Miracle on 42nd Street

By Andrew Allan

'Twas the week before Christmas, New York City, '86.

A killer is lurking, slashing hookers and tricks...

 

Special's a working girl trying to scratch out a living on 42nd Street, the sleaziest strip in America. No pimp, no problem—she can handle herself. But when her friend gets butchered and an eyewitness dishes the details, Special begs her city official clients to track down the killer. That's when they try to kill her.

Now Special's on the run from the ugly truth: the cops are making the city "safe" by exterminating the prostitutes, pimps, thugs, gangsters, dealers, muggers, and junkies. And the only way she can survive is by teaming up with a drunk Santa to unleash anarchy. Down on the Deuce, anything can happen. But survival is never easy. And this time it's gonna take a miracle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encyclopocalypse Publications
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201718312

Book preview

One

New York City. Winter, 1986.

Green neon buzzed light onto his greasy face. He watched from across the street.

She was oblivious. Her eyes scanned passing cars. She profiled drivers, separated lookie-loos from serious customers. She watched their eyes; they watched her thighs. Milk white under purple nylon stockings clasped in garters teased out below the hemline like line bait.

She was bound to catch something, alright. Like six stiff inches from his Al Mar Seki blade. Direct from Japan straight into her sin-soaked, dumpster juice guts. Sayonara, slut.

Morris was here, anointed from above, to amputate and expel this cruising pustule off the city streets. Here with a mandate. Murdering Morris and his Mandate of Mayhem. Tonight, he would add to the list—Mommy/Doris/Lillian/Margaret/Nadine/Jennifer…now, Olivia.

She worked under the street name Delicious. She was scum, he was the squeegee. A very sharp squeegee, he thought to himself. You’re not just brilliant, you’re a hoot. Too bad mommy didn’t see it that way. Too bad mommy was too busy with all those men—

Bump. Morris staggered forward.

Watch it, pal, said a voice. Some guy, mister cocky college student with his ditzy girlfriend. Both of them scowling at Morris. She said, What a creep.

You got that right, thought Morris. I am a creep. The Killer Creep. Just like they’d called him in both the Times and the Post. New York’s most feared serial killer. On the loose. On the prowl. Ready to howlllllll.

Only this wolf didn’t need no full moon, only fresh street meat. And tonight’s meal just got turned down by some suburban lech in a wood-paneled station wagon with Jersey plates who probably thought five bucks was too much for a handy.

Go to the massage parlor, loser. These streets are for…the families.

Morris’ mind flashed to young Morris’s point-of-view. Walking the streets, early 1960s. That lady in the fur wrap and miniskirt. Pinching his chin, leaning down, smiling. Morris saw right past that smile to the pendulous cavern formed by her robust, bra-less breasts. It was sin and salvation. Back when things were normal. But then, mommy got to him. There’s been no normal since.

Hey!

A brawny dockworker shoved Morris into a wire trashcan. This ain’t for standing dumb, he said waving to the sidewalk.

Morris scrambled up, angry, paying no mind to the spilled trash or toppled can. Enough.

He looked and saw Delicious lean into a tank of a Lincoln stopped at the curb. Shit. This was no time for her to get a trick. Morris needed her now. He was the one with the mandate, not some gas guzzlin’ trick.

The Killer Creep crossed the street and replayed the voices in his head. They belonged to the men who gave him the mandate. The for-real mandate. It was the craziest thing. They arrested him, caught him with the knife and the body. But then, they wanted to make a deal.

The first man said, We got you red-handed. You’re about to spend life in jail.

Morris told him, Please. Yes. I want to go to jail. That’s the only way I’ll stop the killing. The only way. Mommy wouldn’t like the killing. But mommy needs to die. Again and again and again and—

Yeah, we get it, said the second man. His suit was nearly identical to the first man’s. And to the third man’s.

But…. said Morris.

The third man said, Even though it’s driving everyone in the city crazy, we don’t want you to stop killing.

