flash fiction

This is a game of sorts, called Flash Fiction, with rules:
1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: power
3. The time is: 1968
4. Within the story, you must use this text: all due respect.

Apparently I'm supposed to link back to Diminished Fifth. I guess he made up the game. 250 words?? I'm a novelist, not a poet. But I'll give it a go:




“Goddamn it, the light won’t come on.”

“It’s probably just a blown fuse. I’ll go look into it.”

“Be quick about it. I’ve got places to be today.” When thrust into the darkness, one must rely upon other senses. I heard breath that whistled a bit. A nearly crushed larynx will do that to the air passing through it. I could smell sweat and dried blood and icy fear. My trigger finger rubbed along the warmed grip of my new Walther 22LR. I couldn’t wait to find out how it performed at short range. “Hey, asshole. You scared of the dark?”

His voice was frayed with pain and closer than I’d expected. “Not at the moment.”

I heard the door again. “It’s not the fuse.”

“Goddamn it, Jonesy. Get a flashlight or something. I don’t have all day.”

“Ok, I’ll be back.”

There was a shuffling from the mark so I lifted my gun. “Hey, stay put, asshole. I didn’t ask you to move.”

“I’m hurt, you prick.”

“Hey, a little respect here.”

“Why? You respect me?”

“Enough to spend a bullet on you.”

Laughter in the dark always sounds harsh and frightening. Especially when it comes from the guy who’s on the business end of your gun; and especially when it’s so fucking close. My thumb jerked to my trigger release but not quick enough. As the darkness lit up with a dizzying flicker and faded back to black, I heard that ragged voice say, “All due respect, likewise.”