The Book By It’s Cover by John Patrick Robbins

Blue Collar Noir, Fiction, Flash Fiction, John Patrick Robbins, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

The Mandalay Bay Event Center was packed Vegas was alive as always, but especially when a big fight was in the air.

They were there to see Ron, and he knew tonight was his night.

The crowd was electric and come hell or high water, he was leaving that cage with the belt or being carried out on his shield like the true warrior he was.


It was himself Ron “The Wrecking Machine” Vasquez vs the champ Phil “Wildcat”Carnie.

He had been the champ for almost two years he was the favorite.


Most were betting on the champ but Ronnie knew most those fools were going to be very disappointed when he went in there and took what was his all along.


He and Phil were the main event and now after what seemed like an eternity, it was finally time.

He sat there in the chute ready with his corner.


His music played and he began his journey to the cage.

The people screamed as some cussed him while others cheered and security pushed them all back as he concerned himself with none heading towards the cage.


It was the most unreal feeling a man could experience.

And if you lost focus you could easily get lost in the moment.


He paused before stepping into the cage the ref outside looked him over as so did the well endowed blonde sitting in the front row.

As she made eyes at the jacked up light heavyweight.


And to her surprise he seemed to be checking her out as well.

As he winked at her before stepping up into the cage.

He was a matador in the arena and here he was staring at her.


As he circled the cage as again what seemed like the entire arena cheered. And as he came full circle she swore their eyes met yet again.

She felt the excitement as it ran through her body, he was a true man’s man.


The guy beside her nudged into her and cheered loudly he looked like a fighter as well and she was sure she had seen him before, but aside from just coming out and asking him she remained silent as he had been a nuisance all evening.


As he cheered on the fighters and coached from the sidelines, yelling at the top of lungs and spilling over priced beers along the way.


The Champion was announced and soon made his way through the sold out crowd.


It was the fight folks had been waiting a year for and was finally going to happen.

The champs confidence bled through in the crowd, he was arrogant and saw Vasqez as a stepping stone a mere detour to the huge money fight another title and going up to heavyweight would be the true reward.


He looked across the cage and straight through Ronny.

And as the ref went over the rules and told them to touch gloves he simply blew a kiss and flicked him off.


As again the crowd went nuts they were savages more caught up in the spectacle than the actual contest.

Most just wanted to get drunk and hopefully see themselves on T.V. and nothing more.

Fights broke out all over the damn arena.


Being in the cage was actually the calm within the storm.

Ronny just laughed at the pricks antics cause all too soon none of the bullshit would matter.


Big John looked at both of them “Fighter are you ready, Fighter are you ready? let’s get it on!”


It was time to dance and Phil came out as arrogant as ever the overrated fool he was slamming his foot as to make Ronnie think he was going to either shoot or strike.


He wasn’t impressed in the years he had been watching him from the sidelines and he damn sure wasn’t impressed now.

Phil threw a head kick missed and as he spun around.


Ronnie lit him up like he was in a pinball machine.

And as the champion was off balance he stumbled backwards and caught by a left hook from hell.

He fell backwards into the cage and that was all his opponent needed.


The punches were fast and hard and soon the lights went out on the champions reign.


As the crowd went insane as so did Ronnie as he jumped on the cage.

As the tight body blonde was cheering with all the rest.

And as he stood on top of that cage he pointed to her.


She blew him a kiss and to her surprise he jumped to the outside and headed in her direction.

She was lost, it was like a true fairy tale moment except he was a chiseled from granite gladiator.


Beth couldn’t believe it as he made his way towards her and then was even more shocked, as he pushed right by her as he picked up the man sitting beside her annoying the shit out of her most the night into his arms.


As they embraced deeply and the whole crowd seemed to for a brief moment go silent as her heart sank and her world was turned upside down.


As Ron “The Wrecking Machine” Vazquez grabbed his lover’s hand and pulled him towards the cage.


And as he stood there in his moment he could barely find the words to speak.


As they put the championship around his waist and he lifted his partner again in his arms.


Meanwhile the champ had slowly regained consciousness.

As he awoke to find himself dethroned and his nightmare opponent embracing another man as he looked to the doc.


“Hey doc am I dreaming?”


“No champ I’m sorry you lost.”


Phil was befuddled to say the least, as the crowd if so was too damn drunk to care and the tight bodied little blonde felt as defeated as the former champ.


