ST3.6 | "Double Feature"

PROMPT: Happy Pride Month! Rock and a Hard Place Press is a proud ally of the LGBTQ+ community, and this month, we want stories where the pride rainbow isn’t quite as bright. Queer characters (and queer people, for that matter) put up with enough bullshit from homophobes and transphobes, and this month we want noir tales where they turn the tables on the haters in fabulous and brutal ways.

DOUBLE FEATURE

by Jenn Hooker

I didn’t realize I was bleeding until I saw the abstract red splatters on the brick beneath me. The adrenaline coursing through my veins kept me from feeling anything, tasting anything, hearing anything. My senses were completely dulled. My mind, though . . . my mind was as sharp as a tack.

Unfortunately, that sharp mind of mine was in defense mode. The muscles in my abdomen contracted, my arms flew up to my head, and I pulled into the fetal position as blows rained down on my head. Kicks connected with my spine and legs, and my sharp mind began praying to a god I didn’t really believe in that I would survive the next five minutes.

“Fat dyke bitch,” the guy spat at me, and landed one more hit before his friend pulled him away.

“Come on, Knucks, that’s enough.”

Their thick-soled black boots smacked on the brickwork as they walked away.

I laid there for what seemed like an eternity before trying to get up, the harsh yellow light above the back door to the theater flickering. As my adrenaline faded, the pain started to seep in and I knew if I didn’t get myself into my car quickly, I wouldn’t be able to get up at all.

***

Back home, I crashed through the door of my apartment and Cherry—my dear, sweet Cherry—didn’t panic or scream or cry, just collected the alcohol and gauze from our emergency kit and tended to me like my own private nurse.

I looked up at her through my swollen eyes, at her beautiful, smooth skin and rich, auburn hair, and lifted a pain-ridden hand to brush a curl from her face.

“What happened this time?” she asked, as plainly as asking if I wanted meatloaf or spaghetti for dinner.

“I stepped out for a smoke behind that queer theater on Fourth Street—they were screening Rope again—and they were already in the alley. Probably waiting for one of us to come out so they could get a few licks in. Guess I got lucky. Don’t worry, though, I have a plan.”

“Is that so?” She dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the gash on my forehead. It stung like hell.

“Yeah, I’m not going to let those boot-licking fascist fucks win. I can’t.” Cherry locked eyes with me, pity and concern writ large on her face.

“Baby,” she cooed at me, “you can’t just mow ’em down with your car or jump ’em in an alley. You’re lucky all they did this time was give you a couple scratches and bruises.”

Her ability to minimize my injuries was impressive, but not unprecedented. Nothing was broken this time, sure, but I was going to have a hell of a time wiping my own ass for the next week.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said so quietly that, at first, I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly. “You’ve come home like this four times over the last six months. As soon as you can stand upright, you’re out there picking fights.”

“Sometimes the fights pick me,” I mumbled.

Her voice grew sterner with each word, her confidence gaining steam. “I’m afraid every time you leave the house that one day I’m going to get a call to come ID your body.”

Cherry had only ever been my support, my rock, my best friend, my lover. She hardly ever asked me for anything and this one time—this one time she asked me for something—it was something so massive I couldn’t say no.

But I had to.

“Cherry, you know I have to do this, right? It’s not just for us; it’s for the community. Every time they attack one of us, it emboldens them.”

A tear spilled down the plump curve of her cheek and she looked away from me, tossing the soiled cotton ball onto the table. She stood up, the springs of the couch bouncing back and rocking me in a way that jostled my aching ribs.

“I’m going to stay with my mom for a while,” she muttered as she slipped into our bedroom and shut the door behind her, leaving me there in silence.

***

Cherry was gone when I woke up. I didn’t know if for now or for good. For a week I stumbled around the apartment, struggling to make myself a sandwich let alone bathe or work. In her absence I obsessed over my plan, going over each step in detail, four, five, six times. Maybe if I was successful Cherry would come back. Of course, if it didn’t go as I hoped it would, there wouldn’t be anyone to pick my body up off the asphalt.

When the bruises on my body had turned a disgusting yellow-green color and I could stand up straight for more than ten minutes, I knew it was time. I drove back to the alley behind the movie theater and parked around the corner and out of sight.

