(Untitled) A short story

[MalReynolds]

Okay, my cable went out and I was going to write a story about a petty theif who's apartment turns into a jungle, but couldn't come up with the justification for it... So, I tweaked the story and created a character that I really like a whole lot. I don't have a title for this story yet, but if you guys read it, feel free to make title sugguestions.

It's a tad long, but it's a return to a work that I really feel comfortable with. I enjoyed writing this a lot and crafting the character, and I feel I did a good job with this one (Moreover than with some recent works). Like I said, it's long... so bear with it.


--

It has been a long day. Not too long, but a day just long enough to make me wish that I was back at my home. The sun was up too high, beating down too hard, making me sweat entirely too much. Leader of our cosmos, sure, but it still can be a huge pain in the ass. I enjoy working in construction as much as the next guy, but right now, the next guy is sitting in the car, in a pool of his on sweat. Even the flies aren’t touching him.
I mean, I wouldn’t touch him either, except he had a bill sticking out of his breast pocket. It’s a compulsion. I mean, it was a life I had used to lead but it was in my hand before I knew what I was doing. And before I could even think about putting it back, it was in my breast pocket; the fat man’s sweat seeping into my shirt. I didn’t even get a good look at the denomination; it’s just there.
I wasn’t always a thief, but my jobs before construction have always been less than… Savory. Before I emptied pockets and safes, I rigged cars. Not to explode, I’m not that much of a bastard. When people would put out a contract on the car, I would fix the brakes; if the person lived, I figured it would be fate.
My methods became slightly more precise after I became a target, due largely to the fact that most people who took me under their employ didn’t know about my fate-ist philosophy. Most of the time, the people died, but you can imagine the anger coursing through anyone’s head after they pay a hit man to perform a hit and he lets his own personal beliefs on fate get in the way.
I crossed the wrong man one time, and the next thing I knew I was facing him across a table, with two goons holding me down by the shoulders in case I got any fancy ideas. Not exactly a hot date, but enough to get my attention and keep me riveted.
I got the same rhetoric that I would have expected, “Blah blah blah, this man isn’t dead, blah blah blah, he’s in the hospital, blah blah blah, if you don’t fix your mistake, I’ll kill you, blah blah blah, I’m an Italian Goombah and I’ve got spaghetti coming out of my nose.�
Then he asked me a question that I was taken slightly aback by. He slid a pistol across the table. Not a fancy getup, a standard piece. I still don’t know the name of it and it became my best friend across the years.
“You know what this is?� The Big Bad Boss man asked, taking his hand away from it.
“It’s a gun. What do you think I am, a moron?�
He laughed. I really didn’t like this fellow, or the goon on the right who decided it would be a good time to apply pressure. A masseuse this guy was not, although I don’t think it was his intention of giving me a gentle squeeze.
“I don’t think you’re a moron, I just think you’re a fellow that can’t do a goddamned job right. Of course it’s a gun. And you’re going to march into the hospital and shoot that man.�
“His fate was decided by the car, it’s not really my place to take away his-“
I was going to say, “Second chance,� but the goon on the left side decided to squeeze as well. Oh, and also, the Big Bad Boss Man pulled out his piece from a side holster and stuck it under my nose.
The gun smelled like ass. Often times my mind wonders where that gun had been prior to our meeting.
“Well, you see, I’m giving you a hand in your own fate. Either you pick up the piece, or you go out of this room in the arms of these gentlemen.�
“These are fine gentlemen, but I think they’d be a bit rough for me.�
I picked up the gun, and swung it up, knocking Mr. Big Bad Boss man backwards. He started bleeding out of his chin. What a pansy. Both the goons began to squeeze harder, and I dropped the piece back on the table.
“What?! I said I’d do it!�
Blood ran off of his chin and onto the desk.
“You might want to get someone to look at that. I’ll do it. Tell Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb to get their mitts off of me.�
They did, I picked up the gun and left the office.

