The Fortune Cookie
Charles set down his chopsticks and let out a sigh. He couldn't eat another bite. The Orange-Flavored Chicken at Lu's was the best money could buy, both taste and portion-wise. He'd barely touched the fried rice, but that would heat up just fine for lunch tomorrow. Of course, he still had room for the fortune cookie. It wouldn't be a Lu's meal without that.
He broke open the plastic wrapper, devoid of the usual advertising. Strange. For as long as he could remember, Lu's address and phone number adorned the wrapper. Mr. Lu must have decided to save a bit of money. Didn't really matter, as long as the cookie was still light and tasty.
It snapped in two, same as always, and the fortune fell into his palm. These were silly, but he still got a kick out of reading them. Lu's fortunes weren't really fortunes at all, but silly sayings or old proverbs. When they did predict the future, it was something mundane that didn't matter anyway. So when Charles read this one, he let out a gasp.
"Tomorrow at noon, duck." And not only that, there were five lucky numbers listed: 2, 17, 23, 38, 41.
"What in the world?" Definitely a new cookie company. Seemed a little too specific. Whoever wrote this one probably just wanted to get as many people to look silly at noon as possible. As Charles tossed his trash, for some reason he pocketed the fortune. Just for laughs. Or at least that's what he told himself.
#
At lunch the next day, Charles found himself alone on the company smoking porch. He popped a cigarette into his mouth and reached into his pocket for his lighter. His knuckles brushed against a scrap of paper, which he fished out. The fortune from yesterday. He'd forgotten he'd put that in with his change and keys this morning. Why, he didn't know, but it sounded like a good idea at the time.
He glanced at his cell phone. 11:58. Should he duck? No one was out here, so he wouldn't look goofy to anyone but himself. He lit the cigarette and looked out into the beautiful courtyard the company provided. Sure, the hours sucked and the work was repetitive and boring, but at least he got this view a few times each day.
Noon. He chuckled and bent down to tie his shoe, just in case anyone was watching from one of the windows. Why he was following the random advice from the cookie was beyond him, but why not? It wouldn't hurt anything. And he could share a goofy story with the cute counter girl at Lu's next time he was there.
Glass shattered behind him. He fell on his butt and looked up. A bullet hole spider webbed the thick window. He peeked inside and saw an upper-management-type slumped over dead, blood trickling out onto his desk from the hole in his chest. Charles figured if he could see the floor behind the dead man, there'd be a puddle of organs and gore.
He looked up near the top of the buildings forming the triangular courtyard. Nothing. At that moment, his bravery--or shock; he wasn't sure which--wore off, and he dashed away. Should he tell anyone, or simply hope there were no cameras out here to pick up his presence? Had the cookie really saved him? Somewhere in the back of his mind, those five lucky numbers danced. He'd have to hit a convenience store on the way home to play the lottery.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Writing Prompt #75
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
You can't let the clock strike twelve!
You can't let the clock strike twelve!
Thursday, August 18, 2011
#FridayFlash--Church Bells
Church Bells
by Eric J. Krause
The church bells sounded down the street, as loud as if he were right next door. The ceremony was about to begin. Soon there'd be another Mrs. McGillicutty in town. Jonah was a good kid; no doubt he'd picked a woman who'd be as loved as the elder Mrs. McGillicutty.
He picked up his Jack and Coke and drained it in one swallow. His refill had more Jack than Coke.
Weddings always turned him introspective, made him melancholy. His had been wonderful, the highlight of his life. And Shirley couldn't have been a more beautiful bride. God, she'd been a looker back then. Back before it had all gone wrong.
He didn't like shouldering all the blame--Shirley had hit the bottle almost as hard as him when they lost their son--but he couldn't denounce he owned most of it. He'd been the one to turn violent when he had too much drink in him. She merely grew weepy. And helpless.
The next glass held all Jack except for a slight splash of Coke for flavor. The bride's limo sped past. Those church bells must've been the signal for her driver. Either that or she was running late. He tried to wave, but his hand wouldn't obey. Hell, what did it matter? She didn't know him, and he didn't know her. He couldn't even remember her name, though it'd been plastered in the paper often enough this week. And why not? She was marrying into local royalty, wasn't she?
Shirley hadn't, but she knew it going in. He wished it could have been different, but they married for love, not money or fame. He downed the rest of his Jack and grimaced. But that was true for most people. All these damn newspaper stories on the McGillicuttys and their ilk sometimes made the common man forget that.
