THUGLIT Issue Thirteen Read online

  THUGLIT

  Issue Thirteen

  Edited by Todd Robinson

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in the works are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  THUGLIT: Issue Thirteen

  ISBN-13: 978-1501010460

  ISBN-10:1501010468

  Stories by the authors: ©Tim Hall, ©Travis Richardson, ©Kate Barrett, ©Kevin Egan, ©Bryan Paul Rouleau, ©Paul J. Garth, ©Michael Cebula. ©Marc E. Fitch

  Published by THUGLIT Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the Author(s).

  Table of Contents

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  The Proxy by Travis Richardson

  Moses on the Hill, with Fire Following

  by Paul J. Garth

  The Ice Cream Snatcher

  by Bryan Paul Rouleau

  Selfie by Tim Hall

  Thirty Dollars by Kate Barrett

  Joe the Terrorist by Kevin Egan

  Tommy, Who Loved to Laugh

  by Marc E. Fitch

  Funeral By Michael Cebula

  Author Bios

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  Thirteen.

  It's a number that signifies a lot of things to a lot of people. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. I've heard some people say, "Lucky number thirteen!" But those people are stupid, and you don't need them in your life.

  And if you know Thuglit, you know what kind of luck is in store for you within these pages—the baddest. The worst.

  Snake eyes when your life is riding on the dice.

  The kind of luck that bluesmen have sung about for a hundred years.

  Uhhh…flies in your chardonnay?

  The kind of circumstances that are sometimes defined by birth, or the bad choices you've made in life. But sometimes, it's just Lady Fortuna taking a big ol' dump right in your Cheerios.

  So, dig in, Thugleteers. Walk under that ladder, past the broken mirror. Knock that damn black cat off your readin' cot, and bask in eight new tales of people whose turns on the wheel of fate make your life seem a little better.

  Almost. Good luck…

  IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:

  Smile for the camera.

  I scream, you scream…

  Who maketh his angels spirits; his ministers a flaming fire Psalms 104:4

  Thirty dollars can only get you so far, and never far away.

  All grandparents spoil their grandkids, but this shit is ridiculous

  Home is where the heart is. Also, where you wanna stab.

  يا جو، ماذا تعرف؟

  Hahahahahaaaaa! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

  SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!!

  Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug)

  8/25/14

  The Proxy

  by Travis Richardson

  Trey Tiverton sat out on his front porch in his rocking chair, sipping a jar of homemade hooch that was strong enough to melt the paint off of a barn. He watched a couple of his men play ping-pong in the afternoon shade of his barn-turned-lab. They'd snorted a little of the new batch and had excess energy to burn. They were smacking the dirty off-white ball nearly as fast as them Asians in the Olympics but with five times the mistakes. They should be using that energy to hunt down Owen Seaver, but then again they'd probably fuck it up and kill somebody innocent. Better to keep his muscle nearby, protecting the lab.

  Owen was the junkie bastard who had stolen $1800 from him. Walking his useless ass three miles over to the homestead, he acted like they were old friends again, and somehow, sentimentality and all that shit, Trey had let his guard down and allowed him inside the house where a stack of cash sat on the kitchen table.

  Where Owen was hiding was anybody's guess, but Trey was certain he was still local. He never liked venturing too far from home. If that idiot had been any other tool in these parts, he'd have used that money to buy a jalopy and gotten the hell far away as possible from Lynchwood County. Of course the law was looking for him on the roads—an enemy of Trey was an enemy of the sheriff.

  The rumble of BD's chopper let everybody in a square mile know he was coming. Trey didn't think it made much sense for his collections man to make such a loud entrance everywhere he went. Seemed like he should be all stealthy and sneak up on his prey like a copperhead on a rat. Didn't matter though. BD, short for Bulldog (or Big Dick, so he said), always found who he sought, and they always paid what they owed and then some.

  Clem and Jericho had stopped knocking that dirty plastic ball around and stood trembling. Could be the chemicals or could be fear. Trey imagined it was both.

  BD pulled up the dirt driveway, dust trailing behind the two beasts, machine and man. The six-six giant wore a leather vest and leather pants in spite of the August heat. Prison ink covered his bulging arms with slogans and images that ran from his wrists up to his greasy overgrown beard. His Glock hung low from his belt like he was the gun-slinging Han Solo, but trapped in Chewbacca's body. When BD killed the engine, the earth stopped vibrating.

  As he lumbered to Trey, it looked like he was trying to hold a poker face under his dark shades, but Trey could tell he was proud of something. And anything that made BD proud often included sadistic pain and suffering.

  "You find 'im?" Trey asked, not moving an inch for his employee.

  "Not yet, but don't worry none. You'll get his scalp soon enough." The beast pulled a wad of cash from his vest's inner pocket. It was sweaty and bloody.

  "What's this for?" Trey asked, grabbing the money with the tips of his fingers.

  "Jessup Watkins is paid up now."

  Trey counted it out. Two hundred and forty. That was the right amount, less BD's twenty percent collection fee. Trey grabbed a notebook from a nearby table and wrote PAID next to Jessup's three hundred dollar debt. He should have asked for the entire three hundred and given the sixty back. This was some kind of test, Trey knew. He ought to nut up and remind the Neanderthal who was boss.

