Lonely night in Honolulu

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
It was just another night on the shores on Honolulu. The moon shined brightly on the surface of the water. Only the waves broke the night’s silence as they gently brushed against the sandy beaches. All of Honolulu was asleep. All of Honolulu was asleep, except for one man. A man who went by the name James Parker, or just Parker for short.

Submitted: December 26, 2011

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Submitted: December 26, 2011

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It was just another night on the shores on Honolulu. The moon shined brightly on the surface of the water. Only the waves broke the night’s silence as they gently brushed against the sandy beaches. All of Honolulu was asleep. All of the children were tucked away in their beds already seeing their fifth dream. Even all of the adults decided to go to bed early today. It was Tuesday and there was nothing to look forward to in the week. So Tuesday ended, almost as quickly as it began. All of Honolulu was asleep, except for one man. A man who went by the name James Parker, or just Parker for short.

Now, Parker was a man of simple taste. He grew up on a farm down south, and never really got to see the finer things in life. His momma raised him and his two older brothers, George and Charles, on her own, seeing daddy never did come home from the War in Europe. Parker was taught to be a thoughtful, caring, respectful man who always had everything in check. Well, he still kept three of the four things we learned with him forever. But that’s beside the point. Now your probably wondering what George and Charles are doing with their lives these days. See, Charles became a wealthy businessman of some sort all the way in New York. He never did get married, hell I don’t even think he ever starting dating. George on the other hand resides in Hawaii, and enjoys spending time with his brother. George’s job is a little bit simpler than Charles’s. You see George was a fisherman, a damn good one at that. He would wake up at the crack o’ dawn and head down to his boat. He’d probably catch about fifteen pounds of fish, take it all to the marketplace, and sell it to the tourists for twice the amount its actually worth. He would make a huge profit off of it, and since he was working for himself, money was no stranger to George. Now, Parker had his ways with words. He had connections from every corner to every street. He was involved in the underworld and the normal world. He made money from helping out criminals. What most people would consider a downright felony, Parker would consider another day at the office.

Parker was your ol’ run of the mill sun kissed country boy; he stood about 5 foot 8 inches, which in today’s measurement was no bigger than the average man, he had dirty blonde hair that for some odd reason always seemed to get in his eyes no matter how hard he brushed it, and there were two things you would never see him without and that was a Hawaiian button down shirt and a big bottle of 92 proof Sailor Jerry Rum. This was by far his favorite rum, and the man he got it from basically gave it to him for free. Let me tell you about Parker’s personality. Most people would call him the sweetest man to ever live, others would say that he was a no good jerk. Everybody else, along with myself came to an agreement. He was a two faced punk, but always had a way of getting what he wanted. He was also an ignorant son of a bitch. He always thought that he was gunna be okay, and that there was no way in hell that anybody would want him hurt. Boy, was he wrong.

Now like I said before, Parker was involved with everybody under the sun. He was involved with the weed smuggling Jamaicans, the cocaine sniffin’ Columbians, and pasta eating Italians. There was this one day, a few years back, when Parker was out with his Jamaican friends, rolling around in their beat up 1974 Lincoln, when they pulled up on a bunch of druggies on the dirt streets of Kingston. Parker sat shotgun and waited in the car. The things he would witness would never be spoken about until the writin’ of this here story. As I was saying, Lil’ Tank or Robbin uh’ the Hood, as the boys in the Kingston ghetto referred to him as, was on a quest to find who stole his money, and who’s head he had to put a bullet through. Now Robbin was not a kind man to say the least. At a prime age of 23 he had already blasted about 45 men, 27 children, and raped and killed 35 women. Not a man you would really look up to. No matter what he did, the boys and girls all wanted to be like him. They all carried around guns and pretend to shoot each other. If they were lucky to find a gun with bullets they went out to the center of their village, into the large dirt patch, which seemed to have been bare for over a hundred years, and fire it either into the air or at an unlucky chicken. Now Robbin uh’ the Hood stood about 6’3. This made a made him a giant and a demigod in the eyes of the mortal man. His dreadlocks ran down to the middle of his back. Some people say he was born with his dreads, others say the length of his hair stood for all the people he killed since it was always growing, and others didn’t have time to think since they were already dead. Robbin had to put a bullet through somebodies head and he didn’t care if it was his own grandma-ma that died. Now Robbin and his posse came up to these drug addicts and started to demand their money. Those druggies became stiff as logs. They said nothing but silence. When Lil Tank was sick of their shit, he put them all on their knees one by one. Before any one of them could even finish a prayer, he fired a bullet and sprayed their brains over the barren patch. The last thing these men ever tasted was nice, blood-covered dirt.