The gladiators had left the arena and the amped up jocks were left scratching their heads.


Ronny was a beast in that cage and was ever too happy to shatter the beer guzzling buffoons delusion of what a fighter has to be.


The champ had arrived and he was officially off the clock.

His job was to kickass and take names later and what he did beyond office hours was nobody’s business but his own.


The former champ was yesterday’s news the second the lights went out.

The fight game was a sea of sharks, blood was in the water constantly.

Backstage his opponent shook his hand and offered to buy him a beer.


He didn’t refuse and I’m sure if that blonde from the crowd had been offered she would had not either.


Life’s filled with surprises so they say.


Fight night would from here on out would never be looked at the same.


John Patrick Robbins: is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers.  He is also author of Sex, Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press.  And Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown from Soma Publishing. 
His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine,  Ariel Chart,  Piker Press, San Pedro River Review,  San Antonio Review,  Red Fez , Blognostics and The Blue Nib .
His work is always unfiltered. 

Two Birds by John Patrick Robbins

Blue Collar Noir, John Patrick Robbins, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

Mitch hated the memories of the slaughter house, it was the job he knew would haunt him until his dying day .

The dried blood in the air , death was an all too familiar smell that lingered and was enough to make you sick .

It was weird but made easy with modern technology.


None of which was at Ives slaughterhouse it was old school all the way.

Mitch was strong and after years spent at this job he became even more so.

He worked the kill room.


It was him and a sledge hammer that he became extremely useful with.

Most animals gave up knowing death was upon them .

Some fought, all would lose .


Mitch never forgot the first time .

He puked afterwards , eventually you just learned not to care .

The key was hitting hard and fast on that frontal lobe once you heard that crack the skull made you were fine.


There was no such thing as painless a death , people told themselves that lie to sleep better at night .

Mitch spent years doing the work nobody else had the balls to .

It translated well when he became an enforcer .


People seldom went without a fight and sometimes the ignorance of not understanding what was coming , was bliss .


Animals were lucky in that regard .

Mitch lit a cigarette and waited , the wind was freezing standing in that field .

The sedan carrying Philip made its way down the dirt road .

The farm was a total front it mainly served as a dumping ground .


“Fuck its freezing out here “!


Marty said as he hopped out of the passengers seat and quickly pulled a hooded Philip from the vehicle.





Bruce as usual was silent he left the engine running and the lights on , he had done this almost as many times as Mitch .

The only difference between the two was for Mitch, this was a job and nothing more .

For Bruce it was enjoyment although largely silent he enjoyed death and was a mad dog that Mitch knew eventually he would have to put down .


Marty kicked Phil in the back of the knee he dropped like a sack of potatoes at the feet of

Mitch .


The boys pulled him to his knees removing the hood .


“Philip sorry to have dragged you out of bed bud but we need to talk “.


“Mitch I’m sorry please whatever you think I’ve done “.


Mitch just held his finger up and like some trained animal Phil went silent .


“You know something Phil , one thing I hate is a liar , because you see even little lies always lead to bigger ones . The fact you even tried to have the balls to steal from the hand that feeds is disgusting to me”.


Tears began to flow like a river down Phil’s face and Mitch couldn’t blame the man for crying.


He knew the man was scum but he was still someone’s father and husband.

But he was also a thief , an addict and worst of all a rat .


He knew he couldn’t trust the slimy little bastard but in this line of work its wasnt like you could put an add in the paper for help.


So you dealt with snakes , men with no honor who were as expendable as the cattle Mitch once so easily slaughtered so long ago.


Mitch went and grabbed the sledge hammer from the back of his truck .


The sight of it sent Phil into a panic .


“Please for God sake don’t do this I can make things right just let me go Goddammit “!




Bruce laughed and it was now Marty who remained silent .


Mitch didn’t hesitate he just brought the sledge hammer down with and ungodly force .

That sickening thud made little sound and a mile from any real highway nobody would know about this incident besides the three men witnessing it .



Phil was gone and no sooner had the sledgehammer cracked his skull had Bruce and Marty grabbed his convulsing body and began dragging it to the whole dug that would forever be Phil’s unknown grave.


Bruce as usual began going through his pockets removing Ritchies wallet a true scavenger that he was .


“Fuck this dudes floppping around like a danm fish“.


