TURNER HAHN AND FRANK MORALES ARE BACK!

Homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales are back on duty in their new novel, Guilt of Innocence.

The two are investigating a couple of murders which pushes them to the limits of their wits.  One case involves the death of a very successful corporate lawyer.  A high-priced corporate lawyer who happens to be married to a woman who heads the largest cosmetics firm in the country.  How the murder took place is perplexing enough.  But as more bodies begin to drop, Turner and Frank soon realize they are facing a maniacal mastermind who may very well be smarter than both of them combined.

Twists and turns, dead ends and red herrings...with an ending that will truly be surprising.  This case has it all.  And this is only case number one!

Case number two involves the disappearance of a young girl fifteen years earlier.  A Cold Case File.  Except it is not a cold case any longer.  The girl has returned.  And now lies on a cold metal table in the morgue.  Someone has gone out of their way to make the homicide look like a suicide.  Apparently, a crime syndicate is frantic to make sure neither Turner nor Frank find out the facts surrounding the girl's disappearance fifteen years earlier.  A hit man is in town grimly eliminating everyone who may have known the girl.  A hit man with orders to possibly rub out Turner and Frank as well.

And again, the real killer is someone whom no one would have ever suspected.

Turner and Frank are at their best.  Dry wit, interesting characters, lots of action, vivid imagery, and two genuine classic mysteries.  All of it can be found in Guilt of Innocence.  Find it here, or anywhere ebooks are sold.

B.R. Stateham is a six-four year old curmudgeon who writes genre fiction.  With an antiquarian's body, yet with the mind of a fourteen year old boy, the author's imagination still wanders down dark alleys and mean streets looking for a dangerous rendezvous or dons a Federation uniform and straps on his waist a 20 megawatt laser blaster to go out and hunt Martian grave robbers.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 127, OPEN-ENDED: LIGHTS, CAMERA...

Forgive my recycling another one of my stories, but considering the prompt this week, writing a tense scene with an open ending, I felt this one was quite appropriate.  It also fit well under the word limit.  So, let's take a peek into a make-shift movie studio, and I'll let you decide how it ends...

LIGHTS, CAMERA…

The director sighed.  Already had a buyer for his usual fare, and now this happens. One hundred thou offered to make a snuff? An actual, honest-to-fucking snuff film? The order’s from some big-name actor, so the money’s real enough. The actor’s rep let Clyde look at it in his briefcase. Let him feel it up for a sec too. Even brought the gun he wanted to be used. A nice shiny new 9mm Glock--loaded. ‘Like your other films, please’ he said quietly, ‘except this time, when the girl puts the gun into her mouth and pulls the trigger…’

Clyde felt like he was going to be sick. So far, he’d had no problem unloading his work. He has the girl make herself feel real good, then she sucks on his old Colt 38 with the broken firing pin for awhile, pulls the trigger, looks right into the camera and laughs. But this time?

He’d picked this cutie up at a bus stop on the edge of town and brought her out here to the cabin. Told him she was 18, but he didn’t believe a day over 15. Promised her a few bucks, make her a movie star, you know the routine, and she’d come willingly enough. But, still. A snuff film?

He took her into the master bedroom, where he had his lights and camera already set up. Clyde told her to lie on the bed and get comfortable and try to relax. He handed her a bottle of some cheap whiskey he had stashed there for just such occasions. As soon as she unscrewed the top, she started gulping it down. Clyde hoped to hell she wouldn’t puke it up later on film. A scene like that would certainly decrease it’s value. He told her he had some stuff to take care of in the other room, but he’d be back in about 15 minutes and then they would make the movie. She just nodded and kept gulping. Clyde went into the back bedroom he’d converted to a kind of office and sat down at the desk. He really needed to think this through.

He put the Colt and the Glock on the desk and lit a smoke. This should have been an easy decision, but he couldn’t just wave off a hundred thousand dollars. At the rate he was going, that’s more money than he would see in 25 lifetimes. But, we’re talking death for real here…

Clyde always figured there were two sides to everything. Were there this time?

Nobody makes snuff films. Not for real, anyway.

Apparently, there’s at least one guy out there who believes I would.

This kid can’t just disappear.

Told me she had no family--totally on her own.

I’ve never even punched anybody out, much less killed anyone.

I wouldn’t actually be pulling the trigger.

How could I live with myself if I let this girl die?

A hundred thou buys a lot of therapy.

Doesn’t matter how you look at this. When all is said and done, it comes down to cold-blooded, premeditated murder.

Yes. It does.

