The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

  If a man’s cock didn’t-droop from the humidity, maybe later from the pleasurin’ from some old gal, blow job in the back of a Ford sedan, maybe some fucking of tired flesh, that was a certainty.

  Hookers, turned out as drinking buddies, everybody knew the rules, no guns, hatchets, blades, if there was killin’ need be done, take it to the streets. Any place else, outside The Big Easy gals would of starved, no great shakes to look at. Motto was, from sweat dripping hard working men.

  If-in yaw got a pussy, yer welcome.

  Basic, raw, simple stuff, it was a great place.

  NEON clock, budging towards mid-night, LITTLE JUNIOR, an oxy mountain of a man, cause he was 280 lbs. of muscled country nigger, mother called him that, bred and raised in the swamps. 21 inch biceps, V waist, truck tie rod legs, shaved head, covered in sweat, muscle red t-shirt, rippling bod, standing at the door. A reminder, to loggers, swamp poachers, truckers, drunks, whores, etc, etc, etc, no misbehavin’ or scrawny red necks, pinched between Jimmy Dean Sausage finger tips, grip like a steel eel bite, will level you out. No one ever escaped them.

  Folks called him Sir, except his mother. She called all of her twelve children Nigger. “Nigger, get over here.” Nigger get yo black ass outta that shit.”

  No man ever used that vile and disgusting word around Little Junior except his MA. If they did, then, Crunch from an Ebonite fist, or their skull crushed like a tin can under his size 19 triple EE boot. That ended it, quick like. He was a nice boy that demanded total respect.

  He also was a classy man, held a Masters from Mississippi State, played the piccolo flute, was part owner of The Swamp, was single by choice, 30 years old, a promising life, proud of it and rightly so.

  Big clock hand sweeping, past midnight, price boosted up, from one dollar to two, keeps cheapskates out, dancers hated that, more than being sober, kept the rift raft out too. Standing like the black K-2 of New Orleans, Little Junior lingered at the door, humid night, checking ID’s, gathering dollar bills, cracking smiles, white teeth, skin color mimicking a coal lump.

  Across the street, eyes click, rise, focus, wipe the sweat away, a vintage Coup De Ville, faded, maybe green or blue, parking up at Jeter’s Convenience Store. Paper colored sweetie, hopping the door, fuck me, thin like a vine, moving like silk towards the door.

  He’s got an old lover too, 59 Lincoln Continental, push buttons on the dash, big ole Plexiglas steering wheel, grinning chrome grill, tail fins, blue, white, tuck and roll, hard top. The blond dishes ride is a rag top, he loves old things. It’s got soul. Class babe, he thinks, takes a few more buckaroos, says good evnin’s, time passes and, then there she is again.

  Tall, slinky blond, black hip hugger jeans, black work boots, sleeveless black bod hugging T-shirt, cut arms, thin like a swizzle stick, lookin’ to Juniors eye’s, mighty fine.

  Hops the front door, sluices in, bags in the back, a sip of agate colored liquid, old whiskey he thinks, snaps a Zippo open, lights a cigarette, smoke filters out of a set of plum lips. She’s looking at something, flash of a magnum handgun, blond looks all around, bends, no more Mr. 44, smoke mingling with the humidity and her white skin.

  Little Junior really likes what he seeing. Head against the leather head rest, staring at the full moon, zillions of stars, twinkling like her eyes, real lazy like girl. Little Junior would love to give that silken bod a twirl.

  MANDAL, tired of the stress, the heat, humidity, lack of sleep, spark plugs in her head mis firing, needs a doze or two, or soon a car wreck, no worry of Tony, Bobby Ugo, or Bobby’s Gorilla, the enforcer Dim Dim. Thoughts of Bobby, Dim Dim too sends shivers down her worn spine, wonders about Onetta, don’t go there, hand under the seat, check the 44 Python again, good still there, back under the seat, try to get rid of images of Tony. Don’t pony up flames of the blow torch King, ferret Bobby Ugo, his giant, some 300 pounds, six foot six, Dim Dim.

  Lot’s a girls inside of her, trying to break parole, to many, to crazy, to sweet, to violent, that makes three, a hundred more, her brain simply aches. Like she’s watching a movie, feeling, seeing, hearing what was going down, watching her fav actress acting, she. Madness, sickness, mental illness, an outsider witnessing every inch of it, brain, mind, read all the shrink books on it, whatever. Freud, buddy Jung, Niche, no help what’s so ever.

