OUT OF OFFICE TILL 31st

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 23, 2017

 

 

OUT OF OFFICE TILL 31st

 

DO SOMETHING ELSE TILL THEN.

Cindy Rosmus

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 22, 2017

Above image created by Steve Cartwright

Cindy is a Jersey girl who looks like a Mob Wife and talks like Anybody’s from West Side Story. She works out a lot, so needs no excuse to do whatever she wants. She hates shopping and shoes, chick lit and chick flicks. She’s been published in the usual places, such as Hardboiled; Shotgun Honey, Twisted Sister, A Twist of Noir; Beat to a Pulp; Pulp Metal; Thrillers, Killers, n’ Chillers; Mysterical-E; and Powder Burn Flash. She is the editor of the ezine, Yellow Mama <http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/index.html>. She’s also a Gemini, an animal rights activist, and a Christian.

 


 

THE DEVIL’S LITTER

 

 

“If I lose this job,” Bingo Joe said, “we’re fucked.”

Grim was the mood, at our breakfast table. Uneaten Froot Loops, too-sweet coffee, and not enough roaches to make a whole joint.

Those new tenants, the Lopezes. Two months here, and trying to take over. Elena was bossy, with chin-length black hair. Manny was chubby, pussy-whipped. Both were “holier than thou.”

“Born again,” Bingo Joe had said, reverently.

But “love thy neighbor” wasn’t their style.

From Day One, Elena ruled the laundry room. “Use that machine,” she said, meaning the end one. “Not this one. It won’t rinse right.” She looked disgusted.

“Works fine,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “I told Georgie, but it’s still not fixed.”

Georgie, the landlord, lived the carefree, Jimmy Buffet life in Florida. Any crises, go to Bingo Joe. That’s why we only paid half-rent.

“You should’ve told Jose.” Jose was Bingo Joe’s real name.

Then I saw The Bucket.

She filled it with water from the industrial sink. “Jose?” She wrinkled her nose. “The one who smokes?”

Weed, or Newports? I kept quiet.
The Bucket was full. Elena hoisted it out of the sink and carried it to the middle washer. Strong bitch, I thought.

She dumped all the water inside the machine.

“No!” I said. “You’ll break . . .”

“We smell it, my husband and me,” she went on, “through the ceiling. This disgusting, sweet . . .”

Weed. Bingo Joe’d be hearing it from Georgie.

Early next morning, Mrs. Dietz from 1-D called. “The middle washer’s broke! All my clothes’re soaking wet!”

Three bucks in quarters we had to give up, for two cycles in the dryer.

“Mrs. Lopez told Georgie it was broke,” Mrs. Dietz said.

Bingo Joe hung up. Outside, a truck’s air brakes hissed. “Aw, shit!” he said.

I ran after him to help take out the garbage. It was so early, there was a breeze. Little birdies chirped in trees.

And our two “little birdies” were dragging the bulging trash cans to the curb.

“¡Gracias!” one garbage man said. Manny was struggling, but Elena the Ant was lifting a zillion times her weight.

“Fuck,” Bingo Joe said.

“You the new supers?” another garbage man asked the Lopezes.

They all laughed, as the truck took off

I sank down to the curb. “What’s next?” I asked Bingo Joe.

“NO PETS,” our lease said. The one everyone had broke.

“It’s bullshit,” Bingo Joe said, “Means no weird pets, like King Cobras, or chimps that rip your face off.”

“But cats are cool?”

So why were copies of the lease under everyone’s door, with “NO PETS” circled in red? And who did this? We were the supers!
“They gotta go,” Georgie said, about all our cats. “Every last one. Must be fifty, in that building.”

Bingo Joe’s phone was on speaker. Four of our cats sat at attention. The fifth, Itchy, crawled up my chest. Itchy was my baby. When we were nose-to-nose, I started bawling. He scampered away.

“Who . . .” In her doorway, old Miss Roberts cradled her huge gold Persian. “Wants to take my Sunshine away?”

“My wife hates cats,” Manny Lopez told all the tenants. “Says they’re . . . devils
. . . in disguise.”

“Just keep them,” Bingo Joe secretly told each cat-owner. “Georgie won’t know.”

“Are you sure?” Miss Roberts said.

“Yeah,” I said.

‘Cos this was war. I had a plan even Bingo Joe didn’t know about.

“Save your used litter,” I told each cat-owner, later.

Every morning, Elena was first in the cellar, washing clothes. And guess what? She’d left The Bucket downstairs!

She never knew I stole it.

Filled with old, stinking cat litter, The Bucket was super-heavy. I wasn’t as strong as her. Dragging it up three flights was a bitch. Step by step.

I placed it in the hall window, positioned it just right. Directly above the cellar door.

Our cellar had a separate entrance. I would hear her coming.

Soon, voices. Speaking Spanish, but the names “Jose” and “Georgie,” I got. No doubt “trabajo” meant “job,” like in somebody losing his.

If I killed them, good. If not, maybe next time.

As I shoved The Bucket off the ledge, all the building’s cats meowed their thanks.

THE END

Michael Marrotti ~ Surviving Trump’s America

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Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His chapbook, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, is available on Amazon. On his free time, he volunteers at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission. He is also the editor of Excavation, a poetry blog. Submissions are open: https://excavatingtheunderground.wordpress.com/     Surviving Trump’s America   Our love life deteriorated during […]

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  Kenneth James Crist is a tired, broken-down old motorcycle cop from Wichita, Kansas. He began writing a novel in 1994 as keyboard practice and has since written four more novels, several novellas and a butt-load of short stories. His publications have been seen in Bewildering Stories, Tales of the Talisman, A Twist of Noir, […]

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