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A blog for poetry, prose, and pop culture.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Flash Fiction: Noir Story

Chapter 17

I kept my gun pointed at the two goons in the alley. One lay on the floor clutching his ruined eye, the other staring bolts of lightning from his. I didn't waver, or at least tried to look I wasn't. I couldn't see out of one eye and my face and chest were more bruised than a week old banana. Still I tired to play it up, pretend I wasn't hurt that bad. I spit out a huge wad of blood and saliva, and ran my tongue over my teeth assuring myself that they were all still there. It was hard to breath, my nose broken and all, but I could fake it for a few more minutes.

I stalked closer to the one on the ground and laid my boots into the side of his head as hard as I could. He let out a scream but in this part of town, that didn't mean shit. I kicked him a few more times to be sure he was out, and stepped closer to the goon still moving, though as I stepped closer, slowly sunk to his knees. I walked right up to him and put the cold barrel of my Beretta against his forehead. I could see the first tell tale signs of a cold sweat appear on his brow, and he anxiously licked his lips. I pulled back the hammer on the gun and calmly told him that if he didn't answer the questions I asked, I'd show him what a .22 caliber bullet could do at this range.

I asked him about Elsa Lomack and Roger Horner. Who they worked for, and why they wanted me out of the picture. About who he worked for and what he knew. Which sadly wasn't alot. Apparently the club's owner was friends with Ricky Sixx, one of the major dealers in the last few years. Back when I was on Vice, Sixx was one of the up and comers in the business, though we could never pin anything on him. Always thought he had connections somewhere along the line, and it was digging into that that eventually cost me my job there. Sixx had told the owner that if anyone came looking for Horner of Lomack, he was to take them out, and bring the info to him, though my boy here didn't know where to find him. I told him that he had done a good job, then smacked the handle of the gun against his skull, knocking him out.

I limped down the alley and down the street. I wasn't a cold blooded killer, and leaving those two alive may flush Ricky out to me. Worse case, I still had that lead at The Zero Room to follow up on. Still it had been a shit day and I wanted to go home. I limped two blocks down the street and into one of those pay by the hour hotels. I paid for an hour, ignoring the looks the clerk gave at my appearance and telling him to mind his own damn business, and went into the room he had given me. In the room I called a cab to pick me up in thirty minutes, because finding one in the Barrow was gonna be fuckin' impossible at this time of night, especially looking like I did. I spent a few minutes admiring the bouncers handiwork in the mirror, and tried to clean myself up enough to make it home. I stopped the bleeding and cleaned up my eye and nose as best (and gingerly) as I could. I spent the last few minutes sitting on the end of my bed smoking a cigarette, ignoring the pain each time I inhaled through my split lip. Annie was gonna be pissed.

End of Line.

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