Ghost Watch.US has published my story "Mind Your Manners." Check it out here.

The good folks at the engine (idling have published my poem, "Fall River Girl." You can read it here. 

If you are not a bot, I urge you to check out my story, "Three," published in Issue 31 of Ginosko Literary Journal. 

A Man of Consequence

 1

“What a buncha dopes,” sneered Joe Scalzo, staring out at the holiday shoppers along Eighty-Sixth Street. “Every year they wait till the last possible second. You’d think they woulda smartened up a bit by now.” He hung the CLOSED sign in the front window and locked the door.

            “Don’t worry,” said Jasmine, folding a pair of fake leather pants, “I’ll take your mind off them. I’ll distract you.”

            He turned and winked at the young sales girl. In a moment they’d be going into the stockroom, where Jasmine would receive what Joe liked to call her “weekly bonus”.

            Suddenly there was a bang on the door. Scalzo leaped back from the surprise. It was the woman who had fallen in love with a fringed, red leather jacket earlier that day. She nearly shed tears when Joe told her they did not accept credit cards, but then vowed to return with $300 cash. Joe did not believe her. Now her pale fleshy face was right there in front of him, steaming up the glass. A meaty fist clutching a mess of crumpled bills came into view. “I have money!” yelled the red donut-hole mouth. Grumbling, Joe opened the door.

            “I HAVE MONEY!” she announced again upon entering.    

            He turned toward the rack, only to find Jasmine already standing beside him with the jacket. The girl smiled, her lazy eye gazing warmly into the distance just above his right shoulder. She handed him the merchandise.

            “This is a real beauty,” he told the woman. “I showed you where the only problem is, right here under the arm where no one can see. That’s it. Otherwise this baby is pure perfection.”

            Her eyes narrowed. “It is real Dolce Gabana?”

            He showed her the label.

            “How much?”

            “I told you. Three-hundred.”

            “I have two-forty,” she wheezed.

            Joe thought for a moment. “OK, two-forty. But no return, no receipt.”

            She handed over the cash and he casually slipped it into his pocket. He offered a shopping bag, but she insisted on wearing the jacket now. After struggling to pull it over a thick wool sweater with imitation fur collar, the woman’s pudgy face glowed with satisfaction. She left the boutique resembling a very happy overripe tomato.

            Joe Scalzo quickly locked the front door and followed the thick, hip-swaying sales girl into the musty stockroom. After a few perfunctory kisses he laid her down on some cardboard beside the irregular handbags and the irregular bikinis. It was all over very quickly.

            When it was all over the poor, insecure high school senior gazed up lovingly into her boss’s dull brown eyes. She did not know what it was about him that made her go all warm inside. He was not handsome. His mug bore that dim, perplexed expression of someone straining over a Find-A-Word puzzle. Yet Jasmine continued to dream of one day becoming his girl. She never considered Scalzo’s live-in girlfriend and two young daughters when she entertained this fantasy; she pushed them to the back of her teenaged mind, obscured them, the same way she pulled down her curly brown hair to obscure her lazy eye from the world.

            “Baby,” she whispered, “when is it going to be just us?”     

“Soon,” he muttered, “soon.”

            A few minutes later she was in a cab and headed home to Sunset Park.     

            Leaning up against the counter, Joe carefully read the register tape and counted the day’s profits. Everything matched. It had been an excellent day, the boutique made over two-thousand dollars. The bosses would never miss that cash he’d just pocketed for the leather jacket. So with a brown paper bag containing profits and register tape, and twelve twenties folded neatly in his pocket, Joe Scalzo shut the lights and pulled the gates down on the Castellamare Boutique. Then he got into his old Mercury Monarch and headed to the cafe to report to his superior.

            It was a year ago this month that Joseph Scalzo first got into bed with the mob. After profuse volunteering he was finally assigned an errand by his girlfriend’s cousin Angelo, the Ferrante Family’s top hitman. The task--to drive a dozen handguns from West Virginia up to New York--went off without a hitch. As a result he was handed numerous other small jobs over the course of the year, which he performed with zeal. Fueled by these minor achievements, Scalzo now dreamed of climbing the mob ladder, of becoming a made man within La Cosa Nostra. And in his girl’s cousin, a highly respected soldier, he saw a potential sponsor for membership. But every time Joe broached the subject he was brushed off, told that the books have not been opened in years, there is no telling when the family will be accepting new members. In the meantime he was entrusted with Castellamare.

