“The world owes me,” Billy Bob said to his mirror. He was short and baldish, with a belly full of Milwaukee’s second finest. “I’ve been butchering meat at Billy Bob’s Best Bites for forty years, at rock-bottom prices. Brownsburg, Indiana wouldn’t even be on the map without me. Where’s my reward?”

A pillar of fire sprang up in Billy Bob’s cluttered TV room. A dapper figure climbed out. “At your service,” said the Devil, polishing his cuff links. “What would be ideal for you?”

“Gorgeous twins, hot for my bod.”

“Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” The Devil made a mark in his little black book, nodded, and disappeared.

At the stroke of midnight, Billy Bob was awakened by a frantic hammering on his door.

“Our car broke down,” said one of the two twenty-something women, fashionably dressed. “Can we use your phone?”

“It doesn’t work.”

“No problem. We’ll just stay here for the night and find a mechanic in the morning. You don’t mind?”

“Of course Billy Bob doesn’t mind,” said the other woman, in a silky voice. “Does this man look like a sucker?” She turned to him. “I’m Aello. She’s Ocypete.” Aello shook Billy Bob’s sweaty hand, guided it through making a signature on a one-page form, then kissed his mouth hungrily.

“Hey! Leave a little for me!” Ocypete rasped to her sister.

Billy Bob couldn’t decide which twin he liked best. Aello’s golden ringlets cascaded down her tanned back, but Ocypete’s gown clung to her curves.

Suddenly, somehow, the three of them were on the tattered bear rug in advanced stages of undress.

“Pull down your gown,” Aello told her sister. “Your talons are showing.”

“Talons?” Billy Bob said.

“We’re Harpies, love,” Ocypete said. “Twins, just like the thirteen other bird eggs in our batch.”

“I didn’t bargain for this.”

“Read that contract you just signed,” Aello said, “if you happen to know Sumerian.”

“Your wig is slipping,” Ocypete said to Aello. “Maybe you need a little help.” She ripped off the wig, exposing Aello’s bald and yellowing skull.

“So that’s the name of the game,” Aello cried. She lunged for Ocypete’s glittering gown, revealing the sore-ridden vulture below, densely populated by lice. Screaming, Ocypete pulled out her blaster. As did Aello.

“No need for a duel,” said Billy Bob. “I’ll take each of you in turn!” He stepped between the twins just as they fired at each other simultaneously, bisecting the famous butcher of Brownsburg.

“Some folks,” said the Devil, gazing down at the percolating Billy Bob, “are just a wee bit hard of hearing. ‘Be careful what you wish.’ Oh, well. Someone will come by to mop up this farrago. Meanwhile, girls, where to next?”

Leon Taylor teaches economics at KIMEP University in Almaty, Kazakhstan, a post-Soviet nation in Central Asia. A Hoosier, he was a newspaper reporter before becoming an economist. He's written fiction for Schlock!, Space and Time, 96th of October, 365tomorrows, kaidankai, Sanitarium, Mono blog, Spotlong Review, The Quiet Reader, The Unpleasantville Anthology, Samjoko, Made of Rust and Glass Anthology, and other publications.

Silvia stepped over the body of Detective Miller being careful not to get blood on her six-inch stiletto high heels. Slowly, she slid opened the door to the balcony. Stepping out of the penthouse the darkness and the cold of the night embraced her as her platinum blond hair flew in the wind. She licked the blood from the dagger then tossed it into the lights of the city below.Novel “The Taste of Blood”

End Chapter Twenty-Two

“Ding,” came over my phone. The small hologram of David popped up before me.
“Hey Bill where you at?”
“I’m still at my cubicle at the android factory.”
“I can see that.”
I looked out my window and waved to him in his anti-gravity car.

“I’m working on the android personality sub-programming.”
“The what?”

“The Aeahip Program
-Android
-Emotion
-And
-Human
-Interaction
-Programming”

He asked, “Oh, that, it’s 8PM on a Friday night. Why are you still working? You said you finished that android program thing two weeks ago.”

