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Frank tries to find solid ground again in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry

Posted in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 7, 2019| Leave a Comment »

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CHAPTER 4, EXCERPT 3

It was good in the kitchen, bright and cheery. Normal, just what Frank needed. He took the roach out of his jacket and put it in his shirt pocket, hung the jacket on the back of a yellow wooden chair and leaned back against the sink while Nikki put a pan of water on the stove. Frank could smell the gas from the burner as Nikki went to one of the cupboards and opened the nicely painted door. Reaching up high for a mug, her t-shirt climbed up over the curve of her butt, revealing frilly white panties. Frank’s breath caught in his lungs and he couldn’t help but stare, a vast and deep appreciation for the beauty of the universe’s creations taking him over.

Nikki brought down the mug, turned and caught him staring. She shook her head, smirking. “Looks like something is still in working order,” she said, gazing down at his crotch.

Frank felt his face heating up. “Yes, well, it’s hard to control oneself in the presence of beauty such as yours.” A touch of Irish brogue coming into his voice.

Nikki opened another cupboard and Frank saw the squatty jar of Maxim Instant on the middle shelf. He was hoping for another flash of ass.

“Stop staring, Frank,” Nikki said, turning to him, a wicked smile on her full lips and a glint in her big blue eyes. “I wanted men staring at my ass I’d be a stripper. Make the big money, remember?”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. Guess I’m just weak in the face of such overwhelming greatness.”

“And full of shit, don’t you know.”

“Just the blarney, darlin.’ Can’t begrudge an Irishman a little blarney can you?”

“Certainly not,” she said, dropping a heaping teaspoon of freeze-dried crystals into the white mug.

“Aren’t you having any, Nik?”

She shook her head. “Nope. I was hoping to get back to sleep. My parents are coming into town today and I don’t want to be looking like Wendy Williams when they get here.”

“Understandable,” Frank said. “But you’ll always be better looking then Wendy.”

Nikki made a face.

Frank gazed around the kitchen at the quantity of empty beer cans and wine and liquor bottles on the table and the countertops. “You guys have a party last night?” he asked.

“Jenna and Laurie had a few friends over but it was pretty much done, by the time I got home. But, uh, what’s that you said about some super grass?”

The water on the stove was boiling now. Nikki lifted the pan and poured the hissing liquid in the mug, stirred it and brought it to Frank standing at the sink, set it on the counter next to him.

“Waverly gave me this joint of Jamaican. Said it would pull me right down from the acid, should I need such a thing. Turns out I did, and the shit worked like a charm. Might’ve added some embellishment to my reality as a bonus, but it was memorable, to say the least.” Frank took a sip of the Maxim, burned his lip and put the mug down next to the sink.

“You smoked it all?”

“No, sweetie; must be nearly two-thirds left. Waverly rolls fatties. Soon as I finish my coffee and use the facilities we can have at it.”

“When you’re in there, Frank, you might want to wash up a bit, you’re pretty ripe and colorful—to say the least.”

“Oh sure,” Frank said, feeling momentarily self-conscious and small.

Nikki walked out of the kitchen, lifted her T-shirt over her head and carried it with her, the skin on her back glowing like fine silk as she entered her bedroom. Hearing the door close, Frank had another sip of coffee, put the cup down and went to the small bathroom under the staircase in the front hall, hoping there was some deodorant in there didn’t smell like a cosmetics counter.

Holy shit, who’s that wild man in the mirror?

(To be continued)

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Frank seeks comfort after wild ride in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry

Posted in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 26, 2019| Leave a Comment »

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CHAPTER 4, EXCERPT 2

The sun was up over the lake by the time Frank walked down the small hill at the back of the big yellow frame house Nikki and two roommates called home. Frank scanned the surroundings. Everything seemed cool. Thinking about Nikki and her softness, her warmth, the nice way she smelled—well—it was getting him going, filling his body with that delightful syrupy longing. He moved quietly across the damp grass and went up to Nikki’s first floor bedroom window at the rear of the house. The window was shut, a shade pulled down behind it. He tapped on the glass. Didn’t hear anything so he tapped again and called softly, “Nikki, wake up, it’s Frank.”

No response.

He tapped again, louder this time. “Nikki, wake up. You in there?”

Christ, maybe she was pissed off because he didn’t call her last night after work. Maybe she went home with someone else. That goddamn Jimmy Carl. Maybe the sonofabitch was in there right now.

