Tag Archives: short story

The American C.R.E.A.M. Series (Part Four)

on the road

Periodically, Bonus Cut writer Victor Anderson will be sharing his American C.R.E.A.M. Series, a story where hip-hop is just the tip of the iceberg.

…continued from part three. Click here for part two. Click here for part one.

By: Victor Anderson    

My last day at The Bloch started off fairly normal. My coffee was spiked with rum and I studied a Jean-Luc Godard film. A Francois Truffaut flick soon followed and as you could tell I had a thing for French films in the morning. Once I finally ventured out of my motel room, the blinding sunbeams forced me to rush back inside for some protective wear. I made my way down the steps to visit the new tenant of Room 7; we chain smoked spliffs near The Bloch Pool the night before. He let me in and I received flashbacks from the night I had with Drew, the Floridian botanist. I wondered if her operation up north was going as planned. Anyway, Jeffery Eaton was now occupying the room. He was in his mid-thirties; he had a motorcycle and a lisp. Jeff was in town visiting his sister and her family but she didn’t trust him sleeping around his niece’s because he was a registered sex offender. But he wasn’t a child molester; he just had a small bladder and decided to piss on the wrong elementary school some years ago.

So, I tag along to run errands with him because I had never ridden on a motorcycle before. I ride bitch on his chopper and we head to his old friend’s apartment. I wait outside and take a few swigs from my flask. For the next two hours this became routine because Jeff hadn’t been back home in some years. I never saw these friends of his because I always got stuck outside and I was very disappointed when I felt the last drop of rum hit my tongue. I almost forgot that the contents of my flask actually had side effects until the buzz hit me. I was rather content from then on. Jeff always emerged from the house buckling his belt while perspiring profusely. I was jealous that he didn’t invite me in to meet these ladies, but whatever. We left behind a cloud of smoke at each place and roared down the road towards who-knows-where.

We decided to stop and get some grub. I needed it the most because my drunk was getting out of hand. I scarfed down the cheesiest burger and the saltiest fries and loved it. Next was a visit to his sister, Yelly. After riding all the way through town we arrived at her small suburban house. She and her husband came out to greet us with their two toddler daughters standing next to them as if they were straight out of a Hallmark commercial. Jeff hopped off of his bike to run and grab his nieces and they had no idea who he was. I was introduced as a friend and we went inside for lemonade. They had a rather typical home and we made ourselves comfortable in the living room. The kids were in the backyard playing as we, the adults, indulged in forgettable conversation. Jeff caught up with his sister as her husband, Lee, asked me about school. I told him that I went to school to become a professional student, but I flunked out. I think he got the joke, but he soon got up to go somewhere else in the house. Without me even noticing, Jeff had disappeared too and I was stuck with his sister. We sat in silence until the stalest of small talk occurred. I excused myself to find the restroom and she followed to provide directions.

For nearly a minute I experienced the feeling of pure ecstasy until I was suddenly interrupted. I jolted and almost covered their toilet seat in urine when I heard the ugliest scream I had ever heard. It now made sense why they called her Yelly. She was shouting and cursing at both Jeff and Lee after she caught them in the kid’s bedroom. Jeff came bolting down the steps wiping his mouth and Lee tumbled down the steps because his pants were at his ankles. I went into their pantry closet and stuffed my pockets with a bunch of cookies and followed Jeff out of the house. Yelly stood on her front porch yelling about how she never wanted to see Jeff again and to never come back into her life. I was reluctant to ride bitch on his bike after knowing his sexual orientation, but I had no choice. We got the fuck out of there and headed back to The Bloch.

After parking his baby, Jeff explained that Yelly stole Lee from him and his only reason for visiting was to get even and to let her know that she encroached on his territory. What a fucked up individual, this guy and I wanted nothing to do with him. It was mainly the shit-eating grin he wore that truly disgusted me. He asked if I wanted to smoke a spliff as I walked away but I flicked him off and called him a selfish, vindictive, evil bastard. He didn’t seem to care as he shrugged and went back into his room.

I was walking up the steps back to my room when I saw Talia’s car pull into the parking lot. She emerged in her typical attire as a man exited his parked car at the same time. He wore a trench coat, shades and had a boring haircut. If the movies taught me anything, this guy was either a government agent or a streaker. She didn’t notice him following her but I watched from the balcony. She was approached at the bottom of the stairs; he asked her name. She gave him a fake name but he was not fooled. He went on to reveal a bunch of information about her. She asked who he was and he asked her to come with him. She refused and demanded that he tell her what this was about.

