The Briefcase In Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

“The easiest money you’ll ever make.” “A generous offer for your life,” he nodded, throwing the cigarette on the floor and stepping on it. “I should have known you’d value your life more than my employer. Tell me, do you have access to your bank right now? A card and all that?” “I do.” “Good, good,” he winked, stepping toward me and squatting in front of me. That’s when I noticed my briefcase on the floor. “In here?” “Y-yes…” “And the pin?” John questioned, opening the briefcase to find my small purse with my cards in it. “Which card?”

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ll be on my way now since I’ve already gotten the two hundred million. Next time you come to this life, make sure not to mess with the wrong people.” He turned his back, preparing to sprint down the dark alley. “There’s no money in that briefcase,” I said loudly. He turned his head back so fast I heard his neck pop. “You’re joking.” “You can open it and see for yourself,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Go ahead.” The fake Damian opened the briefcase, and his face turned as red as a tomato. Inside the briefcase, there were thousands of sheets of blank paper and old newspapers. Only at the top were a few hundred-dollar bills.

Nobody answered me and I was back to sulking. Don held the briefcase in his hand and opened it. My eyes rose in awe, the briefcase contained lots of portable weapons. I could make out daggers with different sizes and structure, some handguns and a rifle, chains, and a shock hook. Elijah picked up one of the handguns and a dagger, he moved to the table and pulled out the chair.

“Did you just come here to do that? Did you follow me?” “No,” I deny. But she’s already getting up. She takes her briefcase and straightens her coat, bound for the door. In wild daze, I go after her without hesitation, grabbing her briefcase instead of her hand. Only for the briefcase to fall on the floor and split open, revealing its contents. Papers. Lots of them. Money, too. Bound in thick wads by the hundreds. But that’s not the worst of all of it. There are pictures.

I didn't have to bother my brains how he'd pull it off. I took a long time at the bathroom, washing my face and scrubbing the dirt off it. Once I was done, I took off my clothes and changed into something more casual and informal. Wandering over to the table, I picked up the briefcase and took out the envelope out of it. What was in the envelope was a gun. I oaded it with bullets and wore a gun hostlers. Then I fixed the gun in and wore my coat. Before I stepped out of my room, I picked up Israel's journal and went through it.

A silver ashtray still wore the ghost of a fresh burn—long and tapered, Gianni’s custom cigars. I moved quietly, slowly, as if afraid of what I might find. The kind of fear that doesn’t make you freeze—it makes you lift your game. A thread of rug curled just enough to catch the toe of my shoe. I bent down and ran a finger beneath it. Bingo. A pressure latch gave way with the reluctant pop of a drunk admitting he remembers the night before. The floorboard groaned, and a panel shifted inward. Behind it: a shallow recess, felt-lined, smug as hell. Inside, a briefcase. Polished. Locked. With a fingerprint scanner.

Either way, he could not jinx his probable good luck. Richard rented a car as soon as they exited the major terminal. They climbed in with their bags of clothes. Richard had told Ire on the plane that they would rent harmed guns to use. “Just in case,” He had said. Ire waited in the car when they arrived at a place called Pistol Gallery. Minutes later, Richard came back with a silver briefcase. Ire gingerly unlocked the case and opened it. An unassembled sleek black hand gun winked at him. “LP4 Pistol. It's got a standard subsonic cartridge, high explosive clip on component and a rapid fire clip on component.”

She does not know that her mother is about to sign away half of everything. Harold Finch walks into the living room. He opens his briefcase on the coffee table. The leather creaks. He pulls out a thick document. The pages are crisp, white, covered in small black print. The document is heavy, substantial, bound with a black ribbon. He handles it carefully, as if it is something precious. As if it is something that could change lives.

Before I could move, one of the men walked up to me, handing me the briefcases of money. I gulped, my palm already turning sweaty. “Move.” Following Damon’s order, I did as I was told. When I got midway, I crossed paths with one of the men holding two briefcases in his hands. He sneered before continuing on his path. He placed the box first on the table before Damon before I did mine. Almost immediately, my nose picked up a strange scent of plastic and I glanced around. I turned halfway to look at Damon as he unlocked the briefcase, peering into it.

And though Russo never said it outright, I could feel that he needed me, that I had become more than just a pawn in his plan for revenge. One afternoon, as I was sitting in the living room of the safehouse, a knock came at the door. I opened it cautiously, expecting one of Russo’s men or maybe Viktor, but instead, a courier handed me a cream-colored envelope, thick and elegant. I frowned, not expecting any mail, and took it, offering a quiet thanks before shutting the door.