Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Snap Shot Theater: Clear the Room

Splinters of particle wood explode into the air. Rubber booted storm troopers engage. Hostiles are green lit for extermination. Sodder stands with them, smoking a blunted cigar. The embers burn into his lungs, filling his heart with fire. 

"Fuckin' A," his lieutenant grunts next to him, "Gara lives in a shit hole."

"Run a screen of the back door," Sodder says, extinguishing his cigar on a pleather sofa cushion. "I don;t want him getting out." Turning to the others he motions them to march forward. "Tear it down!"

The news of his brother being sanctioned, that was a hard day for Sodder. Opening his datatron he looks at the shimmering hologram of his brother, cascading white light along the edges. They both went to the academy together, three years apart. Father Gara had even christened them both. That was a long time ago.
Norman betrayed him. He should had never carried out the sanction. He knew it was a set up. 

Above living room shots fire out, warning rounds. 

Sodder walks into the kitchen and pulls up a chair, rests his feet up onto the table. A bowl of fruit is dimly lit under the florescent light. The bananas looks jaundiced. Green mold grows on the apples. Father Gara, MIA, at a safe house, cowering for his life. "At least I can torch his shitty apartment," Sodder thinks.

Bursting into the door, the lieutenant emerges, holding up his rifle propped onto his shoulder. "No sign, Chief," he says formally. Two more men emerge behind him, then one more. The whole squad crowds in around Sodder, their leader, battle hardened and attentive. 

"Our man is Commission veted," Sodder begins. "He's been around, knows your moms and dads, christened in the name of evil. The old bastard took something from me, and now I'm going to get it back, with interest. We are going to find this guy, torch him, and eat him, and by god If you don't search this place harder I'm going to waste every one of you!"

Sodder rubs his eyes in frustration. 

"Does he have any other places he lies low at?" Sodder looks in between the men. 

"Guy has a safe house down offa' Sepulveda," a grunt forwards.

Sodder shakes his head. 

"Naw, already checked that place." 

"The Commision going to help us find him?" the lieutenant interjects.

"Blood debt, Sam. We don't see the Commission for this kinda' stuff."

A silence enters the kitchen, awkward, unusually long. 

"Well Christ!" Sodder explodes with anger. "Then where the Hell is he?"

Suddenly, the wall trembles and decays, the tiles melting under intense heat. They all stare at the wall, dumbfounded, alarmed. Sodder gets up, backing out of his chair holding his blaster. Dust motes fly into the room covering evey thing. Coughing hard, Sodder covers his mouth and curses in between breaths. And when the dust settles, all becomes clear. 

Standing behind a mounted gatling blaster, Norman Gara stands laboring over his large machine. Beside him, Deftus cocks the hammer of a revolver. For a moment, Sodder is speechless, then morose. 

"Sodder," Father Gara announces above the roar of the prefire sequence, "You have been sanctioned by The Commission for behavior unbecoming of a human with dignity."

He winks at Deftus, wearing a grin. 

"Light em' up!"

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