Nosey Neighbours

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
a man's last straw kills everyone but him.

Submitted: September 22, 2008

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Submitted: September 22, 2008



Henry Smith, a man as grey as his name, sat at his grey desk in his grey cubicle staring at the absolute space between his face and the far carpetted (grey) wall. He'd been like that all morning, missing three meetings, one scheduled, two emergency, and a lunch date with a woman he'd been hoping to fuck before his early retirement. That didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

His eyes glazed over for the third time as the events of last night flashed through his memory. His wife's cottage-cheese legs in the air as the paper boy shoved himself into her, as if her vagina was a portal to a better world. The boy was no more than fifteen and Henry remembered thinking he had no idea what he was doing, that his wife had been the first taste of pussy this boy had ever got.

His wife, devirginiser and child molester.

His left hand (ironically) had become one with the door knob and his body was suspended in time. Henry couldn't move as he watched his wife being ravaged by another man. Boy. Man-boy. The familiar squeaks that she'd accurately faked with him for years from her slightly ajar mouth made his eye twitch in synch.

It made him nearly vomit now.

Not realizing his supervisor ten years his junior had been speaking to him for the past twenty minutes about his uncharacteristic appalling behaviour, Henry broke trance and reached into his soft leather briefcase, pulling out the only protection a beyond middle-aged potbellied white man could think of as reasonable.

He barely heard the tiny gasp escape his supervisor's lips as he brushed past the opening of his cubicle, the six-shooter in hand. Henry remembered the look on the clerk's face as he requested the ancient hunk of metal and temptation. He ignored it then and he ignored it now.

It wasn't until he'd reached his door did he realize he'd left all of his belongings at the office. He shrugged slightly, bringing up his left chicken leg and pushing it through the cheap compressed wood. It yielded not the results he had hoped for (opening the goddamn door), but it got his wife's and his neighbours' attention. Almost immediately, other housewive's with no children opened their doors to experience some real life commotion, Henry's wife being the leading actress.

His wife ran obediently to him, helping him remove his leg without too much damage from the gaping hole in the door and frantically asking him why he didn't knock as she unlocked and opened the door properly.

Without an answer and without much hesitation, Henry Smith lifted the six-shooter to his wife's face and fired four times. Just as he'd hoped, he found the paper boy in the bedroom, napping. He fired one round into the boy's groin and watched with slight satisfaction as the boy writhed in pain.

Henry left the bedroom and returned to the living room, where his wife lay, the last of her brain's synapses and habits firing off twitches throughout her dying body. Before the stench of her bowels could sting his nose, Henry Smith fired the last round into the soft flesh of his abundant jowls, the bullet ricocheting off his upper mandible and miraculously exiting his body, only to end its path in poor Mrs. Iona's eighty-seven year old heart.

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