Cum And Die With Me

CUM, DIE WITH ME!

Hammered - Ode to Mickey Spillane 2022

Approximately 28,850 words

by

Donald Mallord

Copyright by dmallord, 2022, USA. All rights reserved.

___________

Foreword

ChloeTzang kicked off a new

"Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge

. This is my noir-style version of that, wildly popular, blood-spilling Mike Hammer character. My main tough guy's name is Nick Ramherhardt. His last name is pronounced as Ramer -- Heart. So don't just think that I scripted his name to be confused with the blatant sexual reference: Ram-her-hard! [Yeah, I did! It's part of the noir trashy theme.]

Noir Characteristics

Barbara DeMarco-Barrett's published article, "Writing Noir," says "... in noir, the main characters want better things for themselves, but try as they might, they just keep making wrong choices and things go from bad to worse." She also notes that "In noir, the main characters are on a path to doom and destruction, motivated by their narcissistic personality quirks."

Noir writings are also characterized by short spartan sentences, terse dialogue, and jolting dark thematic subject matter. Surprise, head-spinning twists in plots are a trademark element. Noir storylines had their heydays in the 1940s and 50s.

Editorial Recognition

Kenjisato, a volunteer Literotica editor, with a keen eye, provided editorial support for this version. His grammarian skillset has markedly improved my story!

Disclaimers:

Readers, heed the warnings; Spillane's works were: violent, sexist, racist, and abusive; the language was bad, and this incestuous story mimics those propensities.

This content contains derogatory terms — an emotive Spillane style. The women are disparaged and treated like trash or worse. Death is abundant. Sexual scenes include incest, ménage à trois, father-daughter, and girlfriend, and interracial. Please, note there is no correlation between the content's pejorative terms and my own beliefs.

Introduction

... Sneaking through an Atlanta, Georgia, cotton gin in the dead of night made me feel like my living' time was damn short. Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades. My spider's sense began feeling that danger stood behind every frigging cotton bale as I darted forward. Especially when the sweat from my fingers, in that hundred-degree heat, made it difficult to grip my gun! Johnathon Birdie, a narcissistic smiling asshole from Atlanta, Georgia, and three of his goons intended to terminate my life today! My life was pitted against the four of them as I crept forward, moving from bale to bale. I was looking for the element of surprise as my only edge for survival. It was me, depending on my Colt .45 to keep me alive, as I closed the gap on my prey.

Why the hell had I bought into this? She was just a dame. A helluva dame with a face, a body, and a sultry voice like Hedy Lamarr. She wasn't into me; she didn't even know I existed. She was an incestuous thirty-year-old femme fatale that met the guy I was tailing' in a hotel restaurant. Twenty minutes into their conversation as I listened in and I fell for her hook, line, and sinker. Raddison was her daddy and they were having supper together — before an all-night romp upstairs ...

________________________

Gettin' the Third Degree

The fuzz keepin' my car pissed me off! Not to mention it musta' been eighty sweltering degrees, in New York City, by the time I parked the rented sardine can in front of the office. Crawling out of the Rent-a-Dent box-on-wheels, I gotta throat-gagging whiff from the bent-up, overflowing trashcans. Overflowing with ripe fish guts and a week's leftovers of pasta.

Fish Fridays; damn Catholic Wops had settled into this corner of the slums. Yeah, and I'd been suckered into picking a low-cost office space, sandwiched in between all those Dagos.

Some retired Jew-lawyer had the place previously. 'Course, I'd picked the site out on a Monday! Because the slick-assed, Russkie landlord said that was the only day of the week he could show the place! Also, as it turns out, the only day of the week that trashcans weren't visible! Every damn trashcan smelt, all up and down the street. The smell was enough to gag even a friggin' goat.

Fuckn Fish-Friday—trash days!

I held my nose and crossed the street.

__________________________

Perched Like a Stool Pigeon

I'd spent the day downtown at police headquarters, being grilled about my whereabouts, last night.

Round midnight to be precise.

I wasn't whistling Dixie to any of those asshole dicks!

Nobody ever said I was dipshit stupid enough to be pissin' upwind to coppers!

The fuzz didn't have any business knowing I was slamming a bimbo against the headboards of her big-brass bed. Her knockers were doing the fandango and I was matching her grunts at every thrust; 'til I gave her the wad. Then it was just one long squeeze and a steady groan.

