DEAD PUPPIES FOR THE HORNY
BY. CHRISTOPHER B. JONES

t an old desk, the wood almost black, even under the light of the single naked bulb, was almost as dark as his hair, which hung from his head in thick ropes, glistening in the light with the grease as his hand moved in a flurry over the notebook, scribbling in jagged black ink. He paused for a moment, to lick the tip of the pen and looked about the barren office. He shifted in the rigid wooden seat, and looked back down to the notebook, scrawled with his words, his notes, as a cigarette burned down in the ashtray at the corner of his desk. He shifted again and repositioned himself over the pad, burning in stark contrast to the iniquity of the desk.

          The office was lined with nicotine, and devoid of any personal effects. The only thing in the office, aside from the books that lined the walls was a long black coat hung beside the door that opened into the hall. The frosted glass was golden from the flickering light in the hall. He frowned in thought at the lamp and returned to the scribbled lines, the rumble of traffic from outside shaking the glass in the windows. A long and piercing horn shattered his concentration, and with care, he closed the notebook and returned it to a sliver of space in one of the mahogany shelves lined with historical biographies and manuals.

He rested his forehead on the cool leather of spines, their musty scent wafting under his nose.  His dream was to be published, to leave the office behind in a flower of flames, with a dry smirk. He hated the business, it had effectively removed what little hope and faith he had had in people.

"Good evening, Mr Nuin." A voice came from behind him. The roar of the flames in his head has masked the creak of the door as it opened.

"Jack." He said, turning to look at the man standing in his office.

"I'm George Thompson, and –" the man shifted in his stance, like a nervous child. "well, Mr Nuin, I think my wife is having an affair."

"I see." Jack said, taking the seat behind his desk. He pulled a black steno book from a drawer, brushing a dusty bottle against the inside. "What would you like?"

"I don't know, confirmation. Pictures, I guess. Some proof to save my ass in the divorce."

"So, no audio surveillance? No video? Nothing of that nature? Just pictures?"

"No, none of that. Pictures will be fine."

"Okay, I'll need her schedule. Tentative, when she's likely to leave the house. When you think she's engaging in these acts, and a picture."

"Here." George said, handing Jack a photo from his wallet. The corners had worn thin, almost through, and the face had been worried from the husbands thumb.

"And, if nothing is found, you'll be informed as well."

"Good, thank you. And, uh, the cost?" the husband stammered, eyes lingering on the photograph with a pained expression.

"For photos only, eighty an hour, and you'll receive a CD of the images." He said, eyeing the photograph on the desk and making notes. "How long do you think this has been going on? Is there any regularity to it?"

"I don't know, six months maybe. Every Friday night, she goes to play cards with her girlfriends," he said, making quote marks in the air around girlfriends. George cracked a depraved half-smile and tapped a cigarette out of a soft pack, burning red in the relative darkness of the office. "Do you mind?" he asked.

"Not at all." Jack answered, eyeing the photograph a little closer. He wondered how such a schlubb could find himself such a doll without a club or a lifetime supply of Rohypnol – he shook his head and eyed the man's suit, and found his answer. Money, it made him smile inside.

He watched the man with a keen eye as he smoked, flakes of ash falling down his suit before being tapped into the ashtray Jack had pushed to the edge of the desk. In the moment of silence, he looked to the floor, the foot of the desk digging into the hard wood board. He could taste the bottle burning in the back of his throat, and from the top drawer, he pulled one of his own hand-rolled cigarettes from a small silver, ornately etched tray, lighting it with a flick of a match. The sulphur burned his mouth and nose as he breathed the first fragrant drag.

As the discussion of terms, ways and means finished, Jack saw George to the door, and wondered if he could've padded the hourly rate. The man was convinced enough she was screwing around, he just needed the tangible evidence. Jack figured he could've charged an arm and the man would've chopped it off right there in the office. The idea was laughable. He may've been an asshole, but he wasn't a total prick.

As George hobbled down the hall in his dark suit to his bundles of money, Jack closed and locked the door, breathing a deep sigh. He returned to the shelf and removed a handful of heavy volumes. The seam was almost invisible, and as he scraped his fingernails into it, he prised the hidden door open to a dark hole set into the wall, and a smoky green bottle. The glass was heavy in his hand as he eased it from it's place, and carried it to the desk. He took a seat and lit another of his cigarettes as he removed a small and ornately formed glass, a delicate silver spoon, and from the small refrigerator behind him, a bottle of water.

