he thought wryly. Well, there was only one thing he could do to stop the withdrawals. The merciless diaherra. The pounding headaches. The constant nausea. As well as the total lack of energy. He knew the plan was not foolproof but it was so far the only plan left.

He had put off doing it all week.

He drove to Maddison's Male Strip Club.  Inside there were a bevy of women in chairs and in standing room; onstage a guy in mutiliated leather and nippe-rings was dry-humping the air.

Shit. I hope nobody recognizes me here. Gossip spreads fast in this town...

The crowd was reaching for the man as he made love to the air. Eddie scanned the tables. No, too young. No, old, but not old enough. Bingo.

There was a woman of about seventy-five sitting alone in the corner, clapping her hands lustfully to the music and the debaucherous spectacle onstage in front of her.

As Eddie approached her table he saw her sipping a bottle of Miller High Life.

"Is this seat taken?" He shot her an incredibly flirtatious smile. She looked at him, smiling.

"Not at all, hun." She spoke in a Southern drawl which might have been attractive when Kennedy was president.

Well, he thought, better get this over with.

"I think you're pretty. What say you and I go someplace private. You got a pad?"

"A what?"

"A pad, like, an apartment. A house. Etc."

*   *   *

Together they walked holding hands in the rest home. Before they hit the musty-smelling corridors that lead to her room the large security guard had stopped them.

"It's okay, Orville. This here is my grandson."

When they got inside her room she shoved her tongue down deep inside his throat. The thought occurred to him to bolt but he had decided to be a man and tough it out. Her sparse white whiskers had tickled his face. He laughed. "Shush, you," the old woman had said, tickling his chest. "What about her?" Eddie pointed at the lady lying wide awake in the bed beside the one they were now wrestling on. "Oh that's Reba. She's crazy. Don't mind her. Nobody believes what she sees anyway."

It wasn't as bad as Eddie imagined.

He just clamped his eyes shut and though pretty thoughts for two minutes or so and then they were finished. When he heard her snoring about a half hour later he tiptoed into the bathroom and searched the medicine cabinet.

BINGO, Percocet and Hydrocodone. It really was Christmas after all.

He stashed both pill bottles into his left and right pants pockets. He was not sure who they belonged to: The hefer he'd just had sex with or the bat-shit-crazy roomate; nor did he care. The important thing was he had them.

He daubed the toothpaste from the sinktop on his index finger and then he scrubbed his teeth furiously.

Then he walked out of the room then past the musty-smelling corridors.

"Did you have a good visit with your granny?" the guard had smiled wholesomely.

"Oh, yeah," Eddie responded.

"Addiction"

Copyright: © 2011 Jack Bristow

------------------------------------

Jack Bristow, an all-out weirdo from New Mexico, has written for several online magazines and even one print one. Follow him: @Jackbristo

What rotten luck I got, the man had thought on his daily walk to the pub. Valentines day and no broad for me. Always alone.

He saw a young couple pass him on the sidewalk holding hands and he cringed. Why couldn't he, Boon Cadwell, enjoy a piece of the pie every now and again? He was an outstanding citizen. Two tours in Iraq. And back home here in America working a fifty-hour workweek; construction.

The damn grenade was to blame. The one that had killed everybody in the SUV but Boon. He knew it.

Because of it his face had been rendered cosmetically unlovable.

"Roofies! Get your roofies!" A fresh-fashed street pusher was proclaiming on the sidewalk. "Roofies. Rohypnol. Mexican Valium, folks. Get laid--tonight!"

The last sentence had caught Boon's attention.

"How's this stuff gonna get me lucky?" Boon asked the street pusher.

The pusher had grabbed Boon's hand, as if they were old high school buddies. "My man. All you do is go into a bar. Any bar. Buy the pretty little thing of your choosing a drink, drop these little capsules in her drink when she ain't looking, or when she's in the bathroom and, walla: there you got her."

Boon had thought, Illegal. I could go to prison for this. But wasn't sexless single life pretty much the same thing?

"What you say, my man?"

"How much?"

"Twenty dollars. But since I sympathize with your ugliness I'm gonna give you The Valentine Day's Special. Two pills, ten dollars."

"Why not."

*   *   *

In the bar now. The place was really packed tonight. Valentines. Save for the seat next to Boon. Couples were nibbling on anothers' ears all throughout the barroom. Boon, made tense by the spectacle all around him, was about to leave, but before he could get up a pretty young thing approached him.

