If You’ve Got the Money, Honey, I’ve Got the Thyme

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If You’ve Got the Money, Honey, I’ve Got the Thyme
By Angela Rasch

Sometimes the cooks. . .er. . .crooks get it right.


“What the fuck?” I stared in amazement at the splintered hole in the window’s molding, before realizing I couldn’t expect a stranger’s house to take more than one bullet for me.

Thwack! Another slug tore into the wall just to the left. I dove to the floor, while in one motion freed my Glock 17 from its holster and shot out the overhead light. I suppose I could’ve flicked the switch which is right above me on the wall, but why ruin the moment?

During my twelve-year career as a bad guy I had been shot at only once before, and that had been by a rookie cop who wanted me to stop and explain the carton of cigarettes I’d liberated from a Hy-Vee. Mostly where guns were involved I’d been at the bullet dispensing end of the line.

Feeling much safer in total darkness -- I tried to assess my situation.

Harry the Hun, the only person in the world I trusted completely, had sent me out on a sweetheart detail. “Nothing to it,” he’d said. “Bim bam, thank you Ma’am.” All I supposedly had to do was babysit a shipment of coke for a few hours before he came by to deliver it to a major league buyer. I didn’t have a scale, or anything, but it appeared I was protecting about eight kilos, which on the street would bring about two mil. We’d picked the house I was in because it was located in a failed real estate development. It was 80% or so built and had been like that since the money people had pulled the pin three years back. It was at least five hundred yards to the nearest inhabited home.

“Hey, Asshole!”

Someone who doesn’t know me too well obviously wants to chat. I crawled on my belly to a point fifteen feet from where I had been before I shot out the light -- and then waited. Under similar circumstances I had fooled my targets into giving away their positions by answering my taunts.


I always referred to those I was about to kill as “targets,” because that made it easier to pull the trigger. Unlike some of the anti-social slime I called “associates” -- I had a conscience. While others actually enjoyed splattering brains with a baseball bat, I often didn’t sleep very well for days after particularly brutal murders. I hated it when I had to put away a kid, or some helpless broad.

“What the matter, Fingers?”

Hey — it sounds like at least one of them knows me. I’d been stuck with the moniker “Fingers” back in my Elm Street Elementary days. When someone would get on my bad side I would wiggle my fingers in their face before I jumped them.

“Are ya too much of a pussy to answer?”

Geez — Louise! Guys had been calling me a “pussy” for years, ‘cuz of my compassionate nature. It all started back in high school. I went all the way through the middle of my junior year before giving up formal education for a more lucrative life-style. It was considered standard operating procedure back then to finish off a good fight properly. If you knocked out your opponent you were supposed to drag them over to the curb, open their mouth with their teeth biting the edge of the sidewalk — and then kick them in the back of the head. The idea was to separate them from a half dozen teeth, or so.

I figured that kind of behavior to be over-the-edge. Although I wasn’t at all opposed to applying the leather to a fallen advisory, I had my ethical limitations.

“What did I tell ya — he’s a fucking pussy. Always has been — always will be.”

God I hate it when people say that! Sure, in a way I suppose I am, in that I’ve always felt I should’ve been born a woman, but no one knows that but me. Although I worked out every day and sported a 48-long jacket over a body with less than 6% fat, I liked the way I looked in a dress. I had several stuck away in my closet. I even had become fairly adept with make-up, although I had to trowel on the foundation to cover my perma-beard.

They’ve gone quiet. My guess is there’s only two of them -- probably one who’s decent with a rod and another who hasn’t had a neck since the third grade. I silently rolled across the floor to position myself with a perfect shot at the front door. I had barricaded the back door and all of the first floor windows had been boarded over. If they come through that door I’ll blow their fucking heads off.

“Listen-up ya panty-wearing freak.”

Oh for crying-in-the-beer! Everyone has known for years about me wearing panties all the time. I make no secret over the fact that I prefer the feel of silk to cotton. Why can’t some of these homophobic idiots just get over it? It’s never mattered to the Hun, and that’s all that I really care about.

“Here’s how it’s going to go down. We got five gallons of gas on each corner of the house and have fuses running to each of them.”

Shit! I’ve done the same thing dozens of times and never once did I fail to snuff out the rat-bastard I had holed-up. Talk about your irony.

“You can play it smart and shove that suitcase full of powder out the door. We’ll trade your fucked up life for it — even though I can’t imagine a life so fucking putrid as yours being worth more than a couple hundred bucks.”

