THUGLIT Issue Two Read Free Page A

are not a man?” His fingers curled into fists.
    “I said put your damn hands up.”
    “Dad—”
    “Shut up.” Sal whirled toward Junior, leveling his gun. “Shut up.”
    “ Dad .” Junior’s yell was muffled by the mask but it didn’t matter. Sal caught a glint of light then a bright blue shock tearing through his stomach. He looked down, saw the bloody cleaver, the red slash across his gut.
    “You’re not a hero.” Sal stumbled back against the counter, bracing himself with a slick palm.  “You said you didn’t care about money.”
    “It is not money.” Ari stepped forward. “It is honor.”
    Sal swung his gun up and fired. Ari’s head flew back, a rooster tail of blood splashing against the wall.
    Sal slumped against the counter, holding himself up with his elbow. He felt the blood run from his stomach, trying to push it back in. Ari’s hands twitched as the man fell back against the wall. Commotion in the back room, the back of Junior’s body visible in the doorframe. A click and a long creak. Rustling paper. Junior turned and caught Sal’s eyes. Green bills peeked from the paper bag in Junior’s hands. He glanced at Sal, at the money. He ran.
    Sal’s elbow slipped from the counter and he let himself fall.
     
    *****
     
    A car slams on its brakes and blares its horn. Junior and Mel laugh, raise their hands in fake apology then creep to the sidewalk like cartoon burglars.
    “Let’s go up Lanvale. Guy up there’s holding the real, I heard.” Mel licks her lips, the edge of a scab catching on her tongue.
    “We’re going to ration this, babe. We’re not going to blow it all at once.”
    “No, course not. We’re going to be smart with it.” Junior hands forty to Mel, shoves forty in his pants pocket, then folds the paper bag over and slips it inside his jacket. “No one’s ever smart, but we’re going to be smart.”
    “Just a little taste, then some for the road, and we’ll head out. Start over, right?”
    “Right. Start over.”
    They veer left on Lanvale, down to Montford. Junior gives the money, gets the product. Mel gives the money, gets the product. They walk through the alley over to the cemetery and find the headstone they like, the angel with outstretched arms, and sit down.
    While Mel unfolds the foil and cooks for them, Junior searches his right pocket, his left pocket, his right one again, trying to find his Great-Granddad’s necklace. Mel nudges his arm and hands him the glass tube. He pulls his hands free, closes his eyes, breathes deep, holds it.

Pipe
    b y Jen Conley
     
     
     
     
    Tyrell Colton, fourteen, a skinny black kid, one of the smallest students in the freshman class, woke at five-thirty on a Wednesday morning, leaned over the side of the mattress and pulled a two -inch-wide, two-foot- long pipe the color of gunmetal from underneath his bed. He lay back against his pillow and twirled it in his hands. The radio was on low and the murmuring of Grandmaster Flash segueing into Van Halen gently filled the room.
    After a few minutes, Tyrell stood, set himself into a stance, and held the pipe forward with both hands like a medieval weapon. He swung it into space, a phantom enemy before him. Back and forth, back and forth.
    Eventually, the boy dressed in jeans, white sneakers, a gray sweatshirt, and attached a digital watch on his wrist. He brushed his teeth in the bathroom, stole two of his mother’s cigarettes and a pack of matches. Then he put on his father’s green army jacket. Edward Colton had survived a two-year tour of Vietnam but he couldn’t survive regular life. Shot himself four years earlier in ’79 when Tyrell was eleven.
    When Tyrell got outside, the morning sky was heavy with mean, gray clouds. Icy drizzle flecked against his face as he hiked down the street, his stride quick, the pipe hidden in his jacket, the one end tucked into an inside pocket while the rest rose underneath his coat and against his tors o until it reached his shoulder