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Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 18 – Download PDF

Chapter 18: Remy in the evidence room with the lead pipe

The outside of the police station looked like a movie premier.  Flashing lights from squad cars and bright white lights mounted on news cameras gave the grungy building a red carpet quality.  Arthur drove his boat of a car right up the middle of the crowd.  Reporters and bystanders jumped out of the path of the headlights and roaring engine behind them.

“Get out of the way.  Come on.”  He honked the horn and waved his hand out the window.  The camera flashes were redirected in their direction as more people recognized the car and the Martian boys inside.

“Move it!” John screamed out the passenger window holding out his badge to the crowd.

“Detective Martian what is going on inside? Did the neglect of the department lead to one of your own dead?” A young blonde woman reporter in a short blue dress walked along side the car sticking a microphone in Arthur’s face.  He batted it away.

“No comment.  Tell your buddies to move it or I’m running them over.”  After a few moments the front tires of Arthur’s El Dorado caught the curb lifting the front end.

“We’re here,” John said.

John and Arthur got out of car and pushed their way to the entrance of the station.  A group of young cadets were standing outside the door keeping the gathering crowd at bay.

John patted one of the young men on the shoulder as they slipped into the doors.  “Good job boys.  No one else gets in until we come out.”

“Yes sir,” the youngest looking of the men said.

* * *

Remy sat unconscious and handcuffed to a chair in the middle of the lobby guarded by the boy cop.  The chief paced in his office talking on a cell phone to the director of the FBI.  The Feds decided it was time for them to come in and handle the situation.  Arthur and John sat on cheap plastic chairs in the small cramped office while the chief made his case to the director.

“I know this is a big fuck up but we can …” Blackburn’s stubby hand ran through his wispy gray comb over.  The short man paced back and forth in yesterday’s brown wrinkled suit still trying to rub the last remnants of sleep from his baggy eyes.  He no doubt had been roused from a deep whiskey induced slumber to come and deal with this.

“Yes sir I understand.”  Police chief Henry Blackburn mumbled into the phone.  The florescent lights embedded into the ceiling made his moistened forehead glimmer.  John and Arthur both sat with their arms folded waiting for the call to end.  John looked over at the profile of his brother for any sort of reaction.  There was none.  Arthur sat stone faced in a relaxed posture staring forward toward Chief Blackburn.

Blackburn was a surly man but had a heart of gold if you got on his good side.  The problem was there were only two ways to get on Blackburn’s good side: be a top performing officer under his command, or be a blonde with huge tits.  Arthur and John didn’t have big enough tits but Arthur made the case for both of the Martian boys as officers who got things done.  They were the golden children in the Chief’s eyes hence the reason they still had a job.  John wasn’t officially assigned to the Snoogins’ murder case but no one gave him any new assignments while we worked along side his brother.  So here he was beside Arthur waiting to find out what hell the FBI was going to bring down.

“You won’t be disappointed sir.  I think we can have results in … ” Blackburn held the receiver away from his ear.  “You got two days to un-fuck the situation or I’m cleaning out your station.” The voice screeched out of the ear piece and then the line went silent.  Blackburn’s cellphone beeped indicating the Director had hung up.  Remy started to moan.  All three men looked out the window at Remy trying to raise his head.

Blackburn began to speak.  “Both of you should probably lose your badges and be charged as accomplices to murder.  Brody went ape shit while he was trapped in the station and now Sally is dead.”  Blackburn sighed.  He was probably screwing her on lunch breaks in the very evidence room where she was killed.

“I don’t think Remy killed her,” Arthur said as he stared through the window at Remy’s slumped figure.  “Say that again Detective,” the Chief snarled.

“Brody is no murderer.  He’s a war hero.  I know this guy chief.  He is trained to end lives and his list of decorations means he is damn good at it.  But I just can’t see him killing anything unless it was a threat to our country.  Brody knows his time as soldier boy is over.”  Arthur prepared for the backlash from the chief.  He heard his Father’s voice behind him instead.

“Think you know everything don’t you boy?”  Arthur’s eyes widened and he struggled to turn his head.  He couldn’t move.  His fists clenched tightly.  “You knew that bum was crazy the moment you saw him appear in Smitty’s doorway.  Should have shot him then but you were a little pre-occupied weren’t you?  A little too busy enjoying the glass digging into your ass…”

“Art wake the fuck up bro.” John shook his brother’s shoulder.  Arthur’s trance slipped away and his senses began slowly rebooting.  Arthur felt like a wrung out sponge, his clothes were damp with sweat, and the color was gone from his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you Martian? Shouldn’t that have been my reaction after your little Brody defense?  If you two can pull yourselves back together for just a minute, we still have a dead young woman murdered within our own walls and I see no reason to not have Brody hauled off to county tonight with charges for it.”  The Chief looked expectantly at Arthur for a response.

“I’m not going to let an innocent man burn for something he didn’t do.  Let me talk to Brody and sort it out…” Arthur said.

“What the hell is this? I ain’t done nothing, I found her like that!  It was that damn blender and microwave working together.”  Remy shouted from the lobby.

“Shut up Brody or I’ll crack you again,” the boy cop threatened.

Remy’s voice became calm and he began to focus on the floor tiles in front of him.  “Let me go boy.”  The boy cop grabbed for his sap.  Arthur stood up and bounded toward the middle of the lobby.

“No, I want him awake for questioning,” Arthur said.

“Detective Martian sir I found him in there crouched next to Sally.”  The boy cop nodded toward Remy.  “She couldn’t have been dead more than five minutes before I arrived.”

“Did you see it?”  Arthur’s eyes narrowed as the young man shook his head.  “Well then, stand aside.”

“Get me outta these cuffs Martian.”

“You know I can’t even if I wanted to.  I don’t think you killed that woman but something sinister is effecting those around you.”  John and the chief joined them in the lobby.  A voice came from the hallway and a little short man in an EMT suit poked his head in.

“I need help getting the body up on the gurney,” the man said.

“Go help the coroner kid,” the chief ordered.

“Yes sir,” the boy cop was glad to be out of the reach of Brody and Arthur.

“One coroner?” John asked.

“And not even our own.  He is on loan from the neighboring district,” the Chief replied.

“Maybe we should let the Feds in here.  We could use the man power.”  Arthur suggested.  Chief Blackburn folded his arms shifting his weight and looking at Remy.  “The last thing this city needs is bunch of Federal agents combing the streets and beating on doors.  Besides, we might possibly have the source for all the commotion right here.  Brody what were you doing in that evidence room if you weren’t killing Sally?” Blackburn asked.

“My son Roger, he was in my head.  Told me he was with the microwave.  I ain’t seen the boy since, well, since he was a boy.  It was like he could hear me inside and out.  I got a reply to things I said and things I thought.  She was already on the ground when I got there.  That microwave was blinking at me though.  Said, ‘Done.’  Probably a breakfast-dinner in there if you checked.”

“A what?” John said.  Remy looked at John.

“You know, the turkey dinner.  Like a thanksgiving feast sometimes when I opened the door – it would be in there.  I thought it was just a kind person leaving me food until it stopped.  So I hocked it.  Then the night Smitty got hurt I saw it through the window and there was another plate in there.  I think it was angry.”  Blackburn sighed and pulled an orange plastic chair from the wall, spun it around, and straddled it in front of Remy.  John watched Arthur and Arthur watched Blackburn. Student watching the teacher watching the teacher.  Blackburn spoke directly to Remy like they were the only two people in the room.  Direct eye contact and direct address.

“You go by Remy right?” Remy nodded.  “Alright Remy we’ll play it your way.  Say your microwave blinded Smithe.”  Remy’s head started to turn as he drifted off in thought.  This indicated he didn’t understand something or he was about to lie.  “Smitty.”  Blackburn said and Remy regained focus on the conversation.

“Sally’s hands were gone and she wasn’t burned like Smitty was.  Explain that.” Blackburn asked Remy.  The response came from John.  “Blender.  Snoogins blender,” John mumbled.

Arthur nodded approvingly at his younger brother.  “That’s the only explanation.  Unless there is another person or thing we are not thinking of,” he said.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Appliances don’t just fucking come alive and kill people.  Welcome to reality.  You Martian boys need to get your heads out of your asses.  We have a sick killer on the loose or in captivity already.” Blackburn looked at Remy while he spoke. “This twisted guy has a body count of two and a blinded fat ass count of one.  We got one homeless war hero who hears voices and two Detectives who are buying his shit.”  Two Detectives.  John smiled.

The boy cop and the coroner emerged from the hallway pushing the gurney holding Sally’s body.  Her bloody stumps soaked through the heavy white sheet creating two little red stained mounds.  The smell of a thanksgiving feast wafted in after them.  Blackburn struggled to ignore it.

“Alright that is enough for tonight.  The sun will be up soon.  Morning shift will have to clean all this shit up.  Boy wonder cop.”  The young man straightened his back.  “Take Brody to a holding cell and don’t let him out of your sight until properly relieved.  We’ve got two days to bring this to some light or the Feds are going to come in here and we are all out of jobs.  I’m not ready to be a washed up cop yet.  So go where ever it is you go and get a few hours of sleep.  You Martian boys, me, and Remy here, are going to figure this thing out.  Now if you will excuse me I’m going to need to pacify the press.”

“Good luck Henry,” Arthur said.  “They are brutal out there tonight.”  Blackburn pulled some sunglasses from his pocket and put them on with a smile.  He adjusted the tie on his wrinkled suit and walked out to address the crowd outside.  Arthur turned to Remy.

“Sorry Brody.  My fault for leaving you here,” Arthur said.

“You just doin’ your job Martian.  Can’t fault a man who invests all of himself into tracking down killers.  Bound to forget a few things here and there.”  Arthur nodded at Remy.  Remy stood and grunted as he balanced his weight on the good leg.  Boy cop escorted him slowly to the holding cells.

“That is one of the toughest men I’ve ever seen,” John said as they watched Remy turn the corner out of sight.  Arthur looked at John and rolled his eyes.  He picked up a hand held radio on the counter and spoke into it.

