From "Lust Demented" by Michael D. Subrizi

Kiko seemed to hover above us all, forcing the entire crowd to start at the pointy toes of her stilted blue leather boots and follow floral black lace leggings to her lunar skin mid-thigh, tangling our minds deep in a short black and white anime maid's dress, slices of fabric missing which allowed her tattoos to burst through bleeding color. Her hair dyed deep blue where it was not jet black, short where it was not spiked up in a fuck the world typhonic wave.

“Why don't you all shut up?” The room filled into an immediate hush as Kiko snarled, whipping her neck around jaw first.
“You… you just stand there waiting to hear me read the same words that you read to yourself. The same words that you make mean whatever you want them to mean. You think they're written for you, but these are my words. Monika used to say… Kiko you're my porcelain muse, stay near me so I can write. Never shatter.” Kiko licked her lips, fighting the endless desert in her mouth.

“I can't do this.” Choking up with two fingers inserted past the knuckle, Kiko shook Gloom's latest novel like it was an extension of her fist.

“Pale skin and pale words.” Lars rolled his eyes, twitching on account of the unwanted attention. The gawkers that weren't wrapped up in Kiko‟s trance were staring down Lars from all corners of the room.

“What do we do now?” I was getting restless, short-attention span and all.

“Listen.” Hawaii used a roguish whisper to undress Kiko on stage.

From "Dark Idol" A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery by David H. Fears

I rang the bell. Or, at least I thought I did as no sound came from within. I waited. I rang it again. I wanted a smoke, and figured the best way to get some response was to light up. I ruin a lot of smokes that way. Just as I was about to fish out a Lucky, the door opened. It wasn’t a butler, nor the chauffeur. And it wasn’t Conrad.

      It was a girl.

      She was barely legal age for a drink, if that, which in Chicago is twenty-one. Yet she had a margarita in each hand, one half empty. She was small and delicately built, with the exception of a couple of chabobs bulging to get out of her halter-top, a garment that featured long sleeves with ruffles on the wrists—a strange wrapper, something like I’d seen at a Mardi Gras once. But even her edible figure paled next to her fire-red hair. She was the kind of cupcake who lead men around by the nose, then makes a quick exit if things get serious. Strangely though, her eyebrows were as black as a crow in a coal bin, with eyes to match. Fine grained white skin, the kind most women lose by the age of thirty. Her smirk sported blood-red lipstick. She struck a pose to show off two shapely legs and a snazzy pair of lime green panties, with “Wednesday” stitched on one hip. At least she was on the right day of the week. She handed me the full glass.

      “I saw you drive up,” she said, licking salt off the lip of her glass, “I like tall men. I like drinking with tall men.”

      “I suppose that’s the only thing they’re good for.”

      She looked puzzled. It made her think, something she wasn’t used to doing.

From "Savage Nights" by W.D. Gagliani

In a flashback, Rich Brant remembers the tension he and his squad felt before entering a Viet Cong tunnel complex back in the CuChi province of Vietnam...

No one is more covered in sweat than he, and he feels the sheen on his skin soak his clothing all over again. He sets down the black rifle and pack and strips off his web belt. From the pack's loose flap he withdraws a Colt .38 snub-nose revolver and checks the cylinder.

Sweat droplets gather on his chin and dribble in a line to his chest, where the olive drab fabric has turned black. His hand shakes as he methodically inserts six fat cartridges into the Smith's cylinder. The brass slips between his damp fingers but he gently seats each round in its nacelle and snaps the cylinder shut. Full. Six rounds.

"Loot," drawls Sarge. "Let me lob a couple grenades in there. We got plenty."

"You know that's not good enough, Sarge. Grenades don't do shit in Charlie's tunnels. There's only one way to flush 'im, and that's this old fashioned way. Keep an eye out for other exits, and don't shoot my fuckin' head off if I come squirtin' back."

"Kay. Smitty, Digger, fan out and watch for moving bushes."

Sarge pulls back the bolt of his M-16 and lets it snap quietly forward. The others follow suit.

From "The Fall Guy" by Simon Wood

Todd glanced at the headline: DRUG DEALER BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP.

“The car you hit belongs to an employee of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of cocaine in his possession. He’s in a lot of trouble and I’m minus an employee, not to mention a lot of money. Do you see now? Do you see what you’ve done and why it has led us to your door?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not important.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know. But I’ve lost a valuable employee who had a job to do. Now he can’t do it. This is where you come in.” The small man stabbed a finger in Todd’s direction.

Todd’s stomach twitched. He didn’t like what was coming. He knew it was retribution for what he’d done, but it wasn’t the kind he wanted. Points on his license and a fine he could accept. He’d even take a beating. But the small man’s kind of retribution filled Todd with dread.

“Me?” Todd stammered.

“Yes. You’ll have to fill in.”