Dec 10, 2025
Bullets for Breakfast, Holly Fisher, 1992
seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from Sweden
seen from China
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from Austria
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
Bullets for Breakfast, Holly Fisher, 1992
BLUES SONGS OF THE DAY
THE ARTIST IS: RANDY MCALLISTER
THE SONG IS: "BULLETS FOR BREAKFAST'
Album review: Bullets For Breakfast by Bullet Dodgers.
Album review: Bullets For Breakfast by Bullet Dodgers.
Uncomplicated Rock n’ Roll … Heavy is good, Heavy is reliable … bullets for breakfast!! Don’t let anything get you down, be a Bullet Dodger !! The musicians in The Bullet Dodgers have been around in various bands for over a quarter of a century. After 25 years each and everyone of us is still doing what we do! Adversity, ego’s, wanna bees, sneaky political bastards … we basically dodged every…
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Album review: Bullets For Breakfast by Bullet Dodgers.
Album review: Bullets For Breakfast by Bullet Dodgers.
Uncomplicated Rock n’ Roll … Heavy is good, Heavy is reliable … bullets for breakfast!! Don’t let anything get you down, be a Bullet Dodger !! The musicians in The Bullet Dodgers have been around in various bands for over a quarter of a century. After 25 years each and everyone of us is still doing what we do! Adversity, ego’s, wanna bees, sneaky political bastards … we basically dodged every…
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https://vimeo.com/307463128
A video reading of a short story that eventually became Bullets for Breakfast. This story was originally inspired by a photo of Syliva Sweet's Tea Room from the The Library of Congress.
My Fiction: Bullets For Breakfast
This is an updated version of a story I wrote for my 24 Truths series. If you'd like to see a video reading of the previous version you can find it on Youtube.
Wednesday morning found Mitch sheltering from the rain in a church, a rosary wrapped round his fist and a gun under his arm. He knew it was too late to ask for forgiveness—no matter what the priest in the confessionals said. Only God can absolve a man of his sins and to Mitch it didn’t seem the Big Man was around much anymore. So, as he knelt before the Mother Mary and the Baby Jesus, he asked for protection for Maxie and Janie and for Harriet instead. He needed all the help he could get to keep them safe for the next few days. If looking foolish on his knees in front of a plaster infant did the trick, so be it.
This was the first time Mitch had been in a church since Maxie’s baptism. The rosary was his but a leftover from a lifetime ago. He wouldn’t even have been here today if Harriet hadn’t been in a mood this morning. She made him so angry sometimes he just had to get out of the house. Pressing him about the in-laws this morning over breakfast and upsetting the kids—Christ. Couldn’t she see he had more important things on his mind?
“You know I don’t like you father, Harriet,” Mitch said around a mouthful of fried eggs. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”
Harriet poured him another cup of coffee from the tin percolator. “I just don’t understand why we can’t have them up for a few days. It’s Thanksgiving for crying out loud.”
“’Cause he’s a drunk and a no good sonofabitch!”
“Mitchell! Don’t talk that way.” She clutched the percolator in her oven mitts and turned away as if trying to shield it from his words. “The kids are right upstairs.”
“Look, I don’t want your old man around my kids.” Harriet’s father was a shit-kicking immigrant farmer with a whiskey problem and a mouth that would have made a sailor repent. He was fine when he was dry but the dope was sopping from the time the cock crowed. How Harriet’s quiet mouse of a mother put up with him all these years was a mystery to Mitch.
“’Your kids?’ They’re my kids too. And they’re my parents. If I say—”
“This is my house, Harriet. And what I say goes. Got it?”
Harriet spun, slinging the coffee percolator into the sink. A volcano of molten brown erupted up over the curtains.
“Daddy?” Maxie hid at the foot of the stairs, his little face pale and pressed hard against the door casing. Eyes wide and watery. He’s just four years old—a mistake that had taken Mitch and Harriet both by surprise.
“See Harriet? See what you’ve done now?” Mitch wiped his mouth and stood, arms open. “Come here Maxie. Your momma didn’t mean it. She’s just a little upset right now.”
Behind him Harriet slammed the door and stomped into the backyard.
Outside the church the day had gone from grey to greyer. The sky was pissing rain just steady enough to soak everything but the drops were so fine it felt like Mitch was breathing through a dishrag. People shuffled quickly down the sidewalk with collars pulled high and hands stuffed tightly in pockets. Late October should be nippy but this rain was the icy November stuff. Worse yet, the cold from the stone floor of the church had soaked into Mitch’s knees and he was walking like he had rickets. He was getting too old to play muscle.
Thankfully, the lawyer’s office was just up the street, at the corner above a Tea Room. Mitch had eaten there once. The corned beef was excellent but prices were a bit steep.