He didn't bother pretending with his next refill. It held all Jack, no Coke. Trouble? You betcha, but he was beyond caring. If he knew what was coming next, though, he might've. Not likely, but maybe.
Those church bells chimed again. This time telling people to take their seats; the bride she was a-comin'. No backing out now, Jonah McGillicutty. It was for better or for worse time.
When Shirley walked down to the tones of that ancient organ, it looked to be for the better. Too bad everything ended up for the worse. He slugged down the Jack and didn't bother pouring more. If he wasn't going to mix it with Coke, might as well take it straight from the bottle.
Shirley stood staring at him from the sidewalk, as fresh and pretty as their wedding day all those years back. He shook his head and blinked hard. When the liquor allowed him to refocus on the yard, not only was she still there, but she now stood in the middle of the lawn.
"Shirl?" he managed to croak out. No, that wasn't her, but an illusion brought on by Mr. Jack and the thoughts of weddings. His Shirley hadn't moved in over ten years. She lay right where he put her--buried in cement under the porch.
The world spun, and by the time he caught himself and righted his perspective, she stared at him from the base of the steps. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the church bells. No doubt Jonah McGillicutty had received the instructions to kiss his bride. In a few minutes time, they'd ring again, this time as the newlyweds dashed to their waiting limo. When he and Shirley made that sprint, not to a limo, but to his old Ford pickup, the guests had tossed rice. Now they'd blow bubbles; the elder Mrs. McGillicutty had never met an environmental cause she didn't like. Not that it mattered to him. He wouldn't be around for that final volley of church bells. That he knew for certain.
Shirley now stood above him, her perfume a mix of decay and that lavender scent he always adored. Her face held the same slack expression she wore that night after he choked her to death. He hadn't wanted to, but she made him. Divorce? No, that wasn't an option. Sure she'd caught him in the act with Sandi Lee Parker, but if she'd taken care of her wifely duties, he never would have strayed. Yeah, the loss of little Edgar to crib death had devastated him, too, but he still had urges. And she had plenty of time to grieve.
As she stared down at him, he wondered if she'd choke his life away. Tit for tat. She wouldn't need to get rid of his body or keep a dirty secret for so many years. She'd be able to simply blink out of existence and head to Heaven, Hell, or wherever. Maybe they'd be square and she'd drag him along.
Whatever she decided, she took too long, and he couldn't bear the wait. He grabbed the bottle of Jack, still half-full, and slammed that bitter liquid. He sputtered a few times, but managed to down it all. The bottle tumbled from his grasp, and through his murky, black-lined vision, he couldn't see her. He'd bested her again. Or so he thought. As the dark closed around him, her quiet chuckle, the one he loved to draw out of her when she was alive, sounded in his ear.
Down the street, the church bells sang to the town, proclaiming another couple now lived in holy matrimony. And he'd been right; he wasn't around to hear it.
by Eric J. Krause
The church bells sounded down the street, as loud as if he were right next door. The ceremony was about to begin. Soon there'd be another Mrs. McGillicutty in town. Jonah was a good kid; no doubt he'd picked a woman who'd be as loved as the elder Mrs. McGillicutty.
He picked up his Jack and Coke and drained it in one swallow. His refill had more Jack than Coke.
Weddings always turned him introspective, made him melancholy. His had been wonderful, the highlight of his life. And Shirley couldn't have been a more beautiful bride. God, she'd been a looker back then. Back before it had all gone wrong.
He didn't like shouldering all the blame--Shirley had hit the bottle almost as hard as him when they lost their son--but he couldn't denounce he owned most of it. He'd been the one to turn violent when he had too much drink in him. She merely grew weepy. And helpless.
The next glass held all Jack except for a slight splash of Coke for flavor. The bride's limo sped past. Those church bells must've been the signal for her driver. Either that or she was running late. He tried to wave, but his hand wouldn't obey. Hell, what did it matter? She didn't know him, and he didn't know her. He couldn't even remember her name, though it'd been plastered in the paper often enough this week. And why not? She was marrying into local royalty, wasn't she?
Shirley hadn't, but she knew it going in. He wished it could have been different, but they married for love, not money or fame. He downed the rest of his Jack and grimaced. But that was true for most people. All these damn newspaper stories on the McGillicuttys and their ilk sometimes made the common man forget that.
