Dear Lyzako,

There's steady drizzle this morning with more rain expected in the next two days and highs surpassing forty degrees. At that rate the springlike weather will all but erase last weekend's snowfall and leave the prospects for a white Christmas in serious jeopardy.

Speaking of a 'White Christmas', just last night I was watching the Bing Crosby/Danny Kaye classic on channel 20, my rabbit ears unable to snag anything else of interest besides pro wrestling and both (that's right both!) of those shows where contestants have to remember the lyrics to songs. (By the way, what genius of media programming decided to pit 'The Singing Bee' and 'Don't Forget The Lyrics' head-to-head in the very same time slot? Suppose those viewers who like one of them also like the other? It would have been like putting 'The Addams Family' on opposite 'The Munsters' way back in the day. Unthinkable.) Since I find both of the singing shows unwatchable and wrestling has become such a ridiculously dramatic, over-choreographed parade of oiled-up, shaved-down steroid users, I had little choice other than 'White Christmas' short of popping in a tape from my own collection, which sheer laziness prevented me from doing.

It had been years since I'd seen anything more than a snippet of the movie. And, while it is far from gripping in subject matter and storyline, I was impressed by how easily I made it to the end, got sucked up in the somewhat smarmy plot and sub-plot, all the while substituting my usual cans of Blue for the more traditional Christmas cheer of eggnog and hot toddies.

Typically I detest the movie musical, but I managed to sit through the entire two hours with little or no distraction, found myself longing for the 1950s, when a person could feel 'gay' and just say it. Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye both felt 'gay' in the flick. So did Rosemary Clooney. They said so without shame. Sometimes that's just how a person feels - especially around holiday time, and it troubles me that telling someone I feel 'gay' in 2007 would automatically cause them to assume that I'm speaking in terms of sexual orientation, and not just describing the carefree, happy and light feeling that the term was originally meant to express.

Even if you told your best buddy you felt 'gay', I bet he'd assume that you were eying his package. You might even experience injury when the testosterone kicks in and he decides to overcompensate for his own latent homosexual leanings by punching you in your 'pretty little faggot mouth'. And you and I both know that just isn't right.

But I did feel 'gay' watching the movie. Bing Crosby 'gay'. Gay Nineties 'gay'. Not rainbow bumper sticker 'gay'. Not Gay Pride 'gay'. Just light and happy. Yes, I'm sure of it. And yes, that's all.

Aside from feeling 'gay', one of the other things that struck me was how somebody sitting at a ski resort in Vermont could have absolutely no clue as to if or when it would ever snow again, as was the case in the story. I had to remind myself that in 1954 there weren't hundreds of satellites orbiting the planet, taking photos and video and relaying all sorts of useful information back to earth, some of it used to predict weather patterns. Weather satellites wouldn't become a regular part of our world for nearly a decade, and nowadays - over a half-century later, when it comes to snowfall we generally know timing and total accumulation as much as forty-eight hours prior to the actual event. Plus or minus a reasonable margin of error, of course.

Anyway, I caught myself humming along at the end of the movie, mimicking Bing when I actually knew the lyrics. I was feeling 'gay' alright - carefree, happy and light, and not just from the beer. I also felt safe and warm against the weather in my basement, remembered how I felt just a week ago when the snow was piling up and there was still some question as to how much we would get. I imagined I was actually living in 1954, imagined that I had looked to the sky earlier and figured it looked like snow, imagined I was watching the only channel available to me via rabbit ears.

I closed my eyes and the decades slipped away.

Two hours later I woke up with my chin on my chest, an aching neck and a half-empty can of Blue still in my hand. Guess what. I'd been dreaming about a 'white Christmas'! Talk about feeling 'gay'!

Holiday Well Wishes,
Santa Sherman

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Ten: 'Crazy' Doesn't Begin To Cover It

As I was pulling away from Crystal's place around five-thirty A.M. the rear window on the gold Chevy HHR I'd been driving since San Francisco exploded into a million chips of tempered glass. I hadn't heard the shot. I could see in the rearview through the broken window, though, that Crystal was standing naked in the middle of the street aiming a pistol at me. The pistol recoiled with a flash and I heard a mild pop that echoed between the buildings. After another second or two of aiming, Crystal heaved the gun down the street with all her might, screaming at me and stomping her feet, growing smaller and smaller as I put some distance between us.

I turned the corner, squashed the gas pedal and never saw Crystal again.

I didn't realize until later that the pistol she was firing was the .32 I'd stashed in my bag for my overnight stay at her place. The one I'd bought from James. The one that, luckily for me, only had three bullets left in it. The crazy bitch must have gone through my things while I was sleeping and found the gun, which made me feel less guilty for swiping that envelope of cash I'd found in her nightstand as I was leaving.

Crystal hadn't wanted me to go. “You said you were falling in love with me!” she screeched as I sat on the edge of her bed and tied my shoes.

“I believe what I said was: 'I can see myself falling in love with you'. It's not the same thing. Besides,” I told her, “guys say all kinds of shit to get laid. You know that.”

“I hate you!” she screamed as I hoisted my tool bag and walked out of the bedroom. “I hate you! I hate you! I HATE you!” I just kept walking.

By the time I'd made it to the front room I could hear Crystal's bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor as she lumbered down the hallway. The next time I saw her she was standing naked under the glow of the street light pointing my own pistol at me, her soft rolls of belly flab draped around her, her thick thighs squashed together and the flesh on the backs of her arms sagging and jiggling as she pulled the trigger again and again while I sped away.

By the time I hit I-70 headed west, the sun was just starting to crack the horizon behind me, the sky a watercolor of pink and gray washes, the clouds feathering up into the still-black night, a full moon - cold, white and plump sitting low in a dazzling sea of stars. I thumbed the satellite radio on, found the jazz channel and turned up the volume. It was Bird and Miles from one of their very first sessions together. 'Embraceable You'. I hummed along to the melody, then just smiled and dug it when Bird launched into his solo. I gave it a little more volume against the wind and highway sounds roaring through the broken window, checked the morning sky one last time, then never looked back.

The sun was full up and I was still digging the satellite bebop when I took the ramp onto I-35 South towards Texas.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“I swear to you Sherman, I didn't know anything about that.” I was sitting on the bed in my room talking to the boss. After checking into a Motel 6 just outside of Dallas, I'd finally decided to give him a call. It was a little after six local time, an hour later in Detroit.

“Then why were you so surprised to hear my voice that first time after Pittsburgh? Tell me you didn't think I was dead.”

“You're right, Sherman. I did think you were dead.” He sounded sincere. “I always check the local papers on-line when my people are on the road. And that dead Mexican you left in your hotel room made a minor splash in the news there. I figured they'd be all over your ass before you could get out of town.”

“So you were worried about me?”

“Hell yeah! What did you think?” I was starting to believe him.

“I thought you were in on it, Boss,” I told him flatly. “That's what I thought.” Earlier I had related the entire scheme to the boss just as Ricardo had laid it out to me two days before in that filthy warehouse in K.C. where I sent him to hell. “I figured you had to be. How else would they know where I was? But then I started putting two and two together on my drive down here...”

