======================================== *** THE INNER SWINE *** Volume 1, Issue 2, September 1995 www.innerswine.com ======================================== "Man hands on misery to man / It deepens like a coastal shelf / Get out as early as you can / And don't have any kids yourself" - Phillip Larkin, 'This Be the Verse' CONCEPT BY: Jeff Somers, Robert Gala, Ken West, Jeof Vita COVER ART BY: Jeof Vita EDITOR: Jeff Somers ADVICE AND COCKTAILS: Too Many People to Mention (or is that 'too many cocktails to remember'?) INSPIRATION:My Own Bad Self OFFICIAL POET: Frank O'Hara, even if he did die at the age of forty by being improbably and ultimately tragically run over by a sand buggy on Fire Island FRIENDS OF THE SWINE: Rose Ann Haberman, who thought she was going to agree with me for once in her life after reading the first three paragraphs of "Happiness is a Warm Gun" only to discover that, as usual, she was wrong; Elizabeth Augoustiniatos, who I miss very much; [REDACTED], who was the first to offer me money for an issue; Alice Pucknet, who was the second; Karen Accavallo, who agreed to write an article for me, Lauren Strutzel, who allowed me to print her lovely poem in this issue; Jim O'Connor, who once advised me to let a girl get a running start and then go after her; Jeof Vita, for drawing such exclellent covers despite the fact that I am not even bothering to pretend to pay him; Misty Quinn, for reading all those silly e-mails (hee-hee); Eric Kun, who seems to think I'm weird enough for him; My Mother, who didn't say a negative word about the Swine after reading it, despite its grotesque nature; Kieran Higgins, who still has the first business card I gave him. ======================================== TABLE OF CONTENTS ======================================== EDITORIAL: "Pig in Shit #2: Sex and the Single Swine: What Do You Have to Do to Get Laid Around Here? EDITORIAL: "Jeff, You Ignorant Slut: nice girls don't get any either" FICTION: "His Rings Like Gifts" FICTION: "Darker Joys" COMMENTARY: "Why Liz Phair is a Goddess" COMMENTARY: "Crawling Back to Lap at the Trough of Baseball" FICTION: "Ravers" ---------------------------------------- The Inner Swine Volume 1, Issue 2 (ISSN: 1527-7704). Magazine published March, June, September, and December by Oinking Sow, Inc. (C) 1995-2002 by Jeff Somers. (There is no company, really) Individual subscription rates: $5.00 (cheap!) per year in U.S.; $6.00 (cheap!) per year foreign including Canada. Single Copy $2.00 (cheap!) but stop teasing me, you're never going to order a subscription, you heartless bastards. Free trades are absolutely entertained, send me something, and I will mail you treats. Checks payable to Jeff Somers, Editor. Address submissions and correspondence to Jeff Somers, The Inner Swine, POB 3024, Hoboken, NJ 07030, mreditor@innerswine.com. But let's face it, when was the last time we published anything not written by me or one of my cronies? Other people's pimply writing gives me hives. Still, all submissions or requests for Guidelines (there are no guidelines, though) must be accompanied by S.A.S.E. ======================================== *** EDITORIAL *** Pig In Shit #2: Sex and the Single Swine: What Do You Have to Do to Get Laid Around Here? ======================================== Men are pigs. I'll stand here and oink proudly and make it a point of pride not to deny it, I'll snuffle around the trough as enthusiastically as anyone and grin muddy grins. We oink and strut, treat women like meat and each other like thin wolves snorting around our larders. We value agression and like to play with out dicks, we can't have kids and only know how to destroy, never create. We make rude and inappropriate bodily noises. We refuse to bond emotionally, and all in all we sleepwalk through life with doomed and deadened lifelessness unless we're at war, at a football game, or in lust. But, if I may, I can hear women oinking in the background, and a few of them have swill stuck to their snouts. I am now going to put forth the startling proposition that women, in general, do not have any kind of moral supremacy over men, do not by definition possess nicer and purer souls, and can, in many cases, be worse pigs than men. The concept of the Earth-Mother/Angel/Goddess woman has gained a lot of credence over the years. Men are blamed for a great many of the world's evil, while many people seem to believe that if women were in charge we'd live in some sort of Star Trek paradise. Bullshit. Men may be responsible for most of the evil in the world, but that is a by- product of the fact that men have been the dominant half of the population for most of our history, and any evil that needed to be done had to be done by them. I'm not saying that men ought to be in charge, I'm simply saying that they have been. Women have been in a subordinate role throughout our history, and this is unfortunate, and hopefully changing. I am not arguing that women are any worse than men, or any better. Just that they are, collectively, as evil and mean- spirirted and selfish as all the men have proven to be, and I for one am sick and tired of hearing otherwise. Yes, women can bear children, and men cannot. So what? It's a biological function, folks; someone has to do it. Motherhood is a great and undeniably humbling thing: but, let's face it, you can gestate a human embryo in a cow, if necessary. It doesn't make women good. It doesn't make an otherwise mean and small human being into something angelic and wonderful. If that were the case, we wouldn't have crack babies or abandoned babies left in trash cans, there would be no child abuse and we wouldn't have had to invent a fucking holiday to make sure Mom got a crummy greeting card once a year. Being a woman is no guarentee of being a good person, just as being a man is no guarentee either. So, what's my point, that people are bad? Hell, that's the point of this entire silly venture. Of course all people are bad. I suck, you suck, yadda yadda yadda. My point here is that these days it's not worth it to be a nice guy, considering how evil everyone is. I might make a point about how its not worth it to be a nice girl, but I'm not a girl and as far as I know they're all evil at heart and laugh at us all, good and bad. Now, this is not a whine about being a nice guy and watching your penis acquire cobwebs -yeah, love sucks and we're all exquisitely tender souls weeping into our beers waiting to finally be noticed by true beauty, and that's too bad and so sad and no one, not a single person, gives a shit. At any rate there really is no such thing as a nice guy; I've already covered the Pig Portion of this editorial. Nice guys are just guys who have decided that the best way to get laid is to appeal to a woman's emotional side. As scams go, this one is long and hard and rarely pays off (largely due to the insidious BROTHER OF MINE syndrome) and my point, believe it or not, is that if your goal is cheap, heartless sex you're much better off just saying so. Be open about being a pig, and eventually you'll meet some woman who will shrug her shoulders and say "Sure". After all, is sex really so bad? Sure, it can be traumatic (there's no mistake like the night before) occasionally uncomfortable and almost always embarrasing, but is it really so bad? Even without delving into sad hallmark phrases about intimacy and trust, sex is fun. The creepiest, slimiest, most evil 5-bucks-for- a-blow-job sex is pretty fun, and only a nun would deny it. Women enjoy it, men enjoy it, we were designed for it, for Christs sake, and it begs just one very big question: if all of this is so true, then why is it so gosh-darn hard to get laid? The only answer which makes sense in the Inner-Piggy universe is FEAR. Fear might seem at first glance to be a remarkably wimpy response for a population supposedly ruled by greed, self-interest, and resentment, but a closer look reveals otherwise: fear is an incredibly arrogant and porcine response in this context. After all, if someone sticks a gun in your face fear is a natural and rather selfless reaction, whereas when you're afraid to sleep with someone you really have to think about what, exactly, you're afraid of. If you do you're likely to find yourself face to face with your own little pig, snuffling about and asking testily just what, exactly, you want. After all, what keeps us all apart and distressingly virginal -just the fear that we'll reveal something we never meant to, that someone might see the true us and get a good giggle out of it. That if we let someone else know we're interested they have power over us. the root of this reaction is bald-faced persona protection, protecting the bullshit we project, which is usually the first thing to go when we get naked and sweaty with someone. It's hard to act cool when someone's seen the faces you make when you come. So, we hold out for the perfect situation, which of course never comes, and which eventually leaves us drunk and regretful. Or maybe that's just me. You would think that knowing the world to be full of evil people, male and female, would make it easier. You would think that having realized that we 're all just insecure little shits hiding behind the politics of bar-hopping would make me braver. Sorry, the Inner Swine doesn't work that way. Knowledge isn't really power; that's a line they feed you when you're eleven to keep you in school a few more years. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Let's face it, if some chick at a bar thinks I'm the king asshole of the underworld after a five minute flirtation, I really, really may not want to know that. Eventually, however, some of us manage to get past it all and get laid. Obviously, a lot of us do. Somehow its easier when you're sixteen and completely fucked up as opposed to when you're twenty-three and moderately well balanced. Maybe it was the drugs; who knows? Eventually, however, most of us manage to sleep with someone, and some of us even manage to not regret it the next day (bless their hearts). Some of us, on some fool's errand called Love, even vow to sleep with just one person for the rest of their lives, an incredible statement which, according to the latest statistics available in this office, has enjoyed about a zero percent rate of success. Still, it's the thought that counts, right? You can't blame Swine for oinking, after all. And then the funny thing happens: once you've vowed to sleep with that special someone forever and exclusively, they will slowly and undeniably cease to be attractive to you. If that doesn't make you a pig, baby, nothing will. So, after all the angst and heartbreak of the mid twenties, the one night mistakes and painful miscues, you find someone you can imagine yourself screwing for the rest of your life and it doesn't give you that creepy feeling that the same thought about your senior- year girlfriend gave you. And then, five years later, somehow you've lost it, and that creepy feeling has crept back in. After all that trouble, our evil nature takes control and ruins everything and before too long you and your inner pig are caught in flagrante delicto, as it were, and you're right back where you started, sorta: in divorce court, eyeing your wife's lawyer appreciatively and trying to look uninterested. And, after all, what it comes down to I guess is this: Sure its an awful lot of trouble to go through, sure its messy and difficult. But its worth it. If it wasn't worth it, we wouldn't waste our time with it because we don't give a shit about things we don't get something out of. So, what did we learn today? We learned that women are, pound for pound, as evil as men, and god bless 'em. We learned that despite its unsavory side, sex is Good. And we learned that as usual your kind and benevolent editor has the goods, and is cheerfully willing to shell them out for free, or almost free, or about five bucks a copy shy of free. And if you don't have 5 bucks to spare on The Inner Swine, then I guess we can refer to paragraph seven to see where you're spending your five dollars. ======================================== *** EDITORIAL *** Jeff, You Ignorant Slut nice girls don't get any either by Karen Accavallo, authority. ======================================== Dear Jeff, I read with relish your editorial, Sex and the Single Swine. Admist my tears and bosom-beating, I managed to croak out one thought above all else: DID YOUR MOTHER MAKE YOU WEAR A MUUMUU AND HIGH HEELS WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG???????????????????????????? IS THE MAN-CHILD A LITTLE NEGATIVE BECAUSE HE HASN'T GOTTEN LAID IN THE PAST SIX MONTHS? Awww..... The last time I looked, I was a girl. And girls are just as evil as boys, Jeff, except not me. I'm not evil at all. I am a NICE GIRL. And what does that get me? A good case of the screaming thigh sweats and a drinking problem, that's it. Just because you don't think you should just bang some guy you've known for an hour, you are immediately turned into one of the guys (now there's something flattering) or criminy I hate to say it, the little sister. And where does that get you? Sitting alone in the Silver Bullet Saloon at 1:00am contemplating whether or not you should have taken Sister Elizabeth up on her offer when you were in the ninth grade. And anyway, sex is not a GOOD thing, Jeff, it is evil just like everything else. It may be fun sometimes and may release tension and you may even find some guy to call you back one of these days, but it is still evil. It plays with your mind, annoys your roommates, and I messed up a really nice set of expensive sheets once. It also causes you to lose valuable possessions because you feel like you can TRUST this individual, if you're actually going to let him see parts of your body that you don't want to admit you even have. And where does that get you? With the remains of a goatee on your vanity and a missing copy of The Crying of Lot 49. Yeah. So, I'm a nice girl, and that sucks. Because admitting you're a nice girl automatically turns you into either a man repellent or a freak magnet. I end up getting lines like this: 1. "You must know a lot about eating." Read: "I will tempt her with food so that I may use her for sex." 2."Karen, ya wanna go to the movies tomorrow? Ken's coming." Read: "Do you wanna come watch us get loaded so that we may use you for sex?" 3."Karen, would you like to eat this chocolate bar off my hairy chest?" Read: "Karen, would you like to eat this chocolate bar off my hairy chest?" (That's the scary part.) Oh, and I can't forget about the guy who so politely addressed me as "Blondie" and inquired as to whether I needed a husband. And OK, he was lingering around the DOT lot in New York City at 11:30 pm, drinking Thunderbird out of a paper bag. But still. So I've figured out that evil things happen to good people (ME) and good things happen to evil people (EVERYONE ELSE). I'll be sitting in some cheesy bar, drinking Fresca while the woman next to me soaks up whisky like Bounty. Guess which one will die first? Of course. Nice knowin' ya. I've figured out that it doesn't pay to be a nice girl, since you'll probably just be flattened by a steamroller. I've also figured out the following that will help any nice girl get through life. Oh, I forgot, I'm the only one. Anyway: 1. There is no such thing as a nice guy. Eventually his rubber face will fall off, and he will squeal, "t-t-t-that's all folks!" I have proof. 