New Rules New Game

1) Exercise your Killer Instinct by submitting your VERY BEST

poem or story to

no bio needed, you retain the copyright.

2) Be Creative.

You will be judged by ME, then by your fellow killers.

3) If you're Good, you will make THE HIT LIST.

If you're not, don't expect any Remorse.

Good Luck.

Aug 12, 2012

The Sex Machine

by Sean Patrick Reardon

A grand, in cash, is the going rate for an hour of Kevin’s time. Not bad for a junior at Boston College. He’s a business major, with a Libertine studies minor. Two framed movie posters hang in his dorm room: Saturday Night Fever and American Gigolo. He’s often wondered if he presented his escort business plan on Shark Tank, would Cuban or Mr. Wonderful buy in for, say, 250K at ten percent. Shit, it’d be a no-brainer, guaranteed full ROI in one year.

He’s just left another satisfied client’s place and “Staying Alive” is playing in his ears as he struts down Marlboro Street wearing those oh-so-cool wrap around shades and working the Thin Lizzy tee and Lucky Brand jeans for all they’re worth.

The Bee Gees tune is a tradition after every client visit, a sign of respect to Johnny T. Travolta is his spirit guide. He’s carrying a soft leather briefcase, not a can of paint. You can improve on perfection.

The empty spot where his Mustang should be parked is making it really difficult for Kevin to determine who the person connected to the large hand that is clenching his arm is. A couple thoughts do get processed as the ear-buds get yanked out (courtesy of the other large hand).

The man is huge.

He is wearing a very expensive suit.

He does not look like he is going to ask for directions.

And when he wraps a muscled-bound arm around Kevin’s shoulder, whispers “don’t even think of it” and guides him into the back seat of a waiting Escalade, Kevin gets the feeling that he’s not going to be making it to his next client’s appointment.

The driver, a dapper looking, white haired guy punches the gas, turns around and says, “Kevin Green…The sex ma…chine.”

That’s all Kevin hears as the pinky-ringed fist of Expensive Suit connects with his temple and knocks him out.


When he rejoins the world, Kevin’s fuzzy, lethargic, out of it (a healthy dose of liquid morphine can do that to a dude), and wondering why he’s naked and bound to a chair in a dingy basement.

Dapper Dan and Expensive Suit are standing in front of him. Double D lights a smoke, says, “Do You know who I am lad?”

“No…should I?” Kevin asks, with just enough smart-ass to warrant a hard slap across the face from Expensive Suit.

“I’m Gerry McGowan and my friend here is Davey. Now, tell me this if you would…what do you know about that lady you were with, before we invited you to our little get together?”

“I don’t know man, from my vantage point, looked like she needed her roots touched up.”

Another bitch slap courtesy of Davey.

Gerry takes a drag, drops the cig, and crushes it under his shoe. “She happens to be my wife.”

Davey starts shaking his head, says, “You really fucked up, sex machine. This isn’t good.”

Kevin takes a deep breath, swallows hard, looks at Gerry with his best aw-shucks face. “Oh man, Gerry, I’m sorry dude. How was I supposed to know?”

“That’s not any of my concern.” Gerry nods to Davey. “What’s done is done, lad. May I ask how, or why, you got into such a profession?”

Kevin takes a couple seconds, thinks about his answer, only thing that comes out is, “I don’t know…yolo…I guess.”

Davey and Gerry look at each other, perplexed. Davey says, “yo lo? What the fuck is that?”

Gerry shugs his shoulders, says, “How do I know? These damn kids and their code words, the texting, butchering the English language. Tell us Kevin, what is a yolo?”

“It’s a way of life, you know, yolo. You…only…live…once.”

Gerry mulls it over, smiles, like he gets it. “Ah, so it’s like Carpe Diem.”

“Huh?” Kevin says.

Davey puts up a hand, smirking, letting Gerry know he wants to field this inquiry. “Seize the fucking day, sex machine. Basically means the same thing as your yolo.”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Kevin says, thinking both Gerry and Davey are smiling and there’s some genuine generational bonding happening. The situation might not be as bad as he thought.

Gerry has a big smile on his face when he tells Kevin, “You know, I think I have another one for you Kevin?”

“Cool,” Kevin says, with an attentive, interested look on his face, like Gerry is some all-knowing sensei.

“Yodo,” Gerry says as he pulls a gun from the back of his waistband and hands it to Davey.

Davey points the gun at Kevin’s chest. “You…(BANG)…only…(BANG)…die… (BANG)…once…(BANG).”

Jul 29, 2012

The Edge of The Road

by Kevin Michaels

On a two lane county road near Williamsport, the skies that had been dark and threatening for hours finally erupted in a violent explosion of lightning and thunder cracks. The road turned slick, the wind kicked up unexpectedly, and it was nearly impossible to see anything through the rain. Even harder handling the power of the big block Chevy Bel Air. It was the kind of car that wasn’t so easy to drive, but Archer was starting to feel comfortable behind the wheel. By the time he got back to New Jersey he would know everything about that car.

He kept his eyes on the road while he fiddled with the radio. In between bursts of static, Eddie Cochran sang about “the summertime blues” while the wipers slapped the rain off the windshield.

Archer liked that steady, rhythmic beat – the sound helped drown out the noise in his head.

He thought again about the nice young couple he met at the rest stop near the Pennsylvania State line. They were from some small town in Western Kentucky, Illinois, or Ohio – just another name and a dot on the map to him. No idea where it was or how far they had to travel until their paths crossed, and it wasn’t like he could ask them about it now. Archer couldn’t remember exactly what they told him – he hadn’t paid that much attention to what they had to say. Just enough to keep the conversation going and pass the time.

For a little while.

You need a distraction, he thought. Something that breaks the monotony of the road.

Doug had been the quiet one. Right from the start he hadn’t said much and barely made a sound the whole time. But Kate was another story – she kept going on and on long after Archer had lost interest in either one of them. She just wouldn’t shut up. Her voice had a way of crawling under your skin and getting inside your head, and it was miles before the sound finally faded from memory.

The storm showed no sign of letting up and the drive became difficult. Archer finally pulled into a small bar tucked beneath a highway overpass to shake off the rain and kill some time.

There were only a handful of people inside – locals leaning into the bar, working shots and beers, while others huddled around a pool table playing eight ball. Nobody paid attention to him as he slid onto a bar stool and ordered a Jack Daniels. The bartender – somebody called him Sean – slid the glass across the mahogany and walked to the end of the bar without a word. Elvis blasted from a corner jukebox while the redhead at the bar dipped a shoulder and swayed to the song. Something about the way she ran a finger slowly along the rim of her glass before carefully bringing it to her lips and sucking away the salt held Archer’s attention. Quietly sipping his whiskey, he chanced a smile when she glanced his way, but she simply flipped the hair off her face and turned away from his stare.

She downed what was left of her drink and gathered her things, smiling to the bartender and the people around her. By the time she started saying her good-byes, Archer had already pictured the feel of his hands against her skin, the smell of her breath on his face, and the way her voice would sound when he held her close.

He tossed a twenty on the bar, slipped his fingers around the switchblade in his coat pocket, and headed outside to wait. Maybe this one wouldn’t scream so loud when he carved her up, he thought. Not like that couple from the Midwest. Killing them had been hard, especially since he had never done two at the same time. Once he gutted Doug it took forever to muffle Kate’s screams while he ripped the blade across her throat again and again.

Even longer for the light to go out of her eyes.

The two of them were still under a blood-soaked blanket in the back of the car, but Archer figured the Chevy’s trunk would be big enough to hold another body when he got done with the redhead.

At least until he got back to New Jersey.