Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
"He recognize you?"
The men folded themselves in silence, sealed themselves off. They smoked cigarettes that lingered, proffering ash like broken twigs. Grandma ash. That's what they'd called it. Back when they'd laughed about things.
"Yup. Shit is about right."
There was a bottle of bourbon between them and the level dropped steadily, barometric. Their eyes stung and they squinted, but they did not move. They were lumps of plasma glued to old wooden stools and their backs ached, but they had long ago become accustomed to the ache.
"But I like the fucking guy!"
"You like him? Fucking hell. He coached Leroy's t-ball. Hell, I've BBQ'd with the motherfucker."
Inside the room, there were no clocks. No windows to admit the twinge of morning. They were in a void, and they did not want to leave. There are good and bad parts of any job. They were postponing one of the bad parts, but it was no longer possible. They had to act. If not, the boss would call and it would be them leaving kids with no Dad to throw the ball around with.
"We'll kind of take his boy under our wing, maybe? Not get him into the life - I mean, we should look out for him. Like Uncles or some shit. This is so fucked. You sure he saw you?"
"What, I'm retarded?"
Both men shook their heads slowly. They stood stiffly, checked the cold, black guns that would seal a man's fate. He would give his life because they'd make a mistake. That was the worst part. It dug at them like a deer tick. Their mouths were dry. The room smelled like a rodeo.
"We might as well fucking do it. You think he knows we're coming?"
"Yup. But he won't run. He'll be waiting. Maybe we'll tell him about how we're gonna look after the boy. God, but I wish I hadn't lifted that mask."
"I reckon you're right. I just don't like when I'm the one making them. Not like we got a choice. He's a good man, but that don't matter a damn. We've killed lots of good men. This one knows our names? He knows how we like our burgers? So what?"
The walk to the car was slow, as was the drive. The bullets were much faster, but they would never stop hearing the man's last words - that would be a low, grinding torture - one they deserved:
"I never would have suspected. Guess I'm a fool. But you stay the fuck away from my boy. You ain't doing anyone any favors, and I ain't taking the sting out of this for you. You want to do me a favor? You forget he exists. He don't need you. Nobody needs you. You're trash. Bastards."
Sure, the bullet was fast. As they drove away, they couldn't help thinking about bullets, though. Fast as they were, they were still too slow.
Thanks for stopping by! I'll be out a lot of today but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.