Tag Archives: revenge

Short Story: Funny Story About Gun Shots

Funny Story About Gun Shots

By Surya Gemilang

Pajenong was putting on deodorant in front of the mirror, listening to the newsreader on television describe the continuing increase in rape cases across the city over the past year, when Sarimin’s gun suddenly pumped a bullet into the back of his head. Pajenong collapsed instantly.

After sneaking into the apartment and watching the owner quietly from under the bed, Sarimin crawled out and examined Pajenong’s cellphone. The cellphone screensaver was showing “Date with Vianna at nine o’clock at Cafe X” written in white Times New Roman font against a black background.

To get to the phone desktop, Sarimin would have to enter the correct PIN. If Sarimin succeeded in entering the correct PIN, he was definitely going to send a message to Vianna saying, “Sorry, honey, I can’t make our date today. All of a sudden I want to break up with you. By the way, I think Sarimin is the most suitable man for you.” Sarimin then tried entering several PINs at random. When Pajenong’s cellphone was blocked, Sarimin threw it through the open window, couldn’t have cared less about the head of anyone who might have been hit by the cellphone as it plunged freely from a height of ten stories.

In the end Sarimin didn’t know what else to do. Initially he had intended to come into Pajenong’s apartment armed with a gun, but with absolutely no plan to kill him. He planned only to emerge from under the bed suddenly, scare Pajenong, force him to cancel his date with Vianna, and force him to break up with her. But the sudden anger eating away inside his head had made Sarimin reach out uncontrollably from under the bed and shoot Pajenong in the back of the head, without time to think about how to secure his victim’s body, or how to save himself if he were pursued by the police.

What Sarimin did then, after staring at the clock on the wall showing seven o’clock in the evening, was to move quickly toward Pajenong’s body and kick him violently with the result that he hurt his own foot. Sarimin considered the kicks revenge for the rape that Pajenong had committed against Vianna. Then Sarimin fired the remaining six bullets in his gun until Pajenong’s head was completely destroyed. He thought of the shots as an outlet for his frustration, because he just could not understand why Vianna had wanted to date the man who had raped her.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door to Pajenong’s apartment. The sound of gunfire must have caught the attention of someone who happened to be near the door. A terrible jolt instantly struck Sarimin’s heart because he wasn’t ready to go to prison at all. A cold sweat broke out and began to run down his body as if his skin was leaking.

Then a moment later there was another knock at the door, louder this time. Straight away Sarimin moved quickly to close the bedroom door, turn off the television, and roll Pajenong’s body under the bed. He returned Pajenong’s deodorant to its original place after cleaning off the blood with some tissues. Then he cleaned away the traces of the death from the floor with a towel that he grabbed from the wardrobe and hurled it under the bed too.

Sarimin thought about stepping quietly to the door and peeking at the person who was knocking. But hearing the next much louder knock made him change his mind about approaching the door because he felt the knocking sounded threatening, like the knock of a debt collector on the door of the house of a debtor who hasn’t made any payments on a debt for a very long time. 

Sarimin regretted that he’d used up all his bullets. The regret was just as heavy as when he’d expressed his love to Vianna two weeks ago, resulting in the complete destruction of the friendship they’d been hiding for years out of shame. “Oh, if only that night I had decided to stay quiet, Vianna would not have become angry. She wouldn’t have run out of the house, wouldn’t have met Pajenong in the middle of the road, wouldn’t have been raped in the car. And it wouldn’t have led to the murder I committed here that day,” Sarimin thought.

This time the door didn’t sounded like someone knocking, rather it sounded like someone bashing hard. But it hadn’t come off its hinges yet. Sarimin’s heart almost flew out the open window, which if used to escape now, would definitely mean he was committing suicide. Sarimin also glanced around, looking for anything he could use to save himself, baseball bat, golf club, lamp stand.

Being hit with one of those objects should be quite painful. But it immediately crosses his mind that all that might not necessarily save him if it turned out there were more than one person waiting on the other side of the door. He wondered if maybe he should explain carefully to the person banging on the door that Pajenong deserved to be killed, exactly because he raped Vianna and had then arrogantly called him to boast about the rape?

But killing was just as bad, Sarimin continued thinking to himself. Finally Sarimin’s gaze fell on a large wardrobe. Just as there was the sound of the front door being smashed down, Sarimin without thinking climbed inside the wardrobe. The sweet fragrance of all Pajenong’s clothes fills the inside of the closet, reminding him of the scent of the fragrant flowers sprinkled on to a coffin.

