Roadkill

I'd already ran over a fox, a deer, and one and a half humans by the time I got to the motel. Inconvenient, one might say, though a small price to pay for becoming rich. One of my unsuspecting victims had even shattered the windscreen, so my fullproof plan of making a nonchalant getaway seemed to be dwindling fast. Typically, there was blood everywhere too, trickling within the tiny cracks of glass and dripping onto the dashboard. Just my luck.

Pulling into the dimly lit car park, I parked in the darkest of shadows I could find, as far from the entrance of the motel as possible and under the lowest hanging, inconspicuous of trees. Putting the revolver in the glovebox, I stepped out the car. I paused, hesitating and frozen with indecision, before going back for the gun. Then I put it back. Then I took it out again. Then the old prick in the boot muffled an attempt at screaming.

Ignoring him, I put the gun in my back pocket and dared to inspect the damage on my beloved Chevy. It was a piece of s**t, but it was my piece of s**t, and constituted fond happy memories of my first heist. No one was supposed to die that day for this heap of junk, but such was the unpredictable beauty of my job. It was much less than a heap of junk now though, as one of my more recent inconveniences had completely smashed in the right headlight; I assumed it was the fat b***h with the mobility scooter, so one could imagine my dismay when I failed to take a moment to stop the car and pop her in the head for the trouble she'd caused me. I'd knocked the b***h clean out her fat-mobile and flat onto the pavement though, sprawling on the ground like some helpless beached whale, so I suppose that was something. She was either dead, or the shock of my impressive smash into her had cured her of her disability. Probably dead though.

Movement distracted me from my musings, and I saw peeking through the dusty blinds of the motel reception window a bespectacled woman, straining to see me with her screwed up eyes. Glancing around at the other cars in the lot, I saw I was one of three customers, and so I gave her a friendly wave and my best I've-not-killed-anyone-today smile, assuming she'd be glad of my most delightful custom. She didn't wave back, instead choosing to close the blinds and presumably go back to rot at her miserable little desk.

Wasting no time, I ran to the boot and chapped loudly. 'Ho ho ho, b***h! I'm letting you out now. Let's be a nice Santa Claus, OK?' There was no reply. Fleetingly, I expected to hear ringing sirens and have myself surrounded by a hoard of police cars and flashing lights. Still though, nothing. Silence - the sound of my own success.

I dragged Santa Claus out the boot of the car, keeping a keen eye on the motel reception window - the bespectacled woman was apparently ignorant to the commotion for now, for the blinds remained shut - before pulling the fat man by his belt-tied ankles around the side of the car, hiding him from any prying eyes. The tape was still on his mouth, and sweat from his crinkled brow dripped visibly into his tearful eyes. He looked fearful, so I was quite impressed with my work.

'Here's what's going to happen,' I said, pulling the revolver from my pocket. Santa shook and shivered, like a fearful sweating pig ready for slaughter. Or turkey, if I was feeling extra festive. 'We're going to get a room for the night, and by the time that blazing desert sun rises I am going to be a millionaire, with a little help from yourself. Is that understood?'

The fat man nodded, chins wobbling. How was this rich man truly so pathetic? 'So we're going to walk into this charming little place and you're not going to say anything. When the sinfully boring receptionist makes her predictable joke about your festive costume, you will laugh and joke back with her. If you do otherwise, I will shoot her in the head. Understood?'

He nodded repeatedly. 'Lets go talk money, then. That's all I want for Christmas.' I laughed at my awful joke, before untying Santa's binds and ripping the tape from his mouth. He said nothing - so far, so good - and we entered the motel together, as if I hadn't just waved a gun in his chubby face.

Entering the lobby, and greeted by the unwelcoming smell of dampness and tobacco, we approached the receptionist. A closer look at my earlier peeping tom revealed a dour-faced young woman with bags that sunk under her eyes and a severe nose, buried into the book she was reading. I peaked at the title: Mirror's Curse. On the cover was a besotted-looking girl crying dramatically into what was clearly a vampire's arms (he was oh so pale and his teeth were oh so sharp). If Twilight was smut, then this girl was reading Twilight smut. Her life depressed me.

'Hello?' I banged on the desk, though she did not immediately look up. When she did, her eyes flickered to the fat man, and she giggled.

'Shouldn't you be preparing your sleigh tonight, Mr. Kringle?' I rolled my eyes, before looking at my fat hostage.

He forced an exaggerated laugh. 'Oh no,' he said, 'Mrs Claus is on the ball.' They giggled together, and after briefly considering if pulling out the revolver and blowing my brains all over the mustard carpet would spare me of their monotony, I composed myself and treated the sad girl to my best friendly grin again.

'Can we have a room, please?'

'Sure,' she said, putting her smut down and clicking her computer. 'Single or double?'

'Double,' I said. The fat man could sit on the floor.

