Free Creamy Bullets by Kevin Sampsell Page A

lady to the hospital anonymously. My head started to hurt and a loud beeping sound filled my ears. I felt a heavy pain going through my own legs. I reached down and my hands were quickly smashed. My vision cleared and I found myself underneath a large truck of some kind. I knew something horrible had happened. There were vegetables, a gallon of milk, toothpaste, and a bag of Doritos in disarray where my body splayed on the gravely ground.
    I heard footsteps coming toward me. My throat choked out dark blood and dry, clumsy chunks of language. There was a little girl’s voice calling my name. A headache filled my body.

Outside of This Place
    L ast week, I noticed my hair was falling out in unusual fashion. As in the location of my body of the falling out. As in my arm pits and crotch.
    I began to suspect our upstairs neighbor. We saw her once washing the concrete steps with chicken blood. Some kind of voodoo routine.
    This lady got unpleasantly pissed off at my wife and I when we first moved in and couldn’t produce a corkscrew for her. She seemed agitated while watching me annihilate the wine cork with a Philip’s screwdriver.
    My wife has not noticed a change in the health of her hair. She shaves her whole body anyway. Except her head of course.
    Another tenant recently told us that she has seen the inside of Voodoo Lady’s apartment. There was construction paper laid out everywhere with all sorts of chicken parts spread out on top. At least it looked like chicken. There was a bucket of blood on the dining room table, placed neatly between the salt and pepper shakers. This tenant told us she only saw the place that once, while borrowing the telephone.
    I am in bed, crawling over my wife, trying to locate her left nipple in the dark. Her right foot is gently massaging my groin. I become large. She says in a concerned voice: “Fuzzy.”
    I nearly lose my concentration but keep on licking. Her body so hard and smooth.
    “Stubble,” she says, under her breath. My body starts to numb and I look at the glowing numbers of the clock: 4:12 am.
    “I need a drink,” she tells me as her fingers click on the bedside lamp. Standing beside the bed, she pauses. Her body is spotted with three dark hairs in the shapes of an S, a 6, and a C. She lightly brushes them off. She looks a little concerned.
    She exits the bedroom and I stare at the bed and the floor beside it, the troublesome nests of hairs.
    My wife comes back in with a glass of Kool-aid that we share. Upstairs, we hear the lady turn her vacuum cleaner on.
    I go upstairs the next afternoon and offer her a ribbon-wrapped corkscrew. She opens the door with some kind of strange robe on. The bottom half is some kind of red velvet, but above the waist is more like a see-through pink chiffon. Her large brown breasts rest just above her deep belly button, which looks about the size of a bathtub drain.
    I look at her nose when I talk to her. “I got you a present so you don’t have to use my Philip’s screwdriver again.”
    “And where’s the wine, sweet man?” She tests the sharp point of the corkscrew with her index finger.
    “Sorry,” I lie to her. “I have to go to work.”
    “I thought you worked at nights,” she says.
    I wonder how she might know when I work. I hardly spoke to her until now.
    “I can hear you working come night time down there.”
    I start to understand what she’s getting at, and she smiles like a psychic.
    After she burrows around in a kitchen cabinet for a few minutes, she brings out a bottle of dark red wine.
    I sit in an overstuffed chair in the living room and watch a soap opera I have never heard of.
    “I think this will be adequate for starters,” she says, rubbing the bottle against her chest. By this time, I have surveyed the area and find nothing too unusual about her place. There are some lurid Aztec-looking pictures on the wall and a crowded bookshelf with all sorts of religious books. Everything from Buddhism to Mormonism. Her