Who is that guy? He sounds a little like Philly Frank, but I’m almost certain Philly is doing a fiver upstate. How many times have I made a likewise deal with some weasel-dick prick, and then lit the house and shot the son-of-a-bitch when he came out coughin’ from the smoke — just to make sure there were no hard feelings later resulting in retributions.

“You got two minutes to make up your mind and then it’s going to get hot in your homo-land world.”

Holy shit! When will they ever learn that I’m transgendered; and I’m also 110% heterosexual? Why is that so fucking hard to comprehend? Sure I would do anything for the Hun, but that’s different.

If it were me out there — I would set myself up about twenty-five feet from the front door and maybe ten feet to the right, behind that sign that gives the name of the defunct contractor who built this stick home. Then I would place my partner behind my car -- wherever I parked that piece of shit.

“Ya got just sixty seconds until boom time.”

I’ll come out the door with the suitcase full of coke held up in front of my head and hiding the fact that I got my gun ready in my other hand. I’ll take out the mouthy one with three shots right through that sign — then I’ll nail the muscle. Let’s hope I’m right and the muscle is a lousy shot.

“Thirty seconds.”

I picked up the suitcase full of drugs and stood with my back to the wall next to the front door. I would wait for the first explosion and use that distraction as an opportunity to burst through the door with my gun blazing.


I pumped three widely-spaced shots into the sign and was rewarded with a death-grunt that I’d heard dozens of times before. The “muscle’s” first shot hit the suitcase and nearly tore it from my hand. I saw a reflection of the gasoline-ignited fire in his glasses and fired a shot that hit him in the right lens.

“Umph!” I bent over in pain that poured through my body, but centered on my groin. “Sonabitch! I’ve been. . . .”


“She’s coming around.”

I looked up into the Hun’s face.

He touched an ice cube to my lips. “How ya feeling?”

I shook my head which made me aware of bandages covering most of my face and neck.

“Don’t try to talk,” Harry said. “There’s a few things you need to know.”

Damn. I must’ve passed out and got burned in the fire. I looked down and saw bandages around my chest. I’ve heard that the real pain from burns doesn’t start for some time after the fire. Perhaps that’s why I don’t feel much horrible pain. . .yet.

“Ya done good, Fingers,” the Hun said while lightly touching my hand.

The fire must’ve burned off all the hair from my hands and arms. Why have they got me in a pink hospital gown?

“We had to make some decisions on your’n behave,” he said. He turned toward the nurse. “Could we have a little alone time?”

After she left he closed the door and came to the side of the bed. “You gave me quite a scare.”

This time when he touched my hand he actually picked it up and held it.

“I came up on the scene right after you took one to the ‘nads.” His face turned red. “I’m sorry for being such a blunt language user. It’s gonna take me a while to remember to talk right arounds youse.”

Talk right? “Uhmmmm.” I had moved to sit up a bit and found searing pain between my legs. “My. . . ?” I looked down toward my privates.

He squeezed my hand. “The surgeons heard about your panties. They asked me a few questions; and I made them an offer they realized they should not refuse.”

I nodded.

“They made the right choice and decided they owed me some favors. They said something about giving you a complete overhaul as long as they had you up on the rack. I made a list.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “You’ll excuse. I’ll just read the list. Sorry.” His face turned red again. “Urethea inversion. Vaginoplasty. Labia majora. Labia minora. Breast implants. Eyebrow lowering. Forehead shaving. Rhinoplasty. There were several more that I didn’t write down, but they say you’ll leave here looking pretty. Of course I’ve always thought you looked pretty, so that’s nothing for me.”

Pretty? This is the best dream I’ve ever had, except for the pain in my. . . .


“How’s my patient this morning?”

Where do they get these doctors. . .and do their mothers allow them to cross the street on their own?

“We’ll let you have some liquids later this morning, but we’ll stay away from solid food for a few days. Okay?”

I nodded, not having a clue what he was talking about.

He grinned and spun to leave. Once he had moved away I spied the Hun sitting in the chair next to my bed.

Nice of him to visit. I can’t wait to tell him about my freakin’ dream.

He rose from his chair and held a glass of water to my lips. “Are you awake for good now?” He set the glass down on the rolling table thingy that sat next to my bed, and then fumbled in his pocket. “Just in case you decide to float off into dreamland again I want to make sure to give you this.” He slid a golden ring with a big rock on the third finger of my right hand.

I looked into his eyes. “Omigawd. . . .” My hands flew to my face as I realized how lucky I had become.

The End

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