The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

  Mava hands the plastic bag to her friend.

  Mandal, zip, pulls a wad of money out. Mava, hand on her wrist.

  “No need, Ya jest keep yer money darlin’, right kinda a ya caring fer that pup and all.”

  Raw emotion racks the ex whore, genuine, real feelings, love fest, mind grinding, lies to the old lady, to herself. She can barely stand herself any longer.

  “Thanks Mava. Have to talk to your son...See you later.”

  Mava smiles, watches as the slinky moves to and out the door. Outside, Mandal slumps against the wall trying to remember if she is the nice girl Mava perceives her to be, she would like to be, but will never be as she wonders.

  “Nice girls KILL too, don’t they?”

  Okay, her mind chirps, as she fumbles for a smoke, lights it, inhales, exhales to calm her black mind.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  Whispers, through her trembling lips, fear of herself flashing through her body as if an oil rig fire has run amok.

  “Okay, you’ve done some bad things, but you’re trying to be better now.”

  She cheats a peek-aboo at Arvan.

  Maybe she should postpone the better new girl, just until she fucks up Arvans mind, ten ways to Sunday.

  Decision, postpone being that new, better person, just a bit.

  Off the porch, she begins again.

  Who am I this time?

  Maybeshe should morph into a seductress, needy, maybe a broken and scared little girl or a dolphin trainer. Just anything will not do for it has to be air tight she thinks as she strolls towards her next hapless mark.

  AT THE garage, she stalls, not wanting to disrupt the little bare chested guy because he’s doing what she asked, digging around the motor of her Cadillac.

  Parked on an off shoot of the hut is a supped up 62 Chevrolet pick-up truck. The truck looks like a heap. She scrutinizes the engine, a real power plant, which contrary to the chassis, is filled with motor head toys. Chrome manifolds, headers, carburetor covers, red painted block, engine is glistening like a chrome, polished steel Christmas tree reflecting artistry back at her.

  She stands quiet, watching Arvan mumbling away. She’s wondering if there is another little guy under the hood. About to give his pony tail a yank, he feels her presence, turns, grins, straightens, grins and wipes Copenhagen chaw drooling down his chin. She can sees his muscles ripping on his forearms.

  “Betty, I was jest thinkin’ bout ya’.”

  Likes he’s a member of the Rap label DEATH ROWS play list, he grabs his crotch, hunches his shoulders like the gunned down Biggie Smalls. He gets ghetto, cool, flashes her a gang sign, bangs his fist to his heart, jukes a little grinning like a fool at her.

  No reply to his cleaver response. She wants to howl for the last thing she’s seen within a thousand klicks of Inferno Flats is any black gangster rapper wanabees.

  Of course, all information, angles, moods of her mark, body language, whip through her skull like The Enterprise just finding Warp speed.

  She fights laughing, for even Carson Daily’s gig on MTV, on 5th Ave, has found a hillbillies brain, two thousand miles away. The power, she thinks, of TV.

  Deciding to Play Him, Danger Will Robinson she turns to the pick-up, compliment his manhood with her sucking in eyes, his talent, the size of his dick, seems like the right way to go.

  “Pretty mean machine, in that pick-up. What’a ya got inside there?

  Perfect move, he beams. He is madly, deeply, incandescently in love with her. Jane Austin once said something like that.

  She’s not surprised by the way he looks at her. No man has escaped her when first caught with in the silk, poisonous spider web she unspools

  “Come on, Betty, I’ll show, ya.”

  Tobacco drool, chin whiskers and the back of the hand as he turns and moves with her to the open hood of the Chevrolet.

  “475 Chevy V-8. Dual Philips, 312 Carbs. Double overhead, New System Cams, all pushin’ through a couple’a Petty Magnesium lifters. Injected fuel a course. What a ya think?”

  Knowing more about motors, then she does at being a moralistic human being, she genuinely shows appreciation at what she is seeing. For if no other reason, the pure artistry of Arvans talent is stunning. She suddenly realizes that there’s more than one Cox brother roaming the desert with talent.

  The little guy in her mind, is savant Wrench Head.

  He will be easy, in the con, yet, her brain cannot control it’s self, as she flicks a smoke, clicks the Zippo, smoke and flames, let him see those lips, want the rest connected to them, to buy time, evaluating the bare chest, body tattoos, tough and caring little man.

