Propped Up

"Is he commin', boss?"

The man spoke a thick Bostonian drawl, though they were nowhere near the place.

There must have been an answer, as the man gives another query.

"Are we gonna dispose of him, or what?"

This time the answer is clearly audible, a bodiless voice from somewhere in the room.

"Not if he comes alone."

"But if he brings back--"

"He won't. He's not stupid."

Unlike you blokes.

The room was dark, dusty, dank; much like the lives of the people inside it. The corners were criss-crossed with cobwebs, their long dead owners hanging next to their even more dead dinner parcels.

Fitting, as always.

"Then whadda we do, boss?"

"You wait," he replies, cold. "And you will wait until I return. Got it?"

Three nods confirm comprehension.

"Now, I have something to attend to. I'll be back before our detective friend arrives, alright?"

Again, three nods.


The man identified only as 'the Boss' melts out of the shadows and leaves the room, exiting into the equally dark men's room down the short corridor. Flipping a switch, he makes a quick inventory of all around him: dark walls, stained with God knows what, but otherwise clean; the lino floor, also in the same form; sinks, counters and stalls all with various needs of repair. If not for the lack of smell, one would think it was a fully functioning room. It hadn't been used in weeks, not since the shooting.

Not since the main event, he chuckles to himself.

The only thing missing is the mirror. It wasn't even strewn across the floor where it had been left that fateful day, where the investigators had left it as "part of the scene." But it doesn't matter, it was just a prop.

Just like he was.

The End

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