2. Sex is not a good thing, because it makes you lose things. 3. If anyone asks you to eat chocolate off their chest, run away. Quickly. Don't look back. And that's it. I'm never looking at another man again. Well, ok. Maybe one. Alright, maybe I'll look. But I've given up holding out for a hero. Nope. No way...OK, if there's anyone out there who thinks he may be a nice guy... call me. Please? ======================================== *** FICTION *** DARKER JOYS by Jeff Somers ======================================== (As the audience enters the stage is dark and nothing is visible. When the house lights go down. the muffled sound of jingling keys and cursing can be heard: After a moment, the sound of a creaking door, and then of shuffling foot- steps, punctuated by moans. The lights come on, revealing Marty, standing by a light switch. He is an aging boy, early thirties, looking under the weather in a tuxedo that is untied and undone. His eyes are closed and one hand rests on his head as if he were afraid it was fragile. Slowly, he rubs his head and groans. The set is the living room of his apartment, fairly nice but not too expensive. The door is off to the right facing the audience, only partly shut, and the light switch is next to it. Beneath a garish painting on the far wall are both the stereo and the liquor cabinet, well stocked. In front of those are the couch and love seat, in an L shape, sitting before the television which faces away from the audience. He rubs his eyes and opens them, looks out at the audience, blinks and screams almost girlishly. He slaps the lights off again as he wheels back in shock, and in the dark we hear a cacophony as he slips and falls. In the ensuing quiet, he groans quietly for a few seconds, and then the sounds of a man getting to his feet, carefully. The lights come back on and he squints out at us, appearing to hang off of the light switch, his free hand shielding his eyes.) M: Holy shit! Sorry about that, but I didn't expect to see you there. (sighs) Goddam, it's bright. I'm not feeling too ship-shape, I'm afraid. (moves over to couch, sits with obvious care and feels around his pockets) One more cigarette. captain, before once more into the breach. (Finds a pack and lights a cigarette, breathing deep and hacking out a great guffawing series of coughs. When he settles down, he eyes the audience cannily as he slumps into the couch) Ever go to one of those parties where the guys are too drunk and the girls not drunk enough? Where the one person you know has passed out or left, and you roam around from chick to chick trying to just talk to someone. You don't even want to get laid. By that time you're too tired to get laid. You just want to talk to someone, anyone just so no one will wonder about you, stare at you (He takes a human puff and looks down) I was at one of those parties tonight. Except (grins self consciously) here's the twist: I know everyone there. Old, old friends, bunch of fucking vultures circling around you at the front door for beer money. I hate my fucking friends. I don't like even one. Especially Meredith! (he stands and gesticulates wildly) God! That woman is the worst of them all! Calls me up and begs me to come, begs me to talk to her, and when I get there, she's drunker than a fly in a beer vat and too busy flirting to notice. (calms down and shakes his head, chuckling) Yeah, it was one of those parties, and Meredith's just one of those women, eh? I shouldn't spend so much fucking time feeling bad for myself. I'm just a bastard like everybody else, right? (crosses to the liquor. busies himself making a drink) I'm a bastard! (joyfully) I make fun of stupid people and I smoke in no-smoking zones. When I find wallets I keep the money. When I get laid I go home early and don't call, and when I get drunk I get mean. (whirls and bows with drink and cigarette in hand) And the zinger is, the real reason I'm a bastard is that I know all this and I still don't care. (smiles brightly) Maybe I can't stand my friends because they don't like me. (He loses the smile and sits down on the couch with a sigh) Sometimes it's fun, being a bastard. Don't get me wrong. But tonight, it wasn't Tonight I felt like a shit. And Robby! fuck; he wasn't helping. Christ, he just doesn't know when the fuck to shut up sometimes. He just keeps-messing with you until (looks at his right hand critically) My knuckles'll puff up tomorrow -but it was worth it . one less friend to worry about, and it was worth it. (smiles again, and drinks leaning back with a moan) I just want to sleep, now. I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I just want to sleep. I don't want to call Robby and apologize, go have drinks with Stan tomorrow-night and rehash tonight's adventures. Fuck. (From the half-open door drift voices, loud and laughing. Marty sits up and then stands padding over to listen) Holy fuck. Leave the party and the party comes to me. No time to hide the booze - Charlie! You cheap fuck, what the hell! (Charlie,-Meg, Beth, Darren, and Meredith crowd the doorway. They are all formally dressed although sweaty and loosened. Charlie is obviously very drunk, as are Beth and Meg. Darren and Meredith are not so drunk, and Meredith scowls around, not having a good time) CH: We heard a rumor you'd deserted. MG: Yeah, slipped out without a word. B: And the drinks only half gone, too! MR: Hi, Marty. M: (throwing out his arms) For my health, you fucking vampires!. And now you'll kill me. (They rush into the place, laughing except for Meredith, who strolls in with her scowl in place and her hands busy with cigarettes. She is tall and slim, pretty but not very much so. She holds herself with a sexual poise that is very attractive. Charlie is a big, beefy man with dark hair and a flushed face, sweaty and wet-mouthed. Beth and Meg are blonde and brunette pretty and giggling, dressed to the hilt and quite aware of the fact. Darren is quiet, light-haired and somehow seeming older. He saunters in after the rest and gives a clear impression of not wanting to be there. Charlie spies the liquor, and he and the giggling girls attack it.) M: (to audience) You see? Can you imagine sitting there drunk with these hooligans? It's not fair, I don't think, that dogs will sometimes follow you home. Now I've got to get rid of then before they get too drunk to walk. (Meredith is looking at him strangely, as is Darren) MR: You feelin' okay. Marty? (Marty jumps a little and returns his attention to the , stage) M: No, Mer, that's why I left the fucking shindig in the first place.(He glances at Charlie) I didn't order a party to go. (Charlie turns with a drink in hand, smiling) CH: One doggy-bag at your service, Mart. We were worried about you. That's why we're here. M: You were worried about my booze. (Charlie affects a hurt look) CH: Come on Marty, be friendly! (The two girls echo laughingly) M: Fuck you, Charlie. (to audience) Charlie is a big kid. He vas that big moron who liked to beat up kids in fifth grade, he was that big moron who made fun of the freshmen in high school he was that big moron who almost died from beer poisoning pledging Tappa Kegga in college. Now he's that big moron who follows you home from parties and can't understand the phrase Fuck you Charlie! (looks balefully around) Beth and Reg are actually slightly less interesting when sober, which is about as bad as it gets. I think everyone has slept with Beth not that I hold it against her, and Meg doesn't even have that going for her. They're the sort of girls you see at the parties until they get married and then live unhappily ever after. (lights a new cigarette and sits jauntily on the couch. silently, the others talk and gesture in the background) It's not a pretty life. (Meredith sits down next to him, while the others talk in the background, looking surreptitiously at Marty) MR: Funny how dogs will follow you home. M: Bought him a beer six years ago (shrugs) who knew? (to audience) I think Mer's the only intelligent person I know. At least she's the only one that doesn't give me a hangover when I talk to her. With Charlie and the other body snatchers you have to meet them in bars and get into a bottle of Scotch just to stomach them. MR: (taking one of his hands) Well, look on the bright side. They can't stay forever, can they? M: There're Doritos in the kitchen, honey. The could make it into next week on one bag of Doritos. (Squints at her suspiciously) I thought you weren't talking to me, anyway. (she leans back and crossed her arms, looking away) MR: I thought you weren't talking to me. (Charlie sneaks up and sits next to Marty) CH: 'Sokay, Mart. I don't hold grudges, as long as I've got a glass warming in my hand. M: I'm glad. CH: Knew you would be. I mean we came by just to see if you were okay. We did this out of our own free will. I expect a little politeness from you, after all. M: Thanks. Now, go. (to audience) Fucking people are just extra baggage, I swear. (Charlie smiles and leans back on the couch, sighing comfortably. Marty and Meredith exchange glances, and she shrugs her eyebrows.) M: (to audience) The thing that wouldn't leave and all horror tales related (stands up) So it's three o'clock in the morning and all I want to do is-sleep and-the mighty booze hounds have attached themselves to my bloating carcass and begun to suck. (looks around, Charlie is talking to Meredith and she is ignoring him pointedly. Meg and Beth are talking to Darren warmly, sipping drinks. Darren basks in their warm perfume and looks predatory) I wonder if I throw the booze out the window if they would dive after it. (smiles suddenly) When I was a little kid, well, maybe not so little, but a kid of some sort, I went on a camping trip with a bunch of friends, for lack of a better word. We went with this one kid's uncle, who we all called Mister Edwards -except that one kid, who called him Uncle Mike- well, Mr. Edwards took us all canoeing. He was in the lead canoe with his nephew and this big cooler of beer. We all overturned a few times and almost died, much to Mr. Edwards' delight, the bastard. Finally our collective wills took hold and wishful thinking won out, and Mr Edwards and his runty little nephew vent over. The runty little nephew couldn't swim, and Mr. Ed wasn't so buoyant himself, but the cooler of beer sailed along swimmingly. if you'll excuse the pun. So little Edwards is drowning and screaming, steadily doing more drowning than screaming, and Uncle Edwards is floating along like blown ballast, shouting "Save the beer! Save the fucking BEER!". But, luckily, we got confused, like kids will, and we saved the little Edwards instead. Mister Edwards floated away, but we found him. Sadly enough, the beer was always lost. (sighs) The good old days. Some things never change. (turns to Charlie) Charlie, I want to go to bed, okay? (Charlie smiles at him) CH: Come on, chum. The night's young. (Marty shakes his head) M: And neither are you, old chum. This night got old for me really, really quick. (he glances over at Darren and the two girls) Let me save you some time, Dar. One's not going to and the other's not worth it. Together, they're a nightmare. (Everyone stares. Marty grins wickedly.) M: Now will you leave? (Beth starts to cry and runs for the bathroom, offstage. All are silent, until) M: (with a roll of his eyes) There's justice for you. I go out of my way to chase her off and she runs into my bathroom. Christ. (Shakes his head and starts to chuckle.) CH: You think that was funny?" M: Mr. Prick turns gallant! Why not? Who says I have to give a shit? Maybe if you can't stand an asshole like me you should leave! CH: (Slowly) You're a son of a bitch, Marty. (Crosses to follow Beth) M: That's right! (To audience, sighs) Maybe I can lock them all safely in the bathroom and get some sleep. Then they can get sick on each other and I'll Just hose them down tomorrow (Meg walks towards him, and he spies her with alarm) Uh- oh, Hell hath no fury, and all that. (Looks around as if contemplating escapes, then turns with a resigned look to face her. She steps in front of him and slaps him.) MG: You fucking prick! M: (Quietly) Yes. CH: (Walking up and taking her hand belligerently) That's right. Let's go, beg. We can get drunk anywhere we want. We don't need to stay here. M: (brightly) Don't forget your baggage in the bathroom And promise me you won't call tomorrow