“Where are you now?”

“It's probably best if you don't know. Anyway, I figured since you never shut off my money supply and did try to call a couple of times, you just might still be on my side.”

“I am, Sherman,” he pleaded. “You've got to believe me. I'm relieved to hear your voice. I really and truly thought that you were probably long gone dead.”

There was a knock at the door. It was the mobile glass repair guy. “Hang on a sec, Boss,” I said. I put the phone face down on the bed and went to the door. The guy was wearing a red tee-shirt and matching baseball cap with the company logo on it. 'Andy' was embroidered over his heart in white stitching. “That was fast,” I told him. Andy smelled of stale cigarette smoke. He smiled and handed me a ball point pen and a metal clipboard with a receipt for me to sign. I scribbled something at the bottom. “Two-seventy-five seems kind of high to me, though,” I said.

“You were lucky I had it in stock,” Andy told me. “If I hadn't, it would have been tomorrow before I could get it and it's looking like it's gonna rain.”

I glanced at the sky, saw some heavy dark clouds gathering to the north, peeled the cash out of Crystal's envelope. “Thanks,” I told him. “I appreciate the speedy service.” Lightning flashed across the horizon in the distance. I closed the door.

“You still there, Boss?”

“Listen, Sherman, just bring your ass back home, you hear?”

“Was it true that they paid up front like you said?” I asked him.

“It's here waiting for you. That's a fact.”

“And what's to keep Gonzalez from reaching out and touching me when I get back home? He must have people in Detroit.”

“Sherman, you and I...” Boss seemed to struggle for the words. “You and I, we don't work for a bunch of chumps you know. The people at the top are some pretty heavy hitters. They're connected, and they don't take shit from anybody, understand? Gonzalez doesn't have the juice to run with them. He knows it. Why do you think he cooked up this crazy plan?”

“Because he's crazy?”

“Ha ha, you kill me Sherman! Just get your ass back here. I can personally guarantee you that you won't have to worry about Gonzalez anymore.”

“I've got a couple more errands to run,” I told him. “I'll call you when I'm back in town. What's the weather like up there?” I could hear fat raindrops striking the window of the room, thunder rolling low in the distance.

“It's nice,” he said. “Sunny and in the upper seventies.”

“That's good, because where I am it looks like it's about to storm.”

Thank the gods we only have one more year of this moron's bullshit to put up with.

I suppose you've heard all the latest stuff about how the White House was in on the C.I.A.'s decision to destroy those torture video tapes? You know... the ones showing Al Qaeda prisoners being subjected to the controversial method of 'waterboarding' as a part of routine terrorist interrogations?

Without hammering you with the details, 'waterboarding' is a combo torture/interrogation method carefully calculated to simulate the experience of drowning as close as possible, which of course scares the bejeezus out of the prisoner, thereby causing him/her to give up all of the Super Secret Terrorist Plans.

I don't know about you, but if somebody who was trying to find Bin Laden was drowning me, I'd tell 'em I had lunch with the bastard just yesterday if that's what they wanted to hear. And he ordered the pulled pork sandwich... Memphis-style.

Never mind that we have the good old Freedom of Information Act. Bush and his cronies believe that all this bureaucratic red tape is just what is keeping the Office of Homeland Security from doing its job properly, and they cited reasons for destroying the evidence in this case that included protection of the operatives involved in the interrogations. Protection from what? 'Legal and physical jeopardy', according to the C.I.A. Well, if they're worried if the stuff was 'legal' now, shouldn't they have been worried about its legality at the time?

Hmm... Maybe it would have been a good idea not to have turned the camera on. It seems to me that somebody with a pencil and a note pad could have just taken down the Super Secret Terrorist Plans by hand. Why not? Fucking Joe Friday used to do it, and that dude always got his man.

And here's another funny one...

A year ago last May, the President decided that the list of visitors to the White House was no longer going to be made available to the public. Of course he washed that inside a memorandum which instructed that ALL Secret Service records were to be made off-limits, but the visitor list was the only thing he was really worried about.

Why? Well, it seems his influence-peddling buddy Jack Abramoff (who can now add 'Convicted Felon' to his resume) had been in and out of the Oval Office since Bush took over the White House more times than Ron Jeremy's shlong in a hot tub filled with coked up porn chicks, even though Bush stridently denied ever meeting the man.

The details of Abramoff's wrongdoings are lengthy, complicated and dull. Suffice it to say that during Bush's first term Abramoff abused his position as a White House insider to squeeze money out of practically everyone under the sun, from the Native American Kickapoo tribe to foreign leaders who wanted a meeting with President Bush. According to published reports, in 2004 Abramoff got $9,000,000 to arrange a meeting at the White House between Bush and Omar Bongo, the President of Gabon, an oil-rich country on the west coast of Africa. The meeting took place in May of 2004. I wonder what the President's cut was out of $9,000,000? If it were me, I'd want half.

Hey, I told you the details were dull, right?

Listen, long story short... the President would have no way to plausibly deny knowledge of Abramoff's activities if the sign-in sheets at the White House were made public. So he removed them from public access. Of course, the White House claims that the measure was designed to encourage advisors to the President to visit more freely and more often, addressing any range of subjects without worry that the documentation would compromise the contents of their meetings. The White House has also assured us that the timing of the memorandum Bush issued to suppress the visitor list was 'coincidental' to the timing of Abramoff's alleged visits.

Yeah, it 'coincided' with an assload of evidence that George W. and Abramoff had a sweet little deal going!

Sorry Mr. President, but there's that pesky Freedom of Information Act again.

Hey, Einstein! If you recall, you Republicans needed that same visitor log for evidence in order to nail Bill Clinton's testicles to the wall during the Monica Lewinsky scandal. It was pretty fucking convenient to have access to it back then, wasn't it? Huh?!

Ooooh my... Now THAT'S what I call a nice ass! Today's Craig's List Girl Sasha works out of the S.F. Bay area and her rates start at 1,000 roses for the night. All other services are additional and rates are negotiable, but fees are for her companionship only and not an act of prostitution. Any activity that takes place is a private arrangement between consenting adults.

You all know what it means when you see the retro TV with Pam's jugs on it up there. I've been watching television again. And I have to tell you that I pretty much took two days off from it, never even flicked the evil box on to see what the weather was going to be like until last Saturday night. Honestly, it felt pretty damn good on my bleary, world-weary eyes.

But nine inches of snow fell over the weekend and it all but shut down the city, so I stayed indoors, turned on the tube, checked the constant ongoing weather updates while watching some video...

I finally broke down and rented 'Planet Terror', the Robert Rodriguez half of Tarantino's 'Grindhouse' double feature, and I must say that seeing it with fresh eyes led me to like it much more than I did on the first two viewings at the theater. Unlike the expanded version of 'Death Proof', which includes two entirely new scenes, the 'Planet Terror' DVD only adds bits and pieces here and there, so it's pretty much the exact same flick it was in the movie houses, but still well worth checking out.