You don’t?

Nah, said the first man. You could say we’re, uh, fans of your work. He wrapped a big smile around the end of that.

You are?

Sure. You’re real vicious, aren’t you? said the second man.

The car pulled away from the curb. Delicious started walking down the sidewalk, away from Morris. He followed as he continued the replay conversation with the three men.

Really cuts ‘em up, said the third man.

I’m not supposed to do that, said Morris.

The first man stepped up and put a friendly hand on Morris’ shoulder. Technically, no. But see the thing is…the one’s you’re killing; they’re not doing much for the city as it is.

They’re trash, said Morris. Human garbage.

And you’re the garbage man, aren’t you? said the second man.

Morris nodded. Yes, how did you know?

Lucky guess.

The third man stepped up to Morris. "We want to get rid of all the garbage in New York City. We want you to take out all the trash."

And I’m the garbageman.

Right you are.

Not only that, said the first man, But the way you…take it out…really sends a message to the rest of the garbage.

The rest of the hookers? said Morris.

Yeah. And the junkies and pimps and johns and dealers. We want ‘em all gone. And you’re making the streets verrrrry unsafe for them.

Delicious slapped five with another prostitute as she walked down the sidewalk and scanned for johns and cops.

Morris noted an alley up ahead. That was the spot. He hurried to catch up to her.

You’re doing such a good job killing, Morris, said the second man. We want you to keep it up. That’s why we’re not arresting you.

But…I’m not supposed to kill.

Come now, said the first man. We all know there’s good killing and bad killing. It’s only bad when you kill someone who doesn’t deserve it. Been that way since the bible times.

Lotta killing in the bible, Morris, said the second man.

Kill the garbage, said Morris.

Now, you’re gettin’ it, said the third man.

I am?

"That’s right. You know, you may be the first professional serial killer. That is, for pay. Outside of like government mercenaries and such."

I have no need for money.

Oh, that’s right. You don’t buy groceries, do you? Because you eat your victims.

Morris lowered his head in shame.

Not my particular taste, said the first man. But, hey, have it your way.

Morris looked at the three men. I’m very confused. I did very bad things.

No one’s saying you didn’t, said the second man. What we’re saying is that you need to continue doing them. Only it would be better if you could, hmm, how shall I say it, ramp up production?

We want you to kill more. You’ve been averaging what, one every week?

I—I don’t.…

That’s about right, said the third man. According to our stats.

The first man said, Gotta be honest with you, we’d be fine with seven, eight a night. For starts.

There’s a lot of trash to clean up, said Morris.

A whole lot, said the second man as the other two men nodded. He rocked on his heels and ran a hand down the front of his suit, smoothing it.

But we think you’re up to the task, Morris. We really do.

You’re proud of me?

Oh, yes. The first man took Morris by the elbow and walked him over to the window and pointed to the dark city below.

Do you see that, Morris?

The city, said Morris."

That’s right. But, you see, that’s the old New York. There’s going to be a new New York.

There is?

Yessss. And it’s going to be glorious. Imagine it—every street safe and sound. No more muggings and robberies. No more junkies selling death in a vial. No more hookers peddling their hot, dangerous flesh.

No more trash, said Morris, getting it. He pressed his hand up to the window.

The first man leaned in close. There’s no need to feel guilty about it, Morris. We are giving you a mandate to kill.

A mandate. Morris whispered the word four times, tasting its flavor, allowing it to ripple through his mental architecture.

Morris, this is your calling. This is why you were put on earth.

A mandate.

That’s right. A mandate.

The second man said, Mandate means you have absolute permission. In fact, you’re like all my officers. You have a license to kill.

But, what if someone sees me? What if I get caught?

Don’t get caught in that act, said the third man. But don’t hide the bodies either. Otherwise, the rest of the garbage won’t get the message.

A mandate and a message, said Morris.

That’s right, son. Here you go.

The first man held out a knife. It had red