He sat in front of his television, watching reruns, holding his grandfather’s old .45 revolver across his lap, thinking of the vicious ex-wife. She had an army of shyster vultures trying to pick away at everything he owned.

I’ll be damed if that lousy bitch gets a fucking dime, he thought, as canned laughter from a ghost television audience mocked him. He pulled on a bottle of cognac, winced as the liquor shot flames down his throat, and continued to glare at the screen in front of him.

After setting down the bottle, he grabbed a remote control and changed the channel several times, settling on a young Jose Feliciano singing “Feliz Navidad.” It failed to give him any holiday cheer. He took another drink of cognac, then put the muzzle of the .45 to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Tags: death · divorce · marriage · suicide

Merry Christmas! Forget all the blinking lights and fancy ribbons on your Christmas tree. This tree is, by far, the coolest Christmas tree I’ve seen in my entire life. The ornaments include empty cans of Olde English 800 (and other brands of beer preferred by the homeless population), discarded food packaging and handwritten signs typically used by beggars on a freeway offramp.

Underneath the tree are goodies they’ve fished out of trash bins–a partial 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke, half-eaten food items and some partial bottles of various types of booze. Some of the bottles were empty, indicating that these guys didn’t want to wait until Christmas Day to partake in the goodies.

Tags: christmas tree · homeless

The deceased was a 29-year-old aspiring actress. Her killer was a deadly combination of liquor, illegal narcotics, prescription pills and poor judgment. She fell asleep in her lover’s arms, and never woke up. But he did–with his arm underneath her stiff, lifeless body.

After the distraught lover was removed from his high rise condo, the coroner arrived to examine the cadaver. The coroner was a dark brunette, with pale skin and a voluptuous figure. She exuded sensuality. “Hello, boys,” she said to the two uniformed patrolmen standing guard over the corpse. She glanced at their name plates: DANDONNEAU and YLIHARSILA.

“Good morning, ma’am,” replied Officer Dandonneau, in a heavy French accent, as he nodded his head.

“No need to be so formal with me, guys.” She put on a pair of latex gloves and slowly pulled back the blanket that covered the decedent, who was lying in bed, clothed only with a skimpy set of panties. “What’s her story?”

As Officer Yliharsila regurgitated the lover’s statements, the coroner cupped the dead woman’s breasts, then pinched her nipples. “Great surgeon,” remarked the coroner. She then tugged the dead woman’s panties, and looked underneath. No evidence of rape. “Nicely shaved.” The two cops looked at each other, then continued to watch the coroner.

The coroner gently rolled the corpse on its side and squeezed the buttocks. “I’m checking for implants,” she said in a conversational tone, to the cops, without looking up at them.

“Butt implants?” Officer Yliharsila had never heard of such a thing.

“Do you think talent alone is good enough in this town? A girl needs all the help she can get around here.” The coroner finished her survey of the corpse, then looked up at the cops and smiled. “Thanks a lot, boys. It was really nice working with you.”

Later, the coroner’s investigation revealed that the cause of death was an accidental overdose of drugs, alcohol and stupidity. Not germane to the investigation was the forgotten story of a young girl. A small town dreamer living in a big city of dreams. A would-be a star turned pretty waitress in a town full of pretty waitresses yearning for stardom.

None of the tabloids mentioned the wealthy lover who supplied her with enough drugs and bullshit to help her forget that there would be no star on the pavement bearing her name. When the age-defying cosmetic surgery couldn’t keep pace with her age-inducing lifestyle, no one noticed as her wealthy lover strayed.

Not sensational enough for the papers, the aspiring actress’ untimely passing was reported only by a few civil servants tasked with taking note of such occurrences–the death was duly noted by the county coroner, and diligently reported by Officers Dandonneau and Yliharsila. Their audience was their watch commander and a homicide detective (who determined that there was no homicide). The case was soon filed and forgotten.

As the two cops continued patrol, Dandonneau imagined that somewhere, perhaps thousands of miles away, someone wept for the forgotten actress. But a big city cop has no time for such daydreams. He quickly dismissed the thought.

Tags: coroner · death · drugs · overdose · police

Five shopping carts containing numerous plastic bags filled with garbage. As long as these things don’t block foot traffic, nobody cares.

Tags: homeless

Ten minutes until opening time. I took my post at the front door of the nightclub. The ropes weren’t even set up yet and the line stretched down to the end of the block. A guy was sitting on the sidewalk curb in front of me, blood leaking from his head. He looked Cambodian. Maybe Vietnamese.

Turned out Bloody Guy got into a shouting match with three black guys, or so I heard later on. They put the boots to him and rang his bell with a lead pipe, knocking him out. He woke up from his nap in a puddle of blood. One of our busboys, on his way in to punch the clock, saw the guy laid out on the pavement. He felt bad and went to the kitchen to fetch a towel. That’s about the time I showed up for work.

Bloody Guy stood up, holding the soiled towel over his wound, and made some calls from a nearby pay phone. He stared at me as he conversed. Blood trails covered his face like a crimson spider web. Foreign words and red spit popped out of his mouth at machine gun pace.

I might have been a meat-headed bouncer, but I had enough sense to know that there was rarely an innocent victim of a beating in or around a nightclub. If the fight wasn’t over some broad, it was usually over something equally stupid, like mutts scrapping over alpha dog status.

A pack of pint-sized mugs appeared from across the street. One of them yelled out to Bloody Guy. It sounded like a question. Bloody Guy yelled out a response. Vietnamese. Definitely Vietnamese. The volley of questions and answers continued as the pack crossed the street like rabid, angry dogs. Bloody Guy joined his pack. All the yelling, shouting and posturing culminated into something that sounded like a battle cry.

As the pack ran off to hunt for Bloody Guy’s assailants, there were giggles and laughter from the people outside of the club. To the crowd, Bloody Guy’s cavalry looked and sounded like a bunch of ankle-biting Chihuahuas posing as Pit bulls. There was nothing menacing about adolescent-sized men.

Minutes later, a series of gunshots rang out less than a block away from the club. A couple of us bouncers and the busboy ran down the street and turned a corner in time to see Bloody Guy’s pack spilling out of an alley, tails tucked between their legs. In addition to the leaking wound already on top of his head, Bloody Guy had a couple of fresh holes in his gut. He collapsed at the mouth of the alley.

Later, a couple of cops told me that the Vietnamese guys found the black guys sitting in a car, smoking weed, pre-funking. They surrounded the car, kicking and shouting, but didn’t figure out until it was too late that the driver had a .38 in the glove box. Two out of five hits. Not bad for a doped-up knucklehead.

Me and the busboy watched as cops put up yellow tape. We stood there for a few minutes, while Bloody Guy got loaded into an ambulance, then walked back to the club. “You think he’s gonna make it, bro?” he asked. Always with stupid questions, that busboy.

“Nope,” I replied. “They might as well start digging the grave.”

The busboy looked at me in disbelief. “What about some positive energy, dude? What happened to your compassion, bro? I think he’s gonna make it, man!”

Fucking moron, I thought to myself. So what if the fool ends up in the morgue with a tag on his toe? “Five bucks says the fool is dead,” I declared, extending my right hand.

“Ten,” the busboy replied. We shook hands, sealing the bet, before he went back inside of the club to do what busboys do on a busy Saturday night.

I returned to my post at the front door. Back to work. The crowd had grown even larger. Most were too oblivious to notice the yellow tape or the flashing red and blue lights. Those who did were too preoccupied with getting into the club to care.

Tags: blood · nightclub · shooting