Discount Noir

by Patricia Abbott

  Karen’s mom was a serious cunt and made sure to let me know every chance she got that she didn’t want me around.

  The old man was pretty much the same way.

  I was a reminder of his old life.

  The life where he spent his days skin popping eightballs with my mom and his nights boosting cars in order to spend his days getting high.

  By the time I showed up, he’d been living the straight and narrow for close to a decade. Instead of jacking cars, he learned to turn wrenches, and Karen’s mom was flush with enough inheritance dough from when her grandparents or her folks died that her and the old man were able to open up their own shop. Karen’s mom did the books and Dad ran the garage and made sure to charge the suburban single moms double for any work him and his boys did on their beaters.

  Dad tried playing it straight, but deep down he was still the same old fucked-up junkie thief he was when he was with my mom.

  I split out when I was seventeen, faked my way into the army, did my four, got dropped back into Phoenix with my dick in the wind and the ability to break down an M-16 in a minute and a half.

  But I wasn’t without my skills.

  The old man figured I was gonna turn into a real piece of shit just like him, so instead of me learning to jack a car the hard way like he did, he turned me out and set me up so I could spark a sled in forty seconds flat.

  A hell of a lot faster than I could break down the rifle the Army gave me.

  Within six months of coming back home, I’d gained a solid rep and crews were coming to me to boost sleds for bank jobs and whatnot.

  I’ve been at it ten years now.

  I’ve made a fair-size wedge; I run my own crew along with a couple of shops.

  The crew’s a good bunch of guys for the most part, all except Philly.

  I don’t know how Karen tracked me down, but she did.

  Karen actually ended up being the one who inherited the old man’s scumbag genes. Knocked up at eighteen by some twenty-nine-year-old crank dealer. Of course, Karen was so strung out she didn’t know she had Philly in her belly, and when she found out, she didn’t ease up on her habit.

  Needless to say, the kid came out a little fucked up and stayed fucked.

  Now here he was—fifteen, loopy as all hell, his mom still just as screwed up as ever but wanting me to teach him the trade, making him my burden.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like teaching the trade. I’m good at it. But Philly’s thick as a brick; the last six months have been like banging my head against a wall, and I’m tired.

  So, today, Philly’s either gonna sink or swim.

  Today he’s going solo, jacking his first sled for a young crew who need a nondescript ride. Nothing special, a four-door commuter car that can blend in easy with freeway traffic and not attract attention.

  Me and Philly make the trip down to a Megamart Supercenter ten miles away from the Glendale shop, and I let Philly make his pick. The lot’s full of prime candidates, easy scores, just the kind of rides this crew needs, and Philly…fucked in the head six ways to Sunday Philly picks a caddy.

  And not just any caddy; the model he’s picked out is a 78 or 79 El Dorado. It looks cherry, but the thing is, it’s painted slick neon pink. The interior’s the same color, and the headliner’s got pink dingle balls strung all over it.

  It’s a hardcore taco ride and there’s gonna be one pissed off Mexican scrambling around this lot once Philly’s made the grab.

  “All right. As long as you’re sure?” I ask, trying to emphasize the doubt I have about his choice.

  “Yeah, I’m sure, Uncle Billy! Sure as shit!”

  “Go to it, then.”

  Philly slides out of my ride playing secret agent man. He’s crouched low like he’s prowling the jungle.

  Jesus, he’s not conspicuous at all, right?

  He makes it to the El Do and goes to work on the driver’s side door with his jimmy. It should be easy. He should be able to slide it right into the sweet spot. But he’s struggling. He’s banging the window, scratching up the paint. He’s getting red in the face and it looks like he wants to cry.

  Philly gives up on the driver’s side door and makes the switch to the passenger side.

  That’s when I spot her.

  I was wrong. The El Do’s not a taco sled, it’s a g-ride, and the owner of said g-ride is making a thunderous b-line right for Philly.

  The owner’s a woman or a tank, one of the two.

  She’s sporting Lee Press Ons, cornrow extensions, and head-to-toe pink spandex.

