By Bobby Warner
She looked about 16 standing beside the road in skimpy shorts and halter, with a large purse hanging off her shoulder.
Just my type!
He stopped the car. She ran and jumped in.
“You going far? Like maybe to Topeka?”
She shifted the purse over into the lap, holding it tightly.
I’ll make her put it down soon enough.
The pull off was deserted; no other traffic on the road. He reached for her.
“Stop it, Mister. Leave me alone. I got a gun.”
Lying little slut!
He lunged as she opened the purse.
A muzzle flash, then darkness took him.
Chekhov’s gun, of course.
[Chekhov’s gun: Don’t put a loaded gun on stage if no one is to fire it.]
Viatic grit. Well done, Bobby.
Great hair-trigger pace to that one, Bobby. Well done.
Thanks, Prospero. I’ve long contemplated doing one where the serial killer/rapist gets his just deserts before he can do his dirty deeds. I wonder if Checkhov would approve of this one… I’ve read enough of his works to believe he would at least give it a tentative nod… How did you go and get yourself exiled???
Oops! Sorry, John. I intended to include Thanks to You in my reply, along with the one to Prospero. Your positive comments gives me mucho encouragement–and you know how we “struggling writers” thrive on that. So–THANKS! Words likes yours help keep me writing!
So glad chekhov’s gun went off! I was worried there would be a nasty little twist, but this tale deserved its inevitable closure. Well done.
Quite different from your last story, way to change it up!
Many thanks to all for your comments. All were positive, so hopefully I’m doing something right!