• Love in the barn (or How I spent me fiscal year)

• "I think it could be crispier", she said.

• Murder was on my mind.

• Duce, (or more than tea for two.)

• She always played cards on Tuesday.

• The Vice President took a couple of deep breaths.

• The slimely little creep sauntered his way up to the counter.

• "Duce... ?"

• This is an article printed in the London Times:

• His predicament started that evening.

• And in entertainment news

• Il duce

• He sat down next to her, an' stroked her pelvis.

Back to the TOP!

"I think it could be crispier", she said. He didn't reply. "Really, it should be crispier", she said. He still didn't reply. It drove her insane. He stood there rehearsing, his pelvis moving in time to the mindnumbingly loud music. He had heard her the first time. He just couldn't face another discussion over the crispiness of butter. It was unnecessary, it was no biggie. It was for her. "Think about it, butter should b crispier, as it is, it just doesn't make sense". He brought his eyes on her. She was beautiful. Her hair had that insane style he had always loved. Her eyes were two deep puddles. Her nose was. She was sitting on his fuchsia armchair. That armchair was the missing cherry on every cake, the touch of pepper that spices up life, the light that shines from a solitary cloud on a rainy idea. There were two things he cared about, one was his armchair,the other wasn't the Duce's autographed picture. He had to be fiscal about priorities. He got dressed and hit her wiv a hammer. While the blood trickled all over her beautiful face and onto the brown carpet, he looked at his armchair. Butter fingerprints were all over it. His fuchsia armchair.

Back to the TOP!

Murder was on my mind. Well, that's sort of redundant; when you're a contract killer, murder is always on your mind. Either the job at hand, or, just making sure that the next death you witness isn't your own.; That's the thing about being a hitman; there's not much job security, and eventually you step on enough toes that someone puts a hit out on you. No biggie, assuming you have the stomach for it. And, generally, when you kill people for a living, you can deal with a little adversity.
The guy who I'm working for is called The Duce, a respectful nod to Mussolini, and a little bit of sarcasm, too. Not much sarcasm, though. Say it with the wrong tone, and you'll likely look over your shoulder and see me following one of these nights. You don't want that to happen.
There are some unwritten rules in this game. Obviously, fingerprints are verboten. That really should go without saying. Also, you should do it for the right reasons. Your motivations should be purely fiscal. It should never be personal. You get personal, you get careless. I've known more killers who got jacked because they let revenge, or lust, or envy cloud their judgement. Keep that in mind, keep it about the money, and you'll live longer.
I'd never claim to be the best at what I do. You start thinking that, and you will have people gunning for you in no time. Even better to be known as the guy who took down the best. Of course, that starts a whole vicious circle that you're better off not being a part of.
10:00. Time to move; time to go to work. The cold steel of my gun is always comforting to me. I slip out of the restaurant, and shift into 'work' mode, and begin to shut out the distractions. This is no time to be distracted.
I didn't even see the car coming. I should've seen it, though. Even with the headlights out, I should've heard it. Careless. Carelessness bought me a shattered pelvis, and more pain than I'd imagined possible. I thought that I might be able to retire somewhere warm and heal up. Then the car shifted into reverse.
(Barry)

Back to the TOP!

Duce, (or more than tea for two.)

OOoOOOOoOOOoOOOOoOOOWEEEeEEeEEEe! Girlfriend!
I know yer a biggie, but
get your fingerprints off my fiscal Pelvis!
(Back to the TOP!

She always played cards on Tuesday. It didn't matter if she had six others to play with, or four, or none. As her twelve year old nephew used to say, 'It's no biggie, Aunt Lisa. Just ride with it.' No biggie. That described just about everything in her life. On Wednesdays she volunteered down at the soup kitchens, scouping out bowls of tomato, or potato, or chicken noodle, or cream of celery. Add on a slab of dry bread and some hard butter, and you had yourself a meal. It wasn't really worth eating, but it was a meal. No biggie. On Thursdays, she usually watched television until her brains felt like they were going to melt. The daily dance of soap stars (oh, no, not another brain tumor? Poor Ronaldo, and with his wife that vanished but turned up in Reno with amnesia, and in love with his cousin who is really his sister, who used to be a man. What will happen next?), infomercials (it's un-be-lievable how well Sucker Spray Cleaner REALLY works!), and game shows (come on DOWN...) were usually just what she needed to turn her brains into mush and keep her from having to think about ANYTHING. Again, no biggie. On Fridays she would rouse herself enough to go down to a bar, plant her pelvis on a bar stool and prepare herself for the inevitable, half-drunk casanova who'd had just enough to believe he was god's gift to women, and she was actually attractive. She'd discovered that the slightest push in the right spot, and they'd fall right off their stool. After that, they were quickly escorted out by bouncers for having 'a few too many.' You guessed it, amigos and amigas: nooooo biggie. Saturdays she scrubbed her house. Removing dust, debris, and fingerprints real or imagined. It really didn't matter, since by Sunday evening the house would be a slophouse again. But, no biggie. Sunday she rested. On Monday's she'd go shopping, especially if she were expecting anyone for Tuesday. All sorts of fattening, greasy, salty, cholesterol-enhanced, sugar-coated, literal junk food that she could stuff in her cart would go in there. Who cared if it set her back an entire fiscal year? Hey, man, haven't you been listening? Noooooo biggie. And on Tuesdays, she'd play cards. Poker, Thirty-One, Old Maid, Go Fish, Blackjack...flushes, full houses, spades, clubs, duces, diamonds, queens, kings, all in an eternal parade through her hands. Regardless of whether she played with people or alone on her Tuesdays, all the food she bought on her Mondays was gone by her Wednesdays. So what if she looked like something that should be floating above a football game emblazoned with the word 'Goodyear.' Heck, in the words of that immortal bard, her nephew....No biggie.
(Becky)

