Out of the Gutter Online

When you hear young girls refer to each other as BFFs, a certain image comes to mind.

But down in the Gutter, best friends forever means something entirely different.

Dig by Dyer Wilk

Henry thought a shovel with a plastic handle would have been easier on his hands, but it wasn’t. A foot down into the earth and the blisters were starting to rise up from his palms like toadstools after a heavy rain. They were hurting him now, turning an angry shade of red and threatening to burst. But he kept digging. Quitting wasn’t an option.

He looked up and saw George sitting on the trunk of a fallen oak, his head hanging, eyes on his feet. The gun was clutched in both hands with the barrel tipped toward the ground. Sometimes he tilted it to one side or the other, as if he was trying to get used to the feel, or maybe just trying to accept the incredible power that such a small thing held.

Henry tried hard not to dwell on it.

He hunched over and drove the blade of the shovel into the hard clay, scooped out another chunk and cast it aside. Three feet would be enough, he figured. They could both agree on that. Good and deep enough to keep the animals from digging up the body. Still, part of him wanted to dig deeper. He needed time to think, time to sort it all out in his head. They both did, he thought.

This wasn’t going to be easy. With every shovelful he tried to make himself accept it. He had been told that it made things easier, that all the fear and sadness would fade away, replaced by a functional numbness.

God, he hoped he would feel that by the time he finished digging the hole. If he didn’t, he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage. Even now, as he cleared a second foot of dirt, he could feel it growing inside him, a terror so powerful his hands were beginning to shake.

He looked up and saw that George wasn’t doing much better. His arms were pressed tight against his ribs and the gun was resting between his knees. Henry could see the tremors and the tears.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

George looked up, his eyes suddenly sharp and defensive.

“Just leave me alone for a minute. Okay?”

Henry looked down at the shovel, thinking he was going to keep digging. He pushed into the soil and then stopped. He looked up at George again.

“We don’t have to do this, you know. There are other options.”

George looked at him, those teary eyes steadying. “No, there aren’t. Don’t you fucking tell me there are, Henry. You know what has to happen here.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought…”

“Yeah, you just thought. Christ.” He pulled the gun up over his knees and turned it over in his hands. “You wanna be helpful? Dig the hole. Give me a few minutes.”

Henry lifted the shovel and started in again. The pain wasn’t so bad now. He realized he was being a little selfish about the whole thing. He had barely considered how hard it was for George, the shame and guilt and fear that it taken to even come out here, to make that kind of decision. In the same position, Henry would probably have felt the exact same way. So he dug. He worked slowly and resisted the urge to look up at George and try to reason with him.

As the sun began to dip below the treetops, the hole reached three feet. He considered giving it one more, but there really wasn’t much point. It had to happen eventually.

He tossed the shovel into the grass and looked up at George.

“I guess that’s it.”

George looked up from his lap. For a moment, his eyes wandered in a daze and then found Henry.

“Looks pretty deep.”

“I did the best I could.”

“Climb on out of there.”

Henry pulled himself up and stood. He looked at George, a weak smile on his face. For a moment, time seemed to jump back 20 years ago. They were just a couple of high school friends, meeting out behind the gym for batting practice.

He saw George’s hands tremble.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Henry said.

George’s eyes sharpened, full of pain and anger. “I don’t?”

“No. We can talk about this. Work things out.”

“We did talk. We…” He shook his head. “No.”

He tightened his grip on the gun.

Henry took a deep breath and closed his eyes, knowing he had only one chance to make this right.

“Sara still loves you, George.”

George clenched his jaw, the cords in his neck swelling.

“It was a mistake,” Henry said. “A horrible, stupid mistake. I know you’re mad, but if you do this, you can’t take it back. You can’t just go home and look at Sara and not think about it.”

George shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t.”

“This isn’t you, man. Holding a gun, talking about…”

Henry glanced at the hole. The setting sun had thrown a deep shadow into it, making it appear bottomless.

He turned back to George and saw that the gun was lower now. He took half a step forward and held out his hand.

“I want you to give me the gun.”

George kept shaking his head, squinting hard, biting his lip.

Henry moved his hand closer. His fingers brushed metal. George didn’t pull away. Slowly, Henry wrapped his hand around the barrel and pulled it free of George’s grasp.

For a moment they both stood there, and then George began to sob.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “I love her.”

“I know, George. I know.” Henry wrapped his fingers around the grip of the pistol and leveled the barrel at George’s chest. “Now get in the goddamn hole.”

George’s face froze, eyes bulging.

“But…but I…”

Henry smiled. “You’re doing the right thing, George. Don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of Sara.”

Dyer Wilk’s fiction has appeared online at Shotgun Honey, Beat to a Pulp, Out of the Gutter, and Thrills, Kills ‘n’ Chaos. His story Dry Lightning appeared in Trouble in the Heartland anthology from Gutter Books. A lifelong resident of California, he is currently at work on a novel.

Brit Grit Alley features interviews, news and updates on what's happening down British crime fiction's booze and blood soaked alleyways.

By Paul D. Brazill

This month down Brit Grit Alley, I take a look at Nick Quantrill's Joe Geraghty novels.

Broken Dreams.

This is a cracking book. It's the story of a man- Joe Geraghty- and a city - Hull- that have taken many a good kicking and are trying to get back on their feet. Realistic and romantic - in a Strummer way - it takes you by the lapels and drags you along from the beginning to the end. It's the story of a P. I. following a muddy and bloodstained trail through a battle scarred Northern city.

The Late Greats.

In the Late Greats, Joe Geraghty is hired by an overbearing musical 'entrepreneur', Kent Major, to babysit his possible cash cow - the band New Holland. Once upon a time, New Holland were the bee's knees, the cat's whiskers. Imagine, if you will, Hull's version of Oasis, surfing the crest of the Britpop wave and then, in the blink of an eye,stagnating and self- destructing.

But now they're back together having, apparently, forgotten their creative and personal differences and are about to embark on a lucrative comeback tour. So, with his eye on the prize, Kent Major hires Geraghty to keep an eye on the boys, so that all runs smoothly.

But, of course, it doesn't and all quickly goes pear shaped when the singer , Greg Tasker, disappears. And, inevitably,Geraghty is despatched to find him.

The Late Greats is a fast paced, page-turner, the weight of which rests heavily on Geraghty's broad shoulders. Geraghty, unlike many of crime fiction's messed up PIs, is an Everyman - a decent and likeable bloke just trying to get on with his life after the death of his wife. Trying to adapt to change. Something many of the characters in The Late Greats are trying to avoid.

In Quantrill's Broken Dreams, Joe Geraghty's investigations allowed him to to dig into the city's past and address its changes- both good and bad.

In this follow up novel, however, Geraghty is forced to look at how people change. How some people grow up,and not always for the better, and others never do.

The Late Greats, is a splendid, character driven piece of social realist storytelling which cements Nick Quantrill's position as a crime writer with something to say

The Crooked Beat.

P I Joe Geraghty steps up to help out his brother who is in dire financial straits.However,Joe is soon

under the radar of Hull's underworld and subsequently digs up some of the city's dark secrets. This is the third of Nick Quantrill's Joe Geraghty novels and the best yet with perfect pacing and a great sense of place and history

All books are published by Caffeine Night Publishing.

There'll be more carryings on down Brit Grit Alley very soon, sorta kinda thing, like.

Paul D. Brazill is the author of A Case Of Noir,Guns Of Brixton and The Neon Boneyard. He was born in England and lives in Poland. He is an International Thriller Writers Inc member whose writing has been translated into Italian, Finnish, German and Slovene. He has had writing published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books of Best British Crime. He has edited a few anthologies, including the best-selling True Brit Grit– with Luca Veste. His blog is here.

The devil you do know is always better than the devil you don’t know.

Of course, in the Gutter, there ain’t that many angels, either.

Always Something Better by Nikki Palomino

Always something better than that which is.

I wiped my hands of the hot steaming dishwater, glanced at the clock always a beat off from accuracy.

“He’s waiting, Stella.”

As if he needed to remind me, the fat paternal nephew of the diner owner. He found my blue eyes, long blonde hair, good looks wasted. I found his red-cheeked baby face and curly hair misplaced.

“I can help if you’d let me.”

I looked up at him. “You’re funny as hell, Dax.”

“You’ve got brains.”

“You’ve got the red-head at the Dairy Queen.”

Dax laughed, his yellow chipped teeth crammed together in a ledge.

The heat of the kitchen congealed around me. Sweat ran down under my arms and the back of my legs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Twenty to life, Dax.”

“This is practically a one-truck town. Time the sheriff sobers up, you’ll be in Mexico.”

“Good living takes planning, hard work and imagination.”

“Mere pittance. Stella, a lifetime of perfecting childhood tactics to get sympathy and avoid responsibility—”

“How much fuckin’ money?”

“His mother, my aunt, married well. She pitied me receiving the brunt of Mom’s bitterness. I was privy to my aunt’s secrets.”

“How much?”

“Shush.” Dax rushed toward the back of the kitchen, glanced at him leaning against the streetlamp before slamming the door shut.

How could I verbalize the words spinning like planets inside my mind? I breathed in everything Dax had said over the past month. I pulled off my dirty apron, ran my hand through stringy hair, stealing the red rouge color for my cheeks from the last swell of steam.

“How much longer, Stella?” We worked in the diner kitchen, our routine unchanged, veins congested from the standing.

“Dax, I’m no whore.”

“Not talking sex.”

Dax grew more tired with each narrowing day. I liked the idea.

“Stella, what now?”

I looked outside at the light grey mist dimming the empty evening. Dax’s beady eyes followed.

“Where is he?”

“Not feeling well. Home in bed.”

“He’s supposed to be dead.”

“You agreed.”

Dax grabbed the butcher knife. Held at eye-level. “Quick and simple. You’re not Hitchcock.”

“You agreed.”

Dax spoke in an audible whisper. His uncle hadn’t left the office. Paydays kept him late. Dax could barely contain his impatience. To a man like Dax, murder worked like a quickie. A woman’s ammunition was chiefly psychic and aesthetic. When I left with hardly enough to cover rent, I brought a container of chicken soup. Dax diminished behind the block of cheese, a child broken of his tactics that had all but abated without sympathy.

I warmed the soup for Dax’s cousin. I had no particular plans when I blew through this town. There were many things I could have done, and much I didn’t. Good looks caused men to lose sight. I should have been delighted.

He startled me.

“Dax, what are you doing here?”

“Dead yet?”

“Still clinging to life. Doc thinks it’s viral.”

Dax slammed down a gun on the wood table.

“I’m not waiting another minute. I know the safe combo. Auntie never trusted banks. She did trust me though.”

“Can’t explain away a gunshot so easily.”

“You’ll be in Mexico by then.”

“Just smother him with a pillow.”

Dax grinned as he regarded the idea.

“How do you know poison, Stella?”

“I don’t. Just found rat poison in the garage. I add a little more each day to his food before I serve him.”