            On paper it was owned by the Alzheimer’s-ridden uncle of a local Cosa Nostra associate, but for all practical purposes the boutique belonged to the Ferrante Family. They christened the tiny clothing store--tucked between a Korean beauty parlor and a Chinese takeout--after Castellamare del Golfo, a sunny town in western Sicily named for its most prominent feature, a castle by the sea. The boutique’s merchandise, consisting solely of irregular clothing and accessories for women, was regularly rerouted to Bensonhurst as it arrived on the waterfront from Indonesia. And since most of the dock’s foremen had been on the Ferrante payroll for as long as they could recall, the scheme went over beautifully. Naturally, newcomer Scalzo was not given full charge of the store. Managerial duties were split with a venerable soldier named Anthony (Little Tony) Assante. After thirty-five years, three wars, and over a decade served in federal prisons, Little Tony was finally going to be put on the shelf. But before being granted retirement Assante was assigned one final task: to work in the boutique for a while and keep a watchful eye over the dealings of Joe Scalzo.

2

            Standing conspicuously on a residential corner in Dyker Heights, Cafe Abruzzi sported large spotless windows that welcomed passersby to glance inside at the five elderly gentlemen who sat innocently playing cards, reading the Italian newspaper Oggi, and drinking espresso from dainty white cups. The decor was modest. On the walls were a framed map of Italy, some photos of Italian soccer teams, and an amateurish oil painting of the crucifixion. Behind the counter sat an old-school Brooklyn gal, all big hair and nails, snapping her gum into the phone. Scalzo smiled, pointed to a closed back door and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “Is he in there?” She nodded. He knocked, announced himself, and the voice from beyond bid him to enter.

            The small cramped office was not as brightly lit as the rest of the cafe. Shelves lining the walls were piled with cartons of sugar, plastic cups, and coffee machine filters. In the middle of the shadowy room was a desk which was way too large for its surroundings. Its surface was a mess of pads, pens and newspaper. A cigarette burned away in an ashtray. Seated behind this disarray was a swarthy fellow in a white dress shirt who had a large mouth which made him resemble a horse. Joe smiled and the man smiled and they shook hands. Then Joe placed the brown paper bag on the desk.    

            “How’s it going?” asked horse face.

            “Great, Mr. Mazza, great,” said Joe respectfully. “Lotta profits this week.”

            He opened the bag, glanced inside, then smiled approvingly. “How much?”

            “A little over two grand.”      

            “Receipts all in order?”

            “Perfect order, Mr. Mazza.”

            “You sure?”

            “Absolutely.”

            “You know, a lady came in Tuesday to return something and when Tony asked for a receipt she said you never gave her one.”

            “Really?”

            Assuming a fatherly tone he said, “Listen kid, you gotta make sure you keep perfect records, do everything by the book here. There’s a lotta eyes on you right now. You don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about you. I want you to succeed at this. Angelo wants you to succeed.”

            Joe put on his shame face. “I know Mr. Mazza. I musta been daydreaming or something. It won’t happen again.”

            “Good.” He handed Scalzo an envelope containing $250, his weekly wages. Then he stood and put on his coat. “Cause I got big plans for you Joe. Take a walk with me. I wanna talk serious with you about something.”

            The two walked out into the winter night. A light snow had begun to coat the ground like a sprinkle of confectioners’ sugar on a zeppole. Joe held a large black umbrella over his boss as they began their stroll around the block. He knew that what Mazza had to say was of the utmost importance; otherwise they never would have come out into the wet cold, beyond the range of electronic listening devices, which Mazza was always wary of.

            They walked silently for some time past houses blinking with blue and red Christmas lights. Then after a cautious backward glance the mobster spoke in a near whisper, “I want you to do a piece of work for me. Are you willing to do that?”

            Scalzo tried to mask the trembling in his voice. “I would be honored. I been hoping for a long time to get the chance to prove myself.”

            “Good. You’ll work with Angelo. He’ll show you the right way to do things.”

            “Who are we gonna...?”

            He waited until they had passed an old woman watching her poodle piss against a tree. “Jimmy, the sheet metal worker.”

            Scalzo repressed a gasp of surprise. He had grown up with Jimmy, there was history between them. Not good history. Like Scalzo, Jimmy was an associate of The Family. Joe did not know exactly what he did, aside from the fact that it had to do with the sheet metal worker’s union. He wondered why Jimmy was slated to be knocked off, but knew better than to ask.

            “Consider it done, Mr. Mazza.”

            “Good. Go home, have a nice dinner with your family - how is your family?”

            “They’re fine, thanks.”

            “When are you gonna marry that girl?”

            “Soon, Mr. Mazza, soon.”

            “I better be invited to the wedding!” He patted Joe on the back. “Anyway, go spend some time with your family. (I don’t gotta tell you don’t say nothing to no one.) Angelo will call your cell phone around midnight. This is gonna look real good for you, Joe”

            “Thank you, Mr. Mazza. I won’t disappoint you.”

