First, my mother loved Dolly and her music, so I was exposed (forced?) to listen to country music on things called records and 8-track tapes. When Mom was home listening to music, Dolly was always in her rotation.

Fast forward to today. Gatlinburg, Tennessee, is one of our favorite places to vacation or just get away for a weekend. You can either do the touristy things or relax in a cabin surrounded by nature. My wife and I last stayed there in 2022, after all the Covid restrictions were lifted.

As I’m sure you know, the Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge/Sevierville, Tennessee area is Dolly’s home. Even if you don’t go to Dollywood, there are not too many places where you won’t see a picture of her, a sign with her name on it, or hear her music.

Whenever I travel, I try to represent my favorite sports teams, and one particular day, I was wearing my Cincinnati Reds hat as we rode a sky lift to a mountaintop attraction called Anakeesta. Once we made it to the top, I found my way to the closest bar for a beverage, where the bartender, who looked to be about my age, commented on my hat and began talking about the Reds like he was a lifelong fan (I would know, because I am one).

We struck up a conversation, and it turned out he was originally from Dayton, OH (my hometown), and owned his own construction business for over 30 years. He eventually sold the business and retired to Gatlinburg, buying himself a cabin to live out the rest of his days. He said he bartended just to have something to do and talk to people.

He also told me that during the Great Smoky Mountain wildfires of 2016, his cabin was burnt to the ground, as were many others.

Some of those people who lost their properties did not have adequate insurance coverage to rebuild after a total loss. Their policies would only cover 80% of the restoration. For example, if it cost $300,000 to rebuild your cabin, you needed to come up with about $60K out of pocket, and the majority of the people didn’t have that much cash on hand and were out of luck.

Word of this spread around the community, and eventually, to Dolly Parton.

The bartender told me he was contacted by one of Dolly’s assistants and told to come to Dollywood on a certain date at a certain time to meet her. That was all he was told.

So, he went, because when Dolly calls, you go. He didn’t know what to expect. He figured it had something to do with the wildfires, because at least 40 other people showed up and waited in line to see Dolly.

When it was his turn, he was ushered into a spacious office, and there she sat—Dolly, Queen of Country Music, behind a big desk. She shook his hand, asked him his name, and said, “How much do you need to rebuild your house, honey?”

He told her he was $40,000 short. She wrote him a check for that amount, signed it, and handed it to him.

Dolly also wrote checks for the rest of the people waiting in line, who had lost their houses and didn’t have enough coverage.

This act of kindness never made the news. She kept it quiet. She didn’t want recognition. She just wanted to help.

The bartender had tears in his eyes as he finished telling me his story. I had no reason not to believe him.

Dolly Parton. A legend. A national treasure. A saint.

Rest in peace.

I know. I already sent one of these this month. But as the title says, this one is special.

When I decided to retire and write full-time (a dream I’ve had for a very long time), I told myself that if my writing ever brought me success, I’d be a champion for charitable causes that I’m passionate about.

Well, why wait?

On Sunday, August 30th, at Jim and Dan’s Comic and Toy Show at the Wright State University Student Union from 10 am to 4 pm in Dayton, OH, I’ll be selling copies of all the anthologies I have stories in, used books, and t-shirts (Joe Cooper merch). 100% of the proceeds from this sale will go to 4 Paws for Ability, a non-profit that raises, trains, and provides service dogs to disabled children and veterans. Check out my video below for a look at the amazing work they do.

It’s a long video, but worth the watch (even if I’m in it). Here’s the info once again:

Date: Sunday, August 30th

Time: 10 am to 4 pm

Location: Wright State University’s Student Union, 3640 Colonel Glenn Highway, Dayton, OH 45435 - Jim and Dan’s Comic and Toy Show

Items for sale: My anthologies, a selection of used books (dirt cheap), and t-shirts (Joe Cooper merch)

100% of my sales will go to 4 Paws for Ability

Special Surprise: Service dogs and their handlers will make an appearance!

If you are in the Dayton area, please come out and support this very important cause.

I want to say a heartfelt THANK YOU for following me on this journey. Between my two publications - Ron Clyburn - Writer and From the Files of Joe Cooper, P.I. I have well over 200 subscribers, and I hope you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them.

Thanks again,

Ron

This story was previously published in Guilty Crime Story Magazine 16

“I need you to find someone.” The woman’s voice coming through my phone is casual. Like she knows me.

“How did you get this number?” I ask.

“Felix gave it to me.”

Fuck. Why is Felix giving out my number? “You know what I do, right? I don’t just... find people.”

“Yes. That’s why I called. It has to be tonight. I’ll pay double. I’m sending you a picture.”

My phone buzzes. I open the attachment, and... Wow. I expected a picture of a man. Some middle-aged, overweight douchebag who’d beat his wife one too many times, until she’d finally had enough. That’s not the case.

It’s a picture of a woman so beautiful she doesn’t seem real. Like one of those computer-generated deep fakes. “Are you sure this is the right picture?”

“Positive. I need to know if you’re all in.”

After a beat, I reply, “Yes.”

“Good. Call this number when it’s done.” The line drops.

If you want to survive in Las Vegas, you have to learn the game. Depending on the cards you’re dealt, you could cash out early. Gambling is a risk. The real money is in murder. You see, Vegas has many parts: casinos, sex trade, and drugs. Sometimes, those worlds collide. And sometimes, somebody needs to die. That’s when I get a call.

Felix, the guy who gave the mystery woman my number, is the one who sets up my jobs. He’s a disbarred attorney and an asshole. Plain and simple. We have a love-hate relationship. I love money, and he hates me because I don’t take his condescending bullshit. But I’m the best hitter in his corral of contract killers, and he knows it.

Las Vegas becomes a different place in November. The oppressive heat is gone, and so are the obnoxious crowds. With my contacts up and down the strip and all over Fremont Street, it only takes a half hour to track her down.

I sit in my Corvette staring at her picture, studying the contours of her face, the way her auburn hair falls around her shoulders, her haunting emerald eyes staring deep into my soul. There’s just something about redheads. I work up the courage and walk inside from the Luxor parking lot.

I’m normally not like this. I get a job, I execute the target, and move on. It’s a pattern that works. But this woman stirs something inside me, and I ask myself...

What has she done to be marked for death?

What would she feel like against my body?

How am I going to go through with this?

She’s alone at the bar, smoking a cigarette, wearing a red, low-cut dress that shows off a pair of incredibly toned and tanned legs. Her expression is solemn. She motions to the bartender for another drink. I take a deep breath and move in.

“Can I buy this round?” I slide into the seat next to her. She turns. Our eyes meet, and she steals my breath. At first, she’s standoffish. Her expression softens as she looks me over. She likes what she sees and smiles. My heart thumps like a drum.

“Jimmy?” Chet, the bartender, greets me with wide eyes. He knows who I am and what I do. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Lost my ass on the blackjack table. Thought I’d get numb for a while.”

“Oh. Okay. You want the usual?”

“Sure.” He hurries away to pour me a bourbon, neat. From the corner of my eye, I recognize someone. At the end of the bar is Millie. She’s a hitter like me, and she’s good. We have a mutual respect. I make eye contact so she knows that I see her. Millie raises her glass and nods. Interesting. Why is she here?

“Your name is Jimmy?” the redhead says. I turn in my seat to face her and block Millie’s view.

“That’s me. And you are?”

She stubs out her cigarette in an ashtray and extends her hand. “I’m Lynn.” We shake. Her skin is smoother than I imagined. My eyes drift over her shoulder to where the bar meets the casino, amid the bells, whistles, repetitive dings, and scrolling videos of the slot machines. A man is glaring at me. He’s Asian. His name is Wang. Another hitter. He has like twenty black belts, or something. He looks pissed.

“What do you do for a living?” Lynn asks.

“Uh, I’m... an independent contractor. You?”

Lynn lights another cigarette. “I used to be a big deal. Not anymore.”

Chet shows up with two drinks. “Here you go, Jimmy. Top shelf. Ma’am, your drink is courtesy of the gentleman behind you.” We turn our heads. In a booth, by himself, is a Russian hitter. He’s six-five with blond hair and built like an Olympian. Calls himself Montoya. Why, I’ll never know. Lynn doesn’t say a word. She turns back around and sips her whiskey on ice.

The next thirty minutes are filled with light conversation and occasional laughter, which leads to flirting and, for some reason, dirty looks from my fellow assassins. She asks where I’m from. I tell her, “Military brat, so everywhere and nowhere. Did a stint in the Army. Explosive Ordinance.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“Only if you don’t get blown up.”

She laughs, then confesses that she was a CFO for a pharmaceutical company and has a sister in Ohio with five kids.

“Was?”

“That’s the past. Tonight, I want to have fun.” And that’s when she gives me the look. The look that says, “Take me somewhere and have your way with me.”

In my line of work, I can’t risk personal relationships. It’s too dangerous. Both for me and for anyone who might be foolish enough to fall in love with a hitman. But Lynn makes me wonder... How long can I go on killing for a living? Can I ever have a normal life?

I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and say, “I need to send someone a quick message. Won’t take long.”

“Your wife?” Lynn asks, her tone suspicious.

I slide off my seat and lean in close. Her hair smells like vanilla and roses. I gaze into her green eyes like she’s the only woman in Vegas. “Do I look like the marrying type?”

Her cheeks flush, and we share a smile. I want to kiss her. The vibe is right, but not yet. I turn away and send a text to the mystery woman, canceling the contract.

Lynn’s phone buzzes on the bar. She picks it up. I glance over her shoulder at the screen... and read the text I just sent.

It hits me like a gut punch. I turn my phone around and show her the screen. “You?”

Her reaction is a mix of sadness and regret. “You?”

“You put a hit on yourself?”

Lynn raises the cigarette to her mouth, her hand shaking, and takes a long drag. She exhales with a sigh. “It’s a long story.”

I turn and casually scan the bar. The hitters have converged and are now sitting together. Just like me, they all get their jobs through Felix. What the fuck is going on?

“How many numbers did you call tonight?”

She looks at me, her brow furrowed. “Only one. Why?”

“Because there are three other contract killers here besides me.”

“Shit,” she says, tossing her phone back on the bar. “So, what? Are you all in some guild? Hitman’s Local 101?”

“Funny. Look, I know who the players are in this town, and I don’t mean poker. Now, tell me... Why did you put a contract on yourself, and why is there an assembly of assassins lying in wait?”

Lynn gulps down what’s left of her whiskey and takes another nervous drag on her smoke. “My job... My old one, that is. I found something out I shouldn’t have. Information that could send a lot of people to prison. $20 million is missing, and I went forward with it, took it to the top, thinking I could trust the board. Big mistake.”

“So, what happened?”

“I was fired today at noon. Then an old friend called and told me I needed to get out of the country. As soon as possible.”

“Why didn’t you go to the feds? They could protect you.”

“You don’t understand. This is Big Pharma. They have their tentacles everywhere. I know how they operate in times of crisis. My company doesn’t just kill people. They make them disappear. There’s nowhere I can hide.” Lynn’s lower lip quivers, and her eyes are glassy. “My sister... The one I told you about. She’s the beneficiary of my million-dollar life insurance policy. If I fall off the face of the Earth, she won’t get a cent. But if I’m killed...”

Now I get it. Lynn knew her number was up, but wanted to cash out on her terms and make her sister a rich woman. I respect that, but the whole situation is fucked up. I glare at the table where the hitters sit. They look antsy.

“I’ll be right back.” I grab my drink and walk to their table, where three pairs of eyes burn holes through my skull.

“I don’t recall Felix mentioning I’d have help on this one,” I say.

“You don’t,” Millie says. “Corporate gig. No middleman. Your girlfriend’s on the menu, so you should probably leave.”

“No chance.” I take a drink of my bourbon and return their cold stares. Wang says something in Chinese, and Millie chuckles.

“What’d he say?”

“He said he’s going to break both your legs and pull your spleen out through your ass,” Millie says with a smug grin.

“Kinky. Tell you what... How about you guys leave, and I don’t kill all three of you.”

“Baa!” says the Russian. “You are fool. You cannot stop us all.”

“I can, and I’ll find your families or anyone you care about and bury them next to you in the sand.”

Their dour expressions hold. Except Millie. She smirks and shakes her head.

“If I see any of you again tonight, you’re dead.” I turn and meet Lynn by the bar.

“Look at me,” I tell her. Our eyes lock. A tear rolls down her cheek. “I’m not going to kill you. And... I don’t want you to die. What if I can find you a way out?”

“How?”

“Do you trust me?”

She sits quietly for a moment, the cigarette burning between her fingers.

“I don’t know why, but... yes.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

“Can I go to the ladies’ room? I must look a mess.”

“No. You look fine. Let’s go.”

By now, my fellow hitters have surely formed some kind of plan to overtake me. I give them a hard glare as Lynn and I join hands and leave. We’re not followed. Yet.

Once outside my car, I can’t resist. We embrace and kiss. It’s hot, long, and passionate. She tastes like Makers Mark and Marlboro. I don’t care. Her hand brushes against my gun. She doesn’t react. I pull back, my heart racing, and open the passenger door.

PHZZZT! A suppressed, subsonic round cuts through the night and pierces the passenger window with a loud CRACK. Lynn screams.

“Get down!” I shout, shoving her into the seat and pushing her head under the dashboard. Another bullet hits the door and penetrates the armrest. I pull my 9mm and fire several shots somewhere into the parking lot. I dart around the rear of my car and jerk open the driver’s door as another round whizzes overhead.

The 6.2-liter V8 engine screams to life like a caged beast. I throw the Corvette into gear and hit the gas, spinning and squealing the tires until they grip the asphalt and propel us toward the exit. The acceleration throws Lynn back into her seat.

“You need to ditch your phone.”

Lynn gives me a frantic look. “Why?”

“That’s probably how they’re tracking you.”

She pulls it from her purse. “But... But, my—”

I snatch it from her hand and throw it out the window, bouncing it off a minivan. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Dammit! My entire life is in that phone. Where are you taking me?”

“The Strip, then west.”

“Why?”

“They’ll never catch me on the highway.”

In my rearview, I see the glint of two headlights switching on. Up ahead, three cars are lined up at the Luxor’s exit.

“You’d better buckle up,” I say. “This could get ugly.” Her eyes go wide as she reaches back for the seatbelt.

I steer my Vette around the three cars and make a sharp left turn on the access road to the Strip. A silver Range Rover speeds through the parking lot, heading to cut me off. Hanging out the passenger window is an Asian man, probably Wang, holding a rifle. I drop a gear and punch it. The V8 screams again, and my stomach lurches from the gravity pull.

The stoplight at the Strip is red, and a box truck is in my lane, making a turn. A loud WHUMP pulls my eyes to the rearview, where I watch the Range Rover go airborne as it jumps the curb. The luxury SUV bounces on its tires, then turns after me.

The Vette’s suspension can handle extreme maneuvers, even though I haven’t tried any since I’ve owned it. I hold my breath and veer around the box truck at sixty miles per hour, turning right. The truck slams on the brakes, tipping up on two wheels. Inertia takes over.

I downshift again, weaving through traffic. The image in my rearview shows the box truck on its side in the intersection. The Range Rover bounces over the walkway and back onto the Strip. I upshift and pass two cars as Lynn makes a gurgling sound.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Christ. Not in my car. “Lay the seat back. Close your eyes and take deep breaths.”

A bullet explodes my sideview mirror, and I stomp my foot on the gas pedal. As the speedometer climbs to 100, the strip’s neon signs all stream together like a kaleidoscope. We roar past the Mandalay Bay and the Four Seasons. Harry Reid Airport is on the left, and in the distance, the backside of the “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas” sign reads, “Drive Carefully. Come back soon.”

A hard right on W. Russell Road leads us to I-15. I check again for the Range Rover. It’s nowhere. Lynn is still lying back with her eyes closed. I feel relieved that she didn’t hurl.

“You okay?” I ask. She looks a little pale, but still beautiful. Her eyes open, and she pushes herself up on her elbows.

“Are we on the highway yet?”

“We will be in two seconds.” My breathing comes a little easier after taking the I-15 ramp.

“My God, this thing moves like a jet.” Lynn presses a button on the power seat control and returns the seat to its upright position.

“I’m curious,” I say. “How exactly was I going to get paid if I fulfilled the contract on you?”

Lynn shrugs. “You weren’t. I know that’s not a good way to do business, but I would have been dead and not given a shit.”

I laugh to myself and shake my head. It takes nerve to scam a hitman, and I wonder what else she’s capable of.

“Now, I’m curious,” she says, reaching down to take off her heels. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Close to Bakersfield. I have a cabin up at Isabella Lake, no one knows about. They won’t find us there.”

Lynn leans over, placing her hand on my shoulder. Her touch is soft, but electric. I can feel myself tingle.

“Then what?” she asks, her eyes pleading for an answer.

My mind wanders to an image of us alone at my cabin. “Let’s worry about that tomorrow.”

You ever had sex so good, you forget about all the other times you had it?

Yeah, me either. Until last night.

It’s morning. I’m on the rear deck, drinking coffee, admiring the majesty of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. I don’t come here enough. The snow-covered peaks are glowing in the morning sunlight, surrounding the cabin like a silver fortress. It’s breathtaking. Like the first time Lynn smiled at me.

The back door opens. Lynn steps out wearing one of my old 28^th Ordinance Company t-shirts. She slips her arms around my waist and rests her head on my shoulder.

“It’s beautiful here,” she says.

“Meh, it’s okay.”

She chuckles. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I need to make a phone call and transfer some money to a friend, then we’ll leave and do what we talked about last night.”

“I don’t remember us doing a lot of talking last night.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. But... you really need to be good to go with this.”

Lynn steps around to face me. I look into her eyes. Whatever beauty the mountain range holds is nothing compared to hers.

“I vaguely remember us talking about a plan,” she says with a sly grin. “But don’t worry.” Her face shifts from playfulness to focused conviction. “I’m all in.”

###

On Saturdays, the headquarters building of Fister Pharmaceuticals is practically empty, unless the CEO calls an emergency meeting. Like the one Lynn and I are about to interrupt.

