Saturday, May 31, 2008

The Killer

By Patrick McCormack (Bio on "Choices")

The first time you kill a man you have to fight every natural instinct not to. You’re trained not to care, regardless how hard. The first one’s the hard one. You shake. Your heart feels like it’ll burst from all the adrenaline pumping through you.

Load up. Pull the trigger. Stab. Pull blade from ear to ear. These are the easiest to learn. What they don’t teach is how to forget his face. How to close your eyes without seeing him.

I’d never met my first mark. Not before that night. All I knew was where he was going to be. Club Zero. He’s there every night chasing tail. There with his wall of hired security. It’s amazing how high-profile Fed security is for witnesses when you pay attention. This guy was about to turn state’s evidence against my employer. That’s why I was there, two tables away. Sweating under the lights. The ice in my drink shaking as I lifted it to my lips. Waiting for the perfect opportunity.

It came.

A man can only drink so much scotch before he has to piss.

After his fourth round I went to the men’s room and waited. I puked twice.

When you shoot someone they don’t die immediately. Sometimes they don’t even fall after the first shot. You could hit them with a double-tap in the sternum - execution style. They’ll freeze; just standing there, staring. The third bullet, the headshot, ends it. I know this because they taught me. A soon-to-be killer.

After an eternity in the stall, waiting, watching the door through the space between the stall door and wall, he walked in. Fly already down. Security didn’t follow him. The room was ours.

I exited the stall when I heard piss hit the urinal. The knife felt cold in my hand. I knew I only had a few seconds before some drunk stumbled in the door. I had to do this quickly.

He was oblivious to everything beyond his own relief. Deaf to my approach out of the stall and behind him.

My knife entered his lung in one stab. Right between the second and third ribs. Silence. It’s impossible to yell with a knife in your lung. The perfect silent kill. He froze except for the piss still flowing. I twisted the knife. My eyes closed. When I opened them I saw his face reflected in the tile wall in front of us, locked like lovers. His eyes were locked on mine.

He fell when I pulled the knife out. I pushed him into the urinal. Head in the bowl.

I wiped off the knife and walked out.

It all took less than thirty seconds.

Job done. An envelop of cash would soon be mine.

It’s all down hill after your first hit. There’s a line, and once it’s crossed there’s nothing left. You’re a killer. It’ll never be hard again. After the first it’s too easy to kill.

My phone rings. Back to work.

Friday, May 30, 2008

Choices

By Patrick McCormack, Kansas City, Missouri. Patrick is currently a copywriter at a Kansas City ad agency. He is also a musician and martial artist.

The electric spark of the severed cable shot his eyes open. Getting oriented, he found himself on his back, the cable dancing sparks over his face. As the fog in his head cleared more of his surroundings came into scope. Above him was seat number B15 the same number on his train ticket.

Head throbbing, he raised himself to his feet, grasping a seat for balance. Flames gathered and flickered all around him illuminating the splayed bodies of the other passengers. Some alive, most dead. It finally hit him – the train had derailed. Who knows where they ended up, how many survived or if help was on the way. If it wasn’t for the shock he would’ve passed out right there. The noxious smoke choking his lungs. No visible way out. Faint coughs and pleas for help crept around him.

There had to be a way out somewhere. A door; a window; or the gaping hole made on impact. He crawled his way through to the next dark, smoldering car. Bodies everywhere. Apparently he stumbled into the dining car, full of feasting families. Or what was left of them. Place settings, shards of glass and food littered the carpet of passengers. He rubbed his aching eyes and pressed on.

As he stepped over the mess of people below him a thunderous BOOM! of flames threw him forward. The gas grilles in the kitchen had just exploded, blanketing the car in flames. Face down in a plate of prime rib he felt the heat of the flames behind him, devouring the dining car. At that same moment a cool night breeze caressed his face. He looked up to the left – a hole large enough to crawl to safety! Instinct took over and he bull-rushed the hole. Flames flooding toward him.

Nearly to safety, thoughts of relief flooding him, a faint cry of ‘help’ echoed to his right.
A small girl lay directly across from his exit, staring up at him with fearful innocent eyes begging for rescue as her voice failed with crushed lungs.

This instant seemed like an hour. There was only enough time to jump to safety himself or pull the girl out and toss her from the blazing mass grave. The savage flames threatening.

He made his decision.

He grasped the girl’s hand and held it tight. For that one split second looking at each other their minds were one. Her eyes pierced his. His hand in hers he raised to a crouching position. He took one last glance at the hole, then back to the girl.

“I’m sorry,” his strained voice yelled.

And with that, he freed his hand and dove out from the mangled, flaming grave. Tumbling and rolling down an embankment covered in wreckage. He finally stopped, hands clasped at his chest and gasping at the cool night air, he looked up to the train. It all burned as sirens approached in the distance. He laid there clinging to his life, and nothing more.

Chocolate Chip Consternation

By Momar Van Der Camp, Overland Park, Kansas. Momar is a budding independent comic writer, screenwriter and all-around creative wit.

Begin by stirring a large pot of a gravy-like substance that might or might not contain the same structure of chocolate or may even appear to be chocolate (but doesn’t have to be). If one wishes to contain the largest explosion of power, take the mixing bowl into the rain (for this can only be done while the skies leak down onto the Earth you call home. You must place the large bowl upon the top of your cranium and spin, counter-clockwise diagonally over an open field filled with the carcasses of fallen soldiers or war-heroes from the past (or even still containing the bones of those warlords that used to overthrow the lands you live on a daily basis). Once your stomach fills with the death of your soul and you bursting with the blackness of rotting flesh, the bowl contains enough sky-leakage to move forward with the experiment. Lie down in the open field and beg the forgiveness of the sky above you for damning it for all eternity with your rotten dance for chocolate chips. Wipe your face with the tail of your shirt and stand up, brushing from your back any unwanted carcass residue. Grab the bowl or earthen cup as you shall now call it and dump the contents onto the ground into the muddy levee that blossoms beneath your damp feet. This last feat will deem how appropriate your sacrifice to HG* will be. If cookies sprout from the refuse that you were once lying in, rejoice. If nothing happens, smash the earthen cup down upon your freed toes and bleed upon the mess lying below you. Renew your dance to the sky and try anew. When blood loss becomes a problem, consult the nearest physician.

* HG is the story of a man born into the freedom of the spaces above him. He stood at the four corners of the universe, all at the same time, smoking a rather large wooden pipe. On every fifth passing of the stars of Ganymede, HG would tip the contents of his pipe out onto the passing stars. Each fleck of ash would follow the path of the stars to a new destination, forming new worlds and new planets. This is how reality was born.