My Demon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just something I wrote before.

Submitted: October 20, 2014

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Submitted: October 20, 2014



Pistol in hand, a halo of blood forming around his feet and a cigarette in his mouth.

“Damn fool, you didn’t have to put thirty holes in the mofucker man.”

The armed man, lifted his T-shirt, tucked his gun away and dropped his T over it.

“Fuck it.”

The duo left the apartment, went down the flight of stairs, and left the complex onto the street. They headed north to a parked jet black Ford sedan. The killer lit his cigarette, pressed his head against the window and smoked. The loudmouth got the car into gear, and drove away.

After a twenty minute journey, they pulled up to a decrepit old office building which was opposite a bunch of corner bodega stores ran by small time heroin pushing Arabs.

“Yo man, get up.  Fuck.  Yo.”

The killer snapped out his slumber, his cigarette on the floor burnt out.

“Shit,” he snapped, and doubled over in the seat to grab what was left of the cigarette. “Fuck.”

“Damn, I always tell you to open a window man.  Fuckin up my leather, man, shit.”

Killer swiped ash from in between his legs and onto the floor, and finally looked up to realize where he was. It was like he was awaiting a firing squad inside the office building.

Killer sighed, and opened the door. He sighed again, pulled out his cigarette box, and sighed a third time.

The duo climbed out, slammed their doors shut and walked to the double-doors of the office.

They entered, climbed two sets of stairs and walked towards another set of double-doors with a man suited up outside.

The suited man took the cigarette from Killer’s mouth.

“Can’t smoke in here man.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ease up, J.” said the loudmouth.

The suited man giggled, opened the door, and slapped J’s back.

The room was barely lit, but lit enough to make out what was around.  Doped up girls sat on a couch, nodding and saliva drooling from their cheek, and there was an old reclaimed wooden desk with another suited man at the end.

The duo approached, the suit-man looked up from counting money.  He showed a smile, and put out his hand with his fingers clad in golden rings.

J didn’t shake, the loudmouth did.

“Mike an his monkey bitch,” He said laughing.

J didn’t respond.


J didn’t respond for a second time.

“Did you do it?”

J, although black, could almost be seen changing in complexion. J managed to nod.

“Good.  Good,” the man behind the desk took out an envelope and slapped it on J’s and Mike’s hand before dropping it on the desk.

J watched Mike pick it up, and check it.

The man behind the desk was still staring at J. “Fuel your addiction.”

J gritted his teeth.

“Fuel your addiction.”

“Fuel your addiction.”

“Fuel your addiction.”

“Fuel your addiction.”

“Fuel your addiction.”

J turned, and walked out while Mike finished up, said his goodbyes and followed after him.

“J, you gotta start being respectful. He get the “get-your-body-dumped-in-Hudson” type.”

J didn’t respond.

Mike shook his head, and sighed. “C’mon.”

They both got back into the car, and remained silent.

J was leant up against the window, chewing on his thumb and looking out the store signs.

“Come on J, fuel your addiction they read.”

“Why are you running away from it J?”

“You can’t hide.”

J snapped out of it, and looked at the shop signs again.

“The Flavour of Brooklyn”

“Couch Corner”

“Electrics Forward”

J looked at Mike who almost dozing off behind the wheel, and turned the radio on and up.

J looked back out the window, and the radio played out.

With a single bang on the drums, behind a soft guitar was playing with vocals coming in.

“The smack, the horse, the brown, the tar. You need it.”

J stared at the radio, and Mike clocked on.

“You good, homie?”

“Yeah.  Pull up here; I’m gone walk the rest of the way.”

Mike edged towards a curb, and J literally threw himself out of the car and power walked away.

Mike rolled his window down, “I’ll call you tomorrow?!”

No response.

J pulled his hood up, and walked with his head down and hands in his pouch pocket.

He reached to a complex; hood music was played, youngsters dealing outside, and inside.  They never bothered J, and J walked to his door.

J grabbed his keys, unlocked the door and went inside.

He hit the light.

The man he had murdered was standing opposite him with vacancy. The bullets still lodged in his body, and face. He was still perforating.  His eyes were nothing but empty white.

“My demons.”

“Fuel your addiction.”

“My demons.”

J took a knee, produced his pistol from his waist, checked the load, and put the pistol in his mouth. He closed his eyes, and started crying.

He pulled the trigger.

Birds singing.

© Copyright 2019 Martin Papadakis. All rights reserved.

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