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Back to our regularly scheduled blog...
One of my recent discoveries in flash is Alissa Leonard's FINISH THAT THOUGHT.
This week's thought to finish: "It was [his] only job that weekend, and [he still forgot about it]."
Bonus for including "3 of the following: a dog named P-weezy, a cat named Pancho, a left shoe, a yellow #2 pencil, a hubcap, a banana peel."
So here is "The Hitman."
It was his only job that weekend, and he still forgot about it.
“I am the worst hitman EVER!” Mike sighed aloud.
The hushed mumbles and sudden shuffling of feet drew his attention to the line forming at the doors. He pulled out his trusty yellow #2 pencil, and scribbled. Note to self: refrain from saying that on a crowded train. On the plus side, everyone leaves you alone.
(Despite the fact that he frequently wrote notes to self, he always seemed to say them aloud.)
Extraneous conversations eliminated, Mike enjoyed the relative quiet of the now-deserted subway car. For the first time, he really heard the clack on the tracks, and really felt the sway of the subway as it plied along the Lexington Avenue Line. Above the door he spied the yellow-black-white-red placard.
CONCEALED HANDGUNS ARE PROHIBITED ON THIS TRAIN
The steady rhythm and 24-point Arial bold words conspired to inspire him. He began singing.
Ridin’ on the train
Got my gun
Gonna have some fun.
That’s perfect, he thought. That would have worked. If I had just remembered.
Mike’s entire life had been a series of near misses—or near hits—depending on how you looked at it. This past weekend was going to be his shot at the big time. He’d scored an appointment with Pancho, a really connected cat. Though Mike was an unknown quantity, he sold Pancho on his ability to knock ’em dead. Pancho took the chance, and offered Mike the gig of a lifetime.
“If you kill them, you’re in,” the “impresario” promised.
“I won’t let you down,” Mike vowed. But he did. He slipped on a proverbial banana peel. Yet again.
Note to self. When you need to be somewhere, on time, ready to rumble, SET AN ALARM.
He continued his musical musing.
Missed my target
Missed my mark
My finger on the trigger
Mike had it all planned out. The club promised to be packed. He figured he could make a modest entrance. Slip in unnoticed. And then BAM-BAM-BAM! They wouldn’t even know what hit them.
After that, everyone would know the name... Mike.
Note to self. Come up with a cool new handle.
Killin’ the past
Put a bullet in that name
Mike is dead
Now I got game
Mike was so involved with his running self-dialogue that he failed to notice the newly arrived occupants of the car.
But they noticed him.
“Yo, P-weezy. You hear that, dawg?”
“We got to tell Mikey.”
“What for? We can just cap this dude ourselves.”
Got no girlfriend
Got no wife
Can’t write a good rap
To save my ...
Simultaneous clicks from two Glocks caught his attention.
“We’ve got a message from Mikey for you.”
Note to self: a wannabe songwriter—someone who wants to write a hit song—is NOT the same thing as a hitman.
What do you think? A hit or not?