Tinder Hearted Holidays by John Patrick Robbins

Blue Collar Noir, John Patrick Robbins, Noir, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

The man in the mirror was one harsh looking son of a bitch.


And after a particularly bad spell of praying to the porcelain God he questioned why the hell he kept doing this to himself.


It was the fourth of July and Frank had learned to loathe the day.

It was a mile post to when it all went to shit in his life.


It had now been three years since Susan dropped off the face of the earth.


Leaving Frank’s to his vices and no matter how much he played it out upon the page he didn’t give a damn she haunted his existence.


And especially upon this fucking day.

Getting laid was easy finding someone you actually cared to speak to in the morning was a far different challenge unto itself.


His phone went off and Frank just ignored it.

He knew it was either Simmon his agent or Tony.


Simmon although being Frank’s agent had become a friend over the years.

And Tony was an old fart and publisher who had taken a shine to Frank.


Tony and Frank had a radio show that had grown in popularity.

And where Frank lived for a stiff drink and a young piece of ass.


Old Tony sought the sudden recognition and all the other bullshit that goes along with that so called spotlight.


“Fuck this life and these goddamed leeches!”


Frank said as he picked up the revolver upon the sink.


The hamster wheel was what so called success was.

People never got the truth of the situation.


That to keep your name out there was continual work and most given the fucking regins would go off the tracks in seconds.


He pulled the hammer back.

His hand shook and the world seemed still.

Even though Frank knew his life much like all the bullshit around him was truly of little importance.


He heard boozer nails upon the tile floor.


Guess he was going to get one hell of a show.


Frank’s phone kept buzzing.

And it was almost a comical scene.

As he stood there in front of the bathroom mirror gun to his head and phone in his hand.


It was that stupid app he had put upon his phone apparently some lonely old housewife had stumbled upon his profile.


Saw he was close by and could at least afford his cocktails and wanted to hookup.


Frank took the gun from his head put it back down upon the sink.


He looked at the old dog who still stood there starting his moderately mentally unstable owner.


“Sorry to disappoint you old fucker looks like daddy’s got plans for tonight after all.”


He said as he walked past the old dog as he messaged this clearly deranged woman back.


Yes the memories had made it a good day to die, but it was even a finer day to grab a piece of ass.


There would be fireworks of a far different kind tonight Frank thought to himself.


Even the best laid plans go astray in a second.




John Patrick Robbins .
Is the editor of the Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers .
And author of Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press and Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown by Soma Publishing.
His work has appeared here at Punk Noir Magazine , The San Pedro River Review,  Ariel Chart , The Dope Fiend Daily , Red Fez , Beatnik Cowboy , As IT Ought To Be Magazine.
His work is always unfiltered.