“Heartless.”

“Gun’s bad news.”

Dax turned on his heels, grabbed the .38. “Gun’s dead news.”

He left the kitchen and headed up the winding stairs to his cousin’s room. I cringed when I heard the shot but just kept stirring the soup on the stove. When he returned, Dax laid the gun on the table and wrestled with what to do next. He sat at the table, buried his face in his hands. I’d say he wanted to cry but held his tears in a vise grip.

“Finally over, Stella.”

“You sure?” He nodded. “How much is my take since I had to sleep with him?”

“Your cut hasn’t changed.”

I ladled some soup into the porcelain bowl, set it in front of him.

“All my family’s gone except that good-for-nothing uncle.”

“Eat. Murder whets the appetite.”

Dax trembled but gripped the bowl as he swallowed the soup. He glanced at me. “You add poison to the bowl, right, not the pot?”

I laughed hollowly.

“Dax, I don’t know the combo to the safe.”

“You need me then.”

“I need cash.”

But Dax couldn’t retort. His cherub face paled, hands flying to his neck. His dry cough lasted but a few minutes before his head pitched forward.

I didn’t need to check his pulse; knew dead. I did need a gun, which I quickly swiped from the wood table and deposited into my purse.

Like a musical beat, the kitchen door blew back, and suddenly Dax’s cousin leaned against the frame. He’d been right about stuffing his bed just so. Dax had taken to the firing range, pumping shots into the target with startling energy; the perfect birthday gift from his favorite aunt’s son. Tall and firm, Dax’s cousin tapped the large envelope against the palm of his hand before I snatched it. He’d impressed me with his eye for detail and his understanding of human nature.

“Where you headed Stella?”

“I don’t know for sure, maybe Mexico.”

“You can stay with me. Grown fond of you.”

“Wanderlust, Sweetie.”

“If you ever decide to come back—you know.”

But I had already headed out into the wet night, cutting my ties to this one-truck town. It’s never good making a deal with a devil unless you have the nerve to skip.

Nikki Palomino is the author of the Dazed series (the Story of a Grunge Rocker). Her writing has been featured in the LA Examiner, Houston Chronicle, and more. Named Best Genre Short Story Writer of 2003 by Writer’s Digest, Palomino is also a rock journalist for Punk Globe Magazine and the host of Nikki Palomino’s DAZED on irockradio103.com

Some of us are lucky enough to look back on an idyllic childhood. The kind Norman Rockwell liked to paint.

Others ain't so lucky. They spent their childhoods down here, in the Gutter.

Two Birds, One Stone by J. David Jaggers

What is it withadults? Why do they need to beat the shit out of somebody smaller to feel better about themselves? I ask myself this every day when my dad comes home and hits me. If that’s growing up, then I’ll stay a kid. It’s just not worth it. That’s heavy thinking for a twelve year old I know, but I’m not your average kid.

You see my dad works for some shady people. He doesn’t know I know. He thinks I believe his bullshit story about being a contractor, but that fell apart when I found the black case he keeps hidden in the garage. What kind of contractor keeps a gun and some piano wire stashed behind his bowling trophies? I think my dad kills people.

Our next door neighbor Mr. Kimball is the other shining example of why I don’t want to grow up. He’s retired and spends all day yelling at all us neighborhood kids or leaving nasty notes on my dad’s car about the grass. I heard dad say once that he’d fuck him up if it wasn’t so obvious who did it. That’s not why I hate Mr. Kimball. I hate the bastard because he beats his dog.

Buster and I are good friends. We have a lot in common. We both like to lay in the grass on sunny days, and we both know what’s it’s like to be punched by a grown man. Buster takes it well, better than me. If you didn’t know, it would be hard to tell. He walks with a slight limp, his hip stiff from Mr. Kimball’s boot, and he has a milky left eye. Mr. Kimball says it’s all from old age, cataracts and stiff joints. That’s bullshit. Sometimes when I look at Buster it seems like he’s telling me something. It’s like he’s saying to me, “You have to help me. You have to stop this.” I want to real bad, but I never had a plan until now.

“What you working on champ?” Dad asks, just home, and not started in on the beer yet.

“I have a science project due at school this Friday. I need to get this poster frame made.” He gets his first beer from the fridge and sits down to help. I hand him two wooden dowel rods that I need to tape to some poster board. He holds them in his sweaty hands and for a moment he seems like a real dad. Four beers later, he has already beaten me with one of rods and ripped the poster in half. I lay in my room nursing my sore ribs and smiling. So far so good.

After the old man passes out in his chair, I put on the rubber gloves I stashed under my mattress. I take one of the dowel rods and sneak out to the garage. I break the rod in two and take the piano wire from the case and wrap it around each half. I sneak next door and wait in the dark behind Mr. Kimball's deck until I hear the back door open and Buster runs out into the yard.

“Do your goddamned business, you piece of shit. Track anything in this house and I’ll rip your fucking ears off.”

Buster runs and hides. It’s like he knows what I’m about to do. Mr. Kimball yells, and when Buster doesn’t come back, he walks out into the yard.

“You’re gonna get it now, you little bastard.”

I step from the shadows and wrap the wire around his neck. He’s strong, still in shape. He slings me around, knocking the garbage cans over. I plant both feet in the small of his back and pull hard. It isn't long before he gives 'cause the wire is sharp. I hold it tight for a minute longer to be sure, while Buster lifts his leg on Kimball's purple face.

I put the wire in the backseat of dad’s car. The next day there are police cruisers in our driveway after school. I don’t even go in. I just whistle for Buster and we take a walk in the sunshine.

J. David Jaggers lives in fly over country, where he spends his days in the white collar world and his nights feeding the thugs, pimps, and enforcers he keeps caged in his basement. He has been, or is scheduled to be, published in Near to the Knuckle, Yellow Mama, Spelk and Out of the Gutter magazines.

They say the Eskimos have 37 words for snow. It’s a lie of course. But you can appreciate the sentiment.

Watercolors are a little like that. I mean, expression through varying shades and gradation. Sounds nice. Except there’s not enough red to paint some revengeright.

Like a Fox by Rose Lee-Delgado

Sensing Roger’s presence, Angela looked up from her book and turned toward him. “I’m calling it a night,” he said.

She nodded, smiling faintly.

“Coming?” he said.

“In a bit,” she said.

“I guess I’ll say goodnight then.”

“Before you go,” she said, catching him mid-stride. “Before you go, I wondered if you’ve read it yet.”

“Read what?”

“My story,” she said. “I gave it to you last week, remember?”

“’I remember,” he said, “and yes, I’ve read it.”

“What did you think?”

“Now?” he said, glancing at his watch.

“Please,” she said. “I’d appreciate it.”

Nodding, he crossed the living room and positioned himself behind a large easy chair opposite her. Gripping the back of the chair as though it were a lectern, he gazed in her direction. It was his preferred professorial stance, one Angela had seen many times during the past twenty-five years. She smoothed her skirt, folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him.

“I’m sorry to say it, but I’m afraid your story has problems.”

“Problems?” she said, still smiling.

“I’ll try to explain,” he said. “As I recall, a man and a woman are in bed together. It wasn’t clear whether they were married, but anyway, sometime during the night while he’s asleep, she slits his throat. Afterward, she doesn’t attempt to hide what she did, or to escape. Instead, she goes outside and sits on the front steps until daybreak, blood all over her. A passerby notices, and calls the police. When they arrive, she admits what she did, and when asked why, she shrugs and says only that his number came up. That’s basically it.”

“You remember it well.”

“The problem is, readers will want to know why she killed him,” he said, “but you don’t give them anything to go on. You refer to him as narrow-minded and judgmental, but is this reason enough to kill him?”

“Hmmm.”

“If she stood to gain financially, or if there had been abuse or infidelity on his part, I could understand, but nothing like this was mentioned.”

“True.”

“It doesn’t make sense. How could any sane person do what she did, and then shrug it off?”

Angela nodded.

“To be fair, I suppose there are people who would appreciate the gruesome details you provided, like the part where she nudged him so that he rolled over and exposed his throat, or the part where she positioned the tip of the knife just below one of his ear lobes before driving it in and slashing him from ear to ear, as you put it. But even people who like this sort of stuff would expect more than just blood and gore.”

Angela nodded again.

“What you’ve written is simply a description of a woman who seems crazy. If there’s a story here, I couldn’t find it.”

“I see.”

“Let me make a suggestion,” he said, stroking his graying goatee. “Take a course on creative writing. Study the subject, learn the fundamentals.”

“That’s an idea.”

“It’s possible, of course, that writing isn’t the best creative outlet for you. Have you considered anything else?” He hesitated, then added, “What about watercolors?”

“Watercolors?”

“Why not,” he said, warming to the subject. “Do you remember when Rob was what, five or six, and we gave him that watercolor set? You showed him what to do, and I remember how well you could paint, how easily it came to you.”

“You’re bringing up Rob now?” she said, eyes flashing. “The son I haven’t seen in four years, the son who avoids us like the plague?”

“Let’s not start, okay?” Roger said. “It’s late, and besides, how many times do I have to say I was wrong? It was a poor choice of words, and I’ve already told you that I’d apologize to Rob if I knew how to contact him.”

“A poor choice of words, you say? Calling him a fairy, a little faggot, a fucking queer, that’s what you’re calling a poor choice of words?”

“Please, you’re acting like you’ll never see him again, but you know he’ll come home sooner or later, if only to see you.”

“No, he won’t. When he walked out, he said I was no better than you, otherwise, I’d leave with him. Remember that?”

“Sweet Jesus, can’t we drop it, at least for now? I have an early faculty meeting.”

“Ah yes, a faculty meeting,” Angela said, her voice heavy with irony. “Ever wonder what your colleagues would think if they knew the truth about why Rob has been away so long? I’ve never told anyone what you did, you know. I’m too ashamed.”

They stared at each other for several long moments before Angela’s face softened. “You’re right, this isn’t the time,” she said. “Any more thoughts about my story?”

“No, that’s all. I’m sorry I had to be so negative.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful. Go on to bed, get some sleep.”

Two hours later, Angela peered into their bedroom. Roger was curled up on his side of the bed, and seemed fast asleep.

She moved on to Roger’s study and rummaged through his desk until she found his copy of the story. She glanced at his red-penciled comments before tearing each page into small pieces, which she flushed away in a nearby bathroom. She next entered the kitchen and went to the oak block that held their cutlery. Without hesitation, she withdrew the six-inch chef’s knife. Well-balanced and razor-sharp, it was her favorite.

Holding the knife at her side, she returned to their bedroom and stood in the doorway, watching Roger sleep. After several minutes, she took a deep breath and approached the bed. Her right hand gripped the knife, its gleaming blade now raised and poised for a downward thrust. Her other hand was extended toward Roger, ready to give him a little nudge, just enough to make him roll over and expose his throat.

