Hard Boiled - A (Ridiculous) Short Story

The lingering silence in the apartment broke as Johnny Rigisini unlocked the deadbolt with a soft click. The door slowly opened, light spilling into the front room like a cascade of Kool-aid from a tipped pitcher. Angrily kicking aside the empty Chinese take out boxes, he grunted and flopped into the couch.

Fired! How dare the CIA fire him!

He was a cop, just like a lot of the other recruits in his past. He was a cop with a scarred past, as most cops have. Sure, he didn't always play by the rules, but then, as the saying goes, "Rules were meant to be broken." Apparently, the CIA didn't believe in breaking the rules. Unless it was them that was doing the breaking.

Brooding in silence, he suddenly lashed out and violently knocked over the Vogue magazines from the end table. He just couldn't believe it. Six months of loyal service and they terminated him, just like that.

Of course, it probably had to do with the secrets he learned. Secrets that led to the top echelon levels of leadership. He had dirt on everything and everyone - the Director, his handlers, his trainer, his fellow agents. Everyone detailed in the file for the infamously elusive Diamond Stone Project labeled ominously: Top Secret.

They knew, and they were going to come after him.

A cat howl and the smash of a flower pot startled him out of his reverie. He slowly slid his .45 out of his coat pocket and melted into the shadows, like butter sizzling into a pan. They're coming for me, he thought. It's about time.

Pounding at the door. A voice calling out his name. Suddenly, the door flies open, revealing the furious, trembling sole of a Sketchers sneaker, a leg coming out of it and attached to the most beautiful girl he knew in his short human existence. Long red hair flowed behind her like a bonfire, her perfect face screwed up in perfect rage.

"Trianne!"

"Effing eff, Johnny! Do you never answer the door?!" she screamed, then charged forward, her fist connecting with his nose. His head recoiled back and he felt himself plummeting back first towards the floor before he even realized what had happened. Crashing into the pile of styrofoam underneath him, the metallic taste of copper filled his mouth. He choked.

"Whud duh ell, Drianne!" He spat out blood. His blood. His vision swam in front of his eyes.

"You know damn well what you did!" Another blow to his head caused the room to spin, her beautifully nostalgic shoe connecting.

"Is dis about Diemund Stohn Projegt?" he slurred.

"Diamond Stone Project?"

"You're...one of dem," he spat, flecks of blood splattering on the floor. Gawd. He was going to die. In his own apartment. Beaten to death by Trianne. His own girlfriend! A girl!

"Damn it, Johnny! What are you talking about? I'm talking about this!" A folder of papers flew open in front of him as she threw them onto the floor. He scanned them quickly with his eyes.

We regret to inform you. Cancellation. Overdraft fees. Balance is overdue. His eyes widened with realization, with fear. Caught in his own web he weaved, his past was finally catching up to him. There was no escape. Not even Intelligence was this thorough, never. It could only be the work of Trianne. This was worse than Diamond Stone Project, worse than the CIA, worse than the cover-ups and the assassinations and nepotism and betrayals and treason.

"You've been shopping on Amazon again, with my credit card!" They were the last words he heard as he looked up to see the first five volumes of Hana Yori Dango cut through the air with deadly accuracy, connecting with his forehead. A whimper, silence, and then the inevitable thud as he fell backwards, crashing into the floor.

Trianne looked at his unconscious body in disgust. What an effin' waste of a boyfriend, she thought. If she wasn't using him as an escape from her loveless marriage with the chief from the local police force, she would have left him a long time ago. Gingerly using the tip of her left foot, she flipped him over so that his face was mercilessly resting on what looked like five day old egg roll and General Tso's chicken. Blood ran out of his nose, a deluge of crimson staining the fried rice scattered about him. Maybe this way, he won't drown in his own blood.

She rummaged through his cupboards and returned with a bowl of warm water. Placing it carefully on the floor, she picked up his hand and dumped it into the water and watched the stain on his crotch grow. The pungent scent of urine filled the air and she crinkled her freckled nose in disgust. Must be eating asparagus again.

She looked back at the pitiful sight and shook her head, a mirthless laugh that sounded more like a bark forcing its way out from her ribcage. She muttered only one word as she left Johnny lying in his own filth.

"Baka."