Then he began to hear the sound of footsteps outside. Very light footsteps, as if the owner of the feet were trying to step through the air before ambushing an opponent from above. Even though Sarimin was very frightened, he was still able to focus on what he was hearing, and he could conclude that it was the sound of one person’s footsteps. There could not be more than that. And because there was only one person, Sarimin should be able to climb out of the cupboard right then and fight the person, or simply point a gun at him as he stepped away from the apartment. But neither of these possibilities would be easy. The person out there had to be a strong and brave person, as evidenced by how he was brave enough to break into the apartment.

A few moments later the sound of footsteps suddenly disappeared. There was no way the person had left the apartment. If he had gone, what Sarimin should have heard was the sound of footsteps growing softer and softer, then disappearing, rather than vanishing all at once. The person must be able to fly! Then the door to the wardrobe could be heard being locked from the outside.

***

Vianna had been going to shoot Pajenong when they met at Cafe X at nine o’clock later that night, without caring what the people around her would do. But Vianna had been in a hurry and wasn’t able wait to slay Pajenong because she was so angry. So she had decided to take a taxi and go straight to the apartment of her ex-boyfriend armed with a gun, where the radio was broadcasting the news of the continuing increase in the number of rape cases in the city over the past year. She arrived at her destination at seven o’clock in the evening.

As no one would open the door, Vianna pounded on the door to Pajenong’s apartment until it broke. She surprised herself that she could be that strong. Instead of finding a surprised Pajenong, Vianna discovered that there was no one there. Maybe Pajenong had sensed that she was going to come and kill him, so he was hiding now. The woman then stepped inside very slowly, as if she was stepping through the air before ambushing Pajenong from above.

Pajenong’s apartment was not very large, so it did not take Vianna long to finish searching every corner. She found no one. Not even under the bed. As she sat on the edge of the bed, Vianna wondered whether Pajenong was had been so eager for their date that he had already left for Cafe X?

Suddenly something somehow made her gaze lock onto the wardrobe. Her body suddenly shivered. With a silent step, Vianna approached the cupboard, then locked the door. Next she took several steps back, drew a deep breath, and pumped out the seven bullets in her gun.

Blood dripped from the crack under the cupboard door.

Vianna smiled coldly, dropped her gun on the floor, then left the apartment feeling peaceful.

***

Vianna still went to Cafe X at nine that evening. She celebrated her glorious victory by ordering expensive food. While waiting for the food she had ordered, she took out her cellphone, looked up a trusted news site, and read the news about the continuing increase in rape cases in the city over the past year.

She suddenly missed Sarimin and imagined the man sitting across from her. She thought, “Ah, I shouldn’t have been angry at the time. There’s nothing wrong with him falling in love…”

Just as the food arrived, Vianna noticed a well-dressed man enter the cafe. The man waved at her as he approached. Vianna’s breath suddenly froze. And she almost passed out as Pajenong sat down in front of her, face covered in freshly-dried scars.

 


Surya Gemilang, Funny Story About Gun Shots (Humor Tentang Tembakan-Tembakan) was published in Kompas daily newspaper on 8 March 2020. [Retrieved from https://lakonhidup.com/2019/10/13/menembak-mati-tujuh-orang]

Surya Gemilang was born in Denpasar, Bali, on March 21, 1998. His books include: Chasing Shooting Stars (Mengejar Bintang Jatuh) (a collection of short stories, 2015), How to Love Monsters (Cara Mencintai Monster) (a collection of poems, 2017), A Taste of Death (Mencicipi Kematian) (a collection of poems, 2018), and Looking for a Head for Mother (Mencari Kepala untuk Ibu) (a collection of short stories, 2019). His other writings can be found in more than 10 mixed anthologies and numerous media publications.

Featured image credit: Cafe Batavia by Prayitno

Short Story: The Poetic Journey of a Contract Hitman

The Poetic Journey of a Contract Hitman

By Surya Gemilang

It’s kind of strange because the person who needs my services this time is a teenage high school boy, not a government official, or someone like that, quite apart from how he finds out where I live, or where he gets the sort of dough he needs to pay me. And also the person I have to bump off isn’t an important person, not someone who if he get killed is going to seriously destabilize some country for example. Instead it’s an Indonesian language teacher who teaches my teenage customer’s class.

“Why do you want this guy bumped off?” I ask sharply, because I think this kid has turned up here not so serious. “Don’t tell me just because you got hung out to dry in the schoolyard, or because you got a bad exam score.”

“His crime was much worse, Mister Hitman,” says the high school kid, obviously with an expression that shows me clearly how badly he wants this guy bumped off. “He stole the poems I submitted for an assignment.”

“Hah? What do you mean?”

The teenage kid explains more or less like this. A month ago, the Indonesian language teacher told his students to write three poems to be submitted the following week. Like a good student, my young customer does the work and hands it up on time. Funny thing is, three weeks after he hands it up, he come across his three assignment poems published in the writing column of a national newspaper, in the name of the Indonesian language teacher!

