So, the extremely talented LK over at Moroccan Blue Shamoo has done an incredible illustration for the violent yet crowd-pleasing series “Trouble in Toytown“. Check it out below! Wow! I really don’t know what to say! It’s super-great! CLICK ON IT TO SEE IT HUGE!
—–
cg
I was recently at a friend’s holiday home for a relaxing weekend, and had some wonderful rolling countryside to help inspire me to write something. I wrote 3 short pieces, but 1 was rubbish and won’t be posted. The first one here was a challenge to myself to write a serious story that started with a rude word, and the word chosen was one from the drinking game the night before. I wrote it on scraps of paper in front of everyone else at the holiday home, so it was interesting doing “public” writing for the first time. Not only did they watch it get written, they immediately gave feedback. It was a good mix of people and personalities, so I got to see how a story affects different people in real time. Anyway, I present the first of my country stories, “Penis!”
—–
“Penis!”
The schoolgirl giggled as the unfamiliar word spilled from her lips. Her companions squealed in laughter, the taboo broken. More words escaped into the circle, and the night wore on. They did not know, they could not know, the power of those words. In the future, they would be weapons, tools of oppression, instruments of control. Tonight, however, they were jokes, symbols of defiance against a world they did not yet understand.
“Penis!”
—–
Huh, that looked longer (hah) on paper. The second story is not as short (lol) and it’s been kicking around my head for a while. Warning, not for sad people. Or maybe not for happy people. I got up too early one morning and there was no one else around. I spent hours staring out across the hills, writing this story. It was…lonely. I present “Bicycle”. (anyone else notice how I really suck at titles?)
—–
Every day she rides her pale blue bicycle past my window. Every day I watch her. She cycles past, grinning madly as her ponytails flap in the breeze. Two houses after mine, she would come skidding to a halt, spinning the metal frame around with practised grace. A pause to check the driveways for hazards. Coast is clear, and she’s off. She waves to me as she hurtles back across my field of view. I raise my hand in earnest but she is gone, off in her own world, in another thrilling adventure. The girl with the blue bicycle.
I watch as my wife places a hand on my son’s shoulder. Her skeletal fingers sink into his flesh, and he shifts uncomfortably under the pressure. My wife is speaking in accusatory tones, but I am not listening. I watch as her fingers grow into tendrils that wrap slowly around my son’s neck. A black filament, still wearing my grandmother’s wedding ring, oozes into his ear. His eyes widen, fearful, and then the spark of life is gone. He looks at me blankly, addressing me politely by my full name. As my wife packs him and the suitcases into my car, I wonder when he will forget all the times he called me ‘dad’.
The girl on the pale blue bicycle rides past again today. She can’t be more than twelve. Asian. I’m not a racist, really. I stand guard at my window, and she waves as she flies past. I want to grow a set of wings and join her, but my window holds me down. My wings would have been pale blue.
The bank sent a man today. I didn’t know the banks still had men. The faceless corporation has a face, and it is greasy and nervous and perched on the last couch in my living room evaluating my antique chairs. He’ll need to see my car apparently. I tell him my wife has it. I want to ask him to check the trunk for my son. He is not sympathetic. I think he is going to take my chairs. I ask if I can keep my window. He does not answer.
I am flying now. I have a bicycle (surprisingly, it is pale red) and I am flying with her. We are on an adventure and I am happy. I tell her and she smiles. I tell her about my son and my wife and my bank and she smiles. As we cycle up and down the street, colliding with hedges and swerving around neighbours, I dream of a window with man inside. He watches us on our bicycles, and I wave to him. I want him to join us on our adventure. I need him to. I fear it is too late.
You’re doing fine says the doctor. He is very fat. I don’t know why he is fat. It wobbles as he laughs. You’re fine he says as he wobbles. I am fine. The doctor is fat. As I leave his fat office, I can see he has already forgotten my name. I check my phone for his number, but my phone has forgotten all the names. I wonder if the girl with the pale blue bicycle has a name.
