I don’t know about you, but I expect certain things on Wednesdays. The obligatory humpday jokes, the elation that Friday is growing closer, Arrow on TV, and of course, the Indies Unlimited flash fiction challenge. Ya know, it’s kinda like the Oscars. We have gotten the prompts, we have written the words, and now we vote (so maybe like preOscars). Yeah, Wednesdays, they carry quite a bit of weight.

Motivated Agent

Gordon Crestwell, Realtor to the Stars, waved expansively at the property. He looked back at his clients only to see they were unimpressed.

He was growing quite tired of catering to this Texan and his trashy trophy bride. Nouveau riche.

Spitting a bit of tobacco juice on the ground, the client adjusted his Stetson and said, “Gordo, I just don’t think you’re getting what we’re talking about. We said a big place – that means Texas big.”

“Not to worry, sir. I assure you. This is just one of many properties in your price range.” Gordon seethed inwardly, but kept his thousand-watt smile beaming. The commission on such a sale would set him up for life. Unfortunately, he only had one more property to show…

photo by K.S, Brooks

Bunni’s gasp from the backseat set Gordon on edge. His last chance, last hope to get them out of his hair rested on this broken down compound. And it was definitely a compound. The lot had been used in the late ‘70s for counter-terrorist training. He hadn’t taken the full tour of the building yet but he held fast that they had tortured insurgents in several of the basement rooms.

“Daggum,” Clint said, the word drug out like it had been twisted through his tobacco stained teeth. “Gordo, why you been holdin’ out all this time?”

Gordon didn’t look back, couldn’t look back at them in the backseat. In his mind, they were like puppies salivating over a fresh treat. “Uh, saved the best for last?”

“Well, pray tell. We would have snapped this one up first time through,” he said. “Lookie over there, Bun. There’s plenty of space for your rock gardens and ever’thin’.”

She cooed and a soft rustle of fabric, told Gordon that she had to have climbed on top of Clint. He “Heeyahhed!” and jumped out of the car before Gordon had stopped the car.

Gordon caught up with them at the front door to the main compound. Clint had stopped just short of pulling out a six-shooter to bust the lock. “I have the key…”

“Just leave the papers on the stoop,” Clint said as he broke the door handle and Bunni slipped inside. “I’ll send you the money and the signed papers tomorrow.”

***

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