Part I
Tucked away from the raging storm outside, James Bulger, a major Southie crime boss, sat by a crackling fire with his closest associate, nicknamed SF. Seated in leather lounge chairs, the two men sipped on whiskey, discussing the Winter Hill Gang’s recent tragedy.
“He was beyond talented, escaping countless police chases. Without a driver, we may need to start considering alternative revenue streams,” Bulger said.
“What about the kid, Jimmy?” SF said.
“Don’t be foolish. I’m not going to put the reputation of my organization in the hands of a project rat. Besides, how do we know he can drive?”
The room went silent, the only noise coming from the occasional breaking of twigs in the fire. SF took a sip of his drink, reminding himself to choose his words carefully.
“I stayed in contact,” SF said. “We’re desperate and he’s our best option.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“I did some digging. He’s got a girlfriend and a newborn son. We can make it clear to him what would happen if he got too ambitious.”
Bulger let out a sinister chuckle.
“We give the kid a job, on the condition we betray him once the money’s stolen.”
SF hesitated, then nodded his head in agreement.
“May I ask why, though?”
“SF, whether we like it or not, we both know our gig is coming to an end. Both of our informant statuses are losing credibility by the day. To put it plainly, we’re losing support from the Bureau. After this last job, we won’t need a driver, and what’s one less share, am I right?”
Part II
His heart racing, Wyatt, drenched in sweat, stood in the hot sun, observing the Lancaster Street Garage, a narrow, three story red brick building. Struggling to keep his wrist steady, Wyatt checked his watch; he’d been standing there for an hour.
“They need you,” Wyatt said to himself as he approached the building.
After having a Remington Model 870 pump-action shotgun aimed at him upon entering the building, Wyatt managed to convince the henchman to give him an audience with Bulger.
“What’s your name, kid?” Bulger asked, accompanied by SF.
“Wyatt Flemmi.”
“That’s a nice watch,” SF said. “Where’d you get it?”
“It was my father’s watch,” Wyatt said. “He left it behind when he went to fight in Vietnam. He disappeared after arriving back in the States. I never got to meet him.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Flemmi?” Bulger said.
“I was hoping you could put me to work. I’ve seen the news. You need a driver. I can oblige.”
Bulger laughed, then turned to SF.
“Get him out of here.”
Part III
“We lost them. Great work, kid,” SF said, letting out a sigh of relief. “Let’s meet up with Jimmy.”
Wyatt, who was laser focused for the entire police chase, was finally able to relax, and reality began to set in for him. Indeed, he assisted in robbery, but he did what was necessary to earn enough money to be able to leave town with his family. He refused to let his son grow up a part of Southie’s Lost Generation.
“Pull over,” SF said.
SF took the wheel and began driving while Wyatt sat confused in the passenger seat. After missing a couple turns, Wyatt realized they weren’t heading to the garage anymore. Eventually, the two pulled into a deserted parking lot that was surrounded by a rusty metal fence; the parking lot was rundown, with weeds poking through cracks in the concrete. SF directed Wyatt to exit the bright red Audi Sport Quattro and talk with Bulger, who was waiting patiently in the darkness 40 yards away. Wyatt slowly approached Bulger, not knowing what to expect.
“You did well, kid. I’m sorry it has to end this way,” Bulger said as he reached into his black leather jacket.
Knowing he had to react, Wyatt shoved Bulger to the ground and took off sprinting. He was a blur of motion, moving faster than ever. He slammed hard into the fence and began scaling it until he heard an ear-shattering noise, swiftly followed by an extreme burst of pain in his right hamstring, causing him to fall to the ground. The silhouette of Bulger approached him from a distance. Wyatt laid in a pool of blood, helplessly awaiting his demise. Suddenly, when Bulger was almost to Wyatt, the red Audi began speeding directly at Bulger, who shifted his attention.
“SF?” Bulger said to himself. “Slow down!”
At this point, the car was alarmingly close to Bulger, who unloaded a clip of rounds from his Beretta 92, shattering the car’s windshield. Regardless, the car remained undeterred, hitting Bulger with ferocity moments later.
The car slowly came to a halt, smoke steaming from the hood. Wyatt limped over to the car, falling down multiple times along the way. He opened the door to see SF covered in glass, with bullet wounds scattered across his chest.
“I’m sorry,” SF mumbled, coughing up blood.
Mustering what strength he had left, SF reached for his neck and ripped off his dog tag. Before he could hand it to Wyatt, SF’s body went limp. Wyatt grabbed the tag and stared at it with a paralyzed look. The name engraved on the tag was “Stephen Flemmi.”
Overall, I’m satisfied with my rough draft. Obviously, it needs some work, but I think I’ve made significant progress. I want to continue to make my story as concise as possible while also ensuring it is extremely specific since specificity is a key ingredient in the concept of show, don’t tell. Additionally, I want to include more of my research in the story. Thus far, I’ve utilized a lot of the knowledge I received from studying flash fiction; however, I haven’t included enough details relating to James Bulger. After conducting a significant amount of research during the semester, I learned a lot about Bulger and South Boston in the 1980s. Throughout my story, I want to include more of these elements to give the reader a better understanding of Bulger’s personality and to inform the reader of South Boston’s culture and atmosphere. Lastly, I want to ensure my story doesn’t have any plot holes that jeopardize the reader’s ability to understand the logical flow of events.