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The Blades

Story ID:4141
Written by:Michael Timothy Smith (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:Fiction
Location:New York New York USA
Year:2008
Person:24-Hour Short Story Contest
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I was entered into the 24-Hour Short Story Contest this weekend.
I received the topic and required word length
at 1 PM yesterday. I had to have my entry in
by 1 PM Sunday (Today). I finished early for a change
and sent my entry in at 11:55 AM.

I don't think they received it. I never received
a reply, which they always send.

It sucks, but their rules are tough.
If the email gets stuck in cyberspace, and they
receive the entry past the deadline, you're
out of luck.

Here is the topic I received and my entry.
I had 900 words to work with.

TODAY'S TOPIC!

The bells on the door were still echoing as she
stepped further into the old toy store. The owner
winked at her and turned back to his black
and white television set. She reached under the
rack on the back wall and pulled it out. It was
just where she'd left it last week. She
approached the counter and put the item down.

He turned to her, grabbed the item with surprise,
and said, "This is NOT for sale..."

~~~~~

WORD COUNT Stories for today's topic must not
exceed 900 words. (Your story's title is *not*
included in the word count. We use MSWord's word
count function to determine the final word count
in submission.)

What would you write?
I tried to stay away from the obvious.

My Entry:


The Blades

“What ya think, Blade?” Maxine asked.

“Don’t like it.” Blade replied. “No place
for a toy store.” They sat across the street
in Blade’s beat-up Chevy. Garbage littered the
street in front of the mostly closed and
boarded up store fronts. “Interesting clientele.”
Blade continued as he trimmed his
fingernails with a switchblade. “Bikers in leather
don’t buy toys.”

“I think it’s a set-up by the ‘Block 59’
gang. They’re selling drugs on our turf.”

“If it’s them, there’s going to be war.”
He looked at Maxine. She was hot in that
tight T-shirt and jeans. When she joined “The
Blades” – his gang—he’d singled her out
as “His” woman. If anyone even looked at her, they
found out why he was called “The
Blade”.

“Look at that guy!” Maxine said. A
leather-clad, muscular man with long, shaggy
hair and torn jeans entered that store. “That
ain’t no toy shopper.”

Two minutes later, the man came out
smiling. Blade leaned forward. “Why’s he
smiling? He’s not carrying anything. He sure
didn’t buy toys.”

“Blade, it’s a front. They’re selling
drugs in our territory. I have a plan.”

Maxine reached under the seat, retrieved a
small, clear-plastic bag, and slipped it
between her breasts. “I’ll be right back!” she
said. Blade sat and admired her tight jeans
as she crossed the street.

A bell above the door jingled as she
entered. A burly man, probably in his early
thirties, stood behind a counter. He turned in her
direction. He was about six foot two and
had broad shoulders. His long black hair was tied
in a pony tail. His T-shirt read, “I’m
your worse nightmare”. Not your typical toy store
employee, Maxine thought.

“Can I help you?”

“No! Just browsing.” Maxine wandered
through the aisles and pretended to shop.
The toys looked antique – handmade. At the back of the store, hidden behind a display
shelf, she placed the bag under a rack, and turned
to leave.

“Find anything?”

“Nope! Not today.” She left the store.

“What did you do?” Blade asked.

“I planted the dope in his store.”

“You going to call the cops now?”

“I planned to, but I have a better idea.”

A week later, Maxine and Blade sat across
the street. “Remember,” She said. “Give me five
minutes and then come in.”

The bells on the door were still echoing
as she stepped further into the old toy
store. The owner winked at her. “Good to see you
back.” he said and turned back to his
black and white television set. She reached under
the rack on the back wall and pulled it
out. It was just where she'd left it last week.

She approached the counter and put the
small bag of cocaine down.

He turned to her, grabbed the item with
surprise, and said, "This is NOT for sale..."

“Oh? I think it is!”

“What is this, some kind of setup?” He
stepped back.

Maxine pulled a fake badge from her
jacket. “I’m detective Smith – narcotics.
We’ve been watching you, sir.” The bell jingled. Blade stepped in. “And that’s officer Gomez.”

The man looked frightened. “I don’t know
anything about these drugs.”

“Cut the bull, Pal!” Blade yelled.

“This is crazy.”

“Shut up and listen.” Maxine said. “Maybe
we can cut a little deal. If you help us,
you get off easy.” She handed him a slip of paper.
“My cell number – you make a sale; you call me.”

“I can’t do that? I’d be out of business.”

Blade leaned in close and sneered, “You’re
already out of business, Pal!”

“OK! I’ll work with you. Just keep me out
of jail.”

Maxine and Blade watched the store. A
client entered, made a purchase and left.
Maxine’s cell rang, and Blade called the police
and reported a possible possession. Word
spread. In a few days the “Block 59’s” drug store
was out of business.

“Time for part two.” Maxine smiled. “Let’s
go!”

They entered the store. The man turned to
them, wiped sweat from his face with a
shaky hand, and said, “I’m in trouble. Someone
figured out I was talking. There’s a
contract out on me.”

Blade pulled out his knife. “Shut your
month.”

Maxine smiled at him. “The ‘59’s’
shouldn’t have stayed off our turf.”

“You’re turf?”

Blade grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him
close, and pressed the point of his
knife to the man’s throat. “My turf, man – ‘The
Blades’!”

The man swallowed. “You’re not cops.”

“I should kill you right now, but I like
your set up, man. I can use you.”

Maxine reached into her purse and pulled
out a kilo of coke. “You sell for us now.”

The front door burst open. The bell flew
through the air. Seven policeman, guns
drawn, stormed into the store. “Drop it, Punk!”

Seven guns were trained on them. Blade
dropped the knife. “Both of you, on the
floor! Now!” A policeman screamed.

They moved forward and cuffed them both.
Maxine turned her head and looked at
the man behind the counter. “What about him?”

The man reached into his pocket, pulled
out a badge, and smiled. “Detective
Frank Brenner at your service. I’ve wanted to
bring you two down for a long time. Oh!
All those customers you saw – undercover narcotics
officers.”

Michael T. Smith
Word Count: 879