What follows is a scene I cut from a story called “The Byrnes Manifesto.” In a very small nutshell, the story is about a criminal conspiracy involving certain persons posing as U.S. Marshals, among other things. The finished project is being sent out for submission. It will not appear on Hubpages. It’s too violent, et cetera. Regardless, I liked this scene. I figured, since I couldn’t use it in the story, I would post it here. The foul language has been represented by lines after the fashion of Hemingway, but it is there and you will get the meaning if you read it. This serves as DISCLAIMER.
Bragging time. I wrote this story by hand and hit 94 pages, excluding what is presented here. I’m feeling pretty good about that. On the other hand, typing 94 pages of scribble is proving to be very obnoxious.
From The Byrnes Manifesto.
I was taken to an interrogation room. They handcuffed my wrist to a table sunk solidly into the floor. After an hour or so, my friend and a U.S. Marshal came in.
“This is what you told me on the ride in,” my friend said, a deadly look in his eyes. “Go ahead and sign.”
I looked at the papers, curious to see what he had prepared. I hadn’t said a word, and he knew it. I sat up straight and addressed the Marshal, laying the respect on heavy.
“Sir, I never said a word of this.”
The Marshal put his fists on the table and glared at me. He was the real deal, I was sure. He had cop superiority written all over him. He would probably get credit for my arrest. My friend sat down across from me.
“Coffee?” He asked me.
“Black.”
My friend waved to the other man, who was visibly surprised at being sent on an errand in his own building. He left anyway.
“Who does that man think you are?” I asked my friend.
Ignoring me, he collected the typed sheets from in front of me and replaced them with several blank ones and a pen.
“Time to confess your crimes, Byrnes,” he commanded. “Tell them why you killed the girl. Tell them where they can find her. Come on.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“It’s still Marshal.” He grinned condescendingly.
“I’m going to kill you.” I said.
My friend sighed. “There’s no point in that now, Byrnes. It didn’t work. Let it go.”
“I’m here for killing a girl. That girl was killed by U.S. Marshals. Why aren’t you charging me for their deaths?”
“Well, there are Marshals, and then there are Marshals,” my friend said.
“So they think you brought me in alone? They think there weren’t five others with you?” I chided. “What will happen to your friends’ bodies?”
“Enough!” He shouted. “You know we can have you shot in transit to court in the morning. Hell, we can just ask anyone in this building to do it. After what happened to that girl and her family, none of them would hesitate. You better start writing something. Now.”
The U.S. Marshal walked in with two cups of coffee. He handed one to me and conspicuously kept the other for himself.
“What’s your name, officer?” I asked.
“____ you. I’m Marshal Hodge.” He growled. My friend gave me a pointed look.
“Thank you, sir.” I nodded. “And what’s his name?”
“What’s his name?” Hodge yelled. “Don’t play mind games, boy. No one has the patience, believe me.”
My friend stood and reached over the table and took my coffee. He blew on it, trying to stare me down.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll start at the beginning. It was just getting dark in Atlanta when that bit of nastiness happened. That shootout occurred in pitch black night. How do you know I was there? For that matter, how do you know who I am?”
Hodge turned to my friend. “Marshal Bradley?” He said, and I got my name.
My friend Bradley pulled a card out of his back pocket and slammed it on the table. He pulled his hand away and I smiled. My driver’s license.
“You dropped your wallet,” Bradley said smugly.
I pulled my wallet from my coat pocket and handed it to Marshal Hodge. He opened it and pulled out my license.
“Do they make yours two at a time, too, Marshal Bradley?” I asked. For a second I thought he was going to shoot me.
Marshal Hodge grabbed the license from the table.
“This isn’t fake. Neither of these is fake,” he glared at Bradley. “What the hell?”
“I can tell you I’ve had mine for three years now, and I’ve never been in a position to drop my wallet at a crime scene,” I said.
Copyright 2011 held by Christopher Floyd.
Digital Exile 