Venetian Shores

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Vincent_Grimaldi
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Venetian Shores

Post by Vincent_Grimaldi » Sat May 05, 2018 7:19 pm

The white drapes ebbed and flowed along with the subtle gusts of salty sea breeze. Vincent had his elbow on a table and his rear in a chair. He was half-naked while smoking a cigarette. The morning sun made him squint his half-moon eyes. His jet black hair was rustled into a familiar bed head part, with strands of hair shooting up as if they were cowlicks. A woman stepped onto the balcony and gently caressed his shoulders.

“Vinny, Dominic called. He's stuck in traffic on the seven-mile bridge but he'll be here in twenty minutes.” Her soft, velvety voice made his heart melt. She began massaging her bijou fingers around his neck.

Vincent stared at the indigo horizon. The sea lost its saturation the further out you looked. The horizon used to be a thin line that cut across the misty skies of bay-side New Jersey. In The Keys, however, the horizon smeared colors with the sky and the two became almost indistinguishable. He chewed on his lower lip in a wave of bitter reflection.

“Alright.”

Vincent got up and reached over to stub his cigarette out in the ash tray. Grey ash and cherry ambers amalgamated together in a sea of cigarette butts. He wiped his tobacco stained fingers off on his underpants.

“Could you put some coffee on the burner? I'm gonna go nap. Make Dominic some breakfast or somethin' when he gets here. He's a little shy at first. Wake me up after you've softened him up a little, alright?”

The woman nodded. Her silk robe scarcely covered her lady parts, but she knew of Vincent's tendencies and how to keep him entertained. She tucked her thin ginger hair behind her ear before sliding the glass door open and walking into the linoleum tiled living room. Her sashay resembled that of a seasoned runway model. Vincent put his hands on his bare hips and gave the horizon one last look. Sail boats floated on that line hundreds of miles out. He followed her inside.


——


A subtle purr resonated from under Vincent's arm. He held the cat tightly by its stomach; its white-capped paws were dangling free. The cat dug a snout full of whiskers into Vincent's young, slender body. He flicked a switch and the bright kitchen lights turned on. He put the cat up on the counter and it began cleaning itself.

Vincent opened the fridge for a carton of orange juice. The bleak sun barely shimmered through the double-paned windows of the kitchen. Song birds could be heard chirping from the powdered pine trees, while potential mates hollered coded morning calls.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat back down. His pulpy orange juice was filled to the brim. He used a spoon to plunge the dry grains down so they could soak up the milk.

Thunderous footsteps trundled down the wooden staircase. They filled the house with a cacophonous racket. Vincent's father was awake and ready for work.

He walked inside the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes stared a hole through the unwanted vermin. He stopped tying his tie halfway in to put his hands on his head.

“What is that?”

Vincent looked up from his bowl of cereal. He smiled at his father, “It's a cat.”

“I know it's a cat. Whose cat is it?”

“Our cat, daddy. I found him a couple days ago.”

Vincent's father peaked his head out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. Vincent itched the cat behind its pointy ears. The cat's purrs grew louder.

“Karen, come down here!”

Vincent looked up at his dad, “Wanna meet him?”

Vincent's father haphazardly looked at the cat before peeking up the stairs again. He yelled louder this time, “Karen, did you know about this?”


No answer.


His father resumed tying his striped tie and walked towards the coffee pot. He looked at the feline in disgust.

“Get that thing off the counter.”

Vincent frowned, “Why? I gave him a bath last night.”

“I said get it off the God damn counter.”

Vincent sighed and put his cat on the ground. It just sat there.

He placed a filter inside the coffee pot. He then poured a liberal mound of dry coffee grounds in the brown paper filter. Next, he filled a Jets branded mug full of New Jersey tap water. He'd add a couple more mugs worth of it before shutting the top to brew the coffee. The machine started to steam up.

“Have you eaten yet?”

Vincent shook his head—no.

“C'mon, sport. What's the most important meal of the day?”

Vincent recited, “Breakfast. Because breakfast gives your brain food.”

His father came over and gave Vincent an old fashioned knuckle sandwich. He then patted the peak of the boy's bowl cut. He parted his bangs and looked at Vincent eye-to-eye; they had the same blue-green color. Vincent smiled back.

“Whaddaya want? Eggs?” His father knelt down and let the cat sniff his hairy fingers.