Four o’clock. Clyde thought the kid must be pretty well looped by now, considering she’s probably been gulping steady for the past 15 minutes.

Showtime.

He picked up the gun from the desk and went into the bedroom. The girl had already removed her clothes and was on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Her eyes were barely open and lifeless in the room’s dim lighting. The bottle of whiskey sat almost empty on the nightstand against the wall.

He placed the gun on the bed next to her and asked if she knew what she was expected to do with it. She closed her eyes, nodded slowly, picked up the gun and began caressing it.

He positioned himself behind the camera and said, “Five, four, three, two…”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 126: BLIND DATES--DELIGHT OR DISASTER

This is my twisted take on a blind date; an oldie, but a favorite of mine I wrote for A Twist of Noir.  My main character is based on the deaf hit man character created by Christopher Grant in his story, Reverberations, which you can read here. 

Jimmy Callaway followed with Closed Captioned, that featured this fascinating fellow, and you can read his story here.

Mine, entitled Blind Date, follows, and was the third in this delightfully bizarre series.  I hope you enjoy them all.

BLIND DATE

Well, today’s been quite the eventful day.  I’m still having a hard time believing it, and I was there.

This morning started off pretty much the same as all my other mornings.  I was enjoying my usual morning fare:  a nice hot, high fat, high cholesterol, high sodium, and let’s not forget all the sugar, delightful meal at my favorite haunt.  I’ve been coming here for over 20 years and I’ll be coming for another 20.  Small, homey, and most of all, private.   In my line of work, confidentiality is king.  My clients aren’t in the mood to advertise their meetings with me and I’m not much for social networking.

I was on my third java refill thinking about how sweet it would be to get away for a few days.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not trying to run away from something, because I never run away from anything.  It attracts attention.  It’s just that I recently finished a job that ended up being a bit messier than I like.  The client was new, but had passed muster, so I took the gig.  But, there were a few more individuals involved than originally agreed upon, so it required a bit more effort on the part of yours truly.  Mind you, I was never at a disadvantage, but more usually means noise, and noise means trouble.  Now, noise doesn’t bother me any.  I’ve been deaf since the day I was born.  But, I can see it being made--I can feel it.  People running around yelling and banging on stuff?  Noise.

I got the situation under control as I always do, but I figured my new client owed me a bonus for the extra sweat he’d caused.  Oddly enough, he didn’t see it.  I didn’t see or feel any noise while I was persuading him to my way of thinking, though.  A nice bit of closure there.  True, no actual bonus, but closure still.  A job well done.

M point being, I needed some R&R, when an old friend that I haven’t seen in years strolled in and joined me at my table.  He and I go way back and are in the same line, but it’s not like a competition thing between us.  His old lady inherited big bucks from her last sugar daddy, and he’s set for life.  He takes the occasional job just to keep a hand in and stay sharp.  Most he turns down flat regardless, if his gut tells him it’s hinky.  You know, I think I trust his gut more than I trust anyone or anything in this whole world.  If a gig clears his checkpoint, and he’s strapped, he’ll offer it to me.  I usually oblige.  A friend in need… and all that crap.

When he gave me the deets on this one, I thought he’d jumped the track.  He handed me a letter from the prospective client and told me to just read it and consider.  He hadn’t met her yet--yeah, it was a dame--but thought this might have some merit.  I nodded, shook his hand, blinked, and he was gone.  Probably on his way to catch the Concorde to Paris.  Again.

The letter read like an advice column plea.  It seems a Miss Makafee had decided it was time to seek a better half.  She didn’t trust computers--a Big Brother’s Always Watching complex--so she joined a mail order type service.  She provided a complete description of herself (blonde, blue eyes, 5 feet and 2 inches, 110 pounds) and listed her favorite activities as watching old movies, drinking hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, and walking in the rain.

For a quick sec, I had the urge to marry this hottie myself.  It passed.

The response was from a chap who claimed to be a rugged six footer, medium build, with dark hair and eyes.  Said he loved old movies, and fantasized about them holding hands sipping a mug of cocoa.  They set up a meet.

Well, knock me into a week from Thursday.  The mope shows up, and he’s 5 feet if he’s an inch.  Medium build?  Compared to what?  A Frigidaire?  Dark eyes?  Maybe.  If you could find them under all those bags hanging around ‘em.  She didn’t get a chance to quiz him in the likes and dislikes department because when he saw her, he started to laugh.  Didn’t say a fucking word to this babe, just laughed, like it was all some sick prank.  Little honey starts tearing up, runs out of the joint and catches a cab home.  She’s got his number, knows where he lives, and that’s where I come into the picture.  Well, not exactly me; it was my guy, but you already know that part.

