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Lights Out -- Part Six

Updated on November 2, 2016

The first thing Walt notices when the lights come back on is all of the dust flying around in the air. There is so much of it floating around in front of the spotlights giving them a blurry look. He wipes his face with his left hand as he looks over at Marcus sitting there in the passenger seat. The rifle is resting on his lap, and both of his hands were behind his head.

Are you kidding me? He has to be the stupidest person I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t he realize that I could just grab that rifle right now? It would only take me a split second to reach over there and take it. He wouldn’t even know what happened until he sees me pointing the damn thing in his face.

The thought stayed inside of his mind for a good while. He could easily reach over there right now and take that rifle. Marcus isn’t as professional as he makes himself out to be. He should realize how open he has left himself, but he doesn’t. Walt looks over at Marcus locking onto his eyes. There was sweat running down the kids face, and one of those raisin teeth were popping in and out between his lips. It must be a loose one, and he was pushing it back and forth with his tongue. His attention was on the struggling man out there in the arena. The guy who was now on the ground favoring his hip. Marcus was focusing on the pain etched on the guys face. There was blood coming from behind the stitched on blindfold and some more coming from his leg.

No, that wasn’t his leg which was bleeding, but it was his hip.

Somewhere on the poor guy’s hip a wound has opened up from the car bumper he had just taken. The blood had traveled down his pants giving the impression that one of his legs were bleeding, but it wasn’t.

“Would you look at him Walt! He has no idea what we are about to do next, hah-hah,” and another horrible smile.

Walt doesn’t say anything as he looks over at Marcus. The rifle was still sitting on his lap unattended. His eyeballs peak behind the head of Marcus looking at his hands. They were locked with one another, which means that this guy is so relaxed that his guard is down. There would be no way Marcus would be able to stop Walt if he were to try for the rifle. Walt could reach over there, grab the rifle, and before Marcus even lowered his hands it would be too late. Walt would have the rifle ready to take care of business. He tries to think about anything that could go wrong in this situation, and there was definitely a lot that could go wrong. He continues to watch Marcus, and then begins to move his hand over toward the rifle.

Should I do this fast or slow?

He has already made up his mind as his hand begins to slide over. He was going to do it fast, and so he reached over quickly trying to seize the rifle.

Marcus, still with his hands clasped behind his head, stares out of the dusty windshield with a blank look on his face. His mind was thinking about his woman that he had left home alone. She was over a hundred miles away in an empty house all by herself. There was no food in the refrigerator, but there was plenty of booze to drink. She would have probably downed a six pack before heading off to bed, and most likely passed out as soon as her head would have hit the pillow. But that wasn’t what he was worried about. There was enough booze in that house to last a week between the both of them. There was beer in the fridge, wine in the cellar, and vodka stored in the attic. Sure he wasn’t going to drink that vodka unless there was something special to celebrate, so it would sit up there until he was ready.

But that wasn’t what he was really worried about.

No, he wasn’t worried about the booze at all. There was plenty of drugs in the house as well, and with his girlfriend’s raging drug addiction he knew that she would have probably gotten in his stash. She would have probably gone upstairs to the second floor looking into the closet that he had told her to stay out of. She would have went in there to find the drugs that she knows he has. She would want to snort some before she goes to sleep, before her head hits that pillow and she passes out from all of the alcohol.

But he wasn’t even worried about the drugs.

No, he wasn’t worried about those drugs at all. The only thing in that house that he was worried about was the contents of that closet. His girlfriend would go up there to the second floor thinking about getting her high on. She would turn the corner near the banister and then walk down that hallway. The carpet would feel nice on her feet, and she would probably kick that screwdriver that he had left on the floor for the past few weeks. The screwdriver that has those dried blood stains all over the handle. She would walk through the doorway of the bedroom heading straight for the closet which has been locked with three padlocks.

But she knows where the keys are at.

Silly Marcus had to tell her where the keys were at. He had to tell her about the glass bottle he stores on the shelf in the garage which holds those keys. The same keys that she was now holding in her hands as she nears the closet.

She clicks the first lock open.

She clicks the second lock open.

She clicks the third lock open.

Upon opening the closet looking for those drugs that she knew was in there, she would be greeted with a terrible stench that only a rotting corpse could create. She would hold her nose and,

Hopefully, Marcus thinks.

And hopefully she would grab the container holding the cocaine that she was looking for. But if she were to grab that other container, the one on the left with “Family Photos” written on it, she would find the remains of another girlfriend who had cheated on Marcus. She would find her, and then she would run from his place.

Oh God, I hope she doesn’t find that bitch…

His eyeballs travel down as he sees a hand snatch the loaded rifle right out of his lap.

“What are doing?” Marcus asks, but it was too late. He looks over at Walt who now holds the rifle within his hands. A large smile also appears on Walt’s face which, to Marcus, looks like a sick grin of an absolute madman. Marcus raises his hands into the air. His own smile has been wiped from his face, and he looks out through the windshield at the brightly lit arena. His eyeballs travel from the blindfolded man rolling around on the ground to the blindfolded woman trying to make her way over him. He looks up at the small door that the blindfolded people had come through, maybe looking for a few of his associates to come running outside to help. He wanted to scream, but before he could say anything the bunt end of the rifle comes crashing down onto his face.

“Now you listen here candy puff!” The rifle was now pointed at Marcus’s face. He wasn’t used to this, usually he would be the one in charge.

“What are you going to do Walt?”

Walt closes his eyes tightly and grinds his teeth together. He looks like a guy having a mental breakdown.

“I said listen to me!” He screams that at the top of his lungs. Marcus can only sit there holding his ears trying to protect his eardrums. The sound vibes of Walt’s hate filled voice seem to plow right through Marcus’s mind.

“You think you can hold me against my will, huh? Don’t you understand who you are dealing with? I’m not some little candy puff like you! I’m a guy that you don’t want to mess with, and I’m the guy who your momma told you to stay away from. You think everything is going to be okay? Do you think that you are going to get out of here, and go back to whatever crap hole you crawled out of?”

Walt was nodding up and down while he waved the rifle in Marcus’s face. Those raisin teeth almost seemed to shake within his mouth from all of the fear he was feeling at the moment.

“Well, it had crossed my mind… I mean… what if we—”

“Shut-up!” And once again Walt drives the bunt of the rifle into Marcus’s face. This time he hits him square on the nose. A bit of blood comes flying from his nostrils staining his clothes, and the seat of the old Ford.

“There is no ‘what if’ you little candy puff! There will never be another what if.” Walt’s voice lowers as he looks out at the arena. The bright lights would bring notice to the current events inside of the Ford. He didn’t want anybody interfering, and so he points the rifle at Marcus’s face again.

“You,” he said with a little bit of spit flying from his mouth. Marcus was wiping away some blood from his upper lip. “You are going to lean out of that window again, and you are going to tell them to shut those lights off. Do you understand me?”

Marcus suddenly had a small tear exiting his eye. What was this crazy drug dealer about to do to him? A few moments ago he was in charge of this whole situation. He was the one who had the rifle, and he was the one who couldn’t be messed with. This old man sitting in front of him was his victim, but now that’s all changed. How could he be so carless to let this old man take charge? This is inexcusable, and if it were one of his associates that made such a mistake, Marcus would put him out of his misery.

“Why would I do that?” He said while half shielding his face.

“Just do as I say!” Another scream.

“Okay, just… okay.”

And Marcus leans out of the car once again. He hesitates at first, but then takes in the air needed to scream at the top of his lungs.

“LIGHTS OUT!”

And once again the lights go out in the arena.

Cast your vote for Lights Out

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