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night of the living dead

Ok fuck it, GS2 Chapter 3 ‘Heroes of the Wild’

Ok enough with that sappy, life falling apart bullshit, we’re getting that out of the way, I’m getting out of my own way (I don’t know what that means, it just sounds good) and getting down to some real work here.

So here we go, another unedited, untested, raw chapter of Green Sunday part 2, for your viewing pleasure.

Also shit yeah, lots of updates, already I have cover sketches and shit, and they look awesome and yes they’re going to be at the bottom of this blog, actually no, I changed my mind, I’ll post them tomorrow. 

I was just thinking this would be too packed, with the chapter and the cover stuff and I could stretch it to two blogs instead haha.

Just the chapter now, we’ll do the art tomorrow, sound good? I thought so.

So here it is, chapter 3, (it says 4, there was a prologue, they don’t count.)

Link to the full chapter as always below.

Heroes of the wild

 

“Hi, I’m err, Mr Fuzzles.” Fuzzles the purple cat swallowed hard. His throat was dry, palms sweaty, mom’s spaghetti, riding low in his lower intestine, making him feel a little bloated. “Err what’s your name?”

The unicorn girl turned around and said in a sweet voice “My name is Sparkles, nice to meet you.”

“Hi, err, I was wondering if you’d like to, go for a walk with me?” Fuzzles said scratching the back of his big purple head as he trailed off at the end.

“I dunno, I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave the convention centre, it might not be safe.” The unicorn said bouncing slightly and pressing her hooves together.

“Oh well I would protect you, this cat has claws rarrrr” Mr Fuzzles said play slashing the air with his claws.

Sparkles giggled holding up her hooves to her snout and said “Well if you put it like that. I have no choice but to walk with you.”

“R-really?” The man dressed as a purple cat said. “Great” He said as he put his paw out to receive her hoove.

The girl dressed as a sparkly white unicorn put her hoof in his paw and they walked towards the main entrance of the whitefish convention centre.

“Get the fuck out of my way, furry freaks!” Zomnision shouted as he pushed them apart barrelling into the main convention hall. The convention floor was decked out with banners for the annual furry convention. Men and women dressed as various animals real and imagined, some in giant diapers for some reason, having the time of their lives. In a space they felt safe and secure surrounded by people just like them.

“What’s his problem?” Mr Fuzzles said as he got up and helped Sparkles to her feet.

“I dunno but he looked kind of sick to me.” She cooed softly.

Zomnision staggered, sweating, barely keeping on his feet, “Fucking fuck, what the fuck? I can’t, I can’t keep it in anymore!” He could feel it building, pressure. He let it slip a little bit pushing past a pack of silver wolves. They were standing in a queue for one of the booths selling oversized furry sunglasses. Little squeaky farts and burps he couldn’t keep in. Something was growing and multiplying inside him at a rate he couldn’t control. His vision was a blurr of sweat and fur. “Someone call me an ambulance!”

“You’re an ambulance!” Some anonymous idiot shouted.

“Is that guy on drugs?” A golden marmacet man said.

“What’s with the weird swammy get up?” A mauve giraffe asked.

“Is that cultural appropriation?” A rhinestone pequin in a giant foam cowboy hat said.

“That outfit is kind of racist” Someone said in a valley girl accent.

He fell slamming right into a black wolf with red highlights and bondage gear on. He was holding up a sign that said ‘FREE HUGS’ on it next to a stall with a rainbow flag selling t-shirts. The wolf angrily got to his feet and said “You got a problem you Jeanie looking faggot motherfucker?”

“Please help me!” Zomnision whimpered as the wolf man picked him up by his frilly collar. He was burping and coughing and leaking a strange clear liquid out of his mouth and nose and eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you man?” The wolf said as he pushed him away, wiping his furry paws on himself, looking at the strange liquid. “What is this? It stinks!”

Zomnision tumbled into a pile of furries who were writhing around in a big inflatable ball pool.

“Hey man you’re not a furry” A blue fox with straps across his chest said in the pile.

“Yeah get lost buddy, furries only” A green otter person wearing a pirate hat and eyepatch said.

