Welcome to week 4 of the Wasted Words weekly writing prompt. It’s not a prompt, it’s an order, dammit.
Well, hell.
I’ve really got to come up with a better tag line for this thing.
Lame tag lines aside, we are paying homage to Women in Horror Month (#WiHM for you socially savvy folks. I’m clearly not socially savvy, as evidenced by the use of the word ‘folks’.) Last week we had a line from a classic horror novel, but this week we are going for something a little more modern. This week’s lucky winner is: Broken Monsters by Lauren Beukes. Admittedly, I haven’t read this one, although, I did read Shining Girls by the same author and enjoyed it. Going through the quotes has definitely made me curious about adding this one to the ol’ TBR pile. There were a lot of good quotes, but I settled on one of the more mundane one mostly because I’m interested to see where everyone’s minds take this thing. So, without any more non-sense, this weeks prompt is:
Good manners will do that; turn a situation around.
Good luck. I’m looking to see where this one goes.
I wanted to try something a little different this week, and although nothing like this, there's a chance my next novel is going to space so I thought I'd give it a shot.
Title: I said Fucking Please
“Sir, there’s a Pthyangran ship off the bow. They’re hailing us.”
Captain Krik sat back in his chair and tried to play it cool. I wonder if it would look more intense if I crossed my leg, He thought.
The ship’s main screen lit up with an angry looking face, distracting Captain Krik from his dilemma. Crossing his leg now would just make him look anxious. He would go full man-spread, maybe scare the aliens off with a little bit of the D.
The Pthyangran were a brutal race. Just last week they took down The Home Shopping Basket, another Space Force ship, shooting off one wing at a time like they some psychopath kid, snatching wings of helpless flies. The aliens even bothering to attempt communication before a ruthless attack was out of character. Then again, the Time Warner BOOMbox was one of the fleets most armored cruisers, and not some lightweight like the Basket. Perhaps the large ship would be enough to stop an onslaught.
“Ted Turner, give us your ship, or die.” The alien’s voice ciphered through the ship’s translator, still sounded menacing.
Captain Krik fought the urge to shit himself, containing the explosive force of bowel to a mere squeak that could have easily been blamed on the chair in later tellings of the story. A bead of sweat rolled down Krik’s forehead. “You are mistaken,” he practically yelled at the screen. “Ted Turner’s conscious lives on Earth 52,194. My name is Krik and I’m the Captain of this vessel.”
The Pthyangran erupted with laughter, showing off rows of yellowed teeth in the process. “I know who you are, Krik. Just. Another. Victim.”
Captain Krik gripped at the edges of his chair, trying to think of a way around the situation. He touched a key on his seat, essentially muting the alien call.
“Cloudrunner,” he said to his weapons engineer, “does that ship have any weaknesses?”
“Scanning now,” Cloudrunner shot back. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“Sir, if I may.” This came from Thoreau, the ship’s diplomatic specialist.
Krik stifled a groan. “What is it, T-row?”
Diplomatic specialist was a bullshit title in Krik’s book. The BOOMbox was sent out to find new Earth’s and conquer shit in His Holiness’ Corporate LLC, not be diplomats. You can’t make an omelet without cracking a few eggs, universal domination was no different.
“New reports have shown that the Pthyangran’s do respond positively to respect and manners. Good manners will do that; turn a situation around. If you would like, I could attempt a negotiation that was agreeable for both sides.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Captain Krik said. It was out of line for a captain to speak like that on the bridge, but Krik couldn’t hold it in. That’s all these New Toronto-ians want out of life, to be agreeable.
Krik shifted in his chair and immediately cursed himself for breaking the cool demeanor. Legendary captains don’t fidget. “Cloudrunner, tell me you’ve got something so I can please tell this guy to fuck off and die.”
“What?!” The Pthyangran leaned closer to the screen, his face even more misshapen than normal.
“Oh, fuck.” Captain Krik looked down at his chair. When he shifted position, his finger must have come off the mute key.
