What's in a name?

Dear readers,

Due to complications (and possible legal ramifications) arising from my first choice of a pen name, I've had to change identities.

Hence, say goodbye to the blogosphere's version of Deegan Stubbs (R.I.P., 2010-2010).

You'll still find the fiction you've (hopefully) grown accustomed to and have come to expect, only now, it will be penned by the illustrious SEB DUPER.

Also note that the blog's url link has changed, for those of you who have it stored as a favorite.
Please update with this.

Cheers,

SD

F-F-F # 40 - Hide and Go Seek

Well, after almost 2 months off, I'm back at it with Friday Flash Fiction. Once again, gracious words go to Cormac Brown for hosting.

Enjoy!

D.

* * *

HIDE AND GO SEEK

            I heard footsteps on the wet sidewalk and the sound of keys. How many sets of footsteps? I concentrated. That’s one. Two. Three? No, two. For sure.

            I tightened my grip on the gun, made my breathing as quiet as possible. I couldn’t see them, so no way could they see me, right? Here’s to hope.

            ?Nelson? Where are you? We know you’re there, shithead. Come on out and face me like a man.@

            That’s Paul B. Wilson. Yes, the Paul B. Wilson. Uncle Paulie. The very same jerk you saw on the six o’clock news much of last year during his trials for extortion, dismemberment and first-degree murder. Needless to say, he beat all charges. (By the way, the B. stands for Bitch, but you didn’t here it from me, cool?)

            Now, he was back to his old ways. Only this time, he wasn’t leaving anything to chance. No witnesses was his new motto.           

            Say, guess what I was?

            Give yourself a pat on the back if you answered witness. Daily Double if you said witness to the murder of a crack whore who’d crossed Uncle Paulie and whose torso and head now rested in a freezer in the basement of Paul’s house.

            ?Hey, Nelson, you nosy little prick. If you come out now and play nice with your Uncle Paulie, I’ll go easy on you. That way, that sorry-assed mother of yours can give you the send-off you don’t deserve. What say you, Nelson?@

      How many bullets were in my gun? Checking would make noise, so that’s a no. I know I’ve got at least one. I hope I’ve got more than that, because, no matter what you might have heard before, from me or from anyone else, I’m not that good a shot.

            Oh, and I’d rarely shot the darn thing, much less killed anyone with it. I’d never even seen a man die. My gun was a prop, a tool really, to take with me on robberies and shakedowns, scare folks who couldn’t tell I was petrified.

            ?Oh, Nelson, where are you?@ Uncle Paulie singing like a child.

            The rain wasn’t letting up. I was freezing. My raincoat was useless now and my clothes were drenched. Sitting in a growing puddle wasn’t helping. My legs were asleep. Not the ideal conditions to be stuck in the predicament I was in at this very moment.

            One might say I’d gotten myself into this shithole and deserved what was coming to me. And one might be correct, seeing as how I went knocking on Paulie’s door way back when to ask for work like a zit-filled kid going to Mickey D’s and applying for a minimum-wage job where he could don a paper hat and nuke deep-fried quasi chicken.

            ?Do you know who’s here with me, Nelson? Your friend Jackson. He’s pretty pissed off. See, Jackson’d only just asked me for time off, on account of he’s getting tired of kicking ass. Oh, he enjoys it, alright. But it’s getting to be hard on him. All he wanted was to spend some QT with his woman, but you had to poke your ugly nose where it ain’t welcome and fuck that up for him. So, he’s pissed. And the only thing that will make him happy is using you as a pinata.@

      The footsteps started again, only now, they were getting closer. What if Jackson walked by me? Could I take him, one on one, mano a freako? Go ninja on his fat ass and take him down?

            Maybe I wouldn’t have to. I did have one card up my sleeve. Might be my ticket out, if I played it right.

            Let’s see.

            ?Paulie,@ I called out as I stood, gun drawn.

