The truck sits in the parking lot of the sporting goods store.

The fuckhead sits there in the driver’s seat and looks at his watch.

I’ve been watching from across the four-lane avenue for the last twenty minutes. He just sits there, lights a cigarette, looks at his watch, again, repeat, do over.

He’s expecting me. I called him from a pay phone over an hour ago, told him exactly where to go, told him I’d be there within the hour.

Why the fuck doesn’t he get rattled? Why the fuck doesn’t he leave?

I mean, it’s not like he can’t score some fucking blow somewhere else.

It’s what I thought, I know it is.

This motherfucker is a fed or a narc or both.

He’s copped from me on three other occasions and I didn’t have any reason until two weeks ago to think that this was what I know it is.

The first time was in January, the next time was two weeks before two weeks ago. And the shit I gave him then, he should have still had something left two weeks ago. He claimed he had some kind of party or some shit. Bullshit. The guy’s looking to make his bones with me.

So I sit there and I let him fucking stew and he doesn’t go anywhere. He sits there another twenty minutes, just lighting and smoking and lighting and looking at his watch and taking another drag.

Finally, I guess boredom on my part, I decide to force the issue and I pull into the lot next to him and I grab my piece and I get in the passenger side of his truck and I stick my steel in his face and I tell him that I want to know what the fuck.

And, of course, he begs off, saying that I got it all wrong, that he’s not a narc or a fed.

And I kinda believe him but I don’t bother going all the way because I kinda don’t believe him.

So I take the safety off, I put the end of the barrel against his temple and I squeeze the trigger.

Brains and blood splash the driver’s side window, which spiderwebs thanks to the slug going through and through. I riffle his pockets, grab his wallet and split, tearing out of the lot and onto the four-lane avenue.

And that’s what happened. Swear to fucking god. You wanna book me now so we can get this shit over with?

~ fin ~

Christopher Grant is the editor and publisher of A Twist Of Noir and a crime writer in his own right, having stories at ATON, as well as Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers and The Flash Fiction Offensive, to name but a few.