Liz McAdams Twisted Sister Fiction


Photo credit - Kyle Hemmings
Photo credit – Kyle Hemmings

I don’t remember much about our first meeting ‘cept we were all taking pills and chasing them down with scotch in their new apartment, a broken down shithole with a sagging sofa and glass coffee table.

Jay held her hand and had a goofy grin on his face, like he’d finally gotten lucky.

Poor bastard.

He’d never be lucky.

I was onto my second scotch when she went after him, harping in that godawful voice of hers; she pointed across the room. “Look at this, freaking bastard put another hole in the wall. Got pissed off about something and then – blamo.”

He looked up at her, “Baby, I said I’d fix it.”

“Yeah, right, just like the last one. Super charged us big time for damages.” She turned toward him, scotch slopping out of her glass. “Broke as fuck, and we still owe; don’t know where the money’s gonna come from this time ‘round.”

Jay glanced at the floor, and then tried again. He shouldn’t have. “But you know –”

“And let me tell you,” she cut him off and nodded at me, “He’s your buddy, so you know about this – he’s a good for nothing piece of shit, so stoned he can’t get it up half the time.”

Poor Jay just sat there, goofy grin still on his face, but a real hurt look in his eyes. I stood up, “I gotta get out of here.”

“What, you’re leaving already? We’re not good enough for you?”

“Look, I gotta go.”

“Some friend you are, come over, drinking our booze, don’t bring nothing by. Fucking rude, that’s what you are.”

I shrugged. No point getting into with her. Or pointing out that it was my scotch.

“You’re just the same, both of you, don’t know the value of a dollar, think everything comes easy.” She waved her glass in the air. “Well, nothing’s free.”

I turned to walk out.

She followed me to the door. “Jay said you were his best friend, and now you’re leaving already – what the hell’s wrong with you people? Nobody has any fucking respect anymore.”

I had my hand on the doorknob, and she kept going. “You’re gonna go get laid, that’s what you’re doing – gonna get a nice piece of ass, maybe see the hookers over on fifth.”

I shrugged again and opened the door, she followed me out into the hallway, closing the door behind herself. Standing in the hall, she smiled at me, “You know, you’re a nice looking guy, could get way better than that hooker shit.”

I stared at her, completely dumbfounded.

“And look at me honey, I’m dying here, Jay can’t get it up to save his goddamned life.” Lurching forward, she fumbled for my waistband; my balls tucked way up under themselves.

I pulled away. “Tell Jay I’ll see him around.”

As I walked down the hallway the soft click of a door closing drifted toward me; then the sound of her screaming overshadowed everything.

“You’re a no good piece of shit, can’t even get it up –”

I flinched as the sharp crack of a door splintering followed behind.


For my buddies.


Liz McAdams is a short, sharp, writer and fond of dark things. Her work appears in the usual places, including Spelk, Near to the Knuckle, Yellow Mama, scattered around Twisted Sister and will be up soon on Shotgun Honey. Check Liz out at


Hit me fast, hit me hard, hit me write where it hurts (pun intended). Check out more on the craft of writing back here. And don’t forget our New Releases and Greatest Hits – crank ‘em up and let ‘em roll.


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