The BOOMbox rocked to the side from the impact of a Pthyangran Death Missile.
“I don’t think he appreciated the sentiment, Captain,” Thoreau said from his seat.
“I fucking said please,” Captain Krik said. “Now, Cloudrunner, please shoot this ugly asshole out of this galaxy.”
Mike shifts his weight back into his corporately approved and cubical-space appropriate office chair. Determination tightens the corners of his eyes more use to laughing than regurgitating corporate mandate.
“These numbers are astounding; your work ethic and numbers are off the charts.” He lists the stats: 1.4MM saved with this, three position advancements within the time it takes most to learn basic job function, work loads that would make most quit their 9 to 5- middle class approved- Starbucks level coffee run pay grade.
He squirms a little more in his chair not making eye contact with me, shuffles the papers around, clears his throat as Big Business grips his balls tight in a ‘it’s you or them’ vice grip.
“But it’s your attitude. No one likes you, you’re too intimidating to approach.”
I hesitantly push my hair back, re-arrange my conservative top meant to conceal not enhance double D’s. I spent the last three years of my life burying myself in my work, not socializing for fear of not licking the right asshole to climb the corporate ladder. Nothing worse than tossing the wrong salad.
I don’t want to go back to working late shifts at the restaurant, having leering old men ‘accidently’ brush my ass, call me sweetheart, ask if I ever want to get out of this work by maybe coming to their place after my shift.
“I don’t mean this personally, I know you’re a good person but maybe try encouraging people more by sending them a simple,” Mike gestures with his hands, doing his best Trump impersonation, “I don’t know, email? Send them an email telling them you’ve noticed them and how well they are doing. Good manners will do that; turn a situation around.” Mike nods his head, thinning hair falling into eyes pleading with me to just take the news. Don’t cause trouble.
“Hey honey, how about you come outside for a smoke break with me? Bet you want to get off those feet for a while, hmm?” A strong hand grabs my wrist, the other pushing against my back to guide me in his direction while my heels dig into the floor.
My mind knows I should take Mike’s advice. Maybe I have been too withdrawn, trying to not bring any attention to myself. I suppose that could come across as the ultimate resting bitch face with a side of I’m-better-than-you. Mamaw used to tell me my soul shinned brighter than all the stars in the sky and I would have men flocking to me when I grew up. Mamaw sure was right, she just never mentioned that it would be the lowlife men who saw something shiny and wanted to abuse it until they were bored.
“It’s been a tough year for the company, as you know. We do appreciate all your work, I mean,” a soft chuckle,” your work speaks for itself…1.4MM. But with the way the environment is right now…” Mike pushes a paper toward me. “So 20 cents is the best I’ve got, umm you know because of your attitude.”
Don’t cause trouble.
Don’t cause trouble.
I take a deep breath, push air out of lungs, my head hurts and my ears ring.
My involuntary inhale pushes my tits up and out.
His gaze drops.
All fucks I ever gave leave me. Peace washes over me like a stripper being sprayed with Cristal. I know I’m about to get just as fucked, but it does feel nice.
“You can keep your 20 cents, Mike,” I lay my nametag on the table between us. His jaw drops, words trying to form but nothing coming out.
“I’ve had better offers.”
I walk out of the door, down the fluorescent bulb lit corridor, and out into the blinding sunlight. I close my eyes as the sun’s rays burn into my mind reminding me I’m a real person not a cardigan wearing marionette that should smile so I look prettier.
Love the closing sentence. Great story.
In times like these, I think back to the words of wisdom of Ron Fryer, my mentor in newspapers. He held the highest standards in reporting in an age where journalism was still an honored and trusted institution.
It wasn't that he had no enemies; that no criminal or politician held him in contempt. A few did, but they never declared it publicly. Their complaint was that he had published the truth, and the truth had not been worn well by them.
One commissioner had gotten quite upset that his jailhouse mugshot was published. The charge was flimsy and thrown out in court, but it was still headline news that the arrest had been made. It would have made a good script for comedy had it not been for the characters involved.