after you sober up! And swear you'll pretend not to know me in the street. (marches about waving his arms, ending up at the door and holding it open) Don't bur cigarettes off of me. Don't buy me drinks. Don't ask mutual friends how I'm doing. Don't drop by. Just get out, stay out, and don't come back! (Charlie has marched leg over to the door and stops, opening his mouth. Marty raises a finger) M: Wait. (walks off towards the bathroom. Offstage is hoard the sound of a busted lock as he breaks down the door, then muffled weeping. He reappears with the teary Beth in tow) Don't forget this. I've got to clean the bathroom tomorrow. (she runs to Charlie, who holds her and glares at Marty. The standoff continues as Darren lights a cigarette and calmly watches) D: Hey, Marty, first Robby and now this, huh? M: (looks disgusted for a moment and then throws up his hands and throws himself onto the couch.) Why don't you all just leave? If I can't be a fucking bastard in my own fucking apartment, then I might as well stay out all the tire. (To audience) Hear that? You can never leave your past behind. It follows you, like bad luck. MR: Darren, Robby deserved it. (Marty looks at her as she sits in an easy chair. Then he looks at audience in shock) M: She really is drunk. (to Darren) Weren't you jolly folk leaving? Or are you contemplating beating-me up? CH: (viciously) The thought's appealing. M: Huh. You're an asshole, Chucky. Just 'cause you're a smaller asshole than I am is no reason to put on airs. (Darren joins Charlie, Meg, and Beth) D: Come on, Mer, let's give him what he wants and leave him alone. MR: You go ahead. D: Huh? MR: (smiling) I feel like being a bitch tonight. What better place to do it? (Marty unleashes a manic grin at the four, and Darren shrugs) D: Okay, have it your way. (They move out the doorway) CH: Fuck you, Mart. M: And you, Chucky. (They leave, and can be heard descending the stairs. Marty still sprawled on the couch, looks at Meredith, and they both shrug eyebrows at each other) M: Want a drink? MR: (sitting down next to him) If I do, I'll be spending the night here. M: Would that be so bad? (She considers for a moment) MR: Gin and tonic. (He gets up and she kicks off her shoes, leaning against the arm of the couch and stretching out, her hair mussed and her eyes sleepy. Marty mixes them each a drink and hands it to her, lying on the couch the opposite way, facing her with his glass on his chest. Their feet barely touch and for several moments they watch each other) M: What are you thinking? MR: That you really are an asshole. M: Yeah. I guess I am. (Gets up and goes to the stereo. Slow music drips into the room) Cone on, Meredith let's dance. (He holds out his hand, and after a moments hesitation she puts her drink down and gets up, taking his hand. He pulls her close and wraps his arms around her, and they sway in step in the room, his face in her hair, her eyes closed, only the music around them) THE END ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** Crawling Back to Lap at the Trough of Baseball Greedy overpayed players who take drugs and beat up the fans, then go on strike and complain and the fans that love them. ======================================== Well, baseball is back. All the collective talking heads of the pseudo- intellectual sports world are complaining about the indignity of the strike, the sacriliege of cancelling a world series, the pure greed and unmitigated smallness of the players. Fans are staying away in droves, running onto the fields, holding up signs. Everyone has a goddammed opinion about it, and the concensus seems to be that those evil players should be punished, that we should stop watching the game in protest, and nothing short of the financial ruin of the Lords of Baseball and their minions will bring the universe back into sync. Such vehemance! Such passion! Such anger! Such Bullshit!! It is time, I think, to put aside the ridiculous concept that Baseball is some sort of magical spiritual religion which has made America great. Come on, grow up, kids! Baseball is a sport. I like to watch it, its intricacies and variations, strategies and controversies fascinate me. But I have never stood in a cornfield and heard voices, I have never carved a bat out of a tree splintered by lightening, and I have never asked Joe Dimaggio to be the conscience of a nation. I have never and will never ask baseball to heal me, inspire me, save me, or anything else. From the dawn of the American League, baseball has been a bunch of surly, beer-drinking guys getting together to smack the ball around and more often than not get into brawls. Money has been an issue of contention since before the spitball was illegal, and if you don't believe me you can take The Baseball Encyclopedia out of the library (all 17 pounds of it) or rent Ken Burns' Baseball (all eightteen eye-popping hours of it) and see for yourself. The strike which destroyed last season is not an isolated event, or even the product of 20 or 30 years of labor disputes. It is the latest chapter in a power struggle which has been going on in major league baseball virtually since its inception. It is a labor dispute. That's it. We're not talking about Frodo standing up to Sauron, here. This is not something easily placed into biblical terms. You've got unhappy workers and unhappy owners and they are continuing to fight over the profits just like they always have. Allow me to put a few things into perspective: Number one, why is it that just because Barry Bonds makes seven fucking million dollars a year we assume he owes us something? Ridiculous! Why do we resent players so much just because they are making about seven millions more a year than we are? Perhaps next time you are up for a salary review at your job, you might suggest that you don't need a raise, you're making plenty right now. No? Whyever not? Oh, because you're not making seven million dollars a year. Ah, the logic of the Swine! Okay, let's say that for some reason your business became a hot property and all your co-workers were given seven million dollar salaries, but you only got five million. Are you honestly telling me that you would just smile and say "Well, five million pigs is a lot of dough. What would I do with two more anyway? Keep it!" If you're sitting there right now thinking that sure you would, you're a liar and a bad one, at that. If my crummy job offered me a million a year I'd take it and immediately start wondering how I could jack it up to a million five. Is that wrong? Nossir! That's the American Way. Since I think everyone in the universe would gladly arbitrate for more money even if they were being paid a gazillion bucks, and no one walks into the office on monday and says "Boss, I've got enough. No raise for me, thanks!", the only reason we resent these players is just plain old jealousy that they get to make so much money and we don't. There's no moral issue here, we just wish we'd been able to hit a fastball when we were kids. If I'm Barry Bonds and I get an offer from the San Francisco Giants for six million a year, the natural next thought is "Hey, if I can get six, I can get seven." And if I'm Frank Thomas I'm looking at Barry Bonds and thinking, "I've got better numbers than that, if he can get seven, I can get eight." What's wrong with that? Nothing. If you believe players are overpayed, you may be right, considering what a high school teacher gets each year (we might as well pay them in food and ammunition, at this point), but blame the players? Nope. Don't be stupid. Number two, I would argue that this strike and as a matter of fact all the strikes and lawsuits and bitter nasty words in the press are (gasp) part of the game. That's right. Just like cheat-pitches, sacrifice bunts, bad umpires, and rowdy fans, the labor dispute is a part of the game. It has loomed over every game ever played. It has contoured the history of this game as much as the length from the pitcher's mound or the designated hitter rule. If the leagues had been born in fairness and even-handed love for the sport, things would be incredibly different. Better? I don't know, do you think 1927 could have been better? 1930? 1968? I doubt it. Just different. The Baseball leagues were born with the Reserve Clause tied lightly around their necks, and for perhaps a hundred years it kept players on teams no matter what their needs or decisions were. The owners owned their players, and that's why Lou Gehrig played for the New York Yankees his entire career. Today, Lou Gehrig would be the richest man in the world. He'd be making so much money we'd have to sell Hawaii to pay for him or else he'd go to Japan. Ever since Curt Flood the tide has been turning the other way, thanks to the enlightened labor laws that gave us free agency, arbitration, and the Players' Union. It's just a new chapter in the struggle between two opposing forces, and while the owners may have made a big mistake by giving the players so much goddammed money, it's just a chapter. It's not over. It'll never be over. The fans need to have a little perspective and realize that the only reason they don't give a shit is because they don't have to deal with it. Would anyone prefer that the Reserve Clause be re-instated? Some would, I don't doubt. I can think of twenty eight people right off the top of my head, and I'm sure a few of us who don't own major league baseball teams wouldn't mind, either. But would you like to know that you could never leave your job, even if conditions got terrible? That no matter how unhappy you were you weren't allowed to leave? Of course not. But this is all just a chapter. Chapters to come include the removal of the Anti-trust Exemption from Major League Baseball, a flurry of lawsuits so thick it'll blind us all, the collapse of a few franchises, and who knows what else. It's not over. It's just getting interesting. And I, for one, will be sitting there paying attention, because I don't care if the players get paid buckets of money, in food, or not at all, really. I just want them to play. I want Frank Thomas to hit .350 with 50 homers every year. I want Tony Gwynn to bat .400 before he dies. I want someone to hit 62 home runs. I want someone to get 191 RBIs just so I can get that one-season wonder Hack Wilson out of the record books. I want Greg Maddux to win four fucking Cy Young Awards and boogie into the Hall of Fame. That's all I care about. Pay Barry Bonds his millions, fine with me. Let them whine and fight and make commercials, as long as they play, and play hard. Barry Bonds might make a poor millionaire, but he's a sublime player, and that's all that matters. I don't hold greed against anybody; I'm pretty greedy myself, most days. What I can't do is win the triple crown, and I don't care if they give Barry Bonds three bona-fide wishes as a salary and he elects himself king of goddam universe, that's fine with me as long as he backs up Matt Williams and they combine for 60 or 70 or 100 homers. I'm not fooling myself with delusions of The Great Old Religion of Baseball (With Babe Ruth as God, Lou Gehrig and Thurman Munson as angels, Ty Cobb as the devil, and everyone from Shoeless Joe jackson to Denny McClain to Dwight Gooden as fallen angels) which demands that grown men play a game for no more than, get this, the love of the sport. Ha! I'm sure that's why we're all doing what we do. Sure, everyone in the world works at their job just for the love of it! My God! The arrogance! The unbelievable porcine arrogance of it. You can point at those noble replacement players and dance and cackle and say "See! They'd play for free! They'd play for the love of the game!" Sure! And they'd play fucking terribly. Let's face it, after expansion and all your whining about the corruption of the game and how disgustingly Hockey-like the playoffs are getting, there are still only a few thousand players in the world who are considered major- league material. Imagine if there were only a few thousand people capable of being doctors. Imagine what they'd be getting paid! Perhaps that's a bad comparison, since when the bomb drops we'll be desperate for doctors and no one will give a rats ass about Frank Thomas. But think of it, a few thousand players have a shot at the majors, and I'm supposed to believe that just because they've added some teams the quality of play goes down. I would put Frank Thomas against Lou Gehrig any day, because Lou never had to face Nolan Ryan, Lou never had to face Dennis Eckersly in the ninth inning, Lou never had to work out, for Christ's sake. I'm not saying that Lou Gehrig wasn't one of the top ten players of all time, because he was, but let's face it, in some aspects he'd get eaten alive by today's game. He was long gone before 1968, when they raised the pitcher's mound, before Sandy Koufax blew everyone away, before Nolan Ryan fanned 383 people in a single season. He never had to pound his knees on artificial turf, nor was he ever expected to steal bases more often than maybe once a month. Would Lou gehrig do well today? Sure. After a season or two to get used to it all I'm sure he'd bat .350 and knock in 150 rbis. Funny, that's exactly what Frank Thomas is doing. Somehow, I think it takes more than a love for the game. I love the game. I will not, I don't think, be starting at First Base for the Yanks next season. That's what we're paying for, talent. Get used to it. So, I will be watching. I will watch every game and I will keep track of the stats and I will be there for the playoffs and the world series, and the rest of you who are too pure to sully your pristine hands in the dirty murk of the real world can sit at home and watch golf or something and trust me when I say that you will not be missed. Those of us who truly love baseball, those of us who have a real and undeniable appreciation for the game, not some vague love for some spiritual mumbo-jumbo spun from whole cloth and the fond memories of old fogies or some pie-in-the-sky utopia where no one gets greedy and everyone plays fair and for the love of the game, we'll be having a good time at the park, throwing up beer and hot dogs and dodging foul balls, tossing refuse at the outfielders and booing the umps. For those of us who love the real, actual sport being played so well by the professionals who get paid to do it, it takes a lot more than some sordid money-grubbing to turn us away, because if we were that delicate we'd have to, I don't know, take up fly fishing or something. ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** WHY LIZ PHAIR IS A GODDESS idol worship in a godless society ======================================== I do not support idol worship. I don't understand why people collect autographs, unless its for eventual financial gain, I don't understand why anyone in their right minds would ever want to meet a celebrity. Just because someone is entertaining or talented does not make them nice people, or good people, or people I would want to hang out with since I don't care much for nice people or good people anyway. The few times I have spied famous faces in restaraunts or on city streets I have experienced zero urge to say hello to them, and I have noticed that I'm just about the only person I know who feels this way. Everyone else has at least a small urge to hob knob with fame. I respect talent, and there are times when you're watching some celebrity or other gnash their teeth on the screen and you suddenly think Gosh, they seem so nice! You think that maybe they are just normal folks who happen to make gobs of money, look great and get interviewed on Entertainment Tonight. I can only suppose that some of you imagine hanging out with them, how much fun you'd have, how you'd touch their life and the genius in question would write a song about you, a movie, whatever. If only you could meet them, they'd see how wonderful you are, how tender and hip your soul has become. Christ, you pathetic bastards. I reject idol worship as a basic waste of your time and here's why: 1) I don't like people, 2) I don't like people, 3) I resent people who are wealthier than me. Considering that I have to get deep into a bottle of Scotch to even tolerate a conversation with most of idiots running around in my hum-drum and decidedly unfamous life, it is a never ceasing wonder to me that you can look at a complete and total stranger and imagine that they'll be fun and cool to hang out with. Why? Nine times out of ten the people you meet turn out to be anything ranging from mildly annoying to downright evil. The idiot actor being interviewed or the idiot rock star in the video, what makes them different? Fame? Please. My friend Karen could snap and murder a busload of people tomorrow, and she'd be famous too. She'd be on every channel, Diane Sawyer would interview her and garner high ratings. And I would advise anyone from getting to know her, no matter how cool she might seem on TV. What everyone must try to remember is that all these shmucks were just your usual white-trash or black- trash or puerto-rican trash or whatever before they somehow started to get paid, they were the same people who annoyed you at bus stops and who you got into fights with in high school. Now they're famous. Yippee. That's why I don't understand why anyone goes through any kind of trouble to stalk and meet their favorite celebrity. I don't go through any kind of trouble to stalk and meet regular people, why bother with anyone else, especially when meeting a celebrity would require something dangerously resembling work. I don't even like the idea of working for the crummy friends I already have, much less working to get past the security and staff of your typical star, only (most probably) to find out they were just assholes after all. My incredible near-encounter with stardom: as usual, the only celebrities I get close to are MOR ho-hums, no really BIG stars. Then again, I don't live in Los Angeles. The closest I have ever been to a celebrity was the time me and some friends sat next to Gabriella Sabatini in Planet Hollywood. Now, I dislike theme restaurants like PH on principle, as all intelligent people do. What really irks me about them is the line-waiting. You wait on line for food that really isn't special, and no matter how much people prattle on about the "atmosphere" or the "decor" there is, of course, only one reason to wait on line to eat some crummy burger and fries: celebrities. Rumors abound of how big stars like to slip into Planet Hollywood and eat crummy burgers and fries. This is, of course, bullshit, but it remains the only reason to wait on line for Planet Hollywood, for christ's sake. Now, I think waiting in line for anything is a serious metaphysical error. I mean, hell, you've only got so much time in this world, and if you spend it all on line, where's that going to get you? That's right, nowhere. Of course, sometimes you can't help it. try explaining that theory of lines to some russian peasent waiting for their weekly bread ration. But for Planet Hollywood? No. Not worth it. Not even near worth it. Not even close. But, occassionally we can be convinced to sacrifice our time by friends who seem to find Planet Hollywood entertaining, or at least amusing. We know they don't like it for the food. Anyway, we waited in line for a bit and sat down, and my friends, who are inexplicably tennis fans (tennis is a sport for the bored and listless, the sort of people who can't find the energy to change the channel) began chatting abou the US Open or some other dull and lifeless event involving sissies banging a rubber bal about a clay court. Then, Gabriella Sabatini sat down at a table next to us. They made a very small amount of fuss about her, but a little. I, of course, had no idea who she was. It had to be explained to me, and then I was disappointed. When someone nudges you and says "Don't you know who that is?", I for one expect more than Gabriella Sabatini. Well, fine, then, such is life. I returned my attention to a rather unpleasant dinner involving grease and char and a slightly stale bun. I mean, how does the fact that some woman who can play tennis was sitting next to me supposed to change my dinner experience? Now, if she could cook, maybe. I started eating again. My friends, however, began chattering like schoolgirls almost immediately, and began to use macho insecurity tricks to try and convince each other to go up to her and get an autograph: "Go ahead, pussy!" "No, you go, you coward!" I watched in amazement. Here were two reasonably intelligent people drooling over some second-rate sports celebrity. They had been reduced to snarling schoolboys, shoving each other. I just wanted to finish dinner, throw up, and get on with my life. They wanted to publicly embarrass themselves (and me) and intrude on another persons life, which to my thinking is a sin of a great order even if you are a celebrity. We always assume that celebrities have somehow sold us their souls, and given us the right to do anything we want to with them. You hear about it all the time, how celebrities give up certain rights because they are in the public eye. I suppose that's correct, in a sense. But to me, it doesn't matter. Violation of privacy is an evil act, and I don't care if you think you've been invited to do it by the nature of their lifestyle, you're wrong. And, even if you weren't, it always returns to: why would you want to? You pass people on the street every day who might have fascinating and colorful private lives, and yet you show no interest in them whatsoever. But if they show up on the news, you care. It's pathetic. As kindly as I could, I leaned forward gently and smiled beatifically at them, and told them that the first one to make a move towards her table would regret it. My friends have known me long enough to know that I meant it. At the root of it all, of course, is the simple belief that our own lives must be queer and dull, and a certain small percent of us are cool enough to become worthy of attention. Naturally, under such circumstances, the dull and boring would want to associate with the fun and interesting, be seen with them, become them. The basic nature of idol worship is, like all things human, selfish: you hope to take on whatever aspect of their lives attracted you in the first place, you hope to share in their glory. Like spiritual vampires, you chase your golden calfs down and siphon off fame or cool or plain old, raw desirability. You wear someone elses mystique on your slim shoulders, ill-fitting and careless. I can recall going to see Liz Phair in concert a few months ago. A nice writer would pause here to explain this dubious cultural reference to those of us who haven't been blessed with Liz Phair in their lives, but I am not a nice writer. She's been in USA TODAY, for christ's sake; stop living in a closet. So, I was at this concert panting with mild- mannered lust and scheming how to break through security and propose marriage, or at least sex, without any intention whatsoever of doing it. I mean, the concert wasn't great, it ended, I went home. After all, I fantasize about women on the bus, too, without really wanting to meet them. Poor Liz Phair, however, was chased through the streets of New York City by crazed fans, all somehow convinced that Liz Phair running away was a sure sign she wanted to meet them. In this situation, its obvious to even soft-brained teenagers hopped up on good pot that even if you succeed in catching the prey, they aren't going to like you. No one in that mob of kids was thinking "Okay, here's where she turns and smiles and asks us to be her new friends because we're so gosh-darned persistent!" They knew that if she stumbled and fell and they swarmed over her she'd start to scream and kick and curse. But they chased her anyway. Idol worship is not about desiring the person; you don't even know the fucking person. It's about vampirism, its about objectifying the celebrity so that its okay to suck their lives away for your own scabby use. So, if you can answer any of these questions in the affirmative: 1. I would gladly maim or kill to meet Eric Clapton 2. I think Eric Clapton would be my friend if only I could meet him 3. Occasionally I dream about Eric Clapton (and, oddly enough, Erik Estrada) Please, just get on with your lives, comforted by the knowledge that most celebrities are just as dull, pointless, and uninteresting as you are. Step out into the light and leave vampirism behind. ======================================== *** FICTION *** RAVERS by Jeff Somers ======================================== "if you're not cop, you're little people" The papers call me a killer, but I prefer to think of myself as a hunter. I was the only reason the goddamned rags got delivered, anyway, they should treat me better. Oh, I could understand the prejudice. There were cops who used their gold badge to ink out wives, girlfriends, annoying neighbors. There were bad cops. They were the reason people avoided us, the reason for anonymous tips and the constant fear. But I wasn't one of them. I was a good cop. I only killed the lawbreakers and I usually waited until I had reason to believe a crime had been committed. I sat smoking stale unfiltereds in my crummy room, the neon blinking in my face. Everyone knew a cop was living here and so it was safe -we were never off duty, and the Ridley Act gave us our gold badges. No crook would come near a cop's house, that was for sure. He'd get shot and I'd just have to ink up a Standard Incident Report down at the station. I was known because I had lived here for a while; we didn't wear uniforms, so no one knew you were cop until you inked someone -although I think if people were to pay attention they'd be able to tell. Cops look different. They stand out. A license to kill does that to a person. Yeah, there were bad cops. Guys and chicks who'd put a gun to some young piece of ass and tell 'em to put out or die. And if they shot an innocent person - nothing. Oops. The gold shield guarantees no prosecution. We take an oath, and that's supposed to guide us. In reality, there was only one real rule: you don't shoot other cops. Yeah, there were crummy pigs. But not me. I'm a good cop. I was walking down Central Avenue, looking for a place to eat. We don't wear uniforms anymore, but you can still pick us out. Lost cops wear suits, and we're just about the only ones, these days. A lot of us wore our shields on our pockets. The rest of us like to skulk. Just as I walked into Jerry's, my beeper squawked. I hung up the jacket and stalked into the rear to pluck up a phone and call Bryant. "Krim." I barked into the phone. "Billy, we got a mess down here. Get in, quick." I groaned. "Boss, I haven't eaten dinner yet." "Get it to go." Bryant snapped. I was suddenly listening to a dial tone. I slammed down the phone and stared balefully at it for a moment, noticing how quiet it had become. I padded to the front, gun out, sniffing the air and wondering if I should yell "police!" or not. I made it to the end of the hallway and peeked out. Some nigger with a ski mask and a modified gun -filed down, with the barrel acid-widened- was standing nervously, demanding cash. His black hands shook. I stepped out, leveled the gun, and blew his nose back into his face, pieces of mask pulled in with it. He slid to the floor comically. I holstered and grabbed my coat. "Jerry, do me a favor and call that in. You know my badge number." Jerry's black skin was as sweaty as the nigger's had been. He wiped his brow. "Sure. Thanks, Billy." I nodded. "What we're here for!" It was the riots that gave us the Ridley Act, New York was on fire. L.A. was gone, the cops got orders to shoot to kill, We took it to heart, rallied, and in a week the cities were at peace. I was a rookie of twenty-one, then. I killed almost forty-one