THUGLIT Issue One

Luck by Johnny Shaw

Violence Cortez is not a subtle man. His nickname, neck tattoo, body language, and facial expression all communicate the same thing. The same word. The same danger. Nothing clever or open to misinterpretation for this guy. Violence is violence.

Closer to a yellowjacket than a rattlesnake, Violence has a reputation for his no-quit tenacity, rage-fueled insanity that makes him avoided as much as feared. The kind of erratic personality that makes everyone nervous, that can turn a good night bad. Violence likes to brawl, an avid hobbyist, needing little more than a sideways glance to start round one. If that’s your kind of fun, all the power to you. But most folks would rather have a good time.

Most folks, but not Scrote Henning, Violence’s only friend. Somewhere between a sidekick and a toady, the inseparable duo spend their evenings mining every ounce of havoc from the night and a whiskey bottle.

But when the front door of the Top Hat Saloon swings open and Violence stomps in alone, the last thing the bartender Marco is thinking about is Scrote, figuring he’ll show up soon enough. Marco says a soft prayer that Violence doesn’t aggravate the hangover that he’s been nursing all day. Sometimes all you can do is hope your trailer is standing after the tornado. You can’t run, hide, or fight a force of nature. You can only have enough good luck to survive it.

Marco cracks open a Coors Light, sets it on the bar just as Violence sits, and acts like he’s happy to see the dumb psychopath.

“You seen Scrote? Scrote Henning?” Violence asks.

“There more than one Scrote?”

“Don’t know. Could be. You seen him?”

Marco shakes his head. “Ain’t seen him since when you two were in. What was that? A week, ten days?”

Violence nods, his eyes never leaving Marco’s. “You sure you’re telling me the truth?”

Heat rises to Marco’s face. Having his word challenged is not something he trucks with easily. But looking at Violence-eye twitching, breathing forced-Marco douses the flames with a big splash of What The Fuck Are You Doing?

“Got no reason to lie,” Marco says through a strained smile.

“Everyone’s got a reason to lie,” Violence says with his own smile, albeit one that would make a child cry. “Just saying. You’re pals with Scrote, kind of. Maybe he tells you to tell me you ain’t seen him. Like that. You being a friend.”

“We ain’t friends, really. Just a guy I see. A guy who comes in the bar. If you don’t know where he is, I sure as hell don’t.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Can’t find him. Ain’t heard from him in days.”

“Maybe something’s wrong?”

“Sure as hell is. Because when I find him, I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”

Violence Cortez and Scrote Henning leaned against Scrote’s Filipino-blue Toyota pickup in the parking lot of the FastTrip, drinking tall boys and chucking the empties in the truck bed. Neither would go so far as to call it a ritual, but since Violence got back from up north, this was how they spent their Saturday nights. Other than the casinos, there wasn’t much else to do in Indio. And neither man had extra money to gamble.

“Some people just got more luck than others. More good luck. More bad luck. Luck wouldn’t be a word if it weren’t a real thing.” After ten beers, Scrote always leaned toward philosophizing and pontificating. He wasn’t smart, but he had ideas. “We, the two of us, you and me, we’ve always had bad luck. Not our fault none of the things that happened.”

“I don’t buy that shit.” Violence spit on the ground. “I ain’t no puppet, got no choice. I control me and mine. Big difference between bad luck and a fuck-up. Give me a smoke.”

Scrote dug out his pack and handed it to Violence. “Just saying, if I wouldn’t’ve had the bad luck three years ago-Connie coming home early on the one day I was finally able to talk Sinnamon off the pole at Hot Lipps and back to my house, then I’d still be married and a regular dad and all. Like getting struck by lightning. Bad luck. Couldn’t be anything else. I mean, you remember Sinnamon. Not like I had a choice.”

Violence shook his head and lit the smoke, but let Scrote continue.

“And you, you're saying it wasn't bad luck the cops pulled into the parking lot of Dirty Pete’s? Just as you was punishing Israel Ramirez for being an asshole-or whatever reason I’m sure he had coming?

“He said Poison rocked harder than Metallica.”

“Exactly. Capital offense. On any other night, Izzy just would’ve took that beating. No harm. Free ambulance ride. Stitches and plaster. But soon as a cop sees a guy pummeling another guy with a stop sign, they know they can frame him on some bullshit charge. Bad luck got you four years for assault.”

“And an extra year for destruction of county property.” Violence laughed and gave his buddy a hard slap on the back. “You’re an idiot, Scrote. A straight-up retard. But God love you, you’re always ready to take a buddy’s side. No matter how stupid.”

Violence held up his can, Scrote tapped his against it, and they both downed the remainder of the beers. The clang of empty against empty signaled their need for more.