Bruce said in a twisted glee .


After Bruce made sure to pick the bones clean so to speak the boys pitched Ritchie into the damn near frozen earth .


“Fuck it’s freezing out here course least it aint as bad as things are for that winy bitch Phil huh man“?


Bruce asked looking to Marty who had the weirdest look in his eyes .


The first blow knocked Bruce into the grave , blood flowed from the wound but the mountain of a man struggled and began to get up .


The second put him down for good , well at least good enough .

Marty had not missed a beat and like clock work already had the tractor running and was pushing the earth down into the grave .


Bruce’s eyes met Mitch’s he had seen that look in many men and animals alike .

Death was always the same he never kid himself about that .


Mitch never hesitated but he never enjoyed his job either.

His truth was as cold as the earth he buried people semi alive in .

The worst monster that walks this earth can easily be viewed from the mirror.


John Patrick Robbins
Is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review , Under The Bleachers and Drinkers Only .
He has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine , The San Pedro River Review , Ariel Chart , Oddball Magazine , Piker Press , Blognostics , As It Ought To Be Magazine , Red Fez , The San Antonio Review,
He is also the author of Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press and Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown from Soma Publishing.
His work is always unfiltered.

The Loneliest Greeting Card by John Patrick Robbins

Christmas, John Patrick Robbins, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

The Loneliest Greeting Card

The streets are all vacant and the city a ghost town.
I didn’t belong but then again when did I ever?

Least no one would notice a bum with a bottle, drunk off his ass walking down the seawall in Portsmouth.

The few out weren’t here for the sights , for the homeless knew no holidays.
And as I sat there on the bench I knew this life was not a blessing but a curse.

I watched two marriages crumble and now I burned the candle at both ends.

Looked at the red ribbons battle with the winds as they fought to remain intact.

Everywhere was closed but for drunkards and bums it was the loneliest day on earth.
The kind that reminds you pain knows many forms.

I took another hit from the bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.
Watched the ships in the harbor pass.

Bid the sun farewell and eventually made my way back home before handing another lost soul some change.

Greetings from the lost on the earth’s loneliest day.


John Patrick Robbins
Is the editor-in-chief of the Rye Whiskey Review , Under The Bleachers and Drinkers Only .
He is also the Author of,  A Perverts Christmas available now from Whiskey City Press  on LuLu.
His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine , Ariel Chart, Piker Press , The San Pedro River Review, The San Antonio Review,  As It Ought To Be Magazine and Oddball Magazine. 
His work is always unfiltered

Just The Seagulls by John Patrick Robbins

#Noirvember, John Patrick Robbins, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

I found myself burnt out as always alone on the beach .
Why the hell was I drawn here , I cannot say .

Maybe I was a junkie for the pain, maybe I just was unoriginal .
And maybe it just reminded me of you .

Either way I was here blown out of my socks.
The ocean is a force unto itself .

It held many a man’s soul as once I held you .
It wasn’t a game or a line, it was my life and I was tired of giving my soul to get nothing in return .

If I was paying dues then I must of had a hell of debt my friends .

A blown out liver and a bad heart.

Always on the verge chasing a false promise stuck in the sand while others simply passed me by.

I lost it all and gained shit in return keep your slaps on the back.

Give me a paycheck and a corner booth , let me die with my vices .

But time is a cruel bitch.
But no matter her intentions here I stood always hoping the sunset would find more than a closed door and a swift kick in the ass.

The seagulls live a second at a time .

On the verge of starvation .
Waiting for the tide to bring the next meal.

I questioned many things in this life .

My direction was not amongst these questions.

I watched the sunrise for the view was free.
Cause you couldn’t tax nature’s beauty.

When I left the beach I noticed a parking ticket on my windshield .

The tide brought in many things , and the asshole with a badge killed my buzz.

Full circle was something I was beginning to understand .

The seagulls thrived on nothing as I did the bottle .
We all need something .

I just needed enough to buy another bottle .

Dreams are for the sleeping.

John Patrick Robbins 
Is the editor of the Rye Whiskey Review,  Under The Bleachers and Drinkers Only .
His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine, The San Antonio Review,  Oddball Magazine , The San Pedro River Review , Ariel Chart,  As It Ought To Be Magazine, Piker Press, The Mojave River Review .
He is also the author of Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown  from Soma Publishing and Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press.
His work is always unfiltered. 
JPR Nov.jpg

Fire Hazard by John Patrick Robbins

Blue Collar Noir, Crime Fiction, Fiction, Flash Fiction, John Patrick Robbins, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

Manny and Bill sat outside the rinky dink little gas station the adrenaline still coursed through their veins.

