Some of them hours that come next was kinda fuzzy, but they got less fuzzy as each hour passed on by. When it all got nice and clear, just like a fresh, cool, pool of spring water, it all kinda made sense. I was in love. We both were. She didn't do no talkin' back, and she didn't say nothin' bad 'bout Wizzer the way some folks did. She didn't say nothin', but she did a lotta lovin', and it was real sweet-like. We spent the rest of that fuzzy first day in bed together, just Elsa and Wizzer makin' all sorts of lovin'.

Maybe she wasn't a regular kinda gal, but she had it in her to love this ol' hound dog like he was Don Juan and Carey Grant all wrapped up together. She didn't give two squats that I was old or tubby or that my hair was always a might bit greasy or that I sometimes didn't change my shorts. She didn't care that I sold junk or that I sometimes went a whole day without any customers or that I didn't have too many friends aside from Buggy. She just loved Wizzer, and Wizzer sure loved her.

And loved her, Wizzer did. He loved her all day long, and even my wife Elsa didn't let me do that much lovin' to her. She'd usually just give me a coupla minutes to do my sexin' business or she'd roll over on her back and say she wasn't in the mood. But my new Elsa was always ready for it, and I didn't have to ask or give her no beggin' puppy eyes or tell her it was my birthday or nothin'. I could just go up and grab her and do it like a monkey. And she never fought me off or nothin'. It was love, true love.

You also might think ol' Wizzer had some trouble doin' it, since lots of corpses have that riggy-mortis runnin' through em, and that riggy-mortis makes 'em stiff and not too easy for the lovin'. I did have some of them problems when we used to do it before the lightnin' struck. I had to kinda pry her open so I could get my ding-dong into her, and it wasn't too easy. She was dry as a bone down there, so I'd have to get some mayo from the fridge and lube her up with that so I could slide right proper. It wasnt what you'd call the ideal lovin' situation, but sometimes you do whatcha gotta do, know what I mean? But after the lightnin', she'd get moist just like any ol' gal, and just like it was some kinda miracle made special for horny ol' Wizzer, she was moist all the day long. I could take her in the bedroom first thing in the mornin', and then do it on the kitchen floor after breakfast, on the livin' room sofa durin' the afternoon talk shows, and then back up to the bedroom after dinner and before the goodnight.

With all that lovin' came a little slide off in my carefulness. As you probably can tell already, I wasn't just keepin Elsa in my room no more. I was lettin' her roam all over the house, and the more I let her roam, the more comfortable she got with movin'. She wasn't just lumberin' 'round like she did that first day I found her sittin' up on my bed no more. She could move almost kinda natural, almost kinda like a regular person. But there was still somethin' strange 'bout them movements. Even though they got quicker, they was kinda jerky like someone was pullin' little, invisible strings over her body and makin' them movements for her. It was like they wasn't really her own movements, like she was just a puppet bein controlled by the good Lord, himself that very same Lord that tossed down the lightnin' bolt that brought my Elsa to life in the first place. So, next time you're thinkin' that my Elsa is some kinda monster or demon or somethin', you just remember who really brought her to life and you think twice 'bout that.

Even though things was goin' so good with Elsa and the love and all, there was still some troubles a-brewin. Since I'd been spendin' so much time with my gal, I was spendin' less time with Buggy, and I could tell Buggy was feelin' kinda left in the lurch. Like I said before, Buggy was a good pal, but there was also somethin 'bout him that made me nervous. Maybe it was that smile that he always had through good times and bad times. Anyone who'd smile through some of the rough times I had makes me think that he wasn't always smilin' in a comfortin way. Sometimes it was kinda like he was laughin' at me.

Buggy still had that smile on his face even though I knew he was gettin' hot under his frilly collar 'bout me and Elsa. He was smilin' right through that day when Mrs. OConnor showed up and gave me some big troubles. Buggy didn't give me no sympathy or nothin' when Mrs. O'Connor come by and started crabbin' at me worse than ever, cause, you see, even though that lightnin' gave Elsa some life, it didn't do too much to fix that dead smell on her. That smell just kept gettin' worse, just like Elsa was still rottin', even though she wasn't. Mrs. O'Connor come by one night, and things kinda got outta hand.
Here's what happened.

"Wizzer Whale! Wizzer Whale! You open this door this instant!"

