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A blog for poetry, prose, and pop culture.

Sunday, January 03, 2010

Flash Fiction: Noir Story

Chapter 28

The Crooked Cue was set up much like any pool hall, a bunch of tables set around a long bar that had seen better days back when days WERE better. There was an almost palpable layer of smoke covering everything, a sort of grey-green cloud that hung in the air threatening to stifle even the paint itself. It smelled of stale cigarettes, sweat, cheap beer, and desperation. Mike and I walked in, shotguns primed. It wasn't as empty as I had hoped it would be, though it wasn't as full either. There were 8 guys loitering around a single table, all of the Sixx's men. You could tell by the bandanna tucked in their back pocket, green and faded. They ranged from Mexican to white, even one black guy, but all of them had the look of hard men. The black guy went for his gun first but I fired, the shotgun bucking hard in my hand. The spray caught him full in the chest, lifting him off of his feet and flinging him against the next pool table.

I turned to the other seven and asked one question. Where was Johnny Sixx. One of the Hispanics stood straight up and held his arms out to the side. He had on a matching faded green do rag and he peeled off a smile that showed his yellow teeth. He said something not nice in Spanish so I shot him too. The other six dived into action, pulling guns and ducking under tables. Mike managed to catch two before they got to cover and I caught another in the leg as he dived under the next table. Mike vaulted right, heading for the bar. I ducked left, upending one of the regular serving tables in front of me. I thumbed in a few more shells and felt a hot splinter of wood cut across my cheek a bullet exploded through the thin Formica table beside me. That's one ef those bullshit things they don't tell you in movies. Couches and tables make for some shitty fucking cover.

I rolled left again staying low, keeping my eyesight in line with the floor. I saw one of Sixx's boys laying underneath a table. He was turned to the sid eof me, peppering Mike's location with bullets from his .45. I fired once, pumped, and fired again, spraying the area with buckshot. He let out a gurgled scream before falling silent. I kept rolling as I fired, hearing the pop of more bullets firing at where I use to be. I rolled up to another pool table and vaulted over it to the other side as suddenly a new sound entered the fight, the chattering of an semi-automatic.

I heard Mike let out a grunt and I risked a glance, seeing another Mexican spraying the bar with gunfire. I took a bead, but ducked back as the other two peppered my location, bullets flying from their automatics. I needed to do something quick, I could hear the semi-auto lighting into the glass mirror behind the bar over Mike. I counted the bullets fired, waiting until I heard teh first one click empty and reload. I popped up and let loose, pumping shells into the chamber as fast as my arm could work. I felt something hot and wet run across my scalp and felt another arm shattering thud rocket through my arm. The wild spray caught both guys, one trying to dislodge a jammed shell from his gun, the second firing rapidly at me. I watched them both fly backwards, almost in slow motion as the shotgun fell from my hands. It wasn't empty, but my left arm didn't seem to want to work anymore. I pulled my Berreta free with my right and started to take aim, when the guy turned the semi-automatic towards me.

End of Line.

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