Friday, April 29, 2005
Short Story Break 1
I wrote this story some time ago. It was rejected from some mystery magazines. I did do a minor polish on one or two scenes. Its short, tell me what you think. Thanks.
THE BRIGADOON COMEDY CLUB
By Douglas Vance Castagna
Blood stained the sidewalk on West 57th street in front of the Brigadoon comedy club. It was one in the morning when the coroner arrived and pronounced the victim dead. The victim was carted away in the meat wagon fifteen minutes later. The police questioned the throng of people who had gathered to watch the scene unfold since the shooting. None of them had seen anything. When the news van came, and the reporter stepped out, combing his thick shiny black mane of hair and checking for remnants of food between his teeth by looking in the van's mirror, several eyewitnesses appeared out of the faceless crowd to be on television. The reporter stepped over the blood stains on the sidewalk to interview a short fat woman walking her little black poodle Fifi.
"I saw the whole thing," she said smiling for the camera. All she had to say however was something about how the Mayor was screwing up the city. The reporter moved on to the next person and asked him what happened, he to had nothing valid to say either, but he was much more photogenic.
Across the street in Krandall's deli sat the shooter eating a corned beef on rye with mustard and a slice of new pickle. Andrew looked up from his sandwich, there was a bit of mustard in the corner of his mouth and he wiped it away with his napkin.
He bit into a new pickle and remembered what he had done.
After the show he left the club, crossed the street and got into his car. He made a broken K turn on the corner, he was aware of the illegality of U turns. He pulled up in front of the club and let the engine idle. He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out the small .22 and checked to see if it was loaded. A few minutes went by as Andrew watched the club empty out.
Then he noticed the comedian who had been making fun of him all night. He remebered the teasing , the taunting in school by his classmates. He remembered they way his mother had always treated him. Like a child. She always treated him like that up until the very last breath she expelled while he choked the life from her. No one had ever made fun of him again. Not ever, and on the rare occasion that it did happen, it happened only once. He made sure of that.
All of these feelings It had been humiliating. I didn't even heckle him, he thought. Why did he have to be so mean to me? He choked back a tear and hardened his heart as he had known to do at such a young age.
Andrew slid over to the passenger seat and rolled down the window.
The comedian passed by a few fans and exchanged a couple of words. Then he moved on. The comedian was only a few inches from the car when Andrew stuck his head out of the car and yelled, "Hey funny man!"
The comedian looked up and smiled.
Andrew returned the smile and stuck the gun out of the window and began squeezing the trigger.
The first two bullet entered his chest above the heart, the next one ripped through his throat and the fourth one slammed into his face. The comedian crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Andrew jumped into the driver's seat and floored it.....
He was finished with his sandwich, and looking out the window of Krandall's he noticed that the news van had left. All but a few on lookers remained.
Andrew tipped the waitress and walked out into the street. He looked up at the sky as it had begun to rain. Andrew lifted the collar of his London Fog rain coat and crossed the street. He stood in front of the comedy club and looked down at the chalk outline on the ground and smiled, fully contented with how things had worked out. He even thought that the smell of cordite had been quite pleasant.
Looking up into the street he whistled for a cab. He did not feel like walking in the rain to his car that he parked a few blocks away.
The cab pulled up to the curb. It was a typical standard cab. Andrew hoped a big checkered cab would come by, the one he used to be taken in by his mother but remembered that they, like decent people in the city, were now extinct. Andrew sighed and got in, he paused for a moment and looked at the bloodstained sidewalk on West 57th Street in front of the Brigadoon comedy club. Soon the rain would wash it all away. Soon, Andrew thought, like the rain, he would wash the city clean. Tonight his work had just begun.
THE BRIGADOON COMEDY CLUB
By Douglas Vance Castagna
Blood stained the sidewalk on West 57th street in front of the Brigadoon comedy club. It was one in the morning when the coroner arrived and pronounced the victim dead. The victim was carted away in the meat wagon fifteen minutes later. The police questioned the throng of people who had gathered to watch the scene unfold since the shooting. None of them had seen anything. When the news van came, and the reporter stepped out, combing his thick shiny black mane of hair and checking for remnants of food between his teeth by looking in the van's mirror, several eyewitnesses appeared out of the faceless crowd to be on television. The reporter stepped over the blood stains on the sidewalk to interview a short fat woman walking her little black poodle Fifi.
"I saw the whole thing," she said smiling for the camera. All she had to say however was something about how the Mayor was screwing up the city. The reporter moved on to the next person and asked him what happened, he to had nothing valid to say either, but he was much more photogenic.
Across the street in Krandall's deli sat the shooter eating a corned beef on rye with mustard and a slice of new pickle. Andrew looked up from his sandwich, there was a bit of mustard in the corner of his mouth and he wiped it away with his napkin.
He bit into a new pickle and remembered what he had done.
After the show he left the club, crossed the street and got into his car. He made a broken K turn on the corner, he was aware of the illegality of U turns. He pulled up in front of the club and let the engine idle. He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out the small .22 and checked to see if it was loaded. A few minutes went by as Andrew watched the club empty out.
Then he noticed the comedian who had been making fun of him all night. He remebered the teasing , the taunting in school by his classmates. He remembered they way his mother had always treated him. Like a child. She always treated him like that up until the very last breath she expelled while he choked the life from her. No one had ever made fun of him again. Not ever, and on the rare occasion that it did happen, it happened only once. He made sure of that.
All of these feelings It had been humiliating. I didn't even heckle him, he thought. Why did he have to be so mean to me? He choked back a tear and hardened his heart as he had known to do at such a young age.
Andrew slid over to the passenger seat and rolled down the window.
The comedian passed by a few fans and exchanged a couple of words. Then he moved on. The comedian was only a few inches from the car when Andrew stuck his head out of the car and yelled, "Hey funny man!"
The comedian looked up and smiled.
Andrew returned the smile and stuck the gun out of the window and began squeezing the trigger.
The first two bullet entered his chest above the heart, the next one ripped through his throat and the fourth one slammed into his face. The comedian crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Andrew jumped into the driver's seat and floored it.....
He was finished with his sandwich, and looking out the window of Krandall's he noticed that the news van had left. All but a few on lookers remained.
Andrew tipped the waitress and walked out into the street. He looked up at the sky as it had begun to rain. Andrew lifted the collar of his London Fog rain coat and crossed the street. He stood in front of the comedy club and looked down at the chalk outline on the ground and smiled, fully contented with how things had worked out. He even thought that the smell of cordite had been quite pleasant.
Looking up into the street he whistled for a cab. He did not feel like walking in the rain to his car that he parked a few blocks away.
The cab pulled up to the curb. It was a typical standard cab. Andrew hoped a big checkered cab would come by, the one he used to be taken in by his mother but remembered that they, like decent people in the city, were now extinct. Andrew sighed and got in, he paused for a moment and looked at the bloodstained sidewalk on West 57th Street in front of the Brigadoon comedy club. Soon the rain would wash it all away. Soon, Andrew thought, like the rain, he would wash the city clean. Tonight his work had just begun.
