Wednesday, February 11, 2015

2-11-15 Writing Warm-up
8:43 AM

2-11-15 Writing Warm-up

2-11-15 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © PouicA, All Rights Reserved -
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”
You never saw so much heat as the night at Fatboy’s Diner.

Ten cops had filtered in to fill the booths across from Johnny “Stigs” Keane and his boys. He had run up a tab ten counties' lines long. The gob going around had been he planned to take the Tri-Cities in his grip. He would’a done it if it had not been for the night at Fatboy’s Diner.

The coppers knew it, too, and they knew just what he’d do when he saw the fuzz stacking thick in the grubby seats. The waitress slipped off Johnny’s lap and fixed her apron. Her voice lilted a tad higher than usual as she asked the men for their orders. All coffees, all black. Their hands seemed stitched to their sides, with elbow crooked stiff and askew. Did the air get hot under the lazy beat of the fans? All after could have swore ol’ Fatboy had opened all his furnaces in the back.

Little more than flies moved as the waitress poured the steamy mugs full o' Joe. The bell chimed as in walked a gold barred officer. Stigs’ fedora dipped low and black eyes pinned the captain as he sat down on a stool. The blue kept his noose tight and his face cool as death. The two squared off in their seats as sweat beaded on the brows of many. Then came the fatal click of a hammer. Who had sparked the lighter in that powder room none could say. All blamed the other. It mattered little as the firestorm raged in Fatboy’s Diner.

Ol’ Stigs knew his calling cards would get rung one day. As such, his wingmen kept a pretty Tommy in their laps. These heaters blazed a nasty dragon’s breath through the booths. Few of those law boys’ pieces got out of their holsters before the lads filled Death’s order. The captain, however, had a quick wit and hand. He had dove low and fired high, striking ol’ Stigs right of his eye. The gash flamed the Gael’s honestly inherited rage. Up he leapt, tossing lead like a thundercloud does rain. The pouring from the Tommies and Stigs stilled the fuzz’s fuss.

Oh, that’d have been a grand day for Keane and his men if not for the trap outside Fatty’s Diner.

Out scooted the faithful few to fight the sty of pigs outdoors. Stigs paused to view the waitress lying all peaceful in scarlet. Elder Sean would swear at every telling that a genuine tear had slipped from steel-eyed Stigs. Only our venerable father would dare suggest the fiery killer could feel remorse. Either way, the slick don swept up a Tommy from a fallen friend and stood silhouetted in Fatboy’s door.

Fierce fought the boys in blue and the men of Keane. Little stood on Languor St. that hadn’t been struck by a stray round. Deacon Paul led the charge, cocking six-spinners from behind a cabbie’s car. Sergeants Donegal and Dingle answered in Irish fury, burning powder from oiled pumps. The lead rain tossed glass everywhere around Fatboy’s Diner.

Stigs had stood tall and true for a long hour, punishing the dimpled crowns of any Johns who poked above a squad car. Oh, had he known of the cowardly copper with his huntsman’s arm! High he stole upon a fire railing. The devil-glassed sneakster had holed away when the fighting got fiercest. He hadn’t pinched a single casing until he scoped in on blessed Keane. Lightning flashed and down fell our gallant boss by his fair lass. Still he lay in her sweet arms, a lord and his lady.

Then with a roar most cruel the boys flew from hiding and thrashed the pigs in their collars. The high hid fuzz let out two more bolts before he tumbled like a broke-necked albatross. Primal turned the rumble, man beating man with cudgel and pistol. Blood ran thick on the streets outside Fatboy’s Diner.

You can bet your shiniest nest egg the Tri-Cities well remember the shootout between Stigs and the pigs at Fatboy’s Diner.


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