Tuesday, April 25, 2006


The two dusky skinned Arab boys huddled on the hot sand, looking down at a large pool of black oil that bubbled up in a hollow between the dunes. They sat like frozen statues staring at the brutal dark pond.

They had just watched the family she camel sink beneath the surface of the thick black goop.

"We're dog fucked," the older of the two boys said to his brother who was crying softly. "Father will cut off our man parts before we ever get a chance to use them."

Out across the desert, toward Baghdad, a small black dot threw up a cloud of sand like an ominous tornado heading their way.

Neither of the boys had used their man parts so far for anything but shameful private amusement. Apart from seeing little girls bathing the brothers had little knowledge of female anatomy. Beneath layers of cotton there were rumored to be luscious budding breasts and curvaceous rumps. Delights the boys would never have the chance to discover when their father had finished with them for loosing his favorite camel.

The younger brother wiped his eyes. "Shall we run away to the city brother?"

"Perhaps," the older boy replied. He was watching the dark spot out on the desert grow larger. It growled like their father's stomach after a big pot of bean stew. He'd never seen a motor car before and as it drew near he took his brother's hand, wondering whether salvation or damnation was roaring down on them.

The twelve cylinder Bentley sedan pulled to a stop beside the boys. A curtain of sand surrounded them and the two men inside waited till it settled, then stepped out of their car and walked toward the oil pond. The western infidels wore high leather boots and shirts with labels on the pockets that said British Petroleum.

They took samples of the oil in large cans, which they stowed in the boot of their car. The tall blond infidel with a red sunburned face smiled at the brothers and gave each of them a piece of candy. He talked to the boys in bad Arabic. He asked their names and where they lived.

He let them sit in the car behind the wheel and asked if they wanted to see the Victrola music machine they had back at their camp.

The next morning the boys were crying as they returned to their village. They walked with a bandy-legged gate and their backside parts were sore.

"Those English Devils have made me into a girl!" the younger brother said through his tears.

"The filthy bastards will be sorry!" the older brother said. "I will have my revenge. They will pay for what they have done. Someday the world will fear the name of Osama Bin Laden!"

Visit My Web Site


The Brazilian took off the filter mask he wore whenever he worked in the apartment. His contact was an hour late and he was nervous. The deal was down to the short strokes. This was the time when things could go seriously wonky and the Brazilian hated when things went wonky.

He'd grown tired of standing in the empty apartment and finally sat on the dirty carpet in one corner of the small living room. The large square floor fan that he'd purchased himself, to keep the humid air moving, lifted the long black hair off his sweaty neck and gave him some relief from the heat.

He was starting to get pissed and when he let his Latin temper get the better of him his right eye would begin to twitch like he was winking. This idiosyncrasy had gotten him into a lot of trouble in prison showers.

The jumpsuit he wore to keep his clothes clean stank from the curry sauce he kept simmering on the stove. It covered up the other acidic odor he'd been brewing all week and made the apartment smell just like the rest of the building.

The Brazilian pushed back the heavy drapes, opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. The humidity hit him hard. What de fuck is with dis fucking wet heat he'd thought to himself when he walked out of Pearson International two weeks ago. Fuckin Toronto ain't supposed to be sticky hot.

He stood on the balcony and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply holding the fowl smelling American cigarette in nicotine stained fingers. Twelve stories below people scurried about like the little meaningless ants The Brazilian knew them to be. In the distance he could see the top of the CN tower thrusting up into the hot, hazy August air. The world's tallest freestanding structure. Toronto's proud emblem of construction technology, corporate wealth and small dick compensation.

He let himself fantasize once again about what he was going to do with the money. Fifty thousand US back home in Sao Paulo would be a fortune. Women would want him. Not that they didn't want him now. The tall black girl he'd had his way with last night had moaned and screamed when he'd taken her back to his motel room and given her a taste of Latin sausage. They'd been hot together and he knew she wanted more. And, the best part was she only charged him fifty dollars.

Yes there'd be lots of women, parties, and drugs. The world would soon be his. He'd buy himself a house on a hill looking out over the ocean. Get himself a nice car with a driver. Maybe take up golf like Tiger Williams.

He flicked his cigarette over the railing and watched it drift down and land on the dry lawn. It sputtered there for a few seconds and a small wisp of smoke started to rise up from the parched grass then died out in the lethargic air.

