AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Sunday Scribblings and features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more stories about Vince and his gang by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"That's a stupid plan. We should just kill him."
Vince kept his voice calm. "We can't go killing everyone who annoys us, Speedball. You know that."
"We'd have a lot less enemies." Speedball reflexively reached a hand toward the blade at his hip. "Everyone would be afraid of us."
Did Vince want to rehash that tired old argument? They were just a small gang in a city overrun with them since the Resource Wars. Stealth, not force, was the way to stay alive. He was marshaling his arguments when a crisp knock caught his attention. The door opened, and without meaning to, Vince smiled. Three was a new addition to their group and as easy on the eyes as she was good with a gun.
"Gotta talk to you boss." She strode into the room and pulled up a rickety chair. "I ran into a couple Catorces out there. They said to tell you Quix is on his way to talk to you about some kind of plot."
Without waiting for Vince to respond, Speedball grinned. "We're in. Who are we going to kill?"
Three gave him a withering look. "What are you high on today, Speedy? You haven't even heard the details."
"If we're destroying something, I'm for it. And don't call me Speedy, bitch."
"Don't call me bitch, asshole."
"That's enough." Vince glared at Speedball, then turned his attention to Three. "What else did the Catorces say?"
She gave a little shrug that shifted her cleavage in a way Vince would've liked to have seen more of. "They didn't want to talk in public. You never know who's an informer, but they hinted it was some kind of gang alliance to bring El Duque down."
Speedball nodded in satisfaction. "We'll blow the bastard up next time he goes to that bakery he likes. Then we'll take over the city. It'll be a revolution!"
"If we kill El Duque, who will be in charge?" Three demanded.
"We don't need leaders. Every man for himself."
"Of course we need leaders, otherwise it'll be chaos."
"What's wrong with chaos? Are you too weak to handle it?"
"What's wrong with decent leadership? Are you too weak in the head to understand it?"
"Stop that, both of you," Vince said. "If you two have something to work out, do it elsewhere."
Three stood up. With a little sneer at Speedball, she announced that she wouldn't dream of fighting someone who was mentally impaired.
Vince watched her flounce out of the room and suppressed a sigh of disappointment.
"Quit staring at her ass, boss."
"What? Get out of here." Vince shooed Speedball away. "Next time I see you, be ready to talk sense, or you're out."
Alone, Vince reached in the drawer of his rusty office desk and took out a bottle of scotch that he had pilfered from a recent warehouse heist. Speedball needed to do something about his drug habit and in the meantime, Three was going to have to quit goading him. Those weren't the least of his worries either, and now one of his best allies was on his way over to entice him to join a revolution?
Vince took a sip of stolen single malt and sighed. Clearly a revolution was needed, but the place to begin was here.
Showing posts with label vince mott. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vince mott. Show all posts
Sunday, September 09, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Flash Fiction Interlude: Commitment
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story is a prequel to my other Vince Mott stories. Here we meet him as a teenager, about to make a decision that will shape his life in interesting ways, although not in the way his parents would've hoped. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post or by reading the January posts of Diana's Diary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince ambled down the hospital corridor, trying to act like this was a perfectly normal place for a guy hang out. A pretty nurse caught his eye, but he didn't stop to chat her up. He was seventeen and she was at least thirty-five, but his real reason for not pursuing her lay in the room at the end of the hall.
Outside the door he brushed street dust off his jeans and straightened his jacket. He shook his hair out of his eyes and went inside. The sound of wheezing filled the room and a man plucked with bony fingers at a threadbare cotton blanket. Vince approached the bed. "Hey, Dad."
The man's eyelids fluttered and he reached out a trembling hand.
Vince wondered how this man who had fought the Chinese in the Resource Wars and survived the grueling winter of the Alberta Campaign could've gone downhill so quickly. "Sorry I'm late. I stayed after school to get a little extra help from my teacher."
The older man's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Don't lie."
Vince pulled up a chair and sat down. Even near death, his old man couldn't be fooled. Vince hadn't been to school in years, although he had an affair with a pretty teacher last spring.
"You'll stay out of trouble when I'm gone."
It wasn't a question.
"You don't want your mother to judge you from Heaven."
To avoid having to speak, Vince pulled a ring out of a pocket and toyed with it, wondering how much Cabezón at the pawn shop would give him for it.
"And Sara..."
Vince snapped his head up.
"You'll take care of her. You're all she has now."
"Of course I'll take care of her. I do already." Vince wondered if he should mention what he had done to the freak who had grabbed Sara's ass on a crowded street two days ago. No one disrespected Vince's little sister and got away with it.
The man coughed. "I mean money," he said, as if reading Vince's thoughts. "She's not like you; she has ambition. She should go to college."
Vince sat back, startled. Where was he supposed to get money to send Sara to college? Although he was a decent gambler, it would be years if not decades before he had the skill of a real pro. His thieving was only slightly better. He glanced at the cheap ring he had stolen. He'd be lucky if Cabezón didn't insist on giving him federal dollars for this thing. Vince would have to up his game considerably before he could consider sending his sister to college.
"Promise me." The old man fumbled for his hand.
Vince shoved the stolen ring in his pocket. He had always been lucky, so maybe this was the incentive he needed to aim for higher stakes. "I'll send her to college," he promised. "Sara will have everything she needs."
His father nodded, reassured.
Later that night as he left the hospital, Vince pondered the enormity of what he had promised. He would love and cherish Sara, of course. That he would protect her from the thugs and assholes of the world was a given. But college? He stopped under a defunct streetlight and gazed up at the sliver of night moon hanging over the city.
After a few minutes he dug in his pocket and took out the ring. It was too late to see what Cabezón would give him for it, but perhaps he could trade it for a drink at Las Cariñosas and watch the pretty girls instead. He could forget for a little while that his mother was dead, his father dying, and he had taken on the biggest commitment of his life. For the next couple of hours, at least, he could pretend nothing had changed.
With an air of satisfaction, he headed down the street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince ambled down the hospital corridor, trying to act like this was a perfectly normal place for a guy hang out. A pretty nurse caught his eye, but he didn't stop to chat her up. He was seventeen and she was at least thirty-five, but his real reason for not pursuing her lay in the room at the end of the hall.
Outside the door he brushed street dust off his jeans and straightened his jacket. He shook his hair out of his eyes and went inside. The sound of wheezing filled the room and a man plucked with bony fingers at a threadbare cotton blanket. Vince approached the bed. "Hey, Dad."
The man's eyelids fluttered and he reached out a trembling hand.
Vince wondered how this man who had fought the Chinese in the Resource Wars and survived the grueling winter of the Alberta Campaign could've gone downhill so quickly. "Sorry I'm late. I stayed after school to get a little extra help from my teacher."
The older man's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Don't lie."
Vince pulled up a chair and sat down. Even near death, his old man couldn't be fooled. Vince hadn't been to school in years, although he had an affair with a pretty teacher last spring.
"You'll stay out of trouble when I'm gone."
It wasn't a question.
"You don't want your mother to judge you from Heaven."
To avoid having to speak, Vince pulled a ring out of a pocket and toyed with it, wondering how much Cabezón at the pawn shop would give him for it.
"And Sara..."
Vince snapped his head up.
"You'll take care of her. You're all she has now."
"Of course I'll take care of her. I do already." Vince wondered if he should mention what he had done to the freak who had grabbed Sara's ass on a crowded street two days ago. No one disrespected Vince's little sister and got away with it.
The man coughed. "I mean money," he said, as if reading Vince's thoughts. "She's not like you; she has ambition. She should go to college."
Vince sat back, startled. Where was he supposed to get money to send Sara to college? Although he was a decent gambler, it would be years if not decades before he had the skill of a real pro. His thieving was only slightly better. He glanced at the cheap ring he had stolen. He'd be lucky if Cabezón didn't insist on giving him federal dollars for this thing. Vince would have to up his game considerably before he could consider sending his sister to college.
"Promise me." The old man fumbled for his hand.
Vince shoved the stolen ring in his pocket. He had always been lucky, so maybe this was the incentive he needed to aim for higher stakes. "I'll send her to college," he promised. "Sara will have everything she needs."
His father nodded, reassured.
Later that night as he left the hospital, Vince pondered the enormity of what he had promised. He would love and cherish Sara, of course. That he would protect her from the thugs and assholes of the world was a given. But college? He stopped under a defunct streetlight and gazed up at the sliver of night moon hanging over the city.
After a few minutes he dug in his pocket and took out the ring. It was too late to see what Cabezón would give him for it, but perhaps he could trade it for a drink at Las Cariñosas and watch the pretty girls instead. He could forget for a little while that his mother was dead, his father dying, and he had taken on the biggest commitment of his life. For the next couple of hours, at least, he could pretend nothing had changed.
With an air of satisfaction, he headed down the street.
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Flash Fiction Interlude: Normal Annoyances
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Sunday Scribblings and features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince paid the bar tab and motioned to the pretty girl on the stool beside him. "Come on, I know where we can go."
As he led her outside, he tried to remember what she said her name was - Lori, Lauren, Lorelei? It hardly mattered. She was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen at Chico's Bar, although that wasn't saying much. Too bad she had such expensive taste in liquor and lived with her mother. Having paid her bill, Vince now couldn't afford to take her to a hotel. Her home, of course, was out of the question.
"Where are we going?" Laura asked.
"A place I know. Don't worry - it's safe and we won't be bothered."
Vince and his gang were currently squatting in an old warehouse, but as their leader, Vince had a private office which he also used as sleeping quarters. He nodded at the guard as they entered the run-down building. "Things been quiet tonight?"
The correct answer, of course, was "yes" but Xerox was a newcomer to Vince's shady operations and didn't pick up on the obvious clues. "Speedball is missing, boss."
"So what's new?" Vince tried to steer Lori toward his office.
"Ozone says there's something wrong with the radio, and Peru has been throwing up for the last half hour."
Vince shrugged. "Keep up the good work."
As they made their way to the office, Lorelei whispered, "Shouldn't you do something?"
"About what?" He opened the door to his office, ushered her inside and closed it behind them. "It's always something with them. They'll figure it out."
She appeared skeptical, but accepted Vince's kisses. He backed her against his desk and was fumbling with the buttons on her shirt when there was a knock at the door.
"Go away!"
"I need to talk to you."
"Tell me in the morning, Gitana."
Silence, then more knocking. "It's important!"
With a sigh of frustration, Vince went to the door. "What?"
Gitana brushed her dark curls out of her eyes and gave him a doe-eyed look. "Um..."
"Yes?"
"I thought you should know Peru is sick." She tried to glance around him at the girl sitting on the desk.
"I already know, thanks." He made to shut the door.
"But--"
"Enough. Go away." Vince slammed the door and turned around. "Sorry about that."
"Hey, if you have other commitments..."
Vince cupped Lauren's chin in his hand. "Nothing is more important than you."
Nothing, it seemed, except the urgent knock on the door two minutes later.
"What now?"
Ozone answered through the door. "Speedball's back. He's cut up pretty bad."
"Send for my sister. She'll bandage him up."
"There's no one to send. Gitana was pissed about something and left."
"You go, then. Do I have to think of everything?"
In the silence that followed, Vince turned back to Laurie. "If it wasn't for me, these guys wouldn't be able to figure out how to drink water."
She nodded and finished unbuttoning her blouse herself. "Seems like a big job."
"Not as big as what I've got for you, baby." He gestured toward the mattress on the floor. "Let's get a little more comfortable."
He had almost gotten Laurel undressed and was enjoying the fluttering of her fingers as she fumbled to undo his belt when there came another knock at the door.
"Goddamn it." He raised himself on one elbow. "Unless the building is on fire, go away!"
"Quix is here, boss." It was Fausto. "He says he knows it's kind of last minute, but one of his partners is a no-show and he needs a couple guys, fast, to help close a deal tonight."
Vince met Lorena's eyes.
"You have to take this one, don't you?" she asked.
He nodded in resignation, stood up and began straightening his clothes. "Send him back here."
A few minutes later Lorinda was neatly dressed and sitting in one of Vince's chairs. Vince was in his patched leather executive's chair, tapping impatiently on the desk. He got up and extended a hand when Quix walked in, but didn't offer his usual boisterous greetings.
Quix darted a glance at the girl, then sat down. "I hope I'm not ruining your evening, but I need a couple guys I can count on and I know how you're always ready to make a buck."
"Yeah." Vince covered for his annoyance by taking a bottle of whiskey out of a desk drawer and pouring them each a glass.
Quix accepted the whiskey and took a sip. "Anything the matter, man? You seem a little off."
Vince shot back his whiskey and poured another glass. He could refuse this deal, of course, but it wasn't wise to turn down an opportunity to do a favor for a fellow gang leader. Besides, the way this night was going it didn't look like he going to get very far with Loretta, if that was even her name. "Nothing's wrong other than the usual, friend. Just another normal night around this place."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince paid the bar tab and motioned to the pretty girl on the stool beside him. "Come on, I know where we can go."
As he led her outside, he tried to remember what she said her name was - Lori, Lauren, Lorelei? It hardly mattered. She was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen at Chico's Bar, although that wasn't saying much. Too bad she had such expensive taste in liquor and lived with her mother. Having paid her bill, Vince now couldn't afford to take her to a hotel. Her home, of course, was out of the question.
"Where are we going?" Laura asked.
"A place I know. Don't worry - it's safe and we won't be bothered."
Vince and his gang were currently squatting in an old warehouse, but as their leader, Vince had a private office which he also used as sleeping quarters. He nodded at the guard as they entered the run-down building. "Things been quiet tonight?"
The correct answer, of course, was "yes" but Xerox was a newcomer to Vince's shady operations and didn't pick up on the obvious clues. "Speedball is missing, boss."
"So what's new?" Vince tried to steer Lori toward his office.
"Ozone says there's something wrong with the radio, and Peru has been throwing up for the last half hour."
Vince shrugged. "Keep up the good work."
As they made their way to the office, Lorelei whispered, "Shouldn't you do something?"
"About what?" He opened the door to his office, ushered her inside and closed it behind them. "It's always something with them. They'll figure it out."
She appeared skeptical, but accepted Vince's kisses. He backed her against his desk and was fumbling with the buttons on her shirt when there was a knock at the door.
"Go away!"
"I need to talk to you."
"Tell me in the morning, Gitana."
Silence, then more knocking. "It's important!"
With a sigh of frustration, Vince went to the door. "What?"
Gitana brushed her dark curls out of her eyes and gave him a doe-eyed look. "Um..."