Back to the TOP!

The Vice President took a couple of deep breaths. He was a tad anxious. Not about his announcement or what it would mean to everyone in the room but because he had an appointment with his hair stylist. His grey hairs were starting to peak through. To him that was more catastrophic than his pending speech. So he was about to fire everyone, so what? No biggie. "Ladies and gentlemen, with the ending of our fiscal year, I have some bad news." Even though he wasn't nervous or even upset about the 'bad' news, he managed to convey a grave, if not, sad demeanor. "We need to do some down sizing. What that means is..." he paused here, not because he was worried about the reaction to his next words but because he thought it would make him look more concerned. "..you're all fired. Effective immediately. Compensation packets have been drawn up for each of you and are being put in your mailboxes as ..ARGH!! aghh!!!" The VP didn't expect a lynching but that's what he got. People coming at him from all sides. Kicking, punching, screaming at him. By the time security got to him he had a broken pelvis, shattered nose, several smashed ribs, sprained wrists, crushed ankle and countless bruises and cuts.  This wasn't exactly all in a days work for him. The VP is a highly fastidious man. He didn't even have fingerprints on his desk. Yet here he was, bloody, dazed and rumpled. He was the Vice President for god's sake! And the heathens had attacked him. HIM! The duce of the company!! So what if he fired them out of the blue. People got fired every day. That was the VP's last thought. For one of the 'heathens' had gotten hold of a gun, aimed and fired. The VP was dead. No biggie.
(Gina)

Back to the TOP!

The slimely little creep sauntered his way up to the counter. She'd have known he was slimey  even if he didn't smell like sweaty gym socks doused in cheap perfume (did he think he was in 1800 Europe? Bath! Hah!) left in the summer sun to rot. He walked with his pelvis leading the way. All slimey creeps did that. They wanted people to think that they were all that and a bag of chips. And apparently walking with their balls pushed forward was supposed to make folks think that. Unfortunately, she couldn't roll her eyes and make a comment to her coworker. The creep was on her line. So she sighed instead, plastered on a smile and asked how she could help him. "Yeah, I want a ..umm number one with everything on it. And I want you to make it Huge." When he said huge he thrust his crotch at the counter and she somehow managed to keep from bursting out in laughter. Her suspicions were confirmed. El creepo he was. "You want the biggie size, then?" she clarified. He leaned on the counter and leered at her. "That's right, sweetheart." She bit back a groan and told him the price. He took out a wad of money, eyeing her breasts the whole time. All he needed was something in his mouth to suck on. Then he'd really fit the slimey little creep image to a tee. He handed her way too much money. She handed back his change. "No, honey. You keep it" and then he winked at her. "Sorry, sir, we aren't allowed tips." Oh how that money could have helped! She was sure he had to be dealing drugs to offer her $100. How that would have gone to help her fiscal well being. Oh well. She'd have more money soon enough. She handed him his food and thanked him for stopping by.
Mercifully the phone rang and she leapt at it. Anything to put distance between her and the slimeball. "Norman's beef stop. How may I help you?" she chorused into the phone. The creep grumbling took his tray and found a table. Facing the counter. Why couldn't he take the hint and just Leave? She took the order from the phone and managed to say their required closing line before the customer hung up "Thanks for calling Norman's where we're the duce of beef!" She looked at Sandra, coworker, and asked - it was a ritual with them - "Do you think anybody actually knows what duce means?"  They laughed and chatted some more while they went to wipe down the tables.  She glanced over to where he had been sitting and saw some wrappers and a cup but not the slimeball. She breathed a sigh of relief and busily wiped all the gooey fingerprints off the table that had just been vacated by a frazzled mom and a gaggle of kids.
(Gina)

Back to the TOP!