He didn't bother pretending with his next refill. It held all Jack, no Coke. Trouble? You betcha, but he was beyond caring. If he knew what was coming next, though, he might've. Not likely, but maybe.
Those church bells chimed again. This time telling people to take their seats; the bride she was a-comin'. No backing out now, Jonah McGillicutty. It was for better or for worse time.
When Shirley walked down to the tones of that ancient organ, it looked to be for the better. Too bad everything ended up for the worse. He slugged down the Jack and didn't bother pouring more. If he wasn't going to mix it with Coke, might as well take it straight from the bottle.
Shirley stood staring at him from the sidewalk, as fresh and pretty as their wedding day all those years back. He shook his head and blinked hard. When the liquor allowed him to refocus on the yard, not only was she still there, but she now stood in the middle of the lawn.
"Shirl?" he managed to croak out. No, that wasn't her, but an illusion brought on by Mr. Jack and the thoughts of weddings. His Shirley hadn't moved in over ten years. She lay right where he put her--buried in cement under the porch.
The world spun, and by the time he caught himself and righted his perspective, she stared at him from the base of the steps. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the church bells. No doubt Jonah McGillicutty had received the instructions to kiss his bride. In a few minutes time, they'd ring again, this time as the newlyweds dashed to their waiting limo. When he and Shirley made that sprint, not to a limo, but to his old Ford pickup, the guests had tossed rice. Now they'd blow bubbles; the elder Mrs. McGillicutty had never met an environmental cause she didn't like. Not that it mattered to him. He wouldn't be around for that final volley of church bells. That he knew for certain.
Shirley now stood above him, her perfume a mix of decay and that lavender scent he always adored. Her face held the same slack expression she wore that night after he choked her to death. He hadn't wanted to, but she made him. Divorce? No, that wasn't an option. Sure she'd caught him in the act with Sandi Lee Parker, but if she'd taken care of her wifely duties, he never would have strayed. Yeah, the loss of little Edgar to crib death had devastated him, too, but he still had urges. And she had plenty of time to grieve.
As she stared down at him, he wondered if she'd choke his life away. Tit for tat. She wouldn't need to get rid of his body or keep a dirty secret for so many years. She'd be able to simply blink out of existence and head to Heaven, Hell, or wherever. Maybe they'd be square and she'd drag him along.
Whatever she decided, she took too long, and he couldn't bear the wait. He grabbed the bottle of Jack, still half-full, and slammed that bitter liquid. He sputtered a few times, but managed to down it all. The bottle tumbled from his grasp, and through his murky, black-lined vision, he couldn't see her. He'd bested her again. Or so he thought. As the dark closed around him, her quiet chuckle, the one he loved to draw out of her when she was alive, sounded in his ear.
Down the street, the church bells sang to the town, proclaiming another couple now lived in holy matrimony. And he'd been right; he wasn't around to hear it.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Writing Prompt #74
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as science fiction this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
The tender, tasty meat at that new restaurant comes from space aliens.
The tender, tasty meat at that new restaurant comes from space aliens.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
#FridayFlash--The Last Time
The Last Time
by Eric J. Krause
Rich watched her sleep. So peaceful, his Mary. He hated seeing her in so much pain, which was why the night was fast becoming his favorite time.
Every morning, as he cooked her breakfast, he wondered if it would be the last time. As he gave her a kiss when she left for work or on an errand, he wondered if it would be the last time. Anything she did, he wondered if it would be the last time.
She murmured a few words, which brought tears to his eyes. This was it, the moment he'd feared for so long. He placed a kiss on her forehead for the last time, placed the barrel of the gun to her temple, and pulled the trigger.
He ignored the gore on her pillow and put the gun in his own mouth. She hated him, was tired of their life together, but he couldn't divorce her, and he wouldn't tolerate cheating. Now her dream mumbles convicted her. And him. He pulled the trigger for the last time.
by Eric J. Krause
Rich watched her sleep. So peaceful, his Mary. He hated seeing her in so much pain, which was why the night was fast becoming his favorite time.
Every morning, as he cooked her breakfast, he wondered if it would be the last time. As he gave her a kiss when she left for work or on an errand, he wondered if it would be the last time. Anything she did, he wondered if it would be the last time.
She murmured a few words, which brought tears to his eyes. This was it, the moment he'd feared for so long. He placed a kiss on her forehead for the last time, placed the barrel of the gun to her temple, and pulled the trigger.