Lets return to the beach in Honolulu. Parker was still strolling down the moon soaked sands as the dim light hit the waves in such a way, it brought a single tear to James’s eye. He was approaching the lighthouse, which stood at least 70 feet tall. This lighthouse was painted a sunburnt red color with a little bit of tan thrown in there, but in the nighttime you couldn’t really tell what color it is. When he reached the lighthouse he noticed something very strange. A dark figure was lying at the entrance, completely immobile. Parker approached the figure slowly and cautiously. As he got closer, he began to realize what this figure lying here was. When he finally reached it, his assumptions proved true. A dead body lie 2 feet in front of him. Parker was paralyzed.

Now seeing this, Parker got down in the wet sand, and prayed. Now he prayed everyday, but today he prayed more than he ever prayed before. With his hands all sweaty, pressed real tight up against each other, Parker gazed up at the sky. His eyes were closed, but his mind was open. God was supposed to be on his side. Sometimes he questioned it, seeing that he was always dealing with sinners, but at the end of the day, Parker found God as the last place to put all your worries, without judgment or even a negative response. Parker grasped the fact that praying to God did little to nothing to the outcome of certain situations. This was one of those situations.

After taking a drink from his rum bottle, the young man approached the body even closer. He was standing overtop of it.  The skin of the corpse had turned a pale white color as if he had been dead for weeks. The clothes of the dead man were tattered to oblivion. As Parker had suspected, the man did not have any shoes on what so ever. All these things were not news to Parker. What was though, was the strange symbol this man had carved on his chest. It was a circle inside of a bigger circle and a dot in the middle. The symbol had been carved so rough and so jaggedly one could come to the conclusion that somebody had dug their nails into the man instead of a knife

Being the crook that he was, Parker went into the man’s pocket, or what was left of the pocket, in search for the wallet with no remorse what so ever. Instead of a wallet, he found something of more interest to him. He found a note. He shook the note off from all the water and opened it. Through all the ink smearing this is what he could pull out of the note

Dear Parker,

Your next.

Signed, The Man

 

 His eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. He kept re-reading the note in hopes that the contents of it would change. He incessantly paced to and fro as if he was a human pendulum. A cold sweat ran down his back and a boiling hot sweat ran down his face. His heart started to beat harder than a drummer playing his drums. His breath started to shorten as his whole body began to shake. All of a sudden, a big rush of ignorance consumed him. It came of no surprise to him, and in a matter of seconds he went from being scared shitless to being bold and fearless. He thought to himself, “Who would want to kill me? I’m James Parker. Everybody loves me”. He threw the note on the ground and walked away as if nothing happened. Just as he started to head home, he heard an ear-popping sound. He could have recognized that sound in his sleep. It was the sound of a gun being fired. Soon after, a pain came over him. He began to get light headed and his vision began to get blurry. The pain seemed to be centered in his abdominal area, so he put a hand on the tender area to ease the pain. As soon as he made contact to the point of interest, another rush of fearlessness came over him. He knew that he was okay, and to prove it to himself he glanced at his hand with pride. What he saw would change his life forever. As if it was a glove, blood had covered his hand. He looked down slowly at his abdomen. There was a bullet hole going right through him. Parker, weak from intense blood loss, fell to his knees. He prayed for as long as he could but he knew this was one of those situations. He raised his cross up to his mouth, and kissed it. Before it could rest peacefully on his chest again, Parker collapsed into the wet sand. Just like that, Parker was dead. It was a lonely night in Honolulu.


© Copyright 2017 Michael Adamovich. All rights reserved.

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