"Hold yer horses. What you want, Mrs. O'Connor?"

"I told you to do something about that odor. It's been several weeks, and I have been more than understanding. If you still have that deteriorating dog carcass in here, I have a very good reason for calling the police on you. You are using my premises for unsanitary purposes, Wizzer Whale, and I can have you thrown in jail for that."

"I know, I know. Just gimmie a coupla..."

"No, Mr. Whale. No more extensions, no more biding your time while this place slips deeper and deeper into a disgusting state. I've given you plenty of chances, and I am just here to inform you that as soon as I get home, I will be calling the police, and phew! That smell has gotten worse just as I've been standing here! Where are you keeping that animal?"

"I just got him 'round back. He aint hurtin' no one."

"It's worse yet! It's as though its getting worse by the moment, like its moving closer!"

"Uhh, I don't smell nothin'."

"You filthy liar, how could you not..."

Thump.

"What was that?"

"Uhh. That was just a broken shutter on my bedroom window flappin' upstairs."

"Hogwash! That sound didn't come from outside your window; it was coming from who is that?"

The shadow started growin' at the top of the stairs and it stretched down the steps, darker and darker as it stretched.

"Who is up there?"

"Uhh, no one. Ain't no one in here 'cept you, me, and Buggy."

"Buggy? Who is Buggy? Who is that? Oh my God! She's completely naked! For heavens sake, have some decorum with your prostitute. What's the matter with her? Her face?"

Mrs. O'Connor started fumblin' in the pockets of her housecoat, lookin for her bifocals. "Oh my God!"

Mrs. O'Connor never even got a chance to get her scream out. Elsa was on her fast and hard, like a panther. I ain't never seen nothin' like it. Elsa knocked the old lady down and just reached into her wrinkly skin like she had claws instead of hands. Elsa tore off chunks of flesh and tossed em behind her like she was a bear rootin' through the trash. There was clumps of blood and old, wrinkly flesh everywhere, and I was just as stunned as if I'd gotten shot right between the eyes. It was more gruesome than anything in The Creature from Monster Lake, let me tell you. I was horrified and terrified, but then I realized somethin', and this made me feel sorta warm inside, but it also made me feel kinda queasy, cause I realized why Elsa was doin' this terrible thing she was doin'. She was doin' it for me. She was doin' it for love.

The camera operator slapped the clapboard together, Werner raised his megaphone to his mouth, yelled, "Action!" and suddenly, there I was, acting in a Hollywood film, as Madge.

Excerpt from The Slippery Girls of Grizzly Gulch by W. Von Growler

FADE IN
(Broadly, Madge, and Cat gather near Gus in bed.)
Gus: What is man? Is he the fortune that one tries to find in the rock? Or is he the home one builds with one's sweat and toil? Is he his daughter, or his daughter's lover? What is man?
Madge: I have so much fear!
Cat: Fear is celebration.
Madge: I have so much fear inside!
Broadly and Gus: Fear is SUFFERING.
(A knock comes on the door.)
Prawns: I have orders!
(Broadly opens door.)
Broadly: Who are you?
Prawns: I am Prawns! I have orders!
(Madge begins crying.)
Madge: I have so much fear inside!
Gus (grasping out to uncaring God): It is like a sickness deep inside, her fear!
Prawns: I am smitten! You have smited me! Who is this lovely girl?
Broadly: You'll not know!
(Broadly beats Prawns unmercifully, but necessary. Madge and Cat dodge oranges.)

At this point in the scene, Von Growler began pitching oranges at me and Cassie.

"Avoid zem!" Von Growler screamed. "Avoid ze oranges!"

"The fear slices my throat like a spiny sausage!" I wailed. I caught a flash of orange at the edge of my vision and ducked just in time to avoid a direct collision. The orange sailed past me and smacked Dashiell (Gus) directly in the face.

"Ow!" Dashiell said, raising his hands to his face.

"Don't stop acting!" Von Growler screamed. "Avoid ze oranges, you vools!"

"How the fuck am I supposed to avoid the oranges?" Dashiell asked. "I'm trapped in this bed!"

"Gus! Vash your hands!" Von Growler shouted through the megaphone. "Everyone elze continue!"

"How can we continue without Gus?" Archie asked.

"Prawns! Vash your hands!"