  Buzzwords, fuck she knows them all, so the fuck what. Only a lobotomy might help, flushing the sewage out of her brain.

  Blow of smoke, hand on her mind, turns, focus, a monstrous beautiful black giant is staring at her from across the street. Tall, handsome, whites of the eyes, black trousers, red V t-shirt, inverted Egyptian Pyramid torso, stares intent. She’s a little unnerved, maybe the giant electric squid suckers have snaked across from NJ to The Big Easy and they have nabbed her.

  Then, smiles, broad teeth like piano keys, white teeth, sexy man, maybe the sexiest, bone dice of fear rolling around her skull, like some kind of gamblers guillotine, gone, from his grin.

  Blues lock with black eyes. His smile broadens, she smiles, can’t help herself as, she thinks him a stud, instant, carnal, banal attraction. She wonders if anything could ever harm her if she were his woman, protected in those tractor tread arms, forever. There is no fucking forever.

  Back to reality, nudges the sex thoughts, no New York Knicks repeat, ball cap slotted on her head, twist the key, engines rattles to life, a mist of black smoke out of the tail pipe. Glances at the big boy, wonders about a tumble in the sack and that cock wrapped up with a bow under those pants. She flushes her thoughts away, in gear, poke forward, loses her mind and blows him an air kiss from the palm of her hand.

  Like some kind of winsome kite tail, her cumulous tease floats across the wind. Black hand, size of twenty pounds of catfish, flicks out gracefully snaps up the air kiss, fingers to his lips, kisses, smiles, she smiles, her cunt feels ever more humid than the air.

  Move slow, go back, fuck like elk, stay forever, suck his god cock, sleep in those arms, yes, no, yes, a giants smile.

  She Bangs her fist on the dash, groans, she’s fucked up again, what in the hell is wrong with her?

  Her fantasy world is killing her, moment to moment, piece to piece; one more person to ID her as she gulps her pain. Tears fall down white cheeks, sniffles and her brain again. How will she ever survive in a real world with a mind she has no way of ever controlling.

  Not for the last time, why not sidle to the curb, 38; temple, mouth and between the eyes, in her ear, fire it up. How much pain is simply enough? Does everyone wake; coffee, doughnuts with thoughts of airing their brains out? Crippling grief:

  WAKE THE FUCK UP, GRIEF OVER WHAT?

  The words rape her mind as she screams, pushing the Caddy down the street.

  Farther down the street, moving towards destiny, a harsh, Texas desert filled with white washed bones, many questions answered, once and for all. She peek into the rear view, still there, gorgeous black man, she’s hard to miss, one more whores broken heart left behind in Jazz City.

  Blue Points

  “AAAH! BLUE POINTS, I love Blue Points.”

  Anthony Uruguay brings another oyster to his bulbous lips, daintily, edged in between obese finger and thumb as he sucks down the slimy worm from its shell. He groans as the slug slips down his three chins of throat, settles into his belly.

  White silk shirt, open at the neck, pushing against his monstrous gut, hanging like a sack of fish guts over his shark skin trousers. Tufts of black, curly chest hair, like seaweed, oyster juice mingling, gold chains, cross, Saint Christopher medal, Christian man, pollution of various meals stuck to his chest, settling on the crease, between stomach and dick. The Fat man may be a glutton, a sociopath of pain, yet he is a Catholic. Saint Christopher is his boi.

  Not pleasant watching him eat, neither of the two men sitting in the limousine, across from him, minded, wouldn’t dare say anything,
dangerous matter, The Fat Mans food. Both men are silent, 24, count them, empty shells in a bucket at his feet. On his feet, a thousand dollar pair of alligator loafers, no socks, folds of ankle fat, a tray before him, napkin under the folds of chin, twelve more to go, both are men patient.

  No one ever interrupts Mr. Uruguay when he is eating.

  Sinister, Bobby Ugo, Herculean Dim Dim, Bobbies right arm, sit, quiet, limo prowling out of NY City.

  They move like a predator sharl across the Brooklyn Bridge, past Hacken Sack, New Jersey next stop. Nobody talks, especially Bobby Ugo. Anger welds his lips together, Dim Dim, well; nobody ever heard a peep, other than.

  “Yeah Bobby. No Bobby. I’m hungry Bobby. Which arm do you want me to saw off, Bobby.”

  Basic lovers chat stuff.

  Bobby Ugo, five-foot seven, a buck 40 was the homicidal brains of the outfit, nicknamed, The Ferret. Good reason for that.

