The Bayshire Butcher

Crime Fiction by Mick Rose

Far from Marvelous mid-June

Midnight fell on Puddingstoneshire, England. The dank fog wall that straddled the coast for hours now swept across the bay, swallowing the docks before blanketing the shire. Padded Skullcandy headphones cupping her teenaged-ears, a second bump of Molly bouncing through her happy brain, oblivious Becky Bonner bopped round Mermaid’s Crossing—and hooked right at Dory Lane. The first blow whacked her bleached-blonde skull. Befuddled Becky stumbled but kept her high-heeled feet … while perky Taylor Swift encouraged woozy Becky to simply “shake it off.” Easy for jilted Taylor to say.

The second hammer blow nearly knocked The Swifty senseless. Bare knees buckling beneath her miniskirt, kissing the damp asphalt proved Becky’s only option. Lucky for The Swifty, the cold hard kiss knocked her unconscious—the Skullcandy headphones and Becky’s two front teeth skittering wildly off the pavement. Two more ferocious blows finally silenced Taylor Swift. But the attacker’s fury raged another five brutal minutes. Mission at last accomplished the satiated killer smirked. “Not too swift were ya? And yer taste in music sucked. You stupid little cunt.”

The killer strolled to an aging Volvo wagon—a trusty vehicle vaunted for its voluminous safety features. The seatbelt snapped into place with a satisfying click. Safety first, Mother always said. Haste makes waste. Mother wouldn’t tolerate walking alone at night, never mind while wearing any kind of headphones. Bless her heavenly soul. The engine purred to life and the Volvo disappeared down Captain’s Alley … just as headlights flared on Dory Lane.

Sucking on a spliff, eyelids at half-mast after a ten-hour shift, Donnie Hickman barreled down Dory Lane. Bloody fucking hell—

Donnie mashed the brake with both sized thirteen feet. Two eternities later, his cab screeched to a halt … about a short-n-curly before steamrolling the five-foot-long heap and gunking his undercarriage. Shit, shit, shit. Knowing he was cursed, Donnie pounded the steering wheel, careful not to hit the horn. What were the fucking odds? Three times in three weeks he’d nearly trampled dead birds—faces bashed to a pulp that their mothers couldn’t … or soon wouldn’t … possibly recognize. This time he didn’t bother jumping from the cab and checking for a pulse. His last two dumb good deeds hadn’t gone unpunished. God damn arsehole cops.

Despite the curling fog, the cab’s headlights revealed more gory details than Donnie cared to see. He switched to parking lights. Like his last two cursed finds? This third young bird lay sprawled on her back, shirtless and braless, three jagged scarlet letters carved into her chest in capital letters. A scrawled but legible “C” marked her left tit. A backwards “L” lay clearly etched in the shallow valley Donnie didn’t consider cleavage. And a tattered “S” marred her pale right tit. CLS. What the fuck did that mean? Donnie had no clue. The cops and journos didn’t either.

Not a living soul in sight, Donnie jammed the cab into reverse, ducked down Captain’s Alley—and shot north for the harbor when he hit Sailor’s Way. He fished the center console for his new burner phone and called Thomas Norton. The photo-journalist answered after just two rings. Sounded wide awake.

“We need to meet. Like now. And you’re gonna need your checkbook—or some cold hard cash. You at your hotel? I’m one click south,” Donnie said.

“Room 309,” Norton said.

“Nope. Like my solicitor says, time is of the essence. Wait for me in the lot. Northwest corner. Have your rental car runnin’.”

Donnie found Norton leaning against an Audi Q3. “Hop in,” he ordered the journo. Norton complied.

“I found another dead bird—but I ain’t called it in.”

Norton smirked. “Understandable,” he said. “Coppers tossed your ass in jail when you discovered the second bird. Cheers again on your release. And I appreciate your call. Where and when did you find her?”

The cabbie shook his head. “Show appreciation first.”

