Todd Robinson - THUGLIT Issue One

A few weeks later he showed my picture to the girl and now the three of us hold a secret bonded in blood.

And against doubts new and old, I still pray to God, Falconer in my hands, Audrey in my hands. My knees will never stop bleeding and the terrazzo floor will always be cold and hard. But I continue waiting, knowing full well that God and Morpheus and booze will never let me have her. I know this.

I’ll live out my days and nights reaching and grabbing for her in a blood red world left untouched evermore by a clean white sun. Audrey, only a few steps away, but never within reach. Her smile. Her clean sweet scent. Her iridescent green eyes and soft brown skin.

Halcyon days are gone forever.

Spinning free.

Violence Cortez is not a subtle man. His nickname, neck tattoo, body language, and facial expression all communicate the same thing. The same word. The same danger. Nothing clever or open to misinterpretation for this guy. Violence is violence.

Closer to a yellowjacket than a rattlesnake, Violence has a reputation for his no-quit tenacity, rage-fueled insanity that makes him avoided as much as feared. The kind of erratic personality that makes everyone nervous, that can turn a good night bad. Violence likes to brawl, an avid hobbyist, needing little more than a sideways glance to start round one. If that’s your kind of fun, all the power to you. But most folks would rather have a good time.

Most folks, but not Scrote Henning, Violence’s only friend. Somewhere between a sidekick and a toady, the inseparable duo spend their evenings mining every ounce of havoc from the night and a whiskey bottle.

But when the front door of the Top Hat Saloon swings open and Violence stomps in alone, the last thing the bartender Marco is thinking about is Scrote, figuring he’ll show up soon enough. Marco says a soft prayer that Violence doesn’t aggravate the hangover that he’s been nursing all day. Sometimes all you can do is hope your trailer is standing after the tornado. You can’t run, hide, or fight a force of nature. You can only have enough good luck to survive it.

Marco cracks open a Coors Light, sets it on the bar just as Violence sits, and acts like he’s happy to see the dumb psychopath.

“You seen Scrote? Scrote Henning?” Violence asks.

“There more than one Scrote?”

“Don’t know. Could be. You seen him?”

Marco shakes his head. “Ain’t seen him since when you two were in. What was that? A week, ten days?”

Violence nods, his eyes never leaving Marco’s. “You sure you’re telling me the truth?”

Heat rises to Marco’s face. Having his word challenged is not something he trucks with easily. But looking at Violence-eye twitching, breathing forced-Marco douses the flames with a big splash of What The Fuck Are You Doing?

“Got no reason to lie,” Marco says through a strained smile.

“Everyone’s got a reason to lie,” Violence says with his own smile, albeit one that would make a child cry. “Just saying. You’re pals with Scrote, kind of. Maybe he tells you to tell me you ain’t seen him. Like that. You being a friend.”

“We ain’t friends, really. Just a guy I see. A guy who comes in the bar. If you don’t know where he is, I sure as hell don’t.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Can’t find him. Ain’t heard from him in days.”

“Maybe something’s wrong?”

“Sure as hell is. Because when I find him, I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”

Violence Cortez and Scrote Henning leaned against Scrote’s Filipino-blue Toyota pickup in the parking lot of the FastTrip, drinking tall boys and chucking the empties in the truck bed. Neither would go so far as to call it a ritual, but since Violence got back from up north, this was how they spent their Saturday nights. Other than the casinos, there wasn’t much else to do in Indio. And neither man had extra money to gamble.

“Some people just got more luck than others. More good luck. More bad luck. Luck wouldn’t be a word if it weren’t a real thing.” After ten beers, Scrote always leaned toward philosophizing and pontificating. He wasn’t smart, but he had ideas. “We, the two of us, you and me, we’ve always had bad luck. Not our fault none of the things that happened.”

“I don’t buy that shit.” Violence spit on the ground. “I ain’t no puppet, got no choice. I control me and mine. Big difference between bad luck and a fuck-up. Give me a smoke.”

Scrote dug out his pack and handed it to Violence. “Just saying, if I wouldn’t’ve had the bad luck three years ago-Connie coming home early on the one day I was finally able to talk Sinnamon off the pole at Hot Lipps and back to my house, then I’d still be married and a regular dad and all. Like getting struck by lightning. Bad luck. Couldn’t be anything else. I mean, you remember Sinnamon. Not like I had a choice.”

Violence shook his head and lit the smoke, but let Scrote continue.

“And you, you're saying it wasn't bad luck the cops pulled into the parking lot of Dirty Pete’s? Just as you was punishing Israel Ramirez for being an asshole-or whatever reason I’m sure he had coming?

“He said Poison rocked harder than Metallica.”

“Exactly. Capital offense. On any other night, Izzy just would’ve took that beating. No harm. Free ambulance ride. Stitches and plaster. But soon as a cop sees a guy pummeling another guy with a stop sign, they know they can frame him on some bullshit charge. Bad luck got you four years for assault.”

“And an extra year for destruction of county property.” Violence laughed and gave his buddy a hard slap on the back. “You’re an idiot, Scrote. A straight-up retard. But God love you, you’re always ready to take a buddy’s side. No matter how stupid.”

Violence held up his can, Scrote tapped his against it, and they both downed the remainder of the beers. The clang of empty against empty signaled their need for more.

Violence drives past the FastTrip, but there are no cars parked out front. No sparkly blue pickup, that’s for sure. It’s Saturday night. It’s where Scrote should be. Hell, it’s where Violence should be, drinking and shooting the shit. They never even had to call to meet up. It was their routine, tradition. Now Violence is sure that Scrote is avoiding him. And if Scrote isn’t dead in a ditch, he’s going to wish he was.

Other than drinking with Violence, Scrote only has one other thing in his life. Strippers. But Violence can’t remember the name of the dancer that Scrote is banging. What is it with that idiot and strippers? It’s probably the tits. They all have tits. And that’s a big deal to a guy like Scrote.

Violence can’t even remember her stage name. Always something spelled all squirrelly. He might even know a stripper named Squirrelly. He knows a Kanddee. A Lexxxi with three x’s. And most of the spice rack: Sage, Cayenne, Saffron, Pepper, Cumin, and of course, Nutmeg. Hell, what does it matter? Not like he can look it up in the phone book. But he can head over to Hot Lipps. He knows her by sight, tramp stamp and all. Eventually, Scrote will show up. That’s where the tits are.

Violence smiles as he turns right on the next street, thinking about tits and punishment.

Scrote pulled three bags of Fritos off the chip rack. Violence knocked them out of his hands onto the floor. Neither man bothered to pick them up.

“What was that for?” Scrote asked.

“I ain’t gonna smell Frito breath the rest of the night. Smells like a rendering plant. Might as well fart in my mouth and get it done with.”