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Hand Job

Federico ran three of his fingers through his hair. With two of his other fingers, he stroked the trigger on the Colt .45 in the glove compartment. The remaining finger was held up at the narrator. He didn't have any more fingers, just some old stumps and a bandage with "Dallas does Donny" mispelled on it in red marker pen; it had been some poker game.

With sudden, panicked resolve, he thrust the pistol inside his jacket and stepped out of the lift, momentarily marvelling that it had a glove compartment.

He crossed the lobby avoiding eye contact with the fish-headed desk staff and headed for the conference room, giving door E12 a kick it would remember.

Donny pulled the gun out. But the room was empty, except for an old blonde lady putting glasses on a tray and a whiteboard with the words "Business model - trade for younger?" on it.

The woman stared, then poked him with an eyebrow.

"Oh, sorry," he mumbled, edging out again. "Wrong story."

Story by:

Hoof

submitted at 10:07pm

11 June 2008

Hoof's web: Fuck facebook