His "retribution" was to cancel his subscription and all interviews with the paper. It took him a year, but he realized neither course helped him.
Looking at things today, I recall that just two years ago, while still vying for office, Brent Clinton threatened legal action if we did not sell him the banner ad space. One of his competitors had purchased it before it crossed his mind. When she was bullied out of the race, she cancelled the ad, and he got his wish.
There is great divide in our current elected officials and one event highlights that well. A few months back, the widow Johnson had driven her mule and cart down to the square and parked it in the middle of Main street. She was quite irate that her property was to be auctioned off on the courthouse steps.
A crowd soon gathered as the County Mayor yelled and threatened both her and the mule, both of whom had the same temperment and simply dug in more, the mule keeping an ear turned to the footsteps of the politician as a crowd formed about.
The farmers in the crowd knew the intentions of that mule quite well. It meant to plant a hoof square in his chest or butt as soon as he took the right step. The mayor had beaten the mule with little effect other than riling it up and soon stepped toward the widow. As he reached over the seat, turning his rear to the animal, the mule planted his foot square on the target, lifting the politician up and launching him across the street, landing him in the middle of a holly bush. The crowd roared in laughter.
By this time, Sheriff Robert L Shirley had arrived with several deputies, and quietly surveyed the crowd to find the facts of the matter, the widow, and what beef she had. He had his deputies enlist the more popular members of the crowd, and they had been walking through speaking to the rest.
The Sheriff steered clear of the mule's range, as he quietly approached the widow's perch on the cart. Few could hear his words, and her responses grew calmer and quieter as they talked. They ignored the shouts of the mayor demanding the mule be shot and the widow arrested on that very spot.
When asked how he had calmed the irate widow and mule, he replied, "Good manners will do that; turn a situation around."
Soon, a local businessman approached, escorted by a deputy. Though well known, he is quiet and swore me to not publicize his name. The County Trustee beamed on the courthouse steps as her bidders dispersed. It seems donations had been steady until the mayor's flight, but doubled thereafter. The Trustee had been paid not only the backtaxes owed, but the next two years worth as well.
The widow Johnson coaxed her mule to the side of the street and the crowd dropped goods in the back as they passed by, the widow's attention still on the Sheriff as they did. Soon, she joined him inside Joe's Place. SGT Johnson had lost his life in the war a few years back and friends of Brent had been trying to get the farm ever since. She had been unable to bring produce to market in the years alone. It had barely produced enough to feed her two kids.
Last year, she had a bumper crop, area Veterans having scheduled visits to ensure the land was worked.
Join the story at https://www.facebook.com/W-T-Mingle-116483606455157/?__tn__=kC-R&eid=ARBOyLJAxqD7nZxYgZZFZNdzcxFM6thQYOBN5xM4vhznqXgDp9gh6A5Ir4zfzstqvejYvawi1v_GHtZl&hc_ref=ARQyAjThEcwAXHIY5JjaKFIMj2L6HDihV38TJNtPkV9MTMVx38cbJXNwHgkZaH207xU&fref=nf&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARDRKsUg3HcC5OdDat1yesDjUnbPEIYUB8JWTYSP5GaQdSqi-wJ_YcHUuSiSlh419Z295_ph2PGjWud_sRbfCROewVTWZDqmWtvynKZalyhjJPwMe5fDKGlhEySJvaeUlTe0Wp-_gGK7d35xaFLiZ0CpW4TWWYxwKhOCV87jLe-qRJohDUicvwyP0nSrUgBryZU42R067HpxGeGiV_tZGJaVeGWR9UwZaPdTQynHEeZrHGuW12gvyfS28XlBzJ9pKI7HXC_BD7onvqUX_PrFuJir4FZYj5vJSgLAwed678ocKW-KvreachptcwtDvt-uN_2Q7WhVm7cxtoG0O-iM8jY or critique the author's stylish errors here.
Shotgun County lies in rural Middle Tennessee, in the imaginations of the characters that travel through, whether they intend to be part of the story or not.
