Please Hold
by Mike Morgan
Mike Morgan was born in London, but not in any of the interesting parts. He moved to Japan at the age of 30 and lived there for many years. Nowadays, he’s based in Iowa, and enjoys family life with his wife and two young children. If you like his writing, be sure to check out his website: https://
Other Tall Tale TV stories by Mike Morgan: https://talltaletv.com/tag/mike-morgan/
The bullet wasn’t giving up.
Mervin Butterfield turned from the sight of the blood-splattered passerby and ran for his life. Caught without his usual protection on the street, he might be as good as dead, but he wasn’t the kind of mob boss to go down without a fight.
Halfway down an alley to the tourist trap of Little England, he felt his cell vibrate in his jacket pocket. Chest heaving, he wheezed, “Answer, hands-free.”
“Butterfield. You’re still alive. I’m disappointed.” Mervin recognized the voice coming from the speaker: Vanderburg, leader of the Danes, the gang muscling in on his territory in Neo Angeles. Calling to check if his hit had succeeded.
“You sent the bullet.” Behind him, Mervin heard the distinctive whirr of a smart projectile in self-propelled aerial mode. Its momentum from the sniper’s barrel exhausted by the impact with the unlucky, and fortunately very tall, guy stepping in front of him, it had switched to its own means of propulsion. “You’re a fool, Vanderburg. This ain’t gonna work.”
“Oh? Here was me thinking smart bullets never miss.”
Mervin skidded around the corner of the alley and weaved his way through a crowd of tourists and English climate refugees. They were useful obstacles he could put in the robotic bullet’s path. “You did worse than miss, you blew the advantage of surprise.”
The rival crime lord’s tone turned petulant. “You were lucky. If that moron hadn’t stepped in the way, your brains would be splattered all over Biden Boulevard. You bought yourself a few seconds, is all.”
Yeah, the Dane was probably right. The way that bullet moved it was a Samson Type 40 Autonomous Self-Guiding Munition. They never quit.
“Your territory will soon be mine, Butterfield. Once you’re out of the way, my men will clean out your top people and take over. Everything you’ve built up—mine to enjoy.”
Close behind, he heard a woman shriek in pain: the bullet finding another impediment to burrow through. Flesh and blood wouldn’t delay it long. It was locked on and had an explosive charge with his name on it.
Like the sales literature said: “These frisky fellows aren’t deterred by collateral damage! All Samsons come equipped with a variety of electro-drills and saws to hack their way through anyone unwise enough to get in their way!” They were like him in many ways—he’d hacked his way through more than a few rivals on his way to the top.
The people who made them were a caring bunch and no mistake. Mervin had reviewed the online brochure at some length only last night. Reviewed it and rejected it.
He pushed a Cockney pearly king out of his way. Then, for good measure, ploughed through a Chinese tour group taking pictures of the scale replica of Big Ben. Smiling, he gasped a reply to the Dane, “Had the same idea as you, Vanderburg. This city ain’t big enough for the both of us. You put a hit on me. I’ve done the same with you.”
“What you gabbing about, Butterfield? I don’t see no smart bullet where I’m sat.”
“Sure you don’t. You’re holed up in your bulletproof mansion, same as I was. No way smart ammo can get through that. So I bought something else.”
The complaints of the tourists he’d shoved aside turned to screams as the Samson drilled its way through their ranks.
For the first time, a note of concern entered Vanderburg’s voice. “What did you do, Butterfield?”
Vanderburg hadn’t thought to ask why Mervin was out on the streets. He’d been on his way to meet an arms merchant, to watch Vanderburg’s assassination via a live feed. The paranoid black marketeer had insisted Mervin come alone and unarmed. Mervin would’ve balked at such terms if the merchant hadn’t been so well regarded amongst mob circles. He really was a good contact for weapons systems—he’d had just the right item in stock.
Mervin answered with considerable pleasure, “Purchased me an Angel of Death.”
He careened around a Punch and Judy stall, ignoring the puppeteer’s cry of, “That’s the way to do it!” Satisfying though explaining his revenge was, Mervin needed to get somewhere the Samson couldn’t follow.
The Dane would understand the horror coming his way: he’d know the Angel of Death was a stealth drone, programmed to lurk in close proximity until the target was vulnerable to attack. They could recharge while in flight, allowing them to hover in place for weeks, months, even years. Like Samsons, they never missed. There was the small matter of the price—they were three times as expensive as the ammo Vanderburg had opted for. But then, that was the Dane. A cheapskate.
“Huh, you really hate me.”