I kick open the mahogany doors to the boardroom. Wood shards fly, and the lock breaks with a sharp SNAP. Nothing like a dramatic entrance. The first person I see is Montoya. Before he can pull his weapon, I put two 9mm rounds in his chest and one between his eyes. He drops to the floor at the end of an oval conference table, the size of a swimming pool.

Four men and three women, all in business attire, sit around the table in high-back leather chairs. Yang and Millie are standing by a span of windows that overlook the courtyard of the corporate headquarters. As Yang reaches inside his suit jacket to pull a gun, Millie draws first and fires a bullet into the side of his head, spraying blood and brain matter across the windows’ tempered glass. My eyes meet hers. She winks and holsters her weapon.

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” I say. Millie gives me that familiar smirk and walks out.

“Someone call security!” a bald, heavy-set man shouts.

“They’re all dead,” I answer. The board members gasp in horror, and a woman screams. The heavy-set man rises from his chair. I crack him on top of his shiny head with the butt of my suppressed Glock, and he slumps, unconscious.

I step toward the man sitting at the head of the table. Lynn follows right behind me. He’s older, possibly in his seventies, with silver hair and a gold Rolex.

“Is this the CEO?”

“Yes,” Lynn answers.

Two shots from my 9mm punch through his tie. A crimson circle expands in his starched white shirt, and he falls face-first onto the table.

The executives all scream, covering their faces, fearful that any one of them could be next. I grab Lynn’s hand and move towards the exit. “Let’s go.”

She pulls away. “No. Kill them. Kill them all.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Do it!”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

Lynn rushes over to Montoya’s body and picks up his weapon. I watch in stunned silence as she walks around the table, systematically executing her former bosses. One woman tries to run, taking Lynn three shots to bring her down.

“Now we can go,” she says, brushing past me and heading to the elevator.

On the ride down, I can’t take my eyes off Lynn. But it’s different now than any time before. It’s a look of disbelief.

“The plan was to take out the CEO and send a message to leave you alone. What the fuck was that about?”

Her head casually turns to me, revealing flecks of blood splattered on her cheeks. “No one can know I’m alive. No one. Here...” She hands me Montoya’s gun. Mine is holstered under my jacket. Not knowing what else to do with it, I tuck it behind my back.

“What about the security cameras?”

“I have that handled.”

I lied to the execs earlier. Lynn got us past the guard at the lobby security station, so he’s still breathing. He’s a chubby guy with a tin badge pinned on a light blue, bus driver-type uniform. He looks at me with raised eyebrows as we stride briskly toward the exit.

“Just keep walking,” I tell Lynn, keeping my voice low.

Five feet from the doors, the guard says, “Sir?” Then it hits me.

Why would he let Lynn in if she was fired yesterday?

“Sir!” The guard’s voice is louder, more demanding. Lynn pulls away from my hand, screaming and falling to the floor. I spin around, trying to pull my weapon, but my eyes are on Lynn when I hear the gunshots and feel the bullets hit my chest and my shoulder.

From the ground, I see the guard standing over me, smoke rising from the barrel of a revolver. Lynn steps into view.

“I got him,” the guard says to her, with youthful excitement, like he’s just made his first kill on a hunting trip. “Grab his keys and let’s get out of here.”

Lynn kneels, takes the Corvette key fob from my pocket, then points the suppressed barrel of my 9mm at the guard’s midsection, squeezing the trigger twice. He drops dead beside me, his face frozen in a look of confusion. Just like mine.

I stare up at Lynn, her auburn hair in contrast to the blue sky behind the bright, glass ceiling of the lobby atrium. Echoing footsteps approach. I turn my head, and it’s Felix.

“I told her you were a sucker for redheads,” he says, that shit eating grin wide across his face.

“S-sonofabitch.” My voice is raspy. I can barely breathe.

“You’re a great hitter, Jimmy. And an even better fall guy.” He pulls Lynn in, and they kiss over top of me. She dangles my key fob. He grabs it and says, “Fuck off and die, Jimmy.”

Felix steps out of view, but Lynn stays. Our eyes meet. Hers are much different now. They’re cold, detached, distant. Not the eyes I fell for.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I used you.” Her head nods toward the dead security guard. “Him... not so much. After I stole the $20 million, we needed a scapegoat. And a fast ride to Mexico.”

“But... your s-sister?”

“I don’t have a sister.”

My heart pumps faster as the blood oozes from the bullet wound. Exhaustion washes over me. For a moment, my eyes close. I push myself to open them, and Lynn is gone.

Tires squeal in the parking lot. The roar of my Corvette’s engine fades in the distance, replaced by a shitload of sirens. Every dead body in this building holds bullets from the guns I have on me. I might be the stupidest man alive for falling for a woman like Lynn.

But I’m not that stupid.

I manage to get up and run toward the emergency exit doors in the rear of the atrium. With my good arm, I reach up and dislodge the mushroomed 9mm slug stuck in the bulletproof vest under my shirt. My shoulder throbs as I pull out my phone and dial a number to a cellular detonator in the trunk of my Corvette, connected to ten pounds of C4 I had stored at my cabin.

I learned a lot in the Army. But I learned the most important lessons while being a hitman in Las Vegas. Keep all your cards held close, and when the time is right…

Go all in.

THE END

© 2026 Ron Clyburn

Disclaimer:

This article is an original work of fiction by Ron Clyburn. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.

Hey! Like my writing? Consider buying me a coffee. I need the caffeine.

BUY ME A COFFE

How’s it going? I hope you are all well and having a safe summer. If you’re wondering what’s up with the cow, this will be the header for all future newsletters. I just need to add some text in the sky. I’m thinking about something really profound like, “Ron’s Newsletter.” Anyway, a lot is going on with me, so I’ll try to keep this short.

IGW GenreCon Writers’ Conference

Last month, I attended IGW GenreCon in Huntington, WV, where I pitched my Joe Cooper novel Let Sleeping Dogs Lie to five literary agents. All five were intrigued by my idea and requested to see a specific number of pages, chapters, or the full manuscript. Now, I’m in the waiting game, checking my email every hour to see how they respond (or think I’m a good enough writer to represent). I’ll let you know what happens. BTW, Huntington, WV is a very cool and laid-back town, and home of the Marshal University Thundering Herd, so I saw lots of references to the bison/buffalo.

I also pitched my 35K-word novella, The Faceless Man, to The Henlo Press, an independent publisher (otherwise known as a small press). The Faceless Man is a neo-noir-inspired thriller about a female police sergeant in Cincinnati who encounters a super-powered vigilante (the Faceless Man) while searching for a human trafficking ring (The story is my love letter to comic books). The good people at Henlo liked my idea and wanted the first three chapters. Again, waiting...

Substack Publication – From the Files of Joe Cooper, P.I.

If you are getting this, then you are subscribed to my Substack. I’ve created a separate publication dedicated to my character Joe Cooper (the P.I. who talks to animals) where I have two short stories, plus a cut chapter from my novel (sometimes you have to do that). I have two Joe Cooper short stories in the works that will be posted soon, so if you’d like to check that publication out, you can at this link - From the Files of Joe Cooper, P.I.

I’d also like to give a big shout-out to Jeffery Hayes at Plasmafire Graphics, who did the artwork for Joe, accompanied by a few of his animal friends. He’s an amazing graphic artist, and I look forward to working with him in the future. Check out his website here - Plasmafire Graphics

Book Sale/Fundraiser

Okay, folks, this is important. On Sunday, August 30^th, from 10 am to 4 pm, I’ll be set up at Jim and Dan’s Comic and Toy Show at the Wright State University Student Union selling copies of the anthologies I have stories in, second-hand novels for dirt cheap, and some Joe Cooper T-shirt merch. 100% of the proceeds will go to 4 Paws for Ability, a local non-profit that raises, trains, and places service dogs for kids and veterans with physical, mental, and emotional disabilities. You all know I’m a dog person, so this is a cause that I’m very passionate about, and I’m proud to spread awareness and do what I can to help their mission. If you are in the Dayton area that day, please come out to the show. I can guarantee there will be some service dogs there. Check out 4 Paws for Ability’s website here - 4 Paws for Ability

If you follow me on social media (Facebook and Instagram... And if you don’t... what’s the problem?), expect to see lots of promotion for the event. I’m excited, and it should be a good time.

Thanks for taking the time to read and for coming along with me on this journey.

Ron

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Read Part 1

On the way to the RV, Kane checked for the dead bodies of Spanky’s posse, who had tried to escape earlier. There were none. Just scattered footprints in the snow leading to the trailer park, and spent 9mm shell casings in the snow. He stopped and looked at Domingo. “Where’s the squirters?”

The teenager bowed his head. “I could not kill them, señor. They want to escape the evil clown. I let them. I shot into the sky to move them along.”

Kane shook his head at Domingo and spat out his spent wad of chewing tobacco, stomping through the snow to the RV. “Get in.”

Two inches of white fluff covered the road leading into Misty Acres Trailer Park. Tire ruts ran the length of the lane, along with the squirter’s footprints that split off into different directions at a crossroad in the middle of the park. Misty Acres was low-rent, and the rows of plain, dilapidated single-wides reflected as much. The street lamp at the entrance was the only one casting light through the darkness onto the snow-covered ground. The rest were either burnt out or broken. Most of the cars and pickup trucks parked along the streets were up on jacks or missing wheels.

Just past the intersection, Kane passed a Peterbilt semi-tractor parked in front of a single-wide with a porch light on. He stopped the RV and rolled down his window, looking and listening for any clue that would lead him to the trailer with the bomb. Only a dog barking somewhere in the distance could be heard over the low rumble of the Globe Ranger’s engine. Kane gazed out the windshield at the rows of mobile homes that seemed to go on forever.

“Good God. Where do we start?” Kane said. Domingo leaned forward onto the RV’s dashboard, scanning his eyes out into the darkness along with his mentor.

“Señor. Look.” Domingo pointed at the trailer at the corner of the crossroad. Kane flipped a switch on the dashboard. A spotlight mounted on the RV’s light bar broke through the darkness like a thick laser beam. Domingo pressed directional buttons until the beam lit up the side of the trailer, showing a large dick and balls spray-painted on the side.

Kane hit the gas. All four tires kicked up snow until they gripped the asphalt and propelled the RV toward the pitiful misrepresentation of the male anatomy. They slid to a stop next to the trailer and jumped out. Kane grabbed a flashlight from the cab and ran to a side window, shining the beam inside.

White, forty-pound bags of ammonium nitrate were stacked three high and filled the entire floor space of the single-wide. Plastic containers with some type of pink liquid were dispersed throughout. Kane moved the flashlight’s beam around until he saw what looked like an electronic device with an antenna. He pulled back from the window, his eyes as wide as hubcaps.

“Fertilizer,” Kane said, giving Domingo a grim look. “Trailer’s plum full. It’ll make the Hindenburg look like a popcorn fart.”

“How much time?” Domingo asked.

“There’s no timer. But there’s a detonator with an antenna.” Kane thought for a moment. “The clown’s cell phone... I bet he had a call set up to detonate the bomb after he killed us.”

“But we killed him first,” Domingo said with triumph in his voice.

“Still... we gotta get this trailer out of here.” Kane moved to the RV and opened a side compartment holding various tools. He pulled out a nine-pound sledgehammer and handed it to his apprentice. “Trailer’s up on concrete blocks. Take this sledge and put cracks in ‘em, but don’t knock ‘em out all the way. I’ll be back.” The Clown Killer took off at a sprint and disappeared around the RV. Domingo looked at the sledge and then the trailer, and followed his mentor’s orders.

While under the trailer, Domingo heard a man yell out in the distance, then a loud crash, and the rattling of a diesel engine. When he’d finished putting cracks in all the blocks, he crawled out to see the Peterbilt they passed backing up to the trailer’s tongue-hitch.

The truck’s door opened, and Kane jumped out of the cab. He opened a box mounted near the back tires and pulled out a rusty log-chain, and tossed it around the tractor’s fifth-wheel connection.

“Señor, what are you doing?”

Kane ran the chain through the triangular bars that held the mobile home’s tongue-hitch and locked each hook into a link. “The concrete blocks should crumble when I pull this trailer out. You take the RV back to the bar. Find that cell phone and shut it off. I’m hauling this death box out into the sticks.”

“But, señor. We are already in the sticks.”

“Stickier than this. Away from people. Now, get from here. I don’t know how volatile those chemicals are.” Kane checked the chains one last time, then stepped up onto the semi’s running board and grabbed the door handle. He pulled himself into the driver’s seat, then stopped and turned his eyes to Domingo. The look of determination on Kane’s face softened, and he gave a warm smile to his young apprentice. “You’re gonna be a fine man someday, Domingo. If I was your daddy, I’d be proud. Go on, now. Do what I said.” Kane slammed the door.

###

The RV slid to a stop in the bar’s parking lot. Domingo got out, tears streaming down his cheeks, the words of his mentor still echoing in his mind, and ran to the hole that used to be a front door. He stopped short and turned when he heard the semi-truck downshift and roar past the bar with the trailer in tow, heading for the main road.

White diesel smoke billowed from the Peterbilt’s exhaust pipes into the frigid night air. The young apprentice heard another downshift just before the truck made a right-hand turn. The tires on the heavy rig spun in the snow, and the mobile home slid sideways, but Domingo’s mentor overcorrected the front wheels until the trailer fell back in line behind the truck as it drove into desolate farm country.

Domingo placed his hand on his heart and said, “Vaya con Dios.” Go with God.

In the middle of the bar, amongst the debris, the dead bodies, the ruins of what once was The Broken Spoke, and her soiled granny panties, Domingo saw Big Country. She had somehow broken free from her bindings and now held Spanky the Clown’s cell phone. A wisp of dark smoke swirled up from a knothole in the floor and snaked into her nostrils, turning her eyes piss-yellow, with vertical black slits. As an evil grin took over her face, she stared, mesmerized, at the pre-programmed number on the screen, the green “SEND” button calling out to her like a beacon. As her chubby finger plunged downward, Domingo yelled, “NOOOOOOOOO!”

FOUR YEARS LATER

The ceiling fans blew nothing but hot air in the Nevada roadside bar, on the edge of the small desert town of Burro Cachondo. The mayor, Adam Baxter, sat in a booth next to a window air conditioner that didn’t work. He was the bar’s only patron and had been for the past week, since the clown showed up. The bartender, a thin Hispanic man of sixty, sat at the end of the bar, nervously listening to a soccer game on a radio, while gripping a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun.

Sweat stains spread like brown gravy in the pits of the mayor’s Khaki shirt. He wiped his brow with a table napkin and looked impatiently at his watch. The mayor tipped up and sipped from a warm bottle of Dos Equis he’d been nursing while waiting for his appointment.

Finally, the door at the end of the bar opened. A gust of hot wind blew desert sand across the floor. The mayor leaned to his right and narrowed his eyes at the blinding light of the midday sun, outlining a dark figure in the doorway. Baxter lifted his hand to shield the sunlight, but could only make out a man wearing a western-style hat. He heard a relieved sigh from the bartender, who then eased the hammers back down on the shotgun.

The man stepped in, and the door swung closed. His custom-made Tony Lama boots scraped the sand as he walked across the bar’s floorboards to the mayor’s booth. Baxter looked up at the man standing before him, his eyes still adjusting to the light, and pulled a crumpled business card from his breast pocket.

“I have to apologize, sir,” the mayor said. “I’m not familiar with this Spanish term.” He looked at the card. “What does... ‘Payaso Asesino’ mean?”

The man raised the wide, flat brim of his black Eddie Bros bolero hat, the type usually worn by pistoleros, revealing a pair of dark, steely eyes.

“My name is Domingo Eduardo Alejandro Tadeo Hernández, señor. And I am a clown killer.”

THE END

© 2026 Ron Clyburn

Disclaimer:

This article is an original work of fiction by Ron Clyburn. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.

First, the opinions stated here are my own and not of the United States Government. Opinions of conference speakers are quoted or paraphrased. This article is for entertainment and educational purposes only.

There. I’m safe. Maybe.

On Saturday, July 11^th, I attended the Dayton UFO Conference, held in Fairborn, Ohio, right down the street from Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, my former employer and rumored storage location of UAPs (Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena) and NHB (Non-Human Biologics). During my time working at WPAFB, I never saw any UAPs, and the closest thing I ever saw to NHB were guys in bad toupees.

I didn’t know what to expect at this conference. I’ve been to a lot of writers’ conferences and comic book shows, but never anything like this. I have found that when it comes to UFOs/UAPs, aliens, a person is either a believer or they are not. My impression of the people who attended this conference is that they were invested. Like me, they had either seen something or experienced something they couldn’t explain. Also, the majority of the attendees were older, in the 50s to 70s age range. Except for this girl...

Her name was Sandra, and she was there with, I’m assuming, her grandmother. I thought the tinfoil hat was a nice touch.

The conference opened with an introduction by the mayor of Fairborn, Ohio, Dan Kirkpatrick. His speech actually legitimized the conference for me, and I knew right away the event wasn’t something thrown together by a bunch of Sci-Fi nerds. Nothing wrong with Sci-Fi nerds. I’m technically one myself, but I can’t organize my sock drawer. A conference? Forget it.

Thomas Wertman was the next speaker. He is a Ufoligist and the State director of MUFON Ohio (Mutual UFO Network). He has been the Director/Chief Field Investigator for MUFON for almost 18 years, performing hundreds of investigations in the US and Canada. Thomas has appeared on several TV shows and documentaries, and told a very interesting story about the 1973 Mansfield, OH UFO case involving an Army Reserve helicopter cruising at 1,100 feet, and was momentarily pulled up by a UFO to an altitude of more than 3,000 feet.

As with any conference, there were plenty of vendors selling everything from books, magazines, crafts, candles, trinkets, jewelry, hats, T-shirts, 3D printed toys, you name it. There was even an area for the metaphysical experience, selling crystals and performing psychic readings. I didn’t venture down that hallway. But I did make the rounds and talked to those who interested me.