Every day she rides her pale blue bicycle past my window. Every day I watch her. I wait until she reaches the far end of the street before I put the gun to my temple. I shiver from the cold steel of the barrel pressed against my forehead. I hope she doesn’t hear.
Oh god.
I hope she doesn’t hear.
—–
cg
A birthday present! You know who you are!
—–
He leaned awkwardly against the wall, running a nervous hand through his greasy hair. Beads of sweat tattooed the anxiety on his forehead. The drink in his grasp, long-forgotten, vibrated violently to the thundering beat. He was also on the dance floor, shifting uncomfortably under the twisting eyes of the lasers. He looked around desperately, searching for attention. The raised fist was joined by a hundred frenzied limbs, but he was alone. He was at the bar, too, his unbuttoned shirt damp with fear. He licked his dry lips as he stared at his prey. It was his third night here this week, but he still hadn’t spoken to anyone. He still hadn’t spoken to her.
She was in the line, adjusting the length of her skirt. Shorter was better. She ignored the drunken brawl around her as she disappeared into the darkness, the spilled blood the colour of her lips. She was at the bar as well. As she struggled to read her phone through the haze, she saw them next to her, tongues intertwined. She watched as he sunk his claws into her ass, and then she raised her skirt a little higher. She didn’t know where she was the next day. She swallowed regret and despair as she carefully pulled her bra out from underneath the snoring stranger. It was okay. She’d had fun. That was fun. Right? She couldn’t wait for tonight. Right?
I stood inside the club, deafened by the bass. They grabbed my hands and pulled me into the mass of moving bodies. The loneliness crowded me, pressing in from all sides. My feet slipped on the liquid floor, the mixture of ice and vomit snatching at the lost souls. I choked, and tried to push away, but the emptiness closed even tighter. Then I saw them. Dancing several metres apart in perfect synchronisation. They didn’t need to look at each other, not tonight. The connection had been made, only daybreak would break them now. It’s not like the movies. It’s not magnetic. Not chemistry. The bodies moved, and the energy was kinetic.
—–
-cg
This is the second story I’ve written after ending my 100 story challenge. This story is not for kids or happy people. NSFW warning.
—–
“Come on…come on!” croaked the old man staring at the dirty television screen. I watched from the other end of the bar as he clenched a sodden strip of paper in his sweaty grip and swayed on his stool. A prayer to the gods of chance. The coloured balls crashed loudly across the screen and the slut in the awkward dress grinned and called out the numbers.
“FUCK! GOD-FUCKING-DAMN IT!” he screamed as the numbers winked and taunted. The bartender stood behind the bar, slowly cleaning a glass with a filthy rag. He didn’t react to the old man. The prostitutes in the corner stall watching my wallet through a thick cloud of smoke barely shifted. The old man slumped onto the bar, burying his grizzled face into the tartan shirt while the paper fell gently to the floor.
I picked my glass of water up and slid across the room, settling down on a stool next to him. The bartender, his ire already raised by my non-alcoholic request, glared as if I was not allowed to pet the zoo creatures. I ignored him, for now.
“Why?” I asked, leaning towards the hunched figure.
” ‘cuse me?” the old man said, looking up at me. I stared back into his bloodshot eyes, past the drooping eyelids into his skull.
“Why did you buy the ticket?” I repeated my question tonelessly.
“To get rich, you fucking imbecile!” The curse spat out with a weak venom, long oppressed by a hard and lonely life. No. I change my mind. A wedding ring adorned his finger. A long time ago.
“Why do you want to be rich?” People often told me I sounded like a robot. You sound like a robot, they said.
The old man blinked through his alcoholic haze and saw me for the first time. His snarl softened as he looked me up and down.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You new in town, boy?” I wondered how stereotypes were created. Grumpy old rednecks in bars.
“I’m travelling through,” I replied.
“Business or pleasure?”