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for my poems to be published in that newspaper…” he continues, his voice is getting, like, real emotional.

***

The day after the high school kid gives me the address of the Indonesian language teacher’s home, straight away I go to the address; not to bump him off, but first to check out the joint non-stop for a few days. As a professional hitman, of course, I have to figure out how to pop the teacher as neatly as possible, how to get away from the neighborhood where he lives without getting seen by nobody, anything I have to be careful of around the place, and things like that.

I conclude that knocking the Indonesian language teacher off is not going to be that hard, in fact, it’s going to be much, much easier than taking out some random mayor, minister, president, or such like.

My target is only a 40-year-old teacher who, aside from spending ordinary days at school, is always busy at his house correcting student papers, reading poetry books, and writing poetry until he starts to cry. This is serious. He doesn’t have any children or a wife. I think all he wants to do is “give” his life to poetry. And, also, the housing complex where he lives is very quiet.

“I’ve checked it out enough,” I explain to the high school kid when he arrives again at my house to nail down the way I work. “Tomorrow night he’s going to die horribly. And as a bonus, I’m going to take some of his poetry collections for you.”

“Thank you, Mister Hitman. But, if you don’t mind, as well as dying horribly, I also want him to die poetically.”

Even though I don’t completely get the phrase “die poetically” I reply, “Even though I ain’t no poet, the jobs I do are always more poetic than poetry.” I myself don’t really understand the phrase “more poetic than poetry”, but I say this on purpose just so it sounds poetical, and so it makes my young customer happy.

***

That night the Indonesian language teacher is writing poetry on his laptop, and I am standing behind him without him knowing it. I have equipped myself with a ball of nylon thread, instead of the silenced pistol I used to use. In fact the hit I am about to do will be a little harder, but that will just give it a feeling that is more poetic. And, just as the high school kid asked, as the Indonesian language teacher struggles to take his last breath, I am going to say the lines of the poem I’ve been memorizing since yesterday in his ear:

In a moment the last guest will arrive
who you will welcome joyfully:
death

You will open the door for him
a second after there’s a rough knock
then you’ll both exchange smiles

It was one of the poems written by the high school kid that he composed for his assignment — for some reason, I can’t remember the title — the poem that is expected to make the Indonesian language teacher realize immediately at the last moment, why he is being murdered.

I think this is going to be my stupidest job, and not so manly… But what the hell.

I step slowly closer to the teacher to snare his neck from behind when suddenly he turns around and spits right into my face. Damn! Like out of the blue, I’m so shocked that I freeze for a moment while I feel the saliva between my eyes, saliva cold like the ocean at night.

“Feel the spit that is filled with poetry,” the teacher says.

My heart is suddenly pounding so hard, like it’s going to explode. A sensation spreads quickly from my face to my whole body. I don’t know what the right word is for the sensation. What is clear, after the sensation stopped spreading, suddenly…

the hand of the wind smashes the windowpane
and crashes into my heart
the clock that beats calmly
grips my stomach
until the words expressing pain
erupt from every pore in my body

suddenly someone knocked on the door
at my back, with
an unusual tenderness:
him, the last guest

My whole body is so weak that I cannot do anything except lie on the floor, staring…

the ceiling laughs aloud
to see my withered body
from its mouth is visible
a shower of spears that soon arrive

I’ve almost been killed a couple of times while doing a job, but this time it feels very different. I don’t feel suffering, but instead, I enjoy it! Damn it!

Then the Indonesian teacher squats down beside me. He laughs, then says, “And now the last guest arrives who you welcome joyfully: death.”

***

The next morning, when the high school teenager finds a sheet of A4 paper on the ground at the front door of his house, he almost accidentally steps on it in his school shoes. For a moment he squints as he stares at the contents of the sheet of paper before bursting into tears. No. He’s not crying out of sadness. He is just so moved to see the hitman’s corpse wrapped up so poetically.

 


Surya Gemilang, The Poetic Journey of a Contract Hitman (Perjalanan Puitis Seorang Pembunuh Bayaran) was published in Koran Tempo daily newspaper on 7-8 March 2020. [Retrieved from https://lakonhidup.com/2019/10/13/menembak-ati-tujuh-orang]

Surya Gemilang was born in Denpasar, Bali, on March 21, 1998. His books include: Chasing Shooting Stars (Mengejar Bintang Jatuh) (a collection of short stories, 2015), How to Love Monsters (Cara Mencintai Monster) (a collection of poems, 2017), A Taste of Death (Mencicipi Kematian) (a collection of poems, 2018), and Looking for a Head for Mother (Mencari Kepala untuk Ibu) (a collection of short stories, 2019). His other writings can be found in more than 10 mixed anthologies and numerous media publications.

Featured image credit: Mother’s Prayer by Mark Chaves