The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

  Crandal Bear Feather is livid, a tough, proud hombre. He hates white men more than he hates being an Indian.

  Two scenarios: Draw it out, fire it up, shoot the red neck where he stands and then do the blond and everyone else in the place. Not a bad idea, but also not the best idea he decides, too much money involved. That idea whizzes past his mind like a sprung arrow. Bidness, he, Billy, Speedo Gonzalez, it’s a good one.

  Retreat and remember what the white fucks did to the red man, time later, vengeance, revenge, no more massacres of the Indians.

  He chills, time is his friend.

  He likes his prosperity, decides to Pow Pow wityh Billy. Better than the mountain of muscle drilling holes into his head, raises eyes, calm now, he says. “SI, Mister Speedo, he say same time, same place, if OK with Mr. Billy.”

  Billy likes the sudden change, the word MR. becomes all buddy-buddy like as he turns to Sue.

  “Right on. Tell Speedo were on, Cochise. Baby, Sue, give the red asshole another beer. On me.”

  Sue’s glad, no more blood pools on the floor, for now that is, new glass, pours the proud Indian a beer and places it in front of him.

  Controlled, boiling, jaw clenched, Crandal Bear Feather stands, feels the weight of the 45 on his side and wants to DO it.

  Do it right now.

  His hand moves slowly and, then stops. Billy is a like a cobra, watching as Cochise turns and walks through the bar, out the door.

  At his Buick, he takes a hankie, boot on the chrome bumper as he wipes it clean and, then the other.

  He is a stylish man. I

  In the Buick, he bucks up the engine, burst of octane, tires spin and dust kicks up. At the asphalt, white walls smoke and another Indian on the warpath, planning death, later for the white man.

  Being around a Time Bomb of nature, unpredictable Billy, fuse to short and in Sues mind, all is well when it ends well. Needs to calm her nerves, feels the electricity from Billy skin, pours herself a shot, downs it and, then gawks over at the pool tables.

  “I SAID FUCK YOU RAY, DIDN’T SCRATCH.” Fat boy biker screams, drunk, stoned.

  “WHACK.” He slams his cue on the felt, howls, stiff legs around the table, taunting his bud as he grabs his own balls.

  “FUCK YOU, YA DID TOO, ASSHOLE.”

  Bill Bob, his echo image double howls, strutting and running the pool cue between his legs like he is jacking off.

  Billy, in deep thought, always a hard matter fer him, jerks his head, screams. “HEY. KEEP IT THE FUCK DOWN.”

  Angels of Death hesitate, stem cells breaking through the haze as he looks at Billy as if they want to kill him. Then Billy’s attention, drawn to the door, Doc Earl staggering through, eyes glazed, blue lips, seeing angels in the roof where their ain’t none.

  Scattered around the joint, two tables of Texaco men, exchange glances, Billy, the bikers, themselves, shake head waitin’ fer it all to begin. They return to nursing their beers.

  Doc Earl, clumps over to Billy, one of the Angels looks through greased tangles of hair at Billy, false bravado slapped on his filth filled face, shucks, jives, crawls on the felt, groggily lines up a shot, mumbles loud enough for Billy to hear:

  “Fucking Prick.”

  Doc Earl, weaving in front of the bar, Billy changing moods faster than a GWB spin doctor can bend the truth. He becomes all kind and such, seein’ Doc Earls poorly way.

  Doc trips, catches himself on the bar, just before he cracks his white hair head on the rim. Peeking his huge head through the food slot, Art looks around, Billy nods he’s okay, Art back in the kitchen. Billy leans in, checks the fragile old man’s way. Billy extends a power house arm, steadying the Doc’s emaciated frame, whispers all kind and such.

  “Ya, Okay Doc. Watch the blue ink, okay, huh, Doc...Whiskey fer ya?”

  Billy is nervous what in watchin’ his future being held in the whacked out doctors wrinkled, tremor struck hands. Everything hinges on the doctors prowess, his rare talents. The Do, maybe problems for the Cox empire and in Billy’s mind, the doc seems like he’s ain’t gonna make it to the finish line, that worries Billy mightily.

  Since the beginning, when they had first met the Doc, realizing that their future Intel of Inferno Flats was a reality, they had nurtured the old genius, allowing him to have his medicine, whatever that was, so he could mix and make their profitable product.