  Geniuses like her come in shift shappers of form, often unrecognizable.

  The man in the filthy jeans is living proof of that.

  Thoughts, perhaps she might spare him his life, if rock meets knuckle and the planets align.

  NOPE.

  If shit hits the blade, no, life goes to the smartest, the cunning, the lethal, she knows that.

  “Hey Betty, How bout one a them, Marlboro’s?”

  Tipping the pack, smiles, more lips, smoke and lie’s plume from her lips.

  “Sure handsome, here ya go.”

  Flip, airborne, lighter flying through the air, swoop, lands in Arvans hand, a smile, some brown juice spilling in to his chin whiskers.

  “Man, Arvan.” Every word a smokey, lying and seductive pearl.

  “That is impressive, beautiful; you really know your stuff. All that engine...in THAT.”

  Rapper Arvan, grabs his balls, grins, goes DEF JAM.

  “Ain’t what’s on the outside that count’s.”

  More ball squeezing.

  “What matters is what a man got’s inside a him, that count’s.”

  Internally she sighs, for he is actually poignant in his reply. Maybe the mad man in the barn spared some DNA for him. She doesn’t know.

  Lighter toss, she catches it, smiles, likes him a little bit, to bad, makes her feel weird, feel bad as he has made her suddenly care.

  Realign the grift girl, retread the tire and don’t get soppy now. A smile usually works, so she does.

  No doubt, Cox clan, all nutso like walnuts, a moment passes. Maybe she will mercy fuck the little guy like she had done with Mario D’Angelo before she murdered him.

  A thousand black boards, years of deep thinkin’, still Arvan would have had no clue just what was standing before him looking like some skinny school girl princess.

  Arvan, sees what he sees as Mandal giggles to herself thinking what the man said after his wife caught him in bed with another woman.

  “What! You going to believe me or you’re fucking lying eyes?”

  She is that lie, Arvan only seeing what she wants him to see.

  “It’s beautiful Arvan. You’re very talented. Awesome man.” A little nudge now.

  “My car couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Around the carrousel, stopping it exactly where she has planned, just right so Arvan can see the shiny brass ring. It’s just a glint, a hint that he might get a taste of her silve cunt if he plays his cards right.

  “Thanks’ Betty, that ole pick-up will do a hundred and ten.”

  No change of topic was granted, nor given permission for, she will change that.

  She morphs, vulnerable, body language changes, focusing her baby blues. Tazers shooting those little fuck wires out, barbs, stabbing him in his fucking heart. More trembles, lips parted, swallowing, afraid, needy, what else is she missing?

  Shirley Temple with a 38 in her fanny pack and a knife in her boot, sunshine exuding out of her cunt, 44 under the pillow, perhaps wrecking havoc on these people life. She could care shit boot less.

  “Ya Okay, Betty?”


  She is a masterpiece of demonic creation, cruelty, self absorbed mind paints, a gulp, a smoke, shaking fingers, lips, lonely, tearing up and looking at him like he’s the last drop of semen on the earth.

  “My car, Arvan, my poor sick dad....How is she Arvan, my ole girl?”

  Broken hearted, Arvan is ready to cut his balls off with a soup spoon, if she asked. He takes her hand, feels it trembling, and says. “Betty, darlin’, don’t ya fret, good news fer ya, a little bad too.”

  Wrong answer.

  She knows to get what she wants she may have to fuck him. No big deal. It’s just the vig of doing business, single tear, lips trembling. How does she fucking do it? Then, buck up, brave girl, strong girl, her man, will help; that’s what she puts out, smiles.

  “Okay Mister Master Mechanic...Let me have it. I can take it.”

  Geeze, she’s a spunky girl.

  “Well Betty, water pump dead, Billy is gettin’ that at the Auto Zone. Fuel lines are bout plum worn out.”

  AND, come on Arvan, you can do it.

  “Need a new magneto, plugs, points condenser, got I’m here. A bit a love, other than that; she’s a fine old gal.”

  Sighing, inventory time, sounds like a lotta stuff, tears well up, quivering lips.

  “Betty, what’s wrong darlin?”