So, she’s hurt and all, but more than that, she’s pissed all to Hell.  She wants him ‘eliminated’.  Her word--not mine.  Classy dame is my guess.  One hitch, though.  She’s light on the green.  Now, I’ve got as much heart as the next fella, but I don’t get a tax break for charity work.  Still, we could meet and see where it went.  I don’t take payment in trade, but maybe this chick’s got something I could use.  Never know.

Got a bud to take her a note to meet me at the diner at 4, cause 4 is too late for lunch and too early for dinner.  If the whole thing turns sour, all I’m out is a cup of Joe, tops.

So, I get there early, and I’m on my fourth refill and she walks in the door carrying the white rose I sent along with the note.  First thought that crossed my mind was how could that son of a bitch laugh at her.  She took my breath away.

I mean--literally--I couldn’t catch a breath.  Five foot two?  Maybe.  If she could actually straighten herself upright.  There’s a medical name for that, but it escapes me.  Saw somebody once with that condition in an old Boris Karloff movie, though.  She did have blonde hair alright--or, at least a couple of tufts of it on the right side of her head.  I think one of her legs was shorter than the other by a few inches.  That might have accounted for the fact that she kinda walked sideways; like, take a step and slide, take a step and slide.  You get the picture.

She made it over to my table during my fifth refill, sat down, waved the rose at me, and smiled a funny little crooked smile.  In my head, I was counting my meager blessings and wondering what the fuck I was doing there.  But the answer soon became very clear.  When she winked at me with her one good eye, I knew.  I thought about the basic philosophy I’ve lived my whole life with.  You make do with what you’ve been given and it’s got to be enough.

Maybe there wouldn’t be a tax break on this one, but bullets are cheap, and somebody really owed her.  By the way, I sprang for an early dinner too.

A KILLER SHARES: AN INTERVIEW WITH THE EPITOME OF PURE EVIL OR A FOR-HIRE PERSONAL AVENGING ANGEL?

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to take a peek into the mind of a professional killer?  Well, here's your chance.  Through his liason, B.R. Stateham, I was granted an interview, via the Internet, with a gentleman known as Smitty.  In polite circles, Smitty could be referred to as a sort of privatized Human Resources Administrator who handles terminations.  Or, we could simply get real about it and call him what he is:  A 'hit man'.

Let's get some insight into what makes Smitty tick.

1. Do you see yourself as providing a type of public service?

Do I provide a service to the public?   An amusing thought.   What I provide is closure; I end the terror that stalks the innocent.   I remove from the scene the monsters who are exponentially far more monstrous than I am.   Sometimes I provide hope.   Hope for those who, for years, have lived without hope.

But most of all I provide revenge.   Or justice, if you want to call it that.   Funny, isn't it?  The distinction between revenge and justice.   Is there really a distinction?

 

2. How are potential clients able to contact you?  I don't recall seeing your name and number under any of the Removal categories in the Yellow Pages.

 

I have my ways.   People whisper in the night.   People know people who know people . . . the kind of people whom a priest or preacher would recoil in horror from.   I have contacts who keep their ears open for any possible client seeking my help.   For a price, of course; always for a price.

 

3. Once your unique skills have been requested, what factors influence your decision to accept a particular assignment, or do you accept any and all requests?

 

Sometimes it can be an arduous process, this acceptance of a contract.   I look at the client's intent.  I look at their ability to pay.   Although monetary rewards are not necessarily the reward I seek.   I must decide on their loyalty.   Will they try to turn me over to the authorities if circumstances become uncontrollable?   Or will they try to control me because they have a source of blackmail to manipulate me?

 

I look at the prey.   Their history, their intentions, their guilt or innocence.   In fact you might be surprised at the number of lucrative contracts I decline because the targeted prey does not warrant my particular brand of expertise.

 

4. How does one wake up one morning and make the decision to follow the particular career path you have chosen?  Is there a particular event from your past that drove you to your specific trade, or was it simply the thrill of the hunt that attracted you at the start, and continues to do so to this day?

 

I would suggest you read one of B.R. Stateham's attempts to record my history . . . the one called There Is No Johnny---Just Call Me Smitty.   I believe the story can be found in volume one of the Smitty anthologies entitled, Just Call Me Smitty.   You'll find it remarkably accurate as to how the personna Johnny died and Smitty came into being.

 

5. May we ask about your personal life?  Do you have a special someone, and if so, is that individual aware of what you do for a living?

