The damn place is out in the middle of nowhere. I’m freezing my ass off and the old man takes ten minutes just to answer the door. The car’s obviously been in an accident, the side view mirror is hanging off, and there are dents and scratches and muck all around. “Just a little bump,” he tells me.

I always get the shittiest pickup jobs!

“Tell you what, let me finish my inspection first,” I say.

I don’t see it at first, and then suddenly I do. I step back… I stare at the seemingly oblivious old man… I turn around and puke.

There is hair in the grill, not fur… blond hair… and that muck is dried blood.

 


In response to Rochelle’s photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers of 12th May 2017

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10 thoughts on “The pickup job

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