The Trunk
It’s easy to do the wrong thing. It’s what we do after the deed is done that truly defines us. The Trunk is the sixth episode of Genres Not Included is a touch of noir that author Joe Nelson starts with a bang and that author Eva Newcastle finishes with a flourish. It should keep you on the edge of your seat. and maybe encourage you to clean out your car.
Pulp Fiction thrills! Surrealist Fiction chills!
Be entertained and forewarned. Entangling them may result in a few spills.
Forget Paris. It’s time for the next installment of #GenresNotIncluded a.k.a. “the best typewriter improv on the planet” with Joe @BooksPointof!
Go! — Eva Newcastle, July 26, 2024
Bad decisions were easy for Vic.
You kissed the wrong girl. You took the wrong wallet. Hell, you shot the wrong guy.
Vic DeMattis had definitely shot the wrong guy.
Now, the question was, how was he gonna hide the stiff?
And make his 8:30pm dinner appointment with the missus?
There was the “hide the body in the desert” classic, but digging into the caliche was a nightmare without a backhoe. And being in the midwest, that was kind of a haul. Hauling ass back home for dinner would take 24 hours, if he floored it.
“She never looks in the trunk … “
With a lot of effort and some good zip ties, a small-ish human male could be confined to a 55 gallon trash bag.
Vic had good zip ties. He never left home without them.
He had to stop for a pack of those little pine trees at a gas station on the way back to Jersey. They helped.
Vic checked the time as he pulled into the gas station. He had 30 minutes to spare. Pine trees? Check. He remembered the security cameras. His face burned.
Who buys multiple air fresheners without arousing suspicion?
He roamed the aisles. Slim Jims. Yeah. Mountain Dew. Okay.
“Sir, that’ll be $36.87.”
Crap, did he really buy that many little trees?
Leon was already starting to smell though the bag. He’d be on his way before trouble hit.
Vic also bought one of those little pies that came in the little tins. Cherry, with that sticky glaze.
The gas station behind him, Vic slammed the car door. He ripped open one of the plastic bags and hung three pine trees from the rear view mirror.
“Overkill?” He caught his reflection. “Nah.
He resisted the urge to put pedal to the metal, then laughed at his own joke.
A thud.
..shit.
Vic hit the brakes. Hard.
Sweat soaked through his shoulder holster and he felt the weight of the 9mm under his armpit.
“I shot him. He’s dead, right?” he asked his reflection in the rear view.
Another thud. Definitely from the trunk.
Vic parked the sedan.
He changed his mind about auto-popping the trunk.
Vic exited the vehicle, the sloped and rocky shoulder uneasy underfoot. He cracked his neck and gave it the old manual heave.
“What the.” He could’t believe what’d rolled. “Oh. She’s lookin’ for this.. Oh … You kiddin’ me?”
It was Betty’s sand wedge. She was such a golf addict, his Betty.
Now, Leon’s blood coated the grip.
“Shit, Leon, how am I gonna get this cleaned up before I get home? Your sister’s gonna be pissed you fucked up her sand wedge,” Vic informed the trash bag.
Leon did not reply.
You think you know someone. You think you’ve got every murder angle covered. And what does she do? Betty goes and shoves her shit in the trunk.
“The LAST place you’d look!”
A red light. A siren chirp. A lone cop rolls to a stop.
It was always the little woman’s fault.
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