The author is a social psychologist living in the Pacific Northwest, now writing short fiction. Her previous work (“Amber Learns to Drive”) has appeared in Out of the Gutter. Rose Lee-Delgado is a pseudonym.

Nothing like a nice, leisurely walk in the woods.

In the Gutter, Nothing like a lot of things. And Nothing forgives even less.

In the Woods by Gary Duncan

Frank stopped where the bridge used to be, and looked around.

“They’re all gone,” he said. “The bridge, the stream.”

Mike looked back the way they’d come: row after row of red-brick houses with red-tiled roofs. They’d parked the van on the edge of the estate and walked through another development: more red-brick houses with red-tiled roofs.

“It must have been something,” Mike said. “Before all this.”

He took a bottle of water from his rucksack and offered it to Frank. Frank needed something stronger, but he took it, clumsily, and spilled most of it down his chin. The others had stayed back a little, but they were watching him: eight pairs of eyes boring into him.

“We can wait here a bit,” Mike said. “Till you catch your breath.”

“I’m fine,” Frank said.

They set off into the woods, the path forking left and right and then petering out. Frank took his time, breathing in the cool, damp air, the sweet smell of wet soil and fallen leaves that took him back to another time.

He stopped when they reached the clearing, and looked up at the light filtering in through the tops of the trees.

“Here?” Mike asked.

Frank shook his head. He inhaled, held it, and let it out slowly. “I’d forgotten that smell.”

Mike looked back towards the path.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, grinding his boot into a pile of dead leaves.

One of the guards had lost a shoe in the mud and was trying to retrieve it with a stick. He was young, about the same age Frank had been last time he’d been in the woods.

“Maybe you should help,” Frank said.

“Maybe he should watch where he’s walking.”

Mike bent down and grabbed some leaves.

“Why now, Frank? Why wait all this time?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the right time. The right thing to do.”

Mike threw the leaves up in the air and watched them fall slowly back to the ground, turning, caught in the breeze.

Frank looked down at his hands.

“How about taking these things off, Mike.”

“You know that’s not going to happen, Frank.”

Frank nodded. Mike was one of the good ones. Probably the only good one.

They set off again when the others reached the clearing, Frank out front, Mike one step behind, the others following.

Frank could have cut through the bramble bushes, like he’d done all those years ago, but he didn’t want to make it too easy for them. Let them sweat a bit first. They’d waited long enough—another hour wouldn’t make much difference.

He took them away from the clearing, farther into the woods, down to where the stream used to run deep and wide. Every now and then he slowed down and looked back and saw them all lined up behind him, single file on the narrow path.

When they’d almost gone full circle, Mike came up beside him and said, “I know what you’re doing, Frank.”

Frank ignored him.

“Frank, you—”

“They’re over there,” Frank said. “Other side of the bramble bushes. I killed them both, just like they said, and buried them in the ground.”

Frank looked around one last time, and said, “I’m sorry, Mike. You can take me back now.”

Gary Duncan is a freelance writer and editor based in Northumberland, England. His stories have appeared in Shotgun Honey, Yellow Mama, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine.

Other than death and taxes, they say, one of the most basic truths in life is that we eventually become our parents.

For some of us, this is a blessings, but for others, a curse.

I Mean, Seriously, What Are The Odds? by Beau Johnson

“Dad, what’s a motherfucker?”

I’m not saying I believe in coincidence, not on the whole, but seeing how things have played themselves out these last few days, I may have some adjusting to do. It’s more than likely the entire reason I hadn’t even asked Duane where he’d heard the word.

Dishes in my hand, drying them, my boy sits there at the table, cut up apples in a bowl to his left. His hoodie is as it always is, up, and his blue eyes remain wide. Wasn’t no thing with him and me, Duane asking questions and such. It’s really the only way it should be between a father and his boy. I’m not saying I corner the market on such observations, but I am saying I know what not to be when it comes to being a parent. Learned that shit straight up, belt buckle and all.

Enough about that---back to my boy’s question and the answer I knew he wanted but I was unable to give. I could have given it though, just so we’re clear, but it wouldn’t have been right, not from a parent who truly holds their child’s best interest at heart. He’d be curious, sure, as would anyone who saw their mother’s mouth half full of some guy’s cock. Full and flush, my wife’s face is half turned towards whoever snapped the shot in this picture, her hand up in the A-OK position Duane and I had come to expect. This was pre-cancer Diane too, and from the looks of her hair, about a year before she is diagnosed. But would my boy’s eight year old mind truly understand what was happening within the frame? And really, is this even the type of question I wanted to be asking?

Context indeed.

So I’m going to start over and forget that showing my son the picture even passed through my mind and just say it’s a month ago that I find what I find and that even though I wanted to stop looking at it, I couldn’t. That about sums this shit up. Except for the scar on the upper right thigh of the man my wife was throating. You can’t actually see who the man in the picture is, just my wife’s exuberant expression. I’m not sure if I’d mentioned that or not. I’d grown up with that scar though, so that I will mention, and I knew exactly how it had come to be. Funny how things like that happen; how what you help create can turn and rip your shit apart.

The scar belonged to Barry, my goddamn twin.

And of course if it had been anyone else it would have been better than this. I wouldn’t have been able to know who it was, only guess, and somehow come to terms with the fact that the woman who died as I wiped her face decided to blow some random dude during the course of our marriage. I’d even stopped myself from worrying if someone else had been there at the time, taking the picture, or if a timer had been used. Either way, what was the point? But then the scar comes into focus, there during the moments I was unable to put the picture down. Like a little half-moon but jagged at the end where I pulled the nail free. I picture a different picture then, one from fifth grade, the day Barry and I pulled down our old tree fort even though we were told we could not. I want to scream. I want to cry. Instead I do the very thing I have rallied against my entire life: I become my father. I embrace my rage.

Belt buckle and all.

“Dad?”

Should I? No. Not outright. As I’ve said, it wouldn’t seem proper, not from a parent who truly cared. I select a different picture instead, one from an album I hadn’t paged through since before Diane succumbed. In it Barry is wearing his lumberjack garb, a rifle over his shoulder and his leg upon a stump. The smile below his mustache is the one I’ve been attempting to obliterate since the day before last. In my basement is where I do this, during the time that Duane is at school.

Not that I expected him to, but my son says nothing when I hand him the still. He doesn’t understand. Then again, neither do I.

In Canada, with his wife and three boys, Beau Johnson lives, writes and breathes. He has been published before, on the darker side of town. Such places might include Underground Voices, the Molotov Cocktail, and Shotgun Honey. He would like it to be known that it is an honor to be here, down in the Gutter

Hey! Who here has been tested for the clap? Yeah. Me neither.

Men, you might want to be sitting down when you read this one...

Limp Dick by Erik Storey

Chandra had been bitch-slapped for the last time.

But Limp Dick, as she’d started thinking of him, didn’t know that. Luckily he didn’t try it again, just screamed, “I know you holding out, bitch. You got the high ends. They pay for all the weird shit. And all you bring me is the straight-rate monies? This shit’s gonna stop. You bring me twice the green tomorrow or I’ll fuck you six ways from Sunday. Got it?”

Chandra pretended to cower and pretended to grovel. “Okay,” she said, and Limp Dick left the little brown hotel room, stuffing the rolls of bills into the pocket of his pearl-snap shirt.

He was right about one thing. She was holding out. Big time. One of her clients, Fingerman, paid her an extra hundred if she stuck three fingers up his ass while she jerked him off. Another she called “Pillows,” who paid an extra five hundred for what he called the “blackout-blowout.” He would stick his head inside a pillowcase and smother himself while she gave him head. Two of her guys paid extra to lick her toes, and one guy paid her two big bills a day just to lick her armpits.

And she pocketed all this extra money. Then took it with her on the five different buses that she rode to get to her mom’s house, where Chandra’s two daughters were watched by her younger sister. She never showed her mom the money, but gave a little to her sister, and put the rest in a giant pink piggybank on her youngest kid’s dresser. Limp Dick didn’t know about any of this.

Because she was smart. And she was careful. Her mom thought she was finishing college. Which she was, in a way, although Chandra had graduated (but didn’t walk) a year ago. She’d learned more about sociology in the last year than she had in all four years at school. Not only did she have enough money to keep her and the kids afloat, she now had enough to pay off the school loans. She was free and clear and ready to start a real life.

There was just the little problem of Limp Dick, and his correct suspicions. Chandra had prepared for this, and she had a plan.

***

“You bring it all this time?” is what Limp Dick asked on the phone an hour before he came to the hotel.

“With more from the back end,” is how she answered, knowing that he’d show and be happy.

When he did show, he pretended not to be happy. He walked into the little shabby room, saw the piles of bills on the puke-colored bedspread and jumped into his angry mode. “Where the fuck’s this been, baby? You think I can protect you and set you up with the men for the money you’ve been giving me? I shoulda been seeing this every goddamned day.” He strode over to her, and wound up with another backhand.

“Use this,” she said, before he completed his swing. He looked confused, unsure what she was doing. Or why she was holding a straightened wire coat hanger. But he took the proffered wire and held it while Chandra took off her robe and bent over the bed, offering him her naked ass.

The first couple blows with the thin metal stung like hell. Chandra had to bite the dirty bedspread to keep from crying out, but she knew it was worth it. The next few strikes weren’t as bad, because she knew that between the money and the sadism, Limp Dick was finally getting hard. And a hard, lusty man was easy to control. It was one of the many things she’d learned this last year.

“Let me show you something, a trick that one of my specials likes,” Chandra said finally, unable to endure anymore of the whipping.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “what’s that?” He stopped smacking her as she turned around on the bed and sat before him. She unbuckled his pants.

“That’s right,” he said. “Show daddy something special.” He wasn’t paying attention as she pulled his pants to his knees. He was staring at the stacks of bills on the bed.

Which distracted him enough for Chandra to take the wire hanger, rub it around the head of his dick, then plunge the blunt metal into his pee-hole. She pulled his dick toward the ground and jammed the hanger further in.

The screaming was loud, but short-lived. Lubricated with Limp Dick’s pre-cum, the wire slid easily up the urethra and into the bladder. By then he’d passed out and fallen over backward in shock. She pushed the wire harder, and farther, into the bastard’s guts until there wasn’t enough metal to hold.

Due to the metal blockage, at first there was surprisingly little blood that oozed out the man’s dick. But there was enough of a constant flow to make Chandra turn her head, stumble to the bed and grab her robe. She left him on the filthy carpet to bleed out, then took a shower.

When she exited the bathroom, fresh and clean and fully clothed, Limp Dick lay on a stain of dark red shag. She checked his pulse, found none, and left the room.

As she walked down the hall, heading to the exit that would take her to the bus station, she giggled. She and her kids were free of the only man that would’ve followed them into their new life. She could get a job and start something else. But she was going to have to change the nickname she’d given her pimp. Because, due to the wire, and later, rigor mortis, he would never be limp again.

