Manuscripts Burn


"Manuscripts don't burn"
- Mikhail Bulgakov

Hi, I'm horror and science fiction author Steve Kozeniewski (pronounced: "causin' ooze key.") Welcome to my blog! You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Amazon. You can e-mail me here, join my mailing list here, or request an e-autograph here. Free on this site you can listen to me recite one of my own short works, "The Thing Under the Bed."

Friday, May 22, 2009

The Last War: Chapter 5, Part 2

Winston Edify sat in his armchair perusing the newest edition of the Wall Street Journal. For a while his stocks had been going up. Now they were going down, way down. Ever since the Rape of Washington, the stock market had damn near collapsed. He checked the newspaper hopefully, but to no avail.

“Damn!” he exclaimed, “I’m losing money every second.”

“What did you say, dear?” asked Edify’s wife, walking into the room.

“My stocks are depreciating, dear.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said, not really paying attention.

Edify’s wife sat down on her plush couch. She was wearing an evening dress that had cost him several thousand dollars. She obviously had no regard for it in the way she flung herself onto the couch, also stiffly expensive.

“What ever shall you do?” she asked.

“I’ll go downtown tonight.”

“You’d better get dressed in that case, Winston,” she said.

Edify nodded. He placed his pipe down on the plate which held his snifter of brandy. He went to his room and took off his silk robe. He put on a three-piece suit which had once belonged to Eisenhower. It had cost him quite a lot.

“It’s dangerous out!” called his wife, “You’d better bring your firearm!”

“I am!” he called, annoyed at his nagging bride.

He pulled out his .44, loaded it with six bullets, and placed it into his holster by his heart. (He also kept a holster on his side and in his boot, but those were generally for emergencies, such as jewelry stores.)

On his way to Wall Street, Winston robbed two convenience stores. They had both had very little money. He reached Wall Street and walked into the door of his building (he had forgotten it’s name by now) and shot the security guard. He went to the 16th floor, killed his stock broker, took all the money in his safe, then returned to his penthouse.

“Is everything taken care of, Winston?” asked his nagging wife.

“Not quite,” he said, then shot her.

“A very profitable night,” he said, under his breath.

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