Wednesday, December 26, 2012

100 Words a Day 137

The smoke from the barrel of the gun drifted upwards, the silent vestiges of the bullet recently fired, and was dissipated by the ceiling fan.

The hand, hidden by a black glove, replaced the revolver in the holster concealed by his jacket, it then went to a grey pants pocket, the same grey as the jacket, and withdrew a bronze key.

The other hand, similarly gloved, opened the door. Once outside, the hand holding the key locked the door, which bolted with a heavy clank, before returning the key to the pocket.

All that was left was to drive away.

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