“Sure.”

The two got along well together. They had a quintessential American father-son relationship, which included playing catch, going fishing, and sitting through nine innings. Vincent was ten years old and his father was, well, he didn't really know. He must've been over fourty.

His father whipped up a batch of scrambled eggs for Vincent. Vincent shoveled the eggy morsels down his throat with no table manners. His dad watched before hiking up the stairs again.

“Come upstairs when you're ready to go, Vinny.”

Vincent rinsed his plate off and made his way back to his bedroom. The cat followed behind his heels. The passing hallway was lined with pictures of his father and numerous sports celebrities like Joe Montana, Dan Marino, and Chris Mullen; to name a few. His father was good friends with a renowned sports agent in Hoboken, who Vincent referred to as “Uncle Johnny”. They'd have potlucks every Sunday outside on their two-story patio.

Vincent put on a loose cotton shirt and a navy sweatshirt over it. The sweatshirt had “Boston Whaler — The Unsinkable Legend” written in italics. Jersey winters called for two or more layers. This year's snowfall was especially brutal.

Vincent stretched a wool cap on his head and scooped the cat up under his arm again. It was a skinny cat with brown and black stripes running across its white fur. It wasn't a kitten by any stretch but it had been around for a while. It had been a stray before Vincent took it home. It squirmed under Vincent's grasp, but that just led him to tighten his grip. Soon the cat would be toying around with the drawstrings of his sweatshirt.

“Can we go, dad?”

Vincent's father was shaving. He looked at Vincent, then to the cat, then back at Vincent. Wet shaving cream seeped through the crannies in his lips.

“Are we uh, are we taking your little friend with us?”

Vincent nodded while scratching the cat's head.

Vincent's father ran the cream laden razor under the running faucet. He cupped his hands and splashed hot water on his clean-shaven face. He then shot his hefty arms through a grey sport coat, “Let's go.”

The two climbed into the family Lincoln Continental. The Jersey sleet had hardened overnight and covered every window with a thin, translucent layer of ice. Vincent's father used a paint scraper to chip the ice off the dashboard and window wipers. He nicked a couple streaks down the driver and passenger side windows before tossing the scraper onto the frostbitten grass.

A green paper pine tree dangled from the rear view mirror. The seats were made of slick black leather and the upholstery had a quaint shine to it. Vincent's father brought the car to life.

“Does he have a name yet?”

Vincent shrugged. He lifted the cat up and looked at its belly, then he went South.

“I think it's a girl.”

“Why don't you name it after your mother?”

Vincent giggled. He said, “I don't know. I don't really like that name, pop.”

His father's tinted spectacles looked up from the road and into the rear view mirror. His lip bellowed, “Watch ya mouth. Your old lady's a Saint. Understand?”

Vince nodded and they kept driving.

Vincent's father went by the name of Frank Grimaldi. He was a big and burly man, standing at 6'4" and near 250 pounds. He had an abysmally deep voice and lost his breath easily. Both of his parents died from lung cancer when he was in his twenties.

He never really held a 9-to-5 that Vincent knew of. He would just come home at sporadic times and go to the Meadowlands on Saturday to watch the horses race. He'd bring Vincent and his uncle Carlo every now and then. In reality, though, Frank would take bets from every facet of the Jersey underworld and funnel it into the races. He kept himself in good faith with a DeCavalcante soldier by the name of Carmine Masola.

The extent of his father's mob involvement was unknown to Vincent up until he got married. Vincent's father got pinched in a city-wide sting two days before the wedding reception. He was swept as a confidante to an illegal gambling op, in which an informant sang in exchange for a WPP card to Nevada. Frank went away for 5 years.

The car slowed down to an abrupt stop. Vincent looked outside the icy window at Franklin Township Middle School. He grabbed the cat and opened the door handle. “Leave your friend in here.”

“Why?”

“They're not gonna let you bring that thing in there, Vinny. It'll go to the bathroom and be a big ol'e mess for your teachers to clean up.”

“But I—”

“He'll be there when you get home.”

“Please, dad?”

“What's my pet peeve? You know better than that.”

Vincent looked somber. He muttered out, “You don't like repeating yourself.”

“That's right. Now get up and get out.”

The cat's gaudy green eyes looked up at Vincent. He ran the back of his tiny fingers along its wet nose. The cat then closed its eyes as Vincent scratched behind its ears again.