 

My personal life is rather reclusive.   For obvious reasons. I will say that I move from one location to another often.   And each time I move, I try to give myself a different appearance.   Disguises, therefore, are part of my repertoire.   To date no clear photo has been snapped revealing my true identity.   I plan to keep it that way.

 

As to a significant other . . . let us just say that after the sudden death of my wife a few years back, only one woman has seriously affected me.   A woman by the name of Charlene Hicks.   You may be introduced to her somewhat when B.R. Stateham completes the novel he is working on entitled Retribution.   It will be the first full length novel highlighting one assignment of unusual interest I recently completed.   I am told it will be completed sometime this year.

 

6. What is your weapon of choice, and the reasons behind your preference?

 

My weapon of choice is the switch-blade.   I believe a murder, or execution, should be up close and personal.   But I do not limit myself.   Almost anything can be used as a weapon.   Someday I might relate to B.R. the time I killed a remarkably tough gangster with a Tangerine.   One of my more unusual contracts.

 

7. How did you come to be known simply as 'Smitty', and if you're able to tell us, is that the only name you use both in your personal and professional life?

 

I refer you to question number four.   But I will say that I have about a dozen names I use.   A dozen names with complete background information and documentation in case a curious official wants to look it up.

 

It is always beneficial to be fully prepared in my line of work.

 

We want to thank Smitty for taking time from his very busy schedule to speak with us.  If you would like more information about Smitty, you can go right to B.R. Stateham's blog here.  It's called In The Dark Mind of B.R. Stateham.  If, however, you'd like to get up close and personal with this dark-eyed mysterious assassin, make sure you get the following:

 

Volume One:  Call Me Smitty:  Dirty Little Secrets (available here)

 

Volume Two:  Call Me Smitty:  See You In Hell (available here)

 

Volume Three:  Call Me Smitty:  There Are No Heroes (available here)

 

 

Also, make sure you follow B.R. Stateham's blog so you don't miss out on the release of Retribution.  More of Smitty's secrets to be revealed...

 

 

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 114: SURPRISE! SURPRISE!

The prompt this week was to be about planning a surprise party and then revealing the outcome for both the ‘surpris-ee’ and the ‘surpris-er’. I took a less-than-typical approach with the surprise party thing, but I think this is still in line with the prompt. Hope you enjoy.

A BIG SURPRISE

“I’m telling you, Rachel, he is one. I know it. All the signs are there and I am not imagining things. We’ve got one of them living right across the road from us, and we need to figure out what to do.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. A young man, probably in his mid-30s, moved into the house across the road from us this past Saturday morning, and my sister, Sarah, ever vigilant, is already suspicious of him. She is suspicious of anyone who moves into that property. Apparently, the house was built on some ancient burial ground and the house, as well as the entire property, is cursed for all eternity. According to Sarah, only creatures of some sort would dare cross the threshold and dwell within. She’s never told me where she obtained this information, but she firmly stands by it. Let’s see now, there have been werewolves, zombies, mummies, ghouls, and a couple of aliens, and our new neighbor certainly fits the bill because according to Sarah, he’s a vampire.

“Sarah, you really need to stop reading those magazines from the library and especially, stop talking to old Mrs. Mumford. To hear her tell it, she’s abducted weekly by Venusians, experimented on, and then brought back to her front door. Now, you don’t believe all that nonsense she puts out, do you?”

“Of course not. She’s just trying to draw attention to herself. But, Rachel, I’m not trying to do anything of the sort. I don’t go around telling everyone in town about that house. I only tell you so you make sure you stay away and don’t get too friendly with whoever moves in. Those spawns of Satan love to prey on single, elderly women like you and I and I just don’t want some fanged thing visiting me in my bed.”

It’s true we’re both unmarried and I’ll admit we’re both in our 60s, but I have a difficult time believing that creatures of the night would deliberately zero in on us. Considering all the late-night creature features I’ve watched, don’t the cloaked and fanged ones usually go after the 20-something, blue-eyed blondes who prance around at night in filmy negligees?

“Rachel, you don’t notice things like I do. I watch these creatures to see if I can identify which category they belong to. You have to do that, otherwise if they attack, you can’t defend yourself.”

“Sarah, we were born in this house and have lived here all our lives. When has anyone every been attacked in this whole town?”

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. Getting back to this vampire we now have as a neighbor, I’ve been watching him closely and that’s how I figured him out. He never comes outside during the daytime because they don’t, you know. They sleep in a coffin, and only when the sun goes down do they awaken. I’ve seen him slip out at night just walking down the highway. Once he gets out of sight, he must turn into a bat and fly into the city to feed. That has to be it since there have been no reports of anyone being bitten in town.”

