Read Online Deadside in Bug City by Randy Chandler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Randy Chandler
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around,” Todd said—or thought he said—sitting up and unsnapping the leather strap securing his pistol in the holster.
“Kid ain’t right in the head,” Fuller said. “He went fuckin’ nuts abusing the suspect and I had to put him down.”
“Lying,” mumbled Todd, getting to his feet. The walls of the store were throbbing in and out of focus. The faces of the two detectives seemed distorted, grotesque, as if they were wearing demonic make-up. His head hurt, and each clang of the bell drove a spike of anger deeper into his brain.
“Hey, he’s—”
Todd drew his .38 and pointed it at Sergeant Fuller.
“Sonofabitch,” Fuller blurted. He fumbled for his own pistol.
Todd squeezed the trigger. The slug slammed into Fuller’s bulging gut. Todd fired again. The second shot tagged the fat fucker’s chest and knocked him on his ass. One of the suits grabbed Todd’s wrist and tried to wrestle the gun away from him. The pistol barked again. The suit’s eyes went wide and he reeled backward, holding his belly. Blood poured through his fingers.
The other detective drew from his shoulder rig and fired three, four times point-blank at Todd’s chest. The breath went out of his lungs, but there wasn’t much pain. Getting shot wasn’t at all like he’d expected it to be. He grinned at the man who’d shot him, then his legs decided to quit holding him up and he dropped to the floor.
The fog thickened. The bell called him back into darkness. Funny, Todd thought, how the ringing of the bell was everywhere, bridging this world with the next…
* * *
Daisy Winter was between worlds, living in a hazy limbo of her own making (or so she suspected, being what her son called “a control freak”), but what better place to be was there after you’d nearly killed your own mother with your bare hands? Daisy raised the bottle of vodka to her lips for another big pull. It burned good going down, burned even better when it got to where it was going, down there in the belly, close to a cunt that hadn’t had any decent action in months, she sadly lamented. That was how she had come to think of it: A cunt. Not her cunt, but a thing living almost apart from her, denying ownership and existing independently, a pariah, an outcast organ denied any semblance of pleasure. Daisy had been the Queen of Denial. She’d denied herself booze for six months. She’d turned down dates with local lounge lizards and had even denied herself the solitary pleasure of masturbation. But now her denial was over and done.
Ignoring the pain of her scratched eyeball, she leaned back in the armchair, hiked one leg over the arm, slipped her hand into her panties and fingered herself. The queen is dead. Long live the queen. It was time to reclaim her cunt the way she had just reclaimed vodka as her drug of choice. Self-medication was the way to go when all else failed. And failed all else had.
Blame it on the bell. Each time that iron bell rang she felt its sonic vibration between her legs. After almost choking her mother to death, she had run out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the cupboard where she’d stashed a fifth of vodka. She chug-a-lugged half the bottle right off the fucking bat. All the while, the bell kept ringing, tweaking her clitoris, making it throb erect. It wasn’t that she was denying what she’d done to the old lady. Not at all. She’d even gone back upstairs to check on the old bitch. Sure enough, old Dora was still breathing, if not kicking. Her eyes were fixed open but Daisy didn’t think she was seeing much of anything. Probably stroked out during the fight. Probably turned her brain into cauliflower. A fucking vegetable. Be better off dead. Then Daisy had picked up the pillow and put it over her mother’s face. After a few seconds, she pulled the pillow away. If she killed her, she’d have to call somebody to take the body away and the coroner would see the bruises on the old bitch’s throat and know foul play
“Kid ain’t right in the head,” Fuller said. “He went fuckin’ nuts abusing the suspect and I had to put him down.”
“Lying,” mumbled Todd, getting to his feet. The walls of the store were throbbing in and out of focus. The faces of the two detectives seemed distorted, grotesque, as if they were wearing demonic make-up. His head hurt, and each clang of the bell drove a spike of anger deeper into his brain.
“Hey, he’s—”
Todd drew his .38 and pointed it at Sergeant Fuller.
“Sonofabitch,” Fuller blurted. He fumbled for his own pistol.
Todd squeezed the trigger. The slug slammed into Fuller’s bulging gut. Todd fired again. The second shot tagged the fat fucker’s chest and knocked him on his ass. One of the suits grabbed Todd’s wrist and tried to wrestle the gun away from him. The pistol barked again. The suit’s eyes went wide and he reeled backward, holding his belly. Blood poured through his fingers.
The other detective drew from his shoulder rig and fired three, four times point-blank at Todd’s chest. The breath went out of his lungs, but there wasn’t much pain. Getting shot wasn’t at all like he’d expected it to be. He grinned at the man who’d shot him, then his legs decided to quit holding him up and he dropped to the floor.
The fog thickened. The bell called him back into darkness. Funny, Todd thought, how the ringing of the bell was everywhere, bridging this world with the next…
* * *
Daisy Winter was between worlds, living in a hazy limbo of her own making (or so she suspected, being what her son called “a control freak”), but what better place to be was there after you’d nearly killed your own mother with your bare hands? Daisy raised the bottle of vodka to her lips for another big pull. It burned good going down, burned even better when it got to where it was going, down there in the belly, close to a cunt that hadn’t had any decent action in months, she sadly lamented. That was how she had come to think of it: A cunt. Not her cunt, but a thing living almost apart from her, denying ownership and existing independently, a pariah, an outcast organ denied any semblance of pleasure. Daisy had been the Queen of Denial. She’d denied herself booze for six months. She’d turned down dates with local lounge lizards and had even denied herself the solitary pleasure of masturbation. But now her denial was over and done.
Ignoring the pain of her scratched eyeball, she leaned back in the armchair, hiked one leg over the arm, slipped her hand into her panties and fingered herself. The queen is dead. Long live the queen. It was time to reclaim her cunt the way she had just reclaimed vodka as her drug of choice. Self-medication was the way to go when all else failed. And failed all else had.
Blame it on the bell. Each time that iron bell rang she felt its sonic vibration between her legs. After almost choking her mother to death, she had run out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the cupboard where she’d stashed a fifth of vodka. She chug-a-lugged half the bottle right off the fucking bat. All the while, the bell kept ringing, tweaking her clitoris, making it throb erect. It wasn’t that she was denying what she’d done to the old lady. Not at all. She’d even gone back upstairs to check on the old bitch. Sure enough, old Dora was still breathing, if not kicking. Her eyes were fixed open but Daisy didn’t think she was seeing much of anything. Probably stroked out during the fight. Probably turned her brain into cauliflower. A fucking vegetable. Be better off dead. Then Daisy had picked up the pillow and put it over her mother’s face. After a few seconds, she pulled the pillow away. If she killed her, she’d have to call somebody to take the body away and the coroner would see the bruises on the old bitch’s throat and know foul play
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