Another continuation. Am I stuck in a rut? Maybe, but it’s a nice rut–the crickets sing to me at night and there’s a little puddle of water fed by some kind of underground spring.
To get the whole story, read Set Up then read Second Person.
This one is also my entry for this week’s Inspiration Monday. I used the prompt in a predictable way, but it fit so nicely I had to use it.
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I’m sleeping off a late night when I get the message. Only that could have penetrated my dead man’s slumber. There must be something to the sixth sense. Add seven years of bloodlust and it’s a sixth sense on speed.
I untangle myself from Billy’s girlfriend and hunt for my clothes. Shit. Billy’s girlfriend. But what the fuck’s he gonna say to the guy who catapulted through the ranks as fast as I did? He answers to me now. He may not know that yet, but I do. That’s all that matters.
I take the train so I can think. A guy in my position would bring some help, but I don’t want to clue him in until I’m ready. Fingers is still there and probably has guys lined up at every exit. The Great Wall of China just went up outside Lucky China Buffet, and my big brother is tucked away inside, enjoying his last meal.
He shouldn’t have come back. He knows he’s an endangered species in this town. What he doesn’t know is now, I’m this town’s wealthiest poacher.
This is kind of a continuation of Set Up, but it doesn’t have to be. Let’s do this again: find something about this one you don’t like and tell me in the comments. Come on! It’s fun!
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You’re at that Chinese food place again–the one with the streamers on the ceiling fans and the battery-operated candles trying to illuminate Buddha in the sunlit front window. You’ve paid the skinny Korean boy at the cash register and you’ve just sat down with your Moo Goo Gai Pan when you notice them. They’re eating in an innocent, almost weary silence. A break from their daily routine. A reprieve. You know it too well.
You consider switching to the chair across from you but decide against it. You don’t want your back to them. You slide your baseball cap around so the brim is in the front and tug it low on your forehead. You turn your spoon upside down on the table so you can see their movement in the reflection if they get up. Then you bow over your plate and eat. You don’t want to finish before them. You want to chew each individual piece of rice so you can remain a fixture blending into the restaurant and not the person they’ve been looking for for seven years. If you still recognize them after that long, they’ll still recognize you.
Two of them finish, take turns using the restroom, and leave. You hear their car start up and speed away. One remains at the table, engrossed in his phone. You like these odds better. You’ve been back in the city for two years, and he’s the first person you’ll have to confront. Not bad, you think.
He pockets his phone and looks at you. You turn your baseball cap backward again. You’re no coward. In here, or out there? you think at him. You don’t know he’s only there to stall you.
You don’t know it’s the second person, the one coming down the street toward that Chinese food place right now, who should really worry you.