  On Wall Street, the touts on CNBC would have glorified Cox Corp. and IPO’s would have been tendered, billions reaped, for their product was a hot growth one; with no ending of endless profits in site.

  Unfortunately Mava and her two sons popular product was a drug more dangerous than cigarettes and alcohol, and if did become legal, would have been a perfect trilogy of Phillip Morris, Seagram’s and Cox’s death.

  Billy weren’t born no Kennedy, no covers on GEORGE or fucking Darryl Hannah or super models in the ass. That’s why fate is a funny thing.

  If Billy had been John-John, well, a downed plane, two self absorbed blonds, an oceans death, instead of the bright future Billy now held, so close in his hands.

  Big payoff, soon, tip of his fingertips, can the Doc keep it together?

  Billy groans as Doc Earl twitches his head, blinks and gawks at the ceiling at nothin’.

  Doc Earl Croaks, bleats, does nothing to calm Billy’s angst. Sue chews gum and then an-uproar erupts from the pool tables again.

  Billy’s eyes jump, eyes jerk at the tables, at Sue. His eyes tilt at the bottle of Jack. Sue gets it, pours the Doc a shot, Billy mumbles. “There ya go Doc.”

  The Doc swallow’s, eye twitches and slaps the glass on the bar. Sue looks at Billy, he nods, she pours, he downs it, weaves, turns and, then staggers across the dance floor and out of the front door.

  Billy, glaring at the bikers and, then their nervous girlfriends at the bar peeking at him. They knowed what is about to go down. Nothing they can do about it. Their men are freaky-deaky goons, out of control ass holes.

  Billy raises his eyebrows, looks at dirty blond, and seethes. “Last time, fer them.”

  The girls shrug their shoulders in defeat, telling Billy in their posture:

  What we gonna do, their idiots.?

  “WHACK.”

  Billy attention is jerked back from more thinkin’ from a pool cut smashing against the slate.

  At the bar, the girl friends see the writing on the wall and it is not from ink, but blood. They grab their change, and get their jean butts out the front door fast as they can.

  “HEY, NOT TANIGHT...I TOL YA...SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Blily screams.

  The final countdown is almost at 5.

  Outlaws, delusional, fergettin’ where they was and being the mistake prone kinda fellas they are give the finger to Billy and strut

  4-3-2...

  The oil men, mindin’ their own bidness nudge each other as the Juke Box, now playing an Executioners song of Johnny Cash’s I walk the line is humming as the bikers continue their own short walk line of denial.

  Another finger, another lined up pool shot, more leers, laughs and howls. Billy snorts his anger back into his lungs, extends his hand to Sue, who layers it with the halved, big ended pool stick. Art the cook, laying plates under the infra red, asks Billy. “Ya need somethin’ Billy?”

  Billy waves him off, grins, mumbles. “Naw Art, not fer them type.”

  Over the bar counter he goes, patting the pool cue in his meat hand.

  Like a shark, breathing blood, Billy walks over to the future organ transplant donors and hesitates before them. Like a Great White, eying some walruses, fearing nothing on earth, Billy takes a moment, just to breath in the wonderful moment, just before he feeds.

  Of course the bikers ring all the bells, seem formidable, ominous, thump boots, filthy leather, chains hangin’ outta t
heir back pockets, tattoos, long grease hair, beards, but not really. Billy knowed that. In truth, they was just mean, stupid, violent men, like the kind ya see on Cop,s with the original oracle of pain bein’ the tall kid with muscles stacked on muscles patting his palm with a pool stick of gruesome truth.

  Looking up from the cue, one of the guys mouths off, saying something real cute. “What the fuck da you want, asshole?”

  ZERO HOUR.

  Billy rears back, viciously swings, the cue catches the man’s teeth.

  “BAM.”

  Blowout as his teeth explode with blood onto the pool table, as Billy smiles, he says. “I TOL YA...”

  The man, groaning, jack knifes on the felt “TA SHUT.”

  He looks up, as Billy detonates the cue handle across his forehead, splitting a deep gash into it as he the biker flops, undulating on the felt. Billy, homicidal glee on his face, racks the wood down on the back of his head.

  “CRACK.”

  The cue explodes; the man goes out.

  “THE FUCK.”