Erik Storey works during the day and writes crime fiction at night. He’s been a ranch hand, bartender, truck driver, sled-dog musher, Orkin man, and locksmith. His works have appeared in Shotgun Honey, Linguistic Erosion, Waving Hands Review, and in the upcoming anthology To Hell with Dante. He lives in the high deserts of Western Colorado with his wife, two daughters, and dogs.

To celebrate (or perhaps humiliate) our editor Tom Pitts on his Knuckleball release day, we dug way back in the FFO archives, way way back to April, 2012, before Joe and Tom took the editorial helm.

It's a gentle reminder that, even when you're down in the Gutter, life still manages to throw you loving little surprises.

Dealer Sets Price by Tom Pitts

“I’m telling you, when he’s out, he’s out cold. All we gotta do is get someone to buzz us inside the building.”

“It’ll never work.”

“It’ll work, I’m telling you. He keeps his shit in that little plastic box with his scale.” Jeff envisioned it, a fat sticky lump of Mexican heroin. Enough to keep him, Ricky, and Crystal high for days.

“What if the door is locked?”

“I have the goddamn key to the front door. I made a copy last week when he sent me out to the store for cigarettes. Fucking asshole, making me fetch him shit like some kind of gopher. Serves him right.”

“I mean, what if there’s a deadbolt or chain or something on the door?”

“So what? Then we walk away. He’s not gonna wake up, that’s for sure. That prick sleeps like he’s dead.”

“What if he’s not alone?”

“He’s alone. Who the fuck in their right mind would sleep with that arrogant piece of shit?”

“I dunno, man. Sounds risky.”

“Risky? Ricky, are you kidding me? Fuck this asshole, he takes our goddamn money everyday, makes us wait forever, treats us like children. Do you wanna get well or not? I got Crystal waiting for me at home and she’s gonna wake up sick and I’m not coming back to my baby empty-handed.”

“Yeah.” Ricky’s tone was sheepish.

“All right then.”

The two junkies walked up the marble steps and studied the intercom bank for a button to push.

“Pick one on the third floor.”

“What if they walk down to check?”

“Just fuckin’ pick one and stop being such a chicken-shit.”

Ricky hit a random button on the third floor. No response. He hit another. Same. Jeff reached past him and, using all four fingers, hit four at once. The front door buzzed. They were in.

They walked down the first-floor hallway, light on their feet. They could hear sounds of life from the other apartments. TV, dishes clamoring, a small dog yelping. The apartment they wanted was toward the back of the building.

They came to the door. Jeff turned toward Ricky and whispered, “I work too hard hustling all day to keep giving this prick my money for those tiny slivers of dope. He might as well just factor my goddamn dignity into the price.” From his pocket he pulled out a single bronze key. He slid the key into the lock and turned the knob. They were met with stale cigarette smoke, body odor, and darkness.

With a plastic disposable lighter for a torch, they entered the dealer’s apartment. Jeff knew right where the dope was stashed, beside the computer monitor in a pale green plastic box. He put away the lighter and picked up the box. He opened it up, felt inside for the lump of dope, and found it. Ecstatic, his heart skipped a beat. The lid to the box fell loudly onto the keyboard in front of the monitor. The blank screen flashed on brightly, illuminating their horrified faces.

“Shit,” mouthed Ricky.

“Hello?” They heard a voice say. A female voice. “Hello, is there anyone there?”

The two junkies froze.

The bare lightbulb above their heads flared and they stood looking at a woman with a small silver handgun pointed toward them. She was in one of the dealer’s ugly paisley dress shirts, unbuttoned, no bra, no panties.

“Jeff?”

“Crystal?” said Jeff. It was his girlfriend, fiancé in fact. It wasn’t registering, his mind raced to find a reason for her to be there. Maybe she was doing what he was doing—working hard to bring home some dope so the both of them could have wake-ups tomorrow. Working hard—with no panties.

“What the fuck?”

She said nothing.

The two junkies knew at once they weren’t going to be shot. But it didn’t matter. Jeff looked like he’d already been shot.

“C’mon!” said Ricky. The two fiends ran out the front door of the apartment, down the hallway, and out into the cool night air. It was blocks before they slowed down to a walk.

Ricky finally said it.

“You’re right, Jeff, dignity is factored into the price.”

Tom Pitts received his education on the streets of San Francisco. He remains there, working, writing, and trying to survive. His novel, HUSTLE, and his novella, Piggyback, are available from Snubnose Press. His new novella, Knuckleball, will be released by One Eye Press on March 24th. Find links to more of his work at: TomPittsAuthor.com

The devil is in a red dress. The devil is in a blue blue dress. The devil is in the details? Man, that fucker gets around.

Well, you know what they say. The chase is half the fun.

Not Ten? by TM McLean

I didn’t mess around. As soon as I knew what the deal was, I went after that shitbag, Julian. It wouldn’t be too hard to find him; there were only a few places he was likely to be. So I ignored the pleasant temperature and the cloudless blue sky and I stomped off to find him. I didn’t have any friends around me and that made things even worse. They had been due to fly up from London the day before but some crappy volcanic eruption in Iceland had grounded all flights.

That made it even worse. I was foaming. It was only ten o’clock and I was already angrier than I had ever been.

Being alone in Gateshead—my least favorite place on Earth!—without any friends or family nearby was bad enough ... and Julian had the fucking nerve to let me down. Well, he was going to pay for that, the bastard.

It didn’t take long before I came across one of his minions. Not surprising really, since I was outside of Julian’s father’s restaurant. Neither Julian nor his father was anywhere to be seen, but the guy who was there quickly gave me a lead. It’s amazing how quickly you get answers when you grab someone by the nuts, especially if you grab them hard. He told me what I wanted to know and I kicked the shit out of him anyway. It felt good.

I left the loser crying on the floor like a girl. I doubt his mother would have recognized him. Well, his mother maybe, but definitely not his dentist. While he was still able to talk he managed to croak out that Julian was staying at the Hilton. That shit-sack was out living like a king while I was left high and dry.

That was about to change.

The stupid bitch at the reception desk looked at me like I was a complete moron. I gave her Julian’s name, and she told me that she wasn’t authorized to tell me which room he was in. The blood from the restaurant geek was still on me and I could see the receptionist was nervous. She probably would’ve phoned the police, too, if I hadn’t jumped across the table and busted her head open with her own high heel shoe. I stuffed that idiot into the cleaning cupboard. No one was around to see, and I didn’t give a fuck about the CCTV.

I’m pretty sure she wasn’t dead.

Modern technology is pretty useful. It took me about two minutes to find where Julian was. He was only staying in one of the best rooms!

I was getting angrier with every step. The lift was slow—really slow—and I clenched my teeth the whole time I was in it. If it had taken much longer I would’ve ended up like that freak back at the restaurant.

The doors slid open and I stamped down the corridor. My thoughts were all about Julian. Yeah, he might have been a big shot coke dealer in Newcastle, and he might well spend more time in the gym than most people spend breathing, but he wasn’t going to be any match for me. Not on that day.

His room door was before me and I took a couple of deep breaths. My fists must have been clenching pretty tight by my sides, because I felt my nails break the skin. I hammered on the door.

No answer.

I kicked it instead, again and again and again. “Julian!” I shouted.

Still nothing.

He wasn’t doing anything to help his situation ... all he was doing was making me crazy. I tried the doorknob and was surprised when it turned. Did I really want to confront Julian?

Too fucking right I did.

The key card used to unlock open the door was sticking out from a slot on the wall, activating the electricity for the room, and telling me that Julian was definitely there. The TV was on, some crappy American cop show filling the room with sirens. No wonder Julian hadn’t heard me thumping on the door. I couldn’t wait to see the bastard’s face.

The main room was empty and I was almost about to give up, but then I heard a cough outside. He was on the balcony.

I took my time, picked a cigarette out from the packet on the table and lit it up. A good lungful steadied me and I was ready to face him. I pulled the curtain to the side so that I could look out through the sliding door.

Then it was my turn to be surprised.

Instead of Julian, I was faced with another of his minions. A bucktoothed halfwit called Henry. He spotted me too. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, showering the comfy looking seats with spittle. “Julian won’t be happy about this!”

“No?” I said and took another drag on the cigarette. “Are you happy to see this?” I flicked the burning cigarette at his face. If he’d had the sense to say something else he might have been able to extinguish it, but instead it hit him right in the eye. He screeched like a baby, making it easy for me to tip him over the edge. I watched him fall all ten floors, and watched as he hit the ground. It wasn’t as loud or gory as I thought it would be.

A noise from inside the room made me turn. It was him!

Julian had a towel wrapped around his waist, showing his powerful abs and shoulders. His black hair was slicked back and a day’s stubble decorated his face. He looked every bit the Italian movie star-like gangster, which was of course exactly what he was.

“Julian, you fuck-whore,” I said as I stepped back into the room.

The look of surprise on his face was thrilling, but his raised eyebrows soon became furrowed. “What the hell are you doing here, babe? We’re due at the Civic Centre at twelve—that’s in half an hour. And your dress! You know it’s bad luck for me to see you wearing that before the wedding.”

Shit, I thought, did he say twelve? Not ten?

TM McLean (Tim to his friends) is not only a great guy, he’s also a pretty awesome writer. Don’t believe that hype? Well, you can check out his Amazon author page here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/T-M-McLean/e/B00IFXOLE0 where you’ll find an ever increasing number of publications featuring his work. If you were to buy some of his books, it’s pretty likely that Tim would think very highly of you. Let him know all about it on Twitter @TimMcLean2.

For many, being locked away in prison means a feeling of control, a measured environment where you at least know the dangers you face.

Inside, it's only the prison you fear, not the wrath of God.

Trustee by Liam Sweeny

The lights went out this morning. Those emergency hall lights are out too, so I know one thing – the generator blew. Can’t say I’m surprised. It was a damn hurricane. But people are talkin’ through the pipes, shouting across the cell-block. Can’t hear shit but that the water’s coming up outside, hard. The levee must have topped. Maybe they all did.

I’m not shoutin’, though. I spent five years as a trustee in Angola. Took me two years to build up that kind of trust. Now I’m lookin’ at a fresh five year bid for pocketing ten large from a Bourbon Street bar, a neon rum-slushie joint for brats who couldn’t handle a real drink.

But I got a situation here. I’m on the ground level. I’m starting to see a thin pool coating the floor. There’s a small line of inmates chained to each other coming down from the upper blocks, and I’m thinkin’, what about me? I know these guards. I’m nice to them, ask them how their families are doing. I know there ain’t trustees in county jail, but damned if I shouldn’t be in that first wave.

I see Deputy Casmrack walking down. He’s the sergeant in charge of the block. I call him Sarge.

“Sarge,” I say through the bars, “am I getting’ out of here?”

“I won’t let you drown in here, Henri. You’ll have a chance. I’ll be back,” he says. Then he takes off to follow the line.

Something’s weird. His eyes were impassioned. Now I like the guy and so on, but that look, impassioned, we ain’t like that. I don’t go that way. But the water’s climbing to the tops of my sneakers. I’ll go that way if it gets me the fuck out of here.

