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” it was hard to get, a finites, a resource, a hard thing to get. It was called


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Frank picked up Sally Chop, as she wanted to be called, driving 66. After a few miles, she leaned over and licked his ear. He hated it but he didn’t want to be rude, so he looked her over.

“What’s with the paper bag, baby?
“Never mind the bag, toss me a smoke she purred rolling her eyes.

After a few miles he said

“Look, tell me what’s in the bag. Cut the shit. Let me see what’s in it or get the fuck out here and now.”

“Say, Baby,” a cat like look spread on her face, “you know the story on the motel TV about this crack pot, creepy killer, who goes around removing people’s wind pipes. They said the only tip they have is a dark figure in a hoodie.

“It’s a bunch of shit the television people made up,” he sighed.

Drifting down the highway, the car buffeted by the wind and sand, there was small fuel sign. It had taken a beating from the sand and wind.

Pulling off the road they slid to a stop a few feet from the pump. Frank turned to face to her.
“You’ve been yakking about the fucking bag since we started out. So you brought it along. Open the fucking thing or pitch it.”

She opened the bag. He thought he’d vomit from the stench. She jerked the bloody head out. One eye had film over it.

“What the hell?”

“No, I think it’s time for you to go to hell.”

She reached back in the bag pulled up a silver hand gun, with a silencer, and in two pops Frank had a look of disbelief in his eyes; he was gone.

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Hit Man

Frank sat in the hospital room staring at the tired flesh, the gaunt head resting on a bony pike neck.  Flesh hanging like it was on a coat rack.

“Aren’t you scared to die” Frank asked, Feeling like he was sitting  in Hitler’s bunker during the fall of Berlin.

“I’ve led a full life,” the general rasped.

Frank sat staring at the old man. He got up towering  over his hospital bed. He quizzed the old man.

“What about the souls you took?”

“It had to be done. There were elements bent on destruction of an orderly society. They were Communists.”

Frank slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The old man’s brown, blood-shot eyes followed every move. Eyes accepting their

fate;eyes saying go ahead and do it but I was right and not even you can take it away from me at this moment.

Wrapping his hands around the soft, well-worn flesh of the old man’s neck Frank tightened his fingers and squeezed. The

old general fought and struggled at first flaying his legs and grabbing at Frank with his stick like fingers and aged hands. Frank

pressed tighter the old man let out a sigh and went limp. He lay still on the bed a vacant stare in his eyes. Pulling a

flower arraignment from a vase on a table next to the bed , Frank spread them over the still body like spreading cards. Outside

the room. Frank heard people shuffling in the hospital hall. Pealing off the blue colored gloves Frank wadded them up

making a rubber ball. He pushed the blue mass in to his right front pocket. Frank walked through the front door. In the car, he decided he was hungry and drove off to get a hot dog.






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The sounds of the slot machine danced in Frank’s head as if it were a sawed off chrome mail box you’d find on a street corner. The yellow and red lights winked at Frank like meth fed exotic fruit. “yes, I’d like a beer,” Frank told the cocktail waitress watching her ass move. Later in his room they tussled naked in the manufactured cool air. She liked it brutal-rough. Frank punched her in the face knocking a few of her teeth lose and she came “oh yes, Frank you fucker. Now kiss me,” she grugeled through her mangled mouth a clown like look to it. She pulled him down to her, she kissed him and he went to the bathroom and puked. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, Frank thought pulling on to the desert interstate. He looked down–there still tiny flecks of blood on his pants. Looking up he watched the heat dance on the road.

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