Sean Beaudoin

Enough excellent writing to fill a large tube sock

My Books:



How Dalton Came To School

Dalton Rev thundered into the parking lot of Salt River High, a squat brick building at the top of a grassless hill that looked more like the last stop of the hopeless than a springboard to the college of your choice. His black scooter wove through groups of students waiting for the first bell, muffler growling like a defective chainsaw. In Dalton’s line of work it was vital to make a good first impression, especially if by good you meant utterly intimidating.

He parked away from a pool of mud, chained his helmet to the tire, and unzipped his leather jacket. Underneath was a crisp white dress shirt with a black tie. His work uniform. It tended to keep people guessing. And guessing was good. A few extra seconds could mean the difference between being stomped to jelly or not, some steroid case busy wondering what kind of loser wears a tie with steel-toe boots?

Dalton did.

He was, after all, a professional.

Who’d come to do a job. That involved a body.

Wrapped in duct tape and found hanging from the goal posts.

Just the thought of it made him wince.

People have problems. Solve them for cash.
Also, try not to wince so much.

Once Dalton figured out why The Body was at the morgue instead of snoring its way through algebra, he’d be gone. But first he needed to get paid. And until a big wad of folding green was tucked safely into his boot, he was Salt River’s newest transfer fish.

"Hey, new fish!" some kid yelled. "Gay tie!"

Other kids tried to crowd around without appearing to, hoping for a scene, but Dalton ignored them, turning toward a chrome sandwich truck in the corner of the parking lot. He walked slowly through knots of rich girls and dice gamers, past gangly kids with nowhere to hide their length and scruffy rockers twirling Papermate drumsticks. Dalton’s cropped hair gleamed under the sun, dark eyes hooded with a practiced laconic expression. Long hours of practice. In the mirror. Going for a look that said justifiably ruthless.

Or at least ruthless-ish.

Be enigmatic. Be mysterious. Never explain.

And, Twitter too… Also on Facebook

“Whether it’s beer, flu, or too many Cheetos, never, ever, ever pass out at a party. Ever.”

site design: Juxtaprose