Hit Woman

By Jim Parks

Priscilla Johnson felt a shiver run down her spine, through the crack of her butt and up into her pubic mound just the moment she heard the key in the door. She had been reclining nude on the cool marble of the massive mantle in the Spanish Colonial mansion now for a half hour, becoming more and more still and focused by the moment on the matter at hand. The look on his face was priceless when he suddenly beheld her nubile nudity, the shaved delta of her sex, her graceful, pointed young woman's toes.

First, he dropped the suit bag, then the shoulder-strapped carry-on, saying "What the..." She gracefully arose to sit balanced on the edge of the ledge, gesturing to him with both hands upraised to come hither.

She was as naked as a woman could be with not a piece of jewelry or a stitch of clothing on her body, her female attributes swelling and swooping to perfection and giving every indication of absolute fecundity. "Mister, I want to do you a job," she said simply. "Come and get me down off this mantle."

Artemis "Artie" Bundeschlager, III, third-generation scion of one of the world's most productive uranium mining families, forgot all about the bitchy wife in Philadelphia, the ridiculous daughter at Stanford and the overdue payments on his Gulf Stream. He crossed that living room with every intention of sweeping the girl into his arms and taking her then and there on one of the huge leather-covered sofas in the darkened great room of the house on the mesa while the gaudy sunset played out over the high desert.

For the first time in years, Artie was totally unfocused on the details. As he stepped off with perfect military school cadence and posture, a petite woman dressed in a black leather jacket and skin tight jeans with her blonde hair stuffed under a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap stepped out of the shadow of a potted plant where she had been waiting. She raised the Berretta .22 automatic in a hand gloved by a plastic bag to catch the spent hull and double-tapped two hollow point rounds into Artie's left temporal lobe.

He collapsed as if he was a suddenly empty suit of clothes that once held a man striding down the sidewalk.

Priscilla gasped in spite of herself, as if she hadn't known all along what would be coming. The hit woman, a seasoned body builder an intelligence operative with survivalist training, helped her down off the mantle. Priscilla could feel her muscles rippling under her leather jacket as she hugged her neck and shoulders.

"Get your clothes on. Let's hope he went out a happy man," the woman said. She chuckled in an unfeeling tone, not at all nervously. She had done this dozens of times.

It never failed. A woman lured a man into a position where he could be quickly shot, stabbed, garrotted or bludgeoned. Priscilla gasped again when she looked down at Artie's head centered in a widening pool of blood on the tile floor. She still had that vacant look on her face as they stepped outside the mansion and got into a Jeep that lurched to a stop under the portico for the quick ride back to the airport.

The disposal team was just wheeling in to clean the premises and get rid of Bundeschlager's body. Their shiny black van screeched to a stop and the four men in coveralls jumped out quickly. No one paid any attention to one another. It was as if they did not exist.

Spring Turned To Winter
By Jim Parks

Spring turned to winter, but not all at once. First, there was summer with its green and gold, the tourists, the hustle giving way to a dead town for the month of August while the three of them, the alto from K.C., the tenor from South Carolina and the tenor from New York, starved and baked amid the stone buildings and cracked sidewalks and ancient paving stones of Montmarte.

Autumn came suddenly with leaves falling and northeast winds blowing gusty promise of freezing temperatures. They stood, still, outside the eateries and bistros blowing traditionals and be bop, their melodies and voicings intertwining jazz chords of indigo and blasting hot red and alternate purple highlights, their pork pie hats and top coats shrouding their faces and bodies in favor of the golden brass of their horns. Occasionally, the owner of a small bistro would invite them in for a quick drink and let them blow some jass hot, but they got no club dates, no offers whatsoever.

It was as if Paris had swallowed them whole, accentuated their negritude, made them anonymous in their American devotion to that which no one wants but everyone can hear like the sound of the underground chains someone mentioned one time in a verse or two.

Lucky died sitting on a park bench while the other two drank brandy from the bottle and argued about baseball alternating with yet more arguments about boxing and basketball.

He leaned forward until his chin was touching the tops of his knees where they were elevated from his putting his feet on the case of the tenor horn. Then he toppled sideways and fell off the bench.

They sat and looked at each other in shock. "Man, it looks like this totally uncool interlude is truly over, brother," the alto said to the remaining tenor. They stood and blew "Just A Closer Walk With Thee" in drag step time while they waited for the ambulance to come and take him away.