"Is this seat taken?"

"No. Be my guest." Boon smiled.

She sat down next to Boon. Boon looked at her.

"Say. Mind if I buy you a drink?"

"Sure. But just one," she wrinkled her pretty eyebrows at Boon.

"Hey, Dave. A beer for me and a martini for the lady."

"Got it," the barkeep said, extending two fingers from his balled fist to signify the orders.

The barkeep returned shortly thereafter, both drinks held deftly between his fingers.

She sipped hers as he gulped his. "Would you excuse me a second?" she said, getting up. "Sure." He could see her walk to the ladies room and, as the "little girls" door had closed behind her, he discreetly dropped two of the yellow-and-white capsules into her drink; the drink then started to fizz abnormally.

Hells bells, Boon thought. That fizzing better stop before she gets back. Or else I'm in serious trouble.

Minutes later, the bathroom door re-opened and she came out. As she walked out she screamed, "Jerry!" and ran to the other side of the bar.

Boon sagged miserably. "Goddamn it!" He pounded his fist on the bartop. "Will there ever be any love for me?"

Just then, he felt a ginger tap on his shoulder, and then an affable male Irish voice. "This seat taken, Boon?"

Boon turned his head and saw it was none other than Father McKinely.

"No Father. Please, sit."

Father McKinely had known Boon since Boon's infancy. He was an essentially moral person that liked to wet his whistle once a week or so.

Boon had seen him in the bar many times, and he confided in him often.

"One martini, Dave, dry."

"Sure thing, Father," The barkeep said.

"So how's your lovelife going, son?" Father McKinely had placed his long warm hand on Boon's wide cold shoulder.

"Lousy, Father. As you can see: Valentines day and still no woman."

"Oh, well, buck up, young man!" he said, play-punching Boon. "Sooner or later, there'll be a good lady in your life. I guarantee it. Here. Let's make a toast to it."

Father McKinely grabbed the wrong martini from the bartop. The barkeep returned with the real one but McKlinely protested. "You already gave it to me, Dave."

"Sorry, Father," Dave said. "It's been a busy night."

It was then and there that Boon realized there had been a terrible mixup.

Should I tell him? Boon contemplated. Then he realized there was no way to explain it.

("Hey Father. You shouldn't have drank that. That has roofies in it."

"What are roofies, my son?")

A few minutes later McKlinely had told Boon: "Oh, lad. Do me a favor. Walk me home. I feel a wee bit tired and nauseated."

Just then, the jukebox had come alive with Boon's favorite Rolling Stones' song.

"I saw you, at the reception..."

And it was the first time he had really noticed Father McKlinely. Pretty, well-defined arms. Proportionate nose. Freckled-face--he really didn't like freckles, but he could learn to love them on a night as lonesome as tonight.

"Sure," he told Father McKinely. An unusual smile permeating Boon's grossly disfigured face.

"...but if ya try sometimes, ya just might find: you get what you need."

Ain't that the truth? Boon thought, as he walked an about-to-pass-out Father McKinely home.

"Rohypnol"

Copyright: © 2011 Jack Bristow

------------------------------------

Jack Bristow, an all-out weirdo from New Mexico, has written for several online magazines and even one print one. Follow him: @Jackbristo

The phone rang.

"You nervous, kid?" said the male-voice inside.

"Naw. I ain't nervous."

"It's okay if you are. I was nervous the first time I made my bones."

"Well, I'm not," Marty said.

"Good. Meet me outside."

Marty was nervous. Everybody is nervous their first time. Marty shrugged and put his brown leather jacket on. He left his gun on the table because he knew when you do a job they assign you with their own, de-serialized gun. He patted his cat and then opened the door and locked it with the key and then he was standing on the sidewalk, waiting.

The Lincoln's headlights in front of him blinked twice and Marty opened the passenger-side door and got inside.

"Hey," Marty told Dino. Dino nodded his head solemenly. Marty was going to ask who the target was but then he remembered you never ask who the target is: you let them tell you. Dino pulled the car into a black alleyway and then he turned the radio up high. Marty had seen him do this many times.

"OK," Dino said. "The kid's name is Daniel Karwaski. I know you know him. Last month the dumb fuck was caught selling junk to a narcotics agent. His dad paid the 50,000 dollar bail and so now he's out. The inside scoop from our source is he's gonna turn state's witness. We gotta make him disappear, or else, they might nail all our asses with RICO.