MY 'ten iron' shrank back down to a putter again; if ya know what I mean.

Ya don't squawk like a stool pigeon to the low dicks on the totem pole. Ya don't squeal that you'd been up in the captain's play-toy's cunt while he was out playing Thursday-night poker!

I found that laughable—since my alibi would've been that I was poking Trixie; the captain's most favorite girl!

That just happened to be 'round about midnight!

Seems some dick-head, and I don't mean the detective kind, got himself killed...killed, down on Delany Street 'round midnight. He was connected...to a client of mine. So, the cops had me perched on a stool like a canary, in a sweatbox, hoping I'd sing. The Chief had assigned a new dick to interrogate me.

Captain Baldcrocks' idea of breakin' in the poor bastard, I suppose.

It pissed me off!

The new detective had a huge problem. I'm six-foot-four and weighing in at two-hundred-thirty pounds of damn-toned muscle with lightning-fast hands.

Four days a week, I put on the gloves and work out at Clancy's old sweatbox on the corner of third and ninth streets. So, I could be a bit intimidating and certainly too friggin' big for the new dick to beat on.

Putting the gym workouts to good use, I wasn't above using a little of that size and intimidation to collect some dough from deadbeats if a client needed some of that 'investigation' kind of 'detective for hire' work.

Instead of a beatdown, the new dick thought he'd use 'psychology' to try and sweet talk me into hanging myself.

"Ain't no way that sweet-assed doll is gonna get herself blood-splattered by killing that old fart!" I smirked, leaning my chair back and squaring my shoulders. I was feeling pretty confident about his having nothing on me.

I didn't do this one!

"Look, Ram...Ramerher...Ramhard..." he stammered, havin' trouble with my last name.

"Hey dick ... tective," I growled, "it's easier than it looks, sounds like — 'Ramer-heart' and everybody else around here just calls me Ram. But just for you; let's keep it at Ramherhardt ... 'til ya gets to know me better!"

"Goddammit! Stop jerking my chain, Ramherhardt! I didn't ask about her sweet ass. It's your ass I want to know about!

"You got a .45, Ramherhardt!

"That old fart, McGaffiny, ate a .45 slug; right through his front teeth and blew off the back of his friggin' head! 'Course you already know that! His brains were all over the street!

"You plugged the bastard for her, right, lover-boy?

"Just admit it now, and I'll make sure the judge goes easy on you! You can claim it was self-defense! I'm sure he had a gun in his car, right?"

"You're barkin' up the wrong tree, dick. Test my gun! It ain't been fired...since, two months."

I wasn't about to say who was the recipient of that slug, where, or why.

But it sure wasn't McGaffiny! Not to say he didn't deserve it, though. I tuned the fledgling dick out—trying to figure out why the old bastard got whacked and who, in town, might have done it.

McGaffiny has,

make that had

, his fuck-finger in a lot of women's curly pies.

He squeezed mom and pop shops for protection money and ran a couple of hoe houses in Yonkers, by da bay. You know the story—if you don't pay, your place gets redecorated; or your customers start leaving when two goons show up to stand outside your place—then your business goes bust! McGaffiny buys it for a sweet song, from the bank, when you can't pay da mortgage!

One way or another, McGaffiny was gonna get his cut!

Until last night, I guessed.

'Eating a .45 caliber slug would have been tough to chew on.'

I mused wryly.

What was the old fart doing out past midnight?

He was too damn old to get it on with the hoes on that side of town.

Although, he wasn't too old to bitch-slap Belinda around!

Her telling him, she's preggo was a surprise still; ya' that bun in the oven must've pissed him off!

__________________________

The new dick kept grilling me, pushin' for a confession to impress the chief, while they ran my Betsy through ballistics, again. My Betsy had been down in the basement lab so many friggin' times, the techs knew her on sight, just by the pearl-inlays on her curvy handles!

This new 'dick-tective' didn't know me, yet. My guess is the guys listening into the grilling session were laughing their asses off, as his frustration built.

See, I have this reputation for bein' a smartass. Most of the time, I get away with that on account of my size. Even the Mob guerrillas think twice about pulling my chain.

This dick was no guerrilla ...

and I wasn't in no chains!

I knew my Betsy was gonna come up clean, 'cause, I didn't do that ass-kisser; I was fuckn sure Belinda didn't either. She sure didn't have the grand to hire it done! She was bleeding for money when she hired me to ... well that's another story.

