Thursday, June 15, 2017

Flash Fiction #13: Lariat

One of two for today.

Two elderly ladies are slowly walking down a parking lot; a vast lot with a scarce number of parked vehicles in the middle of the pitch black night. They casually make their way past a midnight black luxury car, engaging in idle conversation, not paying any attention to the car itself or the occupant within.

The driver of the car – a balding man in his mid-thirties – was laying in his reclined seat, only occasionally glancing outwards. He noticed the two women walking by, but soon turns back to the notebook where he had been writing some words in. After finishing his brief entry, the driver adjusted the seat back to a sitting position. As he was about to reach for the ignition, he noticed another man – younger than himself and with a full head of hair – making a mad dash his way. The driver was somewhat concerned, but not necessarily fearful of this man he has never seen before.

As the man closed in on his direction, the driver opened his side window and extended his left arm outwards, almost forming a lariat of sorts. In somewhat predictable fashion, the running man collided with the driver's arm in brutal fashion, tumbling over like a tower of off-balanced Jenga blocks. The man curled up and held his stomach in pain, groaning about how much of an idiot he was.

The driver then started the engine and drove away, content to have vented some of his irritation in humanity. In the mind of this morose driver, the poor bastard had it coming.

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