Dead Writers Society

Hot lead

Whoever said cures for raging, oh-shit-I-think-my-brain-is-melting hangovers don't exist has never woken up face to face with the smoking barrel of a Glock 19.

Solo squinted into the dark hole before flicking his eyes over to the other hole in his—rented—bedroom wall. His roommate, Kieran, was going to kick his nuts in for sure.

Bullet holes don't make for good decor.

He sighed and turned back to the sweating intruder, watching as the glock wavered uncertainly in his anxious gloved hands.

Yeah, it was too close. Way too close.

With a palm in the air, Solo tried pushing himself up onto his elbows. The muzzle of the handgun followed his movements.

"Let me just put this out there," he slurred, rubbing the (probably infected, since who really knows where Sarah's been) crust from his eyes. Last night's Smirnoff hadn't left his system yet if the familiar pounding in his skull was any indication.

Great.

Solo eyed the glock. "I'm not gay."

The intruder, decked all out in black wool during the height of San Angelo's summer heatwave, blinked behind his ski mask. Big blue eyes stared back at him with a mixture of perturbed confusion. Was he sweating? Or were those tears?

"I'd rather not do, you know, it, but hey man—you're the one with the gun. I just want you to know that no matter what, I'm still straight. Like really fucking straight."

The armed intruder spoke up at last.

"What?" he croaked.

Solo looked longingly at the door. "Don't get me wrong, I totally accept you guys. It's 20XX after all but I don't know man, it's kinda gross—you know that thing you guys do. I'd rather not do shit like that, you feel me? Actually wait please don't feel m—"

He choked as the intruder gun butted his head. Solo's skull bounced off the wall, right next to the bullet hole.

Yikes.

"That's not what I'm here for," the gunman said, wiping the slick layer of perspiration from his upper lip. "Trust me, that's the last thing I want from you."

Now there was only disgust in his narrowed eyes.

For some strange reason, that bruised Solo's ego. Talk about a kick to the proverbial nuts.

"Then what are you here for, dude?" It was already 7:17AM which meant he had just under forty-five minutes to get his shit together, OD on painkillers to murder that killer headache and get his sorry ass to his class.

Signing up for an 8AM class that semester was the biggest mistake of his life

Images of his senior prom flashed through his mind.

Ok, the worst mistake he made that semester.

Sarah.

Fine. The worst mistake he made that weekend.

Sarah's sister.

Forget it. His eyes flicked back to the neon numbers on the cracked screen. 7:23 AM.

Was he really reminiscing over his shitty life choices for five whole minutes?

Bootleg Batman looked ready to put a bullet through his own head.

"Then if you don't want...do you want money? Hell bro, I'd help you look for my money. All I have left is my half my kidney and some ramen. I think. My roommate's fucking whale of a girlfriend probably ate it already. The ramen, I mean, not my fraction of a kidney."

Crunch.

This time, the glock was smashing into his gums.

Solo yowled as clutched his throbbing mouth, glaring daggers at the armed man. "Noth cool duthe."

He only sighed in return and sank onto mattress. The glock slithered out of his gloved, sweaty hands and clattered onto one of the twenty unwashed plates littering Solo's place.

Housekeeping wasn't exactly his forte.

"I don't want your money." He sounded close to tears. He screwed up his hands and punched his own head with a snarl of frustration. "I don't want your shit either. That's not what this was supposed to be about, god dammit. I just needed to kill my block. Not commit a felony."

He raised his eyes up to the heaven.

"What the fuck am I doing, Jesus?"

"Yeah, what exactly are you doing, dude? Or trying to do?"

That was Solo, not Jesus.

A moment of silence descended upon the two. With a rent as cheap as this, the walls were thinner than cheap supermarket brand sliced bread. It was uncomfortably easy to hear his neighbour—Dylan? Jacob? They all sounded the same—going for round 2 with last night's mistake.

The man stooped to pick up the glock. When he straightened back up, there was some indescribable emotion swirling in the depths of his blue eyes.

Fear ballooned in Solo's gut. This is it. He was going to get pumped full of hot lead any second now.

All he could hope for was that there'd be no Sarah wherever he was going next. Probably Hell, if it even existed. He closed his eyes and tried bringing up some long forgotten prayers his abuela had taught him a lifetime ago.

Nope. Nada. Zilch.

Hell it was.

The man looked at the glock, like he needed to remind himself it was still there and he had to pull through.

"I'm—" he pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

"I'm... kidnapping you."