Max Makes His Move

Max Makes His Move

A short story by D.F. Wharton

Max inserted the full clip and chambered a round. He looked into the mirror and breathed in some confidence and resolve. He was ready. He made an aggressive exit from the bathroom, the door slamming into the hallway wall. Nobody heard or noticed because the music was loud, and everybody in the house party was smacked, including Max. Max walked down the hall, pistol ready and snug in the waistline of his trousers.

As Max’s feet marched toward Rondo his hand moved toward the grip of the pistol. The crowd seemed to part as the waters of the Red Sea. The lingering weed smoke coiled in the air like serpents in their venomous habitat. When Max was within five feet of Rondo he had already pulled the gun. At the first moment of eye contact Max fired into the face of his enemy. When Max left the apartment, Rondo’s blood and brain matter were still sliding down the wall.

Max was seventeen years old. He would spend the next twenty-five years of his life in prison, but fuck it, right? At least he showed his boys that he was no bitch.