  "How come the money's all bloody?" he asked instead.

  BD grinned and pulled out a couple of broken teeth from his pants pocket.

  "Jessup's gonna find it a whole lot easier to whistle now," BD said with a grin.

  Trey did his best not to show disgust. Couldn't show weakness around this brute. The sociopath intimidated everybody around him, and he'd had his eye on Trey's rocking chair for some time. Trey needed to flex some power or BD would make his move sooner than later. The unbathed fool might have had the intimidating strength to run a drug operation, but not the brains to make it successful. He'd end up crippling or killing all his clients by the end of the year. And unable to pay off the law, he'd be a dead man before the spring. Trey hoped BD was smart enough to know he was an idiot.

  "So what about Owen? You just goin' to let him walk around town?"

  BD smiled through his yellowed crooked teeth. "Oh that boy ain't struttin' around much. He's hidin' and layin' low. But he's gonna be appearin' around here real soon. I can guarantee it."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "I had a talk with his gramps."

  Trey's pulse quickened as he leaned forward in his chair. "You didn't hurt him, did you?"

  BD shot up his hands in the air like he was an innocent angel. "I di
d no such thing. I heard you the first time, boss." He said 'boss' like it was a disease.

  "Well, what did you tell him then?"

  "Oh, just how the longer Owen keeps hidin,' the worse it'll be for him. Old man had tears streamin' down his face. Think he pissed himself too. Should've used Depends."

  "Someone's comin,'" Clem said from the barn. He and Jericho hadn't moved from the table, but hadn't resumed the game either. The ball's bounce sometimes got on BD's nerves and nobody ever wanted to be in that spot.

  The two tweakers brought out their pistols, and BD, spitting in the dirt, walked over to his hog to pick up his sawed-off. Most likely it was a client who had ran across some cash and was ready to pound some crystal again. Occasionally, the Buckley boys came by, wanting to start some trouble. They manufactured meth too, but lower grade shit. Chemical fiends avoided it if they could. Trey felt safe about anybody gunning after him because they were going to have to do it head on. Everybody knew the entire eighteen acres of Trey's unkempt farmland was booby-trapped.

  When a familiar Chevy truck came down the dusty drive, Trey couldn't believe his eyes. It was old man Seaver. That degenerate Owen's grandfather.

  BD walked over to Clem and Jericho. "Looks like we're catering to the seniors citizens now," he said with a cruel smile. The tweakers laughed nervously.

  "Ain't no way," Trey said, glaring at BD. "Mr. Seaver is straight as a ruler. Baptist through and through. Never touched a bottle in his life."

  BD shrugged. "Whatever you say, boss."

  Of course the same couldn't be said about Owen's mother, Angela. She'd drink, smoke, or snort anything in front of her. Even when Owen was a boy in the trailer with her. She eventually took off to Houston, leaving Owen with his grandparents, became a crack whore, and died of AIDS.

  Mr. Seaver ambled out of his truck on thin, shaky legs. He had to be near eighty these days.

  "The old coot needs a walker, don't he?"

  The paddle-wielding tweakers laughed again.

  "Shut it," Trey said, glaring at BD again. The tweakers looked down at their filthy shoes. BD glared at Trey. There was gonna be a tussle between them real soon. Trey turned his attention back to feeble Mr. Seaver.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Seaver. What brings you over to my place?"

  The old man kept walking with his head down until he reached the stairs. Sweat stained his faded denim shirt.

  "Hey Gramps, my boss just asked you a question," BD said just under a shout.

  Mr. Seaver turned his head to the fierce brute, then looked up at Trey with bloodshot eyes behind smudged, thick glasses.

  "Trey," he said with a tremor in his voice.

  "That's Mr. Tiverton to you, old timer," BD shouted, bounding over to him like a bouncer ready to break up a brawl.

  The man trembled.

  "I got this, BD," Trey said. with his hand out to emphasize the point.

  The collector spat and walked away from the porch, mumbling something about weakness. Trey felt like reaching behind the rocking chair, taking the shotgun strapped to the back of it, and blowing a hole through the ex-con…even if it meant spraying Clem and Jericho with some buckshot.

  "How can I help you, Mr. Seaver?"

  "Trey," Mr. Seaver said with an earnest face. "I need to ask you a favor."

  "You know I can't afford to do favors around here. It's the nature of the business."

  "I understand that, but what I was lookin' at doin' was payin' Owen's debt."

  "I don't have no doubt that you intend to pay it, but I don't think you've got the means to pay it. You see, I'm not just talking about a loan or money owed. He stole a lot of money from me, Mr. Seaver, and I can't abide with that. I got a business to run, and reputation makes all the difference."

  BD leaned against the weathered clapboards of the barn, causing them to groan. He crossed his arms and pointed his nose up to the sun as if he were looking down on this negotiation.

  "What is it that you want from the boy exactly?" Mr. Seaver asked.