First, I met Alyx and Ginelle from Strange Talk Radio. Not just a podcast, but an actual radio show on 91.7 FM HD2 WVXU out of Cincinnati. Inspired by the late-night radio talk shows like Coast to Coast AM, their show hit the airwaves in 2017 and is dedicated to all things strange, weird, and paranormal, broadcasting on Thursday nights from 9-10 pm.

After speaking with the two hosts for a while, I told them I was a writer and about some of my own strange experiences, so I’m hoping they contact me in the future to be a guest on their show. A thing they had set up next to their table was a phone booth, of sorts, where you could go in, pick up the handset of an old land-line telephone, and, after hearing a message and a beep, tell your weird, strange, or paranormal experience. They told me those recordings will be played at a later date on one of their shows. Very cool!

Check out Strange Talk Radio, Thursday nights at 9:00 pm on 91.7 FM HD2 WVXU and online here at Strange Talk Radio

Next, I met Ashley Hilt, an Ohio native whose fields of study include Cryptozoology, Paranormal, and Ufology. Ashley is also a filmmaker, podcaster, and author of the books Your Strange Guide to Ohio and Indrid Cold: Searching for the Man from Lanulos. She prides herself on being a “Fortean Investigator.” What does “Fortean” mean? Fortean investigation is based on the philosophy and workings of Charles Hoy Fort (1874-1932), an American writer who spent decades investigating and documenting occurrences that traditional science dismissed or failed to explain. Fortean investigators perform deep dive, boots on the ground investigations, and document findings, while keeping an open mind, with an air of skepticism. You can find her books on Amazon and look for her on Facebook, Instagram, and X.

A year ago, while perusing books at Barnes & Noble, I bought the book UFO Secrets: Inside Wright-Patterson, co-written by Thomas J. Carey and Donald R. Schmitt. Just my luck, Donald Schmitt was there. His press packet states that he’s coauthored 7 bestselling books on the Roswell incident, UFO crashes, and cover-ups. He’s the former director of the J. Allen Hynek Center for UFO Studies (CUFOS) and the cofounder of the International UFO Museum & Research Center. He speaks internationally and has appeared on CBS’s 48 Hours, Oprah, The Today Show, Larry King Live, Good Morning America, and many more.

At the conference, Donald gave a presentation on the 1947 Roswell incident. He was also selling his book, Witness to Roswell: 75^th Anniversary Edition. If anyone is an authority on Roswell, it’s Donald Schmitt. He was gracious enough to sign my copy of UFO Secrets and was very friendly and accommodating. I hope to see him there again next year. You can buy his books on Amazon.

Being a retired civil servant from Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, I knew I had to meet Ray Szymanski. Originally from Detroit, Ray spent almost 40-years working at WPAFB as an Electronics Engineer. Ray said I looked very familiar to him, but I get that a lot, especially from people who have watched The Sopranos or Real Stories of the Highway Patrol, but I digress...

Ray gave a very informative, as well as humorous, presentation on Wright-Patterson’s facts, fictions, and falsehoods concerning “flying saucers.” He was also selling his book, Fifty Shades of Greys, which I bought and plan to read and study as I research for my next Joe Cooper, P.I. novel. Ray’s books are available on Amazon.

When Ray signed my book, I noticed that he took special care and signed very legibly. I asked if he did that for each book, and he told me that years ago, he also worked as a photographer and was assigned to follow Arnold Palmer around during a local Dayton golf tournament. Ray watched Arnold sign autographs very graciously and carefully for each person who asked for one. When Ray asked him about it, Arnold said, “I sign every autograph as if it’s my last one.” Ray said Palmer’s response blew him away, and he emulates that with every book he signs.

Since I’m an Air Force retiree, and my next book will include research involving government programs, specifically on the UAP phenomenon, I asked Ray about submitting manuscripts to the Defense Office of Publication and Security Review (so they can redact any classified information, not that I plan on putting any of that in the book, but who knows what they will consider classified or sensitive). Ray said that a self-published book only takes around three months for the review, but a traditionally published book can take over a year. I guess I need to hurry and get the book written.

Ray was great to talk to, had an awesome sense of humor, and agreed to take a picture with me. I will definitely attend some of his other speaking events. During his presentation, he did give his opinion on whether Wright-Patterson ever housed UFO crash materials, to which he said, “That’s a fact, Jack!!”

Last was the keynote speaker, Mr. Danny Sheehan, who is very well known in the UFO/UAP community. Mr. Sheehan is a constitutional lawyer with a degree from Harvard Law School and has participated in numerous landmark legal cases, including the Watergate burglary case, the Iran-Contra case, the Pentagon Papers, and the Wounded Knee occupation. He also served as legal counsel to the Jesuit U.S. national headquarters in Washington, D.C. Mr. Sheehan’s current advocacy effort is for government UAP transparency, disclosure, and whistleblower protection. Wikipedia lists him as the attorney representing Luis Elizondo, the former director of AATIP (Advanced Aerospace Threat Identification Program), in a case against the U.S. DoD.

The most interesting thing I heard was during Mr. Sheehan’s keynote speech, which I will paraphrase: He talked about the U.S. government retrieving and reverse engineering crashed UFOs and how long they have been doing it. It’s always been a rumor that the UFO that crashed in Roswell in 1947 was collected by the U.S. Army and taken to Wright Field (now Wright-Patterson AFB). But, according to Mr. Sheehan, that wasn’t the first time the U.S. had taken control over an alien craft. In 1945, at the end of WWII, the Vatican gave the U.S. an alien spaceship. Apparently, a UFO crashed somewhere in Italy during the war, and the Italian Army was controlled at that time by Benito Mussolini (who sided with the Nazis). History buffs will know that Mussolini was overthrown and executed by the Italian people. When that happened, the Vatican stepped in and took ownership of the UFO. They didn’t know what to do with it, so they gave it to the United States. I can almost hear the deciding conversation:

“Your Holiness, this flying saucer needs to disappear so that no one ever sees it again. How do we do that?”

“Give it the Americans.”

I’ve followed the UFO/UAP phenomena for a while, and that’s the first time I’d ever heard that story. I think it’s worth mentioning here that the story was told by Danny Sheehan himself.

Overall, I greatly enjoyed myself at the Dayton UFO Conference, and I plan on going again next year. The conference was well organized, the vendors and speakers there were very accessible, and the conference volunteers were helpful and friendly. One thing I noticed is the lack of people in costume (like cosplayers). I saw only one person with an alien mask, and I think whoever it was eventually took it off. But, that’s okay. It’s NOT that kind of conference. The Dayton UFO Conference was informative, educational, and a great venue to help bring awareness about UFO/UAP disclosure to the public.

The armored Globe Ranger RV pulled into the sleepy little town of North Manchester, Ohio, around midnight. Forty-three-inch mud tires slid to a stop on the icy street in front of an 1800s-era schoolhouse that now served as the town hall, where Mayor Bart Thistle and his assistant, Seth, stood waiting and shivering on the front steps.

A man as big and broad as a grizzly bear opened the driver’s door of the RV and hopped out. His size 14 boots, wrapped in genuine Texas rattlesnake, hit the ground like the hooves of a Brahma bull. He cast his eyes at the two men on the steps, then, like a spitting cobra, sent a three-foot stream of tobacco juice into a snow bank. Standing six-foot-six, he wore jeans, a plaid flannel, and a buckskin jacket, all acquired at Billy Ray’s Big & Tall Emporium and Barbecue Hut in Tucson, Arizona. His cowboy hat had a Cavalry braid with a slightly upturned brim. The type usually worn by outlaws.

The mayor’s teeth chattered as he watched the colossal human take long strides up the salt-covered walkway, pulverizing the crystal pellets with his enormous boots. Ohio rarely had snow in October, but this week had been a shit-show.

The big man pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “I’m looking for Mayor...” His eyes narrowed as he checked the name on the note. “Fart Whistle?”

“Bart Thistle,” Seth corrected with a sneer.

“Apologies,” the big man said.

“I’m Mayor Thistle,” said the diminutive man in a wool overcoat and ear muffs, standing next to Seth, who stood only a couple of inches taller than the mayor and wore a puffy, powder blue parka with a hood and wire-rimmed glasses, frosted from the cold.

The big man stuck out his hand with an arm the size of a tree trunk. “Carson Kane... Clown Killer.”

Mayor Thistle reached out a gloved hand, which all but disappeared within Kane’s grasp. After the greeting, the mayor said, “This is my administrative assistant, Seth.”

Kane ignored the introduction and thumbed toward his RV. “Why don’t y’all step in my office, and we can discuss the particulars.”

The Mayor and Seth exchanged glances. Seth picked up a backpack from the ground and slung it over his shoulder, then leaned in close to his boss’s ear. “For the record, I believe this is a bad idea.”

“Shut it, Seth,” the mayor said. “He’s our last hope.”

Kane took out a wad of Red Man the size of an orange and tossed it into the street. He opened the side door to the RV, pulled down a set of collapsible metal stairs, and motioned for the two small-town administrators to step inside, which they did. The vehicle rocked from side to side on its suspension when Kane stepped up into the camper, squeezing his large frame through the door.

Thistle and Seth welcomed the warm air in the dimly lit camper. Kane flipped a switch by the door, and the two men squinted like moles. Once their eyes adjusted, they stood in disbelief. Bright orange and rainbow-striped wigs, latex clown masks, and red-ball noses, too numerous to count, were tacked to the ceiling. The trophies of a clown killer. It gave Thistle the impression of a macabre modern art display.

The camper door slammed shut. Seth flinched and made a sound like a hurt puppy. Kane said, “You gentlemen have a seat.” They slid onto a padded bench, behind a rectangular table that served as the RV’s dining room. Thistle took off his earmuffs and gloves. Seth pulled back his hood and removed his glasses.

Kane sat on a bench across from the two men and studied them. Thistle, who looked to be in his mid-forties and couldn’t weigh more than one hundred twenty pounds, was quiet and reserved and looked more like an accountant than a politician. Seth, in his early twenties and much younger than his boss, had red hair, chubby, freckled cheeks, and the disposition of a spoiled brat, fresh out of some high-brow, overpriced college. Kane surmised that the two pencil-pushers never had to fight for anything in their lives, except a passing grade on an exam.

With his long, muscular arm, Kane reached over and opened the mini-fridge, pulling out a bottle of longneck Lone Star. He offered it to his two guests. Seth scrunched up his nose at it. The mayor said, “No, thank you.” Kane shrugged and popped off the cap with his thumb.

“I reckon you got a clown problem,” Kane said.

Thistle let out a heavy sigh. “Yes. He showed up a week ago, and his actions have become increasingly terrifying. Tomorrow is Halloween, and we’re afraid he may escalate to something more heinous.”

“What’s he done so far?”

“He’s gathered a following. Mostly thieves, drug addicts, and miscreants from the local trailer park. They took to painting their faces just like his.”

A snarl curled Kane’s upper lip. “What else?”

“The walkers and bedpans at the Shady Glen nursing home are all missing. The situation there is... nauseating.”

“It’s horrid,” Seth added.

“The liquor store has been robbed every night this week,” the mayor continued. “Graffiti penises were spray-painted on almost every building downtown. Our two police cruisers were sabotaged with sugar poured into the gas tanks. A school bus was stolen, and a group of prostitutes was brought in from Dayton. And... there’s been reports of...” His voice trailed off.

“Wanton buggery,” Seth said. “In public, by his insane clown posse.”

Kane leaned back and tipped up his Lone Star, gulping down half the bottle. He belched. “I’ve heard and seen worse. Am I right to say your lawmen can’t handle it?”

“We’re a small town. We only have one full-time policeman. That’s the chief. The other one is part-time, and he went AWOL.”

“What about the sheriff’s office or state police?”

Thistle grimaced and raised his hands, rubbing his temples. “Our county was hit with budget cuts, resulting in a reduction of deputies. During the last election, the new Governor took every county in Ohio except two. Ours was one of them. I’m afraid we are not high on the new administration’s priority list.”

Kane drained the rest of his brew. That was all he needed to hear. “Well then, I reckon you need my services. Are you in agreement with my fee?”

Seth’s eyes darted to the backpack at his feet. “For the record, I’m protesting this egregious amount—”

“It’s all in the bag,” the mayor interrupted, shooting a critical look at Seth.

“I’m gonna need y’all to sign this here release form, exempting me from any financial responsibility or criminal prosecution during the course of my actions.” Kane pulled a yellow folder out from under the bench and plucked out a single sheet of paper. He placed it on the table and slid it in front of the mayor.

“Release form?” Seth said.

“Standard legal stuff,” Kane replied.

Seth looked at his boss. “Sir, we need to have our lawyers review this before you sign anything.”

Thistle looked at Seth, then at Kane.

“Clock’s ticking, mayor. And it’s already Halloween.”

Thistle pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and signed the paper.

Seth shook his head in dissent. “Mr. Kane, for the record, not only do I object to your monetary settlement, but I wholeheartedly disagree with your methods. We, the mayor and I, were hoping you could just... reason with the clown and convince him to leave.”

The snarl returned to Kane’s lip, and he locked eyes with Seth. “You can’t reason with a clown, son. They only know chaos, anarchy, and balloon animals. They’re the scourge of the earth. You’d have better luck talking a mountain lion out of eating a goat.” Kane reached back and thumped his giant fist twice on the wall of the RV. Instantly, the sliding door between the cab and the camper opened, and a Hispanic teenager stepped through. His jet-black hair was cut well above his ears, and he looked to be around sixteen. He dressed in military fatigues and black leather combat boots. Surprised, both Thistle and Seth gawked at the boy. He was young, but they could see age beyond his years in a pair of dark, steely eyes.

Kane tossed him the backpack. “Count it.”

The boy grabbed the pack in mid-air and returned to the cab.

“Has he been in there this whole time?” Seth asked.

“That there’s my apprentice, Domingo. He was twelve when I found him in north Texas, crawling through the desert, about a half mile from a road carnival.” Kane took a deep breath. “Damn clown killed most of the carneys before I got there, including his folks and little sister. So, I took him in. Gave him a purpose.” Kane’s eyes focused as if they were looking at something miles away. Then, he snapped out of the stare. “Anyway... He don’t talk much.”

“Wait a minute,” Seth said, putting his glasses back on and scanning the form’s fine print. “It says here, ‘If it is found that the subject is demon possessed, a twenty percent surcharge will be added to the total bill.’” Seth looked up at Kane. “What is this?”

“Most of these clowns got a demon in ‘em. If that’s the case, I gotta put on the collar, and get out the cross and the good book, and... Well, it’s a lot of extra work.” Kane pulled a gold pocket watch from his jeans and checked the time. “What’s this clown call himself?”

“Spanky,” the mayor said. “Spanky the Clown.”

For the first time since their meeting, Kane’s face showed emotion. It was something akin to shock or disbelief, but only as much as a man like Kane would reveal. He sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the mayor. Thistle broke the awkward silence. “Have you... heard of him?”

Kane’s thoughts came back to the present, and he stood up, stuffing the watch back in his pocket. “I’m gonna have to ask you gentlemen to disembark. I’m on the clock.” He opened a small cabinet door to Seth’s right, revealing a safe, and pressed his thumb against a biometric scanner. The door unlatched with an audible beep. From inside, Kane removed a Kimber 1911 .45 ACP semi-automatic pistol and a magazine filled with jacketed hollow-point ammunition.

The Clown Killer slapped the magazine into the .45 and racked the slide. “Now... Where’s this dirty bastard holed up at?”

The Broken Spoke Bar & Grill sat on the outskirts of town between the Blue Dog Truck Stop and Misty Acres trailer park.

The college kids called it a Country bar. The old folks called it a Honky-tonk. The law called it a pain-in-the-ass. But the only law left in North Manchester was responding to calls in his wife’s Chrysler minivan. Except there were no more responses to 911 calls from the Broken Spoke, after the incident with Red Nekid and the Bumpy Bottom Boys, North Manchester’s local Country Band.

Red and the Boys had just finished their rendition of the Garth Brooks hit, Friends in Low Places, when Spanky and his posse showed up. Spanky insisted they play Pop Goes the Weasel. Red spit a stream of dip juice at the clown and his group of painted pranksters and said, “This ain’t no fuckin’ kids party. So, take your clown ass down the road.”

Red and his band’s set came to an abrupt end because it was impossible to continue playing musical instruments with broken fingers and fractured skulls.

The bar owner, Alice “Big Country” Calhoun, stood six inches taller than most of her patrons and was her high school’s state shot put champion back in 1995. Big Country could throw a punch that would knock out a mule, but she was no match for Spanky’s crew. They were strong in numbers and tied her up and hung her from the rafters like a Caucasian piñata. A torched sign and two cans of spray paint later, the Broken Spoke was aptly renamed: Spanky’s Wackatorium.

Carson Kane’s RV idled at the edge of the Broken Sp— or rather, the Wackatorium’s parking lot. Domingo assisted his mentor suit up for the clown showdown, like he’d done for the past four years.

They had a ritual. It started with the Spanish trumpet instrumental song, El Matador, played on the RV’s sound system. Domingo then secured each piece of equipment to Kane with meticulous care and precision: A flak jacket with front and rear ceramic plates; a pair of leather chaps; a drop-leg tactical holster for the Kimber .45; a Sig Sauer P365 9mm in a boot holster; a sheathed eighteen-inch Bowie knife, just like the one Stallone carried in Rambo III; a Remington 870 pump-action tactical shotgun with a pistol grip and two bandoleers filled with a mix of three-inch magnum, double-aught buckshot shells and rifled slugs; a fresh package of Red Man; and two non-lethal concussion grenades.

The Tony Lama boots and Cavalry hat were the last pieces of the Clown Killer’s battle gear. After comm checks between Kane’s earpiece and the RV’s radio, Domingo led his mentor in the Lord’s Prayer. They both made the sign of the Cross, and the teenager drove the war-wagon to the front doors.

