Creative Copy Challenge #82

Today’s words come to us from Jon Morrow. Show him some love, and if you have not read his stuff, make sure you do so.

BET YOU CAN’T do this writing prompt. Take the 10 random words below and, in the comments, crush writer’s block by creating a cohesive, creative short story tying all of them together! And remember: after (if) you finish, highlight your words and click the bold button to make them stand out and help you determine if you forgot any words. (If you’ve missed previous writing prompts, we BET YOU CAN’T do those, either.)

  1. Niggardly – Grudging and petty in giving or spending
  2. Sniggered – snicker or laugh quietly
  3. Dénouement – The final resolution or clarification of a dramatic or narrative plot.
  4. Sanctimonious – Feigning piety or righteousness
  5. Debutante – A young woman making a formal debut into society
  6. Sassafras – Dried root bark of this plant, used as a flavoring and a source of a volatile oil
  7. Steely – resembling steel. Determined. Firm. (Steely eyes)
  8. Bloodbath
  9. Badass – see Jon Morrow
  10. Disillusioned – having lost one’s ideals ; disenchanted

NOTE: Don’t copy and paste from MS Word. Use a program like notepad that removes formatting or just type in the comment field itself. Also, finish your submission, THEN bold the words. Thanks. (And don’t forget to tweet this and share it with your friends.)

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Resources you should check out:
Thesis: Best Damn Theme on the Web
Collective Ink Well: Personalize Your Thesis Theme
Third Tribe Marketing: Marketing done the right way
Story Structure Demystified: Best damn writing book out there

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72 Comments on “Creative Copy Challenge #82”

  1. Shane Arthur says:

    What’s worse? Being a disillusioned badass,
    Or a steely debutante standing in a bloodbath of sassafras?
    Or being sanctimonious and niggerdly simulaneously,
    Or forming denoucements of unfortunates sniggeredly?
     
    Short form and rhyme form! Damn this was fun.  Thanks for the inspiration, Jon.

  2. “You’ve created a bloodbath. What a fitting dénoument.” Locksley’s tone was anything but pleased, and it bordered on sanctimonious. “Tell me, Richard, did you plan to create havoc when a simple arrow would have been quite enough? Perhaps I should have asked one of my courtiers to do the job instead.”
     
    “I did the best I could.” Richard kept his tone calm and factual, but the evidence of his ire was clear in his steely grey eyes. “I’m not a debutante like the other pansies you usually hire.” He snorted, disgusted.
     
    “Yes.” Locksley whirled around and gazed at Richard as if he was suddenly curious about what made the man tick. “A badass, they call you. Or so I’ve heard.” He turned away, disillusioned by what he saw before him. “What I see is entirely different. You’re like some… some sassafras,” he waved a delicate hand in the air. “Spice-coated meat.”
     
    “Meat you hired to kill,” Richard growled out of gritted teeth. “And that’s what I did. Don’t get niggardly on me.”
     
    “Oh yes.” Locksley sniggered – or tried to. It came out more like a titter befit for a girl. “We mustn’t be niggardly.”
     
    And then Locksley’s hand snaked out, snatching a small pouch off the desk. He threw it at Richard and it hit the man’s chest, chinking softly of coins before it dropped to the floor at his feet.
     
    “Pick it up.” Locksley turned his back on Richard completely and went to stand before the fire. “Then get out.”

  3. margaret says:

    I had a dream where I was a badass debutate, disillusioned with all of the sanctimonious, yet niggardly politicians who were remiss in their duties.

    I walked into a western saloon, where they were sitting at the bar, shamelessly
    groping the intern saloon girls and sipping sassafras lattes. I sniggered at the thought
    that despite my steely-eyed glare they had no idea how dangerous I was and how seriously
    I took my longing for an honest and effective government.

    Denouement was at hand. I was armed with sharp manicure scissors, a can of hairspray and a book of matches. The bloodbath would be memorable.

  4. The Saga of Bayou Billy…
     
    So I’m sittin’ on the front porch eatin’ a big ol’ bowl a gumbo and my wife, my sweet Yvonne, she comes running out yellin to me… okay, she was yelling at me, anyways I had to git a switch and punish the little Whippersnapper for cussin’ and callin some kid names. Don’t know why she’s yellin at me I ain’t said nuttin’.
     
