The Stop - Hardboiled Fiction ala RJB
Ok, I have been writing. Here is the beginning of a short story I started today:
The Stop
Harry got out of the Wayne County supplied black Chevrolet Impala; he tried to shake off the car’s putrid smell of ass sweat, vomit, and fast food but it wouldn’t go away – it had permeated his clothes.
As he surveyed the scene, it looked like a hundred police-car pileup - headlights blaring, bubble gums rotating. It wasn’t, of course, it was responders to an officer-down distress call.
The cars were all surrounding, in a half circle, a squad car parked behind a late model Black Porsche 911, both engines still running. Both squad car doors were opened with two officers laying face down, blood pools around their heads.
Harry approached the Precinct Captain, who was standing a few feet away from the crime scene.
“What have we got?” Harry asked as he placed an unlit cigarette between his lips.
“Take a look . . . but don’t move anything. The crime scene techs haven’t taken pictures yet. This is some sick shit – and I thought I’d seen enough sick shit for a lifetime. All DOA and hey don't light that damn thing.” The Captain said as he pulled the cigarette from Harry's mouth.
Harry shrugged and walked over to the squad car to look at the carnage. At first glance, it appeared to be a textbook traffic stop. The squad car was canted at a slight angle to divert oncoming traffic. The officer’s guns were still in their holsters.
The two patrol officers had been shot twice in the head, execution style. As he walked to the front of the car he stared at the back of a tall blonde haired woman, the apparent drive of the car. She was bent face forward over the gull wing of the Porsche, naked from the waist down, legs spread eagled, blood had streamed down her inner thighs, and her hair was matted with clotted blood. Something was dangling between her legs.
Harry stooped down to get a closer look.
“Holy mother of... A fucking fish?”
Let me know...
The Stop
Harry got out of the Wayne County supplied black Chevrolet Impala; he tried to shake off the car’s putrid smell of ass sweat, vomit, and fast food but it wouldn’t go away – it had permeated his clothes.
As he surveyed the scene, it looked like a hundred police-car pileup - headlights blaring, bubble gums rotating. It wasn’t, of course, it was responders to an officer-down distress call.
The cars were all surrounding, in a half circle, a squad car parked behind a late model Black Porsche 911, both engines still running. Both squad car doors were opened with two officers laying face down, blood pools around their heads.
Harry approached the Precinct Captain, who was standing a few feet away from the crime scene.
“What have we got?” Harry asked as he placed an unlit cigarette between his lips.
“Take a look . . . but don’t move anything. The crime scene techs haven’t taken pictures yet. This is some sick shit – and I thought I’d seen enough sick shit for a lifetime. All DOA and hey don't light that damn thing.” The Captain said as he pulled the cigarette from Harry's mouth.
Harry shrugged and walked over to the squad car to look at the carnage. At first glance, it appeared to be a textbook traffic stop. The squad car was canted at a slight angle to divert oncoming traffic. The officer’s guns were still in their holsters.
The two patrol officers had been shot twice in the head, execution style. As he walked to the front of the car he stared at the back of a tall blonde haired woman, the apparent drive of the car. She was bent face forward over the gull wing of the Porsche, naked from the waist down, legs spread eagled, blood had streamed down her inner thighs, and her hair was matted with clotted blood. Something was dangling between her legs.
Harry stooped down to get a closer look.
“Holy mother of... A fucking fish?”
Let me know...