Pouring a small portion of the liqueur into the glass, he straddled the spoon over it, with a pair of sugar cubes from another drawer. It was the ritual that mattered, more than anything, he told himself as he slowly dribbled the water over the cubes, watching as they slowly dissolved. Jack removed the spoon, and slid the small chunks of sugar into the mixture, stirring it to the typical opaque green. He turned the light off and settled back into the chair, the cigarette burning down in the ashtray.

‡

Face planted against the grating blacktop, Jack could feel the splinters from his ribs, or was that just the shockwave of pain cascading down through his nerves, branching off like a bad grade school game of 'Telephone'. The world shook, dark and wet and bleached of all colour from the orange glow of the street lamp overhead. His eyes focused his mind on the glittering shards of a broken beer bottle, shining like a handful of diamonds scattered about. Their sparks drew his attention away from the pain, and from the grumbling voice overhead. What the hell had happened? He couldn't remember, his brain felt loose inside his skull.

There was a door, with an opening for a pair of eyes and an asshole. He barked at him to piss off, and he did. He was in no state to go to battle with a prick, and he was well aware of it, so he waited. He went back to the old Buick Skylark and waited, scratching his chin and smoking cigarettes. He only wished he'd had a small television to watch Captain Kangaroo. Maybe a deck of cards, too, but all he had was the radio, cigarettes and a camera.

He coughed blood onto the pavement, a thick wad that burned black in the darkness. There were feet coming up behind him, but he couldn't move. The distinct clicking of high heels. Her cursed himself as his fingers scraped at the blacktop, pulling up nothing but handfuls of rainwater.

He could remember sitting in the car, watching the scum and villainy that frequented this club; he'd been here before, knew it well, many pictures of the place from the front. He had known he wouldn't be able to get in, but he wanted to try his luck. Maybe get in this time, with a lax guard, but this guy had been an asshole. He cursed as he dropped a cigarette out the window and blinked. He had probably seen the broad before, with her lover. It was possible, even likely. He had followed her to the club, and it sure as hell wasn't playing cards with the girls from work. He laughed, but the man wanted pictures that would save his ass in the divorce.

It was then that everything went dark and shaky, and he found himself sprawled on the ground like a prison rape victim, and he did a check of his body. His ribs felt broken, a tooth was loose in the socket, and his crotch felt wet. Was it from the rainwater, fear, or had he just pissed himself?

Jack tried to push himself upright, but once he'd made it to his hands and knees, he heard a laugh and felt the toe of a boot connect with his ribs. Now, he knew they were broken as he coughed more blood onto the pavement. "Motherfucker..." he grunted as he went back down. "That hurt." It was more audible, and he heard another laugh, a different laugh. Rabid and virulent, thirsty for blood. As he fell back to the pavement, he clutched the ribs, and tried to breathe.

"Let him up, boys." This was a woman's voice, sultry and full of honey, it hung on the air and dripped down his ears. He felt a twitch in his body, and felt the blood begin rushing elsewhere. He wanted to laugh, at the irony, that as he lay here broken and bloody, he was still trying to get hard. It was the voice, though. Slick and sultry like some phone sex operator. He coughed and felt the pain rifle through his body, twisting and shifting on the ground, trying to find a foothold, or just the strength to push himself upright.

"Fine, pull him up. I want to talk to him." She barked, and he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, digging the stiff leather of his holster in as they pulled him upright and pinned him against the wall.

She was petite and blonde, her eyes a crystal blue that burned bright even in this lifeless light. "Can you stand?" She asked, penetrating him with those eyes, and he nodded, finding the muscles in his knees. The grip of the hands relaxed and lifted, but he still needed the wall to keep him upright. "Alright boys, go back inside. I'm going to have a little talk with Mr Nuin here." She said, looking at his driver's license before replacing it into his wallet, and pressing it against his broken ribs. The pain almost doubled him over, but he bit it back and remained upright, taking the wallet as the behemoths walked out of the alley, back to the front of the club.

"So, Mr Nuin, did my husband hire you?" she asked with a laugh, drawing closer, those eyes swimming into view.

"W-what?" he stammered, still trying to engage his neural functions.

"My husband, George Thompson, did he hire you?" she asked as she ran a finger down his chest, between the heavy flaps of his coat, and he felt the blood rushing once more.

"Yes." He answered, flinching and finding his feet again, standing upright and off the wall. "He did."

"Well then..." she said, pushing him back against the wall, and kissing him hard, penetrating his mouth with her tongue. "I'll make you an offer." Her voice was huskier as she pulled away. "You're cute, and you're dangerous. I like that in a man. I'll tell you two things, one, I'm not fucking around on my husband, see? And two, if you kill him, you can have me all to yourself."