Violence drives past the FastTrip, but there are no cars parked out front. No sparkly blue pickup, that’s for sure. It’s Saturday night. It’s where Scrote should be. Hell, it’s where Violence should be, drinking and shooting the shit. They never even had to call to meet up. It was their routine, tradition. Now Violence is sure that Scrote is avoiding him. And if Scrote isn’t dead in a ditch, he’s going to wish he was.

Other than drinking with Violence, Scrote only has one other thing in his life. Strippers. But Violence can’t remember the name of the dancer that Scrote is banging. What is it with that idiot and strippers? It’s probably the tits. They all have tits. And that’s a big deal to a guy like Scrote.

Violence can’t even remember her stage name. Always something spelled all squirrelly. He might even know a stripper named Squirrelly. He knows a Kanddee. A Lexxxi with three x’s. And most of the spice rack: Sage, Cayenne, Saffron, Pepper, Cumin, and of course, Nutmeg. Hell, what does it matter? Not like he can look it up in the phone book. But he can head over to Hot Lipps. He knows her by sight, tramp stamp and all. Eventually, Scrote will show up. That’s where the tits are.

Violence smiles as he turns right on the next street, thinking about tits and punishment.

Scrote pulled three bags of Fritos off the chip rack. Violence knocked them out of his hands onto the floor. Neither man bothered to pick them up.

“What was that for?” Scrote asked.

“I ain’t gonna smell Frito breath the rest of the night. Smells like a rendering plant. Might as well fart in my mouth and get it done with.”

“I got to eat. I’m hungry.”

“Jesus Christ.” Violence scanned the store and pointed at a display of cookies. “Grab some Oreos or Chips Ahoy. Anything but Nutter Butters. They’re worse than Fritos.”

“I was more in the mood for savory,” Scrote said with a bit of pout, but he walked to the cookies.

Violence set his two six-packs of tall boys on the counter in front of the bored teenager. “And a pack of Marlboros.”

“You should buy a lottery ticket. I can prove my point,” Scrote yelled out behind him.

“What point?” Violence said, watching his buddy dump an armload of cookies on the counter.

“About good luck and bad luck. I’ll bet if you buy a lottery ticket, you won’t win nothing. Because you got bad luck. Born under a bad sign, like that. If you had good luck, you’d win, right?”

“Not exactly scientifical. One try? That wouldn’t prove diddly-shit, dumbass. Most people don’t win. You saying most people got bad luck.”

“From what I can see? Yeah. The world is mostly bad luck. There’d be more people living in mansions, driving nice cars, if people had good luck. Shit, how many you know that got jobs? Ain’t done time?”

Violence turned to the teenager. “The beer, the cookies, and one of them scratchers. The one with Elvis on it.”

Back at the truck, Violence and Scrote each shotgunned a beer, followed by a beer chaser. Scrote pulled out a sleeve of Oreos and they had a contest to see how many they could fit in their mouth, laughing through the black crumbs.

After he chewed and swallowed, Scrote said, “Aren’t you going to check your ticket?”

Violence shrugged and pulled it out of his pocket. “So if I win a free ticket, does that mean I have good luck?”

“Only if that ticket wins. Money is the scorecard for good luck. More money you got, more good luck,” Scrote said, “but I’m telling you, we’re both cursed, brother. You’ll see.”

Violence dug his fingernail into the lottery ticket and scratched. There were six numbers. He had to match two of them. The most he could win was $50,000 dollars. He scratched them in order.

The first three:

$2.

$100

$10,000

“What if I win two bucks? Barely feels like nothing. Hell, the ticket cost me a dollar. One dollar profit don’t really seem like good luck.”

The second three:

$50

$5

$10,000

“Well, fuck me. I think I won,” Violence said, blowing some of the silver dust off the ticket.

“How much?” Scrote asked, leaning in to take a look at the ticket.

“Ten thousand bucks.”

“Did you have to match two or three?”

“Two. It says right here,” Violence said, pointing at the instructions at the top of the ticket.

“You won,” Scrote said softly.

Violence read the instructions at the top of the ticket two more times. “I just won ten motherfucking grand, you silly son of a bitch. Who’s got bad luck?”

Violence cruises past the enormous Mexican working the door and stomps into Hot Lipps. The crowd is surprisingly sparse for a Saturday, mostly loners with eyes focused on the bored, too-skinny addict on the stage. The drunk campesino that accidentally bumps into Violence doesn’t know how lucky he is. Violence is so focused that he only stomps on the guy’s foot and gives him a sharp punch to the liver, letting him off easy.

As the poor bastard pukes and collapses behind him, Violence walks to the bar and orders a beer. He scans the stage and scattered audience through squinted eyes.

The deejay lowers the volume of “Dr. Feelgood” and as the boy-shaped stripper on stage collects the loose ones, he rolls out his patter. “All right, boys. Give it up for Credenza. Man, I’d like to get in her drawers. Am I right? Now we got something extra special for you, a terrible twosome, a deviant duet, a…two naked girls. Let’s hear it for Domminno and Jeniniana.”