“Yiff your own kind!” A grey wolf wearing a neckerchief said.

“Get a furself or get out pal” A brown bear in a bikini said in a threatening man’s voice.

“Please, I need help!” Zomnision gurgled, the noises in his stomach were audible to all now and there was movement under his clothes. He seemed to be puffing up, getting larger, his skin bubbling. “It’s in me, I can’t keep it in anymore, it’s growing!”

They furries couldn’t not see it now, Zomnision’s flesh was unnaturally distended. It was stretching as some build up of pressure was pushing his gut and neck and cheeks out. He was filling up like a balloon all the veins raising under his skin like he decompressing.

“What the hell is wrong with this guy, is this some kind of joke?” A man dressed as a Gerbil painted in the colours of the swedish flag.

“What do we do?” A goffer dressed as willy wonka asked.

“Pop him with a pin” A ferret cosplaying as Jack Sparrow asked.

“I can use my claws” A badger wearing an army helmet said.

“You’re not a real badger gary!” The gofferman said.

“I am too, that’s ignorant!” Gary responded.

“I can’t hold it anymore!” Zomnision screamed, his eyes popping out of their sockets, his skin tight and taught and white. There was so much force on his body they could hear his blood vessels popping, his bones creaking as they bent.

“He’s gonna blow!” An owl dressed as Hulk Hogan squawked.

A thundercrack of an unhuman fart ripped through the convention. Within a matter of seconds a thick green gaseous mist spread through the stalls. Saturating the entirity of the convention centre touching everything, filling the room like a vacuum. A green poodle in a top hat and monocle noticed it first breathing it in and passing out, but not before dropping the monocle in it’s drink. Next a parrot in a sombrero inhaled and keeled over. Panic spread as fast as the mist and a stampede for the door was inevitable but it was too late. They were bottle necked, trapped like crabs in a bucket as the mist engulfed them and put them down on the ground unlikely to get up.

Waves of multi-coloured wolves with mutlitcoloured hair and foxes and horse people fell to the ground. Within a matter of moments the convention centre fell silent.

~

GS2 Chapter 2 ‘LionKiler’

Here we are again, you must be masochists. Another, yes another chapter of unedited goodness of Green Sunday’s second outing and my hasn’t she been busy, actually no wait, she isn’t even in this chapter, scratch that. Got some shiny characters for y’all to love and hate.

(Also got some more pictures of green haired chicks haha)

Ok, so, GS2 is done, the ending turned out pretty decent. I know it’s a dumb book, but I feel good about it, like it’ll surprise some people, because for all it’s silliness, there is a semblance of a story building, of relationships forming of characters growing and it does my heart good. And of course soon I’ll be delving into more serious works so I can’t wait for that.

Just proofreading as we speak, talking to Mike from Pagdon illustration about the next cover, this one is gonna be fucking nuts, I can’t wait. I should have it up and selling fairly soon, just editing and hacking away at the usual spammistry. I do love to grind and facebook as always makes it so much fun, adding that extra spice of internet shekel grabbing cancer. I must have been post blocked more than ‘literally hitler’.

As always, link below to the full unedited chapter and if you’re new and want to buy the first book head on over to amazon with this lovely little linkle; Green Sunday 1

And yeah I know it says it’s chapter 3 on inkitt, well who you gonna believe me or them?

LionKiller

“Rigby.” Evergreen turned to his right keeping his eyes on this strange little man. A mercenary not wearing a mask, came up beside him carrying a carbon fibre case in one hand. The Merc was tall and broad with fair hair and the face of a rugby player. Looked less like a face and more like two fists trying to fuck as he scrunched it up trying to size up the strange Frenchman.

Rigby eyed the strange man up and down, like he was looking at leprechaun that just jumped out of his cereal. Continuing to stare at the odd spectacle of a man, he craned his neck back as Evergreen opened the case in his arms.

Evergreen pulled out what looked like an oxygen tank. A truck on the highway behind the tall trees shielding them from the road rushed by honking at the sun going down.

Evergreen let the heavy tank fall by his side as he turned to the strange Frenchman.

