Ah dayjob how you get in the way of the things I truly love. Like online gaming… oh yeah and writing and blogging and junk haha.
Ok too tired and out of fucks to give a full update, I’ve mainly been doing innane shit to make paper while I write in my mind in the shower and read on public transport. Other than that I’m proofreading the last chapter of GS while listening to Filthy Frank music. And the editing is coming along, I should have that all out maybe as soon as the end of the year then I’ll probably put it on amazon or something if I can’t find an agent by then to take it on.
As usual you can find the full chapter on inkitt fresh and raw and uncut and all that good stuff.
Sunday, half conscious, her face pressed against a concrete pillow as a giant boot rested it’s weight against her. Applying more pressure a pound at a time and stopping at this rude intervention.
The giant foot came off of Sunday’s pretty face and she lolled lifelessly into the dry gutter. Jeffrey turned theatrically to focus on this voice. Coming to him over the sounds of small fires burbling against a slight breeze, an idyllic scene.
TJ stood, shoulders knotted around his ears. His hands behind his back in the entrance of the multi-plex.
“I got your doll or whatever!”
“Lamby? Gimme!” The hulking sub-human lurched towards TJ, his knuckles dragging along the smooth tarmac. Looming over TJ, his warm breath swirling all around him.
“Err, fetch?” TJ squirmed and then tossed the small plushie into the middle of the street.
“LAMBY!” Jeffrey leaped in the direction of the doll like a giant horny dog.
TJ’s panorama cleared of this giant monstrosity. He had the room and the presence of mind to run to Sunday’s side, like the good white knight he dreamed of parodying. He tripped over his feet and stumbled to a crawl beside her lifeless body.
“Sunday?” He said as he craned his chubby body over her, her portly romeo, maybe a little too late.
“LAAMMMBBBBYYY!” Jeffrey sifted through the debris. He tossed cars and bikes like tissue dispensers. Tossing up concrete chunks the size of dirty Brooklyn pigeons. Until his frantic eyes focused on something fluffy and white. “Lamby! I finally found you. The monsters, they took you away from me.” Jeffrey folded into an almost curtsy as graceful as possible. He pincered it with a giant finger and thumb not unlike the claw grabber machine it just came from.
He picked it up. Childlike glee projected on the grotesque potmarked mountain range that was his face. He floated it in front of his sloped brow turning it gracefully in his monstrous hands. Seeing it in it’s entirety sent a wave of clumsy emotions across the mottled canvas that was his face. Confusion and sadness, taking the express train to rage and desperation. The cogs began to turn with great purpose. As he realised what he was holding in his fingers and thumb was actually a plush snowman. The orange carrot nose and bead smile, a mocking endictment of a viscious ruse.
“This not lamby! Where lamby? WHERE LAMBY?”
“Ooh the fack are you?” The pilot said with no hint of incredulity that he was indeed being fucked. His face scrunching up looking like a map of the London underground.
“I’m your new co-pilot.” Carpenter said as he grinned and prodded the pilot in his soft side with the barrel of the assault rifle. “And mind your language, there are children present”.
“What the fack are you talking about mate? I don’t see any kids. This is all in your ‘ead mate, you want to mind yourself, you’re out of your depth ‘ere son. My guvna’ will ave your balls as a wedding present for ‘is missus”
“Start the engine”
“You’re asking for it son.” The pilot said as he started to spin the blades with a beligerance of a teen going to be late to her own sweet sixteen.
“Phweeeep!” An obnoxious whistling cut above the background hum of the engine and the quickening blades overhead.
“See you’re in for it now.” The pilot said as he turned the engine back of with an anti-climatic sigh from both him and the engine.
Carpenter looked over the control panel, peaking out the domed front window. A man in the same tactical gear as him stood statuesque in front of the helicopter. Laura by his side. An uncomfortable smile and a raised brow on her face as the figure raised a shiney pistol to the little girls head. “Drop the gun and step out of the helicopter.” The statue said grinning, reluctantly wearing the mask of the dutiful villain.
Carpenter tossed the rifle out of the helicopter door, landing soft in a bush. He de-choppered one angsty step at a time.
The statue moved around the side of the chopper to meet him. He was just under six foot, average height. He wasn’t wearing a gas mask, just a smirk of indifferent malice.
“My name’s Malcolm, I’m a fan” The man said as he dropped the little girl by his side to raise a hand for shaking. The shiney pistol was a lot larger close up, a chrome desert eagle, very ostinatious. “Go play over there now, there’s a good girl” He said as he shooed Laura with the gun.
Carpenter looked at his hand and looked back at Malcolm.
