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Final act…

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The pistol’s muzzle poked at the nap of his neck, repeatedly.

KEEP TYPING, ASSHOLE!

Each time he hit one of his vintage typewriting’s keys, his seven broken fingers made him wish he was dead already.

Had he known that a complete stranger would break into his house and torture him for hours, he would have refused the job to begin with. No paycheck was worth what he was going through.

FASTER, BASTARD!!! TELL THEM, THE AWARD SHOULD HAVE BEEN GIVEN TO…

He really wished he hadn’t been an actor. At least not a successful one.

Fame comes with a curse…

 

 

 

 

I might just be stubborn, given my past fails, but I am giving a shot at the NYC Midnight Challenge, again. This is a practice for the 100-Word Microfiction challenge starting in two weeks. The prompts for this story were Horror / Typing / Award.

6 thoughts on “Final act…

  1. Ouch! I can feel this one. Those old typewriters took hands of steel to use. A good and fast typist on one of those had forearms that looked like Popeye’s. 😂

    Like

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