In case you're unfamiliar with the movie, it's the story of a pair of twin babysitters who find themselves getting into all kinds of trouble. Played by Rodriguez' own Venezuelan nieces Elise and Electra Avellan, the girls paint each other's toenails, curse like sailors on shore leave, bash cars, shoot zombies, fly a helicopter and wind up on a beach in sunny Mexico living the high life.

You'll also find enough brain-eating zombies, exploding cars and half-naked strippers to make this modern-day take on the exploitation flick a must see. Not to mention notable supporting performances from a talented array of actors and actresses including Rose McGowan, Bruce Willis, Tom Savini, Josh Brolin, Freddie Rodriguez, Marley Shelton, Naveen Andrews, Fergie, Michael Biehn and Jeff Fahey. Tarantino is unforgettable as an incredibly bad guy in the second half of the movie, too. The disc also includes the fake trailer for 'Machete', a classic in its own right, which features Cheech Marin and the incomparable Danny Trejo in the title role as the Mexican you shouldn't have fucked with. I developed a whole new appreciation for the score, too, which was written and largely performed by the talented Mr. Rodriquez himself. Recommended.

* * * * * * * * * * *
I also picked up some porn and I have to tell you folks, this shit is getting worse by the day. They have a four for $10 special where I rent my movies, which at the time always seems like a good deal, but the reality is at least two of them will be unwatchable. And that was the case last weekend. I'm afraid to even mention names, but you sick freaks will find them if you want to see them no matter what, so here goes...

The worst of the bunch was supposed to be about Middle Eastern hookers, which I picked up just out of curiosity. The poor women, who purportedly came from various places in the region including Egypt and Pakistan, were subjected to humiliating treatment by a sick bunch of young American men armed with a video camera.

For whatever reason, the interpreter and the girls spoke to each other in Spanish, and all the girls claimed during the interview process (an embarrassing requisite these days, I'm afraid) to be married and have kids, saying they were there for the money, which they of course called 'dinero'. Dressed like Barbara Eden in 'I Dream of Jeannie', the girls each gamely put up with the Americans' shit, including having words written on their foreheads with magic marker just before the money shot.

I cannot stress this enough: DO NOT RENT OR BUY THIS GARBAGE!

Another one that was horrible but looked good on the box, was 'Happy Fucking Birthday'. It featured some aging male porn stars who, according to the setup, are given two to three girls as sexual 'gifts' on their birthdays. The only scene I was able to make it through involved three girls - two beautiful ones and one ugly one with a huge fake rack, all three of them grossly overly-enthusiastic, using fingers, dildos and drooling tongues on the guy's genitalia and anus until I thought I was going to vomit. And the ugly bitch never shut up for one second. He eventually managed to pork them all with the cameraman right up his ass the entire time. It was disgusting, and believe me, I'm not easily disgusted.

The most watchable of the bunch was a 'P.O.V. Pervert' double disc, one scene featuring the lovely and talented Tyra Moore. For the most part the women were all very good looking, and the disgusting shit was minimal (although all the newer porn seems to require a certain amount of sick stuff). The best thing about it was that you never see the disgusting guy's face, and everything is shot from his point of view, which makes it much easier to fantasize that you are actually with these women. As an added bonus, you also never see his hairy ass, which believe me was a relief after watching that first scene in the 'Happy Birthday' DVD.

Disc number four was okay, but no great shakes. At least I didn't have to turn my head. I don't even remember what it was called, but the girls were cute and the guys fairly well-behaved.

So to recap... 'Planet Terror'... EXCELLENT!, 'Arab Hookers'... COMPLETELY FOUL, 'Happy Fucking Birthday'... DISGUSTING, 'P.O.V. Pervert'... GOOD ENOUGH TO WATCH PARTS TWICE.

Oh and, the 'four for $10' adult movie special...NOT REALLY ALL THAT GOOD OF AN IDEA.

Dear Lyzako,

It seems we won't have to dream of a white Christmas here in Michigan after all. The reality of it has struck overnight, a formidable weather-producer dropping six inches of the fluffy stuff so far, with totals to climb during the course of the day. At least it's Sunday and I feel no pressure to leave the house, having run all my necessary errands yesterday - which amounted to a trip to Ferndalia Foods for staples and a case of Blue, followed by a quick run through Video Shmideo to stock up on porn and rent 'Planet Terror' uncut on DVD with bonus disc.

The snow started yesterday in the early evening and has come down steadily ever since, transforming the barren brown landscape I spoke of in my previous missive into a spectacularly sterile-looking display of virginal winter whiteness. Even the sky is white, not a speck of blue to be seen as the dense snow clouds continue to bestow their Christmas gift upon us.

Of course, the reality of having to shovel that gift out of the driveway, clear it from the sidewalk and rake five feet of it from the edges of the roof to prevent icing looms in my immediate future as well. In preparation for the task, I've parked my Ranger down near the sidewalk, so that if need be, I only have to clear ten feet or so to get myself on the road. Provided they even make a swipe down my street with a plow today, which remains to be seen at this point, just five minutes before noon.

The best part of this whole snow phenomenon (at least as it pertains to my delicate nervous system) is the ability of the stuff to muffle annoying sounds, specifically my idiot neighbor's bitch-dog-from-hell's near-constant yapping when she's put outside to do her business. This morning I witnessed and digitally photographed the poor little bitch pug yapyapyapping outside their storm door to get in, while alternately lifting each paw in the air to avoid painful contact with the snow. All in twenty-degree temperatures with a wind-chill factor in the teens, I might add. Their drive hadn't yet been cleared, and the six inches of snow stifled the pooch's ability to move around, her stubby legs being barely five inches long themselves. She stumbled in small circles around a nugget of pug poop the size of an acorn for at least fifteen minutes before the hag-whore-neighbor-bitch decided to let her in.

Speaking of annoying noises, it won't be long now before the neighborhood is awash in the painful buzz and hum of multiple snowblowers running in harmony, burning fossil fuel, preventing heart attacks and saving lives all over the city. Saving lives for what? To burn more fossil fuel? At times I wish I had one of the damned things myself to be sure, could just push it along as the snow flies to the side, whistling all the while I suppose. But most times I prefer the sound of my breathing and the scrape of the shovel along concrete as I work.

Just moments ago my doorbell rang. I answered the door in robe and slippers, unshaved and unshowered.

“Would you like to have your snow cleared?” asked the man on the porch.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I'm going to do it later myself.”

By the way, should I succumb to a heart attack during the course of the task this afternoon, clutch my chest and fall backwards dying, I plan on smiling at the sky with my last breath here on earth while using every bit of strength I have left in me to wave my arms and legs, tracing one final Sherman Angel in the Bing Crosby White Christmas Snow.

The first task on my to-do list today, though, is to turn my turkey carcass from Thanksgiving into soup. I ask you: What better way to spend my snowed-in Sunday than with a pot of soup bubbling away atop the stove?