The Brazilian watched the middle-aged woman, with flaming red hair, march across the parking lot towards the front door. From his perspective she seemed even shorter and plumper than she actually was.

"Id's pay day," The Brazilian sang as he slipped back into the apartment and waited for the knock. They want chemistry, he thought. I'll give them chemistry.


Bernard Slackbacker stepped into the apartment building elevator. He took a white silk handkerchief from the pocket of his flowered cotton dress and held it to his nose. He was sick of this building. He'd be happy never to smell curry again as long as he lived. Thank goodness this part of the plan was nearly over.

He was alone in the elevator and pulled a compact mirror out of his bag, to check his makeup. He'd just had his red hair touched up at the beauty parlor covering the gray roots and his nails manicured and painted. Even though his feet ached from new shoes he still felt every inch a lady.

Bernie dropped the compact back into his large Gucci bag and it clunked nosily against his silver-plated 9mm Beretta. Before the elevator reached the 12th floor he took out a pair of white dress gloves and pulled them on.

The Brazilian answered the door almost immediately.

"Bernice. How lovely you look today," the Latin crooned.

"Skip the shit Romeo! Is it ready?"

"As you can see," The Brazilian said pointing to a large Tupperware container on the kitchen table.

"Is it stable?"

"Rock solid. Yew would need a primer and an electrical charge to set it off. Just like what I make for the Colombians. Somethin from the pharmacy, somethin from the grocery store. A little of my wizardry an boom your problem solved. Yew got my money?"

Fifty thousand dollars in 100-dollar bills make a pile about the height of a 500-page novel of warmongering drivel by Tom Clancy. The Brazilian broke it into two piles and shoved one into each of his front pant pockets, chuckling to himself about the size of the wad in his pants as he took the elevator to the ground floor.

He was whistling to himself as he walked across the parking lot to his rental car. After that stupid bitch had given him the money he'd thought about slapping her around a little. An ugly little woman like that give you disrespect back home you do what any real man would do and kick the snot out of her. But the Brazilian was in too good a mood for that shit.

As he put the key in the car door lock a burly man in a black suit came around the front of his car toward him. The Brazilian stepped back into the arms of another burly man in a black suit who had come up behind him.

"Let's go for a drive!" One suit said.

A black Hummer with tinted windows pulled up with two more suits in the front seats. They duck walked the Brazilian to the car and squashed him between them in the back seat.

"Don't kill me," he pleaded.

"We're not going to kill you," one of the suits said.

"Please don't kill me," he moaned.

"We're not going to kill you," the other suits answered.

"I know you're going to kill me," he sniveled.

"Shut the fuck up or we'll kill you just to stop your whining," the first suit snapped.

The Brazilian stopped whining and shut the fuck up. He started to tremble.

"You piss your pants and I'm going to cut your nuts off and shove them up your nose. You got that?"

The Brazilian shook his head to indicate that he got it. Not pissing his pants for the next ten minutes was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. He thought his bladder would explode. When the suit in the front passenger seat turned around and jabbed him in the leg with the hypodermic needle it was a relief to pass out.

When he woke up at the corner of Sherbourne and Dundas in downtown Toronto the Brazilian couldn't remember who he was, where he was or even what he was. He searched his empty pockets. Nada.

He stood there watching taxis and streetcars whip by, unable to decide what to do. The Brazilian had never been able to make good decision. The events of the day had done little to improve that character deficiency.

He walked up to a twenty-dollar hooker standing on the corner giving phony smiles to the lone male drivers who passed.

"I don know who I yam," he whined to her.

The hooker was doing her best to focus on her work. One trick was all she needed for a piece of crack to get herself straight. She looked at the Brazilian and sneered at his lost face and dirty clothes.

"Ain't you the lucky one," she snorted.


The General lifted his empty high ball glass to the waiter. A fresh Johnny Walker Green and distilled ice appeared almost instantly and the empty glass was whisked away. He wanted to light up a cigar, just like the old days, but knew the pinko, fag, liberals were temporarily in charge. Someday, he thought, I'll light up anywhere I want and no one will dare question me.

He leaned back in his chair letting his large solid body settle into the rich leather. He looked out the large plate glass window at the Capital Building. The August sun melted off the white dome as if the decisions made inside were fermenting like heat from a compost pile.

He thought about how much he loved Washington. The place where decisions changed the history of the world. Where a few words by the right person decided the fate of millions. He could almost smell the unbridled energy in the air. God how he yearned to feel all that power in his hands.