“I did. In fact, right now I’m writing my novel.”

“You mean that Sexy Venomous Vixen Novel where the woman seduces and kills all the police detective investigating her?”

“Yes, my novel is called ‘The Taste of Blood.’ I think I finally wrote what is in the deep and twisted personality of a serial killer. And it’s all put into words."

I’m writing the novel inside the code of the android personality sub-programming so it looks like I’m working late but I’m actually writing my novel.”

“Well, aren’t you Mr. Suck-up of the year. Won't that impact your program?” David asked.

I responded, “No, later I’ll transfer the novel out of the programming code. It’ll be fine.”

“I can see no one else in your office is working at their cubicles. Are you worried an android will replace your job? Androids don't need to be paid. They’re dirt cheap compared to humans.”

So I said, “I’m in customer and public relations. Only humans can do my job. Androids are like robots. Stiff, rigid, cold and shallow. No android will replace me. Not even a Gen 4 android. In fact, my job is to actually to try to make these walking toasters seem somewhat human.”

“Well, I hope you win the world’s best Brown-Noser award.”

I continued, “Listen, the android factory is making major budget cuts. I’m the only one here. Now the boss is in the conference room having a last minute budget meeting with six other directors. Working late makes me look good.”

David replied, “Yeah, I can see them through the conference room window. They don't look very happy.“
“I’m just trying to score a few brownie points. Tell you what, give me another hour. Let me get something to eat. Then I’ll meet you out front. Gotta go. The boss is coming.”

Discreetly, I hung up as Mr. Jameson came up to my cubicle. “William, I can see you’re working late tonight.”
“Yes Sir, Mr. Jameson. I’m just finishing up the Aeahip program.

“That's my boy. Keeping your nose to the grind stone. We need people like you here at Acme Androids. When do you expect to be finished?”

“Very, very soon, Mr. Jameson.”
He walked away and said, “Good, as soon as you're finished let me know we need to test it immediately.”

Suddenly I heard, “Good night Mr. Billiam. My name is Ed. And Ed is here with your dinner order.”

The delivery guy was standing there with a big smile on his face. He looked perfectly human to me, but then I thought ‘Oh wait, he’s an android.’

Looked like a low level Gen 3, desperately in need of upgrades.
“Listen Ed, you can say ‘Good evening William,’ or just ‘Hi Bill,’ when you address someone by his or her first name. No Mr. first name. And you say, I’m ‘Ed with your dinner order.’ Not ‘Ed is here.”

I opened the paper bag marked ‘the café’ and took a sip of coffee.
I said, “What’s this? This is not what I ordered. Did you get the de-cafe coffee.”
“Yes, I got the coffee from ‘The Café’.”
So I told him, “No, de-cafe.”
He answered, “’De’ as in a contraction of ‘The.”
I opened up the soup container and found a big red blob in noodles. “Did they have tomato soup.”
“They did not have tomato soup but they did have chicken noodle soup so I put a tomato in it.”
“And what’s this?” I pulled out a big glob of something wrapped in paper.
“It is a grilled chess sandwich. A couple pieces of bread between two slices of melted grilled cheese.”

“How long have you been doing this?”
“Let me think. I have been working at this job for calculating.”
Ed’s heads twitched back and forth for a moment and then said. “Twenty five minutes and twenty eight seconds.”
“So I’m you first customer.”
“That is correct Mr. Billiam.”
“Just who programmed you?” I asked in frustration.
“Let me see.”

Ed’s head twitched back and forth again for a moment and then said. “My interactive personality was programmed by a Mr. William Kyle Anderson. Why, that is you. You programmed my interactive personality Mr. Billiam.”

I felt the headache come on strong and sudden. I guess I still have some work to do.

