Discount Noir

by Patricia Abbott

  Mike just smiled and hit the gas, looking off to the left at a filigree of empty trees against a dead sky pocked with crows. From a place he didn’t live anymore, he heard a scream.

  The Gimmick

  By Sandra Seamans

  “Son, you need to figure out how to make some money with all those words you’ve been cranking out of that computer. Your father and I love you dearly, but we’re getting damn tired of supporting this fool writing dream of yours. You’re thirty years old; it’s time you got yourself a job and a place of your own.”

  “But Ma, all I need is the perfect gimmick and my books will sell like hotcakes.”

  “Cold cakes would work for us if you could make a buck or two. If you need a gimmick that bad, why don’t you go to Megamart?”

  “Megamart?”

  “Yeah, they sell nearly everything a person could ever need or want. I’m sure you’ll find the perfect gimmick for your book in one of those aisles. Maybe fill out a job application while you’re there?”

  “Can I borrow the car?”

  “Sure, just remember to fill out an application while you’re shopping for your gimmick.”

  The giant double doors whished open, and Bubba O’Malley knew he’d hit the mother lode of story ideas. They were everywhere; all he had to do was start taking notes. Pen in hand, he walked up and down the aisles scribbling furiously.

  1. Zombies—Scantily clad mountains of flesh staggering through Megamart, grabbing totally freaked-out customers, crushing their skulls and slurping down gray matter like DQ Blizzards.

  2. Serial Killer—Eighty-year-old woman cruising Megamart stores across the country. She uses a hidden blade in her cane to stab her victims after knocking them to the ground with her scooter cart. Police are totally baffled until Candy Dancer, a sex-addicted FBI agent, swoops in and takes over the case.

  3. Sniper—Disgruntled customer wearing sniper camouflage gear hides out in the display racks of the Sporting Goods department, picking off smiling Megamart Greeters.

  4. Clowns—Killer clowns take the local Megamart hostage, terrorizing customers and employees with rabid balloon animals.

  5. Possible nonfiction—The Hos of Megamart. How to pick up johns in the Pet department wearing furry knee-hi boots.

  Satisfied with his list of possibilities, Bubba slid the notebook into his pocket. Thousands of ideas raced through his mind, but since his mother had been right about finding a gimmick at Megamart, he decided to fill out a job application. It was the least he could do. Besides, it might get her off his back about getting a job.

  With visions of book deals dancing before his eyes, he turned into the condiment aisle, pulling up short at the sight of blood spilled across the floor. His nose twitched as the smell of Bar-B-Que sauce assaulted his nostrils. It wasn’t blood. “Vampire cleanup on aisle 13,” he muttered, yanking out his notebook.

  “What’d you say?”

  Bubba’s eyes lifted from the mess on the floor, drifting up and up and up. The man was all of seven feet tall, bib overalls hanging loose on his scrawny frame. Religious icons warred with demon tats up the length of his arms. Silver bullets and crosses dangled from one ear while skulls and daggers dangled from the other. A set of silver vampire fangs hung from a chain around his neck. But the crowning effect was the “Git ’er Done” hat resting on his electric blue mullet.

  “You’d best quit staring at me, boy, or I’ll mop the floor with your fat ass, pop you on a spit, and eat you for dinner.”

  Bubba was still running when he crashed through the front door of his parents’ house, headed for his computer.

  “Hey,” his mother shouted up the stairs behind him. “Did you fill out a job application while you were at Megamart?”

  “Didn’t need to, I got something better.”

  “What’s better than a job?”

  “A gimmick. I’ve got the gimmick for my new book. A redneck vampire hunter. He’s going to turn those Twilight pretty boys into werewolf bait. It’s sure to be the next best seller.”

  With a sigh, his mother headed back to the kitchen. “Damn, ain’t there nothing that store don’t sell?”

  The Hideous Lime Green Truth

  By Albert Tucher

  “Nice to, uh, see you again.”

  Concentrate, Mary Alice thought.

