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Tommy Boy

Two absolutes in the world of hardboiled crime: prison is where crooks go to become criminals. And payback is always a bitch...

One thing's for certain, you'll never look at that Chris Farley flick the same way ever again.

Tommy Boy by Laramore Black




I never thought I’d do another…but just one more job. One more job and I’d be sipping martinis with umbrella straws on a beach somewhere. The shrimp cocktails, goddamn I could taste those. A simple smash and grab was all that was needed of me.

Within minutes of entering and firing off warning shots, the floor was covered in cowering bodies and crying echoed off the walls. It must have been amateur hour because Tommy wasn’t paying attention to his hostages. A daring teller tripped an alarm but soon met his end at the end of Tommy’s .45.

“Fuck,” Tommy says, “They’ll have us surrounded any minute!”

“Stick to the plan,” I say, “we’ll be fine. Gather the cash.”

I’m already lying.

The red and blue lights slowly begin flickering through every window. There is no way we can make it out of here free, or alive for that matter.

Tommy is just a street thug, always one step away from being a complete lunatic. I have to remain confident to stop him from going ballistic. I want to keep him from the crowd of people, so I let him be the one to crack the safe with the manager at gun point.

My prediction of time measured in screaming and gunshots suggested they came after the vault was open.

“Tommy, what the fuck was that?” I say.

No answer.

“Tommy, what the fuck?” This is a mess. “All right,” I call out to the crowd, “if anybody moves, I’ll kill them.”

The crying, sobbing, and sheer over-dramatized noises of the bank’s daily suburbanite visitors drains into the background as I move swiftly to the back, every step mixing the ambience of the separate atmospheres. I slow down to examine the sounds to predict the upcoming confrontation.

Light sobbing.

Is that someone from the lobby I am hearing?

I take another step approaching the corridor to the vault.

Panting.

I take a step around.

It begins to grow louder.

Manlier.

Upon recognizing the sound of the voice, I consider the situation assessed.

I burst through the vault door, never expecting the sight that lay on the other side.

There is a heavily breathing Tommy rising to his feet, pulling pants over his freshly moistened member.

“You know,” he stammers, “I figured we’re going to prison.”

“Tommy.” It is all I can say, over and over, while watching what must have happened play out through my head. The bank manager lay in the corner. Her breasts ripped out of her shirt and no clothes below her waist. Barely breathing and bleeding out across thousands of dollars.

The nail marks on Tommy’s face show she put up a fight. Unfortunately, for her, it looks like Tommy put up a bit more. He had fired a round into each of her elbows to stop the squirming, but even then she must have kept fighting because he had fired another two rounds. One in each of her kneecaps. Then spread her damaged legs for swift access.

By the time he finished she must have been in such a catatonic state from shock, he was practically screwing a corpse.

“You motherfucker,” I say. “Do you have any idea what prison feels like?”

Tommy begins to shake his head no as I backhand him with the barrel of my gun.

“Get used to that, Tommy.”

On his head’s return to look me in the face, I flip the barrel into my hand and deliver a swift pistol whip to his temple, knocking him to the ground.

“This part of my life was supposed to be over!” I scream standing over him.

Tommy begins struggling to stand up. I put bullets through each of his elbows. Then he begins crying and flopping his shoulders on the floor. I go to roll him over on his stomach, but he keeps kicking at me and trying to roll over. So I shoot out his kneecaps as well.

“How do you like it?”

The sound of gunfire, bone and concrete are exhilarating.

“The place you’re going will feel like this. It’s a place where the predators become the prey, where the strong become helpless at a monster’s whim. Are you listening? Tell me, Tommy, are you still feeling like a tough guy now?”

But I’m not going back.

That is all I can think as I remove his pants.

I’m not going back.

I repeat that line as if other thoughts don’t even exist as the repetitions sync with the strokes of my hand across my dick, before strapping myself into Tommy for one last ride into sweet insanity.

Soon the sounds of blood drips and smacking meat blend with a foreign noise; it is rubber rapidly clacking across concrete. They must have stood there stunned for at least a minute. Unsure whether to restrain me or let me finish. Three people, one dead, blood covered cash, and my dick thrusting away at unconscious Tommy’s ass.

When the climax comes, lost in a euphoric daze, I grab my gun, and look up to the SWAT officers, smiling…

“I’m not going back.”


Laramore Black is a dark fiction writer using elements of pulp, horror, and crime. "Tommy Boy" is just one out of many short stories that will begin appearing online at various publications. If you like all these flavors of literature, keep in mind his debut novella, Bondage. If you have taken an interest or are part of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, you can stalk him on Facebook.