"Yes?"
"I thought you should know Peru is sick." She tried to glance around him at the girl sitting on the desk.
"I already know, thanks." He made to shut the door.
"But--"
"Enough. Go away." Vince slammed the door and turned around. "Sorry about that."
"Hey, if you have other commitments..."
Vince cupped Lauren's chin in his hand. "Nothing is more important than you."
Nothing, it seemed, except the urgent knock on the door two minutes later.
"What now?"
Ozone answered through the door. "Speedball's back. He's cut up pretty bad."
"Send for my sister. She'll bandage him up."
"There's no one to send. Gitana was pissed about something and left."
"You go, then. Do I have to think of everything?"
In the silence that followed, Vince turned back to Laurie. "If it wasn't for me, these guys wouldn't be able to figure out how to drink water."
She nodded and finished unbuttoning her blouse herself. "Seems like a big job."
"Not as big as what I've got for you, baby." He gestured toward the mattress on the floor. "Let's get a little more comfortable."
He had almost gotten Laurel undressed and was enjoying the fluttering of her fingers as she fumbled to undo his belt when there came another knock at the door.
"Goddamn it." He raised himself on one elbow. "Unless the building is on fire, go away!"
"Quix is here, boss." It was Fausto. "He says he knows it's kind of last minute, but one of his partners is a no-show and he needs a couple guys, fast, to help close a deal tonight."
Vince met Lorena's eyes.
"You have to take this one, don't you?" she asked.
He nodded in resignation, stood up and began straightening his clothes. "Send him back here."
A few minutes later Lorinda was neatly dressed and sitting in one of Vince's chairs. Vince was in his patched leather executive's chair, tapping impatiently on the desk. He got up and extended a hand when Quix walked in, but didn't offer his usual boisterous greetings.
Quix darted a glance at the girl, then sat down. "I hope I'm not ruining your evening, but I need a couple guys I can count on and I know how you're always ready to make a buck."
"Yeah." Vince covered for his annoyance by taking a bottle of whiskey out of a desk drawer and pouring them each a glass.
Quix accepted the whiskey and took a sip. "Anything the matter, man? You seem a little off."
Vince shot back his whiskey and poured another glass. He could refuse this deal, of course, but it wasn't wise to turn down an opportunity to do a favor for a fellow gang leader. Besides, the way this night was going it didn't look like he going to get very far with Loretta, if that was even her name. "Nothing's wrong other than the usual, friend. Just another normal night around this place."
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Flash Fiction Interlude: New Year's Resolution
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fausto fiddled with the radio antenna, but all anyone could hear was a faint voice overlaid with the crackle of static.
"Give it up, man." Peru leaned back against the duffel bag he was using as a cushion and reached for his beer.
"It's supposed to be an important broadcast," Fausto reminded him.
Ozone reached for his own beer - a new brand out of Chicago they had stolen in a recent train robbery. He took a sip and winced at the taste. "Me and Gitana will go to the plaza later and get the transcripts."
"Like hell I will," Gitana shouted from the other side of the room where she was playing with a dirty black kitten and pretending to ignore them.
The men looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Gitana didn't do anything she didn't want to unless their gang leader Vince specifically asked her to.
Ozone picked at the label on his beer bottle. "So since we can't listen to the radio, let's share New Year's Resolutions."
Peru frowned in confusion.
"It's a custom from before the resource wars," Ozone reminded him. "You're supposed to think of what you'll do different in the new year."
With a snicker, Peru glanced at Gitana. "I resolve to get rid of that damn cat next time Beauty Queen isn't looking."
"I heard that!"
"I've got allergies," he reminded her.
She shrugged in unconcern. "Vince said I could keep it, so bitch at him if you've got a problem with it."
Ozone, ever the peacekeeper, tried to defuse the situation. "What's your resolution, Gitana?"
"Her resolution is to finally get Vince in bed," Fausto muttered. He took another sip of his beer.
If Gitana heard his remark, she gave no sign.
"Okay, then. What's yours?" Ozone set his bottle aside, too disgusted with the Chicago beer to drink any more.
Fausto turned back to the radio. "To get this thing to work."
Ozone threw up his hands. "New Year's is supposed to be a time of new beginnings, self-improvement and things like that, not fixing radios." At the sight of Speedball returning from guard duty, he called out to him. "Got a New Year's resolution yet?"
Speedball sneered. "Same as every year: demolish our enemies and stay drunk or high as much as I can."
Ozone shook his head. "We're supposed to be seeking personal transformation, not staying in the same old rut."
"What's your resolution, then?"
Caught off guard, Ozone stammered for an answer, but before he could think of something, Vince came out of his office, saw Ozone sitting near the radio and frowned. "What do you think you're doing?"
"He's thinking up a New Year's resolution," Peru said.
Vince raised an eyebrow. "How about you resolve to do a better job remembering when you're on guard duty?"
With a start, Ozone jumped to his feet and fumbled for his weapons. The others chuckled, but from across the room, Gitana gave Vince a soulful look and asked what his New Year's resolution was.
Seeing all eyes upon him, Vince grinned. "If I had a resolution, you bunch of sorry bastards are the last ones I'd ever tell."
His gang members watched him disappear into his office, then gave each other knowing nods. "He's got one," Fausto said.
"Something big, I bet," Peru added.
"I hope it involves drugs and money," Speedball muttered.
Gitana looked away. Everyone knew what she hoped Vince would do different in the new year.
"I wonder if he's resolved to—" Ozone began, but the others cut him off.
"You heard the man," Fausto reminded him. "You're on guard duty."
With a small sigh of frustration, Ozone headed toward the vestibule at the back of the warehouse. If their leader had any big plans for the new year, they would learn them as they happened. Come to think of it, wasn't that always the way? People could talk all they wanted, but it was what they did day-to-day that really mattered.
Ozone took his spot by the rusted steel door and settled in to wait. "Happy New Year to us all," he muttered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fausto fiddled with the radio antenna, but all anyone could hear was a faint voice overlaid with the crackle of static.
"Give it up, man." Peru leaned back against the duffel bag he was using as a cushion and reached for his beer.
"It's supposed to be an important broadcast," Fausto reminded him.
Ozone reached for his own beer - a new brand out of Chicago they had stolen in a recent train robbery. He took a sip and winced at the taste. "Me and Gitana will go to the plaza later and get the transcripts."
"Like hell I will," Gitana shouted from the other side of the room where she was playing with a dirty black kitten and pretending to ignore them.
The men looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Gitana didn't do anything she didn't want to unless their gang leader Vince specifically asked her to.
Ozone picked at the label on his beer bottle. "So since we can't listen to the radio, let's share New Year's Resolutions."
Peru frowned in confusion.
"It's a custom from before the resource wars," Ozone reminded him. "You're supposed to think of what you'll do different in the new year."
With a snicker, Peru glanced at Gitana. "I resolve to get rid of that damn cat next time Beauty Queen isn't looking."
"I heard that!"
"I've got allergies," he reminded her.
She shrugged in unconcern. "Vince said I could keep it, so bitch at him if you've got a problem with it."
Ozone, ever the peacekeeper, tried to defuse the situation. "What's your resolution, Gitana?"
"Her resolution is to finally get Vince in bed," Fausto muttered. He took another sip of his beer.
If Gitana heard his remark, she gave no sign.
"Okay, then. What's yours?" Ozone set his bottle aside, too disgusted with the Chicago beer to drink any more.
Fausto turned back to the radio. "To get this thing to work."
Ozone threw up his hands. "New Year's is supposed to be a time of new beginnings, self-improvement and things like that, not fixing radios." At the sight of Speedball returning from guard duty, he called out to him. "Got a New Year's resolution yet?"
Speedball sneered. "Same as every year: demolish our enemies and stay drunk or high as much as I can."
Ozone shook his head. "We're supposed to be seeking personal transformation, not staying in the same old rut."
"What's your resolution, then?"
Caught off guard, Ozone stammered for an answer, but before he could think of something, Vince came out of his office, saw Ozone sitting near the radio and frowned. "What do you think you're doing?"
"He's thinking up a New Year's resolution," Peru said.
Vince raised an eyebrow. "How about you resolve to do a better job remembering when you're on guard duty?"
With a start, Ozone jumped to his feet and fumbled for his weapons. The others chuckled, but from across the room, Gitana gave Vince a soulful look and asked what his New Year's resolution was.
Seeing all eyes upon him, Vince grinned. "If I had a resolution, you bunch of sorry bastards are the last ones I'd ever tell."
His gang members watched him disappear into his office, then gave each other knowing nods. "He's got one," Fausto said.
"Something big, I bet," Peru added.
"I hope it involves drugs and money," Speedball muttered.
Gitana looked away. Everyone knew what she hoped Vince would do different in the new year.
"I wonder if he's resolved to—" Ozone began, but the others cut him off.
"You heard the man," Fausto reminded him. "You're on guard duty."
With a small sigh of frustration, Ozone headed toward the vestibule at the back of the warehouse. If their leader had any big plans for the new year, they would learn them as they happened. Come to think of it, wasn't that always the way? People could talk all they wanted, but it was what they did day-to-day that really mattered.
Ozone took his spot by the rusted steel door and settled in to wait. "Happy New Year to us all," he muttered.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
Flash Fiction Interlude: Bad Trip
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It started with shouting, but Vince was used to the members of his gang getting into arguments. He ignored it and returned to his inventory. Gitana would want the jewelry; that much was a given, but its value so exceeded that of the other goods they had stolen that he couldn't gratify her wish without annoying everyone else. Besides, Peru might like those gold earrings for his girlfriend...
He looked up at the sound of booming and crashing against the warehouse wall. "What the hell?" He went to the door of his office, nearly running into Ozone who was bursting with news.
"It's Speedball. He got into the stash, and that white powder wasn't what we thought it was."
"Damn him." Vince was as annoyed with Speedball for stealing as he was with himself for leaving the cache from their recent heist in range of an addict. "Where is he now?"
The sharp report of a gun offered a clue. They ran into the warehouse and found Speedball in a corner, screaming and shooting the walls.
"He's not hurting anything," Ozone pointed out. "Might want to just let him have at it."
Vince assessed. It was true that whatever Speedball was on would wear off in time, if his energy for destruction didn't flag from sheer exhaustion first. Nevertheless, it wasn't good to appear passive in front of his team. He had to get Speedball under control. He hurried back to his office and got something from a rusty desk drawer. Then he returned to the scene of destruction and waved away his curious gang members. "Go away, for your own safety. I'll let you know when things are under control."
The men looked at each other doubtfully, but obeyed.
"What do you think he's going to do?" Fausto asked.
"Who cares?" Peru said. "They're both crazy."
Ozone cast a worried glance into the depths of the warehouse, where Speedball was still screaming about something. "I'm sure he has a plan."
Twenty minutes later, Vince walked toward them out of the depths of the warehouse. "All clear. Leave him where he is and go about your business."
Fausto shook his head. "But what did you...?"
Vince gave a wicked grin. "I waited until he was out of ammo."
"But—"
He held up an empty syringe. "Helps to have a sister who's a nurse."
While the men chuckled and headed back into the warehouse, Vince went toward his office. There was more than one reason he was the leader of this gang.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It started with shouting, but Vince was used to the members of his gang getting into arguments. He ignored it and returned to his inventory. Gitana would want the jewelry; that much was a given, but its value so exceeded that of the other goods they had stolen that he couldn't gratify her wish without annoying everyone else. Besides, Peru might like those gold earrings for his girlfriend...
He looked up at the sound of booming and crashing against the warehouse wall. "What the hell?" He went to the door of his office, nearly running into Ozone who was bursting with news.
"It's Speedball. He got into the stash, and that white powder wasn't what we thought it was."
"Damn him." Vince was as annoyed with Speedball for stealing as he was with himself for leaving the cache from their recent heist in range of an addict. "Where is he now?"
The sharp report of a gun offered a clue. They ran into the warehouse and found Speedball in a corner, screaming and shooting the walls.
"He's not hurting anything," Ozone pointed out. "Might want to just let him have at it."
Vince assessed. It was true that whatever Speedball was on would wear off in time, if his energy for destruction didn't flag from sheer exhaustion first. Nevertheless, it wasn't good to appear passive in front of his team. He had to get Speedball under control. He hurried back to his office and got something from a rusty desk drawer. Then he returned to the scene of destruction and waved away his curious gang members. "Go away, for your own safety. I'll let you know when things are under control."
The men looked at each other doubtfully, but obeyed.
"What do you think he's going to do?" Fausto asked.
"Who cares?" Peru said. "They're both crazy."
Ozone cast a worried glance into the depths of the warehouse, where Speedball was still screaming about something. "I'm sure he has a plan."
Twenty minutes later, Vince walked toward them out of the depths of the warehouse. "All clear. Leave him where he is and go about your business."
Fausto shook his head. "But what did you...?"
Vince gave a wicked grin. "I waited until he was out of ammo."
"But—"
He held up an empty syringe. "Helps to have a sister who's a nurse."
While the men chuckled and headed back into the warehouse, Vince went toward his office. There was more than one reason he was the leader of this gang.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Flash Fiction Interlude: Thieves and Politicians
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Sunday Scribblings and features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince sat at the battered metal desk in the office of the abandoned warehouse he and his gang called home. He frowned at the numbers on the piece of paper in front of him and tried to re-do his calculations. He was pretty sure Big Jim from the Sabados had shorted him on their recent handoff of stolen pharmaceuticals, but he couldn't prove it.
Something wasn't adding up, and he was beginning to get a headache. It wasn't the smoke from the guttering kerosene lamp that was making his head pound, and it wasn't his hangover or the numbers themselves. What was grating on his nerves and making him clench his teeth in frustration was the low hum of a squabble somewhere in the warehouse. It was common for arguments to break out among his group of misfits, but this had been going on for nearly an hour.
With a scrape of rusted castors on the concrete floor, Vince pushed back his chair and stood up. What did it take for a guy to get a little peace and quiet around this place? He went into the area his team used as living quarters, where he found his idealistic lieutenant Ozone under verbal attack.
"You're delusional," Peru was telling him.
"We're not buying into your twisted fantasy," Fausto added.
"What the hell is going on?" Vince said.
Ozone turned to him but it was soulful spitfire Gitana who spoke. "This idiot thinks we should vote in today's election."
Vince looked at Ozone in curiosity. "Is that what all the yelling has been about?"
"They won't listen," Ozone explained. "They think voting does no good."
