John woke up in the dark and the dark was moving. He was blindfolded and tied up. He heard men talking, the car swerving. He smelled cigarette smoke.
He didn’t make a sound, feigned unconsciousness. His head hurt. He assumed that his future was over. “Was I drugged?” he thought. “Hit over the head? Why? Had they found out that I was the one who killed Tommy? Yea, that must be it. But how? I’m the best.”
When the car turned on to a dirt road, he began to panic. From his experience, the work he was in, he knew that dirt roads always lead to empty graves and hit men wearing black gloves, black suits. Pebbles, kicked up by the tires, clinked the back bumper. The smell of dust poured through the air conditioner. His palms were sweating. His breath was heavy with fear. He shifted in his seat, tried to speak, but was slapped in the face, told to shut the fuck up.
The car stopped. Doors opened, shut. He heard deep, mumbled voices, grunts, through the window, but he didn’t recognize any of them. He only made out a few words: money, escape, and one phrase: hide the body.
He was pulled from the car, forced to his knees. The blindfold was removed.
“Tommy!” John screamed, just before his head transformed into red marmalade.
Tommy took a drag on his cigarette, got in the car, waited for his men to hide the body.