repost YA exercise
- December 06, 2016
- RosesAtSunset
- 2 Comments
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His palms were chapped and aching as he continued with the relentless tempo of his shovel cracking open the earth and displacing it next to the growing chasm. He didn’t dare slow down for fear of the grim-eyed Moustachios doing more than staring through him.
They were creatively referred to as Moustachios because of their penchant for scraggly handlebar moustaches and the pistachio shells they littered everywhere, even at their crime scenes. The cops thought they were funny at first, but they soon had their hands full with the disappearances and bodies cycling through the city. All they had to go on was the pistachio shells, but it was hard to incriminate any single one of them. When the heat got on one of them, he skipped town and another identical Moustachio would take over his corner. Nobody knew anything, that’s what the cops heard all day. The truth was that nobody wanted to know anything and people strove to be as oblivious as possible. Store clerks would argue viciously that any theft of arms and ammunition was an accounting mishap and that their stores had always been fiery, bullet-riddled ruins.
But he wasn’t a mustachio. He was somebody who made the mistake of knowing, of breaking the status quo of mutual oblivion. He didn’t want their drugs, money, or women. He wanted to go back to a time where cartoon villains weren’t making people disappear and people didn’t purposefully ignore the disappearances of their closest friends and relatives out of fear, or greed, or both. He knew what had happened to his brother. And he knew what would happen if he rigged the pistachio delivery truck with the fireworks he had stolen from Don Carismo’s shed. And he also knew that people would be too scared to even look at the colourful explosives.
All he had done was wreck a van and delay their delivery of pistachios for a day.
And now he was digging his own grave. He wondered if Torrence had dug his own grave, too. He wondered if he had used the same shovel and had the same two Moustachios watch him unearth his eternal resting place. Was he close-by? He supposed it didn’t matter as he heaved himself out of the pit. His blond hair was matted with sweat and dirt and his face was burnt red from the sun. The expression on his face as he stood in front of the Moustachios was one of delirious grief.
He was ready.