P. I. Frank Brown: Coffee or Bourbon?

It's midnight. I have been sitting in my car for hours.

The rain has been a blurry vail over my car all night and is causing a low-set fog as it rests on the streets.

When on a stakeout, you have to be patient, but I have

only a little coffee left, and it is cold. I finished my last burger about an hour ago and knew I should have picked up some donuts before blending in. I'll wait 15 more minutes, and if I see no one, I'm going in. I need to verify the cases I choose—better.

My name is Frank, Frank Brown, and I'm a private

investigator. I try not to take these overnight cases, but something about this one made me curious. 

After drinking my last sip of cold coffee, I thought, who

usually goes to a blood bank at 1 a.m. five nights a

week? And on top of that, this guy looks whiter than the

moon on a clear night. I'm still sorting through the crime

photos—while endlessly sitting here waiting and thinking

to myself, does this person have a bizarre fetish and

have anemia? That idea cancels itself out pretty fast,

considering what I have on the shortlist—this guy is very

fit and is never out in the sunlight. 

The only background I could find on the mysterious John

Smith I am looking for may not even be his own. The

age—that I got from my client—was only an approximation

of Mr. Smith's actual age. Including his location, country,

and city of origin, the man turned up to be born 60 years

before the person I am searching for was ever an

accident. I wish I had brought a bottle of bourbon instead

of coffee.

I watch the curtains light from behind the window in front

of his apartment. My attention is now on the door and

nothing else. The light behind the window curtains goes

black. I wait a minute, then two, and watch as no one

exits the door. 

I hear the walking of hard-heel shoes on concrete and

see nothing. I look in my rearview mirror and see who

I'm waiting for, walking down the street away from my car.

How, how is that possible—

I quickly sit my now empty coffee thermos on the

floorboard. I open my car door with a large part of my

weight and have my trigger hand wrapped around the

pistol butt. 

Standing next to my car, I do not see him. He was not

running, and the fog wasn't too dense to hide him that

fast. He vanished!

As soon as I take my hand off the pistol butt, I feel two

fingers touch me—one on each temple.  My vision starts

to fade fast, and my body becomes weak. During the

lowering of my eyesight and the altitude of my head, I

look for his reflection in the car window, but there is no

reflection to be seen. Before my eyes close all the way, I

have one more thought—

I wish I had brought a bottle of bourbon as old as

Mr. Smith.

The Grindhouse 42nd Street Killer

The Grindhouse 42nd Street Killer 

Jack the Ripper—a man of mystery and terror. I said, man, but no one knows for sure. The Ripper could have been a woman. Another thing about Saucy Jack, his total kill score is only estimated at five kills. I know the number may be arguable by names and locations, but I am taking the, for sure, known kills.

My name is Jimmy Thomas. I am 76 years old, a retired film projectionist, and a former serial killer. I bet you have never seen that on a resume.

I have always loved the mystery of Jack the Ripper—like I like my movies. That is why I chose to be a projectionist. I love being a projectionist and have always worked in the Grindhouse theaters. The Grindhouse is not only a place to work but is a great hunting ground when my film skills are not required.

I have decided to write my memoirs, older, retired, and never been caught, like Jack the Ripper. Not sure if it will be incriminating, but there is no evidence or witnesses.

Sept 14th, 1976 8:00 P.M.

Projection Booth: 

The projection booth is my second home. I try to keep it clean, but I am never good at picking up and throwing away pizza boxes or hamburger wrappers. On the other hand, I have everything categorized (splicing tape, splicer, reels, bulbs, cleaners) and set in perfect locations, so I know where I need to find something in case of a film emergency. There is nothing worse than having a film break or bulb outage and people throwing popcorn and soft drinks at the booth.

I watch the grindhouse films as much as possible while working in the booth, and they are not only entertaining but educational at the same time. I never attended college, but I have a high IQ and found my direction in life.