"They're right," Vince said with a shrug. "El Duque has this town all locked up. The elections are just a cover."
"It's rigged," Fausto agreed, coming to stand by Gitana. "A waste of our time."
"It's not a waste of time." Ozone appealed to Vince. "Even if El Duque's men throw away all our ballots, we're at least sending a message."
Vince raised his eyebrows. "What kind of message? He already knows he's a thieving bastard. Voting for someone else won't do any good."
Ozone sputtered. "But— if we don't vote for someone else, El Duque will think we want him and his goons in power. Or that we don't care, you know? We have to let him know how we feel. That's what democracy is all about."
Gitana gave a derisive snort. "Democracy? You think this is the old days or something? You think we're still part of the United States?"
"The United States isn't a democracy either any more," Peru reminded her.
"Right." Gitana turned back to Ozone. "There's no such thing as a democracy, except in the history books, so quit pestering us about it."
Before Ozone could say anything, Vince held up a hand for silence. "She's right," he said. "We're only a democracy on paper and you've got no business harassing anyone about it." At Ozone's crestfallen look he added, "But you're right about one thing - if you vote, you're at least taking a stand." He looked each member of the group in turn. "Vote or don't vote, makes no difference to me. But if you don't vote, don't complain about who gets elected, got it?"
After getting everyone's nodded agreement that this was reasonable, Vince told them to keep things quiet and went back to his office. A few minutes later, Ozone poked his head in.
"Thanks for sticking up for me, boss."
Vince looked up from where he was still trying to figure out how he had been shorted. "I don't know if I'd call it that."
"You got them to quit arguing with me."
"I did that because you guys were bugging the shit out of me."
"Well, thanks anyway." Ozone paused, then asked, "So are you going to go vote?"
"Hell, no. They're all dishonest bastards. Even if we got another guy in the mayor's seat, he'd be no better." He bent back over his columns of numbers and now he saw the problem. With a pleased little grin, he calculated how much Big Jim owed him. He shook his head as he listened to the clop of Ozone's boots walking away. Poor guy was a good fighter, but too optimistic. Vince knew there were enough thieves in this world, himself included, without voting for any more of them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince sat at the battered metal desk in the office of the abandoned warehouse he and his gang called home. He frowned at the numbers on the piece of paper in front of him and tried to re-do his calculations. He was pretty sure Big Jim from the Sabados had shorted him on their recent handoff of stolen pharmaceuticals, but he couldn't prove it.
Something wasn't adding up, and he was beginning to get a headache. It wasn't the smoke from the guttering kerosene lamp that was making his head pound, and it wasn't his hangover or the numbers themselves. What was grating on his nerves and making him clench his teeth in frustration was the low hum of a squabble somewhere in the warehouse. It was common for arguments to break out among his group of misfits, but this had been going on for nearly an hour.
With a scrape of rusted castors on the concrete floor, Vince pushed back his chair and stood up. What did it take for a guy to get a little peace and quiet around this place? He went into the area his team used as living quarters, where he found his idealistic lieutenant Ozone under verbal attack.
"You're delusional," Peru was telling him.
"We're not buying into your twisted fantasy," Fausto added.
"What the hell is going on?" Vince said.
Ozone turned to him but it was soulful spitfire Gitana who spoke. "This idiot thinks we should vote in today's election."
Vince looked at Ozone in curiosity. "Is that what all the yelling has been about?"
"They won't listen," Ozone explained. "They think voting does no good."
"They're right," Vince said with a shrug. "El Duque has this town all locked up. The elections are just a cover."
"It's rigged," Fausto agreed, coming to stand by Gitana. "A waste of our time."
"It's not a waste of time." Ozone appealed to Vince. "Even if El Duque's men throw away all our ballots, we're at least sending a message."
Vince raised his eyebrows. "What kind of message? He already knows he's a thieving bastard. Voting for someone else won't do any good."
Ozone sputtered. "But— if we don't vote for someone else, El Duque will think we want him and his goons in power. Or that we don't care, you know? We have to let him know how we feel. That's what democracy is all about."
Gitana gave a derisive snort. "Democracy? You think this is the old days or something? You think we're still part of the United States?"
"The United States isn't a democracy either any more," Peru reminded her.
"Right." Gitana turned back to Ozone. "There's no such thing as a democracy, except in the history books, so quit pestering us about it."
Before Ozone could say anything, Vince held up a hand for silence. "She's right," he said. "We're only a democracy on paper and you've got no business harassing anyone about it." At Ozone's crestfallen look he added, "But you're right about one thing - if you vote, you're at least taking a stand." He looked each member of the group in turn. "Vote or don't vote, makes no difference to me. But if you don't vote, don't complain about who gets elected, got it?"
After getting everyone's nodded agreement that this was reasonable, Vince told them to keep things quiet and went back to his office. A few minutes later, Ozone poked his head in.
"Thanks for sticking up for me, boss."
Vince looked up from where he was still trying to figure out how he had been shorted. "I don't know if I'd call it that."
"You got them to quit arguing with me."
"I did that because you guys were bugging the shit out of me."
"Well, thanks anyway." Ozone paused, then asked, "So are you going to go vote?"
"Hell, no. They're all dishonest bastards. Even if we got another guy in the mayor's seat, he'd be no better." He bent back over his columns of numbers and now he saw the problem. With a pleased little grin, he calculated how much Big Jim owed him. He shook his head as he listened to the clop of Ozone's boots walking away. Poor guy was a good fighter, but too optimistic. Vince knew there were enough thieves in this world, himself included, without voting for any more of them.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Flash Fiction: Trick or Treat
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peru was on watch when they came knocking. They didn't seem like a threat but one could never be sure. He called some of the other gang members over.
Ozone peeked out the crack in the door. "Weird, but they look harmless."
Three brushed her hair out of her face and glanced over his shoulder. "Strange outfits, but they seem like ordinary ankle-biters to me."
"Can't be," Speedball grumbled, reaching for his knife. "It's a trick. They said so themselves."
"Trick or treat," Ozone corrected him.
"So we get a choice. Big deal. I'll show them a trick or two."
The others restrained him before he could go outside and do something rash, but that still left them with the dilemma of what to do about the two costumed children outside the door of their gang's headquarters.
"They could be a decoy," Peru pointed out. "We open the door and whoever put them up to this jumps us."
"It's a possibility," Three said. “I’m inclined to be cautious.”
"But what if they're innocent?" Ozone asked. He peeked out the crack in the door again. "I hate to send them away empty-handed if they're just ordinary kids trying to have a little fun."
Peru and Ozone discussed the matter and agreed to go out via the emergency exit and search the area. Three stayed behind to guard the door, checking from time to time to see if the children were still there.
After a few minutes Vince came around the corner. "What's going on?" He frowned. "You're not supposed to be on watch. Where's Peru?"
Three explained about the trick or treaters. “It’s an old custom from before the Resource Wars.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. What does everyone think this is, the twentieth century?” He looked out the crack in the door. "For figments of someone’s overworked nostalgia, they sure are patient."
"I guess they figure if they wait long enough they'll get a treat."
Vince absently rubbed the blue stripe on his face. "Let's find them some treats, then."
"Around here?"
"You're right. The only types of treats we have aren't suitable for children."
They were still pondering when Ozone and Peru returned. "I don't know what their deal is," Peru said, "But they're still out there and we don't see any evidence that it's a trap."
"We need to give them something," Ozone said.
"We’ve got nothing appropriate," Vince reminded him. "What do you want to do, give them some whiskey? Marijuana? Something out of Speedball's meth stash?"
Ozone stalked off in exasperation.
"We'll just tell them we haven't got anything," Three finally said. "We can't let two little vulnerable kids stand out there all night."
Vince agreed. "Give them these." He dug in his pocket and produced two silver coins. "That ought to do it."
Cautiously, Three opened the door.
"Trick or treat!"
She gave the children a tight smile, complimented them on their patience, and gave them each a coin. "Now run along. It's late and you don't want to get in trouble."
The children were about to leave when Ozone came running from the other room. He darted out the door and put something in each child's bag. "You kids have a happy Halloween!"
After a few thank-yous, the children walked away. Ozone went back inside and Peru closed the door. "What did you give them?"
Seeing all eyes upon him, Ozone gave a little shrug. "Nothing much."
Outside, the two costumed children paused under a streetlamp and looked inside their bags. "Beans?" one asked.
"I got hominy."
"I thought grownups were supposed to give candy."
"I guess that's not how they do it anymore."
With small sighs of frustration, the children continued up the street to the next building where lights suggested someone was at home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peru was on watch when they came knocking. They didn't seem like a threat but one could never be sure. He called some of the other gang members over.
Ozone peeked out the crack in the door. "Weird, but they look harmless."
Three brushed her hair out of her face and glanced over his shoulder. "Strange outfits, but they seem like ordinary ankle-biters to me."
"Can't be," Speedball grumbled, reaching for his knife. "It's a trick. They said so themselves."
"Trick or treat," Ozone corrected him.
"So we get a choice. Big deal. I'll show them a trick or two."
The others restrained him before he could go outside and do something rash, but that still left them with the dilemma of what to do about the two costumed children outside the door of their gang's headquarters.
"They could be a decoy," Peru pointed out. "We open the door and whoever put them up to this jumps us."
"It's a possibility," Three said. “I’m inclined to be cautious.”
"But what if they're innocent?" Ozone asked. He peeked out the crack in the door again. "I hate to send them away empty-handed if they're just ordinary kids trying to have a little fun."
Peru and Ozone discussed the matter and agreed to go out via the emergency exit and search the area. Three stayed behind to guard the door, checking from time to time to see if the children were still there.
After a few minutes Vince came around the corner. "What's going on?" He frowned. "You're not supposed to be on watch. Where's Peru?"
Three explained about the trick or treaters. “It’s an old custom from before the Resource Wars.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. What does everyone think this is, the twentieth century?” He looked out the crack in the door. "For figments of someone’s overworked nostalgia, they sure are patient."
"I guess they figure if they wait long enough they'll get a treat."
Vince absently rubbed the blue stripe on his face. "Let's find them some treats, then."
"Around here?"
"You're right. The only types of treats we have aren't suitable for children."
They were still pondering when Ozone and Peru returned. "I don't know what their deal is," Peru said, "But they're still out there and we don't see any evidence that it's a trap."
"We need to give them something," Ozone said.
"We’ve got nothing appropriate," Vince reminded him. "What do you want to do, give them some whiskey? Marijuana? Something out of Speedball's meth stash?"
Ozone stalked off in exasperation.
"We'll just tell them we haven't got anything," Three finally said. "We can't let two little vulnerable kids stand out there all night."
Vince agreed. "Give them these." He dug in his pocket and produced two silver coins. "That ought to do it."
Cautiously, Three opened the door.
"Trick or treat!"
She gave the children a tight smile, complimented them on their patience, and gave them each a coin. "Now run along. It's late and you don't want to get in trouble."
The children were about to leave when Ozone came running from the other room. He darted out the door and put something in each child's bag. "You kids have a happy Halloween!"
After a few thank-yous, the children walked away. Ozone went back inside and Peru closed the door. "What did you give them?"
Seeing all eyes upon him, Ozone gave a little shrug. "Nothing much."
Outside, the two costumed children paused under a streetlamp and looked inside their bags. "Beans?" one asked.
"I got hominy."
"I thought grownups were supposed to give candy."
"I guess that's not how they do it anymore."
With small sighs of frustration, the children continued up the street to the next building where lights suggested someone was at home.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Flash Fiction: All In a Night's Work
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The knock woke Sara from a dreamless sleep. She fumbled for the lamp but the electricity was out again, so she turned on her solar-charged lantern. There was another tap on the door, and Sara grabbed a robe and padded to the door. Although she knew the pattern of the knock, she gave a few taps and waited for the reply before unlocking.
A young woman slipped inside, dressed in a long black skirt and with a shawl partially obscuring her face. She shook out her corkscrew curls while Sara closed the door. “You knew it was me.”
“Vince would kill me if I quit using the code.” Sara had been under her brother’s protection since their parents died in an epidemic. Nothing would make Vince breach that trust, even though Sara was now an adult and a nurse, exposed every day to the worst this war-torn city could show her. “How many is it this time?”
“Two that look serious and a few minor ones. Mostly gunshot. I took a hit too, but it’s just surface.”
“Did it bleed out good?”
“You can look at it after you do the others. Just get your stuff.”
Sara hurried to her bedroom and slipped into jeans, a sweater, and a dark trench coat. She grabbed the black leather bag that she kept for emergencies and followed Gitana out the door.
They crept down the stairs and out into the night. A bicycle rickshaw waited by the curb and Sara recognized the driver—a hunched, tattered man who asked no questions. She climbed into the narrow seat, wedged so tightly against Gitana she could feel the Glock strapped to the other girl’s hip.
As they bounced their way over the rutted streets, Sara pulled her coat closer. In the pale light of the half-moon, huddled forms slept in doorways by the embers of dying fires. Two dogs ran out from the shell of an old bank, and when one of them menaced the driver, he squirted it in the face with a chili mixture from a dirty plastic bottle.
The headquarters for Vince’s gang was a bullet-scarred shop that had sold greeting cards and jigsaw puzzles before the resource wars and secession. Gitana gave a coded knock at the service entrance and whispered the night’s password. The door opened and a bald, blood-smeared man glared at Gitana. “Took you long enough.”
“It takes as long as it takes. If you weren’t always fucked up on something, you might have a concept of time.”
“And if you weren’t such a bitch—”
Sara left them to their argument and went inside. On what had once been the sales floor, two wounded men lay on canvas tarps while others, less seriously injured, sat nearby passing a bottle of murky liquor back and forth.
A dark-haired man looked up from examining a pad of gauze covering a wounded man’s abdomen. The blue stripe running from his left eye to his jawbone gave him an intimidating appearance, but when he shook his hair out of his eyes and smiled, he looked like a child only playing at being a dangerous gang leader. “Hey, Sis. Thought you'd like a little overtime.”
“’Like’ isn’t quite the word I’d use for it.” Sara squatted by the injured man. “Is this your worst case?”
“Seems to be. There’s so much blood I can’t tell if anything important got hit.”
“Everything in the abdominal cavity is important. Even if his organs were spared, there’s the risk of peritonitis.” She examined the man gingerly, but didn’t remove the pad. “Best thing would be to leave the bandage in place and get him to the hospital.”