Norton offered an envelope: Donnie counted the bills. Tapped the steering wheel. “When I found this third dead bird? I never left my cab. But I seen she dropped a hand purse on the pavement. If the cops turn up first? Then we’re square. But if you got that crime scene to yourself? You can rifle that purse—ID the bird, find her home address … and God knows what else. In that case? I’ll want double what you just gave me—and you pay me when we get there. I don’t wanna hafta sick the cops on you. Also goes without sayin’. You don’t mention me to no one. Deal?”

“Deal,” the journo said.

“Good. Grab your Audi, follow me.”

Donnie stuck to the speed limit. Two car lengths behind Norton followed suit. All the local pubs here shut down by eleven. The weary cabbie didn’t spot a single driver or a single soul. Wearing a skirt and heels on a Thursday night? He figured the dead bird went to a nearby rave or a local party. Could’ve hopped a bus as far as Fisherman’s Blvd. Cursed Donnie hoped he’d never have a daughter. But with his luck …

Both cars eased to the shoulder outside Captain’s Alley. But they could see the lifeless bird. Norton left the Audi; sidled to the cabbie’s window. Slipped him another envelope. Donnie didn’t count the cash. “I’m outta here,” he said.

Norton didn’t step away. “I still want your story, Donnie—if you’re ready to sell and tell.”

“I don’t want some fuckin’ psycho comin’ after me. Till someone catches this bastard? I ain’t got shite to say. Happy huntin’, Norton. I’m hoping you’ll learn somethin’ that helps crack this case. I’m sick of finding these poor dead birds. All three had hot bods before this butcher mauled ’em. While the coppers still won’t answer with a simple yea or nay? My solicitor’s got contacts. They say no signs of rape—and there’s no proof this dumbass wanked off at the first two scenes.” Donnie shook his head. “God damn arsehole’s probably gay. What a fucking waste.”

***

As the cabbie duly noted time was of the essence. Norton rolled the Audi closer to the scene: spotted the fallen purse. But the fog showed signs of lifting—best to shoot some photos first or he’d loose that creepy luxury. The journo assembled his gear, fingers flying on autopilot. He fired a dozen short and mid-range shots from ten different angles, dizzily doing his damndest not to step in any blood.

He stashed the camera in the boot, and slipped on a pair of leather driving gloves. Lowered the Audi’s hatch to keep things dry but didn’t let the lock snick shut. Time to focus on the purse—which didn’t hold much. But in his line of work? A treasure trove nonetheless.

The journo used his cell phone camera to photograph the contents: ID, lipstick, house key and a couple of pink pills stamped with Smiley faces … most likely Molly. Norton lived in London but routinely worked wherever his stories took him. The first rural Bayshire murder only made a local splash. But after the second killing? News about The Butcher sent shockwaves cross the nation, and journos like Norton scurrying to Bayshire. Tonight’s third slaying in nearby Puddingstoneshire wouldn’t change the killer’s moniker. Most people—himself included—knew fuck-all about either boondock.

Norton’s first call at 1:30 a.m. woke his sleepy London assistant. “Chop, chop,” Norton said. “Find yourself a pen and paper. Got ’em yet? Good. I need everything you can find on a lass named Becky Bonner, last name spelled with two ‘n’s. She’s the Butcher’s third victim. Me, myself, and I are staring at her now. Yup. No coppers or competition, at least for the moment, is indeed good news. Meanwhile poor Becky turned seventeen last month. Her DOB’s the 10^th of May 2007. ID lists her address as 22 Farm Lane in Puddingstoneshire—not Bayshire like the first two victims.”

The journo stifled a yawn. “I’m guessing young Becky was still living with her parents. But it’s too early to carry tidings of such bad news. Once I’m done here I’ll likely swing by that address, snap some outdoor photos, and get a feel for the place. Might also make a run by the secondary school. Even if she’s dropped out we’ll need a peer reaction. So any background you can send about her parents, possible siblings and extended family before 4 a.m. is greatly welcome. Since misery loves company? Call Abbey Snow and wake her. Send her the relevant deets of anything you find and tell Abbey to start drafting a nuts-n-bolts story that I can flush out later—”

Norton thought he spotted headlights at Mermaid’s Crossing. Nope, just the fog drifting past the statue’s base lights. “I’m in no hurry to tip off the cops. But this scene could explode at any time. If the cops or competition turn up? I’ll immediately post a teaser on social media and our website, including several photos. No way I’m losing credit for breaking this story before the morning news cycle starts.