When the girls reach the spotlight at the pole to shake their asses, Violence doesn’t recognize either of them. Violence drinks his beer and tries to enjoy the show. The girls can dance. He likes that they still got some baby fat on them, too. Makes them look real, not all fake and artificial and plastic. He can imagine that there’s plenty to hold onto.

He can feel his rod getting stiff, but that only angers him more. Just another thing that he has no control over. The familiar pressure of fuck-or-fight is building, that’s for damn sure.

He can’t help but turn his head every time the front door opens, but it’s never Scrote. It’s either a dude who keeps his eyes to the floor or a group of drunk dudes playing grabass with each other and acting like they’re seeing tit for the first time. He hates those guys. It’s like they don’t see how special a place like Hot Lipps is. Like they think it’s some kind of joke.

When Violence got raised from Chino, the first place he went was a strip club. He wasn’t ready to get laid, but he just needed to see a live, naked lady. It was scary and therapeutic and sacred. The girls didn’t want nothing but money, and for that they helped bring him back into the world. It was beautiful.

Now he finds himself staring hate at three thick-necked jocks in Ed Hardy shirts and backward baseball caps. They’re goofing on the dancers, making barking sounds. They’re just what he needs. Picking on some little guy wouldn’t be satisfying. But three gym punks, this should be interesting.

Before he even knows it himself, he’s standing over the three jocks’ table. “You boys consider yourself lucky?”

The three boys look up at him, scoping his prison ink. One of them glances to the bouncer, who is distractedly texting.

The biggest of the three speaks up. “What? What do you want?”

“Do you think you got good luck or bad luck?”

“The fuck? We’re here to watch the strippers. Not to talk to some faggot about whatever the fuck. Go away, asshole.”

“Fair enough. Answered the question for me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You got bad luck, son. That’s what you got,” Violence says smiling. "Not even my fault. Just your luck.”

“Fu-”

Violence grabs the back of the kid’s head and slams his face against the table, blood flying in an arc as he lifts it back up. He slams his head down again. The boy to his right tries to push away from the table and stand, but Violence kicks out, connecting with the kid’s knee. The strippers on stage turn when they hear the liquidy pop. The short one pukes when she sees the damage.

The kid to the left gets one good shot at Violence, but he blows it. He throws a huge haymaker that only grazes Violence’s jaw. The expression on his face says it all, knowing what’s coming next. Pain and punishment.

Violence keeps the mystery short, grabbing the guy by the crotch and lifting him off the ground as he squeezes. The kid’s scream-grunt sounds like a hernia feels.

Out of the corner of his eye, Violence sees the bouncer making his way to the table, pushing patrons and chairs out of the way. He looks like an elephant charging through high grass.

“Maybe you got a little good luck, kid. Remember that. If all you had was bad luck, I’d be taking your balls with me.”

Lifting by the crotch with one hand and grabbing the front of his shirt with the other, he turns the kid’s body and throws the big kid at the bouncer. And while the toss doesn’t quite reach the bouncer, landing on the ground at his feet, the shock of having a person thrown at him is enough to allow Violence to escape through the fire exit.

“Shit.” Violence threw his beer can against the side of the truck. “I can’t win this. Can’t win no lottery.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Scrote asked, watching the wasted beer drain onto the ground.

“Maybe you were right about bad luck,” Violence said, “I can’t win the lottery.”

“What’re you talking about? You just did.”

“It’s gambling. It’s a violation of my parole. Any kind of gambling. If I try to get my money, not only won’t they give it to me, they’ll throw me back inside.”

“The lottery ain’t gambling. It’s legal and shit. The government runs it, and the government can’t do anything illegal. They make the laws.”

“They make the rules, too.” Violence lit a fresh cigarette off his old one, laughed to himself, then grabbed the front of Scrote’s shirt. “But nothing says you can’t gamble.”

“Sure. I gamble all the time. Blackjack, Pai Gow. Don’t understand craps though.”

“You can mail the ticket in, get the money. I’ll give you a commission. Say…ten percent. One grand. Just to use your name and get the cash.”

“A grand? Sure.”

Violence pulled the ticket out of his pocket, looking at the matching numbers for the fiftieth time. He handed it to Scrote. “Don’t lose it. And don’t even think about trying to run off with that money.”

Scrote looked hurt. “I wouldn’t never do that.”

“Because I would fucking kill you. Money makes people stupid sometimes.”

“We’re friends. Money ain’t worth more than that. It won’t make me stupid.”

“Naw, you already are.”

Violence laughed and Scrote followed his lead. Violence cracked a fresh beer and held it to the air. “To good luck.”