“That microwave and blender are still locked up in evidence right?”  He said.  The crackled response came back from boy cop, “Yes sir, locked it myself.  Microwave still on the floor and blender on the shelf.  Saw them on our way out with Sally’s body.”

“Roger that,” Arthur clicked the radio off and looked at John.  “Let’s go, I’ll sleep on your couch.”

I had the mic hot tonight so I figured I’d record the blog post I’ve been procrastinating.

“Show notes”
- NaNoWriMo
- writing group
- Give Blood and Thanks
- work ethic
- daily writing diary

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 17 – Download PDF

Chapter 17: A Mission Remembered

“Hell Sergeant, you keep staring at the picture and she just might pop out and get shot.”

The young Private was out of line, he knew it.  It was part of the job though.  Be the Alpha male no matter what and bust balls on anything you can.  Weakness was not an option in war and all the men were constantly tested by each other, Grunts and NCO’s alike.  Sergeant Remfred Brody tucked the picture of his red haired beauty into the vest pocket of his BDU and snapped the flap closed.

Nothing was sacred, he understood that, but that didn’t mean lines weren’t ever crossed.  Everyone has a threshold for all types of torture; emotional or physical everyone cracks at some point.  Brody was far from any threshold but he very much would have enjoyed inflicting a little physical reinforcement of the chain of command.  But that would show weakness – like the Private got to him.

“Catch a few hours of sleep Private.  Thank you for volunteering yourself to be lead scout when the shooting starts tomorrow.  That is very brave of you.”

The Private sighed rolling his face away from Brody in the fox hole and was snoring within seconds of closing his eyes.  Tomorrow was the big day.  Brody’s first mission as a Combat Leader.  Men would be behind him and looking to him to make the choices that would ensure their safety.  He closed his eyes and put his palm to the pocket with the picture of Des.  He hated this war, this jungle, the fighting, and the dieing.

Every bullet that flew past his head and every mission marked as complete was a step closer to getting home to her.  That is what kept him going and kept him alive.

‘God damn Des.  I miss you so much,’ he thought.

*     *     *

The five men laid on their bellies’ prone in the tall grass as they waited for the patrol to pass by.  Brody held out his hand indicating they should stop and wait for his next command.  He watched the tattered pants and dirty sandals of three Vietnamese soldiers walk by.  The gun metal tips of the ak47 rifles briefly dipped into view and his heart rate increased as he clutched his own rifle to his chest.  After the patrol was out of sight he looked back to his men.  He silently pointed to the young Private he shared a fox hole with last night, and then pointed to himself.  They both were going to move across the road and down to secure some more ground.  The other three would follow on Brody’s signal.

Brody moved up to the road’s edge with the Private close enough behind him to drink from the canteen tied to his pack.  Brody hopped up and trotted across the road with the Private on his heels.  The tall grass masked a culvert on the other side.  Unexpectedly, Brody and the Private rolled to a stop at the bottom of a steep embankment.  Both men quickly got to one knee and pointed their M-14s in opposite directions.

“You alright Sarge?” the Private whispered.

“Yep I’m alright.  There is no climbing up that thing to warn the other guys.  Be prepared to catch them.”  With that Brody whistled and three more bodies tumbled or slid down the jungle grass slick with sweat and moisture from the air.

Their objective was just through the trees about a half a klick ahead of them.  This was a refueling station and an important crossroads in the enemies supply line.  A little encampment of about three huts and a large gas tanker.  The mission was simple with only three objectives: subdue, recon, and destroy.  That is what the reports would say anyway.  For the solider those words mean kill everything, stuff papers in your pack, and blow the place up.  They would take each hut in teams of two and Brody would take one alone.  He drew a map in the dirt and assigned each man to his hut.  If all went well they would come out of this alive.

The men were nameless and faceless to Brody.  He had to keep it that way.  Too many of his friends had died already so he was done making new ones.  He was there to do his job, keep as many alive as he could, and get back home to Des.

The five men made a wide circle in the jungle to get themselves into position behind their respective targets.  They were to move in on Brody’s signal.

Brody closed his eyes and held the spoon on the M61 frag grenade.  He had already pulled the pin about thirty seconds ago, but he was taking some time to pray and think about Des.  This was his custom if he had time to think before engaging the enemy.  It put him at peace with the two most important things in his world, God and Des.  He opened his eyes and listened to the voices coming from the tin walled hut with the thatched roof just ahead of him.  The spoon flipped open and he cooked the grenade for a few seconds before throwing it through the window.  The men inside would never have a chance to throw it back and by the time they heard the thud on the floor boards it would already be to late.

The explosion was Brody’s signal.  Each team of men converged on their targets.  The shouts of panic in Vietnamese and his own men screaming, “Light them up!” as they kicked in the doors, echoed in Brody’s ears.  He made his way to the entrance of the hut he had just blown the door off of, raised his rifle and looked inside.

A fine red mist sat stale in the air and the walls were spattered in bits of bloody tattered flesh.  The lower half of a man twitched as the nerves exhausted their last bit of energy.  A singular torso waved it’s arms and silently screamed reaching out for Brody.  Blood squirted from the stringing internal muscle fibers and intestines that remained where the body had been cut in half from the blast.  What was left of the man gurgled trying to breath, trying to scream, trying to live; Brody discharged a cartridge and put a hole in his brain.  No more suffering.

The gunfire died down and Brody called for a sound off.  The numbers one through five rang true and alive.  Time to head back to the safety of their own lines.

“Set those explosives on the tanker with a five minute timer and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes sir,” one of the men called out and started off toward the truck.  A shot exploded out of the bushes and the man fell clutching his throat where a bullet tore it open.  Instinctively Brody’s men scattered to find cover.  The young man rolled in the dirt holding out a hand to his comrades.  There was nothing to be done, he was lost.  The men took up reinforced positions behind trees and behind the huts they had just cleared out.  They waited for Brody’s command but he was gone running.  Brody ran into the underbrush as fast as he could to circle around.

“Return fire!” he screamed.  His men began laying down a hail of bullets cutting the jungle to shreds in the direction that the rifle fire had come from.  Brody needed this distraction to mask the sound of him tearing through the brush to get to the back of the enemies position.  He ran with long strides, jumping over logs, and putting his head down to plow through boughs of leaves.  Bullets ricocheted all around him splintering off timber and pinging on rocks.  These were the bullets from his own men.

Brody came upon the first of the men crouched next to a tree.  He slung the M14 over his shoulder and unsheathed his KA-BAR.  The hardened blade cut through the throat easily and he saw the other two men close and also crouched next to trees.  He slung his rifle back up in his hands and squinted down the iron sights.  He shot the man in view of the other,  effectively instilling that pants shitting fear of life or death in the remaining Vietnamese soldier.

Brody sighted the man up for the shot and waited for him to turn and see him.  The man didn’t fire and put his gun in the air talking in Vietnamese.  He was trying to surrender to Brody.  The shots from his own men stopped and the jungle was quiet except for the Vietnamese solider begging for Brody’s mercy.

Remy stopped and stared at the man.  He felt like God holding life in his hands.  The judge, the jury and the executioner.  What is just and right in this world did not apply out here.  Remy made the call and became the harbinger of death.  He fired.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 16 – Download PDF

Chapter 16:  What it is Smitts?

A little dark haired boy sat opposite Detective Arthur Martian and Officer John Martian in the waiting room of the Marshall General Hospital.  Arthur leaned his head back against a poster warning the public about the dangers of second hand smoke.  His long brown overcoat was pushed back under the arms of the cheap chair exposing the grip of his .38 in the shoulder holster and the red top of a pack of Marlboro Reds in the vest pocket.  The little boy, who couldn’t be more than seven or eight years old, stared at the pistol’s handle with wide eyes.  The boy’s mother provided a familiar inner city ambiance with her screams at the receptionist.  Really, she just loves her family and wants to provide a better life for her children.  Is that so wrong?  Medical bills keep piling up and they won’t cut her a break, these systems, are broken.  Arthur noticed the boy staring and nudged John to get his attention.

“You ever remember having an interest in guns when we were kids?” Arthur asked.

“Yea a little bit.  Probably only because it was against the rules to touch them.  Dad had us scared shit-less.”

“Yea, the old man was good about keeping some structure.  I guess.” Arthur prepared for John to react.  This was part of the game he played with his brother.  Crack about Dad, John picks up the fumbled ball to save his face, and then Arthur tackles him in the open to bring Dad back down.

“He was.  I don’t think Dad was all that bad when it came down to it.  What happened between you two that made you take off so soon and hate him so much?”

Arthur felt the hair stand up on his arm.  John was calling him out.  In a way Arthur was happy John blamed himself for their father’s death.  Up until that day five years ago it was Arthur who dodged the questions about Dad.  It was Arthur who told John to shut up.  Arthur was relieved to see the old man go.  Arthur could make his therapeutic snide comments about Dad and John would never want an explanation or let it go any further.  Arthur was counting on this to continue for a long time, at least until his own wounds caused by the old man were healed.  Now John was asking, asking a direct question, and Arthur was not ready to dodge, not ready to relive, not ready to tell the truth.

“Detective Martian you’re clear to go in now.”  The receptionist shouted over the pleading mother.

“Later.  Let’s go.  Remember, fly on the wall.” John nodded and they were buzzed into the visitor entrance to the Hospital’s labyrinth.

Arthur and John entered Smitty’s room and John immediately sought out a dark corner.  Smitty didn’t need to know anyone but Arthur was in the room, it would help him keep calm and honest.

Smitty was hooked up to an array of run down medical equipment.  Run down, but still quite functional because it was built to last.  Most of this stuff came before specialty plastics.  This equipment was sculpted from glass cylinders, rubber tubes, and stainless steel polished to a mirror finish.  The huge lump of Smitty was covered in a brown scratchy blanket and was illuminated by the dull glow of one examination lamp.

“Who’s there?” Smitty’s eye sockets were bandaged with a few wraps of thick gauze.  While no  eyes remained, the wounds still bleed heavily.  The human face contains a large portion of delicate artery structure and it bleeds easily, very easily.