I hadn’t realized there was a second option.
“Business,” I replied. He looked me up and down again, then nodded, then took a gulp of his brew.
“With money,” he said, “you can do anything. You can sleep with any woman on the whole fucking planet. You can buy every car. Every home. Fuck, you could even buy the moon if you had enough. That’s why I play the lottery. Money. What the fuck do you think?”
“But what’s the point?” I was invested in the conversation now. I needed to know. “The planet will die some day. So will everything on it. All the women and the cars and the houses. Even the moon. Gone. What’s the point? How is money going to stop that?”
The old man laughed and spat. I grimaced as his putrid breath rolled over me. He bared his yellow and rotting teeth as he replied.
“You listen here, boy. With enough money, you can live forever! All the medicine in the world!”
My grimace turned into a frown. Why didn’t he understand?
“So you live for a billion years. Then the universe ends. All matter condensing into a single point at the end of time. You can’t escape that. Not if you owned everything in the universe. You will die. Whether tomorrow or in a billion years. So I need to know…what’s the point? Why did you buy the ticket?”
The old man blinked and laughed and spat.
“Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you, boy? You one of them fi-lo-so-fi-er types?”
The bartender who had been pretending not to listen to our conversation decided he wasn’t needed, left the filthy rag on the bar and headed towards the bathroom.
“I am a philosopher,” I corrected. “Excuse me.” As I left for the bathroom, the old man turned back to the television screen and pulled out a new strip of paper. I looked back as I pushed open the restroom door. He had begun praying again. Swaying on his stool. One of the prostitutes in the corner stall stood up to follow me.
The bartender stood opposite me, facing the urinal, a strong stream of piss splattering into the porcelain. As the restroom door clicked shut behind me, I pulled out the revolver and fired into his back. The bang smashed across the room, echoing through the stalls. He gurgled as his blood burst across the urinal, and he fell to the floor. I walked up to his convulsing body and fired again, this time sending the bullet through his brain. As I fired again and again and again I noticed he was still pissing, even as the rounds tore through his organs. The prostitute who had followed me rushed through the bathroom door and I fired the last bullet into her head, sending it snapping backwards through the open door and spraying her brains across the bar. Then I placed the revolver precariously on the edge of the basin and I washed my hands. I was always taught to wash my hands when I went to the bathroom.
—–
cg
Just because I’m not doing a story every day, doesn’t mean I can’t still write!
—–
The night was pitch-black. The world only existed in my headlights. The country at night was blanketed with darkness.
I accelerated, pushing past the speed limit. I shifted in my seat and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Again. I knew why I was unnerved. Driving in the country was dangerous, especially after dark.
I shouldn’t have had a reason to fear it. In the day, the country was beautiful. The air was fresh, colder and sharper than the thick city smog. The land moved in rolling hills and sweeping plains, all coloured with innumerable yellow and green hues. I couldn’t see that now, though. Only shadows roamed the land.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles cracking over the silent hum of the engine. A soft glow appeared behind me, igniting the hill I had just passed over, eventually coalescing into a sharp pair of headlights. I wasn’t alone, not tonight, not in the country. They paused on the horizon, watching me as I sped away. Maybe one day they would follow. Chase me down. Not tonight. They just watched, watched as I raced home desperately to her.
I stayed in the middle of the highway, away from the disappearing edge. Black shapes gnawed at the road, eating at the lanes, trying to catch the unwary traveller. The fog slid down from the mountains and covered the landscape, giving the monsters a chance to hide.
It didn’t help, I knew they were there. Clusters of lights, just off the highway, betrayed the locations of their covens. Even as I sped past, I could hear their raucous laughter, their profane rituals. They were people once, just like you and I. Either they’d been caught on the road, dragged off into the hills and the rocks, or they’d migrated from the city, compelled by an unknown force. Slowly but surely they’d left the city, that public place of bright lights and loud noises, that place of drama and modernity and ever-present ennui. In the country they’d found privacy and silence, a place to let go and regress to base instincts and obscene communions. That was the power of the country. Sick freedom.
