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Topics - Wolfman Lou

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Your Stories / The Circuit Board
« on: 01:50 AM, 03/31/18 »
At the age of twenty two, I had finally saved up enough money from working to put down a security deposit and rent an extra month in advance on a house. It wasn't anything fancy, as anyone's first house is. A simple, single-level three bed, one bath. Hell, I didn't even really need the extra bedrooms, but it was nice to have sort of an office space and a spare room for storage. It even had a basement which, like most suburban homes, was where the washing machine and dryer were kept.

The idea of having a place of your own is a bit of a double-edged sword. There is the freedom to do whatever you please, but then, living alone as I did, all the responsibilities fall to one person, not to mention the occasional pangs of loneliness. I didn't have many friends, and the ones I did, I didn't see often. It wasn't a big deal to me though. People grow up and apart sometimes.

I spent most of my time working, coming home, drinking beer, and watching TV. Rinse and repeat. It might sound a bit depressing, and that's because it was. It got dull, but it was a routine at least. A bit of reprieve after grueling days machining car parts in a shop.

One hot summer night, I sat on my couch, downing another Labatt Blue, a storm warning flashed onto the screen. It had been a bit windy during the day, and in Michigan, that's usually a good sign that the evening with be a rainy, thunderous mess. My county was included in the warning, but I paid no mind considering I found the rain calming, even through the lightning flashes and roars from the sky.

I continued staring at the inane sitcom glowing through the glass in front of me when the first thunder spoke and raindrops began to fall. I sighed and took a nip of beer, feeling cozy. I slumped back and phased out the television, listening to the drone of precipitation hitting my roof, when I was brought back to reality by the sudden darkness of my power going out.

"Fuck me," I muttered to myself. Quickly, I stood up to grab a flashlight from the junk drawer in the kitchen. Being in the dark was always one of my biggest fears, as childish as it sounds, especially alone. Clicking the switch on the light, it of course had dead batteries. I shuddered slightly, dreading going into the basement with nothing to show me the way.

Carefully and cautiously, I opened the door to the underground laundry room. It had a slightly damp smell not unusual for a basement, but my fear amplified it to a horrid stench. I gripped the railing as I made my way down the steps, trying to recall the location of the circuit board.

When I reached the bottom, the sound of raindrops left my ears completely. Not just from being underneath the house, but it suddenly became dead quiet. My hands started to shake, the terror becoming much stronger inside me, I ran for the board and opened it, checking for the popped circuit. They were all in place. I flipped the master breaker, to no avail. "Goddamnit, a blackout!" I growled. Shaking like a leaf before winter, I turned to return upstairs.

I turned and abruptly my shaking stopped, my body rendered frozen. Standing about six feet in front of me was a pair of eyes. Floating in the air, alien. The pair of floating, undialiting pupils peered back at me. I felt a horrid searing in my heart, perhaps my soul. I choked, trying to let out a scream, a cry of pure horror, but a sudden wave of calmness overtook me, the pure silence becoming nearly tranquil. My joints and muscles unlocked as I slowly being to step towards the glaring oculi.

Your Stories / Door to Door
« on: 07:26 AM, 07/ 5/17 »
What are the first things that come to mind when you think "door-to-door salesman?" Sleezebag, manipulative, moronic? Well, I'm all three. I'm your friendly neighborhood to neighborhood salesman. Bringing straight to your door, stupid bullshit you don't need, but hey, it's a living.

It was a late afternoon I was working, selling a young house wife on a vacuum cleaner. Like the sucker she was, she bought it. I walked out feeling, accomplished. I stood there with my briefcase holding my salesman sample, when I looked down the street to my left. I saw the vauge shape of a man, standing tall. It wasn't out of the ordinary. Maybe he was out for a walk.

The hour grew later after another three houses. No cherry on any of them. I approached the next house, my last stop of the day. I rapped upon the door, and awaited my mark. It was dark, not a late night, but it was fall. The sun retreated early.

The door opened to a sweetheart of an older woman. She asked who I was and invited me in. I gave my pitch, told her this was the greatest vacuum on the market. She regaled, and went for her pocket book.

