The Fence

The knock came, as expected, and Artie opened the door to his Cleveland warehouse. The buyer looked more like an insurance agent in a cheap suit than an eccentric billionaire. Behind him, a black stretch limo sat idle in the parking lot.

Artie broke the ice. “You... Mr. Smith?”

“I am.”

“Come in, please.” The buyer stepped inside, gaping at the interior with wide eyes. Artie’s storeroom was as long as a football field, and as spacious as the old Richfield Coliseum where the Cavs used to play. Rows of metal shelving, stacked with plastic bins, cardboard boxes, and wooden crates, some as high as fifteen feet, branched out like catacombs under the hum of fluorescent lights.

The surprise on Smith’s face was apparent. “It didn’t look this big outside.”

“Yeah. That’s what they all say. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get started.”

Artie, a short, heavy-set man with black, wavy hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, wore a purple velour track suit and several gold chains that often intertwined with his chest hair. He could have easily passed for one of the capos he usually did business with, despite having the last name of Miller.

“I’m happy to report,” Artie said, “My man Frankie called and vouched for you, so we’ll dispense with the preliminary pat-down.”

“I appreciate it.”

“All sales are final, and cash only.”

“Got it.”

“Frankie says you’re a collector of the... how’d he put it? ‘Outlandishly unorthodox.’”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I’m here to tell you... You came to the right place. I used to deal only in art, jewels, guns and ammo... Like back in the old days. Lately, it’s been computer chips, tablets, and cell phones. Personally, that tech stuff bores the shit outta me. But, you gotta change with the times. You know what I mean? Over here, I think I might have a few things a collector like you can’t live without.”

Smith stayed silent and followed Artie into the maze of stolen wonders.

“This beauty right here,” Artie said, “Is a life-size bronze statue of Taylor Swift, commissioned by her fiancé, Travis Kelce. It was collecting dust in his garage because Taylor didn’t like it. Said the butt was too big. Apparently, Kelce’s an ass man.”

Smith yawned.

“Um... Okay, on this shelf is a genuine extra-terrestrial foot, found in a Nevada desert by a former associate of mine in the methamphetamine trade. I say former because he tried to double-cross the cartel, and I suspect he’s back in that desert to stay.”

Smith’s flat expression showed no interest.

“Let’s see, over here we have Barack Obama’s classified cigarette lighter... Elvis Presley’s golden back scratcher, cast to replicate the hand of his mama.”

“Creepy,” Smith said.

“No shit. Um... Oh, yeah. Tom Brady’s toupee.”

“What? Tom Brady’s bald?”

“As a cue ball. Hey, you like music?”

Smith shrugged. “Sure.”

“Here we have Janis Joplin’s panties, purloined by Kris Kristofferson in 1970, which I snatched, no pun intended, at a luau at Kris’s home in Maui.”

“How’d you know where to find it?”

"Kris bragged a lot. Now, this item here may look like an instrument of war, but it’s not. That’s Gene Simmons’s base guitar, left at an Amsterdam brothel after a night of sex, drugs, and, of course, Rock and Roll. Sounds like a place I’d like to party, but I heard it’s since been turned into a Starbucks.”

“Figures,” Smith said.

“Here we have another piece of music history. This is part of Michael Jackson’s original nose, encased in amber like a prehistoric mosquito. I guess the King of Pop was a big fan of Jurassic Park, among other things.”

“That’s gross.”

Artie continued. “Movie props. You like movies? This is Mark Wahlberg’s prosthetic from the movie Boogie Nights.” He chuckled. “I’d tell you the story of how I got my hands on that, but it’s a long one.”

“Please don’t,” Smith said, walking on.

“Yeah, okay. Over here, we have Paris Hilton’s taxidermied Chihuahua... Martha Stewart’s crack pipe... And inside this big steamer trunk is Dolly Parton’s original set of breast implants.”

Smith stopped and spun on his heels. “Can I... see those?”

Artie nodded, undid the latch, and opened the top. A blueish, white glow emanated from within.

“I’ve been told,” Artie whispered, “They’re filled with holy water.”

Smith’s eyes gazed upon the blessed orbs with reverence. “Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly,” Artie said, making the sign of the cross and closing the lid. “Wait... I think I got just the thing for you.” He motioned for Smith to follow, and they walked all the way to the end of the building to a vault door the size of a refrigerator, built into the wall. Artie stood next to it, wringing his hands like Scrooge McDuck.

“Inside this safe is the pinnacle of my collection. It’s the centerfold, the prom queen, Mr. Olympia, the Lombardi Trophy, the Holy Grail, and the Arc of the Covenant all rolled into one. It’s my prized possession, and if you have the cash to buy this, I can retire. Hell, I can buy my own island.” Artie grinned, dollar signs dancing in his head.

Smith stood by, waiting, until he couldn’t hold it any longer. “Well... Open up.”

Artie spun the combination dial back and forth until the correct numbers lined up the tumblers. He turned the handle, disengaging the lock with a metallic THUNK, and swung the heavy door open with a grunt.

A single shelf held a yellowed sheet of paper, enclosed by protective glass. Smith stepped in and inspected the artifact, marveling at its simplicity, as he gently slid his fingers across the smooth panels that contained the list of Colonel Sanders’ eleven herbs and spices.

“Yes,” Smith said. “This is what I came here for.”

“Great. My price is— Wait... how’d you know I had this?”

Smith turned, holding a suppressed 9mm pistol. “Frankie. He brags a lot.”

PHIZZT! PHIZZT!

END

BIO: Ron Clyburn is a writer of crime, thrillers, and humor from Dayton, OH. In college, he tried his hand at journalism, but the editor kept cutting out his jokes. Ron has published short stories in Starlite Pulp Reviews #5 and #7, Thriller Magazine's 2025 Fall Edition, Guilty Crime Story Magazine 16, and the upcoming Crimeucopia - A Coterie of Dicks. You can find out more about Ron's writing at www.ronclyburn.com