“Andrew my name is Detective Arthur Martian.  I was the one that found you after you were attacked.  I want to ask you a couple questions.”  Arthur pulled a doctors stool under him and gently sat on the oversized cracked cushion.  He rolled over to Smitty’s bedside.  Smitty was sitting up moving his head back and forth trying desperately to pin point Arthur’s location with his new amplified senses.

“Get the fuck away from me.  I don’t want to talk to nobody.  Stop harassing the blind man.  Can’t you see I’m in enough pain as it is?  I don’t need you damn cops in my business.  I have done nothing but help the community I’m a part of.  I didn’t know if the stuff I bought was stolen or not.  Don’t ask don’t tell, that was my policy.  People got money to feed their families and I sold the stuff back into circulation eventually.  Everybody was winning.  Just get the…”  Arthur interrupted and John quietly suppressed a smile.

“Smithe I don’t care about your business operations.  I want you to talk me through what happened the night you lost your eyes.”

“I don’t wanna talk about that either.  Just get the hell away from me.”  Smitty turned and forced the side of his face hard into the pillow staining it with blood from his empty eye sockets.  He thought he was facing away from Arthur.  Arthur stared into the moist bloody eyes and spoke softly into Smitty’s ear.

“If you won’t talk to me I’m going to tear your little store apart looking for evidence.  I know you were dealing more than just stolen bikes and appliances in that filthy hole.  Can you imagine being a fat blind guy in prison?  They would stuff your ass like a Mexican pinata and then beat you hoping for their candy back.  All you would know is the musk of their odor and the taste of their sweat.  If that is what you want, than I’ll leave.  If you want to talk me through that night I’ll let you play victim here on the outside for a long time.”  Arthur waited for a response from Smitty.  He stood up and sent the stool to sailing hard into the counter.  The bang made Smitty jump and start to tremble.

“Alright, but your going to think I’m fuckin’ crazy.”

“Try me,” Arthur said.

Smitty told Arthur about hearing the beeping, grabbing his gun, and going to investigate the microwave.  John’s cellphone vibrated in his pocket and he slipped out the door to take the call.  It was duty on the other end of the line.

“The devil himself was controlling that microwave.  It wasn’t plugged in or nothing.”  Smitty grabbed into the air and surprised himself when he caught Arthur’s arm with a fist full of his coat.  Smitty pulled himself close, Arthur didn’t resist.  Then Smitty’s face changed, his voice got deeper and he bared his teeth.  Smitty projected bits of spittle as he talked.

“You would do well to stay away from us Arthur.  We wouldn’t want Daddy to get at you with his belt would we?”   Arthur jerked back from Smitty’s grip and didn’t say a word.  The sounds of the heart monitor doubled in intensity and echoed in the silent room.  Each beep made Arthur cringe as he stared at the face seething with anger.  Smitty’s chubby cheeks and dumbstruck Stevie Wonder sway returned.

“Andrew?” Arthur muttered through quivering lips.

“huh? Fuck, you’re still here.  I’m done talking.  Go away.”  John opened the door and leaned his head in.  “Who is that?  Who is here now?” Smitty demanded.  John didn’t acknowledge him.

“We’ve got to leave bro.  You look like shit, you okay?”  John said.

“I’m fine.  What you got?”

“Sally has been killed and we got Brody in lockup as a suspect.  I’ll fill you in on the way to the station.”  John didn’t wait for Arthur to move and disappeared heading for the car.  Arthur looked back to Smitty when he got to the door.  He was still shaken from, from whatever the hell just talked to him through Smitty.

Now Sally has been wasted by Brody.  He had forgotten to release Brody.  Short staffed and late at night; he was probably sitting in interrogation for a couple hours.  Maybe he finally snapped, maybe not, maybe Arthur just needed a few minutes to sit down and clear his fucking head.  What the hell is going on?

“Thank you Andrew.”

Smitty flipped off the wall cabinets trying to assault Arthur with a twirling middle finger.  Arthur smirked and quickly made his way to the car.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 14 and 15 – Download PDF

Chapter 14: Brotherly Love

Arthur closed the door behind him and stepped into the darkness of jack off room.  John was sitting in a cheap folding chair watching Remy on a closed circuit TV monitor.  They were alone.

“You need to keep your cool with this guy,” Arthur locked eyes with his brother.

“For what? He’s street walking scum,” John said.

“Serve and protect.  Not be an asshole and judge.  You don’t know anything about him.  A file full of records only tells you so much about a person.  That’s the problem with our line of work.  We see all the bad shit and let ourselves judge too quickly.  Let people surprise you once and a while.  If Dad would have learned that about me, maybe he could have been a real father.”

“Don’t even go there Art,” John interrupted and quickly changed the subject back to Remy.

“So what do you know about him that I don’t?” John said.

Arthur sighed at his brother.  He knew it wasn’t right to bring up Dad in a bad light around John but sometimes he couldn’t help it.  It was the part of himself that he shared with all little boys who hated their fathers.  The deep parts of yourself can’t be contained all the time.  Sometimes, you’ll slip out a little bit of evidence about how you truly feel.

“I know that deep down Brody is a good man and deserves our respect.  I know that he has seen a lot of really bad shit in his day.  The world doesn’t appear the same to him as it does you and me.”

“How do you mean?” John asked.

“We still have a bit of rose colored tint to our glasses John.  We can still see beauty and have hope for the future, shit like that.  Remy sees life and death, always.  He’s a survivor.  You play god long enough like he has, and you become the walking grim reaper.”

John made nice nice with big brother’s mediocre philosophy with a smile and a nod.  This was John going into tune out mode.  Arthur hated it and looked forward to the day his brother’s ego balloon would finally burst.  He would make a good detective after that.  Learning to empathize with people and consider all options, no matter how bizarre they may seem, were the key skills in actually solving mysterious crimes.  Mysterious is an understatement given the state of things, but they weren’t going to get anywhere sitting around.  Time to get back to work.

“You think Smithe is up for a chat yet? He should be out of Intensive Care by now.  You up for going over there with me to see what he knows?” Arthur said.

John perked up.  It was rare for Arthur to ask him to come along.  Arthur worked alone and liked it that way.  He had more solved cases and convictions than anyone else in the department.  John would be ring side to watch the master at work.

“Now you’re talking!” John stood up.

“Yes, and I’ll be doing all the talking.  You pull any shit like you did in the room with Brody and I’ll throw you out? Got it?”

Only give the pup enough leash to feel free and then remind him you’re the master.  Once your pet loses respect you might as well give it away or kill it.  You’ll find your shoes chewed to pieces and large steaming brown land mines on your path to the bathroom.  No surprises and keep in control, that is the way Arthur did things.

“Fly on the wall,” John said.

Chapter 15: Pirate radio station R.E.M.Y.

Remy sat in the hard plastic chair of the interview room for about an hour when his ass went numb and his knee started shooting pain up his thigh.  He stood up and limped a few laps around the room to get his blood pumping.  Once the familiar dull pain sat back in, he began to look around.  Time to get the hell out of here.  He waved at the camera box in the corner and looked into the lens.

“Hey, can I go yet?” He shouted into the camera.  He waited a few moments for a response or one of the doors to open.

Nothing.  He slapped his flat palm on the heavy door to the jack off room.

“Martian.  We done in here or what?”  He dropped his arm and waited for a response.

‘Damnit.  What time is it anyway?’ Remy thought to himself and began wondering which door he should try first.

Door number one, the door he came in, held a guaranteed face to face with a grumpy pissed off booking cop.  They wouldn’t know what to do with him and they would take their sweet time figuring it out.  That could be another half a day in this shit hole if he went that way.  They would figure it out eventually though and Martian would realize the mistake.  Martian would take care of him, he’s a good man.

Door number two, the portal to the peepshow booth, the entry way to the inner workings of cop central.  Maybe he would run into Martian right away or at least someone who would let him explain the situation and let him out.  A young file clerk maybe, or an old behind the desk cop on the cusp of retirement.  Maybe he wouldn’t see anyone and just walk out the door.  That possibility was enough to make up his mind.  If door two was locked he would try the other, if they were both locked, he was fucked.

Remy pushed down on the handle and pulled.  The door opened and he slid into the monitor room.  The lights were off, say for the glowing screen that showed the camera streaming from interrogation.  A strip of light was also coming from under the door leading out into the hallway.  He put his ear to the wood and listened for footsteps or voices.  Silence.  He opened the door and poked his head out.

‘Must be late or there is a hostage situation somewhere.’

He walked down the hallway until he got to a directory posted on the wall and read it aloud to himself.

“Homicide Offices, Evidence, Meeting Room, Holding, Interrogation, Lobby, bingo.”

Remy traced his finger on the map to zero in on the location of the lobby.  It was just a few doors down.  Right passed evidence and the meeting room.  Evidence.  The microwave.  Would his angel remember him?  Should he even bother risking a visit?

Yes, yes, yes you come and visit.

“What the hell? Who was that?  Martian told me to go to the homeless shelter I’m just looking for the door.”  He looked up and down the empty hallways.  Still alone.

No one here.  You come and visit.

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.  It sounded like a small child.  It sounded like his baby boy, Roger.

“Roger?” Remy said.

‘This is impossible, Roger is at least 15 by now.  The voice sounded like a six year old, not an adolescent,’ Remy thought to himself.

Yes, Daddy come and visit me.  I’m playing with your microwave.

Remy stood frozen.  It had been so long since he had seen his family or heard the sound of their voices.

‘This is bullshit, someone is crossing some lines.’  Remy headed for the evidence room.  Cop or no cop, someone was getting their ass beat.

Remy stopped and stood looking at the door.  He stared at the black placard with the white letters spelling the word evidence.  He could turn around right now, say he was lost.  He still had a story, he could still get out of here an honest man.  That would be the right thing to do.  Hell that would be the sane thing to do.

“Damnit.” He turned the handle.

