Two Short Stories by Drew Bufalini
Drew Bufalini is a professional freelance writer of fiction, non-fiction, business, product branding, and advertising who has written several articles for Aoide Magazine. He has published fiction in Bristol Noir, Literary Heist, Gargoyle Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and Close to the Bone among others. Non-fiction credits include Aoide Magazine, Innovative Health, Creativity, Advertising Age, and The Big Idea. He recently completed his first novel, is working on more, and lives with his wife and crazy puppies outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Short Story #1: Christmas Quadruple
He said: What the hell, a quadruple on Christmas? Why was the joint open on Christmas in first place? (pause) Riiight. Non-Jesus freaks had to eat too.
She said: Chinese. This is a Chinese restaurant, ya dinosaur.
He said: The place was packed, but only these five were targeted. Zero witnesses. Imagine that. They were mute flies on the wall.
She said: Huh?
He said: You know the expression, ‘I’d love to be a fly on that wall?’
This the opposite.
She said: The expression goes: ‘if only the walls had ears.’ Your comedic genius is a murder weapon. When’s your Netflix special dropping?
He said: With that much blood, I thought for sure all five were dead. Until the ME found a pulse in the blonde. (pause) Who we have identified as one Mrs. Petunia Bonbono. Wife of the one and only Paulie Bonbono, a.k.a. Detroit’s most generous mobster, who just so happened to be sprawled across the floor on his way to the back exit, shot down mid-flight. Tail between his legs.
She said: Obviously, this was a hit.
He said: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, grasshopper. We need to ID the other three. Get some gloves and start wallet duty. I’m going to have a chat with the owner.
Owner: They were all wearing COVID masks. I didn’t catch any of their faces. They just come in the door, walked to Mr. Bonbono’s table and started shooting.
He said: You knew the deceased?
Owner: He’s here all the time with his cronies. He loaned me money to help the restaurant survive through hard times and now he thinks he owns a table.
He said: What about the shooters? Any identifying characteristics?
Owner: They were all dressed in black. Black hoodies, black jeans, black –
He said: Think. Or I’ll have the health inspector here first thing tomorrow morning. There must be something…identifying. What would you remember if they were just regular customers?
Owner: They wore flashy watches. Like the kind rich people keep at home because they’re too expensive to risk getting scratched. Each was worth more than one-hundred K a pop. I’m no jeweler, but I’d bet one of these watches was worth more than my house in Birmingham.
He said: Big bucks, eh? Thanks, Smiley. I knew ya had it in you. Now, pour me a quick shot of whiskey before my head explodes. (pause) How can you afford Birmingham working here?
[later]
She says: When the ME report came in, we were all thrown for a loop. All of them had gunshot wounds. No spoiler alert required. The crazy bit is that everyone at the table was also poisoned.
He says: What poison, pray tell?
She says: Arsenic. Ingested with dinner. If they hadn’t been shot, they’d have keeled before going to bed for the night. Could it be that Detroit’s most generous mobster was successfully targeted twice in the same night?
He says: By two different assassins? The Chinese practically invented arsenic. And Smiley there loves to put on a great pageant.
She says: You think he’s trying to muddy the waters?
He says: Go to the hospital. Check on Petunia. You seen my flask?
[later]
She said: You’ll never believe who’s here doting on Petunia and seeing to her every non-medical need at this very moment…
He said: Kim Kardashian?
She said: Bad try. Paulie Junior. Wearing a watch that looks like it cost more than Smiley’s house. She left him outside ringing the bell.
He said: What kind of sense does that make? You think he hit his own
father on Smiley’s behalf?
She said: There’s only one way to find out.
[Later]
He said: Mister Paul Bonbono Jr. Damned glad to meet you. Have a seat. On the other side of the table, please.
She said: We’re sorry to hear about your father.
Paulie said: Me too. The old man’s seen better days.
He said: How much did that watch set you back?
Paulie said: It was a gift from my Dad.
She said: Helluva gift.
Paulie said: He liked extravagance. It was his thing. He was always handing out cash and little shit gifts to people. Paid well too. You’d never see one of his men dressed like a bum. Always dressed to the nines. He might have been a bastard, but he cared about the people around him, you know?
[later]
He said: That’s a pretty expensive watch you’re wearing, Smiley.
Smiley said: This old thing? It’s fake, they’re a dime a dozen. I have a box full in the
office to hand out on special occasions.
He said: Before I cuff you, pour us both a double. Top shelf. Single malt, this time.
Short Story #2: Deep Breath
Chained in the brig, iron shackles lacerating my hands to the knuckle, the ancient maritime vessel groaned as if to say she’d seen better days; then heaved to, cresting another thirty-footer and barreled down its backside. Hanging from the chain, I felt weightless. Into the bottomless blue valley. The ship was capsized by a rogue wave that must have topped 60 feet. Then, by some miracle, it popped back up to the surface like a cork. We would be dashed to pieces. My wrists chaffed gruesomely as I dangled from the shackles. The water rushed in; and I wondered which breath would be my last.
From places vast and terrifying came violent sounds as the earth was torn asunder. A massive explosion rocked the island when lava met the ocean. Seconds later another lightning bolt tore a new hole in the sky. I couldn’t breathe without hawking up soot. Even as an easy breeze slipped into me, my lungs rejected it. I was drowning in the air. There was too much. The wind built to a steady blow and hurled away into space. Every explosion hailed another onslaught of molten fireballs; they rained down indiscriminately. Lava flows lugubriously rolled down the mountainside, setting everything to blazes before entombing it, forever. Exploding when it reached the water.
Still underwater, I found a sudden strength and fought like hell to reach the surface. I couldn’t reach lifegiving oxygen, an invisible weight held me under. The oxygen in my lungs was nearly cooked. No matter how hard I swam, I hovered ten feet below the surface.
The sea was littered with broken bits of the ship. Rocks from the volcano continued fell from the sky, at less frequent intervals. Soon the ship was below the waterline, then below me. Just as I was overcome by the lack of oxygen, I could feel the ship’s gravity pulling us into the deep.
Finally, my lungs exploded and I prepared to fill my lungs with water…instead, I inhaled sweet, delicious fresh air. My vision cleared and I saw a gorgeous Indian woman shaking me really, really hard. I started coughing up goober city. “Were you drowning or in a plane crash?” My wife asked snarkily, knowing me so well that she could anticipate my dreams. She rested the C-PAP mask on the table, where it sat full of warm water, acting innocent. Like what, who me, drown you?