"Danny. A rat. You gotta be shitting me."

"It's true, kid. We got somebody on the payroll very high up. He says Danny's gonna turn state's witness. We need to rub him out."

"What's the plan?"

"We take him out for a last hurrah. Have a good time. Get him good and drunk, then we whack him in the car when his guard is down."

Dino drove to the front entrance of Danny's house and honked. Danny rushed out in a three-piece suit.

"The fuck took you so long?" he asked Dino. "Hey, Marty. I didn't see you back there."

"How you doing, Danny?"

"Good," Danny snorted.

Well, Dannyboy, this is it, Marty thought. You're gonna pop my contract-killing cherry. I wish to hell I could just pop you here, now, without having to get drunk with you first. Don't think about his wife or his newborn baby. That don't help. And it don't make no difference. If I don't do it, somebody else will, and then they'll probably ice me too. No, Dannyboy. Sorry. You knew the rules of the game when you first started playing it. And nobody forced you to sell that junk and to sell us all out.

Marty knew he had to kill Danny. There was no way around it. If Louise, Danny's wife, ever needed any help with money Marty would help her. This thought made killing Danny seem more palatable to Marty.

In the bar they ordered two pitchers of Budweiser. Marty and Dino sipped; Danny was sucking them down left and right. Danny told Marty and Dino all about the rackets he had going down. Small time. Gambling, loansharking, stolen credit cards.

"When I get to the top," Danny said, "you two are going up with me."

Dino could tell Danny was shitfaced and so he suggested they go to another bar.

"Why not?" Danny said, play-punching Marty in the shoulder. "Let's go."

Marty was in the backseat of the Lincoln. Dino driving. Danny in the passenger seat-- directly in front of Marty. Marty had grabbed the de-serialized thirty-eight from underneath the car seat and pressed the safety off. Marty could hear Danny bullshitting Dino about all the rackets he had planned on cutting Dino and Marty in on. Dino adjusted the rear-view mirror and then Marty aimed the gun at the back of Danny's head. Nothing personal, Dannyboy, Marty thought as he pulled the trigger.

BANG.

Marty was shocked that the backseat of the car was bloodless. The same couldn't be said, however, about the front: blood, skull chunks and brain matter decorated most of the dashboard and frontseat windows.

Dino drove the car off the offramp and on to the deserted street. While Dino was wiping the blood off the window with a rag Marty grabbed Danny's body to throw on to the side of the road.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Dino said.

"Getting rid of Danny."

"Not here, you dumbfuck," Dino said. "Danny's dad's a lawyer. If they find his body he'll crucify us. Remember what I said. Dannyboy has to disappear.

"Get his feet," Dino said and together they threw what was left of Danny into the trunk.

They drove to Dino's house.

"Help me get him to the garage," Dino said.

"What's in there?" asked Marty.

"My power tools."

Marty had done a lot of hacking and sawing and cutting by himself in Dino's garage that night.

When Marty had finished and they had gotten the tiny pieces of Dannyboy into the oildrum and then off the pier and into the ocean Marty knew what it had felt like to be a man.

"Dannyboy"

Copyright: © 2011 Jack Bristow

------------------------------------

Jack Bristow, an all-out weirdo from New Mexico, has written for several online magazines and even one print one. Follow him: @Jackbristo

Dan Tanner lay awake in bed. He sleeps to the right of Beth. I love her. I love what she used to be, anyway, Dan thinks. Now she is nothing but a shell of her former self. Dead. Good as dead, anyway.

Beth Tanner was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer five years ago. Then the doctor had told Dan she had six months; a year, with radiation treatment. But now it has been five years--five years of misery, Dan Tanner thinks. Five years of being a goddamn caregiver; five years of being off work; five years of her just laying there, wasting away...

The dog, Mr. Bumps, a golden retriever, jumps on the bed, waking up Beth. "Who is this?" she asks. "It's just Mr. Bumps," Dan Tanner says.

"Who?" Beth asks, feebly. "Mr. Bumps," Dan shouts over the boisterous respirator noises.


Today is the tenth anniversary. Five good years, and five lousy ones, Dan thinks, bitterly, getting out of bed, slipping into his dog slippers. I have a good present for Beth today, and myself, for that matter, Dan thinks. The best present I could give anyone in our situation.