Sherman's Famous Turkey Carcass Soup

Fill stock pot halfway with water and add:

-One roasted turkey carcass (or similar-sized roasted animal carcass of your choice, e.g. small dog, large cat, raccoon or opossum), minus wishbone
-One-half large onion, rough chopped, skin and all
-One large carrot, unpeeled and cut in quarters
-One and one-half ribs celery with tops
-One fistful of fresh flat parsley
-Two dried bay leaves
-Half teaspoon of whole black peppercorns
-Salt to taste

Bring water to boil, reduce to simmer and cover, cooking for two hours. Allow to cool.

Strain stock and separate turkey meat from the bones

Bring stock back up to boil and add:

-One large onion, diced
-One large carrot, peeled and diced
-One and one-half ribs celery, trimmed and diced
-One bay leaf

Adjust seasoning as necessary and simmer, covered, until carrots are tender
Return turkey meat to pot
Bring stock to boil and add:

-Six ounces of your favorite egg noodles (I prefer Mrs. Weiss' Kluski), cover and remove from heat until noodles are cooked al dente

Finish with another fistful of fresh parsley, chopped fine

Bon Appetit!

Regards,
Emeril Sherman

PS: I'm saving the wishbone for your Christmas visit, so give it some thought. I already have a wish, but it jinxes it if I tell you. Without getting specific, I can say this: It involves Pam Grier, time travel and a brand-new liver.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Nine: 'Crazy'? Sure, But Not So 'Little'

It was the same nightmare I'd had dozens of times, with only minor variations. Jackie and I were playing cards. Euchre. We were partners in the game but when I woke up I could never remember who was on the other team. Friends? Faceless fiends? In the long run it hadn't ever mattered. Whoever they were, they always disappeared at some point leaving Jackie and me alone to argue about the order of the play.

“Hearts,” says Jackie. “I'm tempted to go it alone, but I think I'll drag my partner along.” At that point she always gives me the same look, a strange mixture of affection and contempt. To anyone else it might look like a simple smirk, but I could see hatred in Jackie's eyes. It was a look I remembered well from four too many years of being married to her. Four years of hell on earth.

“My hand looks like a foot,” I say, seeing four Queens, all black, all four of them the Queen of Spades. My last card is the Ace of Hearts. “Too bad we're not playing Poker.” The impossible Queens get larger, like those old Texas-sized cards, growing in my hand until I can clearly see Jackie's face on each of them, her contemptible smirk staring back at me. “Lead 'em and weep,” I say.

The other team leads with the King of Clubs and I trump the shit out of it with my Ace. When it gets around to Jackie, she kills my trick with the Left Bower, then erupts in laughter. “Never send a boy to do a man's job!” she says loudly, the words 'boy' and 'man' echoing and overlapping as the walls of the room press in on us and the other two players melt away until all that exists in the world is me, Jackie's laughing mouth and her trick-stealing Jack of Diamonds. The Jack eyes me with sympathy, offers his broad sword to me as he begins to take on menacing proportions, growing even larger than the Texas-sized Jackie Queens in my own losing hand.

And here's where the variations come in. Most times I take the Jack's sword and stab her with it, but sometimes I simply strangle her. Sometimes I pummel her with my fists. Sometimes I hit her with a chair or a baseball bat. Sometimes I even throw one of the over-sized Queens at her edge-wise, the spinning card neatly severing her head from her body with barely a drop of blood as Jackie's cackle continues to fill the air.

But the end result is always the same. Jackie is dead and I wake up screaming.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“What's the matter, baby?”

Drenched in sweat, I couldn't get my eyes to focus in the dark room. I had no idea where I was, and didn't recognize the voice in the blackness that seemed so concerned for my well-being. I was breathing heavily and my heart was thumping, jumping like a rat trying to push its way out of my chest. As I slowly emerged from the fog of sleep I could see an open doorway, a dim blue light from down the hall somewhere, and I remembered. Her name was Crystal.

“It's nothing,” I told her. “Just a bad dream.”

Crystal ran her hand over my bare chest, paused on the partly-healed wound there, whispered in my ear, “It's okay now. You're okay.” I could see a clock with glowing numbers on the night stand over her shoulder. It read 3:33.

“Almost,” I said as I drew her to me. “Almost.”

Crystal rolled on top of me, her soft flesh warming my entire body, causing my rod to stiffen instantly. She kissed me deep as she straddled me, worked her tongue slowly around the inside of my mouth, ground her hot center in circular motions over my naked crotch until I could feel her slickness on my shaft. I reached around her, took her enormous ass in my hands, gripped at the flesh, squeezing hard as Crystal dropped her breasts on my face. They were big, just like the rest of her, but nicely-shaped and tight to her chest with surprisingly little sag. I opened my mouth to them, took in as much nipple meat as I could, sucked and chewed hungrily at her as I continued to massage that big ass, Crystal moaning softly the entire time.

Suddenly, miraculously, I was inside her all the way, surrounded by her wetness, enveloped by her heat. I let her do the work, my hands still gripping her rump, my mouth moving from nipple to nipple as Crystal humped me faster and faster, the bed springs crying louder with each downward movement. In the darkness of the room I was lost inside her. There was no Kansas City anymore, no strange apartment, no troubles, no fear. Suddenly, there was no longer a dead Mexican who I'd shot execution-style, his body left in a dumpster behind a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Amazingly, even my nightmare had faded from memory, and for those sweet few moments nothing else existed in all the world except for our passion and animal lust, our mutual need for comfort. My hard cock inside Crystal's steaming wet pussy.

“Ooooh,” whispered Crystal, husky and low, “I'm gonna cummm...” She put her hands on my chest and wriggled her hips in quick, short movements keeping almost my entire length inside her until she was over the top. “Mmmmmm...ohhh....mmmmm...” Then she started bouncing, up and down, the heavy motion causing the bed to walk slowly sideways across the hardwood floor and the headboard to bang against the wall. “Ooooh, yeah...shit...I'm gonna cum again...” With each upward bounce Crystal worked my whole shaft, the head just barely inside her hot box at the top of the curve, then balls deep when gravity took over. I held out as long as I could while she worked that bed like a trampoline. When I felt myself getting close, I grabbed two handfuls of ass flesh and thrust hard back at her, an audible wet slap when our bodies met with each bounce.

It was the best I'd ever had. The tightest. The sweetest. The absolute juiciest, and when I came it seemed to last forever. We were still at the center of the universe, Crystal and I.

“OhmygodI'mcummingagainnn...” weeped Crystal as I continued to pound away, my own sweet release ongoing and strong. At some point my ears had stopped hearing the sound of the bedsprings. My eyes had filled with the blackness of the room and the blue night light from down the hall shined like a beacon on us as the softness of Crystal's flesh, the heat of her center as it held me, and the beating of our hearts in rhythm combined to form a single, fragile grain of sand, which slowly descended through the hourglass of time.

Alright! The end of another demon year from Hell!