I didn’t want to decide people’s fate, I just wanted to have a hand in changing it. The hospital had smelled like anti-septic. I didn’t really go in with a plan; I figured I’d be arrested as soon as I pulled the trigger.
The woman’s room was empty, save for a vase of flowers on the side table. Her head was bandaged, and she didn’t move when I walked in. She didn’t see me; the gauze covered her eyes as well. I think she might have been asleep. I hope she was. I hear that’s the best way to go.
Roses. I hate roses, have hated roses and will forever hate roses. “Please come home soon, I miss you, your loving husband, Howard.�
It was such a contrast, the barrel of the silencer against the white gauze. I fired twice, and the left side of the room was immediately illuminated in a red shadow. This was different. I couldn’t tell if I liked it or now, and I’ve never been able to answer that question. I’ve always liked helping fate along more than deciding fate, but having something so final…
I contradict myself. I enjoy fate, but at the same time I enjoy being fate.
It was an amateur move, when I killed her, but I walked out of the hospital same as I walked in, except for the blood on my hands, and a small burn on my back from where I slid the gun into my waistband with the silencer still hot.

After the hospital job, I relied on the gun more than fate alone. It became a rush, getting a contract in the mail, or in person, or in the e-mail… It was kind of like Christmas. I would get back to my house, excited to check my e-mail and see what kind of present I had. The pay was excellent, and the job was rewarding. I wasn’t the fellow that would hold the gun to your head and monologue for hours about fate and my final deliverance. I figured that people had plenty of time to think about that when they departed. You generally didn’t see me. And if you did, I wanted you to.
There’s a reason I quit. There’s always one contract that an operative like me never ever wants to see, and it doesn’t matter how much you love your job. I’d dealt with witnesses before. I’d dealt with females, old folks, males, the mentally handicapped, but I had boundaries.
I pulled up the G-mail, and scanned it. It seemed like a regular witness op. Witnessed something or other, going to court, the address, it was all-normal. Except the picture. When I got the picture, my breath caught in my throat.
It was a seven year old. Red hair in a bowl cut, so very 90’s, and a shy smile that revealed a row of metal braces.
I don’t kill kids.
Anyone who knows me, knows that I don’t kill kids… Except for this Trainsford244 at Hotmail.com. I don’t kill kids, and I don’t appreciate it when people in my field do the same. If I passed on this job, it would be a mark on my record and it would just get sent along the line to some second rate man who would probably end up hurting the family a lot more than just the loss of a child.
I let my morals get in the way, once again. It’s not a decision that I regret. I accepted the job, and went to the house. Jimmied the back door open, walked through the silent house weary of floorboards. I took a left turn at the top of the stairs instead of a right, and I quietly shut the door the master bedroom. Single mother.
She was asleep quietly in her bed, peaceful, quiet. She might as well have had the gauze over her eyes. The gun crept up to her temple, and I was having déjÃ* vu… Except I didn’t pull the trigger. I put a hand over her mouth, so she couldn’t scream.
Boy, did she ever try.
I still carry a scar on my hand from where she bit me.
Her eyes flew open, and she began to frantically try to breathe in through her mouth. I hate it when people do that, on account of sometimes it tickles a little bit. And then she tried to exhale her voice out, but she couldn’t. I waited for her to get calm.
“Listen.�
She began to thrash again.
“Listen!�
And she began to thrash again.
I rolled my eyes. I hate it when people don’t listen.
“I have a gun! Will you stop moving? Jesus! I’m not going to hurt you.�
She took these words as a threat and bit down on my hand. I didn’t want to hurt her, so I just pushed in harder. I’m very sorry about bleeding into her mouth, but she really did that to herself.
“Some people don’t want your son to testify. They sent the contract to me.�
She began to weep. She obviously didn’t like waiting for me to finish what I was trying to say.
“But it’s against my morals. I’m warning you: You need to hide. You need to get your son and hide, because once Trainsford finds out that I didn’t finish the job, he’s going to send someone after you and your son. You need to hide. I’m going to leave now, and you might want to rinse your mouth out to get rid of the blood. And also, don’t call the police, because that would just be rude after the heads up I just gave you. You’re not going to call the cops, are you?�
She shook her head. She looked honest, so I left.
Of course, she called the cops, but I was out of there. I counted on her to call the cops. She may have looked honest, but the bitch bit me. I knew she was going to do it. Luckily, I was out of there, three streets away, watching the cops drive past me. And ten minutes later, I was performing my post-hit ritual: Burning my ski mask, a hot shower, and clicking the safety on.