perps that week. It was the riots that gave us the gold badges. The station was old, full of big, cavernous rooms and big white columns. The outside was full of illegally parked cars and cops smoking cigarettes, eyeing the occasional civilian suspiciously. Most of the regular people stayed away from us. I don't really blame them. I found Bryant reading reports in the back offices, drinking bourbon and looking like he'd been thinking of shooting his wife again. Maybe he had, this time. He nodded me in and I sat down, sticking my badge back in a pocket. I lit my own cigarette and declined a bourbon.. He sighed. Krim, we got shit. We got a fucking dego on the run from the families." I shrugged. "A mafia asshole in bad with his greasers? Not our problem, Captain." I exhaled thick white smoke, unfiltered and unhealthy. "The dego iced a badge out in Detroit, hopped a plane, and is around here. She's a fucking smokers Krim. You're the man. I want her dead in a week, Krim. I've got pressure from Detroit like you wouldn't believe. They're trying to keep it out of the papers until we can pull out a dead dego on a spit. You're the man." I muttered a curse. A cop killer was the worst kind of a crook. They were desperate dead men -marked. They usually got cunning. Sometimes they pulled a few cute tricks out of their ass -and, with one dead cop, one or two more didn't make any difference to you. I snuffed out my half-smoked butt. "Got a file on him?" I was hoping for a picture, but the icers in the families usually kept low profiles. "Her, Krim, and yeah, we got a photo." Bryant said, reading my mind, He handed me a thick file. "She's been around." I stood up with the papers under my arm. 0kay, Cap, I'm on the case." I said. "Can I go eat, now?" "I don't give a fuck what you do, Krim, just have her dead by Tuesday. You got a week." I saluted sarcastically and limped out. The streets parted for me. I was a good cop, but enough people had been inked just for bumping into a badge. There were some real bloodthirsty badges out there. So, no one was taking any chances. Maybe the black cloud over my head didn't help, either. I didn't like being treated that way, being told what to do. No cop did. I didn't like hunting the god-damn mafia) either. They were slippery, greasy little critters, sometimes. You could spend weeks chasing the fucking degos, from hiding place to hiding place -and, when you found 'em, they were just as likely to ventilate you as they were to lay down and die. I had a feeling it was going to be an ugly job. I made my way back to Jerry's for that missed dinner. They were still brushing blood off the floor. Jerry came around with a covered tray, and sat down with me. "Sorry about your floor, Jer. Jerry was shaking his head. He was big, flabby and full of smiles, I'd always liked him. He loved having me as a regular. It kept the crooks out, usually. "Don't sweat it, Billy-boy. You saved me almost six hundred bucks tonight. Hell -dinner's on me." That was Jerry -big all around. He loved cops. Post of the decent people did, we were what kept their businesses open. If you took us away, within a week the place would be salted earth, the goons would come up shooting so fast. lost of the decent people figured a few bloodstains on their floor was well worth a peaceful society. I spent about an hour chewing the fat with Jerry and eating, and then I got up and hit the pay phone, looking for clues. It's not like I had anything else to do. The job was my life. I called my usual contacts and they came up dry. It was the first stop, and it always, or almost always, came up dry. But you had to start at the beginning. After that, I had to kick up some dirt and break some heads. No one minded a few broken heads. They knew they were getting off easy. The problem with contacts was that you had to keep them alive. They were crooks -small timers, usually, and they couldn't rat on anyone unless you kept them alive. It was depressing, but they served a purpose. Mage Anderson was a professional stoolie. He was fifty-three years old and he'd played every angle at least once, which was why he knew everyone end, subsequently, everything. And he was still alive because he spilled it regularly. He'd been flopping in the sane hotel room for five years or so, and it had begun to smell like the fat slob -a vague nix of whiskey and sweat. I didn't like it much. I paused at the door and knocked for a change; Jerry's dinners sit like boulders in your stomach and I didn't feel like getting all out of breath. A little melodramatic, too. Mage's big, pink face frowned at me in the crack of the door, surly and distrustful. He sighed and backed away, shuffling into his apartment. I walked in, shutting the flimsy door behind me. The lock had been busted so many tines it clicked with a spongy, soft feel. "How are ya, Mage?" He sat down behind a big kitchen table which was littered with cereal boxes and beer cans. He didn't look at me, he kept sulking, staring at whatever his shifty eyes found. "Christ, Krim, I'm okay, ain't I?" I sat down across from him. He didn't like that. I smiled. "What's the matter, Mage, you don't look so good." He flinched. "Jeez, Billy, I ain't done nothing!" I sighed. "Mage, if I was going to shoot you, it would have happened already. I'm not one of those sick phallic fucks who likes to play with his food. You know that." I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "I'm just looking for some data on a mark." He looked around. His place was a dull, grease-sneered brown, piled with pizza boxes and dirty dishes -the glamorous life of a fink. A couch slumped in the corner, covered in dirty clothes, and a kitchen area peeked out from behind counter space. I'd never been past this first room, and I was glad for it. I didn't want to see the rest of his dirty life, piled up in the back rooms like stale sheets and scummy dishes. His hemming and hawing was an act, he knew if he refused to help I'd just shoot him dead and let the desk jockeys write it up back at the office when they had tire. It was simple -if you were honest, you had nothing to worry about. If you were a crook, sometimes you sold your soul to stay alive. "Who?" I nodded, inhaling cheap, bitter smoke. The cigarettes used to be better, before the riots, I think. I pulled out the file. I really didn't have much use for it. All I needed was to find out where she was. After that, it was easy. "Marlene Niks," I read, "alias the -" "Alias the Skinner." Mage offered tiredly. "She's in town." "I know. She's a Smoker. She's the walking dead." "You the gun on this?" I pointed my cigarette at him. "I'm asking the fucking questions, Mage." He nodded, holding up his hands as if I was being unreasonable. Maybe I was. You had to be, with a Smoker walking around. You couldn't kill a cop. It was the other way around -the cops killed you. If it got around that some Mafia broad offed a Detroit shield and lived even a week, it would be war in the streets. Again. "Where is she?" He looked up, his eyes wide. "Christ, Billy, if I knew that, you'd be halfway there already." he protested. I believed him. I smoked, not saying anything, filling the room up with heavy smoke. He looked around, wringing his hands as if there were great conflicts going on inside. I knew better. Crooks like Mage only cared about keeping their crummy lives. If he knew anything, he'd tell it. The skill care in not making they so scared they'd make up shit. "Well, she can't hide with the families out here." he started. "Obviously." I snapped, keeping it nasty. He was all business now. "There's only one place to check, really, and that would be with the niggers, Krim. They don't give a fuck what the families say - and they love Smokers. Kill a cop and they'll love YOU." I sighed. Mage wasn't really telling me anything I didn't already know, but he knew something. I just had to play along and let him feel like he resisted as long as he could, gave his best shot, had no choice. I snuffed out my cigarette and shot great, hacking gusts of smoke into his air, leaning back. "And?" Mage looked stricken. I had to hand it to him, he could act. Back in the dirty old days he might have been something on the streets. Now, he was known. Unless he kept us happy, he was a dead ran. Sometimes I almost felt sorry for him. But hell, you broke the law you forfeited your life. That's what the Ridley Act gave us. "What do you want, for Gods sake?" he asked. "I don't know anything. I'm just giving you educated guesses, Billy!" I leaped up and dove for him, pulling my gun out and shoving the barrel up his nose roughly. He stared at me with bulling, frightened eyes. My heart was pounding, my blood singing, I could feel the life beneath me, in my grasp, in my power, beneath me. I licked my lips and struggled to focus. The hunt was seductive, you had to be strong. Some cops would have shot him twice by then. I was a good cop. "Spill." I hissed, shaking him. "Spill, or I swear I'll find myself a new snitch." He licked his lips staring up at me, dumb. Then he sagged. "Try Roosevelt Lanes." he said, breathing heavy. "I hear everyone's scared shitless over there -my guess is they've got her there." I let go. He didn't move. I made for the door, lighting a new cigarette, and looked back with a smile, thinking I'd say something nice. He was still staring at the floor, though, his face crumpled, pale. He looked dead, or as if he wished he were. I shook my head, closing the door behind me. I'd never thought of it, but I suddenly guessed that selling your soul wasn't painless. Briefly, I felt sorry for Mage. Then the door was shut. The city was grey and foggy, almost raining but still bone-dry. People crowded the street, feeling sorry for themselves, rushing by. I walked down the middle of the walk, the wind showing my gun and badge to everyone, and they got out of my way. No one touched me, and I was glad for that. I smoked and walked, and I could think because none of the scabby hands begging change bugged me. I was safe. Begging wasn't illegal, not yet, but if you shot some faceless waste, no one squawked, as long as the paperwork got filled out. Roosevelt Lanes was a front for the niggers. They never ran the market out there, it was just a meeting place, so we never got too close. You still needed a reason to go inside. Sometimes me and some vets would hang around outside and wait for some black big-shot to wander into our sights. But if we did 'an inside without a warrant, the paperwork mould jar up and spit back at us, and Bryant would Cram disks up our asses. Today, though, I had a reason. I had suspicion of harboring a known and wanted criminal, I had a source -I had a reason. Four blocks from Roosevelt, I radioed in for backup, requested Miggs and Hiller specifically, and went on. The riots had torn apart Roosevelt, and the neighborhood had never been rebuilt. People still lived there, though, sort of. The niggers ran it, more or less, and we didn't much care, as long as they kept to themselves. If they wandered into the city proper, we cut them down. They could break all the law they wanted in Roosevelt. We didn't care. They were just tacking themselves. I paused, looking around. The buildings were boarded up and rotting, bloated stationary caskets, and as I looked around, it all seemed familiar. I shook it off. I'd been in Roosevelt before. Every corner looked alike. I could feel then staring at me from inside. I was obviously cop; no civvies went into Roosevelt, out of fear. No one would touch me, though. I stood behind a shield and they knew it and unless they wanted a thousand badges down there the next day shooting anything that moved, I'd be able to sleep in the street and wake up with mints on my pillow I smiled, lighting a foul cigarette. If they knew why I was here, the Lanes would be dry when I got there. The niggers loved to kill cops, but they knew better then to do it on their own territory, even in self-defense. The Lanes was an ancient bowling alley, built back when people actually went out to bowl, instead of just booting it up at home. Sometimes, I'd heard, the coons cranked up the pins for a lark and bowled all night. I found a familiar old pole across the street of the place and settled down to wait for my fellow badges. I could feel the eyes on me. They made me uncomfortable. Every little movement was being recorded and interpreted, and I had to make sure I looked casual, fearless, certain I was in the right part of town. After about five minutes the cars screeched up, spitting out Miggs and Hiller, each grinning ugly, fecal grins, and a few others. They bounded out checking the rounds in their rifles and we all started for the front doors without delay. The niggers were probably already out the back door, half of them. "Hey, Billy." Miggs was tall and pot-bellied, slump-shouldered, with sunken eyes that glowed, glowering with a red rage that he usually reserved for crooks. Sometimes it got hold of him while he was shaking down some whore for a blow job, sometimes a civvie rubbed him wrong, but mostly he hunted crooks. Mostly. I nodded at him. "Where's Stanley, Miggs?" I asked. He showed more teeth, a sight I could have done without, and pushed aside his black overcoat to reveal the nickel-plated revolver. "Never fear, Billy-baby, I sleep with Stanley." I grunted, and turned to Hiller. "What's the good word, Shakespeare?" He was rare enough, an anomaly. He was regular-sized, thin, balding with delicate wire glasses perched on a delicate nose. A book poked out of his coat pocket -a black notebook he wrote poetry in, using these special black pens he had back at his desk. He grunted, scowling, viciously locking his rifle. "We got a warrant?" "We got reasonable suspicion, registered source." I offered, pulling my pistol out. His jaw muscles bunched. "Good enough." He leaned the rifle on his shoulder as we walked up. "Good enough." We paused at the