“Soon as I hang up I’m texting you some photos. Call Hal at The Daily Mail. Let him know I’ve got exclusive shots of the Butcher’s third victim. Don’t tell him Becky’s name or age, or mention Puddingstoneshire. If he peppers you with questions? Say I’m in the boonies and cell reception sucks. Then hang up on the nosy bastard. But make sure that Hal signs and dates the latest copy of our premiere rate contract. No ticky, no laundry. Do not release the pics till I give you the greenlight. Heartfelt thanks as always. Talk to ya soon,” Norton said.

The journo hauled more gear from the Audi’s hatch. Videographed the scene and shot more photos. Tucked Becky’s hand purse in his outer suit coat pocket. Scrutinized the last two photos on the back of his camera so he could set the purse in its proper place later. His next call at 4 a.m.? A BBC correspondent named Erin Beale—who’d caused a stir last week: her posh boyfriend’s helicopter had left her standing on the town hall green. Any hour day or night? Ms. Beale sounded sultry.

“Thomas Norton calling. I’m standing outside all alone with The Bayshire Butcher’s third slain victim. Perhaps you’d care to join me?”

“There’s nothing I’d love more. But I’ll need to bring my assigned camera man and a makeup artist.”

“Good night then Ms. Beale. Sorry I disturbed you—”

“Wait, Thomas, wait. What are you proposing?”

“That I act as your exclusive cameraman for the duration of these murders. And tonight you come solo. No makeup artist.”

Norton could picture Erin’s eyebrows arching. “That would certainly be an atypical arrangement,” the TV reporter said. “And sadly a decision that’s above my current pay grade.”

“That’s because I am an atypical guy Ms. Beale. I’m also a busy man—you’ve got six seconds to decide.”

“This may land me in hot water, but okay my answer’s yes. Kindly text me your GPS coordinates. Then I’ll run out the door—and save you from your loneliness.”

“Not quite so fast Ms. Beale. First I text a contract for you to sign, date, and return. Then I’ll happily text you my prize location.”

“For the love of God, Thomas, you’re proving hard to please.”

Norton started crooning: “What’s God got to do, got to do with it? What’s God but a—”

Horrified Erin killed the call. Pocketing his phone, grinning Norton spotted a cruising Volvo wagon—crossing an intersection south of his crime scene. Impossible to see the plates. And he couldn’t make out the color. On the dark side. But not black, Navy Blue, or Hunter Green. A local heading home? Or perhaps the killer? Adrenaline and pride luring him back to the kill site for a loving look at his handiwork? No way of knowing. Best to keep alert. Norton always carried a switchblade. But thought he remembered some old saying, maybe a movie line: Don’t bring a knife to a hammer fight.

The journo made a mental note to buy himself an ax.

Ms. Beale arrived in a red Range Rover: a white hotel bathrobe cinched round a slim waist, hot pink flip-flops barely clinging to her feet. Toenails painted the same jarring color. Her slate-gray eyes soaked up the scene before settling on Norton—who already had his video camera rolling. She snatched his cheeks, one in each hand: smacked him silly with a kiss that included her full tongue.

“You sexy talented prick. I wanna fuck you right now. But business before pleasure. I need to call my boss—tell him we’re going live in six minutes. He’ll likely want to fuck you, too. But I call first dibs.”

Ms. Beale slipped off her robe. Kicked aside those silly flip-flops. Stood naked on the pavement, talking to her boss on speakerphone: a black bra and panties clutched in each free hand.

“Don’t stand there gawking Thomas. Help me with this dress—and assist me with my makeup.”

“Sure,” Norton said. But he kept his camera rolling.

