The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is "bump in the night." Still working to get the place in shape and this is horribly late.
Nights were the worst.
Semanski had his head propped on his palm, his elbow resting on the chipped Formica near the register. Between the energy drinks and the blink and buzz from the overhead fluorescent light, he was wired, edgy.
The rush, so much as was, was over. Drunks from the bars came in for smokes and road beers and now it was just Semanski – and the irritating buzz of that fucking blinking light.
“If I had a gun,” Semanski thought, “I’d put a bullet through my brain.”
The door alarm buzzed and with it strode a tall, dark man in a lemon-yellow three-button suit, a high-collar shirt the color of orange sherbet, orange tie and brown alligator half boots, with Cuban heels.
Semanski plopped his head on both palms and watch the man's agonizingly slow advance.
He goose-stepped down the aisle, touched various cellophane packages, the Twinkies, fried pork skins, broken pretzel pieces covered in honey mustard seasoning.
“Help you find anything?”
The man stopped, smiled. Bright white teeth, a picket fence of perfection. Spread his faded palms skyward and continued his slow march toward the counter.
That’s when Semanski detected the smell, like bloated road kill n a hot summer day.
The sickly-sweet stench of death.
“It’s not so much how you can help me,” Mr. Sunshine said. “But what I may be of service to you.”
And with that, pulled a gunmetal-colored .45-caliber from his jacket and spun it on the counter.
“Your wish, as they say, is my command.”
And began drumming his fingers on the Formica.
“The fuck?” Semanski said.
“No worries, I’ve got all night to wait,” Mr. Sunshine said.
His pearly whites now a mouthful of broken shards the color of rust, with plump, white maggots wriggling in the dark, rotted spaces.