“Get going, c'mon.”

He got out and shut the car door. He looked inside to muster a last glimpse of the stray before Frank took off. It was the last time he would ever see it.

Vincent was told the cat ran away when he came back from school that evening.


——


Vincent woke up early from his nap to hear “Throwing It All Away” by Genesis blaring from the CD player. He figured Dominic was here already. He got out of bed and headed for his wardrobe.

Inside the wardrobe was a black shoe box and nothing else. Vincent had a peculiar fear of moths so he folded all of his clothes.

Inside the black shoe box was a Glock 22, a 7-inch silencer, and a box of rimless .40 caliber ammunition. Vincent screwed the lengthy silencer on the muzzle.

He concealed the silenced pistol down his lower back and fastened it against his body with the elastic band of his underpants. He threw a pressed dress shirt on but didn't bother buttoning it. He then left his bedroom and stood in the hallway leading into the condo's living room.

“Am I interruptin‘ something?”

Dominic and the girl, who went by Gloria, were dancing cheek-to-cheek to the melodic rhythm. Vincent laughed. They both stopped immediately and looked flustered.

“No, no. Keep going! You guys were havin’ a good time until I showed up.”

Dominic stepped into the kitchen with his palm on his forehead. Gloria smiled at Vincent while sauntering over to him. Her face was round and the bangs of her hair made a curly helmet on her head. Her bow-shaped lips quivered. She tapped a skinny finger against his sharp chin.

“Don't even think about it.” Vincent shoved her aside. She scorned him and went into the guest room.

“So Dom, you like fuckin’ around? Gloria's a doll, ain't she?”

“Vinny, I—”

Vincent cut him off, “Can it.”

Vincent walked towards the kitchen. The pitch black pupils of his half-moon eyes stared a hole through Dominic. Dominic started reaching for the wooden knife block where Vincent kept all of his knives. They had all been sharpened the night before. Vince put a hand on Dom's.

“I'm fuckin’ kidding, you sonuvabitch. She's a whore for cryin’ out loud!”

Vincent started laughing again. Dominic wasn't as amused.

“You know I can't tell if you're serious or not when you do that, Vinny.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm only fuckin’ with you. Sit down. Let's talk.”


——


Vinny and Dominic both put down three mugs of coffee each. Thirty chatty minutes must've passed by.

“Want one?” Vincent shook a red pack of Winston cigarettes at Dominic.

”If you're offering, why not?”

“Let me show you the view. It's incredible.”

Vincent led Dominic from the coffee table and out the glass sliding doors. The sight was impeccable. A sandy beach lay at the wayside of the Atlantic Ocean. The tide was low today so the pale granules stretched out farther than they usually do. Palm trees littered the park below his condominium. Their green fronds held a couple ripe coconuts at its roots. There were scooters and old people passing each other on the street. It was a beautiful day in the Florida Keys.

Dominic just nodded. “What a view.”

Vincent sneered while handing him a cigarette. He lit both of them up with a steakhouse match.

“I come out here early in the morning before I shower. It helps me clear my mind. Somethin’ about sea breeze and hearing the waves crash relaxes me.”

Dominic exhaled a stream of smoke. “Yeah, I hear ya, Vinny.”

Vincent placed his palms atop the glass divider. The back of his hands were speckled in long black hair, which was hereditary. The paper boy had just started making his routes. His pink scooter stopped outside Vincent's complex and he threw a copy of today's periodical at the doorstep. Vincent waved from five floors up even though the paper boy wasn't paying attention.

Doinic was pre-occupied with smoking his cigarette down to the red band. Vincent turned and looked at him. His sharp jawline ran in contrast with his thin, lanky neck. His bony figure made his clothes look too big. There wasn't much to look at besides a thick mustache.

“Say, Dom, you know my friend Paulie, right?”

Doinic chucked the dud over the glass railing. He locked eyes with Vincent.

“Paulie? No. Paulie who?”

“Grumo. Paul Grumo.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Really? Are you sure about that? ‘Cause he knows you.”

“Yup, never.”

Vincent put his cigarette out in the cluttered ashtray. “That's real strange, Dom. Me and Paulie were talkin’ about you the other day.”

Dominic shrugged at Vincent and turned back towards the sea. Vincent could tell he was lying instantly. He had a knack of playing it cool whenever he was fibbing. Although errant in his social mannerisms, Vincent read him like a book.