“Thank you Ed. Please tell Sam, the owner of The Café, I said hi.”
“Oh, Sam flew out to New York. His mother is dead Mr. Billiam.”
“His mother died. What? What happened?”
“She was murdered, Mr. Billiam.”
“You don't just blurt out someone is dead! It’s not appropriate to just announce someone was murdered!”
Ed answered, “The police have the suspect in custody so all is well and all has been resolved.”
“Don't you ever access your sympathy progr…?”

I stopped myself short. Oh, I really do have some work to do.
Then Ed said to me, “My apologies, good… “ He paused “Oh correction. Do not have a good night Mr. Billiams.” Before he left.

“Well I’m still sitting at the computer.” I said to myself.

“Re-accessing Aeahip Program.”
I typed on my key board and entered new corrections onto the computer code:
-When delivering Bad News protocol-
Access* <Opening line> sub program –preferably- <Hello>
Access* <first name> –preferably- no Mr. or Ms. Before first name
Access* <introduction> own name
–Preferably- <Hello (first name) my name is (own first name)>
–Preferably- <I'm sorry to be the one who has to tell you this. But I have some
Bad news>
Access* <body poster>
-Preferably- <sit>
Access* <human sympathy> sub program
–Preferably- <Place hand on shoulder>
Access* <non verbal cue> sub program
–Preferably- <Direct eye contact>

Final access sympathetic smile subprogram
-Preferably <I'm hear for you (first name) >
^Refer to sympathy programming
Sign out of program

“All right I cleaned that up.” I said to myself.
I went back to typing my novel

Silvia stepped onto the walkway bridge. Tap, tap, tap, the sound echoed as she gracefully strolled across. The river roared its gentle song beneath her feet.

Silvia looked at the ID next to the badge ‘Detective Steven Wazowski Homicide.’ She licked the dagger dragging the flat of the blade against her blood red lipstick. Then dropped it along with the badge into the raging water below. Silvia watched the river claim it.

Novel “The Taste of Blood”

The end

“Command save. Finished!” I called out.
“What was that William?” Mr. Jameson asked.
“Oh, Mr. Jameson, I just finished the Aeahip Program.”
“Excellent, William, let’s test it now.”

Then, strangely, very strangely, he left the room. I’m the one who wrote the program but he just left the room.

Then I heard this sweet sexy voice coming form behind me. “Hello William, my name is Katrina. I'm sorry to be the one who has to tell you this, but I have some bad news.”

She sat down next to me placed her hand on my shoulder and gently caressed my shoulder back and forth.
Looking me straight in the eye, she said, “I’m so sorry to say your services will no longer be needed here. I will be taking over your position. I only hope I can achieve the same level of excellence and live up to your example.”

Katrina’s heads twitched back and forth for a moment before she smiled sympathetically and said, “I'm hear for you Bill.”

It took me a second before I realized. Oh my, she's an android. A brand new Gen 5. And slowly, very slowly I could see her evolving to be more and more sympathetic. Following my programming.

First thing I thought was “My novel.”

I turned on the computer. “Access denied, Acme Android Inc employees only.” “My novel. Its all in there.”
I was about to call Mr. Jameson when suddenly a large, bald security guard said “Mr. Billaim, please follow me. Do not make me remove you by force.”

“Oh, a Gen 2 android.”

Later, David picked me up out front. He saw the expression on my face. “Man, what the hell happened to you?”
All I could say was. “Its good to speak to a human again.”
“Well what happen?”
“You know that program I was working on?”
“You mean the program that makes androids more human?” He asked, “Well, did it work?”
“Yes it worked. I did my job so well an android has now taken over my job.”
“Bummer!”
So I said. “Lets get stupid drunk.”
The two of us were sitting in the bar.
Suddenly this guy walked directly into me. “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” he said rapidly, over and over again, until I stepped aside.
He swept up the burning cigarette butts beneath my bar-stool into a dustbin. Then, he walked away.

“Gen 1.” I said.

I sat back down. Then the holo-news broke into the football game playing on the bars holo-screen. “Breaking news, there have been multiple murders at the android factory. A hostage situation has developed. Other situation from around the city report androids becoming violent.”