“Do you know a Mr. Douglass Dupree?”

She shakes her head.

“Welp, he knows you and claims that you, Talia Leslie, seduced him and stole his wallet, which contained a hefty amount of cash and credit cards. He hired me to investigate and find you. All he wants is what you stole from him.”

She denied the allegations.

“Are you saying that these statements aren’t true, Ms. Leslie?”

“Fuck you and Douglass Dupree. Do you know how much his salary is a year? These wealthy bankers wipe their asses with hundred dollar bills.”

“It’s a matter of principle, Ms. Leslie. It wasn’t yours to take and I don’t think that Mr. Dupree enjoyed the little ruse that you pulled on him. Now, enough with this dialogue, you’ve been caught red handed and you must cooperate or else you will be forced to–.”

“Shut up! You have no proof of anything.”

“Oh, don’t I? Well, what about Mr. Charles Reeves, from last night? What about Mr. Earnest Walker from the night before? Oh, I can’t forget about Ms. Wanda Isley from the night before that! Do you still think that I have no proof, Ms. Leslie?”

She stands still with a frustrated look on her face and looked down to notice that her boot was untied. She looked at the investigator and he nodded to allow her to tie her boot. She bent down and quickly pulled a snub nose revolver from her boot and aimed it at him. She demanded he not move and he obliged, calmly standing still. He handed over his gun after she told him to; she tossed it. She was so fierce. He did the same with his cellphone. With the gun still aimed at him, she smashed the phone with her boot. Next was his wallet but this time when he handed it to her, he knocked the gun out of her hand and gut checked her. She gasped for air and he casually strolled toward his tossed piece. He slowly bent down to pick up his weapon. He then inspected it for scratches and brushed it off. He stood back up and faced Talia but to his surprise, I was standing there with her revolver aimed at his head.

“Drop it, buster.”

He did.

“Now, slowly take out your handcuffs and cuff your wrist.”

He did as I said.

“Now, slowly walk over to the stairwell railing and cuff yourself to it.”

He continued to cooperate.

Then Talia walked up to him and knuckle punched him in the face as hard as she could.

“Now, give the keys to the cuffs to Talia. Oh, and give her your car keys while you’re at it.”

He was reluctant until I repeated myself with authority.

I ask Talia for his wallet and I read his name.

“Alright, Mr. Nicholas Mingus, you stay put and don’t you or Douglass Dupree dare come near Talia again. If you do, some bad things are gonna happen to you. Are we clear?”

He nods. Talia gets in his face and stares him dead in his eye. She pats him down for spare weapons and he was clean. She goes on a tangent about how the rich are greedy and how society bent her over and fucked her in the ass with student loans, unaffordable health care and a decrease in job opportunities.

“Douglass Dupree won’t miss the few thousand that I stole from him and he will never understand the constant struggle that the average American will have to withstand because he is a privileged asshole and always has been and always will be. He hired a private investigator for shits and giggles while people are out here starving, dying, living off of food stamps, and surviving from paycheck to paycheck.” She spits at his feet. “Now, if you value the life of your family, this incident stays between us and Mr. Dupree. You got that, Mingus?”

He nodded with a blank expression and sank to the ground while still clinging to the stairwell railing. Curly came outside to see what was going on and I looked back to see him and gave him a nod; he knew it was farewell. I was now involved in whatever it was Talia was mixed up with. She thanked me for saving her and claimed that she had to flee and head west. I wanted nothing more than to go to Hollywood, so I asked if I could tag along. I told her that I had money and she didn’t give it a second thought. We piled into her navy blue Camry and hit the road. I haven’t been back to The Bloch Motel since that day.

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The American C.R.E.A.M. Series (Part Three)


Periodically, Bonus Cut writer Victor Anderson will be sharing his American C.R.E.A.M. Series, a story where hip-hop is just the tip of the iceberg.

