The Assassinator - Part II

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And Mark stepped out from behind the tree into the dawn's cold, smoky light. Detective McKay stood 10 yards from him, jerking his single-barreled shotgun to his shaking shoulder, his beak of a nose resting under the gun's sight.

"I expected you," said McKay.

"No, you didn't, you stupid fuck."

"How's that?"

"You wouldn't be by yourself. And I wouldn't have startled you. And you wouldn't be shaking like-"

"Put your hands in the air."

"No."

"I'll shoot you right here-"

"No, you won't. I haven't done anything." Mark shrugged. "Plus, you're a pussy-"

"Put your fucking hands in the air!" shouted McKay. "And turn around. You're under arrest for the murder of Phil Wii."

Mark sighed and turned around, pushing his hands into the air, his elbows snapping. Then behind him: one, two, three, four steps, and the sound of handcuffs knocking against each other. Then one, two, three, four steps...and a shot fired over his head, at which he didn't flinch the slightest, and a simultaneous crash and whimper. He turned around and giggled as his eyes fell upon McKay, sitting stiff in the hole, his upper body frozen but for his arms, which reached for the gun that lay too far in front of him, and his eyes, which bled tears. He picked up McKay's gun.

"You dumb fuck. I thought Bette said you were in the Marines."

A muted howl.

"Though really, I think she'd much prefer a college boy."

Eyes tightened into slits, a bloody grimace, and a groan.

"Like when she gets over you, which'll be quick, and I'm fucking the shit out of her, I'll pretend like I'm a Marine or something. Is that cool?"

Rasping breaths, fists pounding the ground around him against the searing pain in his guts, and a gurgling fountain of blood running down his neck from his mouth.

"Okay, look, I'm an honest guy. Anybody else on to me?" McKay didn't respond. So Mark grabbed the handcuffs off the forest floor and rapped him in the head. "Answer me. Your truthfulness will save Bette's life."

McKay shook his head, at which he heaved forth a trail of vomit that ran down his stomach. "I wasn't even on to you until you said that the other day at that meeting," he blurted between soaked breaths.

"Did you say anything to anyone else?"

"No."

Mark rapped him on the head again.

"No!" shouted McKay as he fell into a fit of warbling coughing. "Don't hurt Bette, whatever you do."

"Oh, I will. But I'll take my time."

McKay's wet eyes grew wide and he reached one last time for Mark's foot, which met the bridge of his over-sized nose first, the resultant crack echoing through the forest. The detective's head wobbled for a second, then fell backwards, where it rested against his upper back, as his throat gesticulated with short, reckless breaths. At this, Mark squatted, slid his arms under McKay's and heaved him up onto his shoulder in one motion. He flopped the detective against the tree and removed the stake from his ass, replacing it firmly with McKay's shotgun up to the trigger, the man's body accommodating it without the slightest resistance.

Quickly, Mark threw the shovel, the stake, his book bag, the mosquito netting, and the handcuffs into the hole and filled and covered it by hand with the excised dirt and leaves. As he walked past McKay one last time, he bent over, and using the detective's own thumb, pushed down on the shotgun's trigger. Then skipped away from the most horrible hunting accident Cedarville had ever seen.