Meh, I suck at flash-fiction, but I'll give it a go...
{Note: the Italian used in this short wont be found in most dictionaries, but is accurate to the best of my knowledge (spelling might be a little off). Learned most of it from my Italian friend. Also note: If you're Italian, this'll probably be a
lot more offensive than I intended. Sorry...}
{Another note: I keep getting odd discrepancies between word-counters.
This one counts 365,
this one counts 408 and my word-processor,
Jarte counts 387. And both the first and second count Ben's entry slightly higher than 350, too. Ben, which counter did you use? In any case, Moony, if you think this is too long I'll shave it down. Probably should anyway...}
{A third and final note: Shaved it down a bit, and it's now the exact same word count as Ben's, whatever that might be (342 on the javascriptkit, which is what I usually go by)}
BackswashAndrea hated the beach. It was always littered with loud, opulent tourists eating ice-creams and sandy sandwiches filled with more sand than meat. It was a blue-and-gold hell. Andrea stopped walking and turned to his friend, Benito.
"Eh, Benelli, what
cazzo is this,
amico? Why'd you call me here?"
"Beh," he shrugged. "You work too hard, Andrea. You should take time out to... smell the roses, as they say. How's Angelica?"
Andrea scowled and threw his hands into the air. "
Figa d'Oro! Always trying to change me, Benito. Like she's too good for me."
"She
is too good for you, Andrea," he laughed.
"
Cagacazzo..."
"You swear too much, Andrea. It makes me feel like you're not happy."
Andrea shook his head, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. "I'm content, Benelli--"
"Benito. We're friends, Andrea -- call me Benito."
They continued walking. They headed towards the pier. The setting sun sent flares of brilliant oranges and pinks blossoming over the horizon, reflecting off the rippling ocean. Benito walked to the edge, leaning over the railing to look down the cliff-face. Meanwhile, the sharp winds slashed Andrea's face and chilled him to the bones.
"It's so beautiful here, isn't it?" Benito said, his voice oddly melancholy.
"What's wrong, Benelli?"
Benito sighed. "I hear you've been doing jobs for my uncle."
Andrea nodded enthusiastically. "
Si,
qui e là. I helped with the Sicily shipment."
"I hear it didn't go so well," he said, his tone suddenly grave.
Andrea shrugged. "Boh, it went fine. We lost a few men, but we got the whole load."
"Andrea, don't you realise what you're getting in to? My uncle is a dangerous man. This cannot end well for you."
"
Che palle, I can take care of myself, Benelli."
Benito turned away from the burning horizon and looked Andrea in the eye. "I wish it were that easy,
amico," he said, and pulled out a revolver.
"What are you doing!"
"Because of your brashness, Andrea, the
Cosa Nostra found out about our operation."
"But Be-Benito, we're friends!"
"I'm sorry," Benito said, and pulled the trigger, twice. After a pause, he turned back to the horizon with tears in his eyes.