The lights came on when he stepped in, motion detection most likely.  A security camera was pointing at the wall with the cord cut.  Secure.  He shut the door behind him and looked around.  A row of steel wire racks held box after box of plastic bags filled with everything from handguns to cocaine.  Little scribbled hand written labels on each box indicated the date and the case number.  Remy started to read the first sets of labels.  These were five years old.  Dates started to ascend as he shuffled his way down the rows of racks.

His eye had been fixed on the labels when he felt his footing slightly slip in the puddle of blood.  The dark red surface was just slightly crusted over and drying.  He reached down and touched the blood with his fingers.  He was able to roll around a chunk of it.  It was beginning to coagulate like fast setting Jello.  Soon it would get sticky and hard.  Fresh blood, only ten minutes or so old.

Remy switched gears to survival mode, kill or be killed.  He knew thirty different ways to kill a person with just his hands.  One powerful punch to the lower back or upper cut to the nose to spike the brain; if the opponent was a fighter something more colorful would be needed, like a full nelson, a brain buster, or a Russian omelet.  The human body was a good first draft, but fragile as a crystal vase.  You’ll get it right next time God, unless your impeachment completely goes south.  He moved slowly peering around the rows, ready to defend himself.

Through the boxes and bags he saw a small bit of flowered material on the other side.  Cautiously he looked down the row.  A young woman in a white flower patterned dress lay there on her back.  The microwave was on the floor at the end of the row.  The LCD display was blinking the word DONE.

Remy crouched down next to her to see if she had any hint of a pulse.  He placed two fingers to her throat, the blood was still warm there.  Her name tag read, “Sally – Secretary.”  She was a pretty blonde, perky tits, full lips, grade A by today’s standards.  Remy had seen some pretty horrific stuff, but this was a new one.  Eyes open wide in terror.  Mouth open like she was about to take a bite of a sandwich that was too big.  Lots of bodies find themselves frozen in shock from their last moments.

Remy could hear his Mom, “Don’t make that face, or it will stay that way.”

This was death for you.  What got Remy was the fact that her arms were raised like she was double-fisting a big hoagie in her hands.  She would of course need some hands to do this.  The bloody stumps that were left at the end of her arms were the source of all the blood.  Bits of white bone exposed at the end suggested some pretty heavy and sloppy, mutilation.

The door to the evidence room burst open.  Remy flinched. ‘Busted,’ he thought.

“Down here,” Remy said.  “Call an ambulance.”  The footsteps made their way in the direction of Remy’s voice.

It was the boy cop that questioned him on the curb outside Smitty’s.  He had his gun drawn, he took one look at the girl and one look at Remy.  With a lightning fast motion he slammed the butt of his pistol on the back of Remy’s neck.  Night night.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 13 – Download PDF

Chapter 13: Good Cop, Bad Cop

“Remfred Brody, step up on the line please,” the young officer ordered.

The flash of the camera exploded in Remy’s eyes, he squinted.

“Turn to your right side please.”

Again the flash.

“Turn to your left side please.”

Booking. It was a longer process than registering a car at the DMV. They took more than finger prints these days. The system required a scan of your palms and the sides of your hands. Remy sat in a room with other people waiting to be processed into the system or housed in a jail cell. The only thing that made this room different than a kids area sickroom at a hospital, was the sliding steel bars on the exits.

It smelled like sick and bleach. There was a television, drinking fountain, and a series of solid plastic chairs all locked together in rows. Remy was in a room with the drug addicts and the drunks picked up last night. You couldn’t put your feet up, you were not free to leave your seat for any reason, and the officer who drew the short straw got stuck with this processing shift. It was shit work, nothing exciting. The system hardly ever handles any harden criminals these days. These are just regular folks who made a small mistake or became the victim of unfortunate circumstance. Remy fell into the second. The bolt slid back on a door behind them. Stenciled above this door in large block letters was the word, “Interview.”

“Brody. Where is Brody?” Remy stood up.

“Right here sir,” Remy said.

“Come on back.”

Remy recognized the young man from Smitty’s shop last night. It was the same police officer who told him to get outside and later hustled him into the back of a squad car. He had a likeness to the older man that Remy tried to help. More clean cut though, and permeated the small room with his egotism. The polished name plate pinned to his breast read, “Martian.”

The room was small and contained only two steel chairs bolted to the floor, a hard solid plastic table, one florescent light with one of the two tubes burnt out, one steel security camera box in the top corner, and two doors opposite each other. Remy could only guess that the door he didn’t come in lead to the personal jack off room for cops. They watched suspects being tormented into confessions of the crimes they didn’t commit. The two men sat opposite each other as Martian read through Remy’s file.

“So you were divorced and the kid decided to go with his mother?” Martian said.

“Yea that’s right. She wanted it to go smoothly and split everything 50/50 but I just told her to take it all.”

“Brody, you’ll refrain from elaborating unless I direct you otherwise. Yes or no are your only answer options at this time.” Martian scanned the pages in the file.

“Says here you are ex-military but everything about it is classified. Medical discharge due to knee injuries sustained during service. There are disabled vet programs for people like you. You know that right?”

“Yes,” Remy said.

“So you choose to be homeless?”

“No,” Remy said.

“No? Than why are you on the streets?”

“I grew up being taught that a man had to make his own way. Provide for himself and his family. That’s how it’s done. I’m just making my own way sir,” Remy said.

“So you’re the proud type of bum?”

“Yes,” Remy didn’t like the word bum, but there was no other way to describe himself. No one would hire him or give him a second glance. He was homeless but it wasn’t for lack of trying to make a better life. Failing as a husband to Dana and a father to his son Roger, made him realize maybe it was just time to fade away from existence. He had already squared it away in his mind that he would die on the streets, it was just a matter of time and place or temperature.

“How did you know Andrew Smithe?” Martian asked accusingly.

“Never heard the name,” Remy said.

“The owner of the underhanded pawn shop Brody, how did you know him?”

“Oh, Smitty and I go back a ways I guess. He’s a household name among the homeless. He’ll take just about anything if it’s in good enough shape, and he always pays in cash without asking any questions,” Remy replied.

“When was the last time you saw him before last night?”

“Well, I sold him a microwave I happened upon a couple days ago…”

“You mean you stole?” Martian interrupted in a harsh accusing tone.

“No, it fell of the truck or something. It was just sitting in the alley abandoned,” Remy snapped back in the same manner as Martian’s accusation and shifted his body forward. He watched Martian’s face turn a slight shade of red. Remy shuffled in his seat realizing the error of not keeping his cool.

“You got a problem with me Brody?”

“No sir,” Remy said.
“Then you better mind your fucking manners and just answer the questions.”

“Yes sir,” Remy said relaxing back into his chair.

The buzzer sounded and the lock on the door to the jack off room clicked. The door swung open. The older fellow from last night emerged.

“John, a word please?” he said. Martian stood up and put his palms on the table leaning over into Remy’s face.

“Don’t move Brody, I’ll be right back. You’ll explain to me just what exactly you’ve been doing the last couple days.”

“Yes sir.”

The two men left the room and Remy was alone. These types of things were supposed to be routine. Remy had no convictions to speak of, but he had been arrested numerous times just for being who he was. Martian acted like Remy was taking regular shits on his lawn and wiping with his fresh morning paper. He didn’t understand what the guy’s problem was. After a few minutes the door opened again.

“Remy I’m Detective Arthur Martian. I wanted to thank you for your efforts last night. I don’t think you had any involvement in Smithe’s attack,” Arthur said.

“How is the knee and the ass?”

“Oh, about as good as yours I guess,” He shuffled to the chair opposite Remy and delicately sat down, wincing as he did so.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother John. We’ve had a bad round of luck in unsolvable cases lately,” Arthur said.

“I read about the Snoogins’ case in the paper. Bastard is still at large I guess. You think he attacked Smitty?”

“It’s a possibility. Remy, I’d like you to talk to me about your microwave,” Arthur said.

Remy looked down. He knew how crazy he would sound but he told Arthur anyway. He told him about how it just appeared, and the plates of Thanksgiving feast it kept producing. Told him how last night he saw the front door open and the plate of food again inside it.

“You think I’m crazy right?” Remy said.

“There is no doubt you are crazy Remy. A man with a classified war record is never quite right in the head. However, I do believe you are not a liar and are telling me what you believe to be true.”

Arthur proceeded to tell Remy about the Snoogins investigation. About the blender, and all the holes in their findings. How there was no evidence that anyone else was with her and her house was without power. Yet, she was dead in her kitchen and her arm chewed up in her own blender.

“That is some crazy shit,” Remy said.

“Yes, it’s definitely a different type of investigation. When we collected the evidence from Smithe’s shop this morning the microwave was unplugged. I do not believe it was ever plugged in. The plate of food we found inside matches your description.”

“You think that Smitty opened the microwave and it burned his eyes out?” Remy asked uneasily.

“I don’t know what I think yet, but I’d like you to work with me and be apart of this before someone else gets hurt. I’m going to have them release you soon and I’ve arranged for a bed at a local shelter.”

“I don’t need no shelter,” Remy said in a haughty tone.

“If you would rather a cell I can arrange that instead.”

“No sir.”

“Good. Stay close to the shelter then, I’ll call on you there when I need you,” Arthur stood up and held out his hand. Remy took it and gave it a firm shake.

“Yes sir,” Remy said.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 12 – Download PDF

Chapter 12: Come together, right now! Over me – Love, Smitty.

Since he had parted ways with the microwave Remy wasn’t able to sleep very much.  At some ungodly hour he found himself rummaging through the dumpster at the cafe across from Smitty’s shop.  He popped up for air just in time to see the whole street light up in a flash of bright white light.

Arthur Martian was pulling out of the cafe when he saw the flash.  He slammed the Eldorado’s brakes and jumped out of the car.

The girl in the cafe was in the bathroom taking a piss so she didn’t see it, but she heard the old brakes.  Not uncommon at this time of night.  Half the city was drowning their sorrows in booze or drugs and then driving home to families they hate.  Bound to be a few near miss accidents.

