THUGLIT Issue Nineteen

by Mike Miner

  THUGLIT

  Issue Nineteen

  Edited by Todd Robinson

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in the works are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  THUGLIT: Issue Nineteen

  ISBN-13: 978-1517136222

  ISBN-10: 1517136229

  Stories by the authors: ©Mike Miner, ©Thomas Pluck, ©Brandon Patterson, ©Eryk Pruitt, ©Don LaPlant, ©Nikki Dolson, ©J. David Jaggers, ©Adam Howe

  Published by THUGLIT Publishing.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the Author(s).

  Table of Contents

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  Clean-Up on Aisle 3 by Adam Howe

  The Last Time We Saw Bears in Lake Castor

  by Eryk Pruitt

  The Stroke of Midnight by J. David Jaggers

  Momma's Boy by Mike Miner

  The Last Detail by Thomas Pluck

  Our Man Julian by Nikki Dolson

  Bruin by Brandon Patterson

  Animal Control by Don LaPlant

  Author Bios

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  It's sing-along time, Thugleteers!

  HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THUGLIT!!!

  HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THUGLIT!!!

  HAAAAPPY BIIIIIRTHDAY TOO THUGLIT!!!

  HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TO UUUUUS!!!

  Know what this issue is, Thugleteers?

  This issue marks the TENTH ANNIVERSARY of your favorite magazine and mine. If you just said Swank, I can respect the answer, but please punch yourself in the face and leave the room. I'll give the rest of you a moment to get the squeeeeeees out of your system.

  Ten years, kittens…ignoring the fact that we took 2010-12 off. Which we are ignoring. And so should you, for the sake of this intro…

  It was waaaay back in 2005 when a little Big Daddy Thug—the poor son of even poorer Massachusetts clam harvesters—had a dream. It was a dream that he, a man with absolutely NO editorial experience, could produce a magazine of the best damn crime fiction on the planet. But all he had was that dream…and the internet.

  (Music swells)

  So he tricked people into thinking that he knew what the fuck he was talking about and thus started a decade-long run of some of the most award-winning fiction that the genre has ever seen!

  Or in the words of his grandfather, Old Grampa N'er-do-well, "Get me another beer, you little toesucker."

  Inspiring…inspiring… (wipes away tear).

  So it is here that I have to thank all of the writers that have made this magazine so great. And YOU, the dozen or so readers we have left after we decided to charge under two bucks for the fucking thing.

  Cheers, you sick fucks.

  IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:

  This job requires a real jerk.

  Thank you! Come again.

  Poor little rich girl.

  Git yer motor ruuuning…

  Yogi and Boom Boom.

  The face rings a bell…and robs a bank.

  Order up! Two bow-wows, chickens on a raft and MUUUURDER!

  Just say no to drugs. Maybe. But seriously, no… (maybe)

  SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!!

  Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug) 8/27/2015

  Clean-Up on Aisle 3

  by Adam Howe

  Donnie sat in his beat-to-shit Pinto with the heater on full, huddling for warmth beneath the driver's-side window that wouldn't quite shut. An icy wind whipped through the half-inch gap, numbing his hands as he checked the .38 Special. He shoved the piece in his coat pocket, and then stared across the street at the mini-mart, the neon KWIK STOP sign flashing red and blue in the night. It was the only store on the downtown strip still open this late. All the other stores had their shutters lowered, tagged with graffiti like tribal markings. Through the window he saw the scrawny Arab storekeeper perched behind the counter reading a magazine. Donnie hadn't seen any customers since he pulled up outside. The guy was alone in there. Just him and the cash register.

  Checking his reflection in the rearview, Donnie gave a pained sigh. He looked and felt like stepped-on shit, sick with whatever bug was going around. Last thing he needed was to be pulling a job. But he was already late on this week's vig. He didn't pay what he owed and the flu would be the least of his problems.