Frank began rapping the glass with his knuckles and speaking in a daytime volume. “Nikki, wake up, goddamnit. It’s Frank. Sorry I forgot to call you last night, but something came up. Let me in and I’ll get you high. We can talk.” And I hope something else. He gave the window another rap then heard the throaty, moist tone of someone just awakened. “Jesus Christ, Frank, hold your water, I’m coming.”

Shit, not the best of starts.

Frank saw fingers with green nail polish poke under the window shade. He watched the shade rise. Now she was looking at him, making a face, still groggy, short blond hair mussed. Cute. Standing there in a long green t-shirt, perfect nipples forming sweet little bumps. “What are you doing here this early, Frank? I’ve had maybe four hours sleep. And you look like shit. Oh my god, what happened to your head? There’s a knot the size of a golf ball on your forehead. And your clothes look like you crawled here. What the hell have you been doing?”

“I had an altercation with an unruly crustacean.”

He watched her face flick from quizzical to concerned to skeptical and then to disturbed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Frank? You wake me up for this?”

“Sorry, babe, that was supposed to be a joke. But the truth is a long and winding story, so let me in and I’ll explain. I’ve got some really good weed. Open the window and I’ll crawl in, we’ll get stoned. Everybody must get stoned.”

“Are you on something, Frank? Your eyes look wild.”

“Just a bit of the acid. But it’s fading a little. Reduced to a gentle whisper, it is.”

“God, I don’t believe this.”

“C’mon, Nikki, open the window before the cops come.”

“This isn’t Huckleberry Finn, Frank. There’s a screen on the inside of this window. Come to the back door and I’ll let you in. But be quiet, my roommates are asleep—like normal people.”

They’re missing all the fun then, Frank was thinking as he walked with contentment across the back of the house to the white wooden door on the east side. Waiting at the door he felt a stirring down low. But when Nikki opened it the look on her face wasn’t what he’d hoped for. “C’mon in, then,” she said in low tones. “I’ll make some coffee. Looks like you could use some.”

“Sounds good, Nik. I’ve got a bitchin’ roach Keith Waverly gave me. Said it was Jamaican.”

“You hanging out with Waverly now, Frank? That sort of explains the way you look. Trouble seems to follow that guy around.”

“I wasn’t hanging out with him. He was just at the bar last night. I was all fucked up after the funeral, so I thought a little of Keith’s acid might help me fly the prison walls. Way up high in the sky—that shit—you know.”

She was shaking her head. Frank saw her face change, looking older for an instant—more like the picture of her mother she kept on her bedside table—but then she shrugged and Frank sensed her mood lightening and he watched her face return to young and beautiful. “Come on then, Mr. Ford,” she said, “I’ll make you a cup of instant and you can tell me all the gory details.”

“Still got that Maxim stuff? Those freeze-dried crystals?”

“Yes, Frank.” She walked into the kitchen, a bright yellow room with tall white cupboards, old-but-clean appliances and a porcelain sink. Frank watched her rear end jiggling beneath the long green T-shirt, the delicious movement above her honey-sweet thighs dragging him along like a hound on a leash.

Let me be your dog.

(To be continued)

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Frank yearns for peace in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry

Posted in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 21, 2019| Leave a Comment »

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CHAPTER 4, EXCERPT 1

A bit of gray light was showing above Lake Superior and the streetlights were still sending out vapor trails as Frank walked through the alley toward his little cracker box house. On his right, down a set of steps, was one of the federal government’s gifts to so-called blighted neighborhoods as part of the “Urban Renewal” program: an asphalt playground with swings, a slide, a jungle gym and a teeter-totter. Only ones using the facilities at this hour were a couple fat pigeons searching for leavings. Strangely though, the teeter-totter was slowly moving up and down—with no one on it.

More hallucinations, Frank thought, close to his tiny house now, claustrophobia starting to squeeze his head, the walls-closing-in sensation coming on strong.

And he was kicking himself just a little.

Great idea you had, Ford. Do some acid to escape your grief and confusion. Float off to la-la land where everything is flowers and sunshine and psychedelic-period Beatles…

Yeah, right.

Instead you got a life or death struggle played out in a remote landscape of monsters, spirits and giant crabs disguised as pickup trucks—some kind of weird Star Wars meets The Lord of the Rings hybrid. And because of all that, your car, your only source of transportation, is wrecked beyond repair, your knee and your back are all fucked up from the crab slamming, and you’ve got a vast longing inside for something you can’t identify.