On and on they go. So now I’m really thinking what the fuck? Then Sarge comes back. He’s got the keys out. Thank you, sweet Cajun Jesus!

He holds up his key ring. I’m lookin’ at the fat silver one that pops open my cage.

“Don’t have much time,” he says. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.” He’s scratching his legs, his pants soaked and slick.

“The city’s fucked,” he says. “A fuckin’ war zone. Levees breached, that’s talk, but everything’s down. Cell towers, TV, internet… Can’t find out anything but what the next guy says.”

“Wait, how do I get out?” I say. “You lettin’ me out?”

He shakes the keychain. “Like I was saying, it’s a war zone. We took the small-time people. We probably can’t hold onto them out there.”

“You’re not letting me go too?”

“The small silver key, see it?” he says. “That one unlocks the warden’s office. There’s a shotgun, over-and-under and boxes of shells in the vault. That’s the little gold key. We left some inmates. You gotta do us a favor. You were a trustee once.” The water was creeping along the bottom of my shins.

“The worst of the worst are in the dining hall,” he says. “Rapists, child killers, pure predators. We can’t take chances.”

The way he’s talkin’, I’m starting to think he’s out his lovin’ mind. “You want me to kill ‘em? How? You gonna let me out?”

Sarge looked down the block, the way that leads out.

“I gotta go,” he says, and he drops the key ring right in front of my cell. I watch it disappear into the murk. “Just make it to the second level. We’re locking the doors from the outside.”

“Wait, that’s it?”

“You’ll be the only one with a shotgun.” Sarge wiped his brow.

“Good luck,” he says as he’s heading for the drowning city. I sink down on my knees fishing for the key ring. It’s like shit water, smells even worse. The water’s near my kisser when my hand finds the ring and I pull it into the cell. Unlocking the door turns out to be harder when you’re doing it from the inside.

I hear pounding on the dining hall doors upstairs as I finally get the damn thing open. The scum soup is up to my jewels, and I slosh water for the warden’s office, hoping Cajun Jesus will bless me with good aim.

Liam Sweeny is a crime writer from upstate New York. His work has appeared in various publications, both online and in print. When not writing, Liam is involved with disaster response and preparedness. His anthology, Dead Man's Switch, is out now!

They say it is better to give than it is to receive. They also say turnabout is fair play.

In the Gutter, they say a lot of things. And none of it is good.

Working Overtime by Jeff Switt

I watched them exit the elevator, his arm circled around the small of her back, his hand cupping her waist, pulling her to him. Her hip flounced against his as they walked, and they shared a laugh over something private. He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck, and I saw her give his butt a squeeze. His laughter boomed across the deserted lobby.

“Shush,” she admonished him. He reached to fondle a breast, and she slapped his hand in a playful way, postmarking her message with a pair of red-lip impressions on his cheek. I watched him exit through the revolving door of the hotel with a carefree lightness to his step. I thought I heard him whistling. I clutched my purse to my gut. I felt sick, then mad as hell.

She strutted across the midnight lobby toward the hotel bar, her stiletto heels clicking on the marble floor, making that sound that turns men’s heads. The sound that other women envy. Her black dress looked like a river at night: the top clung to her breasts like moss on two alabaster boulders; the skirt rippled like black water across her hips and legs. For a moment I felt so ordinary, dressed in my workout clothes and running shoes with my oversize purse hanging from my shoulder.

***

And now I’m in a hotel room with her. We’ve settled on a price of one hundred dollars. She tells me it’s been a while since she fucked another woman. She slips off her heels and turns toward me probably to ask for her money.

I take a closer look. Too much makeup. An aging facelift. Signs of anorexia.

She starts to speak, and I whack her across her face with my hand. She looks at me, startled, and grins. “If you want it rough, that’s another hundred.”

“Fine with me,” I reply as I draw back my hand to give her another shot.

Her quickness surprises me. Her fist digs into my gut. My knees buckle. I drop to the floor and want to puke. She stands over me and peels the straps of her dress from her shoulders, down across her breasts, and lets the flimsy garment fall to the floor leaving her naked.

She jumps on me, slapping and kicking. We wrestle across the floor, but she has a grip on my hair and I can’t get away. She forces my face between her legs. It’s obvious what she wants. I relent, and when she’s satisfied she lets me go.

“My turn to play.” I kick off my shoes, shed my jacket, and drop my pants. Now we are both naked.

I push her down on the bed. “On your stomach,” I order, and she obeys. From my purse I pull a pair of stockings. I tie her wrists together at the small of her back with one, and with the other I bind her ankles. I roll her over, face up, and straddle her hips. I reach inside my purse and fetch a pair of kid leather gloves. I slip them on. Slowly. Enjoying the moment.

I am drawn to her bulbous breasts, obviously not natural, their blue veins anything but attractive. “Do men really like these?” I ask, as I rake them with my gloved fingers. She quivers at my touch.

“The last guy sure did,” she answers with a prideful smirk as she looks at mine hanging long and natural.

I look closer. There are hickies on her tits.

She speaks again. “Now, let me ask you a question. When I forced you down, between my legs … you didn’t object to what you found.”

“Nah. No big deal. Just my husband’s leftovers.”

It’s my time to smirk. Panic overtakes her face. She struggles to break loose, trying to escape from under my weight, but she can’t. I return to my purse and pull a bone-handle hunting knife. Its cold steel blade gives me a chill.

“This is my husband’s, too.”

Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction, some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured online at Every Day Fiction, Shotgun Honey, Dogzplot, Boston Literary Magazine, 101 Word Stories, A Story In 100 Words, 100 Word Story, 50-Word Stories, Postcard Shorts, and Nailpolish Stories. His latest venture, A Story in Three Paragraphs, is at http://jeffswitt.wordpress.com/s3p-a-story-in-three-paragraphs/

Brit Grit Alley features interviews, news and updates on what's happening down British crime fiction's booze and blood soaked alleyways.

By Paul D. Brazill

This month down Brit Grit Alley, I take a look at the works of Richard Godwin.

Richard Godwin’s Confessions Of A Hit Man is the violent and action-packed story of an ex-marine who becomes a globe-trotting contract killer. A marvelously, hard-hitting slice of international crime fiction.

Meaningful Conversations Dark, rich language that paints a deliciously delirious Ballardian Giallo.

In Noir City, Richard Godwin unflinchingly and masterfully digs beneath the surface of London, Paris, Rome, Madrid and Dusseldorf, and the cities’ recalcitrant denizens, as he follows the trail of sociopathic gigolo Paris Tongue deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Beautiful prose and a claustrophobic sense of dread make Richard Godwin’s Noir City a lyrical hybrid of noir,erotica,crime fiction and psychological drama worthy of Hitchcock or Argento.

Richard Godwin’s One Lost Summer is a sweltering, intense noir. A claustrophobic, psychological study of obsession and loss, with echoes of Simenon, Highsmith and Hitchcock’s Vertigo.

Richard Godwin‘s debut novel, Apostle Rising,is a dark as the void between the stars. As black as a killer’s soul.

On the surface, Apostle Rising is a police procedural. A serial killer novel. And a damned good one it is, too.

It’s the story of a haunted policeman- and the killer he never caught. Detective Frank Castle is still living in the pitch black shadow of The Woodlands Killer – the one that got away. But then a copycat killer crawls through the cracks in the pavement and Castle and his partner are dragged down a tunnel to gaze into the abyss.

But Apostle Rising is more than that. It’s also wonderful, rich prose and a breathtaking plot with more than a few savage twists of noir.

‘Paul De Longe put the phone down and opened a bottle of Morey-Blanc. It was cold and smooth and biscuity.Below him the skyline of London stretched out like an inviting mistress.’

London kills you. Kills the best of us. And the worst.

And in Richard Godwin‘s second novel, the brilliantly vivid giallo, Mr Glamour, the streets of London aren’t so much paved with gold, as splattered with blood that leaves a trail from the pavement to the penthouse. And back again.

Mr Glamour‘s London is the London of Hitchcock’s Frenzy, Roeg’s Performance and The Picture Of Dorian Grey. It is a living, pulsating thing that is being sliced to pieces, from swanky Mayfair and Holland Park to suburban Acton, from Wandsworth prison to Earls Court bedsits and East End boozers.

And in Mr Glamour, everyone is scarred, including the books’ protagonists, Chief Inspector Jackson Flare and his partner Inspector Mandy Steele. Though Flares scars are mostly physical, Steel hides her psychological damage.

When Flare and Steel are called to investigate the murder of a rich big shot, whose body has been ripped apart and left next to his gleaming Maserati, they soon realize that they are a hunting a serial killer who is preying on the rich, the powerful, the glamorous.

Mr Glamour is a graphic,intense, at times delirious journey into the dark sides of London’s glitz and of the human psyche and is highly recommended for those of a STRONG disposition.

Godwin's latest novel is Paranoia And The Destiny Programme , a powerful and disturbing, Dystopian horror story.

There'll be more carryings on down Brit Grit Alley very soon, sorta kinda thing, like.

We gave Gutter author, Fox, a bit of extra elbow room so he could say a few words about his mom. She left us recently and he wanted one last goodbye.

But just in case you thought he'd forgotten to deliver the goods, Fox drags you back to South Philly to show you no Forgiveness. Just the way mom would have wanted it.

Forgiveness by T. Fox Dunham

The front page dedication to my first book, The Street Martyr, simply reads:

To Janine Gossett – me mum.

Without this teacher in the world, this book wouldn’t exist.

After she died on Jan 2^nd, a timely death, her sister found a copy of my book on her nightstand by her bed. Janine kept it there by her pillow, even though the book has been out for several months. I never quite knew how special I made her feel. She entered my life in a pivotal time, when an accident by the state threatened the medical insurance that was keeping me alive, and I suddenly had a massive bill and a threat of immediate termination. With a mother’s love, Janine helped me pay the bill. She saved my life so I could write this book. Next year, it will be a major motion picture. She deserves the credit. I was merely the tool that created it.

Janine was a woman with a great sister, nephews and nieces and a mother, but she never married in her real life. There was Ivo, her online husband, and I was always glad for my adopted father. She taught students through life, sipped beer and ate pork rinds, and it was this American life-style that would eventually kill her. I watched her slip away and pleaded with her to stay alive for my wedding, to see the birth of her grandchildren. I know she tried to hold on, but she suffered. I think just seeing me with Allison and a family was enough for her.

Goodbye Blackbird. Daughter of Texas. We have many mothers come to us in life—old sisters of the tribe—and I have lost many loved ones in my life; but whenever I try to write this letter of love, I still cry.

Forgiveness

“You shot him in the head,” Ritchie-Eleven said. “I picked bits of his eye out of my leather coat. The bullet crushed his temple, blew out the side of his skull.”