“Soon as I get out, pull around to the back,” Kane said, making a last-second check of his magazine pouches. “If we get any squirters heading for the trailer park, you know what to do.”

“Si, señor.”

Inside the bar, towards the back by the restrooms, two Dayton hookers, both naked and painted up to look just like Spanky, with white face paint, black circles around their eyes and mouths, and red butt cheeks, stood on top of a pool table. Each hooker resembled their new master’s signature look. Every clown had one, and Spanky was no exception.

The hookers, with freshly shaved heads, tried unsuccessfully to avoid stepping on the broken beer bottles scattered across the pool table’s green felt top. They were not having a good time.

“Dance, bitches!” the crowd of wannabe clowns shouted. The two were not the most attractive women wrangled from the streets of Dayton. They were just the last two strong enough to survive.

Spanky’s posse circled the table. Eight men and three women, all residents of Misty Acres, had been on a steady diet of booze, meth, and heroin since the clown showed up. They would do anything for Spanky. He treated them as equals and didn’t judge them by their socio-economic status or lack of teeth. They all thought he was the best thing to happen to them since Kid Rock.

Spanky the Clown sat on a barstool in the middle of the band riser, like a mad king looking down on his court. His white face paint mixed in with the black around his eyes, producing a grey, ashen color. An orange wig circled the back of his head and stuck out on the sides like bird wings. His white jumper was streaked with blood and brain matter from... someone. Stacked randomly behind the stage, some as high as eight feet, sat box after box of wooden crates.

In one white-gloved hand, the clown held a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. In the other, a flip-phone. His black mouth curved into an evil grin, revealing jagged, rotted teeth and the forked tongue of a python.

Three shotgun blasts and a boot kick caved in the front door to the bar. Every painted head turned to see a metal canister the size of a sixteen-ounce Budweiser fly through the air and hit Big Country in the butt as she hung suspended from the rafters. The large woman’s eyes widened as she let out a muffled scream through the gag in her mouth. She watched in horror as the flashbang dropped straight to the floor and exploded. The detonation produced a deafening burst of sound, a blinding flash of white light, and a shock wave that rattled the senses. It also caused Big Country to soil herself.

Kane peeked his head through the doorway that he’d blown to smithereens. As the smoke cleared, he realized the grenade didn’t quite reach the distance he wanted, and the only person incapacitated by his surprise attack was Big Country. And she was already tied up.

“Whoops,” he said.

The Clown Killer stepped inside the bar, designed like a cabin, with an open ceiling and exposed tree logs to support the roof. Big Country, bound and gagged, dangled from the largest cross-beam. The charcoal and sulfur from the flash bang stung Kane’s nose, but could not fully counteract the noxious odors of meth, mixed with urine and stale liquor.

Neon beer signs, posters of Country Music stars, and pictures of wild horses and western cattle drives littered the floor. The décor once hung proudly on the walls, but this bar looked like a Texas tornado had blown through. The hardwood floor was a sea of broken bottles and glass. Kane shook his head in disgust.

Against the wall to the left, a Rock-Ola jukebox played a Taylor Swift song. A dozen double-aught buckshot pellets from Kane’s 870 tore through the music machine, and that was enough of that.

“I’m here for the clown!” Kane yelled out. The passel of painted clown groupies huddled together by the pool table, and the two naked hookers escaped into the bathroom. “I’m giving you bunch of pansy-asses one chance to get out of here with your lives. Leave now, or meet your maker.”

Raucous laughter erupted from the faux clowns. Spanky joined in until his laughter drowned out all the others, with a deep, ominous voice, reverberating throughout the entire bar, rattling the windows and shaking what was left of the whisky bottles. Kane had heard that evil laugh once before.

The Clown Killer pursed his lips and spat a long stream of tobacco juice in the clown’s direction. Spanky, still perched on the stool, took a deep breath, coughed, snorted, then hacked a loogie the size of an oyster through the air. It landed with a splat inches away from Kane’s boots.

One of Spanky’s lackeys broke from the crowd and charged Kane, running and screaming like a lunatic. Kane looked upward and traced the rope that suspended Big Country to the cross-beam. He pulled out his Bowie knife and swung it high, slicing the line, and dropping the hefty bar owner like a bag of three-hundred-pound wet cement, crushing the screaming idiot like a bug.

Two more stupid fools attacked Kane. One held a knife, which he threw. The other fired a .357 revolver. Kane dodged the knife, but took a bullet to the upper left corner of his flak jacket. The shot lurched him backwards and sent a fiery spasm into his left arm. With his right hand, he unholstered his Kimber .45 and shot the two attackers center mass, blasting their insides out through their backs and dropping them to the floor.

What was left of the posse split. Four clown posers charged Kane, and four ran for the back door. Kane’s left arm was still numb, but he managed to work the pump-action and fire five rounds. The heavy, double-aught buckshot tore through their bodies, severing limbs and splitting skulls. Blood spilled onto the barroom floor, turning the shards of glass into shades of crimson.

Through the open back door, Kane heard the sound of a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun on full automatic. Domingo had lain in wait to ambush anyone from the clown posse who thought they could escape their brand of justice. After a short pause, the MP5 rang out again, meaning the apprentice had reloaded with another thirty-round magazine to finish them off. That thought brought a smile to Kane’s face. He reached up and pressed the talk button on his earpiece.

“Side-show, this is Ringmaster. Do you copy?”

“Si, señor.”

“Get the Super Soaker ready.”

“Ay, Dios mío! Si, señor.”

Kane cast his eyes down on Big Country, desperately trying to free herself from the rope. He reached up and tipped the brim of his hat as he walked by. “Ma’am.” She rolled off the flattened body of the clown’s crony and answered with a, “MUFKKR,” through the gag.

The bloody glass crushed and popped under Kane’s Tony Lamas as he approached the clown, who sat like a statue on the barstool. The feeling had come back to his left arm, so he fed fresh 12-gauge shells into the shotgun’s magazine tube.

Kane spat another stream of brown fluid in Spanky’s direction. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

The clown answered in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the earth. “Should I?”

“Abilene, Texas. Thirty years ago. Ringo Brothers’ traveling circus. My daddy was the strongman, and my momma was a trapeze artist with the Flying Frappuccinos. We were living the dream... Traveling the country, performing for thousands of people... until Abilene, when everything went to hell. Somebody poisoned my daddy’s HGH. Hair remover got put in the bearded lady’s shampoo. And my mamma... I know you remember what you did to my mamma.”

A look of joyous surprise reshaped the clown’s painted face. “Now, I remember. I greased the bar of her trapeze. Her body made the most wonderful sound when she fell into the center ring. The Frappuccinos should have used a net.” The clown cackled like a hyena, the laughter echoing off the bar’s ceiling. “Safety first,” he said in a mocking, singsong voice.

With that, Kane racked the action of the shotgun and lined up the neon yellow sights on the clown’s forehead.

“Wait... I remember you... You were just a boy. You were there and saw your mother fall to her death. And now... you’ve come to kill me.”

“I’ve killed more of your kind than any face-paint carcinogen or latex balloon allergy ever did. And I took pleasure in every single one. But you... I’ve been looking for you for a loooong time. Tonight, I’ll dance on your carcass after I send you back to hell, you Goddamned demon sonofabitch.”

Spanky turned up the whiskey bottle and drained what was left down his gullet, then flung the bottle into the air. Kane aimed with his 870 and blasted the bottle into a thousand pieces, sending shards of jagged glass onto the clown. One shard stuck deep into his pasty white cheek. Black, tar-like blood seeped from the wound. The clown’s mouth opened wide, unhinging like the jaws of a snake. His forked tongue lashed out into the air, and he let out a high-pitched, demonic scream that shattered every window in the bar.

Kane winced at the sound as the demon clown launched himself through the air, did a perfect somersault, and stuck the landing like an Olympic gymnast, only six feet in front of his nemesis. The clown held up a cell phone and said, “You first,” then pressed dial. Behind him, in one of the crates, a phone rang once, then stopped.

“The hell did you do?” Kane asked.

“Those boxes are filled with dynamite and set to explode in two minutes. Or maybe it’s one minute. I’ve been having so much fun, I can’t remember.”

With the shotgun sights still lined up on the clown’s head, Kane pulled the trigger. But Spanky jumped high in the air like his oversized clown shoes were on springs. The buckshot missed its mark and blew a hole through the roof.

The demon clown bounced up and down between the floor and the rafters like a pinball, laughing and cursing, calling Kane a “momma’s boy” and a “pussy.” Rage-screaming at the top of his lungs, the Clown Killer tried to track him with the shotgun, while shooting shell after shell. But the clown was too quick, and all Kane did was blow more holes in the roof. The clown finally perched himself on a rafter, and Kane pulled the trigger, but there was no shot and no recoil. He’d run his weapon dry.

The clown leapt, thrusting his size 20 shoes into Kane’s face. The big man fell to the floor into a bed of broken glass that gouged through his jeans. Spanky jumped on top, pinning Kane’s shoulders to the floor.

A snake’s tongue flicked out between the demon clown’s painted lips. The mouth opened, revealing a set of long white fangs, and the head rose, ready to strike. Kane inhaled and spat a stream of tobacco juice into Spanky’s eyes.

The demon clown screamed and raised his gloved hands to wipe away the burning spit. That gave Kane time to pull his .45 and blow four holes through Spanky’s chest. The clown fell backward onto the floor with his arms outstretched, as if crucified on a cross.

Kane stood up, pulled a sliver of glass from his right butt cheek, and flicked it away. He stepped towards the clown’s lifeless body and looked down as grey smoke swirled up from each bullet hole. Looking up through one of the open spaces he’d blasted through the roof, he took off his hat and gazed at a single star, shining brightly in the night sky.

“That was for you, mamma.” Kane put his hat back on and spit. A glob of amber splattered across the clown’s face. “Good riddance, fucker.”

The Clown Killer turned and faced Big Country, who had chewed through the gag in her mouth like a rabid badger. She could now speak freely, and the words she chose were, “Get me the fuck out of here!”

The sound of moving glass spun Kane around to see the clown standing upright, black tar now oozing from the bullet wounds. The orange wig was gone, and his head had fully transformed into that of a snake. His pupils were black vertical slits inside piss-yellow eyes. Sharp, talon-like nails stuck through the ends of the white gloves, and a green, slithering tail swiped back and forth across the floor. The demon/clown/snake opened its mouth and hissed, “You’re ssssstill a pusssssssssssssy.”

Before Kane could react, the back door burst open, and Domingo ran in armed with a Nerf Super Soaker XP100 with a 1.26-liter capacity.

“Para mi familia!” Domingo shouted. For my family!

The toy gun’s reservoir held Holy Water, blessed by Father Dunkirk McGurk from Our Lady of the Holy Chastity Belt parish, outside of Bald Knob, Arkansas. Domingo aimed the bright orange nozzle at the demon snake and pulled the plastic trigger. The reaction of the blessed water was immediate, bubbling and melting the demon’s scaly skin until it dropped in gelatinous blobs on the floor. The demon wailed and screamed in agony, his body shrinking inside the white, blood-stained jumper, and falling to the floor.

Kane’s apprentice pumped the blue charging handle back and forth, keeping a constant stream of water pressure on the demon until there was nothing left on the ground but the rumpled jumper, a pair of size 20 shoes, and a flip-phone. He didn’t stop until air fizzed from the nozzle, sputtering out the last of the Holy Water.

The bar fell quiet. Kane stood still, and Domingo made the sign of the Cross, watching the clown’s clothes for movement. Suddenly, a dark apparition, like a snake made of smoke, rose from where the demon’s body had melted, and dove down, disappearing into the floorboards. It was done.

“The bomb, you fucking idiot!” Big Country yelled.

Kane’s face turned a ghostly white as his head snapped toward the wooden crates. “Sweet Baby Jesus!” In one fluid movement, he slung his 870 behind his back and pulled out his Bowie knife, bounding across the room to the stack of wooden crates. Using his knife as a pry-bar, he pulled off the tops one by one as fast as he could, wondering how much time until the bomb exploded, killing him, his loyal apprentice, and the large, angry woman on the floor.

Domingo ran up to Kane. “Qué pasa?”

“You need to get,” Kane said, tossing away an empty crate. “The clown planted a bomb in one of these boxes, and I don’t know how much time’s left. Drag the woman out of here with you if you can. Use your legs and save your back.”

Domingo shot a glance at Big Country and shook his head. “No, señor. I stay.”

On the fifth box, Kane stopped and stared inside. Domingo leaned over and looked. On the bottom of the crate was a small flip-phone and a note written in blood that said, “The bomb is in the trailer park. Sucker!” Anger filled Kane’s eyes, and he grabbed the phone, crushing it like it was made of eggshells. He lifted his head and exhaled a relieved breath. “Well, I thought we were goners, kid. Untie the woman and let’s get out of here.”

“Señor Kane,” Domingo said, looking up at his mentor. He had a different plan in mind. “We must find the bomb.”

“Negative. No way. I didn’t sign up for that. I ain’t taking a chance on getting you blown to bits. Let’s just take our money and get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Señor... We kill many clowns... Many demons. To protect the people, si?”

“That’s right. What’s your point?”

“We must find the bomb in the park. If we do not, many people die. And we have failed.”

Kane shifted his weight, resting his right hand on his holstered .45. He let out a sigh, knowing that a sense of honor in such a young man was a rare commodity, and one that shouldn’t go wasted.

“I reckon them trailer park people didn’t ask for any of this. Alright, kid. Have it your way. But you follow my lead, comprende?”

“Sí, señor.”

The two turned and hurried out the back door.

“Hey!” Big Country shouted. “What about me?”

The finale of “Send in the Killers” was omitted in this post to comply with contest rules

Read The Finale

© 2026 Ron Clyburn

Disclaimer:

This article is an original work of fiction by Ron Clyburn. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.

On this day, 82 years ago, nearly 160,000 Allied troops landed in Normandy, France, during Operation Overlord to liberate Nazi-occupied Western Europe.

From what I know and what my father, Arnold, told me, he and three of his brothers served in WWII at the same time.

• Dad was in the Pacific theater, in the U.S. Army’s 24th Infantry, scheduled for the invasion of Japan.

• Uncle Billy was a tanker under General Patton and served in Africa and Italy.

• Uncle Willard had a bad foot, but served as an airplane mechanic for the U.S. Army Air Corps, stationed in Los Angeles, CA.

• And my Uncle Malon was part of the Normandy invasion, dropping down behind enemy lines.

My Uncle Malon died in 1990. My father spent the last week of his life with him at his bedside. Only then did Uncle Malon talk to Dad about what he saw and did during D-Day.

The total number of Allied casualties on D-Day (killed, wounded, and MIA) was estimated at almost 10,000. Please take some time today to remember not only those who lost their lives 82 years ago, but also those who survived and came home forever changed.

Writing News

I am starting a new round of agent queries after discovering that the synopsis for my novel, Let Sleeping Dogs Lie, was too long and needed to be cut way down. As one of my creative writing instructors put it... “A novel synopsis is like an instrument of torture.” She couldn’t have been more correct. It’s a hard task, but I’ll get it done by the weekend and jump back on the agent query train come Monday.

My novella The Faceless Man is done!

The first draft of my 35K-word novella, The Faceless Man, is done and in the hands of my Beta readers, who are thankfully sending me mistakes that I need to correct. I expect to have all input back by next week, and then I will start pitching it to small, independent publishers.

The Faceless Man is an action thriller, written in a gritty, crime-noir style. It stars Cincinnati police sergeant Susan Driscoll, who encounters a super-powered vigilante while investigating a human trafficking ring. The book is dark, violent, and action-packed, exploring a cop’s struggle with her personal demons and moral code while fighting against corruption. This novella is my tribute to comic books, and I hope I can find a publisher for it this year.

My Current WIP (Work in progress)

I was asked to contribute to an anthology set during WWII (I jumped at the chance) and based on French resistance fighters in Nazi-occupied France. I can’t say much about it now, but I can tell you what I have planned for the story: Lots of action (of course), a daring rescue, and a train robbery (a salute to the old Pulp westerns). I’ll keep you posted on the details as soon as I’m allowed.

My next Writer’s Conference

At the end of July, I’ll be attending the IGW Genre Conference in Huntington, WV, where I’ll have a chance to pitch my novel Let Sleeping Dogs Lie to literary agents in attendance. I’ll also be attending workshops while meeting and networking with lots of other writers. Wish me luck!

My Published Stories

Even though I don’t have a book out yet, you can still find my writing in the following publications:

Crimeucopia - A Coterie of Dicks

“The Hide and Seek Champion of North America”

Joe Cooper, the P.I. who talks to animals, is searching for a missing girl in the wilds of Hocking Hills, Ohio, and learns that his gift for animal communication crosses over to legendary cryptids. Buy it here.

Starlite Pulp – Reviews #5 and #7

“Domesticated” Review #5

The first Joe Cooper short story finds Joe getting plenty of help from his animal friends as he searches for a missing veteran and uncovers a diabolical plot by a mad scientist. Buy it here.

“Send in the Killers” Review #7

Killer clowns are the bane of our existence, and Carson Kane - Clown Killer, is on a mission to rid the earth of these vile creatures. Kane is a mash-up of Van Helsing and The Outlaw Josie Wales, and along with this sidekick, Domingo, he travels the country hunting killer clowns for bounty. Buy it here.

Thriller Magazine – Fall 2025 Edition

“The Lincoln Paradox”

Paul Nelson is a retiree with a sweet tooth and a bad hip, working for a medical delivery company. All he wants to do is make his delivery and get home to his wife, but things don’t go as planned. Armed thugs try to steal his package, and Paul winds up taking on the mob, government agents, and an overzealous cop, who suspects Paul is a little more than just a retired old man. Buy it here.

Guilty Crime Story Magazine 16

“All In”

A Las Vegas hitman falls for the woman he’s hired to kill, and learns that she’s put the contract on herself. But why? Buy it here.

Have a great month, and I’ll talk to you soon.