“I can’t believe we pulled it off dude! It was like taking candy from a fucking baby!”

Manny said as he was practically shaking with excitement.

“We damn sure got lucky good thing we had scoped the place out before.”

Bill replied.

He was excited too but not as euphoric as Manny.

He always followed his friend’s lead and it was largely due to his love for him.

Manny knew how Bill was but Manny barely gave a shit about anyone let alone about sex.

It had all been so fucking mundane until tonight.

When they hit the small bank just outside of the city limits was the first time Manny truly felt alive.

His only regret was that nobody had resisted.

He just loved that fear in that bank tellers eyes he wanted a mess.

This was his calling like some old west outlaw he had all the power in the world and he loved the feeling that gun in his hand granted him.

They both sat in car awhile listening to the police scanner so far so good they were a county away and almost in the clear.

Manny looked around this little middle of nowhere pit stop.

They were the only car in the parking lot these farm town pricks went to bed with the chickens and Manny thought to himself.

If he was a mad dog well why not raise some hell in the hen house?

Manny pulled his 38 and looked to Bill.

“Lets go have some fun with this backwoods fuck!”

“Motherfucker are you nuts? We just knocked over a bank and now you want to hit up a fucking gas station?”

“Why the hell not man? I just want to feel that buzz again!”

Manny was losing it and his friend Bill knew it.

“Dude you know the most we can get out of there is chump change, we got money now so let’s just grab some beers and celebrate.”

Manny laughed.

“Hell man it ain’t about the money asshole ! I just want to have some fun we can grab all the beer we want come on.”

And with that Manny was gone.

Bill would follow Manny into hell and sometimes it felt like that just where he was leading them both.

Bill grabbed his piece and followed like a well trained dog follows his master.

The guy behind the counter just stood there looking at his magazine as if he didn’t hear a word Manny had just said.

Manny looked at Bill who much like a deer caught in the headlights was little to no help.

“Man are you fucking deaf or something I said open the Goddamed register and give me the money now!”

The man behind the counter didn’t bat an eye he just looked up from his magazine leaned on the counter looking at Manny and simply said.

“Mmm no.”

“Dude are you off your meds or something?”

Manny pulled back the hammer.

“Now look short bus you hand over that money now or shits about to get real messy up in here!”

“Dude lets just-”

“Shut the fuck up Billy!”

Manny cut Bill off mid sentence.

The tall extremely odd guy behind the counter busted up laughing.

“Motherfucker what’s so funny!”

The guy from the counter was getting louder and louder.

Manny tried to scare him by firing into the ceiling the noise was deafening yet it only served to make the guy behind the counter laugh harder.

Manny couldn’t help but become slightly unnerved.

That laugh was something different it was something beyond insanity that in all truth terrified Manny.

He had to show this guy whatever his deal was he wasn’t weak he walked up to the guy just close enough to see behind the counter.

It was then he noticed all the blood and saw the man on the floor.

Manny made the biggest mistake you can ever make when taking a walk in the zoo.

Always keep a safe distance from the lion’s cage.

Manny never saw the knife coming as it plunged into his neck.

His pistol dropped upon the counter as his body crashed onto the floor.


Bill yelled out as he fired.

The shot missed as the man just hopped over the counter.

Bill bolted through the door and was halfway across the parking lot when heard the shot.

He felt as though he had been drop kicked in the back as his body smashed into the concrete he felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

Bill lay face down he was struggling to breathe.

“Hold on buddy I got you.”

He heard a voice call out.

Bill heard the door close.

Then after what felt like an eternity he heard that same doors electronic chime go off.

Bill tried to stand but his limbs would not respond.

He heard what sounded like boots on the concrete approaching him.

All the sudden he was turned over he felt like a leaf on the water.

And then he was looking at the clerks face.

“Damn your really fucked up pal, want me to call you an ambulance?”

Tears rolled down Bills cheeks.

The pain was so intense.

The man just busted out with that laugh again.

“Hell kid I’m just fucking with you I’m going to fix you right up now trust me.”

