The Pride of Iceland

Flash Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



It was sometime during July, a month before the race, when men from Los Angeles came to meet with Klemens Gunnarsson, the great distance runner from Reykjavik. The men arrived at Gunnarsson’s home directly from the airport. They wore slick gray suits that shone in the bright daylight. The larger man, Saperstein, offered his hand to Gunnarsson and introduced his smaller counterpart. "This is Reynolds," said Saperstein. "The idea man I told you about."

"Yes," said Gunnarsson. He shook Saperstein’s hand.

Reynolds gestured to the landscape. "Striking," he said. "A magical land for a magical athlete."

"Magical," said Gunnarsson. He did not shake Reynolds’s hand. He turned and led the men into his home. Saperstein’s attention was drawn to a framed photograph on the hallway wall showing a hooded figure holding a pulpy red clump.

"You?" Saperstein pointed.

Gunnarsson nodded.

"What’s that you’re holding?"

"A whale’s heart."

"You… killed the whale?"

"You’re here for business," said Gunnarsson. "So let’s do business."

The men took seats in Gunnarsson’s sparse living room. Reynolds reiterated the agreement. Gunnarsson would throw the Reykjavik Marathon. In the final mile, he agreed to stay stride for stride with Dirk Moon, a young action star who, with the help of bribed race officials, would enter the course at mile 21. Moon would literally come from nowhere and win by a single stride. A dramatic victory over a proven champion. Invaluable publicity. For this, Gunnarsson would be paid $300,000.00.

After the rehearsal schedule was set, after the men had coffee, after Gunnarsson received a third of the money in cash, the rest of which he’d get upon completion of the task, Reynolds and Saperstein left. Gunnarsson sat alone for a long while. He finally stood, unzipped his fly, urinated into his coffee mug, then fired the mug at the hallway
photo. A direct hit. He screamed until he lost his voice.