I crested another hill and there it was. Stretched out as far as I could see was the city and its suburbs. A million glittering lights in the distance, a sea of safety and normalcy. I let go of the breath I didn’t know I was holding. I’d be home soon. She’d be asleep already. That was okay. We would smile tomorrow, in our suburbs and our city.
And maybe one day, I thought, one day when we got tired of the mundane and the banal, one day when we could resist the call no longer…
Maybe then she and I could move to the country.
—–
cg
Well, here we are. 100 days. 100 stories. Well, not exactly. It’s actually 104 posts over 103 days. The very first post wasn’t a story, and 4’33” had another story posted with it. Also, there were posts but no stories on Christmas Day and Boxing Day. And it’s not exactly 100 stories, because several are multi-part tales. I did a quick count, and if we combine the multi-part stories, I’ve written 82 separate tales over the past four months! (81 if you count Reaper’s action piece then the sequel, Spock’s struggle, as one story, although I don’t. Even though they contain the same characters, they are separate stories.)
Anyway, I’m finishing up. This will be the last story from this experiment. I must say, this has been a very interesting experience for me. I’d say it was for the most part enjoyable, although I certainly hated it at some points. I’d say my writing has definitely improved over the four months, and I look forward to going back and editing some of the earlier pieces.
So, what’s next for the Wordsmith? Honestly, I have no idea. I think I need to take a break from writing for a while. That said, I’ll still update this blog with the occasional story if I feel like it, so stay subscribed! And tell your friends, of course.
Just before we get to the last story, I’d just like to thank everyone for reading and commenting over the past months. You’ve all been very supportive, and I am very grateful. Special thanks to several people: CP, for inspiring me to start this journey. LK, for ensuring I finished it, by ordering me to write something before midnight every night even when I didn’t want to (especially when I didn’t want to!). To Fodder and BuddhaKat, for being my best commenters and likers, and to all the regulars. Cheers!
Story time! Yes, it’s the return of fan-favourite, the gruesome noir homage set in a land of sentient toys. Investigating the shocking murder of a popular socialite, Detective Duke discovered a plot by the Captain of Police and the Mayor to use fear to keep the citizens of Toytown peaceful. The two powerful figures hired a vicious contract serial killer to do their dirty work. The Captain was shot by Sergeant Snowball when he took a hostage in the precinct, so Duke and Snowball have only one lead left: the Mayor. But as we’re about to discover, the investigation has taken a nasty turn…
Read Part 1 here and Part 2 here!
EDIT: After writing this, I feel I should put a warning here. Do not read if you don’t like fairly gruesome violence, even in a fictional fantasy setting. I mean it. It’s not nice. NSFW.
—–
Detective Duke awakened with a start. Darkness surrounded him. He tried to move, but realised his arms were raised above his head and attached to something. He was hanging, from what he didn’t know, suspended in the darkness. He knew he had to rely on his other senses, at least for now. He held his breath and focused on other sounds. To his left, he heard faint whimpering. Wherever he was imprisoned, he wasn’t alone. There sounds above him, too, of someone or something moving about on a floor over his head.
Duke began sniffing the air. It was rancid, the stench of death. Duke noticed it was slightly stale, and in that instant, he realised where he was. A basement. Most likely, the basement of the killer he’d been tracking.
Knowing he didn’t have much time, Duke began focusing on his arms. He felt a ring of cold steel around his left paw. His own handcuffs. Around his right, he felt leather. His paw was bound with some sort of strap, and it was loose. Duke began carefully twisting his paw, trying to loosen the straps.
There was a click, and suddenly the room was flooded with light. Duke winced, and waited for his eyes to adjust. His assumption had been correct, the room was clearly a basement. A small set of stairs lead upwards in one corner, while storage boxes filled another. In front of Duke was a table full of needles, and tufts of fluff and blood stains covered the walls. It wasn’t just a basement. It was a torture chamber. On Duke’s left, attached by his long ears to a metal pipe, was the Mayor of Toytown, a rabbit named Fluffykins. And standing at the base of the stairs, his paw on the light switch, was Sergeant Snowball.