Ron

Rob Hart is the USA Today best-selling author of Assassin’s Anonymous, a novel about a support group for reformed contract killers. The book was nominated for a Lefty Award for best mystery in 2024. The sequel, titled The Medusa Protocol (now available in paperback), was published last year. The third novel in Rob’s AA universe, titled Three Hitmen and a Baby, will be available June 16^th. Rob was gracious enough to find time for me to interview him as he prepares for his upcoming book launch.

Me: Without giving away spoilers, what can we expect from Mark, AKA the “Pale Horse,” and his group of reformed killers in Three Hitmen and a Baby?

Rob: The first two books have some heavy themes so I wanted to write a romp; just something really fun to reward readers who have stuck with me thus far. Then halfway through it got pretty heavy, so, best laid plans and all that. But this book is set fully in New York City--where I was born and raised, and I love writing about my hometown. You get to see some different sides of some of these characters. And it pays off some stuff I’ve been laying down since the first book. It’s also a little funny to me, how three of the deadliest, most capable people in the world can fail so badly at parenting...

Me: I love the concept of a support group for retired assassins. Can you tell me how you came up with the idea?

Rob: For the longest time I had this idea about a bunch of assassins from different parts of the world stuck together in a group therapy setting. I thought it would be funny to see all these terrifying, deadly characters sitting around and sharing their feelings. But it didn’t come together until one day it hit me: 12-step programs include an amends process, and I wonder what that would look like? As soon as I thought of it in those terms, I had the book.

Me: When it comes to genres, I hear a lot about “stay in your lane.” You’ve written novels in different genres (mystery and sci-fi). As a writer myself, I’ve crossed genres, and I love doing so. Do you think that’s okay for a new writer, or is it best to pick a genre and stick with it?

Rob: There are pros and cons. I like to write what I think is going to be fun for me, whether that’s a straight thriller or a time travel murder mystery. If I’m not having fun there’s no point. It can be a little challenging when it comes to the marketing side, or convincing readers to pick you up. With The Paradox Hotel, sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t mystery enough for the mystery folks and not sci-fi enough for the sci-fi folks. But honestly, that’s not a huge concern. The only thing that matters is you follow your bliss into whatever story feels right in the moment.

Me: You co-authored a sci-fi novel published last year titled Detour with Jeff Rake, the creator and showrunner for the TV show Manifest. Can you describe how the co-authoring process between you and Jeff worked, and when Detour’s sequel will come out?

Rob: Jeff had a brilliant pitch, and we spent a few months kicking it back and forth, outlining, brainstorming, all that fun stuff. When it came to the writing it was pretty straightforward. We set up a Google Doc, and I would write a whole bunch, then Jeff would hop in, and tweak and edit and add and subtract, before lobbing the ball back to me. By the time we made it to the second book Jeff felt a little more confident with his prose and took on a little more of the writing duties. Overall though, he’s a brilliant storyteller who just intrinsically understands story and character. I learned a ton working with him. The sequel is called Roundabout and it’s coming out in January.

Me: You’ve worked as a journalist and now a fiction author. If you couldn’t make a living using your skills as a writer, what profession would you want to do?

Rob: I can’t imagine doing anything other than this, and one of the reasons I have so many tattoos is I want to make myself unhireable in polite society. I never want an adult job again, and there is no Plan B here.

Me: You wrote a great article for the January/February 2026 issue of Writer’s Digest on “Advice for your writing success.” After reading that article, I walked away with: Not all writing advice is the best advice, find what works best for you, and all that matters is that “the work gets done.” Besides those three great tips, can you think of anything else a new writer should know?

Rob: Two things: The biggest mistake I see writers make is wanting to publish more than wanting to write well. If you’re really set on the concept of self-publishing, you should do that, but too many people treat it like a last resort, putting out work that’s not ready for prime time, and they feel let down by the process. Patience is key. So is stubbornness. The biggest downside of social media is that, like with most authors, I post about the wins; you don’t see the ten losses it took me to get there. The common denominator among successful authors is your ability to push past your failures. Just keep going.

Thanks so much to Rob for this interview. You can buy Assassin’s Anonymous, The Medusa Protocol, and Detour on Amazon or anywhere books are sold, and don’t forget to pick up Three Hitmen and a Baby on June 16th.

***WARNING*** Language abounds

When the family business fell apart, a few of my relatives had a hard time adjusting to life in the digital age. For guys like my Uncle Vito Santini, going digital meant cutting the fingers off a guy until he fessed up. I wasn’t even born when Uncle Vito got pinched for being “Big Louie” Lovato’s shovel-man. According to his court testimony, he never actually killed anybody. He just dug the holes the bodies were stuck in.

So, after twenty-five years, he shows up at my apartment and wants me to teach him about computers. Says learning to use a “computer machine” is all part of his rehabilitation. Not to mention staying one hundred feet away from any store that sells shovels.

“Face what?” he says.

“Facebook,” I reply. “It’s social networking.”

“Social networking… Do I gotta piss in a cup?”

“Huh?”

“You know… The clap.”

I roll my eyes. “Uh… No, Uncle Vito… you’re thinking about… No, this is on the Internet. Social networking means—lots of people connecting with each other through the Internet.”

“Oh. The Internet. I heard a that.”

“Have you? Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I figure Uncle Vito had to use a computer sometime while he was in the joint. See, most Wiseguys who are sent up the river don’t really do what’s known as “hard time.” Somebody somewhere in the prison system is on the family payroll, so favors get done, and privileges are handed out like cartons of cigarettes from the back of a truck.

“Okay, type in your email address in that first line there,” I say.

“The fuck is email?”

“You don’t know what email is?”

“Look, kid... I just did twenty-five years, and all I did was dig a few holes. You’d think those Fed pricks woulda put me in witness protection. But no! So, the only mail I know anything about, was the letters from your old man tellin’ me you was a college boy and how smart you was. So, I don’t know nothin’ about no fuckin’ email!”

“Okay, Uncle Vito. Jeez, don’t get so upset.”

“Sorry, kid. I need a drink. Whatcha got around here?”

“Uh, I got some soda. Maybe an energy drink.”

“No booze? No wine? C’mon, kid. You come from a long line of Wiseguys, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t think you should be drinking right now. Don’t you have to check in with your PO this afternoon?”

“Alright, alright… Forgetaboutit.” Uncle Vito’s not really a bad guy. In fact, out of the twelve people in my family who are doing time, he’s the only one who got out on good behavior.

“What’s with this email?” he says.

“Email is just like getting a letter from somebody, only it’s sent electronically through communication cables and wireless signals.”

“Let me ask you somethin’? Can they wire-tap that shit?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“Then I don’t want nothin’ to do with no fuckin’ email.”

“Okay, then. I guess we can use one of mine just to get you logged in. Here, type this… Italian…sausage…man… the at sign… gmail dot com.”

“Ha! You’re the Italian sausage man! You been showin’ the ladies your little Italian sausage, huh?”

Santinis. Always thinking with their dicks. I have to remember not to mention anything about Internet porn, or I’ll never get him out of my apartment.

“Funny, Uncle Vito,” I say, sliding him the keyboard. “Just type it in.”

“Here, you do it.” He slides it back.

I comply to speed things along. “Alright. There. Now you have to come up with a password.”

“How about my name? Vito ‘The Shovel’ Santini.”

“No, you don’t want to use your name, because it’s too easy to steal.”

“Let me tell you somethin’… The last jamook who ripped me off, wound up in the bottom of a—“

“I don’t want to know, Uncle Vito. Look, don’t use your name. It has to be something unique, like a word or a phrase that’s easy for you to remember.”

“Okay, how about… Whack the shylock?”

“Why that?”

“Cause that’s what I shoulda did when he ratted me out… Whack the shylock.”

“Whatever. Oh, and we need to add a number to it.”

“Whack the shylock 69 times.”

“Can you remember that?”

“Absolutely.”

I can’t help but feel this is a total waste. I’m supposed to be studying for my chemistry final, which is going to be a bitch of a test. Then again… If I do help Uncle Vito, maybe he can send a few of his pals to pay my professor a visit and guarantee me an “A.”

Nah. I could never do that. My pop, God rest his soul, would turn over in his grave if he knew I was asking his brother for favors. See, Pop was the youngest of seven boys, and his older brothers kept him out of the business by sending him to trade school to be a plumber. Yeah, I know. An Italian plumber. I’ve heard all the Donkey Kong jokes.

“Alright, this is your Facebook home page, and it wants you to upload some pictures of yourself.”

“Why?”

“So other people know what you look like. People use Facebook as a way to share their lives with their friends. So, they put pictures of themselves and their families on here.”

“If I put pictures of the family on here… I’m gonna get whacked.”

“Good point. Let’s do a friend search instead.”

“You think some of my pals are on here?”

“It’s possible. Give me some names.”

“Let’s see… there’s Benny ‘The Goon’ Gorbonzo, Leo ‘The Leach’ Monitelli… No, wait… He’s still got five years. Hey, you think that stripper from Queens is on here?”

“Uncle Vito… This is getting way out of hand.”

“Hey, you’re the smart guy makin’ all the rules. I’m just sittin’ here. You know… I don’t see how this could be very popular.”

“Over 3 billion people have Facebook accounts, Uncle Vito.”

“3 billion! What a racket! We gotta get a piece of that action. Are they union?”

“No, see… The guy who started this is some uber computer nerd who may or may not have stolen the idea from a couple of his friends.”

“Stole it! He’s gotta be a Wiseguy. What’s his name?”

“It’s Zuckerberg, and he’s definitely not connected to any of the families.”

“Oh. Well, forgetaboutit. Okay, 3 billion people on here. Chances are, I’m gonna know somebody. What if it’s somebody I don’t like?”

“Well, if you’re friends with somebody, and you don’t want to be friends with them anymore, you just use the ‘unfriend’ button.”

“And, what happens then?”

“They just go away, and you don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! He has to a Wiseguy! I gotta go find him.”

“What are you talking about, Uncle Vito? You’ll never get close to Zuckerberg. He’s like a gazillionaire.”

“Always got his crew around him, huh? I can appreciate that. Smart guy. Look, I got an idea. What about a Facebook for people like me? You know… Wiseguys? We bring people in… Offer them protection… We make a killing! We’ll call it… Mugbook. What do ya think?”

I can see the newspaper headlines now: “Mobsters Attempting Facebook Extortion Beaten by Facebook’s Former Navy Seal Security Force.”

I realize that teaching Uncle Vito about “computer machines” will never keep him from thinking about crime. Some people, no matter how hard they try, just can’t change. I mean… He wasn’t here five minutes when I saw him pocket my roommate’s gold watch.

“I… think it’s a great idea, Uncle Vito. Go with it,” I say, hoping that will get him out of my apartment.

“I knew it! See, you’re smart. Just like your old man said. Now, how do I find this Fuckerberg guy?”

“Uh… try the phonebook.”

“Phonebook. Right. Haven’t seen one of those in a while. I’ll get his address… Round up a few goombahs from the neighborhood… We’ll make him an offer—“

“Don’t say it!”

“I’m tellin’ you, kid. The family’s back in business!”

THE END

© 2026 Ron Clyburn

Disclaimer:

This article is an original work of fiction by Ron Clyburn. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.

Luis Strickland: The Interview Transcript by MPR STAFF

Roger Spiegel interviewed retired FBI Agent Luis Strickland on A Lot of Things Well Thought Out on Feb. 12. This is the full transcript of their conversation:

ROBERT SPIEGEL: Agent Strickland, welcome to the program.

AGENT LUIS STRICKLAND: I’m happy to be here.

MR. SPIEGEL: The release this week of your book, titled The Fall of the Farm Girl has stirred quite a debate about the accuracy of your story. If I may be frank, Agent Strickland - people just don’t believe you.

AGENT STRICKLAND: That’s understandable. If I hadn’t been there myself, I wouldn’t have believed it either.

MR. SPIEGEL: You retired from the FBI after 25 years as a field agent. You investigated hundreds of criminal cases and received numerous commendations. Your work record is impeccable. Yet, the New York Times’ Dwight Garner says – “The Justice Department should be investigated for allowing a nut like Luis Strickland to carry a gun.”

AGENT STRICKLAND: (pause) Yeah. That one stung a little.

MR. SPIEGEL: Let’s start from the beginning. How did you come to write this book?

AGENT STRICKLAND: The Fall of the Farm Girl is the account of a case that I worked on during my 20th year as a field agent with the FBI. At that time, I was a Supervisory Special Agent who oversaw investigations of violent crimes in rural areas.

MR. SPIEGEL: Who called you in to investigate this crime?

AGENT STRICKLAND: We were called in by the local sheriff, who just didn’t have the resources to investigate this type of crime. It’s a very rural farming community of around 200 residents. There’s only one road going into the village, and one road going out. The townspeople - I guess you could say - are stuck in the past. No modern technology to speak of. No computers. No televisions. It’s really hard to believe in this day and age.

MR. SPIEGEL: So, this is an Amish-like community?

AGENT STRICKLAND: No. Not Amish. The Amish are very subdued and wear only black and white clothing. These people were - very colorful, to say the least. But, back to the case - We arrived on the scene a few hours after the discovery of the crime, which was the murder of an adult female.

MR. SPIEGEL: And how was this woman murdered?

AGENT STRICKLAND: She was crushed by a house.

MR. SPIEGEL: A house?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. Eyewitnesses reported they saw a house fall from the sky, right on top of the victim.

MR. SPIEGEL: And you believed them?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Well, yes. We saw the house. You couldn’t miss it. Compared to the other houses in the village, it stuck out like a sore thumb.

MR. SPIEGEL: Was this a mobile home?

AGENT STRICKLAND: No. It was a very old single-family farmhouse - not very big, and not very well taken care of. But it was intact. I was surprised there was no structural damage, considering the fall from the sky.

MR. SPIEGEL: The woman’s body must have been in terrible condition.

AGENT STRICKLAND: That’s one of the things that made this case so, uh - unique. When we jacked up the house, the only evidence we could find was the victim’s clothing.

MR. SPIEGEL: You never found a body?

AGENT STRICKLAND: No.

MR. SPIEGEL: Did the killer take the body?

AGENT STRICKLAND? No. According to witnesses, the body seemed to – shrivel up and disappear. We concluded the killer must have used some type of advanced chemical agent on the victim, but our lab tests were inconclusive.

MR. SPIEGEL: That’s very strange. Had you seen this type of murder before?

AGENT STRICKLAND: In my 20 years as an FBI agent, I’d never seen anything like that.

MR. SPIEGEL: What was the victim’s name?

AGENT STRICKLAND: She was known to the townspeople only as - The Wicked Witch of the East.

MR. SPIEGEL: The – Wicked – Witch—

AGENT STRICKLAND: Of the East. That’s when we suspected possible gang involvement. Gangs name themselves according to their geographic localities. East siders - West siders - but we ruled out the murder as a gang hit after witnesses described the killer.

MR. SPIEGEL: And who was your prime suspect?

AGENT STRICKLAND: One Dorothy Gale, teenage farm girl from Kansas. The house – or in this case, the murder weapon, belonged to her.

MR. SPIEGEL: From Kansas. Do you think this was a hate crime, Agent Strickland?

AGENT STRICKLAND: We considered that at first, but we were unable to establish any connections to the Westboro Baptist Church. We did find out that the victim’s sister arrived not long after the murder and threatened physical violence against Dorothy - and her little dog, too.

MR. SPIEGEL: The suspect had a dog?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. Some kind of little black terrier named Toto.

MR. SPIEGEL: Like, the rock band from the 80s?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Exactly.

MR. SPIEGEL: What role did the victim’s sister play in all this?

AGENT STRICKLAND: We determined that both the victim and her sister were involved in some kind of religious cult.

MR. SPIEGEL: A cult?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. Witness reports stated that the victim’s sister called herself - The Wicked Witch of the West. Both the victim and her sister considered themselves witches, so this was obviously a Wiccan cult, or coven. Witness statements also described another female who showed up after the murder, and intervened when the victim’s sister threatened Ms. Gale. She called herself Glinda, The Good Witch of the North.

MR. SPIEGEL: So, we’re talking about rival Wiccan cults?

AGENT STRICKLAND: That seemed to be the case, yes.

MR. SPIEGEL: You have based most of your investigation, and your book, on reports from eyewitnesses. What was the overall attitude of the townspeople during your investigation?

AGENT STRICKLAND: You mean, the Munchkins?

MR. SPIEGEL: The who?

AGENT STRICKLAND: The Munchkins – from Munchkin Land, where the murder took place. The entire population of Munchkin Land suffers from dwarfism. I mean, every single one. Sure, some are taller than others, but when you’re looking at four-foot-two versus four-foot-six, there’s not much difference.

MR. SPIEGEL: A town full of dwarfs?

AGENT STRIKCLAND: Yes. Must be something in the water. Anyway - at first, I was very suspicious of their behavior. They didn’t seem to be too broken up about the brutal murder of a woman in their little town – no pun intended. In fact, they were quite happy about it. When we arrived on the scene, they were all singing and dancing like it was a party. They kept singing over and over – “Ding-dong, the witch is dead.”

MR. SPIEGEL: Ding-dong?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Ding-dong.

MR. SPIEGEL: So, these – Munchkins – were pleased about the murder?

AGENT STRICKLAND: They were not displeased. But I don’t believe they were celebrating the victim’s death - as much as I believe that - it’s just their nature to do things like that. They are, generally, a very happy people – they sing – they dance. I mean – there’s no Internet there, so what else are they going to do. Oh, and they landscape. Impeccable landscapers – not one blade of grass or flower out of place.

MR. SPIEGEL: Fascinating.

AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. You know, now that I think about it, we did have a little problem with one of the Munchkins who found out we were looking at Ms. Gale as a murder suspect. He was part of some union – the Lollypop Guild. He didn’t like us very much, and he kicked one of my agents in the shin. Left a nasty bruise.

MR. SPIEGEL: How did you handle that?

AGENT STRICKLAND: We tased him and took him into Federal custody.

MR. SPIEGEL: Is that in your book?

AGENT STRICKLAND: No.