            They shook hands and parted. Joe chain-smoked Newport Lights and strangled his steering wheel all the way back to Bensonhurst.

             * 

            The apartment was in its usual state. Stuffed animals and plastic playsets, old TV Guides and crowded ashtrays, dirty napkins and dead remotes--all swirled together in the great vacuum of disarray that was Joe’s living room. At the center of this madness was Nicole, his six-year-old. She was stretched out on the hardwood floor in her pink and blue pajamas, intently braiding the hair of a naked Indian doll. Joe watched her for a moment before walking over to the aluminum mini-tree on the coffee table and adjusting the red plastic star on top. He plugged in the lights and the tree began to blink.

            “Get off the cold floor,” he said, “and put some socks on.”     

            “You gonna be here this Christmas?” asked Nicole.

            “Just go put some socks on, and don’t get smart with me.”

            Scalzo then followed Lisa’s baritone babbling into the kitchen, where he found her cradling the infant in one arm, and closing the refrigerator door with the other. The cordless phone was clinched securely between her head and shoulder. Seven years with Joe did not wear well with the woman. She was forty pounds overweight, disheveled, and hadn’t bleached her mustache since Nicole’s fifth birthday.

            “Your daughter’s in there with no socks on,” he barked. “Did you know that?”  

            Lisa continued yapping, so Joe wrenched the phone from her and hung it up. “Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you! You hear me?”              

            She stood there with the baby in her arm, mouth slightly agape, as if still trying to grasp exactly what had just taken place. Then her face tightened.

            “How dare you do that to me!” she yelled.

            “Why don’t you shut your mouth and make some dinner,” he said, “instead of bullshitting on the phone all day while the house falls to pieces.”

            “I would have made dinner if there was any food. But you don’t give me any money to go shopping.”

            Joe pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off two twenties and tossed them on the kitchen table.

            “Wow!” went Lisa, “forty dollars! That’ll get us a long way.”

            “That’s not good enough for you?” he growled. “My money’s not good enough for you?”

            Nicole, clutching a doll beneath her arm, entered the kitchen as her mother screamed.

            “Why don’t you take your lousy forty dollars and go spend it on one of your bimbos like you do every other goddamn week. You act like a real tough guy with me, but you’re not even man enough to take care of your kids. Go ahead. Go meet your stock girl--you think I don’t know about her?--take her out on the town while your two daughters sit here and starve.”

            The harsh truth of these words was too much. Blindly, thoughtlessly, Joe rushed forward and wrapped his hands around Lisa’s neck, slammed her up against the wall and squeezed. Her eyes bulged, her face grew bright red. In one arm she continued to hold the crying child, with the other she struggled vainly to free herself.

            Little Nicole was screaming as loud as she could. She did this not so much from fear but because she knew it would bring her father back to his senses, make him recall that the last time this had happened he was led away in handcuffs.

            Her plan worked. Scalzo soon released his grip and watched his girlfriend slide down the wall. She sat crumpled on the kitchen floor, at once trying to catch her breath and make sure that her three-year-old was all right. As Nicole ran to her mother’s aid Scalzo rushed past them into the bedroom. There he retrieved his 9-mm handgun from the dresser drawer, shoved it into his waistband, and stormed out of the apartment into the Brooklyn night.

3

        Without giving any thought to what had just taken place Joe hopped into his Monarch, turned on the radio and drove to Club BN, a little hole-in-the-wall strip joint located in the shadowy gloom beneath the el on New Utrecht Avenue. The establishment, named for its proximity to the station where the “B” and “N” train lines intersected, was run by one Three Finger Mike, and frequented almost entirely by those who were, like Scalzo, in “that life”.

            It was still early so there wasn’t much going on. A reggae song played as a lanky, blank-faced girl slowly gyrated for a train conductor who sat alongside the stage. Nodding to the bouncer, Joe handed his leather jacket to the coat-check girl and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a Jack and Coke and watched the robot make a living. It was clear from her movements that she had potential but was bored, and probably conserving energy for the evening ahead. Her thirtyish face was pretty in a prematurely worn sort of way and there were stretch marks on her light brown belly. Joe fleetingly wondered how many kids she had waiting at home.

            The night wore on. A platinum blonde whom Three Finger Mike introduced only as Lexus took to the stage. Her act was cold, rehearsed. She clearly lacked the other’s natural ability, but was younger and more pleasing to the eye. A few men, some associated with the Transit Authority, others with that other authority, now sat alongside the stage. Joe, however, remained at the bar, chain-smoking Newport Lights and drinking one Jack and Coke after another. His eyes seemed to remain fixed on the blonde, but if one were to observe him closely it would be clear that he was not actually watching the dancer at all, but rather looking through her. There were far graver matters on his mind.

