just a take on this that i wanted to try out
"I don't know what I did wrong, but-"
Phoebe Hyerdahl coughed up blood and sobbed at the same time, interrupting the speech she was delivering from the pool of blood on the floor.
"You've always been a great friend, Pheebs...a best friend," Helga said. "But you know I didn't kill-"
What Phoebe wanted to say will never be known because Helga fired the gun pointed at Phoebe's head, ending all furthur conversation.
"She knew too much," Helga sighed sadly.
"I know," said Gerald.
THREE DAYS EARLIER...
"You gotta be kiddin me with this shit," Gerald said, looking at the stash on the table. Sid shrugged as Gerald lit a cigarrette. "Simmons'll never buy it, he knows his shit. How ya gonna do this to me, man? How the fuck you gonna do this to me!?" Gerald pulled out his gun and violently pushed it into Sid's face.
"Whoa, man. WHOA, MAN!" Sid screamed, but Gerald just pushed the gun harder into his sweaty cheek, "I'm just the supplier, you gotta believe me!" "I've taken this shit from you too many times! When you gonna learn-"
The phone rang, Gerald picked it up. He stood there in his dirty wife-beater and jeans not saying a word, just listening. He hung up and his eyes went back to Sid.
"You. Out now," he said, pointing to the door of the smoky, dingy apartment. Sid stared back at him blankly. "I said get out, mothafucka! You wanna finish what we started?"
Sid got up startled and reached for the stash.
"You can leave that here, but next time I expect the real shit. You got me, man?" Gerald said.
Sid nodded and rushed for the door as Gerald once again picked up the phone and dialed. "Hey Arnold, I just got a call from my nigga, Fuzzy Slippers... yeah, shit's goin down. Be there at ten... Cool."
He hung up the phone and sat there on the stained seaweed-green couch for a long time, with his eyes closed. He slowly took a drag off his cigarrette and then checked his gun. He got up from the couch and put on his jacket, then stood by the small kitchen table to look around the room. He didn't want to do it, but he knew he had to- he didn't even want to admit to himself that he knew he had to. But he did.
He had to kill Arnold.
TO BE CONTINUED...
"I don't know what I did wrong, but-"
Phoebe Hyerdahl coughed up blood and sobbed at the same time, interrupting the speech she was delivering from the pool of blood on the floor.
"You've always been a great friend, Pheebs...a best friend," Helga said. "But you know I didn't kill-"
What Phoebe wanted to say will never be known because Helga fired the gun pointed at Phoebe's head, ending all furthur conversation.
"She knew too much," Helga sighed sadly.
"I know," said Gerald.
THREE DAYS EARLIER...
"You gotta be kiddin me with this shit," Gerald said, looking at the stash on the table. Sid shrugged as Gerald lit a cigarrette. "Simmons'll never buy it, he knows his shit. How ya gonna do this to me, man? How the fuck you gonna do this to me!?" Gerald pulled out his gun and violently pushed it into Sid's face.
"Whoa, man. WHOA, MAN!" Sid screamed, but Gerald just pushed the gun harder into his sweaty cheek, "I'm just the supplier, you gotta believe me!" "I've taken this shit from you too many times! When you gonna learn-"
The phone rang, Gerald picked it up. He stood there in his dirty wife-beater and jeans not saying a word, just listening. He hung up and his eyes went back to Sid.
"You. Out now," he said, pointing to the door of the smoky, dingy apartment. Sid stared back at him blankly. "I said get out, mothafucka! You wanna finish what we started?"
Sid got up startled and reached for the stash.
"You can leave that here, but next time I expect the real shit. You got me, man?" Gerald said.
Sid nodded and rushed for the door as Gerald once again picked up the phone and dialed. "Hey Arnold, I just got a call from my nigga, Fuzzy Slippers... yeah, shit's goin down. Be there at ten... Cool."
He hung up the phone and sat there on the stained seaweed-green couch for a long time, with his eyes closed. He slowly took a drag off his cigarrette and then checked his gun. He got up from the couch and put on his jacket, then stood by the small kitchen table to look around the room. He didn't want to do it, but he knew he had to- he didn't even want to admit to himself that he knew he had to. But he did.
He had to kill Arnold.
TO BE CONTINUED...