The following is an original piece of fiction by me, Same Sad Echo, which I created all on my own without input or help from anybody.


Parker looked at the faded circle on his left finger where his wedding ring used to be. He hated that the ring was no longer there. He hated that the imprint still was. He hated most things: he hated his crappy apartment, he hated splitting custody, and he hated - hated - working at Payless.

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He did love a few things: he loved burritos. He loved tacos. He loved enchiladas. He loved tamales. He loved chicken mole. He loved clever twitter users who made parody songs about Mexican cuisine.

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But what he loved most of all was the Elks club. Not the actual, physical club, mind you - that was a dark ashtray of a shithole that actively repelled sunlight. But he loved being part of the club, loved the cheap beer, loved his friends, loved puttering around in the Memorial Day Parade every year. He loved being an Elk.

But what Parker loved, most of all, was the idea of being not just an Elk, but being the Elk. The Bossman. Chief Cheese. Head Honcho. Hoss. El Presidente.

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Problem was, Marty Brennigan was the sitting Elks Club president. Marty Brennigan had been the president forever and everyone loved Marty Brennigan, so the chances of Marty Brennigan not being Elks Club president were planted firmly somewhere between “nu-uh” and “fat chance.”

Which meant only one thing, as far as Parker was concerned: Marty Brennigan had to die.