Thirty seconds. Tin man’s on the doors. He’s bolted and reinforced them. His two-shotter’s steady in his hands. Best to keep him on the door, away from people. We don't need bodies.
Twenty five seconds. Scarecrow’s got the hostages. They’re corralled behind the cashier’s walls. The place is fancy, nothing but expensive wood and gilt. He had no problem getting them all in line. He doesn’t speak much, but “get down,” “hands up,” and “drop it, or I’ll drop you,” are easy phrases to remember, easily enforced with an MP5 in hand.
Twenty seconds. Simba’s upstairs on the mezzanine. He’s got the rifle and the way out. We joke and call him the coward, but really, it’s the competent one you want on the high ground.
Fifteen seconds. Is that the sound of sirens?
“Toto! How we doing?”
I look down at the counter.
“Ten seconds,” I look back at the boss man. He’s always been fond of theatrics. The pigtails and red sneakers are a choice, I guess.
Five seconds. Definitely sirens. Dot taps one red shoe impatiently.
“Here we go,” I say, “off to green city.”
Down a road paved with gold.
About the Creator
Frank W Law
Writer, Thinker. Maker-up of things. Other applicable adjectives available at request.
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The Pot Boiling Over
Once, there was a pot of about 340 million drops and droplets. Most of them would like to think they lived together peacefully for decades, but that wasn’t true. Different regions struggled, sometimes fought, with each other. And the mainstreams still often pursued and attacked the minorities. Law enforcers sometimes pushed minority drops out of the pot, never to be seen again.
By Gabriel Shames4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Your pacing and clipped edginess work so well to create this gritty, fun, and intriguing story. This is really well-written, and I immediately want to know more (backstory, what comes next, etc). Great piece!