  He reached across the car to pop the glove compartment, fished out his lucky ski mask. Black wool, trimmed with red around the eyes and mouth. Dusting off the mask, he yanked it down over his head and then rolled it back up in a beanie hat. Donnie honked his nose into a snot rag, stuffed the hanky in his pocket with the piece, pumped himself up with a few wheezy breaths, and then he clambered from the Pinto and started crossing the street to the KWIK STOP.

  The bell above the door tinkled as he entered. The cramped little store was divided into three narrow aisles, the shelves stockpiled like a doomsday prepper's bunker. Loud ethnic music was playing: trumpets and drums and off-key warbling like a cat being castrated. The storekeeper glanced up from his magazine. Leathery olive skin and a gray goatee beard, his bald pate polished to a gleaming shine. He wore a white collarless shirt and a ratty old cardigan. The guy reminded Donnie of the limey actor who went blackface to play Gandhi.

  On the counter beside him, a No Checks, No Credit sign was taped to the back of the register. Donnie cut a glance at the security camera above the cigarette rack—the very latest model…from the 90s. If the damn thing even worked, the playback would be a blizzard of static. It looked like it was just for show, to scare off amateurs.

  Not taking any chances, Donnie bowed his head and shielded his mug from the camera's gaze as he sloped to the beer cooler opposite the counter. At the front of the store was a discount DVD bin and a half-price arsenal of fireworks for New Year's, the boxes all stacked in a pyramid like one giant rocket.

  Donnie glanced down the three aisles for customers or other employees. He didn't see anyone. Just a lonely-looking mop and bucket in Aisle 2. The storekeeper was clearly no neat freak; the shelves were dusty, the goods caked in grime. The place could've used a good airing. It reeked worse than Donnie's fleapit apartment, and that was smelling something. At the back of the store was the liquor display, a few ragged cobwebs clinging to the bottles, and a steel door marked STAFF ONLY. Donnie couldn't hear anything behind the door, but it was hard to tell over the blaring music. Maybe the storekeeper lived back there with his wife and their litter of kids? The hell with it. He'd be gone before anyone even knew it.

  With his back to the storekeeper, Donnie tugged his lucky ski mask down over his face and then reeled towards the counter, whipping the .38 from his pocket.

  "Okay, asshole!" he shouted above the music. "You know what this is!"

  The storekeeper glanced up from his magazine as if Donnie had only asked him to price-check an item. Seeing the revolver in Donnie's fist, the man's dark eyes narrowed. He rose slowly from his stool, raising his hands. Unlike Donnie's they were steady as a rock. The guy looked so calm, Donnie wondered if he even spoke English.

  Then he said, with a heavy accent: "Oh yes, my friend, I know what this is."

  "Just open the register and gimme the money, you won't get hurt."

  The storekeeper gave a curt nod, well-versed in armed rob
bery etiquette.

  Lowering one hand, he reached slowly towards the cash register and pressed a button—

  And suddenly he wasn't there.

  Donnie blinked in surprise.

  The fucking guy just disappeared.

  Peering over the counter, Donnie saw a trapdoor—the door still swinging where the storekeeper had dropped down into the basement onto a mattress. Splayed out on his back, the man glared up at Donnie with a hateful grin. Then he slashed a finger across his throat, before rolling off the mattress and out of sight.

  "The fuck?" Donnie muttered—

  And then steel shutters crashed down over the front door and window. The power went out, the store went black, and the music and even the hum of the refrigerators shut off, entombing the place in sudden silence.

  It took a moment for Donnie's eyes to adjust to the gloom. He rolled his ski mask back up into a beanie. Stood gaping at the shutters in disbelief.

  He'd never seen shutters inside a store before. He banged his fist against the shutters—thick steel, like the treads of a tank. Donnie lashed out with his boot until his knee buckled, and he hobbled back in pain. Feeling his skin crawl, Donnie glanced up at the winking red eye of the security camera above the cigarette rack, shuddering as he pictured the storekeeper silently watching him.

  He scurried behind the counter, ignoring the register, the cash now forgotten. Careful not to fall through the open trap, Donnie searched beneath the counter for a button or something to raise the shutters. What the hell had the storekeeper pressed to drop the trapdoor? Donnie couldn't even find a panic button. And now that he thought of it, why wasn't any alarm sounding?