…continued from part two. Click here for part one

By: Victor Anderson

I met Keith Shaw by the extremely shitty and hardly occupied pool—one of The Bloch’s least popular coming attractions. It was fenced in near the back corner of the parking lot, away from the road as if The Bloch was ashamed of it. Horrid trees and evil prickly bushes accommodated for the exterior space surrounding the fence while bumble bees, gnats and wasps hung out. The pool really was the ultimate hemorrhoid of eye soars. Just like most Caucasians, aging wasn’t too kind to The Bloch Pool but I knew there was a day when that place was brand spanking new and was the home to some ill pool parties; too bad I arrived nearly 50 years too late. Despite my bashing, I didn’t mind sitting by the water, especially on a clear day to read a book or chew my fingernails but I wouldn’t dare take a dip in that swamp. The water was murky; there were countless leaves floating on the surface; I’m sure it was the grave for deceased insects; and I think I saw an iguana emerge from it once. It’s a salt-water pool and the only reason anybody knows that is because of the rusty sign that was rooted in ground on the edge of the watering hole. I swear, I had been at that motel for nearly a month and this Keith Shaw guy was the only one I had ever seen who was brave enough to swim in that collection of liquid.

We were about the same age but he was in his third year of marriage with a broad he had started going steady with while
he was in the 11th grade. I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare imagine being in his shoes; the thought of marriage at my age, let alone celebrating my third anniversary at my age frightened me. But poor Keith was right in the middle of a rough patch in his civil union. He and his wife, Britannia, had been separated for a few months, forcing Keith Shaw to move back in with his dad. He needed to get away from his house so he finally decided to emerge from his old bedroom and head up to The Bloch for the weekend. Meanwhile, Britannia’s mom and dad are putting her up in an upscale apartment downtown until the couple’s dispute is over. The way Keith Shaw tells it, there isn’t too much to their dispute. She always accused him of adultery and claimed to have a creative but paranoid imagination. Keith Shaw would never ever act unfaithfully towards his wife but deep down he wasn’t sure if the feeling was mutual. So now, they’re on a break and she suggested that they try and see other people to test their actual bond for one another. It sounded like bullshit to me but poor damn Keith Shaw kept his fingers crossed and patiently waited for his wife to come to her senses.

So, me and this guy Keith Shaw are at this chic cabaret restaurant in the city, eating roast beef sandwiches, drinking tea and enjoying the live entertainment. On the small performance stage stood a young woman with hair that flowed like a red carpet towards the very same shoulders that supported the straps of her simple white city dress. This goddess was effortlessly strumming out rock and roll tunes that reminded me of Chuck Berry but it was like she had tapped into some kind of Betty Davis reservoir, vocally. She vibe-d with this funky bassist and I couldn’t help but nod along and groove to it.

Somehow, our conversation took a sharp left turn towards the topic of beef jerky and I couldn’t help but become distracted by the bottom of the server whom strutted past our table.

After looking around and observing the diners, I got a sense that someone was watching me and I instinctively direct my vision over my shoulder to meet the eyes that were burning the holes in my cranium and Talia’s darted away. She pretended to act like she had been watching the band, but I knew. I tuned back in to see what Keith Shaw had to say and we had moved on from beef jerky to deer jerky. Apparently, it was the only other jerky that he had ever tried and then he gagged at the thought of shrimp jerky.

“’Scuse me.”

I thought it was the waitress but I was mistaken and I’m sure you can guess who it was.

“Oh, hey there,” blurted Keith Shaw.

Not only was I surprised that she approached my table but I was utterly surprised when she chose to talk to Keith Shaw instead of me—-what’s up with that? Eventually, I found out that they met at The Bloch; they parked next to each other and she helped carry his weekend luggage.

“You gotta smoke?” She tenderly asked Keith Shaw but unfortunately for her, he didn’t smoke—-or did he?

He shook his head and she looked at me through those thick rimmed glasses that she wore and asked me the same question she asked Keith Shaw. Four out of five times my answer would have been the opposite of Keith Shaw’s but I said:

“No, I’m sorry. I mean, I only have a couple left, ya know?”

“Well, why won’t you let me have one?”

“Because I want to keep them?”

She calmly said, “Okay. Bye–” and walked away and Keith didn’t seem to mind the abrupt departure at all. To let her know that I was only joking, I faced her table and waited for her to notice me. Alone, she sat down at her small wooden table for two and I eventually caught her eye; she had a subtle smile but her eyes were nothing but devious. She fixed her hair behind her left ear and removed a cigarette. That square soon became dangled from her parted lip; she struck a match against the matchbox and proceeded to light her stoogie—-all within my line of vision. When she slowly began to pay attention to the live entertainment, I knew that she had given up on our staring contest, but I couldn’t blame her.

