Sins of the Father
Kelsey sat on the floor of the small camper-RV. The lights were out. A hard rain beat down on the tin roof like a symphony of pounding devils. And it was COLD. She watched her breath rise like a soft, puffy cloud.
Her right hand was throbbing. Blood leaked slowly out of her black leather glove. She held it gingerly. Wincing with pain.
‘Fuck,’ she moaned softly.
She reached into the side pocket of her motorcycle jacket, pulled out a small, burlap bundle and carefully unwrapped it. In it were four fingers. Her fingers. One of them with a small diamond ring. She shuddered. Carefully wrapped them back up and slid it back into her pocket.
‘How am I gonna shoot with my left hand,’ she mumbled to herself.
It was supposed to be an easy job. Rob the Tataglia card game. Then kill ‘em all. Yeah, right. Knock off a group of low-level mobsters? What the fuck was she thinking?
Ten-thousand dollars was what she was thinking.
But the whole thing blew up in her face. What the fuck happened? Was it a set-up?
It was like they were waiting for her. She KICKED the door down, raised her 9mm Beretta at them, and she was grabbed from behind. Whirled around. SHOVED into a chair. Arms held down on the table.
And then the chopping started. One finger at a time. Every ten minutes.
Gave her lots of time to think about the next one.
But she was good. She didn’t give him up. She couldn’t.
Not her father.
But then, a miracle. Fucking crazy Westies came in blasting, killing them. Taking their money. Leaving Kelsey hiding under the table. Pretending to be dead.
She looked around in the camper. Not abandoned. Someone lived here. There was food in the fridge. Well, a couple of TV dinners. A six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Great taste, this guy had.
She looked at the stove. Had an idea. She needed to cauterize the wounds on her finger stumps. No time to worry about reattaching them.
See, Kelsey had to go hunt down dear old papa while she still had the element of surprise. It wasn’t going to be easy, as he changed hideouts as often as most people change their sheets.
She looked at the nasty bed.
Well, most people.
Kelsey went to the stove. Turned it on. Watched the black coils slowly turn red. Slowly, achingly pulled off her glove. White hot pain shot up her arm. The glove hit the floor with a sloppy, wet SPLAT.
She spied a bottle of whiskey. Kessler’s. ‘Smooth as Silk.’ My ass. She grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap. Took a long drink. Wiped her mouth. Watched the blood from her stumps drip, drip, drip on the fake-tiled shitty linoleum floor. Bent the bottle up again, drained it.
Dropped the bottle. POP. Glass splintered like snowflakes across her boots. She closed her eyes, feeling the booze go right to her head.
Kelsey opened her eyes. Stared at the oven. The burner now bright red.
‘Just do it,’ she mumbled. ‘Get it over with.’
Kelsey SHOVED her hand onto the coil. A SIZZLING sound. The smell of charred flesh. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought, ‘it really does smell like pork.’
Kelsey SCREAMED. Ran to the sink. Turned on the tap. Held her ruined hand under the cold water. Instant relief.
Outside the tiny trailer a man in black peered in the window. Rough-looking, about fifty. Shock of grey-black hair, dressed in a filthy, grey jumpsuit. Small, piggy black eyes. Bruised and battered face. Smiling a smile of pure evil. He pulled a black snow mask down over his face. Opened the door and went inside.
Kelsey wrapped a wet hand towel around her ruined hand. Looked up, startled at the unexpected visitor.
‘Sorry to barge in like this,’ she sneered. ‘But it was an emergency. I’ll pay for the damages.’
The hulking figure stared at her through the slits in the woolen mask. Silent. Ominous.
‘Okay, you’re pissed off. I get that,’ Kelsy said, holding up her hand. ‘But I just lost four fingers, and I’m not in the best mood. So if you’ll just excuse me, I’ll get the fuck out of your hair, and we can both continue our wonderful little lives.’
The figure whipped out a black matte Glock. Aimed it at her.
Kelsey grabbed a cast iron skillet off the stove and HURLED it at his head, CRACK. He went down, THWUMP. She jumped on top of him, trying to grab his gun. But the man was strong, and only dazed from the blow to the head.
His gun went SPINNING across the room.
They wrestled across the filthy floor, trying to reach it, BANGING into cabinets. Kelsey tried to grab her gun with her left hand, but the figure was too strong. He FLIPPED her over, pinning her to the floor with his beefy girth. CRACKED her across the face with his gun.
She spat blood, teeth and drool in his face. The figure ROARED with anger, raised his haunches like wrestler, and BANGED down with all his weight on her ribs.
Kelsey spun her head back and forth, looking for something. Saw an empty steel doggie bowl. This guy has a dog? She GRABBED it and CRACKED it on the side of the figure’s head, CLANG. He stopped, shook his head, and Kelsey SMASHED it under his chin, HARD.
He flew backwards, landing on his back with a THUD. Dazed. Reeling from the blows to the head.
Kelsey got up, wincing from the pain of her cracked ribs. Struggled to get her gun out. Aimed it at him with her good hand.
‘Don’t move, asshole. I’ve had a REALLY bad day, and I’m not in the fucking MOOD.’
The figure groaned underneath the mask. Blood slowly flowed out onto his neck.
‘Take your fucking mask off. I like to see who I’m shooting.’
No response. Then … what was that? Was the bastard chuckling at her?
‘NOBODY laughs at me, fuck-head!’
Kelsy FIRED off a round. Wood SPLINTERED to the side of his head.
He laughed louder.
Kelsey SCREAMED. Fired off five rapid shots in succession. BANG. A bullet in his arm. BANG. The next, his shoulder. BANG. Then the side of his head. BANG. his right eye. BANG. Then his left.
She walked over to the hulking figure. Now still. YANKED his mask off, to reveal a dark-haired man.
Who looked JUST like her.
Kelsey looked at him sadly.
‘My father, who art in heaven’ …
- Carole Parker
- I’m a Noir/Pulp/Hard-Boiled dame. A chain-smoking, hard-drinking, screenwriting beach babe, and all-around dangerous chick. If you’ve got the crime, I’ve got the time … My blog THAT KILLING FEELING is here: http://caroleparker.blogspot.com/