Unlike Family and Hollywood theaters, Grindhouse theaters are full of drunks and people looking for the extreme on the screen. Rarely will a grindhouse theater show a typical Hollywood movie, and tonight is not one of those nights. These are the nights I enjoy.

Let me explain my protocol and the things that I  need to follow to ensure my freedom.

1) Only enter the theater itself when a new 20 or 40-minute reel has just started, for time flexibility in the attack.

2) Make sure there is no patron in the grindhouse sitting behind you, other than passed-out drunks.

3) The louder the movie, the better time for the attack.

4) The most action-packed scenes, the faster bleed-out time (escalated heart rate).

5) The Larger the popcorn bucket (popcorn can absorb blood), the easier it is to dispose of blood.

6) Make sure they are sitting next to or close to the exit door, and it is not locked or blocked.

11:30 P.M.

Grindhouse Theater:

I rigged up a double film reel to have 40 minutes of film spooled onto the reel. This way, I have time on my side, correction, never too much time, but always too little.

The number of patrons in the theater made me thankful I still have a job. New York is shit, and jobs are right on its tail.

I have a flashlight and am shining it face down at a slight angle. No one wants to wake a sleeping bear, or should I say a passed-out drunk, the common prey thinks I am an usher checking the aisles for anything naughty.

The drunks are at a low attendance tonight, which makes things easier for me and my activities.

“What’s that... whose there," says Buddy. He is usually a four-night out-of-the-week bum that sleeps in the theater.

"It's just me, Buddy."

"Oh, hey Jimmy," murmurs Buddy, with a half-cocked smile.

"Go back to sleep, Buddy. I'm just checking the aisles."

Buddy nods his head.

The time is ticking, frame by frame. I am walking back up the center aisle to analyze my options. I calculated four passed-out bums, including Buddy, one paranoid patron who must have mistaken tonight as porn night, and two patrons sitting together resembling underground filmmakers. Hmm! I forgot to go to the confessional this week, so no bums. The two underground filmmakers may make an educated grindhouse film one day, so no underground filmmakers. I guess the mistaken porn patron is the lucky one tonight. He happens to be sitting on the opposite side of the aisle. I could not ask for an easier kill.

I once had a person ask me if I do what I do for money or enjoyment. I happily answered yes, as I slid the blade across his throat. Do you think the union remembers a projectionist they put in a Grindhouse theater? I have to live.

I am rolling the trash can on wheels in front of me as I softly walk down the left aisle—I stop three rows behind my entertainment and leave the trash can secure against the outer seat. The patron’s eyes—glued to the screen—so there is no need for me to be so quiet in my actions. I sat in the chair directly behind him. Looking at the screen, I can now understand why his eyes are frozen. If only he knew he would soon be seeing what he sees but through the eyes of the victim.

From watching the entertaining film so many times, I know what is getting ready to happen. I slide the ice pick from my jacket, followed by sliding the hammer from my sleeve.

Time is ticking frame by frame!

I am waiting for the screams from the screen and the darkness from the victim’s death. I aim the ice pick to just the right location at the base of his neck.

Frame—Frame—Frame—Frame—Frame—

“AHHHHHHHHHH!” The theater is dark as night.

I drive the ice pick deep into my entertainment’s neck. I hear a muffled scream and feel a small temporary squirt of blood that hits me on the bridge of my nose. I allow the ice pick to remain secure.

My time is running out. I have no choice but to leave my entertainment alone, so I can change over the projectors to run the last reel.

Oh, he will remain seated. I am the director of the new show at hand.

By the time I am back in the booth, I wipe my forehead and sweat my hand. I turn off one projector and turn on the other. One frame cues another. I turn off the booth light and rush back to the stage.

I quietly roll the trash can to the star of my film and easily pull him to his new chariot—the trash can. He never fights back. I guess I am getting better with the ice pick because he is paralyzed, except for his eyes and breathing. I need to start picking lighter entertainment—he was heavier than I thought.

The film on the screen is coming to a climax. The few losers left in the theater are not easily interrupted, so I had no problem following my film stars chariot out the front side exit door right into the alley.