  "Well, the money, for one thing," Trey said. He looked over at his men, watching. He should send them on an errand, but what? Being the boss in the drug trade meant very little privacy. "But it's a bit more than that, you see? He stole, and a lesson has to be taught. People need to see that you don't mess with me."

  "How much did he steal?"

  "Eighteen hundred."

  "Plus interest," BD said.

  Trey shot him a glare. The brute spat, shaking his head.

  "Good lord, that's about all I got, Trey," Mr. Seaver's voice cracked. He took a deep breath and reached for his back pocket.

  Trey saw his men reach for their weapons, but he waved them off.

  "Is a check alright?" he asked, pulling out a tattered checkbook. "You know I'm good for it."

  "Yes, sir. But Mr. Seaver, you shouldn't be payin' for—"

  "Yes, son. I gotta."

  "It's not your problem. He done this to himself."

  The old man shook his head. "I wasn't a good father."

  Trey didn't know how he had raised Owen's mother, but he couldn't be held responsible for the wild child that she became.

  "Well, you were an excellent grandfather to Owen. And don't you believe anything different. You were good to me too growin' up."

  "Apparently I wasn't much good at that either," Mr. Seaver said, holding a stare through his murky glasses.

  "Look now, you did us good. Real good. When I'd visit you'd take us to movies, and fishin' and all that. Owen and I loved bein' around you. Don't you think no different, understand."

  "Well, look at how you turned out. I mean…" Mr. Seaver held his head down, shaking it. Unlike BD, there was no anger, but defeat and sadness in the headshake.

  "Mr. Seaver, you can't take responsibility for the way we turned out. I mean, in some ways I'm kind of a success, you know. Entrepreneurial, runnin' my own business and such."

  "But Owen…"

  "Owen was the one who started me in this trade. He learned the formulas from someplace, and I did the business end. We were partners, but…" Trey stopped and bit his lip for a second. He would not allow his voice to break with his crew close by. "Owen couldn't keep from using the product and bein' a liability. He's an addict, like his mom. Must be in his genes."

  "It's in the genes, alright. My daddy was an alcoholic. Had an awful temper in him when he was drinkin'. I never touched the evil stuff."

  There was a long pause. The breeze rattled the leaves of the surrounding trees.

  "So can you tell me what else is owed?" Mr. Seaver said, finally breaking the silence.

  "Retribution." The word slipped out before Trey could stop himself. It was true though. Money alone wasn't enough to even out the theft.

  "A butt-kicking?" the old man asked.

  Clem and Jericho chuckled.

  "A little more than that. Like lyin' in bed for a few weeks kind of punishment." Mr. Seaver took in Trey's words, nodding thoughtfully. "I wouldn't kill him though. Who knows, he might even dry out in the hospital."

  "Would you knock out his teeth? I hear that big one likes to collect 'em," he said with a nervous glance to BD.

  "If it happens with a punch or a kick, then yes. But I won't let anybody take a pair of pliers to his mouth. You gotta understand, things will get broken, Mr. Seaver. They have to."

  "And then it's even. Owen is free and clear. Clean slate?"

  Trey looked over at his men. The tweakers were doing their best to stand still while the brute basked in a patch of sunlight like a reptile.

  After finding out that the money was missing, Trey had wanted Owen slaughtered. The betrayal was too much. He'd wanted Owen brutalized within an inch of life, and then after BD had extracted all of the pain that one could from a human body, he'd snuff out his former best friend's life. But Trey's outrage was mellowing, and now he reckoned a lesson was enough.

  "Slate will be clean. You have my word."

  Mr. Seaver pulled out a pen from his front pock
et and wrote out an $1800 check out to cash. He handed it to Trey with a trembling hand.

  "So we're half done here, you understand? Owen still needs to show up. We won't be gentle, but one of us will drop him off at the hospital alive. I swear on my parents' grave."

  Mr. Seaver nodded. His face had paled to a waxy sheen. He ambled back to his truck, but then stopped and turned around.

  "Trey."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Lemme stand in for him."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Proxy. Let me proxy for my grandson."

  "What the hell's a proxy?" BD asked.

  Trey was about to speak, but held his tongue. He knew what it was, sort of.

  "It's like a substitute," Mr. Seaver told BD.

  "Mr. Seaver, this isn't your—"

  "You mean we can kick your ass on account of your no-good grandson?" BD interrupted.

  Mr. Seaver nodded his head gravely. BD let out a cruel laugh.

  "Dammit, Mr. Seaver, you shouldn't be takin' no beating on account of a thievin' junkie. Ever," Trey said. "I've already taken all your money."

  "He's my grandson, my only one. The crap that goes into his body…well it may make him a different person sometimes, but it don't change who he is to me." He walked up to the porch, his eyes steady on Trey. "I ain't got much time left on this planet anyhow, and if this is something I can do for Owen, well…"

  The man's lower lip trembled, but he had determination behind his pale blue eyes. Trey saw BD nearly salivating while the tweakers scratched themselves, unsure of what to do.

  "I can't, Mr. Seaver. I'm sorry."

  If they were alone, Trey might have called everything even. But he couldn't with his men around.

  "Yes, you can. You gotta kick my butt for him."