Bill struggled to speak.


“Shh don’t strain yourself your in shock, now let’s get you moved.”

The man said as he grabbed both his arms and began to drag him.

Bill screamed as the pain only intensified as his body was drug across the parking lot.

The man stopped just as they were almost at his car near the gas pumps.

“Shit your heavy I swear wish you had stayed in there with your buddy, that little prick was still bleeding out when I left him.”

Tex laughed as the guy at his feet only cried.

He lit up a cigarette inhaled deeply fuck it tasted good.

He stood over the guy his friend called Bill.

Took his cigarette out his mouth.

“Hey want one.”

The guy was shaking so bad he couldn’t say a thing.

“Hell kid I don’t blame you these things will kill you so they say.”

The man just stared at Bill.

Smoking and looking off into the distance.

Bill could hear what he thought was a coyotes howl.

His heartbeat was slowing the man just stood over him and smiled.

And then just like that he walked off.

Bill heard him take the handle from the gas pump listened to the sounds of it pouring upon the ground.

Felt the coolness through his jacket and smelt gas fill the air.

Tex just watched the kid lay there on the ground.

He didn’t struggle or cry out.

It was total surrender most animals simply gave up when they knew death was at their door.

It’s what always took the fun out of murder.

But the thrill was always there.

Tex put handle back.

Laughing to himself he finally broke his silence.

“Hell kid I’m so caught up in this cig I totally forgot just how dangerous it is to be smoking at the gas pumps.”

“I swear I really should have my head examined, but it’s a hell of a habit to kick.”

Bill looked into the stars knowing what was going to happen and time seemed frozen if only for a second.

He always knew Manny would lead him straight to hell, he just wasn’t aware he would meet the devil so quickly.

It was then Tex dropped the cigarette.


John Patrick Robbins. 
Is the editor of the Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers .
His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine , Ariel Chart, Oddball Magazine,  The Rusty Truck , As It Ought To Be Magazine,  The San Pedro River Review,  The Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press.
He is also the author of Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown from Soma Publishing.
And Sex Drugs & Poetry  from Whiskey City Press.
His work is always unfiltered
John Robb new.jpg

I Am Far From Amused By You by John Patrick Robbins

John Patrick Robbins, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

I Am Far From Amused By You

Kill your muse and bury her with the past,

and maybe then you will begin to realize.

Nobody fuels the page.
Love is absolute bullshit.
Better suited for romance flicks and hallmark cards.

And the fear of being alone drives more fools to marriage than missed periods and cruel intentions.

It’s easy to ponder things without another to drive me insane.

But I never needed a piece of ass to put me in a straight jacket.
I just allow the voices in my head to guide me.

And obey the commands of captain crunch.

Yeah I may sound insane but I’m no worse than fools who kill for religion and idiots who think art is fueled by another.

Pick your poison.
I would rather drink myself to death than spend my life sharing my misery with another.


John Patrick Robbins 
Is the author of Sex Drugs & Poetry  from Whiskey City Press and Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown from Soma Publishing. 
His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine, The San Antonio Review,  The San Pedro River Review,  Red Fez, Ariel Chart , As It Ought To Be Magazine, The Mojave River Review , Blognostics , The Blue Nib ,
His poem Neptune was also nominated for the Pushcart .
His work is always unfiltered.


It’s Not Addiction It’s My Science by John Patrick Robbins

Flash Fiction, John Patrick Robbins, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

A friend asked me. 

“Man, when are you going to stop drinking and chasing ass? I mean haven’t you had enough of this shit yet?”


I was puzzled at this question for I wasn’t merely some run of the mill drunken womanizer like all the rest.

I was a scientist dedicated to my life long study of why people didn’t live life to suit themselves.

And I still hadn’t met my quota yet.


I wasn’t just some asshole looking for a quick fling and good time I took my work seriously.

But like a dedicated narcotics officer I had to not blow my cover so I slurred my words and offended many.


I tried hitting on anything with a vagina and a pulse.


My study was going well besides some minor mishaps and one bad dose of the clap.


Then one day I would sit and write my masterwork and dedicate it to the largely pussy whipped faction and less fortunate that had to settle down to raise a family.


I would become a professor in bird dogging and give lectures at universities all over the country and when some young student offered me a piece of ass I would refuse saying no I’m no longer on the job.