He was buried unceremoniously in a potter's field at the end of a Metro line while they blew "Oh, When The Saints..." and "Autumn Leaves."

Their agent in New York wired them money and plane tickets back to Kennedy. They blew themselves to one last good meal in a Left Bank restaurant, everything from oysters to soup and salad, fish, roast beef au jus, cheese and nuts. Then they took the taxi to Orly and settled in for the ride back to New York where they caught a train to downtown and the West Side clubs.

After a few days of sitting in with friends who got them up late in the second set, the cat from South Carolina looked at the New Yorker and said, "I think I'll go spend the winter down home, man."

His partner said, "It's been real, baby. So that's what Paris is all about, huh?"

"For real, brother. That's it, man."

The Union of One Thousand Breaths
By Jim Parks

When the dude with Massachusetts plates on his Mercedes keeled over dead while screwing the blonde who blew in that morning for the first time, her hair in a pony tail and declaring a preference for, a desire for "a really big dick," it was a delicate matter, but nothing unmanageable. I've seen worse scrapes in a dozen states. This isn't really a brothel, nor is it a bordello, cat house or house of ill repute.

Call me Louise.

I operate a club for people who like to get it on with other normal people in - well, let's say - interesting ways. After all, there are plenty of motels available.

I'm not really a Madame; think of me as a social director on a dude ranch for sport fucking. My place is the typical four-bedroom ranch house on an acre lot out in the Florida boonies. There's a screened outdoor in-ground pool, a hot tub, and lots of privacy provided by bougainvillea hedges with hearts of barbed wire and tops of razor concertina. Just because the pretty hedge has grown up around it doesn't mean it's not there.

Anyway, that's how I manage. You know, prostitution is a felony in this state. Why not have some fun with that, give them what they want. So, they're sex addicts? Give me a break. I should be such a victim.

The rules?

No means no. It's got to be safe, sane and consensual. Condoms are a must. No one gets hurt unless they're cruising for it. Other than that, I'm insured. It's like I've got a twenty-four hour a day party going three hundred sixty-five days a year.

Besides, everything is leased in the name of a closely held shell corporation with headquarters in a post office box in the Caymans. Of course, it's expensive. I pay off the local gendarmes, the state police, the sheriff's department, each individual county commissioner and my checkbook is open to all the well-known, and some not so well known charities.

So there. Go figure.

The dude got in early, way before any women had arrived for play time. He had a couple of drinks to unwind, got naked and hit the pool, then he boiled out the poison in the hot tub. He was there when the blonde drove up in her little Japanese roadster dressed in an extreme bikini, an Australian straw hat and a smile. I showed her the play room, the bedrooms, the public space - clothing optional - and let her wander out to the pool and spa area on her own.

What happened next is on videotape. It happened in the play room. You see, I've got eye in the sky just like any other casino. No way I'm going to let some sex maniac come along and put me in a jackpot.

She knew how to play, all right. She got him sitting down on padded bench, his back against the wall, put a gas mask with hose attached so she could control his breathing and screwed a nine-inch dildo on the end. Unless she blew air into the dildo while she sucked it, he couldn't get any air unless, of course, he chose to rip the mask off and spoil the mood. I won't say she showed any class; she was all flash. Diamonds to die for. A killer tan, boob job, perfect abs - you know, a yoga chick on a high protein diet - lean, mean, a racehorse fuck machine.

She donned a sleeping mask in black leather. Then she blew that big dick of his until it was standing up as proud as any flag pole you ever saw. I think she must have been a pro at some point. She put the Trojan in her mouth and slipped it on down with a quick thrust of her head, then it was all head and hand action.

He just leaned back and sighed. Then he got frantic for air, which she supplied him at the last possible moment.

It was on.

I was especially enjoying the play of muscles across her back and ass. I was thinking maybe tennis, maybe swimming, for sure aerobics. The pony tail kept bouncing up and down as she sucked on the dildo mouthpiece. The dude kept on heaving and breathing and screwing his brains out with her sitting reversed on his lap against the wall. She had him pinned. But then something really curious happened. She held a little vial up to her mouth and took a deep breath from it. It looked like poppers.

Then she blew it into the mouth piece. The dude turned forty colors, weakened after a surge of frantic screwing, then fought her for breath and to get away from under her weight. In his condition, he was unable to make the getaway. He couldn't even pull the mask off his head because of the way she was holding his arms. He slumped over dead.