front door long enough to blow the lock off, and then all hell broke loose. We must have caught the niggers really off guard, they were running around yelling and screaming and the seven of us gunned down five just shooting blind." "Keep a count!" I shouted. "We'll have to ink Jay Does for each one!" "Fuck you, Krim!" Miggs screamed back, squeezing the trigger wherever he felt. "You keep count if it matters to you!" I rolled my eyes, firing. I hadn't requested then by name because they obeyed the rules. By now bullets were coming back at us. You don't shoot cops, but no one was going to just lie back and eat lead. We were all wearing vests and they were retreating, panicked, but we still dived for cover. Some habits were too good to lose. The niggers were running, though, so we waded in and split up. I cornered a roomful, and paused. They stared at me, terror and hate. "Skinner, where is she?" A bald woman in the front, snarling at me, shouted back. "Downstairs!" The rest of 'en glared at her, angry, and I knew I'd hit paydirt. I started shooting. Some of them acted betrayed, As if III made a deal. Crooks. They think its wrong to lie to them -but its not. They don't play by the rules, the rules don't apply to them. You can't pick and choose which ones apply: either they all do or none do. Unless you're a cop. The population of the Lanes had dropped incredibly, many out the back doors, a lot lying dead on the floors (or wishing they were). Finding the basement door wasn't so hard; by the time I'd shot the lock off, I was pretty sure the place was empty. The door came crashing outward, snacking me in the face and knocking me on my ass. A woman in black loomed over me, tall, blonde, pretty, with scars on her face that somehow didn't ruin it all. She blinked at my badge and brought her foot down on my crotch, and I lost track of her for a few minutes. Miggs and Hiller were laughing as they helped re up, making jokes about my fate. I cursed them and asked about Skinner. Miggs laughed in an ugly way. "She disappeared. You got the closest to her." "Take it easy tonight and let us know if you need us again." Hiller advised, brushing me off. They both patted me on the back and walked off. I leaned against a bullet-scarred wall and fished out a stale cigarette. I smoked in the gloom and smoky silence of the Lanes, emptied, fifty-plus casualties and no arrests, plenty of paperwork for the desk jockeys. I chewed one end of the butt viciously. She'd been an inch away and now she'd slipped back into the twilit underground, and I had to start from scratch. I dropped the cigarette, half smoked, stamping it out. I exhaled and spat. Then I followed Miggs and Hiller. Bryant wasn't happy. I sat in his office and took the lecture in quiet good grace, smoking. I had no choice -Bryant had one power. He could take away my badge. All it took was a phone call. There were no hearings, no inquests, just one form to sign and it could wait. By that night, I could be just another had been, with an enemies list a city-block long and no friends -and no badge. Mortal. So, I sat and listened. Towards the end, he leaned in, pushing his flushed, sweaty face into nine and sighing. "Get her, Billy. Kill her. I don't care how, but in three days I want her cold and positively ID'd, okay?" I nodded. "Okay." There was no use arguing reality. Bryant lived in a different world. "I'm on the case." "Fuck you. You've been on the case." I had been dismissed. Things got tricky, all of a sudden. She knew she as hunted, everyone knew it, and most importantly, there were fifty dead niggers rotting in Roosevelt Lanes to prove we meant business. No one was going to hide her out of principle. She was pariah -and that meant it would be hell trying to find her. I decided to call it a night, and stopped at Fritz's for a few drinks with the boys. It was a nice place. It was going to close in a few days, I guessed. It was an unwritten rule that cops drank together. We had one bar we vent to, and anytime you needed a drink, you had some fellows to carouse with and to guard your beck. We were cops, so we didn't pay for drinks, ever. So, we'd pick a Place. If anyone ever complained, we hit them, and shut 'en down early. lb one ever got hit twice. If we let shit slide, people would forget. It was packed near to full vith cops, rowdy and relaxed. We all knew there wasn't a crime ever being contemplated within four blocks. Miggs and Hiller called me over, flushed and vet-mouthed. I guessed they'd cone straight from the Lanes. "Walking straight again, I see." Miggs said thickly. "Have a sent kid." Hiller said, gesturing. "Life's too short." "Read any good books lately?" I asked him, ordering a scotch. "Sure." he growled. "You wouldn't understand, I don't think." I winced at my scotch. Booze used to be better, I think. I finished it off and grimaced it down. "What?" "The abridged Slaughterhouse Five." he slurred. Everything was abridged. It was better that way. "Let me see." He handed it over. Some pages were falling out. I flipped through it without interest. It was about thirty pages long, and that was too much for me. I handed it back. He snorted. "Fuck you, Shakespeare. All that fucking reading's made you cocky." "He's just a cock." !Miggs growled. We laughed and ordered more drinks. Hiller blurred a few quotes at us and tried to act smart. He came off as just drunk. I drifted for a while, shaking hands and retelling the tale of the Smoker that got away. A lot of them offered their condolences about me getting sick a shit job. No one cared, though. Finally, I sat in the back, drinking by myself and watching the fights break out, bright red middle-aged men and women pulling guns on each other and getting separated by their fellows. It was always the same: one sweaty badge hisses obscenities and pulls his or her piece, and a sea of cops pours between then. No one knew what happened to a cop smoker, and no one wanted to find out. We kept each other out of trouble. Then the old man sat down next to me, I nodded. The place was crowded, seats were scarce. If the codger didn't mind raking small talk with a stranger, I didn't. He was rumpled and tousle-haired, his face lined and pock-marked. He was an ugly old brute, clutching a beer heavily in one numb-looking paw, his watery blue eyes peering cannily this way and that. He caught me studying and grinned slackly at me. "Seems like cops've been brawling in bars forever, eh?" he cackled. He seemed an odd bird, but all the old people seemed strange, since there were so few of them, any more. I decided to be polite, and clucked vague agreement at him. "I been in a few-of those." he said nostalgically. "I used to be pretty good." I couldn't place the face. "You in this department?" I asked. He could've been in from another city -New York, maybe. He looked away. "Niks is going to blow town." he whispered. "Catch her at the Hillshire." I stared at him as he stood up, reached out a hand to me as if to shake, and then shrugged. I put my hand on his arm, stopping him. "What?" He leaned down. "You heard me." "Who are you?" "I represent an interested party." I kinked my lips up into a smile. "An interested party that wants her dead." "Just an old cop." He wasn't trying to get away, he just kept looking down at me. I said "Why don't you go after her?" "Too old." That I could believe. "What's your name, friend?" "Dawson." He pulled out of my grasp. "Barnaby Dawson." I watched him leave. I figured after that I'd had enough drinks, so I skipped Fritz's and wandered the streets again. I wore my badge on my lapel, so no one bugged me. I needed peace, for once, to consider what had just happened. An old codger claiming to be an ex-cop had tipped me off to Skinner Niks with a wink and a weak-wristed handshake. It bothered me. There hadn't been a hit on a cop since the Ridley Act, so I couldn't remember one, but if I were planning it, it might start like that -a tip I couldn't resist. Paranoid, I lit a cigarette. Everybody was staring -it was the fucking badge. I had enemies. Every cop did. I'd just acquired a few hundred more today, though, end every black face I passed made me look back. The fucking niggers would take revenge -maybe they wouldn't !ill me, unless they vented shields raining down on then until every nigger in the city was dead, whether they were crooks or not, but they'd make me a cripple. Grinding my teethe I went to my rooms and failed to sleep. The next day I woke up late and phoned Bryant over stale cigarettes, hacking and wheezing the sleep out of me. I told him my lead and asked for some help. "You want Miggs and Hiller again?" "No, I need someone quiet. Give me Mush." Mush Lankley was small and preoccupied, he packed three guns in a tight suit and always seemed like he was balancing his checkbook in his mind or something. But the son of a bitch didn't shoot at everyone who blinked at him, and he could take orders, as long as you didn't push it. He wasn't the best fighter in the world, but all I needed was some backup unafraid to shoot the heads off of people but who could also shut up and act human. I didn't need an animal like Miggs chortling along, this time. I pulled on yesterdays clothes and after the third cigarette felt almost human. I never felt good, anymore, so feeling not sick was good enough. Mush called then, and we met for lunch at the Hillshire's restaurant, where I called the hotel manager in for a chat. He didn't want to, but he didn't want blood on his walls, either. We could shut the place down, and he knew it. "Mr. Wallace, thanks for joining us." Mr. Wallace was fat and sweaty and he smiled sourly at us. "I don't want to, officers, okay?" I looked at Mush, and Mush looked at me. He gritted his teeth and flicked ashes off of his cigarette. "Mr. Wallace, I'm Officer Lankley and this is Officer Krim. We have reason to believe you nay be unknowingly harboring a criminal here, and we'd like your help in flushing them out." I smiled on purpose. "We'd like to do this polite." Wallace smirked. "Don't snow me, goddammit. Just fill me in, and I'll help as much as I can." I kept my smile. It was brittle. "How touching." Mush smoked tiredly. "The suspect is a woman, red hair, green eyes, five foot ten, noticeable scars on her face and arms. Heavily armed, extremely dangerous. Named Marlene Niks, alias the Skinner, out of Detroit, the families. No other known alias." I broke in. "What we're looking for, Wallace, is a woman fitting the general description, most probably staying with someone else. Her name won't be anywhere on your records." I tried a conspiratorial grin. It didn't have any effect. "Basically she's found some asshole to hide behind for a while." Mush smirked right back at him. "Noticed anyone who might fit that description?" Wallace dummied up, hemming and having, reminding us that there were almost five hundred guests and he couldn't be expected to remember even half of them, and we sat and listened politely. I looked around, and everyone stared back at me. They knew what I was. "Mr. Wallace," Mush broke in testily, spitting smoke into his face, "if you can't help us we'll probably have to stake out your lobby for a few days and start files on every cunt that twists through the place." He said it all with savage calm, his eyes smoking. "Considering some of the beasts we could bring in, it could get messy." He smiled. "Especially with that type of woman around." The threat hung about us, and Wallace bugged his eyes. I sat back and waited tiredly for the compromise. He collapsed before us, face sagging in defeat. "You're a bunch of fucking animals, you are." he muttered. "We keep this place open." I snapped. "You can walk the streets, 'cause of us." Mush added sharply. He shook his flabby head. "All right. Let's move this to my office and go over some records, who's getting room service for two under one name, and so on. And I'll call in the help and ask around." "No," I said, standing up. "Leave the grunts out of it. If she's any good she has half of them on her own payroll. Let's just go through the papertrail." "That's -what we're used to, anyway," Mush added. "All we do is paperwork." Wallace didn't think it was amusing. He was shocked to learn how many known criminals were enjoying the paid-for hospitality of the Hillshire, and none of our money is blind speeches seemed to ease his distress. There was only one which fit the scenario, though, and we left Wallace stewing in his office, checking our pistols as we chatted our way up to the sixth floor. Then the elevator doors parted we shut up, spread out, and made our slow way down the hall. We paused just outside the door, counted to three, and ticked it in. By the time we got in, a tall guy named Marco, a small-time enforcer for some of the protection gangs on Main Street, had his hand on his gun, lying naked in a dive for his holster. "Freeze, friend." I advised. He became a statue, and Mush retrieved his piece. Niks was swathed in sheets, her scarred skin visible and vulnerable. I smiled at her. "Hello, Ms. Niks." I said, stretching my gun out. "It's good to finally meet you. I'm sorry." "Wait!" she cried, reaching her hand out. Mush put a solid one into her friend, a clean shot into his head. He just vent flat, bleeding. She never flinched. I stood, waiting, feeling Mush's eyes on me. She didn't say anything, she just kept staring at me, at my gun, stretched out before me. "Why?" I repeated, clicking back the hammer. She stirred, her face curling up into anguish, hopeless and haunting. "Don't you remember?" she whispered. I frowned. Against the tide of confusion that swept over me, I had only one defense. I pulled the trigger and watched her smack into the backboard of the bed with a thick squelch. I stood, panting, staring at her. Mush was standing beside me, a hand on my arm. "What the fuck did that mean?" he asked. I shrugged. I still had my gun out, stiff-armed away from me. "I