Ritchie-Eleven pulled up to a stop sign, looked down the intersection checking for traffic. Cops liked to park behind the derelict factory’s loading dock and watch for speeders. Once they had you pulled over, they could sniff out dope, make you blow for DUI. Dominic, their Skipper, would burn their nuts if they didn’t appear law abiding after dumping a body. Guys turned rat after getting caught. Joe had clipped two rats in the last year.

“His chest was still moving when we dumped him. He was still breathing. I should have put another bullet in his ass, but we spotted that cop.”

Ritchie-Eleven accelerated when the light changed green. He stuck a cig’ on his lip and pushed in the car lighter. His extra finger—a stubby child’s digit jutting out after his pinky—still gave Joe chills up his spine.

Joe reached into his trench coat pocket and flicked his finger against the edge of his knife. They’d ditched their pieces after they shot the small-time pusher. The dick kept pushing H in Dominick’s territory in South Philly. They’d warned him nicely, but the idiot didn’t stop dealing. So, they went back and cracked his ribs with a nine iron. Two months later, they got a tip from a degenerate gambler who owed Ritchie-Eleven a couple grand from his shy business, trading it for a break on that week’s vig. The dick was back selling Percocet in the bathroom at Kingdom Pizza. Joe and Ritchie-Eleven laid in wait outside the joint and followed him into the alley. Joe shot him in the side of his head. They didn’t worry about witnesses hearing the gunshot, not in Dominick’s territory. They carried the body to a storm drain in Fair View Park outside Philly International Airport and wrapped it in garbage bags. They heard the body splash then drove to West Philly to dump the guns in a dumpster behind a Baptist church.

“Just turn your ass around,” Joe said.

“Chill.”

“Joggers run in that park at dawn. If that loser wakes up and starts howling, Dominick will have us clipped for being sloppy. Remember what he did to Kid Louie? Louie’s own mother knifed him.”

Everyone knew the story. Dominick kept Kid Louie’s ear on his desk. It showed a particular cruelty that he’d forced Louie’s junky mother to make that hit. It sung Dominick into an urban legend. People’s fear gave him power.

Ritchie-Eleven pulled into a warehouse parking lot and turned around. He drove out onto Walnut Street. The sallow streetlights glowed red over the vacant avenue. Joe flicked the sharp knife tip in his pocket, cracking his thumb nail. They drove ten minutes in silence. Ritchie-Eleven kept sighing. He lit another cig, smoked it then lit a third.

“I’ve got a crisis of the spirit, Ritchie-Eleven said.

“Do I look like a priest?”

“You’ve read the bible, right?”

“When I was a kid and too dumb to know better. We read it in Catechism before I was Confirmed. After that, my parents split up and stopped taking me and my sister to church.”

“Well, I love God. I know I’m a wicked man, but if I ask Jesus to come into my heart, he’ll forgive my sins and take me to his Father’s house.”

Joe flicked the knife too hard, and it slit his thumb. Blood dripped down his palm.

“So what are you whining about?” Joe asked. “It’s foolproof. Just ask for forgiveness on your deathbed, and you’ll be like that thief crucified next to Christ. A free ride.”

Joe wiped his palms on the seat.

“There’s just all these contradictions in the bible. In Exodus, the bible says the Lord is a man of war, but in Romans, He’s known as a God of peace.”

“Maybe your ass is going to burn in the fiery lake after all.”

Ritchie-Eleven tossed the butt out the window. It hit the pavement and casts red coals.

“Keeping me up at nights.”

They pulled into Fair View park. They got out and hiked to the storm drain.

“Yo dude,” Ritchie-Eleven yelled down into the pit. “You alive down there?”

They waited, listening to the silence.

“He might be keeping his mouth shut,” Joe whispered. “Worried it’s us.”

Joe walked back to the car and grabbed a crowbar. He pried off the iron grate.

“Shit. You’re not going down there?”

“My dad, before he shot himself, used to say, ‘Best place to find your god is total darkness.’” He jumped into the pit, braced his legs and landed about ten feet down. Rats scattered. Icy water soaked his shoes, and he shivered. He felt around the muddy concrete, the only light coming from a distant lamp above. He found plastic scraps from a garbage bag.

“Son of a bitch is gone,” he yelled up to Ritchie-Eleven.

The water drained down a series of pipes, just big enough for Joe to crawl through. He felt along the inside of the rusty pipe then held his hand to the light, seeing fresh blood on his fingers.

“Ritchie,” Joe yelled. “Go get that rope out of the trunk.”

A couple minutes later, Ritchie-Eleven lowered it down. Joe climbed up the slimy concrete side of the drain. He jogged back to the car.

“What’s the rush?” Ritchie-Eleven said. “We ain’t never going to find him.”

“Just drive the fucking car.”

They got in the car. Ritchie-Eleven pulled out of the park.

“Where we going?”

Joe slipped the knife out of his coat pocket.

“Over to Dominick’s house in West Chester. Drive fast.”

“Skipper’s not even awake yet,” Ritchie-Eleven said. “We’re just going to piss him off.”

“We need to surprise him,” Joe said. “Or fall to our knees and pray for forgiveness.”

T. Fox Dunham resides outside of Philadelphia PA—author and historian. He’s published in nearly 200 international journals and anthologies. His first novel, The Street Martyr, was published by Gutter Books. He’s a cancer survivor. His friends call him fox, being his totem animal, and his motto is: Wrecking civilization one story at a time. Site: www.tfoxdunham.com. Blog: http://tfoxdunham.blogspot.com/. http://www.facebook.com/tfoxdunham & Twitter: @TFoxDunham

When Phil Collins saw you, you were drowning. But he would not lend a hand.

Of course, he wasn’t from the Gutter. Here, we don’t lend a hand. Half the time we’re the ones who throw you in.

Drowning, Not Waving by Eddie McNamara

She ain’t waving, she’s drowning—but that’s none of my business, not yet.

I got my good eye fixed on the greaseball that just tossed that poor hooah into Sheepshead Bay like a used rubber that’ll wash up on Coney. They call him Musclelini. He hits the barbells almost as hard as the girls that work the Emmons Avenue stroll for him.

The kid’s got a nice racket: selling poon to the fisherman who dock their boats and bring home the catch of the day, and the clap to their wives. The anglers go for the skankiest prostis—the kind that won’t notice the stink of bluefish, fluke and porgies, ’cause that’s their natural perfume on a busy day.

I flick my Zippo and fire up a coffin nail. That’s the signal. Honey Harlowe (that ain’t her real name)—ten pounds of radioactive sex bomb in a dress made to hold five—does the drunk broad waltz right towards the ape in the dirty white tee.

Honey made the scene. He was on her like a starving mutt on a Luger’s steak.

Gravity opens my blade.

He’s putting the moves on, and she’s pretending to tangle with him. He tears her dress. I come up from behind and slice him like a roast beef at Brennan & Carr.

Into the bay, he goes. The fish eat Italian tonight.

Somebody’s save the day for that drowning piece of ass still flailing in the drink. I can’t let good meat go to waste. But that somebody ain’t gonna be me. The water’ll screw with the pomade in my hair and flatten it. Not the first impression the new boss wants to make.

Better if Honey jumps in and plays heroine. She’ll need to make nice with this skeeze in order to class her up for my operation. That kinda thing builds a bond. Besides, that mook ripped her dress half off. She’s not having any of it. I grab a handful of her bottle blonde hair, scoop her up under the knees and throw her in.

It’s a regular Esther Williams show in Sheepshead Bay tonight.

Eddie McNamara writes for Penthouse. He’s had stories in Thuglit, All Due Respect, Shotgun Honey, Stoned Crow Press, and others.

We return with our second audio pairing.

This story has been haunting us since we first published it two years ago,

Daddy's Girl by Nicky Murphy

'Daddy?' I call out from a safe distance, just in case.
The man in the denim jacket and the faded cords, sitting at the blackjack table and looking like he's gotten used to handing over his chips, turns round. It's him. Christ. After nearly 25 years and so many false leads, I've finally found my Daddy.

I feel a vibration in my pocket and I nip round the corner of a line of slot machines. I peer round as I retrieve my cell - the man has a puzzled look on his face, but he soon returns to his game. One of the doll-faced hostesses offers him a beer on the house. He takes two. He won't be going anywhere soon.

'Yes?'

'Hey, Chicken, how's it hanging' baby?'

Shit, it's Paolo. Why didn't I check caller ID?

'Hey, Paolo, just takin' a break,' I say.

'Well, here's the thing, Chicken, I hear you ain't been workin’ for a coupla hours.' I hear him take a deep drag, and exhale slowly. 'Could even be more than that.'

That may be true - I've been combing Cleopatra's Casino since dinner, and Vegas since forever. Everyone ends up in Vegas. Some never leave. Just like me.

'I'll get back to it baby,' I say. 'It's just that - '

'It's just nothin', Chicken,' Paolo says pleasantly. 'Now, get back to work an' stop moping. Time is money. My money.' He takes another drag. 'If you don't wanna, remember what happened to Lola.'

Everyone remembers what happened to Lola. She slackened off, tried to get herself a real job 'cos of her little girl. She got visited by two friends of Paolo's, and now wears a permanent smile, ear to ear.

'Ok, baby, I wanna,' I say.

'Good girl,' Paolo says. 'Go suck me some dick, lie back and pretend it's me humpin' ya, and remember who keeps you safe round here.'

I return the phone to my pocket. Shit, stop shaking, calm down.

I look round again, just in time to see him getting up and heading towards one of the exits. Seems like Lady Luck isn’t on his side tonight. I tail him - it's not difficult, he's walking the careful walk of the slightly pissed.

Once outside, he finally pauses by a dumpster and slumps against it. He burps, loudly.

I go up to him and gently touch his arm.

'Hey, Daddy, it's me,' I say. 'It's Rosie. Your little girl.'

He stares at me with unfocussing eyes.

‘Wha’ the fuh?’ His breath stinks of beer and nachos. His belly strains at his tee-shirt, faded AC/DC transfer and stained with something bad.

'You must remember me,' I persist. 'You used to read me stories at bedtime? Bath me and Cassie when Mom was out working?'

‘Sorry, lady, I think you want someone who gives a shit.’ He’s sobering up quickly, confronted by a mad woman who’s making no sense whatsoever. He shakes his head, snorts, and tries to shuffle away.

The redness descends on me - my scalp starts to burn and crackle, and my heart is pounding like a drummer on acid. I grab the photo out of my back pocket and thrust it in his face.

'That's me and Cassie!' I cry. 'The last time we were happy! When you used to love us, and tell us that we were your only girls, and that no-one made you feel like we did! We didn't tell, Daddy! We didn't tell!'

Now he's scared, eyes wide, and he's trying to run, but I kick him – hard - in the leg and he goes down.

'I didn't know Mom would come home early, I didn't know she'd throw you out! You shouldn't have left us, you motherfucking bastard!'

I stand over him, raise my foot, then bring it down, over and over and over, just to stop the screaming.

