Heat and Rain

“On god I swear, I don’t know where she is,” He hollered through the rain and baking heat.

The man standing up still had the gun trained on him, ready to squeeze the trigger and end this man’s singing career forever. The gun was trained on a very particular area. Not in a way that could kill him, not on a part of the neck that would invariably cause death to someone. But, it was on the vocal cords. One squeeze and it was all over for him. There was nowhere for him to run, or bang. If he tried to fight back, bang. A fate worse than death.

“I don’t care about her anymore. She’s long gone and most likely won’t be smuggled back in for some time. What I care about now is you. You are the next highest in the organisation, so I’d recommend you start talking now.”

He had been here for an hour, and still nothing. Progressively he had gotten madder and madder about this dude’s stubbornness, eventually he snapped. If you can’t get them to talk through conventional means, at least you can point a gun at the part they love the most. No, not their genitals. This guy was a soprano singer, no way he had any in the first place.

“Alright fine, I’ll talk. Mickey runs the run arounds. That’s what we call the drug deliveries. We can’t do anything about it, and if you shoot me then you’ll never catch him. I’m his prized delivery boy, how are you gonna—” BANG. He flopped to the ground as blood started pouring out of his vocal tract.

“You’ll live for the next fifty minutes, more than enough time to find an ambulance or someone to call it for you. Because, y’know, won’t be doing much talking for a while, let alone singing.”

He walked away, leaving the mess he had created behind and heading towards another mess he would soon create.