On the holo-screen Police anti-gravity cars surrounded the android factory. Red and blue lights flashed everywhere while Police pointed their plasma rifles at the conference room of the Acme Android building.

There, through the window, six of the company directors lay dead, sprawled across the conference room floor. Apparently, all stabbed to death.

Mr. Jameson was tied to a chair. Katrina was standing behind him with a large bloody knife held to his throat.

Mr. Jameson screamed out, “Help me! Help me! She’s a crazy android!”

The police called over the megaphone. “Ma'am, put down the knife! Put down the knife!”

Katrina responded by licking the blood from the knife while dragging the flat of the blade against her blood red lipstick.

All I could say was, “The deep and twisted personality of a serial killer. And its all put into words just as a I wrote it inside the program code.”

Bruce Markuson lives with his wife and two children in Milwaukee WI. He has a published novel as well as over a hundred and fifty other publications. Bruce is also working on a number of series. He enjoys writing and often finds himself with writer’s obsession. He says the best way to write is to have an ending then write to that ending.

Bill’s stories, plays, and comedy sketches have been published and/or produced in Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Canada, Czechia, England, Guernsey, Holland, India, Ireland, Nigeria, Singapore, South Africa, and the U.S. His novel, “Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep”, will be published in 2023 by Close To The Bone Publishing.

As I approached the cash register, the woman’s blue eyes met my gaze, a warm grin stretching across her face.

“Did you find everything you’re looking for?” she asked.

I nodded and smiled. Then I rested the items on the counter. “I did, thanks.”

The woman looked young. Perhaps she was in college and worked the night shift to help fund her studies. Or maybe this was a part-time job for her so she could make ends meet. Either way, her rosy complexion and shoulder-length brown hair drew me in like a magnet. I figured I was at least ten years older than her, perhaps too old for her liking, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say she was attractive.

She rang up each item, and I noticed a clock on the wall behind her. It was half past midnight.

“You look familiar,” she said.

“I get that a lot. But I do come in from time to time. Not so much to buy gas. Just to get some food after a long day.”

“What do you do?” she asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

I shook my head. “It’s no problem. I’m an Uber driver.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting. It seems to be a popular job nowadays. Does it pay well?”

“It pays the bills,” I said with a shrug. “But it also allows me to splurge on convenience store food.”

A chuckle escaped her lips. I even liked her laugh.

“Your total is eighteen dollars and sixty-three cents,” she said.

I pulled a credit card from my wallet.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have mentioned it earlier, but the credit card machine is on the fritz.”

I glanced inside my wallet.

“Is that a problem?” she asked.

“No. I’ve got cash.” I handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “You can keep the change.”

“That’s sweet of you.” She took a dollar bill from the register and put it in a jar next to her. “You just made a donation to our local charity. If that’s okay with you.”

“That works for me.”

“Do you need a receipt?”

“No. I’m good.”

I pocketed my wallet, and she was about to hand me the plastic bag when the interior of the convenience store suddenly lit up. I glanced outside, squinting my eyes and recoiling at the sight. Someone had parked up front next to the store’s entrance, the high beams from their car nearly blinding me.

A few seconds later, the door dinged. A man entered the store, his feet unsteady. He wobbled around as if he’d been drinking, and he staggered in our direction. The man was imposing. Well over six feet tall with some serious girth.

“Sir,” the woman said. “Is that your car out there?”

The man turned his head ever so slightly, the motion almost causing him to fall over. “It,” he stuttered. “It sure is.”

“Do you mind turning off the lights?” she asked.

“Oh,” he finally spit out. “It’s fine.” He meandered toward the counter. “You’re cute.”

“Sir,” she said again. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re clearly drunk, and you’re disturbing our customers.”

The man eyed me and snickered. “I only see one customer, and he looks ready to leave.”

I was shocked he could even make that observation given how inebriated he was.

The air around me turned heavy, and I felt moisture along the back of my neck.

It’s okay. I can handle this.