The General sighed. He turned back from his thoughts and spoke to the man across the table who had just spoken to him. "It worked for the Brits," he said.

"Just like 9/11 worked for us," the Director replied.

Both men took thick ballpoint pens from their inside jacket pockets and placed them on the table. The small light at the top of each devise remained unlit. They were reassured that no one was bugging their conversation.

"The Brits needed that subway bombing," the General said emphatically.

"To successful operations!" the Director said raising his Gin and Tonic to salute the General.
"To Business!" the General responded.

Both men fell silent as their meals were served. The General watched the Director carefully dissect his Trout Amandine holding the fork in his left hand and carefully placing the bones on a side dish. The General slashed into his very rare sirloin steak and used a thick linen napkin to wipe juice that had dribbled down his square razor shaved chin.

The Director casually looked over at the table were the two young lovers were flirting. He caught the girl's eye. She moved the small handbag sitting beside her water glass, so it surreptitiously picked up the two men's conversation.

The General scratched his balls in a mock macho gesture activating an undetectable electronic transmitter. The Director's operation had the best surveillance equipment in the world and the General had the people to steal it from them.

"We need more help in Iraq," the Director said.

"Too many countries sitting on the fence," the General replied nodding his head in agreement.

"The G8 is meeting in Toronto next month. The media will be swarming all over it. Lots of coverage should anything happen," the Director suggested.

"Time to stir the pot a little!"

"We've started already."

"Fine," the General said. "I don’t need to tell you how easily something like this can go sour."

“We’ve already lined up a couple of patsies.”

The General and the Director finished their meals. When they left the dinning room, the bus boy cleared their table dumping china and silverware into a large plastic bin. Kitchen staff were running about frantically preparing lunch meals as the buss boy loaded the dishwasher. He carefully examined the utensils until he found what he was looking for. He screwed the handle off one of the bread knives and removed a small memory chip, which he dropped into his pocket.


Almost one hundred years ago a gang of British ruffians rode into Washington D.C. and torched the new Presidential Palace. Since then the Colonials had gussied it up a bit with a coat of white paint, some bunkers in the basement and a bit of old French furniture.

A TV in the Oval Office was tuned to Fox News. The sound was turned down low. The picture showed angry protestors waving anti-war signs just outside the gates of the White House. A long row of riot police marched toward them brandishing shields and batons. As they broke through the line of protestors, some fought back, others turned and fled in fear. The police chased after them beating those they caught and trampling others beneath the hooves of large dark horses.

"I still think we should just shoot a few of them!" President Jerry Shrub said. He scratched one of his large ears and put his feet up on the priceless mahogany coffee table. The Oval Office was a beehive of activity. Television lights around the President's official desk threw hard ominous shadows against the wall, where a picture of George Washington scowled down on the assembled shenanigans.

The Secretary of State leaned over the President. "We tried killing them off in Iraq, remember Jerry. Look where that got us!"

Jerry Shrub fumed in silence, unable to think of a reply.

"Now Jerry don't go getting yourself all worked up," First Lady Laura Lee said. She sat beside him on the couch, eating a bag of bacon bits dropping pieces all over her large pendulous breasts. Her rather generous hips forced the President to the corner of the small couch. Laura Lee's Horoscope in the Washington Post that day had said to indulge her carnal desires. She planned on doing just that. She looked over at the Secretary of State and smiled lasciviously.

"Just study your script and think about talking to the people of America," Laura Lee told her husband. "Remember, you're keeping them free so they can keep driving their cars and buying stuff, without terrorist blowing them up. That's what the American people want."

"Say did I tell you I asked God last night if this was the right thing to do and He didn't say no."

"That sure tells you something doesn't it dear," Laura Lee crooned as she opened another bag of bacon bits.

"Gimme some of those," Jerry said reaching for the bag. Laura Lee pulled back and bared her teeth, then smiled.

"You got to go on TV in a couple of minutes. You don't want bits of food stuck between your teeth do you?"

"Ah shucks," the President said and leaned back to read his script. His face was scrunched up in a pout.

"Wrinkles, wrinkles," Laura Lee chirped. "We don't want the people of America to see their leader with wrinkles now do we Shruby. Come on give me a big smile. Bigger. Bigger. That's my little man. Now you compose yourself for the TV."

Laura Lee grinned at the Secretary of State.

"Two minutes until air time," The Secretary told The President.