Dan walks to the coffeepot, and presses its red button, Mr. Bumps following him. "Mr. Bumps," he says sadly, sentimentally. "I've found you a new owner. Mr. Drebson. Great fellow, he is. He has a full eight acres of land for you to have fun on and a nice little bitch of your same breed for you to make babies with. In fact, that's the reason he wants you."


Mr. Bumps wags his tail, ignorantly.


Dan picks up the phone . Dials. "Hello.


Mr. Drebson? Oh, you'll be here in an hour? Fantastic, Mr. Drebson. I can't wait; yes, of course. He has all his tags and shots." A pause.


"Okay. See you then. Thanks." Dan hangs up then he calls his mother and father and tells them how much he loves them.


"How is Beth doing?" the mother asks.


"Bad, mom. But I have a feeling she'll start to do better..."


The bell rings from the master bedroom. That goddamn miserable, incessant bell. I've been hearing you whine five years now. Five years of you. I'm not gonna miss you. No, sir.


Dan walks to the master bedroom.


"Yes honey. You rang?"


"Could you make me some oatmeal?" her raspy voice asks.


"Absolutely, hun. Do you know what day today is?"


Silence, except for the respirator.


"Our anniversary."


Then: "Please just get me my oatmeal."


He comes back with a steamy bowl of oatmeal.


He takes off her respirator mask and feeds her with a spoon, like a baby. Her lips, once pouty and naturally bright red are now purple and whithered; her bald head looks so thin and feeble that Dan is afraid that if he kisses it too harshly it will crack and shatter like a cheap dollar store vase. After he feeds her her last spoonful Dan Tanner kisses gently her cold, clammy forehead.


"Happy anniversary, honey. I love you."


He walks into the spare bedroom. The bedroom is bare except for his war decorations and a mahogany desk. He gazes up at the decorations a second. As if they are some kind of reaffirmation to him that his life hasn't been a complete and utter failure. He then opens the uppermost desk drawer and gets out the thirty eight and inspects the chamber. Two bullets.


Dan grabs Mr. Bumpers by the collar and guides him into the living room and leashes him then knotting the leash around the dinner table. On top of the dinner table he leaves all the papers for Mr. Drebson.


Dan then walks back to the bedroom, gun in hand.


He slowly and coolly aims the pistol on the delicate form that breathes sporadically underneath the covers, then fires. He is sure she is dead but checks for a heartbeat anyway. There is none. He then puts the gun inside his mouth the way the Lieutenant had shown him to put it if the Vietcong had ever closed in on him; his hands now shaky.


BANG.

*   *   *

Mr. Drebson arrives an hour later. The front door is open but he knocks anyway. He sees the dog tied to the dinnertable inside and goes in to pet him then calls the owner.


"Hello." Silence. He walks farther into the corridor and then that is where he begins to see the terrible mess. Crimson walls, bedsheets, and carpeting...


First he feels for a pulse on the mangled form on the bed. Nothing. Then he feels for the gentleman's on the floor. A slight, weak beat. Mr. Drebson runs to the telephone and dials 9-11.


The paramedics, with the assistance of Mr. Drebson, lift Mr. Tanner on to the gurney then rush him in the howling ambulance to the First Community Hospital.


There Mr. Tanner spent the last five years of his life in a vegatative state.

"Death Do We Part"

Copyright: © 2011 Jack Bristow

------------------------------------

Jack Bristow, an all-out weirdo from New Mexico, has written for several online magazines and even one print one. Follow him: @Jackbristo

Doctor Willard looked at the two patients unbelievingly.

"It's no laughing matter, doc," Jordon said.

"Of course not. It's just that I have yet to see--or even read about, for that matter--your form of the disorder."

"How old are you two?" Doctor Willard asked.

"Twenty-five," both said in unison.

When Doctor Willard had first seen the Adams twins he thought they were a joke concocted by his colleagues, Dr. Jensen and Dr. Monore. It wasn't because they were conjoined; he'd seen many of those. But this type was rare. He'd never seen a form of the disorder in which one sibling's head protruded the other's groin area. When they hobbled into his office--one brother standing upright, the other with his head bent obscenely down--Doctor Willard burst out laughing.

Now, he regained his composure. He was curious. Was the upright-standing one, Michael, even endowed with a penis? Or was his brother, Jordon's, head all there was there?

"Would you please pull down your pants?" Dr. Willard asked.

"No, Jordon. Just Michael, please."

Michael pulled his pants down ankle-deep.

