It’s Monday, which means it’s time for some more flash fiction in the for of Monday One-Word Writing. In case you’re just joining, here’s how this works: I take a single word (usually suggested in the previous week’s comments) and write some flash fiction about it in the half hour of class time I have. Then, you guys read it, and leave me a word to use for next week’s post. This week’s word comes from Catherine, who suggested “dissembled” on last week’s story.
“It’s a necessary sin, Mr. Clark.”
“I see no need for it to be necessary,” Mr. Clark said calmly. “We can continue the venture without dissolving the company.”
“Mr. Clark, this company will be the ruin of us. They’re a leeach sucking the blood from our corporation.”
“I’d remind you, Martin, that this company provides hundreds of jobs in the area.”
“And those people will find new jobs in time. Meanwhile, we get one step closer to this deal. I say we dissolve them immediately.”
“I’d also remind you, Martin, that you are the second largest shareholder in this company. It would do well to respect the largest shareholder.” Mr. Clark’s calm demeanor while saying this sent a shiver down Martin’s spine.
“Yes,” he said meekly. “So, what do you propose, Mr. Clark?”
“I propose we drink on it, and think about the decision tomorrow.” Mr. Clark was known as a drinking man, so it wasn’t an unusual idea. What was unusual was the bottle of limited edition 1958 Glen Garioch whiskey.
“Are you sure you want to share that bottle with me? Perhaps something less expensive would suffice.”
“No, Martin, I insist!” Mr. Clark said jubilantly. “Drink up!” He handed him a glass with a generous portion of liquor.
Martin slowly sipped his glass. “This excellent. Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” Mr. Clark replied, “for making my job easier.”
Before Martin could comprehend what Mr. Clark said, a convulsion ran through his arms. He dropped the glass, whcih shattered when it hit the marble floor. A fresh convulsion tore through his spine. Soon, Martin couldn’t feel his lower body, and gurgling noises could be heard coming from his mouth. A final spasm sent him to the ground, where he lay dying. Police would find him and a coroner would blame it on a piece of bad fugu fish, which Martin especially liked on Sunday nights.
In a matter of days, Mr. Clark would sell all his stock in the corporation and disappear. He would assume a different name and become the largest shareholder of his next target. It paid to be an assassin, and Mr. Clark was one of the best, simply because he put on his facade and hid in the most secretive of places; plain sight.