Vince gave her a look. “You know how we feel about that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a surgeon and I don’t have what I need to do a transfusion. Take your chances if you want, though.” She fumbled in her bag. “I can at least give him something for the pain.”
After she injected some morphine, she moved to the next man. This one didn’t seem to have any life-threatening injuries, but he had lost a lot of blood and was in shock. She cleaned his wounds, picked a bullet out, and covered him with blankets before moving on to the next patient. It took her nearly two hours, but eventually Sara got everyone patched up as well as she could.
She wiped her hands and got to her feet. “What about you?” She looked at Vince. “Anything you’re not telling me?”
They gazed at each other a long time but it was Vince who turned away first. "Come in my office."
Sara followed him to the cramped and airless manager's office. If he was asking her to treat him in private, it could only mean—
"Bastard got me in the ass. You think—?"
"I've seen both cuter and uglier than yours."
With a sigh of annoyance, Vince dropped his pants.
The wound was impressive, bruised and crusted with blood. Sara tried to get a closer look, but he flinched at her touch. "The good news is there's both an entrance and an exit wound, so I won’t need to dig lead out of your butt."
"And the bad news?"
"I'm going to need to flush it out."
He gasped as she tentatively probed one of the holes. "You'll numb it first, right?"
Sara fumbled in her bag. "Yes, but I want this to drain for a couple days, got it?"
Vince looked at her over his shoulder. "I can't go around with a bandage on my ass."
"Why not?" She uncapped a syringe. "Got plans that don't involve wearing pants?"
"Just clean me up, okay?"
Sara suppressed a smile. For a few days, the city's young women would be spared the attentions of her ladykiller brother. Not bad for a night’s work. With a satisfied air, she jabbed the needle into his buttock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The knock woke Sara from a dreamless sleep. She fumbled for the lamp but the electricity was out again, so she turned on her solar-charged lantern. There was another tap on the door, and Sara grabbed a robe and padded to the door. Although she knew the pattern of the knock, she gave a few taps and waited for the reply before unlocking.
A young woman slipped inside, dressed in a long black skirt and with a shawl partially obscuring her face. She shook out her corkscrew curls while Sara closed the door. “You knew it was me.”
“Vince would kill me if I quit using the code.” Sara had been under her brother’s protection since their parents died in an epidemic. Nothing would make Vince breach that trust, even though Sara was now an adult and a nurse, exposed every day to the worst this war-torn city could show her. “How many is it this time?”
“Two that look serious and a few minor ones. Mostly gunshot. I took a hit too, but it’s just surface.”
“Did it bleed out good?”
“You can look at it after you do the others. Just get your stuff.”
Sara hurried to her bedroom and slipped into jeans, a sweater, and a dark trench coat. She grabbed the black leather bag that she kept for emergencies and followed Gitana out the door.
They crept down the stairs and out into the night. A bicycle rickshaw waited by the curb and Sara recognized the driver—a hunched, tattered man who asked no questions. She climbed into the narrow seat, wedged so tightly against Gitana she could feel the Glock strapped to the other girl’s hip.
As they bounced their way over the rutted streets, Sara pulled her coat closer. In the pale light of the half-moon, huddled forms slept in doorways by the embers of dying fires. Two dogs ran out from the shell of an old bank, and when one of them menaced the driver, he squirted it in the face with a chili mixture from a dirty plastic bottle.
The headquarters for Vince’s gang was a bullet-scarred shop that had sold greeting cards and jigsaw puzzles before the resource wars and secession. Gitana gave a coded knock at the service entrance and whispered the night’s password. The door opened and a bald, blood-smeared man glared at Gitana. “Took you long enough.”
“It takes as long as it takes. If you weren’t always fucked up on something, you might have a concept of time.”
“And if you weren’t such a bitch—”
Sara left them to their argument and went inside. On what had once been the sales floor, two wounded men lay on canvas tarps while others, less seriously injured, sat nearby passing a bottle of murky liquor back and forth.
A dark-haired man looked up from examining a pad of gauze covering a wounded man’s abdomen. The blue stripe running from his left eye to his jawbone gave him an intimidating appearance, but when he shook his hair out of his eyes and smiled, he looked like a child only playing at being a dangerous gang leader. “Hey, Sis. Thought you'd like a little overtime.”
“’Like’ isn’t quite the word I’d use for it.” Sara squatted by the injured man. “Is this your worst case?”
“Seems to be. There’s so much blood I can’t tell if anything important got hit.”
“Everything in the abdominal cavity is important. Even if his organs were spared, there’s the risk of peritonitis.” She examined the man gingerly, but didn’t remove the pad. “Best thing would be to leave the bandage in place and get him to the hospital.”
Vince gave her a look. “You know how we feel about that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a surgeon and I don’t have what I need to do a transfusion. Take your chances if you want, though.” She fumbled in her bag. “I can at least give him something for the pain.”
After she injected some morphine, she moved to the next man. This one didn’t seem to have any life-threatening injuries, but he had lost a lot of blood and was in shock. She cleaned his wounds, picked a bullet out, and covered him with blankets before moving on to the next patient. It took her nearly two hours, but eventually Sara got everyone patched up as well as she could.
She wiped her hands and got to her feet. “What about you?” She looked at Vince. “Anything you’re not telling me?”
They gazed at each other a long time but it was Vince who turned away first. "Come in my office."
Sara followed him to the cramped and airless manager's office. If he was asking her to treat him in private, it could only mean—
"Bastard got me in the ass. You think—?"
"I've seen both cuter and uglier than yours."
With a sigh of annoyance, Vince dropped his pants.
The wound was impressive, bruised and crusted with blood. Sara tried to get a closer look, but he flinched at her touch. "The good news is there's both an entrance and an exit wound, so I won’t need to dig lead out of your butt."
"And the bad news?"
"I'm going to need to flush it out."
He gasped as she tentatively probed one of the holes. "You'll numb it first, right?"
Sara fumbled in her bag. "Yes, but I want this to drain for a couple days, got it?"
Vince looked at her over his shoulder. "I can't go around with a bandage on my ass."
"Why not?" She uncapped a syringe. "Got plans that don't involve wearing pants?"
"Just clean me up, okay?"
Sara suppressed a smile. For a few days, the city's young women would be spared the attentions of her ladykiller brother. Not bad for a night’s work. With a satisfied air, she jabbed the needle into his buttock.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Flash Fiction: The Speech
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince pushed his way through the packed and stuffy auditorium with Ozone, Fausto and Gitana close behind. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."
"It's going to be great," Ozone assured him, shoving a young man out of the way so he could stay close to his boss. "El Duque is one of the best speakers around."
Gitana rolled her eyes. "It's easy to be a good speaker when all you ever say is lies."
"Speech-making is an art," Ozone reminded her.
"And most art is just a bunch of make-believe," Vince said. He stopped amid the swirling mass of people. "Where's Speedball? Don't tell me we lost him already."
They tried to look around, but there were too many people. The house lights flickered and someone onstage began testing the microphone.
"We'll catch up to him later," Ozone said. He pushed past Vince and Gitana and began fighting his way toward the front rows.
"He's right," Gitana said, tugging on Vince's arm. "You know how Speedball is. He probably saw one of his connections and went to cut a deal."
"That's what I'm afraid of." Vince turned to Fausto. "Go find him." When Fausto protested, Vince repeated himself. "I don't want to see your face again until you've got him."
Vince and Gitana followed Ozone to the front where he was trying to squeeze in next to an eager young couple dressed in El Duque's colors of red and gold. From a hidden pocket in his coat sleeve, Vince produced a switchblade and El Duque's followers saw the wisdom of finding another place to enjoy the proceedings. As he sat down, Vince glanced around in annoyance. He had a pretty good idea what the speech would be about and he was in no mood to hear the local strongman's empty promises. It was only because he had nothing better to do tonight that he had allowed Ozone to talk him into coming here.
He was trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench when he saw something that just might make the event worthwhile. Sitting on the other side of the aisle was a young woman, her face turned toward the stage and her smooth hair flowing like melted butter down her back. As if she could feel Vince's eyes upon her, she turned and flashed him a smile.
Vince slowly returned her smile. Who was she and why was she here? Was she one of El Duque's admirers or was she here out of curiosity and boredom like he was? Did she have a boyfriend or husband? Vince could take care of that little problem.
A sharp poke in the ribs brought him back to the moment. "What are you looking at?" Gitana demanded, as if she hadn't already spotted the beauty in the other row.
"Just checking for signs of trouble," Vince said.
"You're as big a liar as El Duque."
"And you're not my girlfriend."
Gitana turned away with a huff as the lights dimmed and El Duque strode into the bright glare of a spotlight.
While Ozone clapped enthusiastically, Vince tried again to catch the blonde's attention. She mouthed some words he couldn't make out in the darkened auditorium but his mind reeled at the possibilities.
Gitana poked him again. "Quit making a fool of yourself over that dumb little hussie."
Vince waved her off. "Pay attention to the speech or something."
Sullenly, she sidled up to Ozone, but he was having none of her antics either, entranced as he was by El Duque's words about what he would do for city infrastructure.
Vince was deep in flirtation with the blonde, oblivious to Gitana's occasional kick to his ankles when a scuffle at the back of the auditorium drew his attention. He turned around his seat and muttered a curse.
The blonde waved a scrap of paper at him as he exited the row. He shoved it in his pocket with grin and a thank you, and ran up the aisle, followed closely by a furious Gitana. They arrived at the auditorium doors just in time to see Fausto being dragged outside by guards.
Vince gave chase. "It's okay, man," he told the guards. "Whatever he did, he won't cause any more trouble. Just hand him over to me and it'll all be cool."
"Who are you?" one of the guards asked.
"A friend of his."
"Well, you can bail your friend out of jail in the morning. We don't allow fighting at political functions."
Fausto looked away in embarrassment as the guards dragged him away.
"I could kill that motherfucker," Vince muttered.
"Which one?" Gitana asked.
"All of them. I should've never let Fausto out of my sight. He's been jonesing for a fight ever since that deal with the Diablos fell through." He looked around. "Where's Ozone?"
"Still listening to El Duque."
"Any sign of Speedball?"
Gitana shrugged and took his arm. "Let's go get a drink."
Vince sighed. "That's one of the best ideas I've heard all night."
As they walked the crumbling streets to the nearest bar, Vince didn't notice Gitana's fingers slip into his jacket pocket and remove a piece of paper. "So what did you think of El Duque's speech?"
"What?" He frowned and looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. "Oh yeah, the speech. It was nothing much."
They were at the bar now and Vince held open the door for her. Gitana met his eyes with a soulful look, crumpled the paper unobtrusively and dropped it into the muck outside the building.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince pushed his way through the packed and stuffy auditorium with Ozone, Fausto and Gitana close behind. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."
"It's going to be great," Ozone assured him, shoving a young man out of the way so he could stay close to his boss. "El Duque is one of the best speakers around."
Gitana rolled her eyes. "It's easy to be a good speaker when all you ever say is lies."
"Speech-making is an art," Ozone reminded her.
"And most art is just a bunch of make-believe," Vince said. He stopped amid the swirling mass of people. "Where's Speedball? Don't tell me we lost him already."
They tried to look around, but there were too many people. The house lights flickered and someone onstage began testing the microphone.
"We'll catch up to him later," Ozone said. He pushed past Vince and Gitana and began fighting his way toward the front rows.
"He's right," Gitana said, tugging on Vince's arm. "You know how Speedball is. He probably saw one of his connections and went to cut a deal."
"That's what I'm afraid of." Vince turned to Fausto. "Go find him." When Fausto protested, Vince repeated himself. "I don't want to see your face again until you've got him."
Vince and Gitana followed Ozone to the front where he was trying to squeeze in next to an eager young couple dressed in El Duque's colors of red and gold. From a hidden pocket in his coat sleeve, Vince produced a switchblade and El Duque's followers saw the wisdom of finding another place to enjoy the proceedings. As he sat down, Vince glanced around in annoyance. He had a pretty good idea what the speech would be about and he was in no mood to hear the local strongman's empty promises. It was only because he had nothing better to do tonight that he had allowed Ozone to talk him into coming here.
He was trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench when he saw something that just might make the event worthwhile. Sitting on the other side of the aisle was a young woman, her face turned toward the stage and her smooth hair flowing like melted butter down her back. As if she could feel Vince's eyes upon her, she turned and flashed him a smile.
Vince slowly returned her smile. Who was she and why was she here? Was she one of El Duque's admirers or was she here out of curiosity and boredom like he was? Did she have a boyfriend or husband? Vince could take care of that little problem.
A sharp poke in the ribs brought him back to the moment. "What are you looking at?" Gitana demanded, as if she hadn't already spotted the beauty in the other row.
"Just checking for signs of trouble," Vince said.
"You're as big a liar as El Duque."
"And you're not my girlfriend."
Gitana turned away with a huff as the lights dimmed and El Duque strode into the bright glare of a spotlight.
While Ozone clapped enthusiastically, Vince tried again to catch the blonde's attention. She mouthed some words he couldn't make out in the darkened auditorium but his mind reeled at the possibilities.
Gitana poked him again. "Quit making a fool of yourself over that dumb little hussie."
Vince waved her off. "Pay attention to the speech or something."
Sullenly, she sidled up to Ozone, but he was having none of her antics either, entranced as he was by El Duque's words about what he would do for city infrastructure.
Vince was deep in flirtation with the blonde, oblivious to Gitana's occasional kick to his ankles when a scuffle at the back of the auditorium drew his attention. He turned around his seat and muttered a curse.
The blonde waved a scrap of paper at him as he exited the row. He shoved it in his pocket with grin and a thank you, and ran up the aisle, followed closely by a furious Gitana. They arrived at the auditorium doors just in time to see Fausto being dragged outside by guards.
Vince gave chase. "It's okay, man," he told the guards. "Whatever he did, he won't cause any more trouble. Just hand him over to me and it'll all be cool."
"Who are you?" one of the guards asked.
"A friend of his."
"Well, you can bail your friend out of jail in the morning. We don't allow fighting at political functions."
Fausto looked away in embarrassment as the guards dragged him away.
"I could kill that motherfucker," Vince muttered.
"Which one?" Gitana asked.
"All of them. I should've never let Fausto out of my sight. He's been jonesing for a fight ever since that deal with the Diablos fell through." He looked around. "Where's Ozone?"
"Still listening to El Duque."
"Any sign of Speedball?"
Gitana shrugged and took his arm. "Let's go get a drink."
