Always trying to start crime noir things to play with the genre. Here's another one of trying those out. Closer to high school. So you know it's good.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

What Could Have Helped Me

Date of original writing: Nov 5th, 2005

I remembered too late what could have helped me. By then all I wanted was another bullet so I could send it through my skull. Bleeding to death isn’t any fun… I don’t care where you’re from.

Chapter 1

Before the docks, before the buzzing of bullets, before the blood, before her. I woke up that morning like every other morning except this time I got up and then the alarm went off. Fuck that sound can melt your brain I swear to god.

If you looked at my driver’s license, if I had one, it would say that my name is Malcom Barnes and I’m twenty-four years old. What it wouldn’t tell you is that I’m a new age Robin Hood.

Now does that sound like a bad movie plot or what?

Be that as it may that’s what I do. Society, I found out early on, isn’t the place for me. So I decided to take from the rich and give to the poor, mainly me. Okay I’m more of a thief but for the sake of argument every once and a while I give to the less fortunate and they would call me a new age Robin Hood.

Anyways, I went through my morning routine like all of you. Out of bed, shower (I refuse to do any-fucking-thing until I shower), other hygienic whatnot and then breakfast. After that I usually watch some TV for about four hours or so. (And that’s just in the morning. People who don’t watch TV are idiots by the way.) That particular day I had a meeting with Greg Klebber aka “Gregarious.”

Gregarious is an information guy, my information guy. The way it works is he gets the information, I use it, we both get paid. Very simple. Unless your on the other end of the equation, the subtraction part of the equation. That can be a pain in the ass, but what’re you going to do.

Chapter 2

As I parked my stolen, illegally driven ’86 Dodge convertible, (Repainted with phony plates.) I checked my Beretta Cougar in the shoulder holster hidden under my new blazer, as well as the extra clip in my pants pocket. I didn’t need it at the moment and was sure I wouldn’t in the following moments but if I was wrong it was there.

I walked into the diner. Gregarious always wanted us to meet at this one fucking diner. I always said it established a pattern. Patterns are bad; cops are good at spotting and following patterns. He always said shut up.

He was in the same back booth near the bathroom he was always in. His hair was almost completely gray, his pants where the same colour, and his shirt was covered in at least three sweaters, all of them dark red.