"crowd soon gathered as the County Mayor yelled and threatened both her and the mule, both of whom had the same temperment..." no lie, I'd gather to watch this scene as well.
It's hard to say if they were betting on the mule, or just curious what he thought he would achieve. In these parts, most know a mule can remember an offense for 20 years, serving up retribution at the time of its own choosing.
Hotkeys
Brett, why do you always have to be such a fucking asshole?
I bang the words out, clicky mechanical keys echoing like the staccato of machine gun fire. It’s satisfying.
The cursor blinks at me.
[Control][A]
[Delete]
Brett, it would help if you had something constructive to say, instead of constantly making snide remarks and implicitly questioning my intelligence.
[Control][A]
[Delete]
Brett, I appreciate your feedback, but
[Control][Shift][Left Arrow]
[Delete]
and I understand your concerns.
[Control][A]
I hit the Delete key so hard it flies off the keyboard.
My eyes shift over to the wall of comments plastered on my code review. Forty hours of work in two days and not a single positive word.
Maybe it is shit.
Could be.
I sip the last cold dregs of coffee from my mug. I’m so tired I can barely think.
[Control][L]
I have to peel myself out of my chair. Grabbing my mug and coat I shuffle down the hall to the kitchen and over to the automatic espresso machine. I punch the button labeled “Two Shots” and watch with glazed eyes as the machine spits out sweet hot nectar of the gods. I hit the button again, this time letting my fingers linger over the Braille dots affixed as an afterthought under the label.
A gaggle of Millennials stand between me and the fridge. I run the gauntlet and grab a jug of milk. They’re talking about whatever Millennials with too much money, too much free time, and too much education talk about. I don’t understand half of it. Maybe I’m too old. Maybe I just don’t care.
I pour the milk into a stainless steel cup and put it under the steam wand. The milk swirls and froths, slowly thickening. When the cup is almost too hot to hold I turn off the steam and carefully pour it into my mug. I try to make a leaf with the foam, but it looks more like the aborted fetus of an elder god.
I want to [Control][Alt][Delete] my life.
Throwing my coat on, I punch the elevator. Then it’s four floors down, looking intensely at my boots and trying to be invisible to the other humans occupying the cramped space. I’m the first one out, first one to the door. I hold it open for the others, because why be a dick?
It’s forty degrees and raining. I find some shelter under a tree and pull a cigarette out of the pack with my teeth. A flick of the Zippo. That satisfying click as the lid slams shut. I inhale deeply and relief washes over me.
I put my mug down on the curb, pull out my phone, and text my wife.
Brett just shat all over my code review.
<thumbs down emoji>
I’m going to have to rewrite the whole thing. Over a thousand lines of code. I have no idea what he wants. Zero constructive feedback. At least he could draw some fucking boxes and arrows or some shit.
He won’t tell you what he wants?
It’s all just vague design theory crap. He’s hung up on the purity of the design. I just need to get it working. This is an extremely complicated service and I’m already balls to the wall against the deadline.
Sounds like you need to get all Dale Carnegie on his ass.
I don’t even know what what means.
Make him want to help you by showing him how it will help him.
Ugh.
Nothing wrong with some ass-kissing, either.
Double ugh. I don’t think I can turn this situation around. I’m convinced he thinks I’m an idiot. I’m going to have to rewrite the whole thing and I don’t even know where to start.
Be nice. You’re Canadian. Use your manners. Good manners will do that; turn a situation around.
I’ll try. Thanks, sweetie.
<face blowing kiss emoji>
I stub the third butt out in the gutter and light a fourth. Pick up my coffee and sip some life back into my exhausted body. Forty degrees and raining. This weather sucks. It’s been like this for months. Will be for months. Fuck Seattle.
I think about Kauai. I try to imagine the sound of the freeway is ocean waves and the rain is warm instead of bone chilling cold that seeps straight through to your bones.
It doesn’t work.
Flicking the fourth butt into the bushes, I walk back to the office, badge my way through the door, and hit the elevator button. A cheerful sign on the wall invites me to coffee hour with Womxn in Programming. I’ll pass, thanks.