The cook  at the cafe, he saw it, but his green card was about to expire and he was fresh out of county jail for a DUI and driving on a suspended.  So he tried his best to ignore the flash.

A dog tied up outside saw it too, but he just figured it was one more step toward canine dominance over the planet so, he didn’t do anything.  One less human to be disposed of, as far as he was concerned.

The old lady who never leaves the cafe saw it.  Her large hat tipped up from the aging 1993 Edition of Cat Fancy at just the right moment to catch the flash through her greying cataract eyes.  She wasn’t quite sure what happened but she liked any excuse to call the cops.  She was the one that phoned in the disturbance of the peace.  Arthur was already out of his car when the dispatcher asked what units were in the area.

Remy shuffled across the street to take a look.  Some guy in a tan trench coat was already there and kicking in the door.

Arthur felt the pain shoot up his leg when the glass door didn’t give.  He let out a roar as the joint in his knee compressed and the cartilage snapped.  He surprisingly kept his balance and teetered on the good leg.  The fat man was on the floor inside laying next to a shotgun.  He wasn’t moving, maybe not even breathing.  Arthur put two rounds through the heavy duty lock and one through the glass.  Instantly the burglar alarm went off screeching in his ears.  Crystals rained on the carpet as he made a hole with the butt of his gun to reach the handle inside.  He pushed the door open with his shoulder and collapsed into the shop.

As he lay there on his back he pointed his gun in all directions prepared to unload on the first thing that looked remotely threatening.  The cheap alarm system shorted out within seconds and it became quiet.

“You okay buddy?” Remy appeared outside the door.  Arthur whipped around on his back.  The shattered glass under him made tiny stinging cuts into his thighs.

“Get on the ground,” Arthur commanded.

“Easy there friend,” Remy held out a his hands.  “You hurt?”

Arthur relaxed his grip on the .38 and lowered the barrel.

“Leg is fucked up.  Butterball here is worse off.”

Remy shuffled over putting his good leg toward Arthur.

“Can ya’ stand?” Remy asked.

“Yea, I think so.  Here help me, on three,” Arthur said.  Remy crouched as much as his leg would allow and put his arms under Arthur’s arm pits.

“1…2…3,” Remy hoisted Arthur up to his legs.  Arthur was surprised at the smaller man’s strength.  This wasn’t the first time he had hoisted almost dead weight.  Arthur extended his legs and took his weight off Remy’s grip.

“Fuck!” his leg gave out and he fell back on to the glass.  Little daggers dug into his ass now, and blood started to seep out of the small lacerations.  The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain began to take over.

“You better just sit there for now,” Remy said as he looked over at the heap of Smitty.

“Smitty dead?” Remy asked.

“Smitty? You know this guy?” Arthur winced.  Was bad enough he shot a cat, now his damn ass was going to need glass picked out of it.  He felt the pre-embarrassment of the coming days.

“Yea, he owns the place.”  Remy went over to the body to see if Smitty was still alive.  He picked up one of Smitty’s meaty paws and felt for a pulse.  It was weak but he would make it.

“Jesus, his face,” Arthur nodded toward Smitty.  Remy looked at the black indented circles that used to be Smitty’s eyes.

“Looks like he took a flaming arrow to each one,” Remy said.

“Poor bastard,” they both said at the same time.

The black and whites arrived bathing the store front in flashes of blue and red.  Remy didn’t like dealing with cops but he knew it would be alright.  He’d get the normal drill of questions: Who the hell are you and where were you when it went down?

Now that Arthur knew that Remy knew Smitty, he was sure to be a suspect.  At least if they held him for questioning he would get a cot to sleep in and a hot meal or two, then he would be released.  Being homeless doesn’t make you a criminal, but it always makes you the prime target for the blame.

“Art!” John dashed to his brother’s side.  He looked at Remy.

“You, outside, now,” John said with expected accusing eyes.

“Easy on him John he just wandered by and offered to help.  Isn’t that right…?”

“Remy,” Remy said.

He nodded and made his way to the curb as paramedics rushed past him to tend to Arthur and Smitty.  Gazing through the bars on the windows he watched the frantic activity inside.  Remy caught a glint of something shiny.  Among the organized chaos of the Trauma Unit, behind the bobbing heads, and among the fury of blue latex gloves, the familiar microwave sat on the floor.  The door was open.  Inside Remy could see the fluffy white of potato mountain, and the small specs of neatly stacked peas.

“No, way,” he said aloud.

“No way what?” the young officer said.

Remy turned and found himself eye to eye with a boy.  Just a boy.  This kid was all too familiar to Remy.  He watched many of these King Kong dicked gunslingers die because they thought they were invincible.  Itchy trigger fingers and underestimations of the enemy found many a mother getting a hand delivered letter and a pine box filled with what was left of their child.

‘Oh, sorry ma’am.  The letter says your son died a hero, that must be true.  They would never tell you it was because he wanted to earn Daddy’s respect and get a medal.  That is why he charged into that hut, guns blazing, only to have his throat cut by some Charlie waiting in the rafters above the threshold.  No, he served his country well, and did exactly what he was told to do.  ‘Go son, go and make us proud,’ Daddy said.  Now mamma is crying wondering what happened to her baby boy, and daddy is crying out to God to bring his son back.  While Satan sits in the parlor enjoying a highball of fine whiskey from the liquor cabinet carving, “you get what you wish for” into the fresh mahogany bar that Daddy and Son built and stained the summer before he shipped out to basic; they both sit here and wonder, why him? Why us?  War is hell folks, deal with it.’

Fingers snapped in front of Remy’s glossed over face.

“Back to reality pal.  I got some questions.” Remy sighed holding back the tears.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 10 and 11 – Download PDF

Chapter 10: Coffee and steak make Arthur Martian’s gears turn.

“Refill sir?” the waitress asked.

“Sure,” Arthur scooted his cup toward the edge of the table.  She filled it and spilled a few drops on the packet of Snoogin’s utility records.

“Hey, watch it,” he said.

“Sorry.”

Her sharp features turned a shade of pink.  The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen years old.  She looked at the ground, paused, then turned to walk away.  Short cropped black hair bounced in rhythm with her slim hips.  He recognized that type of behavior.  Pausing like that, it indicated she was waiting to be dismissed by him, the man.  Arthur could only guess what sort of asshole broke her.  If he had a dollar for the head of every stepfather he slammed into a door or a wall he would probably have close to a hundred.  His eye’s stayed locked on her as she gracefully floated back behind the counter.

Arthur had always been a bachelor type of guy.  Never married and no kids to speak of, never saw much reason for it.  The way he figured it, he would die early from smoking and eating red meat.  ‘Could also get shot on the job,’ he thought.  Why put anyone through that?  He picked up the summary of Emily’s last couple months of bills.

He skimmed through February’s phone records, then March, and finally April.  The numbers all checked out as indicated by John’s numerous high-lighted calls and notes in the margin.  Little brother was thorough and successful in impressing Arthur, just like he intended.

You can tell a lot about a person from their payment history.  Emily for instance, never paid a bill on time in the last year.  Coincidently she started falling behind right when her husband’s pension was taken from her.  Another elderly victim of the running joke that is the federal government’s financial aid, Social Security.

It didn’t take long for the utility companies to disconnect their service’s once they found out she was dead.  Phone service was within a week, May first if you want to get specific, and Arthur did.  Cable and internet service was gone by May third.  Arthur put down the papers and picked up his steak knife.  He carved off another bite of the bloody eight ounce New York strip, now cold.  He reached for the steaming mug to wash the meat down and looked a the smeared drops of coffee on the power bill.

‘Disconnected: April 23rd, 2009,’ it read.

Arthur did a double take and choked on the steak.  He slowly took a sip of hot coffee with a trembling hand to remove the anxious obstruction in his throat.  After he was sure he wouldn’t turn blue and suffocate he picked up his cell phone.  His callused thumb (from pulling back the hammer on his pistol so much) held the number two.  The LCD glowed, calling ‘Jonathan Martian,’ it read.  He put the speaker end to his ear as it started ringing.

“Hello,” the sleepy voice said.

“John, did you check with the power company about Snoogin’s house?”

“Dude, it is two in the fucking morning, don’t you ever sleep?” John said.  Now alert and agitated.

“Did you?”

“Uhh yea, they said it was off.  I told them to turn it back on so we could resume our investigation.  That house is on precinct payroll for power as we speak, so hopefully you didn’t leave any lights on when you were playing animal control the other night.”

“Let’s play a game John.  It’s called don’t be a smart ass.  Now listen up.  Emily’s power bill says the service was disconnected on April twenty third.”

“So?” John just wanted to get back to sleep.

“According to the coroner Emily was killed on April the twenty-sixth.  From what we gather she was completely alone with her arm in a blender chewed to hell.  It might just be me, but I have never heard of an industrial strength battery powered blender.”  There was no response on the other end of the call.

“Still awake?” Arthur said.  He was pleased with himself.  They finally had an anomaly, something to work with, not quite a lead, but something that would finally enable them to remove the thumb from their ass.

“Yea, I’m still here.  How in the hell does a blender get powered on in a house that is off the grid? Generator or extension cord is the only way.”

“All of the neighbors statements indicate no one talked to her for at least two days before she died.  No generator was heard in quiet suburbia that night.  John, that blender was plugged in the wall when we got there.”

Chapter 11: And when he broke the seventh seal there was silence in Heaven.  For about half an hour.

Beep beep beep!

Smitty lived alone above his shop and heard the beeping coming from down stairs.  He reached in the small space between the wall and the fridge, guess snacks will have to wait.  Most people would keep a broom there but most people didn’t have ten thousand dollars of merchandise and a business right below them.  Smitty pulled out the twelve gauge and slowly put a cartridge in the breech.  He held the slide with his hand to muffle the snap and click.

Beep Beep Beep!

When he reached the bottom of the stairs he flipped the lights on.

“Alright mother fucker, get out,” he shouted and pointed the gun into the lobby of the store.