*****

Back to what I said earlier, I do not make enough money being a projectionist in a grindhouse theater to live, so I found a new way to help bring in funds.

I take my stars chariot and tip it over; he rolls out on the dirty asphalt in the alley. Seeing how he is almost face down on his side, I roll him over and straighten him out. His eyes are blinking fast. There is no emotion on his face, but his eyes can tell a thousand stories.

I reach behind the trash into a covey hole located in the brick wall. It never gets wet, and there I can store my camera and knives before I start my shift. I have everything I need. I have many contacts acquired from working at the theater and can sell them pictures of my still-frame film massacres. Even I will say, these characters that buy my still-frame film are very shady. Should I care? They pay well.

I take my star and unbutton his shirt. He does not have as much fat on him as I thought, so less cutting time. His eyes are rotating in every direction.

“No need to worry.”

His eyes are moving even faster. They look like fireworks exploding on the 4th of July.

“Action!”

I slowly ran my knife across his stomach—cutting his skin enough to bring blood to the top. I grab my camera and focus on a body shot, including his wide-open eyes. It is hitting me, the vision for my film.

I have the knife even deeper into his skin and deep enough to cut into the muscle. His eyes are looking like New Year's Eve flashing even more. My camera is the catcher of souls—always telling stories never thought of before.

I notice as my star starts getting weaker. My knife gets deeper into his canvas. So before I let him die in fame, I take the ice pick out of his neck and let the fluids start flowing. Able to squirm and crawl but cannot walk. He finds it upon himself to try and leave the set. Only to find the more he crawls on the dirty, infectious alley, his intestines fall out slowly and start following him. Every time he reaches, he only causes the intestine train to get longer.

“That’s it—you are a born star.”

“Uhhhhh, Uhhhhh,” says the star.

“This is my best film yet. No dialogue, please.”

There have been four minutes of the slowly dragged intestine, and I think I have all the pictures possible in that position. I still have three shots left on the roll. What can I do?

“You should win an award for your performance. What can we do to finish with a spectacular ending?”

The star slowly pulls his hands up to his throat, “Uhhhhh… Waaaa…”

“That’s it,” I say with excitement!

I helpfully grab the star by his shoulders, dragging him to the wall and propping him up. I look upward and see a pipe coming out of the wall. I Follow this intestine to the end and grab it. I throw it around the rusty pipe and pull it till it causes tension. I feel like plucking at it to see what note it makes, but pictures are soundless. 

“You ready?”

Looking at me, he drags his hands on the asphalt. His eyes are rotating and flashing faster than a siren light on a police car. ”Uhh—Uhh—Uhh—“ I know this will make a perfect ending. I help my star stand up. I reach into his body and tie the intestine to the hip bone. I pull it and feel it tighten. It’s amazing what you can learn from an anatomy book.

I set the camera and say, “Smile.”

The star does not smile. Oh well, a smile is not what my shady clients want. I take the intestine and pull, hoping it will not break. Tonight is my night! The star dangles in the air, and I take the final pictures.

I never have the same star in more than one film.

I turn him around and put the ice pick back in his neck. My stars always exit the alley by the trash dumpster.

As Shitty as New York is—why should they even think to relate the deaths to me?

Buffy High Concept

               A High Concept Script and Synopsis

I read a synopsis and a script this morning that my friend wrote 13 years ago, and the High Concept partly was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I liked it! I wonder why he waited so long to give them to me. I guess I wasn't the chosen one—or am I?

Who's Listening (narrated)

 Here is a dark story I wrote, Who's Listening, that my friend Blake narrated. I hope you enjoy it and please give it a thumbs up on YouTube.

                     https://youtu.be/H2hQAMtvC3M

The Deal (a flash fiction story)

                                       The Deal 

                                    by M. Wright 

     The night was bitter, and the silence was deafening. The distant street and overhanging door lights above the back entrances to the cheap bars and shady broken bone gambling spots were the only lights that lit the alley. Loaded, my gun was ready.
     What had I gotten myself into? The blood from the gash on my side had soaked into my shirt. Drops of liquid fell onto my bare feet. It was from my elbow pressed against the blood-soaked fabric that stuck to my skin, or a few drops of rain that I hoped would bring me coolness. The infection had appeared.