            James Galante, or Jimmy Sheet Metal as he was now known, was going to stop breathing tonight. Good for him, the bastard. He’d made Joe’s stay in St. Francis of Assisi parochial school feel like an eight year stretch on Riker’s. Eight years of bullying and insults, threats and humiliation. Of watching his back on the staircase and running home after school. Eight years and seven bloody noses, four black eyes, countless swollen lips. And for what? Because Jimmy was a big strong kid and Joe was a shrimp. Because Jimmy was popular and had nice clothes and lived in a big house, and Joe was a poor nobody with holes in his sneakers. In short, because Jimmy Galante needed a victim, and little Joseph Scalzo fit the bill to a T. And then, as if all that weren’t enough, he had to go and steal Denise. Sweet, beautiful Denise. Joe’s first love, lured away by money and stature, used and abused like a $2 whore, then dumped on the corner for the next punk with a nice tattoo and daddy’s car keys in his pocket. She was never the same after that. Pride, self-respect, something had been stripped from her after those few weeks with Jimmy Galante, and it had been a steady decline ever since. Now she was the single mother of two mulatto infants, twins, and her welfare checks just about covered the payments on the local coke dealer’s new Mustang. Sweet, beautiful Denise....

            The coat-check girl was strutting by. Joe hadn’t noticed it before, but with her curly brown hair and soft dark eyes she bore a strong resemblance to his old sweetheart.

            Without thinking he grabbed her by the arm and snatched a twenty off the bar. “Gimme a lap dance,” he slurred.

            She grimaced and tried to free herself. “I’m coat-check. I don’t do lap dances.”

            Joe did not reply. He just held the girl’s arm tightly and gazed into her eyes. His own eyes were glazed from too much whiskey and years of longing. A flood of old memories raced before him. He no longer saw the coat-check girl squirming in his grip.

            “Let her go.”

            Snapping out of his reveries, Scalzo looked up to find the bouncer like a brick wall beside him. He shook his head a bit to bring himself back to reality, then released the girl. She rushed away rubbing her thin white arm, which bore a bright red hand print where he’d held her.

            “You gotta leave,” the bouncer said.

            Joe didn’t argue.

            As he stumbled to his car Angelo called on the cell phone, instructing him to stay put. Shortly afterwards a Ford Explorer rounded the corner and Joe hopped in.

            “How you feel?” Angelo wanted to know.

            “Great.”

            “You sure?”

            “Absolutely. What’s the plan?”

            Angelo lit a cigarette. The man was about forty-five, stocky, with hands that could crush coconuts. His face was flattened, like a boxer’s. It was a shrewd, dangerous face.

            “All right,” he said. “I told him about this candy store in Canarsie. Flimsy lock on the back door. No alarm. There’s three brand new games--you know, arcade games--in this place. We slip in, load up the truck, drive away. I know a guy in Queens that’ll give us a grand each for them. Got that?”

            Joe nodded.

            “OK. In reality a friend of mine owns this place and he’s letting us take care of our business there. We’ll go down the basement, I’ll have the kid bend over to pick up one of the games, then I’ll finish him. Simple.”

            “What about me?”

            “You’re my eyes and ears. I’m gonna be too busy to worry about nosey old broads walking their dogs and shit like that. That’s all up to you. I’m gonna be counting on you. Afterwards we’ll get rid of the kid, clean up, and that’ll be that. Questions?”

            Joe fidgeted slightly in his seat. “You think this will get me in? I mean when they open the books again?”

            Angelo took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled with obvious agitation. “The only thing on our minds right now should be the job we gotta do. If you got no questions about that then I’d like to go and get this over with.”

            Joe remained silent.

4

             It was midnight and the snow was falling heavily when they picked up Jimmy Sheet Metal in front of a small nameless bar on the west side of Kings Highway. Joe had not seen Galante in over a year. The cocky swagger, the phony grin, nothing had changed. Scalzo felt all the old pangs of hatred and jealousy as he watched his target strut confidently toward the Explorer.

            “Yo!” Joe fake smiled.

            “Yo!” went the other, sliding into the back seat.

            They shook hands. Jimmy reeked of alcohol.

            “I hear you’re doing all right for yourself,” Joe said, trying to mask the resentment in his voice.

            “I wish it was true,” came the somber reply. Uncomfortable silence reigned for the next minute. Jimmy took a deep breath, exhaled, and the stink of alcohol filled the vehicle. “My father passed six months ago,” he sighed.

