A short for the Blakenhall Writer's Group. The original specs can be found here - essentially, a bit of background, and instructions to write a short story or poem. This is mine.
Eugene Fucking Morris
I swear to god, someone up there has got it fucking in for me.
For fuck's sake.
It's not like I've got some kind of issue with dead bodies or anything. Really, in my line of work? Might as well be allergic to money. Or drugs. Or to lying itself.
Seeing the corpse of someone I knew and whom I'd never expected to see again? That fucking threw me.
The chief's looking at me expectantly. I give a grave nod, and the mortician pulls the sheet back over her face.
"Those bastards," the chief says into the silence. "It'll be a damn good day when we finally bring them down."
'They' are the local mob, who I've been investigating undercover. Me? I'm Eugene Morris, bullshitter extraordinaire. The truth ain't black or white, and neither am fucking I. And nor is that corpse on the table. We were two of the only three mixed race kids growing up on our street.
She - Javina - was my next door neighbour when we were kids. Her big brother - the third kid - and I were close. Right up until we were all teenagers, and I suddenly found his little sister a lot more interesting. It didn't even last that long, just a month or two, but that was long enough for Troy never to speak to me again.
Goddamit it. Thinking of Troy, and his mama, and his mama's baby girl under that sheet? Christ. My mum taught her mum how to braid Javina's hair, for fuck's sake. Her mum was white, and didn't have a clue how to deal with mixed hair.
"It's their style," I said to the chief, commenting on the state they'd left Javina's body in. Fucking christ. "Any idea of motive?"
"Nope." The chief slapped a hand to my shoulder. "That's your job."
Of course it fucking was. I'd better get some kind of bonus for this.
Eugene Fucking Morris
I swear to god, someone up there has got it fucking in for me.
For fuck's sake.
It's not like I've got some kind of issue with dead bodies or anything. Really, in my line of work? Might as well be allergic to money. Or drugs. Or to lying itself.
Seeing the corpse of someone I knew and whom I'd never expected to see again? That fucking threw me.
The chief's looking at me expectantly. I give a grave nod, and the mortician pulls the sheet back over her face.
"Those bastards," the chief says into the silence. "It'll be a damn good day when we finally bring them down."
'They' are the local mob, who I've been investigating undercover. Me? I'm Eugene Morris, bullshitter extraordinaire. The truth ain't black or white, and neither am fucking I. And nor is that corpse on the table. We were two of the only three mixed race kids growing up on our street.
She - Javina - was my next door neighbour when we were kids. Her big brother - the third kid - and I were close. Right up until we were all teenagers, and I suddenly found his little sister a lot more interesting. It didn't even last that long, just a month or two, but that was long enough for Troy never to speak to me again.
Goddamit it. Thinking of Troy, and his mama, and his mama's baby girl under that sheet? Christ. My mum taught her mum how to braid Javina's hair, for fuck's sake. Her mum was white, and didn't have a clue how to deal with mixed hair.
"It's their style," I said to the chief, commenting on the state they'd left Javina's body in. Fucking christ. "Any idea of motive?"
"Nope." The chief slapped a hand to my shoulder. "That's your job."
Of course it fucking was. I'd better get some kind of bonus for this.
***
Finding the motive, it turned out, was the easy part. Practically handed to me on a silver fucking platter.
It was later that same day; yesterday now, must be. I'd nipped out for another pack of fags when I'd seen Ernie looming at me out of the shadows. And trust me, Ernie can fucking loom.
I'd greeted him, with a dash of curiosity. Ernie didn't normally approach me in public. Ernie didn't normally come out in fucking daylight, for christ's sake.
He'd grinned, asked what I'd come out for, then offered me a cigarette. He was holding out a match when someone came up behind me and dropped a sack over my head.
I spent what was probably the whole night having the fucking shit kicked out of me. Eventually, during one of his fag breaks, he found the time to explain it to me.
"The boss found out about you, Eugene," he said, lighting another fag. Fucker. I'd never even got to take a single drag of mine. I glared balefully up at him from the floor, my head turned sideways. I was trussed up like a fucking turkey. Ernie'd never been one for fighting fucking fair. Probably why he was so successful at it.
He didn't wait for me to reply. I wasn't fucking planning to.
"So this," he continued, "is your punishment. The girl," he grinned at me, "was your fucking warning?"
"You killed some girl to warn me you were going to kick the shit out of me?" I wheezed. I could taste blood.
He waved the match out, and sat there in silence, grinning at me, like a fucking pumpkin.
"Or are you planning to kill me too?" I continued, when it was clear he was just going to carry on sitting there with that fucking look on his face.
"We're not going to kill you, Eugene," he said. Well, thank fuck for that. "We're to keep you. And if you don't do what we want, we'll kill another one. Who was next? Natasha? Tia?"
I was having trouble breathing. Not because of what he'd said, because he'd broken a few of my fucking ribs.
He finished his fag, then stood up, rubbing his hands together.
"You could just offer me fucking money," I said. "Instead of brutally fucking slaughtering your way through a chronological list of my exes."
"Nah," Ernie said, picking up a baseball bat. "We'd never trust you if we had to buy you."
Well, shit.
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