"When does a collaborator stop being a collaborator? The answer, it seemed to him, was when the collaborators became the clear majority. Then those who weren't collaborators became...well if you were a romantic, you called those people 'The Underground.' If you weren't a romantic, you called them fugitives."
- Cell by Stephen King
Saturday, October 4, 2014
short story - Blindsided
"Fuck!" he bellowed as the bright yellow - canary yellow - shoelace on his coveted Nike basketball sneaks broke. He has a mean jump shot and hustles hard to use it to his advantage. He has eleven tattoos covering various parts of his body. His girlfriend at the moment was a 17-year-old whore with a tongue ring and violent tendencies when she didn't get her way. His job here in Chicago would earn him enough to run away and hide with his family in Costa Rica.
"You know, a broken shoelace is bad luck," Isabella (his girl) said, popping her gum as she surveyed their hotel room. "Anyway, you better get this shit done tonight because I'm not staying in this stank-ass hotel any longer."
He ignored her, though was inwardly amused about his plans to shoot her right in her pretty face after the hit he'd been assigned to in the Chi-Town. She probably thought she was going to accompany him to Costa Rica but was dead wrong. The girl ran her mouth too much and knew way too much about him and his assignment to let her live. They say loose lips sink ships and he'd make damn sure she never uttered another word.
He sighed and undid the laces on his sneaks, trading them in for the "stock" laces the shoes had come with.
Suddenly she was on top of him, naked with nothing but her ideas. Delusions of grandeur of a tropical paradise.
"I wanna try to de-stress you before you try to pull off this wild-ass triple murder," she whispered into his ear as she grabbed his cock with her small hands. "You know, I think it's sexy as hell how you kill like it ain't no thing," she said, sliding down to her knees on the floor in front of him. He slapped her across the face. "I'm kinda hot right now and you know damn well this fucking room might be bugged," he whispered almost inaudibly as hepulled her head by her hair up to a level position with his mouth. "I'll fucking kill you if you just fucked me over with that goddamn mouth of yours. You don't know when to shut the fuck up."
He threw her to the floor, traded his sneakers for a pair of loafers and pulled on his Lacoste rain slicker. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, then grabbed his brass knuckles, hunting knife and 9mm and stuck them all in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He walked out the room and to the big parking lot where he parked his inconspicuous black Honda that blended in real nice and had wicked horsepower under the hood. His "marks" for the night were allegedly getting hammered at some bar in downtown Chicago. He put the keys in the ignition and bleeped The Voice on his Nextel, awaiting further instruction on tonight's events.
The Voice answered back and informed him that the two (three?) men are apparently Marines and suggested maybe somebody work the job with him, to better the odds.
"You know I only work alone," he answered. "Just tell me what kinda car they're driving. I'ma wait for them in the back seat, it's an effective-ass position, trust me."
The Voice bleeped back that he'd check into what kind of car they were driving and again insisted the man have some sort of back up.
The man thought to himself. "You still got that mean as a motherfucker pitbull bitch? Ill take her or nobody. You choose."
The Voice smiled to himself. The boy was finally using his head. "Nikkie (the dog) will be prepped and ready to assist. Rendezvous at 0200 hours for pick-up at the regular place," The Voice responded.
"Roger that. Over & out," the man responded, then coolly turned the car on and backed out of his parking space. He made a left-hand turn and sailed through the yellow light as he instinctively looked to his right at the fire truck that was seconds from blindsiding his car. He never heard the crash, felt no pain.
It was going on three months when he'd finally awoken from the accident-induced coma, to find himself handcuffed to a hospital bad, an IV in his arm and screaming pain coming from every bone in his body.
"What the..."he started, before being interrupted by a police officer.
"Good to see you're awake," the officer said. "Now you need to know that you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."
by Bary Alyssa Johnson 03/25/2010
"You know, a broken shoelace is bad luck," Isabella (his girl) said, popping her gum as she surveyed their hotel room. "Anyway, you better get this shit done tonight because I'm not staying in this stank-ass hotel any longer."
He ignored her, though was inwardly amused about his plans to shoot her right in her pretty face after the hit he'd been assigned to in the Chi-Town. She probably thought she was going to accompany him to Costa Rica but was dead wrong. The girl ran her mouth too much and knew way too much about him and his assignment to let her live. They say loose lips sink ships and he'd make damn sure she never uttered another word.
He sighed and undid the laces on his sneaks, trading them in for the "stock" laces the shoes had come with.
Suddenly she was on top of him, naked with nothing but her ideas. Delusions of grandeur of a tropical paradise.
"I wanna try to de-stress you before you try to pull off this wild-ass triple murder," she whispered into his ear as she grabbed his cock with her small hands. "You know, I think it's sexy as hell how you kill like it ain't no thing," she said, sliding down to her knees on the floor in front of him. He slapped her across the face. "I'm kinda hot right now and you know damn well this fucking room might be bugged," he whispered almost inaudibly as hepulled her head by her hair up to a level position with his mouth. "I'll fucking kill you if you just fucked me over with that goddamn mouth of yours. You don't know when to shut the fuck up."
He threw her to the floor, traded his sneakers for a pair of loafers and pulled on his Lacoste rain slicker. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, then grabbed his brass knuckles, hunting knife and 9mm and stuck them all in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He walked out the room and to the big parking lot where he parked his inconspicuous black Honda that blended in real nice and had wicked horsepower under the hood. His "marks" for the night were allegedly getting hammered at some bar in downtown Chicago. He put the keys in the ignition and bleeped The Voice on his Nextel, awaiting further instruction on tonight's events.
The Voice answered back and informed him that the two (three?) men are apparently Marines and suggested maybe somebody work the job with him, to better the odds.
"You know I only work alone," he answered. "Just tell me what kinda car they're driving. I'ma wait for them in the back seat, it's an effective-ass position, trust me."
The Voice bleeped back that he'd check into what kind of car they were driving and again insisted the man have some sort of back up.
The man thought to himself. "You still got that mean as a motherfucker pitbull bitch? Ill take her or nobody. You choose."
The Voice smiled to himself. The boy was finally using his head. "Nikkie (the dog) will be prepped and ready to assist. Rendezvous at 0200 hours for pick-up at the regular place," The Voice responded.
"Roger that. Over & out," the man responded, then coolly turned the car on and backed out of his parking space. He made a left-hand turn and sailed through the yellow light as he instinctively looked to his right at the fire truck that was seconds from blindsiding his car. He never heard the crash, felt no pain.
It was going on three months when he'd finally awoken from the accident-induced coma, to find himself handcuffed to a hospital bad, an IV in his arm and screaming pain coming from every bone in his body.
"What the..."he started, before being interrupted by a police officer.
"Good to see you're awake," the officer said. "Now you need to know that you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."
by Bary Alyssa Johnson 03/25/2010
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