Have you ever wanted to read near-future, alternate-earth Battlestar Galactica fan fiction that stars Paul Brooks? Want no more!
It was 5:37 a.m. in Los Angeles. The sun rose slowly in the west, setting the Pacific Ocean on fire. Paul thumbed through Tinder, wishing his date from last night would vanish from his sheets, melt back into the sea of digital noise.
She’s been here too long, he thought. The room is starting to smell different.
Paul knew he shouldn’t have had that last PBR but he grudgingly admitted to himself that the cycle will repeat tonight. He didn’t reprimand himself though. At that moment, blinded by the western sun piercing through the blinds, he was just too hung over and tired to care.
Paul slid out of bed without waking her. He longed for that fresh-out-of-the-shower feeling without wanting to do the work. He was happy to find just enough coffee grounds to make a cup of Ronald’s Lite, his favorite.
“Hey Mac,” his date said, yawning from the mess of sheets.
“It’s Paul,” he replied. In the span of a breath he imagined murdering her a dozen different ways.
More than anything Paul wanted to be alone in his room with his cat, a working air conditioner and about eight more hours of sleep. His dream did not include this bedraggled Tinderella.
“Are you from here?” she asked, clearly not remembering their conversation from last night.
“No one’s from Los Angeles,” he replied. “Caprica City.”
“Go Seabucs,” she said, rolling over bare-assed. Lords of Kobol, he wanted her gone.
A few coffee grounds fell into his mug. Perfect.
Paul grabbed a tiny spoon from the drawer and went fishing for the dark specks. With his other hand he absent-mindedly flipped through Tinder, glancing at every third image. Finally one caught his eye. It was the familiar face he’d been looking for. Just then he felt the woman’s warm hands slide around his waist from behind. She rested her chin on his shoulder. Paul dropped his phone into his pocket.
“Got any plans today?” she whispered then nibbled his earlobe.
“Yeah, I have a meeting.” He turned around. Her rat nest of blond, curly hair was in perfect fashion for a walk of shame. She stuck out her lower lip. It was a cute pout Paul was totally not in the mood for. He sighed. Time to get down to business.
“What’s for breakfast?” she asked in her cute voice.
“Burnt toast,” Paul replied as he chucked the scalding hot coffee into her face. The girl screamed and clawed at her eyes. She tumbled backward over his chair, narrowly missing his cat, Saul. Paul casually reached behind a cereal box and pulled his pistol. Her shrieks were unbearable to his booze-dried brain. Her spine was glowing hot red.
Paul dropped his knee onto the back of her neck, pinning her to the ground. He put the pistol to the back of her head and pulled the trigger without saying word. Now he had THAT to clean up. New rule: get a hotel room if you’re going to have fun with the cylons before killing them.
Paul pulled his phone from his pocket. Blood had seeped through his pants so he used his shirt to clean off the screen. He checked Tinder for his new girl. She was identical to the one he just shot except for her straight dark hair. It was going to be a long night and Paul knew he’d better make his introduction…
One Reply to “Burnt Toast”
Good story, but did you ever think that the cylon’s picture could have been stolen from Facebook and used to Catfish unwary users??? Maybe the girl wasn’t actually a cylon and had the glowing spine put in as a replacement for the one that was crushed by a falling building at the end of the first cylon war? The poor thing!