Loose Ends a TSRP short by Psalms
Templeton glanced down the alleyway, sizing up the white car parked just out of view of the public, the driver lighting up a cigarette. The silhouette of a person in the back-seat confirmed what Arhtur needed to know; his target was in his grasps. Ernesto Gabriel Mendoza, the old man who put Arthur Templeton into the world of contract killing some 25 years prior, the man who had stabbed him in the back. It was apparent by the frank look of disgust and loathing on the other-wise unremarkably loathesome killer that no matter what the old bastard had to say, it was going to be his last conversation on Earth.
Approaching the driver's side door, Templeton covered his mouth to keep from coughing, smoke trailing out of the open window. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out his Walther PPK, screwing on the suppressor he kept with him at all times. He chambered a round, something that brought up the hair on the back of the driver's neck. His eyes raised up to the side-view mirror, and the last thing he saw was a muzzle-flash.
The sound of the gunshot, muffled through the suppressor, echoed through the alleyway like a nailgun, a single shell falling to the cobble-stone; the bullet tunneled through the very base of the driver's skull, leaving a messy exit wound that splattered blood and grey matter onto the passenger-side window, the passing shrapnel crackling the tempered glass. Mendoza jolted, throwing his hands up in the back seat as Templeton pointed the gun back to the old man, a mean glare on the killer's eyes, the look of cold, calculating murder refracted through a pair of thick reading glasses. Without a word, Templeton motioned his victim out of the car with his gun, his free hand still in his pocket.
Mendoza shambled out, gripping his cane at his side with a trembling hand. "Now you just wait a moment, son," he started. "We can work this out, alright? We can fix this, but if you kill me..." Templeton watched his breath in the cold night air, swirling around the stubble of his beard, rising up like the steam of the manholes. "If you kill me, there's no going back."
The frigid air revealed all there was for Templeton to know about what old man Mendoza had to say. Nothing. Nothing but hot air.
Templeton scowled, and raised his pistol with one hand, squeezing off two more rounds in a jarring double-tap; Mendoza staggered off his feet and bumped the rear door of the car shut, smearing blood all over. He caught his gut with both hands, a look of total shock across his face, crimson pooling in his palms. He choked a bit, more sickening red trailing down his face, down his hands, down into the cobblestones. Templeton took his left hand out of his pocket, put both hands firmly on his Walther, and placed the front end of the suppressor against Mendoza's forehead. The old man's last thoughts passed out the back of his head, spattering onto the trunk of the car with the rest of his brains.
Stepping away and wiping down his pistol with a royal-purple kerchief, Templeton rolled the cleaned murder-weapon under a dumpster, picking up his gate as he heard murmuring commotion at the back end of the alleyway, over his shoulder. By the time the passer-by let out a shrill scream at the sight of the bodies, Templeton would be well en route, back to the local pub, with folks too hammered to quite tack down his whereabouts. He was confident the alibi would stick.
_________________ ~They're gonna hang me in the mornin', before the night is done, They're gonna hang me in the mornin', and I'll never see the sun.~Maxwell Murder wrote: Gordan and Praphet, you are the two halves of God.
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