PIGEON

PIGEON

By

 

Joseph Jedidah

A split between affluence and poverty, a row of dilapidated buildings positioned opposite luxurious hotels, casinos and restaurants hosting the elites. In a shadowy alleyway, Pigeon, dressed in dark camouflage, climbs up a damaged fire escape on the side of a building. Reaching the top he then grabs hold of a slab and lifts himself onto the roof. Running to the edge of the front, he drops the sports bag down. Opening the bag, pulling out metal pieces, placing them on the ground in an orderly fashion. He easily assembles the pieces to form a rifle, given to him by Mr Bostock. 

He tucks the buttstock under his left armpit, balancing the nozzle on his right forearm. One eye looking down the scope, with the armed weapon pointing at the entrance of  Cesare Palace. Faux golden steps leading up to a long tall door with a triangle point at the top, two thick magenta velvet veils positioned on either side of the door. He sits patiently for hours, anticipating his mark to present themselves. Finally after the indulgence of decadent pleasantries. There is Nigel Nixon, mega property developer who arranged  the destruction of the Falkland Housing, displacing many working families and destroying the lives of many local residents. The gleeful grin beaming under the venue's lights, pinstripe suit with cigar smoke oozing out of his mouth.

The one eye sees him through the scope, target locked as the moment comes to climax and the penny drops. Pigeon pulls the trigger, the long bullet flies downward through the night air, carbon metal clashing against Nixon’s skull. Ruby mist exudes in the air like sunflower pollen in the green fields. Nixon stands for a second, cigar smoke protruding from his mouth with gun smoke seeping from his scalp, specks of blood splattered on the golden stairs as he falls. Pigeon disassembles his rifle, swiftly bagged the items and makes his escape, whistling as he flees.