"Very interesting, Michael. Your brother's head is two inches away from your...er, equipment. So, tell me, Jordon," Doctor Willard asked, "What's the most terrible thing about your head being so close to your brothers genitals?"

"Well, Jordon said, unable to look at Doctor Willard, his head pointed perpetually downward. "Whenever Mike has to use the bathroom, it's always rough. With number one, there's usually always splashback; with number two, the smell is oftentimes unbearable."

"I see," Doctor Willard said, scribbling furociously into his notebook.

"What about sex?" the doctor asked Jordon.

"Oh, that's not so bad. Sometimes the ladies think of it as a 'double your pleasure,' 'two-for-the-price-of-one' type of deal. Generally I don't mind being down here for that. So long as they wash up first. Sometimes they don't."

Doctor Willard scribbled some more, then he stopped. "Why have you two come here? Why haven't you gone to your primary physican?"

Michael jumped in. "We want surgery to get dis-attached. But our doctor--Doctor Williams--is ardently against it. We just came to you to get a second opinion."

"I see," Doctor Willard said, still fascinated by the bizarre spectacle in front of him. He tapped the pentip against his teeth. "Well sirs, I really cannot comment on surgicial ability without an X-ray. Have you by any chance brought the one taken by your former doctor?"

"Yeah," Michael said; he wobbled awkwardly straight with his brother, Jordon, walking backwards on all fours. "Here." Michael handed Doctor Willard a brown manilla envelope.

Doctor Willard studied the charts a few minutes. Then he said, "I am sorry. Surgery just looks too risky. I am afraid I have to agree with your primary physican: It's just too dangerous."

"Okay," Michael said. "Let's go, Jordon."

"No!" Jordon shouted. "I'm tired of it, Doc," he said. "Do you know how terrible it is? To be here? Twenty-five years? Twenty-five years of not being able to be in a normal relationship? Twenty-five years of being laughed at, scorned? Twenty-five years of knowing your brother has to change his underwear before he does!"

Jordon sobbed. Michael grabbed a tissue from the nearby countertop and wiped Jordon's eyes with it.

Together they hobbled awkwardly out of the doctor's office, past the corridors and on to Twenty-Second Street. A pickup truck full of jock passed and one yelled out the passenger window "Faggots!" A group of giggling schoolchildren past them at the crosswalk. A pretty young woman trundling a baby carriage caught Michael's eye. They hobbled up to her and Michael said, "Oh, what a cute little fella," eyeing the baby. The mother smiled until she looked down and saw Jordon's head near Michael's scrotum-area and then she screamed.

Together they hobbled to their apartment--a two-mile walk from Doctor Willard's office.

"I know what will cheer you up, Bro," Michael said when they were inside the apartment. "TV." He flicked on the cable box. "Hey, pay-per-view," Michael said, excitedly. "Let's see. Wow. 'Nasty College Coeds.' I think we'll order that."

The way they sat Michael could see everything, Jordon could see nothing, except Michael's zipper.

Michael started pulling his pants down.

"You know. I think the doctor's right. Surgery is too dangerous. It's not worth the risk. We should just learn to live this way. I'm perfectly content with it. Oh, yes, yes...yes!" Michael rolled his eyes back.

"Oh, no," Jordon cried. "Not again."

"Conjoined"

Copyright: © 2010 Jack Bristow

-------------------------------------

Jack Bristow graduated Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2009. He lives in New Mexico. His next short story, "Our Bus Driver, Fred" can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.

"I'm sorry. What is your name again?" Mr. Rockwell asked into the cell phone.

"José. José Bordero."

"José," Addison Rockwell's voice said. "I have to tell you something: this is no joke. You can't go back on this. The last guy that flew in was from Sardinia. He said he wanted to do it--he said, in fact, he was sure he'd go through with it. But when his flight came in we had dinner together at a French restaurant across the street from the hotel. And when we returned to the hotel--I'd had it all ready to go too: the Hydrocodone pills, the cough syrup, the butcher knives, and the plastic carpet--he changed his mind at the last second."

Addison Rockwell heard a pause from the ear part of the receiver. Then shallow breathing.

"Which is understandable, José. I want you to know this: I will think no less of you if you decide not to go through with this. Because (1) it costs me money--for the hotel room and your airfare. And (2) the painkillers that I am to provide you with should indeed render the bulletwound painless. But if you peter out after having ingested the painkillers/fever reducers and you decide to live the Acetaminophen is not going to do your liver any good in the long run. Do you understand me?"