  She’s maybe clocking in at three hundred pounds?

  Three hundred pounds of pissed-off bitch.

  She’s rolls over him like a wave.

  A huge, pink tidal wave.

  Philly’s eyes are bugged-out freaked. He tries to bolt but is smothered in a wash of flying chubby fists clutching an enormous pink purse in the right and a plastic Megamart bag practically bursting with canned goods. By the time she’s done with Philly, he’s either gonna be dead or twice as brain damaged as he already is. Either way, I don’t think I’m gonna have to worry about the cops.

  I shake my head, turn over my Beemer, and head out of the lot.

  Fuck it. I’ll have the new kid, Frank, make the grab.

  Need a Hand?

  By Gerald So

  Tim flinched at what Jenny typed in the IM window. He started to sweat. He closed the window. A new one popped up:

  (11:39:07 PM)JenNY867:Well?

  (11:40:02 PM)NoOneDad:The Seasonal section?

  (11:40:22 PM)JenNY867:You know where it is?

  (11:40:55 PM)NoOneDad:Yes...

  (11:42:05 PM)JenNY867:I’ll be there tomorrow night, 8:16. If you’re there, fine. If not, fine.

  (11:42:30 PM)JenNY867 signed off.

  Tim sat at the keyboard the next twenty minutes, chin in hand, tempted. Jenny Hunter had friended him on Facebook a month earlier. He remembered her as head cheerleader and senior class president, the girl on whom he had a crush from fourth through twelfth grades. He had only joined Facebook to keep tabs on his fourteen-year-old daughter, Erin. He never expected to find Jenny, much less be propositioned by her. Was it a trick? His crush on Jenny had been the worst kept secret. Twenty years after high school, was she jerking his chain? He thought of what she had typed in the window and smiled. Why not?

  * * *

  Tim was surfing fantasy football sites at work when his wife, Michelle, called. “Can we go to Megamart tonight?”

  “Why Megamart?” he said, voice cracking.

  “We need a bunch of stuff. Groceries, gift wrap, nail polish... You can get it all there.”

  He checked his watch. The hands had stopped. “Do they replace watch batteries?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  * * *

  Saved that day by his computer’s clock, Tim left work at six. He called from the car to see what was for dinner.

  “I haven’t had time to make anything. Erin’s cramming for a math test with pizza, but there’s a Subway in the Newbury Megamart.”

  Tim and Michelle pulled into the Megamart parking lot at 7:03 on his car’s dash. He tried to eat fast, but not so fast she’d notice. After dinner, Michelle went off on her own, and Tim went looking for the watch department.

  There was no one behind the watch counter. He waited, but no one stepped in. He waited some more, his eyes fixing on a digital watch that read 8:41. He reached for his cell phone. Not there. Must have left it in the cup holder after calling Michelle from the car. He ran for the Seasonal section.

  The Christmas rush wasn’t on yet. You could easily duck into one of the aisles, and... Heck, if he and Jenny stood close enough, someone looking right at them might not know what they were doing.

  “Need a hand?”

  Tim whirled, hoping to see Jenny, but it was a woman in a blue Megamart shirt. “Uh, no, thanks.”

  A minute or two later, Michelle appeared with a full shopping cart. “Ready to go, honey.”
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  Giving up, Tim followed his wife to Checkout. Back in the car, he turned the key and glanced at the dashboard clock: 8:20.

  Hope You’re Having Yourself an Especially Grand Time

  By Dave Zeltserman

  Hank Tilson welcomed the man with the angry eyes to Megamart. When this man stared at the rattlesnake in hell tattoo on the inside of Hank’s right forearm and then told Hank to have an especially grand time himself, it gave Hank the shivers. Partly it was the way this man’s expression changed when he saw Hank’s tattoo, and partly it was the sound of this man’s voice. But it was also those words.

