Writing Prompt: Break the Fourth Wall
Dave walked into the kitchen, allowing the door to slam behind him with a tremendous crash. He whipped his hair back, bracelets jingling with the abrupt motion, then stomped over to the refrigerator. Its giant stainless-steel door reflected a blurry, poorly-detailed version of himself. Dave tugged on the handle and looked inside. Empty. He sighed heavily, closed the door, and rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he thought, “never any food for a diva like me.” Dave turned and faced the wall to his left.
“Why are you making everything so damn dramatic?” Dave said.
“Everything is so dramatic. It’s like I’m a god damn Kardashain or something. I’m 40-fucking-years-old, balding, and I’ve never so much as thought the word ‘diva’ before. Yet here I am, whipping my lack-of-hair around and shit.”
Well, I thought this was going to be a dramatic book. You told me you wanted a dramatic book.
“Yeah, drama. Like Good Fellas, or Casino, or Heat, not The Housewives of New Jersey.”
Those are crime dramas, not dramas. There’s a difference. You can’t expect me to know that.
“Bullshit, you are telling me what to think and do. You know exactly what I’m going to say.”
That’s not entirely true—you know what, forget it. Crime drama it is.
Dave turned back toward the refrigerator and opened the door again. It was just big enough to hide the body. He’d have to remove the shelves, maybe, but it would definitely fit. He pulled out his cellphone and called Little Paulie.
“Hey, Paulie, it’s Dave. We’re all set here. Did you take care of that thing?”
“Yeah, we’re all set,” Paulie replied.
“Hang on, if you’re going to turn this into a crime drama, can I at least have a better name than “Dave?”
Yeah, I guess so. What do you want?
“Jimmy. Like from Good Fellas.”
Jimmy hung up the phone and closed the refrigerator door. All he could do now was wait. Frankie had been taken care of and Paulie would bring his body over soon. They’d store him until the heat died off, then move him elsewhere. He pulled a chair out from behind the table and sat. It would be at least another hour until Paulie arrived.
“An hour? Really?”
Yeah, an hour. What do you want me to say? We’re going for realism. You want me to just make Paulie teleport in, for fuck’s sake?
“I don’t want to sit here for a god damn hour, that’s a long time to be sitting with nothing to do.”
Fuck you, Dave, or whoever the fuck you are now.
A flash of blue washed over the kitchen, bathing the room in an azure hue. Jimmy covered his eyes as he turned his head away from the light.
“Alright, where is the fridge?” Paulie said. He had teleported into the room.
“That was FUCKING AWESOME.”
Yeah, well, you ruined the realism we were going for.
Jimmy stood and walked over to Paulie. He was wearing an expensive, well-fitting pin-stripe suit, but was a portly, short gentleman.
“You gonna make me ask again?” Paulie asked again.
“Behind you,” Jimmy said, pointing toward the steel door.
“That’s a fridge? It’s bigger than my damn house!”
“You said you needed a big one, so I found one.”
The two walked over to Frankie’s body. He had been shot in the face and was still bleeding profusely. A pool of blood was beginning to form under his head.
“No, no way. I am not going to touch a bloody body. That is disgusting.”
Are you kidding me? You wanted a crime drama! Now you’re afraid of a little blood?
“A little blood? His brain is poking out of his fucking skull!”
The two walked over to Frankie’s body. He had been shot in the face with a butterfly gun and died from too many butterfly kisses. There was no blood anywhere, and Frankie was suddenly a large teddy bear.
“I don’t care, I’ll work with this.”
Jimmy bent down and picked up Frankiebear, tossing him over his shoulder. Frankie fell limply. Paulie opened the refrigerator door and the two placed the stuffed toy inside, then closed the door.
“Well, that’s that. We’ll get paid later. Still don’t know why they wanted this damn teddybear, though,” Paulie said, shaking his head.
“Can I have a sandwich?”
“I’m hungry, we’re at a refrigerator and it’s empty. I want a sandwich.”
I can’t stand you, man. This is crazy. Do you want to be in a book or not?
“Yes, but I also want a sandwich.”
Fuck this, I’m taking a break.