A deep exhalation came from the ear side of Addison Rockwell's cell phone. Then:

"Yes, Mr. Rockwell. Absolutely."

The man Mr. Rockwell was talking to on the other end was from Mexico, but his English was very fluent. So fluent, in fact, that Mr. Rockwell had hoped he wasn't really just another American voice making fun of him.

Addison Rockwell had received many prank calls since last month--the first time he posted the add on Craigslist. Man Searching Another Man to Eat. Then after clicking on it the description it said No joke. Serious questions/queries only please.

One caller with a Texan accent called and told Mr. Rockwell he was dying of lung cancer and that he wanted to die painlessly and effortlessly and if cannibalism floated Mr. Rockwell's boat...then so be it. But before Addison could ask the caller his weight and height he heard in the background what sounded like drunken fratboy laughter accompanied by a click.

Mr. Rockwell thought nobody on Earth would take him seriously until he met the Sardinian in an Internet chatroom. The Sardinian had told Mr. Rockwell all about how his wife had left him for his brother.

"This is why I drink. And then my liver goes to hell," he said.

"That is horrrible," Mr. Rockwell said.

"Do you think you could help me?"

The Sardinian's voice had pleaded with him.

Rockwell knew he could. He really wanted to help him. He'd spent years of his life working as a male-nurse in Brazil. He knew how to take care of people. He knew the sounds of pain.

The Sardinian flew out to Arizona a week later. When Rockwell had picked him up at the airport he was greeted with a "hello" accompanied by the rank stench of cheap vodka. After dinner they went to the hotel room and the Sardinian topped off the rest of the vodka, using it to chase down the Nyquil and Hydrocodone pills.

Mr. Rockwell was surprised to see that the suicidial mixture didn't kill the Sardinian.

Doesn't even knock him out, he thought.

He had hoped he wouldn't have to use the gun on him. Know he knew he had to.

Mr. Rockwell took the gun and the silencer from his small black leather satchel and assembled them into one whole then he pointed it at the Sardinian's sweat-soaked bald head.

The Sardinian sat there rigidly, his neck and his lower abdomen strapped tightly against the chair.

"Mr. Voglia. What I am about to do to you should not hurt at all. I am aiming for your brainstem. If done correctly it will kill you outright. If it fails to do so, I promise you I will finish you off as quicky and humanely as possible. Do you understand me? Are you sure you can already feel the painkillers working?"

Mr. Voglia nodded.

Mr. Rockwell smiled faintly and then he said: "Mr. Voglia. With me you are a free moral agent. If you decide that this is not for you, that you'd really like to live your life and give it a second chance now's the time for you to speak up. Do you understand me?"

Mr. Voglia said nothing.

"All right, Mr. Voglia. This is it. I am counting to three. If you decide to brave the storm, I would like to tell you now that it has been a pleasure getting to know and getting to work with you."

Mr. Rockwell trained the pistol on the Sard's head. Then counted.

"One. Two. Thre--"

Muffled cries escaped the ball-gagged mouth.

"You've changed your mind?"

"Yes, man! I am sorry. I can't. I can't go through with this. It would be an unpardonable sin against my creator. I cannot do it."

"That Sardinian business was in the past," Mr. Rockwell reminded himself today on the drive to the airport, to pick up the Mexican.

He wondered if the Mexican would change his mind too.

Not much was said on the drive to the hotel room. José was in pain. Addison Rockwell saw it. The man's face was yellow and sallow and solemn-looking. And when they got inside the hotel room Addison Rockwell knew by Jose's morbid dispostion he was going to have a meal.

He hadn't had one in a long time.

"Mr. Addison Rockwell"

Copyright: © 2010 Jack Bristow

-------------------------------------

Jack Bristow graduated Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2009. He lives in New Mexico. His next short story, "Our Bus Driver, Fred" can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.

Rick Rossi is a good-looking man. But not conventionally so. With dark eyes, hair so naturally jet-black it almost looks dark-blue and a light, olive complexion. At first glance most superficial men would have killed to be in his shoes--as well as how, at first glance, most superficial women would kill to be in his bed.

But the women who'd mustered the courage to approach him--at stores, in churches and bars--would invariably notice something strange.

That Rick has conversations with himself.

The first voice, always deep and authoritative-sounding.

Second voice. A weak falsetto. The only way a man can cheaply sound like a women. Or a child...