That was a few days ago and I hadn’t seen her again until today. Now I’m behind the wheel of her navy blue 1988 Camry as she lies unconscious in the passenger seat.

To be continued… 

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A Bonus Cut Short Story: The Last View From the Top


By: Daniel Hodgman

He walked methodically, yet it was hurried, and like many times before, he was caught in the violent scuffle of the city streets along with the other millions trying to get from one point to the next. The buildings that surrounded invaded his mind with frothy shadows, as if he was caught in a never-ending abyss, an abyss that pierced the soul just as much as the howling winter winds pierced his skin. The street intersections would tease him, emitting sunlight through the narrow wind tunnels of the city, but as soon as he crossed, the abyss would take him over again and his mind would decay. He pulled his coat up to his chin. Winter was here early this year.

Nine more blocks

Easing into his walk now, the man glanced ahead. The street he was on shot forward until the horizon overtook it, and the buildings that shouldered each side continually grew until the tallest ones on the horizon were covered in a thin layer of winter clouds. Hiding under the carpet of clouds were large billboard signs on the buildings that advertised even the densest material:

“Get Your Coffee At Moes! It’ll Warm Your Toes!

“Ask Q: Any Question, Every Answer!”

“Bad Cataracts? WE GIVE YOU EYES.”

“Have a Hungry Heart? Hungry Heart Song Productions Will Win You Any Heart!”

Under the glittered signs were ever-present corporations and shops. On one street corner stood a sandwich shop that claimed to have saved a woman from undergoing triple bypass surgery. Its main feature however wasn’t the story of the woman, but rather the sandwich they claim saved her life. It was a shaved turkey on wheat concoction with sprouts, spinach, tomatoes and an avocado spread. Next to the sandwich were a large bag of homemade oven-baked chips and a 16oz glass of diet soda.

On another corner there was a hi-tech computer store run by one of the nation’s biggest corporations. The special feature behind this store was that it sold the newest computers, phones, televisions and accessories at a great low price. Moreover, if another business offered a price on an item, they would match it and give the customer a discount. Everyday, people would stream in and out of this store, with bags full of electronics and smiles on their faces. Their robotic-like movements ran in unison with each other as they approached the store, and like the customers, the employees worked on an invisible conveyor belt as well.

The registered door-greeter would greet each and every customer the same.

“Welcome to Tall Tech! How are you?” They would say. “Welcome to Tall Tech, and how are you doing miss? Welcome to Tall Tech sir!”

This went on and on until they were off of the clock and the next door-greeter punched in for their shift.

From across the street, the folks of Gale’s Great Computer Store—a store that was built from the ground-up in 1964 by Gale Anderson and her family—could see all of the happenings at Tall Tech. People swarmed in and out, like furious army ants on a mission to satisfy the Queen, and at the heart of the store the manager stood behind the counter helping each and every customer and ordering employees to specific spots and locations. During the nighttime rush, it became even clearer to the employees at Gale’s that things were going to tank. From 8pm to midnight, Tall Tech saw its daily surge of customers: those who wanted a taste of technology while between shows, out-of-towners looking to pass time or teenagers who commanded their parents to get them accessories for their new laptops and phones. And as Tall Tech stretched its hours to 24, the folks behind Gale’s saw theirs go from 10am-9pm, to 10am-7pm and eventually 11am-6pm. After four months on the 11am-6pm work schedule, the owners behind Gale’s, for the first time since opening, decided to shut its doors for good.

Seven more blocks…

As the man passed into another realm of block, he glided past an abandoned unit. The door was sealed and it stood modestly behind a metal gate with a government sign sprawled across the center. The windows were intact, and inside the remnants of a former company could be seen. In one corner there were files and papers swimming on the dark blue carpet of the building until they hit a tiny wooden desk, drowning under the legs and resurfacing on the other side. On top of the desk was a computer, and next to the computer there was a printer and stack of books just waiting to be toppled. Near the front of the store was another desk, but this time there was no computer or stack of books. The only thing present on it was a cash register with a sign on the front that read: “Sale. All things must go. 70% off.”

Even though this abandoned unit didn’t halt the man in his path, or deter him from his route, he took notice. As he passed by the last dirt stained window of the unit he couldn’t help but mutter a low, yet undeniably audible hum. “They took another. Goddamn they took another.”

