Bill in Richmond, London. |
Thanks to all the entrants, readers and a big shout to the organizers, Eric Beetner, Holly West, Steve Weddle and the other good folk at Do Some Damage who also published the winning stories - and, of course, a thumbs up from the late, great Bill Hayes...
SHOTGUN
WEDDING
by
Angel Luis Colón
Something Old
Hank and Annie were about as good a pair
as lit dynamite and an orphanage. They met at dirty little rub and tug just
outside Dallas. He was tired after a long day of drug slinging. She was wearing
a Walmart kimono and enough pancake makeup to kill a man twice her size. Only
thing they loved more than pawing at each other was that damn
methamphetamine—and maybe good old fashioned violence.
Old Nelson Hauer found out about the
violence first hand with a rock to the side of the head. He made the mistake of
being the Good Samaritan for what looked to be a nice, young couple hitching on
the side of Interstate 15, a few miles south of Las Vegas. Last thing he saw
was those two kissing the way teenagers would and speeding off in his ’62 Chevy
II Nova.
Something New
“There’s Vegas up ahead, baby.” Hank
ran his arm under his nose—narrowed his eyes at the red streak running from
wrist to elbow. “Excited?”
“We’re getting married,” Annie
sing-songed.
“We need some money.” He looked over to
his lady love. “That old man have anything in the glove? Revolver or
something?”
Annie kicked the compartment open and
shook her blonde mop. “Nothing but maps and bullshit pamphlets.” She lifted one
of the pamphlets and grimaced at the title, Chlamydia:
Do’s and Don’ts.
“Gotta make a pit stop, then. Buckle
up.” Hank took his own advice—for a change—kept that pedal down like he was
trying to touch the asphalt with his boot.
Two lefts and a right outside of town and
he found what he was looking for. Big old sign said ‘Gun Garage’. “Hold tight,
lover.” That Nova bull charged into the storefront. Wasn’t a soul in the store,
so nobody was hurt—not like Hank would have cared. “Stay in here and give a
holler if the law shows up.” He booked it out of the car.
Annie nodded and lit a smoke.
Hank was back lickety-split with twin
shotguns—one pink—“For my lady-love.” He offered it like a bouquet.
Annie was all smiles. “That is so god
damn cute.”
Back on the road they went.
“So we get money…” Hank paused to light
a cigarette. “…then we hit up that fancy chapel you talked about.”
Annie bounced in her seat. “The Little
Church of the West Wedding Chapel? Oh, you’re the best.”
“Like I said; we need to hit an ATM.”
He pulled the wheel hard and came to a skidding stop in front of a local bank,
the lights popping to life inside. “Man the fort. I’ll be out in two minutes.”
Annie loaded her shotgun and winked.
“I’ll keep the motor running, baby.”
Something Borrowed
Elena stripped off her wedding dress. A bright pink shotgun between the eyes was
all the provocation she needed.
“Thank you, sweetie.” Annie lowered her
aim and clenched the dress in her hand, her press-on nails raking against the
delicate polyester mesh of the hem. “Give it right back when I’m finished.”
Hank took hold up duties with his own
double barrel while Annie stripped. He took a second to admire that
well-rounded derriere of hers and licked his lips. “Hurry on up—need to get out
of here and get you into a hotel. Some place higher end like that Days Inn a
few miles out.”
“You spoil me.” Annie forced the dress
over her waist. She had a full head height over Elena—who stood there mouth
agape and shaking like a lapdog.
Her fiancé, Bill, was busy nursing a
shoulder full of buckshot—Hank’s way of telling him to stop being a fucking
hero. Hank gave him a little kick and smiled. “Fucking flesh wound, champ. Man
the fuck up.”
The dress on, Annie lifted her shotgun
and aimed it over at the Reverend Joseph Love Parrish IV. “Alrighty—get
started, Rev.” She turned to Elena. “You think you and your boyfriend can sign
the license as witnesses?”
Something Blue
Two “I do”s, forty miles and thirteen
squad cars later—there they were—surrounded on all sides by the boys in blue
with a score of gun barrels trained on their sweaty heads.
It was easy enough to find the newly
christened Mister and Misses Kapowski. One dead senior citizen, an obliterated
store front, five bank tellers and a crying bride in a stretched out dress led
the coppers towards I 15 South. No telling the tax payer dollars wasted in all
that time.
“Shit.” Hank dumped a sloppy rail on
the quivering skin between his thumb and index finger. He brought it to his
nose and snorted. Sweat beaded across his brow and made trails down the side of
his face. “Shut up,” he muttered.
The police were very insistent the pair
came on out with hands up, but truthfully, not a one of them really wanted that
to happen. That many itchy trigger fingers needed work to do.
Annie—well—Annie was a little too
preoccupied covering up her half naked body and coming down from her high.
“Maybe we should listen to them.” She tossed that one into a suggestion box had
a hole in the bottom.
“No.” Hank’s eyes were saucer wide. He
raised the shotgun. “I’m sorry lady-love, but I ain’t going back.” He turned
the barrel, slid that bad boy between his lips and leaned his fingers down
against the trigger.
Boys in blue would later argue over
whether the sound of that gun popping Hank’s head like a zit was louder than
Annie’s screams.
Poor Annie Kapowski—alone, bloodied,
and with a ringing in her ears that would take weeks to leave. She raised both
hands and a few deputies did her the favor of escorting her out that ruined
Nova.
A few steps towards the waiting squad car and she stopped short with a wince. “Damn, wait a sec. Think I got something in my shoe.”
BIO:
Angel Luis Colón has landed ass first into crime fiction and is taking a shine to it. His work has appeared in WeirdYear, Red Fez and Fiction on The Web with forthcoming work due out in Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, All Due Respect and Big Pulp. He hails from the Bronx and works in NYC, but is currently exiled to the wastelands of New Jersey with his family—thankfully; he has access to good beer and single malts.
You can follow his grumblings on Twitter @HeckChoseMe or be audience to his useless ranting over at http://angelluiscolon.com/.