Arachne
Junior Member
1)
Driving from Chipley to Panama City generally took people 40 minutes. Mr. Byrd's drive would take 50. He much preferred traveling via 231 to doing so on 76, because bridges scared him. Often, he would abruptly stop in the road if he found himself faced with a long bridge. He would vomit over the steering wheel otherwise.
Mr. Byrd's job as a teacher wasn't lucrative. He ran into financial problems every few years. Luckily, he had a part-time job that paid extremely well. It was a terribly uncomfortable job, though, and made him as queasy as long bridges. "I'd much rather drive on a bridge," he thought, "than do that job."
His car was as unstable as his finances. Despite working for 25 years, and owning his own house, he was stuck with an '02 F150. It worked, for the moment. But the roof was rusted, and the paint had been scraped off in several places. The cruise control was also broken, which was the biggest source of annoyance for Mr. Byrd. He had to constantly change his foot pressure to maintain speed on the route.
Traffic gradually grew thicker and slower as he approached the city. The vast forests bordering 231 slowly morphed into street lamps, restaurants, and retail stores. As the number of stop lights and the density of shops increased, Mr. Byrd consulted his mental map. Luckily, he wouldn't have to suffer the Saturday morning traffic for long. The Holiday Inn was only two or three turns from the next light.
He had changed out of his stained wife beater and khaki cargo pants. Now, Mr. Byrd was wearing a well-ironed blue button-up polo, tucked into black dress pants. He wore a simple leather belt and had complementary wingtips. To put it shortly, he was well-dressed. Even his curly beard had been trimmed to mere stubble. His shiny, bald head was masked by a navy blue baseball cap. Byrd had work to do.
His only assignment was to cater to room 307. It was now late into the afternoon, according to Byrd's watch. It had been quite a journey to get the dinner cart up the stairs. Sadly, elevators made him queasy as well. Nerves and the climb up the stairs made Byrd begin to sweat. He quickly wiped his brow and cleared his throat. Finally ready, he knocked with two hard thumps on room 307's door.
A tall, muscular, and European-looking man opened the door quickly. "You late," he snarled with a Russian epithet.
"My apologies, Sir," Byrd said quietly, wheeling the meal cart to the kitchen after the man had stepped aside.
"Rest assured, everything is still hot." Byrd scanned the metal covers of the dishes, then lifted and set a rectangular lid to the side of the dish. Steam curled off of a rack of grilled ribs. He quickly unveiled all but one of the other dishes but noticed with great interest that the Russian man had already dirtied his suit with sloppy eating. "He must really love ribs," Byrd thought.
Time moved slowly for Byrd now. This was why he was able to keep this part-time job after years of intermittent service. He lifted the lid of the final plate and tossed it at the door, which had closed shut. While the sloppy Russian cracked his head around to follow the motion of the metal disc, Byrd swiftly picked up the Walther PPK/S and flipped it over in his hands. With his thumb, he shoved the safety aside, revealing the red beneath it. It was fairly front-heavy, he thought absently as he aimed it. "They really should make these silencers lighter."
That burly Russian man never turned around. There was a disquieting sound of air being pushed aside, and he fell into a sprawl. The small .22 bullet had pierced his skull on one side, and gotten stuck in the other. Byrd tried to comfort himself with the fact that there would be no cleaning involved as he hurled into the kitchen sink. He really hated this job.
[that's chapter one for ya. feedback, tips, critiques; anything is helpful!]
Driving from Chipley to Panama City generally took people 40 minutes. Mr. Byrd's drive would take 50. He much preferred traveling via 231 to doing so on 76, because bridges scared him. Often, he would abruptly stop in the road if he found himself faced with a long bridge. He would vomit over the steering wheel otherwise.
Mr. Byrd's job as a teacher wasn't lucrative. He ran into financial problems every few years. Luckily, he had a part-time job that paid extremely well. It was a terribly uncomfortable job, though, and made him as queasy as long bridges. "I'd much rather drive on a bridge," he thought, "than do that job."
His car was as unstable as his finances. Despite working for 25 years, and owning his own house, he was stuck with an '02 F150. It worked, for the moment. But the roof was rusted, and the paint had been scraped off in several places. The cruise control was also broken, which was the biggest source of annoyance for Mr. Byrd. He had to constantly change his foot pressure to maintain speed on the route.
Traffic gradually grew thicker and slower as he approached the city. The vast forests bordering 231 slowly morphed into street lamps, restaurants, and retail stores. As the number of stop lights and the density of shops increased, Mr. Byrd consulted his mental map. Luckily, he wouldn't have to suffer the Saturday morning traffic for long. The Holiday Inn was only two or three turns from the next light.
He had changed out of his stained wife beater and khaki cargo pants. Now, Mr. Byrd was wearing a well-ironed blue button-up polo, tucked into black dress pants. He wore a simple leather belt and had complementary wingtips. To put it shortly, he was well-dressed. Even his curly beard had been trimmed to mere stubble. His shiny, bald head was masked by a navy blue baseball cap. Byrd had work to do.
His only assignment was to cater to room 307. It was now late into the afternoon, according to Byrd's watch. It had been quite a journey to get the dinner cart up the stairs. Sadly, elevators made him queasy as well. Nerves and the climb up the stairs made Byrd begin to sweat. He quickly wiped his brow and cleared his throat. Finally ready, he knocked with two hard thumps on room 307's door.
A tall, muscular, and European-looking man opened the door quickly. "You late," he snarled with a Russian epithet.
"My apologies, Sir," Byrd said quietly, wheeling the meal cart to the kitchen after the man had stepped aside.
"Rest assured, everything is still hot." Byrd scanned the metal covers of the dishes, then lifted and set a rectangular lid to the side of the dish. Steam curled off of a rack of grilled ribs. He quickly unveiled all but one of the other dishes but noticed with great interest that the Russian man had already dirtied his suit with sloppy eating. "He must really love ribs," Byrd thought.
Time moved slowly for Byrd now. This was why he was able to keep this part-time job after years of intermittent service. He lifted the lid of the final plate and tossed it at the door, which had closed shut. While the sloppy Russian cracked his head around to follow the motion of the metal disc, Byrd swiftly picked up the Walther PPK/S and flipped it over in his hands. With his thumb, he shoved the safety aside, revealing the red beneath it. It was fairly front-heavy, he thought absently as he aimed it. "They really should make these silencers lighter."
That burly Russian man never turned around. There was a disquieting sound of air being pushed aside, and he fell into a sprawl. The small .22 bullet had pierced his skull on one side, and gotten stuck in the other. Byrd tried to comfort himself with the fact that there would be no cleaning involved as he hurled into the kitchen sink. He really hated this job.
[that's chapter one for ya. feedback, tips, critiques; anything is helpful!]
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