On TV the police were dragging protesters to a big windowless bus, clubbing and kicking them if they resisted. Some of the more youthful and buxom females had their tops torn by over eager rookies, as they threw them to the ground and handcuffed them.

A newspaper reporter held out his press credentials while two of Washington's finest smashed his camera and beat him to the pavement.

Jerry took his script and moved over to the desk. The hot lights began melting his makeup. The make-up technician powdered his face and brushed the dandruff off his shoulders.

"How you doing sugar?" the President asked as he tried to slip his hand up her skirt. She smiled and smacked him hard on the back of the head with the brush.


"Ten seconds," the TV director said as the President rubbed his head.

The make-up girl grabbed his hand away from his hair and did a quick last minute comb.

"Three, two, one."

The President looked at the camera the way he practiced every morning when he was brushing his teeth.

"My fellow Americans," he began. reading from the Teleprompter. "If you have been watching your TV lately it will be obvious that our country is in a state of turmoil. Disloyal factions within the Liberal community are doing everything they can to interfere with the rights of freedom loving people all across this great nation.

"I have received reports from Home Land Security that many of these traitors have ties to terrorist organizations in other parts of the world. Many of them have traveled to France and Cuba where they learned to speak foreign un-American languages, cook gourmet food and participate in immoral sexual activities.

"It is with a heavy heart that I come before the people of America to announce what your government is forced to do to secure the freedom of the citizens of this wonderful country.

"I know everyone is looking forward to the next election. No one more so than myself. But secret documents have been discovered that outline a Liberal conspiracy to disrupt the voting by running their own candidates.

"Therefore, to save democracy I am announcing today that I've decided to re-schedule the elections until next year. Or at least until Home Land Security has been able to round up all the traitors and Hollywood actors who oppose freedom in this country.

"Over the next few months we will be giving the men and women in law enforcement who defend and protect your rights some added tools in their war against terrorists. If you should become aware that someone is listening in on your telephone calls or opening your mail, remember, you are part of a great team. A team that is keeping America strong and free.

"I urge you, if you know of anyone, friend, co-worker or family member who harbors traitorous thoughts and has said something bad about your government, be sure to report them. At the bottom of your screen you'll see an 800-snitch number. Call any time, day or night.

"And remember kids, if you're reporting your parents, be sure to show the police where they hide their dope stash when they come to arrest them.

"A nice social worker will take you to live with a family that loves you and will teach you how to shoot guns and laugh at poor people.

"So remember, only if we all pull together and support your government without whining or complaining can we keep this country strong and free. Together we can help the rest of the world find freedom and happiness. It's what I want. It's what my wife Laura Lee wants, and it's what God wants. Good night America.”

The crew began packing up. "How'd I do?" Jerry asked Laura Lee.

"You were fantastic," Laura Lee said dangling a bacon bit over his upturned mouth. "I might have a reward for my big strong man when he goes to bed tonight"

She glanced behind her and smiled as the Secretary of State softly ran a finger across the back of her neck.President Jerry Shrub didn't notice. He was too excited about Laura Lee's promise. She sure was a good woman he thought. That was the kind of talk he wanted to hear. He always liked it when she let him sleep with his teddy bear.


Los Angeles. Current weather conditions: Really, really fucking hot and dry. Official prediction. Dropping to just really fucking hot and dry tonight. Back up to more of the same fucking weather tomorrow. Thanks for watching. Have a good day.

Dirk Davies was tall and slim. Attractive to women in that James Dean shy guy kind of way. He probably could have been a movie star if he'd had the desire for fame and adulation. He didn't. He hated crowds, he hated actors, he hated people staring at him.

The telephone rang in Dirk Davies workroom. He was on a roll and the interruption ticked him off. He moved the cursor to the save icon and reached out for the phone without looking. It was balanced on a stack of paperback novels. Zorg of the Planet Twit. Lizards from Andromeda. Space Mutants from Uranus. Some of his best writing crashed to the floor as he grabbed the phone.

"You're home!" his ex-wife snapped without preamble.

"Great to hear from you too," Dirk said.

"You're funny."

"That's me. A million laughs. What can I do for you Judy?"

"Did you forget I was picking up my things today?"

Dirk opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the deck. The August air hit him like a wet towel in a hot sauna. An orange haze hung over downtown LA. His next door neighbour, Carmela, lay on a towel in her back yard, shielded from other neighbors by a tall dry hedge. When she saw him she sat up and smiled. She had a tattoo on each of her generous naked breasts. One said SWEET. The other said SOUR. They wobbled and pitched as she waved at Dirk.

