Latest Flash

Voodoo Drug Lord of New Orleans

Fox is back and he's strayed far from Philly. 

The lastest with Kid Louie in the Big Easy:

Voodoo Drug Lord of New Orleans by T. Fox Dunham



“Fuck New Orleans, Vinnie,” Louie said. He fisted a metal bar and hit the table. Clay pots cracked, abandoned on the shelves. Bands played in the street night and day, and if you pressed your palm to the buildings of the French Quarter or the pavement of the street, you felt the city’s pulse—a living soul. “When is the voodoo-asshole coming?”
               
“Just fucking relax. It’s a cool city. The women are naked.” We’d witnessed their slim bodies painted in red and blue and yellow streaks, standing outside their clubs, wiggling or contorting, showing off their tits as dusk darkened Bourbon Street.
               
“What time did Dominic say this asshole was going to be here?”
               
“Shut your mouth, Lou. Check the front gate again. He’s some highly respected Voodoo priest.”
               
Louie checked it and returned. “A lot of shit.” I’d already bought him a few Hurricanes at various bars down Royal Street, hoping it would calm him down. He stood squat as a pug and got anxious in new places—away from our usual Philly territory where he knew the people, the cops, the dark corners where he could hide. He pounded his palm with his weighted fist. This had been a pottery store, and we hung out in the back, invited in by the owner. Business was to be done on this shitty little porch with an exposed roof woven of wrought black metal that fed around the ceiling and enclosed the front with a door that could be locked. I noted that.
               
“They call him Doctor Vulture. Voodoo royalty.”
               
“You have called my name, and I appear.” The voice bellowed like a cello played by delicate hands. The dude walked in with a white fur coat and white suit, feather out of his fedora and a pair of sunglasses. A couple of his guys hung out by the door, watching us. I dropped the suitcase full of cash from Dominick and opened it. Doctor Vulture’s eyes lit up at the grassy bills. “Gentleman of Philadelphia,” he said. He stank like a slaughter hog, rotting in the sun.
               
“Fuck me,” Louie whispered. I put my hand on his arm: Don’t fuck this up.
               
The good Doctor dropped a clear Ziploc bag on the table. White powder filled it. “The finest product for North America—this young country.” Crow feathers slipped from his sleeve onto the table.
               
Louie cracked up. “You really think you’re the shit?”
               
“A wild dog on a leash. Are you his keeper?” I rubbed my temples.
               
“We have the money. Let’s keep this easy.”
               
“You bring this rabid dog into my territory, allow him to disrespect me?”
               
 Who the fuck was this douche? Acting like royalty? One of his competitors was already looking to clip him. It would probably be a bullet from one of his men, waiting on the outside. He came in here alone and obviously didn’t think we were a threat. That was the idea—a couple of nobody-assholes from Philly.
               
My partner knew the right moment. Louie ran ahead and slammed the iron grating at the front entrance, locking it, and I pulled out my Luger from my belt. I loved the old fashioned piece, and this one had sentimentality to me. Doctor Vulture saw it and pulled a small capsule from his lapel pocket then popped it. The air turned misty. I inhaled the powder.
               
“Vulture. Crow. Raven. See my wings?” He extended his arm, and a white crow morphed from his body. “You did a deal, came to kill me? One of my competitors? They have no power.” I couldn’t tell the man from the bird, but I could feel my head drugged. I knew enough about narcotics to recognize it.
               
“What the fuck are you doing?” Louie yelled, running for me. He helped me focus
               
The bird swept its wings, and I aimed the Luger for its head. I pulled the trigger, and a red mushroom blew from the gun, knocking me into the back wall. The bird squawked then collapsed to the floor.
               
“Out the back, asshole,” Louie yelled and dragged me to the escape we’d planned.
               

“White raven,” Vincent said. “So Beautiful.”

T. Fox Dunham resides outside of Philadelphia PA—author and historian. He’s published in nearly 200 international journals and anthologies. His first novel, The Street Martyr was published by Gutter Books this October, followed Professional Detachment, a literary erotica from Bitten Press and followed by Searching for Andy Kaufman from PMMP in 2014. He’s a cancer survivor. His friends call him fox, being his totem animal, and his motto is: Wrecking civilization one story at a time. Site: www.tfoxdunham.com. Blog: http://tfoxdunham.blogspot.com/. http://www.facebook.com/tfoxdunham & Twitter: @TFoxDunham