Desperate Measures…

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

A week had passed since the death of Terry O’Brady. A week Brian hadn’t caught a single break about his killer. Or why. The Boss wasn’t happy, which meant Brian didn’t get a moment of rest.

“Listen. It’s simple. I just need a name.” Brian paced the floor of the dry cleaner. “Just a single name. And the first one to talk…,” he pulled back the slide on the 9mm, “gets to walk out of here. Alive.”

He turned to one of the four men hanging by the hooks, dangling in mid-air, “So, who wants to talk first?”

Friday Fictioneers

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman


Published by

R. Todd

I'm older than I think I am and younger than I feel. I'm stuck in the 80's but relevant to today (oh I hope that last part is true). I think I am more of an enigma than I really am, but somehow still confound those who try to figure me out (or they just look at me weird, so I infer that). And I really hate my first name. Husband, father, Navy Vet, UCF graduate, cat owner (translate.. slave), wannabe writer, and all around big kid who is stuck in an adult world. Overall, I just... um.. something to something, blah blah blah. And that's all I got to say about that.

8 thoughts on “Desperate Measures…”

    1. Thanks, and it is a conundrum, isn’t it? First to talk means you live, but you are the snitch, and snitches get stitches… that is, if any of them actually know anything. Quandry of quandaries…


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