Adult's voice now speaking, Rick's own, natural voice:

"Today we have to go and visit Ma."

Then falsetto comes voice, sharply protesting "No. Please. I just can't bear seeing her like that--wasting away in a goddamn noisy iron lung.

"Arnie," the adult voice had counseled. "She's our mother. And she needs company. Also, watch your language--that's no way for a kid brother to speak."

Awkward silence. Then: "Oh. Have I told you yet?"

"What," the falsetto voice asks.

"Sue's finally getting married--to Cliff."

Sue is Rick's only daughter.

With the exception of talk of his daughter's maritial engagement, today's routine is no different than every other for Rick Rossi. At 8 o'clock, every day, Rick rises to Elvis's voice on the alarm clock. Showers. Has a bowl of oatmeal, toast, and walks for hours and hours, and miles and miles the streets of New York City.

Public reactions to Rick's self-conversing varies. Some men ignore him. Others, ones more insecure about their own masculinity sometimes try to provoke him to violence. "Aye, Fuck-O. You makin' fun of me? How's about I break your fuckin' nose?"

Women are generally nicer. Generally.

Psychiatrists are baffled by Rick--being unable to catergorize his disorder/affliction as any specific illness.

They could not get to the root of his illness because they never found out about Arnie.

Arnold Rossi: Rick Rossi's barely younger twin brother. Best friends to his last day--the day a hit-and-run rammed into Arnie and his scooter.

Arnie wasn't to blame. Blame, if it need be placed anywhere twenty-five years later, should be placed on the unknown driver's shoulders for running a stop sign.

His mother ran outside, screeching "Oh Jesus why?" her screaming this, again and again. Rick never forgave himself for being, in his eyes, even as a twelve-year-old boy, a "coward"--too afraid to even go outside and help his little brother when he really needed him.

He remembers: Sounds. The sounds of commotion outside. Shuffling footfalls, the blares of sirens, and blasphemous shrieks coming from his mother's mouth only.

A brother's horrific realization: Arnie was dying. But Rick couldn't lose Arnie if he could hear him. He reassured himself, in Arnie's voice, "I'm fine, big bro. Don't you worry about me. I'll be home--soon. Then we'll have fun like we always do."

Twenty-five years later, in his mind, Rick Rossi still believes he talks to Arnie. In Rick's warped mind, Arnie complements his entire personality, making Rick, as a person, more palatable.

"Before visiting Ma today we gotta go see and congratulate Sue. I'm so happy for her."

Falsetto voice speaking. "Yeah, big brother. No problem. But," he sighs, "for some reason today, my legs are tired. Could we hail a cab to Sue's--I know you don't usually like doing it."

"Not usually, you're right. But for you, little bro. I will make an exception."

Rick raises his right arm. And a taxi comes almost crashing into Rick. The driver up front is dark--middle eastern, maybe. He seems impatient.

"Yes, you want ride," he asks hurriedly, cigar dangling over the side of his mouth.

"Excuse us a second," Rick turns his back to the driver.

"'Us'? Ishab waits long for no one!" the cabby shouts.

"Little bro," Rick says. "I don't think we oughta go with this driver--his driving seems a bit careless to me."

Falsetto voice replying. "Ricky, my legs are killing me. I can't wait for the time it takes to hail another cab."

Onward the go. Rick in the backseat feeling nausea set in from the abrupt halts, turns and swerves. The cabby yelling, almost screaming obscenities out the window.

"You American sons of whores!--in my country you would not act in such a way!"

A mile from Sue's apartment complex the yellow-and-white taxi cab side-swipes an old Mack 18-wheeler. The taxi driver lay in the front, gurgling blood, his final utterance of verbal sarcasm. Rick in the backseat. Shards of broken glass stuck in his face and chest. Pain. Inordinate pain. Coughing blood. Blood everywhere. And--and--

Numbness.

And that same morbid intuition Rick had had twenty-five years before. The day Arnie was hit and killed.

"Oh God. I'm dying. Oh, God! If you're up there. If you exist. Why? Why...?"

"Don't worry about it," the falsetto voice said, panting and getting weaker. "You'll be just fine."
 
 

"The Man Who Couldn't Stop Talking to Himself"

 

Copyright: © 2010 Jack Bristow

-------------------------------------

Jack Bristow graduated Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2009. He lives in New Mexico. His next short story, "Our Bus Driver, Fred" can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.

I see 'em out there. Lots of 'em. I love 'em.