'Smoking or non-smoking?'

'Non-smoking.'

'And a name for the booking reference?'

'Mr Pleasant.'

'And your first name?'

The girl was boring me beyond all belief now. 'I don't have a first name,' I said, very patiently. 'Just Mr Pleasant.'

'I can't give you a room without a full name for reference. What's the big deal?'

There was no big deal, I just despised her. I pulled out the revolver and waved it slowly in her face, before putting it back in my pocket. The girl seemed to crumble; her chest started heaving as she breathed, and she handed me the keys to room 3 without further deliberation.

I walked away with Santa, down a dingy wallpaper-peeling hall that smelled of cabbage, leaving the girl to faint at her desk. She'd be gone by the morning, I was sure. Perhaps she'd even call the police once she found the courage, but by that point I'd be on a first class flight to god-knows-where. Peru, perhaps.

My time in room 3 was truly spectacular; I managed to relax on the kingsize bed whilst rich Santa, who also happened to love his granddaughter and didn't want her to have a bullet through her head, transferred around a million or six to one of my accounts.

'Six million should do it,' I said to him. 'I mean, you should still have money to fend for yourself. I'm not a goddamn animal, for goodness sake!'

Santa looked exhausted, like he'd been beaten up and given up defending himself; his faux beard sat straggled and frayed around his neck, and his convincing suit had become crumpled after his ordeal in the boot of the Chevy. He sat on the floor, staring at nothing. I barely noticed though, for I was too preoccupied with how I'd spend my earnings. I was definitely going to Peru.

I thanked him for his fine work, and wished him a safe trip home. I really hoped he'd make it home safe; any man who'd dress up as Santa for their granddaughter was clearly a good man. He'd go back to his boring little life, and I'd go live my incredible one.

The receptionist was still there when I left the motel just before dawn, pacing up and down, her hands on her hips and her eyes fixed on the floor. She jumped when she saw me, and I waved her goodbye, grinning my special grin.

'Do me a favour,' I said, 'and give me a ten second head start before you call the cops, yeah?' She retreated backwards, as if stung by my words, and I headed out the door and onto the highway, leaving her to work out what to do.

I drove freely, the light of my one remaining headlight illuminating the occasional struck-down animals on the road; foxes, deer, and more were dotted here and there. No humans though. I wondered how many animals I passed had been killed by those with similar goals as me, by people who drove with purpose and a sense of urgency, like their lives mattered somewhat. Probably none, but as I headed to the airport as fast as my heap of junk would take me, it was a nice thought nonetheless.

Author's Note

Any feedback?

Reviews

[Virtual Phun]

I've read this only once as I'm a bit on the rush, and I kind of already suck at reviewing writings. Please, excuse me if I get any detail amiss. I apologise in advance if this is a s****y feedback, I try to give my best thoughts.

● Overview and general impression: It's an enjoyable read. You have great hook from the very beginning. I didn't have to read through blocks of uninteresting details to get the interesting parts, and I was glad for that.
The paragraph immediately set the mood of the story, so that's also plus. The story in itself is good. Although, I was expecting more exciting events to unfold throughout the ending - a plot twist or something. The more I read, the more my expectations were built up. The ending was disappointingly too simple. It doesn't suck, but all the excitement just fell flat.

As a whole, and IMHO, it wasn't all that of an impressively stimulating piece, but it's just great enough to be entertaining.

Details:
●Characters: are well-written and well-defined. The sociopathic protaginist, the intimidated fat man, the typical chit-chat lady at the counter.
● The dialogue is superb.
● The story is well-structured. The transitions from one paragraph to the next are fluent and consistant.
● Particularly, your writing style is pretty solid, I have to say. It's impressive. I liked your writing ability to tell the story - the narrative was interestingly characterized. I suck at elaborating so sorry about that, but if I had to rate it, I'd give it 8.9/10.
● I haven't found anything cliché or widely repetitive amongst other stories so good job.

Overall, my personal rating is: 7/10.

[Fraser Currie]

hank you so much! I really appreciate how in depth your review is. I'd say I agree with you on the whole, in my opinion it's just a cool little story that I was proud to have written in an hour or 2. I was really focusing on trying to get the narcissism of my character across, but I think with more time and effort I could've included a better ending or some sort of plot twist. Thanks for your time.

[Virtual Phun]

I'm glad the feedback wasn't bad. Like I said, the story really was entertaining. For something written under 2 hours, that's actually impressive. I personally struggle with procrastination and loss of interest which pretty much sucks. But you did great job.

Though, do you mind returning the favour and help me out? I've recently written a blurb of an upcoming horror book and I'd really appreciate some thoughts. Nothing necessarily deep, just some honest thoughts. It would mean a lot if you could.

[Fraser Currie]

I will do, no problem :)

[Virtual Phun]

Yes, finally! Thank you! It's the story named "The Marws".