STRAWBERRY QUICK — Chapter One

by Cormac Brown

This is who they send to watch me?

Even over the hyper-fluttering sound of the money counter tallying bills like an amplified flock of vultures, I could hear the snort. I looked over by the door and there he was, the true Lizard King, forget Jim Morrison. This character was a reptile, from his mannerisms, to his clothes and shoes made from snakes and alligators. To his bulging eyes that suggested his brain was all reptilian, with not a dash of ape or mammal to dilute it.

He had an Altoids tin open and there was a light pink powder inside. He was using one of those tablespoon-teaspoon spoons on a ring that your mom used to use in the kitchen when baking pies and the second smallest spoon seemed to be in heavy rotation, today.

I shuffled and stacked some more money like a blackjack dealer in Vegas and fed the pile into the money counter.

I nodded at him and said slowly "what's that, Pixie-stick dust?"

Even though I said it slowly, I figured it wouldn't register and it didn't.

"I said, 'what is that, Pixie-stick dust?"

He blinked for what had to be the first time since he had been in the room, some thirty minutes, and he blinked again as he glared at me with those cold, reptilian eyes.

He rasped "what are you talking about? Are you high?"

Talk about the kettle...

"The stuff, what is it?"

"Strawberry Quick, yo."

I banded the counted pile and shuffled up another deck of five dollar bills.

"Don't you want some milk to go with that?"

"Really, are you high?"

I repeat, this is who they send to watch me?

In between sorting singles, "no, I haven't been high since the elder Bush was in office." Fives, "what is that supposed to be..." Twenties, "some new kind of designer drug?"

"No, it's meth. Strawberry-flavored meth."

"And?"

"And it's not as strong as regular meth, so you don't become addicted. Shit, you are so retarded."

Yeah, how dumb can I be? I must be a raging idiot to not want have my eyes bugging out of my head and my brain bouncing against my ears.

"Interesting."

A light pink plume shot up as he closed the tin. He slipped it into a Ziploc and sealed the bag. He walked over to the water cooler and doused his fingers with water. Then he snorted the wet off of his fingers.

"What, you don't have no vices?" he sneered and nodded towards my ample frame.

"I like a sifter of Jack Daniels every now and then. But, see, unlike you, I like my death to taste like death."

"What?"

"I said, I don't need my death sugar-coated with a parasol, I take mine straight-up."

"Who asked you, any-"

There was a gentle knock on the door that silenced us and got our attention like the rattle of a sidewinder.

BECOMING — Chapter Seven

by Patrick Baggatta

It had been four hours since we let Warner Lynch leave with a head full of questions. I was banking on him taking at least that long to do his own ruminating before setting out for answers.

Hammond was proving surprisingly good at holding his liquor and his edge for the work. I wasn’t sure yet if this was a good thing or not. When I finally got tired of deflecting case questions, I excused myself and made a private call to the station.

“Let’s go,” was all I had to say when I got back. Hammond was up and heading toward the door in a flash. It wasn’t until we were in the car that he even bothered to ask where we were going. He was like a dog that way, happy to be along for the ride.

“God damn right,” he shot back, when I finally told him where we were going.

I blocked a driveway a few doors down from Lynch’s house and killed the lights.

“Which one is it?” Hammond asked.

I pointed out a two story Edwardian, nothing special. You could find at least one like it on just about any block in the city. There were no lights in the front, but a faint glow from deep inside said someone was home. The light was most likely from the kitchen or bedroom. I scanned the street for Lynch’s car, another detailed I’d collected on my call. There was no sign of it.

“I’m going to check something,” I told Hammond. “Stay here.” I slid out of the car sticking to the shadows as I made my way to the garage. I peered in, but it was too dark to see anything. Suddenly, a car horn blared behind me and I turned to see a pissed-off neighbor unable to get out of his own garage because of where I’d parked.

Hammond jumped out of the car and flashed his badge for the whole neighborhood to see. So much for keeping a low profile.

Just then Lynch’s garage door lurched to life, rolling up with a terrible clatter. “Shit!” I hustled back to the car where Hammond was yelling at the neighbor.

“Hammond, come on,” I ordered as I dove back into the car.

Lynch played it off like he didn’t see us as he drove past, but I caught a flash of panicked recognition and a slight swerve to go with it. It wasn’t how I’d wanted to play it, but it was what it was. A good plan is flexible if nothing else.

“Was that Lynch?” Hammond asked. I balled my fist for the second time in our brief partnership. “Well, are we gonna follow him?”