Vincent inched closer to Dominic. He wanted to rile him up. “If you've got a secret, Dom. Whatever it is? It's safe with me.”

Dominic snapped back, “What the fuck are you talking about, Vinny?”

Vincent put a hand on Dominic's shoulder and smiled. “Quit it, okay? I don't know who your friend is.”

Vincent dusted his hands off, “Sure. Sorry.”

A bead of sweat started running down the side of Dominic's face and over his vein-bulging temple. He gave Vincent an awkward look before watching the ants march on the sidewalk again. Vincent kept staring at the birth mark on his face.

“I'm gonna go take a leak.”

“You do that.”

Dominic turned and slid the glass door open. He made his way for the bathroom, which was adjacent to Vincent's bedroom.

Vincent let a couple of seconds pass by before silently sliding the glass door open and tip-toeing inside. He kept a hand at his waist while bracing the wall for balance. He snuck around the corner to get a look at Dominic opening the bathroom door.

The bathroom floor had a blue tarpaulin spread out across it. The sink, toilet, and shower had white bed sheets covering them. The only exposed area was where Dominic was standing.

Dominic looked befuddled at the sight. He turned around and, to his surprise, Vincent was there. His sweating picked up and his jaw clenched.

“Repainting the walls, Vinny?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

For context, Dominic was a compulsive gambler who frequented the top grossing casinos in every county of Florida. He threw money on horses at Gulfstream Park and Calder, hit the tables at the Hard Rock, and even traveled down to native country to cash chips at Miccosukee. Dominic was a born loser though. He had racked up a gambling debt nearing $40,000 from Paul Grumo and the collection seemed improbable.

Grumo feared Dominic would skip town before paying his debts. In this world, everybody wants a sense of retribution when they get slighted. Vincent had been good friends with Dominic since their Jersey days. If anybody could get to Dominic, it was him.

Vincent reached for his gun instantly. The silencer snared onto his underpants on its way out. He pointed the long barrel towards Dominic's face.

Time slowed down. Vincent wanted to savor the sheer look of panic that began to run down his old friend's mug. Dominic was no longer confused. He was scared, but at the same time he felt admirably convicted for his wrongs. Vincent felt no remorse whatsoever. In the simplest sense, becoming a purveyor in death weighed less on his mind than it used to.

Vincent had killed two people before. One was out of self defense, while the other resulted from a dispute between him and a fellow associate over a wire scare. He killed Mike Pantusa and hid his body in a dirt grave by a brook in a wildlife conservatory. Killing turned from an intimate, emotionally charged situation and into something utterly normal.

“Bye Dom.”

Vincent squeezed the trigger. A high-velocity bullet snuck out through the suppressor and made a bee-line towards Dominic's head. A muffled thud shot out into the airwaves when it left. Vincent kept his stare.

The bullet lodged in between Dominic's eyes. Vincent saw Dominic's eyes roll up towards the ceiling when it struck. A burst of blood squeezed out of the hole in his head. The next thing he knew, Dominic fell backwards and collided his head against the sheet covered sink. Blood stained the cloth and the sheet came down with him. This is where the tarpaulin came into play.

Vincent stepped up to Dominic's body and pressed the silencer against his sheet covered ear. He fitted one through the ear drum for good measure. Dominic was gone. This was Vincent's third.

All of a sudden, though, a loud blood-curdling shriek filled the room. Vincent turned immediately to the source. Gloria's mouth was agape. She ran away into the living room as soon as Vincent turned with the gun in his hand.

Vincent bolted after her.

“Gloria! Honey, it's not what it looks like!”

Gloria shut the guest room door and locked it. Audible crying could be heard through the other side of the door. Vincent pressed his cheek against it and planted a fist on the knob.

“Gloria, sweetie. Open the door!”

“Get away from me, you psychopath!”

Vincent lightly knocked on the door, “You're being over dramatic.”

“Leave or I'm calling the cops!”

Vincent knocked on the door again.

“Come on now! Can't we talk about this?”


No answer. The crying stopped too.


“Gloria?”

Vincent delivered some hard knocks to the door this time. He pressed his ear up against the wood paneling. There was nothing coming from inside the room.

“Oh Gloria? Sweetie?”


Absolutely nothing.