Whumpf! That's for Mom, who cried herself to sleep for weeks, steadily drank herself into a stupor and out of a job then calmly stepped out in front of a train at Mayhew Crossing one bleak Thanksgiving.

Whumpf! That's for Cassie, who felt so mixed up and confused that she got herself pregnant by the first hick who snuck his hand up her knickers, and who now has five snotty brats, a trailer home in the asshole of Crapsville and a husband who beats her up on a regular basis to remind her how lucky she is.

The final heel in the face is for me, one of the hardest-working whores in Vegas, who has to keep turning tricks before her face and body give up on her, because she knows no other fucking trade, because somewhere and somehow a guy hasto love her the way her Daddy loved her.

I turn over the snivelling wreck with my toe. Better make this look like a robbery. I feel inside his jacket pocket, and pull out a wallet.

I take the bills and shove them in my own pocket. I pull out his driving licence. Hm, so he calls himself Mike LeSalle now. Then I check his date of birth.

Oh no.

Fuck.

If this is right, he's only 12 years older than me. He can't be my Daddy.

But he looks like him.

Doesn't he?

I turn to Daddy - Mike - and I can't be sure but I think he's stopped breathing.

Shit, not again.

Nicky Murphy lives in England and writes flash fiction when the inspiration imp bites her on the arse. Once, on holiday in Frisco, she was told she had a beautiful aura. She tries to put that right that in her stories.

Everyone knows: you don’t tug on Superman’s cape. You don’t spit in the wind. And the Lord loves a working man.

Oh, and for the love of God (or the other guy), remember: in the Gutter, there ain’t no such thing as an easy payday.

Anti-Theft Measures by Ben Reese

The car was a tasteful gray but to Mark it looked like gold. The streak of blue chalk the meter maid left on the front tire showed it had been parked there since before six, when meters stopped charging, and that the owner had paid the fee. It was after one now and the other spaces were empty, the street deserted but for Mark and the Audi.

It was the TT model, small and lozenge-like, like it was meant to be swallowed rather than driven. Inside was Mark’s target—an iPhone 6 Plus. Any iPhone was a prize, but the latest model was always worth more. The Plus was still a novelty and Mark knew Jerry would pay extra for it.

He approached the passenger side and eyed the sticker on the window.

“Protected by security measures, my ass,” he said. Nearly every car had that sticker, and lots had that little red light blinking near the lock. But those were scare tactics, Mark knew. Hardly anyone actually used a car alarm anymore. Too much trouble when they went off.

With a glance either way, Mark shifted his weight to his left leg and raised his right foot. He loved this part. The secret was to aim for a spot six inches inside the car and drive with the heel. Kicking in a car window made Mark feel like Bruce Motherfuckin’ Lee.

This time was no different. He felt a shot of exhilaration as the window exploded into diamonds of safety glass. In a second he had the door unlocked and open, sweeping the seat with a hand wrapped in his windbreaker. Then he was in with the door shut behind him.

Before the iPhone, the glove compartment. A glance took in the usual: owner’s manual, pens, receipts, breath mints. Then something that made Mark’s heart pound—a black holster. But his excitement flagged when he saw Vipertek stamped into the leatherette, and dimmed even further when his fingers found it empty.

Not a real pistol, just a stun gun. Still a shame it wasn’t here, he thought. Jerry paid top dollar for firearms but even a stun gun would swell this take.

Still, the iPhone.

Mark lifted it and thumbed the button, lighting the screen and presenting him with a slider, another welcome surprise. No fingerprint scan, no code, no security.

A tap brought up the photo gallery and he randomly picked a folder. He was hoping for kids, little ones. Infants if he was lucky.

Jerry would pony up for a hot phone, but Mark knew he could collect a finder’s fee that’d dwarf whatever Jerry offered if there were family photos. So long as he wasn’t caught stealing it, who could prove he hadn’t found the iPhone? With pictures of their brats on it, people would pay even if they suspected how he’d gotten it.

No kids, but Mark was pleased with what he did find.

Breasts. Bare breasts on a pale torso beneath a rucked-up sweater.

Perfect. Better than kids. People pay dearly to get sex pics back. It’s all well and good for celebrities’ to leak, but what would the boss think if these showed up in his inbox? And if that made the transaction more blackmail payment than finder’s fee, Mark could live with the distinction.

Smiling, he pocketed the iPhone and left the car.

Three blocks away, in the drivers’ seat of his pickup, Mark reactivated the phone. May as well see how good those photos were before he pulled the sim card.

The breasts reappeared. Mark swiped sideways and the next photo slid into view, same breasts from a wider angle. Now he could see the woman was on a metal chair, hair covering the part of her face visible in the frame.

The third photo revealed the handcuffs.

The knife showed up in the fifth.

Mark’s thumb slid faster, animating a stream of photos that became increasingly scarlet as they passed. He stopped with the breasts onscreen again, staring like pale eyes from the bloody sheet they sat upon, the rest of the woman’s body nowhere in the picture.

Trembling, Mark backed into the iPhone’s gallery and chose another folder. Another woman, blonde and tied to a bed. Another folder and another woman, older, eyes closed on what looked like a dental chair. And another, younger, with a nose ring. And others. Many others.

He heard the truck door open and felt the pressure at the base of his neck at almost the same time.

“Never heard of Find My iPhone?” a voice asked.

He got out “No! I have but…” before the stun gun crackled.

Mark opened his eyes and saw men’s leather shoes, the kind with little holes in a pattern on the toe.

“Stay here,” he heard. “I’ll be just a minute.”

Then the electricity again.

He heard the Audi first, and then tires came into focus, the blue chalk mark on one rotating until it stopped pointed at his head. The leather shoes returned.

“I had other things in mind for tonight,” Mark heard. His arms, which were tingling but still refused to move, were bound behind his back. “Imagine my annoyance when my lady friend and I returned to find the window broken and my phone missing.”

Mark saw the trunk lid rise and tried to talk but all he managed was a wheeze.

“She insisted I call the police after I used her iPhone to find you. I barely persuaded her back into the taxi and on her way home—a much different destination than the one I had in mind for her, I’ll add.”

Mark tried to fight as he was lifted, but he tumbled into the car.

“You’re not my type, but I’ll make an exception,” the man said. “You see, I don’t let people take what’s mine. And these?”

He angled the smartphone so Mark could see the thumbnails.

“They’re mine.”

When the lid closed, the trunk was dark as a grave.

Ben Reese is an ex-reporter, an ex-editor for a famous dotcom, and currently in advertising. He was born on Leap Day, which makes him way too young to write stories like this. Ben lives in Seattle with his wife, two sons, small dog, and a voracious tortoise named Claire.

With all the violence and cruelty this site offers up, you'd think you'd be safe with a bit of loving.

Daniel Henshaw proves you don't need to spill blood to destroy a life.

La Furcia Murciana by Daniel Henshaw

The young lady spoke with the most beautiful Spanish accent. “You like a drink?”

Martin Watson was zipping up his jeans when he thought about his over-sized beer-belly. He knew he’d performed well enough in the sack but the girl couldn’t have enjoyed having all that flab jiggling around on top of her. He glanced over towards his temporary host, with a glass in her hand, and realised that she was precisely his type. He always picked the same sort. Whether he was in Prague, Vegas, or here in Spain, he always chose the same. Firstly, they needed tight, curly red hair with freckles on the skin if possible. They’d have to have full, juicy lips and straight, white teeth. And when it came to the body, Martin liked big – big ass and big breasts. Martin realised that he was rather specific with his women but it was Martin’s belief that when you’re paying for it, you need to get your money’s worth. And, in his experience, the big red-heads always delivered.

They, however, were not always easy to find. In Dublin it’s never too difficult. But try finding a red-head in Mumbai. Even here, in the small Murcian town of San Javier, it was tricky. Spain was not known for its ginger girls. However, Martin had been here eighteen years ago and, although the place had changed somewhat, he knew exactly where to look. He had successfully found a ginger-Spaniard eighteen years ago and he’d found one again tonight.

“Are you not desperate to get rid of me?” Martin asked with a cheeky grin on his face.

The girl, Sofía, brushed her fingers through her fiery red curls and breathed out a short giggle. “You pay for an hour so you get me for an hour!”

Martin’s eyes moved quickly around the room. Firstly, he squinted into the red UV lighting on the wall, then failed to recognise any of the hip hop artists in the girl’s CD collection and he even noticed a pair of roller-blades in the corner. Suddenly, Martin felt rather old. He was well into his forties and this gorgeous work of art in front of him couldn’t have been a day older than twenty. Stuff it, he told himself, what is life if it’s not for enjoying? His eyes then returned lustfully to Sofía while she stood there naked, clumsily pouring a couple of Vodka Martinis. She was perfect; great ass, great tits, worth every penny.

Sofía finished making the drinks and strolled sensually back towards him. She handed Martin his glass and then climbed back on the bed. She lay next to him, wrapping her bare left-leg around his waist and placing her hand on his chest.

“You like this part of España?” she asked, taking a sip of her cocktail.

“Yes, I love it. I’ve been here before.”

“Really? I meet you last year?”

Martin snorted out a laugh. “God no! It was eighteen years ago!”

“Oh!” Sofía giggled. “Before I even was born!”

Unconsciously, Martin took a sharp intake breath. “How old are you?”

“I’m seventeen. It’s ok, we do sex at sixteen in España.”

Seventeen? Seventeen was ok. Christ, Martin had lost his virginity at fourteen. She clearly wasn’t bothered about her age so why should he be. Stuff it, he told himself, what is life if it’s not for enjoying?

Sofía suddenly grabbed hold of Martin’s face and gave him the most passionate-yet-delicate kiss imaginable. Her soft lips and tongue were like those of an angel; sending him into a half-dream, as if he were floating around in space for a few seconds before hazily he drifted back into the red, ultraviolet light of the prostitute’s bedroom. When he opened his eyes, he realised he had a firm grasp of her left breast and something firm in his pants too.

“So, Mr Englishman. Which part of England you come from?”

“You probably won’t have heard of it. I come from a little village called Clowne.”

“Clowne!” The girl sat upright. Her reaction was completely unexpected, as few people outside of the area had actually heard of Clowne. “In Derby?” Sofía pronounced this quite phonetically; saying der-bee rather than dar-bee.

“Well, it’s in Derbyshire but it’s not actually anywhere near Derby. Anyway, how in God’s name do you know about Clowne?”

“My papa is from Clowne. He met mama just once but she always remember the name of his town. Like the circus.”

Martin’s mouth suddenly turned oatmeal-dry and a sharp churning twisted in his gut. “Your mother’s name isn’t María, is it?”

Daniel holds a BA in English Studies and is a qualified primary school teacher. He has had a handful of articles published in magazines and had his first piece of fiction published in 2014. When Daniel isn't teaching children, he enjoys writing short stories for both children and adults.

