Post by Dirk Zephyrs on Oct 1, 2007 9:29:25 GMT -5
Hero
The gun discharged. No wait, hold on—there are better places to start this. The door swings open with a calm and casual grace, so inconspicuous it makes itself stand out. He walked in, slouched over, his ebony face gaunt; his nose like an Olympic ski-jump and thin lips almost seem unnatural for him. I put him down as a mulatto. God damn it, hold up, maybe this is too early. I read the newspaper article out loud to my friends, all of them quite proud of my deed. I’d stopped a robbery, and damn it feels good, let me tell you that. He walked in slowly, eyes staring at the shelves of chips, Doritos, Fritos, Tostitos, Funions, he stopped and eyed every last one. I chewed my lip a little as I watched him in his big, baggy coat—it’s the middle of August, and even then we never have winters here—and I stopped watching him because my tooth went right through a layer of dead skin, and my lips started to bleed. I swore under my breath, it’s the little cuts that hurt the most, and then looked up to find myself staring at the man through the barrel of a gun.
The gun discharged. The police put it down to self defense. I was a little shaken up by the whole thing, I told them.
Put the money in the bag.
“You said he took the bag and ran? And then you ran up behind him and tackled him?”
“Yes, officer.”
By some freak accident, the gun went off when he hit the ground. Pointed right at his face. I’d never seen anyone die before, but after the initial shock of seeing him faceless, brains plastered to the floor, I realized something. I had stopped a robber, like Batman or one of the other badass superheroes.
My starving babe’ll thank you for this money.
“Well, thank you, sir, you’ve done a good deed for the world,” the policeman said.
God I hope you understand, kid.
A woman was crying the whole time I was talking to the officer. I chanced a glance at her; some tiny little white woman, ribs visible beneath her tight tank-top, tiny-breasted little thing.
I felt like a fucking god, I tell them. They laugh; they don’t understand. They can’t understand. I pissed myself staring down the barrel of that gun. I felt like I had conquered death.
She’s holding a little boy in her arms, his skin passably white, his shrunken face almost a mask of a skull, like an impoverished English orphan from one of those films. A mockery of 18th Century French peasants.
He walks up to the register with a slow, meaningful, almost pious, pace, like in a trance, reluctant to continue but unable to stop himself. Slow, zombie-like. He looks me in the eyes so sternly, so needing, eyes wrapped in fear so sharp it outweighed those needy pinpricks of need, of guilt. I looked him in the eyes and didn’t even see him pull the gun; it simply appeared in his hands like the coin of a magician. Hell, he probably pulled it out of my ear. His lips moved slowly, determined, his voice shaking as much as his quivering hands.
“Put the money in the bag,” he said. The piss, hot on my ice cold legs, slid out of my limpness with the speed of my possible death, and I complied, quite hastily. “Please, sir, understand I need this money. My starving babe’ll thank you for this.” I couldn’t really hear what he said; it simply lingered there on the edge of my mind.
His hand snatched the bag like a cobra’s strike, and the he was running towards the door, gun pointed at me. I stayed still, hands on my head. The bell over the door goes wild as he slams the door open with his shoulder. Filled with some stupid courage, I leap over the register, adrenaline bursting through my system, hot fire melting the ice of apathy. I come through the door less than a second after him, and I drop hard on his knee, sending us both to the cement. Thunder roared. I knew what had happened; his finger jerked the trigger as it hit the ground. The gun discharged, pointed at his face, and when I opened my eyes I vomited.
The newspaper article simply reads:
“George Thompson, age 31, was killed yesterday while attempting to rob a Seven-Eleven.”
So his name was George, I think.
The gun discharged. No wait, hold on—there are better places to start this. The door swings open with a calm and casual grace, so inconspicuous it makes itself stand out. He walked in, slouched over, his ebony face gaunt; his nose like an Olympic ski-jump and thin lips almost seem unnatural for him. I put him down as a mulatto. God damn it, hold up, maybe this is too early. I read the newspaper article out loud to my friends, all of them quite proud of my deed. I’d stopped a robbery, and damn it feels good, let me tell you that. He walked in slowly, eyes staring at the shelves of chips, Doritos, Fritos, Tostitos, Funions, he stopped and eyed every last one. I chewed my lip a little as I watched him in his big, baggy coat—it’s the middle of August, and even then we never have winters here—and I stopped watching him because my tooth went right through a layer of dead skin, and my lips started to bleed. I swore under my breath, it’s the little cuts that hurt the most, and then looked up to find myself staring at the man through the barrel of a gun.
The gun discharged. The police put it down to self defense. I was a little shaken up by the whole thing, I told them.
Put the money in the bag.
“You said he took the bag and ran? And then you ran up behind him and tackled him?”
“Yes, officer.”
By some freak accident, the gun went off when he hit the ground. Pointed right at his face. I’d never seen anyone die before, but after the initial shock of seeing him faceless, brains plastered to the floor, I realized something. I had stopped a robber, like Batman or one of the other badass superheroes.
My starving babe’ll thank you for this money.
“Well, thank you, sir, you’ve done a good deed for the world,” the policeman said.
God I hope you understand, kid.
A woman was crying the whole time I was talking to the officer. I chanced a glance at her; some tiny little white woman, ribs visible beneath her tight tank-top, tiny-breasted little thing.
I felt like a fucking god, I tell them. They laugh; they don’t understand. They can’t understand. I pissed myself staring down the barrel of that gun. I felt like I had conquered death.
She’s holding a little boy in her arms, his skin passably white, his shrunken face almost a mask of a skull, like an impoverished English orphan from one of those films. A mockery of 18th Century French peasants.
He walks up to the register with a slow, meaningful, almost pious, pace, like in a trance, reluctant to continue but unable to stop himself. Slow, zombie-like. He looks me in the eyes so sternly, so needing, eyes wrapped in fear so sharp it outweighed those needy pinpricks of need, of guilt. I looked him in the eyes and didn’t even see him pull the gun; it simply appeared in his hands like the coin of a magician. Hell, he probably pulled it out of my ear. His lips moved slowly, determined, his voice shaking as much as his quivering hands.
“Put the money in the bag,” he said. The piss, hot on my ice cold legs, slid out of my limpness with the speed of my possible death, and I complied, quite hastily. “Please, sir, understand I need this money. My starving babe’ll thank you for this.” I couldn’t really hear what he said; it simply lingered there on the edge of my mind.
His hand snatched the bag like a cobra’s strike, and the he was running towards the door, gun pointed at me. I stayed still, hands on my head. The bell over the door goes wild as he slams the door open with his shoulder. Filled with some stupid courage, I leap over the register, adrenaline bursting through my system, hot fire melting the ice of apathy. I come through the door less than a second after him, and I drop hard on his knee, sending us both to the cement. Thunder roared. I knew what had happened; his finger jerked the trigger as it hit the ground. The gun discharged, pointed at his face, and when I opened my eyes I vomited.
The newspaper article simply reads:
“George Thompson, age 31, was killed yesterday while attempting to rob a Seven-Eleven.”
So his name was George, I think.