            “Sorry - ”

            “Bastard left us with fifty grand in gambling debts. And now my mother just got diagnosed with breast cancer.”

            “Aw, Christ.”

            “If I don’t start pulling in some real cash she’s gonna die in the poor house.”

            “You make an easy grand tonight, you give that to your mother,” put in Angelo.

            “I need to be making that every night,” said Jimmy, “the way they been breathing down my neck.”

            “Who was your father betting with?”

            “Little Tony.”

            “I work with him,” said Joe. “I’ll talk to him, maybe we can arrange something.”

            “Thank you,” said Jimmy in a tone that was truly sincere. “Thanks a lot.”

            Joe knew he wouldn’t be speaking to Little Tony; he was in no position to approach his superior with such matters. Besides, the order was in, Jimmy was going to be knocked off tonight anyway. Yet upon hearing the heartfelt gratitude in his old classmate’s voice a strange feeling hit Joe. For the first time in his life he got a glimpse of what it really meant to be a man of consequence within the mob. To decide someone else’s fate with a word, just like a modern day Caesar. He sat there in a sort of devout silence, enthralled.

            Jimmy Sheet Metal cleared his throat. “Joe,” he said, “I wanna apologize.”

            “For what?”

            “For everything. For all my bullshit when we were kids. For Denise. Especially for Denise. It sounds crazy, but after my father died something clicked inside me, and I realized what a prick I’ve been my whole life. I mean, when my time comes I don’t wanna be remembered just for all the bad I did, the way people remember him. I want people to think of some good things too. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you - anything at all - you let me know. All right?”

            “Sure,” Joe muttered, a little uncomfortably. “Thanks.”

            “We’re here,” said Angelo, driving slowly down a narrow alley which opened into a dark, weedy lot. The hulking masses of two abandoned sedans, both set on cinder blocks, stood there in the falling snow. Surrounding buildings enclosed the small space like a courtyard.

            After the Explorer was backed up to the rear of the store the three men exited the vehicle. With a light shoulder check Angelo knocked open the back door.

            It was dark in there, black. Holding a lighter out in front of him, the hitman led the way down a creaking flight of stairs into the musty basement. He turned on the light. There were cases of soda, a refrigerator, wooden skids piled atop one another, and over in the far corner, the three arcade games.

            “I’m gonna go get a dolly from the truck so we can wheel them to the stairs,” he said. “Then we’re gonna have to carry them up.” He lit a cigarette and disappeared.   

            “Wanna play a game?” suggested Jimmy.

            “Sure, just like old times.”

            The metal worker crouched down, plugged in Mortal Combat, dropped in two quarters, and the first fierce crunching chords of the soundtrack filled the room.

            They stood side by side, manipulating the muscle-bound warriors as best they could. (It had been a few years since either of them had played a video game.) They worked the joysticks and buttons furiously - punching, kicking, flipping in the air. It was a close battle, but in the end Jimmy Sheet Metal was the victor.

            “One more,” said Joe, eager to even the score. He dropped his own change into the machine this time.

            And they fought. Their violent movements had the game rocking to and fro. Joe felt the old rush, like when he was sixteen hanging in the back of the candy store with his boys.

            He won.

            “Good game,” went Jimmy. “But let’s make it best of three.”

            Jimmy dropped two more quarters into the game, and as he did Joe Scalzo remembered exactly why they were there. His knees went weak. He suddenly felt for James Galante, forgave all of his injustices. He no longer wanted him dead.

            The game began. As Joe played he desperately tried to think of some way to prevent the assassination of his old nemesis. Maybe, just maybe I could warn him, tell him to jet before it’s too late. While the warriors battled he whispered urgently:

            “You should get out of here - quick!”

            “Why, so you could kick my ass? What are you, botz?”

            “I’m serious. He’s gonna kill you!”

            Jimmy laughed incredulously. “No, I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna be the champ!”

            There came a creaking sound from the staircase. Angelo was on his way down. Joe’s mind raced but he was at a loss. For a fleeting instant he even considered shooting the man. No, that was insanity. All he could do now was act natural and hope for some window to present itself.

            Final round. He could feel Angelo’s ominous presence behind him now, watching. The battle was down to the wire, each warrior clinging to the last of his energy. The game shook and rumbled. Hands pounded buttons, joysticks were nearly ripped from their sockets. The heavy crunching chords climbed toward crescendo. Roundhouse uppercut jab. Footsweep sidekick jab. Front kick footsweep jab. Uppercut jab jab -

            And Joe Scalzo was triumphant.

            “You won,” Jimmy grumbled.

