A down-and-out detective with a snub-nosed revolver and a target who just can’t stop laughing—who pulls the trigger first?
Writer’s Prompt
Ben Dixon sat on a filthy cardboard box in a narrow alleyway next to the Starlight nightclub. He looked at home. A shopping basket overflowed with trash bags stuffed with cans and bottles. Another sagged with mildewed clothes. He hadn’t shaved in two weeks; his face itched with a persistent, burning irritation. The glamour of a PI, Ben thought, suppressing a bitter chuckle.
Suddenly, the Starlight’s heavy side door cracked open, spilling golden jazz and cigarette haze into the drizzle. Johnny Marks stepped out. Custom-tailored suit, polished shoes, completely untouched by the grime. Marks snapped a gold lighter, drew deep on a cigarette, glanced at the bundle of rags, and laughed. A sharp, mocking sound.
Ben’s hand closed around the hard steel grip in his coat pocket. He rose in one fluid motion, the .38 clearing torn tweed. Marks’s smile faltered, but his eyes stayed glassy, arrogant.
Ben leveled the barrel at Marks’s chest. He squeezed the trigger the way you test an avocado—steady, creeping pressure, taking up the slack.
Marks didn’t run. He just looked at Ben, then slowly began to slide his hand toward the inside lapel of his expensive jacket, his grin twitching back to life. “You pull that trigger, Benny, and you die poor. Or you listen for five seconds and walk away rich.”
Ben’s knuckle turned white. The hammer reached its peak resistance.
Finish the Scene: Choose Your Own Noir Path
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