The Horse’s Head


He was unmoved by the fact, that he had instantly smelled the gun on Frank, who had picked him up to “go, see the man” a few minutes ago. The look in Frank’s eyes, as they casually exchanged pleasantries, screamed murder. Frank had never been much of a poker player, nor would he ever be – the inability to hide emotions would not get Frank far in this business.
It did not matter. For once, they would not be able to use his family as leverage. His wife and children were safely out of the picture, he had seen to that.
As he entered the room, his eyes fell on the polished mahogany desk and those manicured hands, tapping the smooth surface. Pavolini fixed him with his grey, concrete stare.
“Sam. Please, have a seat.”

This time, there would be no mercy.
This time, there would be blood.

(147 words)

Written for VisDare28: Obscured – 150 words or less. Grab a pen and join the fun!
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vendetta – the greater game

Skeeter did not know about the part he played in Berlucci’s big game, nor did he care.
the less he knew, the better.
he simply needed the money.

after finishing the last of his stale cereal, he put on his faded leather jacket, slipped into his favorite sneakers and put the brown envelope, folded once, into his back pocket.

it was early morning. dawn hadn’t fully erupted yet; there was a certain calm in the air – the sound of  his footsteps on the worn street’s surface his only companion.
he zipped up his jacket to keep from shivering and tried to focus on the tasks ahead; his fingers absently playing with the keys in his jeans pocket.
he had a lot of work to do.

if everything went as planned, Berlucci would be pleased.
a faint smile spread to the corners of his mouth.
if everything went as planned, he would be rich.

he rounded the abandoned street corner, deep in thought. the dark, gloomy alleys in the bad part of the city – he knew them by heart. a couple more turns and he would be at his destination.
10 minutes, tops.
quick business.
after, he would treat himself to some coffee over at Berney’s.

the scuffing of boots on concrete made him stop in his tracks.
then, a rasping sound, followed by a heavy click.

shit shit shit.

Skeeter slowly raised his eyes.
the toothpick in the corner of the man’s mouth twitched and danced happily, a stark contrast to the 45 caliber pointed at Skeeter’s chest. the gunman’s gray, unmoving eyes narrowed.

“Bye bye, Doggie…”, spoken in a cold, gravelly voice was the last thing he heard before the thunder erupted.
then an angry snort, followed by footsteps, fading quickly.
then… silence.
his eyes lost focus as the first rays of the morning sun touched the top left corner of the dumpster next to him.

Skeeter died in the alley behind the hardware store, choking on his own blood; five crisp $100 bills in a brown, folded envelope in his back pocket.
the cop who found him half an hour later never got to know his name.
after the crime scene was secure, he got himself a double latte over at Berney’s.
the styrofoam cup was pleasantly warm in his hands.

cop recruit

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