“Snowball,” hissed Duke, his glass eyes flashing. “I suspected you. Damn you!”
“Ha! Hahaha!” Snowball’s normal voice, a weak and stuttering mess, was replaced with a maniacal cackle. “I was wondering if you’d figured it out yet!”
“I had my suspicions when you killed Captain Cody,” Duke growled. “His last word…Snowball. In that instant, he knew. His role was to cover up the crimes, the Captain had never met the teddy responsible for the dirty work. Or so he thought.”
“Oh, Captain Cody…I regret that,” Snowball sighed. “I regret not killing him with my bare hands! Bare hands! Hahaha! Oh my. I won’t make the mistake with the Mayor. Will I now, Fluffykins?”
At the mention of his name, the rabbit groaned. Snowball bounded over to the rabbit, and slapped him across the face.
“Please, no!” moaned Fluffykins, recoiling from the blow. “We hired you! You do what we say! You were only meant to capture the Detective! What are you doing?”
In a flash, Duke remembered the last thing he had seen before waking up in the basement. He was in the Mayor’s office with Sergeant Snowball, confronting Fluffykins with proof of the conspiracy. As he talked, he’d seen the Mayor make an almost imperceptible gesture with his ears. Duke had begun to turn around, but something hit him from behind.
“You knocked me out, and brought me here. You bastards. You’ll both pay for this.”
“Oh, Dukey Duke! I don’t think so!” giggled Snowball. “I will be a hero for tracking the Mayor and the brave Detective down! Sadly, I was too late. The killer had already had his way with them and escaped! Oh well!”
“No!” gasped Fluffykins. “You said after I tied up the Detective I could go! This wasn’t part of the deal!”
“You’re a fool!” cried Duke. “You thought you could control this teddy? Haven’t you read the details of his work? He’s not a mercenary, no. He’s a psychopath! He doesn’t care about money or deals. He just wants to kill!”
“Oh, so true, so true Dukey!” Snowball grinned as he wrapped his paws around the rabbit’s neck. “And now Mayor…I want you to know, just before you die…when I’m done here, I will be coming after your daughter. Such a beautiful bunny! I will enjoy stuffing her!”
Mayor Fluffykins’ cry of shock was cut short as Snowball began crushing his neck. The rabbit’s eyes bulged as his face turned blue. Snowball began laughing as he choked the life out of Mayor Fluffykins.
“NO!” cried Duke as Snowball dropped the rabbit to the floor. The Mayor was dead.
“Ah…that felt good!” said Snowball, turning to Duke. “Do you know what rabbits are made of, Dukey? Meat! And teddies…are made of stuffing! It’s funny how the world works, isn’t it? You know what I’m going to do to you, Dukey? I’m going to take the stuffing from you, and put it into the Mayor, and I’m going to take the blood and the organs of the rabbit, and put it in you! Won’t that be fun?”
“You’re sick!” snarled Duke.
“YES! YES I AM! ISN’T IT WONDERFUL?” Snowball threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, but I’m not going to kill you yet. I’m going to torture you! Do you know the best thing about stabbing a teddy with a 13 gauge beading needle is? Doesn’t cut the fabric! It’s the only needle that doesn’t damage a teddy! All it does is cause immense pain. And I’m going to torture you for hours. But don’t worry, Dukey…you won’t have to see it. Well, maybe. I’m going to take your eyes first! I’m going to sew buttons to your head! I’ve heard a teddy can still see with button eyes. You’ll have to tell me how that is, won’t you Dukey?”
Snowball giggled again, and as Duke glared, the white teddy danced up the stairs and disappeared into the house above the basement.
