« Little Red Wagon|A story of two men and their wago »
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Little Red Wagon|A story of two men and their wago « Thread Started on Jul 15, 2009, 11:25pm »
Two men walked along the cracked, dying, dry sidewalk of a suburban area right outside the downtown area of a city in Connecticut. Behind them was a Radio Flyer 18 red, steel wagon. It was perfect. Just a bit of age displayed its ability to survive the toughest of conditions. The wheels squeaked, but in the satisfying way that meant it was supporting its weight, but not giving up. The body bag in it glistened as the sun shined on the thick plastic. The legs inside draped over the back, the head resting on the handle. Nobody seemed to be looking out their windows at this odd sight, which was odd in its own right. The houses were all colored with light, chipped paint.
The two men walking with this pristine example of human engineering were silent. One of them, the one pulling this manufacturing art, was wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie, with the smallest of blood smeared on the shirt. His gun was hidden in the right pocket of his suit, ready to be grabbed by his left hand. This man was in his mid-40's, with dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and an overall aura of knowing what he was doing. The other man could have been a parallel opposite. He moved in a jittery way, his hair was red and youthful, he had a cut running fown the left of his forehead, still bleeding. He was maybe in his late-20's, with green eyes, and suit missing his tie and gun. He'd lost them both.
Silence filled the violent air. Squeaking was the only sound for the longest time, as the two men were deep in thought. Eventually, the redhead had to speak. “So, why a f**king wagon?”
This comment, in return, was acknowledged by then older man's retort. “Look at it, man, it's perfect. Why not a wagon?” “Cause it's a d**ned wagon, kinda conspicuous, eh?” “Well, so is the body.” “But we're just drawing attention.” “Trust me, if anyone looks, they won't notice the wagon.” “But, this is just making it all worse.” “Look, we have a body, it's easily 90 degrees outside. I'm not dragging this all the way to the car.” “Then I will.” “Why?” “Cause.......” “Yes?”
There was no response. Silence once again filled the air, for a shorter period than last time. “But..... why a f**king wagon?” “Because they were out of the normal wagons.” “What?.....Oh, f**k you.” “I'd rather you didn't.” The squeaking wasn't even irritable anymore. It was just there, a sort of ambient noise. There was a soft melody to it, sort of Beethoven's 7th. The older man was swaying his head, enjoying the moment. The younger man, though, just couldn't keep himself silent. “We're getting' paid, right?” “No, I just enjoy murder as a past time.” “Right.... stupid question. But, how much?” “He said half before, half after.” “So, how much.” “Christ your stupid.” “What? Why?” “You have half, right?” The younger man paused, then nodded. “Right.” “Good, so take that half, and add it with itself.” “Ok... so that makes... lemee see.” “Oh for god's sake, it was a bunch of zeros!” “Oh, got it, 10 grand.”
The older man laughed to himself. The younger man was a bit horrified by this. Had he miscalculated? No, that was impossible, 5+5=10, so 5k+5k=10k. What was wrong? He had to ask, the tension was killing him. “What is it?” “That's a low number.” “What, you have a different paycheck?” “That I do.” “f**king A.” “Why do you stay so insistent on using that word? All you're doing is referencing sex.” “Bad habit.” “Try smoking.”
Squeaking, dryness, heat, death. These thoughts all hit the younger man once more. He hated them all with a passion. He looked at the older man, then carefully observed the wagon. Come to think of it, this wagon WAS quite amazing. It was holding up the weight of a decent 200lb body, without so much as a small break in morale. It was quite attractive to the eye, and gave him a sense of Nostalgia. “Hey, Wentz, this is a pretty nice wagon.” “Thank you for noticing. It's about time.” “Really, it is. And for $15, that's quite a good deal.” “I bet if you Ebay this, it's gonna be $100.” “You love this wagon a bit too much.” “Just saying. We bought this at that yard sale, $15, no questions asked. I'd say things are working quite well for us.” “Besides the whole 'Target having a loaded semi-automatic weapon and military training' nuts, yea, things are going quite well.” “That was to be suspected.” “He stole my gun and pistol-whipped me, then smashed my head into a radiator.” “And then I shot him.” “But you didn't do it sooner?” “You were too close, I only had a few shots, didn't want you to absorb them.” “He suffocated me with my tie.” “You got loose.” “It hurt.” “Suck it up.”
More squeaking. Wentz, the older man, now identified by name, kept walking in tune with the squeaks, which was a bit pointless, as the squeaks were in tune with him. It was all a well oiled illusion, really. The body was starting to smell, this was getting bad. They had about a mile to walk before getting to the car, which had been parked far away to appease the younger man's paranoia. He was not a professional.
Wentz made a compromise. “Ok, Dan, what if we just dump the body in the closest river?” “Y'think it'll work?” “Hell no, but it'll suffice.” “Fair enough for me.”
And now, Wentz and Dan began their hunt for a river. What they failed to realize was that there was no river running through this particular town. This did not stop them from walking block after block, searching for the river that would never come.
A flashback.
