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Taking Debbie Rabbit

by Ray Morrison

About the Author: Ray Morrison spent most of his childhood in Brooklyn, NY and Washington, DC but headed south after college to earn his degree in veterinary medicine and he hasn’t looked north since. He has happily settled in Winston-Salem, NC with his wife and three children where, when he is not writing short stories, he ministers to the needs of dogs, cats and rodents. He is the author of two collections of short stories, “In a World of Small Truths” and “I Hear the Human Noise” (Press 53).


The fat man slid a small fold of paper across the desk to me, his fingernails as shiny as the mahogany desktop. I picked up the slip, memorized the address, crumpled it and popped it into my mouth. After a few dramatic chews, I swallowed loudly. The big man smiled. He always loved that part.

“This hit’ll be a snap, Moran,” the fat man said. “It’s just a citizen.”

By citizen, of course, he meant some ordinary Joe not involved in our world of gambling and drugs and love-for-hire. And by hit he meant, well, hit. That’s what I do. I hit people. And when I hit ’em, they never hit back. I’m good, too, and because I am, I get paid pretty decent money for my services. Usually by the fat guy in the overstuffed Naugahyde chair across the desk.

I hadn’t done a hit for the fat man in six months, and I was surprised when he called me. The last one—a small-time hood with big-time aspirations named Toscano—hadn’t gone as smoothly as mine usually do. Toscano had sneezed just as I pulled my trigger. The bullet rode across the top of his brain instead of through it, sending him into a coma. I had to go to the hospital a week later to finish the job. I knew the fat man wasn’t pleased. 

“This one’s a favor for a friend,” the fat man said. 

I dabbed a speck of drool from the corner of my mouth with my little finger. “Don’t matter to me. Less I know, happier I am.”

“Well, she lives alone, I do know that. Ain’t got no husband or boyfriend or nothin’.”

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