Far from Jolly July

The first week in July, more frenzied Englanders bought claw hammers than during any previous month-long period in the nation’s history. Online retail giant Amazon sold a million hammers. The big box outlets and traditional hardware stores sold another 100,000. The bestselling claw hammer during this span? The twenty ounce DIY Doctor Claw Hammer.

Propped against the pillows on his hotel bed, Thomas Norton scrutinized this hard-hitting data. He considered the Doctor Claw vastly stylish and superior to the runner up curved claw model manufactured by Stanley, which also tipped the scales at twenty ounces. The Stanley’s fiberglass sickly yellow handle and its gray composite grip repulsed Norton like a sixty year old whore.

While many claimed they’d bought their hammers as a means of self-defense against psychos like The Butcher? Copycat Bayshire Butcher killings echoed cross the country. But copycat victims differed in one or two essential ways: all ranged in age from thirty-three to ninety—and nearly forty percent were husbands.

Some of the Copycat Butchers wrote Doctor Claw reviews on Amazon:

You don’t need four years of med school to efficiently wield this hammer as a murder weapon. My wife’s dumb head was thicker than most. But Doctor Claw cracked her skull like a hardboiled egg. This hammer’s literal claw also proved effective for raking her hate-filled eyeballs swiftly from their sockets. The only DIY downside to using Doctor Claw as a murder weapon isn’t the hammer’s fault. But its inherently short handle means things get messy quick: there’s no way to avoid resulting backsplash—such as bits of bone, icky brain goo, and blood splatter. So I also recommend a decent pair of safety goggles, a rubber apron, and a shower cap. Bottom line? If I ever feel compelled to kill another spouse? Next time I’ll try a golf club … although I’ve never played this smashing sport. Probably a used one since new clubs cost a fortune.

Meanwhile, Norton’s assistant Abbey Snow convinced the London housewife Emma Cross to publicly share her reasons for mauling her husband Marty. The story ran front page this morning in The Daily Mail’s Sunday edition. Emma’s choice of hammer? Her husband Marty’s sixteen ounce Irwin proved more than capable of completing the dirty deed:

I spent forty years listening to Marty Cross whine—while giving the spineless fool solid career advice—which allowed him to retire early from his accounting jobs. But last Christmas? Our grandchildren bought my husband a pair of Bose noise-cancelling headphones. From the time he opened the box? Marty tuned me out. The inconsiderate bastard now refused to listen to a single word I said. For six solid months Marty cruelly wore those infernal headphones—he never took them off—not even when he showered once a month.

This spousal abuse naturally turned unbearable. I didn’t realize I suffered from Battered Wife Syndrome until after my arrest for killing malicious Marty. Now my solicitor is suing Bose for damages that include loss of companionship. And I am not alone: other abused wives have joined the suit. This company knew—or should have known—that their noise-cancelling products would cause husbands worldwide to ignore their wives.

Norton tossed the paper on the adjacent nightstand. Savored the final bite of his Bacon Butty; wished he’d ordered two from room service. Perhaps Marty Cross and some of the other husbands might be alive if the original Bayshire Butcher hadn’t pulverized three male cabbies in the last three weeks. But too many people had shit for brains. Speculation proved pointless. On the plus side? The beast had yet to defile any females in July.

Stepping from the shower, Norton’s cell phone rang. Bloody hell, he muttered after hanging up, then dialing his partner at the BBC—

“Our Butcher bashed another cabbie—this time it’s Donnie Hickman. The livery company’s owner found dead Donnie and his cab beside a turnip field skirting Hooligan’s marsh. The bloke called me instead of the cops cuz he’s raging pissed they haven’t caught our psycho yet. Soon as I hang up I’ll text the location.”

***

Erin Beale arrived in her posh boyfriend’s helicopter. And once again the pilot didn’t tarry.

“Before we get started Thomas? I need a quick word. Much as I’ve enjoyed our recent playtime fuck-fests? My boss has chosen me for a temp assignment. I will cover the Middle East while my BBC colleague is on maternity leave.”

“For how long?” Norton said.

