LOL CAN HAS NOIR?
A slow, dripping sounds throughout the dank basement. A pipe busted somewhere, the slow leaking of a cheap liquid being the only herald of the wasting of a more precious commodity, the slow drip, drip, drip signalling the seconds welling up and falling, speeding through the present before merging into the sea which is the past, barely a flicker between it's falling and the next, barely a ripple to be shown, whether it is the second of a cow chewing, or the second that a nuclear bomb explodes and kills a million people. A soft click, oily and precise, the sound of a gun that is well loved by it's user. Cleaned, maintained, Used often. Two men. One in front of the barrel, one behind it. One safe, one in danger, of a single drop of water symbolising their life being taken away, in a single drop of a second. Sweat beads, however the sweat is on the face of the man behind the barrel, the grim resignition of what he must do etched deep into his face, a frown that might never go away for the rest of his life. Silence. A drop, suspended in air, speeding towards a puddle, somewhere in a corner where nobody can see it. The man before the gun pushes his head forward slightly, his lips parting slightly to lick them, before his tongue moves in a flicker to try and speak. Gunshot. A spray of blood flashes, one liter of precious life, pulled out by ninety grams of cheap brass and lead, hitting the floor before spreading and diluting into a puddle of useless water, the splash breaking the silence, before it floods back in, as the ripples in the puddle disperse, in anticipation. Time, speeds up again for one, and slows down for another. A rasping breath sounds, a slight gurgle as water is sucked into the lungs through one hole, air through two. Lips part again, the tongue moving slowly now, like it is weighted down by gravity, the last words of a dying man. Echoes roll and ripple as he speaks, barely a whisper, but heard as sharp as a clarion bell to the shooter.
"Yeah... U mad."
The shooter brings his gun up from where it had hung, by his side, pointing it at the dying man's head. The man, gasping as his lungs slowly collapse, manages to say only one word, before the peal of a succeeding gunshot rings
"Roflma-"
Tears and sweat both drop from the face of the gunman, one acrid and salty, one sweet and heavy, a testiment to the life that was stolen. The gunman kneels, and puts his hand upon the face of the corpse, rubbing a smear of blood away from his glistening cheek. Standing, he takes a step backwards, and whispers a short phrase, before disappearing, the drop-drop of water clanging the seconds away.
"Mad is always.... Bro"
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Edit: Jackrabbit, for failing to notice or mention upon my Noir story, you are hereby sentenced to death in a grainy, Black and white basement.
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Topic: Intentionally crappy forum romance fiction (Read 27192 times)