“It was smart to use the kid, not very chivalrous, but effective. Might be a little played out now” He lowered his hand and raised the gun at hip height. “We’re just going to wait here until the end and then a team can pick you up for nap time, easy.” He smiled like a dentist and tongued his front teeth. “The girl can come too, she’ll be fine, what with her big mean protector, wont she?”
Carpenter grimaced at this guarded insult. The tactical gear also came with a lovely usmc knife which Carpenter was yet to use. But there it was still hanging vertically on the front of his tactical gear. He reached for it slowly, eyes locked with Malcolm.
“Ah now that’s not very smart is it?” Malcolm hardened his face and rattled the gun around like it was getting too heavy for him. “Leave that alone”.
Carpenter eyes didn’t move. His hand possessed, unsheathed the blued knife from it’s molded kydex sheathe.
“Be a good lad an put that down eh.” Malcolm stretched his arm out, the heavy gun jossling in his grip. “We have a large investment in you, don’t make me shoot”.
Carpenter’s arm dropped to his side holding the swathy knife. His feet fluttered dreamily and he floated forward carried by an ill wind.
“I SAID STOP! NOW!” Malcolm squeezed the gun hard and it shook visibly in his grip “I WILL SHOOT YOU!”
Carpenter couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heart beat marching closer to his ears. Beating like the wind against an ancient castle wall. The blade cast no light and no shadow. It whispered promises to him of perfect cuts and no drag, slices of neat flesh falling into place. Enchanting dancing rivulets of blood pirouetting on its head as it hummed a death rattle in D. Torrents of blood beat inside his ears, he could almost hear the music. It was something like how he imagined Wagner. Ride of the Valkyries with a steady staccato drum beating faster and faster until you know it had to stop.
Malcolm caught Carpenter’s wrist with rattlesnake speed and grip. All the blood drained from his arm as he squeezed and gave him a quick love tap to the temple with the barrel of the eagle. A seering white light and a ringing noise in his ears as Carpenter went down onto the grass, soft and limp.
Malcolm turned to face the Laura as if his hips were that of an action figure with kung fu one hundred and eighty degree turns. She stood with the little gun in her hand clicking furiously trying to find the unspent cylinder.
CLICK CLICK CLICK!
The gun jumped out of her hand with the last clicking, giving off a soft squeaky pop and a brief flash and sizzle.
Malcolm crouched and picked the little gun off the ground.
“I must have missed this.” He tried to open the cyclinder but it was fused shut. He threw it in the dirt and stood back up putting his hands on his knees with an unhealthy clicking sound. “Looks like a misfire, you’re lucky it didn’t take those pretty hands clean off. Looks like both of our lucky days eh?”
“Is the badman dead?”
“No, he’s just sleeping, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll take you somewhere safe, the game is almost ov-.”
Malcolm’s breath was caught by a pair dirty hands wrapped around his throat. Dirt under the nails digging into his protuberant adam’s apple.
A wirey grip, thin hands tightening around his throat. An intense urge to kill coiled around his throat and gave zero ground to a hungry lung or a thirsty vein. Malcolm fell to his knees blue lipped, his face turning a shade of mauve. Spittle on his lips sputtering out. The last cubic milliteres of oxygen expelled from his lungs.
His vision went white and spotty. He couldn’t feel his lower extremities but he remembered he had a gun, a big heavy one. He sent a signal to his arms if they were still listening. His hand hovered next to him, dragging the heavy gun to his side. His grip locked onto the handle like an action figure with kung fu grip.
His arm floated up as if carried by a rising tide of water in an airtight phone booth. Carpenter couldn’t hear or see a thing, blood in his eyes. The israeli kiss on the side of his head the desert eagle gave him opened a theatrical wound. It bled hysterically like a wwe wrestler doing an impression of a tampon.
Malcolm lifting the gun up to his head height. Hovering where he imagined the gnarled head of Carpenter sat aloft. His arm jossling like a marionette puppetted by a drunk with low blood sugar. Struggling to keep the gun from plummeting into the ground as it so desperately wanted to do. Drawn magnetically to the earth. It swayed back and forth like a heavy pendulus artificial growth on the end of Malcolm’s arm.
Carpenter’s hand’s just seemed to get tighter and thinner, a wire man come to life to choke the life out of the world. His hands didn’t exhale a millimetre. A bottomless well of loathing self and otherwise driving his muscles like the hands of a clock. Unfeeling cogs clicking into place, murder o’clock.
Malcolm’s index finger tickled the heavy trigger. The shaking of his numb digit squeezing it pound for pound until…