When the man reached the next unit, a bustling workout center for businessmen and businesswomen, he actually stopped and took a glance back at the abandoned unit he had just passed. From thirty feet away his eyes gave him trouble, but the still prominent sign on the window was big enough to read. “Gale’s Great Computer Store: A family owned computer shop that can fill any computer need!”

Three more blocks…

With three more blocks to go the man reached an intersection he was most familiar with. Every time he approached this junction, he would crane his neck to the right, looking down towards the water and the neighborhood that banked on it. The apartments were tall and mighty, but the windows were crammed together and reminded the man of prison. The people of this community were only a mere few blocks from the bustling corporate business sector, but they were trapped, like rats in a cage with only one block of cheese.

At times, the man would walk down towards the neighborhood and the water, looking out over the winter whitecaps in the river and past the shopping malls and clinics that lined the opposing shore. He would walk to the park adjacent to the beach and sit while listening to the city: cars, birds, horns, boats, screams, laughing, shots and more. He would visit some friends he knew in some of the apartments and sometimes spend a day catching up. And sometimes, when he felt eager and sad, he would walk past The Elements, building 5, apartment 5710, his former home.

One more block…

The man could see his goal now, as it stood clear front and center with an overhang stretching far out over the walk and touching the street. Banners hung from the overhang and on them there was writing celebrating the city mayor’s second term. From the base of the overhang the building rose meticulously with fire exits at every other window on every story. It was an odd sight, with all of the red lined windows defacing the beautiful structure, especially since these windows didn’t serve a purpose. The only thing present on these windows was a small metal girder that stuck out over each window ledge. There were no stairs leading from these windows and girders, and the only way a person could escape from these windows was to jump.

As the shadow of the building enveloped the man, the cold shiver rose back into his spine. However, this time it wasn’t the cold winter wind or the shadow that the building cast dropping the temperature a few degrees more. Nor was it the stern looks people gave him as they passed his coat-shrouded face, or the insults vendors threw at him when he denied their food. It was the thought he had in his head walking through the buildings doors. I’m going to die today.

Yes, this man was headed to his doom, a self-sacrificing doom, but a doom nonetheless, and as he stood with other random beings in an elevator that was high and rising 97 stories to a restaurant and the top floor, there wasn’t a clear thought in his mind except for his death. Everything that he had contemplated and thought out rushed in and out of his head, but nothing stuck; death didn’t budge.

The city had taken him long before this day; the strain of his job, the never-ending rush and his recent move were the most damaging to his conscious, but the death of his daughter was too much to bare. And as he tried to seek help through the city, and even his own family, it became clear that he was seen not as a human being, but as a statistic. In a city where big was big, the small was most definitely the small. The buildings trapped him, the windows haunted him, the business sector angered him, his old community saddened him and the most important figures, at least in his eyes, did nothing. As the elevator doors opened to Sal’s: On Top of the World Eats, he was no longer in denial and no longer in pain, for he knew that it would be over soon.

A view from the top…

As he waded his way through the tables of families, business workers, couples, owners and everyday citizens, he kept his head up and his glare on the patio door. The give in the door was a bit strong, as if something was trying to stop him from committing such an act, but as soon as the give came, it went away, and the doors opened to a bitter bite of winter air.

The patio was empty, as with all patios during the dead of winter, and as quickly as the ravaging air sucked all of his energy from him, he made his way to the rail. He didn’t look down, nor did he look around, he simply stared straight into the distance, and as seconds turned to minutes a swift rush of thought filled his head. This rush wasn’t a calling or a quick come to, but it was an appreciation. He didn’t know what it was for, but for the first time in days the man smiled.

Mustering up the rest of the energy he had, the man climbed the three bar railing and sat for a second, contemplating his next move, and as he sat on the railing with his feet dangling nearly 100 stories above the city streets, he took in everything that was sprawled out in front of him.

In perhaps the only section of town, the building he was currently perched on top of had a clear view of the harbor and river a few blocks down. There were no tall corporate buildings blocking his view; there wasn’t anyone bumping into him or shouting obscenities; there were overdue bills on a desk in front of his face; there was no sadness; and there was no pain. Again, for the first time in days, the man continued to smile.

With one quick change of mind, it wasn’t his life that he wanted to throw away, but it was his problems, and whether it was the view from the top or this new mindset that now flooded his senses like rushing water from a broken damn, he decided that today he would change. Today he would see the world and life as it is and strive for something better. Today, he was not going to jump.

