Bang! Bang! You're Dead! (standard:drama, 1246 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Aug 18 2004	Views/Reads: 4658/2402	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I sat down at the computer an hour ago and decided to write a story. Here's the result.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"This  looks like a bedroom," the woman observed. 

"It used to be.  Now it's my study." 

"Ah."  She seemed satisfied.  She retrieved something from the desk. 
"Excuse me, you've dropped your tiepin."  I grabbed Terence Upjohn's 
tiepin from her hand and immediately drew out my gun.  She started to 
scream but stopped herself.  She too drew out a gun.  We fired at each 
other.  We missed each other. 

Momentarily, the obvious question of why a junior representative for a
fridge-making firm should carry a loaded firearm.  I didn't like to 
fight a lady but I had to.  We struggled.  Her gun went off and she 
fell down, clutching her wound. 

At least it was a shot to the chest. 

I picked up the body.  She was awfully heavy for such a small person.  I
repeated my usual procedure, attatching the tiepin to her when I bunged 
her carelessly into the bomb-shelter.  I closed the door and ran into 
the house and to the killing room.  I cleaned it up and was recarpeting 
it when I heard voices from downstairs.  My wife and daughter were 
shouting at me. 

"Come on!  Quickly!  It's important!" 

I tore off my moustache and hurried into the garden, hoping no one had
touched the bomb shelter.  They couldn't, could they?  We'd not used it 
all our lives.  It hadn't been used since World War Two. 

They weren't in the bomb shelter.  They were both standing outside. 

"What is it?"  I asked. 

"Listen, Andrew!  Listen!  Next-door's radio.  It's the news.  Listen!" 

I listened.  I could hear the voice on the radio in next-door's garden. 

"You are listening to BBC Radio Four.  I am Fiona Muggins.  You are
listening to special news broadcast in the place of 'Woman's Hour'.  
England is now at war.  We advice you all to find a bomb-shelter in the 
area..." 

"We've got to get into the bomb-shelter!"  my wife screamed.  "I think I
can hear the 'planes coming!" 

I protested strongly.  My wife ignored me and flung open the door,
pushing in our daughter before taking in the scene.  She was 
speechless.  There was nothing I could do but explain.  I explained 
like a madman, because I was a madman.  It was then that I noticed that 
Una Varinski was missing.  Then, she appeared.  There had been no radio 
broadcast.  No Fiona Muggins.  It had been Una Varinski, if that was 
her real name.  Her gun had been a fake.  Her death had been staged.  
It had all been planned by the police.  There was no junior 
representative of a fridge firm. 

In spite of myself, my admiration for the police shot up as Sergeant
Warren put my handcuffs on.  In the car to the station, I was permitted 
to speak.  I asked the sergeant what his first name was. 

"Vladimir.  It's Russian.  Why?" 

"No reason." 

We got out of the car.  The handcuffs were far too big for me and I
easily slipped out of them.  I reached in my pocket (The idiotic 
policeman had not even searched my person) and drew out my gun.  I shot 
him twice, muttering "You're dead."  I was so close to getting the 
whole alphabet done.  So close. 

The police took over and brought me to justice.  I will never get out of
prison, unless I live to 250.  Then again, I don't think I'll make it 
much past thirty-three. 

Would you believe it, the police still haven't taken my gun from me? 

THE END 


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