Flintlock

It's more about style than substance sometimes..

Flintlock

Mike squatted behind the counter, admiring the flintlock pistol clutched in his rough hands. He’d ordered it in specially, having an admiration for the craftsmanship of the weapon. Intricately designed, decorated with iron and traces of silver, still fresh with the scent of gunpowder. 

He’d warned him. Given him so much time to make it right, but he hadn’t listened. Of course he hadn’t. Young dickhead who thought the world of himself, why should he care? Thought he was invincible, especially safe from some old senile coot like him.

Out of town, Mike had set on meeting. An old abandoned petrol station, miles from anywhere. Remote, dusty, filthy and abandoned, plugs and wires yanked roughly from the walls. The purity of silence. Mike steadied his breath and the pistol in his hands. Crouched in silence - waiting for the click of the door.

Click. Whrr...squeaaak.

Pushing himself up as fast as he could, Mike span around. Without time to even think or register his enemies face, he fired his shot:

CHK. CHK. CHK CHK.

Well, s**t.

John stood at the door, looking at the old man with the busted pistol.

“Martha? Yeah I found him. Christ he’s got a gun, he’s really gone round the bend this time. I’ll call you soon...love you too.”

John hung up the phone, hanging up also the tone of concern. Mike lowered his useless gun, sighing in frustration.

“So what, I’m senile now?”

“Old man, who are they gonna believe? The golden child son in law? Or the old criminal grandpa who’s lost his nut?”

“Doesn’t matter how I came by it, I earned that money. You know that, and so does Sophia. I earned that money for her.”

“And she, we..I, will make good use of it for you.” John retorted dryly.

“It was such a tragedy, the day your depression and senility got the best of you, and you took your own life...” he continued, opening his jacket...reaching for a gun of his own.

Mike found a surge of rage, strength within himself. Suddenly, he charged, tackling John and scrapping in the dirt and debris. He saw the fear in Johns eyes as he was overpowered, his gun thrown across the room. Saw fear, hate and pain as Mike cracked his pistol against his skull over and over, methodically, like hammering a nail, blood spraying, bone fragments crunching.

After the frenzy, just a silence. F**k it, John was dead. Not how I’d planned it, Mike thought, but hey. It’ll just be a little extra work for the body, gotta get it away from here in case the signal gets traced.

Dismantle his phone.

S**t then, let’s get to work. Too bad I couldn’t keep the flintlock pistol...it had come in handy after all.

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[Broken Hearts]

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