Dunce Bag Novels & Stories

Yune added. “Huh? Anti what?” I asked. “Anti-theft,” Yune replied. “Because that bag is made of a very durable fabric.” “It's that word again. What does 'durable' mean?” I asked. “Durable, any thief with a knife or any sharp thing can't tear or pierce that bag so it's expensive,” Yune replied. I was surprised again when I found that out and looked at the bag I was holding. “It's a pity Ate Xania if you just give it away. That bag belongs to you because of your hair quills.”

The Bunker was a surplus store squeezed between a tire shop and a diner on Route 9. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully as we walked in, The clerk, a bearded man was wearing a "Don't Tread On Me" hat, glanced up from his newspaper. His eyes widened at the sight of us. Dante carried a duffel bag filled with guns. Sloane looked like a mercenary, Bianca wore thrift store clothes that didn’t fit quite right.

Dante closes his eyes, and I watch as he adjusts his jeans. Ten minutes later and I have tried every item on, and Dante looks ready to kill someone. Mainly Gunner for getting me to do this. “This bag next little kitten.” He holds out the bag, and I take it. As I turn, he stops me. “All of it, and bring out the accessory. I want to use it.” I stare at him, confused. As I turn and walk through, I hear Bear and Gunner laugh. Shutting the door, I pull out the lingerie, peepholes, fucking peepholes! I stare in the bag, pulling out the box, my eyes taking it in.

“Blood evidence here. Take a sample for comparison.” The officer turned to look at Mom. “Your son has an injury to the back of his head. How do you explain it?” Mom’s fingers twisted together. “The day before yesterday, he wouldn’t listen and I gave him a push. He bumped into the cabinet. He didn’t cry or say it hurt at the time. I thought he was fine.” Dad struggled against the restraints on the coffee table. “He has congenital analgesia! He can’t feel pain! Didn’t you know that?”

I’d say they belong to weapons or expensive tech or I don’t know—jif my memory serves me right, it’s where they store bodies that don’t need to breathe anymore. Given Dante’s track record, that wouldn’t be a hundred percent impossible. There are garment bags hanging from a rack near the car. At least ten of them. Shoes in boxes. A duffel bag the size of a coffin. I stop walking. “What the hell is all this?” Dante is already outside, leaning against the car like he owns the sun. Sunglasses. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. He looks calm. Awake. Dangerous in that quiet way that makes people forget he’s capable of tearing out throats.

Dante I walk up to a shuttered bodega. Pieces of the paper sign flap in the wind, declaring that I can get “sacks” and “dinks” inside. New York City flows around this abandoned piece of itself, not even glancing at it. Perfect. I slide into the alley beside it, unlock the chain on the back door, and step inside. Tony and Cal Duncan stand in the flickering light of the ex-backroom, now lined with knives, cattle prods, ropes, and any other torture instrument a Saint has come up with in the last decade.

THREE The zipper of my duffel bag whined as I dragged it across the teeth, securing the sparse contents of what I could call mine. My hands shuffled through the drawer one last time, searching for a cloth that didn't scream neglect or poverty—a task akin to finding a diamond in a coal mine. All I found were tattered jeans and faded shirts, each holding the scent of despair like a stubborn stain. I let out a frustrated sigh.