            The man stood some ten or twelve feet away from me, just now turning to face me and my gun.

            ?Well, well, well, lookit what we have here,@ he said, flashing his yellowed teeth at me. ?Dead man packing.@

            Behind me, Jackson had stopped to look at us. Something told me he was just waiting for the words to turn me into dog food. I turned my eyes to him, still holding my gun on his boss.

            ?Remember what I did for you, Jackson,@ I told him. ?Shithead over there wasn’t there to help you and your sister when it was needed. He don’t give a damn about you.@

            ?Don’t listen to him, Jackson,@ Paulie pleaded. ?Take him out and go back to your woman.@

            I cocked my gun, shutting him up. ?What’s her name?@ I asked Paulie while looking at Jackson.

      They both asked, ?What?@

            To Jackson, I said, ?I bet he don’t even know her name. Go on. Ask him.@

            Silence as Jackson turned his gaze to his scared-out-of-his-wits boss.

            ?Monique. Mona. Juanita.@

            Jackson shook his head with every wrong answer. ?Bastard.@

            I turned the gun in my hand and held it out butt-first to Jackson.

            ?Enjoy,@ I said as he took the weapon and rubbed his hand on the grip, getting a feel for it.

            He took two steps forward, got between Paulie and I.

            Paulie was bawling now, his knees slapping together, eyes wide as they made contact with the barrel. ?You want money, Jackson? How much? A hundred? Two hundred thou? More? Name your price!@

            Why is it that people hold their hands out when a gun is pointed at them? Do they really expect their hands to turn back the bullet? Like Superman?

            Yeah, it didn’t do Paulie a lick of good. The bullets (turns out there were three left) tore right through the hands and proceeded to shred his face and most of his skull, pieces of which littered the sidewalk, soon to be washed away by the downpour.

      ?How’d it feel?@ I asked Jackson as he lowered the now-empty gun and turned toward me.

            ?Goo--@ He stopped when he saw the gun pointed at his chest. ?Motherfucker!@

            Gotta give it to him, his hands stayed down.

            About me being a good shot? I underestimated myself: I put one in his heart. He crumbled to the sidewalk, falling face-to-bloody-face with the man he’d sworn to protect.

            *

            Paulie really cherished his luscious lifestyle. He never settled for anything less than the best.

            So I enjoyed the ride in the high-end Benz, speeding through the rain all the way to his lakefront home. There, I could have listened to any CD in his collection on his Bang & Olufsen system, or watched a movie in his miniature version of a multiplex, complete with popcorn machine.

            But I had other meat to mince.

            I made for the basement, opened the freezer.

            Some part of me thought I should stop and thank the frozen torso of Diana the crack whore, who’d been an unknowing, yet vital, actor in this play. I decided I’d have a fruity drink in her memory in my next life.

I moved the various body parts out of the way like they were vulgar TV dinners, and got to the bottom. I tore at the side panel until it loosened to reveal an opaque plastic bag. I pulled it out and closed the lid, dropped the bag on top, tore it open.

            Loot! Wads and wads of cash. All mine.

Upstairs, in his bedroom, I found a leather duffel, filled it to the gills with used green bills.

            Back into the Benz. Ask the GPS for the quickest road to the airport.

There had to be a flight leaving soon for somewhere, right?

            I wasn’t picky or anything.

            So long as it didn’t rain, I’d be happy.

THE END

Human Cannonball

This evening, I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: seeing a human cannonball. Live! Landing a mere 15 feet away from me!

As part of the Just For Laughs festival (work with me here...), a fellow by the name of David ''The Bullet'' Smith Jr. was in town. He's a second-generation human cannonball, as his father holds the world record for the longest cannonball launch.

The setup was long, but the stunt itself happened in the blink of an eye. One second the shot went off, the next, he landed in a huge net, stumbled to get up, and teetered down to the ground, safe and sound.