Vince sighed. "That's one of the best ideas I've heard all night."
As they walked the crumbling streets to the nearest bar, Vince didn't notice Gitana's fingers slip into his jacket pocket and remove a piece of paper. "So what did you think of El Duque's speech?"
"What?" He frowned and looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. "Oh yeah, the speech. It was nothing much."
They were at the bar now and Vince held open the door for her. Gitana met his eyes with a soulful look, crumpled the paper unobtrusively and dropped it into the muck outside the building.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Excerpt: Vince and the Riot
NOTE: Since Alice Audrey has kindly given a shout-out to Vince at The Serialists, I've posted an outtake about him from Diana's Diary (Day 31 if you want to read more).
In the excerpt below, Diana is at the hospital with Vince's sister Sara while a riot sweeps the city. Vince went to see what he could get out of the chaos but promised he would return at eight o'clock to walk Sara home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eight-thirty, and we tried not to let on what we were feeling. I kept reading, no longer with any idea what words were coming out of my mouth. Sara fidgeted, jumped out of her chair, looked out the window and sat back down, only to start squirming again. We were both at about the limits of our endurance, each afraid to meet each others’ eyes and ask the question on our minds, when we heard new footsteps in the hallway.
We looked up together as Vince strode in, grimy and smelling of smoke. Sara flung her arms around his neck.
“Here,” he said, handing her a bag. “I got you some stuff.”
Her shoulders slumped, and all her previous worry and sympathy vanished. “Why did you do that? I told you—”
“Let me take you home, and if you still want to fuss at me, you can do it there.”
He looked at me. “Come on, let’s take my ungrateful sister home.”
The dormitory was so close I wondered if Vince’s concern wasn’t a little excessive, but when we got outside and I saw the people camped in rings around the hospital, I understood. These people had been burnt out of their homes with nothing in the world but what they could carry on their backs or in a bag. Even though there was extra hospital security tonight, some of the characters in the crowd looked tough and wily. Vince and I kept our hands on our weapons and moved Sara quickly through the crowd to the door of her building.
“Want to come up?” she said.
“No, you look tired.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Someone will be here tomorrow to walk you to work. Don’t go alone, all right?”
She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You worry too much, but okay.”
After she went inside, Vince gave a jerk of his head. “I need a drink. Want to come?”
We went to a bar he knew—a dark, smoky place lit by candles and oil lamps. It was populated by hardened street types in leather and expensive-looking jewelry that they guarded with the guns and knives on their hips. Vince ordered us some vodka and we took our glasses to a corner table. I sipped my drink, watching the people in the room and waiting for Vince to speak.
“It was hell,” he finally said, as if I had asked a question only a moment ago, and out loud.
“Were any of our people hurt?”
“No, and we did really well.” He took a big gulp of his vodka. “But whenever ordinary civilians get mixed up in these things. . .”
I knew exactly what he was talking about. “It’s one thing to see dead and wounded combatants, but when it’s old men, women and kids. . .”
“There’s some really sick motherfuckers in this world, you know that?” He slammed back the rest of his drink, waved a waitress over and ordered another one. “No, wait. Bring two more. Let's not waste time.”
We talked for what seemed a long time. I tried not to pry, and gradually the whole ugly story came out. “We scored pretty good off the deal,” he finally said.
I wasn’t sure it was anything to brag about, but someone would’ve ended up with the goods and I suppose it might as well be Vince and his gang as anyone else. Better than everything ending up in the hands of the people who started all the trouble, at least.
“What are you going to do with it all?” I asked.
“Piss it away drinking and gambling. Give some of it away in impulsive gifts and charity. If there’s anything left over, I'll buy a little food and maybe pay off a creditor or two.” He grabbed my hand across the table. “I’ve got a present for you. Finish your drink, and we’ll go someplace I can give it to you without everyone watching.”
You can find more stories about Vince by following the tag below or by reading Diana's Diary, Days 22-33 under January: Urban Adventures
In the excerpt below, Diana is at the hospital with Vince's sister Sara while a riot sweeps the city. Vince went to see what he could get out of the chaos but promised he would return at eight o'clock to walk Sara home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eight-thirty, and we tried not to let on what we were feeling. I kept reading, no longer with any idea what words were coming out of my mouth. Sara fidgeted, jumped out of her chair, looked out the window and sat back down, only to start squirming again. We were both at about the limits of our endurance, each afraid to meet each others’ eyes and ask the question on our minds, when we heard new footsteps in the hallway.
We looked up together as Vince strode in, grimy and smelling of smoke. Sara flung her arms around his neck.
“Here,” he said, handing her a bag. “I got you some stuff.”
Her shoulders slumped, and all her previous worry and sympathy vanished. “Why did you do that? I told you—”
“Let me take you home, and if you still want to fuss at me, you can do it there.”
He looked at me. “Come on, let’s take my ungrateful sister home.”
The dormitory was so close I wondered if Vince’s concern wasn’t a little excessive, but when we got outside and I saw the people camped in rings around the hospital, I understood. These people had been burnt out of their homes with nothing in the world but what they could carry on their backs or in a bag. Even though there was extra hospital security tonight, some of the characters in the crowd looked tough and wily. Vince and I kept our hands on our weapons and moved Sara quickly through the crowd to the door of her building.
“Want to come up?” she said.
“No, you look tired.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Someone will be here tomorrow to walk you to work. Don’t go alone, all right?”
She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You worry too much, but okay.”
After she went inside, Vince gave a jerk of his head. “I need a drink. Want to come?”
We went to a bar he knew—a dark, smoky place lit by candles and oil lamps. It was populated by hardened street types in leather and expensive-looking jewelry that they guarded with the guns and knives on their hips. Vince ordered us some vodka and we took our glasses to a corner table. I sipped my drink, watching the people in the room and waiting for Vince to speak.
“It was hell,” he finally said, as if I had asked a question only a moment ago, and out loud.
“Were any of our people hurt?”
“No, and we did really well.” He took a big gulp of his vodka. “But whenever ordinary civilians get mixed up in these things. . .”
I knew exactly what he was talking about. “It’s one thing to see dead and wounded combatants, but when it’s old men, women and kids. . .”
“There’s some really sick motherfuckers in this world, you know that?” He slammed back the rest of his drink, waved a waitress over and ordered another one. “No, wait. Bring two more. Let's not waste time.”
We talked for what seemed a long time. I tried not to pry, and gradually the whole ugly story came out. “We scored pretty good off the deal,” he finally said.
I wasn’t sure it was anything to brag about, but someone would’ve ended up with the goods and I suppose it might as well be Vince and his gang as anyone else. Better than everything ending up in the hands of the people who started all the trouble, at least.
“What are you going to do with it all?” I asked.
“Piss it away drinking and gambling. Give some of it away in impulsive gifts and charity. If there’s anything left over, I'll buy a little food and maybe pay off a creditor or two.” He grabbed my hand across the table. “I’ve got a present for you. Finish your drink, and we’ll go someplace I can give it to you without everyone watching.”
You can find more stories about Vince by following the tag below or by reading Diana's Diary, Days 22-33 under January: Urban Adventures
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Flash Fiction: Bad Patient
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sara glanced at the clock and sighed. Four hours since the last round of medication; time to dose him again. She set the book aside, got up off the sofa and went into the next room. Her brother Vince lay on the bed, pale and sweating. "Time for your meds," she said in her most chipper nurse's tones.
"Not again." He turned away. "Why do you keep torturing me?"
"Because it's the only way you're going to get better." She took his chin in her hand and tried to force a mixture of vitamins and antibiotics down his throat.
Vince pushed her away. "Why can't you give me the good stuff? You know - morphine or something?"
Although it was true that Vince's injuries would've merited pain-killers had he gone to the hospital instead of to her apartment, Sara knew better than to risk it. Vince had enemies, and clouding his mind with narcotics could get them both killed. "It's too hard to sneak opiates out of the hospital," she lied. "If I lose my job, then what? You know what they say: Avoid the appearance of evil."
"There's other hospitals you can work at. Besides, you're too smart to get caught."
"It hardly matters, since here we are." With an air of brisk efficiency, she pulled back the blanket and unwrapped his bandages, inspecting each injury for signs of infection. One wound in particular troubled her. "This one goes deep," she told him as she frowned over an abdominal laceration. "If it pierced your liver, you could need more care than I can provide. You should--"
"No. No hospitals." Vince shook his head. "The cops will be looking for me there."
"They might look for you here too."
"But you'll warn me. You'll get me out in time." He turned appealing eyes on her. "You wouldn't let El Duque's men get me, would you?"
It was a rhetorical question. Of course she would do anything to protect her brother from the city's dictatorial government. He was her last living relative, and it was because of him that she had been able to go to nursing school and establish herself in a career that would guarantee her an honest living for the rest of her life. She owed Vince everything, except, perhaps, a little patience. She brought the vial of herbs and medicine back to his lips. "Drink this and your secrets are safe with me."
Their eyes locked, and with reluctance, Vince choked the medicine down.
"You can be a bitch sometimes," he muttered.
Sara suppressed a smile. "I love you too, brother."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sara glanced at the clock and sighed. Four hours since the last round of medication; time to dose him again. She set the book aside, got up off the sofa and went into the next room. Her brother Vince lay on the bed, pale and sweating. "Time for your meds," she said in her most chipper nurse's tones.
"Not again." He turned away. "Why do you keep torturing me?"
"Because it's the only way you're going to get better." She took his chin in her hand and tried to force a mixture of vitamins and antibiotics down his throat.
Vince pushed her away. "Why can't you give me the good stuff? You know - morphine or something?"
Although it was true that Vince's injuries would've merited pain-killers had he gone to the hospital instead of to her apartment, Sara knew better than to risk it. Vince had enemies, and clouding his mind with narcotics could get them both killed. "It's too hard to sneak opiates out of the hospital," she lied. "If I lose my job, then what? You know what they say: Avoid the appearance of evil."
"There's other hospitals you can work at. Besides, you're too smart to get caught."
"It hardly matters, since here we are." With an air of brisk efficiency, she pulled back the blanket and unwrapped his bandages, inspecting each injury for signs of infection. One wound in particular troubled her. "This one goes deep," she told him as she frowned over an abdominal laceration. "If it pierced your liver, you could need more care than I can provide. You should--"
"No. No hospitals." Vince shook his head. "The cops will be looking for me there."
"They might look for you here too."
"But you'll warn me. You'll get me out in time." He turned appealing eyes on her. "You wouldn't let El Duque's men get me, would you?"
It was a rhetorical question. Of course she would do anything to protect her brother from the city's dictatorial government. He was her last living relative, and it was because of him that she had been able to go to nursing school and establish herself in a career that would guarantee her an honest living for the rest of her life. She owed Vince everything, except, perhaps, a little patience. She brought the vial of herbs and medicine back to his lips. "Drink this and your secrets are safe with me."
Their eyes locked, and with reluctance, Vince choked the medicine down.
"You can be a bitch sometimes," he muttered.
Sara suppressed a smile. "I love you too, brother."
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Flash Fiction Extra: Waiting Game
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He had come here hoping to bump into her, but no such luck so far. Her good looks and elusive style transfixed him the last time she saw her here with her long legs, pouty lips and a Glock at her hip with her name spelled out on the handle in what looked like diamonds. She wasn't the sort to knuckle under to someone else's demands. Too bad for her. Vince hoped he would catch up with her before Quix from the Catorces did. Poaching on an established gang leader's turf could only lead to trouble, and although Vince liked to brag that he wasn't sentimental, he had a certain admiration for pretty girls who could hold their own in a fight. If the Catorces jumped her, it would be a fight she wouldn't win alone. Vince sighed and leaned against the wall...waiting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He had come here hoping to bump into her, but no such luck so far. Her good looks and elusive style transfixed him the last time she saw her here with her long legs, pouty lips and a Glock at her hip with her name spelled out on the handle in what looked like diamonds. She wasn't the sort to knuckle under to someone else's demands. Too bad for her. Vince hoped he would catch up with her before Quix from the Catorces did. Poaching on an established gang leader's turf could only lead to trouble, and although Vince liked to brag that he wasn't sentimental, he had a certain admiration for pretty girls who could hold their own in a fight. If the Catorces jumped her, it would be a fight she wouldn't win alone. Vince sighed and leaned against the wall...waiting.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Flash Fiction Extra: Toward a Philosophy of Ethics
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Sunday Scribblings story features Vince Mott. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post. You can read my other Sunday Scribblings flash, Demon Ethics, at my Maelstrom site.
============================================
“You lying piece of shit.” Vince slammed the young man against the warehouse wall and shoved a knife against his throat. “Where is it? Tell me fast, and I won’t have to hurt you too much.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marco stammered. “You got paid.”
“Shorted.” Vince dug the point of his knife into Marco’s skin, just enough to make him cringe. “We had a deal.”
“But I got shorted, too,” he squeaked.
Vince was tempted to shove the blade right through the little bastard’s throat. Dumb kid, new to the scene. Vince had hesitated to take the job, but everyone had to start somewhere. “Your incompetence at closing your own deal doesn’t mean you get to screw the people you brought into it. You can pay up with cash, goods, or blood. Your choice.”
Marco was sweating now and his breath came in trembling gasps. “I don’t have it. But I’ll get it and I’ll pay you before the end of the week, I swear.”
Ballsy kid. Vince gave him that much. He dug in with his blade and opened up a gash that bled into the boy's collar. “Try again. Or do you want to feel how deep this knife can go?”
By now Marco was shaking so hard he threatened to impale himself on the knife and finish Vince’s job for him. “Desk drawer. Bottom right. Under the book.”
“Get it for me.” Vince grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the desk. He watched as Marco fumbled in the drawer, removing papers, rags, and a tattered copy of The Elements of Moral Philosophy, uncovering a small cache of whiskey bottles and coins.
“You can have it all. Just let me go.”
“No,” Vince said. “Give me what you owe me, and that’s enough.”
Marco's hands shook as he counted out the gold and silver coins. When Vince instructed him to switch out a bottle of whiskey for some of the silver, he nearly dropped the bottle, but finally Vince was satisfied. He put his knife away and drew his Glock, just to make sure the boy didn’t try anything stupid. “Nice doing business with you,” he said as he watched Marco put the items into a bag. “But we won’t be partnering again.”
Marco nodded.
“And by the way….”
“What?”
Vince gestured with his gun toward the book. “Since you aren’t bright enough to figure it out for yourself, read that before you try to make a deal with anyone else.”
“I don't understand.”