And I was fairly certain she wasn't gonna rent out her slit, to cover the expense of hiring muscle to whack the bastard, upfront. With a kid in the oven, well, I wasn't up on how long she could keep earning a living lying on her back staring up at the ceiling. Although, Belinda was good—for, like, posing' on a mattress; that didn't take a lot of brains.

Besides, she wasn't that smart.

Planning a killing like this one was out of her league.

She wasn't good at league sports, although she had been known to screw a whole bowling team.

Belinda was a blond bimbo...who couldn't even figure out how to load a gun. Let alone figure out how to pull the trigger! Pretty sure she'd be looking down the barrel trying to figure out why the bullet wasn't coming out...if she could ever figure out how to take the safety off and pull the trigger, too!

Once this dick-head, the detective dick this time, got around to interviewing her, he'd figure that out too.

I yanked his chain for another hour. By then, the knock I was waiting on came at the sweatbox's door.

"Hey, Ram!" Michelob greeted me, as he swung open the door. "Detective, the lab results are in. Ramherhardt's .45 is clean. Grooves and Lands don't match." Then Mitch smiled at me.

"See you at Clancy's, tomorrow, shamus? Like to get in a couple of rounds with ya, but go easy, eh?"

"The new dick looked damn right puzzled. Before he could say another word, I was out of my chair calling out to Michelob, "You're buyin' the first round afterward, for keepin' me pinned up with this fuckn dork!"

I was out the door before the dick could say, "You're free to ...."

__________________________

Back to the Office in a Rent-a-Dent

I stuck my head in the Captain's doorway as I headed for the front desk.

I knew the drill.

"Asshole!" I leveled the word in his direction through clenched teeth.

He grinned, "Who?"

"Both of you! You damn well knew—I wasn't on Delany Street!"

"So, yeah, you weren't on Delany Street, just hanging out on Atmore and 6th Avenue. Trixie told me that too, shamus," Capt. Baldcrocks grunted as he looked up from his paperwork.

"If I, was you, 'private dick-tective,' I'd be more mindful of who's girl, you're fucking. Just sayin', Ramherhardt!" Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, Baldcrocks turned back to the stack of papers on his desk.

I got it!

Perhaps a damn bit too late!

Atmore and 6th was Trixie's pad. He sic'd the newbie on me, for fucking his girl-toy!

Well, maybe that wasn't the best or brightest move I ever made. Now that I think about it. Trixie, besides having great-lush-Hoover lips, turns out, was also a squealer.

What the fuck was I thinking!

Got my dick badge and notebook back, along with Betsy, at the front desk. Like usual, they kept the damn bullets! Must've figured I might be tempted to reload Betsy right at the desk.

At least, they got that part right!

The lab tech doll, down in ballistics, knew me well enough. I'd been down this road a couple of times.

She was a true beaut' — a good lay, too. She cleaned Betsy squeaky clean and gave her a tune-up. Professional courtesy, at least someone had that down there still; I was thinking it was Marlene or Marilyn; something like that, anyway. The sergeant with the big hooters—we'd hooked up a couple of times.

Used to do gymnastics and could still bend over backward. Nice way to start the evenings.

Kept my damn car!

Some damn thing about the blood they found in the trunk. It wasn't McGaffiny's for sure.

The new dick said his corpse was surrounded by a pool of blood and brains. Says the crime scene was right there; so, his body wasn't moved.

So, why were they checking the blood in my trunk?

Keeping my car was a damn affront to my dignity. I was pretty sure anybody that had been in my trunk hadn't been found. Bodies in my trunk were going through car shredders. They don't leave any trails that can get traced back to me. The acid wash makes sure of that.

What's left goes on a cargo ship back to the Chinks to recycle. At least Chinks are good for that.

__________________________

The damn sardine can I rented had crushed my nuts against the steering wheel. I waddled like a damn duck crossing the street toward my office.

Looking up, I saw the open office windows. Velma, bless her sweet secretary's ass, was still waitin' for me. I could sure use a piece of that right about now.

I climbed the sweltering dimly-lit stairway for the second time today.

Hell, it was twice as hard this time.

The sweat ran like buckets down the crack of my ass and my socks felt like sponges by the time I got to the third floor. Fuckn hot. Even the weight of old Betsy, my Colt .45, tucked in her leather holster under my left arm, felt like five pounds of dead weight dragging my ass backward, as I climbed.