Just kidding, folks. I like the holiday season. Time was before global warming we'd be covered in snow by now here in Michigan. There were snowmen in every front yard where kids lived and BB guns and sleds were the big gifts that we all looked forward to come Christmas time, not Play Stations and X-Boxes. Shit, speaking of boxes, we had more fun with the one the new refrigerator came in than I've ever had playing video games. But I digress...

Back then we had a hill next to the house that seemed to slope forever, the ride down filled with thrills as we narrowly avoided several tall maples at the bottom, steering and leaning hard, our heads right up front, the skulls like tender eggs waiting to be cracked. Of course, that same hill when seen with adult perspective is a gentle four foot drop that covers maybe thirty feet in distance, but we rode it down and trudged back up it, our sleds in tow, as though we were luge champions in the Winter Olympics.

Ah, those were the days.

So in celebration I'm sharing one of the rare gems in my collection, a novelty 45 by Mexican funnyman Jose Gonzalez-Gonzalez. 'Pancho Claus' is actually the B-side of this single, but it's a scene stealer, with Jose reciting a Mexicanized version of 'Twas The Night Before Christmas' in a thick accent, not unlike the one that Freddie Prinze used to put on for his stand-up act. Instead of Santa, though, Jose had Santa's brother, Pancho from 'south of the border', who drove a team of donkeys and wore a sombrero. And there were definitely creatures stirring at the Gonzalez-Gonzalez household on Christmas Eve, most notably his 'Oncle Pedro' who was 'drunk as a louse', playing guitar and singing 'Guadalajara'. Ha ha.

Jose's version starts out with 'Twas thee night before Chreesmas and all through thee casa, Mama che was busy preparing thee masa, to make thee tamales for thee Tamalada, and all thee ingredients for thee enchiladas...' Actually, if I had my druthers, I'd just as soon eat Mexican food at Christmas myself. Sounds damn good to me.On the flip side, we have the infamous 'Tacos For Two', a send-up of the famous 'Cocktails For Two' (words and music by Arthur Johnston and Sam Coslow) originally butchered by the great Spike Jones way back in 1944, complete with sound effects. Written a decade earlier for a movie soundtrack, the tune didn't make much of a splash until Spike's notorious version of it hit the pop charts, and it's been largely known as a novelty song ever since.

Jose gives it the same treatment as 'Pancho Claus', with tacos instead of cocktails allowing for lyrics that describe 'those darn tortillas' as being 'hard' and 'dripping so much lard'. He and his date are heated up by 'hot sauce' and reach for the water in pain, only to find at the end of it all that poor Jose has 'no dinero' to pay the bill and winds up going to jail. Sounds like my luck.

Hmm... even with hard tortillas and too much lard tacos are sounding pretty good to me right now. Maybe I will eat Mexican for Christmas dinner. Or maybe I'll just head over to Senior Lopez and have it for lunch today... a little Tecate with lime in a salted glass, some chips and salsa, and of course the tacos...Oh and how could I forget that cute waitress with the big brown eyes and the amazing ass and legs packed into those tight, tight jeans who runs around like a chicken with her head cut off asking everybody repeatedly: “Ev'rythin' hokay? Hm? Hokay?”

God I want that girl. Listen Santa, how about wrapping her up in something nice and snug for me, eh? Have your brother Pancho bring her by for some tequila shots. I'm buying!

Hey, all this Mexican talk reminds me of a joke: What do they call Mexican food in Mexico? Give up? They call it 'food'!

So here's the deal: Red Sox slugger and newly-crowned World Series champ Manny Ramirez has a pair of 'used Spandex shorts' from the 2007 season up for auction on Ebay. According to the item description they 'show great game use', and come with a certificate of authenticity.

My question is...Who the fuck would want them?

Seriously, folks, I can barely stand to touch my own used undies and I know exactly what's been going on inside them, piss, poop and spooge-wise. Who knows how often Manny washes his balls? Maybe he's superstitious and it's like, I don't know, only after two losses in a row or some dumb shit like that. Athletes are freaks when it comes to that kind of stuff. Look at his goddamn batting helmet. That should tell you something, shouldn't it?

I guess you can't really blame Ramirez for the auction, though. I hear he's an asshole, but I don't know that for a fact. Unfortunately, somebody's picture has to go on the target up there and I couldn't just Google 'the idiot who's selling Manny Ramirez's shorts' and get an image. Almost as much of an ass is the guy who's willing to fork over $142.50 (the high bid at the time of this writing) plus eight bucks shipping to get his hands on them, not to mention whoever else has taken part in the thirty-four bids to date. Ultimately, though, I have to place the blame on Manny. I mean, nobody gets a hold of my underwear without me knowing about it unless I accidentally leave a pair in the washer at the laundromat. No, Manny had to know what was going on and at the very least, not care about it.

I'm also a little confused by the claim that they show 'great game use'. What the fuck does that even mean? Are there grass stains on them or something? Maybe some pine tar from when he tugs on his nuts between pitches? How in the fuck does underwear show any kind of game use other than sweat stains? Can somebody out there help me out on this?

So you win the auction and a week later UPS brings a little cardboard package to your doorstep with the 'goodies' inside. What do you do with them once you have them? Frame them? What kind of homo would put a pair of male underwear on display in his den or game room? Huh? And please don't tell me that the high bidder will be a woman. Face it guys, no woman is that dumb. No, it's a man doing the bidding alright.

And I'm willing to bet that whoever he is, he gives them a thorough sniffing.
Coincidentally, today's Craig's List Girl Sunshyne also offers used underwear for sale, and I have to tell you that her prices ($25-$40) seem a lot more reasonable than Manny's. Sunshyne has a variety of styles to choose from and will even sell you her used tampons and sneakers if you are so inclined. Look for her on the Phoenix page and tell her 'Sherman sent you' to get 20% off your first order!

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Eight: No Use Crying Over Spilled Blood

Snap...

The goddamn hammer had landed on the only empty chamber in the cylinder and Ricardo freaked. His head swung around and he really started shaking and rocking, the legs of the heavy wooden chair to which he was tied scraping against the cement floor as he struggled to free himself. His wrists were seeping blood where the zip ties were digging in and he was crying, sobbing “Por favor! Mi Dios, por favor!” when I pulled the trigger again. This time the hammer landed on a full chamber and the sound of the shot echoed in the empty room. Blood sprayed from the impact of the bullet covering my hand and forearm in crimson specks.

I backed up stiffly and watched Ricardo continue to shake, his head slumping slowly forward as he gurgled and died. I felt bad for the way he had to go, even worse that it was my fault and I had to watch. During the minute or so that it took Ricardo to leave this earth, I relived the past two weeks... felt the sting of that blade on my chest again, relived the fear, the adrenalin rush of hand-to-hand combat, the monstrous thrill of killing. The surprise and relief at not being dead myself.