“Maybe the man works out of his home during the day, and maybe he has trouble sleeping, so he walks. Heaven knows, it’s safe enough here. He could walk for miles and not be bothered by anyone. Have you considered that?”

I don’t know why I bother. Sarah just shook her head and went back to the front window with her binoculars. Normally, I just ignore her ravings because the folks that moved in there were either couples or our age. But this young man? I’ll bet he’d be perfect for Susanna Mitchell, our new librarian. She’s his age, and single, but so shy. Pickings are pretty slim here for boyfriend material for young ladies and this fellow might be just what she needs. If I could just figure out a way to introduce myself to him. Wait. I’ve got it.

“Rachel, it was a brilliant idea to get him over here pretending to welcome him to the area. I‘ll be ready for that bloodsucker. He is going to get a big surprise.”

I had called and invited him to dinner to find out if he was married or attached in any way so I could fix him up with Suzanna. His name was Jonathan Wellesley (classy, huh?) and his voice was smooth as silk. He said he’d be delighted. Sarah promised to behave herself, but did tell me she had a vampire test for him. Oh goody.

When our doorbell rang, I opened the door and invited our guest in. Forgive an old lady, but he looked delicious. All decked out in a three-piece pin-striped suit, he reminded me of any one of the numerous movie stars I’d had crushes on in my youth. Startlingly blue eyes you could get lost in and a dazzling, warm and comfortable smile. After I shut the door however, Sarah came rushing in wearing a necklace of garlic cloves, holding a spray bottle filled with what she announced was water blessed by Father George in one hand and a sharp stick in the other. Understandably, our guest was taken aback.

“Perhaps I should come back another time?” He inched his way backward toward the front door.

“SARAH, STOP IT RIGHT NOW! Jonathan, I’m terribly sorry. My sister…”

“Stay right where you are, whatever you are. I command you to answer.” Sarah had really outdone herself this time. I made a mental note to call Dr. Hargrove first thing in the morning to discuss having her committed.

“Are you a vampire? Be assured evil one, I have the power of good in my heart and you shall be defeated.”

Jonathan took a deep breath, smiled at Sarah, and quietly said ‘no‘.

“Alright then,” Sarah said and put the garlic, bottle and stick in the front closet. “Let’s eat. Dinner’s ready.” Sarah took Jonathan’s hand in hers, and they headed for the dining room. I made a mental note to check with Dr. Hargrove about having myself committed.

“WAIT JUST A MINUTE!” This was too much. “All this time, he’s a vampire, he’s undead, he’s this and he’s that. Then, you ask him, he says ‘no’ and it’s over, let’s eat? Am I the only one who sees the craziness here?”

“Rachel, you don’t know about these things. Once you invite a vampire into your home, he has to tell the truth and you have to be ready to take him down. But, now we know Jonathan is one of us, so it’s alright.”

Dinner went well after I washed a couple of aspirin down with a highball. We parted company around eleven. Sarah went straight to bed and I stayed up to try to figure out where to go from here. I love my sister, but I can’t go on like this. I never know from one minute to the next how she’s going to act, or react, and it’s not harmless delusions anymore. I mean, she ran at our neighbor with a sharp stick. Maybe there’s some outpatient treatment she could…

What was that? It sounded like a gust of wind in the hallway. I’ve told Sarah to keep her window closed and locked at night. I started to get up to scold her when our new neighbor walked into my bedroom with blood dripping from his lips.

“Jonathan, what are you doing here? What have you done? Where’s my sister?”

“Your sister’s dead, and soon you shall be also. This town will feed me well and you two may as well be the first.” There was that smooth as silk voice again. But the fangs were new.

“This can’t be. When Sarah asked if you were a vampire, you said no. I thought you had to tell the truth if you were invited in.”

Jonathan began to laugh. “Where did she get her information--from the late show? If you invite a vampire into your home, the only thing that accomplishes is that it grants him access at his discretion.”

As he moved toward me, I realized that Sarah and I were the ones who got the big surprise…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 113: SO, YOU WANNA START SOMETHIN'?

The prompt this week was three starter sentences, each chosen from Page 111 (coincident with the prompt’s date of 1/11) of three different novels.  We were to pick one to begin our story with.  I chose the third, which was from Vincent Zandri’s novel, As Catch Can.  Please enjoy.