Blame it on that crazy goddamn amusement-park-funhouse acid.

Waverly was right. Shit ripped you off the ground, spun you around in the ozone for a while then dropped you back down to earth—or whatever passed for it in your head. Not like the old days when the stuff would lay you on the ground for twelve hours, mouth open, head totally gone, nothing you could do but take the ride.

Frank stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and kept on going past his little house. Nobody home. All dark. Touching the roach in his pocket, he got an idea, Nikki’s house was only three blocks away and sometimes Nikki liked to get high in the morning. He could tap on her window and wake her up. Feel so good to crawl into her bed. The thought, the idea, seemed to take away the pain in his knee and back and he felt a smile bending his lips. And miracles, man, now he could actually feel the air warming up around him. Seemed like it might be one of those rare sunny spring days in Zenith. Christ, might hit fifty degrees. Sixty even.

His faith in life temporarily restored, his body tired but relaxed and sensual, his weird nocturnal adventures fading into the background and his need for resolution about brother Ray reduced to a distant murmur, Frank walked down the hill to Fourth Street and headed east. Positively Fourth Street, man.

Maybe the acid wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

(To be continued)           

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Out of the Crazy, Into the Real in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry

Posted in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 18, 2019| Leave a Comment »

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CHAPTER 3, EXCERPT 7

For lack of a better option, Frank limped back toward the Black Cow, his knee and back hurting and his head throbbing like a Paul McCartney bass line. Feeling a need to get off Garfield Avenue he walked around to the back of the brick restaurant, saw a light on inside the building. And the sky was full of twinkling stars now but they didn’t give a shit about Frank Ford.

Is anybody up there?

Feeling like the last man on earth, he squeezed the tire iron for security. His little sword, just like that hobbit in the Lord of the Rings, Frank having finished the final book in the trilogy back in March.

And it was a long way across Mordor from here.

And where were those goddamn orcs?

Then, as if the stars were listening and sending him an answer, Frank saw licks of white light coming down the short street alongside the Black Cow. Hustling across the back of the restaurant, he jumped behind the wall and pressed against it, edging back along until he could peer around the corner. Now the street was flooded with light and a beaten down Checker was idling in the middle of it, Blue and White Taxi on the door. Frank heard the back door of the restaurant opening. Heard voices and laughter and saw two men coming out the back door inside a ball of yellow light, their faces flushed. They were soused. But wait a minute, he knew the guys. Had served them a lot of drinks. You had your Christian Brothers and water for the skinny guy and a Miller and a shot of Petri for the fat guy, the cook. Chef. Skinny one was Larry Seline and the cook was Bruce Munkwitz. Both of them at the Metropole nearly every Tuesday, the one night a week the Black Cow was closed.

Frank dropped the tire iron to the damp grass and tried to make himself presentable, running his fingers back through his black hair and wincing as his hand bumped against a large lump on his forehead, the pain reverberating back to the beginning of time. As the two men were getting in the taxi, he came out from behind the wall and crossed through the cab’s headlight beams. The cab’s interior light was on and he saw the looks of disbelief on the faces. The grizzled, gray-haired cabbie was trying for a pissed-off, authoritative stare but not quite making it.

Arriving at the still open back door of the cab, Frank put his hand on the roof and leaned in. “Hey guys,” he said. “Care to share the cab? I’ll pay the fare.” He pulled a fistful of ones from his pants pocket— tonight’s tip money—and showed it. “Afraid I had some car trouble.”

“It’s Frank fuckin’ Ford,” Bruce Munkwitz said, grinning like he knew something special, his head cocked to the side. “Sure, Frank, come on in. You okay, man, you look a little under the weather?”

“Been a long night,” Frank said, folding himself into the faded red vinyl seat of the Checker hoping he could hold it together just a little while longer, any control he might’ve had over his mind now dissipating like air in an old balloon.

“How ya doin’, Frank?” Larry Seline said.

“Hey, Larry,” Frank said, shutting the cab door and wishing everybody would stop with the gawking looks.

The cabbie turned to the back seat. “Where we goin’, gentlemen?” Voice like a foghorn with gravel in it; face tired and filled with resignation.

“Fifth Avenue East and Sixth Street for us two,” Munkwitz said, gesturing at Seline. “You’re somewhere in that general direction, aren’t you, Frank?”

“Close enough.”