Cassie, Royston and I continued to act the rest of the scene, skipping awkwardly over Dashiell and Archie's lines and ducking from side to side to avoid the onslaught of oranges. At the end of the scene, Werner yelled, "Cut! Print! Wrap!"

The cameras stopped whirring. Cast and crew stared at Werner in astonishment. He removed his sailor hat and placed it on the chair next to him.

"You all do very vell vor virst day," he said. "Now ve shoot ze zong mit Broadly and Cat. You know zis song?"

"I haven't heard it yet," Cassie said.

"Me neither," Royston answered.

"Ha ha ha!" Von Growler laughed jovially. "Ov course you did not hear zis. You did not yet zing it! Ha ha ha."

Von Growler smiled at us all.

"Now, I know vat you tink. You tink mebee my mesids is zomewhat unorsidox. You are right! Von Growler does not do zings like Hollywood! Von Growler does zings like zey do zem in ze vuture!"

He looked around at the thoroughly confused cast and crew, his face beaming with pride...

Danger City is a proud achievement for Contemporary Press. Culled entirely from open submissions, the stories come from mostly unpublished authors who we think really deserve a shot. We started this company with the intention of publishing not just our own writing, but other great and unknown writers who know the value of an entertaining story and don't feel like kissing miles of ass to get their stuff published. Enjoy!

In Search of Johnny Three-Legs (Mike Welch). Private Investigator Rex Douglas is on the most important case of his miserable life--saving man's best friend. Unfortunately, a few greedy dames are making Rex's job very difficult.

Delivery (Todd Robinson). Being a drug dealer doesn't usually lend itself to performing random acts of kindness. When Jamie is sent on a run for the lowest of the scumbags, he takes matters into his own hands and remakes the rules of right and wrong.

Max Find (Jeffrey Kuczmarski). Reeking of whiskey, Private Investigator Max Find scours the city, dodging fists and kicking ass, trying to find Mrs. Parker's precious son Tommy. Everything goes according to plan, until he realizes that powerful people don't want the kid to resurface.

Diary of a Superhero (Vinnie Penn). Even our superheroes are jaded. The Flying Avenger would rather be receiving a thank-you blow job from a rescued damsel than prowling the city streets for wrong-doers. See? He's just a regular guy, with the same bullshit job and relationship hang-ups as you and me.

Jakes (Sean Beaudoin). Ted's gambling is getting the best of him, and the fact that Miami is down by 16 at halftime isn't making his life any easier. Unable to stand it any longer, Ted heads to the stadium with revenge in his heart. Hopefully, he'll be able to outrun his creditors as well.

Namith's Mission (Jon Michael McCarron). Jacob is hiding out after stealing his boss' money ... and wife. Barely one step ahead of the men who can't wait to kill him, life on the run is too much to bear. Father Namith is the only man Jacob can trust--at least for now.

Empire of One (Carl Moore). Kep Hatchy is multiplying and taking over the earth. Literally. He's in your bedroom, your car, your office--killing him only attracts more Keps. And then, one day, the Keps disappear and all hell breaks loose.

We All Scream For Ice Cream (Mike Segretto). Boys will be boys. Georgie Jr., Donnie, and Dick usually just hang out on the roof, watching neighborhood girls lay around in bikinis in the yards below. But when they decide to knock over an ice cream truck, their quest for a tasty treat takes a sick turn for the worse.

A Man's Gotta Eat What a Man's Gotta Eat (Dana Fredsti). Chuck T-Bone is a zombie detective having a hell of a time working in feedings--and keeping the flies off--while he searches for the love of his previous life. Then there's the mob. They've killed him once. Will he slip through their clutches a second time?

Ringing the Changes (Jeff Somers). Walter--"Poppy" to those in law enforcement--is a pretty successful grifter who manages to stay below the radar. But when the death of a former acquaintance puts Poppy on the list of suspects, he'll need more than slight-of-hand to make it through the night. (This story will be featured in Best American Mystery Stories 2005)

The Kilt (Roman Bojanski). Rob owes someone a lot of money. And that's fine--he actually has the payoff. Now, if he can only get his damn car to start, he'll make it in time. Otherwise, his loan rolls over and he's screwed yet again.

Faggy on the Streets (Jeffrey Dinsmore). Officer John Faggy is as cuddly as a razor blade. He and his reluctant partner, Squeamish, stop at nothing to catch the drug dealers they're after--fists, car chases, and shoot-outs are the tools of their trade.