     The mini bio-storage box had to leave my body. The deal was too good to be true. They set me up—I was not a mule. The storage container held a cure to the pandemic—It had to end. 

     My phone vibrated—I answered it and heard no one. I saw a dog three doors down. The mutt dropped to the ground. The pain in the gash on my side pulsed. I wanted to scream in agony—the bio-storage box in my body crawled. It exited my side. I squirted blood against the brick wall that supported me. I opened my hand and watched as the container worked its way from my body and rested in my palm. 

     People in black suits appeared in the alleyway and walked toward me. I shouted, "Stop!" No one listened. I pulled the trigger. I watched four of the men in black as they fell. I paused and thought to myself as I watched the men in black as they raised from the ground one by one—"I am so fucked." 

     I unloaded the rest of the shells from my clip. The men never stopped. I could see the whites of their eyes. The one in the middle extended his arm and opened his hand. My phone vibrated—I reached in my blood-soaked pocket and pulled out my phone—heard nothing. I smiled. They dropped like dogs. My wounded side glowed brightly and healed. The bio-storage box disappeared. The bank app opened on my phone monitor and completed the transfer.  

     "Bullshit," says a voice questionably. 

     I look at the three guys sitting at the bar and tell them, "Buy me another beer, and I will tell you what phone number called me."

Creative

Read my Flash Fiction!!!

Please read my flash fiction story that is perfect for October.

Who's Listening

https://BookHip.com/GRGDRD

Christmas without Santa (Free Download)

Do you like Horror stories/films with just enough Gore that makes it to where some scenes are so memorable that you have a hard time forgetting them? Christmas without Santa is a short story I wrote that is downloadable for free on Book Funnel. 

Christmas without Santa(Free Download)

https://dl.bookfunnel.com/ss8ne3trg5

The short story is in ebook format, which makes it easier to read. If you have any questions about the story, please message me here on my blog. I hope you enjoy it!

A Dead Man's Story (parts 1-36)

 A Dead Man's Story (parts 1-36) 

Available on my timeline @WriterMDW

On Twitter, Gab, & Instagram

or download parts 1-36 free in an ebook

at Book Funnel. https://dl.bookfunnel.com/c4zb3xnopi

New parts will be posted to the story

on Monday-Friday. 

Who's Listening (A Flash Fiction Story)

Download my new flash fiction story, Who's Listening, on Book Funnel for FREE. You can download it in either Mobi, Epub, or PDF(depending on which app, program, or device you use). WARNING: the story is gory and graphic. Download it on Book Funnel at BookHip.com/GRGDRD

If you would like to leave a comment to me about the story on twitter, you can DM either @WriterMDW or @MidnightGore.

Horror Story To Film

ATTENTION:
Horror Film Directors, Producers, and Screenwriters

If you are a horror film Director, Producer, or Screenwriters and looking for a story to base a Christmas horror film on, contact either @MidnightGore or @WriterMDW on Twitter and DM one of them to ask for a copy of the story.

Operating System Zero episodes 1-5 (A Flash Fiction Serial)

Read All Five Episodes

Episode One click here

Episode Two click here

Episode Three click here

Episode Four click here

Episode Five click here

Operating System Zero ep.5 (A Flash Fiction Serial)

If you missed episode one click here to read.

If you missed episode two click here to read.

If you missed episode three click here to read.

If you missed episode four click here to read.

Episode 5

Curtis:

     "What's wrong with you two morons," She says as she slams the door.

     The house was ransacked, and blood splatters strewn across the walls. Rick and I each take a seat to rest or bones while we watch her continue what she was doing before she saved our asses.

     “Who is she,” I ask Rick, never taking my eyes off her.