MY NEW FRIEND

I felt as if the whole world were about to slip out from under my feet.  Have you ever been sitting in your living room, with a microwave dinner on your lap, watching the evening news, when an entire S.W.A.T. team barges in through your front door?  I didn’t think so.  Well, it happened to me.  It was years ago, but I remember it like it happened this morning.  That could be because I’m on Death Row, awaiting my execution for a murder I did not commit.  I know you’re asking yourself, how in the world could something like that happen?  Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for you.  I’m still trying to figure it all out.  The problem is, in my case, time really is of the essence.

Everything transpired so quickly, it was like a blur.  I was read my rights, arrested, jailed without any bond due to the brutality of the crime, assigned a still-wet-behind-the-ears attorney, and went to trial.  As fascinating as the judicial system might be, it’s a nightmare when the prosecution’s got a needle full of lethal chemicals with your name on it aimed right at you.  Talk about a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am affair.  Witness after witness testified to having seen me stalking the victim around the time he was killed.  Interesting stuff since I’d never been in that area of town in my entire life.  Too ritzy for me, you see.

Evidently, a comb of mine, which I never carried on my person, reeking with my DNA, had made it into his house and was found laying in a pool of his blood.  It had fallen out of my pocket, the prosecutor had said.  The whole proceeding was quite the fairy tale and there was no way anyone in their right mind was going to believe any of that crap.  Right?

The jury deliberated for almost an hour before they came out, all solemn-faced, and pronounced me guilty as charged.  Took them all of about 12 minutes to come back in and recommend death by lethal injection.  The judge, God bless him, agreed immediately, categorized me as the spawn of Satan, and said he hoped I’d be shown mercy in the next life because there wasn’t any left for me in this one.

And so, off I was sent to sit and wait.  And wait.  And wait some more.  I never saw my lawyer again.  I thought they were supposed to follow up with you or something, but every time I asked a guard about it, I was told to relax and not worry so much.  Oddly, that advice didn’t help me to sleep better at night.  All that stuff on the television about automatic appeals, to this day, I have no idea if any were made on my behalf.  I was not permitted to speak in the courtroom and I was not permitted to speak to anyone once I was put in a cell.

This morning when my breakfast arrived, I was informed that my execution was scheduled for one second after midnight tonight.  I was told all my appeals had run out and my only hope at this point was a last minute phone call by the Governor.  I was also advised that I shouldn’t put a whole lot of faith in that since the Governor had never made any last minute calls to the death chamber, and since I was such a bad-ass, I shouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that phone to ring.

They asked me what I would like for my last meal so they could arrange it.  Don’t kid yourself about that last meal bit.  You can’t order soufflés and champagne.  When they say you can have anything you want, that part is true enough, but the catch is, you can have anything you want as long as the prison serves it on a routine basis.  So I ordered a burger, fries and a diet coke.  Kind of a last laugh for me, I guess, the ‘diet’ part.  I’ve always meant to cut down on the high calorie soda I drink.  I supposed this would be as good a time as any.

They asked me if I wanted a minister or priest to visit with and I told them ‘no‘.  I knew he would try to get me to confess to the sin I was being executed for.  I’m sure I’ve committed some here and there that I could ask him to try to wipe off my slate, but I refuse to ask to be absolved for the big one I did not commit.  I decided if I only had a few hours left, I’d spend them like I’d spent the last few years--alone.  Imagine my surprise when I was informed a few minutes ago, that on today of all days, I had two visitors.  It was all I could do not to break into a dead run (please excuse the phrase) to the visitation area.  I hadn’t realized how desperately I needed contact with someone from the outside.  When I saw who my visitors were, my surprise quickly elevated me to a state of shock.

“David, it’s not that I’m not glad to see you, and your wife, I’m just a bit confused; although, at this point, I’m glad to be able to visit with anybody.  Since all this craziness began, one by one, my so-called good friends seemed to evaporate.  Now, on what is more than likely going to be my last day, literally, the only one who comes to see me is someone I met just before all this mess started?  I mean, it wasn’t long after you had filled in for Sammy J  at that poker game that a man I never knew was murdered and I ended up being arrested for it.

“As grateful as I am for the company, I have to wonder why you‘ve come.  All these years on Death Row and you never tried to contact me.  On top of all that, you bring your wife with you, not that I have any objection.  It‘s a pleasure to see a smiling face for a change.  One thing though, Marie, the minute you walked through the door, I had the feeling I’ve seen you somewhere before, but that’s not possible, is it?  I’ve been inside all this time with no visitors, letters, nothing.  I just can’t figure why you look so famil…

“Wait a minute.  I know where I’ve seen you.  It was in court at my trial.  You’re the widow.  You were married to the guy I supposedly killed.  Your hair was a different color then, but I remember your face.  And, now you’re married to David?  What’s going on?  Why are you both really here?”

