Drunken Tuxedo

July 17, 2013
By samwhoam PLATINUM, Granby, Massachusetts
samwhoam PLATINUM, Granby, Massachusetts
25 articles 0 photos 4 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Scene: A modern day city surrounded by suburbs and rolling rural land. It is night and the city is half lit. Smoke wafts above from the smoke stacks. It is a small city and the noise is low and comfortable.

A short man in a torn tuxedo staggers out of a late night pub. His shirt is stained by some sort of blue concoction, and his hair hangs down about his face, sodden with sweat. He stumbles along the sidewalk, muttering to himself and staring at the ground, ever so often he clutches at a nearby wall for support.

His world was foggy. He couldn’t remember where he was or why he was out. All he knew was that the bar was closed, and it was time. Time for what he didn’t know; it was just time. Cars passed him, headlights blurry to his racing mind. To his right he heard a faint sound, a scuffling in the side alley.

With immense effort he raised his eyes to the thin opening between the brick city walls. It was dark, too dark. He shuddered, a drunken and slithery shudder. His skin crawled. The scuffling continued and all of a sudden a woman’s scream cut through the slow city night. His eyes popped wide open and he fell onto the corner of the alley, holding on with both hands while he peered into the darkness, trying to see the crime he knew was there.

The woman shrieked again, and there was a loud smack, skin on skin. She went quiet after that. The short man paused in slump on the corner. His foggy mind tried to work. This was his Friday night. Why bother? He could do nothing for her now, not like this. Oh s***.
He shoved off the corner and began careening down the alley way, stumbling over his immense feet and sliding a hand along the bricks to stay up. He must act… of course he must act. He turned a corner, and under a flickering lamp another short man stood over a quivering woman, her face was bleeding and her dress was torn. He held a wooden bat over her and was in the middle of a viscous kick when he spotted the ragged tuxedo.

Taking a step towards the drunk he raised his bat. A glare was stamped on his face, rigid and unchanging. With a snarl he charged.

Sunlight peaked over the bricks. It slanted down through the dirty alley of the back streets. Slowly the shadows receded to the new day. Two bodies lady broken and dying in the daylight.

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