The whole crowd was amazed, but it was the look on the face of my 4-year old son that thrilled me the most! He's going to be talking about this for months and months!!!

Now, how does this relate to crime fiction? Well, though I know next to nothing about this Bullet fellow, I couldn't help but think he would be perfect in an Elmore Leonard novel. Right? Dutch had gone that way before: see Tishomingo Blues, which features a professional high diver. Good read!


Cheers!
Deegan

F-F-F # 35 - The Golden Egg

Thanks to Cormac Brown for hosting Friday Flash Fiction.

* * *

“I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position.”

And it did. I wasn't just bullshitting him. This deal was of the damned if I did, damned if I didn’t variety.

“Delicate position? You kidding me?” Jumberson laughed. “The only delicate position you ever get into is when you let Ms. Ken Landry get on top.”

“You don’t get it,” I told him.

He nodded. “Oh, I get it. You and Longman were tighter than a fourteen-year old. Sweet. Save the waterworks. Should have thought about that before you gave another man’s wife a back rub. Pissed him off right, did you.”

I tipped back the whiskey bottle, let the nectar torch my throat. “So, what is it you suggest I do?” I asked before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Jumberson grinned. “Quite simple, I must admit. Get it done. Or else.”

I frowned. “Or else what?”

He stood, shrugged as he put the chair back. “Or else.”

Jumberson turned and made for the open front door. I looked up at the clock. Five minutes, he'd been in. Such a short time, yet enough to get his point across.

I lifted the bottle again, stopped when Jumberson's head popped back in.

“One more thing,” he said. “Be fast. Gotta be done before sunset.”

Looked like my evening was shot.

*

Patty Longman's ranch sat in the foothills on the western edge of town. The road leading to it was dusty and sineous, one you wouldn't care to navigate while guided only by the faint light of a half-moon.

Lucky for me, it was still light enough to keep my trusty old Ford pickup on the road. It wasn’t fast, but I got there.

All seemed quiet on the ranch and beyond. No sign of Patty. Or of anyone else, for that matter.

I killed the engine, grabbed a shotgun from behind the seats, and walked gingerly toward the ranch.

There was nowhere for me to hide, so I had to rely on my lucky star. And my quickness. I'd always been quick, no problem there. Tonight, I needed to be Kenyan-quick.

I made it behind the main building without being seen. There, I found what it was I was looking for.

On instinct, I raised my shotgun and curled my finger around the trigger. Took me longer than it should to realize how stupid that was.

I approached the target, grabbed it, and dashed madly to the Ford.

There, I dumped my loot into the bed, slammed the door shut, and climbed in.

I drove toward town for a few miles before pulling to the side of the road. I took  my cell phone out and dialed. While I waited for Jumbo to pick up, I glanced at the rearview. Nothing but setting darkness. It appeared I had made a clean break.

“Talk.”

Jumberson's ever-so-kind greeting.

“It's done.”

“Good work. Bring it out by the house. Park the truck in the back, then leave. You can come back tomorrow to pick it up.”

“I'm supposed to walk home?”

Jumberson chuckled. “You can slap the missus and ride the wave home.”

Again with the knock on my spouse.

And I had nothing to drink.

*

When I got to Jumbo's house, I did as I was instructed and waited.

A short time later, a car pulled into the drive behind me and three big men piled out of it. They strutted over to my truck, peered into the bed, and exchanged satisfied grunts.

Jumbo crawled out from wherever he’d been hiding. I joined the party.

The bigger of the men, bald guy with a heavy gait, looked over at me. “Any trouble?”

I shook my head, spit on the ground. “Quietest goat I've ever stolen.”

The man nodded, turned to Jumbo. “He's a good man. Must be why you didn't want him killed.”

Jumbo smiled, shrugged. “I just don't want his missus to get depressed over losing him and start eating her emotions. There's already too many children going hungry, know what I mean?”