  Crouching warily above the open trap, he peered down into the dingy basement. All he could see was the mattress where the storekeeper had landed. "Hey!" Donnie shouted down, panic in his voice. "Open these fucking shutters!"

  He could hear the storekeeper cursing in Arabic. The guy sounded pissed, like this wasn't the first time his store had been held up, but by Allah, it would be the last. Then came the unmistakable shick-shuck of a pump shotgun being racked. Donnie darted back from the open trap.

  That's why there wasn't any alarm.

  The guy planned to take care of business himself.

  Donnie looked despairingly at his .38. He never worked with a loaded gun. If the threat of being shot wasn't enough, then the job wasn't worth it. Better to walk away, find some other place to stick up. Ideally with an owner who had enough sense to do what they were told when you stuck a gun in their face.

  Until now, he'd thought he was being smart.

  Shoving the useless fucking gun back in his coat, Donnie scuttled down the aisles towards the STAFF ONLY door at the back of the store. If it was locked, he was screwed. He'd have to take his licks and beg the storekeeper not to kill him. He was almost at the door when he heard the jangle of keys on the other side.

  Donnie dove into Aisle 1 and crouched low behind the shelves, cloaking himself in the shadows as the door clattered open. The storekeeper emerged from the back room, clutching a shotgun bigger than he was. He paused to yank the door shut behind him, locking it from a key hoop clipped to his belt.

  There was something funny-looking about him. In the gloom, it was hard to tell exactly what. Then the storekeeper turned his head, and Donnie thought he'd lost his mind. A giant frog was sweeping the shotgun left to right across the aisles. Donnie tried to blink away the nightmare. Then he realized the storekeeper was wearing some kind of mask. No… Not a mask. Night-vision goggles, the lenses protruding from his head like bulbous amphibian eyes.

  Tiny jewels of sweat glittered on the Arab's scalp. He began to sidestep slowly along the end of the aisles, his cheap leather shoes squeaking as he crabbed along—the shotgun steady in his hands as he moved methodically towards Aisle 1—towards Donnie, crouching in the shadows.

  Panicking, Donnie snatched a jar of coffee from the shelf in front of him, and then lobbed it over the aisles like a grenade. Glass shattered as it exploded on the far side of the store. The storekeeper pivoted with a squeal of his squeaky shoes. The shotgun roared, the blast punching a hole through the aisles and scattering stock, the deafening noise drowning out Donnie's scream.

  This guy wasn't fucking around. He wasn't going to rough him up or make a citizen's arrest. Donnie wasn't talking his way out of this shit. There'd been no hesitation as the storekeeper turned and fired. That blast was intended to cut him in half. The man meant to kill him.

  This should've been a quick dollar stickup. Donnie wasn't going to play cat-and-mouse with a shotgun-toting maniac. Let the cops deal with the crazy bastard. He'd take the arrest if it meant he left the KWIK STOP alive.

  He dug in his coat for his cellphone. No signal bars on the display. He waved the phone about frantically, searching for a signal. Had the shutters caused some kind of blackout? He raised the phone towards the ceiling. A single signal bar flickered weakly. He listened out for the storekeeper. On the far side of the store, he heard Arabic cursing as the man found the shattered coffee jar and realized he'd been duped. The storekeeper racked the shotgun and started back along the aisles, his shoes squeaking urgently.

  Donnie monkeyed up the shelves in front of him. The flimsy wooden shelving sagged beneath his weight. His ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast. He could only hope that the storekeeper had also been deafened; that the guy didn't hear him as Donnie slid on top of the shelving unit, disturbing a thick layer of dust that swirled around him in a cloud that prickled his fluey nose.

  The storekeeper sprang into the aisle directly below him. When he saw the aisle was empty, the Arab muttered a curse, lowering the shotgun, and then adjusted the sweaty strap of his night-goggles. He was breathing hard. Maybe even excited. Enjoying the thrill of the hunt. He started stalking down the aisle towards the front of the store.