If it's true that man's best friend is his dog,

then his worst enemy has got to be MAN

The Only Thing That Fits by Beau Johnson

Four boys playing fort are who found what we’d thought was the second girl, Rebecca Hall, age 12, beat, bloodied and dead. Last time anyone had seen her was two days prior, a Monday, two steps off her school bus and sixty from home. Deputy Detective John Batista is the officer who catches the case, me, in turn, becoming his very next call. A murderer in my own right, I had no problem doing what needed to be done. Batista, giant, thick, with a face the color of pissed-off brick, knew this as well. Both of us more than proficient in the art of subterfuge we’d come to utilize. Seeing we were the very same thing we’d come to hunt meant we pretty much had to be.

The autopsy confirmed what each of us feared: rape. What it also confirmed was that Rebecca Hall was not the second victim but actually the fourth. Not to be out done, it was the girl’s stomach content which spoke loudest of all.

“It’s canine, Rider. Goddamn bastard fed her her dog.” Even strong men had bad days. For Batista, this was one. “A Collie named Frank.”

“Narrows it down though, way I see it.” I was right, of course, and Batista knew as much. Didn’t mean either of us he had to like it. Scenarios just worked better this way. Same thing with plans.

Three weeks later---after every vet, pre-vet, canine shelter, dog walker, and pet food store owner are interviewed from Culver City down to Hanson Falls---it’s a man by the name of Gank the CCPD looks at hard. Inheriting his kennel by way of an uncle who held a different last name, Rudy Gank had come to Culver three years prior by way of overcrowding, early release and a probation system down for the count. Wasn’t much of a surprise either, the circumstance one the core reasons the Detective and I had begun what we had.

Text message received, I find the piece of scum in jeans and a beater T. Thick and wide, he’s packing a bag in an attempt to flee. It’s as he turns around that I tell him to lie on the ground.

“You ain’t no cop.” Man had me there.

“By the time I’m done with you, Rudy, I can guarantee you’ll wish I was.”

Fuck and you were the next things that tried to come from his mouth. Once he regained consciousness I’d already connected jumper cables that stretched from balls to battery and back again. Juice turned up, the man fries, the world becoming a slightly better place in the process.

Or so I’d thought.

“It’s happening again,” Batista says, and the look in the man’s eyes tells me more than I care to know. Turns out Gank had a sibling, a brother, Henry J. Seems Henry J liked the same things Rudy did, right down to feeding his victims a lighter shade of pink.

“I mean, you can’t be fucking serious.” It was rhetorical, and Batista had said it more than a few times since we’d uncovered the link. We were at the usual spot, each of us looking down over Culver as it slept.

“Doesn’t make a difference, John. Once we find him, man’s going to die all the same.”

“I know. I know. But Gank having a partner, a brother no less, and us missing that, it makes me think I might be getting too old for this.” I’ve seen a lot of things, more than I care to acknowledge. One thing I know for certain is that true evil is more human than mankind will ever come to admit. It also lives only to destroy. Batista knew as much, was the reason he wore the badge, but it also proved that he and I were as different now as we’d been back then.

“John. The man will slip up. We’ll get him. I promise.”

And we did, just not as I thought we would, nor when. Four years and eleven girls later I get the call. Batista. He’s at a safe house of mine, one of the bigger ones, telling me he’d finally struck gold. I move, and fast, as there was something in the big man’s voice. Shouldn’t have surprised me though, what I found, as the case had taken its toll on Batista, whittling him down bit by bit these last couple years. Empathy and ineffectiveness will do that to a cop. Sadly, each is capable of creating the worst type of fuse.

“Stop…no…too deep!” is what comes to me once I open up the floor. The screams accompanying the words are high and full, erupting from a mouth that can hardly catch what it needs to breathe. What hits me next is the smell of shit that is wet and fresh and round. As for Batista, he’s there within it, Henry Gank’s pants about his shins, his face against the wall, and Batista up inside him with a piece of rebar that could have passed for bone.

Batista is grunting, a man determined, but he is weeping as well, and it is here I lay a hand upon his back, and then upon his wrist, and then he all at once stops and relinquishes the steel.

“I tried, Rider…thought I could…” he says, and I know how he needs it to end. I’ve always known. But we weren't the same, never have been and never would be. I’d like to say I envy him that, but no, I've too much hate.

“I’ll finish.” I say and then send Batista up a level to clean up as much of himself as he could. Once I hear the floor door close is when I step towards a face so close to one I thought I’d never see again. He’d made his way to a corner, a trail of shit and blood snaking the concrete between us. I hunker down, face him, and tell him of his brother; of how that piece of scum had burned and wept and pled before I ripped apart his eyes. The man starts, snarls, but then stops just as quick, and I can only assume it’s because Batista had taken too much from him. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I too take something from the man, his jaw, by way of hammer, but before I do he tries his best to stand. Once up, he glares at me, finally choosing to speak. “Like I tole your friend, why we did it, why we do, it’s because even dirty bitches need to eat.” It’s only when the silence comes that I realize the time for talking had already passed.

For those of us who know, it’s the only thing that fits.

“Everybody fucks weird.” Cracked.com

Today Mick Rose makes his Guttorial debut with a new definition for the term “shit-kicker”...

Foot Fetish by Mick Rose

Eli likes to brag that he killed a man who got fresh with his wife.

“Didn’t do no time either,” he'll say. “’less you count living with that bitch.”

He points with his thumb to Lori, who doesn’t pay Eli much attention anymore.

She will, however, verify the story, saying that Fat Billy Shaw was drunk on his ass late one Friday night and, as she and Peggy McElveen staggered across the parking lot of Sammy’s Pub, offered to drink beer out of Lori’s shoe.

“I said okay just to see if the goddamned pervert would do it.” She snorts a laugh and shakes her head. “I started to slide my ol’ stank-foot shoe off, pour some beer in it, and dare that fat sonofabitch to drink it. But before I could make a move he was down on his knees right there in Sammy’s parking lot.”

She takes a toke from her Marlboro, exhales, coughs up a loogie, and spits it off the porch.

“Then he just knelt there like a moron, staring at my feet like he didn’t know what was next. I leaned my fat tail against that piece of shit he used to drive and lifted my right foot a little. “Go on,” I told him. “Take my shoe off, Billy.

“Billy takes holt o’ my foot like it’s the most precious goddamned thing he’s ever touched in his life, slides my ol’ shoe off, and lays it on the ground. He’d forgot about drinking beer out of it. Instead he puts his big, ugly nose right on my bare, stink-ass toes and takes two or three long, deep whiffs. ‘Like heaven,’ he tells me. And that’s when I told him to kiss it. Just like that. I said, ‘Kiss it, Billy. Kiss my goddamned foot.’

“It’s amazing how it feels to tell a man, even Fat Billy, something like that and have him down on his knees doing it. I didn’t really think he would, but the sonofabitch starts kissing my toes, real gentle, with his lips closed. Then he looks up at me, pitiful, like I’m going to suddenly deny him the pleasure of further humiliating his big, stupid self. And I say, ‘Go on, now, Billy. You know what to do. Clean it up.’ So Billy lays down on his belly right there in the gravel and mud and starts lickin’ my foot like it was a Popsicle. I tell him, ‘That’s right, asshole, lick it good. Suck those toes. Get that toe jam out of there.’ Shit like that. An’ Bill is going to town, snortin’ and suckin’ like a pig in slop. Then he starts humping the ground, and Peggy Lynn is just a-laughin’.

“They’s other people stopped to see what’s goin’ on—Joe Henry, Lindell, Sue Brazell, an’ a couple others, and I decide to put on a little show. I say, ‘Roll over on your back, Billy boy, and take it out. I want see you jerk off while you suck my foot.’ That fat bastard rolls over just like I tell him and pulls his thing out. He has trouble with it bein’ hard and all, but finally gets it out. It wasn’t big as you'd think what with him bein’ such a tall motherfucker. I tell him to spit in his hand and jerk off, and then I hold my foot over his mouth and let him lick the sole, and that boy was goin’ at it.

“And that,” Lori says, “is when Eli came upon them and slammed his big, booted foot into Bill’s ribs.

“That big, dumb shit never had a chance. He just rolled over to one side and lay there with his thing hangin’ out while Eli put the boot to him. We’re talkin’ those big, steel toed motherfuckers Eli wore when he worked over to the weldin’ shop, and Eli was puttin’ some force to it, kickin’ that dumb fuck like he actually gave a shit who sucked my toes. Smashed his big, ugly nose. Kicked his yellow teeth in. Kicked his belly so hard the boy was pukin’ brown. Kicked him for ten minutes and I tol’ him to quit it, that he was gonna kill the man, but you know how that bastard is when he gets goin’ on somebody. Eli jus’ said to shut the fuck up, and then tells me and Peg to grab his Bill’s feet and pull his legs apart, and we knew what was coming. And poor ol’ Billy tried to shake us loose, but he was more feeble than usual by then, and I swear if Eli didn’t kick that man’s balls up into his big, stupid head. I saw Bill’s eyes roll up ’til the whites was showin’. Then he starts prayin’, askin’ the Lord to save his sorry ass. But after three of four hard-as-hell kicks between his legs you didn’t hear nothin’ else. That fucker wasn’t even flinchin’. But Eli wasn’t finished, and he goes to the truck to grab an ol’ piece of 2x4 he’s got back there and starts beatin’ the son of a bitch, tellin’ him he’ll teach him to fuck with a man’s wife.

“We weren’t sure if Fat Billy was alive or dead when we loaded him in his truck. Next day it come out in the paper he was dead.

“Anybody who lives around here knows about when they found. Billy Shaw dead and a ‘likely victim of foul play.’ Likely, my ass. But I always thought Bill’s body had been discovered in a ditch. I said as much, and Eli said that Bill must have managed to climb out of his truck and crawl toward the highway.

“’Cep’ he fell in the goddamned ditch and drowned.”

It was that fact that Billy was able to climb out of his truck and crawl toward the highway that saved Eli from a murder charge. That and the other fact that while folks said they had seen Bill sleeping it off in his truck early that morning after last call nobody was willing to testify that they had seen Eli working him over.

So why, if Eli had beat a man to death, would he confess it so free and easy?

“So you’ll know that what’s mine is mine, and that I’ll kill any son of a bitch who touches it.”

I have to admit I felt a little edgy after that. I mean, Eli ain’t that big, and the years of abuse have taken their toll, but I knew he was mean even before this tale was told, and that he doesn’t care about much in the way of the law.

“I am,” he told me once, “my own goddamned law.”

Another thing I’ll tell you is that, between you and me, I’ve had a time or two with Lori, who doesn’t think twice about laying it on you if she’s in the mood and Eli ain’t around. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t have anything to do with either of them if it weren’t for the merchandise that brings me here.

So I go ahead and make my deal and get the fuck out of there.

And hope that sonofabitch never finds out I fucked his girl.

Mick Rose: reader, writer, dreamer, lover, and connoisseur of fine, boxed wine. His fiction and poetry have appeared in a variety of publications, online and print.