  Classic dresser, dapper, close cropped, jet black hair, twitching black eyes, sharp, pinched nose, glue tint skin, clipped mustache, neatly stacked over thin, cold lips. All of it, ability to focus, figure it out, to enact horrendous violence, his easy way of killing, no remorse, everybody dies, when, where, always up to the contestant. All of it got him his name and it fitted him to a tee.

  He loved Italian Baroni Suits, a grand a pop for leather shoes, silk shirts and ties, a gold ring, no God chains, medallions in his life. He’s known for being a snap head dresser as well as being known as a homicidal maniac.

  Dim Dim, side kick, Mask man, loyal Tonto, no viable IQ to speak of. Looked like a 300 pound sack of turnips, clean, neat, bulging out of a trade mark black knit turtle neck, pressed pants, presence did the talk for him, no nick name, not a fashion plate, a simple guy. Frightening size, reputation deleted any need for Dim Dim to be called anything else but”

  OH Shit, Dim Dim is here.

  Trump card of persuasion, always, no arguing, one sight of Dim Dim, welding torch, meat saw, numb shark eyes, usually did it.

  NO, was seldom heard.

  Money was dug out of walls, whores murdered, dancers, burnt alive if they didn’t trick, do what they were told. Anthony Uruguay got anything he asked for. Bobby, Dim Dim helping, saw to it.

  Bobby fidgets with his pencil thin moustache, face ticks, irate, eyes bullets, acid orbs, fucking furious eyes. The blond bitch of course on his mind, watching his mentor massacre another herd of oysters, following, more chilled white wine, wonderful year, Bobby could give a fuck; he never drinks.

  Dim Dim, poster boy for all men’s fear, no comparison to MR. Ugo. Nothing can compare to Tony, he is omnipotent, a God, much feared, much avoided. Dim Dim. 38, a messenger of his master, servant of pain, nothing he was not capable of. In any other society he would have been put down like the mad, sick deviant dog that he is. Under Tony’s tutelage, Bobby flourishes like a moth under the light.

  Bobby Ugo remembers, always remembers, has to, don’t want to go back, there, the filth, poverty, no Tony, no Dim Dim, no life.

  Punk father, pistol shot down at twenty-nine. Mother, gut punked with lead, mark gone wrong, flea bag hotel, street walker, heroin her queen. Little boy Bobby, The Bronx, wrong life, wrong time, wrong side of the tracks, wrong planet.

  Broken kid, petty theft, roamer, wanderer, violence a latent personality trait, no future, a bum rap kid doing the best he could. Tony came with waiting arms. Bobby nineteen years old, lost, ready for either a life in the slammer, cold iron bars, peek-a-boo, cotton slippers, maybe a gas mask at Sing Sing prison, something else, anything else.

  Mr. Uruguay, drags him out of The Bronx, gives him purpose, direction, mentors him, protects him, trains him of murder, torture, other stuff. Now, through the years, Bobby is Praetorian Guard, would die for The Fat Man. God fuck bless the soul that ever displeased Mr. Uruguay. They only did it once.

  Contrary, to popular belief, myths of Tinsel Town flicks, screenwriters making all the shit up, not a lot of men around can kill on demand and shove a blow torch in some girl’s cunt, dig some gamblers eyes out of his head with a screw driver until he coughed up his mother’s pension to pay his own sick debts.

  Bobby’s seen them, the movies, pop corn crunchers, celebrity pretty boys acting out contract killers, charming, amusing, making Bobby almost laugh. He never laughs. Not a lot of men, women either, ready to put a new air filter into some nuns head with a silenced, hollow point 22 or pull some number runners toe nails out of his feet, with tin snips, feel no remorse about any of it. Bobby, he is a man held in great esteem.

  Like a kid, with a pet rattle snake, compassionate Anthony Uruguay, fed him, loved him and, had kept him warm at night. Then, the prestige had come, feelings of accomplishment, first time for Bobby. He was proud of his new standing in the community.

  Like the viper in the glass box, Tony had nourished him, steady diet of death, feeding him rat like people, zanies, thought it okay to displeasure Mr. Uruguay, something they soon found out to be a jest of fatal errors. Bobby finally had the father he had never had. Paternal love is certainly an odd and beautiful thing.

  Dim Dim, on the other hand, more beastly, more basic, very dim, thus his name.

