Yeah, he probably planted that rubber in my car but that’s not why I killed him.
Let me back-up.
This guy, he shows up out of nowhere and tells me he’s a fucking psychic… like a REAL fucking psychic.
He really sold it, too; he’s got my passwords; knows things about me and my aunt Sherona he really shouldn’t and even told me about that used rubber under the floormat that if he didn’t tell me I would have never known.
Anyway, I’ll make this quick because I don’t have a lot of time.
He handed me a gun and said “I had a vision that you kill me in six seconds.”
I said “BULLSHIT!”
Then I shoved that gun right back at him probably way too fucking hard as I watch the poor bastard lose his balance and start flailing.
He’s trying not to fall, flapping his arms like a goose, gets his feet caught and stumbles right the fuck into traffic and hit by a goddamned bus.
My bad, but whata ya gonna do?
…
rule: flash fiction, no more than 10 sentences