            “Yeah, I won!” beamed Joe, reveling for a moment in this victory so long overdue.

            Then Angelo raised the silencer-equipped .38 caliber pistol and squeezed the trigger. The body of Joseph Scalzo folded to the concrete floor.

            “Well, that’s that,” went Jimmy.

            Angelo didn’t answer. He was too busy wrapping a towel around the dead man’s spurting head.

            “How long was he skimming the register?”

            “Couple months, at least.”

            “He lives with your cousin, right?”

            “Not no more.”

            “Does she know?”

            The assassin glanced meaningfully at his apprentice. “She’s never gonna know. Now go get that tarp from the truck. Paper towels are under the seat. Make sure you wipe the brains off that screen before we leave.”

            Galante paused by the stairs. “Can I ask you a question?”

            “What.”

            “You think this’ll look good for me? I mean, when they open the books again?”

            “Go get the tarp,” said Angelo, “that should be the only thing on your mind right now.”

Let's Split Up

Seven twenty-two a.m. Despite the early hour, the senior class of affluent Cedar High is anything but groggy. Hormones, energy drinks and a growing preoccupation with next week’s prom grip the room in adolescent hysteria.

Seated like a deity among dweebs is Dirk Masters, star quarterback. Morning sun illuminates his daily lap dance with the glorious Amber Cox.

“I’m better than those ho’s in the strip club,” she teases.

 “Yeah,” Dirk smirks, “but they’re a lot cheaper.”

A roomful of kids sits in the couple’s glow. Imagine for a moment the skinny ghosts and never-knowns, the acne-afflicted with their blackheads and braces. How do they feel?

 I’ll tell you how one of them feels. His name is Ernie Griswold, junior botanist and self-proclaimed plant prophet. Leaping out of his chair, he screams at the couple, “You’re sinning now!”

Amber bends way over and serves Ernie a money shot of her glorious ass. The class bursts into jeering laughter.

“On Judgment Day, you won’t be laughing. You’ll be pleading with the Great Green for your soul!”

He is assailed with a barrage of crumpled loose-leaf and curses as Greasy Creasey enters the room. 

“Greasy Creasey” is, in fact, Dr. Elanor Creasey, language arts teacher. Hiding behind jumbo eyeglasses and an oily gray mane, she mumbles Shakespeare while distributing A’s like so many Abercrombie and Fitch gift cards.    

“My lord, Ernie, you’re carrying on like madman. Will you please take a seat?”

“You will all be reduced to moss!” he swears, planting his flabby ass.

She proceeds to mutter Hamlet in a slit-your-wrist drone.

The classroom door creaks open. In glides cynical hipster, Sienna Dahl.      

“Well,” squeaks Creasey, “enter Sienna, tardy again. I have a good mind to fail you for all your tardies.”

“True,” the girl sneers, “but it just might cost you your job.”

Like a salted slug, Creasey shrivels before the class.

Prom night. Dirk and Amber recline in the back of the Hummer limo like a king and queen residing over court. A select few of Cedar’s most rich and beautiful teens are granted the privilege of riding with. They sip Grey Goose and snort ketamine. Laugh at Dirk’s quips. Try not to stare at Amber’s cleavage.      

 Masters clears his throat. “This year, our outstanding riches and exceptional looks got us everything we needed: high grades, kick ass drugs, and of course, phenomenal sex. And speaking of sex, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my soul partner for never complaining when I paid more attention to the other girl during our threesomes. I love you, Sweetness.”

            Amber Cox sheds a single, glistening tear. They kiss. Everyone applauds and knocks back a double of Grey Goose as they arrive at Belgique, Cedar Park’s most luxurious catering hall.

Outside a mansion a few miles away, Sienna Dahl, in a pale pink tuxedo, scoops up Tiara Chihuahua and slides into her Jaguar. She has a special farewell gift for her classmates and teachers. She can’t control her wicked giggling.

           

The prom is tropically themed, so everywhere are fake palm trees and grinning chaperones in loud Hawaiian shirts. Smirking, Sienna struts through Belgique’s lobby and follows the music to the dance hall.

            Inside, the crowd is gathered around Dirk and Amber. They’re performing the wealthy white version of the Forbidden Dance. The straps slide down her sweat-slick shoulders.

Sienna surveys the room and pinpoints the punchbowl. A smile here, a high five there, she wades through a gaggle of geeks. Finally she is standing before the glimmering bowl. Strobes blink as she reaches inside her vest pocket.

“Hello Sienna.”

It is Mr. Malachowski, the P.E. teacher. He’s dribbling a basketball.

“Oh, hello.” She slowly removes her hand from her pocket.