Loving the Monster (Mike Cipra). Milo loves Gila. She's sexy and exotic, she prefers making love in the desert, and she's poisonous. One bite, and past lovers have perished. Eventually, L. A. proves too much for Gila, and Milo knows that if she stays, she might kill him too.

Samuel Shelton leaned on the balcony railing of his luxury Beverly Hills high-rise apartment watching the blood-red sun begin its slow descent through the smog to the Pacific. Although he didn't know it, this was to be his last California sunset. He took a sip from the lowball glass of 100-proof Absolut on the rocks, and for a long moment, he stood gazing at the darkening January sky.

A mogul in a town of moguls, Shelton had just turned fifty-six, yet he had somehow succeeded in remaining true to his generation. He still didn't trust anyone over thirty, and he dressed casually in latter-day hippie: Reeboks, pleated jeans, and a lightweight denim shirt. The top three buttons of the shirt were purposely left undone to expose the curly salt-and-pepper hair of his chest and the gold chains that dangled from his neck. It was a style he had consciously made his uniform.

Shelton downed the last of the vodka, chewed the ice, and with a sigh of resignation turned to enter his apartment. He still had a lot of packing to do. He headed for the master bedroom and placed the empty glass on the dresser next to a picture of him embracing Sharon Grant, star of 1994's biggest hit, the Sharon Grant Show. Against his better judgment, he picked up the silver frame and allowed himself a wistful smile, remembering the good times. He wiped a smudge off the glass with his thumb, turned the picture face down on the dresser with a grunt, and strode into his walk-in closet. The red digital numerals on his nightstand glowed 5:43 p.m.

"Shit," he muttered. His flight to Honolulu left LAX at 8:30. Shelton hated that he had wasted so much time waiting for her to call. She was a good lay--one of the best hed ever had--but if she didn't want to fly to the other side of the world with him, screw her. Hadn't he killed for her? What the hell was she trying to prove? She'd tire of trying to live the straight life, and by the time he returned from Tokyo, she'd be back in his apartment. In the meantime, there was a whole new country of good lays waiting for him across the Pacific.

It took Shelton less than five minutes to cram into a travel-worn bag all the essentials he needed for his two weeks in Hawaii and Japan. All he needed to survive anywhere in the world was a pocket full of plastic and a thirty-day supply of FiberCon, Flomax, Ambien, and Viagra in his toilet kit to help him shit, pee, sleep, and have a ball.

Shelton hefted his bag from the bed. If he was going to make his flight, he couldn't keep the moron down in the garage waiting any longer. The phone rang before he reached the bedroom door.

"Yes!" Shelton hissed, throwing his fist in the air. He knew she'd call. The caller ID on his phone showed an anonymous call. Where the fuck was she calling from? He let it ring two more times before hitting the talk button. It never paid to appear too anxious, especially when dealing with talent.

"Hi, beautiful!" he answered cheerily.

"Samuel Shelton?" a deep, male voice asked.

"Who is this?"

"My name's Hicks. Deputy Hicks. I'm with the San Bernardino County Sheriff's Department."

"How'd you get through on this line? All my calls are screened."

"Sorry, sir, but we need your help."

"Look. If you're selling tickets to a Sheriff's ball or something, put them in the mail and bill me. I gotta catch a flight to Honolulu."

"I'm investigating a homicide, sir. Don't hang up."

When I got to the motel and she was nowhere to be found, I went a little crazy. I like going a little crazy. Shit, Daddy, I like going a lot crazy. And let me tell you, I went craaaaazy on that shit hole. First I picked up the cheap-o glass vase off of the cheap-o dresser, and I smashed that little pretty pot to pieces. Then I wrapped my fingers around the musty drapes that hung over the dirty, spotty window, and I ripped them right down to the dirty, spotty carpet, and I got myself all wrapped up in those drapes, and I felt like they were trying to suffocate me, but I wouldnt let them do it, so I felt in my pocket and pulled out this box cutter, and I sliced through those drapes and crawled out like a baby slicing her way out of the womb. And then I really went to town. I pulled on the headboard until I heard this big ol craaaaaaaaaaack, and I pulled that fucker up and over the bed and slammed it against the wall, and all this plaster and bits of shit came flying out as the room filled with a white, white fog. Then I heard some prick yelling from the next room. I couldnt hear what he was saying, but he was probably getting interrupted while trying to pole his wife with his itty-bitty prick, and he couldnt concentrate enough to keep it up. Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate yeah, Daddy, its tough, aint it? You got to think if you want to stink, if you know what I mean. You do, pretty baby, dont you? I knew youd hear me if I just taaaaalked to you. Yes, indeed.