  “It’s just.” Sniffle, sniffle. It’s just, My father...He’s in the hospital...California...I...I don’t know how much longer...” Several tears travel down her lying face. “How much time he’s got...I was supposed to be there to...today.”

  Weeping ensues, blubbering from the BIZARRO WORLD she is creating.

  “It’s just so hard, being a girl, so all alone, if only I had a ma...”

  Toot, toot, she sniffles her pixie nose on her arm, mental check list next of what she’s needs to say.

  “Ya know, It ain’t easy fer a gal tacklin’ this big ole world all by her lonesome, Arvaaaan.”

  Set, match, point.

  STELLA, STELLA rings through the morning heat of her brain.

  Tennessee Williams woulda been proud of this distressed southern gal.

  Heroes come in every form.

  Arvan, tilting at windmills, steps to the plate, takes her hand, knowed one dude who can help the valiant sad girl with her life.

  Hands, melded in hands, honeymoons, engagement beer kegs fetes, two weeks at the Holiday Inn in Corpus Christi, fucking like lemmings.

  Arvan, almost weeping, says. “YA, listen Betty, Arvan he done understands. YA leave everthin’ ta me...I’ll have her runnin’ fer ya...There...There now...”

  Wondering how Angel is, she purrs.

  “Really. You’d do that fer me” How...How could I ever thank you...Arvaaaan. You are just so wonderful.”

  Sniffle, sniffle, girl on the grift, over kill, why the fuck not.

  “But when Arvan...When can ya fix her?”

  Not bothering to ask why she keeps talking like Reba McIntyre, he is about to talk about their honeymoon plans, when a wrench falls in his face.

  “ARVAN...ARVAN...Mava screams.

  He winces, eye ticks, he’s thinkin’, back and forth, Betty, Ma’s voice, Betty, knowing it’s a call he must answer.

  Conspiracy time, plan time, love time, dream girl time.

  “Listen, Betty, The Auto Zone, most likely got the pump. Billy’s, he’s checkin’ taday, maybe”...

  BAD WORD that, maybe.

  “Maybe tanight. Iffiin’ not, I’m goin’ ta Corpus Christie, me and Billy on bidness, soon.”

  Another bad word.

  “Fer bidness. Might take a day or two.”

  More bad words.

  Raises eyebrows, gets close, conspiracy in his voice.

  “But I promise ya, I’ll get her runnin’ fer ya, da ya trust me Betty? Maybe after, we can knowed each other a bit better. What a ya think? I sure do thing ya sweet...maybe, we...”

  “Oh Arvan, I’m so scared, you know, I’m not that young any more...Maybe, ahh...you...me...California” she guffaws...

  “Well I’m not that young you know...A girl can dream, can’t she?”

  OLD?

  She looks like fucking Miss Teenage America in his mind.

  Three days, she thinks.

  Might as well slit my fucking wrists, get it over with.

  She begins to weep.

  Big Jim’s

  YORK PA, Bobby Ugo, had papered hands with C-notes, ended up at “BIG JIM’S WESTERN WEAR.”

  Dim Dim, eating a candy bar, rest of the crew, chain smoking, black leather coats, lines of Lincoln’s along the street as Bobby stands outside, talking with the female clerk.

  Back and forth she goes, Mandals blouse, on her skin, hundred dollar bill in her mitt, she points down the street. Smiling, Bobby shakes her hand, turns to the gang of muscles, waves, telling them in doing so, “To follow the leader.”

  DICK, OVER at DICK’S QUALITY USED CAR’S is out on the lot, suffering an entire litany of woe’s, as a heard of Black Lincoln Town cars sidles up to the street curb. Nothing gets better, as a thin, well-dressed, sinister little man, with a KONG like creature lurking over his shoulder walks towards him.

  Wincing through his shades, he never imagined that Nude dancers, their cousins Lap Dancers could party so endlessly. Drugs, sex, the lengths of their depravity, epic, unbelievable, a herd of locust buzz sawing in his brain. In his cinder block mind, their total dedication to death, the girls, compares to one of those Female Hamas Suicide Bombers, on a Falafel delivery on the Gaza Strip, pulling the cord, vaporizing themselve’s as they did.