don't know." Slowly, I bolstered my gun, and we turned to leave. I needed a drink. I got drunk with Mush, Hiller, and Miggs that night. They made fun of me, asking me if I remembered them or not. I didn't care. I drank a lot of bitter, burning whiskey and didn't think about her or why those last words had rattled re. I didn't know her. She was just a write-up, some paperwork that got me in good with Bryant. Detroit was off our backs because they had a corpse to wave at the families, and that was all. I'd smoked a smoker. She deserved it. Something still bothered me. She rattled around inside my thoughts for a while, and I couldn't shake her, though I drank violently trying to. Miggs had to help me" home, even though he was just as drunk as I was. We walked arm in arm, guns out, taking pot shots at the dark buildings laughing. People cleared out of our way, and that made me feel bad. They were law-abiding, tax-paying people, by and large, and they didn't have anything to fear. "You can't escape, you goddam bugs!" Miggs shouted. "We're coming for you all!" I lost my enthusiasm, then, and just felt drunk. When we got to my building I just went inside and left him outside, shouting and shooting his rage. I tried to sleep, lying on my thin mattress and sweating, staring up at the ceiling, the grey and greasy ceiling. Miggs would probably go out and kill some poor homeless nobody tonight, some rigger or gook just trying to get some sleep on the street. He'd write up the Jay Doe and put loitering down as the charge. Another dangerous beggar taken care of. He'd fall asleep the minute he was hone. I tried, but couldn't. After a few hours of trying, I sat up and pulled my shoes on, feeling lousy. The booze these days left me feeling rotten inside. I snuck out to avoid questions and found my way back to the Hillshire. I stood outside for a while. The room would still be bloody and messed up, though the corpses would be gone so they could be printed and tagged with a report number. But nothing else would have roved. I could picture it in my mind and I was pretty sure it would look pretty much the same. Not sure why I was still awake, slipping from drunk to hungover at a furious pace, I crossed the dead street and went back to the hotel. I avoided Wallace, nodding amiably at the nightowls sleepwalking through the lobby. I didn't have my badge out, so they hardly noticed me. I padded up to the sixth floor and let myself in. The copper smell was thick and stale, starting to fade. The blood had dried to an awful brown, and there was a snapshot stillness to it all, a dusty quality. I'd never returned to a shoot sight before. It vas eerie. I kept waiting for the ghosts to jump out. Then, when I had started for the bedtable and the water glass, one did. He was squat in a cheap grey suit, bald with a pair of bifocals. Clipped to his jacket vas a plastic ID, instead of a badge. I put a hand on my gun as he glanced at me and blinked. I didn't care what the ID said, you either a cop, or you weren't. "Christ, Krim, what possessed you to come back here?" he said distractedly, glancing at a clipboard and making a note. "Who the fuck are you?" He thumbed his ID at me and winked. "Nobody, Krim. You didn't see me." His ID had a blurry picture and said INTERNAL AFFAIRS. I'd never heard of it. I pulled my gun out. "Listen, sucker, you better come up with a better story than that, or you'll be -" "If I do, you'll be with me." he said, making more notes. "Before the night is out, anyway." I paused. He didn't sound like a crook, or even a scared civvy. I didn't smell blood. I wavered for a moment, and he glanced up at me. Sighing, he indicated a chair. "Sit, Krim. You can keep the gun on me, if you like, but sit." I sat, keeping my gun on him. He sat on the bed across from me, inches from blood, smiling, and his eyes flicked behind me. I turned a moment too late, and the lights vent out hard. I woke up thick-headed, still dressed, my gun still in my hand. I was home, in my cheap suit and cheap apartment. I reaches behind and found an ugly-feeling bruise on the back of my neck. The sons of bitches didn't even try to cover up. I sat up, wished I hadn't, and briefly considered calling Mush up and seeing if he knew anything about internal affairs, if he'd ever run into mysterious flatfoot jarheads in cheaper suits than us at shoot sights. But I decided not to. He'd just think I was crazy. Mush and Hiller and theme they had no imagination. So I stood up, and headed back to the Hillshire, headache and all. I bowled through crowds, pushing people out of my way and flashing my badge. They all shrank away end looked away, trying to pretend they moved aside out of common courtesy instead of fear. Suddenly, I wanted to kill then all. I wanted to blot out their stupid ignorance. They didn't know anything. I wanted to kill them, and I could have. I could have and an afternoon of paperwork vas Pi! the consequences I'd deal with. Lucky for them I had bigger fish to fry. The room looked untouched. I didn't hang around waiting for more ghosts. I grabbed a glass from the night table send escaped outside. No ghosts appeared. Thomas Piller worked the tech side of it all, bagging and togging, and he owed re a long list of favors. On my way to Bryant I dropped off the glass fit Pill, swore him to secrecy, end refused to answer his questions. Pill was an easygoing sort, stuck in tech because he was too soft for the street, so he didn't push me. I knew I could trust him, because I know he was scared of me. Bryant was his usual lovable self, though he was glad to see me. "The Great White Hunter!" he squawked, snuffing out his cigarettes. "Ready for the beat again, Krim?" I sat down. "Well, Captain, I guess so." "Looking for a vacation?" he asked good-humoredly. He grinned yellow teeth at me, sour and vet. "No, just got a few Questions." Bryant didn't like questions. The smile vent out of his eyes although it still clung to his face. "'Bout what, Bill?" "I wandered back to the site last night -" "Against procedure, Billy." "Something worried me." "Ask the techies." I dummied up. Bryant was watching me like something was crawling out of my ear. We stared at each other until he finally opened his mouth. "Well? Out with it! I'm up to my elbows in S.I.R.'s and three unsolved robberies." he growled. That made re feel better, but I vas on guard now, so I just stood up. "No, you're right, cap. This is for the techs. I'll ask them." He waved at me. "Fine. You're back on beat. Thanks again." "Yeah." I left the building feeling like I was on shaky ground. I lit a dried-up cigarette and walked, trying to think what had unnerved me. It wasn't anything the captain had said, but the way he'd said everything. I'd heard it before, but never on the receiving end of it. I don't think many cops had. It was suspicion. I sat down on a bench a few blocks away and scowled at people as they walked by. Some of the dumb ones scowled back. A few years ago I right have followed them and cracked a few heads, but I didn't have the energy any more, so I just scowled. Something was up. Bryant had never had that shifty look in his empty little eyes before, that lying cheating look. I didn't even have a name for it. I'd never seen a crook look on a cop before. I'd never met internal affairs before. I'd never heard of internal affairs before. I'd never even imagined internal affairs. But I had met a bald, squat man with the look of a badge and an ID that said Internal Affairs plain as day. That didn't make it real. I'd never met Marlene Niks before she kicked me in the bells at Roosevelt Lanes, either. I'd never heard her voice until the moment before I shot her. I got up, wondering if I should call up Detroit and double-check the shit back to the source, but a sudden inexplicable surety that it wouldn't help stopped me. I just walked. Three or four blocks away from Jerry's, some old whore, tripped out on something, cousined up to me, all hands and slick seduction. It was a wonder she'd lived as lone as she had. I just pushed her away. "Try that with a badge named Miggs," I said menacingly "and you'll be one sorry kneepad. One dead kneepad." She fuzzed up. "He walk this beat?" "Christ, sister, he'll find you." And then I was free. Hookers usually get off. Some cops, the good ones, just pushed them around a little -you even got to know 'en, sometimes. Others laid then. A few years ago there'd been an old badge we called ole Blowjob Bixton, for obvious reasons. Old Blowjob never made an arrest, I don't think; he just made his way up and down the hookers, going through almost ten a day. When he keeled over, nothing could convince us that it wasn't venereal related. Other cops, badges like Miggs, they just used the walkers as target practice or punching bags. They never admitted it. But there were too many broken up walkers in the back alleys to believe them. Jerry's was crowded, but he made a table for me saying I was a cop. No one complained. I ordered steaks and lit cigarettes, and after lunch I felt so almost-human I actually busted a few heads and wrote up a few Jay Does. Just as I was rounding out the day, I called Piller. "Anything on my memento?" I asked cryptically. "No chance at it yet." he said simply. "Okay." I wandered down to a place called Bubbly's to get drunk with a few fellow badges. I didn't mention Niks or Internal Affairs or anything. No one treated me different. The big story was a big, quiet cop named Flattery who'd gunned down six innocent young women up in the middle-class neighborhood of The Heights. Everyone bought him a drink every tire he told the story. "Damn whores deserved it," he kept saying with a shy smile, "damn whores." And everyone laughed loud and pounded him on the back and raced each other to order a drink for him. The kicker was that his captain, under pressure from the taxpaying citizens of The Heights, had given Flattery a stern warning and had threatened a fine. I laughed with everyone else, but I didn't feel it. The smile was well practiced and it was easy, but I didn't feel it. Eventually, I found myself alone again, drunk and with my fists clenched tightly in front of me. All the faces around me jeered and gibbered, slobbering, inhuman. When I couldn't take it any more, I escaped into the night air. I couldn't recall going home, but my phone split me open and woke me up twice. The first time was Piller, sounding excited, telling me to meet him for lunch. The second time was Bryant. "Krim." "Yeah." At least it sounded like 'yeah' to me. "Get down here, around one." "Sure. Why?" "Just be here." I was listening to dead air. The morning was listless, cool, and humid. I lay in my moldy, clammy bed smelling myself and wondering if I was going to make Piller on time. My body felt like it would run late. I really vented to hear what he had to say, thought and with the help of stale cigarettes my mind convinced my body to shift into gear. I wanted to shower, but there was no water again. Three or four days a week, it was now. Used to be things never broke, and if they did it was fixed the next day. It was a fuzzy, persistent memory. It must have been a long tine ago. I net Piller at a burger joint a half block from the station. He looked about shiftily, and I frowned. He had almost a scared look to him. He was only a techie, but he was a badge. The Ripley Act applied to him, too. And not much could scare a cop, except maybe other cops. I paused for a moment and then sat down with him. "Hey, Pill." I greeted him, what I hoped was a hearty smile on my face. "Krim." he said. He tried to relax, but couldn't. "What's up?" "Nothing." I looked at him. "Nervous?" He shook his head. "Why should I be? No one's been passing around memos asking about you." He looked at me pointedly. I swallowed. "Of course not. Who would do such a thing?" "Not Internal Affairs, that's for sure. They don't even exist." I stared. "That's a laugh." I said after I'd found my voice. '"There's no such thing." "Rumors abound." He slid a single sheet of paper across to me. "Well, we should have lunch more often." He stood up, turned, and left. I folded up the paper without looking at it, and ordered a stiff whiskey from a bored waiter. I watched cops moving about the street, and I sipped whiskey feeling dirty. I nursed the drink until one, and then made my way to Bryant, ignoring the hard little stares people kept throwing me. I knocked at the door and went in, fishing my overcoat for cigarettes. Bryant brooded in a dim corner of the room, already smoking. His flabby face was screwed up into some strange mask of conflicts. I couldn't make anything from it. Behind his desk sat a bald, squat man, with a cheap suit and a pair of bifocals perched on his nose. A bald, squat man I had seen before. As I walked in, he took his glasses off and smiled up at me. "Hello, Krim." I stared. Bryant turned to look at me. "Billy, this is Special Agent Kinder of Internal Affairs." he said. "Never heard of 'em." I said, rubbing my hands together. "Sure you have." Kinder said around a smile. "I told you." I swallowed. "Just 'cause a man says so doesn't make it so." Kinder stood up. "Well, believe me. Captain Bryant will tell you." Bryant nodded. It was a loose, hollow nod. "All right." I said. Kinder sat down on Bryant's desk in front of me. "All right." he agreed. "IA is a federal agency created by Presidential Special Emergency Order number six three six eight dash five oh nine. Six weeks after the Ripley Act was passed by Congress and signed into law." "All right. " I repeated. "All right." He pointed at me. "You're under investigation." I almost didn't hear that. I was trying to count years and figure out if it was an election year or not. I suddenly thought it was, but I hadn't heard anything. Then I looked up. "Huh? For what?" He pulled a pad from his hip pocket and flipped it open. "Officer Paul "Mush" Lankley informs me that before putting some