The Newshville
Murder
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Far, far away, right in the middle of nowhere there is a little town called Newshville. The town is very small and unimportant, it is not marked even on the most precise maps, so people get really surprised when it suddenly appears on their way across the desert. But, frankly speaking, it does not happen too often, say, once or twice a year. People in Newshville are suspicious to strangers, that is why nobody ever stays here for a long time.
If Newshville was closer to the developed regions of the country, all the people would sooner or later abandon it. But the desert is a significant barrier, which keeps the town's population at the same level for already three centuries. There are few jobs here, so many people spend their time just wandering around, drinking beer, simply wasting their time. No hopes, no future.
At the edge of town there is an old rickety building with a worn out sign saying “The Blue Dalmatian”. That is the local pub. Most drunkards nearly live here, it is also rather popular between the farmers who visit it after working in the fields.
Lefty, the bartender, always hated his job. He was fed up with drunk good-for-nothing clients with nicotine-spotted fingers, tired of dirty mugs and broken juke-boxes. During all his life he dreamed of leaving this ugly place. All the people that surrounded him seemed to belong to some different breed, very far from that of his own. Citizens of Newshville always noted Lefty's attitude towards them, that is why his reputation was not so very good. In fact it was close to so very bad, but his uncle owned the pub, and besides Lefty always tried to stay out of everybody's way, so somehow he managed to get on.
He often had a feeling that one day something had to happen. Something that would change his life. Something really great. Like… Like… Well, Lefty could never invent the exact thing that was required to save him, but believing in this kind of salvation was his own personal religion and he was quite satisfied with it. It was a kind of shelter for his restless brain and he might have gone mad without it.
And one day something really happened. It was Christmas. The wind was howling and the moon shone brightly in the winter sky. Most of the clients had already gone home, a few were sleeping at the far tables. Suddenly the door opened and a man dressed in a black coat entered the pub. Lefty was surprised to see such a person in “The Blue Dalmatian” — usually travelers passing through Newshville did not even come close to this place. But the man reached the counter and said, “Hi there, lucky! Gimme a beer. By the way, do you know that you are one of the seventeen National Christmas Hot Gift Winners?”
“What… er… what is that supposed to mean?”, Lefty did not understand a thing.
“Why, do you people watch TV here? The Corporation is running this lottery, and you seem to be the winner. Or… Are you not Lefty McCarven?”
“Yes, I am”, for the first time in his life Lefty's voice grew happy.
“Oh, I say then, you are too lucky, Mr. McCarven”, the man continued. “So as to the documents you are granted one of our Christmas Hot Gifts — five million dollars and a T-shirt saying “I love the Corporation”. Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!”.
Lefty could not say anything. His greatest desire seemed to have just come true. He looked at the man as if he was Jesus Christ himself and still could not believe in what he had heard. Meanwhile the man opened his bag and started preparing some papers to be signed.
“It was really hard to find this town, Pudding Hill, I tell you, Mr. McCarven”, he murmured. “These small towns are all alike, aren't they? But at last I am here. You must be grateful to the Corporation Cartographic Office.”
A doubt stroke Lefty's mind just like a razor blade.
“Pardon me sir”, he said politely, “but this is not Pudding Hill. It's Newshville!”
“Newshville?”, the man twinkled his eyes. “Newshville?”, he repeated slower. “Are you absolutely sure, Mr. McCarven?”
“Yes, I am absolutely sure,” Lefty already had some kind of plan appearing in his head.
“Then… Ah… I'm awfully sorry, Mr. McCarven, but then it is a mistake. Some Lefty McCarven from Pudding Hill is the National Winner”, the man looked pale. “Sorry again and… What is that?”
Lefty always had a loaded sawn-off shotgun under the counter — in case some local drunkards decided to start a revolution or simply show the destructive traits of their characters. So now he took it and pointed the barrels right at his last customer.
“Now listen to me”, he shouted. “Why do you, guys from big cities, think you are so very smart, ah? How dare you come here and manipulate all the rest of my life? Who do you think I am? A puppet? I have rights, too! I want to live in a big city, too! I want to have a good job! I don't want to sit in this hole forever!”
“I'm warning you”, the man's face became almost green. “I work for the Corporation! You can't just threaten me with that weapon. Put it off immediate…”
He did not finish his speech. Lefty pulled both triggers and the man's head blew up like a small firework. The sound made three sleeping customers wake up and stare right at the scene of murder. Slowly they began to realize what had happened. Two of them rushed towards the exit, but Lefty had already reloaded his gun and in a moment two more corpses appeared on the floor of the pub. The third client managed to get away and ran to find the policeman.
But of course there was no stranger in a black coat, no Corporation, no Pudding Hill and no National Lottery. There was only poor Lefty standing behind the counter of his uncle's pub; poor crazy Lefty who had just killed two Newshville's farmers; poor old crazy Lefty who always wanted to leave this ugly place and settle in a big city like New York or Las Vegas.
Lefty began to reload the shotgun.
The policeman came to “The Blue Dalmatian” twenty minutes later and found all the floor covered with blood and three corpses, two near the door and one behind the counter. All details of the crime were absolutely clear. The policeman leaned over the counter, took a bottle of whiskey and made a series of short sips.
The Newshville murder made the headlines of national newspapers during two weeks. A lot of reporters came to town but they did not stay for long. Soon the case was completely forgotten and life continued in its ordinary way.
Newshville is still a very small and unimportant town right in the middle of nowhere. “The Blue Dalmatian” is still very popular among the farmers and citizens of the town. Lefty's uncle still owns this place and Johnny, his second nephew now sells the drinks here. He does not have any dreams, he knows that he will never leave this ugly place. No hopes. No future.