Four days later, an associate found his way into my house. I had been expecting something like this, but he had caught me at somewhat of a disadvantage. I was pruning my hedges when this tall man rounded the corner into my backyard. He had a gun in hand, and looked like he meant business.
Not the pleasant kind of briefcase business, either.
“Drop it!� He said.
I dropped the pruning shears onto the ground. The blade landed on my foot.
“It was simple. Why didn’t you do it?�
“The mother was onto me. She bit my hand, and I got scared and left cause I heard sirens.�
“Bullshit.�
“I have the scar on my hand to prove it!�
I pulled the glove off and help up my hand and rapidly indicated to the fresh bite mark.
The tall man stepped closer for a better look. Very closer. So close that I, as a heterosexual, was feeling quite uncomfortable at his proximity. He jabbed the gun into my ribs and stared into my eyes.
“You’re lying,� he said.
“Great deduction. You’re straddling my pruning shears.� I kicked them up and heard them solidly connect to this mans testicles. He dropped his gun and doubled over, to which I picked up the shears, kicked him over, and stabbed him in the stomach. It gets a bit graphic here, so I don’t suggest you read on unless you have a strong stomach.
I opened the shears and watched the man tap out.
I checked for a pulse, there was none. I dropped my wallet onto his chest, pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, took the gun into the house and called the police. They arrived four minutes later, and I was in my backyard, “being traumatized�.
A robbery! Of course! He wanted your wallet! You did the right thing. You’re going to need to come down to the station and help us file a report.
And I did.

Using my detective skills (which aren’t really skills. I mean, I learned this by watching Wild Wild West.), did a soft lead rubbing over the slip I removed from the mans pocket. It had my address on it, but very faintly outlined in the lead rubbing was a time and another address.
“10:30, Wharf 14.�

I drove down to the docks, and counted the wharfs. 13.
Damn.
I checked the slip again.
“Wharf 14.�
Damn.
A light bulb went on over my head. It’s all too ironic that I use that figure of speech when the symbol for the Yellow Pages, is in fact a light bulb (and a pair of fingers walking, but that didn’t suit the case).
Wharf 14 was a club downtown.

Wharf 14 was a very odorous club downtown. It smelled like fish, which I assume is where they garnered the name. I’m a stylish fellow; they let me right in, where upon I began asking about Trainsford. People eyed me suspiciously, but the trail led to a booth in the back where a man was watching a fairly off-shaped stripper dance on the table. This club would have been funnier if it hadn’t taken itself so seriously. There was the steering wheel to a ship above Trainsford’s head.
I slipped a ten into the g-string of the stripper, and she took her odd breasts and amputee stumps off of and away from the table.
“Trainsford?�
“Yes, who is asking?�
“Okay, first of all: Next time, say ‘who is asking’ first.�
He blinked. Killing him would have been like killing a child.
“Who is asking?!�
“I was. I just wanted to tell you, your patsy is dead,� I started. He began to reach for his piece.
Mine was in his face before he got his hand out of his sport coat.
“Don’t think about coming after me again. You will be testified against. And fate permitting, you will do time in prison.�
Trainsford’s eyes closed. He obviously wasn’t enjoying myself. Don’t get me wrong, neither was I. The club smelled too much for me to.
“I’m going to let you walk out of here. I’m going to let you drive away from here, but if I ever hear of you taking out another contract on a child, I will kill you.�
I slid myself out of the booth, and dodged horny old men until I reached the exit. The bouncer was standing there, blocking my path. I hadn’t expected him to be wearing a wire, but then again, I had also expected Wharf 14 to be a wharf. Or at least near one.
“You can’t leave the club yet, boss, the fun is just about to-“
I assume he was going to say “Begin�, but I was too busy kneeing him in the balls to notice.
I walked out that night.
So did Trainsford.
He also got into his car… Which didn’t stop.
Trainsford is currently a prisoner of his own mind, living in a vegetative state in some hospital. His mind is probably smaller than the six by eight cell he would have occupied, though.
I bet you’re wondering what he did to get put on trial? I don’t know. I never did the research. Not for nothing, though, my cable was out when I tried to look up the case and I needed to polish my shoes.

