Fiction Break: The Destroyer

This was an a piece I wrote for a night-school assignment. I ended up dropping it, but it's one of the pieces of fiction I've written I'm most proud of. The assignment was "Write something based on the sentence; I walk down the street, I turn the corner and..."

Yeah I know, shitty topic but I made this out of it. Enjoy.





Haste is the bane of my personal being, but today I make an exception. As I turn the corner the glare of the mid-day sun obscures the sign, Quk-E-Mart it reads under optimal conditions.




As I cross the street an ache in my back intensifies, the walk back should be most pleasurable I'm sure. The door opens the ring of the bell above the door betrays my intentions. A slimy, shifty looking male glares at me from behind the counter, as he turns to do so his name tag reveals itself, Yorick. No wonder the kid hates everybody. I stare at the newsstand, the newspaper is 6 years old, the most current magazine is a Sports Illustrated featuring Peyton Manning and Ryan Leaf... furthermore all the food, even the Twinkies, fail the stale test.



My Inquisitive mind races at full bore, the reason she called it “the package” became clear to me now. The real question was why me? Why here? Maybe she hoped I wouldn't pay attention to the specifics maybe she was counting on me ignoring the obvious signs? Maybe she wanted me to discover it for myself? Maybe shes learned of my past.



The doorbell rings again this time its not welcome company. “Sir, we've received a call about a potential drug...” that's all it takes for Yorick. He looks at me from where I'm hiding. I can see the look in his eyes, I've had the very same look in mine before. Without hesitation Yorick grabs the pump-action shotgun from under the counter and with blinding speed puts 2 slugs in chest of the police officer. Apparently the officer failed to believe the reports or budget cuts by bureaucrats have taken yet another life. Like a fireworks show that has risen to its crescendo, the life of this portly officer was now drawing to its awe-inspiring, sad conclusion... The sickly, red matter which has spent the overwhelming part of its time in his chest cavity, was now... well, not.



Yorick runs for the door, vaulting the counter and stepping in the liquid that now struggles to claim the floor. He peers out, he's never killed before and would likely never kill again.



As he makes his move, I make mine, I slip through the back Ilse and slide behind the counter. Yorick is at the door now and draws his final deep breath before three slugs find their mark. One reorganizes his face claiming his left eye and most of his bottom jaw. The others land in his stomach lightly rippling his abdomen. As he hits the floor, the soft thud, brings back memories of the way my heart thumped against my chest the second I reached home one night.. it was the first time I had cheated on a women... the eject button on the security cam recorder doesn't respond. I examine the tray... nothing there, just as I hoped. I crawl into the back.



I had only a minute, maybe less, before the dead officers partner called it in. They'd shoot first with an officer dead. They'd also tear the place apart so I'd have to hide in a place that I can fit, but would be unlikely to hide anything in. The drop ceilings would have to work, I just hoped it would support my weight.





Two hours later, the narc squad poured in, ripping at the walls. The dogs found the stash quickly, through a hole in one of the tiles I see it a white substance pure as finely processed salt. The detective knows what it is... Columbia's finest export.



4 hrs later a medical technician informs the group, now just outside the door judging by the clarity of their voices, informs him that the suspect is dead... Alas poor Yorick, I hardly knew ye.



26 hrs later...



Waiting is always the hardest part, so a famous singer once bellowed, but it wasn't as bad factoring in the fear, and the time I needed to process the whole situation. The questions streamed in my head? Was it just a coincidence? No I doubt it. Someone called it in, Yorick was depressed, jumpy, scared... he probably lived alone, no one to betray him, me on the other hand... A man is not without his flaws and one of mine was believing in the infallibility of the female persuasion... Well she asked me to travel across town to get the package she “needed”. I of course didn't ask questions I just did. Coke would net me a dime on good behavior even without my priors, but she couldn't know about those, could she?



Maybe she found out? Unlikely, she would have just left, I had to have done something. It's always me Ive learned... We hadn't even been together long, I hadn't felt that pull in my stomach, the one that always tells me I'm ready to move on. No perhaps it wasn't her after all, maybe a past acquaintance used her? Yes, surely.



The door closed this time I knew it was the last time. I tried to pull the tile up I had used to climb in. it crumbles in my hand. I feared my weight wouldn't hold as I try to climb out many more tiles break as I shift. Christening the floor in flecks and chunks I manage to get down but tomorrow surely my presence will be discovered, but at least I bought myself some time....





Outside the apartment, 2:35AM



I had maybe 10hrs before the police would find my print or a fleck of skin or a stray hair that would betray me... my past would again claim my future. The stairs were welcoming, I'll miss them. The cobblestone was high class compared to the cement of most other places. The handle was oak, hand carved so I'm told.



A young Arab woman is buzzed in, I seize the opportunity. Grabbing the door just before it closes. The elevator ride gave me the chance to decide on my approach. Not much to consider if I try to be to sneaking I'll be to easily remembered, best to just walk in like I own the place.

The door is unlocked. I turn it as quietly as I can, and enter. A light is on in the back room. She's home, the mail is on the table, as always. I examine it, Ms. Samantha McClain is the name listed on her phone bill, she was a productions assistant, or so I think. Well into her mid to late 30s but doesn't look a day over 29, I usually prefer younger women, they're always the most unaware of my activities on the side... its easier on everyone that way, but there was something different about this girl, maybe it was the money, that's what I told myself anyway.



I move towards the light, its low not the perfect illumination of usual light it was soft and golden. It makes everything it touches more glorious somehow. The sounds coming from the beddroom were all to familiar however, and dampen my sense of wonder. I open the door it swings open with a slight moan. The two bodies behind are blissfully unaware however.



As I watch her being tossed into the air a few inches continually, exposed, my heart implodes into itself. A man no more than twenty is doing the deed. He pants audibly, obviously overwhelmed by the moment he's forgone all sense of pace. Something only gained with experience. A women of her quality deserves far better.



None of that matters now, of course, all I can feel is a noose tightening.



I walk back away from the door. More confused now then ever, her purse lay on the coach next to her evening gown, brilliantly crimson. It sparkles and shines even with so little light. It's one she's worn with me before. I clean her handbag out. Every dollar, every penny. I'll need it if I'm to make it across the border. A bus ticket paid in cash should get me across state lines, then ill make it the rest of the way on foot. It'll be tougher to track that way...



A slight figure in a tan trench coat walks out the door he slicks his blond hair back with her comb, its graying slightly. As he adjusts his undershirt he walks away, leaving the purse open wide. It's contents exposed... he thinks its perfect. She can remember him the same way he'll always remember her...