Mountain Falling by Christopher Grant

Broke into Jean Barlow’s bedroom when you were fourteen and she and her husband were on summer vacation. You looked at and touched all her frilly, silky underthings. Inhaled her scent when you brought them to your nose.

Jean Barlow. You had fantasies that entire summer. You were going to fucking kill her husband, a Poindexter-looking shit. She was too good for him. So you were going to kill him and she was going to thank you and she was going marry you and forget about Poindexter.

Jean Barlow. Twenty years ago.

She still looks good at forty.

Still got that Poindexter-looking shit of a husband, even though you swear to Christ that she looks at you the way that you’ve always looked at her. Her eyes say, “Do it.” Her body says, “Take it.”

She’s all you can think about anymore.

One night, you climb in through her window, just like that summer when you were fourteen, and you wait.

And you wait.

Finally, you hear a car door shut, followed by another. You hear the front door of the house open up.

Downstairs, you can hear them.

They’re arguing. Poindexter has a nasally voice. Just as you’d imagined. Jean, however, has there ever been a woman blessed with a more angelic tone? Even when she’s agitated, like now, she sounds so melodic.

“Fuck that,” Poindexter says.

The argument gets progressively heated. Their voices grow closer, louder. Something smacks the wall just outside the bedroom. Is he hitting her? You hear Jean cry out and you’re sure of it now.

It’s time to move, you tell yourself.

The door is flung open just as you move towards it. Catches you in the face, busts your nose. Warm blood pours outward, spilling into your eyes, downward into your mouth. You drop the gun that you were going to use and he’s there, in the doorway.

Jean is backing into the room. The door slams shut. They haven’t switched the light on yet and don’t see you. Poindexter’s standing over Jean, who’s on the bed, and he’s raising his belt. Down and again and again. Each time the leather connects with her skin, she begs him to stop.

You tackle him before he can stripe Jean’s perfect skin with any more welts. Take him to the carpet by surprise. You hear his head connect with the nightstand, toppling it, on your way down.

You feel his face, his cheek getting softer as you realize that you’re not using your fists any longer but instead a blunt instrument. The metal lamp that once sat on the overturned nightstand.

Jean’s yours now. You know she will understand that you did this so that she could be free of this bastard. So that you could be together.

Gunfire and the slug splits your chest. Your body crashes to the floor, feels like a mountain falling.



Confession by Christopher Grant

The truck sits in the parking lot of the sporting goods store.

The fuckhead sits there in the driver’s seat and looks at his watch.

I’ve been watching from across the four-lane avenue for the last twenty minutes. He just sits there, lights a cigarette, looks at his watch, again, repeat, do over.

He’s expecting me. I called him from a pay phone over an hour ago, told him exactly where to go, told him I’d be there within the hour.

Why the fuck doesn’t he get rattled? Why the fuck doesn’t he leave?

I mean, it’s not like he can’t score some fucking blow somewhere else.

It’s what I thought, I know it is.

This motherfucker is a fed or a narc or both.

He’s copped from me on three other occasions and I didn’t have any reason until two weeks ago to think that this was what I know it is.

The first time was in January, the next time was two weeks before two weeks ago. And the shit I gave him then, he should have still had something left two weeks ago. He claimed he had some kind of party or some shit. Bullshit. The guy’s looking to make his bones with me.

So I sit there and I let him fucking stew and he doesn’t go anywhere. He sits there another twenty minutes, just lighting and smoking and lighting and looking at his watch and taking another drag.

Finally, I guess boredom on my part, I decide to force the issue and I pull into the lot next to him and I grab my piece and I get in the passenger side of his truck and I stick my steel in his face and I tell him that I want to know what the fuck.

And, of course, he begs off, saying that I got it all wrong, that he’s not a narc or a fed.

And I kinda believe him but I don’t bother going all the way because I kinda don’t believe him.

So I take the safety off, I put the end of the barrel against his temple and I squeeze the trigger.

Brains and blood splash the driver’s side window, which spiderwebs thanks to the slug going through and through. I riffle his pockets, grab his wallet and split, tearing out of the lot and onto the four-lane avenue.

And that’s what happened. Swear to fucking god. You wanna book me now so we can get this shit over with?

Dance, Motherfucker by Christopher Grant

He comes here every fuckin’ Tuesday, orders the same damn drink and tries to get with the same kind of woman, every fuckin’ Tuesday.

His game is weaker than the shit that they be slingin’ on the corner these days and he knows it but he keeps comin’ back every fuckin’ Tuesday and he keeps strikin’ out.

His moves on the dance floor, though…

Shit, he could be on Dancin’ With The Stars, I suppose, if he had a mind to.

He moves with grace ain’t nobody seen in a goddamn long time.

And the honies, they can see he’s got moves, but when he approaches them or they approach him, his rap goes limper than his dick.

And it’s just as well.

I follow him out to the parkin’ lot after his eighty-sixth strikeout, walking ten steps behind him as he presses the button to unlock his car.

My whistle is short and shrill and, when he turns, the noise my piece makes is violent.

The dancin’ motherfucker does a two-step, falls backwards and hits blacktop.

The kid had to go or so I was told.

Bitch be fuckin’ with the count, I was told.

Too bad.

The bitch had skills. Just not those math skills. Couldn’t put two and two together and figure out I was on his ass.