[Original: Drabble] "Vengeful Baseball Player" [Zeke Jones, G]
Title: Vengeful Basebal Player
Prompt: writerverse challenge #02 mini table of doom (’baseball bat’)
Word Count: 401
Rating: G
Original/Fandom: original ( Zeke Jones ‘verse)
Summary: Zeke and Howell confront a murderer.
Note(s): originally posted to the writerverse wv_library
Vengeful Baseball Player
“So,” I had said, when the autopsy report came back listing a long, cylindrical blunt object as the murder weapon, “we’re looking for a vengeful baseball player?”
It wasn’t quite as amusing when I was crouching behind the dugout in Citizens Bank Park, trying not to get shot.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, furiously. “I’m sorry for every stupid crack I’ve ever made about every case we’ve ever had. Ever.”
Howell’s large hand landed on my knee. “I am going to remember you said that,” he told me.
“Please do. Because that means we’re going to live through this.”
“Jones,” my partner growled. “We are not going to die.”
“You don’t know that,” I hissed. “You have no way of knowing that.”
“Jones,” he said, again. “Dispatch knows we’re here. When we don’t check in, they’ll send someone to check on us.”
“Before the deranged outfielder shoots us?” I asked. “Because he’s already-”
I froze, as I realized something.
“Sir,” I said, slowly. “How many guns did he have?”
“One,” said Howell, and I knew he’d realized the same thing. “And he’s taken several shots at us.”
“Several like almost as many as are in his gun?”
My partner arched an eyebrow at me. “There’s a really quick way to find out.”
I put my hand on my service weapon. “I’m with you, sir.”
“Ackerman!” yelled Howell. He peeled out of his jacket, balled it up, and tossed it out into the open.
Two shots hit the jacket, twisting it in midair, but then I heard the hollow click of an empty gun and a string of muttered curses.
“Jones,” snapped Howell, and I knew exactly what he meant.
Together, we rolled out on opposite sides of the dugout, weapons drawn. Ackerman raised the gun, firing automatically, but nothing happened.
“Bad planning,” I said. “Next time, bring a backup weapon.”
The rogue baseball player looked wildly between us. “I had to kill him!” he cried. “I had to! He was going to turn me in!”
“Yeah, well, so are we,” I said. With Ackerman’s attention on me, Howell started moving toward him. I kept talking, “You know that, right? You killed a man. There’s no turning back from that.”
“I know,” he breathed, closing his eyes, and Howell darted forward. He grabbed the gun from Ackerman, handcuffing him in one swift motion.
Which, of course, was exactly when our back-up arrived.
THE END
Current Mood:
working
Prompt: writerverse challenge #02 mini table of doom (’baseball bat’)
Word Count: 401
Rating: G
Original/Fandom: original ( Zeke Jones ‘verse)
Summary: Zeke and Howell confront a murderer.
Note(s): originally posted to the writerverse wv_library
Vengeful Baseball Player
“So,” I had said, when the autopsy report came back listing a long, cylindrical blunt object as the murder weapon, “we’re looking for a vengeful baseball player?”
It wasn’t quite as amusing when I was crouching behind the dugout in Citizens Bank Park, trying not to get shot.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, furiously. “I’m sorry for every stupid crack I’ve ever made about every case we’ve ever had. Ever.”
Howell’s large hand landed on my knee. “I am going to remember you said that,” he told me.
“Please do. Because that means we’re going to live through this.”
“Jones,” my partner growled. “We are not going to die.”
“You don’t know that,” I hissed. “You have no way of knowing that.”
“Jones,” he said, again. “Dispatch knows we’re here. When we don’t check in, they’ll send someone to check on us.”
“Before the deranged outfielder shoots us?” I asked. “Because he’s already-”
I froze, as I realized something.
“Sir,” I said, slowly. “How many guns did he have?”
“One,” said Howell, and I knew he’d realized the same thing. “And he’s taken several shots at us.”
“Several like almost as many as are in his gun?”
My partner arched an eyebrow at me. “There’s a really quick way to find out.”
I put my hand on my service weapon. “I’m with you, sir.”
“Ackerman!” yelled Howell. He peeled out of his jacket, balled it up, and tossed it out into the open.
Two shots hit the jacket, twisting it in midair, but then I heard the hollow click of an empty gun and a string of muttered curses.
“Jones,” snapped Howell, and I knew exactly what he meant.
Together, we rolled out on opposite sides of the dugout, weapons drawn. Ackerman raised the gun, firing automatically, but nothing happened.
“Bad planning,” I said. “Next time, bring a backup weapon.”
The rogue baseball player looked wildly between us. “I had to kill him!” he cried. “I had to! He was going to turn me in!”
“Yeah, well, so are we,” I said. With Ackerman’s attention on me, Howell started moving toward him. I kept talking, “You know that, right? You killed a man. There’s no turning back from that.”
“I know,” he breathed, closing his eyes, and Howell darted forward. He grabbed the gun from Ackerman, handcuffing him in one swift motion.
Which, of course, was exactly when our back-up arrived.
THE END
Current Mood:
working