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Conroy was shoveling the last bit of dirt atop the grave when Dr. Reingold woke up.

“Good morning,” Conroy said, wiping a sleeve across his sweaty brow.

Dr. Reingold’s eyes were wide with terror, and he struggled against the chair he’d been bound to.

“You can’t get away, Dr. Reingold. The knots are too tight.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“You don’t remember? You and your associate lured me to a warehouse in Elk Grove, using a fake email story. Right now you’re in my basement.”

“Where’s Marty?” Dr. Reingold said, his voice creaking.

“He’s right here.” Conroy patted the fresh mound. “Next to him is Mr. Bekhi Kogan, a highly dubious Nigerian diplomat. One mound over is Sr. Domingo, who spoke no Spanish, though he was supposedly a Venezuelan auditor general. The third grave is Zakir Mehmood, who had a distinct Chicago accent, even though he claimed to be from Pakistan. Behind him is a lottery commissioner from Madrid, I forget his name. Began with an L, I think.”

Conroy set the shovel on the table, next to the pliers and the filet knife.

“Spammers. All of them. They all promised me riches. Just like you did, Dr. Reingold. All they wanted in return was my bank account number. Speaking of which…”

Conroy picked up the filet knife, and held it against the bound man’s ear.

“…why don’t you tell me your account number, Dr. Reingold?”

Dr. Reingold began to sob.

“Who…who are you?”

“I’m your most dreaded enemy, Dr. Reingold.” Conroy grinned, his eyes sparkling. “I’m a spam killer.”

Conroy pushed the knife forward and Dr. Reingold began to scream.

All in all, a pretty decent take. Dr. Reingold’s bank account contained over seventeen thousand dollars. He’d had a little trouble remembering his routing number, but Conroy was good at helping people remember things.

Next time, he’d do things differently. He hadn’t expected an Internet swindler to have a partner. Or a weapon. The ones he’d dealt with previously had been con artists, not hardened criminals.

Well, live and learn. In the future, he’d be more prepared.

After a quick shower, Conroy visited his favorite all night diner for some meatloaf and a slice of cherry pie. Late night grave digging made a man hungry.

“How are you, Mr. Conroy?”

The regular waitress, Dora, was in mid coffee pour when she sneezed, spilling some onto the table.

“Sorry about that.”

Conroy grimaced.

“Sounds like you have a cold.”

Dora sniffled. “Yeah. Bad one too.”

“Shouldn’t you be home, resting?”

“Can’t. Need the money.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Dora sneezed again, not even bothering to cover her mouth. “You want the usual?”

Conroy thought it over, then made his decision.

“Not today. I just remembered something I have to do.”

Conroy left the restaurant. Instead of climbing into his car, he walked around back and waited in the alley for Dora’s shift to end. His hunger had been replaced by a hunger of a different kind.

He fingered the .38 in his pocket, pleased with his newfound sense of purpose.

I’m giving myself an upgrade, he mused.

From now on, he would be Conroy Version 2.0—Spam Killer and Virus Eliminator.

Before I owned a computer, I had WebTV, which was an Internet browser that hooked up to the television. I found some online writing groups, and would regularly type stories to post for critiques. This was the first story I ever put on the world wide web.

T
hey shoot cheaters at The Nile.

Blaine lost his mentor that way, a counter named Roarke. Didn’t even have a chance to get ahead before the eye in the sky locked on, videotaping skills that took years to master. Then it was burly men and a room without windows. One between the eyes, tossed out with the trash.

Poor bastard deserved better.

Blaine pushed back the worry. He was dressed like a tourist, from his sandals to his Nile Casino T-shirt. Made sure to spill some beer from the paper cup down his chin when he took a sip. Sat by a loud slot machine called Pyramids and plunked in quarters, trying to look angry when he lost. Ugly American. Probably had a job in the auto industry.

When the coins ran out, he frowned, scratched himself, and made a show of looking around. He’d had an eye on a particular Blackjack dealer for the last two hours. Surfer guy, looked like a tan version of the Hulk, too young to have been in the business long.

Blaine wandered over to the table, pretended to think it over, then sat down and fished some cash out of his shorts. Three hundred to start.

He took it slow. Six deck shoe, sixteen tens per deck. Too many to keep track of mentally. But no need to. Every counter had his tally method.

Roarke had been one of the best. Subtle. See a ten, adjust the elbow. Ace, move the foot. Depending on his body position, Roarke knew if the shoe was heavy or light with face cards.

But the silver globes in the ceiling caught him just an hour into his game. Roarke was found a few days later in an alley, the offending foot and elbow smashed. Back of his head was missing, and no one bothered to look for it.

Blaine was a counter as well, but his tally couldn’t be seen by the cameras. No tapping feet or odd posture. Pit boss could be taking a dump on his shoulder, wouldn’t notice a thing.

He bet small, safe. Won a few, lost a few. Turned more cash into chips and bided time until he got a nice, fat shoe. Then it was payday.

Thirty minutes. Twelve thousand dollars.

He lost a grand, on purpose, before tipping the Hulk a hundred bucks and calling it quits for the night.

Blaine walked out of the casino happy, not needing to fake that particular emotion. He’d be off this tropic isle tomorrow. Back to his wife, laden with money. A memorable and profitable trip.

The goons grabbed him in the parking lot. Nile Security. Guys with scars who were paid to give them.

“What the hell’s going on?”

No answer. They dragged Blaine back inside. Past the crowd. Down a hall. To a room without windows.