     “How in the hell do I know,” says Rick.

     “Well she lives next door to you, ” I say.

     “No, she doesn't… Tom lives here,” says Rick as he slowly glides his eyes across the splattered walls that are dripping blood in a few spots.

     He sees a tennis shoe attached to a leg coming from under the sofa sitting crooked to the wall halfway across the room. He taps me on the arm softly and points to the couch.

     “Is that your neighbor?” I say as Rick stares down at the tennis shoe and the leg saying nothing.

     I nudge Rick on the arm and say quietly, ”Is that Tom?”

     Rick stands up slowly, moves over to the backside of the couch and puts his hand over his mouth ready to puke. I can't help but watch Rick as his options have come to an end and clearly view what little food he had eaten in his emergency bunker shooting as projectiles from between his fingers.

     "What's going on in there, " I hear the lady yell from the back of the house as I watch Rick spit what's left from his mouth and fling what hangs from his hand onto the wall covering dry specs of blood.

     "Rick," I say quietly as I motion with my hands for him to return. He shuffles back to his seat wiping the remainder off his hand onto his pant leg.

     Rick and I sit curiously wondering who the lady maybe or simply what her name is. She has our weapons including the System Zero GPS device.

     "Do you have a secondary sidearm on you hidden anywhere?" Says Rick.

     "No, what about you," I say.

     "Nothing for incapacitating her in an immediate response," says Rick, "what are you doing?"

     "I am trying to get a feed from the chip," I say as I tap on the chip behind my ear.

     "Come on Curtis," says Rick, "I didn't help design the chip but can guess it's only a receiver."

     "Hold on a second,"  I say as I keep tapping on the chip.

     Rick and I hear a small beep from the System Zero device sitting in the same room our protector, but also our captor is located.

     "Cut that out," she yells while still working on something we are clueless about in another room.

     "Who are you," I yell to her. We wait and hear nothing.

     "Yea, who are you lady," Rick yells.

     She walks back into the room we are sitting in and says, "I'm the only person you should be trusting right now." She throws me a strange looking pistol then throws the same type pistol to Rick.

     I look at the gun she threw to me and say, "I don't get it."

     "I'm going to have to agree with my friend. I don't get it," says Rick

     "Be careful with the firearms, they will go off," she says as we inspect them showing them no respect.

     "Lady they are made of plastic and are just toys," I say as I point the gun at Tom's tennis shoe his dead foot resides in to prove my argument. I pull the trigger.

     Tom's tennis shoe explodes with no remorse and liters the room even further but this time with rubber, bone, flesh, and substantial chunks of sticky blood.

     I pause with a blank look on my face and stare at the so-called toy pistol.

     "Watch where you're pointing that thing," eagerly says Rick as he gestures his words.

     “The guns are not toys,” she said,” they may resemble them but are in no way just toys.”

     I stand up and say, “Excuse me but who in the hell are you,” as I sternly look at her expecting nothing but the real answer.

     “My name is Sherry, I am a bounty hunter,” she says.

     “Why did you kill Tom,” Rick says.

     “I didn’t…”

     “He sure looks dead to me,” Rick says with a smart ass tone in his voice.

     “Look guys, I am here to get collect as many items as possible from Tom’s 3D Printer,” she says.

     I hold my gun pointing it toward her with my finger around the trigger. “Thanks for saving our lives outside but we need some answers and when I say answers I mean we need the whole story.”
     She points at her gun safely not to pressure me into pulling the trigger on my gun and says, “Who’s gun killed the zombies?” Her gun looked exactly like the ones she had handed Rick and me.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Big Green Publishing

biggreennation.com

Here are some books I have short stories in that are on Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, BAM and Kobo

Operating System Zero ep.4 (A Flash Fiction Serial)

If you missed episode one click here to read.

If you missed episode two click here to read.

If you missed episode three click here to read.