He ignored the gore on her pillow and put the gun in his own mouth. She hated him, was tired of their life together, but he couldn't divorce her, and he wouldn't tolerate cheating. Now her dream mumbles convicted her. And him. He pulled the trigger for the last time.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Writing Prompt #73
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as horror this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
There's a strange bacteria in the town's water supply
There's a strange bacteria in the town's water supply
Monday, July 25, 2011
Writing Prompt #72
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as fantasy this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
There is a talking mouse in your house.
There is a talking mouse in your house.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Writing Prompt #71
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as horror this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
The devil wants to make you an offer.
The devil wants to make you an offer.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Writing Prompt #70
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
A new designer drug produces strange effects on those who take it.
A new designer drug produces strange effects on those who take it.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Writing Prompt #69
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
The rifles in the shooting gallery fire real bullets.
The rifles in the shooting gallery fire real bullets.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
What I'm up to (why no #fridayflash stories)
Since I'm not posting many Friday Flash stories anymore, I thought I'd give a quick update on to what I've been up to, writing-wise. About a month ago, I finished the first draft of a young adult modern fantasy book--it involves a teen who discovers he has interesting powers thanks to meeting his true love, who happens to be a dragon. I always let my drafts sit for a month, and I figured in that time I would dash out quite a few flash fiction stories to have ready for Fridays for the foreseeable future. I got two done and posted them, but then something unexpected happened. A new novel-length idea came to me, and it wouldn't let go. This one isn't a YA book, but one a horror story for adults. I dived right into planning it, knowing I wouldn't really have time to write the thing with my YA novel due to be revised at the beginning of July. But I started plotting anyway. Today, after a couple of weeks, I finished with the plot outline, only to discover I need to add a few things that will change the outline, maybe not significantly, but enough to be more than simple paste-in jobs. But I really like this story, and I think these additions will only make it stronger. I have a feeling that starting next week I'll be revising the YA story and writing the first draft of this adult story each day. Busy, busy, busy, but I'm looking forward to the challenge. I've never worked on two things at once before. Should be interesting.
So what does this mean for my Friday Flash stories? There will be none for the foreseeable future. If inspiration strikes, I may occasionally post one, but don't expect anything. Feel free to check out my past stories here on this blog (or you can download my first 50 for free at Smashwords--click the link on the right side of the page). I don't believe I'm done with Friday Flash, but for the moment, I'm having too much fun working on longer pieces. So now you know what I'm up to, writing-wise. See you all on Twitter and/or Facebook!
So what does this mean for my Friday Flash stories? There will be none for the foreseeable future. If inspiration strikes, I may occasionally post one, but don't expect anything. Feel free to check out my past stories here on this blog (or you can download my first 50 for free at Smashwords--click the link on the right side of the page). I don't believe I'm done with Friday Flash, but for the moment, I'm having too much fun working on longer pieces. So now you know what I'm up to, writing-wise. See you all on Twitter and/or Facebook!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Writing Prompt #68
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as horror this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
An unconventional monster terrorizes your town.
An unconventional monster terrorizes your town.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Writing Prompt #67
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as horror this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
Did something in that painting/photograph just move?
Did something in that painting/photograph just move?
Monday, June 6, 2011
Writing Prompt #66
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as science fiction this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
A packed commercial airplane flies through a mysterious wormhole into a different dimension.
A packed commercial airplane flies through a mysterious wormhole into a different dimension.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
#FridayFlash--Jesus Talk Radio
Jesus Talk Radio
by Eric J. Krause
"And the Lord Jesus Christ shall descend from Heaven and pass judgment upon the entirety of the human race. Those he deems worthy will ascend with him. The rest will be stranded on Earth, forced to deal with the deadly destruction brought by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."
Desmond let out a sigh and glared at his boss. "Damn it, Roy, can't you listen to something else? All this Jesus talk is giving me a headache."
"When you own the shop, you can listen to whatever you want. Besides, a little Church Talk Radio isn't going to hurt your soul any."
"I'm just saying a little hard rock might boost morale."
"I could supply you with hookers and blow and it wouldn't help your morale, Des."
"We should test that theory out." Desmond kept a straight face for about two seconds before busting out in laughter.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You need Church Talk Radio, no doubt about it."
"Those who don't worship our Lord Jesus Christ are damned to an eternity of never-ending suffering in the bowels of Satan's Hell. But it's never been easier to ensure your place on the stairway to Heaven. Repent your sins, say your prayers, and keep Jesus close to your heart. When he looks deep into your soul, your very essence, he'll have no choice but to accept you into his flock."