Mervin didn’t waste his breath agreeing. “Unless you plan to stay in a bunker for the rest of your life, the rest of your life ain’t gonna be very long.” He ducked inside an Olde Worlde Pie Shoppe, jamming the door closed. It wouldn’t hold long.
“Then we’re at an impasse.”
“That word don’t mean what you think it means. It’s not an impasse—we’re headed for mutual annihilation.”
He saw the bullet through the glass of the door—it was making a beeline for him, the tiny robotic device coated in gore. Mervin saw the glimmer of its propeller blades.
“Big words. I’m impressed.”
“You wanna quit taking digs at me and maybe choose to live instead?” Mervin backed into the shop, ignoring a confused look from the pie vendor. “Call yours off and I’ll call mine off.”
Vanderburg wasn’t the kind of man to let a reasonable idea go unopposed. “How do I know yours even exists?”
The robot bullet settled to the ground outside the entrance and switched to ambulatory mode, sprouting arms and legs. It punched a hole through the glass.
The shop’s owner leaned over the counter, his mouth forming an O of surprise when he saw what had caused the damage. Mervin grabbed his cell and forwarded the merchant’s purchase confirmation email from his dark web account to the Dane’s number.
“Oh,” said Vanderburg. Mervin imagined his face had the same expression as the man in the shop.
“I die and that Angel of Death never gets stood down.”
“You know what, Mervin old pal, this is a misunderstanding. Let me put things right.” A second later, he snarled, “Damn phone app don’t make a lick of sense to me.”
“Call it off, I said!”
“Ain’t my fault if there ain’t a menu option for cancelling a target.”
“You better figure it out, you dumb son of a—”
The Dane cut over him. “Hold on, I’ll dial their help number.” It wasn’t only Mervin who was desperate.
The bullet stepped through the hole in the door, barely fifteen feet from Mervin.
The ringing of the phone stopped as Samson’s customer support hotline picked up. There was time. All Vanderburg had to do was give authorization for an override. That’d take—what?—five seconds, tops?
Vanderburg did his part, yelling, “I want to cancel a hit. Terminate it from your end, willya?”
The bullet moved closer.
“Hello,” answered the hotline. “Thank you for calling Samson. Your call is important to us. All our customer support representatives are busy right now. Please hold until one is available.”
Yeah, such a caring company.
Mervin heard the unmistakable click of a detonator priming. He threw himself behind the pie shop’s counter. There had to be something in this dump that could slow down a tiny homicidal robot bullet. His eyes feverishly took in a tray of mashed potatoes, simmering tubs of mushy peas, curry sauce, and brown gravy, a stack of something called Chicken Tikka Masala Slices. Wait, sauce?
He lunged for the ladle.
“Here, what d’you think you’re doing?” objected the pie shop owner.
Mervin splattered the bullet with thick gobbets of yellow liquid. “Don’t let it get close—it’ll explode!
The sauce didn’t cause the short circuit he’d hoped for. Instead, the bullet shook itself free of the droplets before resuming its march forward.
“You need to stop it?” The pie man shrugged.
He calmly used a utensil to scoop out one rectangular mass from a deep fat fryer in the far corner of his work area, then another. With a practiced flip apiece, he sent the dark brown oblongs flying into the bullet’s path, where they lay like two-inch-high barricades, side by side.
Unconcerned, the smart bullet stepped up onto them. Its left foot sank through the crispy crust of the first and, before it could halt its forward motion, its right foot pressed down through the skin of the second brown block, becoming similarly entangled. The robot thrashed, its feet now firmly enmired.
“Deep-fried battered chocolate bars,” stated the vendor. “Most popular item on our dessert menu, they are. Inside their shells they’re surprisingly gooey.”
Wearing the scaled-down equivalent of concrete boots, the bullet found it couldn’t move. It emitted an angry buzz.
The pie man scowled. “Don’t make me come over there. I’ve got freshly boiled steak and kidney puddings and I’m not afraid to use ’em.”
“I’ll never insult British cooking again,” breathed Mervin. He retreated across the wide floor of the kitchen area behind the counter to what he hoped was a safe distance.
Vanderburg’s voice came from his phone. “You still there, Butterfield? No hard feelings, eh? You’ll call off your weapon too, won’t you?”
Mervin lifted the phone to his face and smiled.
“Your call is very important to me,” he began.
“What the hell?”
“But I’m busy right now. Please hold until you slip up and give the Angel a clear shot.”
He put away his phone and let himself out of the shop’s rear door. He’d head back to the arms merchant and make himself comfortable. A tub of popcorn would go very nicely with watching Vanderburg go up in smoke.
He took his time. There wasn’t any hurry.
Vanderburg wasn’t going anywhere.
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