MR. SPIEGEL: Let’s circle back to Ms. Gale – teenage farm girl – who killed a woman with a house. What did she do next?

AGENT STRICKLAND: At this point, she’s stuck. She needs to get out of Munchkin Land and escape back to Kansas where she came from, but she needs help – cash, maybe a car. Glinda points her in the direction of Emerald City to meet with the head of that city’s organized crime ring, a former con man who calls himself - The Wizard of Oz. After learning this, we issued a federal arrest warrant on Glinda for aiding and abetting a fugitive.

MR. SPIEGEL: What proof did you have that this Wizard was involved in organized crime?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Everyone feared him. He had them believing he was all-knowing and all-powerful. But it was just a ruse for his drug operation. The city itself was surrounded by poppy fields - which, as I’m sure you know, are used in heroin production. We suspected that the Wizard was smuggling the drugs out of Emerald City by using horses painted different colors. We couldn’t determine the significance of the colors, so we turned that part of our investigation over to the DEA.

MR. SPIEGEL: Did Ms. Gale ever make it to see the Wizard?

AGENT STRICKLAND: She did, but facts concerning events that transpired during her travel to Emerald City were a little sketchy. Here’s what we found out: somewhere along the way, she took three full-grown men hostage and disguised them to conceal their identities.

MR. SPIEGEL: How is a teenage girl able to subdue and kidnap three grown men?

AGENT STRICKLAND: We asked ourselves that same question - and found that each man suffered from some sort of disability. One had a brain disorder, one had a heart condition, and the third was a paranoid schizophrenic.

MR. SPIEGEL: Did Ms. Gale disguise herself as well?

AGENT STRICKLAND: No. That’s how bold she was. Teenage girl or not, we knew we were dealing with a ruthless and dangerous killer. I mean - you have to be pretty sick and twisted to take advantage of the disabled.

MR. SPIEGEL: Did you ever catch up to her?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Unfortunately, no. She was very cunning – always one step ahead of us. By the time we arrived at Emerald City, she was on her way to carry out a contract hit, issued by the Wizard, on the Wicked Witch of the West.

MR. SPIEGEL: Why did the Wizard put a hit on the Wicked Witch of the West?

AGENT STRICKLAND: A demonstration of power. With one Wicked Witch already dead, if the Wizard could eliminate the other, he’d have full control of the territory. That’s when we determined that the Wizard of Oz was the mastermind behind this curtain of evil - and sweet, innocent-looking Dorothy Gale, farm girl from Kansas, was a killer for hire.

MR. SPIEGEL: That’s incredible – and quite ingenious. Who would suspect a teenage girl of being a brutal killer? So, did she carry out the hit?

AGENT STRICKLAND: After interrogating the Wizard and learning of the hit, I called in the FBI’s HRT – the Hostage Rescue Team. The HRT is a highly trained S.W.A.T. unit that the FBI uses in very volatile and dangerous situations. We did a full containment and assault on the Wicked Witch of the West’s residence, but we were too late. Despite the Witch’s fortified compound and heavy security presence – it was almost like an army – Ms. Gale was able to kill the Wicked Witch of the West in the same manner that she killed her sister before. All we found were clothes. But it wasn’t easy for Ms. Gale. We learned from the Witch’s security that, prior to Ms. Gale’s arrival - she, along with her three hostages, were attacked by a low-level street gang called the Flying Monkeys, known for doing the Wicked Witch’s dirty work. They captured Ms. Gale and took her to the Witch’s compound. As it turned out, that was just a ploy by Ms. Gale to get close to the Witch and fulfill her contract with the Wizard.

MR. SPIEGEL: At any time – were you close to apprehending Ms. Gale?

AGENT STRICKLAND: We went back to Emerald City, thinking we could intercept Ms. Gale before she collected payment from the Wizard. But by the time we got there, the girl and the Wizard of Oz were both gone. We were told the Wizard left by air – probably a private helicopter he had hidden somewhere in the city.

MR. SPIEGEL: And Ms. Gale?

AGENT STRICKLAND: No one knows – or at least, no one would tell us. We questioned her three hostages, but it was clear they had succumbed to Stockholm syndrome. That’s where—

MR. SPIEGEL: The hostages feel sympathy for their hostage takers and their cause.

AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes – exactly. They wouldn’t tell us a thing. That girl had them so messed up - they even refused to remove the disguises she put them in.

MR. SPIEGEL: Looking back, Agent Strickland – out of every heinous act committed by Ms. Gale in this case – what sticks out in your mind as the most – wicked?

AGENT STRICKLAND: (pause) The red shoes.

MR. SPIEGEL: The red shoes?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Ms. Gale stole a pair of red shoes off her first victim’s body. It wasn’t enough that she crushed that poor woman with a house - she had to steal her shoes, too.

MR. SPIEGEL: Will we ever understand fully how the criminal mind works, Agent Strickland?

AGENT STRICKLAND: No. Not in my lifetime.

MR. SPIEGEL: Where is the investigation now?

AGENT STRICKLAND: Well - It’s been five years. Dorothy Gale is still on the FBI’s ten most wanted list, but she’s just an afterthought now. That’s why I wrote this book. So people won’t forget what she did.

MR. SPIEGEL: Where do you think Dorothy Gale is, Agent Strickland?

AGENT STRICKLAND: (pause) Somewhere – Over the—

MR. SPIEGEL: I’m sorry, Agent Strickland. But we’ve run out of time. Before we go, what’s next for you?

AGENT STRICKLAND: I’ll be on my book tour for the next two months, and then it’s back to Virginia to relax and be with my family.

MR. SPIEGEL: I’m sure you’re looking forward to that.

AGENT STRIKLAND: Oh, I am. There’s no place like home.

Since The Wizard of Oz is in the public domain, I’m thinking about expanding this parody into a novel. I think it would be a lot of fun to write. If you like my story and think this idea would work in novel form, please comment and let me know.

Thanks for reading.

Ron

© 2026 Ron Clyburn

Disclaimer:

This article is an original work of fiction by Ron Clyburn. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.

My parents’ marriage lasted for 56 years until she died in October 2016. Mom never told me how the two of them got together or what made her choose my father as the man she would spend the majority of her adult life with.

I suspect my father had a lot to do with Mom’s choice. He had a way with women, but that’s a much different story for a different time. Today is about Mom, and my struggle with how to honor her besides placing flowers on her gravesite that will eventually wilt and be thrown away by a guy in bibbed overalls, riding an industrial-sized lawn mower.

I admit. I was pretty lucky as a kid. My parents’ marriage was something I never questioned as being anything but a natural part of my life, like breakfast, Saturday morning cartoons, or comic books.

Today, I’ll honor my mother by writing. After all, Mom is the one who introduced me to stories and encouraged me to one day write tales of my own. She wasn’t a writer, but when she bought me my first comic book at the local dime store (well before I learned how to read), she saw how happy turning the pages made me, and how I took in the drawings of the superheroes fighting crime and saving the world. From then on, comic books became commonplace in our home.

Mom’s early life and fear

Born in 1936, I remember her telling me about growing up in rural Kentucky during the 40s and 50s. She was one of four kids, and they didn’t have much. My grandpa worked odd jobs and eventually toiled in the coal mines for most of his life. They raised their own vegetables, which is where Mom’s first story of sheer terror came from.

Snakes

According to Mom, while working in the family garden, she stirred up a nest of snakes (copperheads) that surrounded her and scared her so badly she froze in her tracks. My grandpa had to come out, push the vipers away with a stick, and physically carry Mom away. She carried that fear of snakes with her the rest of her life.

Water

There was the time when she almost drowned, swimming with friends at a lake with a boat dock that stretched out into the water. She went to jump off the end of the dock and somehow broke her ankle. The pain was so intense that she had trouble kicking her legs in the water and began to sink. Terrified, choking on water, and almost to the bottom, she felt a hand grab her arm and pull her up. Luckily, one of the older boys had seen her fall in and not come up for air. So, he dove in and saved her. Needless to say, whenever I ventured into water higher than my head, Mom watched me like an obsessive lifeguard.

To the man who saved my mother, though I’m sure you’re no longer on this earth... Thank you, sir, whoever and wherever you are.

A victim

Mom graduated from high school early at age 16. By age 17, in 1953, she moved to Cincinnati to live with her cousin and work at a finance company as a bookkeeper. One day, while keeping the books (a 50s term for accounting), two men wearing bandannas covering their faces (a 1950s outlaw fashion statement) came in with guns, intent on cleaning out the safe. Back then, finance companies kept a reserve of cash on hand, and these men knew that. They beat mom’s cousin and pistol-whipped the manager, but for reasons unknown to my mother, the two criminals left her untouched, until they forced the manager to empty the safe into their satchels, and tied them all up in a back room. Mom was able to slip her hands free from the bindings and untie her cousin and the manager.

When the police arrived, Mom gave a statement describing the two men, who fit the description of a dastardly duo, wanted for a multi-state finance company hold-up spree. The cops told Mom they were lucky because the men had killed at least one person at every location they robbed.

Mom’s Dreams

Years later, Mom confided in me about a problem she had with dreams. It seemed that if she dreamed three times about someone close to her, or someone she cared about, soon after the third dream, they would die.

I know. Sounds like a plot for a psychological horror novel. But Mom hated liars and never lied to me once. If anything, she kept things from me as opposed to lying. So, I wondered why she would tell me about these terrible dreams that foretold the death of a loved one, which included her father, mother, brother (who drowned in the Ohio River in 1963), and the last one being her best friend in the early 1990s. Maybe she was afraid she would dream about me. Or maybe she just needed someone to talk to, and she knew I had an open mind. Whatever the reason, I was there for her.

Mom the psychic

Why do I think my mother had psychic ability? Well, the dreams, for one. Another was her knack for finding things that no one else could find. She once found my dad’s hearing aids that had been lost for over a week, and we were all getting very tired of shouting at the dinner table to pass the salt. Mom said that when she focused hard on where they could be, an image of Dad’s shoe popped into her head. She went to the closet and turned all Dad’s shoes over until the hearing aids dropped out of a brown loafer onto the floor.

Also, Mom always seemed to know whenever I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. Then again, maybe I wasn’t as sneaky in my youth as I thought I was.

Mom as a person

Being born and raised in Kentucky, she loved Country music, and growing up in the 50s, she loved Elvis Presley. She also loved cooking breakfast and could make the most delicious sausage gravy with big, cat-head biscuits (biscuits as big as a cat’s head). A country breakfast will forever be my favorite meal.

Mom was generous and unselfish, and told me that I should always take up for those who couldn’t take up for themselves. I’m sure that’s where my fondness for superheroes comes from, but I remember when mom found out about one of my high school friends who lost his football shoulder pads (they were stolen out of his car), and the principle told him that if he didn’t pay to replace them, he wouldn’t let him walk with the graduating class (a total dick move by the principal). My buddy’s single-parent family didn’t have the money to pay the fine, so Mom went to the bank, took money out of a savings account, and my buddy ended up walking with us on graduation day. We also got a visit from local law enforcement, who warned my mother against telling a high school principal to “shove this money up your ass.” Mom also had a fiery temper when she thought someone, especially a kid, was being treated unfairly.

Mom’s final days

I was there with Mom the day before she had a massive stroke. She was 78, had suffered a heart attack, and was confined to a hospital room for two weeks. She was getting better, at least that’s what we all thought. The nurse let me stay late with her in her room that night, and we “talked up a storm,” to borrow one of her down-home colloquialisms.

The next morning, I received a call from the hospital that Mom had experienced a stroke sometime in the night.

I was the last one to ever talk to her.

I held on to some guilt after she died. Did I do enough for her as a son? Could I have done more for her when she was sick? When she first went into the hospital, she made me promise that if anything happened to her, I would take care of my father. I told her not to talk that way, because I couldn’t imagine a life without her. Or maybe I couldn’t imagine a life where I had to be the one responsible for my father. Again, that’s another story.

I eventually learned to let the guilt go, and I’m positive I felt her presence the first Thanksgiving after she passed. That was a tough holiday. My wife worked hard to make dinner at my father’s house (I did the dishes), and when we sat down to eat, just me, my wife, and my father (my sons were all out of state), I felt a breeze blow across my face, like someone had blown air at me. This was in a room with no fans, no heating vents, and no sudden movements from anyone. I sat stunned for a moment until my wife noticed the look on my face and asked what was wrong, thinking maybe the stuffing was bad. I assured her everything was wonderful, then told her later what I’d felt. I’m glad my wife has an open mind like I do.

If I could have anything in the world today, especially today, it would be one more day with my mother. If you want to know how I feel, listen to Jim Croce’s iconic song “Time In A Bottle.”

I’m probably wrong about Mom having psychic powers. But one thing I do know is that she loved us with passion and commitment like no other. So maybe she cared about us so much that psychic abilities manifested within her?

Doubtful, but it’s a good thing I have an open mind.

There is no sign of Freddie, the truck, or the bags of cash by the time a multitude of cops and firemen descend on the Reedy Street warehouse like an invading army, responding to the signal 99. The fire, set by Freddie or the driver of the truck, destroyed all the evidence. Sometimes it feels like all the police work we do is for nothing. Like the bad guys are always one step ahead. But I have to keep going. I don’t have it in me to give up.

My head has a cold pack, and I’m in the back of an ambulance, bound for the ER at UC Medical Center. Mike is being transported as well. He may have a cracked rib, yet he carried me out of a burning building. He’ll get a commendation and a cheap medal. I’ll get an ass chewing from my captain.

As far as I can tell, my head is fine. The medics said they don’t think I have a concussion. They’re more worried about smoke inhalation, so they have me on oxygen. I guess I should’ve been more forthcoming about my pack-a-day habit.

The hospital gives me a breathing treatment and an inhaler, and cuts me loose at 4:00 AM. I refused the CT scan. My shrink gets inside my head enough as it is. I don’t need a machine in there.

Darrell “Vlad” Berrett, one of my 3^rd shift squad guys, is waiting to take me home. They call him Vlad because he’s worked the night shift his entire career. He’s only three months away from retirement and can’t stop talking about the bungalow in Siesta Key he and his wife, Gloria, are buying. I smile and let him ramble on about it. Somebody around here needs a happy ending.

We leave the hospital and take Auburn Avenue to E McMillian Street. At this hour, there’s barely any traffic, and Berrett should have me home in less than ten minutes.

A black panel van pulls right out in front of us from an apartment complex, driving five miles under the posted speed limit. That seems a little strange, but Berrett doesn’t let up on the finer points of retiring to Florida, and stays behind the van like he’s driving grandma to Sunday service. In the side view mirror, headlights approach, moving fast, and a car falls in line behind us. We’re still creeping at a snail’s pace, so whoever’s driving could move into the other lane and go around, but they don’t.

My internal alarms go off, recalling Freddie’s words from the warehouse: “He said he was going to have you killed.”

My hand moves to my holstered 9mm, not to pull it, just for a sense of security. I look at Berrett, whose eyes are fixed on the review mirror, finally aware that something is up. As we roll through the green light at Highland Avenue, the driver in front of us stops dead in the road just beyond the traffic signal. Berrett has to stomp on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the van. The car following behind taps our rear bumper, effectively trapping us in the intersection. Now, I pull my weapon.

“Berrett, get your—” My heart pounding, I look out the passenger window. A box truck, like the kind used by movers, is driving towards us at a high rate of speed with the lights off. I only have time to gasp, and in that moment, in those seconds before the truck smashes the car, maybe sending me to the afterlife, all I can think about is my daughter... and the dark figure that comes out of nowhere.

The Faceless Man, somehow, drops down from above, landing on the street in front of the speeding truck. He crouches and squares his shoulders, bracing for impact. When he’s hit, the collision sound is like a thunderclap. A shockwave hits and rocks the car, followed by a barrage of shattered glass and broken metal. A man’s body bursts through the truck’s windshield, arms and legs flailing, scraping the roof of Barrett’s car as it flies over us and into the street. The vigilante doesn’t budge an inch. The front of the truck curves around him, as if it’s hit a steel beam.

“What the hell is going on?” Barrett’s confused and white as a sheet. There’s no time to explain, but I know what just happened. My life was saved again... by the Faceless Man.

The passenger door of the van in front of us opens, and a man exits, armed with an assault style rifle. Before I can raise my gun to fire through the windshield, the Faceless Man appears in a blur, standing between the shooter and us. He kicks the van like a football, sending it tumbling end over end down E McMillian. It sounds like a train derailing, and leaves the shooter alone in the street, dumbstruck, with eyes like saucers. Another blur, and the shooter’s body is launched through the air, disappearing into the darkness.

Four men, all armed, exit the car that trapped us in the intersection, but I don’t know why. After witnessing what can only be explained as supernatural, you’d think they would turn tail and run. They do not, and they pay the price. The Faceless Man moves so fast, my human eyes can’t follow. Only two of the four men manage to shoot, but their bullets are futile, just like their chances.

Barrett watches, his mouth gaping, unable to speak as the vigilante strikes down each man with the speed and strength of a God on earth. It’s one thing to hear about it. Witnessing it firsthand is mind-blowing.

When it’s over, I open the door. Barrett grabs my arm. “What are you doing? He might still be out there.”

I turn back. He’s staring at me with absolute terror in his eyes. “If he wanted to kill us, we’d be dead already,” I say, peeling my arm away from his grip.

Barrett yells, “You’re crazy!”

“Yes,” I say. “Most definitely.”

© 2026 Ron Clyburn

Disclaimer:

This article is an original work of fiction by Ron Clyburn. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.

Hey folks!

Spring has sprung, and I’m spending more time outdoors, which unfortunately keeps me away from the keyboard. But rest assured, I make time to write every day. Here are the things I’m working on...

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie is finished, and I’m actively seeking agent representation. What does that mean? That means I’m researching literary agents and emailing them query letters, a sales pitch for both my novel and me as an author. It’s a process. One that could take a while. Not going to lie, I get a lot of rejections, but that’s okay. It reminds me of when I was in high school and trying to get a date for the prom. Eventually, someone will say, “Yes,” but I won’t have to rent a tuxedo.