lead into Marlene Niks she said, and I quote Officer Lankley here, 'don't you remember'. " He looked up at me. "True?" I swallowed. "Yes." He looked surprised. "Yes? Did it mean anything to you?" I shook a cigarette out and stuck it between dry lips. "No." "No?" "She was a family killer from Detroit, for Christ's sake." I muttered around my cigarette. "How could I have known her?" Kinder's smile made me feel tight. "Well, I don't know. How 'bout you tell me, Bill." The air was thick and I didn't light my cigarette. I didn't think I'd be able to breathe, if I did. I looked at Bryant, but he wasn't looking at me. I stood up. "This is bullshit. I never heard of Internal Affairs and no matter who you are, you're barking up the wrong tree. I never met Marlene Niks before I put a bullet in her head, okay? Besides, she was just a cop killer. What would it matter if I had?" Kinder shrugged , still smiling. "Who knows? Anyway, if there's nothing to it then you're okay, right?" I stared. There was something in his voice. "Right." I turned to go. They let me. Outside Bryant's office, everyone stared at me. I didn't go to see Piller right then, I waited a few days and called him for lunch. I was sweating and dummied-up, I hadn't walked my beat, just sat in my room smoking and wondering if they'd wait or just kill me. Whatever. If I was a dead man, I wanted to know why. Piller didn't want to see me. You could smell blank fear off of him as I crossed the office and sat down at his side, he had the manically cheerful look of someone who might scream at any moment. I pulled out the sheet of paper with the name on it and put it in front of him. He stared at it like I'd smeared roadkill all over his desk. "More." I said. "I need more." He slid it back to me. "Go to Records." "Fuck. I can't spread this too thin, Pill." I explained. "My ass is on the line, here." "Your ass?" he hissed. "Fuck me, Krim, but my ass too, okay?" We sat in tense silence. "Who in records?" I asked. "Make a fucking friend today." Piller muttered, trying to look busy. I stood, taking my paper with me. "Great -that would make one. A nice change." He typed up SIR's viciously, and I turned away, feeling eyes on me. I felt like murder. I felt like typing up some SIR'S, leaving the right spots blank, and then gunning down whoever I saw. Instead, I walked dour to Records. It was a large, din room, choking and silent, and no one knew me there. I slid the paper over to a young women who smiled at me with a twinkling eye. I tried to grin back. Technically, I guess I succeeded, but it was more like a ghastly, unstable leer. She seemed to appreciate the effort, and brought a few disks over to me. I signed for them in a shaky hand. I sat down at my desk like the invisible ran. I could have set myself on fire and no one, I think, would have noticed. I popped the disks in end settled back to read. Marlene Niks was no family hit-person. She had a passing italian bloodline on her mother's side, but aside from that no connection at all. From appearances, she had never even been to Detroit. She was president of a group called The Freedom Delegation, preaching cop-killing and immediate bloody revolution. I felt the blood drain from my head. My tongue felt thick. They had a witness. A witness who would say that it seemed that Marlene Niks and I had a post, it was enough to hill you. Combined with a reputation for being a moderate, a nigger-lover, a hooker lover, and I was suddenly surprised I was still alive. TFD was third on the Seditious Organizations List, carrying a dead or alive stigma. "Hard day?" I jumped and turned. Hiller laid a calm dry hand an my shoulder. "Down, boy. If I were here to slit your throat, you'd be gurgling on the floor already" My panting filled the silence for a moment. I swallowed it back. "What's the good word, Shakespeare?" "No good ones today, Krim." He lit a foul, brittle cigarette. "Did you know her?" I shook my head. "Hell no." He nodded, puffing. "They think you did." I laughed hollowly. "A few days ago, 'they' were a rumor," "After this bases over, they'll go back to being a rumor." We stared for a while, then to snuffed his cig and preened himself. "Krim, I'm going to give you the best advice you've gotten in a while." "Okay." "Run. They're just waiting for Lankley to sign his statement, and then you'll be decommissioned and arrested. If you twitch wrong, you'll be shot. Get out while you still hove tine. You're D criminal, now." "Don't- " "Keep it in rind. Truth or not, that's tat you are." He walked off. As he reached the exit, I suddenly looked up, "Thanks!" He just waved at me over his shoulder and disappeared. I set at my desk for a while, staring Et the files, unable to move. I kept waiting for Someone to sneak up and slit my throat, except that would hove been too quiet for badges. I was paralyzed. I kept saying to myself that I had to do something, something, anything -but my gears had frozen. I felt naked. Anything could happen to me. Anyone could touch me, I had nothing to shield me. I wasn't among friends anymore. The thought ripped my confusion away. I was on the verge of being listed as a criminal of the state, and I was still sitting in a building full of cops, all of whom knew and were waiting, watching, itching to ventilate me. I stood up suddenly. "Lunch time, Billy-boy?" I turned. Miggs was grinning at me, smoking. "Yeah. It's lunch-time." I said. "Make it good." We stared at each other. He grinned around his cigarette obscenely. I turned away, he laughed at my back, but I just talked. I still had my badge, Lankley hadn't broken down and signed just yet. I had a head start. Someone was calling my name, but I just kept going. I ran. I walked into the street, held up my badge, and an old chugging Chevy screeched to a halt, smoke rising from its wheels. It was an old and rusted heap that needed a new muffler and a quick tune-up. There didn't seem to be any new cars arymore, the old ones just got older. An old guy in a green suit sat behind the wheel, gaping. The 1eprechaun managed a small smile at me, until I pulled out my pistol and leveled it, coming around to the driver's side. His eyes bugged out for a minute; I thought he was going to explode. "Police business." I snapped. "Out." "But-" "Police business. Out or I'll pull your corpse out and sit in your blood." I hissed. We waited a moment, and he scampered out. I got in and peeled off. I didn't know where I was going. I was just driving. There was no place to go, really. The whole city was off limits; I shot a Toll worker to escape the city limits and had to rob gas stations to keep going. A few managers had to be taken out to keep the trail cold. Two days out of the city, I finally found a newspaper to steal. I was famous. BAD COP GOES CRAZY, the headlines read. Driving old highvay one, officially closed but still usable, requires a cigarette, especially at night. They taste better, now. I smoke and speed and god help the poor cop who tries to pull me over. It's kill or be killed and with or without the Ripley Act I've got the gun and the eye and the only difference is that I'm illegal, now. The papers call ne a killer, but I prefer to think of myself as a hunter. A freedom fighter. A fugitive. I don't kill. I just defend myself. ======================================== *** FICTION *** His Rings Like Gifts By Jeffrey Somers ======================================== We all stared at the gun leaking smoke and wondered who had fired it and drummed up all this damned noise. Even though we could see it in his hand no one dared look at his face; then we'd know and we didn't want to. Guessing was better and didn't we have bigger things to worry about what with all the smoke and the blood and the old man cold and immobile before us? The sinking lights around and the haggard rough-edged sound of our breathing spun away, the echoes were elastic. And as time went on it started to seem as if we were waiting for him to get up and dance, grinning red and wet at us. I put my hand in my pocket to make sure and sighed smoke. The old man didn't twitch, much less dance, but Eddie did. He jittered back with one hand stapled to his mouth and skated into the shimmering china closet, knocking it back against the wall. His eyes had taken on a life of their own and they pulled away from his face, vainly trying to break free. The crystal unicorns and stained coffee mugs holding him up clinked and chimed hazardously, but nothing broke, and I breathed an unexpected sigh of relief that no damage had been done. Ted slummed over and pulled Eddie up, favoring him with silent, roundhouse slaps and snarling, wordless abuse. Ted had always been good at that. I left the job to him and closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the crackle of dust in the air. I put a hand on Will's shoulder, stopping him from his slow, careful retreat to the door, and gestured. He grimaced at me with his yellow teeth and tried to explain but before he could pull his hands from his pockets I shoved him forward and he shut up. We each grasped a frilly arm or a slack leg, pulling him taut between us. Someone was asking me if I wanted that rare and I barked an answer, feeling sweat pop out on my brow as we lifted him and started to shuffle for the door, staggered and clumsy, not dancing very well at all. Steadied, we made our way to the back, our breath in each other's faces, red skin sheened shiny and wet from the rain outside. They all had their mouths open with their slick tongues lolling in them; they suddenly all looked like strangled pigs to me and I couldn't help but smile. That pissed Ted off, so I quickly swallowed it and stopped looking at him. At the back door we heaved the old man out into the pour, following reluctantly with shovels in hand. We dug in half-heartedly and conversation dried up, replaced by the clink clink of shovels, and slowly we were surrounded by dark mounds. When we were deep enough we pulled the old man in with us; he landed in such a jumble and I got mad, my eyes flashing like the lightening around us. Take a fucking care, I snarled, wiping muddy sweat from my face with a worn, calloused hand. He was a fucking corpse and with his watery skin and butcher-paper eyes our good will was all he had left. We hadn't even bothered with pennies for his eyes. After, we sat by the grave and introduced ourselves and smoked dried-out cigarettes to clear our lungs. The mist started to roll in on its dusty sock feet, making us nervous. Ted got all superstitious about death and it got us all a little creeped out, the slow pleading waver fading into the ground to hibernate and set root until next time. With chummy slaps on the back we pushed ourselves back into our jackets and ties and headed back to the dim silent house and the gummy blood on the floor. We could hear Rachel upstairs prowling about testing her hangover and I offered my new fellows a drink of whatever she had left behind her. I pulled off my second polyester skin and draped it neatly on one of the chairs, heading up with my hands in my pockets to show no harm intended. My new fellows were all making noise and it was for the better that way, I suppose; the thick sounds filling the rooms and rising, buoying me up on hot air and soundproofing. It was distracting, maybe even concealing, no matter what it was healthy to have a ruckus behind me. As I rose her perfume filled the cracks between the noise and I could feel her light steps as they trembled on the floor. She always wore flowers on her skin, they followed her everywhere. Despite the low warning moans from below, she seemed surprised to see me. Whirling in a small confusion of skirts she pointed a cigarette at me and smiled, we'd done this all before, in different ways. Her lips were smoky and so was her hair, there was a faint taste of whiskey on her tongue, and as she nuzzled my ear she whispered slow, slow over and over. I always tried to be, but it didn't always work. I tried to tell her what had happened but she kept covering my mouth with hers, my arms with hers, my legs. We woke up early, all of us, and cooked up great slabs of bacon in the blood- streaked kitchen. We were dried-out and edgy, in loosened, stale clothes and caky faces which cracked in the light. I had her perfume all over me and it made me thickly ill. Eddie and Ted argued, spitting crumbs at each other and sipping coffee, fighting over the night before. Rachel watched them tight-lipped and sharp-eyed, her green eyes slitted into a vicious squint. It wasn't something you argued about. I had left bloody streaks on her pale skin and bruises on her smooth legs and they made her look demonic with her sudden cats eyes. We all got ready to leave; it wasn't our house, after all. It took a while to gather everything together, we had scattered ourselves and forgotten most of it. Rachel showered as we searched and came down wet and sweet and rubbed pink by towels. Suddenly, she was too clean for the place, too clean for us. We sat around her with unshaven cheeks and yellowed teeth, dirt and blood on our clothes and hands, pushing through wire-stiff hair. She stayed away from us, now that she was sober. She looked at me like I'd left a film on her, a sneering look. I didn't mind. She'd be drunk again that night and we'd be friends again. As we left, a guffawing group of new friends, she stood in the doorway and smiled brutally after us. I turned just in time to see her close the door, and briefly wondered if I'd killed the right one. ======================================== There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another which states that this has already happened. - Douglas Adams ======================================== WHY NOT SUBSCRIBE TO THE INNER SWINE? $5/year, $9/two years, four issues a year. A BARGAIN, YOU CHEAP BASTARDS. Write us at PO Box 3024, Hoboken, NJ 07030 or subscriptions@innerswine.com for more information.