His adrenaline ebbing slightly, the acid currently on a downswing and the belief that the two orcs would be arriving soon turning him cold, Frank flipped up the collar on his jacket and slumped down in the seat as the cabbie pulled the shifter down, hung a U-turn, drove out to Garfield and turned right.

Passing by what was left of Frank’s Pontiac, the derelict wagon wrinkled like an industrial-sized lasagna noodle in blue, Bruce Munkwitz said, “That your sled there, Frank? Somebody plow into you, man?”

“Needs a battery,” Frank said, scrunching down behind the collar of his jacket and staring out the window, not wanting any one to know what he was seeing out there in the vast wasteland.

End of Chapter 3 – order ebook or paperpack at Amazon, B&N or other online stores!

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Close call brings no comfort in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry

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CHAPTER 3, EXCERPT 6

Things were beginning to slow down a little, the swells upon the asphalt ocean ebbing slightly, when a blinding light hit him from the left. Then a loud snarling roar kicked up a fresh rush of fear as a giant white sand crab burst out from behind the north side of the Goldfine’s building, its four huge eyes shooting out laser beams and blinding him.

Frank’s foot instinctively jabbed at the brake pedal but the crab was coming in broadside, ram course. Frank jammed the gas and jerked the wheel hard right and all he could see was glaring brightness as the crab slammed into the backdoor of the wagon with a hard, loud thump and a grating crunch, snapping Frank’s head into the side window.

Now the wagon was dead in the water and it was time for the baseball-bat-wielding orc to come out for the coup de grace.

But no, the giant crab was backing off.

Fuck—making another run.

Frank covered his head with his arms and curled into a fetal ball across the front seat as the monster smashed into the driver’s door and kept grinding away, pushing the ’69 Pontiac wagon all the way to the curb. Roaring there, huge industrial bumper breaking glass and crunching metal, exhaust clouds and the smoke of burnt rubber filling the air, the crab was trying its best to flatten Frank’s old car and him with it.

And then one more back up.

And one more charge.

Frank gripped the armrest on the passenger door and took the blow, felt the wagon rock back and forth, heard stuff hitting the pavement.

He rode it out.

The crab eyes were backing off again. The guy had to be coming now. Soften you up with the truck and then move in to finish the job.

Frank readied himself, lifting the tire iron from where it had fallen between the seat and the door. But the monster truck spun around and roared back in the direction of the port terminal and orc number one.

Truck must belong to the big one, Frank thought, watching the taillights disappear under the bridge. And those two could be coming back for me real soon. He pulled down the handle on the passenger door and pushed but it would only move about six inches before crying out in protest and pushing back, wagon’s frame obviously bent. Frank shifted around, put his feet against the door and shoved with his legs until it popped open with an angry metallic snap.

He got out and examined the Pontiac. Was a bit wrinkled. But also flush against the curb. Nice parking job. He gazed back in the direction of the port terminal but could only see shadows. Then he noticed a small glowing orb seemingly levitating in the air, a block back on this side of Garfield Avenue. Squinting and concentrating, he determined it was a sign from a restaurant, the Black Cow. Surely closed at this time of night. Struggling to think straight, Frank was reminded that there was only one road coming down here and only one going out, unless you wanted to cross the bridge to Bay City. He’d have to walk several miles along a stretch of closed businesses, darkened railroad tracks and lonely grain terminals, to get home. No safe havens. No shining oasis. Only darkness. Loneliness. Industrial stench.

And giant crabs, orcs and who knew what the hell else.

Christ.

(To be continued)

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Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry

Posted in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 6, 2019| Leave a Comment »

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CHAPTER 3, EXCERPT 5

Staring down the road through the swirling dust cloud, the truck’s exhaust rumble fading away into the night, Frank was alive with muscle spasms, pounding heartbeats, chills and hot flashes. Breathing deeply and concentrating on slowing his pulse, he returned to the fallen giant, the creature still out of it but breathing, at least. Frank set the chain on the pavement out of the orc’s reach, kept the tire iron in his right hand and went through the creature’s pockets with his left, ready to pop the thing if it so much as twitched.

Wisconsin driver’s license: Lewis Timbers, Ashland, Wisconsin. Really ugly photo. Not much to work with. “Shiver me timbers, matey,” Frank said out loud. “Found yourself in uncharted waters tonight, eh?”

Frank tossed the wallet away, picked up the tire chain and returned to the station wagon. He threw his weapons on the front seat and got behind the wheel. Morrison and The Doors were pushing out the bluesy slink of “Cars Hiss by my Window,” as he slapped the wagon in gear and hit the gas.