    So I puts down me bowl a gumbo, af’r three or two more mouthfuls of course, and walks o’re to the bayou to gits me a switch. All the time the little Whippersnapper is yellin’ he weren’t cussin’ but I had ’bout enuff if his santimonious nonsense anyways so he was long over due for a good whippin’.
    “So what did you call that boy?” I ask’d him.
    “I said he was cheap and niggardly.”
    “Boy, how many times has I told ya not to call them folk… wait a second. You called him a what?”
    “Niggardly.”
    “That’s not how you pronounce it. It’s N….”
    “No pa, it means petty!” The little whippersnapper sniggered at my ignorance. If he wasn’t already in a wheelchair I would break his two legs. So I smack’d him three or two times for reading the dictionary and thinkin’ he’s smarter than me. He wasn’t so badass when that switch come’d down like a steely…ummm, switch.
     
    Anyways, once I finished throwing his wheelchair in the bayou – don’t be disillusioned, that boy can swim purdy good, ‘specially when three or two gators is in there with him. Anyways, he’s swimmin’ out to git his wheelchair and that’s when I say’d to myself, “Self,” and I recognized the voice right away cuz it sounded just like me. “Self,” I say’d, “I betcha the little Whippersnapper didn’t like that Dénouement.” I done looked up three or two words in his dictionary just b’fore I throw’d it and his wheelchair out in the bayou.
     
    Anyways, while he’s out swimmin’ wit the gators I hadda gather up some sassafras for whatever concoction Yvonne plans on cookin’ up for supper and that’s when I r’membered that me and the Swamp Cat Gators wuz supposed to be playin’ my sister’s father’s wife’s cousin’s debutante ball. Last time we played one of them it turned into a bloodbath – of course, the dubtante’s kin wuz from Europe and they wuz all vampires buts that’s anudder story.
     
    Anyways, that’s it for now my frens and always r’member…
    A man on a date wonders if he’ll get lucky. The woman already knows.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Well done, Billy. You know a dictionary make a good Gumbo dinner tray.

      • @Shane  Mais yeah, it’s a nice thick book and can hold three or two pounds of gumbo pas problem 😉

        • Cathy Miller says:

          @Kenn-it’s good to find multiple uses for things like dictionaries-you know, with the economy & all 🙂

          • Kathleen says:

            Kenn and all… yep that sound which you just heard was Elantra and I cheering at the sight of another reading of Bayou Billy!

          • Kathleen says:

            Kenn — I will have ter agree with Shane… A dictionary will help Billy not burn his lap… or his two buds hanging around hoping the date with his Yvonne turns out in his fav’!
            You made me laugh. Great meds! Thanks for laborin’ over the piece.

  5. Kelly says:

    BEATS WORKIN’

    In the unbearably naïve hurry of the starry-eyed proto-novelist, she threw her finished book into a bit of brown paper, held its bulk with a scrap of tape, scribbled the Manhattan address on the front, and hopped in the car. A letter would have been good. Oops. Forgot that.

    She sent the novel off to the agent she hoped would help her land her big contract, with button-bursting pride and an excess of big dreams. She tried not to seem like a nervous debutante, but the truth was she only knew of the agent through a friend, a tenuous connection at best. Under the cockiness she was desperately afraid he’d take one look and give her precious parcel a sanctimonious heave into the dustbin.

    After her trip to the post, where she made the delicate decision between niggardly “book rate” and arrogant “priority mail” with a wave of her hand and the dismissive “You choose” to the cashier, she made a cup of sassafras tea and sat down to wait.

    Weeks.

    This was not going to be easy.

    For the first day or two she paced, imagining the book’s trip from California… It must be in Nevada by now. Maybe Missouri today. Wonder if it’s in New York yet? By today the office mail’s being sorted, it’s definitely there… could it be on his desk right now?

    During the second week she paced less but barely had a coherent thought, as every brief idea was interrupted by invasions of “How long should this take?” “I hope it’s not a bloodbath” and “No, I know he’ll like it.” She gave steely glares to her own letter-carrier every time he walked by, wondering how he dared to return daily when he had nothing she wanted in his sack.

    By the second month, she was a disillusioned wreck, her badass predictions of world domination reduced to burning embers beneath her silly feet. This deflated dénouement was not at all in her plans.

    Where the hell was it? Common courtesy should have gotten me a rejection letter, at least!

    Where the hell was it, indeed.

    In a quiet corner of the west Sacramento post office, from 3 to 5 in the morning, the night-janitor took his “coffee break” and read the last pages of a book. In truth it shouldn’t have taken him two months to read, but this book he’d found on the floor, with not a shred of identification anywhere on it, was a real stinker. The first night he read it he sniggered through one chapter, and reasoned that it was so bad it had to get good; the next night he read a few pages and realized it was so bad that it was… bad; and by the third night he’d found the sweet spot.