Episode 4

System Zero Satellite

   The culdesac is littered with bodies: pale skins, dried blood around their mouths, clothes ripped and harshly worn. The bodies are frail and noticeably so before they were dead. Curtis and Rick tread through them. Watching them twitch rarely but randomly noticing their death was not as old as it looked. Curtis jumps back when the body to his right twitches and its cold dead hand lands on his foot. He looks at Rick with a disgusting face and kicks the body listening to the bones as hard strike on a set of bowling pins.

   "How's that possible?" Says Rick.

   "This is making no sense. We were only isolated for five days,” says Curtis.

   Curtis and Rick, using the best of their knowledge, are trying to explain to themselves how the society in which they live took a massive shift at such a high rate of speed. Making the best of what they know in working the System Zero GPS, Rick started to notice an awkward green light behind Curtis's ear.

   "Hey Curtis..." Says Rick in a slow and puzzled voice as he stares at the green light.

   "Hold on I think I have something figured out on the System Zero Device," says Curtis as he presses the system transfer button on the outside of the device. The light behind Curtis's ear is flashing red.

   "Hey Curtis..."

   "Yea!"

   "Turn off the transfer to the satellite you have in progress right now.

   "It will damage the files."

   "No it won't, just turn the transfer off."

   Rick has his eyes centered on the light behind Curtis's ear and watches it as it turns green simultaneously when Curtis presses the transfer button. Out of curiosity, Rick touches the green light with his finger causing a small electrical discharge on the tip of his finger. Withdrawing his finger as fast as the electrical charge entered, he opens his eyes in amazement as Curtis quickly jerks his whole body away from him.

   "What the," yelled Curtis, "what are you doing?"

   "Were you ever given an RFID chip?"

   "We both were, but you know they took them out because of a faulty output in the chips that were harmful to the carrier's health."

   "Were you ever given another chip? Like, say, maybe an NTC(Neural Transfer Chip)?"

    The conversation between Curtis and Rick is an education they are shocked they had never invited before, but the discussion is not their immediate conflict. Fifteen feet across the culdesac a bone rubbing, joint cracking undertone starts to occur but never attracts their attention. The sound begins to elevate as five of the corpses on the road rise craving substance.

    Out of the corner of his eye, Curtis slowly watches the corpses stand to pop their wrist, arm, knee, ankle and jaw joints. The dry blood around their mouths starts to liquefy and drip from their teeth.

    “Rick I think we should finish this conversation later, ” says Curtis as he puts his hand on Ricks’ shoulder.

    Rick squints his eyes looking at Curtis while pulling his head back with his neck, Rick says, "No… Curtis you have a flashing light embedded in your head,” he turns so Curtis can see behind his ear, “are there any flashing lights?”

    Curtis palms the top of Ricks’ head and turns it to see the oncoming corpses, and Rick says, "That's impossible, how the…”

    Curtis and Rick walk backward stumbling over a few of the dead corpses still lying on the road. After gaining traction, the two of them are hanging on to each other and facing the row of houses on the opposite side of the culdesac and run.

    “Use your System Zero Device Curtis,” says Rick.

    “For what?”

    “For what you did with it at my house!”

    “That was for one of them, not five!”

    “You seem to have learned how to work the thing fast in my house so start thinking!”

    The house that lies on the path which Curtis and Rick are running appears to be vacant like most the houses on the street. But this house abruptly changes its vacancy when the front door is kicked open from the inside out, and the inhabitant is wielding a pistol. The occupant raises her gun, and says, “Duck, boys.”

   Curtis and Rick look at each other and dive into the ditch, yelling, “Don't shoot, don't shoot, they will only get stronger.”

    “Shut-up and keep your heads down. I know what I'm doing, unlike you two digital exorcist,” the occupant yells.

    She makes sure the bullets are loaded into the pistol chamber and starts firing round after round into the oncoming heard of corpses. Human debris starts flying in all directions drowning the sight of Curtis and Rick laying in the occupant's ditch.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Big Green Publishing

biggreennation.com

Here are some books I have short stories in that are on Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, BAM and Kobo