Need moar fanfics!
This is an unedited and largely unfinished flash fiction based on Orlen Johnson's life as a hitman for Dr. Larsen (c.f. Omar Shanti Must Die!). I may do some more work on Orlen Johnson at some point, I haven't decided.
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Bogomolov’s Apartment
“What do you want me to do with the meat?”
Orlen Johnson held his cell phone with one hand while keeping the barrel of his silenced .45 against the forehead of Miroslav Bogomolov. Bogomolov opened his eyes and looked up at the man standing above him wearing a duster and bowler. He squirmed against the duct tape that bound him to a chair. He had been painting when someone had come up behind him and plunged a syringe into his neck. He had not seen the person until now.
“Yes, I understand.”
Johnson squeezed the trigger and fired two more rounds into Bogomolov’s chest. He snapped a picture using his cell phone camera.
“It’s done. Meet me tomorrow. Bring the money.”
Bogomolov rented a loft on the top floor of a renovated warehouse. A completed series of mural sized paintings were arranged on a number of easels. Smaller paintings were stacked against each other in the corner. Brushes and paints were scattered across tables and the floor.
Johnson removed a box of black garden trash bags from a duffel bag. He slid a bag over the top of each of the smaller paintings and pulled the bag down to the base of the painting.
Dietrich was the painter. He kept painting as the cultist started pouring into the hallway. They are pinching us, I screamed at him over the rat-a-tat of my Tommy Gun, I can’t hold them off much longer. I was trying to keep track of the number of bullets I had left while Dietrich kept painting. His eyes were placid. He was already gone.After finishing bagging the paintings, he put the trash bags back in his duffel and grabbed a collapsed cardboard box and a roll of strapping tape. He built the box and walked through the room putting the brushes and paints into it. Once he was finished, he loaded the smaller paintings and the box of brushes and paints into the service elevator. He flipped open his pocket watch and looked at the time. He was moving slower than expected.
Johnson’s rented white panel van was parked next to service elevator in the open space beneath the building. He opened the back doors of the van and pulled out a canvas tube setting it upright in the elevator. He loaded the smaller bagged paintings and cardboard box into the van.
Back upstairs, he took a canvas knife and cut each mural from its frame. He stacked the murals on top of one another and rolled them from their short side. He slid the rolled murals into the canvas tube and loaded the tube in the elevator.
Johnson started humming, “Life is not a highway strewn with flowers…”
