The game was dying down by the time Gordon and Wilson burst inside to interrupt the action. Each of them wore dark trenchcoats and cheap ski masks, approaching the short-handed card game like they meant business. Imbued with pride, they waved those sawed-off shotguns at the usual patrons, all men they’d gotten fucked-up with or done deals for in the past. Even amidst this initial chaos and adrenaline-pumped action, Gordon wondered where Mr. Rota was. After all, the middle-aged crime boss always attended his high-stakes cash games. However, there was no sign of him or his wire-rim glasses or even his freshly-pressed purple suit. No sign of that rich bastard anywhere. Amidst the turbo-fueled sensations, Gordon’s mind went on to consider it maybe a good thing Mr. Rota wasn’t there. Dude practically ran the joint, controlled every bit of amorality seeped within this Southern town. If anyone could stop us at this point, Gordon thought, it’d most certainly be that asshole. Once the money poured in like an assembly line of wealth, Gordon became sidetracked, his young gaze captivated by the abundance of cash. “Give us the fucking money,” Wilson, a college dropout like Gordon, screamed, just a slight hint of unease and worry permeating through his rebel yell of a demand. The quieter of the two, Gordon deferred primary duties to the more-obnoxious Wilson while he silently scooped up the thousands of dollars placed on the table’s felt. During this intense yet tedious task, his reflective mind went back to reminiscing on how Wilson had persuaded him to do such a stupid job in the first place. This was it bud, the last fucking time, Wilson had told him with countless, charming conviction, so much so that he managed to coerce Gordon into joining him for this bastardly act of defiance. Now they’d no longer be the pawns in Mr. Rota’s schemes, Wilson’s sweet pitch had gone. No longer be forced to commit foul play, no longer at the helm of those getaway rides at three A.M. Yeah, those words did sound pretty good at the time Gordon had realized. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “Give us your fucking money,” Wilson now screamed at one of the more belligerent gents. “Not fucking playing around, asshole!” Gordon saw one of those affluent hoods smirking before Wilson fired an all-too-real shot into the ceiling. The roof’s debris fell amidst the pouring gunsmoke and it was then that Gordon saw how this shit was too real and that he and Wilson were in it for good. At all cost. “Put the money in the fucking bag,” Wilson screamed toward the most unfortunate (and thus poorest) card player. “Not fucking playing,” he continued after he slammed the shotgun against the table and splashed colorful chip stacks everywhere. They scared the remaining doubters and gathered up all the cash, the two amateur robbers deftly surprised by the relative ease with which they finished off the job. No blood, no violence, not even as much as a rebellious stir complicated the proceedings. Simple, just like they had planned. Immediately afterward, they snagged the score of 35 K and fled the scene, simultaneously terrified and thrilled by their wrongdoing. Outside, rain pelted down like bullets spewed from the night sky’s deadly chamber. Gordon started their rusty 1999 Acura before he pulled away in a hurry, splashing overflowed mud puddles during the getaway. While he drove down the rural, decrepit two-lane blacktop, Gordon remembered how these dark and stormy nights once had a hypnotic appeal on him. He particularly liked the way in which they would sneak up on him when he and Wilson were out doing Mr. Rota’s evil bidding. Never gonna miss those days though he thought, not anymore. Not after what he and Wilson had done for a final encore. With each rough hit of a flooded pothole, Wilson jumped and continued to tightly clutch his sawed-off shotgun. His eyes remained wide and nervous, incessantly glancing between the back window and windshield. “Fucking crazy,” he mumbled. Still uneasy, he took off his ski mask and rubbed a trembling hand through his cropped, damp hair. Gordon’s mind worried too while he lifted up his mask and revealed a young yet tense face. The lack of the ubiquitous Mr. Rota during the hold-up still lingered within his uncomfortable conscience. It was almost like seeing him there would’ve at least soothed Gordon just a little, like he and Wilson could finally have the last laugh on him and his authority. Like they could finally just leave him behind for good. “Hey man, go faster,” Wilson shouted. “Fuckers gonna be after us!” “Chill out dude, we’re gonna be fine,” Gordon replied without actually meaning his lone attempt at comforting words. Just stay calm he repeated to himself, just stay calm and we’ll make it out of here with a hard-earned 35 K. In a better effort to see, Gordon squinted, but still struggled to make out much from the grainy view. The one fucking time it had to rain he complained, so much for that South Georgia drought. Off in the distance, lightning punctured through the sky before its loud, subsequent thunder interrupted the late-night silence, frightening Wilson even further. The Acura’s weary tires continued on their trek along the two-lane blacktop, Gordon picking up speed during the course. Steadily, the wipers worked overtime, the car’s dim brights straining to make out what lied ahead. Wilson turned again, his frantic eyes in desperate search of any pursuing cars. Unable to see a yellow caution sign covered by overbrush, Gordon made a swift turn that nearly ended their night (and lives) early. As he reeled from this