It’s a dark and stormy night, which wouldn’t be a problem if the storm clouds weren’t made out of knives. Not just knives, actually: there are broadswords, lances, shivs, sharpened rocks, and ninja swords. Possibly more, but those are just the ones I recognize in the darkness.
A rusted poleaxe impales a mannequin posed in front of Donny’s Suits and Menswear across the street. It makes a thunking noise like chopped wood, catching the well-dressed doll in its forehead and tearing through a coat tassel on the other end. It occurs to me, absently, that I was supposed to buy a tuxedo for Dave’s wedding party weeks ago.
Also, I’m naked. I wouldn’t have noticed except that falling metal apparently generates a breeze. I raise my jumbo-sized pink umbrella over my head and expand. My pink umbrella, it turns out, is just as useful as they said it would be.
I’ve been down this sidewalk a million times in my life; even if this is the first time blades have been jutting from the pavement, I’m pretty sure I know where to go. He’s made it easy on me, the stupid prick.
Still, putting my feet forward is a lengthy process. I have to keep my eyes trained on the ground to make sure I don’t step on any stray katanas. At least there’s no rush; I take my time. The real issue is that it’s dark and monochromatic here, and the only sound I hear is a constant clanging like a collapsing kitchen, and I’m more bored than I would have expected to be.
“Is this all you could think to do?” I ask, wiggling my toes around the edges of a Swiss pocket knife which has its corkscrew embedded in the sidewalk.
A whipcrack noise flies across my face. I flinch on instinct, wait a moment to make sure nothing else is incoming, and then I take a look at the wall next to me. A butter knife, from the other side of the street instead of the sky, has landed several inches into the fuchsia siding of my wife’s favorite salon, Volume.
There’s writing on the blade’s handle, and because I want to know what it says, I reach out with my right hand to grab it, which is an obvious mistake. A battleaxe drops directly onto my wrist, severing the limb before cracking the pavement and cartwheeling into the distance behind me.
I stare at my arm stump for a moment. There’s no agonizing pain; instead it feels like I’m rubbing sandpaper with my wrist. A single stream of blood spurts from the end like a tube on a Halloween prop. “Fine, no touching,” I mutter.
I lean forward to continue my inspection of the butter knife. It’s covered in rust and dirt; I’m impressed that it was able to lodge itself into anything, much less a painted stone wall. The words “FUCK YOU COP” have been written on the handle in what appears to be magic marker.
“Asshole,” I say to my perp, wherever he is.
That was…hooking and surprising and memorable all in one, as well as very good and very funny. I clicked because it said detective and I know one of those, but you can’t always tell with online fiction. I like nice surprises.
Thanks so much! I’m curious: where did you click to find the site?
I found your story on ErgoFiction and wrote you a review on WFG. What you have so far was a fun read!