Jimmy takes out the gun and steps toward the couch, slow. The only good grace of old age, he thinks. The impetuousness is gone even if he wants it back. He hovers over the man he recognizes through thick beard and spotted, booze-soaked skin as Benji Queen, just a kid when Jimmy left so long ago. A damn kid.
Doesn’t matter—he’s part of this now, they all are. Jimmy wipes his eyes clean, clear, thinks about how it’s going to go down. Use the gun, everyone’s awake. And there’s no telling how many are holed up in this shithole. So, what instead? Jimmy waits, thinks, watches Benji shift in place, snore loudly, shift again, finally get comfortable, then doze back off. Oblivious.
Crime Factory is an award-winning Australian journal that brings together fiction from around the world. They’ve previously published the likes of Frank Bill (Donnybrook), Jake Adelstein (Tokyo Vice) and Scott Phillips (The Ice Harvest)—to name a few—so needless to say, I’m ecstatic to have been included.