Four floors up and down the hall to my office. I slump into my chair and key in my PIN. The empty email stares back at me, cursor blinking. I pick up the delete key and pop it back onto its Cherry MX Blue switch.
I shotgun a Coke Zero.
Brett, thanks so much for taking the time to give my code such a thorough review. I could definitely use some of your expertise with the design of the service at a more granular level, because I’m having trouble translating the high level concepts into functional code. Could we carve out an hour or so tomorrow to hit the whiteboard and walk through the problem areas you highlighted in your review? I want to make sure I get this right with the architecture you have in mind. Thanks!
[Control][Enter]
Dale fucking Carnegie.
Title: Southern Comfort
Comments: Sure thing! I don’t usually write much dialogue in short stories so this is new for me. Hopefully it’s not too much.
It was a real scandal that rocked the small town. You might even say it was a delicious scandal from the way the news was on everyone’s tongue.
Regardless of the exact circumstances of his death, the proper etiquette was to show up on the widow’s doorstep with food. So, Ellen May immediately set about to boiling a dozen eggs.
Now, spring funerals absolutely required a dish with hard boiled eggs, what with Easter around the corner and all. Some of these eggs would go into her blue-ribbon recipe for Ham Salad Tea Sandwiches that she planned to bring to the funeral. You just couldn’t die in Granville County without her Ham Salad Sandwiches and that was that.
The other eggs? Well, she planned to use those for an altogether different purpose.
If you were to walk by at that moment and spy Ellen May through her kitchen window you’d wonder exactly what that ham had done to offend her so. The cleaver made short work of chopping up the ham, but it was not a pretty sight. Only a few folks knew that he (the heavily emphasized “he” being her ex-husband, of course) had said using a cleaver wasn’t “sexy” and begged her to find more appealing ways to prepare meat. Weirdo.
Ellen May paused her brisk attack on the ham to carefully pick up her phone which was now buzzing for attention.
“Oh, Ellen May, I’ve just heard the news. I’m so sorry!”
“Is that you, Charlene? What news?” She liberally applied a patented air of innocence.
“You know what news! I’m talking about your ex-husband. George. He died. That news!”
“Oh, yes, such a shame.”
“Are you making your Ham Sandwiches for the funeral?”
“Of course.”
“You were cheated of the 2007 Best In Show for that recipe. You can ask anyone in town and they’ll tell you.”
“So good of you to say.”
“But of course you heard how George died, didn’t you?”
“No, what happened?” The fake innocence was so easy to slip into. She knew perfectly well what happened, but wouldn’t dream of depriving Charlene of the privilege of retelling the story.
“You know I hate gossip, but I feel it’s only fair to tell you. They said he died of a heart attack -- after sex. They found him in his house dead -- and naked. Well, not technically naked. They said…” Charlene’s building anticipation of sharing this particularly juicy morsel practically bled through the phone and her words came out in a rush. “They said he was wearing only a pair of devil horns and a red forked tail. He died dressed like the devil.”
“My word. Halloween is not for another six or seven months! Why would he be wearing that?”
“Something kinky, Ellen May, and you know it. He and that tramp he left you for deserved each other. Can’t believe he married her before the ink on your divorce papers was dry.”
“Well, at least he died doing what he loved best. That’s a comfort.”
“Ellen. May. Beaufort. That’s irreverent. Watch your tongue or God will hear you.”
“Whatever could you mean, Charlene? He loved Halloween. What were you thinking about?”
Charlene sputtered. “Fine. Will I see you at the funeral?”
“Of course. I’m heading over to the widow’s house soon with a dish to express my condolences in person, but I’ll see you at the services.”
“Well, bless your heart. That’s good of you, Ellen May. I know that most people would assume you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with that tramp, but you’re showing the real Christian way of burying past regrets. Bringing a dish will give her comfort. It’s a tough situation and all, but good manners will do that; turn a situation around.”