  Straightening his coat, he moans, as the small man, twitching mustache, thin lips, huge man, looking like Primo Carnera, ex pug Heavy Weight Champs bigger brother, blocking out the Sun, steps before him.

  He is about to go into his Styx, but the no nonsense, dripping ice cube questions from a Mr. Ugo freezes the bull shit right in his throat. The way the giant keeps eating candy bars, doesn’t help any thoughts of the shill either.

  Five minutes later, stuffing two-hundred dollars into his plaid pants, he has given up every teensy ennesy bit of info he has on the doll, the car, everything else he can think of. The mountain of total truth being, the goliath standing next to Mr. Ugo like a numb, land locked, Great White Shark. If Mr. Ugo would of asked he would of dug out of his frying head the temperature of Jupiter, the giant scared him so.

  Slam, bang, thank you mamm, the four black hearses hit the Interstate, cell phone in the hand, auto dial, click.

  “Hey, Ginger. Two Grams. That’s right Baby Doll. See ya, tonight.”

  Kill on the cell, phone goes dead. Dick, party animal supreme, moves back to the double wide ready to rock, roll.

  SMILING, down the highway, on the scent, cell in his ear, Tony on the line, lots a nice stuff, blow torch in the trunk, the bitch’s scent growing ever stronger.

  “Chaaaa, Ching.”

  He hates her, but does not discount her unique intelligence, thus nick naming her. The Whore Braniac.

  After the Mario D’Angelo hit, which surprised him, even impressing him, he knew he had to be patient, for she was going to fuck up one way or another. The bitch had murdered the poor sop with out even blinking one of her blue eyes. She was one smart whore, couldn’t wait until she was dead, so Tony’s world could get off a tilt, re-axis it’s self. There was no doubt in his mind that she was heading North, probably Mexico, Las Vegas maybe, probably California where her kinda twist flourished. Hollywood was filled with whores.

  General direction, South. Some cop had flagged her, computerized her and had framed her with a laser, like a sniper for Bobby, for Dim, for fucking Tony.

  Four crews fanning out South, squeezing the fan blades, next fucking stop Kentucky.

  He could
hardly fucking wait.

  A Bitchy Kitty Cat

  TO BEGIN WITH, Sue is in a bitch mood. All of those nasty feeling suddenly escalate as her prime source in the guise of the skinny, bitch blond enters the bar.

  Grinding her teeth, behind the bar, fondles on a half pool cue, she watches the slink walk over to the pay booth, peek at her, kinda smiles, sits, longs legs sticking out, boot heels on the saw dust. Sue, hate, jealousy, has to admit, the girl has not made any moves into her turf. She still hates her fucking guts, for who she is and what Sue is not.

  In the corner, four a Billy’s Biker Crew, nursing beers, hang over’s, nudge, juke, whisper about the blond in the phone booth, making Sue temper no better, her heat begin to rise. Like a lioness, predatory, Sue would have started pissing in the corners, staking out her turf, if she could.

  Arvan, Art, Mava chatting in the kitchen, Sue looks around the spotless place. The vampire in the barn, giving her the heebie-jeebies, she has to admit, does a great job cleaning the joint.

  Mandal, digging around her tummy packs, few quarters, lots a C-notes, not nearly enough to make her suicidal phone call. Mandal peeks at Sue, leers in return she telling Mandal with her buring eyes.

  Fucking Bitch, ya eye ball me I’ll eat yer fucking eyes out of yer head.

  Mandal sees it, tension in the dirt blond, looking like she is ready to crawl over the bar.

  “Get Some”, Mandal shutters, likes that idea.

  For a micro-moment, she day dreams, her specialty, her curse, she’s turned on by Billy gal wondering what it would be like to be her Billys Old Lady.

  Calm. Stay out of trouble, will you? She warns herself.

  Groans, not enough quarters, a Collect call out of the question. Standing, she strides over to the bar, gets into a submissive posture, showing the ultimate respect and, then says as she slathers a twenty on the bar.

  “Sue, right?”

  Lava, in Sue’s eyes, Mandal wonders. What if?

  “That’s right, Sue.” Elbows on the bar, snarls in her face, she spits out the words.

  “I got advice fer ya, Betty.” Pool cue, pokes in her chest, girl on girl crazy stuff.