Allison's All-Night Laundry

Wondering why the washers and driers would've all stopped, even on a Tuesday night - well, technically in the early hours of Wednesday - Errol rose from his bed and threw on a jacket over his nightclothes and shuffled downstairs to see why the machines had stopped. He knew the power was on, for he had turned on a lamp to locate his jacket; no, it wasn't the power. What Errol found was not what he expected at all: there was no one there, not even Allison.

The old man noticed nothing amiss, nor did he really expect to. There was a stack of quarters next to Allison's laptop, but maybe someone had left her the money to swap their laundry while they were out running errands. Perhaps Allison had gone over Miss Clover's or someplace to deliver laundry. That lady's grandson had a habit of wetting the bed, or so he had heard.

Errol opened up the nearest drier. It was full of clean, dry clothes. A man's clothes. The next drier was full of towels, the next a couple's clothing, the next some socks, and lastly, some floral-print bed sheets. Finding this odd, Errol proceeded to check the washers. At first glance, they all appeared to be overloaded with clothes, but this was not the case; he was horrified at what he found. Five washers, each containing a human body.-

After setting foot outside the Laundromat, the robber began to panic. He looked at the sawed-off shotgun in his hands; he wanted badly to dispose of it, to never have to look at it again and to think what he had done. But he knew the cops could easily know what type of gun to look for. Sure, he was wearing gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints behind, but how many times had he handled the gun barehanded? And metal, he knew, could retain prints very well. Almost every gun also has ballistic fingerprints of its own; the patterns on the outside of the bullet where it had spun when the gun fired were unique markings. That was why he had chosen a shotgun, even it were harder to silence. He had counted on the machines of the Laundromat to further drown out the noise.

The masked man returned to the Laundromat. The bells rang out again, announcing his return. He quietly pulled the blinds shut, hoping no one would see what he was about to do. He picked up the shells if the ground, but it wasn't good enough. The crime scene was a mess. The gunman wanted to try to make it as flawless as possible. He was thinking what he could possibly do, when he heard the bells. A young couple froze upon seeing the man in the ski mask. He automatically fired twice. He hit the man perfectly, but the girl was still alive and attempting to scream as she writhed in the floor. She was in such shock that she could barely make a sound. The gunman quickly fired again, killing her this time, and drug their bodies out of sight.

In a desperate attempt to get out of there before there were more bodies to have to hide, he emptied all the washers - whether they were done or not - into the driers and used the sticky, red quarters on the ground to run the machines. He took the limp bodies, two of which were still bleeding a little, and loaded them into the washers. Using some more bloody quarters, he purchased some soap and was about to shut his victims in, when the bells tinkled once more. It was a middle aged woman.

Exasperated, the man picked up the shotgun, and she too lay sprawled on the black and white tile floor. He drug her over to the last machine and chucked her in. He bought some more soap and started all five machines, picked up the other shells, and surveyed the scene.

The floor was slick with blood and the few remaining quarters on the counter next to Allison's laptop. Deciding that he didn't want to hang around to swap the gruesome laundry, the gunman exited the Laundromat for the final time.