Carefully placing his hands behind him, gripping the railing like an uneasy taxi driver, the man cemented his feet on the bottom bar of the rail and attempted to switch positioning so that he was facing the patio from the outside. With a quick spin and plant, he did this successfully. Looking towards the door to Sal’s, he continued to grip the railing while carefully moving his feet up and around the railing. As he began to swing his right leg over the railing his left foot that was planted caught a slick spot on the bar. In less than a second it slipped from the bar, and with his left leg the man was now free from the railing and falling with his right leg hopelessly stretching to catch something. In what seemed like a few seconds, his body turned around and his feet were now below him pointing towards the streets. It was then when his back jolted with pain and his neck swung back, breaking in several places.

Something had caught him, or rather his jacket, and he was hanging on a steel girder that stretched from the building. The streets below were still too small to show detail, and within seconds pain was filling his whole body.

Despite the pain, the man wasn’t struggling or fighting, he was just hanging, trying to stare forward towards the harbor, the buildings below, the opposing shoreline, his old community and everything presenting itself as the winter clouds lifted. With this, the sun peeked through the grey and warmth spread through his body. As numbness started to tackle every inch of his body, a stabbing light hit his eyes and blinded his vision. The light continued to hit him and when he opened his eyes, all he could see was the light. A quick whirring noise came in and came out, but his hearing was soon shrouded by the numbness. With one last attempt to open his eyes to catch something, all he could see was the light and all he could hear were screams and a faint whirring noise that seemed to be getting louder. With one breath he went unconscious.

There was no perception of time, but the man woke up and opened his eyes. He was awake. The pain was gone.

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The American C.R.E.A.M. Series (Part Two)

Photo credit: Carlos Nunez

Photo credit: Carlos Nunez

Periodically, Bonus Cut writer Victor Anderson will be sharing his American C.R.E.A.M. Series, a story where hip-hop is just the tip of the iceberg.

…continued from Chapter One: The Bloch Motel

Three days had passed since I first laid eyes on the intriguing creature named Talia. She had moved in to the room next to mine, Room 11. I couldn’t help but wonder who she was and why she was there. There was only room in this motel for one long lasting tenant and that was me. I knew my reasons for staying at The Bloch but what could her excuse be? Was she running from something or hiding out? It was hard to say because her visiting hours to Room 11 were random and nearly unpredictable.

During the day she was comfortably clothed in band t-shirts, tank tops, denim jeans and sneakers. At night it was a different story. She was dolled up and was dressed to impress.

I’m sure to her my existence was as unknown as an undiscovered species in an arctic jungle, but I didn’t mind, I enjoyed being the man behind the two-way mirror. But I knew one day I wouldn’t be able to settle for just being the observer, I needed to take action and fast because I had no clue how long she was planning on sticking around. But as often as I dreamt about our potential interaction, I was not prepared for what was to come.

I think it was the second day of Talia staying there when I went down to the manager’s office to ask him a few questions about her. He went by the name of Curly and he was a rather plump individual with a certain bubbliness about him. We shared a few moments together throughout my first week at the motel; getting coffee and paying nightly visits to the local strip joint up the road. He seemed to like me because he was always buying me drinks and dances. He wanted to get me laid, so anytime an attractive young lady would check into the motel, he would text me their name and room number. Now that I think about it, Curly must have been the clever mastermind behind Talia’s room assignment.

Anyways, I’m chatting with Curly asking him what she’s like and all I really got out of him was that she was pretty quiet but possessed a set of flirtatious eyes. “If only I was 20 years younger and a few pounds lighter, I would’ve pursued that pudding pop,” he would say. He also mentioned that she seemed a bit anxious and happened to be a bit on the sarcastic side.

Curly did his best to help me understand her but if I wanted to get to know this character, I’d have to do it myself. Unfortunately, she was not around at this point during the evening.

Suddenly, we were interrupted by the rapid mashing of the bell on the check-in counter. Curly shouted from his office to notify the new tenant that he was on his way but he soon changed his tone and agitated facial expression half-way out of the door when he notice the woman in front of the counter. She happened to be a tan, young, attractive blonde from Florida and was dressed accordingly. Curly peeked back into his office only to deliver me a wink, signaling that she was some sort of hottie. “How can I cater to your needs, ma’am,” he spurted out as he assumed his position behind the counter.