So, I yelled back at this fuck, and I wasnt gonna waste too many words on him, because I had some shit to do, so I just shouted, "Fuck up, fuck hole!" and that shitter fucked right up, he shut right the fuck up, he fuckin shutted up like a clammy clam, and I got real serious about what I was doing.

The next thing to go was the bedspread, and it was all crusty with cum stains and pockmarked with mothy holes. I pulled that shit off, and I opened the window, and I threw it out the window. As the thing drifted to the ground, I yelled out, "So long, cummy!" And wouldnt you know it, that cummy bedspread landed right on the heads of a couple of newlyweds who probably thought it would be naughty to get a room in a sleazy motel for a night. I could just hear them in my head, I could hear them talking, I could hear them talking in my head, and they were saying shit like, "Oooh, baby, were so bad! Were keepin the spice alive! Were so out on a limb!" And then they got down in the shitty missionary position, and that perky little baby bride didnt even cum, and her scrawny new hubby did in about 5.5 seconds, but she still made a big stink and moaned and screamed real loud to satisfy his tender ego. And he believed every fake shriek and asked her, "Oh, darling, was I okay? I didnt hurt you, did I?" and she was all like, "No, my magnificent stallion! You are the greatest lover ever!" and then she had to go to the bathroom and spend some quality time with her vibrator to really get herself off. And she was probably thinking about someone like me the whole time. Thats cause Marys got it like that, sweet-thang. I got it all like that shit.

What did I say? Was I sayin I opened the window and threw out the bedspread? Opened it, opened it yeah, I opened that shit wide open. I opened it by taking the nightstand next to the bed and throwing it through the windowpane. Like I was saying, that nightstand landed right on this couple that was walking out of the motel, and it landed right on that scrawny new hubbys head, and I was like six stories up, so that nightstand split that guys head waaaaaay open, like a little chickie egg, and his girlie girl starts shrieking, so I threw that cummy bedspread out the window, and it covered her up all snuggly tight, so that you couldnt even hear her shriek anymore, and when I threw it out the window, I yelled out, "So long, cummy!"

Thats when the manager came running in. He just barged in without even knocking. You believe the nerve of some people? I cannot tolerate rudeness, so I got all indignant, and I said, "You want some of this, meathead?" And hes this little español with greezy hair, and he starts yelling at me in Spanglish, so I say, "Welcome to the U.S.A., Juan Valdez!" and I picked up the Gideon Bible that fell out of the night table right before I tossed that shit out the window, and I spiked the Bible hard down on his skull, and he tried to grab me, and I dont like being grabbed by some little gnatsome little piece of trashso I kicked him hard in the balls, and he fell to the ground, and I got my box cutter and sliiiiiiiiiiicey slicey! I cut his face up super sweet, and he was trying to hold his hands up and defend himself, and it was sad, sad, sad. He starts crying like a teeny-weenie girlie girl, and I start asking him questions, because even though I was doing all sorts of activities in that motel room, I still had just one thing on my mind, just one thing on my mind.

"Where is Desiree?" I screamed in his ear like a banshee do scream.

"I no know Desiree!" he screamed in broken English. "No know, no know!"

"Pretty lady; she looks just like me?"

"No know, no know!" he kept on screaming.

"Pretty laaaaaaaady!" I screeched in my best Jerry Lewis imitation, and I gave him one sweet, deep cut right across the throat, and he stopped screaming. I jumped over his body like a graceful swan in a Swan Lake ballet, and I was out the door. When I got out in the street, out in the street, the bride of Frankenstein was still screaming about how her groom was bleeding and he would not answer her when she squealed, "Johnny, Johnny, talk to me!" Mmmm, Im talkin to you, mama. Ill talk to you all night long, but first I gotta find my sister, because with me, family always comes first.

"The bottom line: it was a couple of days before the convention, you have some dead person in a hotel room and the Christian bunch of you didn't want to deal with it. Neither did I, for that matter, but you opened a suitcase of money in front of me. And I had my own reasons too.