Panic stitched through his veins. He fought to stay in character. Hackles and indignation.

“I’m calling the police! I’m an American!”

The door slammed. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows. The pit boss forced Blaine to his knees. Big guy, a walrus in Armani, breath like rotten meat.

“We shoot card counters here.”

“What are you talking about? I won the money fair!”

The blow knocked Blaine off his feet. Concrete was sticky under his palms. Old stains.

“Camera caught it. Under the table.”

The blood in Blaine’s mouth contrasted sharply with his blanched face. The pit boss reached down, pulled at Blaine’s shorts, his underwear.

Blaine stared down between his naked legs. The abacus was along his thigh, taped to the right of his testicles.

The pit boss ripped it off, a thousand curly hairs screaming.

“This belong in your shorts?”

“How did that get there?” Blaine tried for confused. “I swear, I borrowed this underwear. I have no idea how that got on me.”

His explanation was met with a kick in the head. Blaine kissed the mottled floor, his vision a carousel. He flashed back to Roarke’s funeral, closed casket, the promise he made. “I’ll beat the Nile for you, old buddy.”

Should have stuck with Vegas.

The pit boss dug a hand inside his sport coat. “Never saw a guy count cards with his dick before. Man with your talent, should have gone into porno.”

The gun was cool against Blaine’s temple.

“No one cheats the Nile.”

Blaine’s wife cried for seven weeks straight when she learned of his death.

Beware. This is a rough one. I wrote this story as a dual experiment. First, to do a serious story using only dialog. No action. No exposition. No speaker attribution. Just talking. And second, I always wondered if I could make readers squirm without relying on description. It was written for a horror issue of the webzine Hardluck Stories, at the request of Harry Shannon, and it’s as nasty a story as I’ve ever done.

“F
rom the beginning? The very beginning?”

“Wherever you want to start, Jane.”

“Wherever I want to start. Well. I guess you could say it all started when I was thirteen years old, when my father started coming into my bedroom.”

“Your father molested you?”

“Molested? That sounds like he stuck his hand under my bra. My father fucked me. Made me suck him off. Called me Daddy’s Little Whore. Used to write it on my forehead, in marker. I’d have to scrub it off before going to school. Wretched bastard. Went on until I ran away, at sixteen.”

“And that’s when you met Maurice?”

“That pimp fucker thought he was so smooth, busting out a white girl. Had no idea my old man busted me out years earlier.”

“Was Maurice the one in the pit?”

“No. Maurice was the belt sander.”

“Who was in the pit?”

“You want me to tell it, or answer questions?”

“Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

“Okay. I’ll tell it. Maurice found me at the shelter. Slimy pricks like him can probably sniff out teenage pussy. He talked sweet, hooked me on crack, and the next thing you know I’m blowing guys in their cars for twenty bucks a pop. Wasn’t that bad, actually. I know I’m nothing to look at. Even before all the scars, I was fat and dumpy. Plain Fucking Jane, my mom called me. You got a cigarette?”

“Menthol.”

“Beats sucking air. Thanks. Anyway, Maurice set me up with this freak. Guy took me back to his place, had a whole torture dungeon in his bedroom. That’s how my face got all fucked up. Cigarette burns. Looks like acne scars, doesn’t it? Kept me there for four days, then dumped me in a trash can.”

“Did you know his name?”

“We’ll get to that. You wanted this from the beginning, remember?”

“Take your time.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, I can’t smoke menthols. Do you have anything else?”

“No.”

“Do I have to smoke?”

“No.”

“I want to do this right for you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Thanks…Mr. Police-man. Where was I? Oh yeah, after my face got burned, Maurice couldn’t give me away. I wound up ass fucking winos in alleys for three bucks a pop. You ever have gonorrhea in your ass? Hurts like a bitch. And fucking Maurice wouldn’t give me money for the clinic. Whatcha got there? A picture?”

“Is this Maurice?”

“Jesus! That’s disgusting! Is that real?”

“Is this Maurice?”

“Yeah. That’s him. Doesn’t look too good there, does he? Heard he might live.”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Ha! Be damn tough for him to testify. But I’m getting ahead of myself. After a while, the VD got so bad I couldn’t walk. Maurice beat the shit out of me, left me for dead. That’s when Gordon found me.”

“Reverend Gordon Winchell?”

“He’s no reverend. No church would have him. He was just another preacher, screaming scripture at drunks in soup kitchens. Saved my life, probably. Got me to the hospital. Actually came to visit me during my recovery. Seemed like an actual decent guy for a while. Until I learned his kink.”

“What did he do to you?”

“On the day of my release, the good Reverend took me to his apartment, tied me to the bed, and began biting me.”

“Biting you?”

“Look at this —”

“You don’t need to —”

“Don’t get all prude on me. See? Nothing there. Bit my nipples right off. If I wasn’t in handcuffs I’d show you what he did to my twat.”

“Jesus.”

“You okay, Mr. Police-man? You don’t look so good. You want to take a break?”

“How did you get away?”

“He had it all worked out in his head that he’d kill me. But he couldn’t. Didn’t have the balls. So he dumped me in front of the same hospital he brought me home from.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I called fucking everybody. When my dad was raping me, I called DCFS, and he paid the assholes off. When that freak burned my face, I filed a complaint, and you guys didn’t do shit. Gordon eats my private parts, one of your finest told me to have my pimp take care of it. Is this turning you on?”