"Duce... ?"
"hmm..."
"I'm bored..."
"mm... ?"
"We never have time to play lately..."
"mmphh"
"And you never tell me you love me anymore..."
"hmhmmph..."
"You're always too busy running the country..."
"Yemmh..."
"Don't you remember all the good times we had ?"
"Uhuhmph"
"Remember all the fun toys we used... ?"
"ohhmmm :)"
"How I did that nice dance on your pelvis ?"
"Uhuh !"
"Why can't we do that again ? It's been so long !"
*yawn* "dinwe *YAWN* inda bathtub ?"
"Pookie, That was one fiscal year ago !! *Pout*"
"hmmph ?"
"Don't you want to show me your biggie again, hmm ?"
"oh, hmm, well..."
"Like you did with those girls I caught you with ? Naughty boy ?"
"Huh ?!?"
"I bet they were very impressed *giggle*"
"Hunnyyyy... !"
"Aw, don't tell me you're afraid of exposing yourself. Come on. Pookie?"
"Partyheadquarters... the police..."
"Pshh, you own the party, and the police, what are they going to do ?"
"Are you crazy, woman ? Last time they took fingerprints !!!"
(Ignace)

Back to the TOP!

This is an article printed in the London Times:
January 2nd, 1939. Rome, Italy
Il Duce has broken his pelvis tonight. He slipped on a cleverly disguised bar of soap, left in Mussolini's bathroom by intelligence agents the day before.
Fortunately, no fingerprints could be taken from the bar of soap.
When asked about his predicament Il Duce responded: 'It's no biggie. I'll be back to institute the new fiscal laws before the people even realize I'm in hospital.'
Let us all hope not. Il Duce is openly supporting Nazi Germany and a fast return could well mean the beginning of a conflict in continental Europe.
(Enterprise1701_d)

Back to the TOP!