He held up a nozzle as he spoke which was connected to the pressurized gas canister and said “A pressurized gas gun. Used by lock smiths to push locks out of their frames. Something similar used by slaughterhouses to kill cattle. Shoots a jet of highly condensed air when a seal is made and it can prove quite destructive.” He said as he handed it to the Frenchman who eyed it with fascination for a moment.

“Mai qui, how you say? ‘What a piece of crap’. I would maybe be better with my dick in my hand.” The Frenchman laughed as he messed with the nozzle shooting out little jets of air messing up the curly hair under his beanie riding high on his head. He squinted and smiled before tossing it back towards Evergreen, landing at his feet.

Rigby picked up the canister still eyeing the Frenchman with an odd distasteful expression and put it back in the case and sealed it shut.

“I find something in town maybe.” He shrugged scrunching up his multiple stubbly chins. He smiled and said ”see you, aurevoir!” As he pushed passed the mercs and started walking towards the main road. “TAXI!” He called out as he climbed an embankment pushing through the trees to get to the road

Rigby watched him go and said in a broad Yorkshire accent “What a total twat”.

Evergreen let out a sigh in agreement.

Oh Golley-gee Green Sunday has a release date!

Great googly moogly, the day has come and that day is the 2nd of may, and that kind of rhymed, how special.

Everything is set, got the final cover as the head image, the edits are done, I don’t know about audiobooks yet but it’s all a go and I’m set to go on another podcast the day before it launches, which works out great. Got my advanced reviews hopefully coming in, gotta shake some people down for those. Prices are gonna come out at 99c for the ecopies for a limited time, then they’re gonna shoot up the exorbitant price of $2.99 bwaahaha!

Updates updates, almost finished GS2 and I’m proofreading as I go in between spamming GS1 and I did a short story for an anthology which was fun, I’ll probably post that at some point. I’m actually really looking forward to finish this book because this next series I know is gonna be the shit. But I’ve had so much fun writing GS2, it’s criminal, and this one is so much better than the first. The action, the comedy, the satire, the drama, all wratcheted up. I’m slowly building an actual story here too, so it’s not just a bunch of zombie ‘stuff’ happening haha. I’m very satisfied with it.

I also have some awesome ideas for the new cover, so I can’t wait to get that going. I just love creating and spending my money on cool shit more than I actually like making money haha. I will die poor, in short. Poor but with a satisfied grin on my face.

Gonna have some full cover mock ups below with the blurb and everything.

I think that’s pretty much everything, still giving out those advanced review copies and those free ebooks of course for the mailing list sign up.

So pretty time all round.

See you…

GREEN SUNDAY Chapter 16 ‘Kill Too Hard’

Hello again my dedicated stalkers, all the handful of you haha.

Back again with more of that good literary shit.
Had a few people take me up on the review copy shenanigans since yesterday, gonna keep rolling out that train today with some shameless spamming.

Oh yeah almost forgot, got an update on the cover, realising now as I’m writing this and remembering it in real time I’m going to make it the header image to this very blog haha. So now that you’ve looked up at the image you undoubtedly clicked to get you on this page, pray tell what do you think. That’s real art folks, not some copy pasted clip art shit done on photoshop, that’s real paint with real brush strokes from a genuine artist. Original artwork paid for by yours truly haha.
I think it’s turned out really great, sort of cartoony but it captures the grindhouse feel I wanted, getting hyped about launch now and not so much feeling the crushing doubt that’s been gripping me for the past couple of weeks in which I’ve sworn never to do nano again haha.
Why you ask? Because it, yes not me, ruined what could have been a career affirming life changing book for me. After getting completely shit on for The one that came back in the reviews the consensus seems to be it’s kind of boring and I blame myself for rushing it to fit into the nano time frame. Or in other words I blame nano haha.
But joking aside, I’m just gonna have to shell out of the nose to have it properly content edited, I’m sure its salveagable, it’s just gonna take a lot of time/money/effort, things I seem to have in great abundance these days for whatever reason (pact with cthulhu).