    A corner of the floor where they kept empty mail sacks, to be exact. Sweet. When he crunched up there, and brought this strange book with him, he found that after just a few pages he could get in a nice nap before the early shift came in.

    Like he always said when the early shift moseyed in, it sure beats workin’.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Kelly: Damn! What a twist. I wonder how many times that actually happened. Well done.

      • Kelly says:

        Shane,
         
        The Kid suggested the character of the bored/snoozing post office janitor to me this morning. I told her I didn’t care what words were thrown at me, that just had to be what I wrote about today.
         
        So from The Kid and me, we thank you.   🙂

        • Shane Arthur says:

          @Kelly: You guys keep writing and collaborating together on writing. You’ll have that between you until the end and it will be a fantastic bonding experience.

          • Kelly says:

            Shane—SO true! She’s so anti-writing normally (how did a former English major produce such a girl?), I figure keeping her interested in what’s going on at the CCC is one way to show her that writing can be a lot of fun.
             
            It hasn’t made her want to write much more than usual, but she does love having me read people’s submissions to her. So she knows other people can get a kick out of writing. That’s halfway there, LOL.

          • Shane Arthur says:

            @Kelly: I went through a period where football, partying, and partying were more important than writing, but those times when you read to her will sink in on a subconscious level and she’ll come to it (especially when she has kids).

          • Kelly says:

            Shane—Football? Was I supposed to add that to the mix in college? I thought partying, partying and partying was a bit repetitive…
             
            *ahem*
             
            😀
             
            Seriously, I have a theatre background, and whenever I took care of kids even before The Kid, reading to them in a thousand characters was always a way to show off the power of words.
             
            She’ll always love that part (reading and even at age 11, being read to), now how to get her into creating them herself? Still working on that. ‘Spose we can’t pass everything on to our kids…
             
            (& I kind of hope I didn’t pass on the partying gene.)

          • Shane Arthur says:

            @Kelly: Tell her we’d love to see her give the CCC a try. I’m sure the writing chops are in there. You can’t deny DNA. It’s in there some place.

    • Cathy Miller says:

      @Kelly-we have missed that great creativity-and everyone’s a critic, aren’t they! 😉

  6. Milo says:

    Why I should care about what a bedraggled girl, with lank, dirty hair thought about me
    I don’t know. But I couldn’t resist her steely eyes, beautiful but dark and brooding like sassafras in the moonlight.

    And why did she like me? Well I may have been a disillusioned vegetarian after my last wife took off with the local butcher, but I was a badass with a cleaver too, as long as I had a genuine reason to use it.
    There he was, the sanctimonious old sheriff, just like she’d described him. Asleep with legs up on the desk, a throttled chicken with its head half-chewed off in one hand and a bottle of JD lying empty on the floor beside him.
    The niggardly old creep kept her locked in a cell along with the local drunkards,
    so he could save on his monthly bills, and chew on pieces of poultry and liquorice to his blackened heart’s content.  He wouldn’t win any awards from Vogue Magazine either – he was wearing nothing but a large cardamom pod-shaped cardigan which had a putrid odour like vintage cheese.

    I snuck up behind him and set about my gruesome task as she watched from the corner, sniggering lustily like a retarded clown on ecstasy.  For a dirty-haired debutante like her, what better introduction to the outside world than in the midst of a bloodbath?  We left the prison in the lavender night, our footprints deep red in the snow.

    Later, as she force-fed me under-cooked meatballs and soiled my mind with her malevolent mindgames,  she would make me wish a similar dénouement could come so easy to me as it had to the sheriff.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Milo: Where have you been all this time! Damn fine write! Welcome to the CCC. I’m sure people will love your style. I know I did. What a great, twisted tale.

      I’ll add your name and url to our CCC Community page now.

      • Milo says:

        Thanks Shane! Just discovered the site through Twitter, look forward to coming back 🙂

      • Cathy Miller says:

        @Milo- Welcome to CCC!

        You’ll find the CCC community certainly does not give out compliments niggardly. We welcome all kinds of writing. We have sniggered a time or two, shed tears and gasped in awe.

        We love weaving our way through each submission until we reach denouement. Then there are those series that return for more and we simply cannot get enough.

