Friday, April 12, 2019

The Horrors Within

Hey there, crime kids. Happy Friday. It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where your most violent fantasies become sins of the flesh, right here, where the hardboiled action is non-stop, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.

In Chapter 21 of RIDGEWAY, hipster junkie couple Zeek Moon and Sugar Hart run out of heroin, so Zeek convinces Sugar to go see a certain biker dealer and trade sex for smack ...

A tiny, grimy cottage on
a steep mountain road.

Filthy white picket fence.
Recycling bin filled with
empty beer cans. f

Dense foliage hides
the horrors within.

Across the street, a motley crew
of LOCALS drink beer and
play a game of horseshoes.
One hits the stake with a CLANK.

Shades drawn. Piles of crap
everywhere that would do Hoarders proud.

A tiny boom box plays twangy alt country.
A BOY (20) and GIRL (19) sit on the bed,
cross-legged, sharing a smoke.

I’m sick, Sugar.
Need more brain damage.

Meet ZEEK MOON, mountain-punk-hipster.
Natty in faded denim,
Edwardian blouse and a bowler.

Greasy hair frames an angelic face.
He wipes his nose, rubs it on his leg.

But we just got a sack.

striking in artfully
ripped black hose and
blue velvet minidress.

Mass of tangled black
hair down to her ass.

Pale as moonlight and
sweet as honeysuckle.

All gone, honey pie.
How bout you go down to the Cathouse
and do one of them bikers again?

Aw, Zeek.
Those guys are nasty.
Still have bruises from the last one.

Maybe go see Hoyt again?

Isn’t there a way to score
without me having to fuck somebody?

Well, if you hadn’t lost the gun --


Alright, alright.
I’ll go see Hoyt.
He smells so bad.

Hold your nose.
It’ll be over before you know it.

He does come fast --

She gets up.
Goes to the door.

Attagirl. Go get ‘em.

Puts her hand on the knob.
Shoots him a look. Leaves.

He pulls out a cigar box
out from under the bed.

Opens it. Pulls out a spoon,
syringe and a length of rubber tubing.

Takes a glassine envelope
out of his pocket.

Holds it up to the light.
FLICKS it with his finger.

Dumps some of it on the spoon.
LIGHTS it with a flick of his Zippo.

Smoke rises as the magic powder
turns liquid, then bubbles.

He places a piece of cotton on it.
Then expertly draws it into the syringe.
Squirts it. Taps it with a finger.

Ties the rubber hose
around his upper arm.
YANKS it tight.

Rolls up his sleeve, revealing a
junkie’s road map of dead veins,
boils and scabs.

Hunts for a spot. No luck.

Thinks a moment.
Takes off a shoe,
revealing a filthy, hairy foot
with long, yellow nails.

Takes a deep breath --

and PLUNGES it between his toes.
CRIES OUT in pain.

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