Two men stand at a door. Both have guns, matching ties, sunglasses. The one with red hair kicks in the door. A clip is emptied in 32 seconds, not a single bullets hits a mark. The two men can't find the source of fire. The redhead searches the kitchen. Hands grasp his neck, then his tie. In 7.18 seconds, the tie is around his neck slowly choking him. The blond haired man stands there, gun down. The ginger lands a punch on his attacker's face, catches his breath, and gets grasped once more. His forehead meets the hot radiator. He screams, then falls as his gun is picked up and aimed at him.
A gunshot, the gun falls to the floor, discharges its clip due to faulty craftsmanship. The redhead shouts an unidentifiable string of curse words, the two men grab the body, place it in a bag, and carry it off.
Back in reality.
After a decent 15 minutes of hard searching, the two men come across a well on private property. After 20 minutes of hard work, the body is absent from the pristine Radio Flyer 18 wagon. The residents of 28 Clearmeadow Lane will have a surprise when they draw water from that well. 10 minutes after the body is disposed of, Dan has to speak. “Why the hell do we still have that d**ned wagon?” “Oh, did we replace it with the other wagon?” “No, the f**king wagon is the same as the d**ned wagon.” “I was under the impression that we had purchased a red wagon.” “Same thing.” “I would argue that.” “Argue what?” “Well, just saying, those three adjectives are not synoyms. I would argue your claims that they in fact are.” “Shut up.” “I refuse.” “Go to hell.” “Intend to.” “Look, can we just get to the car?” “Yea, we're gonna have to go through town first.” “Really?” “Yea.” “With that?” “What's wrong with it? I thought you liked my wagon.” “I do, as I said, it's quite nice, just not practical.” “Well, we just used it quite efficiently to get rid of that body.” “I suppose. Wait, you're wagon?” “I'm pulling it, aren't I?” “I paid for half.” “You can pull it half the time.” “I'll look dumb.” “We were just dumping a body in a well.” “That was cool.” “Cool?” “Yea, we killed a guy, dumped his body, classic mobster nuts.” “Gangsters? We're much more elegant.” “Hitmen?” “Sort of. You started this because it's cool?” “I like that kinda power. Life and death, all that. Good stuff.” “You aren't right.” “What, and you are? You killed the guy, not me. And I mean, the guy we killed, he might as well have been a saint, but you killed him like he was f**king Lucifer!”
Silence.
It wasn't comforting. It never was.
Dan felt uncomfortable. He needed to do something. Anything. Just stop that dreaded silence, that awful ringing, the deathbells, oblivion suffocating him, it was all over, this was it, the end.
“Are you ok?”
He would survive another day. “Ya, just fine....” “You got all pale for a second, it was odd.”
Dan needed to cover-up quick, think....think.... got it. “So this guy walks into a bar, right?” “What?” “A bar, y'know, they sell spirits.” “Spirits?” “Booze” “Right.... I know what a bar is, I just don't know what the hell you're doing” “Anyway, this guy walks into the bar, perfectly normal, cept he's got a monkey on a leash.” “Well that's peculiar.” “I know. Anyway, the bartender gets all pissy, claims the monkey'll nuts all over the place or something.” “An understandable claim.” “Not really. See, this was a trained monkey. The guy explains this, puts down a base fee of $20, and gets a drink for himself and the pet.” “The monkey drinks?” “It's a f**kin joke, just roll with it.” “Will do.” “So the monkey finishes up his drink, and he's a bit woozy. So he stumbles over to the pool table, picks up the eight ball, and downs it whole.” “Quite a feat.” “Indeed. So the bartender throws them out without even so much as a word. A couple weeks later, these guys come back. The guy claims his monkey's all better, been trained about the whole billiard ball eating thing.” “Bullnuts.” “Just listen. So this guy puts down a base charge of $50, and sits down with his monkey. They both get some martinis, and suck em down. The monkey gets to his olive, takes one look at it, shoves it up his ass, pulls it out, and eats it.”
Silence as Wentz processes it. “The hell?” “Yea, I know. So the bartender whips out a 12-gauge, he's had it with this nuts, he loads it and gives the guys five seconds to run. The guy waves his arms around in the air, shouting for his life. 'No, no, really, it's ok, I trained him to do that, ever since the pool ball, he's gotta make sure it fits before he eats it!'”
Squeaky wheels, footsteps on pavement. Nothing else. Nothing else for the longest time. And then words from Wentz.
Two men sit in an amazing office. Books decorate the walls along with plaques certifying the divinity of their owner, a constant reminder of his own importance to the world. His own little set of angels. One man has blond hair and an impeccable sense of fashion, wearing a recently pressed black suit, red tie. The other, the man behind his mahogany desk, with black hair. He wears his custom-fitted Italian suit as a shell, hiding the mortal, the ugly, fleshy, disgusting thing that fuels the suit, makes it live, breath, makes it immortal.