I exited Curly’s office only to pass this short-haired bleach blonde whose elbows were resting on the counter. The curvature from her back to her ass was impeccable. Her malty pupils met mine and I bashfully averted my eyes to the displeasing carpet. I glanced back for one more peek before I left. She noticed and responded with a shy grin. I’m sure Curly put in a good word for me so I could gamble that the cards might be in my favor on this one. I posted up outside of the office to smoke a cigarette and found myself enjoying the chilled breeze. I was preparing for my possible encounter with Florida by trying my best to embody my inner Cary Grant. His cunning charm and wittiness is definitely how he got the ladies in the pictures, so I was sure it would work for me.

Florida, or Drew as she liked to be called, stepped from the office into the outside air with her round Samsonite suitcase in one hand and her room key in the other. These room keys had large diamond shaped key chains attached to them with the room number imprinted on it. Hers was 7. She kindly greeted me and proceeded to leave distance between us until I caught up with her and offered to carry her key. She thought I was going to say bag and then giggled at my lame attempts at a joke. She invited me in and I would’ve been a fool to refuse. She wasted no time and immediately began to jump on the bed as if it was a trampoline. I stood there watching and laughing because I didn’t know what else to do. I was really concerned that if I joined the fun, the bed would collapse and I don’t think Curly would’ve been able to afford it. Soon she collapsed onto the mattress and admitted that this was one of her rituals when entering any bedroom.

Her position on the bed was similar to that of a pinup model. As she spoke, I admired her beach-surfer body and was distracted by the golden thighs that sprouted from her cut-off jeans. She had my attention and I was soon invited to join her on the bed. I made no moves but I was putting in the ground work through general conversation about her whereabouts.

Strangely, she was on her way to British Columbia, Canada to begin a grow operation with a gentleman she had met online. She was the most attractive botanist that I had ever seen. She had been growing marijuana since the age of 16 after living with her drug-dealing uncle who knew a lot of shady and dangerous characters. She began an intimate relationship with a man twice her age that cultivated copious amounts of marijuana crops. She eventually surpassed her teacher before he was seized by the DEA and began inventing her own strains of the plant but for her own use. Soon, she figured out the potential profit for her creation and is now on the journey to her cousins up north to cash out on her cash crop. Needless to say we got really baked in her car that night.

I invited her to my room for a drink and a movie. I wanted to introduce her to Federico Fellini since we were under the influence and could possibly enjoy the experience of an artistic, experimental or baroque film. We sat on the bed with our backs against the headboard and I hit play on my computer to commence the screen staring. Unfortunately, these films aren’t for everybody and she began to nod off. She fought the battle to stay awake and ultimately gave in to the unconscious urge. Fortunately for me, her head collapsed onto my lap. I was in an odd predicament but I did the nice thing and rubbed her back to wake her up. She didn’t move her head but she began to hum and purr out of enjoyment. Then she started to maneuver her hand towards my thigh and it continued to escalate until the laptop was on the ground, along with our clothes. I had entered the golden gates and I was in heaven. I’m not even sure if Fellini got laid because of Casanova but I wish I could thank him. The film is damn near three hours and we were just finishing up by the time the credits rolled. She left shortly after to get some rest before her drive in the morning. I walked her to the door and received a goodnight smooch before she trotted away and down the steps. I treated myself to a cigarette while I was outside and from my peripheral I noticed her coming back up the stairs but I didn’t want to turn my head and seem eager. I just waited until I felt a touch on my shoulder or something but to my surprise, it wasn’t Drew, it was Talia getting back from where ever she had come from. I turned to see her and she smirked at me as she unlocked her door. I didn’t take my eyes off of her until the door to Room 11 had sealed shut.

To be continued…

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The American C.R.E.A.M. Series


Periodically, Bonus Cut writer Victor Anderson will be sharing his American C.R.E.A.M. Series, a story where hip-hop is just the tip of the iceberg.

By: Victor Anderson 


A motel isn’t the living quarters one would typically choose to spend more than a night in, let alone a weekend. Usually families or individuals on their way to a location more appealing decide to settle for a cheap, crummy place to rest for the night, but then it’s back on the road in the morning to potential paradise. Establishments like motels are also the venue for things like adultery, prostitution and prom date hook-ups. Needless to say, not many positive things come to mind when the word, “motel,” is mentioned. So, why have I been living in one for the past two weeks?