“Now don’t go anywhere, Dukey!” Snowball called from above. “I just need to find my scissors and my buttons, and then we’ll have some fun!”
Duke resumed his desperate struggling against the leather straps. The Mayor, not accustomed to tying people up, had not tightened the straps enough, and soon Duke slipped his arm through the leather. He turned his attention to his left paw. The metal handcuff was too tight, and the pipe it was attached to was too sturdy to break loose.
“I thought about framing you, Dukey!” called Snowball. “But where’s the fun in that?” Duke knew he only had one choice. He couldn’t fight Snowball while attached to the ceiling. He had to break free.
He stretched forward to the torture table in front of him. Just within reach was a large, sharp needle. Gauge 14. For yarn and hide. The design could cause massive damage if used improperly, and Duke was about to use it improperly. He gripped it in his paw, tensed and closed his eyes. This was going to hurt.
Upstairs, Snowball stared at the black leather mask and smiled. He slid it over his white furry ears, and adjusted the eye holes so he could see properly. Then he grasped the large metal zipper, and zipped the mask up over his mouth. He picked up the buttons and the pair of scissors, and made his way back to the basement. He thought of all the ways he would hurt Duke, and he smiled again. However, even he was not prepared for the sight that greeted him as he stepped down into the basement.
Where Duke had been hanging there was just the Detective’s arm, swinging from the ceiling with the handcuffs. It had been violently severed, with strips of savaged felt hanging limply down. Tufts of stuffing poked out, and a trail of the stuff lead off into a dark corner. As Snowball’s widened eyes followed the trail, the one-armed Duke charged from behind, roaring in pain and hate.
“MMMRRRRRFFFFF!” Snowball’s gimp mask muffled his scream as Duke drove the yarn needle through the white bear’s body, just as the Detective had done to himself minutes earlier. The two bears slammed into the floor as Duke stabbed Snowball again and again. Soon the Detective stood over the shrieking Sergeant, and he smiled.
When the police arrived, most could not handle the scene they saw in that basement. The floor and walls were covered in white felt and stuffing. Mayor Fluffykins lay in a corner, dead. An arm hung from the ceiling, tufts of stuffing poking out. Detective Duke was slumped in a corner, exhausted, yet still smiling.
In the centre of the room, lying on a table on top of a dozen needles was Sergeant Snowball. He was still alive, barely. Faint gasping could be heard from inside the black leather mask he was still wearing. His body was covered in slashes and holes. And his limbs, his arms and legs…
His limbs were missing.
—–
That’s all, folks!
-cg
“Well, this looks like the end for us,” sighed Francis, stirring his coffee slowly.
“What do you mean?” asked Sam.
“Well, the wordsmith is finishing up his blog. It’s the end! We’re going to die!”
“This isn’t the last story, is it?” Sam made some mental calculations in his head. “No, there’s one more to go.”
“Well, yes, he’s got tomorrow, but he’s not going to be writing about us, is he? He’s already planned out his final post. Besides, Sam, you know we only exist as a pathetic attempt by the wordsmith to maintain his continuous post count on days where he runs out of time to do a proper story.” Francis shook his head sadly.
“That doesn’t mean we’re any less important than, say, ‘Reaper’ Bryant, or Elenwyn, or Detective Duke, or Etharr the Barbarian, or any of the other colourful characters he’s created over the past few months.” Sam took a sip of his tea. “We’ve had a good run. We’ve touched on some important moral and ethical issues. With some judicious editing, we might even make it into the book!”
“Not the point, Sam!” cried Francis. “He’s not writing us any more! We’re going to die! It’s the end of the world! Oh god, it’s 2012 and everything!”
“Calm down, Francis! Everybody dies some time. Death is a natural part of life. There’s nothing we can do to stop it. We, as self-referential parodies of real people, are cursed with the knowledge that we will one day cease to exist. Nothing can be done about it.”
“But I don’t want to die! I want to exist! And the moment the wordsmith clicks ‘Publish’ on this article, that’s it! Our lives are over! Nothing will remain!”