Jumbo got a good laugh out of that one. The big man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted off a bunch of bills, too fast for me to keep up, and handed them over to Jumbo.

“Now, I believe this is mine,” said the big man, and he and his buddies grabbed the goat and pulled it out of the truck bed.

While the two henchmen pinned the goat on the ground, the big man locked his hands around the animal's throat and broke its neck. There was a slight yelp, and I turned away.

I finally dared to turn back, but what I saw made me regret it. The goat was on its back, feet pointing up, and the big man was cutting it open, slitting the fur from the neck down. Blood gushed everywhere, and the big man reached into the cavity. His hand travelled inside, searching as he grimaced and grunted. I looked away again, feeling my guts churning.

“Son of a bitch!” he hurled when he withdrew his hand. “Finally!”

“That's it?” one of the henchmen asked, sounding excited.

“That's it.”

Intrigued, I took a tentative look.

The big man held a bloody bag in his hands. It looked so big, I couldn’t begin to imagine how that poor goat must have suffered from having that inside him.

The henchmen congratulated each other, slapping hands like they had just won a Little League game.

The big man turned to Jumbo, nodded. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Jumbo nodded back and the three men piled back into their car, drove off.

“Crazy fuckers.” Jumbo looked down at the goat's corpse, shaking his head.

I had questions. Thousands. “What was in that bag?” was the first one out.

Jumbo looked over at me, shook his head. “You should know better than to ask, Landry.”

“So you don't know?”

Jumbo smirked. “Could be the Colonel’s friggin’ secret recipe, for all I know. Or the love doodles George W. Bush made for Condoleeza Rice. Fuck do you care? You got paid, and your little indiscretion is all but forgotten.”

I scoffed. “Until the next time.”

“Keep your hands to yourself and your pecker in your pants, you'll be fine. Save it for Grimace. Put a smile on her pretty little mug.”

Jumbo looked down at the goat, nudged it with his foot.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to get this back to its rightful owner?”

I shook my head. “Leave it there. Bear’ll come and eat it.”

“Didn’t you say her name was Janet?”

The end

           

                         

            

F-F-F # 32 - Eyes On The Prize

Well, it's been a while since I've contributed to this series. Since March, actually. Yep, I missed it.

Without further ado, here it is.

And, as usual, thanks to Cormac Brown for hosting Friday Flash Fiction.

* * *

Eyes On The Prize

                So much for plan B.

                First, it was Thompson taking a swan dive from the roof porch of a downtown high-rise, splattering his brains all over a Drummond Street storefront.

                Now, on page six of the paper, came the news that the body of a man in his thirties, yet to be identified, had washed up in the St-Lawrence, between the Jacques-Cartier and Champlain bridges.

                Buck Narson would bet his father's stamp collection that it was Jenkins who had been feasted on by whatever creatures swam in that sludge. Narson hadn't heard from the man in more than a week, highly unusual, especially this close to pulling off a job.

                Just his luck. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and the men who would help him pull it off were dropping like flies.

                He'd just have to go it alone.

                *

                Getting tools and a gun was easy. Narson called in a favor from an old connection, who got him what he needed. Cheap, and fast.

                Next up: blueprints. That took a few more phone calls, and cost a few more bills, than Buck cared for. But he had them, and that was all that mattered.

                Things were definitely looking up. But Narson wished he didn't have to do this alone. He did cast a few lines, but nothing bit.

                *

                That weekend, Narson spent Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon casing the museum, learning the lay of the place and getting acquainted with the piece.

The rest of the time, he walked around, getting a feel for the neighborhood. Even for a native, it never hurt to reconnoiter an area before a job.

                He repeated that the rest of the week, varying his hours and costumes so as not to be too conspicuous. His plan began to take shape.

All he needed now was to find the perfect time to pull it off.

                *

                That came a few weeks later. The heads of some African nations were coming to Montreal to attend an economic summit in a ritzy hotel downtown. These guys were the talk of the town, which made Narson feel dumb for never having heard of them.