“Probably five weeks. She’s already made arrangements to induce early labor over at Israel’s top-ranked Sheba Medical Center. Once her bun’s popped and the kid’s been neatly blanketed in an incubator? She’s heading back to work before they can replace her.”

“Are you going to turn up at your Middle East assignment in your posh boyfriend’s red-n-black whirlybird?”

“No, you heathen. We’ll arrive in his new red-n-black Leer jet with a private bedroom. Then take one of his helicopters to our lodgings in the penthouse suite of his posh five-star hotel. The penthouse includes a rooftop swimming pool—enclosed by a dome made of bulletproof glass—and guarded on the outside by ten security agents armed with M134s and equipped with rocket launchers. Not to mention the circling fleet of military Blackhawks that will keep our airspace clear.”

“Right. Of course you will,” Norton said.

Ms. Beale shrugged. “The relationship has its privileges—so don’t look snookered, Thomas. This man is not marriage material. But my wretched biological clock is ticking. And his financial health qualifies him as a helluva sperm donor. Although he’s fifty-sixty and has no offspring? According to his latest confidential medical records? His sperm count’s high—and his nuts remain intact. No vasectomy.”

“That makes sense,” Norton said.

Angst-filled August

Three stools down at his hotel bar, the journo Thomas Norton admired my tits. If I wasn’t seated on a high-backed leather stool? He’d admire my sweet ass, too. No worries, of course. He looked happy with my tits. I swung my stool to face him: “Call me a fan,” I said. “I’ve been following your work on The Bayshire Butcher. Can I buy you a drink? And perhaps pick your brain?”

Norton smirked. “My brain is slim pickings. And I suspect you wouldn’t get your money’s worth. But I’d welcome another drink.”

The lunch crowd had thinned, but I wanted privacy. “I’ll take my chances, sir. Let’s grab a table.”

I chose a corner table by the picture window. Outside sat a burgundy Volvo wagon. Norton nodded at the wagon. “Unusual,” he said. “The corrosive salt air here on the coast tends to turn older cars into rust buckets. But that Volvo looks pristine.”

“Probably belongs to some cut-throat journo or a looky-loo tourist. Both keep turning up in these parts lately.”

“Touché,” Norton said.

A male server hovered alongside our table. “Whiskey and Coke. A double please,” Norton said.

“Same please,” I said. The eye-rolling server nodded. Beer, gin and martinis ruled the local roost. “Well the month of August has certainly kept you hopping,” I told Norton.

“Tell me about it. Four more female teens slaughtered during the last two weeks—and our Butcher’s widened the Kill Zone. I still can’t believe he slew the last two vics down in Cowbiscuitshire. Despite its quaint little name? That place is a total shit hole. You wouldn’t believe the stench. Cow shit, goat shit, sheep shit. And likely a dose of pig shit. Just five minutes in that place? I started feeling bat shit. Meanwhile our angry Butcher went ape shit on those girls—who’d just turned thirteen.”

“Thanks for the sensory Trip Adviser warning. Those aren’t the kinds of details one usually finds in Fodor’s travel guides. But despite The Butcher’s rage? The killer’s slick,” I said. “By killing off six cabbies over four weeks in July? That’s six less cabs to drive girls home at night.”

“Interesting theory,” Norton said. “I knew one of the cabbies, sorta. And spoke with the other five. Two had daughters—and boasted about the beatdowns they’d dole out if they encountered the killer. I guess the road to their graves is paved with good intentions. I assumed The Butcher killed them cause they’d unwittingly seen him driving late at night. Since I’ve now prowled this region for nine weary weeks? Wouldn’t stun me one iota if I’ve crossed paths with the killer.”

“Both those scenarios sound plausible, too,” I said as the server left our drinks. “Cheers, Mr. Norton.”

“Cheers, Ms.—”

“Griffin. Angie Griffin. These killings have taken a major toll on me.”

“How so, Ms. Griffin?”

“My boyfriend is the cop leading the task force assigned to catch The Butcher.”