“Ah, well, that’s one way of looking at it,” murmured Sam. “On the other hand, you could argue that we will never die. Every time someone reads us, thinks about us, remembers us, we live, don’t we? It may be in someone else’s thoughts, but we’ll still exist. In a way.”
“I don’t know if that’s a comfort, Sam. I won’t be me. I’ll just be a perception of me in someone else. I won’t think. I won’t remember. Oh god, Sam, I won’t remember!”
Sam smiled.
“What did you want, Francis? An afterlife? A sequel? Part 5? We don’t get a reward after death. Our life was the reward. The prize. The chance to open our eyes to the world. To feel. To explore. To create. That’s our reward. We’re living it already.”
“Oh, Sam…”
“Yes Francis?”
“I’m scared, Sam.”
“So am I, my dear.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
—–
cg
Today’s story inspired by an unlikely and unholy combination of the newest Sherlock Holmes movie, Monday’s Penny Arcade comic strip and my own experiences. Enjoy!
—–
“Arturo! Arturo, please, take your medicine!” pleaded Emilio. He waved the orange bottle of pills at the dirty lump of rags huddled in the corner. A gaunt arm, raked with scratches, flew from the lump and snatched the bottle from Emilio. Jagged fingers clawed at the bottle. As the lump rose and the pills disappeared into its black maw, Emilio recoiled at the stench emanating from the skeletal figure.
“Arturo!” he cried, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. “When was the last time you bathed?”
“Don’t remember.” The reply issued forth as a death rattle, as stale air hissing through dessicated lungs. “You poison me, Emilio. You take away my music. The medicine takes away my music.”
The figure stood tall now. It limped towards Emilio, its starved body mere bones, and its gaunt face the horrific visage of a diseased skull. It was called Arturo, and it was an artist. The high walls and ceiling of the room, Arturo’s studio, were covered with hundreds of canvases. All were daubed with startling images; representations of chaos and order, manifestations of death and life, expressions of love and loss. Arturo’s work was worth millions; the unseen paintings in the studio: priceless.
“The medicine takes away my madness. It makes me remember. It makes me think. It makes me stupid! AND YOU FORCE ME TO TAKE IT! YOU ALWAYS FORCE ME!” Arturo’s laments began as slow hisses, before rising into a shrieked crescendo. As Emilio covered his ears, Arturo broke down into tears, convulsing hysterically.
“No, no, no, Arturo, please!” beseeched Emilio. “I do it for you! The doctors say that you are sick, that you are very sick, and that this medicine will make it better! I only do it for you! It’s not that bad, is it, my old friend? You have painted, yes? Last week you painted! It was beautiful! A beautiful forest scene!”
“Hateful! It was filled with evil!” sobbed Arturo.
“It was good! Please, Arturo, the medicine is for your own good. Please stop crying. Here, how about you paint something today? Here, let me fix up your easel, like so. Here is a blank canvas, nice and large, right here. And I have put fresh colours on your palette, here. Now, please Arturo. Take up your brush! For me!” Emilio watched as the shivering figure gingerly dabbed the paintbrush onto the palette, absorbing a tiny portion of red paint. Arturo raised the brush and smeared a small vertical line on the canvas. He paused, staring, then raised the brush high and smashed it down against the easel. The wooden frame shattered as Arturo rounded on Emilio.
“NO!” he screamed as he charged Emilio. The two men crashed to the ground. Arturo drove his jagged fingers towards Emilio’s eyes.
“You give me poison! You stop the music! You want it for yourself! You’ve taken it! Give it back! I need it back!”
Emilio’s screams of agony were drowned out by Arturo’s shrieking as the artist dug at the loyal servant’s eyes.
“GIVE ME BACK CREATION!”
