Another 10-minute timed writing exercise from The Writer’s Book of Matches: 1001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction.
The prompt was the following sentence: “He’s pretty scary looking for a mime”
“You think so?” Mike asked.
Joseph nodded. “I know so. Now, I can’t say I’m an expert on mimes. I’ve never liked them. They look like demented clowns. Where the heck do mimes come from anyway?”
Mike only shrugged and kept loading his gun. “How the heck would I know?”
Joseph looked over at him and frowned. He was putting the last of the rifles into the trunk of the car. “I though you said you knew everything.”
Mike stopped loading his gun. “I do. But mimes ain’t everything. They’re crap. You know anybody who even likes mimes?”
It was Joseph’s turn to shrug. Once Mike was done loading his gun, he also put it in the trunk. Joseph lammed it shut, dusted off his hands and turned back to Mike. “Show me the picture again.”
Mike grunted and pulled the creased photo out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Jospeh. The photo of the mime looked as if it had been taken near the front of a warehouse. The mime was gesturing wildly, the expression on his black/white painted face one of rage. His striped shirt and black pants clung to his tall, lanky body.
“What do you think he’s supposed to be doing?” Joseph asked uneasily.
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “How many times I gotta tell you that. It don’t matter what he’s doing. The boss wants him dead. That’s all that matters to us.”
Joseph handed the photo back to Mike. “Why do you think the boss wants him dead?”
“How should I know? I didn’t ask him. You want to ask him yourself? Give him a call. Go ahead. Ask him.”
Joseph shook his head. He walked around to the driver’s door of the car. Mike headed toward the passenger side. Joseph drove them to the apartment building where they were told the mime lived. Joseph didn’t even know what the mime’s name was. They were just given the photo and an address.
“What if he’s not dressed like a mime?” Joseph asked. “How we gonna recognize him without the makeup?
Mike pulled out a cigar and lit it. “I have a feeling that’s not going to be a problem.”
Mike gestured with his cigar to the front of the apartment building. It was the mime. He was coming out of the building, black and white makeup on, striped shirt, beret. The whole nine yards.
Joseph grinned. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. Then fear settled in his stomach like curdled milk. Even from where he sat across the street in the car, the mime still looked pretty scary.