She came back into the room hiding something behind her back. She revealed, a highly sharpened chef's knife. She told me "No soliciting" as she drove the blade into my stomach.

Your Stories / I Could Never Say No to a Pretty Dame
« on: 03:28 AM, 05/15/17 »
I took a sip of my whiskey through the thick fog of smoke, my elbows on the bar, trying to forget the day. Detective work is never easy; no aspect of it is, but the sights. That's what really gets to you. Not solving a case, yeah, sure. It's remembering that crime scene though that makes it so rough. I've seen some shit in my days. Damn near took off my hat to puke in a few times, but today. Triple homicide. Left crucified. Meant to represent the Holy Trinity from what I gathered. A dad, his son, and a reported missing man. We had a real sick son of a bitch on our hands. What I couldn't piece though, is this an omen or someone pissed at the church? Another swig of scotch and my head was spinning more from the case than the booze. I hate this job as much as I love it. As I killed the tumbler off and tapped the bar like I needed a hit in blackjack for another Johnny Walker, I looked over and saw this dame eyeing me. Blonde hair and crystal blues with a face like Myrna Loy. A real knock-out. I faked my best smile at her and started sipping my new glass. She grinned and blushed. Now my mind was retaken. The hell would a dame like her want with a beat-up old dick like me?

She stood up and walked towards the stool one away from me. I played it cool, stared forward and sipped my Scottish medicine. "Another Tom Collins please" she said to the bartender. I kept playing it like she wasn't an angel fell to Earth and kept my focus on the vodka bottles behind the bar. "Hey handsome. Why so glum?" she sing-songed to me. "Bad day. Real bad day" I responded. I had steel nerves, but this gal had me nervous. I'd talked to dames more times than I can count, but this one. There was something about her. Maybe it was because she was the company I needed, maybe it was her looks, but ol' James McGillicuddy, former Vice turned Homicide dick couldn't take it.

"I could make it all better for you" she spoke, giggling a bit after. I froze a bit, and said "I don't know what could make it all better, sweetheart. I might be better left to my own devices" I said, shaking my tumbler. "Nonsense. Let's go back to my place. We'll have a great time." I paused. I could use some time with a dame. And I was never one to say no to a pretty dame. "You know?" I said after my last sip, "Okay. Let us get one more drink in us, and I'll do it." She finished her Tom Collins, ordered another, and I got another scotch, and we were off.

We walked and talked going to her apartment. Her name was Josie. She was an absolute doll. We held hands walking drunkenly through the Boston streets, and she stole a few kisses on my cheek. The case melted from my intoxicated brain. Not just from the liquor, but this wonderful lady.

We got to her apartment and she mixed and poured us some Tom Collins. I guess it was her drink. We sipped them and chatted on her couch. "So what do you do?" she inquired. "Well, I'm a police detective. That was where my bad day came from. What do you do?" "I'm a seamstress, but you, a detective! You must have stories upon stories. What was your case today, if I can ask?" "Well, I can't really, but I trust you. Some sick fuck, pardon my language, strung up a kid, his father, and a missing person. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost in my eyes." "I'm sorry I asked! How grizzly! You definitely need taking care of."

She kissed me, and I kissed back. We kissed for minutes. She tasted like limes and flowers. I'm guessing a combination of the Tom Collins and just her natural taste. She stood up, and come hithered me to her room. She peeled off my suit and I stripped her of her dress. She pulled out my handcuffs, waggling them in front of me. I guess she was a kink. I didn't say no, and she handcuffed me to her headboard. She shot me a gesture that meant "Back in five." I layed on her bed, nervous and excited. I'd been with handcuffers before, but this felt different.

She came back, silken underpants and a corset. She looked like a meal. She straddled me, and kissed me deep. I kissed her back. It must of been the best kiss of my life. Then, I felt the knife plunge into my stomach. "You. You are Judas. You spilled your secrets." I screamed in pain. "What the fuck are you talking about?!" "YOU. YOU ARE THE JUDAS! You sold them out. You know too much!" I laid, pleading, but it was too late. I felt myself bleeding out. Well, I never could say no to a pretty dame.