Vincent plunged his bare heel into the wooden door but it didn't do much to help. He stepped back and pressed the barrel where he thought the lock met the deadbolt. He struck a bullet through a flurry of wood chips and into the doorframe. It swung open.


Bam!


A bullet whizzed by Vincent and holed out a piece of the drywall behind him. He saw Gloria using the bed as cover with a revolver in her hands. He quickly reacted and shot a bullet in her direction. It caught her in the cheek and she dropped the .38 Special on the bed.

She screamed even louder now than she did when she saw Joe's bloody corpse. Vincent walked up to her. Her eyes struggled to meet his. She began whimpering, either as a plead to Vincent or regretting her fateful decision to pull the gun and shoot.

Blood poured out of her cheek like a geyser. The comforter was covered in a maroon colored mist while a pool began to form under her neck.

Vincent put her to sleep with a shot to the forehead.


——


“Hey Paul?”

Vincent was outside his condominium. He was using the payphone at a nearby gas station.

“Vinny. How you doin’, kid?”

Paul Grumo was a respected figure in Miami-Dade and Broward County alike. He was a soldier in the Valenti Crime Family out in Los Santos, but did his bidding in its vibrant Florida crew. The man was a giant in stature, but was the most methodical person Vincent knew. He'd been working for Paul for around five years now.

“I'm not too bad. How're you?”

“I'm good.”

Vincent curled the phone chord around his finger. The town was silent. He racked the phone on his shoulder while he checked the street for any onlookers. He could hear Paul's deep voice through the phone again. He put it back up to his ear.

“What was that?”

“I said what the hell are you callin’ me at this hour for?”

“I'm in uh, I'm in kind of a jam here.”

“Where? Where are you?”

“I'm at my place.”

“Okay. What happened?”

“Well...”

Vincent rustled his jet black hair around. It was pitch black outside except for the overhead street light and an occasional headlight.

“I did Dom in.”

He waited to hear Paul's response. There was none.

“Some chick I was bangin’ saw so I did her in too.”

Vincent coiled the phone chord tighter around his finger. The tip of it started turning bright pink. He chewed his anxiousness away on his chapped lower lip.

“I'll be at your place in ten. Joe's coming.”

The line went dead.


——


Paul Grumo pulled up in a black 1998 Ford Mustang Cobra with Joseph Simonetti riding shotgun. Joe popped the door open and stepped out. He shook hands with Vincent.

Vincent looked into the SUV, hoping to share a sense of concern with Paul. He was stone cold.

“Call me tomorrow night.”

Paul wound the window up and took off down the alleyway. He left Venetian Shores and made his way back to Miami.

“What the fuck happened?”

“Let's go inside.”

Vincent led Joseph into the lobby. Its fluorescent bulbs provide a stinging contrast in light compared to outside. Dainty tropical hula music played over the PA system. Potted plants covered the walls and above them were pictures of the beach, boats, and local bands. He hit the up button on the elevator and waited.

“Long night?”

Vincent nodded. The two stepped into the elevator once the doors parted. He hit the fifth floor button and the elevator ascended.

Joseph was a body-builder archetype. He had abused steroids for years and had gotten absolutely massive. He was a walking Michelin Man. Although he had aged quite a bit since his lifting days, he was still in phenomenal shape.

The two got out and headed for Vincent's condo. It was all the way down at the end of the hall.

Joseph saw the bodies as soon as Vincent opened the door. He didn't gasp, nor grin. He just stared. They were both on the tarp now. Gloria was laying parallel to Dominic. Both of their shut eyes were looking up at the roof. Joe nudged Vincent in to close the door.

“This ain't too bad. I'll get Phil down here and we'll go to work. It's messy but we'll get the bodies outta here. It's your job to clean the rest of the shit up.”

Vincent nodded, “Yeah, of course.”

Joseph went into the kitchen to fix up a pot of coffee.

“You need any help with this?”

Joseph gazed at the blood strewn bodies, “How long have they been bleeding?”

“Couple of hours.”

“You got a shower?”

“I do.”

Joseph poured the filter full of coffee grounds. “Pick them up and rinse them off for me.”

“You got it.”