I gotta hand it to Republicans, you sexless, soulless freaks. You screw the world like it was a crippled geisha, decide to throw a goddamn coronation for that Shemp of yours in the city--my city--fuck that up, and then come hat in hand, face down, and ask me to help you out.

My father would have first spit up bile, then shoved it in your faces if he knew about this shit. Now there was a Goddamn union man. Back when there were unions--big balled, red hot, fighting unions. Now? Fuck 'em. They've gone the way of Ed Murrow and honest journalism.

Me, though, I'm a freelancer here. Petty. Inessential. Usually out for myself, a fucking mercenary at the mercy of the master that hired me, or at least some hump willing to moonlight now and then. That's the world we live in. I wanted the cash. Selling myself for it, I'm told that it's the American Way.

The city wasn't hot, it was angry. The air sucks you dry and the concrete steals your soul. Shit, I've been walking around limper than Bob Dole's lap during a Teamsters' strike, know what I mean? It was fucking limp, I felt ugly, and there was madness in the air. My body's sagging, but I still feel jagged and blistered, with more than just unfocused anger for fuel. The rest? The anarchists, priests, teachers, firemen, students, Democrats, lefties--those guys? They're walking around with real, focused, nuclear hate churning inside them like rancid milk. The days are nothing more than internal combustion riots with grinding gears and overheated pistons."

I woke up the next morning feeling like someone had bashed me in the head with a two-by-four. Immediately thereafter, someone bashed me in the head with a two-by-four.

I came to on the davenport in my living room. My head ached like a country song. Some 350-pound gorilla sat in my easy chair, watching a terrible old Karen Jamey movie on the telescreen.

He turned his fat head toward me. "Howaya, Astronaut?" he asked. "Ya seem a little sore."

"Not nearly as sore as youre gonna be when you get to the end of this movie," I said. "Heres a hint: Jamey dies."

"Thanks for ruining it for me, Astronaut," he sneered. "Now Im gonna have to ask for a refund."

He turned his attention back to the set. I slowly raised myself up into a sitting position. Pain shot through my head like a fat kid on a water slide. I grabbed a half-empty pack of Palmettos from the coffee table and lit one up. The smoke did nothing to help my headache.

"Do you mind if I ask what youre doing here?" I asked, whether he minded or not.

He turned back to me, annoyed.

"Febreezi," he said.

"Febreezi," I answered.

"Febreezi," he said.

"You know any other words?" I asked.

"Yeah, smart-ass," he replied. "I know some other words. Heard a few good ones on the street lately. Heard that youve been sticking your head in a few places that it shouldnt be. If you know whats good for ya, youll mind your business and let your wife handle hers."

"First of all," I explained through a freshly exhaled plume of smoke, "shes my ex-wife. Second of all, what kind of manners did your mother teach you? When you bash a guy in the face with a piece of wood, its common courtesy to introduce yourself."

"You wanna know my name, Astronaut?" the Ape asked. He then lowered the footrest, stood up, and smashed a boot through my telescreen. The screen sputtered and sparked like an electronic firecracker.

"Thats my name. Now stop sticking your beak in other peoples honey. Ya got me?"

He lumbered across the living room and paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Oh, and one more thing, Astronaut," he said, "get yourself some rest. You look like hell."

He turned the knob and walked out of the apartment. I stared at the crackling telescreen and thought about what I was going to eat for breakfast.

***

Charvez from Central Development had been kind enough to let himself into my office and stink the place up for my arrival. When I walked in, he was sitting in the waiting room, flipping through the latest issue of Post-Modern Detective. I hung my coat up on the rack and poured myself a cup of week-old coffee.

"Your ex-wife really helped you out of a jam last night, Astronaut," Charvez said. "Why do you want to get yourself wrapped up in another one?"

I sipped my coffee and pretended he wasnt there. Now if only I could get him to pretend it, too.

"I dont understand you, Astronaut," he continued. "You manage to carve yourself a hot piece of chicken like that and then you let her fly the coop. If I were you, Id be in bed with her right now, making her feel dirty."

"Instead, youre you, and youre in my office, and youre making me feel dirty," I sneered. "You got your money, Charvez. Now why dont you get yourself lost?"

"Guess I got an internal compass, Astronaut. Always points to garbage."

"So you spend all day following your breath around, huh?"