“Now, Jer, there’s really no reason to get all upset.  We just stopped by to thank you.”  I didn’t care for David’s sarcastic tone.  I have to admit I wasn’t too crazy about the smirk on Marie’s face either.

Something told me I wasn’t going to like how this all turned out.  I felt like I needed to question everything.  I always knew somebody set me up to take the fall for killing that guy because I didn’t do it.  I know prison cells, as well as Death Rows everywhere are filled with ‘innocents’, but I really am.  Since I didn’t do it, how did my comb end up there?

I lived alone and only my closest friends were invited inside.  Out of nowhere, this new guy, David, shows up and sits in on our game.  No one questioned his being there since we all had assumed Sammy J had sent him.  We just dealt him in.  Sammy had tripped over his mother-in-law’s cat and fell down a couple flights and ended up in the hospital with a broken leg.  We got so used to David, we forgot to check it out with Sammy, who ended up being laid up for a couple of months anyway.  Oh my God.

David, or whoever he really is, targeted me, pocketed an object of mine to drop at a murder scene, eliminated the husband of the woman he was after, and set me up.  So, now, here I sit, with both of them gloating right in front of me, on the day of my scheduled execution.  Conversations are recorded, so there’s no way either one of them is going to admit what they’ve done.  I decided to be gracious about the whole situation.

“I get it, okay?  I suppose now is the time I’m supposed to say ‘you’re welcome’?”

The guard came by and announced that visitation time was over since it was time for me to get ready for my last meal and a bit of quiet time before they turned my lights out--permanently.

David and Marie both smiled and winked at me on their way out.  I wonder just when it was that the mysterious hand of fate made the decision to give me the finger…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 112: EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT...

This week’s prompt was to get inside the head of a wannabe reporter who spends the night in a house on the anniversary of the horrific crime that took place there.  This is his chance to write a big story and hopefully, interest editors at the city papers.  The house is supposed to be haunted though, so when he spends the night there, will he be alone?

LIVE FEED…

This is going to be the one.  Wait until I send a copy of my article to New York and L.A.  Editors on both coasts will be fighting over me.  Who knew that coming to this rinky-dink town would be the break I’ve been looking for my whole life.  Spending the night in a house where one year ago today, brutal murders and a suicide stained the walls and floors red.  Oh, now, there’s a great line.  I’ll use that.

I need to hurry and get over there before dark so I can find my way around.  The whole town believes the house and grounds are haunted by evil spirits, so I’ll play that angle up big.  Maybe I’ll hear some moans or feel a cold draft.  Hicks love that crap.  This is going to give my career the boost it needs.

This place is disgusting.  I don’t know what I was expecting.  I mean, nobody’s set foot in here in a year.  I’ll set up in the living room.  Sure glad I brought a lawn chair to sit on.  No way am I going near that couch.  I’m glad I ate in the car.  I’d probably have to fight the squirrels and raccoons for my supper.  Funny though.  There’s nothing crawling around in here at all.  The place is dusty, but I haven’t seen so much as a fly.  Funny.

I told my new editor I’d do a live feed on this one, so I’d better get started.  I know he’s just as anxious as I am to find out what’s really going on in this house of horrors.  ‘House of horrors’.  I’ll use that too.

Well, here goes.

ANNIVERSARY OF A NIGHTMARE By Rodney Schlausser

I am reporting live from 679 Windmere Cove, the site of horrific events one year ago today.  At just before midnight, the owner, Robert Luxor, returned home from a business trip to discover his wife, Lucinda and her lover, Samuel Corder, asleep in the master bedroom.  Luxor retrieved a carving knife from the kitchen, entered the bedroom, and cut both their throats, and then proceeded to stab his wife 41 times and her lover, 39 times.  According to the coroner, they must have been killed as they slept based on the position of the bodies, and considering there were no defensive wounds.  Once he had completed his grisly mission, he retired to the den, where is slashed his own throat.  Their housekeeper discovered the horrific scene the following morning.  She had stopped in on her way home to drop off a cake she had purchased for them from a Bake Sale at her Church.  All were buried in the town’s cemetery with name markers only.  Since all had no known family, the house was sealed up and ownership remains with the State.