After Ricardo had gone completely still, I walked over to the washroom and cleaned the blood off of me, numbly wiped the barrel of the gun. I took a long look at myself through the haze of the filthy mirror. My ears were ringing, I felt sick to my stomach, and I barely recognized the ghastly face that stared back at me, a look of horror fixed in the weary bloodshot eyes. Suddenly, I felt the vomit rise at the back of my throat, turned and dropped to my knees, emptying my stomach into the rust-stained toilet bowl. Somehow, this one hadn't felt much like a victory.

And the bad news was, I had been planning on dropping the last two targets on my list the exact same way.

Read Chapter One
Read Chapter Two
Read Chapter Three
Read Chapter Four
Read Chapter Five
Read Chapter Six
Read Chapter Seven

Dear Lyzako,

As I sit here this morning staring out at milk-gray sky, languishing over my third cup of coffee while still dressed in pajamas and robe, I feel the weight of the coming winter upon my psyche. There is a light blanket of snow covering the barren brown landscape and we were treated to freezing rain yesterday, though the result was far less bothersome than what was predicted. I heeded the warnings, though, ran my errands early and huddled in the basement while my dinner cooked, the oven warming the entire first floor as the lowly Lions slowly let one more game slip away. The weatherman says that another system will be bringing rain and freezing rain for tomorrow as well. I'll believe that when I see it.

My real reason for writing is a bit more somber than the change of seasons, though. Both somber and uplifting, I should say, for I remain positive in the midst of my dreary surroundings, thanks in large part to the mystery of memory and the inspiration of the spirit.

After putting the finishing touches on a particularly troubling job last week, I found myself rolling slowly north on Woodward at one a.m. on Thursday, several pints of Ghettoblaster in place to ease the stress of an already too long work week that had involved late nights of toil and much anxiety. My two-hour stay at Honest John's had been well spent, playing their amazing jukebox and engaging in conversation with complete strangers while the mouth-watering Shelley kept the beer flowing. The traffic along M-1 was light and I felt complete peace and relaxation for the first time in a number of days. I could feel a smile come over my face as I drove, and at some point, about mid-way through Highland Park, I was struck by the sudden laughter of our mutual friend, the dearly departed G-1. In my memory, Glen was pitching his head-back-and-eyes-closed belly laugh to the cold night sky, and I could hear the bagpipes playing 'Amazing Grace' as the image slipped from my mind as quickly as it had come.

What could have triggered it? M-1... G-1? Did I pass a street that subconsciously made me think of my years residing in Hamtramck? Perhaps it was just that the Christmas spirit had finally come into me and my weary mind had loosely called up holiday memories, one of my fonder ones being of an Easter Sunday some time ago when Glen had joined me for dinner, two alcoholic bachelors with no better place to go. Glen was driving his motor home at the time, hitched his power cord to an outlet here at the house and recharged his batteries while we ate roast chicken, drank Blue and watched 'The Ten Commandments' on television, each doing our best Edward G. Robinson imitation whenever he appeared on screen. All I know is I was grateful for whatever circumstance had caused the sudden flood of good memory, felt comforted by the experience, and still draw some comfort from it this Monday morning.

It wasn't as though he had spoken to me, you understand. I can only say that the presence of his spirit was strongly felt, and the memory that he could conjure up such a hearty laugh when times were difficult gave me more than a little inspiration to do the same.

Earlier in the afternoon that same day I had been sitting at the counter at China Ruby, trying to squeeze in the lone meal I would have time for between jobs, trying to relax and digest my Garlic Chicken Combo as best I could for the precious half-hour that I had to myself. Directly across Nine Mile from the restaurant is a bus stop, and folks were beginning to gather in anticipation of the next westbound on the schedule. Just as I began to eat my hot and sour soup, a frenzied young man scurried in, stood right next to me and practically shouted: “Small plain rice to go! Hurry! I'm waiting for my bus!”

“One prain rice,” said the girl at the register. “Dolluh-serty-sree.”

“To go!” reiterated the frenzied young man as he handed her two frazzled-looking ones. “Hurry! Right away!” He did everything but clap his hands together and yell: “Chop chop!”

When the girl turned to prepare his order, he shouted in my ear again. “Don't forget my change!”

“It a coming,” said the girl.

When she handed him his rice and the change, he said “Thank-you” for the first time before shooting out the door and across the street without leaving a tip.

I looked at the girl and said, “I don't know how you do it.” She gave me a puzzled look. “I mean how you deal with people like that every day. I'm just sitting here trying to enjoy my dinner and he has to rush in here and ramp everything up. I almost said something to him myself, like 'Shut up, already, she heard you'.”

She shrugged, obviously confused by my use of the word 'ramp'. “Dey come in alla time. Want hurry up. I tell dem, 'Cannot cook-a dat fast'. Always come in. You get use to it.”

As I sit here now, thinking of G-1 and the girl at the restaurant, thinking about how I allow my work and things like that frantic young man's behavior to increase my stress, how the two incidents transpired in a span of less than twelve hours, I remember how calm the Chinese girl was and by contrast, how stressed I felt at the time. There was hidden wisdom in her shrug.

Looking back now, I think I'll let go of the image of that selfish young man, let go of work stress and selfish people in general whenever possible. And in the future when I look back on that long and stressful work day in December, I think I'll choose to define and fondly recall it by the way it ended... with a mysterious, miraculous visit from an old friend who pitched his belly laugh to the cold night sky, head back, eyes closed.

At least that way, I'll smile.

Regards and Well Wishes,
'Kreskin' Sherman

Just last night I was talking to friend about the differences between watching porn in the comfort of your own home these days versus having to go to an adult theater or stag party. It just isn't the same experience at all. The only X-rated feature I ever attended in public was 'Emanuelle', way back in the late seventies, but I'm old enough to have experienced the classic stag party, complete with keg beer in plastic cups, cold cuts tray, and of course, the aptly named 'stag film'.

There were men of all age groups, from teens to their seventies, gleefully chomping cigars, drinking and telling dirty jokes while the most technically proficient member of the group toiled at the projector to feed the film through and onto the take-up reel. Once they'd killed the lights, the grainy B&W 8mm print flickered to life. Since it was a silent film with subtitles, the only sounds were the raucous laughter of the men and the clicking of the projector as the film traveled from reel to reel. The air was thick with acrid blue smoke that swirled in a cloud before the screen as the title faded up: 'The Door-To-Door Vacuum Cleaner Salesman'. It starred John Holmes in the title role, ran for one scene, the plot involving simple seduction and get-right-at-it sex.

After the scantily-clad housewife had persuaded Holmes to whip out his mammoth dong, one of the old geezers in the room yelled: “Better tie a spoon on it!”, which brought guffaws all around. I'm still not sure what the phrase meant, but Holmes got by without the spoon and ten minutes later the lights came on and I was sitting there beer-buzzed, aroused and surrounded by men. Whoever had done the scheduling might have made the moment less uncomfortable by hiring a live stripper, but we had to make do with sports conversation, sandwiches and back slaps to the groom.