I sacrificed my health and sanity okay maybe that was just the side effects of my undiagnosed syphilis.


But that was a small price to pay in the name of research.


Whoever said I was just a run of the mill womanizing asshole must really have felt embarrassed to learn it was all an act to begin with.


Never judge a book by it’s cover or test my degree in bullshit.


When it comes to my insanity the ocean is ever so deep my friends.




John Patrick Robbins 

Is the editor of the Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers .

He is also the author of  Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown from Soma Publishing and Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press.

His work has been published here at Punk Noir , Ariel Chart , The San Pedro River Review , As It Ought To Be Magazine , Mojave River Review,  The Rusty Truck, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Blue Nib , 

His work has been nominated for Best Of The Net by Ariel Chart and The Dope Fiend Daily .

His work is always unfiltered. 


A Change In Platforms by John Patrick Robbins

Flash Fiction, John Patrick Robbins, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

One day the rich will get tired of having to view the poor. 

And in turn build large platforms over decaying cities to totally block them from view.

So they won’t have to share the sun and can literally piss upon the poor. 

They will never have to think of those less fortunate and the kind will throw scraps from their platform, as an owner throws scraps from a table to a dog.

The parks will die and soon people will become sick from being deprived of the sun.

But life on the platform will remain fine.

The rich will keep their heads in the sky as an ostrich buries its head in the sand.

And no longer be troubled when shopping the finest stores by the sight of beggars.


The lucky few will work the shops for the rich during the day.

And dream of throwing them off that very same platform. 

As these servants will remain the acceptable burden, being the rich can’t do shit without standing upon the backs of the poor. 

The high class drunkards will slip below decks just to enjoy a good time.

Because uptight bitches are a bore in the sack.


Many below dream of rising above and the poets will write about this oppression and largely do nothing but sit on their asses and complain.

Well at least some things will remain unchanged.

As me I will never notice the difference staying locked away in the bar.

The sun is overrated and an editor is but a modern day vampire living off booze and handing out rejections.

To the academics who speak of unknown truths as they piss from the penthouse.

While I read their scribblings and send their shit back to them from below.

Sorry but it’s a no from sewer rats. 




John Patrick Robbins 
Is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review , Under The Bleachers and Drinkers Only .
He is also the author of Sex, Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press.
His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine , San Pedro River Review,  Mojave River Review,  Ariel Chart , Blognostics, Red Fez, As It Ought To Be Magazine .
His work has also been nominated for Best Of The Net .


Tinder Hearted Holidays by John Patrick Robbins

Blue Collar Noir, John Patrick Robbins, Noir, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

The man in the mirror was one harsh looking son of a bitch.


And after a particularly bad spell of praying to the porcelain God he questioned why the hell he kept doing this to himself.


It was the fourth of July and Frank had learned to loathe the day.

It was a mile post to when it all went to shit in his life.


It had now been three years since Susan dropped off the face of the earth.


Leaving Frank’s to his vices and no matter how much he played it out upon the page he didn’t give a damn she haunted his existence.


And especially upon this fucking day.

Getting laid was easy finding someone you actually cared to speak to in the morning was a far different challenge unto itself.


His phone went off and Frank just ignored it.

He knew it was either Simmon his agent or Tony.


Simmon although being Frank’s agent had become a friend over the years.

And Tony was an old fart and publisher who had taken a shine to Frank.


Tony and Frank had a radio show that had grown in popularity.

And where Frank lived for a stiff drink and a young piece of ass.


Old Tony sought the sudden recognition and all the other bullshit that goes along with that so called spotlight.


“Fuck this life and these goddamed leeches!”


Frank said as he picked up the revolver upon the sink.


The hamster wheel was what so called success was.

People never got the truth of the situation.


That to keep your name out there was continual work and most given the fucking regins would go off the tracks in seconds.


He pulled the hammer back.

His hand shook and the world seemed still.

Even though Frank knew his life much like all the bullshit around him was truly of little importance.


He heard boozer nails upon the tile floor.


Guess he was going to get one hell of a show.


Frank’s phone kept buzzing.

And it was almost a comical scene.

As he stood there in front of the bathroom mirror gun to his head and phone in his hand.


It was that stupid app he had put upon his phone apparently some lonely old housewife had stumbled upon his profile.


Saw he was close by and could at least afford his cocktails and wanted to hookup.