Suppressing a sigh, Vince took the bag and made to leave. Poor kid. There would probably be a funeral for him soon. “I thought not.”
============================================
“You lying piece of shit.” Vince slammed the young man against the warehouse wall and shoved a knife against his throat. “Where is it? Tell me fast, and I won’t have to hurt you too much.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marco stammered. “You got paid.”
“Shorted.” Vince dug the point of his knife into Marco’s skin, just enough to make him cringe. “We had a deal.”
“But I got shorted, too,” he squeaked.
Vince was tempted to shove the blade right through the little bastard’s throat. Dumb kid, new to the scene. Vince had hesitated to take the job, but everyone had to start somewhere. “Your incompetence at closing your own deal doesn’t mean you get to screw the people you brought into it. You can pay up with cash, goods, or blood. Your choice.”
Marco was sweating now and his breath came in trembling gasps. “I don’t have it. But I’ll get it and I’ll pay you before the end of the week, I swear.”
Ballsy kid. Vince gave him that much. He dug in with his blade and opened up a gash that bled into the boy's collar. “Try again. Or do you want to feel how deep this knife can go?”
By now Marco was shaking so hard he threatened to impale himself on the knife and finish Vince’s job for him. “Desk drawer. Bottom right. Under the book.”
“Get it for me.” Vince grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the desk. He watched as Marco fumbled in the drawer, removing papers, rags, and a tattered copy of The Elements of Moral Philosophy, uncovering a small cache of whiskey bottles and coins.
“You can have it all. Just let me go.”
“No,” Vince said. “Give me what you owe me, and that’s enough.”
Marco's hands shook as he counted out the gold and silver coins. When Vince instructed him to switch out a bottle of whiskey for some of the silver, he nearly dropped the bottle, but finally Vince was satisfied. He put his knife away and drew his Glock, just to make sure the boy didn’t try anything stupid. “Nice doing business with you,” he said as he watched Marco put the items into a bag. “But we won’t be partnering again.”
Marco nodded.
“And by the way….”
“What?”
Vince gestured with his gun toward the book. “Since you aren’t bright enough to figure it out for yourself, read that before you try to make a deal with anyone else.”
“I don't understand.”
Suppressing a sigh, Vince took the bag and made to leave. Poor kid. There would probably be a funeral for him soon. “I thought not.”
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Flash Fiction Extra: The Beacon
No one was sure what the fires meant. They had appeared three nights ago at dusk, bright like stars against the black hulk of the mountain, and they had burned through the night until dawn. The city was rife with rumors, and in the decaying warehouse, speculation among Vince's gang members grew.
“It’s a signal,” Speedball said as he sharpened a knife. “There’s going to be an attack.”
“Wishful thinking,” Gitana sneered. “You’d love it if we got into another big fight.”
“Okay, glamour-girl, what’s your explanation?”
“Travelers. Ordinary campers cooking their food.”
“Who’s talking bullshit now? Campers don’t light fires that big. Those are beacons. They mean something.”
Ozone looked up from trying to find a station on the radio. “I heard it’s some kind of nativist thing. One of the tribes is trying to revive some old tradition for how they grieve their dead.”
Gitana shook her head in disgust. “Leave it to you to come up with the most absurd explanation imaginable." She looked around. "Vince! We know you’re listening. Come out here and settle this!”
Vince stepped out of his office. He had heard every word of his crew's conversation, and was consumed with concerns of his own.
“So what are all those fires about?” Gitana said. “War, ancient mythology, or just refugees trying to stay warm?”
“If it was refugees, El Duque would’ve done something to stop the rumors by now.” Vince pulled up a rickety chair. “And I don’t buy the crap that it’s natives lighting signal fires for the spirits of their kindred. Some people will believe anything.”
With a hurt expression, Ozone turned back to his radio.
Speedball brandished his knife with satisfaction. “That leaves war. We’ll get some goods out of this.”
Vince wasn’t so sure the beacons were a sign of war, either. If someone wanted to attack a stronghold like this city, why advertise the fact? “Actually, I’m a little worried it may be a sign of peace — one of the regional leaders coming to talk with El Duque and cut a deal.”
“Peace would be nice,” Ozone mumbled.
Speedball turned on him. “Peace would be the worst thing imaginable, dumbass. How the hell would we make a living?”
Vince nodded in silent agreement. Too much law and order, and he’d have to shut his little protection racket down. Either that, or go to prison. He had no other skills, even though his sister had pestered him for years to apprentice himself to someone or enter a legitimate job training program. Somehow he didn’t see himself as a shopkeeper or an accountant. This world, dirty and chaotic though it may be, suited him fine.
“Well, whatever it is,” he said, “I just hope it’s not a treaty. Peace would be my worst nightmare.”
Ozone had found a radio station and waved a hand for silence. “They’re talking about the beacons. And something about a curfew.”
“So that’s the game, is it?” Vince stood up. “How much you guys want to bet El Duque ordered those fires so everyone would be scared and he could crack down?”
Speedball passed his knife from hand to hand. “I don’t believe in curfews. Last guy who tried to tell me when to get off the street—”
“We all remember,” Vince said. “And next time you kill a government type without orders, you’re out.” He stood and stretched. “But curfews don’t mean anything in our line of work, and we have a job tonight. Ozone, turn off that stupid radio.”
“But they’re saying—”
“More lies, I’ll bet. Turn it off. The only thing those fires signify is that people will get excited over any little thing.” He turned and headed back to his office. “Get your weapons ready,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ve got work to do.”
“It’s a signal,” Speedball said as he sharpened a knife. “There’s going to be an attack.”
“Wishful thinking,” Gitana sneered. “You’d love it if we got into another big fight.”
“Okay, glamour-girl, what’s your explanation?”
“Travelers. Ordinary campers cooking their food.”
“Who’s talking bullshit now? Campers don’t light fires that big. Those are beacons. They mean something.”
Ozone looked up from trying to find a station on the radio. “I heard it’s some kind of nativist thing. One of the tribes is trying to revive some old tradition for how they grieve their dead.”
Gitana shook her head in disgust. “Leave it to you to come up with the most absurd explanation imaginable." She looked around. "Vince! We know you’re listening. Come out here and settle this!”
Vince stepped out of his office. He had heard every word of his crew's conversation, and was consumed with concerns of his own.
“So what are all those fires about?” Gitana said. “War, ancient mythology, or just refugees trying to stay warm?”
“If it was refugees, El Duque would’ve done something to stop the rumors by now.” Vince pulled up a rickety chair. “And I don’t buy the crap that it’s natives lighting signal fires for the spirits of their kindred. Some people will believe anything.”
With a hurt expression, Ozone turned back to his radio.
Speedball brandished his knife with satisfaction. “That leaves war. We’ll get some goods out of this.”
Vince wasn’t so sure the beacons were a sign of war, either. If someone wanted to attack a stronghold like this city, why advertise the fact? “Actually, I’m a little worried it may be a sign of peace — one of the regional leaders coming to talk with El Duque and cut a deal.”
“Peace would be nice,” Ozone mumbled.
Speedball turned on him. “Peace would be the worst thing imaginable, dumbass. How the hell would we make a living?”
Vince nodded in silent agreement. Too much law and order, and he’d have to shut his little protection racket down. Either that, or go to prison. He had no other skills, even though his sister had pestered him for years to apprentice himself to someone or enter a legitimate job training program. Somehow he didn’t see himself as a shopkeeper or an accountant. This world, dirty and chaotic though it may be, suited him fine.
“Well, whatever it is,” he said, “I just hope it’s not a treaty. Peace would be my worst nightmare.”
Ozone had found a radio station and waved a hand for silence. “They’re talking about the beacons. And something about a curfew.”
“So that’s the game, is it?” Vince stood up. “How much you guys want to bet El Duque ordered those fires so everyone would be scared and he could crack down?”
Speedball passed his knife from hand to hand. “I don’t believe in curfews. Last guy who tried to tell me when to get off the street—”
“We all remember,” Vince said. “And next time you kill a government type without orders, you’re out.” He stood and stretched. “But curfews don’t mean anything in our line of work, and we have a job tonight. Ozone, turn off that stupid radio.”
“But they’re saying—”
“More lies, I’ll bet. Turn it off. The only thing those fires signify is that people will get excited over any little thing.” He turned and headed back to his office. “Get your weapons ready,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ve got work to do.”
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Flash Fiction Extra: No One's Yes-Man
“Forget it, man. No.”
Calixto set down his glass and stared. “You’re kidding.”
Vince shook his head of thick black hair and a gold earring flashed in the dim light of the pub. He took a gulp of his whiskey and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You heard me.”
“But…” Calixto leaned across the table. “…the payoff will be huge. Everyone knows you’re a money-whore. Quit playing around.”
“There are some things I just won’t do, no matter how good the money. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Do you want all the details of your notorious career, or should I just hit the highlights?”
Vince tossed off the rest of his drink and looked around for the waitress, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Running drugs and guns is one thing, but what you’re asking is totally different. I have standards.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” Calixto sucked down the rest of his whiskey, then shoved the glass aside with a black-gloved hand. “If it’s the percentage that’s bothering you, just say so. You’ll be putting your guys at more risk than usual, so how about an extra five percent? Ten?”
“I’m telling you. It’s the deal itself that’s the problem, not the money.”
Calixto sat back and pondered. “There’s got to be some way to get you on board. Your folks are the only ones I would trust for this kind of thing, and it’ll be worth your while.”
Vince stood up and rested both hands on the table, leaning over Calixto with an ugly light in his eyes. “I gave you my answer and it’s final. Do you have any idea how many of the world’s problems are caused by people who say yes when they should say no?”
Without waiting for an answer, he strode across the barroom and out onto the street. The streetlights weren’t working again, but that was no matter. Nothing had been right since El Duque came to power. Not that things had ever been right in Vince's lifetime.
He rested a hand on the handle of his Glock and felt secure, then tipped his head back and gazed at panorama of stars. There were times when “no” was the only right answer. Because there was hell to pay when the answer was always yes.
Calixto set down his glass and stared. “You’re kidding.”
Vince shook his head of thick black hair and a gold earring flashed in the dim light of the pub. He took a gulp of his whiskey and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You heard me.”
“But…” Calixto leaned across the table. “…the payoff will be huge. Everyone knows you’re a money-whore. Quit playing around.”
“There are some things I just won’t do, no matter how good the money. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Do you want all the details of your notorious career, or should I just hit the highlights?”
Vince tossed off the rest of his drink and looked around for the waitress, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Running drugs and guns is one thing, but what you’re asking is totally different. I have standards.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” Calixto sucked down the rest of his whiskey, then shoved the glass aside with a black-gloved hand. “If it’s the percentage that’s bothering you, just say so. You’ll be putting your guys at more risk than usual, so how about an extra five percent? Ten?”
“I’m telling you. It’s the deal itself that’s the problem, not the money.”
Calixto sat back and pondered. “There’s got to be some way to get you on board. Your folks are the only ones I would trust for this kind of thing, and it’ll be worth your while.”
Vince stood up and rested both hands on the table, leaning over Calixto with an ugly light in his eyes. “I gave you my answer and it’s final. Do you have any idea how many of the world’s problems are caused by people who say yes when they should say no?”
Without waiting for an answer, he strode across the barroom and out onto the street. The streetlights weren’t working again, but that was no matter. Nothing had been right since El Duque came to power. Not that things had ever been right in Vince's lifetime.
He rested a hand on the handle of his Glock and felt secure, then tipped his head back and gazed at panorama of stars. There were times when “no” was the only right answer. Because there was hell to pay when the answer was always yes.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Flash Fiction Extra: Cure
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott and his sister Sara. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
*****
Vince helped Sara sit up and held a steaming cup to her lips. “Drink this.”
She tried to obey, but the taste nearly made her gag. “What the hell is it?”
“Chicken broth. With garlic and green chili.”
Sara looked at him askance.
“And a measure of whiskey.”
“What else?”
“Just some medicine I found in one of your cabinets. I figured since you’re a nurse, it must be useful or you wouldn’t have it.”
Sara lay back among the pillows. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? It’s just a cold. Quit fussing over me.”
“No way.” Vince set the cup on the edge of a small table where it teetered before he pushed it to a more stable place next to a book. “Mom and Dad started out with ‘just a cold’ and look what it got them.”
“A doctor checked me out before they sent me home from the hospital. Do you really think—”
The look in his eyes brought her up short. Vince kept girls and fellow gang members at arm’s length and felt little sympathy for the victims of his criminal enterprises, but he’d fight the devil to keep from losing his last remaining family member. “You know what would really be good?”
Vince leaned forward with the eagerness of a child.
“Orange juice.”
“What?”
“I know it’s out of season…hard to find and expensive, but it’s the ideal thing for getting rid of a cold.”
Vince stood up, nearly knocking his chair over in his enthusiasm. “If there’s any in the city, you’ll have it. I’ll ask my sources and call in a few favors.”
Sara waited while he puttered around her tiny apartment, making sure she had everything she needed. When he finally left, she breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t likely to find orange juice anywhere. Transport from other regions of the former United States was expensive and uncertain. If he did find some, he’d probably have to fight for it, but that was okay. It would keep him busy and make him feel like he had done something special. That was all that mattered.
She sneezed and reached for a handkerchief. The cold was just an ordinary cold. With or without orange juice and her brother's strange concoctions, it would take care of itself.
*****
Vince helped Sara sit up and held a steaming cup to her lips. “Drink this.”
She tried to obey, but the taste nearly made her gag. “What the hell is it?”
“Chicken broth. With garlic and green chili.”
Sara looked at him askance.
“And a measure of whiskey.”
“What else?”
“Just some medicine I found in one of your cabinets. I figured since you’re a nurse, it must be useful or you wouldn’t have it.”
Sara lay back among the pillows. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? It’s just a cold. Quit fussing over me.”
“No way.” Vince set the cup on the edge of a small table where it teetered before he pushed it to a more stable place next to a book. “Mom and Dad started out with ‘just a cold’ and look what it got them.”
“A doctor checked me out before they sent me home from the hospital. Do you really think—”
The look in his eyes brought her up short. Vince kept girls and fellow gang members at arm’s length and felt little sympathy for the victims of his criminal enterprises, but he’d fight the devil to keep from losing his last remaining family member. “You know what would really be good?”
Vince leaned forward with the eagerness of a child.
“Orange juice.”
“What?”
“I know it’s out of season…hard to find and expensive, but it’s the ideal thing for getting rid of a cold.”