“Ah,” Norton said. “Unlike you Ms. Griffin? Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Dillion isn’t a card carrying member of the Thomas Norton fan club.”

“No.” I smirked. “Andrew certainly isn’t. He used to crush on Erin Beale at the BBC. Now he hates her guts, if that makes you feel better. Andrew’s changed so much over the past three months that I’m not a fan of his anymore either. He rarely comes home and barely speaks to me. Won’t even look at me—never mind touch me. I suggested joint counseling on several occasions. He called me frivolous and selfish.”

“Yikes,” Norton said.

“Can we continue this conversation in your room Mr. Norton? I feel exposed out here in the open. And to be honest? I’d welcome the chance to pick more than your brain.”

Norton drained his drink; drummed the tabletop. “You sure about that Ms. Griffin?”

“As sure as I can be about anything these days. I’ve already decided to leave him. Tonight, in fact.”

Norton scoped the bar. Glanced out the window: first at the Volvo then the parking lot. Palmed me a hotel key card. “Room 309. Best we don’t leave together—and I need a quick sixty second chat with my London assistant. Tarry two or three minutes?”

“My pleasure, Mr. Norton.”

***

“I’m starving,” I said.

“Are you serious?” said the journo. “I’m utterly exhausted.”

“Of course you are silly. I want food.”

“That I can handle.” Norton rummaged a bedside drawer, fanned a room service menu.

“Double bacon cheeseburger with sun dried tomatoes and garlic aioli, cooked medium rare. Two orders of chips—and a large pitcher of strawberry lemonade.”

“Garlic aioli?” Norton said. “Don’t expect me to kiss you after that.”

“No big deal. Your loss,” I said.

“Ouch,” the journo said. “That barb’s gonna cost you—now half those chips are mine.” He grabbed the phone, placed my order. Added a bottle of champagne. Gave instructions for the server to knock, and leave the food cart in the hall.

I delved my purse on the bedside table. Waved a stack of folders. “Since we’re on break? It’s brain-picking time again. Andrew never talks to me about his work cases. But he’s got a dirty habit of bringing case files home. Have you seen any of the autopsy reports?”

“No,” Norton said. “Although at times they cost me a pretty penny? Obtaining coroner’s reports is usually easy peasy. But I arrived in Bayshire two days after Dillion’s task force appointment. His first hour on the job? He sacked two local cops for leaking information. No one’s dared cross him since.”

“Lucky you then Norton. I managed to copy four autopsy reports.”

“I’ve got a handheld scanner. Can I make copies?” Norton said.

“Knock yourself out,” I said. “While I could only copy four, I’ve read all thirteen—that’s seven for the females and six for the male cabbies. If you’ve been wondering? According to the coroner, none of the deceased showed any signs of rape or penetration—vaginal or anal—and that includes the men. Nor have they discovered any evidence of seminal secretions or the killer’s DNA.”

“So much for Donnie’s theory about The Butcher being gay,” Norton muttered. “But the kid still got fucked.”

“Donnie,” I said. “You’re referring to the cabbie?”

“Yeah,” Norton said.

Just as the journo worked the last page with his scanner? A knock at the hotel door. Norton donned a robe: wheeled the cart inside. “You gonna eat at the table Angie?”

“I’m comfy here,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”

“As you wish,” Norton said grabbing a handful of chips and holding one to my lips. “Hey, you bit me,” the journo said.

“Told you I was starving.”

“Note to self,” Norton said. “Ms. Griffin’s a brutal animal.”

I clasped my burger with both hands. Tore off a bite and moaned.

“That burger’s a monster, too. You’re not cutting it in half?”

“Why?” I mumbled. “Did you hold high hopes of filching the other half?”

Norton sighed. “That thought has crossed my mind since the cart arrived and I caught a whiff of bacon.”

“Aw, poor baby. Grab a few more chips while my hands are full, and I can’t stab you with a fork.”

Norton ignored the chips. Hopped back in bed with my coroner’s reports. “Maddening,” he said. “It’s obvious The Butcher is trying to send a message. But his method defies logic. I doubt CLS is shorthand for Crabs, Lobster, Shrimp. Or a takeout order for Curried Lentil Soup.”

