Of Bars And Bakeries

• Kalani Steele, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2015

The night is cold and the streets are empty. It’s a good thing for sure. People don’t normally take too well to seeing corpses dragged about town. Or any kind of corpse, I s’pose.

Now I know what you’re thinking. It’s cold; you hope I remembered a jacket. Thanks for the concern, but don’t worry ‘bout me. I don’t much feel the cold.

What’s that? You’re more concerned with the body and whether I’m a murderer? Well, now you’re just being judgemental. Just because a guy takes a corpse for a walk at 2AM, he’s a murderer? I mean, I am, but you shouldn’t believe in stereotypes. It’s rude.

What’s that? You want to know why I’ve murdered someone? Matter o’ fact, I didn’t do this one. Waltzed into my mate Bill’s bar, calm as you like, and blew her own brains out she did. Old Bill though, coppers told ‘im they’ll shut ‘im down if there’re any more incidents.

So ‘e says to me, “We been friends awhile, mate. We go way back. Thing is, I’m old now. Can’t take care o’ this like I would’ve in the ol’ days. Please, don’t let me get shut down, mate, this place is my heart and soul.” And I said to ‘im, “o’ course, Bill. We go way back.”

So ‘ere I am, helping Bill cover up his latest incident (Oi, don’t judge Bill’s Bar). I’m in a bit o’ a pickle though. What to do with the body? Coppers found all the usual spots a few months back, thanks to a tip off from Bill’s estranged son. So where?
Then it hits me.

I take the girl (pretty young thing, such a waste) to the bakery on 12th. I know what you’re thinking. What has the poor baker done to warrant his shop burning down? Well, ‘e’s been successful, for one. I used to own a baker, then the scum stole all my business and I had to close. This is two birds with one stone.

The door’s locked, obviously, so I scoop the little thing up, and swing ‘er body into the window, tossin’ ‘er in when it shatters. I’ve got ‘er blood all o’er me, so I strip down to my underwear and socks, throwing the rest in after her. Damn shame, I was mighty fond o’ those shoes.

Having a pyromaniac for a sister comes in handy at time like this, so I give ‘er a quick ring. She don’t take well to being woken up at a time like this, but she’ll do anything to set something ablaze.
You’d like ‘er, I reckon. Fiery lass.

She shows up ‘bout ten minutes later, lugging a bottle of gasoline, which we sprinkle through the shop. She hands me the matches, but I tell ‘er to do the honours.

And boy, the place goes up in flames pretty fast; just like m’ hopes and dreams for m’ own bakery.