Aunt Gracie's Funeral
Aunt Gracie's Funeral christopher chance stories

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Aunt Gracie's Funeral

The phone rings.

These are the distractions, Guerrero thinks, that define modern life.

When the job requires technology, awesome, but there should be something sacred in these basic struggles of power and pain and life and death,

balanced on the tip of an icepick and the weight of his finger on a trigger. You could be out hunting a woolly mammoth with a spear and your cel would ring; reach out and fuckin' touch someone.

The man tied to the chair in front of him dredges up hope from some distant recess, scrapes it together and pumps it out through his eyes, because maybe the call will mean respite or maybe,

just maybe, reprieve.

Light in the eyes looks absurd when so much of the rest of the guy is broken. They're right back to where they started.

Guerrero sighs dramatically, ignores the ringing, leans in to get back to work--

Then pauses, because it goes past the second ring and on to the third, and they know not to let it ring three times unless it's an actual Emergency.

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