—–
cg
I don’t know how many times the three of them hit me. I could barely feel their angry strikes against my bruised and battered and exhausted body. My combat armour, painted in dull grey, lay crumpled to one side. My weapon, a retractable bo staff, broken in two. My equipment and gadgets, scattered across the room. Only my mask remained. My last defence.
I had been so close.
The Scagliotta crime family employed Spanish immigrants as enforcers and bodyguards. This helped the Family maintain essentially familial ties with the Mexican cartels, thereby ensuring a healthy flow of Central America drugs throughout Scagliotta territories. A flow I was desperately trying to stem.
I’d been waging war against the Family for several months, picking off various capodecinas and consiglieries. When I discovered the cartel link, I knew I had a real chance at severely damaging the Family’s operations. I managed to sneak into a meeting, in the function room of a Scagliotta hotel, between the underbosses of the enforcer faction and the Scagliotta boss’ consiglierie. After recording their conversations, I attacked. The underbosses lay on top of each other now, still bleeding from my assault. The fat consiglierie had tried to run. I’d pinned him against the front door of the deserted hotel. The police could take the others, but he was mine. I’d been looking forward to interrogating him later.
But I wasn’t careful enough. I had missed a young sicario and his bodyguards who had wandered outside during the meeting. They had returned while I was searching my unconscious trophies. There were six. Then five. Then four. Then three. Then I was overcome. I had fought so hard. So desperately.
The beating stopped. They pulled me up, one on either side, grasping my arms, while the third, the sicario, stared at me. He wore a blood stained singlet, and his bare arms were covered in ornate tattoos. His hard eyes were a weak green, and he had been keeping his head shaved for a long time. He spat blood and saliva, and gingerly tapped the growing lump on the side of his head.
“I have to wonder,” he said as if addressing an audience, “why a man like you fights men like us. We are not bad men. We do not seek to control the world. We merely seek to provide choice to those who want it.”
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I had to keep fighting. I began to focus on my toes. They wiggled. Painfully, yes, but they wiggled. As he continued speaking, I began focusing on the pain in my body. I knew I would need to harness it soon. Very soon.
“And yet you are coming here, into our house, destroying our work, and denying the proud people of this world a choice. You have made that choice for them, and I think that is a bad thing. Is controlling people what bad men do? That is why I think you are not a hero. You are a bad man.”
The thugs gripped at my limbs harder as the sicario leaned in close to me.
“Some people say you are a scorned member of the Family. Some people say you are the son of a man killed by the Family. You know what I think? I think you are a pervert. I think you like running around the town in your costume and your mask. I think you get off on your little fantasy. You get off by beating men up, and you get off by being the hero. Tell me, Mr. Masked Man…after all your heroics and your fighting and your chaos…do they love you now? Does she love you now?”
The sicario grinned and his hard eyes glistened. I could have counted the gold caps on his jagged teeth as he grasped the sides of my mask.
“Who are you, Mr. Pervert? I guess I am about to find out.”
“No,” I hissed, tensing my broken body. “You’re about to find out my mask is electrified.”
—–
cg
“…and now his computer is broken too!”
She cackled at her own joke. Her screeching echoed around the room, bouncing off the walls and driving repeatedly into my head. I grimaced and smiled politely. She didn’t notice, busy laughing like a hyena. Without a word, I turned and left her cubicle, and moved slowly towards the elevator.
My colleagues did not look up as I passed. The echoing laughter died down and was replaced with the soft clicking of a hundred computer keyboards and the faint squeak of my leather shoes on the fake plastic carpet. Squeak squeak squeak.
Bob was watching me as I walked past the photocopier. Hey Jim, he started, but I didn’t look. Didn’t stop. Squeak squeak squeak.
The elevator was mercifully fast. I found myself outside in the sun. I checked my phone: No missed calls. No new messages. No friends.
The sun beat down on my brow. A tree in the empty office courtyard shifted uncomfortably in the breeze. A bird started whistling nervously for a few seconds before it too fell silent. There was a break in the traffic on the road and then I was alone.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
—–
cg
