A Tale for the Modern Attention Span
The next night, close to midnight, a car sits idling in a dark corner of an empty parking lot on the outskirts of Crescendo Cove. Smoke is billowing from the driver’s side window, but don’t be alarmed, there’s no fire: it’s clearly the kind of smoke that gets filtered through a man’s lungs.
Another car approaches slowly, its lights out. It pulls alongside the first car so the drivers' doors are side by side. The window of the second car comes down. “Get out.”
“Why? We can take care of this—”
“Get out,” the voice demands.
Two men emerge from the two cars and meet around back of the second car.
“Is it done?”
“Do you have the proof?”
“Yep,” the man from the first car says, tapping the pocket of his denim jacket. “Want to see?”
“No,” the second man replies, but then reconsiders; “Yeah, let me have a look.”
The first man pulls a small, plastic bag from his pocket and passes it to the other.
He handles it warily, having to unravel some of the plastic before he’s able to open the bag and see what’s inside. “Ugh,” he says (but whether with revulsion or remorse is impossible to tell). “Yeah, that’s his finger alright.” The man fumbles indecisively with the bag for moment before tucking it into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“You want to hear how it went?” the other man asks, hoping his disappointment at not getting the finger back doesn’t show.
“Do you want to know where I put the body?”
“You want to—”
“The less I know about this the better, so shut up.”
“Fine, have it your way. I just figured,” the first man whispers, leaning closer to the second, “you might be the kind who gets off on the pleas for mercy part.”
“Wipe that fucking smirk off your face!” The man opens the trunk of his car and pulls out a briefcase. “Here it is.”
“Thanks.” The other takes the case, snaps it open and looks inside.
“You’re not going to count it, are you?”
“No, I’ll do that when I get home. I just want to make sure you’re not sticking me with yesterday’s newspapers.”
“I am a man of honour in all business I conduct. Even this kind.”
“Now then, I believe this brings our little transaction to an end.”
“I guess so.”
The man from the second car leans in and growls menacingly, “You saw how easy it was for me to procure someone to kill my brother: Rest assured, it will be even easier for me to find someone to take care of you if I find out you’ve screwed me, or if you even think about this ever again. Got it?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
The second man leans closer. “I will instruct whoever is doing the job to cut your cock off with a dull, rusty knife and stuff it down your throat, so that the official cause of death is suffocation by auto-oral sex.”
The first man grimaces at that, as if unnerved. “Alright, alright, I got it,” he says stepping back.
With that, Steel Bolt and his nephew Hugh Rection parted ways.
Continue Reading: Episode 72: To Be Forlorn Threatens the Unborn