“Thanks, Charlene. Listen, I got to finish cooking. I’ll see you later.”
That afternoon when she pulled up at George’s place, you could have flown a kite off the breeze created by every single woman on the block ripping open their curtains to watch.
Ellen May quickly smothered her smirk and replaced it with the classic, pained “my condolences” expression. The old ladies would know in a split second what dish she brought -- you just couldn’t hide the distinctive “half moons” shape of a classic egg holder.
Soon, the whole world, or at least Granville County, would know that Ellen May Beaufort floated up sweet as a breeze with an elaborate plate of deviled eggs for George’s widow (that tramp).
Ha! This is amazing. The deviled eggs...so funny. I kept thinking it was going to turn dark, but I wasn't expecting anything quite this real. Well done.
I planned for this to end darkly but somehow it ended up just being really petty hahahaha. Thanks for reading!
Title: Good Manners
comments: sure
“You shoulda thought about that before. You’re gonna do this or it’s your ass...”
Stacks waited for Fat Al to finish and give him the nod. When he did, Stacks ushered the kid to the garage, where the car was waiting.
Stacks had gotten a call from Dave the Nose a week back. The kid likes the powder a little too much. How much is too much, Stacks had asked. 20 large too much, Dave said. Stacks whistled low. Damn right, Dave said, in his pinched voice (no septum). Tell Al I’ll take care of it, I know he’s good for it. But I’ll need a favor.
Al just laughed when Stacks told him. My sister’s gonna love this, he said, as he slapped a meaty paw on the desk. Her baby boy, working for Uncle Al. You wanna play the game, you gotta pay if you lose. Ain’t that right, Stacks? Just like your old man. I got my claws in him good, didn’t I? Listen, you make sure this goes clean.
Stacks nodded as the memory faded. That’s right, Al. Sure thing, Al.
He adjusted the rearview as they shot out of the tunnel, barreling into downtown traffic. The kid didn’t look good. He was rocking back and forth, shaking, kept tapping on the window.
Stacks rolled the glass divider down. The kid was talking to himself.
“Where’s the money? Where the fuck is the money? Where is the fucking money? Where’s the money you fuck? Fuck you, tell me where’s the money?”
“Hey,” Stacks said, and the kid jumped. His eyes rolled loose in his head like a slot machine, finally settled on Stacks. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be quick and easy, in and out.”
“Shouldn’t I at least have a gun?”
Stacks laughed.
“The way you’re shaking? Just keep cool and You’ll be home before you know it.”
The kid nodded, licked his lips, blew out a breath like Dizzy Gillespie, his cheeks puffed out.
“Don’t you fucking puke in my car.”
Divider back up, Stacks took the off ramp. A single smokestack belched out blue black smoke ahead. The old mills. No streetlights here. He guided the Caddy down a back alley he knew by heart, killing the lights, slowing to a crawl.
The kid, drenched in sweat, was still talking to himself in the back.
Your first one, you never forget. Stacks, his hand gliding over the wheel as he leaned into another turn, another alley, another black hole, let the memory wash over him.
He hadn’t been much older than the kid, back there, then. His old man was all but a stranger, but they knew he owed. They knew that much. On those nights he did come home, no one said anything. He’d empty his pockets, track receipts spilling out. Hands shaking, his breath like fire in their faces if they made so much as a sound. His belt came off quick.
Stacks remembered, one morning, it was so quiet. Dead silent. It was just him and the old man, sitting at the kitchen table. The old man’s eyes more red than white, the gray in his hair shining brilliant in the morning light, the bags under his eyes black as thunderclouds. A chill shot up Stacks’ spine as he looked into his old man’s eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so, if he ever did. But there it was. He really saw him. Looked into to his soul. Saw the monster in there. Fueled by weakness, fear.
The old man knew Stacks saw it, too. He got up, overturning the table, cereal bowls, milk bottle, all smashing against the wall. He threw his coat on and left the apartment.
That night Fat Al came to the apartment. Stacks listened from the bedroom.
“He’s a problem, Janie. And what do we do about problems? We take care of them.”