Ok moving on, still giving away free e-copies of my novella which wasn’t rushed and is really fucking good btw haha. And I’m still giving out review copies of Green Sunday, so get some of those and if you join my mailing list and let me know you want a review copy you will be getting two free ebooks for only the price of your soul and maybe a toe. A small toe.

If you want a review copy just message me on twitter  or facebook or minds through my contact page.

Ok here’s chapter 16 ‘Kill Too Hard‘ for your reviewing pleasure haha.

See you space gender non-conforming squid people.

~

On a ratty-looking desk, an old-fashioned touch-tone phone rang.

The small, messy office filled with the tinny analogue ringing sound.

Mojang clung to the grenade launcher, the wooden sawn-off stock poking his ribs. He ducked behind the desk, taking the small phone with him.

He took the receiver out of the cradle with a plastic clicking sound. He pressed it to his greasy-looking ear.

“Hey, boss!” A cheery voice chirped.

“Bernie, you double crossing pinche puto!”

“Come on, it’s not just me.”

“What are you talking about, you fat, lousy fuck?” Mojang spat into the receiver.

“It’s the fans, man.”

“The fans?”

“They’re bored, Mo. We’re winning too much. We make it look easy. There’s no drama, no suspense. Long story short, they’re replacing you.”

“What the fuck? With who?”

“Ahem.”

“You? Your fat ass is replacing me? No way! Put me through to the top guy. There’s no way they can do this. This is our last game. We’re out. We’re clean. They promised- “

“Sorry, Mo, this comes from the top. Our approval ratings are tanking. They thought they needed to shake things up.”

“No, you motherfucker, you put him on no- “

Click.

The phone went dead. Mojang bit down on the receiver. Snapping it in half over the desk, he threw the rest of the phone to the floor.

He cracked open the grenade launcher and saw there was a hot grenade still in the chamber. He clapped it closed and stiffened his lip. “Fffuck!” He threw the heavy grenade launcher across the desk and hurried over to the window. Barred, it was covered in a heavy mesh, impossible to remove. There was no way he was getting out. He clanged the cage mesh, looking like a kid in a playpen. His face welled up with sweat and nervous tears. “FUCK ME! FUCK ME!”

A clatter outside hushed him. He ducked behind his desk again. He scrabbled for the grenade launcher on the desk.

“No, please, no. I’ll suck dick. I’ll suck your dick,” a muffled woman’s voice said from behind his door. An angry banging. “FUCK, MOJANG! LET ME IN, YOU LIMP DICK MOTHERFUCKER!”

The noise quickly stopped after a brief gurgling sound. An ominous silence fell on the garage, not a croak or a death rattle to be heard. All the blood was already on the floor.

Then a dull banging noise started against the thin door, accompanied by stifled whimpering noises. The noises got quieter as the dull banging got wetter. Each bang was accompanied by sloppy slapping noises.

The pathetic bolt lock popped off. The screws popped out and rolled on the concrete floor. The door swung open on just one hinge.

Mojang peeked over the desk and saw the doorway was empty. The flimsy door itself was plastered in blood and brain matter and there was a big crack down the centre. Strands of long hair stuck out of it.

Mojang recoiled as a mass was slung hard across the desk, like a deer hitting the hood of an SUV. His face was splattered with blood and brains. The girl’s limp limbs twisted in every direction. Her head had caved in. Using it to open a door would do that.

Mojang winced. He used the barrel of the grenade launcher to turn her face around, and his other hand to move her hair aside. Her eyes were half open; they rolled loosely around in her head like dolls’ eyes. He swallowed and closed them, feeling bad for a minute before he remembered he had locked her out.

The lancer stepped inside. His feet made a metal stiletto sound. They were covered in skin -tight metal sandals. On the concrete floor, they sounded like tap shoes or a dog with long nails on a hardwood floor.

“We can talk about this. I’ve brought in a lot of business. We’re the best. We win. We can do better. Fuck, man, we can do whatever you want. I’ll learn to fucking juggle if that’s what you wa- “

“Sorry, you’re cancelled,” the lancer said, a cold chill riding his words all the way down Mojang’s spine.

Mojang fingered the grenade launcher, with its wood inlays, as he looked at the girl sprawled across his desk like a tiger skin rug.

