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Last Minute before my Excommuncado

Okay, Start the clock....

By Willem IndigoPublished about a month ago 6 min read
Last Minute before my Excommuncado
Photo by Avery D'Alessandro on Unsplash

Pablo shoots Rick, his body hits the floor, and Lady Sunshine is taken aback by the mess. He’s not closing out his current call, most likely to sear in the point, no more interruptions; our lives continuing was unnecessary, and the discussion was not open. I hated the guy, but he left me no choice, leaving me to die on a few cases, so consider me living in the moment; Lady Sunshine couldn’t utter a single word through her gritting teeth and pinched lips. Now that I think back, he was loopy for her control style since her concoction removed all other ties, family included. Impossible to believe she ever cared about anyone’s demise except the gunman to her left staring at the growing blood pool. Pablo’s misinterpretation of her wide-eyed lip twitch put his focus on an anecdote I’d heard similarly before from another power-hungry type with a flare built into their murderous lectures. Since my version has a litany of extra details that would further incriminate me, I didn’t need to think about the task she signaled in her judgmental side-eye meant for my tired sighs.

“Shoot me, Cunt.” And here I am, holding back a sneeze. She puts the thumb on his trigger finger and the barrel on her forehead and utters, “Mr. Hendersen won’t be long now.” We both know how empty that threat was, but what bought us the extra fifty seconds was the stain that reached the carpet of the office lounge area. Her snaps were even making the guard to my right a little testy. Can he smell a ruse? The one where I felt justifying a robbery failure due to an overcoked plan, ruining a year-long success streak. The call ends.

“I can’t believe I’ve heard ghost stories about you two.” She couldn’t care and side-eyed me, repeating a signal I had forty seconds to figure out. I began to believe it had something to do with her preamble speech of discontent before the threat finished its last sponsor plug. It started with wiping family photos, a purple pen, and a fake plant with a top laid with actual soil to plant a palm on his desk. No hesitation in the action; however, it shouldn’t have taken three seconds to do it. And she remembered to check if the gunpowder-laced microphone was on. He smiled at her threat through grinding teeth; meanwhile, her foot shifted the glass from the frame that landed near my foot. Not sure whose benefits this is for. Handgun hand warmed in their holster, and I’m starting to remember her anecdote. The one about the six on two against the suits just north of the southern border.

“Of course, I’m not a Fed like I tell everyone.”

“Really, Senorita?”

“Yeah. What they couldn’t find in the burned wreckage and spewed body parts of three of your comrades was the double-dealing, putting a generic brand in and around your product that sells better. They practically killed themselves. Act on some nerd sweating the essence of braggadocio as they invigorate some Palm Springs party scene; the blind ego smirk you belittle, mi amore, looks the same on them as it does on you. How much do you want to know what they did wrong?”

“Oh, Wow. That’s her plan. Got it; she has stopped talking to Pablo. Don’t mistake the eye contact. I wouldn’t want it anyway. The day in question, we ripped off an exchange between a meeting motivated by amateur ambitions in a hand-off meant to merge a new type of ecstasy to put North California on the map. Neither paid any attention to the tragedy they fled after the research phase, but that actually had nothing to do with us. We could’ve cleaned up on the San Franciscan scene, but her new religious zealot developer was all she could think about unless Pablo stopped humoring her. We heard about it through Rick, who was trying to find another heroin supplier she couldn’t get to. Welp, she did, and after a forced religious exhibition leading to a weekend, she refuses to help me remember. This is why we thought it up. “You better be fast,” the goon heard but didn’t understand me.

Because they’d meet for a trunk-lid deal halfway between mile makers in a desolate portion of 29 Palm highway, shy of the Arizona border, to avoid eyes that may not think would exist. Quiet for sure, except we staked out the place hours in advance. Not a common practice, but in the lightless space between two last-chance gas stations and the hidden moon, we aligned barrels with other styles of cover around the area. Took some mental pictures and compared the daylight to working off headlights alone. Screw being luck; we may have to restart bible study to explain how even the nervous gulps were in earshot. As she expected, the illegal pharmacists were still in hippyfied lab coats as The {redacted} had leather belt holsters under their jackets. During the test of quote purity, and all eyes faced the twitchy lab rat, the trick became to keep the shy ones vanishing into the darkness quieter than the chemical jargon no one could understand. They lost me around ethereal material. And getting the dirt out of the coats on the fly.

Both vehicles were running. The Escalade had a burbling exhaust setup. Giving our movements weren’t the most inspiring; I took off my disguise for the shift change to feel more natural after the former doctor stepped a little out of sight for a slash. Where I stood when I returned to the pill pushers synthesizing a reduced potent version to demonstrate simplicity, I handed him the syringe and a napkin, hoping I wouldn’t watch an OD. Lady Sunshine was hoping for less work. I had to time the removal of the guy in cargo shorts with his last contribution to the serving. My look definitely began to confuse the gunner on the opposite side, and they asked me to remove my glasses, which just so happened to be her signal. I came up with a real good argument on why I wouldn’t want to be any blinder out here that spoke real enough for the doctor to ignore why I must have sounded different than their co-worker. It could’ve been what looked like gunpowder near the mobile Bunsen burner, locking his concentration. I almost offered up the glasses for being so close. I locked eyes, overlooking Pablo for his known associates. He knew, looking at the seller, that the hired muscle was worth the six or ten minutes they were late. When the doctor caught on to the discussion unfolding around him, he looked square where the goon stood slightly coated in brake lights and said, ‘Well, tell your girl to drop the mask.’ You could tell if he hadn’t said a pronoun, it would’ve been a snap decision. He didn’t even lie awake enough to see her steal his keys while holding the doctor at gunpoint. All that bravado, aimed at three unarmed nerds; shame.

For the last twenty seconds, I had been staring at the goon behind Lady Sunshine without blinking. Pablo caught on to me soul fucking his goon and signaled the one behind me that I should be put in my place. I could’ve saved them the effort and just taken the front door. A simple nod that took a second, if not a half. What she neglected to remove from his display was the commemorative fountain pen she caught when the rest dropped. Said pen, mid nod, was stabbed through the eyelid, shoved deeper in the struggle. Pablo’s haymaker of a shot could’ve introduced everyone but me to my third eye. Good thing I let my knees go weak, or else the throat going Old Faithful wouldn’t have distracted enough for me to pin him against the wall with one of the chairs we weren’t good enough to sit in. The steel legs penetrated with ease and punched his nose until his pistol grip weakened. Good thing they forgot to search my cargo shorts pockets. Good thing for later, I didn’t have to run life with sliced palms. Every gushy impact counted down the last eight seconds before the knocks on the door finally, gratefully, stole my attention from her brutal primal cardio. His men had expected three shots, but one frantic maniac thuds on the floor made by the electric guitar in the corner getting Hendrix-ed on a leaking water bed.

“Sir, everything alright in there?”

*thud, Thud, Th--*

“Working them over. We good here.” At least one of them had to have a super deep voice, right? Either way, it didn’t seem like they were buying it without getting eyes on.

“Get to the safe; the combination is over there,” she whispered. Four, three, two...

“What?! Our lives aren’t enough--”


About the Creator

Willem Indigo

I spend substantial efforts diving into the unexplainable, the strange, and the bewilderingly blasphamous from a wry me, but it's a cold chaotic universe behind these eyes and at times, far beyond. I am Willem Indigo: where you wanna go?

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  • Alex H Mittelman about a month ago

    Fantastic story! Great work!

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