I saw her when she came out of the playroom naked. She stepped into her sandals, grabbed her purse and her bikini out of the locker and threw the key on my desk, saying, "Bye, honey. You got a nice place here."

Then she stepped into the little sports car without opening the door and left the lot slinging oyster shell dust in the air, the nasty little engine growling like a bitch in heat with only one bone left to her name.

I thought, "What was that all about?" When he didn't come out for more than an hour, I went to check up on him and found him dead, slumped over and about to fall to the floor. I called my guy who fixes things. We watched the tape and agreed it was bad juju. Who knows what was in the vial?

This wasn't your garden variety spanking or face sitting. This was hardball. We erased it and put in another one. We would tell the dicks he was dead when we found him - alone - and something must be wrong with the video recorder.

Who knows? I know this. I found it out just yesterday and I'm moving quickly now. First stop, the Caymans, then on to Brazil. I'm sure I'll have to pay the pussy posse off, but, hey, it ain't no crime to scratch that itch for people in a place like that.

The private investigator who came in from Boston had news for me. The dude was a big shot in an insurance company who had absconded with a lot of cash.

Cash.

Come to think of it, the chick who did him paid with cash. That's what I'm talking about. I've got a half dozen passports and major credit in all those names. I'm going to use one of them for the last time and just disappear if I can.

I'm sick and tired of living in mickey mouse-ville, you know.

Marionette du Bleu

by Anonymous

In an exclusive invitation-only night club in The Hague, couples sit back smoking hash and grass, drinking wine and cognac as the curtain parts on a tiny stage lit only by one baby spot.

As the light is slowly turned up, the outlines of a couple become clear, the young, athletic man dressed in black tie, the fabulous woman, veiled in white, her dancer's legs heavily muscled, torso rippling with the discipline of her calling, is sitting slumped under the crossed sticks of a marionette's control mechanism that is held over her head by the young man.

With a tug, he summons her to her feet, which she accomplishes with grace by gathering her long legs and feet shod in heels under her and rising straightway to her erect posture.

He guides her this way and that, making her prance, her arms guided by the strings in a mechanical way.

Suddenly, she becomes agitated. She throws off the controlling strings, bats the crossed sticks from his hand, rips off the veil to reveal a closely cropped cap of curly hair, strips herself of a loose gown, kicks off the heels and stands proudly naked before him, pugnaciously poised with the weight on her left foot, her right arched to push off and attack, all the weight on her toes.

Slowly, she walks around him three times, surveying him from his scalp to his heels, then stops before him to regard him with an eye-level gaze. She helps him out of his jacket and throws it to the floor.

She unties the knot in his bow tie, drapes it loosely around her neck, takes the studs from his shirt front and places them in his outstretched palm, rips his shirt down from the back trapping his arms, unbuckles his pants and waits impatiently while he kicks off his shoes and steps out of them. Then she reaches into an interior pocket of the jacket and withdraws a wicked looking razor-sharp dagger with which she cuts off his shorts.

His erection pops up, bobbing, something she frankly inspects as if it's on display in a butcher shop. Grasping it, pulling him closer, she drops the blade on his pile of clothes, brushes his lips with hers, then captures his neck with the bow tie and pulls him down to his knees before her, turning her back on him.

The crowd strains forward in their seats as he strains forward with alacrity to kiss her ass on alternating cheeks which she has made rock hard by contracting the muscle, standing on the corresponding leg. She strides back and forth mimicking the gait of a long-limbed water fowl of exotic plumage.

A row of blue spots bathes the stage now as they both wrestle in slow motion, alternately pinning one another and assuming positions of dominance as they simulate fucking, first he, then she, their faces contorted with faux exertion.

After one particularly showy climax, he rolls into a reclining position with his forearm across his eyes. She lashes him with the bow tie as he begins to twist and writhe. Finally, as he comes back to his knees, he is stricken by a final spasm that renders him seemingly unconscious. He falls to a prone position and she curtsies before the crowd.

The curtains are drawn and the house lights come up once again as waitresses pass among the tables with trays to take away the empty glasses and take orders for fresh drinks.

New York, New York, The City Twice as Nice Before Giuliani

by Jim Parks

As the season turns, she will hit the time when leaves fall. Next, winds blow frigid weather from the northeast after the Gulf Stream's sudden withdrawal offshore. People take woolens out of mothballs, furs from cold storage. Scarves and gloves appear; overcoats and hats become common. The harvest season, mid-winter feast, spring festival of the rabbit arrive and the sun's orbit begins its slow turning from Capricorn to Cancer's tropic all over again, the crab nebula crawling high across the summer sky.

