Mini Prose: Bad Radio

Every Sunday during the blues program, Rey writes. He likes blues so much that he always switches on two radios: one in the office and one in the living room. Therefore, he doesn't miss a note, even if he changes rooms.

When the show is over, he switches off the set within his reach and automatically starts upon hearing the other one.

As on every Sunday, tonight, the writer forgets the second radio. Surprise! Fats Waller sings in the parlor. Rey turns the office radio back on. It broadcasts ads. Puzzled, he heads to the other room. Has interference modified the frequency? No, the little white line covers the right number. Rey delicately twists the button to the left, then to the right. Despite the fact that the marker passes every number, it's always Fats Waller's jovial voice and his bittersweet musical style.

That's it; he got duped. Last week, Rey fell in love with this transistor radio of the sixties, which from now on replaces the one in the living room. Stubby, appealing, the set has three big dials on its base. Rey owns a jammed radio, but at least it shows good taste. He's about to go back to work when the song ends.

A cold and authoritarian voice declares:

“We must first kill him.”

Interested, Rey sits on the sofa.

“We do it now, and it's all set. Clear?”

A nervous voice replies to the first:

“Yes, Budward.”

“Hide behind the curtains, I'll be inside the bathroom. When he gets back, you stay put while I walk out and shoot. At that moment only, you turn up, and you finish the job.”

“Okay, okay. Are you sure I have to fire, too?” says the nervous one.

“Listen to me, Fons. It's your decision, and you'd better settle at once. If you're gonna chicken out, get out right now, but don't come begging afterwards. So, what's it gonna be?”

“You can count on me, Bud.”

“Fine. Now quiet!”

Rey holds his breath, promising himself to occasionally replace the television series he watches with this kind of program.

At this point, the radio does not produce any sound; neither dialogue nor music. Only the silence, increasingly oppressive. Perhaps the device had stopped working? As Rey stands up, he does not know that he's the one about to stop working. A man emerges from the bathroom, quick as lightning, wielding a gun. One would swear a criminal from a film noir, with his dark suit, his white shirt, and hat. Rey freezes, stupefied, and then perceives a rustle. Fons emerges, ready to close with his target.

A brutal explosion deafens the writer. They fired both at the same time. Rey slumps and his head hits the ground. A mix of blood and cerebrospinal liquid pour on the floor. Slowly, he sinks into the unconsciousness that will lead him to death. The two gangsters vanish into thin air; things are back to normal. The radio broadcasts Rey's funeral hymn in the shape of an ad for a pizza delivery company.