Vincent hung his wrinkled white dress shirt over the frame of a dining chair. He walked over to the corpses, barefoot, and stood on blotches of dried blood. He figured getting the grunt work done first would be best, so he grabbed Dominic underneath his armpits and dead-lifted him up against his body. He dragged Dominic down a hallway, into his bedroom, and layed him down in the shower. The shower wasn't big enough to fit a six-foot corpse, so Vincent tucked Dominic's knees up against the wall. Then he turned on the water.

Vincent cupped his hands and yelled, “Hot or cold?”

“Cold!”

He turned the spout into a spray and yanked the handle to C. Freezing cold water began to patter down Dominic's body. A constant stream from the shower head projected itself into his face. Vincent watched and started to think.

He thought of that one time when Dominic took him out bar-hopping in Fort Lauderdale. It was St. Patrick's Day. They were dressed up in all green and had been taking Irish car bomb shots at a packed Irish pub. Vincent wore a funky leprechaun top-hat and plastic clover beads around his neck. The two hit a couple more bars that night before going back to their hotel.

Once they got back, Dominic keeled over at the ice machine and emptied his insides into it. Vincent laughed until tears welled up in his eyes. He stood in front of the door so his buddy could get everything out. A couple night-goers would pass by and hear Dominic's gag reflex kick in, but they did nothing. Then they went back into the room and slept, Dom on the bed and Vince on the floor.

Those days were gone. While they still remained close, Vincent couldn't remember another night they went out together after St. Pat's. Vincent's ex-wife was close with Dominic's current girlfriend and they'd talk on the phone for hours with each other. Though, here he was giving his old friend a dead shower.

He stepped inside the shower once the floor water lost its red hue. He bent over and sat Dominic's soaking wet body up. He got him in a fireman's carry and brought him out of the bathroom. The two made it back to the tarp, where a sprawled towel was waiting for Dominic. Vincent dried him off.

He picked Gloria's body up after. The blood from her exit wound ran a little bit; it hadn't dried fully. She was a health nut so it was no surprise to Vincent. If he hadn't killed her, she probably would have seen 100.

He ran through the same shower procedure with Gloria, but tweaked the shower head so the spray wasn't so detrimental to her beautiful face. Her hair became soaking wet and ran its curly frizzles up and around her face. Vincent watched.

In her he saw a confused girl looking for a way out of her spiraling life. She had been a Lauderdale beach body since high school and worked clubs for a pimp. Vincent met her at Avion and they key-bumped a line of cocaine together in a dark, secluded corner. He took her home and fucked her. They'd been together ever since.

She had talked to him about her childhood. Her dad was a belt buster and her mom conked off when she was 15, presumably from drugs but an autopsy was never conducted. She grew up in a tiny town in Georgia that Vincent forgot the name of. Her and her friends ran away from their parents just before their senior year of high school. They all broke off and headed to different parts of the 50 States, with some flocking to New York and others going to L.S. She came down to Miami first, though, then moved a little north to Fort Lauderdale.

Her body was clean. The hole in her cheek began to turn pink and puff up from the immense swelling and cold water. He fireman carried her out of the bathroom and used Dominic's towel to dry her off on the tarp.

Joe was sipping coffee at the table. He got up and stepped on the tarp to look at the bodies. He gave Vincent a thumbs up, ”Good. Now I'd scrub this place down if I were you.”

——


The next day came and Vincent was out on his balcony again. His condo had been through a round of deep cleaning and looked as spick and span as ever. He was smoking a cigarette.

He began recollecting the murder. Not Dominic's. He liked Dominic as a friend but couldn't care less about his life. In his eyes, Dominic had it coming one way or the other. If it wasn't Vincent who pulled the trigger, it'd have been someone else.

Gloria was innocent though. She had a long list of names that had been inside of her, but she cared for Vincent. She cared for him like the mother he needed growing up. They had only known each other for a month but they already began living with each other. They weren't planning a life out, they both had commitment issues, but they felt compassionate for one another.

In the heat of the moment, she would call the cops and he'd give his vagabond lifestyle up or go out shooting. She'd probably find another man but at least he would know that she'd be happy again.

Vincent hated thinking like this. Mind poison. The past could eat someone alive.

He got up and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He left the sliding door open on his way inside.

Vincent snuck under the covers in the guest room and slept. He dreamed of her.

User avatar
Mad Juice
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Re: Venetian Shores

Post by Mad Juice » Thu May 24, 2018 7:48 pm

Didn't read it all, but I can already say that this is a good read.

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