Snake Oil and Pit Days: Random Scene #4

architecture-279225_1920Did you know, the ocean’s made of jello and the sky’s a blue whipped cream. And us, we’re just standing on some green mold that grew in-between the two. A sweet sandwich with a sick little center. Such a dessert was often seen at Hobert’s cafe, a truly horrible little place born from urban blight, malaise, and more pedestrian strains of disease. That’s where I was, one simple little Wednesday.

Now, for someone that knew the place was a rat’s ass in the stew away from being condemned once and for all, I could never get myself to stop going there. There’s something a little bit addicting about suffering, I guess it helps your days feel like they have pits and peaks. Real food tastes better after eating sludge, after all. This day, though, was a surefire pit. I had just been told I had about as much chance making in the music industry as the moon eating a bad souffle and killing us all in a food-poisoning induced supernova- and that the person thought that might just be the better option.

While I was sitting on my no-longer-cushioned barstool, just sulking in my own self-pity, I was approached by a real sleazeball.

“Niles, man, what’s got you in such a funk?”

I turned around. Taking a seat right next to me was Hank, a born con man that sold the kind of stuff that made snake oil look good. ‘Course, I didn’t really need to look, I knew it was him when his cologne burned my nose hairs off.

“Hank, what brings you here, besides a full wallet and an empty heart?”

“Talk about a sourpuss. I worked my ass off today, and what did you do, besides sulk around here?”

I shrugged. “Nothing at all, but what’s it to you?” Continue reading “Snake Oil and Pit Days: Random Scene #4”

On Gas Station Convenience Stores

I always had a slight fascination with gas station convenience stores.

People don’t go to gas stations because they really want to. Sure, people aren’t being literally dragged to them, but if your car is running out of gas, you have to go to a gas station. Maybe you have a few to pick from. Maybe you don’t. It doesn’t matter, the end result is you, in a gas station, buying gas.

Nobody’s going to a gas station for sightseeing, either. Sure, if they’re by a tourist trap, tourists will be there, but they didn’t come to see their top of the line Slurpee machine. As far as the whole convenience store bit goes, people don’t go for low prices, great selection, or high-quality product, they go because it’s convenient. Unlike the “super” in supermarket, the name “convenience store” is accurate.

All this serves to make gas stations a sort of magical place. Think about it, if you were going to say, hide an underground bunker, a gas station is the perfect spot. I mean, people want to minimize time spent in a gas station, not maximize it. Nobody’s going to search for the thing. You could hide anything in a gas station, nobody would care.

Continue reading “On Gas Station Convenience Stores”

On Mountains

Massive, primeval beings that blot out the sun. They lay, uninterested, far above the world I know. Walls envy them, but obstruction is not their purpose. They exist to exist. A spire to unending stubbornness, waiting eons for their eventual erosion. I feel as though I can see their pulse, though they breathe no air. Truly, they frighten me. They enclose me without trying, with jagged rocks to deter escape through them. They are my protectors, the giver of all life. Their rivers feed a thousand like myself. I fear them nonetheless, an animal-like response to things beyond comprehension, their sheer size and weight impossible to truly understand . In their shadow, I am infinitesimally small.

Memoir of a Hitman: Random Scene #3

When you see someone die, they get permanent squatter’s rights in your brain. Look, I’m no hardened killer, death was never my preferred profession. It was never just work for me. It was always personal.

I had shot someone in the shoulder. He had come to my house. Mafia guy. I had debts, he was collecting. Apparently, he had debts, too.

“Finish me off.” He said, gritting his teeth.

He hadn’t suspected to me to use a weapon. Unfortunately for him I was more than a little angry, and he had brought a bat. I knew I had a solid line of legal defense. I had let him in, told him I was going to get the money, and then shot him from a safe distance. Who’d they believe, a mafioso or me?

“Why? I’m sure the authorities have already been called-”

“Do it, or they’ll use my family as leverage. Please.”

“I’m not going down on a murder charge.”

“Fine. Just hand me a knife. You can do that, at least?”

“Are you su-”

“Do it!”

I took a cloth out from on top of the counter and used it to grab a knife from the rack. I handed it to him.

He had been shot in the left shoulder, so he grabbed with his right hand. Then he stabbed it right into his stomach.

And that was it. He was dead. He wasn’t the first person to die in front of me. The cops came and took me away. Soon enough, I was out scot-free. That didn’t solve the whole “no money” problem though, and now I had a butthurt mafia looking for revenge. Continue reading “Memoir of a Hitman: Random Scene #3”