Camela's boyfriend was sitting in a lawn chair beside her drinking beer out of a long neck bottle and cleaning his nails with a large fold up knife. He looked over and scowled. Dirk looked away. He made it a point never to antagonize surly Latinos with multiple bullet holes in the windshield of their Beemers.

His ex was still talking on the phone.

"I knew you'd forget. That's just like you."

The Latino was rubbing suntan cream on Carmela while giving Dirk the stink eye. He went back inside the air-conditioned town house and closed the door.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Judy said and hung up sharply.

Dirk looked out the window at the alley that ran down the end of the row of townhouses. A red mini van with two empty kiddy seats in the back was idling and the girl who usually did business there was leaning into the driver's window talking to the John. Her cut off jeans were pulled up tight into the crack of her ass revealing two, skinny, needle punctured cheeks.

Time to get the hell out of LA for awhile he thought. The post 9/11 paranoia was getting him down. The other day he almost went into a gun shop.

'Hand guns, sniper rifles, assault weapons', the poster in the window read. 'An armed society is a polite society. One hour Criminal Lawyer consultation with every purchase'.
The doorbell rang.


Dirk Davie's ex-wife had changed a lot in six months. Her hair was cut short and bleached an off pink color. Each ear sported a dozen rings. Behind Judy, a large angry woman stood in the doorway glowering at Dirk.

"Nice jewelry," Dirk said.

"Oh there's lots more other places," Judy smirked.

"And you ain't going to see any of it," Judy's angry friend snarled.

"DuBoise," Judy said pointing at her friend. "Dirk," she said pointing at Dirk.

DuBoise continued to glare at him. Her arms were crossed defiantly over her large unrestrained breasts that stretched the fabric of her Harley Davidson T-shirt. Over her shoulder Dirk saw an old Ford pick up backed up to the door. The front lawn was chewed up by its huge off road tires. Motorcycle parts littered the truck bed. The bumper sticker read 'Fuck You!'. Dirk backed away from the door and let them in.

He tried to stay out of their way as they collected Judy's stuff.

"You write this shit?" DuBoise asked looking at the bookshelf. She picked out 'Lizard Lagoon' and leafed through it. It was the first of 'The 'Reptilian Series'. He thought it was his best work. DuBoise read out loud.

"I like men," the tall female with purple eyes said.

Her high leather boots stopped just above the knees. Her red tongue slithered in and out of her mouth, as she looked me over.

She was a carnivore through and through. The type that ate her mate as soon as he'd done the deed.

I took a step back and felt the hard volcanic rock cut into my shoulder.
"Ever had an Elon?" she asked.

I shook my head no!

"Well I've had plenty of men like you," she said moving closer.

Her red nails flashed in the sunlight. As she smiled, green drool clung to the corner of her mouth. As she started to turn I dropped flat in the Elonian dust. Her huge scaly tail sailed over my head and hit the cliff face throwing her off balance.

Before she could recover I was up and running. I heard her raspy reptilian breath snorting, hot on my heels.

"This is shit," DuBoise snorted. She turned the book over to look at the back cover expecting no doubt to be shocked by images of reptilian coupling. Dirk noticed her jail house tattoo. Two kittens licking each other.

Dirk shrugged. "It's a living. What do you do?"

"Anything I want."

"Glad to see you two are getting along," Judy said lugging a garbage bag of clothes down from the bedroom.

"Yah we're being real civilized," DuBoise snorted.

"Practically best friends," Dirk said.

When they left, Dirk watched DuBoise cut across the lawn on a fresh patch of grass. She gunned the motor and threw pieces of dry sod and dirt against the front of the building. As she hit the road she stuck her arm out the window and shot Dirk the finger.

As he stepped away from the window, Dirk felt a sharp pain in his right temple and imagined it to be a burst blood vessel. The onset of a stroke that would leave him paralyzed for the remainder of his miserable life-or reduce him to a semi-vegetable state. He saw himself walking the streets with a shopping cart, mumbling to himself, one side of his face permanently drooling saliva.


"Do we have to listen to him on the radio?" First Lady Laura Lee asked as she pulled at the Secretary of State's belt buckle.

"He's our ticket to power and glory!" the Secretary of State said tearing off Laura Lee's black lace panties.

"Oh Baby," Laura Lee growled.