  She prided herself on never flinching or freaking unless the client wanted those reactions.

  “You too,” said the client.

  She recognized his voice, but nothing else remained of the man she remembered. He had gained a huge amount of weight, but that was only the beginning. A white-blond bouffant wig concealed whatever remained of his hair. On his feet he wore strappy white sandals with four-inch heels. But the real shocker was the hideous lime green spandex dress that he wore over nothing but his lumpy glory. He had covered his beard with heavy makeup.

  At least he had shaved his legs.

  Mary Alice couldn’t remember where, but she had seen his ensemble somewhere.

  “You’ve made some changes,” she said.

  “You like?”

  “Um….”

  “The Internet is a wonderful thing. I didn’t know the real me until I saw it.”

  He pulled the dress up over his waist and sat on the edge of the bed. When he spread his legs, a lesser woman would have screamed.

  “You remember what turns me on?”

  “Sure.”

  That was why she had dressed in a trim corporate skirt, severe white blouse, stockings, and heels.

  She got down on her knees. From that angle she could see how his new contours draped themselves over his arousal and hid it from anyone who might care to look.

  That was a pretty big “might.”

  Come on, Mary Alice told herself. You’ve seen worse.

  As she leaned forward and went to work, his rolls of fat enveloped her. A stray thought about crawling back into the womb flitted through her mind. She stifled a giggle.

  After the preliminaries, he wanted her naked on the edge of the bed in the doggy position. He stepped up behind her, but then he seemed to realize that things didn’t work the way they used to. He had to lift his mounds of flesh with both arms to get at her, which meant she had to reach back and help.

  When he had finished, Mary Alice disengaged and rolled over to look up at him.

  “I’m glad you worked things out,” she said.

  “The recession is history. For me, anyway.”

  “New job?”

  He smiled but said nothing more.

  At the end of the hour, she dressed, picked up her envelope, and gave him the usual peck on the cheek. It no longer surprised her how quickly the strange had become the new normal. It was part of her job to adjust.

  But back in her apartment she picked up the phone and punched in a familiar number. Apparently she wasn’t as tough as she thought, because she needed to debrief.

  Her friend Diana was still at her desk at Litvinov Associates, where she had become president after retiring from hooking. It was a long story.

  “How’s the bodyguard business?”

  “Oh, you know,” said Diana. “There’s always a body needs guarding.”

  “You remember Bill Winterborn?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, you don’t know the new him.”

  Mary Alice described the client as she had seen him that day.

  “Now I remember where I saw that outfit. It was in one of those emails everybody is forwarding. You know, ‘People of Megamart,’ with all the plumber’s crack and all those getups you can’t believe are real?”

  “After the first one I started deleting them,” Diana said. “Since I retired, I can’t handle weirdness the way I used to.”

  “He has a new gig too. He wouldn’t say what. He used to drive big rigs, but about a year ago he lost the job and stopped coming. Said he couldn’t spend the money anymore. Maybe now he does drag performances or something. There must be guys who like the BBW thing.”
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  “I don’t think it’s that,” said Diana. “Let me make sure we’re talking about the same thing—bright green dress, big white wig?”

  “Don’t forget the sandals.”

  “Well, it was on the TV news, maybe fifteen minutes ago. A woman dressed like that just held up the Megamart in Lakeview. Only now we know it wasn’t a woman, don’t we?”

  “I guess not.”

  “The news said it sounded like the same woman who held up six Megamarts in the Midwest. She fit right in. Nobody even noticed her, until she walked up to the registers and pulled a gun out of her bag.”

  “I guess Bill gets around.”

  “You need to call the police,” said Diana.

  “Why me? You’re the respectable citizen here.”

  “But you’re the one who can identify him. And I don’t need to earn points with the cops anymore.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look at it this way. You’re helping to keep America safe from spandex.”

