Wrong Kind of Friends

This is a flash fiction exercise from writing group. The prompt was to write in approximately 250 words or less a conversation without tags or description.

“We’re gonna do this, right?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

“No. I mean, we’re gonna do this. Right?”

“Look, I don’t know what got into you, but I’m not agreeing to anything more. And, I don’t even want to do that.”

“That’s cool, man. I mean, that’s okay and all. But…”

“Absolutely not. This was your stupid idea. You married her.”

“But you were the best man, man. The best man.”

“Yeah, I showed up, wore the tux and made the speech. You want this done, you’re doing it yourself.”

“She’s killing me, man. You don’t understand. She won’t even let me smoke in the house.”

“You don’t need to. It’s making you fat.”

“Damn munchies. Besides, I told you. I gotta glandular thing.”

“You’ve got a brownie and Lays thing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“The point is, you wanna knock off your old lady for the money and you’re gonna drop dead of a heart attack before you can spend it.”

“You said you’d help.”

“I said I’d tell people you were at my house. You’re always over there anyway like you think I’m running an opium den.”

“Ain’t opium, man. That’s whack.”

“And quit talking like that. You live in Weston for God’s sake.”

“So, you ain’t gonna help? Bro. Damn.”

“I am not — note the tone — not helping you dismember your wife.”

“I gotta get better friends, man. I thought we were tight.”


“Fine. I’ll ask Frank. He’s got all those good chef knives anyway.”