  Now I hope you’re having yourself an especially grand time…

  Those words lurked somewhere deep in the recesses of Hank’s mind. He couldn’t quite pull out where those words were from, just like he couldn’t quite pull out from his memory why this man seemed so damn familiar. It was two months ago when Hank took this job as a Megamart Greeter. Three weeks ago this man showed up for the first time and instantly started giving Hank the dead eye. Every day afterward this man would show up to glare at Hank and stare at his right arm. Hank had broken his arm four months earlier and had a cast covering his tattoo. It wasn’t until last night that he had the cast removed. This was the first time this man had seen his tattoo.

  Hank knew then where he knew this man from. It was over twenty years ago, but as he thought more about this man he could see the resemblance and he remembered it all. Back then the man would’ve been thirty; Hank would’ve been close to the same age. At that time Hank was a full-blown meth addict, and he supported his habit by stealing whatever he could—sometimes beating up and mugging the elderly, sometimes through home invasions. This was where Hank had first seen this man, during one of his home invasions. Hank was pretty sure this wasn’t in Muncie, Indiana, where this Megamart was. He was pretty sure also it wasn’t in Indiana, but he couldn’t remember where it had taken place.

  That night Hank was just going to rob them. He had gloves and a mask on, and he had no intention early on of doing what he did. But the man’s wife was such a tiny pretty little thing, and it pissed Hank off realizing he’d never have a tiny pretty little thing of his own, at least not of her free will. So he changed his plans.

  He had brought a .38 revolver with him, and he used that to force the wife to tie up her husband, and then he did terrible things to her as he made the husband watch. After he was through with her, he choked her to death. Then he told the husband that he hoped he was having himself an especially grand time. He should’ve killed the husband also, but in his meanness he wanted this man alive and remembering what had happened to his pretty little thing.

  When Hank eventually got arrested it was for check-kiting and not for any of the beatings or home invasions or murders he did. He ended up serving seven years at the Shawnee Correctional Center, and when he got out he supported himself with low-level cons and odd jobs.

  His heart started palpitating wildly in his chest over the thought that that man had recognized him. But he had a mask on that day, and back then he was as thin as a weed. By the time he had left Shawnee, his body had thickened and changed. These damn Megamart uniforms with the short sleeves and vests! If he were allowed to wear a long-sleeve shirt, the man never would’ve seen his tattoo. But still, how could this man be sure from just one tattoo?

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Hank turned and saw the man whose pretty little thing from long ago he had tortured and butchered.

  “Aren’t you going to ask if I found everything I was looking for?” said the man.

  Hank nodded, croaked out, “Sure.”

  “Yep, sure did,” the man said. He took a hunting knife out of his bag and showed it to Hank. “I was told it could cut through bone as easy as paper.”

  With that, the man plunged the knife into Hank’s chest. At first everything went black. Then Hank could see again, although it was hazy with flames all around him. Standing in front of him was a dour looking demon who gave Hank a forced, tired smile and welcomed him to hell.

  Megamartyres

  By Dorte Hummelshoj Jakobsen

  I didn’t quite know what to expect. Perhaps not exactly tweed or pin-stripes, yet I had never dreamt of anything like this. I could hardly refrain from staring at the odd display around us and wondering which kind of shop would sell such garments.

  Though I did my best to keep my eyes on the shelves, I soon felt queasy. Francis admitted he wasn’t quite comfortable either, but as I reminded him, he was the one who insisted on our frequenting this sort of place. He had wished to make his own, empirical studies of this American phenomenon.

  “All that flesh,” I whispered in his ear while I clutched him in my arms. He agreed that the prospect was distracting indeed. All these most generous views of enormous thighs beneath undulating bottoms and breasts. Impossible to get an overview of the layout. Of the shop, I mean. One can only feel so sorry for all these poor people who cannot even afford to cover their bodies properly. Francis bristled and muttered something about extra shorts. He can be slightly impolite now and then, I am afraid.

  After a while I realized that from strategic vantage points it was possible to watch the customers discreetly with the aid of my little makeup mirror. Many of them had the most interesting coiffures, actually. Francis was not much in favor of all the long-haired men so I tried to remind him of some of the local customs. “Well, they might be natives, Francis. Modern variations of plaits or pigtails, you know. We really must try to be open-minded and understanding when we are abroad, my dear.” Unfortunately we could also see glimpses of hair in all the wrong places. Now, Francis has some experience with the problems plenty of body hair may cause, but he grunted that all these ragamuffins could at least get a proper haircut now and then.