  Another cue shot, along the jaw, shattering it, blood everywhere, teeth, part’s of his face on the floor and felt.

  “UP.”

  The biker crumbles to the floor, his pal gawking at Billy.

  Oil men, Sue amazed, awed, Billy is a threshing machine as he turns his wrath on the gawking partner of his ripped up pal. He goes to say somthin’, does not have a time to apologize.

  “WHACK, THUMP, vicious CRACKS.” From Billy’s wrath.

  Pool cue quickly, free swinging, efficiently, viciously, bloodily breaks the man’s nose, blood spurts.

  “CRACK.”

  Detonation in the head, sounds like a gun shot.

  Two more, Billy’s heavy boots, three more, face, ribs, the biker goes down in a splash of broken bone and blood. Sue watchin, knowing her guy is going to be in a fine mood later after gettin’ rid of the nasty adrenaline and all and knowing what follows she swoons just watching, so proud of her man.

  Billy leans in, grabs the collar of a leather vest, leans in, and whispers to a bloody face, “Ya fucked up Bob Ray. Ya woke the sleeping giant.”

  Taking special aim, Billy smashes his front teeth out, a moan and more blood on the sawdust floors

  Billy smiles, says. “Never wake the fucking sleeping giant.”

  Giggling, he grabs both men by their pony tails, drags them to the exit, out the door, leaving a blood trail behind him

  The order of the Cox Universe now has been reinstalled to a proper way.

  The New Girl

  “FLOP.”

  The bikers fall into the dust. No hesitation, Billy chomps them in the ribs with his boot toe.

  “WHOOSH.” Groans and air gush out of their lips.

  Next to their two tricked out Choppers, the girls are lingering, pure, simple fear in their eyes. One of the men, tries to rise, is put down by a stomp from a boot. Groans, Billy grinds his heel into the back of hand and never taking his eyes off of the girls.

  Feeling better by the minute, Billy smiles at the girls.

  “Get the trash outta here Earlene, before I treat them bad, not nice like I done before.”

  The girl winces, Billy’s stare, turns, looks off to the road, where ole Jesse Ferguson’s tower, pulling a rag top old Cadillac is just settling in the dust.

  Out the door, Billy smiles, fer a tall, gorgeous blond, black jeans, sleeveless T, boots on her feet, real lean gal is handing Jesse some money. Billy watches as Jesse unhinges the De Ville, shakes the gals hand, U-turns and, then speeds down the highway.

  TURNING her face, Mandal looks at the compound, groans as she watches as two hard biker girls struggle to get some bloodied outlaws on to the back of two choppers, while, some tall sexy young cowboy just stares at her. Cowboy, tall, has a shock of black hair, lean hips, a pool cue in his hand, watching as the girl’s load the men on the bikes, kicks start the engines and, then inch away.

  Mandal, lights a cigarette, watches as the girls driving, bloodied men hanging on the back, pass. She gasps, the men appear to by almost dead. She understands instantly what has gone down, groans as her eyes sweep around the shit box of a slum. The long stud at the door, staring at her, smiling at her, she can see blood on the cue, on his hands,

  Oh well, she thinks, what else is fucking new?

  Inhaling, she lets her eyes run past eight, what appear to be rundown motel units tacked behind a bar/diner and next to them is a automobile Quonset Hut, rayon light, small wiry, filthy guy bumping around inside of it. Her eyes perk as she sees two black horses some fifty meters behind the hovels, barns and corrals.

  At least they have horses, she suspects.

  Then, from the garage, the skinny dirt bag guy walks, wiping grease from his paws with a red rag. He’s gawking too; lots a gawking going on.

  Her computer susse’s everything out, whizzes away; a plan is set.

  Understanding sweet, nice is always better as she morphs; a chess player looking ten moves ahead.

  Gathering pawns around her, she smiles at the mechanic. He grins, through stained teeth, wipes grease encrusted hair from his smudged face. In chess, which is war, it is better to have the soldiers ready to die for the Queen than hostile enemy’s amassing to kill her. This she knows.

  She drops her cigarette to the ground, a boot heel killing it and a good looking cowboy smiling, lingering and grinning at he, tahts what she sees as she groans.

  She smiles, leans in the Caddy, a Queen, already gathering pawns to her defense. Mind racing, she wonders where the white knight is hiding and if he will protect her.

