The dog days are over

He had left the ashes in a white shoe box at the bottom of the stairs. 

I can put yours in there too.

She had surprised him. He opened the door to the bell. Her white BMW was parked right outside. Eloise all right. He had ridden in it often enough. A line and industrial strength vodka martinis. Back seat tricks.

She swung into view. The glock pushed him back into the hall. Things had started well with the Plan. Tux from the charity shop. Black bow tie and the shirt starched and pressed. The invitation to the garden party was easy. Photoshop and Adobe Indesign. And anyone of the goofs would do. He needed a title. Investment that could be small until they got the taste. The trouble was he got carried away and promised to marry this bitch with a gun.

Derivatives time bomb.
You fuck. The family is losing. And badly.
It wasn’t going to last forever.

They needed a cover up. Caressing her insecurity. Making her feel more than just a million dollars. She looked cheap right now. Spoilt skin. He was a ride she needed badly.

I know you’re thinking that blowing your brains out in the hall is messy.
Yes I was thinking that.
We can get it all cleaned up.
The offshore account.
We have already got that in hand.

They had hacked it. Shit.

You are just a cheap little crook.
Not born into it like you.

Her finger squeezed. It was true he was cheap. Grifting the odd scam. Ponzi’s with Harry and phishing for credit cards. There was nothing wrong with Deliveroo. It should have been RADA. Charm and elegance with all the right accents. Building alternatives. The trick was playing on their greed and their belief that they were born to privilege. Everyone was creaming it. They were sociopaths. Washed and bleached in the best and most expensive education.

He stood back on the shoe box. Fell onto the bottom step.

I never did like that dog.

©Nicholas Catlin

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