Vim Ødegård // Finalist of WANTED 25

On February 1, Revolver launched its most ambitious WANTED contest to date. We asked writers to create a fictional character and apply to a real job. The job? A 3-month prompt-based SERIAL PROJECT on Revolver. The editors have now narrowed it to down 2 finalists. What follows are their characters’ answers to the third round of questioning.
 
Please enjoy the following answer while the editors at Revolver deliberate.

 
 
Gabriel
 
What are your strengths? Weaknesses? Go into detail.
 
I cried out when Sheila eased the USB drive into me. The print of Vermeer’s The Milkmaid that hung in her hotel room swam in my tears. I clutched at the bedsheet. “I’m scared!” I said, yelping each word. “I’m! So! Scared!” She press the jump drive, wrapped in a condom, deeper inside me.
 
There was once a young safecracker who had what some would call a “weakness” for powerful women. And yet he had married far too young to a timid little girl and she had never seen him at his best. With a stethoscope and leather gloves. The tableau still but for the motes of dust caught in his headlamp.
 
I want those days back. My God, so I do. But one must gut it out as they say. Sheila secured the USB and massaged the black cherry of my prostate until I came with no manipulation. I worried she planned to drug me and finger me – in the judicial sense of the word that is.
 
Here’s another thing I’ve learned in this life. If you are especially gifted, people are more likely to use you than kill you. And I was the crackerjack of safecracking, the bastard of bastards, the unholiest of apostates. She gave me a pat on the bottom and I dressed, walked out of that hotel room, down the hallway, its carpet pattern slithering beneath my Moro monk-straps, taking the elevator down just two floors. I imagined Sheila imagining me going down to the lobby, stopping to buy a newspaper in the gift shoppe, then out into the street, onto the train and on my way to the next point in our scheme. FBI Agent Jack Arnold opened the door in his shirtsleeves, his tie loose. On a mattress no different than one I’d just spilt my seed on, Agent Arnold reached into me roughly and retrieved Sheila’s incrimination.
 
“Oh,” I gasped. “Oh, Sheila…”
 
Love is like any other emotion. It can be suppressed. Can it not?
 

 
 


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WANTED is an occasional community writing contest run by Revolver. We give a prompt and our readers respond. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying there’s a new one, sign up here:



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