Yellow Mama E zine

Ben Franklins

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Gary Clifton

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        Detroit Red was plenty pissed.  When a poor, working stiff like Red, who started without anything except murderous intent, then eventually managed to run all the dope and whores East of Central, he soon acquired enough Ben Franklins -- the street name for a hundred-dollar bill -- to murder hell out any mope who crossed him.

       Detroit Red was actually Cicero Washington from Waco and he’d never been to Detroit. The name came from a crooked card game he used to run on Birmingham.  

But he was definitely The Man, now – big enough to trash talk Dimebag Jackson to his face, a dude with more bodies on him than Bela Lugosi. Normally, dissing Dimebag was the last mistake the trash talker ever made.

        “Dime, I paid you a bushel of Franklins and I need this sucker to be gone yesterday. Thought you was a man and not no wimp scared a’ cops and the like.”

        Red knew where to tap it down just before suicide. But there was also no mope like Dimebbag around with cajónes to tell Detroit Red to murder-shop elsewhere.

        Dimebag lit his Cohiba, one-hundred-fifty buck cigar, and studied Red with dead-cold eyes.

       “Ain’t doin’ it, Red. I closed a half dozen contracts for you. You want I should dig up some dorks and kill ‘em some more? Drive that pipe another foot up Peaches’s ass?”

       “Naw, Homey, I’m good on your work. But this jerk killed my baby.”

       “Best leave this ‘un be, dude.”

       “If I pay you double?”

       Dimebag shook his head.

       “Dime, you leavin’ me hangin’.”

       “Let it lay, Red. The kid was an accident.”

X

       Red definitely had the means to hire another contractor. The problem was quality control. This story was all over the neighborhood.

       Red had an airheaded, twenty-year-old son, DeMarcus. Red had bought the kid a ‘vette which he drove around like a fresh castrated mule deer, trying to kill himself. He succeeded, busting a red light on Second Avenue at eighty per, and crashing, stoned, into a neighborhood married guy, then into a concrete wall.

                                                                           

       Willie Fletcher, 46, a plumber’s helper, was delivering pizza part time for cash to take his kids to Six Flags. DeMarcus was pronounced dead in multiple pieces at the scene. Fletcher survived.

        “Red, this deal’s got three needle cocktail all over it – death row, baby. You hit a straight mope – another brother at that, ya’ gonna have a thousand cops and Feds all up in yer ass. I ain’t touchin’ it. Maybe try for some out-of-town muscle? I know a dude in Little Rock.”

       “Triple cash?”

        Dimebag shook his head.

        "Ain’t needin’ to go suckin’ ‘roun no damn Little Rock, Dime. My money’s good right here in my neighborhood.”

        “Chill, Red. Your boy was wrong.”

X

        Three days later, Dimebag’s associate, China Charlie Smith ran across Dimebag at the Green Turtle Topless Club having a lap dance. Charlie had driven the car several times while Dimebag blew some mark’s brains out.

        “Red tol’ every dude in town he was lookin’ to get the mope that lived through his son’s accident, offed. He blundered roun’ and hired the bartender at Sweet’s Place.”

        “And fumbled in the end Zone?” Dimebag’s cold eyes showed no change.

        “Red handed that braindead bartender an old .32. Sorta like hiring a blind veterinarian to perform a vasectomy. Stupid bartender, goofy enough to eat rabbit turds and swear they was smart pills, couldn’t find the mark’s place. So, he watched the pizza place. Followed the driver to a red light on Greenville and blew the dude’s head all over the intersection.”

       “You surprised?”

        “That ain’t all. Bartender dropped the piece as he split. Red handed him the pistol without wipin’ it down good. Prints up the whazoo, including Red’s. And you gotta figure, he shot the wrong damned man. The dead guy was Red’s nephew. Red thinks me ‘n you had sumthin’ to do with the wrong mope gettin’ shot.”

       “Don’t care whut Red thinks.”

       “Them fingerprints got Red locked up with a three-needle case on his ass and bail denied. That bartender’s downtown singin’ whut the hell ever them cops wanna hear.”

        “Tried to tell the fool.”

        “Red got shanked in the jail shower this morning. Some twit come onto him and Red wadn’t havin’ it. Fight started and Red’s guts was all over the floor. He gonna live but he sayin’ it’s me n’ you responsible and we two dead dudes.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

         “We gotta strike first, China.”

         “Damn straight, bro.”

         Dimebag “I’m thinkin’ them two big ass heavies Red allays had with him gotta go first. One of ‘um called ‘Train’, dunno the other’s. Them two hang at Lorraine’s over there back o’ the tracks. We catch ‘um together, it’s two rats with one try.

 

         As they stepped to the side door, a leggy, shapely blonde wearing only a pink G-string stood just outside, smoking. Her only other garment was a T-shirt draped over her arm.

She flashed a toothy smile at Dimebag. “Hey, Dude, remember me. We did some lines out back here a month or so ago…wait, you are Dimebag, right?”

         Dimebag nodded. He didn’t recall the flashy chick, but his dead eyes flickered a millisecond of smile.

         From beneath the T shirt, she drew a small .38 and put a round in each man’s forehead, followed by a second in the chest. “Red says ‘Welcome to hell’,” she said.

         A black sedan screeched to a stop. She slid onto the front seat and the sedan disappeared around a corner.

X

        “Sarge, each one caught a headshot. Makes ‘um near impossible to identify.”

        “Rook, this mope is Dimebag Jackson, the only suspect in at least a half dozen contract killings. Way overdue for the morgue slab. This other clown is his assistant. They call him ‘China’ I think. Good riddance here, also.”

        “You gonna assign this case to somebody.”

        “Nobody’s gonna miss these scumbags. Send ‘um to the med school.”

        “Callin’ the dead-wagon, Sarge. We call, they haul.”

         “Good thinkin’ Grady. Miller time.”

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     Gary Clifton, 30 years a cop, has been shot at, stabbed, sued, and lied to and about. He is currently retired to a dusty North Texas ranch and doesn't give a damn about much of anything. Clifton has six novels available on Amazon and other outlets. He has approximately 140 short fiction pieces published in Bewildering Stories and other publications. He is a review editor for Bewildering Stories. 

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     It's well known that an artist becomes more popular by dying, so our pal Steve Cartwright is typing his bio with one hand while pummeling his head with a frozen mackerel with the other. Stop, Steve! Death by mackerel is no way to go! He (Steve, not the mackerel) has a collection of spooky toons, Suddenly Halloween!, available at Amazon.com.    He's done art for several magazines, newspapers, websites, commercial and governmental clients, books, and scribbling - but mostly drooling - on tavern napkins. He also creates art pro bono for several animal rescue groups. He was awarded the 2004 James Award for his cover art for Champagne Shivers. He recently illustrated the Cimarron Review, Stories for Children, and Still Crazy magazine covers. Take a gander ( or a goose ) at his online gallery: www.angelfire.com/sc2/cartoonsbycartwright . And please hurry with your response - that mackerel's killin' your pal, Steve Cartwright.