The Rolling Stone & Wicked Annabelle
The Rolling Stone gathered moss, and this was the cause of his misfortune. Like a god giving up immortality for a love and a home, he too learned the grass indeed is greener but so soon it fades.
He walked into Babylon via the Turner overpass, the cars whizzing by him in the night. Lights beaming and blinding. It was four days since his beating and ditching for dead; two days since he had awoke. He was hurting—cruising for a bruising. He’d had the two days to try and piece it all together, it only took 19 hours. He used the rest of his time devising his vengeance.
He wore a grey suit; it was torn, ripped, sliced and diced. It was covered in blood, his blood. His once neatly starched dress shirt was dirty white, torn and half tucked. His face was decorated with cuts and bruises, dried blood—all the typical signs of a fight that was lost. He bore a constant look of determination and justice, his brows tightly lowered over his eyes and jowls locked.
The Rolling Stone was royally provoked.
On the outskirts of Babylon lived the lowlife scum, the high class scum was further inside the limits. The first sign of life in Babylon was lowlife residential areas, a liquor store, convenience store, bank and carwash. The bank said it was three in the afternoon; it was really more like midnight. The Rolling Stone didn’t know for sure how late it was, he didn’t care. It was time to collect on some dues. That’s all that mattered. Time itself had stopped.
He entered the convenience store; behind the counter was an Indian from the east. Not the kind of Indian the white man took land from, the kind with dots on the foreheads and in-between their eyes. The young man greeted The Rolling Stone, who grunted in his direction then shot off down an aisle towards the liquor. He reached into the cooler, holding the glass door; he gripped a beer in his hand. He liked the cold sensation against his palm.
“The money, man!” A voice shouted from behind him near the register. “DO IT!”
Great, he thought to himself in a sarcastic manner.
He came from out an aisle; a young punk teenager was shoving a gun in the Indian’s face screaming and threatening, demanding money. A cold, circular touch positioned itself on the back of The Rolling Stone’s skull. He knew it was a gun.
A teenage culprit whispered into his ear. “Don’t budge, or I’ll blow your brains out.”
The other teenager turned and saw him. “Who are you?”
“Nobody, huh?” The teenager behind him mocked. The robbery was done, the money was in the bag in the teen’s hand, and he walked backwards toward the door.
“I’m just here for a beer.” The Rolling Stone said. “Your business is your own. Stay out of mine.”
“Is that so?” The teenager behind him asked. He moved around, sliding the gun across to The Rolling Stone’s forehead. “You know what? I don’t like you—”
“Come on, man!” The money grabbing culprit shouted from the door.
“He looks like a cop.” The teenager said; he then struck The Rolling Stone across the left temple, knocking him to the ground, “I don’t like him.”
The bottom of the beer bottle had broken as it hit the tile floor. The Rolling Stone took what was left and shoved the jagged edge into the teenager’s right thigh while grabbing the gun with his other hand. The teenager screamed, grabbed his leg and fell to the ground. The Rolling Stone wasted no time, but rather jumped over him, planting his knees into the teenager’s shoulders and aiming the gun to the money handler. He put a bullet in the wall behind the teenager and he fell to the ground, grabbing at his bloody shoulder. He jumped up, dropping his gun and began to run out the glass doors, but The Rolling Stone sent the second bullet through his head and out the door. The glass shattered and crashed to the ground, the teenager hit his head on the metal handle of the door on his way down.
The Rolling Stone looked into the eyes of the teenager beneath him; he shoved the pistol into his mouth, breaking several front teeth on its way. The teenager screamed and moaned in pain, blood coming from his mouth which was wrapped around the pistol’s barrel, The Rolling Stone spoke,
“Do I look like a cop, now?”
With that, The Rolling Stone pulled the trigger and rose to his feet. The Indian began to thank him over and over, but he simply raised the gun and put a bullet in the Indian’s head. The Indian flew into the cigarettes behind him and the packs fell to the ground with him, burying him in white.
As The Rolling Stone made his way back to the beer cooler, he exclaimed. “ALL I WANTED WAS A BEER!”
“In most places, bad things come in threes…In Babylon they come in sevens.”
Bio: Nathan Weaver is a senior video production specialist, filmmaker, writer, and lyricist. He primarily writes crime, mystery and science fiction, but he often dabbles into other genres if there is a good story there to be had. You can read short stories and excerpts athttp://talesfrombabylon.com. You can download his novella Rose’s Thorn on Smashwords and the anthology Everything from Amazon, in which he contributed two short stories; both of these eBooks are $0.99. You can also purchase the collaborative crime novella FATAL FLAWS in paperback on Lulu, which he organized and wrote many of the chapters himself.
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