After that, I hung up my guns. I also changed address and name. I also began some small time thief work. Pick pocketing, cracking small safes. Pretty much anything to keep me from having to hold down a steady job.
Two years of my life I spent emptying pockets, crates, what have you. I picked the wrong pocket, though. A plain-clothes officer doesn’t have any heightened senses, however, when your hand brushes a badge, it makes one a might twitchy.
Thankfully, the cop thought I was smacking his ass. He was also gay, and how I got out of a sexual harassment ticket is something I don’t want to talk about. Ever. Again.
But after that… Close call, I decided that was enough, and I took a job in construction.

Which brings me to where I am. The train, stepping off near my apartment, climbing the stairs, breathing in the muggy city air.

My key clicks in the lock, and I open the door. Something isn’t right. My lights are on in a different pattern. Usually, I have kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. Bedroom is off, kitchen is on, bathroom is off, living room is on, and someone is on my computer. It would have been more obvious to check the living room first, I realize, than the light pattern, but I’m a creature of habit.
The man stands up. Not a tall man, but not anyone I’ve seen before. He extends his hand, I take it. He has a firm shake, and a steely glare. The light is blinding, reflected out of his eyes.
“You don’t know me,� he begins, “But I know you.�
Hurray for overused greetings.
“I’m here to give you a warning. You did the same for a young boy some years ago, didn’t you?�
We all know the answer to that.
“You need to get out of your apartment. Or get a cell phone. I tried calling.�
“What?�
“People are coming. For you.�
I shudder. I don’t like the thought of death, despite all of my forcing of it upon others.
“I’m leaving. I’ve warned you.� The man offers a half smile, revealing two lines of metal.
Oh, shit. Karma.
Fate.
Bullets.
From behind me, bullets. Not hitting me, hitting the door, blowing it open. I turn, and the man catches several in the chest.
“Well,� think to myself, “That was a waste.�
He drops, and two men storm into my apartment, guns raised, and one aiming at my head, the other performing a sweep. I don’t know why he would do that; I live alone. They must not have gotten the memo.
“Come with us,� the one who is aiming at me spits.
I need a lie.
“I can’t leave the building without arming my alarm.�
The man looks confused. Oh, God, this is a bad lie.
“If I don’t arm it when I leave, security sends someone up here. It’s a new system. Trust me, I’ve gotten called back here on my … Cell phone several times because I didn’t set it.�
He nods. I don’t have an alarm panel, but I open the door to my closet. It looks like it might lead to some hallway, but all it leads to is my first gun, which slides into my hand. We’re once again a well-oiled machine.
I fire two into the first guy. The non-apartment-sweep guy, and he falls onto the other body. I try to fire at the second man, but the gun jams.
Well oiled is what it feels like, but I haven’t cleaned this gun in two years. It’s still heavy. As the second man swings his shotgun around, I throw my gun at him. It hits him square in the forehead, and he stumbles forward. He’s a heavy bastard, but the forward momentum helps me help him out the window.
The first thug has keys on him, which I pilfer. They’re to some Toyota in the parking garage. I head out into the hallway, and call the elevator… But it’s already on the way up. Damn, these guys may not be smart, but they are… Numerous.
I run into the stairwell, taking a firm grip on the railing and taking the steps four or five at a time. Six floors up, they’ll be in here by the time I get to the bottom after finding my apartment like that.
First floor, the doors upstairs open. Fire also opens, down the stairwell. Something’s wrong with the bullets, though. I can’t tell.
My doorman waves to me, but I don’t return the gesture. I rush into the garage and find the only Toyota in there. My seatbelt goes on, and I throw it into gear, driving through the cross-guard and into the street. I check my mirror, and the men exit the building, looking very flustered. Looks like I pulled the wool over their eyes.
I take the corner faster than I should, but I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think we need some distance. The light turns red, and I decide that I don’t need the heat of running a red light in a stolen vehicle that belongs to a dead man. I step on the brakes.
Nothing.
I slam the brakes.
Nothing.
I cut the wheel, but the car skids out into an intersection.
Oh, shi-

