Sometimes the cooks. . .er. . .crooks get it right.

I first posted this story over a dozen years ago. I suppose I have Damon Runyon to thank for it.

If You’ve Got the Money, Honey, I’ve Got the Thyme
By Angela Rasch

“What the fuck?” I stared stupidly at a newly splintered hole in the window’s trim -- inches above my head.

I can’t count on a house I’m just visiting to take more than one bullet for me.

Thwack! Another slug tore into the wall just to the left. I dove to the floor. In one motion I freed my Glock 17 from its holster and shot out the overhead light. I suppose I could’ve flicked the switch, which is right above me on the wall, but why ruin the moment?

During my twelve-year career as a wise guy, I had been shot at only once before, and that had been by a rookie cop who wanted me to stop and explain the carton of cigarettes I’d liberated from a Hy-Vee. Underaged – I’d apparently broken the law by stealing cigarettes without a note from my dear mother. Luckily the a-hole officer had been neglect in his range practicing.

Mostly where guns were involved, I’d been the one dispensing bullets.

Feeling much safer in total darkness -- I assessed my situation.

Harry the Hun, the only person in the world I trusted completely, had sent me out on a sweetheart detail. “Nothing to it,” he’d said. “Bim bam, thank you Ma’am.”

All I supposedly had to do was babysit a shipment of coke for a few hours, before he came by to deliver it to a major league buyer. I didn’t have a scale, or anything, but it appeared I was protecting about eight kilos, which on the street would bring about $two mil. That was enough money to attract all kinds of bacteria.

We’d picked the house for the drop, because it was located in a failed real estate development. It was eighty percent, or so, built and had been like that since the money people had pulled the pin three years back. The nearest inhabited home sat at least five hundred yards to the north. Location is everything.

They was trying to sell it, so it had electricity but lacked appliances and drywall on the second floor. The three bedrooms and two and a half baths were apprenly enough to have attracted my “guests.”

“Hey, Asshole!”

Someone who doesn’t know me too well -- obviously wants to chat.

I crawled on my belly to a point fifteen feet from where I had been, before I’d shot out the light -- and then waited. Under similar circumstances I had suckered my targets into a lethal error by giving away their positions answering my taunts.

Targets.

I always referred to those I was about to kill as “targets,” because that made it easier to pull the trigger. Unlike some of the anti-social slime I called “associates” -- I had a conscience. While others actually enjoyed splattering brains with a baseball bat, I often didn’t sleep well for days after particularly brutal murders. I disliked it when I had to put away a kid, or ice some helpless broad.

“What the matter, Fingers?”

Hey — it sounds like at least one of them knows me. I’d been stuck with the moniker “Fingers” back in my Elm Street Elementary days. When someone would get on my bad side I would wiggle my fingers in their face, before I jumped them.

“Are ya too much of a pussy to answer?”

Geez — Louise! Guys have been calling me a “pussy” for years, ‘cuz of my compassionate nature.

It all started back in high school. I went all the way through the middle of my junior year before giving up formal education, for a more lucrative lifestyle. It was considered standard operating procedure back then to finish off a good fight properly. After you knocked out your opponent, you were supposed to drag them over to the curb, open their mouth with their teeth biting the edge of the sidewalk — and then kick them in the back of the head. The idea was to separate them from a half dozen teeth, or so.

I figured that kind of behavior to be over-the-edge. Although I wasn’t at all opposed to applying the leather to a fallen advisory, I had my ethical limitations.

“What did I tell ya — he’s a fucking pussy. Always has been — always will be.”

Cripes all Friday, I hate it when people say that! Sure, in a way, I suppose I am, in that I’ve always felt I should’ve been born a woman, but no one knows that but me.

Although I worked out every day and sported a 48-long jacket over a body with less than six percent fat, I liked the way I looked in a dress. I had several stuck away in my closet. I even had become fairly adept with make-up, although I had to trowel on the foundation to cover my perma-beard.

They’ve gone quiet. My guess is there’s only two of them. When there’s so much easily fenced drugs involved, you can’t trust nobody. So why send three or four, when two can do the job? There’s probably one who’s decent with a rod and another who hasn’t had a neck since the third grade.

I silently rolled across the floor to position myself with a perfect shot at the front door. As a precaution earlier in the evening, I’d barricaded the back door and all of the first-floor windows had been boarded over.

If they come through that door I’ll blow their fucking heads off.

“Listen-up ya panty-wearing freak.”

Oh for crying-in-the-beer! Everyone has known for years, about me wearing panties all the time. I make no secret over the fact that I prefer the feel of silk to cotton. Why can’t some of these homophobic idiots just get over it? It’s never mattered to the Hun, and that’s all that I really care about.

“Here’s how it’s going to go down. We got five gallons of gas on each corner of the house and have fuses running to each of them.”

Shit! I’ve done the same thing dozens of times and never once did I fail to snuff out the rat-bastard I had holed-up. Talk about your irony.

“You can play it smart and shove that suitcase full of powder out the door. We’ll trade your fucked-up life for it — even though I can’t imagine a life so fucking putrid as yours being worth more than a couple hundred bucks.”

