night.
CHARLIE BLACKWELL
Three hours After Piedmont Cemetery Melted
It was said of Charlie Blackwell that he had a few screws loose. That he had been abused by his father at a young age and turned violent by it in his later adulthood. That Charlie Blackwell misused prescription medications for his social anxiety. That Charlie Blackwell didn't care about his son who'd been taken away by child protective services due to questionable circumstances. That Charlie Blackwell would've strangled his ex-wife if Sheriff Reeds didn't step in and break it up. But what people couldn't accuse Charlie Blackwell of being today was unarmed.
He sped about town in his jeep unloading rounds from the AK-47 he'd ordered through the mail from a friend of a friend who worked at a pawn shop outside of town. His current targets were those dozens of people who were rummaging through smashed storefronts in town square. A mini-van had crashed through the "Load and Go" Laundry mat. Deputy Hanson lit up the gas tank in his squad car and drove it through the front of the Golden Mercantile Bank of Blue Hills to watch it blow up. Shannon Wiley was taking a sledgehammer to the ATM in the drive-thru of the same bank. Cash flew in the air, the breeze carrying bills every which way as hordes of nearby people fought over them.
Charlie picked off dozens of people during the rioting, the enti re population of Blue Hills in a widespread panic. What they weren't counting on was Charlie Blackwell showing up to the party. He preferred headshots. It ended their lives quickly. One shot to the face, and that would be all. Killing them was the best thing he could do to ensure his own life.
He spun the wheel, turning to head vehicle towards the bank to pick up the cash that was hemorrhaging from the tipped over ATM. Before he could turn around, a series of bullets struck him across the chest. Without his seat belt, Charlie's body tumbled from the seat as the Jeep kept driving straight into a tree. Seconds later, the Polson brothers were standing over Charlie's body. One shoved their hands into Charlie's pockets to take out his wallet, while the other brother forced open Charlie's mouth by stepping on his balls and used a pair of pinch clamps to rip out his tooth with the gold crown. By the time Polson brothers were finished robbing him, Charlie had bled to death.
BINGO
"B-10. B-10. One last time, B-10."
Brock che cked his Bingo card, and he came up short. Desperate for a victory, Brock whispered to Flo, the woman beside him at the table, to try and break her concentration. "Were you ever a waitress?"
Flo sharpened her eyes and placed her chip over B-10. This was the best part of these competitions, in Brock's opinions, when the blue hairs responded to his chiding. Flo asked him deadpan, "Did you ever suck a dick for crack?"
The comment was an inside joke between them. The women at the table had supported him post-rehab, and they joked hard at each other over time as their friendships increased.
Brock had to counter Flo's quip. "Hey lady, you have home field advantage when it comes to dick sucking. You can take out your teeth. I still have mine."
The old man at the front table named Ernest spun a metal cage by the handle, and like a lottery, he selected a numbered ping pong ball. "I-8. I-8. One last time, I-8."
Brock eyed Flo's card, then Mary-Jo's, and then his own card. All he needed was an 0-7, and he'd win. Brock had to keep them distracted. Maybe they'd forget to put down a chip over a letter. "If you ask me, Ernest needs a bit of pep. It's like listening to King Tut in the tomb. Dust comes out of his mouth when he announces the numbers."
Mary-Beth sipped from her apple juice and scowled at him. "You're going to have to do be tter than that, boy. Your jokes are lame."
Flo
CHARLIE BLACKWELL
Three hours After Piedmont Cemetery Melted
It was said of Charlie Blackwell that he had a few screws loose. That he had been abused by his father at a young age and turned violent by it in his later adulthood. That Charlie Blackwell misused prescription medications for his social anxiety. That Charlie Blackwell didn't care about his son who'd been taken away by child protective services due to questionable circumstances. That Charlie Blackwell would've strangled his ex-wife if Sheriff Reeds didn't step in and break it up. But what people couldn't accuse Charlie Blackwell of being today was unarmed.
He sped about town in his jeep unloading rounds from the AK-47 he'd ordered through the mail from a friend of a friend who worked at a pawn shop outside of town. His current targets were those dozens of people who were rummaging through smashed storefronts in town square. A mini-van had crashed through the "Load and Go" Laundry mat. Deputy Hanson lit up the gas tank in his squad car and drove it through the front of the Golden Mercantile Bank of Blue Hills to watch it blow up. Shannon Wiley was taking a sledgehammer to the ATM in the drive-thru of the same bank. Cash flew in the air, the breeze carrying bills every which way as hordes of nearby people fought over them.
Charlie picked off dozens of people during the rioting, the enti re population of Blue Hills in a widespread panic. What they weren't counting on was Charlie Blackwell showing up to the party. He preferred headshots. It ended their lives quickly. One shot to the face, and that would be all. Killing them was the best thing he could do to ensure his own life.
He spun the wheel, turning to head vehicle towards the bank to pick up the cash that was hemorrhaging from the tipped over ATM. Before he could turn around, a series of bullets struck him across the chest. Without his seat belt, Charlie's body tumbled from the seat as the Jeep kept driving straight into a tree. Seconds later, the Polson brothers were standing over Charlie's body. One shoved their hands into Charlie's pockets to take out his wallet, while the other brother forced open Charlie's mouth by stepping on his balls and used a pair of pinch clamps to rip out his tooth with the gold crown. By the time Polson brothers were finished robbing him, Charlie had bled to death.
BINGO
"B-10. B-10. One last time, B-10."
Brock che cked his Bingo card, and he came up short. Desperate for a victory, Brock whispered to Flo, the woman beside him at the table, to try and break her concentration. "Were you ever a waitress?"
Flo sharpened her eyes and placed her chip over B-10. This was the best part of these competitions, in Brock's opinions, when the blue hairs responded to his chiding. Flo asked him deadpan, "Did you ever suck a dick for crack?"
The comment was an inside joke between them. The women at the table had supported him post-rehab, and they joked hard at each other over time as their friendships increased.
Brock had to counter Flo's quip. "Hey lady, you have home field advantage when it comes to dick sucking. You can take out your teeth. I still have mine."
The old man at the front table named Ernest spun a metal cage by the handle, and like a lottery, he selected a numbered ping pong ball. "I-8. I-8. One last time, I-8."
Brock eyed Flo's card, then Mary-Jo's, and then his own card. All he needed was an 0-7, and he'd win. Brock had to keep them distracted. Maybe they'd forget to put down a chip over a letter. "If you ask me, Ernest needs a bit of pep. It's like listening to King Tut in the tomb. Dust comes out of his mouth when he announces the numbers."
Mary-Beth sipped from her apple juice and scowled at him. "You're going to have to do be tter than that, boy. Your jokes are lame."
Flo
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