latest scare, Gordon managed to steer back on course after he splashed a large roadside puddle. “Hey man watch out,” Wilson yelled. “Trying,” Gordon replied, his intense eyes zeroed in on the unkempt pavement. Soon, they passed a weathered, rusted sign: Speed Limit 55. They continued careening down the road, nary a house much less a car anywhere in sight. Further down, Gordon’s eyes made out two faded lights, both of them in an almost stationary-like mode. Fuck, he shouted internally after he realized it was a large, slow-paced vehicle. “Shit,” Wilson exclaimed as Gordon slowed in anticipation of the impending confrontation. Almost instantly, their Honda sputtered to a crawl, the speedometer needle swinging in turn from around 75 to 35 M.P.H. Helplessly stuck behind this shiny, 1992 Cadillac, Gordon looked on in dismay, unable to glance toward the other lane because of the Caddy’s tremendous width. “Fuck,” Wilson shouted, his exclamation highlighted by a vicious hit against the stainless dashboard. “Gotta be fucking kidding me?” Filled with nervous unease, Gordon shook his head, noting how the narrow, old road provided him no method for passing this seemingly-monstrous vehicle. “Come on pass this fucking guy,” Wilson yelled. “Trying,” Gordon replied, uncertainty now embedded into his pressured psyche. Quickly, he flashed his brights multiple times, but the Cadillac paid no heed to his pleas. “Shit.” “What the fuck man,” Wilson complained before he turned to look out the back window. Almost like it was trying to further complicate their already-hazardous escape, the Caddy’s brake lights cut on a few times, the vehicle slowing down even more. “Shit,” Gordon yelled. His foot pressed against the worn brake pedal, doing his best to avoid a collision. Wilson’s dark eyes grew wide in fear, focusing on two bright headlights cruising up right behind them amidst the torrential downpour. “Dude,” he began as he turned to face Gordon. “It’s them, hurry up!” “Aw fuck,” Gordon replied, his eyesight averting to the rearview mirror where they stared on in disbelief at the speeding black Camaro. “Pass this fucking guy!” With some hesitation, Gordon veered into the other lane, but the combination of the Caddy and violent rain continued to hinder his vision. The trailing Camaro gained even more ground, its revved engine echoing through the rural locale like an upset locomotive. “Gordon, fucking pass,” Wilson shouted. The driver responded by hitting a deep pothole on accident. “Goddammit, Gordon!” “Can’t fucking see,” Gordon replied, his eyes strained to their extent and staring right toward the meandering Cadillac. In a fit of rage, he cruised back into the right lane, honking his horn in three rampaging blares. “Get outta the fucking way!” The gas guzzler ignored him and stayed put where it was, cruising along at a frustrating 40 M.P.H. Simultaneously pissed off and determined, Gordon shifted into the other lane again, the struggling Acura feeling every bump and flaw covering that rugged highway. Just as he mashed the pedal, the Cadillac bolted out in front of him and clogged both lanes. “What the fuck,” Gordon yelled. Wilson’s paranoid vision shifted between the Cadillac and the stalking Camaro, lost on what to do. Infuriated, Gordon swerved the wheel as the beast-like Cadillac further imposed its will by letting up on its already-underwhelming speed. Wilson held his shotgun closer and watched the Camaro now settle in only a few feet behind them. Once the Cadillac came to a complete and still stop, Gordon, left with no other choice, slammed on the brakes. Soon after, the Camaro slammed into their bumper and, along with the Caddy, sandwiched the helpless pair. Without hesitation, the Cadillac’s doors swung open and several well-dressed gunmen stepped out, loaded pistols and shotguns raised in their gloved hands. Before Gordon or Wilson could react, BLARING shots rang out through the dark night and sprayed their Acura with a plethora of gaping bullet holes. Wilson’s bloodied corpse fell over onto the dashboard while Gordon’s dying body managed to open the door and slump out, the bag of 35 K still grasped within his mangled clutch. “Uh…uh fuck,” he gasped, coughing up dark blood. His frightened eyes averted to the Cadillac and looked on toward the imposing sight of Mr. Rota approaching him. Gordon’s trembling fingers gripped the bag tighter, his mind now realizing how Mr. Rota’s appearance never changed: the motherfucker still wore those same wire-rim glasses and his impeccable purple suit looked spotless as always. Footsteps approached from the Camaro and prompted Gordon to turn around, his horrified expression greeted by the many crisp faces he recognized from the poker game robbery. Mr. Rota stepped toward the wounded young man, remaining cool and silent with an emblazoned firearm gripped in his left gold-watch adorned hand. Terrified, Gordon looked up at him and protectively held onto his bag of claimed dough. “No…,” his voice began before Mr. Rota fired several cold slugs into his chest. The crime boss leaned down and grabbed the money, no hint of emotion showing through his icy demeanor. Possessed by indifference, he turned and walked away, his harsh glare ignoring the fresh redness splashed within the nearby puddles.

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Rhonnie Fordham
 I'm a college student from South Georgia majoring in English. I'm a big movies and sports fanatic (go Braves, Falcons, and Hawks!) and am also a screenwriter with several short scripts produced..
Rhonnie Fordham

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