Brian's Brown Paper Bag

Brian’s Brown Paper Bag
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 425

Brian fished a crumpled up shopping bag out of a street-side wastebasket, and looked in the bottom of it, not believing what he saw.

“What the...”

He looked around; making sure nobody else could see him, or what he was going to take out of the bag. There generally weren’t that many people under the expressway, apart from a few other homeless people. Around midday, like today, the others were off begging, or picking up people’s leftovers in the Myer Centre eatery.

Brian pulled the object from the bag, keeping the barrel of the browning pistol pointed away from his body. He fiddled around, trying to work out how to release the magazine to see if it was loaded. It took a few minutes to find the mechanism that let the detachable container slide out into Brian’s lap. From the weight of it, Brian could tell it had bullets in it, either that or most of the pistol’s weight was held in this part of the gun.

Brian slid the magazine back into the handle and looked the pistol over again. He found a small lever that he assumed was the safety and flicked it on. To make sure it was safe; he pointed the gun away and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“Drop the gun and put your hands on your head!”

Brian turned quickly to see who yelled at him and felt a burning pain explode in his right arm. He dropped the pistol and clutched at the wound with his left hand.

“Put your hands on your head!” the police officer yelled.

“You shot me!” Brian said.

“This is your last warning, HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”

Brian lifted his hands to his head and winced in pain. A second officer stepped forward and handcuffed Brian behind his back, then picked up the pistol with a clear zip-lock evidence bag.

The officers dragged Brian to the waiting police car, leaving a trail of blood from his wounded arm. Out of the shadows, a tall, thin man in black jeans and a black Iron Maiden t-shirt appeared. He knelt down and put a finger in the pool of blood, licking it when he brought it to his lips. Framing the homeless for his murders was no longer a challenge. He contemplated who to kill next, and who to take the fall for his crime, while he sucked on his bloodied finger.

THE END