Faces. Innumerable, beautiful faces. Yellow faces, chocolate faces, red faces. Beautiful faces of milky-white European descent...

See, this is my workplace, the Trapsdale City's Corner's Office is where I look at all these beautiful faces, and fall in love with 'em. Each and everyone one I want.

Little Bob pops up out of my right shirtpocket today, Wednesday. Little Bob is the only other living thing here. A mouse. My friend.

"Who should I date tonight, lil' bob?" I ask 'em, pointing at our two newest prospects/arrivals: Mrs. Williams, 34, killed by a hit-an-run driver while she was out walking her chow. Or, or!" I point to a much older lady lying on the slab: "Mrs. Karen Brunswick?"

We decide on Mrs. Karen Brunswick.

I run towards the front door and put up my "Sorry, I have gone out to lunch. Be back in forty-minutes [Smiley face]" sign.

Forty minutes, I think. Plenty a time for Mrs. Karen Brunswick and me to get properly and intimately acquainted.

"Yessir," I think a-loud, in my Southern drawl, "plenty a time. But actually, I only got thirty minutes. Thirty ta wine and dine with Mrs. Brunswick and then ten at least to haul her ass back up stairs from the basement and then back on to the slab."

"Well, sir," I discuss the matter with lil' Bob. "We got ten minutes ta get the lovely Mrs. Karen Brunswick," God rest her pretty lil' soul," I say, takin' off my Stetson cowboy hat, "back on her slab. "The police is gonna come with her daughter to indentify her in forty."

"What happened to Mrs. Karen Brunswick?" Bob asks me.

"Don't'cha remember?"

"No." (little Bob, sonofabitch he is, comes from a very elitist family an' brags about it, what with his formal words an' whatnot.)

"Mugged an' raped on Delaware Street. The most rotten, indesirable sonofabitchin' side of town. Filled with Godless junkies, pimps an' whores. But, but as you can see, facially, at least, Mrs. Karen Brunswick's still quite visually stunnin'."

"I see," my rodent-friend retorts.

"Well, what're ya waiting fer? Gimme a hand."

We, that is, Lil' Bob and me, gentlemens (despite of our differing levels a education) to the last tote Mrs. Karen Brunswick up off the cold slab and on to a fancy-lookin chair you'd see in on of 'em first class, five-star Italian restaurants.

"Lay come stai, Senoria Brunswick," I ask 'er.

But she don't say nothin'.

"Here you are, Mrs Brunswick, I hope you like ripple, 'cause that's all we have," I snicker, snicker. I pour in her glass, then into mine. A quarter-glass full, each.

Tense, I ain't used to being around such prudish women, I try to break the silence, by saying "Yer necklace looks purty. Good thing 'em thugs didn't steal it from ya. You're very lucky."

No response. She just sits there ignorantly, with 'er mouth gaped widely open.

She might just be very self-concious. An' shy," I encourage myself. I'll try my best to remember not'ta comment on that giant exit-wound hole in the back a 'er head...

She finally starts talkin'. About things. God. An' Grocery store shoppin. And finally Vietnam. Her son'd died in the war. I tell her how I'm against the military draft. Unfortunately, she disagrees. She tells me, "I believe firmly in the draft. If you're young, ablebodied and eighteen. Why shouldn't you? I say you owe it to you country!"

I sag.

Now Mrs. Brunswick's loses all 'er beauty. And her entire face is beginnin' to look like one gigantic, ugly exit wound. It's because a people like hers mentality that I was sent off to that Goddamn war. Against my own will.

I begin to lose my appetite--along with any former desire I might'a had to lick Mrs. Brunswick's face.

The police arrive with Mrs. Brunswick's daughter an hour later. Pretty young thing. Brown eyes. Yellow hair. She reacts just like all of 'em--friends an' family members a murder victims, that is. First the sheet's slowly removed, family-member/loved one screams then nods head gravely.

That's what happens today. That's the way it always happens.

As the police an' the bereaved daughter leaves, Lil' Bob, always knowin' how to cheer me up, pops out a my pocket again an' tells me 'xactly what it is I need'ta hear.

"Why so glum? There's still Mrs. Williams."

"Yes, indeed." I says.

"Faces"

Copyright: © 2010 Jack Bristow

-------------------------------------

Jack Bristow graduated Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2009. He lives in New Mexico. His next short story, "Our Bus Driver, Fred" can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.