Never Feels the Same by Mike Oliveri

The slab of precision-machined blue steel felt heavy in Tara’s tiny red purse, so heavy it had its own gravity, pulling her hand in every few moments for a reassuring squeeze. She shifted the purse strap from shoulder to shoulder to relieve the weight, but she didn’t dare set it down, not even for a second.

A green Chevy rolled up slow on her corner, pulled over to the curb. A rental tag dangled from the rearview mirror. Brad’s car had been a rental. Brad said he came to town once a month. Could it be . . . ?

The passenger window rolled down.

Tara’s heart raced. Her palms went slick. She gripped her purse tighter and approached the car. She took a deep breath, then leaned down and looked inside.

A chubby, swarthy man sat behind the wheel. Sweat beaded his brow as he took in her tight red one-piece, her strategically-arranged cleavage, and a hem short enough to reveal her slender legs but long enough to conceal the scars. He licked his lips and adjusted the front of his pants.

No, not Brad.

Not a cop, either. Too nervous. Too eager.

Not Brad, but someone just like him.

She chose to be direct. “You got money, honey?”

A vigorous nod and a smile full of bad teeth. “For you? I have much money.” She didn’t get the accent, and she wouldn’t know the geography if he told her.

Tara mirrored his smile. This guy had passed several girls before he got to her. They were all older, and already nasty from three hours on the street. Tara caught this guy’s eye by being young, fresh and clean. Same as she caught Brad’s eye three months back, and how she hoped to catch it again.

“Let’s find a little privacy.” Tara opened the door and slid in beside the chubby john. She didn’t bother to buckle in. The purse fit snug between her thigh and the door. She rested her hand on it as he pulled away from the curb.

A calm fell over her as she directed him through a few turns. Picking up her first few johns—the ones before Brad—had her trembling, sweating, on the verge of throwing up. One said it turned him on, like popping a cherry all over again.

Her first pickup after Brad, she couldn’t go through with it. She had her purse but lost her nerve, and she bolted from the car to throw up on the sidewalk. The john took off. She followed through with the second after Brad, though. And the third.

“After me, you’ll never feel the same,” Brad had told her. Just a plain, boring, suburban white dude with a plain, boring, suburban white dude name. He hadn’t been wrong.

Tara pointed to a driveway up ahead. A moment later they arrived at the spot she’d scouted a week ago, a dark wedge of parking spaces between an electrical substation and an old tool & die shop. The john nosed up to the rickety wooden fence separating the tiny lot from the graveyard portion of the rail yard, an acre of rusted-out and graffitied railroad cars.

The john killed the engine. The electric hum of the substation buzzed around them.

“How do I know you’re not cop?” the john asked.

Tara tugged at the fringe of her skirt. “Do cops go commando?”

The john smiled and pressed a clammy hand to her thigh. She flinched, but just a hair. His hand worked higher, higher, slid the skirt up toward her hip, then stopped.

He grunted something, a foreign word loaded with confusion.

He’d found her scars. The scars Brad had created with his knife, stabbing and cutting. Leaving her unable to feel down there, unable to birth a child, unable to even fucking pee right.

Tara’s hand went into her purse, came out loaded. The john looked up and saw the big blue steel barrel look him dead in the eye.

The shot hammered her ears in the confines of the car, left them ringing. The bullet blasted through the john’s head and shattered the driver’s side window. Sticky red splashed the interior, fell in a fine mist on Tara’s face and arms.

It didn’t matter. She’d been bloodied worse.

Tara raided the john’s wallet, took his “much money” and got out of the car. She slipped away into the darkness, thinking, no, she still didn’t feel the same. She didn’t feel much of anything.

But she hoped she’d feel something when she finally found Brad.

Tweet Tweet, Little Twat by Mike Oliveri

PTown187: Pimpin’ it up in Club Chub, yo!

Ron deleted the text and dropped the phone in his jacket pocket. He hit the gas and jerked the old van into the right lane, then took the entrance onto eastbound I-74 and barreled down the ramp.

It had been years since he drove the highway this time of night, but it was as empty as he’d remembered. One of the wheels hit a nasty vibration when he broke eighty miles per, but at this speed he’d be at Club Cabaret in minutes.

Twitter. It sounded so ridiculous when Trey’s homeboy explained it, but after a few moments it made perfect sense: Trey could broadcast his location to move his product, yet blend in with millions of inane jackasses on the Internet. Unless you knew his moniker — distributed to trusted buyers like a phone number yet shed with ease — and knew the exact reply codes, he didn’t respond. Drug deals in obfuscation in plain sight.

Trey’s homeboy was happy to cough up the codes as he bled out in a crumbling barn way out in the middle of nowhere. Three minutes on his mobile and Ron had a Twitter account had all Trey’s tweets delivered straight to his phone. A couple hours of bullshit — Trey playlist, his pickup basketball game, even his fucking dinner — then finally a location.

Go time.

Ron pulled into the Club Cabaret parking lot and backed the van into a space facing the door, then thumbed out his first tweet.

@PTown187 Word. My man Frankie and I would love to see Crystal dance, but we’re on wheels. Translation: I’ve got money for meth and I’m in the parking lot.

The response came a moment later. @LittleSisLost I’ll take pix. What’re you rollin’?

Ron considered that one. @PTown187 My brother’s rusted out party van.

No response. After a minute, Ron started to wonder if he’d blown it. Then a fat black kid came out the front door. He scanned the lot, locked on the van. He wobbled over, and Ron rolled the window down.

“‘Sup?” Sweat trickled down the kid’s brow. His breath rasped.

“Trey inside?”

“I got you covered. Where’s Frankie?”

“Long dead.” Ron lifted his silenced SIG and put three rounds into fatty’s chest. The kid let out a wet rattle and hit the car behind him, then rolled sideways and hit the ground with a dull splat.

Ron dragged fatty behind the van and stashed him beneath a jacked-up pick-up, then headed for the club.

He passed a ten to the doorman, kept on walking. A white kid sat at a table near the stage, ogling the dancer’s plastic tits. He wore a ball cap with a huge, flat brim, a baggy basketball jersey, and several gold chains. His pale skin and red hair glowed under the pink neon sign on the wall.


Ron punched him behind the ear and slammed him face-first onto the table. The stripper screamed and scuttled away. The DJ stood up in his booth, and two bouncers headed his way.

Ron flashed a badge, shouted “This kid’s under arrest!” It was an old Chicago badge, but as expected, nobody gave it any scrutiny. The bouncers backed off.

“This is bullshit!” Trey shouted as Ron put the cuffs on him. “I know my rights! I’ll have your ass!”

That went on all the way to the parking lot. Then Trey realized there was no police car.

“Hey, what is this? Where the fuck is Gant?”

“Don’t you remember me, you little twat?”

“What? No, man.”

“I’m Liz’s brother.”

Trey went stark white. Hard to forget a girl you raped and tossed off McCluggage Bridge in the rain.

“Oh, hey man, I don’t–”

Ron clubbed him with his pistol, then tossed him in the van, taped his mouth and ankles. He climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and headed for another old barn he’d picked out.

He tapped out one more message as he drove: @PTown187 It’s going to be a long night!

Seconds later, Trey’s phone issued a soft ping sound. Ron laughed long and hard.