“That’s a very interesting outfit you’re wearing.”

            She conjures a rude reply, but his attention is diverted. A ruckus on the dance floor. Ernie Griswold’s ranting can be heard above the music.

            “You’re sinning!” he roars, so loudly the zits on his forehead begin to burst. “Stop that wicked rubbing!”

Malachowski gravitates toward the conflict.      

Grasping the opportunity, Sienna retrieves the vial of liquid ecstasy from her vest pocket, dumps it into the punchbowl and slips away.

Mr. M finally calms Ernie. But just as they are leaving the dance floor, the chubby preacher screams, “wicked flesh falls like leaves!” and dashes off. He busts through the doors of Belgique and out into the night. Malachowski lets the boy go.

Dirk and Amber hit the punch bowl. He ladles two tumblers and they step outside.

The couple strolls a lush rose garden. They smell each rose, see each trembling leaf in the breeze. “It’s so peaceful,” Amber sighs. “I feel so in touch with it all.”

A lakeside gazebo. They sit gazing at the horizon. Dirk sparks a joint and smokes in appreciative silence. “Gotta take a leak,” he says. Amber watches the red cherry of the joint recede into darkness. Then she peels off her sweaty dress and wades into the lake.  

Back in the woods, Dirk approaches a tree, unzips his fly.

A pair of pruning shears gleams in the moonlight.

They slice through the air with precision and speed. Despite his athleticism, Masters is defenseless. First a finger, then a thumb. Then a full hand falls to the ground. Blood sprays a nearby fern. Ears, nose, a hunk of scalp – all in a matter of seconds. Dirk collapses against the blood-soaked tree. He is dazed, dying, as the shears make one final cut.

Dirk Masters is pruned of his manhood. 

Back at the lake, Amber giggles and massages her breasts with the warm water.

A figure appears on the shore.

 “Wanna go for a swim?” she sings.

It wades in.

“Hey, what are you doing with that bag of fertilizer?”

A green-gloved hand suddenly grips the girl’s hair. The other stuffs huge fistfuls of manure into her mouth. Repeatedly. Jamming the brown clumps into her throat. Amber flails. Her glorious body, once brimming with horny vigor, collapses into the moonlit waters.

   

Back at Belgique, Sienna reclines on a red armchair and surveys the festivities. The skinny ghosts and never-knowns writhe on the dance floor. The chaperones stand by smiling dumbly.

“They’ll never be the same again,” she whispers to Tiara. 

Along comes Mr. M, googly-eyed and grinning, massaging his basketball as if it is a sexual organ. “Sienna, baby! How come you’re not out on the floor?”

            His presence shatters the moment. Tiara, suddenly spooked, leaps out of the girl’s lap and dashes across the room.

            “Damn it!” she snaps. “Now look what you’ve done!”

Malachowski blabbers a lame apology as she chases the dog out to the lobby. Then Belgique’s huge double doors swing open. Tiara scampers through the legs of a shirtless male student and vanishes.     

Sienna walks along, past the rose garden, all the while calling out for her beloved lap dog. Up ahead, the gazebo. She sits for a moment to gather her thoughts.

The bushes rustle.

“Tiara?” she calls.

A hulking figure steps out of the darkness.

 “I feel terrible about your dog,” says Malachowski, his pupils like quarters. “I’ll help you find her.”

            Sienna is relieved. Somewhat. “No thanks. I’ll be just fine on my own.”

            “It’s dark out here. You could get hurt.”

            “I can take care of myself. Please go back to the prom and do your chaperone thing.”

            “But Sienna. Well, it’s hard to say. I know I’m a lot older than you. But I want to be your friend. I work out for two hours every day. Have you ever seen my abs?” Malachowski begins to remove his shirt.

            “No need for that,” she says. “Why don’t we talk after we find my dog.”

            “Okay.”

            “Let’s split up. You head north along the lakeside, I’ll go south. We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

            “And then we’ll talk,” says Mr. M.

            “And then we’ll talk.”

             

She is glad to be rid of the fiend. On the other hand, it’s not cool to be alone in the woods. Sienna decides to search for fifteen more minutes. If there is no sign of Tiara by then, she’ll turn around and head back to Belgique. 

            The path is narrow, hemmed in by overgrown shrubs. A vagrant branch snags her pink tux. She stops, curses, and suddenly notices Tiara sitting three yards up the trail.

“Baby,” she whispers, “come to Mama.”

The dog dashes off.

Wind whines as Sienna approaches a clearing. Up ahead, the silhouette of a small cabin. Tiara is there, sniffing around the open door. She darts inside. Sienna follows.