"What the hell? Are you kidding? You're so full of shit, lady. I'm not going to whack your husband. No way, no how. You're fucking insane!"

"No, my boy, I'm not. I own this club, and he would not understand, that's all. He's a worthless lump who used to have money, now I have money, and cannot be buggered with his tiresome shit anymore. You do this for me, and I'll be yours. In any way that you want."

He was oblivious to her slow smirk as she clutched at his bodies with the hands of a lover. Somewhere in the city, a police siren raged, battering against the stillness. The fabric of his mind opened, and he wondered what he should do. If it was all true, then maybe it'd be worth it. He cursed himself and tried to pull away, but his body wouldn't move. The sky opened up, and struck him dead on the spot with lightning. It never strikes twice, and here he was. It may not be the most ideal situation, for a damned thing, but what was life without a little risk? With a head swimming with questions, he tried to find the answer, but was unable to grasp one thought long enough to process. It was a surreal moment, and he looked to the ground, to that broken beer bottle. The shards of glass were diamonds, and his pants were wet from the rain.

"C'mon, Jack, let's go. Call my husband, tell him you have whatever he wants, and we'll make this right." She took his hand and lead him back to his car, the black Skylark, bleeding rain. The leather interior was dry, as they slid in to the bucket seats. Before he even had the car started, her hand was in his lap, undoing his slacks and as he pulled from the curb, she leaned over, making sure not to bump the shifter with her body.

Every thought in his mind came undone as he sped toward her house, phone ringing to George.

‡

It was a three story Victorian style home with a lavish wraparound porch. The curtains were drawn, but every room was lit, fit for a party, and George opened the front door as the headlights pulled over across the street, in a velour smoking jacket and black slacks. He stood on the porch and waited as Jack Nuin got out of the car, and straightened himself, wiping as much blood from his face as possible. His hair was dishevelled and he looked a true mess. George shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he waited, listening to the world outside and wondering who was waiting in the car, a silhouette in the darkness. He lit one of his cigarettes as Jack stepped up onto the porch, his hand on the side of his face, rubbing the stubble into his jaw line.

"George, your wife isn't cheating on you. She went, alone, to a woman's house, and as far as I could see, they played cards. There were two others, and no men. I mean, they could've had a daisy chain, but I don't think you'd mind that. I wasn't able to get any pictures, I'm sorry." His hand fell into the pocket of his long coat.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir. Positive." He averted his eyes as he pulled the snub-nosed .38 from the pocket, and pressed it into the soft underbelly of the husband. Neither seemed to notice the small blue light as it came on in the car. "Go inside. Now, Mr Thompson." Jack's voice dropped an octave as he buried the muzzle of the revolver deeper into George's belly, pushing him across the threshold, closing the front door behind them. "I'm sorry, man..." the sentence trailed off, as he tried to decide why he was apologising. It was illogical, and he had nothing else to say. His finger barely touched the trigger before it leapt in his hand, and through the man's soft skin, scorching it and sending the slug through, splintering his spine and sending a spray of arterial red against the staircase wall, against the glass of a photograph of the man and his wife.

The body fell limp, and Jack stared down at it for a long moment, the hole in the man's shirt smoking from the muzzle blast. He wiped the barrel clean of blood and stuffed it back into his coat pocket. It was then that he felt everything go wrong, before he even reached for the door with the sleeve covering his palm.

Through the plate glass picture window, he saw a large SUV pull up, and a behemoth step out onto the curb, a petite blonde running up to him with, and together they approached the house. He heard the brute's footfalls creaking over the porch, the wood slats undoubtedly giving under his weight. Six, seven foot tall and three-hundred fifty pounds of pure muscle. It was a guess, but Jack had a feel for these things. He couldn't move, his legs were jello, and his mind had liquefied. He stood there, like a dumb child caught masturbating in the kitchen as the door splintered off the hinges, and the Fabio looking asshole descended upon Jack while the woman laughed behind him, a witch's cackle. Jack felt every bone in his body shatter, but he didn't feel the slug as it ripped through his warm, bleeding flesh.

The last thing Jack thought, as the muzzle rose to eyelevel, was something a girlfriend back in high school had told him... whenever she was feeling particularly aroused, in an inconvenient place, she thought of sad, dead puppies. If only he'd been thinking of them, he laughed in his head, his jaw hanging slack and unable to articulate it, and he would have smiled at the irony, too. But it was all too late. The grey of brain matter spread out like a peacock across the carpet.