Meanwhile, Central Park turns a thousand shades of tobacco and fire, sheds its leaves and goes gray and white in blizzards of big, wet flakes while the city's true nature shows itself in naked views of brownstone, limestone, granite and marble. There will be row upon row of white brick on the upper east side and the west side reveals itself as the red brick oven of summer gone suddenly cold. Steam columns sprout in every intersection as people dart about bundled against winter's piercing blasts.

Grand Central fills up with those who have no home, sleeping on the floors; the downtown streets fill with even more desperate ones sleeping on grates beside the towers of finance.

Hawks living in the aeries of skyscrapers and owls that hide in the thick branches of the park begin to dive on rats, other rodents and the occasional snake.

The Apple beds down for the winter, packed in her own straw and blazing with the lights of eras millenia in the past.

My question to a proud father: Why should a young woman not make her escape in the urgency of planetary changes such as this?

She is a creature of the moon who lives under the sun.

The Legendary

applauds

one hand clapping

far away

on a prairie of stubble

in a land of old, partially toothless men.

A friend's note: "Edit again and send it to 'The New Yorker.'"

When they printed Dan Baum's account of burial detail officers accompanying the bodies of slain soldiers home from Iraq, I was moved to tears. I think it was my delicate mental condition that triggered my outburst - that and the fact that the Administration had insisted the media make no mention of American sacrifice in blood and life - but nevertheless, I broke down and cried as if they were my own sons, the two whose bodies Mr. Baum accompanied back to the land of the Big PX.

What did I do? I did what any self-respecting writer should do. I wrote a letter to the editor. In the letter, I praised the courage of The Magazine for defying the ridiculous order of the "war time" president who had demanded there be no pictures or publicity about dead and wounded soldiers returning to our shores.

Now, these days your turn around times are much more instant. You deal with e-mail. Therefore, imagine my surprise when the telephone rang only a day or two after I wrote and my lover was shouting at me, quieting her children, saying, "Honey, it's this woman from something called 'The New Yorker.' She wants to talk to you."

Fair enough.

Then it hit me. Mois? Little old me? About what? There was a very nice young woman on the line who told me she is one of the fact checkers at The Magazine and the editor demanded to know just what in the world did Jas. Parks mean?

It means that is the way I sign my name, I replied. Jas - period - W - period - P-A-R-K-S.

Exactly, she replied, but what does Jas. mean?

Oh, it means James.

Well, if your name is James, why don't you write it that way?

Because we are talking about a signature, here. I sign my name Jas. Parks to distinguish myself from James William Parks, Junior, who died in 1945, my grandfather, or James William Parks, Senior, who died in 1927, my great grandfather from Horseshoe Bend, Virginia, the James William Parks who was born in 1849, exactly one hudred years before my birthdate.

Oh, she said, with a professional smile in her voice, you are THAT Jas. W. Parks.

Thank you.

The Magazine intends to print your letter about Dan Baum's article in the next number.

I was elated.

We're right on deadline and it occurred to us that none of us know what Jas. could possibly mean? Are you sure you don't mean Jason?

Well, blow me down. You know, copy editors. They get like that.

No, it means James, just as Chas. means Charles Dickens, Benj. means Benjamin Franklin or Benj. Siegel, and Geo. means George Washington as does Abr. - Abraham Lincoln - Leibowitz or Lipschitz.

I was becoming somewhat exasperated. As you all know, I am somewhat peripatetic, in any case.

Righto, she said, ringing off cheerfully, but not before I let her know how thrilling I would find it to see my name in The Magazine that had published Truman Capote, Lillian Ross, Josephn Mitchell, Dorothy Parker and James Thurber.

So, happily, off to the rigors of the recliner and my afternoon nap.

I heard the phone ring again almost immediately. I just assumed it was for one of the kids. Their friends will not allow our phone line to be silent for more than a few minutes.

Wrong.

The little girl came to me this time bearing the phone.

Jim, it's that woman from New York again.

This time it was a lady with a somewhat Frenchified accent. What ees zees name Jas. Ees meaning Jasoan, no?

No. It means James. With whom am I speaking?

You are speaking with editorial assistant to ________ _________, editor of magazine.

Well, is English your primary language?

Click. Dial tone.

Fuck'em. I'd rather be right.