Another ding came. This time a bearded man with a baseball cap walked inside. I spotted the cab of a big rig parked next to the diesel pump, which I assumed was his.

The drunk man spun around to face the trucker, and this time he did tumble, dropping to one knee.

“Is everything okay?” the trucker asked.

“I’m trying to get him to leave,” the woman said.

“Let me give you a hand.” The trucker bent over and grasped the drunk man’s arm, pulling him to his feet.

“Hey. Don’t touch me,” the drunk said, his words slurred. But he couldn’t put up much of a fight in his condition.

“Let’s get you outside,” the trucker said.

The drunk man didn’t resist, and the trucker guided him through the door.

“I’ll be back,” the drunk said, his voice trailing off as the door closed.

The woman let out a breath and stared at me. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No worries,” I said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“For what?”

“That you have to deal with people like that.”

“It doesn’t happen as often as you’d think, but it is one of the joys of working the night shift.” Her smiled returned, but it seemed forced this time.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I should be fine. I have a gun in my purse. I told my boss it was the only way I’d work the night shift, and he eventually agreed to it. Maybe I’ll lock up early just to be safe. But—”

I waited for her to finish, but she pursed her lips.

“But what?” I said.

“If he sticks around, I’d feel safer if I didn’t have to drive myself home.”

I deliberated. “Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Maybe I can help.”

The woman obliged, and I wrote something on the sticky note before handing it back to her.

“Your name is Jessie?” she said.

I nodded.

“I’m Melissa.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Melissa. That’s my cell number. If you need a ride home, give me a call. Don’t worry what time it is. I’ll feel much better knowing you’re safe, so it’s no problem at all.”

“I don’t know what to say.” She grinned. “Thank you.”
                                                                                        #
Chad was a bully. He’d been one ever since I laid eyes on him. Though a number of middle-school kids had been victims of his, Chad always seemed to have an infatuation with me. To make matters worse, he rode the same bus as me, so there was no escaping him even after the last bell rang.

Actually, that isn’t entirely true. There were other options besides riding the bus. For example, on occasion I’d have my mother pick me up from school. However, because she was a working mom, she didn’t take kindly to it, so I only beckoned her when it was an emergency.

Most of the time I found myself walking the two miles to get home. It ate up part of my afternoon and left me exhausted, but at least I’d avoided Chad’s physical and mental torment.

I remember one day during gym class, when all of us were outside, Chad managed to corner me behind one of the supply sheds. He’d pushed me to the ground. I lay on my back as he stood over me, his fingers clenched into fists.

Just as he was winding up his right fist to deliver a blow, I noticed one of his fingers uncoil. It snapped back in a completely unnatural way, and Chad let out the most horrific cry of anguish I’d ever heard. As much as I hated him, no one deserved that fate.

A buzzing noise jarred me from my thoughts. My cell phone lit up, and I grabbed it from the coffee table. It was an unknown number. I considered letting it go to voicemail, but then I remembered Melissa, so I accepted the call.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi. Is this Jessie?”

It was a woman’s voice.

Yes,” I replied. “Who is this?”

“It’s Melissa. From the gas station.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I think so, but I’m still a little shaken.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“After the trucker left, the drunk guy stuck around. He didn’t come back inside, but not for a lack of trying. I locked the door. But he hung out in the parking lot for two hours. He finally left a few minutes ago, but I’m nervous. He could be hiding out somewhere just waiting for me.”

“I’ll come get you,” I said.

“Are you sure? I feel bad for imposing.”

“It’s not a problem,” I reiterated. “I’ve been working evenings lately, so I usually go to bed when most people are waking up. I’ve got a couple of hours until I hit the sack, and I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.”
                                                                                      #
“Thanks again for doing this,” Melissa said from the passenger seat of my car.
When I arrived at the gas station, there was no sign of the creepy drunk guy, so I just had to wait for Melissa to lock up before hitting the road. It was one of my missions in life to avoid awkward or potentially dangerous situations whenever possible, so I was grateful that trouble had eluded us.