His mother argued, but her heart wasn’t in it, he could tell. When Al left, Stacks followed him out of the apartment.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Al turned around, surprised. He laughed.
“You? How are you going to take care of it?”
“He’s a coward. I’m not.”
“It takes more than courage, kid. You got the look though. You come see me when you’re older, I’ll give you work.”
“I’m ready now,” Stacks said.
“That’s what everyone says,” Al said, and left.
—
Later, while his mother slept, Stacks snuck into her room. Opened the closet door, balanced on the small stool from the kitchen, and pulled down the lock box his father kept on the top shelf. Knelt on the carpet. Opened it. He never locked it. Stacks pulled out the gun. Checked the chamber. It was full. He stuffed it into his pocket. He closed the box, got to his feet. One lone track receipt fell to the floor.
Good manners, it read in fading ink. 12th race. $25,000.00.
The one that cost them their house. The one that put them in this place, living with rats. Living with junkies. Living in the same building as Fat Al.
—
Headlights flashed. The car pulled around back of the garage. Stacks rolled the divider down.
“You ready, kid?”
“I’m...yeah I’m...”
On cue, the kid puked. All over the backseat, the window, himself.
Stacks sighed, got out. Opened the back door.
“What did I tell you?”
He opened his jacket, took out his gun. Fired two rounds into the kid. Then he went into the warehouse.
—
“Al? It’s done. No, he didn’t make it. Sorry, Al, what can I say? Nope, they didn’t either. Of course. I persuaded them. Yeah, it’s in that flop house on 17th. Be back soon.”
Stacks got back in the car, started it up. Put on some Miles, sank into those long, drawn out notes, eyes closed. He loosened his grip loosen on the gun. Put it on the passenger seat. Ran his fingers along the handle. The words etched there illuminated in the moonlight. Good Manners.
Good manners will do that; turn a situation around.
Excellent work, sir. I really like the twist on Good Manners.
Title: Good Manners
Comments: Always
Matthew was usually more sensible.
Never bring a knife to a gunfight; that’s what Pops always told him. The switchblade in his pocket was heavy in his hand, but the two .38s pointed at him reminded him of Pops’ wisdom.
“You shouldn’t have tried to run off with his cash.” Jenks’ .38 didn’t waver as he spoke. “Mr. B doesn’t take kindly to people who take out loans, then try to skip town.”
Maybe if it was only Jenks, Matthew would have a chance, but…
“Take your hands out of your pocket, real slow. No funny business.” Martin, standing about three feet to Jenks’ left, held the other pistol.
“Trust me, boys. I’ve got nothin’. We're all friends here."
The two enforcers glanced at each other, then back to Matthew. Jenks motioned the barrel of his .38 towards the ground.
“Get on your knees.” Matthew settled to his knees, hands still in his coat pockets. A bead of sweat formed on the back of his neck as Jenks stepped forward and held the revolver just a few inches from his forehead. “Any last words?”
“Yeah, Jenks. Just so you know, your fly is down.”
“Oh geez, thanks.” The pistol swung away from Matthew’s face for a second as Jenks adjusted his zipper.
But a second was all Matthew needed, and he moved with the speed of an already-dead man.
In a moment, the switchblade was out, and the blade sunk deep into Jenks’ inner thigh. He howled and started to fall as Matthew lept to his feet, grabbing Jenks with his left hand and catching his .38 with his right.
Matthew felt Jenks’ body absorbing the slugs from Martin’s gun and hoped that none of them would cut through the man. He untangled the .38 from Jenks’ fingers and fired back, three shots in rapid succession.
Pop pop pop.
Martin’s body hit the ground with a thud.
Matthew let Jenks’ body slide to his feet.
He lived by a lot of rules that Pops gave him, but this time, it was the words of his mother that rang in his head.
“Good manners will do that; turn a situation around.”
"The switchblade in his pocket was heavy in his hand, but the two .38s pointed at him reminded him of Pops’ wisdom." Damn, that's a solid line.