        No one here is the least bit sanctimonious while reading the words of others. Some verses roll in on the soft slippers of debutante delivery, while Bayou Billy creates a sassafras concoction of mirth and mayhem. And when things get too out of hand, James the Assassin silences all with one steely smirk, leaving a bloodbath of creativity soaking through the site, in his badass way.

        If you ever felt disillusioned about your writing, your life or some other trial, trip on over to CCC for the perfect remedy. We’ll leave the light on for you.

        Welcome!
         

    • Kelly says:

      Milo—Yikes! I know what my nightmares are going to look like tonight!
       
      My favorite phrase is “her steely eyes, beautiful but dark and brooding like sassafras in the moonlight,” but there are a lot of favorite phrases in here. You have quite a powerful way with words.

      Welcome to the CCC!

  7. It was the summer that did it everytime.

    Dale gazed stupidly at the bloody mary in his hand, looking more like a bloodbath than a drink. Disillusioned and depressed, he considered for a moment, dropping the glass and letting its shattered remains grant the real peace that the alcohol never would.

    Sasha fixed her steely gaze on him and spat, “Again? You’re a miserable waste of space, you know that?”

    “Yes.”

    She huffed, settling back into her chair—the Debutante of Dram’s Corner–with all the sanctimonious poise of a competent bully.

    Dale didn’t bother to look at her, having seen her attempt at badass posturing enough times to picture it quite clearly on the concrete between his feet.

    “So you’re just going to sit here, then? Do nothing?” she said.

    “That’s the plan.”

    “I told her. I told her you were worthless and a waste of her time. That’s what she gets for not listening to me. Serves her right.” Sasha sniggered and smiled viciously.

    “You’re not going to stay here, you know,” she said.

    As if Dale had ever doubted her niggardly sororal affections.

    “So where are you going?”

    He shrugged, and thought how the gesture was a fitting dénouement for every relationship he got into and out of; for his whole life, really.

    The radio from inside was playing Aerosmith. “Chase you all the way to the stairway, honey. Kiss your sassafras.” Dale whispered along with the refrain.

    “You’re pathetic,” she said, ignoring him.

    “Mmm.”

    “When are you leaving?”

    Dale set his glass down on the concrete patio and without taking his eyes off of it, raised his foot and stomped down hard, shattering it.

    “Right now.”

  8. […] Written for Creative Copy Challenge #82 […]

  9. […] I managed to squeak one in yesterday and, as usual, it was very challenging and lots of fun. This week’s words are in […]

  10. Cathy Miller says:

    Hope CCC buddies don’t mind a little editorial – if nothing else, you can enjoy the video.
    This being Breast Cancer Awareness month, I shared on my blog a Pink Glove Dance that has been updated this year – guaranteed to make you smile.

    If you would like to join CCC member, A. Hamilton, and contribute so I can raise the minimum needed to walk in my 7th 3-Day, 60 mile walk for breast cancer, I won’t complain. 🙂 Thanks, guys! Here’s the link to the video-it’s really fun==> http://ht.ly/2Qwp5

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Cathy: Don’t mind at all. I think I’ll add my own two cents into this topic since Cancer’s already taken two of my family members.
      The more information we have about this the better. Read this: http://www.cancertutor.com Probably stuff most people have never read before. Quite shocking actually.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Cathy: ps. That’s a great video…and, yes, I did smile. Thanks.

      • Cathy Miller says:

        @Shane-it gets me every time-glad I could make you smile. 🙂
        P.S. I am wearing the names of your loved ones on the Walk to honor them-anyone else have names you want me to wear? Survivors or those you lost to cancer? You don’t have to donate for me to wear their names. It would be my honor.

  11. Cathy Miller says:

    Skipping alongside his grandfather, Michael barely contained his excitement.

    “Hurry, Grandpa, hurry. We don’t want to miss the carnival.”

    “Shush up, child. I’m old and I don’t hurry for anyone,” his grandfather grumbled niggardly.

    Michael sniggered at his grandfather’s tone. His grandfather might scare his friends, but Michael loved him with the complete trust of one who knew the truth.

    “Look, there it is. There it is. Oh, Grandpa, isn’t it beautiful?”

    “Humph, just a whole lot of noise, if you ask me.”

    Michael’s eyes widened with the effort to capture it all.

    “What should we see first, Grandpa?” Michael asked, raising his flushed face to his grandfather in an anxious wait of the day’s dénouement of hope.

    “I just brought you here – not for me to decide,” came the sanctimonious reply.

    “I can pick whatever I want?”

    “Didn’t I just say that?”