He took a deep breath and scrunched up his face, ringing out vicious tears from his one good eye.

“Fffuck you, silver surfing faggot!” He lifted the grenade launcher and turned his body so he was pointing it at the lancer, with one arm outstretched. His face twisted into his death mask: what would be left of it.

The lancer let out a breathy laugh and gave a wicked smile with those strange eyes. He dropped into a pounce and closed the gap between them with murderous intention.

Mojang fell back, his heart leaping to meet the challenge. He stumbled over a broken phone cord. His finger squeezed the trigger and he proceeded to make an even stupider face.

The building popped open like a giant soda can. The sheet metal peeled back and curled up, licked by flames. The explosion was viewed by an indifferent drone flying overhead, the flames reflected in its ambivalent lens.

Green Sunday Chapter 5 ‘Little man what now’ Edited

 Here’s the latest edited chapter. It’s a slight change of pace, I hope you like it, it’s more development on a few of my favourite characters.
A bit of an update on my shiiiieeettt! I tried to start one of those novellas I talked about, just some short, under 40k story to keep me sharp and maybe pimp out to some anthology or something. But this new project I have pinned for nanowrimo is just too tempting to not fiddle with and instead I spent all day writing and assigning chapter titles from Nick Cave and Tom Waits songs haha.
It’s going to be in four parts, I’m really going to get my teeth into some neo-noire on this one kids. I have a good feeling about it, I can see it coming to an airport newsagent near you haha.
So that’s what I’ve been doing in between blogging and trying to get this zombsploitation printed.
As usual you can find the full chapter on my inkitt page for viewing on phones and tablets or whatever. Now begone with you I have a psychological thrill ride to plot haha!

Cheers.

Green Sunday Chapter 5

~
“MOOOOOOMMMMMM!?!?” TJ screamed, frustration and a hopeless terror filling the emptiness in his chest. He heard the shower turning off and waited a few seconds. TJ breathed restlessly through his mouth, his throat burning, child tears queuing at the corners of his eyes.

“WHAT?” he heard as the bathroom door opened.

“WHERE’S MY STUFF???” he shouted, to stop from bursting into a tearful downward spiral of self-loathing and impending doom. He inflated his chest to keep his lungs from collapsing.

“YOUR LITTLE FRIEND FROM NEXT DOOR CAME OVER WHEN YOU LEFT. HE SAID, YOU SAID HE COULD BORROW SOMETHING FROM YOUR ROOM; IS EVERYTHING OK?” Her voice trailed off at the end and TJ felt pricks of looming dread on the back of his neck.

“YEAH MOM, JUST STAY INSIDE, I’M GOING NEXT DOOR!”

“OK.”

He picked himself up off his bedroom floor; he felt like throwing up. His legs were hollow and he struggled to stand, but he had no choice. He swallowed hard and put his hand on the knob of his bedroom door. He closed his eyes and whispered a pathetic prayer to any god that would listen. When he opened his eyes he was outside the door of his neighbour’s house.

The house was almost identical. It had been built at the same time, but apparently everything was the opposite way around. TJ had never been there before because his neighbours were massive douchenozzles. He had hated them since childhood, when they had poured lemonade on his head and rolled him in the sand pit. He got a good look at the interior purely because the door swung wide open as he put his hand on the knob.

The hallway was a crime scene: pictures smashed on the floor, furniture looking off kilter, shoes tossed aside, small drops of blood and a telling trail leading up the stairs. It looked staged, fake, like the set of some cheesy rural crime drama.

He stepped in through the door frame, gingerly trying not to touch anything or make a sound. But his visions of a silent entry were dashed by the distinct sound of glass crunching under the rubber sole of a ‘Dora the Explorer’ slipper. He mused to himself: why hadn’t he changed into some more practical shoes? Before he could put more thought into that vital question, his attention fell on a flashing battery light shining through a bloody shirt.

He pinched the corner of the shirt, bending at the knee as he leaned over an upturned wardrobe at the bottom of the stairs. He pulled the damp shirt towards him and it drew across the device with a slow stickiness, the damp blood throwing up a musty copper smell as he pulled it closer to him.