  Flattened on top of the shelving unit, Donnie didn't dare move, holding his breath and fighting an almost overwhelming urge to sneeze. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the storekeeper crept along the aisle below him. The man left his line of sight, but Donnie was still able to track him by his squeaky shoe.

  He checked his cellphone again, and gave a silent prayer of thanks when he saw there were now two signal bars on the display. But before he could dial 911, he inhaled another thick cloud of dust that set his nose ablaze—

  The sneeze echoed through the store like a karate cry.

  The Arab turned and fired without hesitation, the shotgun belching fire.

  Donnie sprang from the shelving unit, shredded cereal boxes exploding behind him, a shower of Kellogg's raining over the store. Slamming into the next shelving unit, he crashed down into Aisle 2, landing heavily on his back next to the mop-bucket, his cellphone shattering on the floor beside him.

  The storekeeper racked his shotgun and charged up the aisle towards him. Woofing for breath, Donnie could only flail his legs, kicking over the bucket. Sludgy gray water spewed across the floor. The storekeeper slid on the muck like an Arabic Chevy Chase. He thudded to the floor and fired another deafening blast, plaster raining down from the ceiling.

  Before the man could recover, Donnie scrambled to the nearest shelving unit. He slithered across the bottom shelf, clawing through a crinkling wall of potato chip bags, emerging into Aisle 3. Bracing himself against a deep-freeze refrigerator chest, he hauled himself up onto rubbery legs, sucking for breath.

  Through the gaps in the shelves, he could see the storekeeper in the center aisle, wobbling to his feet like a prizefighter trying to beat the ref's count.

  Racking the shotgun with a grunt, the Arab began limping around the aisle after Donnie, careful not to slip on the slick floor, one hand clutching at the shelves for balance.

  Donnie was still slumped against the deep-freeze, trying to catch his breath. The small of his back was screaming with pain where he'd landed on it. His legs could barely support him, let alone carry him away. Before the storekeeper rounded the aisles and spotted h
im, Donnie hauled up the lid of the deep-freeze.

  Hardly thinking about what he was doing, he slid inside the chest and buried himself among the frozen food packages. As he cowered inside the icy coffin, peering up in terror through the frosted glass, listening to the storekeeper's shoes squeak closer, it occurred to Donnie that as far as dumb fucking ideas went, this was right up there alongside robbing a store with an unloaded gun.

  The storekeeper paused next to the deep-freeze. Wheezing for breath, he steadied himself against the refrigerator chest. Donnie stifled a scream as a hand thudded down on the glass lid. For a moment it seemed like the man was staring right down at him. Then he dragged his hand from the glass to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Frowning, the Arab glanced back down the aisle, maybe fearing his prey had circled behind him. Then he moved on to the back of the store.

  Donnie waited until he heard the distant jangle of keys as the storekeeper checked whether the STAFF ONLY door was locked. Then he palmed up the glass door of the deep-freeze and eased himself out, crouching down beside the refrigerator and listening intently. It sounded like the guy was doing another lap of the store.

  This time, Donnie would be waiting for the crazy fuck.

  He scuttled to the liquor display at the back of the store. Forced to squint in the gloom, Donnie scanned the shelves for firewater, saw a picture of Speedy Gonzales on a dusty label, and grabbed the bottle of Arriba 100-proof tequila.

  Nodding to himself, he crouched behind the Aisle 2 end-shelf, and then peeked around the corner, waiting for the storekeeper to appear at the front of the store. He unscrewed the bottle cap, wincing at the screech of twisting metal. But the storekeeper didn't seem to hear. Donnie listened to the guy's shoes squeaking as he continued his patrol of the store. Donnie necked a big swig from the bottle for courage. He shuddered as the tequila burned through him. Snatching his snot rag from his pocket, he began stuffing it into the bottleneck until only a little cloth tongue poked out. Then he pulled his Zippo lighter from his pocket and thumbed the wheel. Click!