Tornado Noir

05/07/11

Phirun was watching the weather report when the kid pulled a .380 that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the Carter administration.

“I want the cash, man! Hand it over!”

He was leprosy thin, with dirty hands, peach fuzz on his chin, lousy teeth, a Dale Earnhardt, Jr. tee. Phirun looked back at the television. The weatherman from Channel Four said something about a reflectivity core and wind shear. A Tornado Warning had been issued for Whoppaloosa County. Phirun tried to find his Chevron on the radar. There was a lot of red and yellow on the way.

“D-did you hear me, dude? Gimme the goddamn money!”

Phirun gave his robber a cursory glance.

“You rob me now?” he said. “Don’t you watch the news?”

He gestured to the television behind the counter. Noticed the kid’s hand was shaking.

“I’ll give you lotto ticket and a pack of Newports,” Phirun offered, not flinching for a second. “You go now. Save yourself.”

A moment later the siren went off, dopplaring to the interstate and back. The rain turned to hail. The sky was a shade of black usually reserved for coffins and frost bite.

“Now!” the kid yelled, pushing the muzzle of the Beretta in Phirun’s face. The gas station owner held up his hands, placating-like, then opened the register. The kid reached over the counter and grabbed as much cash as he could. Almost simultaneously a straight-line wind in advance of the thunderstorm ripped away the canopy.

The kid turned his head. It was quite a sight.

Phirun produced the machete he kept out of view and swung.

The tweaker looked down at his gun hand, no longer part of his arm, laying on the counter as if he’d presented it for purchase. The blood came in spurts.

“Gawdalmighty Jesussssss!” the kid hollered. He slumped to the floor. Phirun nudged the severed hand so the pistol wasn’t pointing at him.

The lights flickered. Anything not tied down outside was tumble-weeding across the parking lot. Someone off-camera handed the weatherman a piece of paper. A Tornado Emergency had been declared across five counties. The Channel Four meteorologists were grim-faced. Phirun found the language fascinating. Hook echo, supercell rotation, updraft.

The kid started moaning.

Phirun sheathed the machete, dropped the hand in a plastic bag, then came around the counter. Helped the kid to his feet.

“The freezer! Only safe place from tornado!”

The kid gasped.

“My h-hand, man? Where’s my h-hand?”

Between the severed appendage and whatever was floating through his bloodstream, the kid probably was feeling pretty strange. Phirun ushered him into the walk-in freezer behind the sandwich shop. He glanced back at his convenience store, wondering if it’d be there in an hour.

The power went out.

Phirun had always been the prepared sort. Had electric lanterns and a weather radio within arm’s length of the freezer for just such an occasion. The kid staggered to a corner. Wrapped the nub in his shirt.

“You g-gook motherfucker!” he said. “Get me an ambulance!”

“I’m Cambodian,” Phirun corrected him.

“Come to our c-country,” the kid stammered, looking semi-conscious. “Take ‘way j-jobs…”

“Most of my family perished in Pol Pot’s killing fields,” Phirun said. “My father and I emigrated to Georgia before you were born. I been in Whoppaloosa County longer than you.”

The kid struggled to stay upright. His eyes rolled back in his head.

“So c-cold in here…”

The voices on the radio reported multiple twisters on the ground. The sound of the proverbial “freight train” grew louder. Phirun removed the kid’s hand from the plastic bag.

“W-what are ye doing?”

Phirun worked the fingers loose of the Beretta’s grip. He bagged the hand again. Released the magazine, then jacked the round from the pipe. He put the pistol in his pocket.

“B-blanket, dude? I’m sooo cold…”

The kid crumpled.

Phirun unsheathed the machete and went to work.

He wrapped the limbs and torso in Visqueen. Decided to keep the head as a souvenir.

The building shook for a minute, followed by a reprieve. The radio voices told him another tornado was imminent. He hustled through a rear exit. Saw a hundred loblollies snapped in half.

Phirun left the kid on the pavement.

Wondering where the pieces might land.

And thinking it’d been the easiest body yet.

~ fin ~

petefarris

Peter Farris is a graduate of Yale University. His debut novel will be published by Tom Doherty Associates/Forge Books next winter. “Disney Noir” was his first attempt at flash fiction. He keeps a presence on the web at The Sentence Salvo.

very cool story, i liked it a lot great writing
0rganic
June 29, 2011
"Whoppaloosa"- love names like that! lol

And Phirun- what a great character, would love to see him in a novel. :)
cmstewartwrite
May 10, 2011
How deliciously diabolical! I was wondering too. Just how many does that make for Phirun, and what did he do with the others? No hurry on that answer, by the way...

This was superb!
Joyce
May 09, 2011
Thanks for reading (and sharing) y'all. It is much appreciated.
Peter Farris
May 09, 2011
Very intense! Phirun seemed so mellow in the beginning. Really good twist.
howalt
May 08, 2011
I love this story. Thanks for sharing it on Shotgun Honey.
Sabrina E. Ogden
May 08, 2011
Great stuff. One of the best I've read today.
Peter Andrew Leonard
May 07, 2011
And I thought mine was nasty stuff :) What a ride.
chad rohrbacher
May 07, 2011
great read man. when can we film a short together? haha.
Matt
May 07, 2011
Great story Peter. It doesn't pay to rob a store today, does it? Phirun's a good character.
Ron Earl Phillips
May 07, 2011
Peter,

Loved it. I'm still wondering how many that makes for Phirun.
skees
May 07, 2011
Wonder what the Munchkins are gonna do when what's left of the kid lands on their front door step. Rock solid on theme. Cool.
ajhayes2
May 07, 2011
Good one, dude. Wicked fun
Keith Rawson
May 07, 2011
I guess I should mention that in keeping with the thematic stipulation of Dan's challenge (rain), my lazy internet research told me "Phirun" is a Cambodian name meaning, uh, rain.

Here's a link to the Salvation Army's tornado relief donation site: http://bit.ly/kbWxwQ

And the Red Cross: http://rdcrss.org/WGDCa
Peter Farris
May 07, 2011
Wow! Great story!
sandra seamans
May 07, 2011

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