Vince stood up, nearly knocking his chair over in his enthusiasm. “If there’s any in the city, you’ll have it. I’ll ask my sources and call in a few favors.”
Sara waited while he puttered around her tiny apartment, making sure she had everything she needed. When he finally left, she breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t likely to find orange juice anywhere. Transport from other regions of the former United States was expensive and uncertain. If he did find some, he’d probably have to fight for it, but that was okay. It would keep him busy and make him feel like he had done something special. That was all that mattered.
She sneezed and reached for a handkerchief. The cold was just an ordinary cold. With or without orange juice and her brother's strange concoctions, it would take care of itself.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Flash Fiction Extra: These Times
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince slammed back the rest of his drink, then put the glass and bottle of purported Canadian Club away. He didn’t bother locking his office as he left, since the members of his gang knew better than to touch his stuff. The last one to do it was living on the streets now, missing a few teeth and fingers, and bearing some interesting scars.
The easiest way to get to the site of tonight’s deal was via the motorcycle he had stolen a few weeks ago, but he didn’t want to call attention to himself, so he walked until he found a bicycle rickshaw driver looking for a fare. Vince gave an address, then sat back and pondered while the rickshaw bounced over the pitted roads of the city. He wished the government would tear up the old asphalt and lay down stones or something. Too many people still clung to the notion that the old days of prosperity would return if only new cheap sources of oil were found and the government would put down all the infighting.
And while they were dreaming, perhaps they’d like an Easter Bunny, too. Vince smiled to himself. Young realists like himself were the future of this town.
The driver dropped him off in front of a taqueria that Vince knew to be a front for a drug operation. He tipped the driver, waited a few minutes, then set off for the address he had committed to memory.
When he got to the bullet-scarred building, he circled it, noting all possible ways in and out, and any obstacles that could trip a guy up or obscure a lookout’s point of view. Then he bought a kebab of questionable meat from a nearby street vendor, sat on a shop step and watched his target for a few minutes. After he had determined the place wasn’t under surveillance, he gave the rest of the meat to a stray dog and found his way into the building, his Glock drawn and ready.
Although most of the windows were boarded up, enough dusty light filtered in that he could see the hulking shapes of old display cabinets, derelict computers and piles of rags. There was nothing here worth stealing, although that wouldn’t be true later tonight. After his eyes adjusted, Vince started making his way around the room, making note of obstacles and pitfalls, just as he had outside.
He was dragging a dead electrical line out of a traffic path when a small sound caught his attention. He pointed his Glock. “Get over here, hands up, motherfucker.”
A hunched shape separated itself from the shadows. “I don’t want no trouble.”
Vince assessed: white hair, wild matted beard, filthy clothes. Even from this distance the man reeked. “You’re going to have to find another place for tonight, grandpa.”
“But this is my shop.”
“The whole city is full of empty shops. Find another.” Vince dug in his pocket for some coins. “It’s for your own good.”
“You don’t understand. My father opened this place when the building was brand new.” The man waved a trembling hand. “The walls were clean and white then, with red trim. The counters held beautiful new things for sale – electronic gadgets I bet you’ve never in your life seen in operation.”
Vince shrugged. “It was all wasteful and ridiculous. Now take this money, buy yourself a meal and find another building to squat in for a few days.”
“No. I took this place over from my father when he died. It was hard to find new things to sell, but I learned how to repair old electronics. I would clean them up and make them work like new.” He pulled up a rickety chair and sat down. “Then I got drafted and sent to fight in the resource wars. I came home to civil war. I couldn’t re-open my business; I got gassed overseas and my hands shook too bad from nerve damage to repair anything. I had no home, and my family had scattered. I had this place, though. It’s still mine, and if you want me out of here, you’ll have to shoot me.”
Vince gazed at the man for a long time before speaking. “The old days,” he finally said, “before the wars and all that…was it really as good as they say?”
“It was a lot cleaner, and a person was mostly safe as long as he minded his own business. We had fancier toys, but life is hard no matter when you live it, son. It’s only in our own heads that some other time or place is better.”
Vince nodded and put his gun away. The coins he had dug out of his pocket were still in his hand and he laid them on a grimy counter. “There’s going to be a little business operation going on tonight. Someone else chose this spot and I can’t change it. Make yourself scarce, don’t interfere, and you’ll make out all right.”
“And what about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you make out all right? You seem like the sort that goes looking for trouble.”
Vince laughed. “No, old man, trouble found me. I’m just trying to make the best of things. Like you say, it’s only in our imagination that there’s anyplace better.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince slammed back the rest of his drink, then put the glass and bottle of purported Canadian Club away. He didn’t bother locking his office as he left, since the members of his gang knew better than to touch his stuff. The last one to do it was living on the streets now, missing a few teeth and fingers, and bearing some interesting scars.
The easiest way to get to the site of tonight’s deal was via the motorcycle he had stolen a few weeks ago, but he didn’t want to call attention to himself, so he walked until he found a bicycle rickshaw driver looking for a fare. Vince gave an address, then sat back and pondered while the rickshaw bounced over the pitted roads of the city. He wished the government would tear up the old asphalt and lay down stones or something. Too many people still clung to the notion that the old days of prosperity would return if only new cheap sources of oil were found and the government would put down all the infighting.
And while they were dreaming, perhaps they’d like an Easter Bunny, too. Vince smiled to himself. Young realists like himself were the future of this town.
The driver dropped him off in front of a taqueria that Vince knew to be a front for a drug operation. He tipped the driver, waited a few minutes, then set off for the address he had committed to memory.
When he got to the bullet-scarred building, he circled it, noting all possible ways in and out, and any obstacles that could trip a guy up or obscure a lookout’s point of view. Then he bought a kebab of questionable meat from a nearby street vendor, sat on a shop step and watched his target for a few minutes. After he had determined the place wasn’t under surveillance, he gave the rest of the meat to a stray dog and found his way into the building, his Glock drawn and ready.
Although most of the windows were boarded up, enough dusty light filtered in that he could see the hulking shapes of old display cabinets, derelict computers and piles of rags. There was nothing here worth stealing, although that wouldn’t be true later tonight. After his eyes adjusted, Vince started making his way around the room, making note of obstacles and pitfalls, just as he had outside.
He was dragging a dead electrical line out of a traffic path when a small sound caught his attention. He pointed his Glock. “Get over here, hands up, motherfucker.”
A hunched shape separated itself from the shadows. “I don’t want no trouble.”
Vince assessed: white hair, wild matted beard, filthy clothes. Even from this distance the man reeked. “You’re going to have to find another place for tonight, grandpa.”
“But this is my shop.”
“The whole city is full of empty shops. Find another.” Vince dug in his pocket for some coins. “It’s for your own good.”
“You don’t understand. My father opened this place when the building was brand new.” The man waved a trembling hand. “The walls were clean and white then, with red trim. The counters held beautiful new things for sale – electronic gadgets I bet you’ve never in your life seen in operation.”
Vince shrugged. “It was all wasteful and ridiculous. Now take this money, buy yourself a meal and find another building to squat in for a few days.”
“No. I took this place over from my father when he died. It was hard to find new things to sell, but I learned how to repair old electronics. I would clean them up and make them work like new.” He pulled up a rickety chair and sat down. “Then I got drafted and sent to fight in the resource wars. I came home to civil war. I couldn’t re-open my business; I got gassed overseas and my hands shook too bad from nerve damage to repair anything. I had no home, and my family had scattered. I had this place, though. It’s still mine, and if you want me out of here, you’ll have to shoot me.”
Vince gazed at the man for a long time before speaking. “The old days,” he finally said, “before the wars and all that…was it really as good as they say?”
“It was a lot cleaner, and a person was mostly safe as long as he minded his own business. We had fancier toys, but life is hard no matter when you live it, son. It’s only in our own heads that some other time or place is better.”
Vince nodded and put his gun away. The coins he had dug out of his pocket were still in his hand and he laid them on a grimy counter. “There’s going to be a little business operation going on tonight. Someone else chose this spot and I can’t change it. Make yourself scarce, don’t interfere, and you’ll make out all right.”
“And what about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you make out all right? You seem like the sort that goes looking for trouble.”
Vince laughed. “No, old man, trouble found me. I’m just trying to make the best of things. Like you say, it’s only in our imagination that there’s anyplace better.”
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Flash Fiction Extra: Good Deeds
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott and his sister Sara, two of the characters from My New-Found Land. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
It had taken a bit of doing to get the medicines the doctor ordered, but Sara was nothing if not dedicated. She gave up her lunch hour to go to the other floors and scour the cabinets, and even asked at individual offices in her zeal, offering to barter. Now if she hurried, she might still have enough time to go on the roof and eat her sandwich, up high where it was safe and she could look over the wreck of the city and imagine what it must have been like in her parents’ and grandparents’ day.
She stepped into the patient’s room, then stopped with a jolt. A man stood over the unresponsive girl’s bed, his dirty fatigues and gaudy jewelry marking him as a local tough, one of thousands that roamed the streets in loosely organized gangs, looking for quick payoffs. Sara watched him place a fluffy stuffed rabbit in the crook of the child's arm and tie a satin ribbon around her wrist.
“Vince, what are you doing here?”
The man straightened up with a guilty look and shook his black hair out of his eyes. “You’re supposed to be on your lunch break.”
“And you’re supposed to be guarding a gun delivery, looting abandoned houses, or whatever illegal things it is you do.” She motioned him away from the bed so she could check the child’s vitals. “Are you the one that brought the charm bracelet yesterday? And the duck the day before?”
“Maybe.” Vince shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are you one of El Duque’s informants now? Is it a crime to give stuff to a sick kid?”
“No need to get defensive. It’s just kind of funny this girl has been here almost a week and you never told me you knew her.” A sudden suspicion gripped her. “Don’t tell me she’s yours. If I’m an aunt and you’ve been hiding it from me, I swear, I’ll—”
Vince held up a hand. “It’s not like that. Jesus.”
“With all the girls you’ve had, it wouldn’t have surprised me. So how do you know her?”
“Does it matter? I was just trying to do something nice.”
“She’s in a coma. She doesn’t know who’s being nice and who’s not.” She moved the stuffed rabbit and tucked the covers more tightly around the girl’s wasted body.
“Is she going to make it?”
“I don’t know.”
Sara worked in silence, feeling Vince’s gaze upon her.
“Got a few minutes?”
She glanced at her watch, one of the many things he had given her from his lootings over the years. His illegal activities had enabled her to go to nursing school and helped her survive on the meager and unreliable wages of the city hospital.
“Let’s go on the roof.”
Vince knew her well. She waited while he ran a gentle hand across the girl’s hair and murmured encouraging words. Then she took his arm and let him lead her to the staircase and out onto the flat roof of the hospital.
“World kind of sucks,” he said, as they gazed at the decrepit buildings below. “But we have to get what we can out of it.”
Sara thought of the little girl in the room below, dying needlessly. “I guess.”
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a flask. “Good stuff. Came all the way from Kentucky.” He pressed it into her hand and made her take it.
“About that girl…”
Vince shook his head. “Let a guy do a good deed now and then, okay?”
“You’re a regular Robin Hood.”
“You have your way, I have mine.”
Sara slipped the flask into one of the deep pockets of her nurse’s smock. It would come in handy when she was home in her small apartment, with night closing in. Vince had always been generous in his strange way.
“You ready to go back downstairs? I’ve got a deal to coordinate for tonight.”
“Sure.” She cast a final look out over the city, trying to imagine what it once was like before the collapse and the wars. Then she let Vince lead her to the door and back downstairs.
It had taken a bit of doing to get the medicines the doctor ordered, but Sara was nothing if not dedicated. She gave up her lunch hour to go to the other floors and scour the cabinets, and even asked at individual offices in her zeal, offering to barter. Now if she hurried, she might still have enough time to go on the roof and eat her sandwich, up high where it was safe and she could look over the wreck of the city and imagine what it must have been like in her parents’ and grandparents’ day.
She stepped into the patient’s room, then stopped with a jolt. A man stood over the unresponsive girl’s bed, his dirty fatigues and gaudy jewelry marking him as a local tough, one of thousands that roamed the streets in loosely organized gangs, looking for quick payoffs. Sara watched him place a fluffy stuffed rabbit in the crook of the child's arm and tie a satin ribbon around her wrist.
“Vince, what are you doing here?”
The man straightened up with a guilty look and shook his black hair out of his eyes. “You’re supposed to be on your lunch break.”
“And you’re supposed to be guarding a gun delivery, looting abandoned houses, or whatever illegal things it is you do.” She motioned him away from the bed so she could check the child’s vitals. “Are you the one that brought the charm bracelet yesterday? And the duck the day before?”
“Maybe.” Vince shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are you one of El Duque’s informants now? Is it a crime to give stuff to a sick kid?”
“No need to get defensive. It’s just kind of funny this girl has been here almost a week and you never told me you knew her.” A sudden suspicion gripped her. “Don’t tell me she’s yours. If I’m an aunt and you’ve been hiding it from me, I swear, I’ll—”
Vince held up a hand. “It’s not like that. Jesus.”
“With all the girls you’ve had, it wouldn’t have surprised me. So how do you know her?”
“Does it matter? I was just trying to do something nice.”
“She’s in a coma. She doesn’t know who’s being nice and who’s not.” She moved the stuffed rabbit and tucked the covers more tightly around the girl’s wasted body.
“Is she going to make it?”
“I don’t know.”
Sara worked in silence, feeling Vince’s gaze upon her.
“Got a few minutes?”
She glanced at her watch, one of the many things he had given her from his lootings over the years. His illegal activities had enabled her to go to nursing school and helped her survive on the meager and unreliable wages of the city hospital.
“Let’s go on the roof.”
Vince knew her well. She waited while he ran a gentle hand across the girl’s hair and murmured encouraging words. Then she took his arm and let him lead her to the staircase and out onto the flat roof of the hospital.
“World kind of sucks,” he said, as they gazed at the decrepit buildings below. “But we have to get what we can out of it.”
Sara thought of the little girl in the room below, dying needlessly. “I guess.”
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a flask. “Good stuff. Came all the way from Kentucky.” He pressed it into her hand and made her take it.
“About that girl…”
Vince shook his head. “Let a guy do a good deed now and then, okay?”
“You’re a regular Robin Hood.”
“You have your way, I have mine.”
Sara slipped the flask into one of the deep pockets of her nurse’s smock. It would come in handy when she was home in her small apartment, with night closing in. Vince had always been generous in his strange way.