    “There – I want to go there,” Michael announced, pointing to a booth filled with bonnets.

    “Why in tarnation do you want to go there?”

    “I want to buy Mommy a beautiful bonnet so she won’t be sad about not having any hair.”

    The old man lapsed into painful silence, remembering a day not so long ago when his beautiful debutante daughter ran and played with her little boy. The cancer had progressed to where the simplest task exhausted her.

    “Then let’s go take a look,” he rasped.

    Walking up to the booth, Michael’s gaze followed the lines of homemade bonnets.

    “Well, hello there, young man. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, ma’am.”

    “And such good manners. My name’s Rebecca. Can I interest you in some sassafras tea? I made it myself – just like I did these bonnets.”

    “No, thank you, ma’am. I need to save my money for my Mom’s bonnet. She’s been sick and lost all her hair. I want to make her smile, but there are so many bonnets, I don’t know which one is best.”

    Reaching out a hand to stroke Michael’s hair, Rebecca softly said, “Your Mom will love any one you choose, because it’s from you.”

    Wrinkling his brow in concentration, Michael looked at all the different colored bonnets, mixes of gray, peacock blue and silent mauve.

    “I want the one with this blue stuff. It looks like my Mom’s eyes.”

    “A fine choice,” she smiled.

    “How much is it?”

    “I can help you buy it, Michael,” his grandfather offered.

    “No, I need to do it myself,” he answered in steely resolve. “You can buy Mom something else.”

    His grandfather almost smiled in admiration of his grandson’s firm stand. He lifted his pale version of his daughter’s eyes to Rebecca’s own tear-filled mist.

    Struggling with a bloodbath of emotion that belied his badass persona, he gruffed, “Well, then get to it.”

    Reaching deep into his front pocket, Michael pulled out two crumpled dollar bills, an assortment of change, lint and a bubble gum wrapper.

    “Is this enough?” he looked up at Rebecca with the anxious replica of the family’s blue eyes.

    Lifting a single dollar, Rebecca replied, “This is exactly what it cost.”

    “Solid,” Michael smiled, “Can you wrap it?”

    “Absolutely.”

    “Michael, go get me and you some popcorn,” his grandfather said, handing Michael some money.

    “All right. I’ll be right back.”

    Running off, Michael skidded to a halt and turned, “Thank you, Miss Rebecca. My Mom is going to look so pretty in your bonnet.”

    Michael’s grandfather reached into his wallet as he watched Michael skip away.

    “How much do I owe you?”

    Halting his movement with her hand, Rebecca shook her head.

    “I’d be very disillusioned, as would Michael, if you did that. He’s a very special young man. His mom must be very proud.”

    “As am I, as am I.”

  12. Kathleen says:

    “I’m not cussin’ at you, you iggg-nnnooorrrr-aaaammmm-uuusssss! All I said was your performance was niggardly, man! I could have done a better job if I’d only had one arm!” He said shaking his head, not only at what he was seeing but at his buddy’s lack of vocabulary.
     
    Marc sniggered as the image of the Jacqueline, a brunette sanctimonious debutante, coming in and seeing Felix’s creation in sassafras colored satin with lime green, caution-orange, and deep purple scrappy looking twill layers at the hip-line and trailing down the back of the dress — looking like an afterthought that had been put on the wrong side of the skirt — filled his mind.
     
    A soft noise began to grow. Marc’s hand came up covered his mouth, but he could not hold it in any longer. He broke into a full blown laugh, a full belly laugh.
     
    Felix’s steely grey-blue eyes flickered as he looked up from his drawing pad. Marc’s attempts to stifle his laughter only made it worse. Felix puffed out his chest, causing his body building friend to laugh even more.
     
    ‘Oh… okay, Bobby Badass… bring … it … on…” Marc said between guffaws with outstretched arms, palms up, drawing his fingers toward his torso repeatedly.
     
    Felix remembered being disillusioned once about Marc and his ability to use his muscles. Once. Felix did not want to be witness, nor victim to one of Marc’s strong-armings; he relaxed his upper body.
     
    Felix caught sight of the garment the seamstress was working on … the dénouement was now clear!
     
    “Oh Marcus,” Felix said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he rose and walked to the mismatched fabric draping the manikin, “this is not Jacqueline’s dress for next week. No, no, no,” Felix said turning his back to Marc and managing a slight uneasy smile for the seamstress. He took a deep breath. “It’s for that bloodbash otherwise called a Halloween Gala being hosted by the Mayor.”  
     
