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Meet FFO Editor & P.R. Con-Man Mick Rose: Breathless

Writer and con-man Mick Rose contributes to FFO's coffers by convincing investors he's a lobbyistand that Flash Fiction Offensive is a trade magazine for an International military-industrial complex hell-bent on producing weapons of mass destruction and biological warfare. However his repeated youthful attempts to sell the state of Texas to the Mexican government proved a miserable failure and nearly cost him his life.

Besides digging graves and acting as a wheelman for Jesse Heels Rawlins, he hosts Center Stage with Mick Rosewhich routinely shines the spotlight on an an International cast of writers, poets and illustrators. As his story "Breathless" shows us the delinquent Mr. Rose has got a thing for birds. With or without feathers.

Breathless by Mick Rose

Pain. Hammering his skull. Like a Jehovah Witness’s zealous fist assailing an unanswered wooden door. Drew peeled opened bleary-eyes to an even more unwelcome sight: a grisly pair of shotgun barrels primly-pointed at his chest.

Certainly not the first time Drew had surfaced from the Land of Nod—and discovered himself aroused with a loaded gun that wasn’t his. (Though he much preferred stiff nipples brushing hard against his chest.) But if his luck held true to form this wouldn’t be his last—

“You lookin’ to get killed, Mister?”

“Naw, I’m just lookin’ to find a Starbucks.”

“You got a real long walk ahead of you then—closest one around here is sixty miles east.

“Course if you had yourself an iPhone you’d know that.”

Shifting the shotgun to her shoulder, she strode right out the barn.

Abandoning his gear and beer (empties littering the hay), teetering Drew followed, shielding swollen-eyes against the early-morning sun. Staring at her ass easily made him seasick. But no pain no gain—and Drew enjoyed the view.

“Kick-ass place you’ve got here,” he hollered, clawing straw from his hair.

“For five-million-two it’s yours—no more skulking in the barn.”

“Why you selling?”

“Cuz I’m the kick-ass realtor who holds the exclusive listing on this private kick-ass place.”

That explained the pencil skirt—and the three-inch pump stilettos. He’d glimpsed a lovely canyon of yawning golden cleavage. But that slender finger on the trigger had commanded his full attention.

“Not a for sale sign in sight. And you’re the first person I’ve seen all week. The owners living elsewhere and just decide to sell?”

She fished a nearby flowerbox. And flipped a key to Drew. Who much to her surprise snatched the silver Yale in stride. Though he fumbled with the lock before the deadbolt finally snicked. Then they stepped into the kitchen—where the Keurig caught his eye.

“What I wouldn’t do for hot coffee and a shower—”

She leaned the shotgun by the entry and left the back door open, key still in the lock. “Hot coffee, hot shower—you probably want hot pussy next.”

“Do I have to walk sixty miles to get that, too?”

“Depends how bad you want it. Or what you’re willing to settle for. This was once a working ranch. There's still some livestock out there.”

“Right now I’d settle for coffee.”

“Help yourself—you’re good at it: cups are in the cupboard above the stove; everything else is on the counter.”

Drew snagged a Boise State Broncos mug, selected a Dark Roast from the Sampler pack, snapped the K-cup in place, and idly tapped Start.

“I like your work, Drew. It inspired me.” Smirking she waggled an iPhone, her back propped against the fridge; those fine long-legs crossed above the ankles. “Did a magazine hire you for this here job—or are you freelancing?”

Drew stared at his Facebook Profile. Jesus, how long had she been in the barn rifling his gear? “Both. Photojournalism’s a ruthless field. Even worse than a frenzied band of Bargain Basement shoppers—all hopped on crystal meth when Black Friday rolls around. I learned early: save your best photos for yourself—everyone wants quality but no one wants to pay.

“And male Greater Sage Grouse are truly magnificent birds few people ever see. They’re secretive creatures. And outside mating season, they live in isolation. But late February to April, they gather to court. Watching these birds perform their rituals always leaves me breathless.”

“How did you know these birds were here?”

Drew shrugged. “I network.”

“How did you get here?”

Drew set the empty mug in the sink. “Hired a ride from the airport.” His propensity for DUIs had bereft him of a license. And sixty nasty days in jail had curbed his propensity to drive without one.

“Hot shower’s down that hall, to your left,” she instructed.

Drew shuffled off, pleased with his good fortune. He took his time in the pulsing steam. And returned to the kitchen, wrapped snugly in a towel, his right-extended-arm gripping balled-up grungy clothes.

“I need your help, Drew.”

“With what?”

She waved a half-liter-bottle of Absolut. “Open this, will you?” 

Drew considered his clothes—and tossed them out the door.

Accepting the open vodka, she swallowed a tentative sip, and gave him a tentative kiss.

Passing back the bottle, she plunked her ass on the kitchen table: and delving her black blazer—suddenly produced his knife.

“I want it rough, Drew. Starting with my clothes. I want you to shred them. I want you to leave me … breathless.”

Hearing hinky housewife shit was nothing new to Drew. Slugging Absolut, he calmly reclaimed his knife 

But bit back the growing urge to whistle while he worked.

Setting blade and vodka on the counter by the Keurig, horny Drew leaned forward to twist a tender nipple. “Now this is what I call prime real estate. Your husband’s a lucky man—”

“Stop talking!” she ordered. And slapped him in the face: long, artificial nails strafing cheek and neck. Drew’s reflexive backhand smashed her in the mouth—extracting blood-for-blood. All thoughts of foreplay vanquished, he ripped away the towel and plunged his cock between her legs—her pussy even drier than arid dessert sage. And just about as cold as far-flung fucking Pluto.

“That’s it, Drew, take what you want. Take it, take it, take it!” 
He slammed a fist into her ribs: a blow that left her breathless—

Drew soon passed out on the floor. But eventually opened bloodshot eyes to a familiar unwelcome sight: a pair of goddamn shotgun barrels—pointed primly at his chest.

“Congratulations Drew. You left your jailbird fingerprints everywhere. Your DNA’s under my nails. And your mess lies in the barn. 

"So when the cops find your corpse splattered around this kitchen? Well, naturally they'll agree I shot you in self-defense. Once they’re out of my hairand the crime scene photographers have had a bloody ball? I'll sue the idiots who hired you. They should fork up several million to keep my case out of court."

All that primo real estate in all its naked glory. But the last thing Drew laid eyes on was that single slender finger.

Yeah, that finger left him breathless—

Crime author Mick Rose pens haiku and prose while wandering the United States in a Quest for the Perfect Pizza. His stories have kindly found good homes in half a dozen online mags, including England’s Close To The Bone, Punk Noir Magazine and Horror Sleaze Trash. Care to say, “Hello?” You can visit Mick on Facebook and also at Goodreads.

"Breathless" first appeared at Yellow Mama Webzine.