“You ready to go back downstairs? I’ve got a deal to coordinate for tonight.”
“Sure.” She cast a final look out over the city, trying to imagine what it once was like before the collapse and the wars. Then she let Vince lead her to the door and back downstairs.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Flash Fiction Extra: Turkey Day
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, one of the characters from My New-Found Land. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
Vince looked at the dead bird in distaste. “This is some interesting contraband.”
“The stuff you asked me to get was hidden inside. The turkey is still pretty fresh—doesn’t stink yet or anything.” Ozone gave a little shrug. “I thought we could eat it.”
A few of the other gang members sat on the dusty concrete floor. Speedball had been obsessively disassembling and putting back together his guns for the past half hour, and was too jumped up on cocaine to care about food. But Fausto looked up from polishing a stolen watch with a dirty bandana, and fixed Ozone with a level look. “I'd kill my own mother for a decent meal right about now, but how do plan on cooking it, genius?”
“Roast it on a spit?”
Vince didn’t like building a fire inside the abandoned building his gang called home, but sometimes he would risk it if the weather was cold enough. Unnecessary cooking was a different matter, though. “I don’t know if the ventilation is good enough for anything like that.” He looked around. “Someone get Gitana.”
Ozone found her sleeping off a hangover in the next room, and he brought her in, sleepy and sullen. She perked up when she saw Vince and shoved her corkscrew curls off her face.
Vince tried to ignore her soulful look. Gitana was all right, but she wanted him to be exclusive and that just wasn’t going to happen. “We’ve got his turkey and we’re not sure the best way to go about cooking it.”
A scowl crept over her face. “You think just because I’m a girl, I can cook or something?”
“No, I think because you say you used to live on a farm, you can cook. Or something.”
“I suggested roasting it on a spit,” Ozone said.
Gitana shook her head. “Too hard to get it right. It would probably end up burnt on the outside and raw on the inside.”
“My sister has a hot plate, when the electricity is working,” Vince offered.
“And we’d do what, fry it?” Gitana squatted next to the turkey and poked it. “The most obvious thing would be to bake it an oven.”
Vince rolled his eyes. “I'll send someone right out to steal one.”
“We can make one.” Gitana picked the bird up and examined it thoughtfully. “All you need is bricks and mortar. Or mud. But a hole in the ground would work, too.” She stood up and wiped her hands on her pants. “Dig a hole, line it with rocks, and build a big fire. When the fire dies down, put the turkey in and cover with more heated rocks and some dirt. Wait a few hours, and you’ve got turkey dinner.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.” Vince jingled a few coins in his pocket as he pondered. “Panzón owes us a favor," he told Ozone. "Take it to his place and tell him to cook it for us. Remind him what we did to the guy who stole his delivery cart, and tell him this is how he can pay us back.”
Ozone stuffed the bird in a canvas bag.
“And tell him to bake us a few potatoes or yams, too. Whatever he’s got,” Vince added. “And we want some bread. Day-old is fine.” He rummaged in his pocket and took out a coin. “What the hell, get one of those pies he makes, too.” He handed Ozone the coin. “He’ll want to be paid for that, I’m sure.”
Ozone frowned in confusion. “Sure thing, boss, but what’s the occasion?”
“Pretty fancy dinner for just every day,” Gitana agreed.
Vince looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Don’t need a reason to celebrate,” he said. “Life’s not easy, but we always find a way. Sometimes a guy just wants to give thanks for what he’s got.”
Vince looked at the dead bird in distaste. “This is some interesting contraband.”
“The stuff you asked me to get was hidden inside. The turkey is still pretty fresh—doesn’t stink yet or anything.” Ozone gave a little shrug. “I thought we could eat it.”
A few of the other gang members sat on the dusty concrete floor. Speedball had been obsessively disassembling and putting back together his guns for the past half hour, and was too jumped up on cocaine to care about food. But Fausto looked up from polishing a stolen watch with a dirty bandana, and fixed Ozone with a level look. “I'd kill my own mother for a decent meal right about now, but how do plan on cooking it, genius?”
“Roast it on a spit?”
Vince didn’t like building a fire inside the abandoned building his gang called home, but sometimes he would risk it if the weather was cold enough. Unnecessary cooking was a different matter, though. “I don’t know if the ventilation is good enough for anything like that.” He looked around. “Someone get Gitana.”
Ozone found her sleeping off a hangover in the next room, and he brought her in, sleepy and sullen. She perked up when she saw Vince and shoved her corkscrew curls off her face.
Vince tried to ignore her soulful look. Gitana was all right, but she wanted him to be exclusive and that just wasn’t going to happen. “We’ve got his turkey and we’re not sure the best way to go about cooking it.”
A scowl crept over her face. “You think just because I’m a girl, I can cook or something?”
“No, I think because you say you used to live on a farm, you can cook. Or something.”
“I suggested roasting it on a spit,” Ozone said.
Gitana shook her head. “Too hard to get it right. It would probably end up burnt on the outside and raw on the inside.”
“My sister has a hot plate, when the electricity is working,” Vince offered.
“And we’d do what, fry it?” Gitana squatted next to the turkey and poked it. “The most obvious thing would be to bake it an oven.”
Vince rolled his eyes. “I'll send someone right out to steal one.”
“We can make one.” Gitana picked the bird up and examined it thoughtfully. “All you need is bricks and mortar. Or mud. But a hole in the ground would work, too.” She stood up and wiped her hands on her pants. “Dig a hole, line it with rocks, and build a big fire. When the fire dies down, put the turkey in and cover with more heated rocks and some dirt. Wait a few hours, and you’ve got turkey dinner.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.” Vince jingled a few coins in his pocket as he pondered. “Panzón owes us a favor," he told Ozone. "Take it to his place and tell him to cook it for us. Remind him what we did to the guy who stole his delivery cart, and tell him this is how he can pay us back.”
Ozone stuffed the bird in a canvas bag.
“And tell him to bake us a few potatoes or yams, too. Whatever he’s got,” Vince added. “And we want some bread. Day-old is fine.” He rummaged in his pocket and took out a coin. “What the hell, get one of those pies he makes, too.” He handed Ozone the coin. “He’ll want to be paid for that, I’m sure.”
Ozone frowned in confusion. “Sure thing, boss, but what’s the occasion?”
“Pretty fancy dinner for just every day,” Gitana agreed.
Vince looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Don’t need a reason to celebrate,” he said. “Life’s not easy, but we always find a way. Sometimes a guy just wants to give thanks for what he’s got.”
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Flash Fiction Interlude: God's Work
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, one of the characters from My New-Found Land. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
“Looks like this is it, boss.”
Vince gazed up at the war-scarred building in dismay. “Can’t be. No fucking way.” He looked around, but saw no other likely buildings. “Maybe it’s on the next block.”
“I’ve been counting since the last place with a sign,” Ozone said. He gave a little shrug.
A few feet away, Speedball darted glances up and down the street as he fondled his Kalashnikov. Seeing nothing to hold his interest, he took aim at a pigeon on the bell tower. “So it’s a church. Big deal.”
“It is a big deal. And don’t go shooting the damn birds, okay?”
Speedball lowered his weapon. “Just because you’re superstitious doesn’t mean I am.”
“I’m not superstitious. I don’t even believe in God, you motherfucker. It’s just—” Vince glanced at the carved wooden doors, pock-marked with gunfire, and the stained glass windows, shattered in some places but still suggestive of peace and beauty. “It’s not cool to do the kind of work we do at a church. That’s all. Now go check that this place is clear.”
While Speedball walked the perimeter, weapon at the ready, Ozone lingered, trying to be philosophical. “It’s not like anyone uses this church any more. I bet they haven’t had a holy communion, or whatever they used to do here, since the Resource Wars. The whole neighborhood’s a wasteland.”
“Exactly. Those bastards could’ve picked anyplace to do this, so why here?”
“That’s Quix for you. No respect for the past.”
Vince rubbed the blue tattoo running in a stripe across his left cheek. “Tell the others it’s okay to bring the cart.”
After Ozone left, Vince did a quick check of the premises. Not that he didn’t trust Speedball – the guy was loyal, in spite of being about as sane as a rabid raccoon. The problem was that he couldn’t stay away from the substances that gave him his code name, and a drug runner with an addiction was always bad news.
It was hard to find good help in a post-apocalyptic city.
Satisfied that the place was secure, except for the pigeons Speedball was aiming at again, Vince found a spot at the front of the church where he could lean in phony nonchalance against a pole. Once again, he cursed Quix for setting the rendezvous at a church. The choice of location had been no accident; Quix never missed an opportunity to gain a psychological edge. But what did he want?
Ten minutes later, Quix arrived, lean and sallow, with locks of oily red hair poking out from beneath the brim of his leather hat. He was flanked by bodyguards, but Vince knew from experience that they were mostly for show. The mean-looking girl with the Glock on her hip and knot of tangled curls hanging down her back wasn’t a fighter at all, except in bed. Vince hadn’t particularly minded losing her to a rival, since there were prettier girls who could show a guy a good time and still go out on assignment and pick off a few enemies.
Vince walked casually in Quix’s direction. Speedball hurried to join him, and Vince was pleased to see a look of fear flit across Quix’s face. Having a loose cannon like Speedball on one’s team had its advantages.
Quix adopted a casual expression. “Glad you could make it. Nice weather we’re having.”
“No bullshit, you motherfucker.” Vince rested a hand on his .45. “You know I don’t cut deals in churches. It’s obscene.”
“Oh, come on – we’re doing God’s work. We’re offering escape and peace of mind in troubled times.”
“Yeah, whatever. It’s all business to me. What’ve you got, where’s it going, and what’s my cut?”
Quix glanced at Speedball, then at his own guards. He turned his eyes back to Vince and gave a little jerk of his chin. “Let’s go inside and talk like civilized folks.”
“I’m not civilized, and I know for damn sure you’re not.” Nevertheless, Vince led the way to the church steps and paused with his hand on one of the brass door handles. The heavy oak door was ornately carved with boats and apple trees, lions and lambs. He didn’t know what even half of it meant. Those old church stories were things grandparents and people in the villages remembered. Urban youth had other priorities.
But believer or no, the scenes unsettled him, and as Vince pulled open the door to the yawning dusty space within, he made a little promise to himself. He would take some of the profit off this deal and give it to his sister, who worked as a nurse in the wreckage of downtown. He would tell her to donate it to the fund for indigent patients. And maybe the god of this small church, who surely didn’t appreciate his house being abused this way, would be appeased.
“Looks like this is it, boss.”
Vince gazed up at the war-scarred building in dismay. “Can’t be. No fucking way.” He looked around, but saw no other likely buildings. “Maybe it’s on the next block.”
“I’ve been counting since the last place with a sign,” Ozone said. He gave a little shrug.
A few feet away, Speedball darted glances up and down the street as he fondled his Kalashnikov. Seeing nothing to hold his interest, he took aim at a pigeon on the bell tower. “So it’s a church. Big deal.”
“It is a big deal. And don’t go shooting the damn birds, okay?”
Speedball lowered his weapon. “Just because you’re superstitious doesn’t mean I am.”
“I’m not superstitious. I don’t even believe in God, you motherfucker. It’s just—” Vince glanced at the carved wooden doors, pock-marked with gunfire, and the stained glass windows, shattered in some places but still suggestive of peace and beauty. “It’s not cool to do the kind of work we do at a church. That’s all. Now go check that this place is clear.”
While Speedball walked the perimeter, weapon at the ready, Ozone lingered, trying to be philosophical. “It’s not like anyone uses this church any more. I bet they haven’t had a holy communion, or whatever they used to do here, since the Resource Wars. The whole neighborhood’s a wasteland.”
“Exactly. Those bastards could’ve picked anyplace to do this, so why here?”
“That’s Quix for you. No respect for the past.”
Vince rubbed the blue tattoo running in a stripe across his left cheek. “Tell the others it’s okay to bring the cart.”
After Ozone left, Vince did a quick check of the premises. Not that he didn’t trust Speedball – the guy was loyal, in spite of being about as sane as a rabid raccoon. The problem was that he couldn’t stay away from the substances that gave him his code name, and a drug runner with an addiction was always bad news.
It was hard to find good help in a post-apocalyptic city.
Satisfied that the place was secure, except for the pigeons Speedball was aiming at again, Vince found a spot at the front of the church where he could lean in phony nonchalance against a pole. Once again, he cursed Quix for setting the rendezvous at a church. The choice of location had been no accident; Quix never missed an opportunity to gain a psychological edge. But what did he want?
Ten minutes later, Quix arrived, lean and sallow, with locks of oily red hair poking out from beneath the brim of his leather hat. He was flanked by bodyguards, but Vince knew from experience that they were mostly for show. The mean-looking girl with the Glock on her hip and knot of tangled curls hanging down her back wasn’t a fighter at all, except in bed. Vince hadn’t particularly minded losing her to a rival, since there were prettier girls who could show a guy a good time and still go out on assignment and pick off a few enemies.
Vince walked casually in Quix’s direction. Speedball hurried to join him, and Vince was pleased to see a look of fear flit across Quix’s face. Having a loose cannon like Speedball on one’s team had its advantages.
Quix adopted a casual expression. “Glad you could make it. Nice weather we’re having.”
“No bullshit, you motherfucker.” Vince rested a hand on his .45. “You know I don’t cut deals in churches. It’s obscene.”
“Oh, come on – we’re doing God’s work. We’re offering escape and peace of mind in troubled times.”
“Yeah, whatever. It’s all business to me. What’ve you got, where’s it going, and what’s my cut?”
Quix glanced at Speedball, then at his own guards. He turned his eyes back to Vince and gave a little jerk of his chin. “Let’s go inside and talk like civilized folks.”
“I’m not civilized, and I know for damn sure you’re not.” Nevertheless, Vince led the way to the church steps and paused with his hand on one of the brass door handles. The heavy oak door was ornately carved with boats and apple trees, lions and lambs. He didn’t know what even half of it meant. Those old church stories were things grandparents and people in the villages remembered. Urban youth had other priorities.
But believer or no, the scenes unsettled him, and as Vince pulled open the door to the yawning dusty space within, he made a little promise to himself. He would take some of the profit off this deal and give it to his sister, who worked as a nurse in the wreckage of downtown. He would tell her to donate it to the fund for indigent patients. And maybe the god of this small church, who surely didn’t appreciate his house being abused this way, would be appeased.
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