Mr. Brunell
#37 of Writing Practice
This is another writing prompt from the furry writing group in which I take part on Telegram.
(Interested in joining us? You can find it here: https://t.me/joinchat/CPoeZhclggenrOEh0yYwvg )
The focus of this prompt is to do a short story of "about 1000 words" with the prompt : "He didn't have the kind of build I'd expect from a professional assassin."
The narrator was a young wolf working at a bank when he encountered the only killer he ever met. "Interesting" things resulted.
Mr. Brunell
copyright 2020 comidacomida
My first job out of college was as a junior lending officer at a local community bank. Although my degree probably could have landed me something a little more 'high profile' I wanted to stay close to home and, as far as small towns went, Linser wasn't really all that bad. Located an hour from the beach, an hour from the mountains, an hour from the desert, and an hour from a 'real city', it had everything I needed-- especially my mom.
Things hadn't been all that easy for her after dad died but, then again, she spent all her time focusing on me I think it was some kind of coping mechanism. He passed my 8th grade year, meaning I didn't have any great male role models and my mom was so busy being 'the single mother who could make it work' that she didn't bother looking for a new man of the house so, by default, that became me.
I learned how to be grown up at an early age and that meant focusing on school work, doing well in college, and graduating with honors. It also meant a pretty big lack of friends and not a lot of time to have fun. Maybe that was why I was so swept up by one of the customers I met within my first month at the bank. Chuck Brunell was in his mid 40s at the time, so about the same age as my dad would have been. He always wore a ready smile and treated everyone as if they were the most important person in the world. Maybe that was what drew me to him.
This was a fair number of years back, well before the Bear Lives Matter movement, but I never really thought much of the difference between races so, as a Wolf I didn't give it a second thought that Mr. Brunell and I had any reason not to get along, and he certainly made it a point to come over to my desk and say hello any time he came into the bank-- the fact that he called me 'son' made me feel special but, then again, he called anyone younger than himself 'son' or 'missy'-- I think it may have had something to do with his southern upbringing; he'd been out of his home region long enough that he lost most of his accent, but certain dialect choices remained.
On some occasions Mr. Brunell did have business to conduct with a banker and, despite there being three of us, he always chose me. He was a friendly sort, always willing to talk about anything I brought up and, in the cases I didn't have a topic in mind he'd spring right into something that never failed to be interesting. Despite having settled into a small town like Linser, that Bear had lived quite an interesting life. Then again, according to him, Linser was a lot larger than where he was born. Son to a northern polar bear and a southern brown bear, Chuck was one impressive Grolar-- he probably could have been incredibly intimidating if he tried, but he always had the demeanor of a teddy. One day I found out why.
It was late in the year, moving into the holiday season when Mr. Brunell stormed into the bank branch and stalked right over to me. I had just finished a phone call and was available so I put on my best smile, but it fled my muzzle right away when I saw the deep scowl on his face. Asking him what was wrong, he began to explain that he came back early from hunting because a pair of rifle hunters took down an elk he'd been stalking after he got what he referred to as a 'beautiful double-lung-er'. He was going to press the issue but there were two of them with guns and he only had his bow. The Bear finished the statement with a growl and "I swear to god, if I had my rifle..."
I laughed, presuming it was a joke until I saw the expression on his muzzle. "But I thought you do bow hunting exclusively?"
That was the day I learned that Mr. Brunell had spent almost twenty years in the military as a sniper. As we talked he calmed down; he explained that I had a calming presence. He went on to talk about how he had spent years in the middle east during three different engagements with his rifle, and he'd probably hunted ten times as many people in his life as he had animals. He finished the statement with "People in the military know not to fuck with snipers, son... it's the civvies who are all screwed up. The folks who know what's goin' on realize that snipers are just sanctioned assassins... and professional ones at that."
He was at my desk for almost an hour and, despite my manager being upset that he was taking space reserved for loan customers, he put her concerns to rest by applying for a personal line of credit. He qualified for $100,000, which was probably the largest line I'd ever seen not secured by something like a house. Despite having entered with a growl and a scowl, he left after ruffling my head fur, smiling, with a whistle and a spring to his step.
I probably spent the next week or two trying to come to terms with what I'd learned about Chuck Burnell. There were preconceived notions I had about killers thanks to the movies. Chuck was a big guy, almost seven foot tall, and he had a bit of a gut. He didn't have the kind of build I'd expect from a professional assassin--- SANCTIONED professional assassin. (He always made it a point to indicate that he was 'official').
He continued to visit the branch, always making a point to visit me at my desk. After having unveiled a part of his life I had not known existed, Chuck became even more open, talking about a little of everything. He also started spending more time with me during each visit, always ending his time with some bank business... I think half the time it was just to piss off my boss so she couldn't object. Things changed dramatically when he ran into me at the supermarket a few months later.
Chuck hadn't visited in the prior two weeks and I can't explain why he was on my mind but, all of the sudden, an enormous wall of flesh pressed against me from behind and, right before I could object to my personal space being invaded, a familiar voice spoke up "Well, fancy seein' you here, son... I figured that they probably had you shackled to your desk but, nope-- you have a life outside a the office, eh?"
It was a long line, and Mr. Burnell's presence helped past the time; as usual he rolled right into a conversation and, before I knew it, he was following me out to my car-- I'd waited for the cashier to check him out and we ended up walking together. The discussion wasn't over in his mind and, as I was putting my groceries into my trunk, he said "Say, kiddo... you aren't hungry, are ya? Good place I know on the north side of town has some hella good chicken wings... if you're interested."
There was something about the way he said that last word which left me with a faint flutter at the base of my throat. If I was interested? In food, or something else? Nodding, I agreed, and after the big Bear got into his pickup I followed him over. The chicken was good. The conversation was great. The call to my mom telling her I was staying over at a friend's was a little awkward, but the night with Mr. Burnell was worth it.
No, Chuck certainly wasn't at all what I thought an assassin would look like, but he had an excellent aim.