As if to prove my point, Charvez yawned, spewing more of his toxic odor into the air.

"Im gonna get out of here, Astronaut, if thats what you want. But let me make one thing clear to you; pull another one of those jobs like you did in July, and youre mine. And if youre mine, youre Central Developments. And if youre Central Developments, youre International Securitys, and you do not want to be International Securitys, Astronaut. You used your Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card; next time, youre not going to be so lucky."

He ripped a page out of my magazine, crumbled it into a ball, and threw it on the ground in a terrifying show of power. I didnt have the heart to tell him I had another copy at home.

I didnt like to admit it, but Charvez did have a lot of power over me. As a Surveillance Officer for Central Development, his job was to keep an eye on people like me and make sure that all was on the "up-and-up." Translation: his job was to make sure that Central D. got their piece of the profit. Ever since Charvez had taken over the local post, it had been increasingly difficult for guys like me to bend the law. Guys like Febreezi, no problem. They just cut Central D. into the action and went about their business. Things werent so simple for those of us on the bottom. I had a hard enough time cutting myself in on the action, let alone Charvez and the rest of the goons down at Central D.

"I used to have a guy like you in my regiment back during the lode wars on Tarmac," Charvez blabbered on.

"Are you still here?" I asked.

"All right, Im gone," Charvez said. "But you be on your best behavior, Astronaut. Remember, the walls have eyes."

He hoofed it out of my office, slamming the door behind him. "Good riddance," I muttered. Guy like Charvezll make ya mutter.

I sat down at my desk and thought back on the last two days. Something smelled funny. Id known Martha for many years, been married to her for many more, and trusted her for many less. Martha was the kind of girl who would turn on a rattlesnake for the right price. I didnt think for one second that this Febreezi business was above the board a guy whacks you in the face with a two-by-four and you start to get a pretty clear picture of things, after the fuzziness goes away.

But it was a mystery, and I was the kind of guy who was a sucker for a mystery. I had to get to the bottom of it, not to help out Martha, but to satisfy my curiosity. Sometimes, ya pull a little string and you can unravel the whole sweater. I just needed to find the right string.

She was at it again.

I could never quite tell if she was trying to catch somebodys attention or if she was just trying to turn her skin two shades browner than a January turd, but the old lady was out sunning herself stark naked in the courtyard again. And by old lady, I mean the curvy, fire-haired wife of the Trailer Master. I mean, this little number was put together all right. Sure, sometimes she showed up with a couple of bruises on her arms or thighs, but she had these extra long legs that looked as though they could snap you in half with just the tiniest bit of effort. To be quite honest, for as much time as this chick spent laying on that stained chaise lounge, her complexion was always creamy and milky like shed been dipped in extra light, extra sweet coffee. Maybe its because the sky was always overcast over that dusty, barren trailer park.

Anyway, she always looked a little pale from the window of my trailer. Hell, everything looked kind of washed out and gray through that filthy, spotted pane. It didnt make her any less sexy. It didnt make it any less hilarious when Mrs. Hernandez walked by that crazy naked broad with her 11-year-old son. It never failed to amaze me how that same shade of shocking red that looked so stunning in the Trailer Masters wifes hair could look so cartoonish when propped up in a bouffant on that fat cows cranium. Ol Bag-face gasped and slapped her hand over her kid's eyes like she was walking him past a concentration camp. The way I see it, there aint nothing wrong about what Mrs. Trailer was doing. What difference does it make anyway? Naked, clothed. We all wind up pushing up them proverbial daisies in the cold, cold ground eventually. How long are you gonna stay clothed when those worms start nibbling at your pants? Not too long, let me tell you.

I took one last hard drag off of my Lucky Strike and snubbed it out in my mug. The butt went out with a quick hiss as it drowned in the shallow puddle of room temperature coffee. I left the mug on the windowsill and padded over to the toilet where I took a long, satisfying leak. I love the sound of a good leak. Mind you, I cant much say that I love a lot of things, but you know that feeling you get when youve been loading up on coffee all day long and it feels like your back is about to burst from the pressure, and then you just park yourself right in front of that commode and let it loose? Feels good, right? Well, thats what that sound always signified for me. It signified that good feeling. Feeling good is no easy thing to accomplish. But you probably know that already. As they say, Im probably preaching to the choir.

But I digress. I got a tendency to do that.