Adrenaline was still kicking up the LSD as he drove out, but he felt a hint of a letdown and started wondering again. Should he go home? The question brought on a dark grayness and images of prison cells. Hello Walls. Should he go to Nikki’s place and try to wake her? No, that wasn’t going to work, middle of the night with a head full of acid not the best time for making a positive impression. Hadn’t Nikki warned him to stay out of trouble?

Lot of good it did.

Then paranoia crept in with the starlight and he was alone on the moon. Middle of outer space, man, no one around. No way home. Mind floating away on a shooting star. Body quivering with cold.

He squeezed the steering wheel and bit his cheek.

Struggling with his vision, he kept driving. Seconds later he was sensing something different, something not right, as he stared out at Goldfine’s by the Bridge, a single spotlight on the wall shining down on the empty parking lot.

But, hell, Frank, you’re tripping. What do you expect, order, familiarity and sanity? Jesus Christ, man, you’ve done this shit before. Ten years ago the last time, sure, but you know what to expect. You’re a cosmic fucking cowboy, ride the goddamn roller coaster, boy. Yell if you have to but ride it out.

(To be continued)

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Other-worldly fight scene in Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry

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CHAPTER 3, EXCERPT 4

Hoping the cretin had no stamina and less resolve, Frank began a hopping, circling approach, like a rooster in a cockfight. He bounced from one foot to the other, moving to his right and waving the chain from side to side with his left hand while his right hand gripped the tire iron. Searching the big orc’s eyes, he saw nothing much in there. This was a job to this guy and he didn’t care much for working. Frustration was creeping in around the edges. Also a snippet of bewilderment as Frank continued his rooster dance, taunting the cretin with shouts of “C’mon, chickenshit, let’s get it on.” But then Frank saw something else in those flat, dull eyes, a little spark, a momentary flash of determination; the big guy maybe thinking he could end it fast and be home in time for his bedtime cheeseburger.

The beast charged, swinging the bat at Frank’s head. Frank ducked, felt wind fly past his skull and backpedaled left. Shuffling his feet for balance, he attacked, slashing the chain down across the creature’s huge forearms. He saw pain and anger ripple the spongy jowls and the creature’s eyes turned black. The mouth on the red balloon face was open and sucking air as the orc charged again, bat held high above the head.

Frank feinted left and jumped to the right. The monster’s feet, tiny things compared to the rest of him, tried to stop and change direction but seemed to stick to the pavement. But, shit, the thing managed to dance out of it and now was charging again, bat up high. Frank set his feet, faked a throw of the tire iron and watched the big head jerk, saw the oversized body struggling to stop itself, the muscles fighting each other. Frank dropped down, flattened out and whipped his legs at the monster’s ankles. There was a loud hard smack as bone hit bone and Frank watched the tower tip, saw it come crashing down with a thud and a grunt and sounds like a cow giving birth. Still gripping the tire iron, Frank jumped to his feet, darted in behind the giant and crowned him King of Garfield Avenue with a shot to the back of the skull, a dull doink that brought to mind a snow shovel hitting a frozen jack-o-lantern.

With the big one out of commission, Frank turned to face number two, the dude’s feet like they were stuck in mud, his eyes unsure, the man thinking about it, wondering. Frank grinned, felt the crazies rolling in. “The Force is with me, man,” Frank hollered. “The Force is with me, asshole. You wanna piece of it?” Then he reached down and plucked the chain from the pavement, twirled the tire iron and restarted the bouncing, circling dance, feeling a wide, crazy grin spreading across his face. He watched the guy’s hands squeeze the bat tighter. He saw questions burning through the prick’s head. “Come on, douchebag,” Frank said, loosing a gob of spit on the pavement, “let’s get to it before the cops show up.”

His face twisting like Silly Putty, the smaller orc cocked the bat back and threw it. The metal stick helicoptered toward Frank’s head in slow motion, label up. Frank ducked, and the bat whirred over his head and hit the pavement, bouncing and rolling with a clanking sound. Frank straightened himself and prepared for the charge, but the smaller orc turned around and beat feet for the white truck, jumped behind the wheel and roared away spewing dirt and rocks.

Watching the huge truck disappear, Frank thought he heard a metallic voice inside the cab say, “Ten-four, good buddy,” but it was probably his imagination. Hard to say what was what anymore. He tried to get the tag number but there was too much dust.

(To be continued)

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