The Other Side of the Whole Story
by Vince D’Amato
Larry was sitting at his hundred-year-old typewriter not typing away as he usually did due to some unrelenting writers block, when the apartment door swung open behind his back. He didn’t even look over at the intruder, he simply said,
“Please set the pizza on the floor. There’s cash there by the door.”
When he heard the door click shut, and still feeling the presence of another person (menace) in the somewhat cramped flat, he knew it hadn’t been the pizza guy. Knowing this, Larry still felt (somewhat pretentiously) that he didn’t really need to turn around. If it wasn’t the pizza guy, it was obviously another hitman who had come to do him in.
“Turn around,” the voice said form across the room. A female voice.
That’s new, Larry thought.
He turned around. The girl, the hit-woman, whoever she was (she was definitely a killer, she already had her gun in her hand, it was hanging by her side with a black silencer twisted onto the barrel), was already looking around the apartment.
Larry knew full well what she was doing.
She moved her eyes along ever inch of the walls, ceiling and floor. Every edge, every corner. Her eyes paused to examine the dust building up on the light fixture in the ceiling, then continued to rove around the rest of the flat, moving next to the furniture, then finally to Larry and the desk and hundred-year-old typewriter he was currently sitting at.
“It’s the rug,” she said, clearly surprising the writer’s block right out of Larry. “Isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?” his voice hitched (or so he perceived).
“I’ll bet there’s a hole that goes all the way down those fifteen stories I had to ride the elevator up, huh?”
She began walking towards him, stepping around the oriental rug. Like she knew. Like she didn’t even have to check.
“Guess you can do something like that when you own the whole building, huh? Must be nice, having that extra 17 mil in gold credits kicking around. Gotta tell you though, The Boss was a little pissed about that.”
Larry could actually feel the bead of sweat running down his temple as he (couldn’t help himself) looked at the gun in her hand.
“And I’ll bet you thought you’d already outsmarted everyone,” she went on, lifting the gun, the silencer pointing in Larry’s very precise direction.
Larry panicked and reflexively swiveled in his chair, his hand yanking the Rambo-style hunting knife from the underside of his desk, the duct tape ripping from the wood underneath– and even then, at that second, Larry knew, being a writer of fiction, that one would never, ever be advised to bring a knife to a gunfight. He’d never write a scene like that in his wildest dreams!
She pulled the trigger. Larry’s fingers flew off in an arc of blood and the knife clattered to the solid part of the floor under his shocked scream.
“Dangerous thing to presume,” she continued, “that everyone would behave in exactly the same way. I have to admit, you might have fooled even me if I’d been one of the first ones to try. But after thirteen hitmen disappeared… well, you must’ve had to figure someone was going to catch on eventually.”
Blood was flowing from Larry’s severed fingers into his lap, soaking his pants. He could feel the blood leaking down his leg. It was extremely distracting.
“Did you even take a moment to think about it?” she asked him.
“About what?” His hand was shaking severely.
“The assassins. Did you get too comfy, or maybe lazy, sitting there at your desk all day… assuming they’d just keep filing in, one after the other and falling to their deaths? Did you not consider that it may have been prudent to make a change in your defensive tactic? You know, keep things fresh?
He couldn’t answer.
She glanced over at the blank piece of white paper rolled up into Larry’s typewriter. “Huh,” she said, and placed the end of the silencer against the sweat-dripping temple of Larry’s head. “Writer’s block?”
“Yeah,” he admitted.
And she blew the brains out the side of his head, painting the blank page with his grey matter and blood.
Copyright © 2011 by Vince D’Amato.