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by Todd Morr

“It’s a simple equation, detective, you love your family, I love money. If I cannot have what I love …”

The detective started to interrupt, but Enrique Jr. raised a hand and the detective stopped.

“I know what you are going to say. You don’t like being threatened. No shit, no one likes to be threatened. Am I right?”


“What’s the other part? Something about how did I get all those pictures? I’m not going into details, but I did my research. I know your shit forwards and backwards. Am I right again?”

“Pretty much.”

“Pretty much? What else were you going to say? Something about the law? You put murderers away, but still people die, you put drug dealers in jail, and people still get high.”

Enrique Jr. grinned at his little rhyme. He waited a beat to see if either the detective or the thug standing in the corner of his office were going to applaud. When neither did, he continued. “Someone is still going to do this no matter what you do, why not me?”

“I want my family to be safe.”

“So do I.”

“If you get arrested, it won’t be me.”

“That a promise?”


“You delete the pictures I sent to you?”


“Good, don’t. Look at them if you think about breaking your promise.”

“Are we done here?”


“I’m going to need my gun back.”

The three hundred pound man in the corner looked at Enrique, who nodded his head. The detective stood and put out his hand like a beggar. The big man took a step and held out the gun barrel first. The detective grabbed it, but the big man did not let go.

“I’ve got a question first,” the big man said.

“Really? I didn’t figure asking questions would be part of your job description.”

“Why? You figure because I bench a lot I’m stupid?”

“What’s your question? I’ve got shit to do.”

“Why’s a cop need a suppressor?”

“I don’t like the noise.”


“I blew out an eardrum, ever since I hear a loud noise and I have a headache for days, plus would you believe the extra length on the barrel makes the pistol more accurate.”

“Yeah, I could believe that,” the big man said as he released the pistol.

“You shouldn’t.” The detective flipped the pistol around so his finger was on the trigger and put two bullets in the thug’s Charlie Brown sized forehead.

He spun around to see Jr. reaching into the desk. The detective shot him four times, going center mass since Jr. was moving.

Getting shot four times in the chest slowed him enough and the detective had time to lock the office door before walking up and taking the gun Enrique Jr. was reaching for.

“You can’t do this?” Jr. gurgled through a mouthful of blood.

“Why not? Because of my job? It doesn’t matter if they are paying me to be a cop, or to ask ‘if you want fries with that,’ when it comes to my family, it’s a simple equation. Fuck with them, I kill you.”

“You promised …”

“I promised I wouldn’t arrest you.”

The detective put the gun to Junior’s head.

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 Shotgun HoneyOut of the Gutter 8, Out of the Gutter Online, The Big Adios, and Death Throes Webzine. His first novel, Captain Cooker, was published by Snubnose Press and his second, Jesus Saves, Satan Invests, is out now from Spanking Pulp Press. He can be contacted on Twitter at @ToddMorr1.