NOTE: I actually feel really good about my work here. It's the first piece since my first work that I've sat down and written it from beginning to end. I will say that you should be warned by the rating that there is strong language and discrimination by the main character. Enjoy!
"Larry! Stop pointing that fucking gun at my dad!"
There was a flurry of gunshots, and four men, two with colors for names, lay dead on the floor of an abandoned warehouse. Four men, three guns.
The first to pull the trigger was Joe Cabbot, the head of the ring of anonymous heisters. His gun was pointed at a puddle of blood whose name was Mr. Orange. Mr. Orange was in fact a cop.
The second who had pulled his trigger was Mr. White. His identity had just previously been revealed as Larry. He had his revolver pointed at Joe.
The third was Eddie "Nice Guy" Cabbot. His sights were set on Larry, whose gun was pointed at Joe, his father, who pulled the trigger to fire the bullet that would eventually end the life of Mr. "The Cop" Orange.
Four men died, each from a bullet. Three of the men had guns.
Four men, four bullets, three guns.
Mr. Orange died from Joe's bullet, Joe died from Larry's, Larry from Eddie's. And then Eddie died too.
How is it that four men die from gunshots when only three had guns, and each only had time to fire one shot?
How did a bullet materialize in "Nice Guy Eddie's" stomach?
Because there was a fifth man in the room, he too with a color for a name: Mr. Pink.
When the four men lay in what was now a lake of blood, Mr. Pink got out from under the ramp where he was hiding, smoking revolver in hand, and like a zombie he stumbled to the exit of the warehouse where a sixth man (Mr. Blonde), the fifth dead man, lay in yet another pool of his own blood. Next to the body was a leather bag, and in this leather bag was, what must have been, a few million dollars worth of diamonds.
Mr. Pink grabbed the stones and booked it.
Outside the warehouse at least a dozen police sirens could be heard.
This place is going to be crawling with dicks any minute, thought Mr. Pink. Panic was a constant impending force at this point. He had heard of a little thing called adrenaline. He wasn't sure if it was a tangible hormone, but if it was, he could sure as hell feel it now.
His mind was racing almost as fast as his heart. A random thought occurred to Mr. Pink. He wildly remembered Mr. Blonde's voice when he told Larry, "My heart's beating so fast, I'm about to have a heart attack."
"Yea, ain't that the fuckin' truth…" Pink found himself saying out loud. He opened the door to the tan sedan with the shattered windshield which he'd bartered from a young lady just hours ago. Then he thought better of it. Surely by now she'd filed a police report. How subtle would it be if he decided to drive around in a stolen vehicle with a windshield that looked as though King Kong had just decided to throw a hissy fit taking it out on the car? Now wasn't the time to dilly-dally either, with the sirens growing closer and all.
"I think I'll walk," said Mr. Pink, again to himself. He started down the street. Then he thought better of that. How would he explain to the dicks why he was walking down the street, conveniently dressed like a bunch of jokers who massacred a diamond store carrying a huge bag of ice that was worth more than just a pretty penny? He played over that scenario:
Oh, hey officer! Thought it would be a nice day to put on my black suit in eighty-five degree weather and walk down Judson Boulevard with a leather bag filled with diamonds that I just so happened to find.
Somehow, Pink didn't think that would fly. The sirens were growing louder. Alley ways were the only way.
He started to sprint across the parking lot to a tall brick building. There was a chain fence around the corner of this building which he went to hop, without realizing that his right hand was holding a decent sized bag of loot, and his left tightly clutched his revolver which he hadn't yet thought to put away. His heart felt as though it was going to burst through his chest.
Luck was on his side when he discovered that the door to the brick building was unlocked. It couldn't get much worse at this point so he went inside. An empty stairwell.
"Christ, is every fucking building in this town abandoned?" Pink said, once again out loud. He took a few long deep breaths. He had to relax. He had to stay professional. And he couldn't be professional if he wasn't relaxed.
He sat down on the steps, his pulse steadily lowered, and he felt his head cool down just a bit. "Be cool," he said to himself. "Just be cool. It's just you now." He let out another long sigh. The thought occurred to him that he must have looked pretty ridiculous talking to himself.
As he gathered his thoughts, clutching the bag of stones, he began to replay the scenario that he had just witnessed.
First of all, Larry, Mr. White, whoever he was, he had to be the biggest moron Pink had ever personally worked with. Orange must've been spilling his blood on that ramp for two hours. If Joe hadn't killed him, he sure as hell was going to die anyway from all of the blood loss. So why an idiot like Mr. White would go through the trouble of defending a guy, whom he didn't even know by name, against a generous man like Joe, with his son standing five feet away with a gun pointed at him, was the most ignoramus thing he could have possibly done.
"What a way to go, fuckin' douche bag…"
And then there was Joe. Mr. White had complained about working with a psychopath like Mr. Blonde. What about getting paired with a moron named Larry? That, and how could you go through with a job without being one-hundred-and-ten-percent on someone? No wonder there was a rat! Pink found that he had lost a lot of respect for the posthumous Joe Cabbot.
Then there was Nice Guy. Mr. Pink specifically recalled him screaming at the top of his lungs, "There is no fucking set-up!"
"How could you be that fucking ignorant?!" Of course there was a set-up. Joe Cabbot very rarely screwed the pooch. Not this bad any way. At that point, as far as Pink was concerned, they all got what they deserved in the end. Besides, he never was too fond of Eddie and his lust for men. That's mostly why he shot the scumbag. "Fuckin' fairy…"
The sirens outside were still blaring away. In his train of thought he hadn't noticed how they had all screeched and swerved into the parking lot. Several gunshots had gone off. If anyone was still alive in that building, surely they were dead now.
It wasn't Mr. Pink's style to remain so close to the nest, but this building was empty, and it seemed safe enough at least until dark when he'd be harder to notice. Again he recounted what had happened.
Joe, Eddie, Brown, Blue, Blonde, Orange, and White were all dead. That left just Mr. Pink and a stash of very valuable rocks. This cut was going to be real juicy.
That finally put Pink's mind at ease. He eased onto the floor, revolver in one hand, ice in the other, and thought it best to nap off what had been more than a fair share of a stressful day.
When Pink woke back up, it was nightfall. He peaked out the door. All the cops had left. He looked around the corner. The coast was clear. Time to book it.
He angled away from the parking lot of the warehouse and made it to Judson Boulevard. The diamonds were his. He would have to line up a buyer of course. But this would be a nice payoff.
And he had a funny little story to tell his dope-head buddies.
He walked a few blocks and found a beat up Chevy that he thought no one could possibly miss too much. The door was unlocked (Why lock this piece of shit? Pink thought musingly). After a few tries he was able to hot wire the car and he was on his way. His revolver was safely tucked in his coat pocket. The leather bag placed safely in the passenger seat.
Mr. Pink let out one last long sigh. "What a fucking day…" he said. This called for some music. On came the radio and immediately a low mellow voice filled the car.
"Welcome back to K-Billy's Super Sounds of the Seventies Weekend… We have some—"
Mr. Pink turned the dial. "God I'm so sick of this bull shit… What else is on?"