This is my March 2022 entry for the Australian Writers’ Centres Furious Fiction contest. It didn’t do anything in the contest, but I don’t really care about that. What’s important is that I found a stupid idea and wrote something I’m really pleased with.
In addition to the 500 word maximum and a three day window to write it, the rules for March:
·
Your story must include a character that commits
a crime.
·
Your story must include some kind of DOOR being
opened.
·
Your story must include the words CHALK, TALK and
FORK.
It’s 8pm and I’m parked opposite a warehouse on the bad side of a bad
city. It’s a bad environment, squared. The rain is beating out some crazy jazz
on my rooftop and I’m washing down antacid tablets with stale coffee. I got a
peptic ulcer and a telephoto lens for company.
Name’s Frank Chisel. I got an ex-wife, a shitty
mortgage and half-pint of Jack Daniels stashed in my glove box. I got a badge
and a gun and the right to use deadly force if I catch you with over 50kgs of Dutch
Creams. That’s right, I’m a P.I. - Potato Inspector.
Governor Patterson got elected on a ‘tough on crime’
platform. Every archaic law gets
enforced, everywhere. Excessive potato
possession began in WA, but blighted the whole country. Agricultural Syndicates ruin lives and
strangle cities. I’m flying solo
tonight. My partner, Jenkins, is in the hospital. Took a bullet busting up an
illegal Farmer’s Market. Three days off his retirement. That poor bastard.
Warehouse roller door slides up with a noise barely
audible over the downpour. Dark blue hatchback idles down the driveway. Lotta
trunk space. chalk it up to experience, but that’s an immediate red flag. A kid
exits the car – he’s a skinny beatnik with a mangy beard - and I spot all the
evidence I need to stop and search. In the corner, almost hidden by the door… a
fuckin’ wheelbarrow.
I hit the gas and put my sled between the kid and the
road. Roller door snaps shut. He’s got nowhere to go. Kid’s cocky and thinks my
XL waistband means I’m all lard, but a couple of friendly one-twos dissuades
him of that notion. Kid flops to the ground and surrenders his keys and I pop
the trunk. A hatchback full of illicit tubers. I grab my fork, cut a piece and
taste. It’s good shit.
“This is uncut Australian Pontiac. Know what that
means?”
Kid looks up from the floor. Cracked ribs starting to
hurt. Cracked pride hurting him more, he says nothing.
“Means, you’re growing ‘em. Not importing ‘em. You’re
looking at a big stretch. Sing it now, or forever hold your peace.”
Gotta hand it to him, kid’s still got fire in his
eyes. He invites me to do something biblical with my mother and my fists
politely decline. Kid spits a mouthful of teeth onto the pavement. He ain’t talking.
I slam the hatchback – equal parts frustration and
intimidation tactic - when something falls from the underside. A small, green
cylindrical object rolls slowly across the floor and comes to rest perfectly
between the two of us. I look at the seemingly innocuous vegetable and then
back at the kid… the fire in his eyes has just gone out. A wry smile grips the
corner of my mouth. I pop another antacid and grab my radio.
“It’s Chisel – get me the Chief. This case just blew
wide open. You better get the Zucchini Squad down here, right now.”
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