    “Oh, fabu, because if it was you know I’d be rearranging my schedule for Jacqueline’s fitting, and your bloodbath,” Marc said flippantly.
     
    “Yes, yes, I am certain you are right good man.” Felix’s mind was already racing… what have I done… why is Jacqueline’s dress so… unacceptable? Did I draw that while I was drunk?  “I will look wonderful in it… don’t you think?” Felix said turning on a heel, one hand on his hip the other in the air and forcing a cheerful party face.
     
    “Yes. You would like that dress. It fits your moods of late,” Marc said as he headed toward the service elevator. “I will see you later. Tonight at the Bundle of Sticks, won’t I?”
     
    “Tonight… emmmmm…,” Felix’s hesitation was not because he did not want to go out, his mind was preoccupied with how long it was going to take to fix the mistakes on Jacqueline’s dress.
     
    “You promised you would come. My sister is coming in from L.A.,” Marc reminded Felix as he drew down the wooden steak door.
     
    “Yes … your sister, Shelia, right. Tonight. Yes I will be there,” Felix said absentmindedly.
     
    “Promise?” Marc said as the metal box began to descend. “Promise?”
     
    “Yes, Yes, I promise,” I just don’t know how late I will be, cuz I have a slew of rework to do here!  Felix began removing twill from the dress as soon as the lift was out of sight.

  13. Niggardly she sniggered, a miser’s dénouement. What a sanctimonious debutante! The magician had made wine from sassafras for her guests’ entertainment, and received naught in acknowledgement. With steely gaze fixed above a courtly smile, he bowed and silently vowed a bloodbath to come. Oh yes! It was part of the badass code of honor; those that doubt will soon be disillusioned.

    • Shane Arthur says:

      @Steven: Hey, welcome to the CCC. Excellent 1st submission. You gave us just enough, but held back just enough. I love when this happens…and I love your style. Please, stick around and do more.
      I’ll add your name and url to the CCC Community links page now.

      • Hi Shane!

        Thanks for the kind words! I was directed here by many minions of Jon Morrow (I’m more of an second-order apprentice minion, working my way up the ladder). RSS feed established. This sort of thing should help keep my sci-fi writing skills in use – I don’t get much of that these days!

        Thanks for the CCC add!

      • Cathy Miller says:

        @Steven – Welcome to CCC!

        Even though you arrived at our CCC shores when the chosen 10 were particularly challenging, we cannot be niggardly in our welcome. Well, we could, but we won’t – because CCC is all about welcome. No sniggered or sanctimonious denouement in our welcome message – we are really glad you joined us.

        More fun than being the only guy at the debutante ball, CCC paints your words in sassafras delight and provides a steely resolve to meet the next challenge. So, whether you want a bloodbath or joy, a badass or hero, you’ll never leave CCC disillusioned.

        Welcome to the addiction.
         

  14. Avenged In Blood Part 39
     “So, Lola, tell me who you work for.” I said.
    “No one.” She replied. “I am freelance. I have worked for Marconi, Cabrese, Smithson, Mueller, and Cassano.”
    “Sounds like a scumbag law firm.” I said “What was this tonight? Just a hit or your night to be a debutante?
    Her green eyes blazed beneath those too long lashes. “They said you were a badass. A real steely killer who singlehandedly brought about the denouement of Cabrese’s empire in a bloodbath. Is that true?”
    I sniggered. “Well you are educated, I’ll give you that.” I was niggardly with praise, but sometimes I could come through. “The truth is, Cabrese had it coming. He killed my partner, my brother in law and my best friend. He had to die.” I tried not to sound sanctimonious but it didn’t work very well.
    “What made you so disillusioned with the human race?” She asked.
    “I have seen what depths humans can sink to.” I said quietly. “Are you going to keep trying to kill me?”
    “I don’t know there is much point anymore.” She said. “You intrigue me. You can live for a while.”
    I smiled dangerously. “If you try to run, or cross me at any time I won’t hesitate putting a bullet from your own gun in the back of your skull and leaving you in an alley for the rodents. Do you understand?”
    She nodded, the slightest fear touching those big green eyes as her tongue flicked out to wet her sensuous lower lip as it began to quiver. I looked away quickly and announced, “I am going to have some sassafrass tea and then I am going to get the hell out of this house. Come and join me.”
    I turned and left the room before my breath could catch again at the sight of her. She followed slowly behind.

  15. […] for Creative Copy Challenge #82 Categories Select Category Blogging Fanzines Fiction Interviews Music videos Opinion Personal […]


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