Local realtors, as well as those from the county, appointed by the courts, have been trying to sell the property as a fixer-upper project, but as soon as prospective buyers find out what occurred in the house, their interest evaporates.  Rumors abound that the property is haunted by dark and evil forces, and that local townspeople have vanished after having spent time in the house after dark.

Well, this reporter is not put off by rumors and intends to spend the entire night here in this house of horrors.  I am going to explore every room, including the rooms where the murders and suicide occurred and I will be reporting everything I see and hear so we can find out once and for all if the spirits of those who died here have finally found peace or if they still walk the grounds seeking some type of revenge on the living.

Man, this stuff is great.  I’ll bet my editor is wetting his pants right now.  He’s never had a story this great published in his pathetic little newsletter before.  What was his name again?  Dale?  I can‘t remember, so I won’t put anything directly to him.  I wonder if the bloodstains are still visible in the den and the master bedroom.  It would be so cool if…  What the hell was that?  Probably one of the windows is broken upstairs and a branch is brushing up against it.  That’s great.  Nice and creepy.

I’m currently in the living room, and nothing has been changed since that fateful night.  Of course, there’s no power, but I can see quite well with my lantern that the furniture, in its prime, had been quite luxurious.  Mr. Luxor had been a corporate attorney and it was said he banked millions.  No one was ever able to verify any of his clients, but the rumor mill covered that as well.  It was said the mob paid his bills, but there’s never been any documentation to support that.

Too bad.  The mob angle would have added some real juice to this story.

Heading upstairs to check out the master bedroom.  I have already heard a kind of swishing noise coming from there.  Could it be Mrs. Luxor and her lover seeking one last embrace?  It’s probably just the wind from a broken window.  Let’s head in there.

All the windows are intact, and there’s no animals in here.  I wonder what made that sound.

Well, well, well.  Talk about leaving a crime scene as is.  Friends, the blood-stained sheets are still on the bed, although what drained from the victims is now crusted and black.  The killer really took his time punishing his wife and her lover for their crime against him.  He obviously wanted to make sure they were both…

What the fuck?  I‘ve been shoved, and I’ve got a deep cut in the calf of my left leg and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.  I’d better get back downstairs and clean this up.  I’ve got some napkins in my Burger Palace bag.  I’ll probably get tetanus.  I’ll look around in the morning and find out what I ran into.  I sure hope it wasn’t rusty.  Still, it felt like I was shoved…

A minor accident.  Heading down to the den, the site of the suicide.  It’s not often anyone cuts their own…

Who are you?  Answer me.  Look, I’m on a live feed here and I can have the authorities here in five minutes.  Say something!

Hard as it may be to believe, there is an entity standing in front of me, holding a carving knife.  No expression, standing perfectly still, although its arm with the knife is raised.  I don’t recognize the face though.  I tried communicating with it, but to no avail.  Now, it’s coming toward me on the offensive.  Should be a fascinating experience when the knife goes right through…

God.  This is real.  The bastard stabbed me in the shoulder.  Who are you?  What?  I don’t want this house.  I’ll leave.  Get away from me.

Emergency.  Luxor’s illegitimate son is in the house and armed and I have been attacked.  I am in the den closet.  He’s kicking the door and it won’t be long before he reaches me.  I have no way to defend myself.  Please send the police right away.  Please hurry.  The door is starting to give way.  Please send help.  Ple…

*              *             *               *              *               *              *

“Del, why did that nice young man decide to spend the night at the Luxor house on the anniversary of that awful business?”

“Mariposa, I offered him a job with the paper right off, but he insisted he needed to report a big story first to prove himself.  Prove himself?  The biggest news around here, other than the anniversary of the murders, is a sale at Wilbert’s Sporting Goods.  Besides, that business with the Luxors has been a blight on this community since that horrible night and he wants to bring it up and rub our faces in it all over again.”

“Dear, you know folks have gone up there to spend the night, thinking it was all a joke, and they were never seen again.  The place is full of the devil, Del, and you shouldn’t have let him go up there all by himself.”

“Honey, you can’t stop a grown man.  Anyway, he’ll be alright.  Those kids just left out the back way to create some kind of mystery.  You don’t really believe anything actually happened to them, do you?”

“I do, and so does everyone else.  When Bob Luxor killed Luci and that boy and then himself, they were all cursed to stay in that house.  When will that young man be back?”

“At 6 tomorrow morning to lay out the story for the Sunday edition.  He said he was going to send me a live feed throughout the night, and I said great, but that Fred Astaire movie is on tonight, so I locked up and came home.  He won’t know the difference.  I’ll just read it in the morning.  Now, let’s make some popcorn, and put on Channel 14.”