Originally it was because I thought I needed an escape, an escape from everything that I was accustomed to. A lot of the kids I knew who went away to college took advantage of attending out-of-state universities or was granted the chance to study abroad in a foreign country but I didn’t stick around school long enough to get that opportunity. I wasn’t even given the normal college student campus living experience. I commuted from home because I wasn’t fortunate enough to have parents that could afford to pay for housing. It probably would’ve been a waste anyway because it only took me a year and a half to completely become fed up with the tedious and mundane work ethic that came with being a good student. The only times that I enjoyed were times that involved non-related academic activities. Having a social life and doing things that I enjoyed was a lot more important to me than cramming for tests on subjects that I had zero interest in.

Almost a year had gone by since I had abandoned my parents dreams of me becoming a college graduate. I was on the way home from my lame job at the cellphone accessory kiosk in the mall when I decided to stop at my favorite convenient store to pick up one of my daily lotto scratch off tickets. Long story short, I won $8,000–after taxes were taken out. It must have been my lucky day.

Now that this hefty sum was all mines, I didn’t have to work for a while and I could truly focus on mapping out my life with no distractions. I left my home that I had been raised in and now for the first time, I’m on my own.

The Bloch Motel is located off of a secondary feeder road on the side of an interstate highway. It’s in a rural town on the outskirts of a major city. The Bloch is a two-story lodge that is coated in fainted pink and blue pastels and has 14 rooms in total. My room number is 10 and I’ve grown pretty fond of it. The exterior of the building is a bit weathered down considering it’s been around since the early ‘60s but the interior of the rooms have been kept in a rather impressive condition somehow. The burgundy drapes that keep the light out match the lamp shades and the blankets on the bed. The wood paneled walls provide a certain type of aroma and style to the room that gives me a sense of warmth for some reason. I’m not the biggest fan of the puke green carpet but it’s whatever, it’s just the floor. There’s a fridge, a microwave, a television and a bathroom and I couldn’t ask for more at $37 a day.

Since I’ve secluded myself here, I’ve been really pondering my future and narrowing down my options for possible career paths. After Day 2, I realized that I wanted to be a thespian—-an actor. It’s cliché but I think I’d be good at it and it sounds like it could be some fun. Not only the job but the dough is rather appealing to a guy who has recently found out how nice it is to get his hands on a good bit of it in a short amount of time. But I’m no sap; I’ve been taking the time to truly study the craft. In my first week here, I spent my days downloading and watching nothing but early silent films. Soon, I upgraded to foreign films; Spanish films, French Films, Japanese films, German films and Italian films. Slowly, coffee became a large part of my diet. I began to take note upon note of the emotions, expressions and voice inflection that were being channeled through the actor. I discovered and became aware of Constantin Stanislavski, Lee Strasberg and the technique of method acting. Soon, people like Marlon Brando and James Dean enticed me as I made my way through the ‘50s cinema era.

When I ventured out into the world, I would sit in coffee shops, bars and restaurants and people watch, choosing interesting looking individuals to study and thus jotting down my observations on napkins and menus. I’d take note of every single mannerism and facial tick and try my best to figure out what was going through their brains when they chose to demonstrate or execute any specific action that was natural to them. Sometimes, I would imitate them in the mirror when I would get back to The Bloch, or home as I liked to call it. I met a couple of truck drivers in the parking lot my first week there. Of course they happened to be pulling in and crashing for the night. I would approach them and strike up a conversation as a character that I had observed and practiced. After talking to these men who know the roads of this country like the back of their hand I realized that they have seen things and they have stories to tell and that’s what makes them real. I had to figure out a way to make my characters authentic and appear as if they had lived an entire lifetime.

One night I was drinking whiskey with a gentleman from Cleveland who had stopped in for the night and we were leaning over the balcony drunkenly and irrationally strategizing how we would survive the zombie apocalypse and that’s when I first noticed the 1988 navy blue Camry pull into the parking lot. The headlights went dim after the engine went to sleep and the driver’s door casually became ajar. From the car emerged a slender denim leg. The sole of their Converse was placed firmly on the pavement and out stepped a brunette dressed in a black t-shirt. She glanced at us with her two emerald eyes through thick rimmed glasses and briskly walked into the front door to meet the key clerk. That was the first time I had laid eyes on Talia Leslie and it definitely won’t be the last.

To be continued…

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