Fog-yellow moonlight falls on a crowded bookshelf, a teacher’s desk, a row of desk-chairs. A blackboard occupies one wall. At first, the girl presumes she has stumbled upon an abandoned schoolhouse. Then the realization grips her.

This space is identical to her classroom at Cedar.

She sees them propped in the front row, at last attentive and well-behaved. Dirk: limbless and castrated. Amber: dirty-naked and smeared with chicken manure. But it is the third victim who most arouses her sympathies. Chubby arms chained around a birch stump. Eyeballs gone. Replaced by roses.

“Enter Sienna Dahl. Tardy again.”

Teacher’s chair slowly swivels round: the outdated eyeglasses are replaced by Eurotrash specs, the graying hair swept up into a control tower.

“Creasey….”

“No. Not anymore.” The vamp stands, her plump anatomy sausaged into black latex. “The name is Thornbush.”

“Why? Why did you kill them?”

“It’s simple, really. All those years in the grips of you little bastards. Sucking up to you every day. This is my revenge.”

“You could have gotten a job at another school.”

“Yes, I suppose. But life’s not that simple, sweetie. I worried about health insurance, retirement. I was what you’d call a ‘rider.’ That is, until I adopted this uniform.” Creasey caresses her latex breasts. “Now…now I’m a driver.”

“Ernie never did anything to you.”

“Ah, Griswold. He was supposed to be my pansy for all this. My Lee Nerdy Oswald. But when I saw him in the woods hugging that old stump, I just couldn’t help myself. His eyes are currently on ice. They’re green, you know. Isn’t that ironic?” 

The teacher struts out from behind the desk, high heels clicking tile floors. In her green-gloved hand, a thorny, rose-stem whip. It flashes, scathing Sienna’s cheek.

Creasey pounces. 

They hit the floor. Creasey on top, snorting stale breath, rubs the whip’s thorny handle across Sienna’s neck. The girl flails. Her right hand grips something. A book – hardcover. She corner-cracks Creasey behind the ear. The stun knocks the specs from her mug. Sienna fires off another shot with the tome. Another. Hot blood on her fingers, her wrist.     

Six sharp blows, and Creasey collapses atop our heroine. An arm tweaks, a leg. Her head jerks. Then her muscles go limp.

Sienna thrusts off the heavy carcass and sits up.

As she draws a painful breath, the thorny garrote again ensnares her neck, cutting air. She attempts to loosen it but the madwoman is leveraged against her back.

Then there’s a sudden swoosh. An orange globe bullets the air. Sienna hears the wind soar above her.

Squish. 

The basketball impacts Thornbush’s skull at 42mph, snapping her neck like a wet breadstick. She holds for a moment, head hanging limply, before collapsing.

“I thought we were supposed to meet back at the gazebo,” says Mr. M, scooping up his bloodied basketball.

Sienna holds her neck, wincing.

The P.E. teacher runs to her, pulls her up off the floor. They embrace. Tiara appears, yipping happily, jumping at their feet. Safe at last, Sienna breaks down in Malachowski’s arms.

“I’ll always protect you,” he whispers.

Head buried in his rayon chest, Sienna tries to erase the ghastly images from her mind. But she knows she must confront the horror one last time if she is to overcome it. Slowly, she regards each victim, mouthing a final, tearful goodbye. Then comes the moment to do what she fears most. Her breaths shorten. It takes all of Sienna’s will to direct her gaze to the blood-puddled floor….

Her cry rips the sleeping woods.

Thornbush is gone.

Cee Cee’s Poem

She goes to her room,

closes the door,

drops onto her bed.

Gazing at the posters on her walls

—The Smiths, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees—

she toys with the idea of buying a guitar.

Learn a few chords,

join a band,

record a demo.

Maybe even play some clubs in the city.

She envisions herself

onstage at CBGB,

strumming a black Strat.

She wails into the microphone

while her boyfriend stands transfixed

beside a Marshall stack.

An Abandoned Buick

behind the candy store.

Seats flipped to face each other,

windows spray painted black,

Hanukkah candles mounted

on armrests.

“Moms got me a pair of Timbos,

Stepdads bought me a leather trench,

and my aunt hooked me up

with a Gucci link!”

Eli—

He’s in the same pleather

jacket that he’s been sporting

for the past two years.

The gaping flaps

at the front of his Keds

make his feet

two hungry alligators.

And the bottoms of his Lee’s

show tell-tale rings

where the hem

has been let down.

Who’s he think he’s fooling?

Nobody got him shit.

Nobody got me shit.

And here we sit

in an abandoned car

on Christmas day.

Two without shit.

Shitless.

Merry Shitless

and

Happy—

No.