Still amped after the fight in the strip club, Violence cruises Indio, eyes out for Scrote or his truck. After an hour and out of ideas, he heads home. He’s still angry, but it’s the kind of angry that soothes like a blanket on a cold day. It sharpens his mind, focuses his revenge, and strengthens his resolve. He knows he isn’t going to stop until he finds Scrote and punishes him.

Turning down his street, his headlights flash off the glitter-blue of Scrote’s truck at the end of the block. Parked right in front of his house.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

Violence floors it, jumps the curb, and slides his truck across his own lawn. It’s just dirt and scattered weeds, so there’s no grass to destroy. Scrote stands up from the front step, eyes wide.

Violence jumps out of his truck, twenty-inch, six-D-Cell Maglite in hand.

Scrote holds up his hands. “Wait. I know you’re pissed. I can explain.”

But before Scrote can get out another word, Violence swings the flashlight, hitting him in the neck. Scrote falls, gasping for breath and clutching at his neck. The fresh wound immediately turns a deep red-purple.

Violence doesn’t let up. He moves to Scrote’s pelvis and legs, pounding the flashlight down onto his limbs. Skin and muscle only act as minimal padding, the contact sounding like metal on bone. Scrote’s attempts at screams come out as wheezing gasps, painful and sickly.

After one particularly hard blow, the head of the flashlight breaks off and the batteries fly from the long tube.

Violence steps back, breathing hard from the exertion. He puts one hand on a knee, shaky. When Scrote reaches out to him, he knocks the hand away and stomps on it with his boot, snapping the fingers.

Violence yells through spit and anger. His eyes tear up. “How long we been friends? How long? And you shit on our good times for money? For ten fucking grand? One thousand of which was yours. So you fucked me for nine grand, really. That’s your price, you cheap son of a bitch?”

Scrote tries to talk, but only bloody bubbles froth from his mouth.

Violence continues, “Money is money. I get that. But shit, if you would’ve said, ‘I need the money for an operation’ or some shit, I would’ve given it to you. I would’ve given you all of it and whatever else I had. It’s money. That’s all. Friends is more important than money, dumbass. You said that shit yourself.”

“Didn’t steal nothin’, Violence,” Scrote finally gets out.

“Then hand over my dough.”

Scrote shakes his head.

“Right. What happened? You lose it at the casino? Same difference. You been ducking me. You ain’t got the money. That’s stealing in anyone’s book.”

“Bad luck. It was just bad luck,” Scrote says.

“Fuck you.”

“They took it.”

“Don’t tell me it got stole. Don’t bullshit me. You do that and you’re going to get really hurt.”

Scrote tries to reach into his pocket, but his broken fingers only flop against his shirt pocket. He gives up, looking at Violence. “In there.”

Violence leans down and reaches in Scrote’s pocket, pulling out an envelope. It’s from the State Lottery Board. He pulls out the letter inside. He mumble-reads through the letter, “Dear Mr. Henning. Due to overdue child support. Lottery winnings will be issued to…Oh, hell no.”

Scrote nods his head, and then rests it on the concrete. “My neck feels really weird. Like it hurts, but it doesn’t.”

“Those fucks. Why didn’t you say something? What kind of asshole don’t pay child support?”

“Never had the money. Didn’t know they’d know. Didn’t think of it.”

“If the state took the cash, why’d you duck me? Why didn’t you call and tell me? Why’d you avoid me? You must’ve known I’d think you took it.”

“When you get mad, you get scary. I thought if I let some time pass, you’d calm down.”

“I calmed down all right.”

“I was embarrassed. That’s why I came over. To tell you. To your face. Show you the letter. Say I’m sorry.”

Violence shakes his head. He looks down at his friend. The swelling of Scrote’s leg is visible even under his jeans. And his neck is every color it shouldn’t be. More than a bruise, maybe a broken blood vessel or something. It looks like he just swallowed a water balloon that got caught on the way down.

Violence gets his arms underneath Scrote and lifts him up. Scrote groans, red drool trailing to the ground.

“Maybe that nurse you like will be working the emergency room tonight,” Violence says.

“Sheila.”

“She the one with the big tits?”

“You know me.”

Violence sets Scrote in the passenger seat of his truck and buckles him in. He jumps into the driver’s side and starts the engine.

“It’s all my fault,” Scrote says, “should’ve never tried our luck knowing it was bad.”

“Shut up and bleed quieter,” Violence says. “You owe me ten grand. You know that, right?”

“Nine grand. A thousand was mine, remember?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You can’t get a commission on money I never got.”

Violence backs his truck onto the road. Scrote yells when the truck bounces off the curb. They head east toward the hospital.

“You want I should stop by FastTrip and grab a six and some Fritos on the way to the hospital?”

“May as well. The emergency room gets busy on Saturday night.”