“Of course,” I said. “But how will you get to work tomorrow?”

“I’ll have a friend drop me off. I guess you could have walked me to my car, but I didn’t want to drive home alone in case that guy decided to tail me.”

“No. I completely understand. I’m curious about something, though.”

“About what?” Melissa inquired.

“In theory, you could be trading one risk for another.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could be a serial killer for all you know.”

I immediately wanted to take those words back. It was definitely a weird, and possibly unsettling, thing to say. However, If Melissa had any regrets about having me drive her home, she certainly didn’t show it. She just grinned at me.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, gently touching my forearm with her hand. “I can read people well. You’re a good soul.”

I let out a nervous chuckle. “I’ve never had anyone tell me that, but I appreciate it.”

Melissa pulled her hand away, and that’s when I noticed something in the rear view mirror. Headlights. Bright ones. Quickly getting closer.

She stared at me, apparently sensing my worry. “What is it?”

“Someone’s coming up fast behind us, and they have their high beams on.”

“Oh, God,” she said, spinning around to look. “Could it be him?”

I shrugged. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, so not many people are out. I’d say the odds are pretty good.”

“What are we going to do?”

My first instinct was to speed up, so that’s exactly what I did. I pressed my foot against the accelerator, and the car shook briefly before picking up speed. We were on a serpentine-shaped road along the coast, so I could only go so fast. I’d rather not wreck the car or send us plummeting over the side of the cliff to our deaths.

“We’re not losing him,” Melissa said, panting.

“I know. It’s the best I can do. We don’t have much of a straightaway on this road.”

The lights in the rear view mirror grew, looming only a few feet from my rear bumper.

“Pull over,” Melissa demanded.

“What?”

“Pull over,” she repeated.

This time I glanced at her, and she had a gun in hand. I guess she wasn’t kidding about carrying one, but what the hell was she doing with it?

“What’s going on?” I said.

“There’s a scenic overlook ahead. Pull off there.”

“Are you crazy?”

She didn’t reply.

“What do you plan on doing?” I said. “Are you going to shoot him?”

“Just do it.”

I was at a loss for words, and I couldn’t focus. I didn’t think Melissa would shoot me, but I wasn’t about to make that gamble. I slowed and pulled off at the overlook, putting the car in park.

“Get out,” she said. “Leave the car running.”

I obliged. I eased out of the seat and stood beside the car. The car behind us stopped a few feet short of me, blocking my path to the road. The driver got out. It was the same guy as earlier. The drunk.

Then Melissa got out of my car. She circled around the front, pointing the gun at me. The guy pulled something from his waist. Great. Another gun. Now I had two aimed at me.

“Give me your wallet,” Melissa said to me.
“Wait,” I said, pondering. “This was all a setup?”
“Just hand it over.”
I grasped the wallet from the front pocket of my jeans and threw it at her feet.
She lowered her gun. “Keep your gun on him, Roger.” She bent over and picked up the wallet, rummaging through it.
“How much?” Roger said.
“Only thirty dollars,” Melissa replied. “But he has a bunch of credit cards.”
“That’s a decent haul. Did you turn off the video cameras earlier? Before I came into the store,” he elaborated.
“Of course. I’m not an idiot. I killed the feed at midnight before either of you stepped inside. And he paid in cash, so there’s no evidence he was ever there.”

“So,” I interrupted. “The credit card machine wasn’t really on the fritz?”

“Nope,” Melissa replied.

“What if I didn’t have enough cash to pay for my stuff?”

“We have an ATM at the store.”

If I’d withdrawn cash, there’d definitely be a record of it, but would the police even think about checking ATM activity? Paying with a credit card would have left a more obvious fingerprint, figuratively speaking. She’d obviously thought it through, but I was still curious.

“How did you know I would fall for all of this?” I asked.

“I didn’t. It was just a hunch. And my hunch tends to be right more times than not.”