"Laura Lee's husband ranted on the radio, as they tore at each other like savage lizards, their clothes heaped in a pile on the floor of the George Washington Bedroom.

On the radio Laura Lee's husband continued with his speech. He talked about killing people so they could be free. He spoke of invading oil rich countries so the people could be liberated from the tyrant the previous American governments had put in power. He talked of free elections over there, while disenfranchising millions in this country. He called for tax cuts for the rich that left the poor without food and shelter. He wanted to hire more police and fire more teachers.

The Secretary of State and The First Lady squirmed with pleasure as they grabbed at each other. They were oblivious to The President's asinine ranting.

Laura Lee began to moan. It was soft at first-barely audible. As they moved together she began to scream. "Oh Baby!" Laura Lee screamed. "Do me Baby! Do me!"

The Secretary looked at the red flush spreading across the First Lady's neck. She wanted to bite the First Lady's neck. God how she wanted to bite her neck!

"Oh Connie!" the President's wife called out grabbing the Secretary of State's skinny ass. "You're the best baby!"

Secretary of State Connie Pasta had no doubt that was true. She knew she was the best. Certainly much better qualified to run the country than Laura Lee's idiot husband. She was also patient. Her time would come. Sooner than most people could guess. For now though, her immediate fear was that her tongue would go numb before she could get The First Lady off.


Dirk Davies was through writing for the day. He took a frozen glass and a bottle of vodka from the freezer. The liquor was cloudy and viscous as he poured it and pressed the cold glass to his forehead. In the distance he could hear sirens and the faint crackle of automatic weapons fire.

He went into his workroom and took a small black bag and a notebook from his desk drawer. He sat for a minute holding the bag in his hand feeling the rough edged Dako pieces through the soft cotton material as he tried to empty his mind. The natives of Tamara Island in the South Seas used the Dako to connect with the spirits who create mischief in our lives.

This is the closest Dirk has had to religion since the day many years ago when he lost his faith in God, on that little Island in the Pacific. His throat tightened at the memory. He pushed the horrible images back into their dark little room.

He shook the Dako bag and reached in. The piece he drew was carved like a frigate bird with long soaring wings. He opened his notebook filled with things the Tamara Wise Woman had taught him. He read the notation for the Frigate Bird.

"Though it be a warm sunny day and you wish only to lay in the shade, with a coconut filled with fermented juice, this approach will get you shit. Lift your useless ass from the sand, get in your canoe and find your fate. Let the gods show you the way. Maybe they kill you, maybe they don't. If you survive, don't come back till you're through feeling sorry for your silly miserable self."

The Tamara wise women believed in a pragmatic no nonsense approach to life.

Dirk logged onto a last minute ticket site. He could leave for Miami that night. Local weather was a high of one hundred and six with an impending hurricane that could easily sweep the whole city out into the Atlantic.

There was a seat available for New York City. He checked the local news. "Manhattan police expect a break any day in the series of grisly murders of tourists."

There was a half price first class seat to Toronto leaving at six the next morning. News headlines: "Two hundred gay couples married in mass wedding ceremony. Police Chief opens 'Marijuana Festival'. Jerry Falwell declares Toronto modern Sodom and Gomorrah.
Dirk used his credit card to grab the last ticket.


An orange haze hung over Los Angeles. The 6:00 p.m. news reported a grisly drive-by shooting that took two lives and seriously injured a two year old Pekinese named Pooch. There had been a dozen road-rage incidents on the freeways, and numerous domestics with one in particular that involved a kitchen knife and a pair of cheating testicles. Angelenos can't get enough of each other's jive-ass shit. Get well cards for Pooch can be sent in care of the TV station.

The unemployed construction worker, in the apartment above Kitty Lunt, had his music cranked to the max. Some Bro rappin about how his woman was gonna get a beatin if she didn't come home with some green. Someone else in the building was pounding on a wall and yelling for him to turn the fucking music the fuck down, so he could get some fucking sleep.

"Lots of money," the tall one said to his partner, as they stood in Kitty Lunt's living room, oblivious to the noise. He used a greasy cotton handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his face. "Lots of money is what you'll need to survive the Apocalypse."

"Wrong," the short one said. "These days, money is just a lot of ones and zeros in computers. That'll all get wiped out. What you need is street smarts when the big shit hits the fan. The animals are going to come out and take over."

"You guys done here?" Kitty asked the two LAPD uniforms, giving them as much attitude as she could. They looked at her as if they'd just noticed her for the first time.