Making sure no one was on this side of the building, I set the scene: a length of pipe nestled behind an errant pile of trash bags of stale popcorn, a container full of gasoline tucked behind the grungy dumpster, and a pair of brass knuckles, the kind with the rainbow oil slick finish, resting comfortingly in the palm of my hand. I pulled out the burner phone I’d picked up, then dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” a nasally voice asked.

I tightened the vocal cords in my throat, making my voice as high as I could, drawing on improv classes from long ago. “Please help me, there are men chasing me and I’m hiding in the alley behind Bergman’s Theater. Hurry, please!”

I hung up, hoping against hope that this would work. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, tightened my grip on the brass knuckles, and curled into the fetal position in the middle of the alley.

Within a minute I heard sirens blaring. I saw, down the alley, a cop car pull across the entrance, the alley itself being too narrow to drive down. Two figures got out and, as they approached, I saw it was “Knucks” and his partner. Perfect.

I tucked my head more, obscuring my identity until they were right on top of me.

“Ma’am, are you okay? We got a call about someone being chased.”

I lay still, doing my best opossum impression, trying not to let my anxiety and, dare I say, excitement, spring the trap too early.

“Check to see if she’s breathing,” one of them said. I felt a presence come over my body, cautiously.

That’s when I struck.

I lashed out with the knuckles as fast as my body would let me and landed a blow directly on the first cop’s nose. He shrieked and stumbled back, knocking into the dumpster and falling over onto his side, grabbing at his face as blood started pouring out of his nose.

“What the fuck?!” said Knucks, standing a few feet away. From the ground I saw him stumble backwards, his hand moving towards his holster.

I jumped up, tackling him before he could unclip his sidearm. My shoulder made contact with his chest and we both went down, our limbs becoming tangled in the process. His bulky body trapped my arm against the ground and I could feel the old brick scraping against the skin on my hand. Although my angle was awkward, I punched at the officer, hitting him first across the head, my fist glancing off his short-cropped hair, but the second one landed directly in his throat. His face turned red and he wheezed, clutching at his neck.

I knew my time was limited, lest one of them call for backup. Ripping my arm out from under him, I unclipped the holster and pulled the gun out, tossing it aimlessly down the alley. I moved over to the cop with the bloody nose, grabbing the hidden pipe along the way. He scrambled to get up, his hands and uniform shiny with blood. At that moment I couldn’t help but think it was the same shade of red as Cherry's lipstick. With all the strength I could muster, I brought the pipe down on his head.

There was a loud crack. His body went limp.

I turned my attention back to Knucks, who was still clutching at his throat, trying to shout at me and coming up mute. Pipe in one hand, I grabbed the container of gasoline in the other and approached him. He scrambled backwards, kicking at the brick to get purchase and hasten his movement.

“How does it feel to be voiceless, prick?” I asked, and swung the pipe at his leg, connecting with his kneecap in a sickening crunch. He released a screech that reminded me of a wounded animal.

While he writhed in pain, clutching his knee close to his body, I ripped the walkie off his shoulder for good measure and began splashing the gasoline over him. His hand shot up, the milky white palm a silent plea to stop. I shook the jug, each heave pouring out a gush of pungent gasoline.

“Please” he croaked, “Stop. I have kids.”

I retrieved a Zippo from my pocket. “Kids, huh? At least you’ve got good life insurance.” I flicked the lighter, the tiny blue-orange flame dancing. A trickle of liquid slid down his cheek and once again I thought of Cherry.

My beautiful, sweet Cherry.

Her bouncy curls. The slight upturn of the curve of her lips. The tear that slid down her supple cheek the other night. Her deep, sultry voice whispering, “I can’t keep doing this.”

Was this asshole worth it? If I lit this guy up like a fireworks display, wouldn’t there be a hundred more like him waiting in the wings? Could I immolate half the police department and get away with it?

And if I let him go, would my Cherry come back to me?

Knucks peered at me wide-eyed through his splayed fingers, waiting. The lighter grew warm in my hand. I took a deep breath, and decided.

Jenn Hooker (she/her; on Instagram @thejennhooker) is an unapologetically queer crime writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. When she's not hatching new schemes or actively writing, she's spending time with her family, tending to her yard, or curled up with a good book.