Your Stories / The Hunting Cabin
« on: 04:49 AM, 01/ 3/17 »
I walked into a mess. A complete fucking mess. My father had passed and I was left to either maintain or sell of his old cabin he used when he hunted. No takers on selling the old dump.  I had gone with him once, maybe twice up to Bear Creek. The harsh Michigan wind colliding against my scarved face, sighting in a buck's heart with hopes of a head mount and venison. I always enjoyed those trips. Thrill of the hunt and all that. What had become of the cabin though was nothing sort of hell. The pungent stench of rot and piss was the odeur de la chambre. He had really, really let this place go in his late years I had to imagine. Left rendered meat out too long, I guess. The smell of piss wasn't as unknown. The place had poor irrigation and piping. It was basically a shithole, pun intended. Flashlight in hand, resperator now covering my face, I walked through the horrid remains he had left. I tried to ignite the latern on the table, but nothing. Just two empty chairs with two empty plates presented to them. I examined the television and the couch, basically the living room of the cabin. It all seemed the same as the last time I was there. No DVD had been touched, thin films of dust lining the cellophane. I checked the bedroom of two bunkbeds, only two beds seemed unsettled and out of sorts. He had friends, maybe a buddy who hunted with him. Finally, I made my way to the kitchen. I had no problem shooting a deer, but seeing them be processed always made me uneasy. I took a deep, filtered breath, and stepped inside the small door. Even through the mask, the smell of of rot hit me like a brick. The thick wooden cutting board sat on the counter, a cleaver wedged into the grooves. Bleached-out, bloodstained splotches had been shot out in close proximity to the slab of maple. My mind reverberated of images of him slicing and hacking at the deceased deer. I winced at every raise of his hand within my head. I walked to the fride and opened it, empty. As I stepped, I felt a hollowness in the floor. A feeling I'd never felt here before, as a teenager nor as an adult. What the hell was the old man hiding? Money or gold, I rubbed my hands together and hoped. Figuring this piece of shit would be demolished anyways, I pried the floorboards open, awaiting my payday. Half-rotted, half-butchered corpses, at least five of them, lay underneath the hunting cabin. Now I knew, I thought. Why the other bed was disrupted. He had a partner in this.

Your Stories / A Double of Evan Williams, Straight-Up
« on: 04:48 AM, 01/ 3/17 »
It was a joyless, yet joyful night. Same bar, another night. Another night spent in a haze, an outcry at life itself. Belching plumes of cheap cigarette smoke in-between small talk with strangers on another freezing February evening. Wishing your charisma was more than just the bottom of a glass. Struggling with the stairs to my apartment, I grip the steel railing, rediscovering equilibrium. In alcohols glorious stupor, I felt content. With life, the world, existence itself. It would soon be gone, but I savored the moments approaching my door. I went to bars to meet people. Not necessarily to make friends or hook up. For the stories people have. The experience of human contact when I find it not to be horror. Of course, I went to forget myself for a while as well. Void my mind of memories and cares for the time allotted. My key entered the lock and gave a strong click as I turned it in the knob. "Welcome home" said the voice inside my reverberating psyche. It surely wasn't the empty cigarette packs, food cartons, or beer cans saying it. Clearly I've been trying to get them to talk for a while, no cigar. I throw my keys to the kitchen island, missing by just an inch. Quelling my inebriated fury, I took my coat off and warmed my bones as much as I could. My mind instantly craved the embrace of sleep, but not until after a nightcap. A double of Evan Williams, straight-up. Jacks' cheap brother. One final gutshot. Another attempt at self-medication. Only the latter was the fruitless endeavor. I finished my tumbler, ready to fall into my bed. The journey from room to room turns out to be more of an adventure than a simple few steps, chuckling slightly to myself as I brace the walls. I drop like a corpse to my mattress and nuzzle to the emptiness with my blanket. I close my eyes and begin to drift slowly.
As they string along the yellow tape, the police speak in disbelief. Yet another. My death was discovered at 10:27 AM. Obvious signs of organ and limb removal, most likely for black market gains. Joke's on them after one last night of heavy boozing. A double of Evan Williams, straight-up.

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