Archives
- 11-01-2008
- A Splinter from the Devil's Mirror by Bryn Greenwood
- Between You and the Man-Sized Prophylactic with the Zipper by Tom Bradley
- Chief by Warren Buckles
- 09-01-2008
- Routine by Felipe de Oliveira
- Automatic Transmission by Warren Buckles
- 08-01-2008
- The Axiom of Choice by Jim Chaffee
- 07-01-2008
- A Pleasure Jaunt with One of the Sex Workers Who Don’t Exist in the People’s Republic of China by Tom Bradley
- Making the Switch by George Sparling
- 06-01-2008
- The War Prayer by Mark Twain
- 05-01-2008
- About the Dog by Robert Aqunio Dollesin
- 04-01-2008
- The Coup by Peter Schoenau
- 03-01-2008
- Art School by Zach Plague
- Consitutional Puppies by JR
- 02-01-2008
- Selection from The Vicious Circulation of Dr. Catastrope by Kane X. Faucher
- Party Pooper from Make Me by Eli Richardson
- Una Noche Perfecta para Sanguijuelas por Jim Chaffee (tr. Sonia Ramos Rossi)
- 01-01-2008
- A Night in Cameroon by Kelly Jameson
- Missile by Jason Jordan
- 12-01-2007
- Nothing by J.R.
- Sacrament by Sonia Ramos Rossi
- 11-01-2007
- Green Mountain Incumbent by D E Fredd
- When Pacino's Hot, I'm Hot by Robert Levin
- 10-01-2007
- The Book of Ancient Wisdom by Hugh Fox
- 09-01-2007
- Dog Days by Robert Levin
- Junk-Pure by Forrest Armstrong
- 08-01-2007
- Beefsteak Mistake, Jake by Kelly Jameson
- Sand by Jim Chaffee
- 07-01-2007
- How to Make a Baby by Robert Levin
- A Rude Little Monkey by Kelly Jameson
- 06-01-2007
- Revolver by Sandra Ramos Rossi
- Brian and Mona by Jim Chaffee
- 05-01-2007
- El Castrator by Thomas Head
- 04-01-2007
- Alone, As Always by Jennifer Gardner
- 03-01-2007
- Polar Regions by Gayla Chaney
- 02-01-2007
- Two Stories of Sex Beyond Erotica: Editor's Introduction by Jim Chaffee
- Photo Finish by Anya Wassenberg
- Mephisto and Me by Lily Edwards
- 01-01-2007
- Management Case Study 17: Down East Chicken by D. E. Fredd
- MoM by David Quinn
- Full TEX Archive
Management Case Study 17: Down East Chicken - 4
By D. E. Fredd
Inside he quickly doused the lights to the parking lot. "Hey, Carol Graves is out there."
"Your problems with that bitch are over, Cap. She'll never bust your balls again or fire your ass."
"What are you talking about? She's trying to help me." I no sooner got those words out when another shadowy figure emerged from the lot and stood by the door.
"Cap, this was perfect timing. Bad stuff went down up in Bangor this afternoon. Everybody heard that asshole Ramirez put the word out on the street. Let the Dominicans take a hit for a change. My Puerto Rican compadre, Gato, just took care of her. I’m going to follow him up north in my car and two weeks from now some hikers just might luck onto what’s left of her."
Gato stepped forward as if taking a bow. He was no more than five feet, a watch cap pulled down to his nose. He wore a grease-stained, grey jump suit zipped up to his neck that advertised a local auto body shop. I looked out at Carol's car and could only make out that something occupied the passenger seat. Carlos gently moved me aside and grabbed her purse from the booth, quickly glancing for any cash.
"Wipe down the booth and everything she might have touched. Best stay the night over to Buh Buh’s for some loving in case there’s questions. Semper Fi, Cap."
Before I could say anything they were out the door and gone. I grabbed a spray bottle and gave the table and seat a perfunctory wipe. Then I sat down and punched in Buh Buh's number. Sleepy-voiced she answered on the third ring.
"You got the ax?"
"No."
"You finished your horseshit report then?"
"No."
"You haven't been drinking, have you?" Now fully awake there was some alarm in her voice.
"There might be worse things tonight than getting shit-faced."
"Hey, if you're not here in twenty minutes I’m coming to get you. Where are you, home?"
"Yeah, I'm home."
I clicked off and sat for a few minutes in the soft glow of the store lights. They were pretty—some greens, a few blinking reds and the bluish white from the beverage cooler—Christmas. There was a comforting hum as well and every once in a while the deep thump of a compressor motor kicking on. I got up and went to the counter where I'd left my pen and yellow pad. The words "BE QUITE!" stared back at me. I took my pen and fancied it up with some gothic-looking script. This would probably be my motto, the words I would live by for the next few months. And who knows, someday they might even make sense.
© D. E. Fredd 2006