SlamFiction: Ron Stone- Part 3

So, I have decided that setting an end to this might take a little longer than I had initially planned, however, once it is all said and done, I'm hoping to possibly put the whole story out as a free eBook... However donations would still be accepted... Might be fun to have tho whole thing in a single file for people that aren't me.

So, would anyone be interested in the story as an eBook? Lemme know.

As always, it is best to read the previous section before starting here... Click here to read Part 2. Or if you've already read the previous sections, hit the jump to see what happens next.

It has become something of a cliché for folk to say, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” I think the person who said that never had any actual lemons handed to them. I mean, sure... If your windshield wipers go out, or the elevator at your apartment is broken, and you have to walk up fifteen flights of steps, go ahead and make that fucking lemonade.

When a man dies in your lap, after flying through the windshield of the taxi that was taking you to the bus that would take you back home, that is not a lemonade sort of moment. I think it is safe to say, that is a “cry in your shower while shaking uncontrollably and dry-heaving” sort of moment, don't you?

I don't know how long I was there. The hot water in this building was infamously spotty, so the fact that the water was freezing meant absolutely nothing to me. All I knew was there was a rather insistent pounding coming from the door, a pounding that was loud enough to bring me back to reality.

“Just a second,” I shouted as I slowly got to my feet. “I'm in the shower.”

The pounding only became more insistent, there was a frenzied quality to it. The knocks came faster and at a more irregular pace. I turned off the water, and slid into the tattered old bathrobe I had stolen from a hotel years ago, if you looked hard enough, you could still see the faded remnants of the hotels logo right above my left breast.

“Hold your horses. I'm coming.”

More pounding, faster still.

“For fuck's sake, man, I said I was coming.”

There is no medicine quite like anger, to boil the blood, and make you forget the soul-crushing reality of the last couple hours. Some small part of me wanted to thank the jackass at the door. Another part of me wanted nothing more then to kick him in the crotch, and make him stop.

I was just about ready to open the door, when the baseball bat came crashing through, showering me in splinters.

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