“Twenty-Five grand for the job.” “How much is the rookie making?” “Why?” “A comparison is all.” “Ten.” “Poor kid.” “Not really.” “Why's that?” “You're gonna be dumping two bodies.” “The kid?” “He's owed me money way too f**kin long. Thinks he's payin me off with the hit. Idiot.” “Understood.” Back in the far less comforting reality. “Is this the end, Wentz?” “The hell do you mean?” “Well, I mean, is this it?” “This?” “Our life. Does it end here, or do we live on after our deaths? Y'know, paranormal nuts.” “You mean divinity.” “Yea.” “Poetically put.” “Thanks.” “I don't know. I think maybe there is something, but we just don't know what.” “I have too many questions to believe in god.” “Well, here's how I see it. You've got these little kids, right? And the parent. Now, the kids can't understand everything, they can't make all their choices, because they're just kids, and they need to be looked after. All they can do at that age is take in information and obey. We can only obey, god's looking after us, but we're just too naïve to let him tell us it all, cause we'll just be pricks about it.” “I take issue with being the kid.” “Every kid does.” “Well played.”
A mile, two miles, how far was this god-d**ned get-away car? Why had they parked so far? Keep on moving, walk, step left, right, left, right, serve your purpose, obey orders.
Be a good little child and do what daddy says. No, you can't have ice cream now, you can't exercise proper judgment over it, daddy will tell you when you can have ice cream. Don't kill yet, it's not sanctioned, only kill to the sound of trumpets in mass quantities. The wagon was a crescendo of simple magnificence in it's sound, a staccato of rusty metal twirling and spinning and colliding with the ground in a constant, steady pace as it slowly moved.
That d**n redhead won't shut up. This is what the wagon would of thought had it not been a wagon.
“I mean, f**k it man, deliver me from all this perfection and requirement. I've tasted perfection, it was great, for a minute, then it ended, and it was even better.” “Dan, I'll say this as a friend, shut the f**k up.” “No, I can't, just listen, alright. I was in camp, I was 14. I had a bunch of friends, and we went out from the bunks, after having just gotten all dressed up for some dumb banquet or some nuts. Anyway, we walked down to the lake in the middle of this intense storm, right? And we're just standing there in our suits and ties and nice shirts, and it's getting ruined. The rain is smacking down on the water in this chaotic masterpiece, it all seems so planned, the lightning, the cool breeze, the violent roar of the rain on the lake, and the insanity that this water looked like. I'm soaked, I'm cold, but I could give a nuts. I'm standing on the edge of the lake, watching this perfect lack of control, and I've found serenity, everything is as is should be. Natural order. It ends in 5 minutes, and then it's over, my taste of heaven. I can't walk an inch without water pouring out from my suit, but it doesn't matter.” “Deep.” “I know, right?” “Kinda scary.” “The story?” “No, you being capable of such complex thought.” “It's got something to do with lunar cycles.”
And finally, the wagon's creaking stops. The two men arrived at the parking garage, not another soul besides the two of them was there. Pitch black Lexus, perfectly parked. Wentz outstretches an arm, withdrawing his keys and opening the trunk. “Could you load the wagon into the trunk?” “It's your f**kin wagon, why don't you do it?!” “I saved your d**ned life back there. Just do this and we call it even.” “Fine.”
The redhead picked up the wagon, placing it in the trunk. The back of his head was exposed, now is when that moment of regret, doubt, or compassion rears it's ugly head.
Unfortunately, Wentz was a cold bastard.
To use a gun, follow these simple steps. 1).Raise gun to aim at the back of your new friend's head. 2).Pull back the hammer of your traitorous gun. 3).Place your backstabbing finger on the trigger. 4).Pull trigger and wait for the new friend to disappear.
Nothing.
Oh, right, remove the safety.
Too late.
Be careful so that your target does not turn around, react, and punch you in the face. If this happens, try to make sure he does not get hold of your tie and slowly strangle you to death with it. Slowly, all will fade and go to black, silence will creep up on you, you will struggle, but it will be useless.
Dan let go after he was sure the man was dead. The redhead lightly picked up the gun, as if to toss it away, and then unloaded the clip on the backstabbing, lying, killing demon that he had trusted for less than a day.
Drop gun. Run hand through hair.
Allow all sense of security or common sense to depart. Check assassin's pockets.
No I.D. No labels. No trace at all. Run.
Run like hell. Leave the wagon.
In about 15 minutes, there a perimeter around the scene. A car with an open trunk, a red wagon somehow fit inside it. A dead man with a bruised neck and roughed up tie laying on the ground peacefully, his gun next to him, the safety was still on.
Two crime scene investigators inspect the odd situation. “Well, seems like a mob hit. This guy's got a warrant back in Jersey.” “Amateur.” “Whoever killed him seems to know what they're doing, looks like they got him by surprise.” “what was he doing with that wagon?” “I dunno, we'll get a fingerprint analysis on it later.”
Joined: Aug 2007 Gender: Female Posts: 2,170 Location: In Fantasy Land Karma: 37
Re: Little Red Wagon|A story of two men and their « Reply #1 on Nov 7, 2009, 4:19pm »
This has been chosen for the October Monthly Newsletter's Critique that Story! section and will soon be added to the fiction section of the Ivy Leagues.
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