I dabbed my chin with a linen napkin. “I’ve got a theory about the letters. I spent three years tutoring kids with learning difficulties. Some struggled with dyslexia and dysgraphia. While dyslexia gets more attention? Dysgraphia is a common worldwide condition that affects between five and twenty percent of people’s writing abilities. Symptoms are extensive. But they include misplacing words or letters, and writing words or letters in reverse—especially when they’re stressed. For example, the letter “L” on Becky Bonner’s chest was carved backwards—but the killer’s capital “L” was carved correctly on the other female victims.

“If The Butcher in fact struggles with dysgraphia? Then everyone’s been looking at the killer’s message wrong: it’s not CLS—but rather SLC—which aligns perfectly with The Butcher’s choice of female targets. All seven female vics were unwise teenage girls walking alone at night, and using headphones of some type. The dead male cabbies on the other hand? The Butcher’s never carved any letters on their bodies.”

I pulled up dysgraphia on my iPhone. “Here. Read,” I said, “while I demolish this burger.”

Norton finished taking notes. “Dysgraphia aside? What exactly do you think SLC stands for?”

“Stupid Little Cunt.”

“Now that makes sense,” wide-eyed Norton said. His lips met mine.

“Liar,” I said. “You claimed you wouldn’t kiss me.”

“Not a lie,” Norton said. “I judiciously reconsidered my previous position.”

“While we’re on the subject of lying and positions? Roll on your back,” I said.

“Why?” Norton said. “You plan on feeding me the remnants of that burger?”

“Help yourself,” I said. “My eyes are focused on dessert.”

***

“Nearly four p.m.,” I said. “Time for me to go.”

“The night is young,” Norton said. “You want to abandon me?”

“Have you suffered a long history of abandonment, Mr. Norton? Or are you the type who does the abandoning?”

Norton merely shrugged. “I don’t suppose you want me to walk you to your car?”

“No, Thomas, I don’t. But I appreciate you asking. Sooner or later? Your adventures here will end. As for me? I’m no longer wanted here. Tonight I’m London-bound. I’ve already made arrangements to sell my car when I arrive. From there I’ll head to France. Of course I will continue reading your work with interest. Take good care,” I added as his cell phone rang. His text alerts had chimed at least a dozen times throughout the afternoon. But I felt warm-n-fuzzy cuz he barely glanced at three—and didn’t answer any.

Since I’d spent the prior decade living abroad in France? I brought little with me when I moved in with Andrew back in January. I’d packed my things this morning, and drove back to the silent house. Stacking my clothes and most precious keepsakes neatly in the car took less than an hour. Like a lotta people, I deal with my own share of abandonment issues. A father who went to prison for statutory rape. A distraught mother who then killed herself. I couldn’t tolerate Andrew’s brooding indifference—especially because of his one-time mid-day blowjob by someone half my age last April. No fucking way.

Once I returned to France, I planned to hit Amsterdam. Since this chance would mark my last? I drove along the winding coast. I’d need to hook inland and south again for London. Damn. Fuck me. I’d lost track of the time. I rounded a sharp corner … couldn’t believe my eyes. Rolling to a stop, I killed the Volvo’s headlights.

Another Stupid Little Cunt. I snatched my Estwing claw hammer, raced into the street. Ah, shit. Bloody hell—

That smirking journo Thomas Norton just zapped me with a Taser—high-fived the girl—and plucked a tracker from my Volvo’s bumper. God damn sexy talented prick.

---

Bio: Crime writer Mick Rose pens haiku and prose while wandering the United States in a Quest for the Perfect Pizza. While his crime fiction can loom dark, and not for the faint-of-heart, he typically tells tall tales involving sexual humor (which sometimes prove explicit). His stories have kindly found homes in print and online mags, including Close To The Bone, and the story collections Born Under a Bad Sign, Vampirology, and Rumble Magazine from Screaming Eye Press. Care to say “Hello?” You can visit Mick below:

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