"A Good Day"

A short story. Composed over the course of only a week or so.

“Hello? Who’s there?” the old man shouted at the dark figure in the front doorway. A shotgun blast was the only reply. It’s sound seemed louder, and yet more insignificant out there, in the remote woods, especially then, at night.

            After the shot had been fired and the man dispatched, the shooter and his accomplice entered the two-story cabin. As soon as they set foot in the place, they began to work purposefully and efficiently, opening every drawer and overturning every piece of furniture on the lower level. It wasn’t 15 minutes into their search when one of the men spoke.

            “Hey Gerry,” said the accomplice. “Do you think we should bury the guy, or at least move him?”

            “Oh, stop it with the ethics, will you Jett?” a cold, calculating voice said in reply. Gerald Long, the mastermind behind this operation, was very intelligent. Intelligent to the point that he was arrogant, thinking he could outwit even an institution like the police. Needless to say, crime was a natural occupation for the man. He was really into being a criminal for the actual crime; just to prove he could do it and get away with it.

            “The corpse,” Gerald continued. “Is upstairs, and we don’t need to go up there. Why waste our time? And before you put on your little self-righteous act, just remember that you’re worse than I am. You don’t care about him any more than I do. You just want your money. That’s all you care about.”

            “Whatever,” Jett replied, for a lack of better words. Both he and Gerry knew that money was his Jett’s vice. In fact, he didn’t even need the money from these jobs anymore, but he sure did want it, no matter how hard he tried not admitting it. “Anyway, we’re wasting our time now. I thought you said this guy was loaded.”

            “He is! And he keeps the cash somewhere on the first floor. But where is it?” Gerry yelled in frustration. Then, at that moment, he was struck with an idea. “Wait here,” he said, dashing off into another room.

            Jett took these few moments of rest to allow excitement into his thoughts. Yes, he thought to himself. This is it! The big money now! I wonder how much…maybe a whole 500 G’s! Oh man, that’d be the most I’ve made in a single job yet. Gerry yelling from the next room interrupted his thoughts.

            “I found it! Now get in here and bring the bags with you!” At this, Jett sprung into action, quickly scooping up the two empty duffel bags that they brought and jogged toward the sound of Gerald’s voice. When he entered the small study that the shooter had recently entered, Jett saw Gerry standing next to an open safe embedded in the wooden wall.

            “He put the money in a wall safe behind a painting-how original. And the picture had money in it too!” said Gerald.

            “What did it look like?”

            “ I put it in the corner over there. Why don’t you go look while I count the cash?” answered Gerry.

            “Alright.” And with that, Jett walked over to the painting leaning against the wall. As he approached, he immediately recognized the picture and artist from his online escapades. It was a modern piece of art entitled “A Good Day,” painted by Michael Godard. It was a surprising choice for a man that was at least twice, if not three times the artist’s age. The painting was of two olives next to a martini glass and tumbler, one sitting on a pile of cash and the other smoking a cigar. “A Good Day,” thought Jett. That’s what I’ll be having once we get this money back to the car. Once again, Gerry interrupted Jett’s thinking.

            “Okay, Jett. I counted it up and you’ll never guess how much.”

            Jett guessed, “I don’t know. 500 Grand?”

            Gerald chuckled. “Close, but not at all. About five million dollars.”

            “Five million?” Jett said, flabbergasted. “Oh my God.”

            “Cut out God,” Gerry interjected. “Stick with what you know best.”

            Jett didn’t hear him, for he was now excitedly packing his 2.5 million in one of the bags, like an ant in the midst of a sugar pile. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God! These were the only thoughts his mind could string together as he transferred the heavenly greenbacks. Gerry began to calmly and methodically pile his own money in the other duffel: a stark contrast to Jett’s frantic work.

            After the bags had been packed, they decided to leave. Gerry walked out the door to the study first, the duffel over his shoulder. Just as Jett was about to follow him, he noticed something in the half-open drawer of a desk. It was a fairly powerful looking revolver. For whatever reason, some part of him said to take the gun, and he grabbed the firearm, placing it carefully in the front pocket of his dark pants. He then rejoined his companion.

            “Let’s go, it’s already almost 1 o’clock in the morning,” declared Gerald, consulting his digital watch as he stepped out onto the cabin’s porch.

            “Do you want you’re shottie?” called Jett after him, referring to the gun left leaning against the sitting room wall.

            “No!” called back the shooter. “Both of us were wearing gloves. No need to take it.” And with that, Jett rejoined his companion as they began their journey back.

            As they entered the woods, the two began to realize the difficulty of maneuvering between the many trunks and branches with minimal moonlight while lugging fairly large and heavy duffel bags. However, they still moved steadily but slowly towards their destination, which was a good three miles away.

