48 V.1
The world is never fair. Joseph is about to learn that the hard way.
Present Day-
Joseph LaVerne was average, nothing special type of person. He drove a cab up and down the town with a price similar to any other taxi being driven by a low-life drunkard. He had a family of three; him, his wife, Sylvie, and his nine year old boy, Adam. Joseph leaned back in his chair, his legs set on the coffee table.
An envelope flew across the room and landed on his chest. "Thanks Adam," he muttered. He tore it open and found a small piece of paper, presumably ripped from a notepad. It read: ‘Kill Arnold Bennett - You have forty-eight hours.’ Joseph crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste basket. "Who was it?" Adam asked. "It’s no one," Joseph replied wearily, "Just some stupid prankster. Get me some toast will you?" His son nodded and walked off.
The full forty-eight hours had passed and nothing had happened. Not that Joseph even remembered the note existed in the first place. He stepped out of the cab, closing the door behind him. He walked up the porch, slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder. He fumbled in his pocket for his house keys and fished them out. He slid the key into the lock and opened the door. As he stepped in, a large tire that had been sitting atop the small ledge that protruded from the doorway fell and he died hours later from a fractured skull.
3 Days Earlier-
A harsh, white light filled his vision, blinding him. He struggled to open his eyes, the world around him a majestic colorful blur. He could hear the faint sound of voices somewhere far off. Something moved on the periphery of his vision; something big. "How’re you feeling?" said a voice, as distant as he could’ve possible imagined; he sat up. "Ah. You’re up I see."
The man speaking must’ve been about thirty years old, standing six feet tall and a clipboard tucked under one arm. "Fourteen year old kids don’t get hit by taxis very often. How’re you feeling Sam?" Sam tried to roll out of bed but a powerful set of hands rolled him back on. "No, not yet. We still have to wait." He rubbed his head. "Wait for what? What happened?" The man sat on the bed beside Sam. "You’ve been hit by a four-wheeler.
A taxi." His hand reached over behind Sam and withdrew holding a cup. "Want some water?" Sam shook his head. "No. Who was the driver? Who are you?" The man placed the cup back and folded his hands together. "I’m David. That’s all you need to know. The driver; the taxi driver was Joseph LaVerne. He uh…he was freed of charges, though. He said his foot slipped on the brake and couldn’t stop in time. His claims have been verified and everything’s okay now, sort of. How do I put this…your leg needs a little fixing, though." Sam looked down. His left leg had been amputated.
He nearly threw up on the spot, backing away. "My…" David sighed. "I know, I know. We’ll get you a prosthetic in no time, don’t worry." Sam raised his head. "Can I have a pencil and paper?" David nearly questioned him but instead produced a pen from his shirt pocket and a notepad on a nearby table. "What for?" he asked. Sam took both objects. "Nothing special," was his reply. "Oh-and what’s the model of the tires on his taxi?"
Joseph LaVerne was average, nothing special type of person. He drove a cab up and down the town with a price similar to any other taxi being driven by a low-life drunkard. He had a family of three; him, his wife, Sylvie, and his nine year old boy, Adam. Joseph leaned back in his chair, his legs set on the coffee table.
An envelope flew across the room and landed on his chest. "Thanks Adam," he muttered. He tore it open and found a small piece of paper, presumably ripped from a notepad. It read: ‘Kill Arnold Bennett - You have forty-eight hours.’ Joseph crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste basket. "Who was it?" Adam asked. "It’s no one," Joseph replied wearily, "Just some stupid prankster. Get me some toast will you?" His son nodded and walked off.
The full forty-eight hours had passed and nothing had happened. Not that Joseph even remembered the note existed in the first place. He stepped out of the cab, closing the door behind him. He walked up the porch, slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder. He fumbled in his pocket for his house keys and fished them out. He slid the key into the lock and opened the door. As he stepped in, a large tire that had been sitting atop the small ledge that protruded from the doorway fell and he died hours later from a fractured skull.
3 Days Earlier-
A harsh, white light filled his vision, blinding him. He struggled to open his eyes, the world around him a majestic colorful blur. He could hear the faint sound of voices somewhere far off. Something moved on the periphery of his vision; something big. "How’re you feeling?" said a voice, as distant as he could’ve possible imagined; he sat up. "Ah. You’re up I see."
The man speaking must’ve been about thirty years old, standing six feet tall and a clipboard tucked under one arm. "Fourteen year old kids don’t get hit by taxis very often. How’re you feeling Sam?" Sam tried to roll out of bed but a powerful set of hands rolled him back on. "No, not yet. We still have to wait." He rubbed his head. "Wait for what? What happened?" The man sat on the bed beside Sam. "You’ve been hit by a four-wheeler.
A taxi." His hand reached over behind Sam and withdrew holding a cup. "Want some water?" Sam shook his head. "No. Who was the driver? Who are you?" The man placed the cup back and folded his hands together. "I’m David. That’s all you need to know. The driver; the taxi driver was Joseph LaVerne. He uh…he was freed of charges, though. He said his foot slipped on the brake and couldn’t stop in time. His claims have been verified and everything’s okay now, sort of. How do I put this…your leg needs a little fixing, though." Sam looked down. His left leg had been amputated.
He nearly threw up on the spot, backing away. "My…" David sighed. "I know, I know. We’ll get you a prosthetic in no time, don’t worry." Sam raised his head. "Can I have a pencil and paper?" David nearly questioned him but instead produced a pen from his shirt pocket and a notepad on a nearby table. "What for?" he asked. Sam took both objects. "Nothing special," was his reply. "Oh-and what’s the model of the tires on his taxi?"
Post Comment