I suppose some folks actually collected stag reels, watching them in the comfort of their home, masturbating alone or using them as foreplay with a spouse, but by and large the experience was shared in an acceptable setting such as the aforementioned stag party. The lights had to be dimmed, and the soundtrack was often just the sound of your own breathing accompanied by the noise of the projector. The process by way the image came alive on the screen was a big part of the experience, required setup and packing away to the closet once the movie was over and life mundanely returned to normal.

Not so nowadays, of course. A wide variety of porn is easily accessible through most local video stores or online (Boo to Blockbuster!), so you can pick up your favorite fetish at the strip mall while running errands without having to travel into the seedier parts of town. If you do indeed feel adventurous, a seedy trip to an all-adult title store will reward you tenfold in terms of variety and selection.

I often shop for this stuff in unexpected places. Used book stores, pawn shops and flea markets are all good venues to turn up cheap and unusual titles, and your best bet for finding vintage stuff like the two VHS tapes featured here. I picked up 'Bimbo Cheerleaders From Outer Space' at a resale shop in my hometown while visiting the folks at Thankgiving and 'Load Warriors' was purchased used from a regular corner video store in Hamtramck some twelve years ago.

Filmed in 1988, 'Load' stars Angel Kelly, Gail Force and Sharon Mitchell (a better actress than Sharon Stone, I might add) and is a sexual spoof of the Mad Max movie 'Road Warriors' (1981). But in this movie, instead of gasoline, the precious and rare fluid is semen, which the girls take turns milking from a couple of studs in a variety of ways. A bit too artsy in direction for my taste, the last half of the film is marred by clumsy back and forth cutting between Angel's big scene and an orgy among the remaining cast members. It was popular enough to shoot a sequel, 'Load Warriors 2'.
'Bimbo Cheerleaders' is from a couple of years later and combines just the right amount of silliness, spoof, non-plot and fun sex to be a classic. It stars Tracey Adams, Cherie Hill and a very young-looking Nina DePonca (listed as Vera Butler) as space traveling cheerleaders sent on a mission to spread joy and sex across the galaxy. The sets are paper walls with magic marker graphics and the sci-fi jargon is borrowed from the original 'Star Trek' television series (Nina's character is named 'Screwlu') and the movie 'Star Wars' (1977). The actors crack each other up delivering the stupid lines, but eventually get down to some very hot sex scenes, culminating in an orgy involving the entire cast.Classic cover art adds to the vintage feel of these two tapes and they pair nicely as a double feature the next time you're horny and too hungover to drink more beer. Pretty much like I am every Saturday night.

And the good news is, you can watch in the comfort of your own home (with all the lights on if you want), start and stop the action at the touch of a button, a large box of tissues and a tube of lube at the ready, with only the slight inconvenience of having to get up and change tapes between features.

Now that's what I call almost livin'!

Okay, this guy could probably win top prize for stupidity every single week, and I admit to being no big fan of the Bush Administration, but the idea of sending bombers into Iran to force a change in leadership there has to scare the fuck out of every American...Democrat, Republican or otherwise.

Did this dumb fucker forget that our military is already stretched thin as Nicole Ritchie's neck because we're still hopelessly mired in a winless war in Iraq? Doesn't it seem a little ironic that right in the middle of all this public posturing against the regime of Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, amidst Bush's announcement that 'all options are on the table' to keep Iran from developing nuclear weapons (NOT nuke-yoo-ler, by the way, you moron), that he's also pushing for peace in the Middle East?

Is Ahmadinejad a jackass? Doubtless he is. And he's probably very dangerous, too, not only to the stability of the region but to the United States and the world in general. I don't like the smug bastard at all, and the White House considers him the Hitler of our present day. Because of that, George W. is dead set on making the ouster of the Iranian President his pet project before he leaves office in a little over a year.

Bush claims that he's concerned about the possibility of another World War, but I'm not sure that he realizes that in order for a war to begin, somebody's got to launch a military attack. Hey, does anybody in the White House remember Pearl Harbor? Do you? In case you don't, the Japanese launched a preemptive air strike on our Navy in Hawaii on December 7, 1941. The anniversary of that attack is tomorrow. Remember how that fucking war ended? Nagasaki? Hiroshima? Atomic bombs dropped on innocent civilians? Do the names mean anything to you?

Don't kid yourself, folks. It could happen again. And what better way would there be to get Russia riled up short of dropping bombs on Moscow itself, than launching an attack on Putin's Middle East butt-buddy Ahmadinejad?

Here's what we need to do, folks. We need to get the best scientific minds in the world to gather in the United States, put their freaking heads together and come up with some renewable energy sources that make oil AND nuclear power obsolete. Then we can let those fuckers in Iran, Saudi Arabia and Russia eat their goddamn crude. Let's see how they like them Granny Smiths.

In the meantime, why can't we just figure out a way to selectively kill those bad guys who we perceive of as enemies, instead of bombing so-called military targets which have been strategically located in populated areas and shielded with innocent human beings? We can use satellites to take a picture of my fucking backyard! You can see the car parked in the driveway! It's true! How hard could it be to hook up a laser to that same satellite and 'ZAP'! No more Ahmadinejad?!

In a related twist of logic... Why is it we can call for the House and the Senate to approve a military strike on Iraq, begin a military campaign aimed at the capture, trial and execution of Saddam Hussein, but we can't just go in there and pay somebody to murder him? Somehow, that's against the 'rules'.

Am I the only one who doesn't get this shit?
On a lighter note... today's Craig's List Girl is Peaches, and you'll find her listed on the Houston page, where she offers upscale gentlemen the very finest in adult companionship. Peaches also offers nude sensuous massage with hand release, but no full-service, sorry. And yes, the photo is accurate or your first time is free.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Seven: Hell Bent In Search Of Truth

The trip to Kansas City had been a meandering one filled with overnight stays at Days Inns and Motel 6's. I'd taken my time, seen some sights and arrived on a Sunday, one week after leaving San Francisco, just in time to check into the Holiday Inn in Olathe, which was booked to capacity with drawling rednecks in town just to see a NASCAR race. I had called ahead and was lucky enough to get the last non-smoking room.

It had been tough to leave the bed that last morning on Nob Hill, leave the warm bodies of Lydia and Cookie as they slept naked one on either side of me. But I humped my bags down the hill on California Street in chilly morning mist to the garage where I'd parked the rental, tipped the little guy who drove it out and hit the road.

At the time I'd had three weeks left on the reservation, with no intention of ever turning the car in. My plan was to drive it cross country, then dump it wherever I ended up. So I burn one more alias... big deal. Airplane travel was too risky because of security and I also wanted to continue to maintain an extremely low profile for a while longer before I made my next move on Target Number Three. Plus I hadn't been on a road trip since junior college, and since I might not live much longer, I wanted to squeeze in just one more before I met my maker.

I had decided not to return the boss's call, not to even listen to his voice mail. He had called once more during the course of the week and left no message the second time. It seemed to make sense to me that he would still be lying to me no matter what he said, and I didn't want my mind clouded with anything other than the truth. I figured I'd take my own shot at getting some answers once I'd scoped out the situation in K.C., see if I could figure out how close the truth was to what the boss had told me a lifetime ago back in Michigan...