"You hear that, Des? Even you can get into Heaven."
Before Desmond could make a smart-assed reply, the door to the shop banged open. The man standing there brought an unnatural silence to the room. Even the metal-grinding machines seemed to respect him. Or at least fear him.
"I didn't realize deep conversation occurred here," the man said. "I'm impressed. Mind if I sit in and rap with you?"
Roy swallowed hard before he could answer. "No, of course not, Mr. Vargas. Please, take a seat." He knocked some dirty rags off a nearby stool.
Mr. Vargas met that act with a hard backhand across Roy's face. Desmond started to rise, to help his boss, his friend, but thought better of it. Mr. Vargas gave a slight nod that said it was the right decision.
Roy, to his credit, didn't rub his cheek, which was bright red and would probably be bruised in a few hours. "What do you want, Mr. Vargas. I've already paid this month."
"Mr. Bigg has decided payments shall now be made on a bi-weekly basis."
Desmond snorted, as he usually did when someone spoke the mob boss's name. A person who went by the name Mr. Bigg had to be suffering from SPS--Small Penis Syndrome.
Mr. Vargas looked towards Desmond, his hand reaching into his pocket. "Something funny?"
"No, sir. Something caught in my throat."
Mr. Vargas gave a hard stare, but didn't push the subject. Desmond held his breath until the thug looked away. Damn, he really needed to keep himself in check or he might not survive one of these visits.
"Look into your heart. Jesus does not want death, suffering. But neither does he want heathens walking amongst his loyal subjects. It is your job, nay, your duty to spread the good word. Let us get as many people into Heaven as we can. It will never reach capacity, and we will keep our savior from forcing unnecessary slaughter."
"How much does he want?" Roy asked. His eye had begun to swell. What lie would he tell Mary? Desmond knew damn well he wouldn't share the truth.
"How much do you think? Same as the monthly rate." When Roy paled, Mr. Vargas flashed a wicked grin. "But think of all the safety that buys you. Not just here, but at home. Be a shame if something bad happened to your beautiful wife or your lovely children."
"Bastard," Desmond said.
"No, Des, let it be. This isn't your problem."
The wicked grin on Mr. Vargas's face grew bigger. "Oh, no, Des, he's wrong. It is your problem now. Thanks to that smart mouth of yours."
"This has always been about business, Vargas, not family."
Mr. Vargas reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles. "That's where you're wrong. This has always and will always be about money."
Desmond stood and took the punch. His face cracked, though through the fire, he wasn't sure what broke: his nose, his cheek, or his teeth. Mr. Vargas pulled him up and kneed him square in the crotch. Desmond crumpled, his breath nonexistent, the world an ugly shade of black and red.
"But remember, my faithful followers, the choice is ultimately theirs. If they decide to ignore the teachings of our Lord and savior, they call upon the horsemen themselves. There will be no guilt coming from the glorious throne."
By the time Desmond came to, Mr. Vargas was gone. Roy stood nearby, his bruising cheek now the least of the injuries in the room. "He says you debt is paid if you remember your place in the future. Next time he won't be as tolerant."
"You didn't pay him, did you?"
"Of course I did. I'm not risking Mary and the kids."
Desmond stood and fought the dizziness that threatened to throw him back down. He patted Roy on the shoulder and headed for the door.
"Where are you going? I'll close up and take you to the hospital."
"No need, boss. I have to go see a man about a horse."
"What? I think you might have a concussion, Des."
"Maybe so, but that doesn't change anything." He motioned to the radio. "Your crazy preacher man is right about one thing. A horseman rides tonight. Death is coming for Bigg's family." With that, he left Roy's shop, maybe for the last time.
"Remember, what you do in the name of Jesus, what you do in the name of what is right, will be rewarded. Never doubt that, and you will find yourself amongst the worthy."
by Eric J. Krause
"And the Lord Jesus Christ shall descend from Heaven and pass judgment upon the entirety of the human race. Those he deems worthy will ascend with him. The rest will be stranded on Earth, forced to deal with the deadly destruction brought by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."
Desmond let out a sigh and glared at his boss. "Damn it, Roy, can't you listen to something else? All this Jesus talk is giving me a headache."
"When you own the shop, you can listen to whatever you want. Besides, a little Church Talk Radio isn't going to hurt your soul any."