  Mondays and Thursdays

  By Donna Moore

  The first time he’d ever stolen anything it had been an onion. A red onion. The sweat had pricked at his underarms, his groin, his waist. He was certain the security guard in Megamart UK would spot him, or a shopper would report him for acting in a suspicious manner in the fresh veg aisle, or he would leave a trail of purple onion skin as he made his escape. He’d pocketed the onion and walked out of the shop. No alarms, no security guard rugby tackling him from behind.

  Luckily, Anna hadn’t been in when he’d got home. Mondays and Thursdays were her regular nights out. Monday with “the girls,” Thursday to do some charity thing or other. So she wasn’t there to notice the sweat and be disgusted by it. Sweat was just one of the reasons they never had sex any more.

  He’d stripped off and taken a shower, putting the onion on the soap dish where he could stare at it. He’d forgotten the fear. Remembered only the exhilaration he had felt. He’d dried himself and taken the onion downstairs, holding it out in front of him, like an offering to some god of root vegetables. Best tuna and red onion sandwich he’d ever tasted.

  The first few times were just to prove he could do it—he didn’t steal things he really wanted. Every Monday and Thursday he would hone his craft. The real prize was the stuff with security tags on—the stuff that would beep if you tried to get it out of the store without paying. So he’d researched shoplifting on the Internet. He’d hung around the underpass where the junkies congregated and bought a bag with a special lining that foiled the beepers. It had cost a tenner. He’d cut out the pocket of his jacket and replaced it with the special bag.

  It had worked a treat. In the last week he’d got some costume jewelry, a scarf, gloves, a T-shirt, and the hat he was wearing today. He wouldn’t normally be seen dead in a hat like this. He and Anna used to laugh about them, call them “Christmas hats.” The sort your elderly aunt bought you. This one was orange with blue zigzags, flaps over the ears, stupid little plaited strings to tie under the chin, and a blue bobble. Worn only by five-year-olds and spaced-out festival-goers.

  Today he had taken a knife. A kitchen knife. He’d stolen one of those last week too.

  He approached the cash desk, fingering the note in his pocket. “I’ve stolen something.” That’s all it said.

  He pulled the note out, the corners of the envelope catching on the wool of his gloves. He scanned the row of tills, picking a girl who looked stressed. No sign of the security guard. Perfect. He slid sideways into her aisle and shoved the envelope toward the girl without looking at her.

  One step, two step, three steps. “Hey!” called the girl. “What’s this?” He paused, took the knife out of his pocket and dropped it onto the floor. Bent down to pick it up, kicked it a few inches forward, scooped it up, and took off out of the store.

  Plenty of people had seen him. But not his face. He didn’t think they’d seen his face. He ran. Something else he’d been doing on the nights Anna was out—shoplifting and running.

  He ran all the way to the house, dropping the knife down a grating in a side street on the way. He let himself into the house, pausing in the doorway to make sure no one was home. Complete silence except for the comforting hum of the fridge. He opened the living room door and checked the things he’d left on the sofa earlier. Still wearing his gloves, he picked up the phone and dialed 999. “I’ve done something really bad.” He gave the address and rang off, cutting the woman off in mid-sentence.

  He let himself out the front door and crossed the road to the shadowy park opposite, vaulted over the fence, and crouched down in the darkness, behind a tree. He took off the hat and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He didn’t have to wait long. As the police cars screeched to a halt in front of the house, a man dressed in running gear and an orange hat with blue zigzags and a stupid bobble came running up the street. The police approached him, cautiously. The man in the hat looked confused, backing away from the uniformed officers.

  He crawled away from the tree into the darkness of the deserted park. He didn’t need to see any more. They would go into the house. They would see the little pile of items he had left on the sofa—the gloves, scarf, T-shirt, jewelry—all still with MegamartUK tags. And they would see the knife—the knife he’d stolen on an earlier visit. This one covered in blood. And then they would go upstairs. Maybe not straight away, but theywouldgo upstairs. And they would find Anna. Waiting in the blood-red bath water for her Monday and Thursday lover to come home from his nightly run.

