I can’t believe it’s been over a year since my last post! When I saw the date of my last story, I was really disappointed with myself. But I’m back now and I’m vowing to keep this blog afloat!
The challenge for today’s post was to write a story with a number in every sentence. I wanted to try this out because I wondered if that many numbers in such a small word count would be overkill. All things considered, I think I pulled it off quite nicely.
Vinnie had thirty-nine dollars cash.
I asked him a hundred times, where’d you get the money, Vinnie? The last time, I was shaking him by the shoulders, all ten of my fingers digging like little shovels into his thick, pimply flesh. For one second, his brown eyes deepened with doubt. His fist was clenched tightly around a wad of fives and ones, so tightly that even the imprints of my fingernails in his shoulders didn’t threaten his grip.
I’m going to count to three, Vinnie, I told him. Same trick mom used on him when he was six years old. One, I said, two, beads of Vinnie’s sweat collecting around my fingertips that were still holding onto him, three.
Vinnie took a deep breath, hiccupped, and screamed out, I sold two of my video games to Marcus! I glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering why it took Vinnie twenty minutes to blurt it out.
Now the anger set in; I was supposed to meet Fat at four o’clock. The three hundred I’d stuffed inside a rolled up pair of Betty Boop socks was gone and Vinnie suddenly had thirty-nine bucks and a footlong sandwich from Boggiano’s. He didn’t sell shit to anyone and now I had fifteen minutes to figure out where the rest of my money had gone.
I asked him, which two games did you sell to Marcus? He tried to wriggle out of my grip and mumbled Range Racers and Lock ‘n Load 4, which I almost believed because Marcus played them whenever he came over and Vinnie was sick of them. But no, Vinnie had just been grounded for three days for lying to mom, why would I take his word for anything?
You’ve got about five seconds to tell me where the rest of my money is, I said, my face so close to his I could smell the marinara from his sandwich. That’s when mom sauntered in, home from work four hours early, and when she saw the marks I’d left on Vinnie’s shoulders she screamed at me to get out before she called the cops. I kicked her BMW 550i as I left, then turned back around at the end of the driveway and tried the doors to see if she’d kept them unlocked. In the car, I found seven bucks and a bottle of white wine. I took the cash and the wine and started my walk to 9th Street, hoping I could make Fat a different kind of offer.