He pulled the shirt all the way off, revealing a small digital handycam: the same one they had used in the backyard to record their show. He picked it up slowly, by the handle strap, and turned it around to look at the viewfinder.

~

Frantic steps fell on the cold sidewalk across town. A shoe fell off in a desperate struggle to get off the street. Ankles twisting, people falling into the road. A quiet, slow rolling panic pouring out into the morning light.

The door of a small mom and pop grocery snapped shut. Three shadowed figures watched from the slats in the wood and glass storefront door as a slow boiling chaos milled around outside.

“What’s going on? Who are those people? Is it the army?”

“Shhh.”

An obnoxious car horn tore through the furious cacophony of anxious whispers. The small road, one of three that led out of town, was blocked by two large trucks, guarded by faceless men in black tactical gear. The car horn didn’t seem to bother them; they stood like wind-up toys, waiting to be over cranked.

The small town was a flat plateau; it was elevated, secluded, surrounded by a dense wood on one side, mountains all along the other, leaving few routes out. People came to live here for that seclusion. For the peace and the pine smell, fresh mountain air, clean water. Most of them commuted to work and lived in lavish suburban homes. The local businesses slowly starved together, only kept alive by a small contingent of hipster college kids, back for the summer, spending their parents’ money.

The roads leaving town were boxed in by these small storefronts.: some empty, some almost empty, boarded up; half the town seemed to be in boxes already. The trucks completely sealed the town. The line of cars was large. It was made up of early morning commuters and families leaving to visit relatives out of town. Mixed in were a sprinkling of nervous people who had seen something that deemed a quick exit. A subtle base level of fear was snowballing, passed back and forth between the people in the traffic jam, like a Ping-Pong ball covered in PCP. Impatient fingers drummed on steering wheels; a roll of cold sweat wiped away by a clammy hand; cacophony of throats clearing, reminding others of their existence. Children in buggies were reassured by uncertain tones from nervous parents.

A feeling of drunken mass hysteria was winding up for a curveball, the traffic jam growing larger and longer and less uniform, the people feeling more boxed in by the small sleepy store fronts. Glass and soft woods gathered dust, the bones of an old town looming over them like gravestones. A claustrophobic feeling closed in on them, suffocating their better senses, changing them into cornered animals.

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

Green Sunday Chapter 9 Cobra Clutch (Raw)

Ok here’s the latest chapter straight from proofreading, it’s just the first proofread, still rough as shit but it’s a fun chapter, lots of action and fucked up shit.If you wanna read the full chapter and all previous chapters head on over to my inkitt page and read it for free.

Green Sunday Chapter 9

TJ squirmed on the back of the bike trying to lock his pudgy fingers around Sunday’s lithe frame. Fear overpowering his natural inclinations for tact and subtlety.

The engine of the Harley continental coughed and spluttered. It roared like a rambunctious kitten. It was no huge feat for the bikers to catch up to them after finding their dead friend. Their bikes engine noises rolled over the hills like thunder. It sounded like a storm coming that no one could get out of the way of.

TJ looked back and saw only a cloud of smoke and dust. He half expected a haunted pirate ships to emerge from it with jet black sails. Crewed by stop motion skeletons. But as it cleared, only a parade of shiney chrome and black leather remained. A tide of ill fitting pants and boots with lots of buckles on them moving gradually closer.

“Can we out run them?” TJ yelped.

“No” Sunday said without even looking back.

“Then what are we gonna do?”

“This” Sunday said almost whispering. She stopped the bike with a sudden anguished screeching of the continental’s tires.

“What the fuck are you doing?? They’ll kill us!” TJ squealed.

“They might” Sunday said. She propped the bike up with the kickstand and dismounted with the grace of a duchess.

TJ dismounted almost falling as she dismounted first. This brought back horrible memories of riding in a bike seat with his Mom when he was a kid.

“We’ve gotta hide” TJ said breathelessly clinging to one of his sweaty moobs. His sword in his other hand shaking in its cheap faux lacquer sheathe.

