Just barely made it! Alright, this one went a little longer than the last one. It ended up at 1,183 words in about 2 ½ hours. ***WARNING*** This sketch contains strong language and implied violence. Thoughts and the prompt I used will be at the bottom, and feedback is welcome as always. Enjoy!
The man in the black hat ambled down the entryway of the Logan Correctional Facility, blood-stained glass crunching under his Oxfords. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he walked, his eyes focusing beyond the dull grey brick of the hallway into the facility beyond, flicking back and forth as he counted again.
One in the downstairs bathroom, probably in a shower stall. Two in the second-floor kitchen, one in the cafeteria.
Yesterday, this facility was home to eight hundred and fifty-seven inmates, seventy-two of those women, along with one hundred and twelve guards, twenty-two cooks, seven janitors, and one very human-looking monster.
Two in the northeast stairwell, one in a broom closet on the third floor, one in an office on the main floor–probably the warden.
“You better count ‘em twice,” said May’s voice in the back of his mind. “Count 'em twice, and then count 'em again. You can’t take any chances with this motherfucker.”
Three sitting in their cells, hiding under their cots. One in the exercise yard.
Twelve souls. Count 'em once, count 'em twice, count 'em three times. Only twelve left after the bloodbath this morning.
And the other, of course. No soul in that one, but the man in the black hat could smell it anyway, the lingering stench of corpse-rot and grave dirt. Something dead that just didn’t have the decency to lay down and quit.
He stopped walking and nodded to himself, then took off his hat with a black-gloved hand and set it on the welcome counter, careful to avoid the puddle of still-wet blood. Then, he pulled back the left side of his peacoat and lifted a set of headphones from his belt, settling them firmly over his ears. He glanced down at the Walkman on his hip–which button was it, again? The little triangle?–and pressed play. After a second of silence, distorted guitar flooded into his ears, and he couldn’t help a small smile crinkling the corners of his mouth. Music wherever you went. What a time to be alive.
Then he pulled back the right side of his coat and drew his Smith & Wesson 686. He flipped open the cylinder with a practiced flick of his wrist and slid a shell into each chamber as the music played.
We are the people who can find whatever you may need,
If you got the money, honey, we got your disease.
He snapped the cylinder shut, then picked up his hat and settled it back over his silver hair, careful not to knock the headphones loose. Time to get to work.
The woman across the table ashed her cigarette into the little glass tray by her plate, flicking the end with a frail and wrinkled thumb. She raised an eyebrow from behind thick horn-rimmed glasses, and the man in the black hat sighed and took a seat.
“That’s better. Can I get you anything, Charlie? The coffee here’s God-awful, but it’s hot. Take your hat off, get comfortable.”
“I don’t really go by Charlie anymore, May,” the man said, tapping his fingers on the tabletop and glancing around the nearly-empty diner. “And I can’t stay long. I’ve got a business meeting.”
The old woman narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, the wrinkled black skin around her mouth tightening as she pursed her lips. “I’m your business meeting, dumbass. Now take off that fucking hat, and don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Charlie took off the hat. “I thought you were retired.”
“I thought so, too,” said May, waving the waitress over. “But it looks like I’ve got one more job to do.”
“You’ve got favors you could call in,” the man said, frowning. “More markers than any ten names on my books. I could have a dozen of my best wherever you want them in an hour.”
May shook her head, her thin white hair wafting around her head like a wispy cloud. “No good, Charlie. It’s got to be me.”
The man’s frown deepened. “What kind of job could–” He cut off abruptly, understanding settling in. “My God. You found him.”
“It,” May spat, glowering over her cigarette at him. “Not "him”. But yeah, I found it. Logan Correctional Facility. I don’t know what the hell it’s doing there, but I’ll never get another shot at it.“
The man nodded slowly. "Alright. What do you need from me?”
Wordlessly, the old woman slid a slip of paper across the table to him. He flipped it over, and his eyes went wide.
“Christ, May, what the hell is all this? C4, cyanide–in gallons?–”
“It’s had long enough to establish a link in there. I can’t take any chances. The inmates, the guards–I’ve got to get them all in one shot.”
The man hesitated, eyeing the list. “You’re talking about hundreds of people here.”
“Almost a thousand,” May said softly, and when he looked up at her again, she seemed even more frail than she was. “It’s not even maximum security, Charlie. Kids caught with a little dope, ladies who fought back when their boyfriend roughed them up. I can’t even tell myself I’m getting rid of some scum while I’m at it.”
She took a deep breath, lifted her cigarette to her lips, and seemed surprised to find it had gone out. She ground it out in the ashtray, then looked up at him, her eyes hard.
“It doesn’t matter. You know what this fucker can do. It has to be done.”
The man nodded slowly. “Alright. I can get you set up, but it’ll take a few days. Anything else?”
“Just one more thing. I want you on mop-up.”
The man sighed. “I don’t really do field work anymore.”
May shrugged, lighting another cigarette. “I’m calling in all my markers on this one, Charlie. Every single one. I need to be the one to hit first, and I can’t trust anyone but you to clean up after.”
“Every marker?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. “I get to clear you off my books entirely? You’ve got a deal.”
“Don’t underestimate it, Charlie,” May said, her frown returning. “I know what you are, and I know what you can do, but don’t you think for one second that you’re a match for this thing. Get in as soon as the shooting stops, figure out how many I missed, and finish. You better count 'em twice. Count 'em twice, and then count 'em again. You can’t take any chances with this motherfucker.”
The man shot her an icy look, then stood, pocketed the list, and settled his hat back over his grey hair. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just talk to me like I’m a damn kid, May. Consider it done. I’ll take the necessary precautions. I’ll send something nice for the funeral if you don’t make it out.”
The old woman opened her mouth as if to say more, but settled for a sigh and a wave. The man in the black hat nodded once, then turned and walked out of the little diner.
The random plot was generated here, and the elements for this sketch were as follows:
Main Character: A man in his 60s, who is mysterious.
Secondary Character: A woman in her 80s, who is easy-going
Setting: The story begins in a prison.
Situation: Someone is getting out of prison after 20 years.
Character Action: The main character has to use underhanded methods to accomplish their goals.
Once again, I really don’t feel I did a great job sticking to the prompt, here. I had one more scene in mind that would have brought out the “Pride” theme more, but the sketch was already getting long. May (the woman in her 80s) came across more tough than easy-going, but I mostly like how she felt to me. I skipped “someone is getting out of prison after 20 years” almost entirely, and the only underhanded methods involved were the implied black-market dealings arranged in the diner.
There was a lot that went unexplained in this sketch. I’m actually very curious to see what elements just completely confused people in reading this, because I prefer to imply things rather than state them outright, and I’d love to know what came across here and what didn’t.
I tried to focus a little more on unobtrusive character details in this one, since I hardly bothered with any in the last sketch. I really liked the part in the prison, but the more I think about the scene in the diner, the less coherent it seems. I was trying to get a lot of information across quickly there, and I’m not sure I did a great job.
Tomorrow’s sketch is going to be interesting, as I’ll be using the prompt from YeahWrite’s weekly writing challenge. The prompt that I’ll be working this is:
“I felt the heat on my face.”
Thanks for reading, and again feedback is appreciated!
