Plug to a Socket.
By Robert Montague, aged 13
“Have you got the cash?” said the man dressed in a suit and a hat, all black. Accompanying him were two men, dressed fully in black, however, without the hat so their bald heads were exposed, neither obviously armed but he knew they had a knife at least. He would not make that mistake again.
“Well?” insisted the man.
“I had it, I swear. But my mother got ill and I had to spend the money on her treatment,” he said, followed up by a wipe of his brow to clear the sweat that was beginning to form.
“Everything you have just told me is a complete and utter lie. Now tell me the truth and we might both live.”
“We? Lie? I’m telling you that is the truth and how is this going to affect you?” he asked, intrigued, his sweat beading further.
“You think I’m not going to be affected? You know data that is crucial to our operation. Without that, you were finished. Now where’s my money?”
“Fine. I lost it gambling. But that was only so I could pay you back,” he squirmed.
“I don’t like people who change their story. Bill, Dan, take him!” The two men approached him, one opening up a knife.
“I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake!” he squirmed again but it was too late.
He stood, frozen for a single moment. He looked down and then up in sheer horror and disbelief. The knife slid into his body like a plug to a socket. He felt nothing and considered the possibility it was all just a nightmare. Then it hit him. As though it was a million knives as opposed to just the one. He pulled his hands away to reveal a watery red substance. But it was not water.