The alarm pad blinked red indicating it was still armed.  Smitty looked at the microwave Remy had brought in, it sat on the floor in front of the counter.  The inside light was on, and the display was indicating something had been cooked.  It was blinking between the words “Done and Open Door.”  Smitty didn’t smell anything.  Slowly he approached the microwave observing it through the bead at the end of the gun barrel.

Beep beep beep! ‘Done. Open door.’

He got down on his knees and laid the gun on the carpet.  Bending down, he put his hand on the door of the microwave and jerked it open.  A flash of white light and heat engulfed his face burning all the hair; eyebrows, eye lashes, and the beard all gone in an incendiary instant.  Smitty rolled  to his side and screamed from the pain.  His eyes, the pupils were being strained like someone was forcing him to stare at the sun.  Nothing but white light and burning pain, then he fell silent as his body prepared to salvage itself by shutting down.  The chubby fingers fell limp and uncovered his eyes.  There he laid seeing the faintest outline of the microwave.  A mechanical Angel of death engulfed in the white light of God.  The single door was still open to reveal the portal to heaven or hell, he wasn’t sure.  The pronged tail of the Angel was still zipped tied and bunched up next to it.

Smitty lost full consciousness within seconds.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 8 and 9 – Download PDF

Chapter 8:  A Thanksgiving Remembered.

A neon Burger King sign illuminated the brown shuffling figure that was Remy.  He smacked his lips at the sight of a discarded Whopper in the parking lot.  Picking it up, he put it under his filthy rags of clothes and set out to find a location to eat.  A place where he would be hidden and out of sight.

The burger meat was cold, the bun stale, and the cheese hard.  Surprisingly he didn’t have to pick off any insects.  Usually, depending on how long the food was on the ground, the ants always attacked first,  then the bees set to work, and if it was a  substantial piece of organic protein, the maggots would soon take up residency.  Remy was only forced to pick off maggots one time, before he knew the ins and outs of being a condemned person.  It was right after she took everything and changed the locks on the doors.  His drinking drove them away, it drove everyone away.  He had no where to go but the gutter, and there he stayed, just like he deserved.

************************************************

“When is your mother getting here?” he shouted from his chair in the living room.

“You need to go and get her from the bus station.  Damn, don’t you remember anything?”

“Don’t patronize me woman, I remembered.  What time?”

“You need to leave in about ten minutes, and you need to stop at the store to get some dinner rolls,” the female voice ringed in his ears.  He loved her to death but she never stopped sounding like the little squealing high school girl he asked to Prom all those years ago.

He opened the drawer on the end table and thumbed open the flask filled with his favorite companion, Mr. Black Jack Daniels as he affectionately called it.  Good ole fashioned southern fire water, just like his daddy used to drink when mamma wasn’t lookin’.  He took a pug off the steel canister and an extra because he had to deal with the Mother in law.  His buzz set right in letting the awkward smile and distant gaze come back, he was to drunk to drive, that was for certain.  You see, he was one of those functioning alcoholics.  Able to be piss drunk and still perform regular tasks just as good as a sober person would.  Well, almost just as good.  He grabbed his keys.

“Give us a kiss babe,” he puckered and she pecked him.

“You okay to drive?”

“Sure I am, just had a little taste to take the edge off.”

“You better watch that, you know how your father got with that stuff,” she said.

“Don’t compare me to Dad, you know I hate that.”

“Sorry I brought it up, be nice to my Mom.  It is Thanksgiving after all, let us try and be civil.  If Roger and I have to be on our best behavior than so do you.”

“Well maybe if she wasn’t such a condescending bitch.  She comes in here every holiday to white glove the place, and then criticize our parenting,” he said.
“It’s just her way,” she defended.

“Des, it’s insulting.”

She walked over and put her arms around his neck.  The long silky red hair flipped back and Remy caught the sent of flowers.  The pair of deep set blue eyes stared into his.

“Let this be a peaceful day for us, for me?” she pulled herself into his chest and grabbed a handful of hair behind his head.  It was one of those kisses you see in a soft core porn flick.  Since they aren’t going to show any actual sex the foreplay better be damn theatrical.  Remy left for the bus station.  He would pick up her Mom, but forget the rolls.  The first of many things he would forget, thanks to Mr. Black Jack.

Chapter 9: Ground Control to Major Winston.

John Martian dropped off his old Datson at the body shop and had a buddy take him home.  He bumped a pole last night and didn’t want his Dad to see the damage to the back fender.  He still lived with the parents; envious of his older brother who had the balls to get out.  But John was the breadwinner, the prize boy, and he didn’t much mind living at home still.  Free rent, food, and the company wasn’t so bad, I guess.  He came in to find his father sitting at the table with an open letter from the Police Academy in his hands.  Some follow up to John’s acceptance judging by the look on his  father’s face.

“Why? Are you stupid? Your brother is out there everyday risking his neck for what?  A city of hoodlums who should just as well kill each other off and be done with it.”

“Dad it isn’t like that and you know it.  Art is doing good work and saving lives.  Plus, I can do this, make good money, and take care of you and mom.”

“If you live long enough,” his Dad said.  John was at his end with the argument about this.  His father always dictated every decision and aspect of his life.  He was his father’s puppet, and he was fed up.  He would be a cop, just like his brother.

“Fuck this.”

John’s Mother gasped in horror looking at the junior and senior Martian men.  John squared up like a young buck lion ready to challenge the Alpha Male for control of the pride.  He would never hit his father, he loved his dad.  He just wished he could have the approval of his best friend, have him be proud of this choice.

He would go into the Police Academy no matter what, in fact he had already paid the fees with the money he had saved from being a mall Security Officer.  Driving around in circles all night and running out skateboarders with his flashlight was safer than being a full fledged cop, but John wanted to see action.  Arthur always had crazy cop stories to tell whenever they were together.  John wanted that sort of life, and he wanted it bad enough to risk his father’s disappointment.  As any boy who has ever been in trouble with his father knows, “I’m disappointed in you” stings a thousand times worse than a smack to the head.

“Watch your mouth.  Jesus, in front of your mother and all,” Winston Martian snapped back.

John left the screen door swinging from the force of his palm.  He would take the side alley and sneak a cigarette to clear his head.  Yet another thing his father would disapprove of.  After about ten minutes of pacing around a small cement alcove, he heard a crash.  The sound of metal fusing with other metal; a nasty car wreck.  He started walking around to see where it happened.  Then he heard his mother scream.  John, started running.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 6 and 7 – Download PDF

Chapter 6:  Hoooooooooot Pockeeeeeeeeeeet

“Record setting temperatures are expected in the City this week with humidity levels in the forties.  Community weather gurus are urging people to keep hydrated and stay indoors.  More on that after the break.”

Remy watched the TV through the rusty steel mesh outside Smitty’s front window display.  The microwave hadn’t produced a damn thing in two days and he was starving.  He opened the windowed door nearly every ten minutes and kept getting the same empty disappointment.  Under normal circumstances he would be gathering up cans, or holding his “will work for food sign” on some street corner, but it was just too damn hot to be in the direct sun.  He held onto hope the microwave would produce again, even tried to leave it alone for a few and come back to it, hoping for another Breakfast Dinner.  Looks like his Guardian Angel has moved on to another lost soul, back to the one man show.

The sign on the door said Smitty would be back at 1:30, said he was, “out to lunch.”  That fat-fuck was constantly eating and living chubby off the misfortune of others.  People from all walks of life could stumble in his store and get pennies on the dollar worth for wedding rings, watches, stolen goods or any electronics, Smitty didn’t care, he took it all.  If the cops collected the inventory lists of all the house robberies this month, guaranteed, half of that stuff was at Smitty’s dingy Swap Meet.  Remy heard the slow clinking of metal approaching from around the block.

Smitty couldn’t be more than a decade younger than Remy was, somewhere in his mid-forties if one had to guess.   He was a butterball sort of man, bald, with a greying short beard that traced his round face, and the unmistakable jingling ring of keys as he maneuvered his great girth to and fro.  He was like an obese pet pig with a bell collar, you always knew when he was coming your way.  Remy hated Smitty’s sort, but he hated most of the beings he interacted with on a daily basis.  There was a time he commanded the respect of men who would die for him, and a family that loved him.  Smitty sucked in a big breath so he could talk and walk at the same time.  It came out more like an asthmatic wheeze.

“Fifteen … feet from the … door … transient.  Unless … your … doing … bus…iness,” you had to feel sorry for him on some level, but mostly it was just pathetic.  Remy took a few steps back, looks like Smitty couldn’t hold out the two minute walk back before beginning his lunch.

“Did it hurt?” Remy asked.

“Did what hurt?”  Smitty put down the grocery bag bursting with snacks from the corner gas station and fumbled with the keys to unlock the shop.

“The mustard and ketchup grenade that went off on your chest.  Looks about the size of a .65 millimeter hot dog launcher with all the bells and whistles.  Chili primer, relish propellant, and no doubt, a nacho cheese firing mechanism.  What are the barrels on those things these days? Bout’ a foot long?”

“You being a smart ass right now?  Fuck off before I call the cops you piece of street trash,” poor Jabba got his feelings hurt, Remy grinned.  It wasn’t because he was fat, Remy didn’t care, it was because he was an asshole to the core and being fat was really all you could fuck with him about.

“Easy Smitt’s, I got something to bring in.  I think it is right up your alley to cook all these hot pockets you just got.”

In the end Smitty only gave Remy thirty dollars for the microwave.  It was worth hundreds and they both knew it, but Smitty had the upper hand.  No one else would even consider paying for shit homeless guys brought in.  Maybe that secretly exposed Smitty’s heart to help the people less fortunate than himself; his artery clogged grease trap of a dick-head heart.

Chapter 7: You stop laughing right “meow”

The price of a diet coke at the station’s vending machine was getting more and more expensive.  Arthur got to work at 7:30am every single day like clock work.  At 7:31am the quarters rolled down the change slot to purchase his diet coke, which went from fifty cents when he started, to a dollar and seventy five cents now.  He found it disgusting how the price of everything goes up in such high percentages, his paychecks certainly weren’t growing at that rate.  He made his way to the small desk and opened the top drawer.

