The Bitcher in
the City (Part 2)
by H.I. Standard 

As cute as Shelly was she was pretty dumb and just as useless a tool as everyone else, so I thought she should just die already. I told her so, but she didn’t think it was as funny as I did. Which was fine because I didn’t think it was funny. She and her big fat Army boyfriend Mervin didn’t care, though. They just sat there listening to that lame-ass Dixieland Jazz they liked so much and acted like they liked it. It was all stupid posturing. No one could like that dumb music. I don’t like it.

Mervin was tapping his hand absently on the stupid table. “You look familiar, kid,” he said. He always called me kid, ‘cause he was a dick.

“Oh? Stupid.”

“Yeah,” said Mervin. He was bobbing his head to the stupid music again, like a tool, but he stopped after a minute. He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “By George, now I know why you look familiar! You remind me of this guy I knew at Isherwood State. What was his name?”

“My brother went to Isherwood State. Squirrel Flange.”

Mervin nodded. “That’s it! Squirrel Flange! I must have known him there. What’s your name, kid?”

I hated the jerk and wished he would just up and die. But I told him my name anyway. “Preston Flange.”

“Oh.” He thought for a minute. “Squirrel Flange… nope, I never met a Squirrel Flange. I must be mistaken.”

What a big fat fake. A useless tool that ought to have his head popped by God’s very own fingers. I got to feeling a little nauseous in the stupid club so I went outside. By the time I was at the door I heard Mervin yelling that I looked familiar again, but I didn’t want to talk to him no more. I went out into the cold, rainy, nighty, New York City night.

I realized I didn’t like Squirrel much anymore, not since he went and turned into a Texas Ranger, like he was a bigshot. He didn’t go through training or anything either, just woke up a Texas Ranger one morning, complete with the uniform. What a show-off.

The only person I probably did like and didn’t think was a tool so much anymore was the little foreign exchange student who lived with us. She was 13 and from some other country. She was always nice and would smile at me and say something in that funny language and I would pretend to understand, then we would have our chickens fight together, to the death. I missed her, being so cold and lonely in New York City. Then I remembered she lived in New York City, with mom and dad, those tools, but I wasn’t ready to go back home and get in trouble for killing that dumb kid at Bible College. So I just decided I’d call.

Lucky for me, Jing Ma answered the phone.

“Happy to ring you up,” declared Jing Ma happily.

“Jing Ma, it’s me, Preston. What’s up?”

“You for very naughty, Preston Flange. Telling news says you to kill a boy.”

“Don’t tell me you turned all fake and tool-like on me, too,” I said. I was mad, but not too mad. She was just a kid. With a poor grasp of English. She’d believe whatever she saw on the TV.

“Please, Preston Flange. Please to come home and not kill no more.”

I hung up. She was just going to guilt-trip me. Who needs a guilt-trip?

For more of this great story, buy H.I. Standard’s
The Bitcher in the City So Cold Blooded
Their first victim was Mary Ann “Carrot-Top” Cooper, a striking brunette cashier at a local burlesque house. Cooper had stayed late on June 5, 1963, taking inventory on the tassles, and was abducted from the parking lot out back by Knotts and Wilpott.

The Shoeshine Exemption
You had two kinds of people in the joint: The guys who took what life dealt them and the ones who didn’t. I was one of those guys who took what life dealt them. It was a pair of eights, a five, a four, and a two. Almost like it could be a decent hand, but not quite, enh, you know? I’m not complaining.

Study Hall Hood: A Hatty Pearst, Teen Detective Mystery
Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching.

Freak Outs and Head Trips in Atlantic City
Intelligent beasts don’t go to Atlantic City of their own free will. Neither did I, and would never have set foot in the rectum of America had I not been on assignment for Boner magazine to cover the first of its kind Monty Python Fan Base Convention.