  Will you believe it? Until today, Francis and I had never been to Megamart. So when we traveled all the way to Washington to visit my cousin Rubella, Francis begged and implored me until I promised we could take a short peep. After the initial culture shock, I must admit I almost began to enjoy all the novel experiences. Well, at least until dear Francis received a nasty fright as we stumbled upon the meat counters. We are both vegetarians, of course, but I did my best to convince him this was the cold-storage room of an American undertaker’s. I am not quite sure he believed me, however. Francis is so delicate and emotional!

  My dear friend declared he had seen enough of this dystopia and suggested we began searching for the exit, but in our state of apprehension and excitement we got away from each other. I ran up and down the aisles with my trolley, muttering to myself that I should have insisted Francis sit in it even though he claims he is far too old for that.

  I turned round a corner and could hardly believe my eyes: an Asian type in a white overall in sharp pursuit of poor Francis. “Chop-chop,” the crude individual sniggered, and he raised a huge butcher’s knife while Francis jogtrotted as best he could on his chubby little legs, trying to hide under a Whitmore Deluxe Garment Rack. I could see now that I would have to abandon my trolley, so I pushed it carefully aside before I dashed off after Francis and the brute. Where were they? And why was I wearing these stupid high heels?

  Embarrassed, I noticed I was lapsing into a highly un-British state of panic. My heart throbbed while this bad dream grew into a nightmare. “Francis? Francis Bacon? Where are you? Mummy’s little darling.”

  I thought to call for help. But where should I turn in my distress? RCMP? No, that was horses. Was it WASP then? Or perhaps ASPCA?

  Somehow, I had turned so many corners that I found myself among the sinister meat counters again. I heard the frantic, helpless squeals just as I saw the butcher’s sign above my head. I crashed through the door into a chamber of horrors, the nasty smell of singed hair assaulting my nose while the appalling truth dawned upon me.

  “Francis? Franciiiiis? Oh noooooooooooooooo!”

  The Tin Foil Heist

  By Jay Stringer

  “Hey.”

&nbs
p; “What’s up, Cal?”

  “That Joe?”

  “Yes, course it is. What’s up? Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m not whispering, I’m talking quiet.”

  “Okay, but why? What’s up?”

  There was a pause on the line. I could picture Cal looking around to make sure nobody was listening, about as subtle as an explosion.

  “I’m in the Megamart UK, yeah?”

  My Saturday afternoon had been planned to perfection; a day to myself, no house calls or problems to solve for the boss. Just veg out on the sofa, smoke a little dope, and watch the football.

  Simple.

  Easy.

  But now I had the boss’s son on the phone. Calling from a supermarket and whispering. The best laid plans of mice and men have nothing on Callum Gibson.

  “What are you doing, Cal?”

  “They got this big TV, man, like forty-six inches or something. You imagine the porn on that?”

  “You need me to come pick you up, drive you home?”

  “That’d be cool, yeah. Could you park round the corner, that street at the back, aye?”

  “….Cal?”

  “An’ have the motor running, aye?”

  “…..Cal?”

  “Yeah, man?”

  “You’ve got that credit card your dad gave you, yeah? Just walk up to the till, swipe the card, and buy yourself the telly.”

  “You’re a fanny sometimes, Joe, you know?” He laughed down the line, and then went quiet and I could picture him again looking around like a cartoon coyote. “So I been watching the door, aye? It’s easy, man. There’s just the one security guy, and he’s stood ten feet inside the doors, where it’s warm, and he looks a bit out of puff to me. I think I could outrun him, easy. Then they got these gates, aye? The sensors, they go deet deet deet, lights flash an’shite. Anytime the alarm goes off, the guard waddles up to whoever started it, looks at their receipt, and then waddles back. Like he don’t really give a shit, aye?”