“Too Damn Loud:” a flash fiction story
If only he could make him turn it down…
Ernie did it. Disguised as a maintenance worker, he broke into the penthouse apartment of the vacationing real estate CEO, cracked his safe, and stole over five hundred thousand dollars in cash and valuables. He stowed it within his sack, entered the elevator and pushed the ground floor button.
It began its slow descent.
On the thirty-first floor, another guy boarded. He was blond, and wore a suit and tie. Probably a resident.
His cellphone played music.
Christ. Why do people do this without headphones? When Ernie was young, Walkmans were hip. Everyone wore them, on their waist, or their shoulder when jogging, but they also wore headphones. Having your own music that you could listen to while on to the go was cool, but no one blasted it around other people. Well, not unless you were in a park or at the beach or someplace like that. Outdoors, not within a tight space.
Twenty-fourth floor. Ernie gritted his teeth.
He opened his mouth to tell this turd to turn the music down, but the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. To Blondie, he was just a maintenance worker, probably beneath his notice. Ernie had to stay that way.
People acted like such dummies with these things. Cellphones were a great invention—Ernie owned a Samsung Galaxy—but between knuckleheads gazing at them while walking and thumping into others, or friends scrolling on TikTok while eating with other friends, or especially this, Ernie had reached his fill of the rudeness it brought out, everywhere he went.
Seventeenth floor. Two more people boarded. Ernie moved to the back and fidgeted.
Blondie’s music kept playing, but the others in the elevator minded their own business. Didn’t they care? Wasn’t it irritating them too?
Ernie hunched his shoulders. The sack remained at his feet, unnoticed.
If they were on the train, or in a diner, Ernie would grab that cell out of this guy’s hands and smash it to the floor. If he tried to fight him, Ernie would kick his ass. This had to happen now, of all times!
Tenth floor. More passengers entered the elevator. Ernie’s back pressed to the corner.
Now Blondie hummed along with the song. Still no one shut him up. Ernie would get away clean and never see Blondie again, but hearing him was torture. Something had to be done.
But the money!
The hell with that. Blondie needed a lesson. One that would stick.
Ground floor. Ernie whipped out his gun and shot Blondie in the hand, shattering his cell into pieces. Everyone bolted when the doors opened.
Ernie grabbed his sack and sprinted for the front doors—into the path of a pair of cops. They pointed guns at him. He must’ve tripped a silent alarm while cracking the safe. Damn.
The cops arrested him. But at least Blondie would know better next time he blasts a cellphone in public.