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The Waiting Room

~ Chapter Eleven


Decisions, Decisions


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Mort went back to his desk, the sound of his slinky jostling back and forth in his hands lost among the buzz of conversation that went on in the room. It was a few moments later that he heard him.

“Your problem Mr. Rainey, is that you think too long. Your problem is you think too hard. But I think your real problem is Mr. Rainey is you just think.” The Mississippian accent raised the hairs on Mort’s neck..

“What the hell do you mean by that? I just think?” Rainey answered Shooter.

“I mean, Mr. Rainey, that when you think, he hears, and when he hears, he knows. So, in your case, there is no element of surprise. You think too long and hard. You mull things over and over until you’re beating a dead horse. Now I on the other hand…am a doer…an idea just pops into my head and I just follow through. No questions asked. Just do it. And that is what I am proposing now.”

“What? What are you proposing?”

“Turn your chair around Mr. Rainey. I think you will understand.”

Mort let a curse out with his breath as he swiveled his chair towards the wall behind him. As he did, his foot hit an object. He looked down and saw the shovel.

“How the hell did that get there?” He asked aloud.

“There you go again, Mr. Rainey. Thinking about things too much. Just pick it up and do as I ask.”

Mort reached down and picked up the garden tool, hefting it in his hand so the head of the shovel was upward.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Pick someone.” Shooter answered.

“Pick someone? For what?” Mort was confused.

“The element of surprise, Mr. Rainey. Pick someone, surprise them, they’ll never know what hit them.” Shooter’s voice remained deadpanned as he added, “ Oh, forgive the pun. Sometimes I just get carried away with my own humor.”

“You want me to hit someone with this?”

“Now once again, Mr. Rainey, you’ve gone and let the cat out of the bag. You are too much of a girl, aren’t you Mr. Rainey. I guess then I have to do it myself.”

Shooter adjusted his hat he had found in the bottom desk drawer. He put a firm hold on the shovel’s handle, estimating its weight and what it would take it to swing towards his intended victim.

“Now, let’s see,” Mort heard Shooter assess the room. “Who is the most annoying to me? Ah, yes, Mr. Wood. Every morning shouting his ranting through that god-forsaken megaphone. He gives me a headache every time he speaks. Yes, Mr. Wood, this is your lucky, or should I say unlucky, day?”

“You can’t do Wood.” Mort protested. Shooter waited for his explanation.

“Look at him. Always happy, always smiling. Yeah, annoying, but doing him is like taking out a puppy dog. Hell, he’d probably keep smiling and tell you what a great job you’re doing as you bring down the shovel. No, can’t do the puppy dog.”

“Well, Mr. Rainey, if I recall, dogs are not a problem for me.”
Mort shot a look to Chico, who was trying to make himself a bed in the corner chair, occasionally shaking his head to adjust the screwdriver.

“But” Shooter continued, “Perhaps you might be right. Taking out a happy person might make the room a bit, shall we say, unfriendly. Very well. You choose, then.”

Mort did not have to think twice as his attention went straight across the room to the pirate at the bar. Mort watched as Sparrow appeared to be carving something into the wood with a small knife.

“Ahh,” Shooter said as he saw his choice. “The dear Captain. And why is he on your A-list, Mr. Rainey?”

Mort furrowed his brow as he continued to watch the pirate make his mark on the bar.

“He is constantly trying to pimp my whiskey. Damn pirate. Besides, look at him. When’s the last time he took a bath? You just got to know that something on him is rotting away beneath those filthy clothes.”

But just as Shooter described, he thought too much.

“The only problem is he’s armed. He has a pistol. He could pull it out and shoot.”

“But he only has one shot.” Shooter reminded him.

“Yeah,”Mort answered, “but even when he’s drunk he’s quick and I don’t want that shot to be meant for me. No, Sparrow is too dangerous a quarry. I changed my mind. You’ll have to pick.”

“Very well, Mr. Rainey. I choose Mr. Duke. He’s another one that brings on my headaches with that dang accordion of his.”

Rainey thought on Shooter’s choice. He had to agree. Between the accordion and the gonzo journalist’s constant nagging for him to write…yes…Raoul Duke was the perfect choice.

“Then it’s decided.” Shooter confirmed, as he picked up the shovel and made his way across the room.

Rainey suddenly felt he could vomit.



 

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