Frank took the gun from his head put it back down upon the sink.


He looked at the old dog who still stood there starting his moderately mentally unstable owner.


“Sorry to disappoint you old fucker looks like daddy’s got plans for tonight after all.”


He said as he walked past the old dog as he messaged this clearly deranged woman back.


Yes the memories had made it a good day to die, but it was even a finer day to grab a piece of ass.


There would be fireworks of a far different kind tonight Frank thought to himself.


Even the best laid plans go astray in a second.




John Patrick Robbins .
Is the editor of the Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers .
And author of Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press and Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown by Soma Publishing.
His work has appeared here at Punk Noir Magazine , The San Pedro River Review,  Ariel Chart , The Dope Fiend Daily , Red Fez , Beatnik Cowboy , As IT Ought To Be Magazine.
His work is always unfiltered.

There Is Always A Hitch by John Patrick Robbins

Blue Collar Noir, Crime Fiction, Fiction, Flash Fiction, John Patrick Robbins, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Jake was a grizzled older looking dude harsh as the winters he endured as tough as the coffee he drank.


Most would fear his appearance alone.

Being six four and damn near three hundred pounds.


He wasn’t a man you would wanna encounter in a dark alley , let alone one sitting across from you in a well lit dinner.


The place was a ghost town aside from the old man and what he could only assume was his granddaughter.


She stared at Jake fear within her eyes.


“Hello kid.”


He said as he made his way to the counter.


“Stop staring sweetheart.”


Her grandfather said as he looked to Jake and nodded.


“What will it be Jake?”


Sandy asked.


She had been working here long as Jake could remember.


She didn’t care for Jake much and that’s probably because out of all the truckers that passed through this place he was one of the few men who hadn’t wanted a piece of ass with a side of fries.


He ordered his usual and turned to look at the oncoming storm outside.


“Looking bad out there can’t believe your not shutting down for the night Jake.”


Jake laughed he had been through worse.

Two divorces and one tour of Vietnam.

So a slight flurry did little to crack his nerves.


Jake just drank his coffee.

And as the time passed he felt the eyes of that little girl once again upon him.


It was strange and total annoyance to Jake being he largely hated children.


But her cuteness was undeniable although rather vomit provoking to him.


“Cindy stop staring this instant.”


Her grandfather snapped.


“I’m sorry sir, I don’t know why she is being so rude.”


“It’s cool not everyday you get to see a grizzly bear like me walking around, so where y’all headed on a night like this.”


Jake asked as he motioned Sandy over for a refill.


“South thankfully hoping to get home and out of this mess before the worst hits.”


“Well you better be careful this shit ain’t going to lighten up probably best to stop somewhere let it pass over.”


The old man seemed agitated for no reason looking at his little granddaughter.


“We have no choice and I rather not stop at some filthy motel I am driving through the night waitress check please.”


The old man paid his bill and as his little granddaughter continued to stare he snatched her by the arm as he pulled her along into the frozen night outside the dinner.


“Well he certainly was a charming fellow huh sweetheart?”


“Yeah and a cheap bastard to boot !, feel bad for that little girl though.”


Sandy said as she whipped down there table.


Jake finished off his third and final cup of coffee he didn’t know why that kid’s gaze haunted his thoughts.


She seemed stare into his soul there was something beyond fractured in those little girls eyes.


And as he laid in his bunk in the rig he finally understood why, as he saw those very same eyes on the evening news.


Apparently her name was Tabitha and her body was found in an alley somewhere outside of Richmond Virginia.


There were no leads.


Jake turned the television off called the number that had been flashed upon the screen.


He recalled the whole encounter that evening.


He knew it was pointless he had lived through hell himself and witnessed another’s that was far worse than anything he would ever endure.


That stare haunted him forever.

Jake appeared to be a monster of a man.


And that piece of shit just another ordinary old fool.


Looks can often be deceiving.

As many tales and future tragedies will often pass each other within the night.


Some of the darkest highways never see the light of day.


This is dedicated to those whose stories are left forever a mystery.


John Patrick Robbins
Is the editor of The Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers .
He is also the author of Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press .
His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine, Madusas Kitchen , The Mojave River Review , The San Pedro River Review , Ariel Chart , Red Fez, Angry Old Man Magazine , Blognostics .
His work is always unfiltered.