My current project is a novella (between 30K and 40K words) titled The Faceless Man. It’s a vigilante justice thriller set in Cincinnati, written in a gritty, crime-noir tone.

Here’s the breakdown...

Career criminals are being brutally beaten and left for dead around the city. Veteran cop, Sergeant Susan Driscoll, with Cincinnati PD’s Violent Crimes Squad, thinks it’s gang-related, until she encounters a mysterious, dark vigilante known as the Faceless Man, whose size, strength, and speed are beyond anything she’s ever seen. After learning the Faceless Man is on the trail of a human trafficking ring, Susan must make a difficult decision: Does she bring the vigilante to justice, or betray everything she believes in and work with the Faceless Man?

This story was inspired by my love for comic books and the gritty, noir detective novel by authors Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. I’m very close to finishing, and I plan to pitch it to a few small press publishers, so I can have the book available sometime this year.

A special sneak-peek excerpt from my novella, The Faceless Man

Lights. Too many. Flashing blue, red, white, and amber. Reflecting off the broken windows and abandoned remnants of forgotten lives on East Mitchell Street. You see the lights so much, your brain becomes acclimated, and your eyes barely squint. It’s not a warning anymore. It’s just a way to trudge through the darkness.

A young patrolman steps in front of me as I approach. I toss my smoke, flash my badge, and he lifts the yellow tape. Cruisers take up both sides of the street. I follow the squawks of police radios to the crime scene. The department is understaffed, but there are so many cops here, I wonder who’s watching the rest of the city.

More lights. The halogen kind, positioned on stands and directed at the street. I squeeze through a crowd of cops, all gawking at a dead man, morbidly obese, and naked except for the boxers around his knees. He’s face down on the asphalt. Blood is pooled around his head and the right leg, where a foot should be, but there is none. Just ball joints of the tibia and fibula, and torn, jagged flesh.

“Where’s the foot?” I ask. A few cops in the crowd look at me and shrug. An evidence tech snapping pictures with an SLR camera says, “Haven’t found it yet. Maybe it was taken as a souvenir?”

My eyes move from the body to a scattering of broken planks. Wood shards, glass, and pink insulation trail from a two-story house. A house just like hundreds of others in the city: abandoned, unkempt, wooden clapboard siding rotted by time and the elements. But this one has a hole where an upstairs window should be. A hole roughly the same size as the fat man lying dead in the street.

“Wanna know how he got out here?” A man’s voice spins me around. Scott Parker, 3^rd shift detective. Tall. Chiseled good looks. Shoulders and pecs like a linebacker. He’s hooked more women than soap operas. He’s never hit on me, which is weird. Almost every other guy around here has. I’m not bragging, but I stay in shape, and look younger than my thirty-five years. That’s okay. I’m not here for a good time.

“Enlighten me,” I say.

“He was thrown.” There’s no smirk on Scott’s face. No facetious wink from his big brown eyes. He’s serious.

“From where? An airplane?”

Scott’s head nods toward the house. I turn and gaze back up at the hole in time to see a bright flash of light from an evidence tech’s camera illuminate the room. The tech, wearing blue gloves and a white bunny suit, steps up to the opening, looking out.

“You think someone threw this guy, who weighs four hundred and some change, out a two-story window and maybe... twenty yards into the street?” I can’t hide the snark in my voice.

The detective puts his hands in his pockets. Starts to speak, but pauses, like he’s searching for the right words, then says, “We have a witness.”

Other projects I’m working on...

Monthly Joe Cooper P.I. short stories published exclusively on my Substack

A short story set in 1940s France, published by the end of this year in The Crucible Sons, an anthology about a group of French resistance fighters taking in the Nazis during WWII.

Carson Kane: Clown Killer – “Send in the Killers” was a short story published in Starlite Pulp’s Review #7, about a Carson Kane, a man who travels the country, hunting evil killer clowns for bounty. Carson Kane is Van Helsing meets the Outlaw Josie Wales, in a neo-noir, western, horror comedy. This time, Carson and his sidekick, Domingo, take on three demon-possessed clowns in a small, western-themed amusement park in Oklahoma called Bushwhacker’s Bonanza Amusement Park and 24-hour Car Wash.

Joe Cooper (the P.I. who talks to animals) – Book 2: A respected Air Force officer, who worked at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, is missing, and Joe is hired by her husband to find her. Joe discovers the Colonel led an above top-secret program that involved UAPs (Unidentified Aerial Phenomena). Joe has to use all his wits and every animal he can find to crack this case, but some mysterious “Men in Black” show up in Dayton to throw Joe off the trail. But Joe keeps searching for the truth, because he knows... the truth is out there!

Joe Cooper, Book 2, will be titled “Bird’s Eye.”

Thanks for reading,

Ron

DISCLAIMER - The following statements and opinions are my own and not those of the United States Government.

In February, President Donald Trump ordered the Department of War (formerly the Department of Defense) and other government agencies to release documents related to UAPs – Unidentified Aerial Phenomena (formerly UFOs – Unidentified Flying Objects).

Yesterday, at a political rally, President Trump stated that the UAP document drop will be happening very soon.

I won’t hold my breath waiting.

Instead, I’ll describe things that I have personally witnessed in the sky that I cannot explain. I will also describe eye-witness accounts told to me by those I worked with, who I know are credible sources.

First, an explanation of my background. During the majority of my life, I have lived within proximity and worked at two government-owned and operated facilities for two separate agencies: The Department of Energy and the Department of Air Force.

I grew up and currently live in the Dayton, Ohio area, where Wright-Patterson Air Force Base is Dayton’s largest employer. It’s also where I retired from after a six-year career with the US Air Force as a civil servant, working in the field of Information Technology.

South of Dayton, in Miamisburg, Ohio, was Mound Laboratories, a site that was overseen by the Department of Energy. “The Mound,” as it was known, transitioned in 1945 from “The Dayton Project” that directly supported the famous Manhattan Project, which developed the nuclear bombs used during WWII. Nuclear-related programs were transferred from the Mound by 2003, and environmental cleanup activities of the site began soon after.

In southern Ohio, approximately 2 ½ hours from Dayton, is the Portsmouth Gaseous Diffusion Plant. The Portsmouth site once enriched uranium for the United States Atomic Energy Commission (AEC). Years later, the site moved to producing low-enriched uranium fuel for commercial nuclear reactors. Portsmouth is now gearing up to support fuel for new, more efficient nuclear reactors, driven by the energy needs of AI datacenters.

Between the Mound and the Portsmouth site, I spent around 14 years working as a Security Police Officer and two years as a Demolition Technician, assisting with cleanup activities.

I held a “Q” clearance with the DoE, and a Top-Secret clearance with the DoD. I will not be disclosing any classified or sensitive information that would jeopardize national security. The program I worked for with the US Air Force dealt with acquisition. Even though I held a Top-Secret clearance, I was never read into or exposed to any sensitive government programs or projects.

All the information provided above can be found in a simple Google search.

1998 – Portsmouth Site

Two eye-witness accounts were told to me by co-workers, whom I will not name. I worked very closely with these individuals, knew them personally outside the job, and have no reason to doubt them or their character.

During a night shift, a large triangle-shaped object was seen hovering and flying slowly over the site. It had no lights, but the dark outline of the object could be seen against the night sky. It was silent and made no noise as it moved, eventually disappearing over the horizon. The size of the object was described to me as “half the size of a football field.”

Another co-worker described an encounter with a “ball of light” or a glowing orb. During the late evening/early morning shift, while standing outside one of the maintenance facilities, this individual witnessed a glowing orb descend from the night sky and hover over the ground, fifty yards away. The orb then took off very rapidly into the sky and disappeared.

Neither of these incidents was reported to supervision or management for fear of reprisal or ridicule.

September, 2003 – Mound Site

Security forces were given an hour during each shift for physical fitness. I used to run, so one evening during 2^nd shift, I ran outside for about 30 minutes. The time was close to 10 PM, and I ran the streets inside the plant, eventually making my way to the highest point, called the “Top of the Hill.” Below the hill was an area that had recently been environmentally remediated and renovated, and contained a pond surrounded by an access road.

I witnessed what I can only describe as a green laser beam from the night sky, with an origin point higher than I could see, ending in the pond. It lasted for two seconds and then disappeared. I stopped my run and looked up, staring and searching the sky for several minutes. The light did not come back, and I saw nothing in the sky where the beam could have originated from. I did not report this incident.

September 2003 is the only time I witnessed an unexplained object in the sky while working at a government facility.

June, 2010 – Dayton, Ohio

During this time of my life, I worked as the Security Manager for a health insurance company headquartered in downtown Dayton. It was a beautiful day in June, with the sun shining and fluffy white clouds scattered against the blue summer sky. Before work, I stopped at a local gas station for a coffee and to top off my gas tank. After pumping gas and buying coffee, I walked back to my car and looked up toward the sky, admiring the weather, and I noticed a round, undulating translucent disk hovering above. Picture a round mirror that reflected the sky and clouds around it, making it blend in with its surroundings, but the object rippled, which is probably what caused me to notice it in the first place. My best guess is that the altitude of the object was somewhere between 500 and 1,000 feet. After watching it for several seconds, it disappeared completely. I kept watch for a few minutes before leaving for work, but I never saw the object again that day.

A month later, in July. On a day with the same great weather as that day in June, I somehow saw the object again. This time, I was at work in downtown Dayton. The object was over the city, hovering, shimmering, and reflecting the sky and clouds around it. I watched it for approximately 30 seconds, and again, it disappeared. I’ve never seen it since.

Until now, I have told no one about what I saw other than my immediate family.

I do not know what will come of disclosing the things I saw or was told. Maybe others have had similar experiences and will disclose what they saw. Or, people will think I’m a nutcase and come at me with insults. That’s okay. I can handle it.

The purpose behind this article is to inspire disclosure. Clearly, something is going on in the skies around this planet, and has been for many years, and it is time for the ones who know to reveal those secrets to the public. We live here, it’s our world, and we have the right to know.

“That’ll be forty-two, sixty-six.”

The old man handed the young clerk a fifty to pay for the gas and a cherry sucker. The kid grimaced and took his time making change from the cash register. Most people pay by card. The old man pocketed the bills and coins, but held on to the candy, knowing he’d need to find the Tootsie Roll center of the Tootsie Pop long before he made it home. Or else, he’d hear it from the wife. Paul Nelson had a sweet tooth, and Mrs. Nelson had a paranoia about diabetes.

Paul exited the 7-Eleven. On the way to his silver Honda Pilot SUV, he felt that sudden twinge of pain in his right hip again. He didn’t flinch or break stride. It wasn’t his sixty-five years catching up to him. It was the result of an old injury, and he’d pushed through worse pain than this.

Paul carefully scanned the convenience store parking lot. An old habit. He passed a young mother leading a toddler by the hand, the child screaming at the top of his lungs. A burly man with a long beard and well-worn work boots pumped diesel fuel into his dual-cab pick-up truck. Two men in dark suits and wrap-around shades exited a black Cadillac Escalade. Paul observed the men for a moment as they walked into the store, but nothing about them stood out.

As he rounded the front bumper of his Honda, a black Dodge Charger with tinted windows squealed to a stop behind his SUV. Paul eyed two young men in the front bucket seats and one in the back. The one in the back opened the door and jumped out. He looked like he was barely out of high school, but it was hard to tell these days. Paul watched the young man run up to him and point a Glock 19 at his face.

“Open the door and give me the box, old man!” the young punk yelled. His eyes were bloodshot, and his movements were jumpy and erratic. He was wired.

Paul slowly raised his hands and glanced into his Honda. A small package sat alone on the back seat. It could have passed for a box of donuts, but this one was labeled “Medical.” Paul worked part-time for Expedited Medical Delivery Service and was scheduled to deliver the package across town in fifteen minutes. Looks like he’d be late.

The punk shook the 9mm at Paul’s face. “Give me the box, now!”

Paul locked eyes with him and sized up the space between his car and the gas pump with his peripheral vision. There wasn’t much room to operate, but he could work with it. His hands still in the air, Paul stepped forward until the gun was just twelve inches from his head. In a very calm voice, Paul asked, “You got a light?”

There was a subtle change in the punk’s face as his brain processed Paul’s question. The eyes narrowed, and the head tilted slightly. In that instant, Paul snatched the Glock from the punk’s hand, took a full step back, and aimed it at his chest. The punk froze, shocked at how fast the old man had moved.

The driver of the Charger opened his door and stepped out, aiming a gun of his own at Paul. Paul ducked down as the first shot whizzed overhead, but the second shot entered just below the punk’s shoulder blade and exited through his chest. Blood, tissue, and bone fragments sprayed onto the back of Paul’s jacket as he crouched. The punk, now dead, fell forward. Paul caught him with his left hand and raised, aiming the Glock at the driver, and placed a single shot between his eyes. The driver dropped next to his car.

Paul shoved the lifeless punk away as he watched the Charger’s passenger open his door, and just like the driver, step out with a gun. This man shot wildly into the air, nowhere close to where Paul had positioned himself behind the back of his Honda. Paul aimed around the SUV, both hands now gripping the Glock, and sent two rounds in rapid succession into the passenger’s chest. The man fell back out of Paul’s sight.

Paul kept the Glock at the ready, scanning the immediate area, and looked carefully through the windshield of the Charger, in case someone else decided they wanted to come out and die. There was nothing. No movement. Just three dead bodies on the ground. It was over.

At that moment, the traffic sounds and frantic activity around the gas station returned to Paul. People running. A woman screaming. Someone yelled, “Call 911!” The tension in Paul’s muscles eased, and he felt that twinge in his hip again. Without looking at the weapon, Paul dropped the magazine, pulled back the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber, and placed all three instruments of death on top of the gas pump. Paul felt something under his shoe and looked down to see his cherry Tootsie Pop crushed under his foot.

“Shit,” he said.

###

Police cruisers blocked off both entrances to the 7-Eleven. Patrol officers of every age, rank, shape, and size occupied the scene. Reporters and cameramen stood next to their news vans in a parking lot across the street. Evidence technicians located each spent shell casing with numbered yellow markers and snapped frame after frame with their DSLR cameras. The county coroner’s van sat waiting next to the gas pumps for the three dead men, covered in sheets. Four plain-clothed detectives stood together and talked amongst themselves. One more, Detective Sergeant Maxine Shafer, or “Max,” to her small circle of friends, stood alone away from the action. The department called her “Maximum” Schafer because, most of the time, she was just too much.

Maxine was a lanky five-foot-nine, and kept her long, dark hair with frizzled ends pulled back into a ponytail. She wore jeans, tactical boots, and a black leather jacket because she thought it made her look hard.

Maxine stood by herself, glaring holes through Paul Nelson, who sat watching the police activity from the rear confinement area of a Ford Explorer patrol car. He wasn’t under arrest or being detained. Paul had told one of the detectives, after giving his statement, that he felt light-headed and woozy. The cruiser was the best place to let him rest until the ambulance showed up. What Paul wanted to do was call his wife and let her know he’d be late for dinner. After pulling a Bluetooth earpiece from his shirt pocket and placing it in his ear, he did just that.

“Hi, honey. I’m going to be late for dinner tonight.”

Paul heard his wife of forty years let out a disappointed sigh. “Okay. I’ll keep the cabbage rolls covered up on the stove for you. Everything okay?”

“Yes, but you’ll probably see it on the news. Some guys tried to rob me.”

“Oh? How many?”

“Three.”

“Just three?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ll see you when you get home then.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Paul ended the call and looked out the cruiser window at the female detective. He studied her as she sneered in his direction. Was that anger, Paul wondered? Maybe she knew one of the men he’d killed, but that seemed unlikely. She wore her sidearm clipped to the front of her belt next to her badge, instead of on her hip. She did this, Paul surmised, as a show of power. Paul also noticed that none of the other police officers or detectives interacted with her in any way. This woman didn’t play well with others.

Paul’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and did a double-take. He recognized the number, but hadn’t received a call from it in years. He tapped the button on the side of his earpiece and waited. Silence, then a faint click, and an exhale. Paul shook his head.

“Still smoking?” Paul said.

“Hello, Lincoln.” The voice was female. She sounded older and raspier than he remembered.

“I don’t go by that name anymore.”

“Sorry. Old habit.”

“I get it. How did you find my number?”

“How do I find anything?”

Right. Stupid question, Paul thought. Unlimited resources produced unlimited results.

“Does your call have anything to do with the situation I’m in right now?”

The woman coughed. “As a matter of fact, I’m calling to see if you’re alright.”

“You know I am.”

“Yes. Still, it’s been a long time. Any trouble from the locals?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Are you sure? I can call someone—”

“No. I’m fine. You really seem to be going out of your way to help me. What do you want?”

Another cough. “Where’s the package, Lincoln?”

Paul’s eyes darted to his Honda sitting at the gas pumps. “It’s safe. Why do you care about the package?”

“We have a vested interest in it.”

“Look, I don’t have a lot of time.”

The woman wheezed. “Then I’ll make this quick. Deliver the package to me in twenty-four hours, and I can get you one million dollars.”

Paul sat, stunned. He turned to look at his Honda again. Was the box that valuable? Three men had tried to kill him for it. And now, his former colleague offered him a stupid amount of cash to deliver it to her.

“You know I’m not motivated by money,” Paul said.

“I know. But I suggest you accept my offer.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll authorize direct action.”

“No. I won’t.” Paul heard her cough again. “But someone else will. I’m trying to stop that from happening. That’s why I called.” Another cough. “Lincoln, in your prime, you were the best we had. But, you’re not that man anymore.”

Paul rolled his eyes and looked out the window just as an ambulance drove past and stopped beyond the front bumper of the cruiser. Two medics got out and walked in his direction.

“I have to go.” Paul pressed the button on his earpiece and stuck it in his pocket. The door opened.

“Step out, sir,” said the medic. Paul swung his feet onto the pavement, and both medics reached in and helped him to his feet.

“I’m feeling much better now, guys,” Paul said. “I think I just needed to catch my breath after all the excitement.”