I can’t move my arms, but the Big Bad Boss Man is sitting, eating my hospital food regardless. He’s missing a few fingers.
“I didn’t do this,� he said through a mouthful of Jell-O.
I can’t speak.
“But I helped them find you. I’m sorry, Johnny.� He finishes, and stands up, as if he’s been absolved of everything.
“They say you won’t regain the use of your arms and legs, John-o. I really am sorry,� he says, not facing me. He reaches the door.
Big Bad Boss Man turns around and casually tosses a baggy onto my chest.
It takes a few seconds to register what exactly has landed on me, but it clicks.
My first job with a gun.
My first amateur mistake. I didn’t take the shells with me.
I turn my neck as much as I can, and look at my side table. There are roses sitting there. I don’t need to read the card, I already know who it’s from. It must have taken a lot of legwork to find me, Howard. Sorry about the wife… But I don’t feel bad. It was just a job… Moreover:
It was fate.


--

Whew. That's all, folks.

Thanks

Mal

[nickadeemus]

A welcomed change of pace from your other recent stories. It never got boring, and had much of your humor throughout. Still some textual errors in there though .

Good ol' fate.

[Tasselfoot]

As you know, you basically attempted a story that falls fairly well into the genre that I read daily...

and as such, your abilities to write action, gore, and tough guy need ALOT of work. The descriptions are pretty bad, the lines are retarded, and certain motions of the plot just aren't logical... like not taking a job, or hitting a mob boss with a gun. Those things would just get you killed... not either a lame attempt at killing or no retribution. Also, the pruning sheers section is completely unrealistic...

[MalReynolds]

I didn't really see the character as a tough guy, but a guy that just found something he was good at. It was a story that I really wanted to focus on the character, because I plan on using him again (despite the fact that he's crippled, I would like to do some more flashback type stories.) I feel that I established the character pretty well.

I'm kind of glad that the situations are unrealistic, because so is this guy. There's no way that he would make it in the world like that. He's just a man of neccessity. He does what he does to get out of things. Kind of a happenstantial situation. The kicking of the pruning shears into the balls happened to me once, as well, but with the blade flat. I didn't get hurt, except for the big metal yard applianace hitting my balls.

Any other stories I write with this guy will have more focus on the situations, though. This was really a character builder and it explains his mindset.

If you could give me some more specific examples over AIM, though, it would help me tweak for the next story.

Thanks for the read, though =)

Mal

(I just thought of something pretty nifty. I might edit later.)

[The_Q]

Mediocre at best. The character is too much of a phony and the first person style really made it a lot worse. It's like you chose first person just for the sake of the oneliners.

Shame, Mal, I thought you were better than this.

Q

[Eyoshi]

I liked reading this. I thought the idea of "fate" being included was interesting, and I liked the humor. I felt that it was placed well within the lines.

However, I guess the descriptions could use more description, such as the part when the main character stabs the associate. I think there could've been more detail there, on perhaps, how the associate reacted to the stab. While it may not be neccessary to include it, I think it would add to the intensity of situation, at least that's how I see it. And I did notice some errors, as well.

But, since, I don't read for leisure much, I guess my opinion won't count a lot. But at least you'll have feedback from a different audience...