Flash Fiction: The Huffy Assassination

The latest flash fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig has us generate five random military operation names, and then pick one to be the title. Here were the ones I generated.

Huffy Assassination

Don’t Mess With Our Foreign Policy

Everlasting Kitten

Nuclear-tipped Lilac

Flaring Cobra


I had a real struggle between choosing Everlasting Kitten and Nuclear-tipped Lilac, but eventually I went with Huffy Assassination.



“What do you mean, I’m being assassinated?” The President had been shot. Special Agent Eric Johnston lay on top of him. He’d seen the glint off the rifle scope too late to avoid the first bullet, but now he shielded the President with his own body.

“I have six more speeches to give today! And I’m visiting a cheese factory!” The President squirmed underneath him, as if oblivious to the bloodstain spreading across his blue shirt.

“Please try and stay calm, sir.” Johnston had developed a tin ear for the President’s bluster. Other agents were between them and the church tower now, and Johnston sat up, his automatic appearing in his hand. “I repeat, the President has been shot.” He touched the lapel of his suit to transmit through the microphone there.

“Roger that,” came the reply in his ear. “’Ambulance is on the way. “ That was the mobile command that accompanied the President everywhere. “What is the President’s condition?”

Another gunshot rang out, and Johnston wrapped himself around the President and dragged him down again. There was a third shot. Then the agents around them responded, with a hail of gunfire. The few people from the crowd who’d remained behind now scattered.

“I don’t have time to be assassinated!” The President was still protesting, still trying to sit up. “It’s an election year, you know.”

“Irate.” Johnston replied into his microphone before he could help himself. “He’s been shot in the chest. He’s speaking and attempting to sit up. I don’t yet know…”

Hands grabbed him, tugging at him. “Come on. We need to get the President out of here.” Other agents. “We think we got the assassin.”

“I hope not!” The President told them. “I’m going to wring his neck myself! Don’t you know how many terrorists I killed in Iraq? And then, in Afghanistan?” He kept up his protests while Johnston and the other agents lifted him up. They carried him as fast as they dared, a quick walk, towards the edge of the town square. They’d  been heading for the stage before the first shot. There were no more bullets now, and Johnston thanked God for small mercies.

“We’re at the north end of the square. Near fifth street.” He told his microphone. “Where’s the ambulance?”

“It will be there in a minute,” the voice replied. “Just hold on.”

“Hold on sir. Everything will be alright.” Johnston reached over and ripped the President’s shirt open. The bullet had taken him in the left side, just beneath his ribs. The wound bled freely, but the President was still squirming, so it hadn’t hit his spine.

“That shirt cost more than your salary, you know.” There was some blood on the President’s lips, now. That was bad.

“Try not to talk, sir.” The wail of an ambulance’s sirens was suddenly loud in his ears, and there were paramedics all around him.

“I don’t think the wound is serious” One of them told him after a minute. “The bullet went through him, and I think it may have missed most of his important organs.”

“Assassin down.” The voice in his ear told him. “You are safe to proceed to the hospital.”

They were loading the President into a collapsible gurney when he waved a hand towards Johnston, who approached warily. “You tell my wife,” the President said, his voice quiet. “I don’t want to.”

“Yes, sir.” Johnston agreed.  Was it worse than he’d thought? Was the man he’d sworn to protect, the fiery fighter, really worried? The ambulance doors closed, and other agents hopped into cars to accompany it. Johnston pulled out his cell phone.

From inside the ambulance, he heard the President shouting. “Where the hell do you think you’re going to put that? I’ll have your whole hospital bulldozed! Take this bullet out, so I can feed it to you!”

Johnston relaxed. There was the man he knew. He flipped open the phone and began to dial.

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4 Responses to Flash Fiction: The Huffy Assassination

  1. Gotta love a spunky president; that was enjoyable.

  2. It sounds like he’s going to make it. Wonderful dialogue and story.

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