* * * * * * * * * * *

“This is a big one, Sherman,” said the boss. “Remember that girl you did over in Pennsylvania?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, it seems she was connected to a rival gang, another bunch of Mexicans that took offense to Gonzalez's handling of the entire affair. They want to send a message to Gonzalez, even though he's going to be behind bars for awhile.”

“You mean you're sending me to prison?”

“Ha ha. No, but you'll get a chance to get back at him on the outside by fucking with a bunch of his 'family' members.” He handed me a thick manila envelope. “You'll find names, photographs, and profiles of five different members of the Gonzalez gang in there. Five different cities. Four states. All in seven days. A nice little whirlwind tour of the midwest and south.”

“All four star hotels, I presume?”

“Nothing but the best for my man,” he said. “Oh miss, could we get another round over here?”

“Get me a shot, too,” I said.

“And a shot of Patron,” he added as the waitress walked away. “So what do you think, Sherman? You in? Actually, this is another one of those where you don't have much choice. You see, these guys wanted the same guy who did the girl to do the dirty work here. Just to kind of add to the whole revenge idea. The good news is you don't actually have to kill anybody, just give them all a good scare, kinda like that time the Godfather put that horse's head in bed with that guy. Ha, ha! Remember that?”

“What's it pay?”

“That's the sweet part. It's all been done. They've delivered the cash and you'll have eighty grand waiting for you once you get back here.”

“No shit?”

“Scout's honor,” he said. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

The drinks came and we touched glasses. The boss took a sip of his Dewars and I tossed down the tequila.

“Better be careful what you wish for,” I said.

* * * * * * * * * * *

We were in a small dirty room in the back of a shabby warehouse that from outside appearances looked all but abandoned. I had made a few phone calls once I'd hit Kansas City, looked up some folks I knew from my days of touring comedy clubs doing my stand up act. Shady folks who remembered me and were more than happy to help out - once I'd promised them some cash, of course. It had been surprisingly easy to lure Target Number Three here with the promise of a big meth score. It had been even easier to waylay him with a tire iron and fasten him securely to the sturdy wooden chair with heavy duty zip ties, his legs secured at ankle, knee and thigh, his arms tied tightly at wrist, elbow and shoulder. I had tied a rope around his waist and even had a tether around his neck that tied over the back of the chair to the legs just below the seat. He could barely bat an eyelash.

“Ricardo Esquivel...” I said as I held his fact sheet up and looked at him, got close to his face, close enough to smell the stink of his breath. “Are you any relation to that guy who did all that crazy stereo bachelor pad music back in the sixties? You know, the piano player... Juan Esquivel? Wore those big glasses?”

“Quien?”

I punched him hard in the mouth, my right fist gloved in leather. I could feel teeth break. “For the last fucking time! English, motherfucker! In fucking English!” He looked at me and I finally saw fear in his eyes. Ricardo rolled his tongue around inside his mouth and spat blood and teeth on the floor, more blood and saliva continuing to drool down his split lip and onto his chest. “They just called him 'Esquivel'. He played piano and conducted for one of the Ames Brothers albums, did a bunch of LPs for RCA?” Ricardo just looked at me. “Oh well, too bad. He was a cool cat. I just figured that he might be an uncle or something.”

I reached into my tool bag and pulled out a little blue tank propane torch, squeezed the striker and it lit with a pop. I adjusted the flow to produce a dagger of hissing blue flame. “Listen, Ricardo, I'm not a bad guy. But somehow this Gonzalez gang has got a hard-on for me and I need to know what's going on. And I happen to know that you know. You were supposed to be my third strike here and the first two guys both knew I was coming. Now granted, I've screwed the schedule up a little and altered my appearance some... By the way, what do you think of the hair? A friend of mine said it made me look gay. What do you think?”

Ricardo shook his head.

“Thanks, man. I think it makes me look younger, too. I'm afraid I need some answers, though, and I'm running out of time.” I held the flame close to his face and he turned away, wriggled in his seat and tried to move the chair, but it was too heavy and he was tied too tight. “You know, they just don't make office furniture like this anymore. Solid as hell, ain't it? The stuff they make nowadays is just a bunch of plastic and steel tubing. Cheap shit, you know?” I held the flame to the back of his left hand and the flesh started to bubble and burn. Ricardo howled in pain. “Now, do we have an understanding here? What does Gonzalez have against me?”

The burn had finally loosed the cat from the bag and the truth just poured out of Ricardo. I turned off the torch and listened. It seems that as he sat in his prison cell, Lil Papi had begun to regret the fact that he'd ordered a hit on his sweet little girlfriend, even though she'd testified against him in court. He even felt the need to get revenge against the person who had killed her, which of course was me. Some twisted, macho Mexican code of honor took over, and he hatched this scheme to get the job done. Gonzalez figured if they cooked up some kind of story to get me out in the open, then they'd have five chances to do the deed, five lieutenants who could extract his revenge upon me for killing the girl who he'd paid me to kill. One of his men, posing as a rival crime boss had done the hire, then turned over my itinerary to Gonzalez so they could track my every move.

“Why didn't he just kill me in Cincinnati when I delivered the girl's toe?”

“He din't realize how he felt until later,” said Ricardo through swollen lips. I was beginning to feel some sympathy for Ricardo. Sure he had been ordered to kill me, but I was going to have a hard time finishing the job now. In cold blood. Even though killing in self-defense was a much riskier proposition, there was some sort of sense of accomplishment that way... a survival high, so to speak. What I was about to do was going to suck.

“Well, Ricardo,” I said, “No offense, but your boss is crazy. And he's put both you and me in a very difficult position.” Ricardo did his best to nod his head in agreement, and I sensed that he had some hope that he might survive. “You see, now that I've switched up the schedule and my hairdo, nobody knows where I am but you. I have to keep things that way.”

There was a big industrial dumpster out back. It got emptied once a month and the pickup date was the next day, a Monday. The guy who I'd rented the place from told me not to look inside, but assured me that it was just filled with factory debris... old wire, concrete, re-rod, empty 55 gallon drums. He had hinted at the fact that it wasn't unusual to find more 'organic' waste in this particular dumpster and that anything I put in it would be hauled out 'no questions asked'. 'Anything', he had reiterated.

Ricardo didn't know I had the pistol. “I won't tell anyone!” he pleaded. “Promise!” I really wanted to believe him, but I just couldn't take that chance. I did feel sorry for him, so I tossed him a bone to make his last minute or two easier.

“I believe you,” I said. I reached into the tool bag and pulled out a pair of side cutters. “I'm going to let you go if you promise not to breathe a word about this.”

“I do promise!”

“Good,” I said as I walked around behind him and untied his waist. I could feel Ricardo relax a little, his breathing start to slow as relief spread throughout his body. I pulled the pistol from my boot, placed it at the base of his skull and squeezed the trigger.