Hard Drive Relics: A Look Into Previously Written Stuff

This "story" was written during this past year's J-term -- as the pretext will explain. Much like my current progress with YouTube, my blog ideas are lacking in creativity. Sounds like the perfect time to dust off some old Word documents from last semester.

Before I move on, let me explain what "Luck Ran Out" is. "Luck Ran Out" is me copying the story narrative style found in Frank Miller's Sin City graphic novels. You can totally see what I mean once you start reading. I was in fact planning on using this so called "plot" as a video idea -- but that obviously fell through.

Enough rambling. Read the pretext (or skip the italics; I don't really care) and enjoy!!

It's J-term. There's basically nothing to do here during the day besides wish I had brought the Wii back with me from Christmas break. So in honor of being slightly academic during these uneventful days, I've written a short story. This is sadly what happens when you've seen every season of "24" and have grown bored with all the "Bourne Identity" movies, so enjoy.

Episode 1: Luck Ran Out

The smallest, faintest creak of a floorboard. Every nerve in my body ignites. That nasty feeling happens as I force back the lump in my throat: fear. A wise friend once told me that to fear is to not know the future. Then why the tension? Why the white-knuckled grip on that old, vintage six-shooter pistol of my grandfather's that until moments ago was gathering dust in the desk drawer? I've always known what the future held. It's just been a matter of how long I would be able to stay one or two moves ahead of my opponent. I've always known that fate would catch up with me, and tonight it finally has.

A single knock at the door – moments later a second one sounds out even louder. A third knock is replaced by the sound of a loaded shotgun followed by the deafening roar of wood being blown to splinters.

About two inches: the distance between my thumb and the hammer. Thumb back the hammer, you coward. Move your thumb up and load the damn thing.

It's no good. I'm frozen in place as light pours into the room while broken splinters crunch under charging footsteps. I gave it a nice run, didn't I?

Pick and choose your battles; tonight I’ll forfeit. What a sadistic relief…

Minutes later I find myself cuffed and blindfolded being led outside. They keep their talking to a minimum – only whispering when needed. In my mind’s eye, I counted four: two at my side, the other two walking somewhere nearby, undoubtedly scanning the parking lot for any unfortunate passerby. Heaven forbid the other tenants catch a glimpse of one of the residents being dragged off in the middle of the night.

A car door opens and I’m shoved inside. No use in buckling up for safety.

"Now," the voice came from the passenger seat. "are we going to have any trouble tonight, Mister Cantor?" His voice was shrill, cold, and muffled by what I guessed was a ski mask, most likely black with two holes for the eyes.

I didn't have to guess that the cold metal object pressed against my shoulder was a handgun's barrel. They don't play games.

"No."

"Good."

White. Only a fraction of a second of absolute pain and then piercing white light. A semi-truck crashed into the side of my head it felt like. My first pistol-whipping, I suppose. I had no idea someone was sitting next to me. Ouch.

The engine started up. I heard the driver curse about Harold getting blood on the seats. Something wet ran down my forehead and across my blindfold. I guess that would be my fault.

"Harold! He's not out!"

The man who hit me exhaled, clearly aggravated.

"Wait! Don't hit him again!" The driver almost sounded concerned. "With your luck, you'll send the poor bastard into a comma."

"Can't have that now, can we?" came a rather slow, almost gentle, voice.

A woman? There's a fourth person in the car?

"Ugh, he's in for one hell of a road trip," said Harold. "There's a first aid under the seat. Em, clean him up, would ya?

"Don't use names!"

"Hell, he already knows my name's Harold. Rob said it a minute ago!"

"Everyone! Shut up!" The driver -- Rob -- was angry.

The woman -- Em, or Emily, I'm guessing -- leaned in close to my ear and whispered. "The man riding shotgun is Pierce." She giggled.

"Seriously? Wow." Pierce didn't enjoy the humor.

The car shifted out of park. rolled forward, turned, accelerated, and turned again. We were on Guffin heading north.

To be continued...