"We're done," the tall one said running his eyes up her legs and stopping at her breasts. He handed her a copy of the report. "Hope you got insurance."

"I'd put in an alarm system," the short one said. "Make sure it's got a good battery backup incase the power goes out."

"Thanks guys, it makes me feel safe knowing you're out there!"

"The thin blue line," the tall one said smirking.

"Yea, real thin!" Kitty said.

The short one pulled her apartment door closed behind them as they left, but it sprung open again from the pry bar damage. Kitty went over and kicked it.

On the stairs going down she heard the tall cop. "What do you think is best to keep, dry food or canned?"

She kicked the door again and felt the tears start. She looked around at the small living room. There hadn't been much to steal. A bit of cash, booze, clothes for their bitches. No drugs, so they'd trashed the place. A friend had once advised her to leave a little bag of blow out for the bad guys or the cleaning lady. She should have taken the advice.

They used knives to slash the sofa. Its fuzzy white guts were strewn all over the room. They'd spray-painted tags on the walls like dogs pissing on a hydrant. They'd written 'fuk you' and 'your muther', using spelling mistakes they probably first made in grade four when they dropped out.

Time to get out of LA for a while she thought. Things are going stale. Sure there was always some kind of work for her. Movie extra, commercials, waiting tables. The old clichés. She'd even slept with a producer, which got her a speaking part in a flick with a couple of big names who kept to themselves in their air conditioned trailers while the little guys smoked and drank really bad coffee in a rented tent. For a while she thought she might be in love with the producer.

A week ago he'd told her it was over, just after she'd given him a blowjob, on the leather couch in his office. He said his wife had hired a private investigator and he couldn't afford to get caught. He looked at his reflection in the office window, and ran his fingers through his full head of dark hair, the night lights from LA like campfire sparks across the dry hills. "It's her money," he said. "I have to keep her happy."

Kitty thought he was full of shit. She sent the wife a couple of Polaroids she'd taken of him asleep in a Cancun hotel room. One was a close up so the wife could see the lipstick on his cock.

Kitty looked around her devastated apartment. The scumbags had screwed in her bed and she knew she'd never be able to sleep there again. Upstairs she heard someone pounding on her neighbour's door, the sound of breaking glass, police sirens in the distance. She put her face in her hands and cried.


Kitty sat at a table, outside a Star Bucks watching attractive people pretend not to see the homeless guy panhandling at the corner. She wondered where to go now that her apartment was gone. There was still the chance the Hollywood dream thing would come through. Modeling was still an option. She had good skin, great cheeks and a hard body she kept trimmed at the gym. The girls were still pert. Full enough that augmentation had never been a consideration.

Her cell phone rang. She looked at it, sitting on the little round patio table, beside her double latte with cinnamon and her low-cal chocolate eclair.

The two aging starlets at the table near the sidewalk looked over and glowered at her, then went back to complaining about their unfaithful husbands. They tactfully avoid admitting that they'd each fucked the other's spouse.

Kitty didn't recognize the number on her phone screen. She answered prepared to hang up if it was the Producer.

"Hello Kitty," the familiar voice from her past said.

"How'd you get this number?"

"You know we can do anything we want, Kitty."

She knew it was true. She'd seen her ex-boss casually comment about a situation on the other side of the world. The next day people were dead. Or wished they were.

"Slackbacker's causing trouble," her ex-boss said. "We need you! There is an envelope with money and a plane ticket to Toronto waiting at the Air Canada desk at LA International." He hung up before she could say no.

Slackbacker. That crazy fucking cross-dressing asshole. He'd ruined her career and killed her friends. Now she was being offered the chance to get even. Could she say no?


Bernie Slackbacker looked out the window of the American Consulate on University Avenue. He could see the top of Toronto City Hall and the office towers on Bay Street. When he shifted his focus to his own reflection in the bulletproof glass he could see the crows feet around his eyes that even heavy makeup couldn't hide. He sighed and ran a comb through his bright red hair.

He picked up the gray phone in the ultra secure communications room and identified himself using code numbers that were verified on the other end. He waited quietly for 10 minutes listening to dead air until his party picked up. He gave his report on the situation.

"This better come off squeaky clean Slackbacker! No trails to follow back to us!"

"Depend on me!"

"I hope so Slackbacker. And remember, you may be a useless fuck up but Jesus loves you!"

"Yes Madame Secretary of State."

Visit My Web Site