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Tommy's Bro by Morgan Boyd


When you hire Gutter Goons to babysit what could possibly go wrong?

Tommy's Bro by Morgan Boyd

We got a surprise job … grab Tommy’s brother at the airport. Boss says show him a good time. That don’t mean sleep him with the fishes. We get him drunk and laid. Do whatever he wants.

Like a total jackoff I hold up a cardboard sign that reads: Gaston. The fuck kind of name is that?  

The terminal’s stinkin’ crowded. A little pipsqueak bastard trips over my shoe …. Grabs hold of my left arm tryin’ to save his ass from fallin’. I tell shit stain to take a hike in a lake without a paddle. Little Guy don’t read what I’m writin’, he’s still hangin’ on my arm.

I crisp his nose with a right jab. His butt cheeks slap floor, and I go stand by a slot machine—where I get a better view of a blonde’s rear.

The blonde’s rear disappears behind some big ass Texas looking tourists, so I duck into the head to drain the main vein, and do a line of blow.

“Hey Rocco!” Wayne, my associate yells five minutes later from the other side of the aisle. “I think that dude over there is Gaston.”

“Where?” I say, cranin’ my neck around.

“Back there. The guy you put on ass.”

“Get the fuck outta here. No way. My left nut looks more like Tommy than that little turd.”

“I got a picture here.  Tommy told me it’s his brother. But it’s a really old photo—just a head and shoulders shot.”

“Shit. He’s our guy.”

I yank Gaston to his feet, and wipe off the dripping blood from his newly-shaped nose, usin’ the edge of my sleeve. I apologize to heaven and hell, but Little Guy don’t say nothin’. He looks pissed, but also sad … like he’s down the pipe and out the flush.

We wait a bloody hour for the limo to pick us up. Turns out the dumb punk driver fell asleep at Micky-D’s. Wayne whacks the punk’s dumb skull on the limo’s hood, and we head out for the strip. But the limo breaks down, and we waste two more stinkin’ hours holdin’ onto our bored dicks.  

A couple a Tommy’s Southside goons finally get our ass. Only problem is they arrive in a pinner pickup with no room in the single cab. The three of us freeze our cojones off in the back of that rusty flatbed, while constantly gettin’ shit on by a buncha gulls and pigeons.

We rent a car on the strip, gotta find Little Guy a hooker. Not much action at this hour and half of ’em are shemales. But she’s definitely a she with small but real tits.

Upon closer inspection though, she’s covered in crusty scabs and has black eyes from a beatin’. Her blonde wig rides high, her spandex torn and stained—like a circus clown got trampled by a disgruntled elephant. I wouldn’t do her with Wayne’s dick, but Little Guy ain’t complainin’.

She wants $300 bucks. But hey, it’s Tommy’s money. We leave her alone with Gaston in the back of the rental car. Wanderin’ half-way up the block, me and Wayne smoke cigs.



Before I can even turkey fuck my second cigarette, the car door swings wide—and the hooker falls out the rental and onto the street—laughin’ her sorry ass off.

“We had a deal,” I say, flicking my lit butt in her direction.

“Deal’s done. Pulling down micro-dick’s pants was all it took,” she says, lifting my smoke off the ground—and suddenly climbin’ into another John’s car.

Gaston’s trou is still unfurled, and a 6-inch needle is wavin’ at us from his hairy left butt cheek. Wayne yanks the needle out, tells Gaston, “Hike your pants.”

We take off for a coke bar, but before we reach the joint, somethin’ ain’t peaches and cream with Little Guy in the back. I glance in the rearview mirror. His eyes roll back into his tiny head, and his mouth is foamin’ like laundry soap spit from a popcorn maker.

We pull over to the curb. I scoop Little Guy off the seat, set him on the sidewalk, and Wayne tries CPR—

But that don’t do shit.

Finally I bitch out, and dial 911.

Next morning we got visitors, they don’t bring us coffee either. Me and Wayne are bound, tossed in a trunk, and get dragged to Tommy’s office. He jams a gun barrel to my temple. 

“You idiots were supposed to show my brother a good time. Get him drunk, high and laid. Instead you bust his nose, get him laughed at by a hooker—who shoots him up with skanky heroin. The poor kid OD’d.”

“Christ, Tommy,” I say. “Breaks my heart thinkin’ ’bout your brother in the morgue.”

Tommy pistol-whips my head, knocks me to my knees. “He ain’t dead, dumb shit. They Narcanned his lucky ass.”

“Hear that, Wayne,” I say. “Swell news.”

“Yeah, swell news, Rocco. I told you that kid is tough.”

“Of course Gaston’s tough.” Tommy slaps Wayne in the back of his head. “He’s my little brother. He just got out the hospital.

“First thing Gaston tells me? He wants to see you guys.”

Little Guy enters the office. I hit him harder than I thought. A purple city bus is double-parked on his face.

“Dust these pathetic pricks,” Tommy says, handin’ Gaston the gun. “They fuckup everything.”

Little Guy grins ear-ta-ear. First time I seen him smile. He grips the pistol in both hands. “I’ve always wanted to kill somebody—

“But not you guys. That was the best night of my life. Got me out of my funk. So tonight we’re going out again. My turn to buy the hookers.”

Little Guy unties me. Blood returns to my hands. I light myself a cig, and with a wink and a fart, it’s back to business again—

Babysittin’ Tommy’s bro.

Morgan Boyd lives near Monterey with his wife, daughter and an obnoxious cat. He has recently been published at Ugly Dad, Tough, Yellow Mama, Punk Noir Magazine, and also in print at Switchblade Magazine.