Flinging open the door was a real eye-popper! I stood dead in my tracks. Damn temptin' view.

Velma was down on her hands and knees, cussing a blue streak. She looked mighty fine; right where she could serve me the best; I mused. She was on all fours, kneeling in one of my favorite entry positions. Her black panties nearly matched the color of those sweet thighs.

"Shit! Goddammit!"

Her knees were spread wide. Her dress, high up above her thighs, as she furiously tried to gather a windblown stack of papers, whirling around the office. I reached over—and pulled the plug out of the wall. The fan—and the paper tornado—died.

"It ain't goddamn funny, Ram!" she whined, catching my shit-eating grin. She looked around as fifty more sheets of shit lay strewn about. Then, took another second before she added, "Well, shit! I guess it is a bit."

I reached down, extended a hand, and helped her up. She had a bunch of papers clutched to her busty tits. Velma struggled to get the wadded stack together and onto her desk.

"You can close the file on that dame Belinda, I guess," I grunted, wiping the sweat off my forehead.

She glanced, quickly, in my direction. "Fired you? Or, found out your dick was too big?" she smirked.

'Why is it that women think men are like linoleum floors? Dames all seem to think all they have to do is lay'em—right, men that is,—and then they can walk all over the dumb bastards like a well-laid linoleum for years!'

I blinked as the words tumbled around inside my gourd.

"It ain't always about being too big, or gettin' fired! Just, that her problem with McGaffiny got resolved; that's all," I shot back.

"The old fart died in his sleep or ..." she kept it up.

"Got popped over on Delaney Street. Ate a .45 slug," I smiled. Then with a smirk, I added,

"Cops said it was a no-brainer."

"Hope you're not giving her the retainer back! ... By the way ..."

"There's a guy in your office. Came looking for you—by name. A fancy three hundred dollar suit. Italian shoes, I think. From the deep South...from the sounds of his drawl."

"Angry?"

"Don't think so. He's polite...not like..."

"Okay, so I ain't exactly Marlon Brando in that category! What? You want me to take 'polite' lessons down at the gym?" I snarled at her badgering.' The heat had gotten to me, I guess.

"Save your money, Ram! 'Polite lessons' ain't gonna do you no good...but you could give me that extra fiver in my paycheck. I'd promise not to bug ya' about it again." Velma had a way with words. They could end with a big smile that said -- just kidding ya, asshole, and makes you still like her!

"I'll take that under advisement, doll," I said as I turned the well-worn door knob on my office door, looking at the old moniker still inked on it.

'Attorney at Law,' the gilded letters read.

I thought,

'Probably should use the fiver to have that rubbed out and re-inked to read, 'Private Detective & Vigilante Outlaw' to prevent somebody from thinking I had a notable profession; instead of the dick I was—private dick, that is.

I could smell it when I opened the door—trouble, with a capital 'T.'

Could smell the fancy cologne, too. In eighty-degree heat, it helped with the stale sweat smell trickling down my testicles.

I watched him stand up. Damn gentleman.

He wasn't reaching for a gun, like I was, for a moment.

Nobody stands up like that in the Big Apple—unless they got bad intentions.

He held out his hand.

"Johnathon. Johnathon Birdie. From the Birdie family, in Atlanta, Georgia."

'Of course you are!'

I thought,

'Where the hell would someone with that accent be if it wasn't from Atlanta, Georgia; and, of course from the Birdies of Atlanta, Georgia. Not sure why that was so damn relevant; that I should get his history lesson.'

Velma was right.

His name spilled out in deep-velvety, southern tones. Like a voice from some damn plantation movie...'Gone with the Wind,' maybe.

I motioned for him to take a seat while I squeezed behind my desk, adjusting the fan. It didn't do much good. The heat from the street still got sucked in; along with the faint smell of fish guts rotting in the sweltering heat.

"What brings ya to the Big Apple, Mr. Johnathon Birdie?"

Birdie, as it turns out, was a name dropper.

He seemed to know how to get your attention—without a lot of fuss. Knew, too, how to get what he wanted and didn't seem to care—if it mattered to anyone else.

"Jaime Lemons, says you should help me," he dropped the name as casually as if he'd just bent over to tie a shoe.

'Lemons? Shit!'

I cursed, under my breath.