“Where?” Sunday said as she took up a batting stance squeezing the grip of the bat in both hands. She took a few practice swings at that mean old air.

TJ looked around a full three sixty and realised they were on the edge of town. They were on an open street with no cover.

“Looks like we’ll have to reason with them” Sunday said. A wry smirk peeling across her face as she walked past TJ with the bat across her shoulder.

The bikers didn’t speed up or slow down, they kept their solid droning pace. They knew there was nowhere for them to run. And the building sounds of the engines would fill the entire town with a primal dread.

They were on them like vultures, two at first, circling, the rest hung back a little to see what they’d do. The bikers were armed with pipes and chains and anything they could get their hands on. They dragged the chains behind their bikes and the scraped the ground with their pipes. Which in a different situation TJ would find pretty cool. It kind of reminded him of the opening scene of Akira. But that was beside the point because they were probably trying to kill him.

Sunday breathed out slowly, closing her eyes, digging her feet into the cold dry tarmac. She squeezed and released the grip of the bat as they circled, laughing and whooping inaudibly.

One of them tore in front of her as the other watched. His tires screeched in pain as they turned to face her head on but she didn’t move. He charged screaming for her but she remained still. He raised his pipe above his head as he angled his bike to give him a good swing. With an instant ferocious finesse, she stepped forward into the arch of his strike. Sinking her bat straight across his chest he bounced off his bike. The bike came to a stop scraping along the concrete.

Sunday breathed in calmly closing her eyes again. Squeezing and releasing the handle of the bat as it hummed in her hands. Sending shivers of pain all through her arms and down her back.

“You fucking bitch!” The bikers friend screeched pulling down the bandana covering his mouth. “I’m gonna fuck you up!”

Sunday wasn’t paying attention. She picked up the other bikers discarded pipe without looking at him as he circled back to strafe her.

She looked it over, as he closed the distance. Tears and snot streamed from his eyes, rage pounding on the accelerator.

She idly tossed the pipe and the biker was too angry to notice it fall right in his path of destruction. By the time he wiped the snot out of his face it was too late. He ran over the mangled pipe and it got caught up in the front tire. The front wheel twisted bringing the bike veering to one side and down into the concrete. It squealed to a stop and Sunday walked towards the downed biker. The bike stopped a good few feet away from where she was already standing.

He was pinned under the bike. Both of his legs broken for sure, coughing up blood, screaming “You bitch, you fucking bitch!”

She was slower for some reason, she dragged the bat now with one hand squeezed her arm with her other hand. She brought the bat up and split his head effortless. It made a mundane wet imploding noise like a watermelon dropped on concrete. His mouth went slack and his eyes rolled back in his head.  She pulled the spiked monstrosity out of his head with a soggy sucking noise.

Then silence, a slow deafening silence. Then a thunderous clap breaking the silence apart like thor’s hammer on the clouds. A man on an enormous bucket seat Harley sat as if on a throne watching. Surrounded by his cronies, a fine looking biker chick on the back of his bike clinging to him. He slowly clapped with his huge gloved hands.

“That was cute, I really dug that” He said as he leaned forward across his custom handlebars. There was a cobra design on the front of his bike and his breaks and clutch were ornate snake heads with a brass finish. “Oh you’re finished, allow me to introduce myself” the man said as he stroked his fu Manchu moustache. A large latin man with tattoos covering most if not all his arms. He was adorned with mayan tribal art mixed with a tinge of Japanese rip offs. He wore a loosely cut denim waist coat the back of which was emblazoned with their insignia. An angel in a straight jacket with the words ‘los ángeles locos’ written below it. Completed by a pair dark red leather pants and agressive looking combat boots.

“My name is Mojang, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” before he finished talking the bikes fired up again. Before she knew it Sunday was surrounded by ten maybe twelve bikers. Clouds of smoke encircled her, a maelstrom of twisted metal surrounded her. Her hair sweeping across her face. She raised he bat with a bitter defiance ready to swing at the next one that came close. She hoped to take them one at a time like balls in a batting cage.

If you enjoyed this excerpt head on over to my inkitt page to read the rest for free.

Green Sunday Chapter 9

 

 

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