Who is that guy? He sounds a little like Philly Frank, but I’m almost certain Philly is doing a fiver upstate. How many times have I made a likewise deal with some weasel-dick prick, and then lit the house and shot the son-of-a-bitch when he came out coughin’ from the smoke — just to make sure there were no hard feelings later -- resulting in retributions.

“You got two minutes to make up your mind and then it’s going to get hot in your homo-land world.”

Holy shit! When will they ever learn that I’m transgendered; and I’m also 110% heterosexual? Why is that so fucking hard to comprehend? Sure, I would do anything for the Hun, but that’s different.

If it were me out there — I would set myself up about twenty-five feet from the front door and maybe ten feet to the right, behind that sign that gives the name of the defunct contractor who built this stick home. Then I would place my partner behind my car -- wherever I parked that piece of shit.

“Ya got just sixty seconds, ‘til boom time.”

I’ll come out the door with the suitcase full of coke held up in front of my head and hide the fact that I got my gun ready in my other hand. I’ll take out the mouthy one with three shots right through that sign — then I’ll nail the muscle. Let’s hope I’m right and the second goombah is a lousy shot.

“Thirty seconds.”

I picked up the suitcase full of drugs and stood with my back to the wall next to the front door. I would wait for the first explosion and use that distraction as an opportunity to burst through the door with my gun blazing.

Whoooooosh.

I pumped three widely-spaced shots into the sign and was rewarded with a death-grunt that I’d heard dozens of times before. The “muscle’s” first shot hit the suitcase and nearly tore it from my hand. I saw a reflection of the gasoline-ignited fire in his glasses and fired a shot that hit him in the right lens.

“Umph!” I bent over from intense pain that teemed through my body, but centered on my groin. “Sonabitch! I’ve been. . ..”

***

“She’s coming around.”

I looked up into the Hun’s face.

He touched an ice cube to my lips. “How ya feeling?”

I shook my head, which made me aware of bandages covering most of my face and neck.

“Don’t try to talk,” Harry said. “There’s a few things you need to know.”

Damn. I must’ve passed out and got burned in the fire.

I looked down and saw bandages around my chest. I’ve heard that the real pain from burns doesn’t start for some time after the fire. Perhaps that’s why I don’t feel much horrible pain. . .yet.

“Ya done good, Fingers,” the Hun said, while sweetly touching my hand.

The fire must’ve burned off all the hair from my hands and arms. Why have they got me in a pink hospital gown?

“We had to make some decisions on your’n behave,” he said. He turned toward the nurse. “Could we have a little alone time?”

After she left, he closed the door and came to the side of the bed. “You gave me quite a scare.”

This time when he touched my hand he actually picked it up and held it.

“I came up on the scene right after you took one to the ‘nads.” His face turned red. “I’m sorry for being such a blunt language user. It’s gonna take me a while to remember to talk right arounds youse.”

Talk right? “Uhmmmm.” I had moved to sit up a bit and found searing pain between my legs. “My. . . ?”

I looked down toward my privates.

“You can chalk it up to fate.” He squeezed my hand. “The surgeons heard about your panties. They asked me a few questions that maybe they shouldn’t have or maybe they should’ve – I donna know. And then I made them an offer they realized they should not refuse.”

I nodded.

“They made the right choice and decided they owed me some favors. The nurses, too, played ball and shaved you top to bottom. The docs said something about giving you a complete overhaul as long as they had you up on the rack. I made a list.”

He pulled a paper from his pocket. “You’ll excuse. I’ll just read the list. Sorry.”

His face turned red again. “Urethea inversion. Vaginoplasty. Labia majora. Labia minora. Breast implants. Eyebrow lowering. Forehead shaving. Rhinoplasty. There were several more that I didn’t write down, but they say you’ll leave here looking pretty. Of course, I’ve always thought you looked pretty, so that’s nothing for me.”

Pretty? This is the best dream I’ve ever had, except for the pain in my. . ..

***

“How’s my patient this morning?”

Where do they get these doctors. . .and do their mothers allow them to cross the street on their own?

“We’ll let you have some liquids later this morning, but we’ll stay away from solid food for a few days. Okay?”

I nodded, not having a clue what he was talking about.

He grinned and spun to leave. Once he had moved away, I spied the Hun sitting in the chair next to my bed.

Nice of him to visit. I can’t wait to tell him about my freakin’ dream.

He rose from his chair and held a glass of water to my lips. “Are you awake for good now?”

He set the glass down on the rolling table thingy that sat next to my bed, and then fumbled in his pocket. “Just in case you decide to float off into dreamland again -- I want to make sure to give you this.”

He slid a golden ring with a big rock onto the third finger of my right hand.

I looked into his eyes. “Omigawd. . ..”

My hands flew to my face, as I realized how lucky I had become.

The End

A few weeks ago, I unpublished my stories on this site. I’ve decided to bring them back with updates and editing. I hope you enjoy them.

Thanks to Gabi for her support and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list on Amazon you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:

Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Thing You Always Died For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Sexy, Cute, and Popular
Bringing Good Cheer
Baseball Annie

I’ve also allowed Erin to place several of my stories under Premium Stories.

The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
The Ninth Fold
Voices Carry over Water
Residue
To Alleviate Suffering