The phone rang before I could hang it up. This is __________ __________, the editor. What, exactly, does Jas. mean? We are right on deadline here in New York and we want to print your letter, but we do NOT understand your abbreviation.

It means James.

Then do you want us to by-line you as James?

No, ma'am. No one would believe it's me. You see, I sign my name Jas. W. Parks and...

Well, that stands for Jason, does it not?

No, ma'am, it stands for James. I want people to know you printed a letter I wrote in The Magazine and I signed it the way I would any other important document...

Now, you simply have to understand. This lady can place a phone call to a four-star hotel or restaurant and make the manager wet his Armani britches. She can snap her fingers and dispatch very talented writers - not reporters, but writers - to distant spots on the globe to write take-outs on diverse subjects which are then printed in The Magazine as "Letter from..." and the like.

What is your real name?

I have been by-lined as Jim Parks, madame, throughout a very undistinguished career as a police reporter, if you must know.

What was the newspaper of the largest circulation you ever wrote for, Mr. Parks?

"The Houston Chronicle."

The smallest?

"The Okeechobee News."

Where is Okeechobee?

On a big lake in southern Florida.

Oh, I see.

Fantastic bass fishing, you know. That's the place where they thought they could just tell a man, "I don't want that in the paper."

Well?

They can't keep you from printing it, but they can activate the Rotary, Lions, preachers and other pundits and get you fired, you know.

What if I by-line you as Jim Parks, then?

I would be delighted, Ms. ____________.

I once went to sleep in Sheep Meadow on the afternoon of the Fourth of July. I was a tramp. There were workmen setting up a portable stage. They were going to perform "The 1812 Overture" in honor of the occasion and as background music for the fireworks show.

When I awakened, there were men in black tie and women in gowns eating fried chicken and other picnic delights from silver chafing dishes.

Everyone clapped when they saw that I had regained consciousness and I was introduced all around. Someone got me a plate and a glass of champagne and we were off to the races.

Hizzoner The Mayor John Lindsay wheeled in riding in an ordinary Cadillac eight-passenger limo. He schmoozed all around, we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries under his ten-thousand watt smile. It was a good time. He worked hard at it.

I hitched out the next morning and fetched up in Philly's sticky heat where I found work as a laborer putting up and taking down scaffolds for brick masons.

But that's another story.

It's almost like the one about my by-line in "The New Yorker." You can't even dine out on it. Oh, by the way, the fried chicken had a tad too much cumin and garlic in the batter, but it was an unusual touch for a southern boy's palate.

I couldn't have been more delighted.

SIGN OF THE TIMES

"Presidential Inauguration Service Update

"FedEx Delivers During the Presidential Inauguration "Heightened security measures for Inauguration Day on Jan. 20, 2009, will include extensive road closures and restricted access to many locations in Washington, D.C.,and surrounding areas, including some bridges and tunnels leading into and out of the Capitol. FedEx Express, FedEx Ground and FedEx Office are planning to operate on this day, however due to enhanced local security measures, customers may experience some delays within the area.

"Continue to check fedex.com for service updates. As more details become available,we will post alternative shipping options for customers to consider during this time.

"FedEx is committed to providing service to the best of our ability, and we regret any inconvenience during this period of high security.

"For specific shipment status information, please track the status of your shipment at fedex.com. You can also contact FedEx Customer Service at 1.800.GoFedEx 1.800.463.3339, or stay up to date by subscribing to service disruption e-mail notifications at the FedEx E-Mail Subscription Center."

Goose Creek

by Jim Parks


It was such a startling thing to happen under the overcast winter skies of the rice fields and the levees.

We little men came across the mound of the flood control project and up the muddy bank when suddenly we saw the huge snow goose hunkered down in obvious pain.

The honking began immediately as the creature swiveled and kept its tail to us, challenging any and all to come at it. It must have had a broken wing or some infirmity, all alone and as frightened as any such creature may be.

You never saw them up close. Usually you heard them on bitter cold sunny days miles high in the sky honking and keeping to their V formations. Sometimes they came sailing in at dark to light in the ponds and marshes out in that part of town where they kept the land covered with scrubby trees and the courses of waterways and terraces to absorb the flash floods in the swampy areas contained by the huge levees and flood gates.

We stood around on one foot and another, making comments, feeling deeply for the big bird we knew would die. No one wanted to bother it. No one wanted to leave, but soon we did, letting our little prepubescent legs carry us away while the bird honked at us furiously.

We were little men. Sad little men, but little men nonetheless.