Another stupid argument with the old lady had me reaching out for a smoke. I’d somehow resisted the craving – a fresh supply of gum would have to suffice. I hated the stuff, made my teeth ache, but the lungs were already on their final warning. The drive to the gas station was calming. On the horizon the snow tipped summit of Mt. Pechakeek reflected the late November sun; the winter air was icy fresh. I loved this time of year.
Filling up I’d resolved to make my peace with Vicky. I’d grovel if needed. We’d head up to the cabin at the weekend: a second honeymoon, or would it be the third? Jeesh, I’d lost count. It was a miracle she was still with me. Entering the shop the cashier stared straight at me. More like through me. She seemed to be sweating profusely which was weird considering it was a good 10 below.
The cold mouth of a gun snuggled up tight to the back of my neck.
‘On your knees,’ came a croaky, almost adolescent voice.
Slowly I crouched down. My knees creaked.
There was two of them – both with automatics; both kids. One was Jack Darby – his father was a good friend of mine.
‘This will be over quick as long as nobody does anything stupid,’ shouted the kid I didn’t recognise.
I don’t know why I then said it, but I did.
‘Jack, what are you doing son? This is crazy!’
As Jack glanced my way he bit his lower lip. He was sweating almost as much as the cashier.
‘Shut it, Mister. Don’t need no dumb-ass hero here. Just let them take the frickin’ money!’ said a man cowering in the corner, next to the Diet Coke machine.
The pleading, desperate look in Jack’s eyes told me today would a bad day to be a hero. I lay back down, face first on the floor. Suddenly I was frightened. All I wanted was to get home to Vicky.
These 333 words, based on the third definition of the word ‘ass‘ , form my entry into the Trifecta 97 writing challenge.