NIGHT WORK

For my second post, I decided to try some flash crime fiction.  I just submitted this little fella over at Shotgun Honey.  They publish some of the best flash fiction I've found.  Gabino Iglesias just got a good one published over there today, so head over and check it out.  I definitely don't think I'm anywhere near his level of writing, or countless others, but fuck it, I'm gonna let my nuts hang on this one.  The worst they can do is say no, and the best they can do is publish it.  Either way, I'm still going to keep trying to wear out these laptop keys.

Without further ado, below is the short piece I produced, titled ANATOMY OF A STICKUP.

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ANATOMY OF A STICKUP.

Any old stick-up can turn into a fuck-up.  I'm a professional.  But I fucked up.  I'm gonna break this down for you, 'cause brother, all we got now is time.
First things first, your average career armed-robber doesn't survive if he doesn't do the homework.  You GOTTA do the homework if you like eating steady.  Suss out the location, people involved, the neighborhood.  Familiarize with the ebb and flow of life around the score.  Maybe you got a hot tip that there's a high-stakes poker game above the garage down on Mercy Street?  Turns out, you know the local beat cops roll through around 11pm.  Also, there's an apartment building across the street full of old, rotting pension collectors who love to call the police at the slightest sight or sound.  Preparation here is key.  Hit the place at midnight.
Next piece of professional advice?  After you pop the door and come in, calm and cool, like a gentle spring rain, you gotta get mean.  Stay quiet about it.  Survey the room.  Notice the familiar looking faces at the table, chalk it up to old money and cheesy local celebrities.  Look, there's that sleazy TV weatherman you hate!
Grab the nearest middle-aged banker type, flip that motherfucker over, and keep your boot on his neck while you cover the room with your weapon.  If you're solid, like me, then you'll pick something solid.  Glock 17?  It's like slipping a rubber in your wallet when you hit the titty bar.  You might not need it, but you'll thank yourself later if you need to strap it on.
Keeping it steady and quiet, give the fellas explicit instructions for bagging up the cash.  You need a little sandpaper in your voice, eyeball the room like Dirty Harry, pressure on Banker-Boy's neck so his sputtering reminds the rest of the room that it can always be worse.
Another thing.
KNOW THE PEOPLE YOU'RE STEALING FROM.  I didn't do homework like I should've on this score.  Wish I did.  Far as I thought, it was a bunch of yuppies waiting to get broke.
I fucked up, right there, but you might not.
The guy to your left, the Captain America-looking motherfucker, might get angry.  He might get brave.  He might look like he's reaching inside a rumpled suit jacket for a gun.  Your first thought is fuckin'-A right, buddy.  He is.  He'll try to yank it out like a gunslinger, and he'll catch it on the inside pocket.  Your adrenaline dumps.  The action slows down.
You see the hilarious little .25 auto finally clearing the pocket.  You put Captain down with two in the chest.  The scene freezes as you look at him, light leaving his eyes now.  You're thinking-- I never killed nobody before.  This moment stretches into forever.
Hell breaks loose.  The rest of the poker gang moves as one.  A chair, a bat, something, rings your bell.  Shit gets hazy.  You fire wildly, screaming into the darkening abyss, barely hearing the click of an empty gun as doughy desk-job bodies smash into you.  Falling.  Blacking out into nothing.
You wake up.  Cuffed to a steel bench bolted to the wall.  You sit up.  The cop at the desk notices.  A smirk, the worst goddamn shit-eating smirk you've ever seen, brings life to his ugly mug.  He sips coffee, and with nonchalance, tells you that Captain America was this town's hard-charging district attorney.  That's why that motherfucker looked familiar, you realize, as Officer Ugly Mug comes and lays into you with his leather sap.  Back into nothing.
You wake up, again.  You're staring at the ceiling of a holding cell, lying on the bottom bunk of beds that led a past life as a park bench.  A scared-looking kid, sits at the small table bolted to the wall.  He smiles, all shy, and asks you what's up.  He asks what you're in for.  If he's young and naive enough to ask that question, he can be taught.  You can build a better stick-up artist.
Later that night, after the lights go off in the cell, you start talking.  Teaching The Kid what it means to be a professional.

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....well, it's over, folks.  That's a relief.  I know that the use of a mostly second-person narrative is, to put it politely, unorthodox, and if any of my English teachers see this, I'm sorry.  It was a gamble and I didn't lose any fingers or toes doing it, so I'm not going to apologize any further.

Until next time, let me know what you think!!!  Oh, and check me out over at the Ginger Nuts of Horror website (posting my first review hopefully this week), and you can also follow my ramblings on Twitter, my handle being @TheRealJohnBend.

Later!