“Jesus Christ, come on you damn children,” Arthur shouted to no one in particular but loud enough to make the room fall silent.  He had that sort of commanding demeanor about him, that is what made him a good investigator.  People rarely lied to his face.

Inside the drawer was a small stuffed cat crusted over with what he could only guess was ketchup.  He pulled it out and threw it in his trash.  A small “meow” came from somewhere.  Arthur shot dirty looks in all directions.  A hand slapped his shoulder.

“Morning brother, arrest any pussies last night?” John said.

“You’re still free, so I guess not.”

“From shooting cat burglars to being a comedian, my brother you’re going places.  Did you find out anything last night?” John said.

“Not really, the place is clean.  Why was the power shut off so soon?”

“We didn’t touch any utilities yet.  We’re not that stupid.”

“Well it’s off, so get it turned back on, and get me the packet of records on her utility bills, I want to check out her phone records,” Arthur said.

“Sure thing, what are you thinking?”

“I have no clue to be honest.  At this point, aliens came down from outer space, probed her, and left.  Did the coroner check for any anal intrusions?  I’m thinking the aliens are the best lead we have.   A woman with her arm chewed up in a blender was found dead in her home, no sign whatsoever that she had anyone else with her.  Maybe she got off her meds and fell into the blender while it was on with the lid off.  Now go get me those utility bills,” Arthur said.

Arthur took a sip off his coke and waited for the Chief to get in.  Still had that leak to deal with today.  What a day it was turning out to be too.

“Meow.”

Arthur grabbed his coat and stormed outside to have a smoke.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 4 and 5 – Download PDF

Chapter 4: Plymouth rock blues.

Beep Beep Beep!

Remy blinked his eyes, ‘What the hell did I drink last night? My head hurts like hell.’

He looked up at the starry night sky in the moments between full consciousness and sleep.  Then he felt the weight on his chest and the memory came rushing back to him.

Beep Beep Beep!

The microwave sat square on his chest, but it felt heavier somehow.  He slid out from under it and laid it to rest on the ground next to him.

‘Hell of a price to pay for a good meal.  You are a heavy son of a bitch.’

Remy got to his knees using the microwave to push, it was warm to the touch.  He squinted  and braced himself as he reached up for the blood inspection on the back of his head.  A huge lump is all, but it still hurt pretty good.  The bum leg was throbbing and pulsing with a mild pain, nothing he couldn’t handle.  He inspected the microwave for damage – still looked like it came out of the box, even his finger prints were gone from the buttons.  He opened the small windowed door on the front.

“Holy shit! Double dose,” he said aloud to himself.

There it was, another turkey dinner.  Emerald peas, fluffy white potatoes, gravy lake, turkey slabs and the delicious cranberry sauce.  He took the plate out and sat cross legged.  His trusty spork in hand he enjoyed a second hot meal of the day.  Someone was really up there watching over him.  He didn’t much believe in that god stuff, but there had to be something out there.  They could have helped him get the damn microwave off his chest, but he wasn’t going to argue with another free meal.  If the meal was still this hot, they must have just put it in moments before he came too.  It was too bad, he would have liked to thank them proper.

Remy sat and stared at the microwave, it stared right back.  It looked different somehow.  The street light outside his little alley made the glass front into a mirror.  Mirrors were something to be avoided in a situation like Remy’s.  The oily grey streaked brown hair would soon need to be cut, he couldn’t have it at the shoulders.  The short wiry beard would also have to go soon, he could never grow a full beard.  Genetics kept him out of the height of fashion in the 70′s.  Remy was having second thoughts about selling the microwave.  If this thing was going to be used as a drop off point for food from his Guardian Angel, then he better keep it around and accessible.  Despite being knocked out most all the day, he was still tired.  He put the microwave next to his Maytag home so that it was sheltered from street view but still accessible.  The laces on his boots gave with ease and he slipped them off and set them on top of his new mechanical friend.  No one would steal anything if it was under your shoes, it was one of the unwritten laws of courtesy amongst the homeless in the city.  As the sandman made his decent, Remy decided he would keep the microwave until he needed the money bad enough.  Or at least until he was hungry enough and it stopped producing.

Chapter 5:  Jumpy alien boy!

Detective Martian’s squeaking breaks broke the stillness of the night air.  The neighborhood Snoogins lived in was dead.  The residents were no doubt locked down thanks to the fantastic media coverage.  It was just like he thought it would be.  The pictures that were beaming to people on the 7 o’clock news contained footage of the coroner rolling the body out and his own brother carrying what was left of Emily’s arm in a clear plastic bag for the whole damn world to see; the blender at least was in a dark container.  Although the news coverage mentioned the blender too.  Some asshole was spilling everything and probably on the take for it.  He would need to bring it with the Chief tomorrow.  He parked his car outside Snoogin’s residence and ducked under the crime scene tape.

He got to the door and used the key he had copied from the evidence room.  He reached inside to flip the light switch on.  Nothing happened.

‘They cut the power on the first day of investigation, what a bunch of fucking morons.’

Arthur felt around in the pocket of his oversized tan trench coat for his flash light and clicked it on.  The beam of light revealed the innards of Emily’s house.  Arthur began to make a quick mental inventory and room assessment like he was taught to do in the academy.

One baby blue lazy boy couch with matching reclining chair, one dark oak table with clawed feet, four matching chairs, crocheted coasters on the end tables, one cat litter box, one scratch post with the name Mittens carved in the side, things are clean, and nothing is noticeably out of place.  He made his way through the living room and dining room bypassing the kitchen for now.  The hallway had plastic lining the floor, this is where things were bagged and tagged by the forensics guys.  The plastic crinkled under Arthur’s size twelve brown Dunham Windsor shoes.

The bathroom door was propped open with a plunger stuck to the white tile acting as a doorstop.  Arthur examined the high window above the bathtub for any scrapping marks or tiny specks of anything that would be out of place on a window ledge that high.  The window was locked tight and didn’t show any sign that it had been opened in the last five years, just judging by the depth of the dust.  He clicked the flashlight off, put it on the counter, kicked open the toilet seat and unzipped to take a piss.  Starring at his moonlit face in a mirror that hung above the toilet, he released his stream of justice into the waters of crime.

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror.  He hated mirrors, he looked too much like the damn old man he had been trying to forget but just couldn’t shake.  Walking in his father’s shadow was bad enough, why was he cursed looking like his twin brother?  They both had the high cheek bones, the thin dark hair that hung down the forehead, the broad chin, the constant neglect of shaving which lead to their identical stubble as soon as he was old enough to grow it.  Arthur was giving his junk a third  firm shake when he heard a window creak open in the bedroom.

Cautiously and quietly, he withdrew his .357 Magnum revolver from the shoulder holster.  He pulled the hammer all the way back effectively giving his hand cannon a hair trigger.  He gripped the wood grain handles with both hands and peaked out into the hallway.

Slipping out of his shoes he carefully placed his steps on parts of the plastic that flushed with the floor.  There was a draft coming from the open bedroom window, the entrance to the room was two feet away.  He waited about ten seconds for any signal of movement, a sound, a shadow.  He raised his gun chest level and leapt into the door way prepared to fire.

The only sound to be heard was his heavy breathing, a combination of adrenaline and cigarettes.  Arthur looked down the sight of his gun into the lifeless room.  The breeze from the open window blew the hair down into his eyes, he shook his head to put it back in place.  The bushes outside rustled with movement, Arthur locked his elbows and reinforced his stance.

“Come up slowly, hands first,” he called out.

A bright white flash came through the window.

Human reaction time is easily tested.  Remember that van back in school,  the one where you would go in, put on head phones, and push the button when you heard sound?  Or maybe the one with the brief case with the red light inside, with the button to push when it went off?  These are ways of measuring the health of your eyesight or  hearing based on the reaction time to visual and auditory stimulus.  The average reaction time for a visual stimulus is about 190 milliseconds for a young adult.  As we grow older reaction times increase, tiredness and distractions also increase reaction time.

Our reaction time no matter what state we are in is always the fastest when there is only one response that can be performed.  Hick’s Law states that choice reaction time increases in proportion to the logarithm of the number of response alternatives.  Essentially, more options means more time, we have to think about it.  Is the light red or green? What does that mean? What action do I take?

Law enforcement can not afford this kind of time for decision making when their lives are at stake.  There is only one reaction to be taken for certain worldly stimulants programmed into the mind of a cop.  A muzzle flash, fire your weapon.  The glint of gun metal elevating, fire your weapon.  The unmistakable auditory direction of a weapon being discharged within ten feet, fire your weapon.

Arthur Martian fired his weapon at a target eight feet away.

A one hundred twenty five grain .357 hollow point bullet will travel at about 1300 feet per second, or 1.3 feet per millisecond.  To travel the eight foot span of Emily Snoogin’s bedroom, the bullet would only take 6.2 milliseconds, the point is, it takes Arthur longer to decide to pull the trigger than it does for the receiving end to feel the effect of his decision.

To say a grenade was tossed in a bucket of open red paint would be putting the scene before Detective Martian in a conservative made for TV horror film.  Emily Snoogin’s trundle day bed sat below the window, her pink floral quilt was spattered in blood.  The porcelain dolls placed with such precision and care all cried hemoglobin tears.  The white painted trim oozed blood, and shards of broken exploded red stained glass clung to what was left of the single pain latching window.  Arthur stood engulfed in a wave of astonishment and surprise.  He couldn’t make out very many pieces of what he shot, they were to small.  He inched toward the bed.

A glint of what looked like cheap rhinestone caught the moonlight beaming through the window.  It was sitting in the lap of one of Emily’s dolls;  a happy faced doll that had a hand up waving at passers by, to bad she looked like she just ate a cherry pie face first.  Arthur picked up the remaining half of the jeweled band.  Spelled out in cheap bedazzled plastic rhinestones was the same name on the scratch post in the living room, “Mittens.”