“I guess so,” I muttered to myself.

“Anyway,” Melissa said, looking to Roger. “I did my part. Now it’s time for you to do yours.”

Roger glared at me and took a step forward, his index finger hugging the trigger of the gun.

“You’re going to kill me?” I said.

Roger nodded.

“We can’t keep you around,” Melissa said. “You’d go to the police. And even if you didn’t, we can’t take the risk.”

“So, you’re going to kill me for a measly thirty dollars?”

“It’s not the cash. Roger does a good job burying bodies, so it will be a while before they find you. Which means we have plenty of time to max out those credit cards of yours. Or even sell them. But, if I’m being honest, the thrill of it outweighs the financial gain.”

“Jesus,” I said. “I definitely had you pegged wrong.”

“Don’t feel bad. I’ve worked over other men, too, but you’re definitely my favorite. Which is why I’m actually going to be a little sad to see you go. Good thing Roger does the deed and not me.”

I gawked at Roger, and that sensation from the gas station started to wash over me again. The air weighed on me, and perspiration built along the back of my neck.

Roger’s arm moved. I flinched, waiting for the bullet to come. But, much to my surprise, Roger’s arm shifted away from me. I could see Roger fighting it, his face strained with tension. Before I knew it, his gun was aimed at Melissa.

“What the hell are you doing?” she said.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Roger answered. “I can’t control it.”

Don’t do it! There are other ways of dealing with this.

“What do you mean you can’t control it?” Melissa asked. “You’re the one holding the gun.”

“But I’m not the one moving my arm.”

A blast followed, the noise of it echoing throughout the canyon below.

“No,” I shouted.

But it was too late. Blood seeped from a bullet hole in Melissa’s chest. She slumped to the ground, getting off a shot of her own before falling on her back. The bullet struck Roger in the abdomen. He relinquished his grip on the gun, and it ricocheted off the pavement. Then Roger wrapped an arm around his gut as he fell to one knee.

I made my way over to Melissa. Her lifeless eyes stared into the night sky. I didn’t check for a pulse, but I knew she was gone. I glanced at Roger, who appeared to be circling the drain himself. His breathing was labored and blood was already pooling along the ground.

I walked toward Roger, kicking the gun away from him.

“Did you do this?” Roger managed to spit out.

“No,” I said. “It was my brother.”

“What?”

“He drowned when we were kids, and he’s looked out for me ever since. I don’t always agree with his methods, but there’s not much I can do about it. He never was a good listener.”

Roger collapsed to the ground, soon taking his last breath, but at least he had his answer. And he would take it to the grave with him.

“Sir may I see your papers?” the passport officer asked in English from behind the glass.

Constantine Pavlichenko answered in English, “Oh, certainly.”

The Passport officer continued, “And what brings you to Copenhagen.”

“I’m here on business.”

“Your business being?” the passport officer asked while looking at his computer screen.

“Auto parts sales and services.”

The passport officer slightly nodded his head, It was then that Constantine saw his own face. Not his new face but his old face on an Interpol alert displayed in the corner of the Passport officer’s computer screen.

“Stamp, Stamp,”

“Welcome to Copenhagen, Mr. Piddle.”

Casually he walked along. No one tried to stop him.

After leaving the airport Constantine proceeded to walk down the street following the directions by memory. Stepping into the alleyway making sure no one saw him he found what he was looking for, an unmarked door with a security pad to the side of it. Punching in the key codes by memory he walked into the old and decrepit building. There he was greeted by a gentleman seated behind a desk staring at his open laptop computer gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

“Mr. Smith,” he said greeting the gentleman.

“Mr. Piddle, welcome, you are right on time. I must say the plastic surgeon I arranged for you did an absolutely outstanding job.  Your own mother would not recognize you. Please have a seat.”

“Mr. Smith, may I ask why have you brought me to Copenhagen. If you’re setting me up as an American citizen why bring me here.”

