Rock, Paper, Scissors

By definition, all games of chance come down to luck.

And some mutherfuckers are luckier than others. Of course some are just better prepared. The real success comes in combining the two.

Rock, Paper, Scissors by Todd Morr




They both threw out opens hands and then together said paper. 

“I guess we do it again,” the taller man said. 

“Aw right,” his shorter, wider partner said, making a fist. 




They threw out hands with both men extending two fingers; they both said, “Scissors, damn.” /
“You guys don’t have to do this,” the man on the ground said as he worked his way into a seated position. It would have been difficult to sit up even without his wrists held together with Duct tape. The bullet hole through his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but hurt enough the busted nose and swollen eye were hardly noticeable. 

“Sorry, bro. Boss said we did.” 

“It’s best to listen to him, otherwise it might be us sitting in the dirt while two other motherfuckers play rock paper scissors to see who shoots us.” 

“I could disappear; no one has to know . . .” 

“I would know,” the tall one said. He punched the man on the ground in the face. “It’s called pride in your work, motherfucker. If you had some maybe you wouldn’t be out in the middle of nowhere waiting to get capped.” 

He struggled back into a seated position. “Do you know what I did?” 

“Nope. Don’t care neither.” 

“I never did anything to you, maybe we could . . .” 

The tall guy punched him again. This time he fell over and stayed down. Of the many dumb things he had done today, trying to appeal to the humanity of a couple of hit men may have been the dumbest.  

“Of course, you didn’t do nothing to me. Otherwise we wouldn’t be playing some stupid game to see who has to shoot you.” 

“If you fucked with both of us we might be playing to see who gets to shoot you,” the short one said. “Let’s finish this shit. These woods are fucking creepy.” 

The tall one shook his head and made a fist. 




They threw hands and both kept a closed fist. 

“Rock,” they said together. 

“What the fuck,” the tall guy said. 

“No shit, I’ve never had three ties in a row.” 

“Maybe we should flip a coin.” 

“Fuck that. That’s just luck.” 

“Yeah, I guess, but this shit is getting old. Besides, it’s all just luck. Not like you can have a real strategy with this shit.” 

“I suppose, but if I got to get another body on my resume, relying on a fifty-fifty shot doesn’t seem right.” 

“All right, but one more tie and I’m getting out a quarter.” 

“Fair enough.” 




They threw fists. 

“Look out!” the short one said. Their prisoner leapt into the air with his hands over his head like Shaq O’Neal getting ready to throw down a rim-bending tomahawk dunk. While they were trying to decide which one would put the bullet in him, he had freed a softball size jagged piece of granite from the ground. 

He brought the rock down on top of the tall man’s head hard enough to split his skull, landing on his feet. As the tall guy reached up to see if he could feel his brains, he drove his shoulder into the center of the tall man’s back sending him sprawling face first into the dirt. 

The short one went for the gun tucked in the small of his back, which left him with no way to stop the rock smashing him across the jaw. Now freed, the former prisoner jumped up and did the slam-dunk thing on top of the short man’s head too, then kicked him in the chest dropping him to the ground. 

The short guy was still fumbling for the gun when he took a heel to the throat. 

His partner had risen and drawn his gun, firing wild as the rock came down on his face again. He turned and tried to get some distance, get a decent shot, but the man kept coming knowing gun beats rock.  Four swings of the stone later the tall man was lying face first in the tall grass with his grey matter leaking out. 

The little guy was just getting his breath back—head wounds bleed like crazy—eyes full of blood. He could feel the gun was no longer behind his back, and wiped away the blood. He saw the big Smith and Wesson a few feet away, and had begun to reach for it when he looked up to see the gore-covered rock held high above him in still-bound hands. 

“I should have tied your hands behind your back,” the short man said as he inched a hand toward the gun. 

“No shit. Let’s play. Rock.” 

“Paper,” the short man said, moving closer to the pistol. 

“Scissors,” they said together. 

As one lunged for his weapon, the other brought down the rock. 

After turning the back of the short man’s skull into a bowl for his liquefied face, the man rose and dropped his weapon on the short man’s chest. 

He found the car keys and a knife in the short assailant’s pocket, slicing the Duct tape. With his hands free, he picked up the dead men’s guns.

“Rock crushes asshole,” he said, before heading off into the woods. 

Upon graduating from Adams State College with a degree in fine art Todd Morr decided if he was going to be a starving artist, he preferred playing music and writing. He lives in Salinas, California with his wife and children. He has had short stories published in Plan B magazine, Spelk, Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, The Big Adios, and Death Throes Webzine. His second novel, Jesus Saves, Satan Invests is out now from Spanking Pulp Press.