“Fuck me,” Arthur said.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 2 and 3 – Download PDF

Chapter 2: Winner Winner Turkey Dinner

Beep! Beep! Beep!

‘What the hell?’ The sound woke up Remy just in time to experience the full blown nausea and headache of the hangover he wanted to sleep through.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

‘Shut the hell up,’ he closed his eyes but it was too late.  The inside of the cardboard Maytag home started to spin, there was no sleeping now.  Being a homeless man in the back alley of Front Street had perks at night but not during the day.  No one bothered wanders while they slept but the  morning always brought the foot traffic of early risers to downtown.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Remy rocked his body out of the shelter and felt for his boots.  It was a weird quirk of his, but sleep only came without shoes on, no matter how cold it was.  He tied the laces of the worn doc martins he had found in a dumpster some years back and stood up.

The back of the alley was deserted say for a new microwave that someone had dumped there.  ‘Why would anyone toss this?  Maybe it fell off a truck.  Doesn’t matter now, this should be at least fifty bucks at Smitty’s if it still works.’

He walked over to the microwave to inspect it.  A Sears genuine special, and not one scratch on it.  The aluminum handle caught the rising sunlight and blinded his eyes.  He stepped closer and opened the door.

‘God damn.  Would you look at that?’

Hot and steaming, a fresh turkey dinner was in the microwave.  The mashed potatoes were filled with a reservoir of brown gravy that flowed contiguously onto a pile of white turkey breast meat.  Green little marbles of peas stacked with the precision of the most prestigious upper class restaurant.  The coup de grâce of this food masterpiece was the pile of cranberry sauce bleeding into the base of turkey hill and potato mountain.  Remy wasn’t one to turn down a free meal.  He would take this to Smitty’s after breakfast dinner.

“Morning Remy.  Wow, someone felt sorry for your ass this morning didn’t they?  Lemme have some buddy.”

“Back it up Josiah.  This was in that microwave and I’m claiming them both.  No one was around when I got it, so piss off they’re both mine,” Remy said.

“Alright alright, cool it old man.  I’ll be on 9th and Sierra Ave today so give it some birth.”

Josiah shuffled off with his shopping cart half full of cans rattling on the rough pavement, his “Disabled Vet, need help, god bless” sign was sticking way out.  That boy wasn’t a Vet, he had no idea what war was or what it meant to fight for something, he had no idea what it meant to survive.  He was just a filthy beggar.

Remy sat and polished off the meal slowly with his trusty metal spork.  It was nice to have a hot meal, the tastes reminded him of Thanksgivings spent with his wife and son, wherever they are now.  He sat cross legged and stared at the dirty brick wall of the alley way, eating his food with conservative bites and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin he carried in his back pocket.  Unlike most of the condemned persons around this city, Remy still retained a sense of common manners so long as you weren’t trying to threaten his life.  Being a fifty year old homeless man with a bum leg made that life hard, it made it real hard.  The daily struggle was breaking him down very fast.

He shuffled to the microwave and turned it over for further inspection.  Not one dent or blemish, say for his own finger prints that molested the buttons earlier.

‘Let me get you to Smitty’s.  Thanks for the breakfast dinner.’

Heavy lifting required all the weight be put on his good leg.  With arms under the microwave he grunted and stood looking for his cart that was a good twenty feet away.

‘Should have pushed that over here, to late now, cause my back ain’t gunna do this again today.’

He began slow forward steps, hopefully his arms would hold out.

Remy did not see the discarded plastic soda bottle when he got to the half way point and stepped on it.  The cap was on tight and it held shape.  His good leg lurched forward forcing him to attempt balance with the bum leg.  He let out a yelp of pain and his knee buckled causing him to fall straight back, the back of his head hitting the asphalt first and his vision went black.  Good thing too, if his body hadn’t been so relaxed by the time that microwave fell on his chest, he probably would have busted some ribs.

Chapter 3: Don’t tase me bro.

Arthur Martian might have been a slacker rebel to his father but when it came down to his own security and employment, he was a workhorse.  Not to be out done, his little brother would never leave the station until after Art did, no matter how late into the night he stayed.

“Not one finger print, not one trace of fiber or hair, no foot prints and no sign of a forced entry.  This guy is really good.  A right professional cowboy of murder.  I blame movies and TV.  The media wants to make things so damn real these days.  We are training our children to be killers at the age they can operate the remote.” Arthur was angry, someone got lazy at that crime scene.

“It seems bizarre doesn’t it?  I’ve been over the photographs a hundred times.  Nothing adds up like it should,” John said, at the desk across the room.  There were only two desk lamps on at the station.  The Martian boys wanted to crack this sucker wide open.  Nothing bad had come this precincts way since the riots of 2001.  Detectives were being replaced by science.  Grunt police work was fast becoming a lost art.  Once and a while some cases needed the insight a computer hasn’t been able to produce yet, the human intuition.

“Why are you still here? Don’t you have a girlfriend that needs your attention? It is eleven o’clock get the hell out.  You aren’t helping,” Art snapped at his brother.

‘They didn’t analyze everything, didn’t give him the tools he needed.  He would have to go back to the Snoogin residence himself and see just what the hell was going on.  He hated the foot work but he hated the possibility that a criminal could out wit him even more.’

“I’m going back to the Snoogin house to run over it again.”

“I’ll go with you,” John said.

“The hell you are, I’m going alone.  If you think you can ride my ass to the top you’re wrong.  You will earn it like everyone else.  Like I did.”

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 1 – Can I get fries with that? – Download PDF

Chapter One:  Can I get fries with that?

The Police tape outside Emily Snoogin’s home held back the hoard of media.  Flashing cameras blinded Detective Arthur Martian as he ducked under the plastic yellow barrier.  Apparently some sicko decided to terrorize little Miss Emily.  The CNN news ticker would later read:

‘Elderly woman tortured to the point of heart failure in her own home.’

“Can we get these fuck sticks out of here please? For Christ’s sake John, this is a crime scene not a god damn fashion show,”  Arthur said.

John Martian followed in big brothers foot steps and joined the police force when their dad strictly forbid it.  It almost tore the family apart.  Winston Martian could handle the oldest boy not giving a shit about the family, but he would be damned if his prize winning honor student would follow the same road as his rebellious older brother.  That was five years ago, right before the old man died.  John blamed himself for it.  If he had not stormed out that day, his father would not have gone looking for him.  If the fight had never happened, if he wasn’t so jealous of his older brother, if only they could have tried to talk it out more, he would still be alive.

“Give us some room here boys.  Push them all the way back to the street.”  John shouted to his fellow officers and strode along side his older brother.

“What are we looking at in there?” Arthur asked.

“The forensic team just left.  From the way their jumpers looked it is a real horror show in there.  The shit that nightmares are made of.  Try not to puke.” John said.

“I’ve seen more things I want to forget then you ever will rookie.  Remember, I was on the front lines of the riots eight years ago.  They were tearing women apart and murdering children right in front of us.  Good thing the military was called in or it would have been us next.”

“Yea, but it still wasn’t right with the way they handled it.  Heads should have rolled for the brutal tactics they used,” John said.

“Sometimes little brother you have to break a few eggs to keep the peace.  Give me a mask, this body is ripe.”

John handed Arthur a face mask to keep the smell down.  After all these years he still could not bare the smell of a corpse beginning to decomposed.  It really did make him want to puke, but he kept his cool most of the time.  They stepped through the threshold and were directed to the kitchen to see the crime scene and body.

“Alright, the cavalry has arrived now that the nerds are gone.  Detective Martian I assume you will be heading up the investigation so let me bring you up to speed.”  The small Asian crime scene analyst was new and still had a personality, hopefully  he would lose that soon.  Arthur still couldn’t remember the bubbling little pricks name, Yango, maybe?

“What we got?”

“Let me give you the tour.  To your left you will see a nice arc of blood from the severed brachial artery.  The spray that you see on the ceiling is from when she lost balance and twisted her arm upward before hitting her head on the counter.  She laid there and suffered the heart attacked,” Yango said this as he gracefully twirled around, pointing his white latex fingers at the white numbered evidence tags.

“Hold the phone Yango,” Arthur said.

“It’s Yan, Detective.”

“So you are telling me this guy cut her arm off, she stumbled around, probably slipped in her own blood, bangs her head on the counter and she dies of a heart attack? Bullshit.  If he just left her there, she could have gotten to a phone it’s right here on the counter.  It would take a while for her to bleed to death, she could have called for help,” Arthur didn’t like new guys spouting off like they could do his job as well as he could.  It was Arthur’s job to find out who and what went on here.  Yan motioned behind the counter to the floor.  Arthur looked over the mortified face of Emily Snoogin, now purple with black circles around her open eyes.

“Look at this body.  Her arm wasn’t just cut off.  The meat is just hanging there and the bone is chipped,” Yan said.

“So it was pounded off.  Crushed with a big hammer until it separated from the torso.”

“I don’t think so, look at this.”  Yan held up the glass cup of the blender filled with blood and bits of what Arthur could only guess was Emily’s arm.

“Not your average Mc D’s strawberry shake, but yea, its what you are thinking.  We sifted through most of the contents and found her wedding ring and bits of cloth from the shirt she has on now.  This guy jammed her hand in there and chewed her up.  A real psycho,” Yan said.

Arthur got a lump in his throat and held back the vomit, he needed to leave.

“I want every inch of this place photographed before the body is out.  I want the body autopsied today, wake up the doc if you have to.  I want statements from every person in this neighborhood.  This is a big one, I think this guy isn’t done yet.  None of this shit gets to the media.  We keep it under wraps till we have some solid leads.  We do not want to have people buying up guns and shooting everything the moves close to their driveways,” Arthur said the orders and turned to leave.

“How do you know he isn’t done yet Art?” John said.

“Just a feeling, now do your fucking job and I’ll do mine.”  Arthur made a fast paced walk to his old Cadillac El Dorado.  He sat in the crusty torn leather seat and put his hands on the steering wheel.  A couple pumps of gas and she always fired right up.  John watched the chipped red painted boat of a car turn the corner out of sight.