By Jeremy Dunn (The Hero Must Die)
The order came early that morning. The head man himself, the Big Cheese, had issued the hit. Taco and Cannoli weren’t surprised.
“Hoagie has it coming, man,” Taco said to his partner.
Cannoli sat with his head in his hands, “I know, but I still don’t like it. I mean . . . it’s him today, but what happens when the boss man sends someone after us?”
“Stop thinking like that. It’s not personal, just business.”
They shuffled toward the door and made their way to the bread truck parked out front. It was a nice day, not the kind of day one would associate with such dark deeds.
“You got the stuff?” said Taco as he climbed behind the wheel.
“Yeah, we’re good to go. Let’s get this done.”
The truck slowly made its way through leafy neighborhoods, past playful children; oblivious to the coming calamity.
“There he is!”
Taco quickly pulled the truck over to the curb and Cannoli leapt to the curb. Their target took off running, but his foot long strides were no match for the dastardly duo.
Cannoli wrestled their adversary into the back of the truck, where steaming barrels of liquid were waiting.
“GUYS, GUYS! LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS!” He screamed.
Taco and Cannoli dispassionately maneuvered Hoagie into place and then lowered him into the barrel.
It was all over quickly. Nothing was left but soggy buns, shredded lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and tender prime rib: the tattered remains of what used to be Hoagie.
“I hate this job,” said Cannoli, wiping an olive from his brow.
“I know man, but it had to happen. The man
said the Hero had to die.”
The order came early that morning. The head man himself, the Big Cheese, had issued the hit. Taco and Cannoli weren’t surprised.
“Hoagie has it coming, man,” Taco said to his partner.
Cannoli sat with his head in his hands, “I know, but I still don’t like it. I mean . . . it’s him today, but what happens when the boss man sends someone after us?”
“Stop thinking like that. It’s not personal, just business.”
They shuffled toward the door and made their way to the bread truck parked out front. It was a nice day, not the kind of day one would associate with such dark deeds.
“You got the stuff?” said Taco as he climbed behind the wheel.
“Yeah, we’re good to go. Let’s get this done.”
The truck slowly made its way through leafy neighborhoods, past playful children; oblivious to the coming calamity.
“There he is!”
Taco quickly pulled the truck over to the curb and Cannoli leapt to the curb. Their target took off running, but his foot long strides were no match for the dastardly duo.
Cannoli wrestled their adversary into the back of the truck, where steaming barrels of liquid were waiting.
“GUYS, GUYS! LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS!” He screamed.
Taco and Cannoli dispassionately maneuvered Hoagie into place and then lowered him into the barrel.
It was all over quickly. Nothing was left but soggy buns, shredded lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and tender prime rib: the tattered remains of what used to be Hoagie.
“I hate this job,” said Cannoli, wiping an olive from his brow.
“I know man, but it had to happen. The man
said the Hero had to die.”