Maxine Schafer looked on. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Paul since she read his statement and looked up the address on his package. Something wasn’t right here, she thought. This old fart had killed three young men in her city. One of them was only seventeen. She could not let that stand.

Another detective stepped out of the 7-Eleven. He was older than the others, with salt-and-pepper hair and wrinkles under his eyes showing his age. He walked straight to Maxine.

“I watched the security video three times,” the older detective said. “His story checks out. He didn’t fire until fired upon, and the kid was killed by his own guy.”

Maxine turned her scowl toward the older detective. “What’d you find in his background?”

“Nothing. He’s clean. Just an old guy with a government pension. Retired postal worker from Vermont.”

“Bullshit. There’s something else to this guy. How many old men go around capping people like John Wick?”

“More like John Wick’s grandpa. Maybe the retirement home has a gun range?”

Maxine wasn’t amused. “Check the video again.”

“Check it yourself. I told you, I watched it three times already. It’s clearly self-defense. We gotta cut him loose.”

“Not till I get done with him.”

The medics closed up the ambulance after checking Paul’s vitals, which they admitted were surprisingly good for a man of his age. Paul shook their hands and thanked them as Maxine stormed up. Paul turned around, and his tradecraft instinctively kicked in.

“What’s your deal, Mr. Nelson?”

“Excuse me?”

“Former Special Forces, right? Green Beret? Navy SEALS? Is that you?”

Paul looked confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“How does an old man like you get into a gunfight with three shooters and survive?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Don’t lie to me. You could have de-escalated the situation. But that’s not what you Spec Op guys are about, with all your macho, gunfighter bullshit.”

“Can I ask if you’re all done with my jacket? I’m starting to catch a chill.”

Max pointed toward the department’s evidence van. “It’s in a bag, with dead seventeen-year-old kid all over it. Now, tell me... What’s your connection to the shooters?”

“Connection? Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The two you killed were known enforcers for the mob. Why were they sent to gun you down?”

“Oh, gosh. I’m feeling a little lightheaded.” Paul swayed on his feet. “I think my sugar is low. Do you have any candy?”

“What? Um... I... No.”

Paul buckled his knees slightly and fell toward Maxine, who caught him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Maxine said.

“Oh, my. I’m going to need my insulin shot. Can you help me to my car?”

Caught totally off guard, Maxine took Paul by the arm and walked him to his Honda. The three dead bodies were now loaded up into the coroner’s van, and the scene was almost clear, except for a few patrol officers and the detectives who stood with puzzled looks as they watched Maxine help Paul to his car.

“Thank you so much, officer. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here to help me. My insulin kit is in the glove box. I’ll be just fine now.”

“Uh... yeah, no problem.”

“Have a nice day.” Paul slammed the door as he slid behind the wheel of his Honda. He fired up the four-cylinder engine and drove away, leaving Detective Sergeant Maxine Schafer by herself. As she watched the SUV disappear into the city, she had the sinking feeling that she’d just been conned.

###

As the sun set behind the skyscrapers, night cast its veil over the city. Paul had definitely missed his delivery window. He read a text message from his dispatcher, in all caps: “CUSTOMER IS STILL WAITING.” With an aggravated sigh, he placed his phone into the mount on the Honda’s dashboard and pulled up the delivery address. It was a suite on the twelfth floor of a Main Street office tower. He was more than two hours late, but that didn’t bother him as much as what might be in the box. At this point, he just wanted to make the delivery and go home. Still, he wondered.

The basement parking garage was practically empty, so Paul backed into a spot next to the tower’s entrance doors. He grabbed the package and stepped out of his SUV to the rear of the vehicle. He unlocked and opened the back hatch, and unzipped a small, black nylon duffel, where he retrieved a Sig Sauer P365 9mm semi-automatic pistol in an ankle holster, and a Spyderco Endura lock-blade knife. Paul worked quickly, kneeling to secure the holster to his right ankle, then clipped the knife just inside his right pocket. His hip twinged again when he stood back up. Ignore the pain, he thought, then scanned the garage for any sounds, movement, suspicious people, or out-of-place cars. All clear.

Paul reached up to close the hatch, then stopped. He heard a high-pitched tone. A cell phone. Not the one in his pocket, but a small flip phone in the duffel. He unzipped the bag’s side pocket and took it out, checking the number on the small outward-facing display. No clue who it was, but only a few people on the planet knew that number. Paul answered.

“Yes.” He listened to the voice on the other end for a moment while re-checking the parking garage for any surprises. Once he’d received the message, Paul remained stoic, devoid of any emotion.

“Copy that,” he said, and ended the call.

###

Paul typed the twelfth-floor suite number into the lobby kiosk and read the result. Lorenzo Messina, Attorney at Law. He’d heard that name before. Messina was rumored to be connected to organized crime, even brought up on charges by local law enforcement, but nothing ever stuck. Did the three punks at the gas station work for Messina, Paul wondered? Or did they work for a rival organization?

“Package delivery,” Paul said to the security guard at the lobby reception desk. He held up the box, and the guard looked up from his phone long enough to wave him through.

Paul stepped into the elevator and pressed the “12” button. In and out, he told himself. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he was “in country.” As the elevator ascended, the life he’d left behind came back to him in flashes: London, Paris, Lebanon, Istanbul. Wherever the Agency needed him, he went, without question. And he did whatever it took to get the job done. Now, all he wanted was to get back to his wife and her cabbage rolls.

The elevator doors opened. Paul stepped out into the hallway and listened. The only sound was the low hum of fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. This time of night, most of the office workers should be gone for the day.

The exit stairs in the building were at each end of the hall and not by the elevator. Paul made a mental note of that as he found the attorney’s suite. The door was locked, but a sign below a small, doorbell-like button said, “Push for entry. Wait for buzzer.” Paul followed the directions and placed his cell phone on top of the package as a metallic buzzing sound unlocked the door.

Paul walked into a large, dimly lit reception area. The walls were Hunter Green with mahogany wainscoting and jade green sconce lights that cast an eerie glow. A few expensive-looking, brown, high-back chairs sat along the outer walls that were adorned with paintings depicting various landscapes and a scene from the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Paul noticed small security cameras mounted in the corners of the ceiling. Each one had a green LED light. A large wooden desk sat at the end of the room. A single wooden door stood behind the desk, which held a phone and a small glass candy dish.

The door behind the desk opened, and three men walked out. Two of them were square-jawed and barrel-chested, stood over six feet, and weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds. The other was much thinner and shorter. They all wore suits, and their hair was slicked back similarly, like they all went to the same barber. The shorter man wore a Rolex and a couple of gaudy, gold rings on his fingers. This was Messina, the lawyer. Paul noticed bulges under the suit coats of the two hired goons.

“Delivery,” Paul said, taking a step forward and presenting the package.

“You’re late as fuck,” Messina said.

“Yeah, sorry,” Paul replied. “Car trouble.” He stepped up and set the package on the desk. The two goons stood like brainless bookends on either side of the lawyer and watched his every move. Paul opened an app on his cell phone, tapped the screen a few times, and presented it to Messina. “Sign here, please.”

The lawyer frowned and ran his index finger quickly across the screen. Paul pressed “Enter,” and the delivery was complete. Messina grinned as he grabbed the package from the desk. One of the goons opened the door behind them. As the lawyer turned to leave, Paul said, “Excuse me, sir. Mind if I have a piece of candy?”

Messina glanced back over his shoulder. “Knock yourself out.” He carried the package through the door with both goons on his heels. The last goon slammed the door shut.

Paul eyed the candy dish and removed the glass cover.

“Wow. Jolly Ranchers.” Paul grabbed a handful, and then a red one that he hoped was cherry flavor, and exited into the hallway. He unwrapped the piece of candy as he walked to the elevator and popped it in his mouth. “Bingo,” he said as his taste buds exploded from the sugary, cherry flavor.

Up ahead, Paul heard the elevator “ding.” Two men stepped into the hallway. Both had beards and wore black baseball caps, boots, blue jeans, and dark, loose-fitting jackets. Paul stopped in his tracks. Right away, he knew they were operators from the Agency’s Ground Branch. The taller one held up a cell phone, looked at the screen, then looked at Paul. A look of recognition came over the operator’s face. He pocketed the phone and reached inside his jacket.

“Hey, old man!” Paul heard a voice yell behind him. He turned, and Messina and the two goons stood in the hallway. Messina held up the package that Paul had just delivered. The top flaps were open, and the box was empty. “There’s nothing in here. What the fuck!”

Paul was hoping to be in the parking garage before the lawyer figured that out. He looked back at the operators. They both had perplexed looks and weapons drawn. Paul looked back toward Messina. Both goons now had their guns out, pointing them in his direction. Once again, Paul heard a “ding.”

Detective Sergeant Maxine Schafer stepped out of the elevator. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw that almost everyone in the hallway held a firearm. Not to be outdone, she pulled hers.

“Everybody freeze and drop your weapons!” Maxine yelled.

“Get lost, cop,” Messina replied. “This don’t concern you.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” the tall operator called out, aiming his weapon at the goons. His partner’s gun was trained on Maxine. “Nobody has to get hurt here. All we want is the file.”

“What file?” Maxine said.

“The file that was supposed to be in this box,” Messina said. “And it belongs to me!”

“I’m just here for the old man,” Maxine said.

“You can’t have him until I get my file. He’s got it!”

“Lincoln,” the tall operator called out to Paul, using his code name. “Just give me the file, and we’ll get you out of here.”

“Who’s Lincoln?” Maxine asked.

“I don’t care if he’s George Fucking Washington. Give me my file or my boys start shooting!”

“I’m arresting everyone in this hallway. Now, put down your weapons, or I will shoot!”

“Back off, lady!” the shorter operator shouted. “Or I will drop you where you stand!”

Paul had been in many life-and-death situations during his forty-plus years of service to his country. This was a first. He was in the middle of a multi-tiered standoff. Someone was going to start shooting. The question was... Who?

The back-and-forth yelling, gun pointing, and threats continued for another thirty seconds, long enough for Paul to figure out what to do. He knew the operators would be the best shooters. They also shielded the detective from the goons, who aimed their guns sideways like stupid gangsters. Paul needed the goons to shoot first. The operators would take care of them. Messina had the two standing together, creating a body shield for him to hide behind. Paul noticed the goon on the left shaking in his shoes. Fear was all over his face like the sweat that poured down from his brow.

If Paul went for his gun, he could get shot by anybody. So, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a handful of Jolly Ranchers. He kept watch on the nervous goon and waited for him to wipe the sweat from his eyes with his suit sleeve. As soon as the goon raised his arm to his face, Paul threw the hard candies in his direction and ran toward the operators with his hands up. Most of the candies landed on the floor, but one struck nervous goon in the face, and that spooked him. He fired the first shot.

Paul dove to the ground behind the operators as the shots rang out, placing both thumbs in his ears to protect his hearing. He didn’t keep track of the shots, but he saw the detective hit the floor and felt one of the operators fall across his legs. The gunfire was replaced with screams. Paul pushed himself up on his hands and looked around. The detective had taken a round in the right thigh and was down, wailing in pain. The operator on Paul’s legs was bleeding from his left shoulder. Messina and the goons all lay together in a heap. Both walls to his right and left were strafed with bullet holes, and the smell of gunpowder filled the hallway.

The other operator was unscathed and pulled his partner off Paul to check the bullet wound. Paul jumped up and ran to the detective. She was screaming and writhing in agony, but the worst part, she was bleeding out heavily. The bullet probably hit her femoral artery, which ran through her thigh.

“Lincoln!” The non-wounded operator yelled. “We need that file. Where is it?”

Paul unbuckled his belt and pulled it from his pants, wrapping it above Maxine’s upper thigh to form a tourniquet. He pulled it as tight as he could to stop the bleeding. She screamed and passed out from the intense pain.

“I don’t have it,” Paul replied to the operator.

“What do you mean you don’t have it? Where is it?”

Paul tied the belt off so it would hold and stood up, grimacing from the burning in his hip. It was getting worse now. He turned and walked straight at the operator, who then aimed his weapon at Paul.

“Look, man. I know all about you. You were a legend. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you don’t give up that file.”

“What would happen if that file were released to the public?” Paul asked and waited for the operator to process the question.

###

A “ding” echoed across the tower lobby. The elevator doors opened, and Paul stepped out, carrying an unconscious Maxine in his arms. Paul quickly moved to the reception desk. The guard was gone. He looked out the glass lobby doors and saw him sitting on a bench, smoking. Paul found a fire alarm pull switch on the wall next to the elevator. He cradled Maxine higher in his arms and pulled the switch with his right hand.

The guard heard the alarm and jumped up, tossing his smoke in the bushes. He grabbed his radio and ran inside. Paul met him as he carried Maxine out.

“There’s a fire on the twelfth floor,” Paul told the guard. “Two guys up there need your help. Hurry!”

The guard ran, and Paul kept walking. He kicked the exit door release bar with his right foot, without thinking about his hip. This time, the pain was so fierce that he cried out, almost dropping the wounded detective. Paul recovered and backed out the door, careful not to bang her head on the metal frame.

Paul laid Maxine on the bench so the responding firemen would see her first. He checked her pulse. It was weak, but steady. He left her there, with the sirens in the distance growing closer.

###

Paul walked through the front door of his house with a bit of a limp. If his wife noticed his old injury acting up, she’d make him go to the VA hospital the next day. Luckily, she was already in bed. On the kitchen table, he found a note she’d left next to a dinner plate covered with aluminum foil. He read the note and smiled.

Missed you at dinner. Don’t forget your pills. Love you.

Paul carried the black duffel with him to the living room and sat in his recliner by the fireplace. The fire his wife made earlier that day had died down, and all that remained were red, glowing embers. Paul’s phone buzzed. This time, he expected the call.

“Lincoln?”

“I’d like to think the only reason you call me that is because you don’t know the name I go by now.”

The woman wheezed. “Not likely. Do you have the file?”

“Me? No. Messina burned it.”

“Why would he do that? It was worth millions.”

“Maybe he was paid millions to destroy it?”

She coughed. Then coughed again. “I have to report this up.”

“You do that,” Paul said. “And while you’re at the White House, tell them... If they send someone to find me, I’ll come find them.”

Paul waited for a reply, but all he heard were the sounds of two lungs on the verge of COPD. Finally, she coughed and spoke. “Take care of yourself, Lincoln.” The call dropped.

Paul sat back and exhaled. He was tired and could probably recline and fall asleep in his chair. But he had one more thing to do. He bent forward and took off his ankle holster and gun, placing them in the duffel. Then, from the bottom of the bag, he removed a yellow file folder. The folder held only a few pages. Those pages contained the results of a DNA test. A test that revealed a secret that would divide the country, even more than it already was.

At the top of the first page, Paul read the test subject’s name and phone number. He’d met the man once at Langley before he retired and didn’t care for him. So, Paul’s actions were more for his country than for the man. He stuck the folder down into the bottom of the fireplace. A few sparks lifted, and the embers popped and cracked. It only took seconds for the file to burn.

Paul watched the flames grow and turn the paper into black, smoldering ash. Then, from a side pocket on the duffel, he removed the burner phone. He scrolled to the number that had called him earlier in the parking garage. A number that also matched the one on the DNA test. When the line connected, Paul spoke.

“This is Lincoln. It’s done.”

The End

© 2026 Ron Clyburn

Disclaimer:

This article is an original work of fiction by Ron Clyburn. All rights are reserved. No part of this article may be copied, stored, or reproduced in any form — including but not limited to use in training artificial intelligence or machine learning systems — without the author’s express written permission.

Who the hell are you?

I’m Ron Clyburn, a guy with lots of formers… former Army Reservist, security professional, cable guy, IT guy, cybersecurity guy, and standup comedian. I decided to become a full-time fiction writer because it’s probably the only job I can do where I won’t get fired. I’ve done a lot of thankless jobs, but at my core, I’m a storyteller, and I bring a lot of my life experiences to the page. For more information, see the answers to the questions below.

1. For the love of all that’s holy… WHY ARE YOU HERE?

To share my writing and to grow a following, of course. I mean, what writer doesn’t want loyal followers who love to read great stories? Not the creepy kind of followers with court-ordered distance restrictions.

2. What kind of community are you looking to build here?

If you are a fan of mystery, crime, thriller, neo noir, humor, and satire, this is your place. I write stories in all those genres, and I’ll be posting my short stories here (as soon as the rights fall back to me).

I’ve published short stories for Starlite Pulp, Thriller Magazine, The Literary Garage, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, and Murderous Ink Press’s Crimeucopia - A Coterie of Dicks, a humorous investigator anthology. I’m also a monthly blogger on the Self-Care for Dudes Campfyer Blog.

I’ll also be promoting my debut mystery novel, Let Sleeping Dogs Lie, featuring private investigator Joe Cooper.

Starting in May, I’ll be publishing Joe Cooper short stories here on Substack to introduce you to Joe and his world.

3. So, who is Joe Cooper?

Joe Cooper is a private investigator in Dayton, OH, with a big secret: Joe was born with the ability to talk to animals, and uses that unique gift to solve cases. Joe was once a wisecracking K9 cop in Cincinnati, but quit the force after losing his K9 partner in an on-duty incident, and suffers from PTSD as a result. Joe moves back to his hometown of Dayton to start over and becomes a P.I. (think modern-day gumshoe Phillip Marlow meets Doctor Doolittle, set in the Midwest).

4. What else do I do with my time?

I’m a husband, a father, a grandfather, and I support veteran and first-responder charities. I’m also a dog person, as you can see below. That’s our dog Brody. He’s part Red Heeler (Australian Cattle Dog), part Beagle, and 100% wonder-dog, meaning… “I wonder what he’s getting into now.”

5. Don’t make me beg

This is the part where I ask you to subscribe. All you have to do is click the button, input your email, and you’ll be updated every time I do something here. Chances are, you’ve subscribed to other writers, so why not me?

I’m really looking forward to his journey on Substack, and I hope that after reading about me and the stories I write, you are too.

Thank you!

Ron

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