Neil Smith in upcoming NEEDLE

Anthony Neil Smith is set for our next issue of NEEDLE, available in December.

Here’s a taste from his story, “Minnesodom” ->

MINNESODOM

When the cops busted through the motel door, Spanky was getting fucked in the ass by a six-foot-two trannie with huge tits, luscious lips, and prison tats up and down her arm. The bed was rocking and loud like a carnival ride, and Spanky gripped the sheets like he might fall off. Both of them shouting back and forth, Like that? I like that! Better fuckin like that, bitch. Like a woman fucking you? God, Fuck me! What the fuck you think I’m doing?

The cops came in, Glocks up and out and shouting but not getting through the noise until the trannie, a Cuban-American who called herself Diamonique, looked up, bugged her eyes, licked her mustache and pulled out. Spanky scrambled across the bed to the chair and hid behind it while Officers Moreno and Friesen worked their guns like magic wands to get Diamonique on the floor and cuffed up. They’d been looking for her for weeks on an attempted murder–some businessman she fucked, knocked out with an ice bucket, and robbed. Good hit, too. The left half of the guy’s face was still paralyzed.

Friesen had worked his contacts but got nothing. He held off on Spanky until he finally just had to call. Promised him a couple hundred bucks to track the freak down. Spanky wanted more. Wanted a nice dinner with Friesen. Wanted the officer to take him to see a play at the Guthrie Theater. Hard to explain to his wife, why he’s taking a tweaker CI out instead of her, but that’s the only way to get Spanky to do what only he could.

They had seen something sweet, Friesen couldn’t remember the title. They had eaten at Il Gatto’s, some pasta, some wine.

Once Diamonique was cuffed, still all fight shoved against the wall, Spanky eased back into his natural, flaming self. A delicate flower. Tossed on his white businessman’s shirt carelessly and sat in a chair, legs crossed, cigarette dangling from a loose wrist. The trannie caught sight of that and raged some more. “What, he’s a fag? I ain’t fuck no fag! Said he was straight, motherfucker!”
Spanky laughed. “I’m an actor, babe. I can do straight standing on my head.”
Friesen’s partner Moreno grinned, shook his head. “Fucking Spanky. That had to hurt.”
Spanky rolled his eyes. “A walk in the park. Pretending it hurt, well, that was much harder.”
He winked at Friesen.
Friesen, a bit red, said, “Get that guy out of here. Let me get Spanky’s statement. Out in a minute.”
Moreno and his back-ups said sure thing and led the trannie out, him still yanking backwards and talking about him not being no fag.
Friesen sat on the side of the bed, pissed at his CI. Spanky angled his crossed knees toward the officer. Spanky was too thin, too pale. He kept what was left of his bleached hair short-short and it looked good on him. The bags under his eyes didn’t. Friesen couldn’t tell if the guy was dying from meth or AIDS. Suspected he was infected for a while, but never asked. Spanky never said. He still had glossy full lips and decent teeth, but those were easy enough to fake.
“No condoms, Spank? I’ve told you before.”
“That would’ve blown the whole scene. My character wanted a giant she-male to come in his ass, not a condom. Start talking condoms and your boy would’ve kept peeking over his shoulders. Don’t worry.” Puffed the cig. “Word is he’s clean.”
“You can’t do that. You can’t take risks like that. Not when we’re paying you.”
Spanky smiled like Joel Grey from Cabaret and Friesen wished he would stop. Stop with the too-gay drama and be more like he was before, when they were roommates in college. Fine, be gay, but not this gay, like some burlesque show.

Friesen said, “Steve, man–”
“You can’t tell me this was a cop gig. You’re not going to turn in our ticket stubs and dinner receipts. This was all you, hon. I did this all for you.”
Friesen wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him the case was too important to split hairs over. Wanted to tell him last night had meant nothing except an obligation to an old friendship and a desire to get a maniac off the streets. Instead, he stood, pulled out his folding money, and peeled off two hundred. Handed them over.
Spanky didn’t take them. “I already told you.”
“I can claim this. Just go on.”
“I don’t want it.” Turned as far right as he could, arms crossed, staring out the windows.
“Fine.” Friesen dropped it on the floor. “Keep your cell phone on. Maybe something else will come along.”

Friesen walked out while Spanky tossed a couple of “Fuck you”s and “Big tough copper”s and other shit. Even said, “You know what you really want.” Friesen balled his fists but kept going. Blocked it out.
Downstairs, with the behemoth in the backseat, Moreno said, “Jesus, that Spanky. He’s a tough little guy. I don’t think I could’ve taken a pounding like that and still been able to walk.”
Laughs. More laughs. Friesen joined in. Not that he wanted to. “Spanky, one of a kind.”
Some officer Friesen didn’t know said, “Seems like a dime a dozen. More and more everyday on patrol. Fags and Somalis, man. That’s the future of the Twin Cities.”
Moreno nodded. “Yeah, Minnesodom and St. Gommorah.”
“No, Minnesodom’s the whole state. The city’s, like, Minnesnatcholis.”
“Minneassolis, you mean. And St. Plug.”
“You got that right.”
Friesen was lost in his thoughts and forgot to laugh. Was looking up, wondering if Steve was watching from above. Spanky was just some bullshit nickname he picked up when they caught him getting spanked for some amateur porn director. The guy’s name was Steve.
And if anyone of these cops found out he knew Spanky’s real name, his life would be runny, smelly shit just like that.
Friesen said, “Let’s go drop off Fidel get back at it.”
Handshakes and “Catch you later.”