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28 Day Writing Challenge #20

By , Elk Grove, CA

Shaman. Day 20:
His name was the Shaman. He had an imposing stature. His name was actually tattooed across the back of his neck, but he usually stupidly popped his collar so no one would be any wiser. It probably would've been smarter to just not get the tatoo, but he wasn't someone you'd argue with. Especially not about being smart. So we have this big, scary guy, and he's standing in the alley. Is he doing a dangerous drug deal? Romancing some cheap floozy? You couldn't put either past him. But no. This night, he was dripping tobacco laced drool over a midget with an attitude crisis. The only thing preventing him from shoving the dumb*** into a gutter or the closest trash can was money. Green magic. Money could also buy the other kind of green magic but he wasn't sweating the punk for that. The kid had had the audacity to approach him. Surprising. You may think, what guts, points for bravery. Points for a one way trip six feet under. But then he pulled out a fat stack of Benjamin franklins, cold and clam as his shaky hands. Shaman took the money and then asked what he was being requested to do. Then they stepped outside. The punk wasn't stuttering, but slurring each syllable and mixing up the words. A nervous wreck. "I need you to kill someone for me." That phrase was collected from the jumble. The bigger man almost felt like he would have to hold this guy up. Ridiculous, he didn't want to be tied to it if this wimp passed out or died talking to him. "Who?" Says the Shaman, as if he's still considering it. You don't come into that kind of money and skimp on the actual mission, even if it would be so easy to can this kid and run. Funny, too. But the Shaman had a little something called integrity. You pay him to do a job, he'll do it. He has a reputation to uphold. The wimp hands Shaman a newspaper. Something about a teenybopper. Attack. Lover. France. And also at the bottom a picture of a frightened little girl. "Ex-lover?" The Shaman asks, even though he couldn't care less. The kid looks sick, and confused. "What?" "How do you know the mark? Huh?" It's firm but open ended. The kid is desperately trying to keep it together because puking on this veritable giant's feet would solve his issues in the most unpleasant way possible. "She hurt my friend." He manages to get out, between wheezes. The shaman lifts the boy over his shoulder, and the boy is kicking and trying so hard to scream but nothing comes out. No one else around but the maggot homeless people waiting for someone to rob in the alley. They get up and out of Shaman's way, figuring something is about to go down. Little do they know. The boy, who's silently weeping now, is propped over the edge of the dumpsters. "Make it fast!" He cries like an idiot. "Relax." Shamann says.  What a drama queen, this guy. All musicians are like this. But they have cash. "Throw up." Shaman orders. The boy shakes his head, proving his IQ to be further lacking. "Why not?" The shaman says indignantly, his patience being tested. "I don't want to." Says the boy. The Shaman gives him a quick thump over the back and he readily hurls into the dumpster. He puts the kid down. "I'll take care of the business.  Bring me twice the consultation fee when you see she's gone." He doesn't wait for a response, instead regressing back into the hellish pit of a bar where he reigns as king. Neil stays slumped next to the dumpster, and falls asleep there. No one disturbs him. He's the Shaman's paycheck. You don't mess with other people's paychecks.




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