Suzie
Mystery Flash Fiction
Written by Patrick D. McNamara
October 27, 2023
11:51 PM
The man sat at a bench, briefcase in hand. The autumn leaves blew past him in the wind. He sat there in the dark, the nearest light post being broken. He waited, the late-night Washington Square Park not feeling too friendly.
A rustle in the bush behind him startled the man. He watched in frozen terror as a large black pit bull emerged. It had a rough appearance, missing an eye on account of a large scar running up its face. It didn’t snarl, didn’t make any quick movements, but certainly knew the man was there.
After gripping his briefcase and preparing to defend himself against this stray, he heard a voice in his head.
“Trent,” it said in a low female timbre, “Thank you for delivering my package. I hope the man at the oddity shop was kind to you.”
Trent thought to himself, “Am I crazy or did this dog just talk to me?”
The pit bull smiled and barked. “Yes and yes,” the voice said to him. “Now, the delivery, please.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” thought Trent, “But neither did the rest of my day.”
Earlier, Trent had visited his favorite antiques shop in lower Manhattan, and another patron handed him a wet chicken foot suspended with metal wire in a mason jar. He asked Trent to bring it to Washington Square Park at two o’clock in the morning tonight. His client would be there to pick it up. When Trent was about to turn the bizarre task down, the man insisted, and gave him $400 in cash. Said there would be a greater reward if he went through with it.
And now, we’re here. The dog approached Trent cautiously and he recoiled, still unsure if the voice in his head was a hallucination and he wasn’t talking to a fucking dog.
The pit bull nudged the briefcase, and knowing it could likely smell the contents, Trent opened it up. He unwrapped the protective towels surrounding the jar and picked it up, chicken foot and all. The dog gently opened its mouth, and Trent did what he considered insane: handing the jar off to the dog.
Gripping the jar in its mouth, the canine turned and trotted away. “Many thanks, traveler,” the voice said. “Check the bush I came from for your final reward.”
Trent stood up and made his way to the back of the bush, where a duffel bag full of a variety of mushrooms sat partially opened. From what little he knew of mycology, he could tell that the specimens came from all over the world, but somehow appeared to be freshly picked. Some were psychoactive, some were benign but edible, and most of them were totally unfamiliar.
Trent understood that this arrangement of fungi was extremely rare, something that must have taken extreme effort and resources. It appeared as though this would be his payment for the odd job.
Not a bad deal at all.
He carefully zipped up the bag and made his way out of the park. Trent couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder to check if he was being followed, but there wasn’t another soul between him and the car he parked in the West Village.
Once he threw the bag in the trunk, he pulled out of the parking spot and drove like a grandpa all the way to his apartment. No one was going to pull him over and take his prizes away from him.