Flesh Parade

Chapter One: Tender Mornings

May 22, 2025

I woke up on the metro with a battered body and a mouth full of blood.

"You look like shit, man."

The vagrant standing before me smelled of piss and booze. His dingy finger prodded me until I spoke.

"You look like God makes mistakes."

The words came out wet and muffled. He looked confused, like he heard me but couldn't comprehend what I said. I reached my finger into my mouth and felt the torn flesh around the base of my tongue. Those bastards cut it out. Images flashed through my mind, a knife, an eye inked on a hand, and a cruel smile plastered with diamonds. Panic settled in my chest, and I reached into my waistband for my gun, finding nothing. Shit out of luck, pal.

I spat a wad of congealed blood onto the floor and made my way to the bus driver. One tap on the shoulder and his angry expression quickly transformed into one of horror. Guess my face looked worse than I thought.

"Oh shit."

He pulled the bus over, and the doors hissed open. It took a few moments to figure out where I was, but the Telephone Road sign gave me a clue that I was still in Houston. Without a gun, I was a sitting duck. Blending in and making a break for my apartment would be my best bet. I stole a hat from one of the street vendors and pulled the brim over my eyes. The humidity was suffocating, making it difficult to catch my breath. I wasn't sure how much farther I’d be able to go. Come on, get your shit together.

I tried to recall what happened to distract myself, but the memories were foggy. I could picture the knife. It was about six inches long with an emblem on the pommel. The man with the eye tattoo reeked of cigarettes and cheap cologne. Mr. Diamond smile stood in the shadows, making it hard to see his face. However, I did remember a detail concerning his eyes. They were different colors. One blue and one brown.

After several hours of walking, I made it to my door. The wood around the jamb was splintered, and a cigarette butt lay in the entryway.

"There were two of them."

I turned to see Slim leaning against the wall. He was tall for a thirteen-year-old, standing about five-foot-ten. The jeans he wore were too big for his slender frame and the shoes on his feet had seen better days. I'd lived next to Slim for the last few years and we'd developed a friendship. He would keep an eye on my apartment and in return I'd throw him a few dollars and share some stories from my days as a private investigator. Overall, he was a good kid caught up in a hyper-violent world.

He got the hint when I didn't answer.

"Cat got your tongue?" Slim said, smiling at his joke. "The big one's face was scarred up, like a jigsaw puzzle. I couldn't see the smaller one very well. Long hair, with a tattoo on his hand. It was an eyeball with a nail through it."

The Parade of Flesh. I smiled and handed him a twenty-dollar bill before making my way inside.

"Thanks, Mr. Rodriguez."

The apartment was in utter disarray. Cushions were sliced open, sending tufts of padding all over the carpet. The cabinets had been ripped from the walls, and they even managed to break my father's urn, spilling his ashes. I knew what they were looking for, but the cronies they sent were too stupid to explore the more creative hiding places. I grabbed a steak knife from the cutlery block and worked it into the crosshatch of the screw. The ventilation covering popped off without a hitch, sending out a gust of stale air. Bingo.

Inside the duct was a worn cigar box containing several photos and a yellowed notepad. One of the pictures showed an image taken at the Riverside Courts near Midtown. In the photo, a male stood tall above a horde of youthful faces, commanding their attention. It was Thaddeus Morris, also known as Shrimp by his affiliates. He was a drug dealer who I believed had a connection to the Parade of Flesh. They were a murderous cult responsible for the disappearance of hundreds of children around the south end of Houston. Since the missing kids came from impoverished neighborhoods, the general public didn't seem to care. To be truthful I didn't give a shit either. Not until they took my little girl and murdered her momma. I was going to find them by any means.

I hope you're enjoying your day, Shrimp, because it's about to get a whole lot worse.

Polaroid #1 courtesy of

Pablo Báez

Author’s Note: This series is a little special. I have always wanted to release a hard-boiled detective series with a twist.

Pablo Báez

released a series of images in a zine where he collaborated with peer and they inspired me. He’s recently fallen on hard times and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to write a serial and include his Polaroids as part of the story. Each piece will contain a photo and a chapter. At the end of every chapter I will include his Venmo tag, and if you can spare anything to help him get through this rough period in his life it would be much appreciated. He is an amazing writer who deserves more praise so feel free to check out his Substack and subscribe. I want to stress that all donations are appreciated even if it’s just a few dollars. Sometimes the difference between paid and unpaid is a little spare change. FICTION IS CULTURE and I believe when one of us is down, we do have an inherent responsibility to build them back up. If you can’t contribute financially you can always share his work or his Substack in order to increase his reach. I know if I was in the same pickle he’d do the same for me, so this is my contribution.

Venmo: jpvb89

Last four digits: 4145

Comment: Michelin Poet

Alternative payment option: Buymeacoffee

List of Prizes