FEAR IS JUST A POINT OF
Published by Dark Opus Press
A. W. Gifford
Jennifer L. Gifford
P.O. Box 811
Ortonville, MI 48462
This collection is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and scenarios are the products of the
authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or
dead, places, or events is
Bete Noire Magazine copyright 2015 Charm
Cover art copyright 2015 A. W. Gifford
All stories, poems, artwork and photos
copyright 2015 of their respective creators
Patron Saint of Rubberneckers” by Noel Sloboda, first appeared in
always Come in Twos” by Adam Gaylord, first appeared in
Frequency Magazine, November
rights reserved. No portion of this publication can be reproduced by
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Big Bluff –
in Dreams –
– Eleanor Leonne Bennett
Always Come in Two’s
– Adam Gaylord
Music of Angels –
– Lisa Lepovetsky
Patron Saint of Rubberneckers
– Noel Sloboda
or, The Nest Collector’s Fate
– J. J. Steinfeld
Night – Bob
– Kyle Owens
of Waves – Denny
for A Villian –
– Jason Lairamore
The Big Bluff
A sudden turbulence broke the water’s
calm surface. Virgil and I started pulling in the tether immediately.
It was still knotted around Mick’s waist when his headless corpse
surfaced. He must have been fiddling with the lock as the briefcase
rested on the lake bottom. The booby trap had left everything from
the neck down in mint condition. Tattered rags of wet-suit hung
limply from the stump of his neck.
“Shark,” Virgil said.
“Dude, it’s a fucking fresh-water
lake,” I told him.
“Exactly.” Virgil nodded knowingly.
“Virgil are you really that fucking
stupid? We’re on a lake in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia.
There are no fucking sharks here.” He stared at me dumbly. “It
was a fucking trap, you idiot!”
“Why you gotta be so mean, Johnny?”
I ignored the question and untied the
anchor from the rail of our rented pontoon. Leaning over the edge, I
replaced Mick’s guide-rope with the anchor’s line and tossed the
hunk of metal into the water. When the rope reached its limit Mick’s
body jolted a bit then disappeared into the lightless depths, a trail
of blood dissipating as he sunk.
Back at the dock, I had Virgil tie us
off while I entered the cabin to have a chat with Fat Sal.
Sal was a capo from a Chicago family. He
was in Franklin County on a moonshine run. That old white lightnin’
was a favorite of the Italian-Chicagoan community dating back to
prohibition. I had figured out Sal’s schedule after a few months of
surveillance. Virgil and I tossed a burlap potato sack over his head
when he stopped for a piss in the woods along the Booker T.
Washington Highway. In the end, Fat Sal was captured thanks to a
small bladder and large prostate.