Home / Order / Contact / Submit / Links                                                                       

SENSELESS VIOLENCE
  by H. David Blalock 
copyright © 2001

Ludlow Press Short Fiction

Senseless Violence

Better move.  No reason to stay now.

Always leave the TV on in these motel rooms. Covers the voices and the traffic. Not that there's much that could interest me, now. After tonight. Looking at the cut in my arm, could've been worse. His aim might’ve been better, hand steadier, before he dropped the blade. Bastard. Tourniquet is holding up. Just that slight tingling in my fingers.

What about the body?  Can't leave it here, face down on the sopping rug. Doubt anyone heard it – the shout – muffled under the pillow. People mind their own business. Could care less. Pillow sopped clean through….

Should have time to drag him somewhere. Where? The bed? Maybe. Covered and turned away from the door, open gash not too visible. 

Have to lay him on his side first, though. Hide his wound, the blood. Other pillow should hide that. For now. Throw some blankets on it, too.

Old prick. Stupid son of a bitch. Just ‘cause you pay for it don't mean you get to beat it. And when he pulled the knife -- pulling that ole’ ‘Nam maneuver – shit. Should've known better than to pick up a drunk this late. Both thought we had a mark, I guess. Easy money. Tough shit for him he caught the worst of it.

God, he's heavy. Sack of shit! Bad arm don’t help. Here we go, old prick. Whew! Smells, too! All right. First, the midsection… then the legs. Unbutton the shirt and pull it off. Hmm … didn't know you had a tattoo. Nice piece of work, too. East Village, bet.... Now, covers go up and over, and turn the head just so. Close the eyes. Bleeding less now. Good. Stain on this pillow’ll take longer to work through. How does it look from the doorway?... Not bad. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was snoozing. A snoozing bum.

Now – forget anything? No, got all my shit. Just turn the TV up a little. A little more. Cop his nine. Shit, like new. Check the clip? Let's see... Three. Yep. All mine. Got something outta’ all this.

Shit – what was that? Lemme’ see – somebody pulling down the gate. Better wait.  Maybe lower the TV. See the interstate traffic just beyond the "Vacancy" light. Impala’s still out there, parked at the curb. They in yet?  Don't see ‘em. Ease the door open now, peep outside. Quick. Step out. Pull the door shut. Arm hurts. Ah, the coat slipped down. Keep the arm out of sight. Need to remember that. ‘Least till I get to the Chevy. Few more steps, a few more.

What's this?  What the fuck! Who's that! -- By the car? Waving a gun? What -- trying to steal my getaway! Sonavabitch’! Hell. I’m strapped, too. See what’s what. Dirty fuck. One well placed shot. One well placed shot and —  and....

How’d I end up here. Lying on my face?  I feel so tired, creepin’ cold. Have to get up. Get up. God. It fuckin’ hurts. Hurts….

***

"Double homicide, looks like.”

"What goes around comes around, I say. Looks like the female here fatally stabbed the John in the motel, then ran into trouble out here, herself.”

"Why’d she have to kill him?"

"Better yet, why was she killed? Doesn't make sense. Front desk says the car's still here and nothing's been taken."

END

Born in Texas, H. David Blalock has lived in Florida and the Republic of Panama, working for the Defense Department. He currently resides near Memphis. E-mail: jarlthran@yahoo.com




Back to Fiction Page
[Back to top]