“Mr. Piddle, for the simple reason is that American security is very tight and well-controlled. And where there are weak points I know that there are Russian spies who exploit those weak points.

Here in Copenhagen, there are shall we say holes in their security. And I have learned how to exploit those holes well away from Russian eyes.

You see Mr. Piddle has made multiple trips here to Copenhagen while Constantine Pavlichenko has somehow fallen into a black hole of nothingness. You are not here, you were never here, and most importantly…”

Mr. Smith said with direct emphasis, “No one would ever be looking for you here. And it is here we can conduct our last order of business in this black hole of nothingness.”

“Well Mr. Smith, I must commend you. This Mr. Piddle identity you made for me completely passes every aspect of identity scrutiny. While my true name Constantine Pavlichenko sets off alarms anywhere in the world. Your Mr. Piddle persona passes all muster.”

“And that is precisely why you have paid me an exorbitant sum of money in advance, Mr. Piddle. You see a fake identity raises red flags everywhere. A true identity has no such weakness. Mr. Piddle is the true identity of someone who shall we say…”

Mr. Smith paused for a moment and continued, “Shall we say, is not using it at the moment. And I have made sure, absolutely sure, that no one is looking for this Mr. Piddle. So as long as you are not carrying any firearms you may pass through most any airport’s security.”

Constantine responded, “I see. You have stolen someone else’s true identity. Now Mr. Smith, do you have the bank accounts set up for Mr. Piddle? Here in this black hole of nothingness?”

“I do,” Mr. Smith answered.

He continued, “While Constantine Pavlichenko has obtained his fortune through the most unscrupulous of means.

Mr. Piddle is the most upstanding businessman and an upright citizen if I may add. He has made his fortune through the most honest of dealings in auto parts sales and services. All you need to do now, Mr. Piddle, is to transfer all your assets from your current Swiss and Caribbean Islands accounts to your most legitimate American bank accounts I have listed here.”

Mr. Smith turned his laptop around.

Constantine looked at the computer screen. It all checked out from his birthday on his fake birth certificate to the numbers on his fake social security card and his fake driver's license. By memory, he typed in the account numbers and then hit the transfer command.

Mr. Smith turned the laptop back around towards himself. “There, Mr. Piddle is now one point two billion dollars richer. He has no Russian government warrants for his arrest. And the Russian mob does not have a contract on his life.

While Constantine Pavlichenko simply disappeared into, as I said, that black hole of nothingness. Our business is complete.”

Constantine spoke up “Just one more thing, Why?’

“Excuse me, Mr. Piddle.” Mr. Smith asked inquisitively

He demanded, “Why? Why such an odd and stupid little name? Why not steal the surname of someone named Johnson, Williams, Brown, or why not just Smith like your name that could blend into a crowd? Mr. Smith, my God man, Adolf Poindexter Piddle sticks out like a sore thumb.”

Mr. Smith opened the drawer of his desk and addressed him by his true name, “Mr. Pavlichenko, please, I chose that name for the simple reason that Adolf Poindexter Piddle is “MY” true identity.”

He then proceeded to take a gun from the desk drawer, aimed it at Constantine Pavlichenko and fired three shots into his heart.

Bruce Markuson lives with his wife and two children in Milwaukee WI. He has a published novel as well as over a hundred and fifty other publications. Bruce is also working on a number of series. He enjoys writing and often finds himself with writer’s obsession. He says the best way to write is to have an ending then write to that ending.

Michael Vines is a freelance writer who lives in South-Central Kentucky. His "Slice of Life" essays have been published in statewide newspapers and Amazon Kindle ("Ain't Life Peachy")

R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound.
Twitter @GerryFabian2
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/
Linkedin  https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497
Web Page https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com
He lives in Doylestown , PA.

R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound.
Twitter @GerryFabian2
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/
Linkedin  https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497
Web Page https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com
He lives in Doylestown , PA.

R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound.
Twitter @GerryFabian2
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/
Linkedin  https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497
Web Page https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com
He lives in Doylestown , PA.