  Almost dead from a drowning accident, the Goliath, severe brain damage, shortly after his thirteenth birthday. After drugging his Kool Aide, mommy dearest, had botched the job in the bathtub. Monster kid, impossible to keep him in sneakers, feed bag, was damn near impossible keeping the kid fed. Her heroin habit was expensive, time consuming, street hooker life and edgy. Killing him was an only option. After the failed homicide, two and two quickly equaled four. Cleaver mom then skedaddled out of town.

  Better to live in the back seat of a Buick, under the Turnpike, sucking off evangelists, then face the six-foot four, 280 lbs of a cranky thirteen year old, commiserating about where his milk, fucking cookies were.

  Memories, her kid bending iron bars, bare hands, pushed her DT’s to Coney Island, 20 buck fucks under the pier. Mother of the year she was not.

  A sweet kid, a low NFL draft pick, unrecognizable talents, great potential, dumb luck, Bobby stepped in; Dim would a been dead otherwise.

  Bobby Ugo, down at Coney, a day at the beach, near the carnival rides, lighting up a smoke, a commotion down an alley, four gang toughs, surrounding what he thought was one of those Cape Buffalo’s. The kind he saw on National Geographic’s.

  The wops, real street crap, had felled the Cape, having a good time, tossing garbage on it, kicks in the ribs, taunts, lots a laughs. Bobby, watched, cold eyes and smoke drifting and, then he saw it. It was the largest fucking human being he had ever seen.

  Fate was a funny thing. Til the day, why he did it, didn’t know.

  Visionary interventions, always amazing shit. He turned, walked casually down the alley screwing on a silencer, all comfy, tight, fit nice to his Walk around 22 automatic pistols tip. Twelve hollow points in the clip, one in the chamber, he was good at bullet stuff.

  Dark, shadows, none of the shit birds had seen him coming. He was the ferret, good at being quiet.

  Gang Bangers, having a time of it, hooting and kicking, big man crying, pawing at the banana peels hitting his catcher’s mitt of a face. Bobby felt sorrow, a first time thing for a homicidal-maniac; it stunned him, made him mad. Not good that, for the boys.

  Demetrius, that was his name, later changed to Dim Dim, convenience, of course was weeping, kids, young, vicious, street sadists, more cruelty, Bobby’s ire growing, his pulse falling like icicles down the chute.

  Cracks of Hell, the Devil stepped under a light, well dressed, small man, ice man, lifted the 22.

  “PSSST” first boy, hole in the head, jolts back, no life, no jokes and no taunts now.

  “PSSST” second kid, air conditioned brains splattering the alley wall like street graffiti, real, raw, nobody seemed to appreciate Bobbies artistry.


  Awe, confusion, pugs turn, gawk, its fast, ferrets are very fast. Dead boys, blood on the ground mixing with skull fragments. More eye ticks, blood, bodies vibrating in death knells near the dumpsters, smiling man, looks, each other at the nicely dressed man with eyes like they never seen before.

  Kids turn, steps, raised gloved hand, 22. “PSSST PSSST” two in the back.

  A scream, bodies hurtles, body going wacky, legs buckle, down he goes. A twist, terror eyes, last kid, hands held up, sorry on his shrieking face, please, sorry flipping all over the fucking place.

  “PSSST PSSST.” Forehead holes, small, neat, not so neat out of the back of the head, splat. He’s dead. He falls.

  Dim Dim watches, he’s just a pup, a fucking Newfoundland pup, senses a good, person, nice man, helpful, kind, friendly is a good thing. Maybe he will feed him.

  Being a Guardian Angel, Bobby likes it, lowers a gloved hand, 20 kilos of chorizo, take’s Bobby’s hands, stands. Bobby holds both hands, his tiny one engulfed in them, feeling cozy. Bobby whispers. “Come now. You work for me now.”

  Dim Dim, happy puppy, nods, follows his new master into the family’s sordid business of which Contract Killing is at the top of the list.

  Over the years, lots of years, they had accomplished many things together, a team, brains, brawn, cruelty, loyalty, lots a food. They were prefect together. When a door opened, it better be because you ordered a pizza, because if you saw Bobby Ugo, Dim Dim standing there, blocking the sun, first visit, last visit, no pepperoni for you ever again.

  Watching the Fat Man suck more oysters, Bobby feels his spine frying, seemingly melting, as is his temples. Not a wishful man, a whimsical man he wants just one more, just one last visit with Tony’s blond Brainiac, please.

  One last crack at the mouthy bitch, that’s all he wants.

  “Please.” Again he whispers.