            About a mile into their walk, the normally serious and cold Gerry tried to make a joke, a rare occurrence for a man like him. “I’m telling you Jett, this walking sure doesn’t feel like it’s even worth the couple million, eh?” he said with a chuckle of self-amusement. Jett gave a bit of a laugh to this also art first, but then he suddenly had a thought.

            He wants your money. He just said it wasn’t worth the couple million he’s getting.

Jett rebutted: Yeah, but he was just making a joke. Besides, he doesn’t really care about the money. He’s in it mostly for the thrill of the job.

Okay then. If he’s mostly in it for the job itself, then why is he taking money, and then suggesting he wants more, was the reply.

Look, he does need money too. And I just said he was joking, Jett answered back.

Fine, I’ll concede on that point. But don’t you deserve more money? I know you want more.

What are you? Jett finally asked himself.

I’m simply your common sense: as far as money goes.

So you’re my greed? Jett further inquired.

No. I’m more your conscience. You’re…other you, if you will, his conscience said. But that’s not important, what is important is that you should be getting more money.

            Jett replied, why do you think that?

            His conscience gave an answer: Think of it this way; if that…partner of yours really doesn’t want all that money, then why doesn’t he give more of it to you?

            Jett: Well…I guess that makes sense. But still-

            And come to think of it, even if he does need money, he’s not a good person. I mean, he does it for the job, which is evil, At least you get something useful-money. He just loves the thrill of the kill, so to speak. How despicable, declared Jett’s common sense.

            Well what do you want me to do, kill him?

            His conscience’s answer was direct: Why not? You have the revolver in your pocket. Check and see if there are any rounds. Jett did so: there were six. Okay then, continued Common Sense, just go up behind him and fire. This way, the world has one less criminal, and you get five million dollars out of it. Come on. You know you want it. Just imagine: all those bills in you’re bank account. A beautiful sight! Now go on. Do it!

            The thought sent Jett’s heart racing. Yes, he finally decided. I will do it. After this internal contemplation, Jett realized he was lagging behind. Gerry was way ahead of him, barely visible in the dark, through all those branches.

            “Come on!” shouted Gerald.

            “Alright! Just…slow down a bit. Let me catch up!” Jett yelled back as he trotted toward his target. Once he reached Gerry, they began walking again. Jett took a few minutes to think of how he would do the deed, but first he wanted to know: “How much we got left? I’m really tired.”

            “About another mile and a half. Just think about all that money you can put in the bank when you’re back in the city,” was Gerald’s reply.

            “Oh, I am thinking about it,” said Jett, pulling out the revolver. He quietly pulled the hammer back, and then pointed it at the back of his companion’s head, taking the opportunity of a small clearing to do the job. “Goodbye, Gerry.”

            “Wait. What?”

            Jett fired. The sound nearly shattered his eardrums in the process, but that didn’t matter now. He had his money, and nothing could keep him from taking it. He bent over; using the dim lighting of the crescent moon overhead to find the strap around the recently deceased’s shoulder. After some slight struggling, he had it off the corpse and on his back. He groaned under the weight, but started to walk anyway, the thought of five million dollars dancing in his mind.

            He walked for another hour at a snail’s pace, exhaustion nearly getting the better of him. However, he just laughed, thinking to himself two things: one, that he had actually acquired so much money, and two, that he was close to his getaway car.

            While he was very proud of himself, he was still very tired, and decided to just open one of the bags while he walked, just to get a peek at his loot and give him a morale boost. And so, he started to unzip the bag while he neared the top of what he was sure was the last hill before the parking lot. When he reached the top, he saw the dark blue Escalade right at the bottom of the hill.

            Jett gave a sigh of relief, and began his descent. However, on the first step, he tripped over a protruding root of a tree. Normally, he would stop his fall, but his bags’ weight sent him tumbling down. They slipped off him as he tumbled head over heels down the fairly steep hill. In his stupor, he prayed to stop falling.

            His prayer was finally answered in the form of him smashing his head against the side of the heavy SUV. He was only aware that his head had split wide open from the impact, and he was bleeding profusely. He sat up with the last of his strength. And, before his vision faded to black, the last thing he saw was the bills he had killed for, fluttering down like rain from the still open duffel bag.

Author's Note

Feedback is GREATLY appreciated! (PS: the image for this story is the painting in the study)

Reviews

[Red]

I think you did a really good job on this. I enjoyed the irony of the whole thing. I think there was a spelling mistake, but I can't find it; maybe I just misread something. The flow was great. Jett seems to have some voices in his head, lol. Really though, I like how he's practicaly talking to himself and asking himself what he should do. Maybe the best thing you did in here was that you hinted that since he had two much money he couldn't stop falling. If he wasn't so greedy he probably could have survied the fall and had one less headache and maybe a friend to spend some money with, lol. I'm glad you didn't say something like "because he had so much money he died" like most writers would do, Hell, something I would do maybe. This is the point where I tell you that you need to fix something or do something better, but I can't; This story is flawless and a piece of art. Nice work.
-Red