Bill Tope and Doug Hawley

Word count 256

“Your hands aren’t bound, are they?” she hissed at him for not helping her with the trash.

“With golden chains, darlin’,” he replied, smiling broadly from the lawn chair and holding up his

hands. His fingers fluttered. “I can’t think of any reason to help with the trash,” he said lightly

and laughed with glee.

She rolled her eyes, pushed the wheeled refuse container across the rain-soaked lawn. In seconds,

she was stuck in the mire. He regarded her with aplomb. She narrowed her eyes at him and said,

“I’ll give you five seconds to help me.” She began counting: “One…” He moved not an inch,

displaying remarkable muscular control. “…two…” He took a sip of beer. “…three…” He yawned

languidly. Turning up a short-barreled shotgun, she drew a bead, fired, and instantly removed the

man’s head from his shoulders.

Summoned by a neighbor, the detective asked her, why did you do it?

“Because,” she said, “he took my line.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I couldn’t think of a reason why he should help me either,” she explained.

He regarded the decapitated corpse, lying in the nylon lawnchair. In his hand the deceased still

clutched a can of beer.

“Any regrets?” the detective asked her, fixing restraints on her wrists behind her back.

She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I cheated him out of two seconds. Who knows, he might’ve come

around. Two seconds can seem like a lifetime,” she said philosophically.

“I guess you’ll find out,” he said, and led her away.

The End