Wainwright, the attorney in question, was playing hardball with the boss, showing some spine. Something the boss usually appreciated. But he was also threatening evidence and demanding money. The boss did not appreciate blackmail. That’s why he’d called upon Mitch and a couple of the boys to visit with this Wainwright fellow, counsel him as it were. Make the boy see reason.
Dana and Vick were already on station at the lawyer’s door. Mitch nodded as he passed but didn’t make eye contact. They were hard men, harder than Mitch considered himself to be. If he looked them in the eyes they might spot the fear hidden behind his, like tow young dogs sizing up an old toothless hound.
He stopped further up the street in front of the Tea Room’s main entrance. Wainwright had a bolt hole, a back exit that led down a flight of stairs to the rear of the restaurant by the payphones. It was a holdover from when the joint had been a two-story Nickel and Dime store. That’s where Wainwright would run if things went sideways. With Dana and Vick on it, there was no other way for it to go.
Mitch turned his back to the wind and unbuttoned his overcoat, letting the lapel blow in the breeze. His shoulder rig was making his neck itch. Flowers might make it up to Harriet, he thought. But she had the hay fever. Maybe a bottle of that foul schnapps she liked? Meanwhile, his knees ached evermore and the wet slowly made its way through the layers of wool.
It all started when that Fed showed up. Out of nowhere he just sat down while Mitch was poking a Reuben down his gullet. “You know how your story ends,” he said through the smoke of a queer little cigar. “We both do. But you’ve got an opportunity here, Mitch. An opportunity to transcend your circumstances. To rewrite the tragedy of your life.” He grinned at that, like a cat with canary feathers flapping between its chops.
“And you are?” Mitch asked.
“Your future, Mitch. Your future.” He slid a hand over the linen table cloth. Mitch noted the perfect crescent moons of his trimmed nails and the pink shine on them. When the hand moved again, there was a badge underneath. FBI it says in bold letters. “But gotta grab me quick, Mitch. I ain’t waiting for long.”
Mitch said nothing, just stared into those cold black eyes. Like a crow’s they were, all glossy on the surface but sharp and predatory just the same. Mitch knew right away if this carrion eater didn’t get what he wanted there, he’d find it somewhere else. Mitch wasn’t special. He was just the first on the list.
“Get out of here before you get me killed,” Mitch said, turning back to his Blue Plate Special.
“Believe me old man, it ain’t gonna be me gets you killed.” The Feeb slid away leaving behind oily smoke that burned Mitch’s eyes and a card with a number but no name.
Over weeks the mysterious Crow appears out of nowhere to drop bits and pieces of the story. Wainwright has the goods but got squirrelly or greedy. Maybe both. He was supposed to have handed it to the Crow but seemed to think selling it back was a better idea. Mitch would have counselled him otherwise had the lawyer taken the time to ask.
Now circumstances were building beyond anyone’s control. The Crow wanted the goods. The lawyer wanted the money. The Boss wanted respect. Mitch just wanted out.
A little house in the suburbs, somewhere sunny and warm. Maybe California—the land of milk and honey. A white fence, hammock in the back yard, a pair of Schwinns leaning against the garage—goddamn if that didn’t sound like paradise to him.
All Mitch had to do was let the lawyer run.
A couple of thugs—Dana and Vick—banging on his door would put the fear of God in the Wainwright and convince him protective custody was the best place for him to be. All Mitch had to do was stand aside. Sure, he’d have to make some excuse. The lawyer got the drop on him, maybe. Mitch was getting old. They’d believe it. Something, anything to take the heat off for just a couple of days. The Crow with the badge had promised Mitch a one way ticket west for the family. They’d be gone before anyone even knew the lawyer had run home to roost.
Thumping and shouts from upstairs. The sound of wood splintering. More Shouts. The lawyer would be down the stairs presently, his tail between his legs and his ass in high gear. Mitch turned to face into the wind, his back to the Tea Room’s door. A prim older lady with the funny purse sat on the bench waiting for a bus. She stared wide-eyed up at the lawyer’s windows.
Just let him run, Mitch thought. Let him run.
Glass shattered overhead. The lady’s eyes glossed over. She clutched her purse tighter and her mouth opened wide. Mitch didn’t hear her scream over the one from above. Something heavy slapped wetly on the concrete behind him. Blood painted the lady’s purse red.
Mitch turned. His ticket to paradise lay crumpled on the rain-glossed sidewalk oozing a river of red which thinned to pink before disappearing into the storm drain in the street. Shards of glass twinkled on the lawyer’s suit like rhinestones.
“Did you see that bird fly?” Vick hollered from the broken window. “Splat!”
He laughed, double over gripping his guts like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Dana stood framed in the next window examining a roll of photo negatives in the grey light.
All the Crow wanted Mitch to do was let the lawyer run. Now it looked as though he would have to do a little more.
Mitch reached under his coat for the grip of his .38. He stepped toward the Tea Room’s door.