1300 words. Though I have written a few larger novellas in the past, this is my first short story. Enjoy 
(if you can)
Karma
. . . . Jack wasn't a normal guy; he was better, he was
special. Not only did he hold his Masters in three separate fields, he had been a multimillionaire since age 17 when he made his fortune playing the stock market. Life was damn good for Jack, and he knew it. He had only the best,
deserved only the best, because he was unique.
. . . . Today was like any other, Jack was headed down to the old Orchard Ridge Country Golf Club to play all day with his associates. Usually he would have went to the Starbucks off of exit 6, but today there had been construction. He would just have to settle for something less dependable.
. . . . “What would you like today sir?” a young scrawny man asked weakly as he walked in.
. . . . Jack looked at the dirty little prick and wondered if he should just leave, this place had looked ok from the outside, but now looked obviously like a peasant's establishment. Unfortunately he didn't have time for that, he would just have to deal. “A tall iced chocolate mocha. Go easy on the milk, and add vanilla.” Without looking at the kid he turned around and walked to a nearby chair.
. . . . It took about five minutes before any equipment even started up, another five minutes after that, the little bastard finally walked up. He was carrying a medium size cup.
. . . . The server handed him the cup, “Hey sir, I'm really sorry about the wait I...”
. . . . “Are you fucking kidding me?!” the kids face went pale, “You take ten minutes to make a simple grande, then you come back and its the wrong size??”
. . . . “I'm sorry sir, I've just been having –”
. . . . Was this guy joking? “Do you think I give a rats ass how your day was? I want to see your manager, now.” Jack stared at the server for several seconds in silence.
. . . . “Uh, yes sir.” the kid turned around and walked into a back room. Thirty seconds later he and a large black man walked out.
. . . . “Is there a problem sir?” the big man asked.
. . . . Jack was smart enough to know that absolutely nothing would happen to the server if he told this guy what really happened. This slow little shit had skewed his schedule, he wasn't going to let him get away with that. “Your damn right theres a problem, this guy just told me to go fuck myself when I asked what had taken so long!”
. . . . The kid servers eyes widened, “what!?” his eyes went to the supervisor and he shook his head quickly. “I didn't say anything like that, I don't know what he's talking about!”
. . . . Jack tried to remember the things he had learned in his college acting classes. With a mask of a shocked expression he spoke directly at the server, pretending to have forgotten the black man. “Are you kidding me? You act all high and mighty then the second your supervisors in the room you pretend to care?” Jack stood up, it was time to send his message home, “I can't believe this place! Fuck this, I'm already going to be twenty minutes late thanks to your slacking off!” He flung his mocha to the floor, “take your goddamn drink, you got the order wrong anyway!” and walked out.
. . . . The rest of Jack's drive to the golf club was spent reminiscing, that kid will think twice about half assing his next job – he needed to learn some respect for his customers. He had of course, done the kid a favor, now that he knew consequences came from his mistakes he would excel in his next job.
. . . . The day went by fast, he and a few friends had played the course nonstop all day. As usual they had all gone to a nearby pub, The Royal Oak, and spent several hours drinking, throwing darts, and shooting pool. At about eleven Jack walked to his car to head home.
. . . . Charlie couldn't believe what had just happened. This job had been his big break, his retribution from the fuckups of his past, and he had blown it. He couldn't really blame Darius for taking the rich man's word over his own – he did have a record of being less than dependable after all, but did he really deserve this? Yeah, he did. These last few years had been his punishment for letting those men die in Iraq, he deserved all the shit he had gotten since then.
. . . . Charlie had been near the tipping point ever since that day in Iraq, ever since he had refused to execute an Islamic insurgent. His job hadn't been to kill, his job was to disarm bombs and save lives. Still, it had been his insubordination that led to the terrorists escape, his insubordination that got six men killed. Almost every day since his dishonorable discharge he had created elaborate fantasies about ways of taking his own life. At first these thoughts scared him, but the more he thought them, the less bizarre they became.
. . . . “Todays the day,” he thought, “the day I pay for all the shit I've caused. The day I finally escape this hell-hole of a life.” He got into his car and drove off.
. . . . An hour later he had made it to the Hyatt Gun Shop off of exit 34. He had begun to have second thoughts now, but he knew this had to be done. If he didn't end this miserable existence now, he probably never would; he would live in constant misery with his parents, no one wanted to hire a man that had been kicked from the military, no one. He headed into the shop.
. . . . “Can I help yeh sir?” asked a scruffy old man from behind the counter.
. . . . “Yeah, I'm going out to hunt bear this weekend. I'm going to need something that'll really do some damage.” He hoped this request wasn't obvious.
. . . . “You gonna eat it or you just killin it fer the game?” the attendant asked, only half paying attention to what he was saying. He obviously got this a lot.
. . . . “Yeah I won't eat it, just doing it for the thrill you know?”
. . . . The attendant shook his head knowingly. “Well if you want to be complitly safe then I'd say get a shotgun.”
. . . . He thought for a moment, he was going to get a rifle, but now that he thought about it, a shotgun would probably be quicker. “Hmm, yeah that sounds good.”
. . . . Charlie carefully picked out the shortest gun on display and paid with a credit card. By the time he had gotten to his car his thoughts of suicide had almost passed.
. . . . After a few minutes of sitting, staring at the loaded shotgun in his hands, he started up the engine and drove to a bar that was a few blocks down the street. There he drank until passing out, then he drank some more. When he finally stumbled back to the car it was 6pm. He passed out again, then re awoke; it was nighttime. He fingered the shotgun in his hands. The time for second guessing was over, he put the gun's barrel to the side of his head.
. . . . Jack walked out to his car feeling on top of the world. Not only had he kicked the asses of all his friends in golf, he had secretly stayed sober all night and beat them in every pub game they had played. As he walked up to his car he realized that some moron had parked about five inches from his drivers side door. Some shitty beaten down Ford Taurus. As he walked closer, he realized that the guy was still in the car.
. . . . “Hey! What the hell do you think your doing?” he yelled at the scrawny man through the Taurus window. “Move your damn car numbfuck!”
. . . . The man turned his head and looked directly into Jack's eyes. The guy's eyes were dull, like a man that has nothing to lose. Had Jack seen this kid somewhere before?
. . . . In a moment of lucid realization Jack finally saw what was happening. He had thought the guy was leaning on a stick or something, but that wasn't right. He was leaning on a gun.
There was a huge bang, Jack's eyes went dark and his face numb. Just before going unconscious he felt a thud as his skull busted open on the concrete.
