Creative Writing Championships 2009
Challenge #1 assignment
GENRE - Horror
LOCATION - The trunk of a car
OBJECT - A candle
“It’s bad karma that put us in here. Bad karma you got for killing that hooker.”
“You told me to kill that hooker. Told me to kill a hooker first then move up to killing real people,” SteamTrain said.
SteamTrain could feel his right ear looking at him, smirking; that ungrateful sunuvabitch even started laughing and laughing and laughing loud too. It was hurting his head.
In the front of the car two large European gentlemen sat. They both turned and looked into the back of the car when they heard the laughing. Then the driver turned on the radio and turned it up.
SteamTrain rolled over onto his right side and smashed his ear against the floor.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” StreamTrain told his ear.
“Muuuhfffuuha, muffuuhuh n ii gonnnnna muffafa,” came the muffled response from the ear.
SteamTrain raised his head for second then slammed his ear against the floor again before shifting slightly so he was almost on his back, with his legs tucked up in a ball and pushed out to the right, toward the front of the car.
“That’s right, be a bitch. A whiney bitch,” the ear said. “Who you gonna talk to? We are in the trunk of a Cadillac, there’s nobody else here. We are about to get killed anyway and I know your whiney ass is scared and is gonna start whining whining whining about it any second and you’re gonna want me to listen to you and then make you feel better.”
“That hooker was not bad karma,” SteamTrain said to the ear. “Killing that hooker inspired one of the best trumpet solos I ever played. I was at my peak as a band leader. All the boys were following me as we took flight and drifted and oozed into the brains of every person in the club that night. Fucking Miles Davis would have been jealous of my shit. Miles wishes he had a band like I did and a fucking trumpet solo like the hooker solo. That hooker solo was a wicked smoky trumpet piece with power and grace.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the ear said. “I read that same review. It was in the Kansas City Star after you played Jardine’s back in October. Christ. Don’t you have any original thoughts about your band or music, or do you just listen to those bonehead critics who like you and then memorize their thoughts?
“Shut up, goddammit. I will get rid of you,” SteamTrain said. “I’m getting rid of you as soon as I sign my protection deal with the polar bear. Nobody and nuttin’ will be able to hurt me then, and I’ll be playing Carnegie Hall and the Jazz at the Kennedy Center tributes. ASSHOLE!!!”
SteamTrain wiggled his head around to see what was in the trunk. When the brake lights were on he could see a screwdriver, a candle, a flashlight and a crowbar.
“I’ll dig you right out of my head with that crowbar,” StreamTrain said to his ear. “I’ll do it now, motherfucker.”
“Go ahead,” the ear answered. “They’re gonna shoot us when we get out of this trunk anyway. You shoulda never made that bet on the Chiefs.”
“You told me to make that bet,” SteamTrain shouted at his ear, slamming it on the floor of the trunk again.
“You don’t always have to listen to me. Take some responsibility. You made the bet. You knew you didn’t have the money to cover a loss,” the ear said.
SteamTrain reached down toward his feet and felt around for the crowbar. He wasn’t gonna take any more shit from his ear. He would pry the motherfucker off, right here, right now. He didn’t need that ear, he had another one. Fucking Beethoven was deaf and he made some good jams. Train knew he would still be the best trumpeter in the world with only one ear.
“I don’t like what you’re thinkin’,” the ear said.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?” SteamTrain responded.
“I’m in your head asshole,” the ear said laughing.
“Not for long,” SteamTrain declared.
There was more laughing. The two large European gentlemen driving the car looked back toward the trunk again and wondered what the fuck was going on.
His fingers brushed past the crowbar and a smile came across SteamTrain’s face. His hand clasped around the cold metal bar. It felt heavy and evil. Train’s fingers stretched to the end of the handle and found a sharpened end for scraping and prying. Yes. The crowbar would take that ear right off.
“That’s not cool, this is not cool man,” screamed the ear. “You gotta be a chill cat, man, a smooth cat like Miles. You can talk your way out of this gambling thing. You can make some money at the club this week and pay it off. You don’t need to use that crowbar man, that’s just insane. I’m your damn ear.”
“I know, and you’re talking to me. You gotta go,” SteamTrain said.
SteamTrain scooted in the trunk, moving his whole body toward the engine of the car, clearing enough room to use the crowbar.
SteamTrain laughed raucously.
The car stopped in front of a 6’ x 6’ hole in the woods. A man stood beside the hole, with a gun tucked in his belt. The two large Eastern European gentlemen got out of the car and walked to the trunk.
“I’m looking forward to stopping this asshole from laughing,” one said, as they stood above the trunk lid and slid the keys into the lock. The laughing was so loud.
When the two Eastern European gentlemen unlocked the trunk they called the man standing beside the hole, and he came to stand next to them. All three of them stood staring down into the trunk. SteamTrain was dead. The men saw a crowbar thrust through his ear into his brain.
There was a loud laughing and laughing and laughing.