"I'm just saying a little hard rock might boost morale."
"I could supply you with hookers and blow and it wouldn't help your morale, Des."
"We should test that theory out." Desmond kept a straight face for about two seconds before busting out in laughter.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You need Church Talk Radio, no doubt about it."
"Those who don't worship our Lord Jesus Christ are damned to an eternity of never-ending suffering in the bowels of Satan's Hell. But it's never been easier to ensure your place on the stairway to Heaven. Repent your sins, say your prayers, and keep Jesus close to your heart. When he looks deep into your soul, your very essence, he'll have no choice but to accept you into his flock."
"You hear that, Des? Even you can get into Heaven."
Before Desmond could make a smart-assed reply, the door to the shop banged open. The man standing there brought an unnatural silence to the room. Even the metal-grinding machines seemed to respect him. Or at least fear him.
"I didn't realize deep conversation occurred here," the man said. "I'm impressed. Mind if I sit in and rap with you?"
Roy swallowed hard before he could answer. "No, of course not, Mr. Vargas. Please, take a seat." He knocked some dirty rags off a nearby stool.
Mr. Vargas met that act with a hard backhand across Roy's face. Desmond started to rise, to help his boss, his friend, but thought better of it. Mr. Vargas gave a slight nod that said it was the right decision.
Roy, to his credit, didn't rub his cheek, which was bright red and would probably be bruised in a few hours. "What do you want, Mr. Vargas. I've already paid this month."
"Mr. Bigg has decided payments shall now be made on a bi-weekly basis."
Desmond snorted, as he usually did when someone spoke the mob boss's name. A person who went by the name Mr. Bigg had to be suffering from SPS--Small Penis Syndrome.
Mr. Vargas looked towards Desmond, his hand reaching into his pocket. "Something funny?"
"No, sir. Something caught in my throat."
Mr. Vargas gave a hard stare, but didn't push the subject. Desmond held his breath until the thug looked away. Damn, he really needed to keep himself in check or he might not survive one of these visits.
"Look into your heart. Jesus does not want death, suffering. But neither does he want heathens walking amongst his loyal subjects. It is your job, nay, your duty to spread the good word. Let us get as many people into Heaven as we can. It will never reach capacity, and we will keep our savior from forcing unnecessary slaughter."
"How much does he want?" Roy asked. His eye had begun to swell. What lie would he tell Mary? Desmond knew damn well he wouldn't share the truth.
"How much do you think? Same as the monthly rate." When Roy paled, Mr. Vargas flashed a wicked grin. "But think of all the safety that buys you. Not just here, but at home. Be a shame if something bad happened to your beautiful wife or your lovely children."
"Bastard," Desmond said.
"No, Des, let it be. This isn't your problem."
The wicked grin on Mr. Vargas's face grew bigger. "Oh, no, Des, he's wrong. It is your problem now. Thanks to that smart mouth of yours."
"This has always been about business, Vargas, not family."
Mr. Vargas reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles. "That's where you're wrong. This has always and will always be about money."
Desmond stood and took the punch. His face cracked, though through the fire, he wasn't sure what broke: his nose, his cheek, or his teeth. Mr. Vargas pulled him up and kneed him square in the crotch. Desmond crumpled, his breath nonexistent, the world an ugly shade of black and red.
"But remember, my faithful followers, the choice is ultimately theirs. If they decide to ignore the teachings of our Lord and savior, they call upon the horsemen themselves. There will be no guilt coming from the glorious throne."
By the time Desmond came to, Mr. Vargas was gone. Roy stood nearby, his bruising cheek now the least of the injuries in the room. "He says you debt is paid if you remember your place in the future. Next time he won't be as tolerant."
"You didn't pay him, did you?"
"Of course I did. I'm not risking Mary and the kids."
Desmond stood and fought the dizziness that threatened to throw him back down. He patted Roy on the shoulder and headed for the door.
"Where are you going? I'll close up and take you to the hospital."
"No need, boss. I have to go see a man about a horse."
"What? I think you might have a concussion, Des."
"Maybe so, but that doesn't change anything." He motioned to the radio. "Your crazy preacher man is right about one thing. A horseman rides tonight. Death is coming for Bigg's family." With that, he left Roy's shop, maybe for the last time.
"Remember, what you do in the name of Jesus, what you do in the name of what is right, will be rewarded. Never doubt that, and you will find yourself amongst the worthy."
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