Russell Shulz sat in a room with white walls and wood floors. The windows were locked and the blinds were closed. He could only hear the birds singing from a tree outside the window.

There was no money and no food in the room. No women and no books. No television and no radio. There was only a Glock.

The gun contained a cool stealth exterior. It sat on the coffee table directly in front of Russell.

He sat on a black leather sofa and thought nothing. His mind was little more than gray methane encased in metal.

Russell finally picked up the gun and walked over to a window. He opened the blinds and looked out.

The sunlight was horribly bright, sour as lemon to the black slits of his eyes. But, he adjusted—

Two teenage boys tossed a football in the street. A Mexican girl with a phat ass and plump red lips walked a Rottweiler on a pink leash.

Russell spotted a man walking the sidewalk. He was dressed in a blue suit, with white shoes and a black briefcase. He walked from house to house, knocked, talked and smiled. The man was apparently in sales of some sort.

Russell closed the blinds and sat back down. He returned the Glock to the coffee table. He sat and still thought nothing.

There was suddenly a knock at the door. Russell rose and grabbed the gun.

He walked over the wood floors to a tan door. There was another knock, this one louder than the first. Russell could still hear the birds singing in the tree outside. He opened the door and stood there.

“Hello, my name is Bob Zuckerman,” the man in the blue suit almost chirped, “I represent McMullen Rugs and Carpeting, and was wondering if I might have a little of your time!?”

The sun was horribly bright, sour as lemon to the black slits of his eyes. But, he adjusted—

He lifted the Glock and fired. A single shot, point-blank-range, eye-level. The man dropped and the white cement of the porch turned red as mercury in a thermometer.

Russell lowered the gun and fired again, emptying the clip. He looked down at nothing, but a faceless man laid out in a blue suit and white shoes, no longer holding a briefcase.

He closed the door and fastened all the locks.

He walked over and sat back down on the sofa. He placed the Glock, still smoking, down on the coffee table.

Russell sat in the quiet. He could no longer hear the birds singing. He could only slightly make out the faint sounds of sirens and high-pitched horns.

 

 

Steve Calamars lives in San Antonio, TX. He has a B.A. in Philosophy and works in a grocery store. The stuff he writes can be found (or will be found) in bottle rockets, Chiron Review, Harpur Palate, Ghoti, Shoots and Vines , Black-Listed Magazine, Zygote in My Coffee and other places he won’t bore you with. He can be found in sccalamars@yahoo.com