                Point was, this summit was going to keep the cops busy. That's all Narson was asking for.

                *

                It was a sunny, muggy morning that was only going to get warmer.

                The museum was quiet, until a tour bus pulled up. About forty elderly tourists rushed the doors and assembled around their insouciant tour guide. When their tour started, a chubby man with salt and pepper hair and bottle-thick spectacles joined them.

                Buck Narson followed along, listening half-heartedly to the guide's explanations. When they came into the room he was interested in, Narson hung back, his eyes on the prize.

                His heartbeat quickened and he felt himself get hot under the collar. The wig didn't help, and he was afraid some sweat would run down his cheeks.

                Narson took a few deep breaths and waited for the group to move on to the next room.

                Now, he was alone with it. But he could hardly detach it from its pedestal and run out the front door.

                Right now, all he wanted to do was disable the alarm. Once he was sure nobody would come looking for him, he got down to business.

                The alarm was exactly what he expected it to be, and the work was done in no time flat, as it needed to be.

                He pocketed his tools and quickly walked off to catch up to the group.

                *

                The tour couldn't end fast enough for Narson. Of course, Babbling Betty here, she had questions, questions, and then some. Buck silently cursed her, looking over his shoulder, half expecting to be grabbed by Security and dragged off to a windowless room to be bludgeoned to death.

                Didn't happen.

                He was home within an hour. He showered, prepared his costume for the afternoon run, and lay down for a nap.

                *

                Narson woke just before five p.m., which left him a few hours to kill before the museum closed.

                He watched the local news while dressing. A big grin lit up his face as he watched live footage of the front of the downtown hotel where the summit was being held. Protesters filled the street, some of them waving flags while others threw various projectiles toward the hotel and the cops in riot gear who protected the building.

                This should keep them busy for a while, Narson thought. One less thing to worry about. By the time the museum people realized what had happened to their prized possession, and the cops reacted, Narson would be long gone.

                *

                It hadn't moved.

                The room was too crowded to act on it, so Narson circled, admiring other works, until the room cleared.

                He squatted near the pedestal and looked under it at the alarm. No change there.

                A female voice came over the p.a. system. Mesdames et Messieurs, le musée est maintenant fermé.

                Time to move.

                Narson pulled on his gloves, and delicately lifted the piece from its stand. He kneeled slowly and set it down into the case he had placed in his duffel bag. He zipped up the bag and stood, looking left and right.

                Coast clear.

                He made a beeline for the front door, bumping a couple of Asians on his way out. He'd probably never been happier to see the sun in his life.

                Narson walked a couple of blocks to catch a bus heading west. In his seat, he resisted the urge to peek into the bag. Instead, he held on to it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

                The bus dropped him off on the western edge of downtown, where he had parked his car the previous night. He opened the door and gently dropped the bag on the passenger seat.

                Narson pointed the car westward. While he drove, he scanned the airwaves, looking for a news report. Each one he caught was all about the summit. Nothing regarding a theft in a museum. Narson smiled, exhaled deeply and switched to a Miles Davis CD.

                *

                A lifetime ago, Buck Narson had rented a self-storage unit in the industrial sector of a small suburb off the island. He'd never missed a payment, even when he'd been forced to go away. The unit mostly served as a holding cell for material that needed to cool off before he could put it out on the market.

                And this one was definitely hot.

                *

                Narson let himself in using his access card. Not much had changed since he'd last been in. Walls had been painted, extra cameras added, but that was pretty much the jist of it.

                Narson made his way through the maze and stopped in front of unit # B-117. He slipped the key into the lock and turned the handle.

                He heard them before he saw them.

                Oddly enough, Narson wasn't surprised. In truth, he should have seen it coming.

                Narson reached for the light switch, but he already knew what he'd see.

                Jenkins.

                Thompson.

                Guns. Pointed right at him.

                Fuckers.