His predicament started that evening. As soon as he awoke and saw the "boys" standing at the end of his bed, he knew something had gone wrong. Somewhere he must have forgotten an electronic fingerprint. His lover, who was more butch than him, tried to prevent him being dragged to his fate. Unbeknownst to him, his lover's grave can now be admired from afar. The headstone is the high-rise on the corner of 11th and Main.
Cold sweat. That was the reason the back of his shirt was soaked. The stench of his fear was trying to conquer the room. The smoke of the cigar, that the man behind the desk lit, would even deny him that small victory. The old man ignored him. The lighting created something like an halo around his bent over balding head. The resulting effect looked a bit too much of a coincidence to be just that, a coincidence. As the man had finally finished with reading and signing the reports he started to look up, he heard a nervous giggle. As he looked straight into the eyes of his quarry the giggle whimpered away. He knew what that giggle meant. He knew that once again his adversary had noticed the slight resemblance between him and "Il Duce". He hated that. He wasn't a dictator. He was a businessman, however it did depend on your point of view.
He liked to say he was the head of a conglomerate of several slightly independent businesses. He would go on to say that those businesses even included alternative banking, information retrieval, entertainment facilities and several social services. Everybody else would say he was the "Pater familia" that controlled the loan sharking, the black-mailing, the gaming and the prostitution in that state. Whilst looking at the young man he recalled different times. He remembered how he had seen that young man's head for the first time. The moment of joy that he felt when that head pushing beyond the pelvis of the young mother came into view. The joy didn't linger for long. Less than a year later the woman was dead. The man smiled to himself recalling the look of sheer bewilderment on the face of the judge when hearing the verdict of the jury. He later admitted, but only to himself, that he had overdone it a bit.  The fact was that he simply had became
too enraged. His wife didn't only cheat on him, she had run off with her boyfriend. Her Romeo being an undercover cop who had wheedled his way into the organization. The conclusion at the subsequent trial was that she and her lover had had a lovers tiff. Where upon she had first sliced off his genitals, lock stock and barrel (no pun intended), and than had him bleed to death. After which she had so much remorse about what she had done that she cut her lover open and hanged herself using his intestines. Yes indeed, that was what the jury must have thought happened, because they didn't find him guilty of having a hand in it. The fact that each and everyone of the jury members had received a message from one of his associates could had something to do with it. But he must be getting old, to be reminiscing like that.
"So you seem to think that the old man has lost it, do you ?", he said in his usual soft voice.
He once read, as a young man, that people with real power never talked loudly, because they are so used to be listened to that they didn't have to. He had quickly took it at heart even before he had any power to wield. It sure didn't harm his rise to power and now everybody he came in contact with knew instantly that he was the boss. Or as his mistress called him affectionately ,"the biggie".
"Did you really think that even by making that money travel from one off-shore bank to the other fiscal paradise would cover your tracks ?", he continued as the young man didn't seem to be able to respond.
"Well son, it nearly did. But you made one small mistake. The branch of the bank you decided on to be the final destination is run by the second cousin of Victorio. You do remember Victorio, don't you?"
The young man could be seen, and heard, swallow.
"You mean Uncle Vic?", he barely managed to say.
"Yes boy, I do. That nephew of his doesn't work for the organization but never the less he keeps in touch with his family. He stays loyal to his family, not like some people I could mention. He noticed a very large sum arriving on a new account, a sum that nearly matched a small fortune that went missing only a few days earlier from his late uncle's firm. Naturally he contacted us. Once the boys in accounting had both ends of the trail they very rapidly could piece together the entire route. More importantly they even could sniff out who was responsible for making that trail. Do you care to guess to whom the finger pointed ?".
The young man mumbled something.
"Speak up. I can't hear you.", the man behind the desk snarled.
"No sir, eh.. I mean yes sir, I mean.... It pointed to me, sir ?", the young man nervously uttered.
"You don't seem surprised ? I was !", the boss said, "I won't ask why you did it. I won't start to wonder what got into your puny little brain to think that money wouldn't be noticed missing in the first place. Yes, you heard me right, I said puny little brain. The way you planned and executed it was pretty nifty, that I grant you. It's nice to see that all those years in College weren't spent idly. But that you, of all people, thought you could defraud me ! And for what ! To start a new life with that jackass. Really son, you must have inherited your brains from your mother's side of the family."
The young man looked more miserable by the minute. He was sure that this audience would have a less than favorable outcome for him as soon as he was forced to enter the room. The longer his father spoke, the more he became certain of that. His father, seeing his fright, started to wonder if it would become necessary to have the carpet cleaned. To calm down his son he quickly said:
"However don't worry son. You in your clumsy way tried. You must have planned for us to find it, else why pick a bank in the old country to dump the money in."
"Eh.. ye.. yea..yes sir !", he stuttered.
Could he have mistaken the signals? Would he be forgiven after all? Of course he would be. He was the only child. Surely his father wouldn't harm him.
"You really just wanted to prove yourself to your old man, didn't you ?"
"Yes Sir"
"And you won't be trying it again, will you."
"No Sir !"
If he had a tail, it would have wagged.
The old man tried very hard to keep disgust out of his voice, only seconds ago the kid looked like he would soil the carpet.
"Fredo here will take care of you. The boys didn't even give you time to pack, did they ? I thought as much, they really gave no social graces. So don't worry, no harm is done, I'll be seeing you tomorrow at breakfast.", where upon he bent over to look at the papers on his desk again thus signifying the conversation was concluded. He heard his son shuffle his feet for a few seconds before he got the clue and left. As the door closed behind him the last thing he heard his father say was:
"Fredo, make sure that you get him some new shoes. Sturdy ones".
As he glanced at his shoes, he wondered what his dad had in mind. He walked to the kitchen to grab a light snack softly humming to himself. He had pulled it off. Yes he had lost the money alright but he had come through unscathed. All thanks to fatherly love. Fancy that, he had made his father proud. He would even get a new wardrobe and some new shoes out of it. Sturdy ones? Yeah sure, he thought sarcastically. He knew which pair he wanted. The finest in Italian designer footwear for men. They were real expensive but looked to die for. It was while thinking this that he went past the stairs, those old familiar ugly stairs, that the nickel finally dropped. Fredo found him there, he had fainted opposite the stairs. The concrete stairs.
(Peter)

Back to the TOP!

And in entertainment news, Italian Rap Superstar Biggie DUCE announced the acts scheduled to appear at this year's benefit concert: "Raviolis for Bambinos".

Swedish conjoined twins Freida and Jasmine Vanderblitzen will perform their haunting ballad:  "Ow! That's my Pelvis."
Milwaukee's very own thirty man clog-dancing/banjo playing troupe, Squiggy's fingerprints, will treat the crowd to their dazzling cover of Yummy, Yummy, Yummy!
Fiscal revenue from this musical extravaganza is expected to be in the low hundreds.

Tickets now available. Or free with a donation of a bucket of lard.
(New Hro Zero)

Back to the TOP!

Il duce

He's the hamburger king
fiscal leader of the flock
speaks of money as if love
has been stainless ever since
never leaving fingerprints
wizard with the chastity belt
no pelvis that he couldn't sell
or buy, that's no biggie
not for him...haven't you heard?
He's the hamburger king.
(Lizzy)
 

Back to the TOP!

He sat down next to her, an' stroked her pelvis. He pondered about how to spell this word, an' so interrupting his sex scene, (It was a real biggie), he got his Oxford English Dictionary out. He tried not to notice the fingerprints and coffee stains that Alfred had left on the cover, and turned past such words as fiscal an' duce. He then found the word pelvis, and smiled contently, having added another word to his vocabulary.
(Aidan)

Back to the TOP!