  Friday Night with the Tijuana Wolfman

  By John Weagly

  “What’re we looking for?”

  “The Tijuana Wolfman.”

  Billy Weston and Waylon Preston stood in the electronics department of the Currie Valley Megamart. Billy flipped through DVDs while Waylon squinted toward the ladies undergarments a few aisles away.

  “Tijuana Wolfman?” Waylon asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds like a weird drink that ends up not tasting very good.”

  “It’s a monster movie.”

  “Or a firecracker that turns out to be a dud.”

  “It’s supposed to be pretty entertaining, funny, and touching and gory.”

  “Or a weird sex act that leaves you embarrassed afterward.”

  Billy stopped focusing on DVDs and looked at his friend. “It’s about a Mexican priest and the woman he loves but can never have. He’s cursed with turning into a beast every full moon. He kills his adored during one of his fits and then spends the rest of his days living alone in the church’s bell tower. It’s about rage and tenderness and heartbreak.”

  “And wolfmen.”

  “A wolfman. Yes.”

  Billy went back to searching through the DVDs. Flipping through was making the tips of his finger feel grimy. Even though he could detect the slight scent of some kind of disinfectant coming from somewhere, he wondered how often the Megamart employees dusted the movies that had been on the shelf for a while.

  Waylon was still staring at lingerie.

  “You could help me look,” Billy said.

  “Do you think Maggie Anne Carlisle would like it if I got her a bra?” Waylon asked.

  Billy stopped again. “Does Maggie Anne Carlisle even know who you are?”

  “I eat at the Lunch Box all the time. She’s always real nice to me. I was thinkin’ of askin’ her out.”

  “Bein’ nice is just part of waitressing. She’s just doin’ her job.”

  “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like me.”

  “Even if she does like you,” Billy said, “giving her a bra before you even ask her out might be a little weird.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Waylon said. Then he added, “I’ll be right back,” and headed off into the store.

  Billy shook his head and went back to the DVDs. He’d read aboutTijuana Wolfman in thePsychotronic Encyclopedia of Film, his go-to guide for horror movies. He’d checked se
veral rental places but wasn’t having much luck tracking it down.

  He squatted to get a look at the lower shelves. From over in the video game area, he could hear someone playing “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” on Guitar Hero. He wasn’t sure how fiddle playin’ matched up with guitar playin’, but he wasn’t a video game designer.

  A short time later Waylon came back and said, “I’ll meet you outside.” Then he disappeared again.

  Billy kept up his search for a couple more minutes then gave up. There were eight million copies of each of the Saw movies, but a horror movie that was actually supposed to be good they didn’t carry. Everything for the masses, nothing for the individual. It was almost enough to make a man swear off Megamart forever.

  He thought about heading over to the Megamart deli for some potato salad and RC Cola, but decided he should probably get to the parking lot before Waylon could get into any trouble.

  Waylon was waiting just outside the big, welcoming superstore doors. “Any luck?” he asked.

  Billy shook his head. “A waste of time.”

  When they climbed into Billy’s truck, Waylon reached into his pocket, then held out his hand and asked, “What do you think?”

  Billy looked at what Waylon was holding: a red, lacy bra with a hole torn in the right cup. “It’s got a tear in it.”

  “It had one of those tag-thingies that sets off the alarm if you try to take it out of the store. I had to rip it off.”

  “You stole it?”

  “I don’t really know this girl,” Waylon said. “I’m not gonna spend money on her until I find out if she’s worth it.”

  Rage, tenderness, and heartbreak, Billy thought to himself. Then he started his truck.

  Pink Tidal Wave

  By Keith Rawson

  “Ya sure about that one, Philly?”

  “Yeah, sure, sure. It’s great. We should be in and behind the wheel in jig time.”

  Philly’s my sister’s kid.

  I ain’t ever been close with Karen—same dad, different moms. But when my mom took off when I was twelve, the only place I had to go was the old man and his new family, Karen’s family.