The people stood around, watching and waiting for the act to start. A man was to walk a rope, tightly nonetheless, across a giant fountain. The crew was harnessed in, holding the ropes for his long rope- they didn’t want him to die. At least, that’s what the final report said.
Guards stood at all ends, as there was in fact no net or way to save him and if something went wrong they’d have to quickly rush him to the hospital. His name? Why does it matter? Call him John Doe. John Hancock. Hancock Malkovich. Who the fuck cares?
Word was, though, that this John Hancock Malkovich owed someone money. Big money. Had to do this stunt to earn it, and it wasn’t even going to be enough.
And oh, the people he owed? Was already on it. They wanted to make sure everything looked just fine for this stunt. After all, his father had done it close to 40 years earlier and it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to. Except he really didn’t know how to, and had only practiced for the last few months in order to prepare.
And they knew this. They set up the perimeter knowing this.
“Perimeter is clear in F1,” a clerk standing at an outside cart said into his watch.
“Check, F2 clear,” another said, holding his hand to the side of his nose.
“B1 clear,” one said, while yawning.
“B2 dub fub fin.”
They started announcing his start, and then quieted down as he walked across. Nobody cared as they walked right past the people holding the ropes steady, breezing them and hoping they’d slip and make the guy fall to his untimely death. But, that’s not what the final report said.
He moved across the first part fairly quickly, moving towards the F1 clerk. Seemed good. No, it was good. All was good.
“We have movement,” the F1 clerk said, “tall, dark and asshole.”
“I have visual confirmation,” F2 said, touching the side of his sunglasses, “clear for weapons.”
John Hancock Malkovitch was in the middle of his stunt now, his pot belly not stopping him from his accomplishment and the thought of debts being paid off dancing across his mind. The crew held steady, it had been 15 minutes, and the clerks still were selling and scouring the crowd of careless people.
Three out of four of the way there, commonly known as three fourths. Beauty, it was, as the sky was gray with the threat of rain and a random thunderbolt came crashing down- at least in bystanders’ minds- to take care of this daredevil.
“I hope he falls!” some of them yelled, to make sure he heard. Maybe he’d then fall.
“I’m not sure if I’m going to watch or not if he falls,” a manager said to a clerk, who said they were watching and loved the sight of blood. Especially because the children would freak out, be scarred for the rest of their life, and he’d get a kick out of it all. Especially if he fell right in front of him and the blood splattered.
“I just want to see this fountain turn red with blood, so we can go home after it’s all over,” the clerk said.
“We have movement,” clerk B2 said as he started moving towards the guy and touching his sunglasses to assure there was no weapon. He was clean, but they were interested in something else.
“I have a bogey near you F2,” an ominous voice transmitted to all of them.
“Searching,” he said looking around, “Nothing detected. What’s going on?”
Within seconds a couple of kids walked by bouncing a basketball. A carriage on the other side of the street had a crying baby in it, ready for lunch. A man at the front gate looked into the park to see our John Malkovitch falling off. All he could hear was a dud, and hundreds of people freaking out.
The F1 clerk quickly shut down his area and got people to move away from the sides to make room for the rescuers. The crew just stood there still holding the rope, frozen in position. At least all but one, who had fallen to the ground. They were unsure if it was before or after he fell though.
He was still alive, luckily, and quickly was put on a stretcher. He gave a broken thumbs up as he was brought along the crowd. Two shots rang out killing him. The four clerks hit their sunglasses and scanned.
Then more shots.
“I see hi-“ F1 was shot.
“Where’s his loc-“ F2 was shot.
“Guys?” B1 was shot.
“He’s nearby, I’ve got sight!” but B2 was already shot before he started to even try running.
The big banner with John Malkovitch’s name on it fell down. Below it was graffiti that said “DON’T MESS WITH US.”
A man in a baseball cap with two kids left through metal detectors. Nothing went off. Probably because they didn’t have a gun. At least, that’s what the final report said.
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