Jenni Clarke - Author
Trent tries hard to please his boss, by following every instruction, however strange they may be.
-Long hair, tache? -
-Yep. You got a camera in the yard? -
-No. F H. Trent! –
-Sorry boss. What I do wit im? My arm hurts -
-It’s Frank. Give him a break. Put him in my office -
Trent snaps Frank’s wrist and drags him into the portacabin, tying him to a chair.
-What now boss? -
-He happy to wait? -
-He’s angry –
-Frank’s come for his cut, Trent, that’s all. It’s in the top drawer-
-You want me to give him a cut? -
-Yes !! -
In the drawer, under a wad of cash, Trent finds a knife. He waves it in front of Frank’s eyes before slashing his cheek. Frank swears to kill Trent as soon as his hands are free, and then he swears some more. Blood drips down onto his jeans.
Trent shoves a cloth in Frank’s mouth. ‘No need to be callin people names.’ He cuffs Frank’s
head before sending another text. -Swears he’s gonna kill me boss–
-Draw your gun Trent-
Trent shakes his head, but returns to the desk and rummages until he finds an envelope, and a pen. He places his gun in the patch of sunlight and grins at the way it glistens. His tongue pokes from his cracked lips as he concentrates.
He ignores the phone.
Trent sighs and picks up his phone. - Sorry boss, bit slow-
-I know u r. Is Frank happy now? Has he gone? -
Trent looks across at Frank, who is glaring at him like a madman.
– Nope he’s here, and mad -
-Shit. Give him a shot, and put him on the phone-
Trent ignores Frank’s insistent and high-pitched moans as he prepares a syringe. ‘This is my last, Frank. I hope you appreciate it.’ Frank shakes his head, then relaxes as the heroine seeps through his veins.
-Trent. Put Frank on the phone-
Trent frowns at the strange instruction, but lifts Frank’s buttocks and slips the phone beneath him.
- Frank? –
-F. Never mind. I’m coming over –
Trent smiles when his boss opens the door.
‘Right here, boss.’ Trent points at the body slumped on the office floor, flies tasting the congealing blood.
‘F..K Trent. What have you done?’
Trent shivers. ‘I done everything you said, boss.’ He scuttles behind the desk. ‘I broke his wrist, cut his face, drew my gun.’ He picks at his lips with dirty nails. ‘Almost didn’t get that one.’ He hands his boss the envelope with a surprisingly accurate drawing of his pistol. ‘Gave him a shot. Didn’t want to, it was my last one, but …’ He shrugs. ‘Looks like bad heroine.’ Trent grabs a fistful of hair. ‘And I did put him on the phone, but he fell off.’ He nods. ‘I did good, right boss?’
Fiction - Draw your gun
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