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403 Nobody gives up more runs than the Cleveland Indians, but nobody gives a fuck because baseball sucks.

403

Nobody gives up more runs than the Cleveland Indians, but nobody gives a fuck because baseball sucks.

Short Stories no one likes: Kamikaze Ann

Wednesday, June 24, 2009 10:49 PM

The small earpiece was uncomfortable, but the necessary information finally arrived just after she carried the silver bike over the last step of the pedestrian bridge. The job would be done in about ten minutes. Good thing, too, since it was six o'clock and already pushing eighty. By afternoon it would be hot enough to kill the elderly.

The bridge had the the usual fencing running along either side in case some kid or antisocial jerkoff got the idea to hurl a cinder block over the side. Ann stopped and leaned the bike against the wall, which was drowning in graffiti down the length of the walkway. A mural, fairly new, depicted Cookie Monster attacking a young boy in his bed. Next to that, a more faded, hastily sprayed message: Karyn's Mom is a kunt! Working quickly, she took off her pack and assembled an M-40. The occasional car blew by some thirty feet below, the four lane Interstate quiet so early on a Sunday. Ann smoked a Marlboro Menthol and put the butt in her back pocket, waiting for the final signal. The target was a 2004 Peterbilt with a fancy redneck paint job. It's driver and cargo were not welcome on the north end, and Ann's typical fee of ten grand was doubled by her employer's rival, sick of the funny business and in agreement that differences should be put aside in order to eliminate the problem.

The earpiece sounded again, a low beeping noise that told her the truck had passed a device planted on the side of the freeway just a mile up. She had about fifty seconds.

She took a look over the wall, saw the truck in the distance, and got into position. Down on the other end of the bridge, two men appeared. Each man had a bottle of malt liquor in a brown paper bag, and both saw Ann at the other end of the bridge. The men stopped, looked at each other, and made their way across.

It was still fairly dark, and the men didn't see the gun until it flashed twice, screaming into the humid morning air. The truck went under and hit the dividing wall, rolling into view on the other side and spilling its undesired contents all over the road. A raggedy blue Escort was unable to stop and slammed into the cab, now on its side and hopelessly destroyed. She didn't need to look. She knew.

She put the rifle down, reached around her back and pulled out a black handgun. She turned to face the two men, both of whom felt strangely sober despite drinking Kobras for the last four hours. One was already pissing his pants, the urine dripping into a small puddle around a tired Air Jordan. "I'm sorry, but you weren't supposed to see that. Do you understand?"

Pissy understood alright, turning and taking four or five desperate steps before bullets to the head, neck, and back ended what had been a rather disappointing life. Blood sprayed to the ground just before the body crumbled to the cement. Pissy's buddy didn't move. He couldn't. He found himself unable to take his eyes off of this woman. This woman he was going to take not even a minute ago, a woman who had just shot two people and was about to shoot a third. She was beautiful, with a cat on her right arm that was so real, right down to the green eyes that never stopped watching and made every second feel doomed. He finished his last few swallows of beer and took her in one last time before closing his eyes.

She added the shell casings to the cigarette butt in her back pocket, took the rifle apart, and packed her bag. Moments later, she was riding through the subdivision at a comfortable pace, putting chunks of distance between the sirens and the silver bike.

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Short Stories no one likes: Kamikaze Ann

Wednesday, June 24, 2009 10:49 PM

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