  In the glove, 38, in the tummy pack, 10 G’s too, knife in her boot, grabs the valise, 700 hard still inside the valise, that’s good. At the back seat, ZIP, 44, shoulder holster, pipes, gun powder, fuses in the valise, she is ready.

  In the Wal Mart bags, CD’s, clean clothes, in the valise they go. Deciding she can retrieve her other stuff later, Mandal wonders what she has missed, turns, lanky gal as she begins to stroll towards the grinning cowboy.

  INSIDE THE bar, Sue, from behind the bar, monitoring Billy, always, peers though the front window. She sees the blond, knows her man and starts to move. No math teachers in Infernos Flats. She knowed competition when she sees it. As she moves, her retro rocket temper hits red line, a bit quicker than usual.

  Out the door, a hand around Billy waist, slapped away. Sue’s eyes watching the blond slink move, she asks. “Who’s the bitch?”

  Billy, mesmerized by the sexiest girl he has ever seen, says. “Don know baby, car broke down, car troubles I guess.”

  Completely ignoring her, he screams back at the cafe.

  “MA....MA...WE GOT A GUEST AT THE MOTEL.”

  Sue, pure menace in her eyes leers at the blonde.

  Though Billy is the head rooster, he still likes harmony, especially when Sue is involved. No knife cutting off his balls when he’s asleep. Not fer him. He likes the fit he and Sue is, simply said, he likes her around, she is good ole gal. He feels his dick though, getting hard just watching the blond string walk towards him.

  Motel sign, neon blinking, vacancy sign lit. Mava screams something. Billy moans, allows Sue to guide him inside, back to the bar. Arvan ogles, grins, ear to ear from the motor repair sheds. Mandal smiles, passes him as Arvan deals with his own hard on.

  Mandal, bare arms ripped, heavy valise, has a thousand different scenarios pushing through her head. Billy, behind the bar, staring out the window, a beer in his hand, Sue scowling, Billy screams.

  “MA...THE MOTEL MA.”

  From the cafe Mava’s voice booms. “ALL RIGHT...I HEAR YA...KEEP YER PANTS ON.”

  Sue, love struck, touches his cheek, eyes riveted out the window at the sexiest gal she herself has ever seen, until she passes by, towards the Motels
office.

  PRESSED against the chopping block, Mava has Art pinned, playing with his chest hairs, oohing, aahing, baby talking at her big ole hunk of man. Arts meat claws are racked to Mava’s ancient butt, pecking her lips with kisses.

  “MA...THE MOTEL.” Billy again.

  Mava groans, raises her eyebrows, kisses Art wet and, then whispers seductively “Tanight, ya sweet thing.”

  Art blushes, Mava goes ta say something....

  “MA! SHE’S WAITIN’ MA!”

  Mava snaps, whips around, screams. “ALL RIGHT...ALL RIGHT...I’M COMIN’.”

  Havin’ Art cutin’ Billy throat is lookin’ better by the minute.

  Mava winks, the Romeo of fast order cooks winks back. Mava turns and walks out the back door.

  Art whacks a chicken head, one more chicken ready for the pot.

  A Soldiers Dreams

  HORSES can be skittish, powerful and unpredictable at the best of times.

  The stallions, coats shimmering from the moon beams pallor, seem nervous, heads hung over the fence. Up, down, snorts, paws digging, curiosity filling them as they spy the strange women walking over to the motel.

  Behind them lurking in the dark is their master, watching, just as curious as the horses are. From the night in the barn an arm, wearing cotton, black, long sleeves, black gloves reaches out, touches the horses as the three of them watch the woman with white hair.

  “Settle my boys...settle now.” He whispers.

  His words calm them; still tails are swishing, as then the blond spindle stops and stares directly at them.

  The girl cannot see him, he knows this. Yet he feels power, something raw, even fear from her hollow sea colored eyes as well as recognition of what she is eerily and what she might become passes through his brain.

  He often sees between the clefts of life, observes a nuance of fate or of beauty, mostly in visions, usually within words before the act of death arrives. He stares at her as if a man dying of thirst, knowing that near, in her is an oasis saturated with water. Nothing makes sense to him any longer. Pain comes from every direction of his life, yet he dreams, is mesmerized as the girl moves past towards the Motel’s room.