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The TV repairman gazed for a few seconds at the screen of his laptop, yelled "YYEEESSSSS! SHE HAS!!!" and punched the air in front of him. Happily, his fist stopped half an inch away from the van windscreen, otherwise his elation would have ended there and then in a shower of blood and broken glass.
There was a downside, the condition was that he arrive in the T-Bird, so that they could drive out and fuck in it on Christmas morning. Heck, that ruled out a flyover, but she would be worth it. No point in having flash wheels if you can't use it to impress chicks?!
He rattled back a message. He would be there without fail and she was only going to get a fuck in the T-Bird, if she stripped completely for it and wore nothing except for a red Santa hat. And some bells on her ankles.
Time for action! With barely a thought, he cancelled his remaining job list. In fact, the very thought of a family of rednecks sitting around looking at each other over a dead TV set for the whole of the holiday, filled him with glee. Their misery would be his joy. They would have nothing to do except enjoy an old fashioned traditional Christmas, a family occasion, just like it used to be a hundred years ago. Think of the body count! Two days of TV sensory input deprivation and the guns would come out. He mentally edited the thought, having re-considered his usual customer base. One day.
...
The van chugged though the gates of The Manor. All he needed to do here was shower, grab a few things together, grab the keys to the T-Bird and hit the road in grand style. He bounced up the stairs to his apartment, and was about to fling wide the door with theatrical gusto.
Except at that moment, the key broke in the lock.
...
The Lockman stepped back to admire his work, whilst Ted looked despondently at the drill holes in the door, the slashed varnish and the fresh splinters protruding out from round the new lock face.
"It always happens, people will have cheap copy keys made, an'they're always breakin. This must be the tenth I've had this week. Let's give this one last test, shall we?" the Lockman said shutting the door and flourishing the new key under Ted's nose "You probably twisted it somehow, weakened it - and when you - pushed in and turned it - it... oh shit..."
The Lockman was looking in dumb amazement at the broken key. Ted closed his eyes.
He opened his eyes, picked up the drill and rammed it up each of Lockman's nostrils, the blood flying out in spiralling tendrils, ripped it out and plunged into each eye. Lockman collapsed to his knees screaming. Ted ripped his head back by the hair and drove the drill straight into the roof of his mouth, kicked him hard in the gut and slammed his foot down onto Lockman's head. Crushing it over on one side, the drill hovered screaming above the clueless fuckwit's earhole as gouts of blood sprayed out of every...
Ted opened his eyes. The Lockman was no longer looking in dumb amazement at the broken key, but abject horror and disbelief.
"Give me a shout when it's fixed." sighed Ted, seeing with different eyes a fellow repairman wishing the ground would open up under him - and beginning to feel an uncomfortable shred of sympathy.
...
Having even tidied his van in frustration, whilst clueless wonder workman fixed the mess, Ted packed, showered, and without further delay hurried back down to the garage. The magnificent, gleaming T-Bird purred down the drive, though the tall iron gates, and out onto the road stretching to Paradise.
A Paradise which would include large amounts of hot jizz and cooze juice, of course...
...
Even to the most sardonic mind, the over-night motel had not been excessively unpleasant, Ted reflected, The room was clean, the bed had been comfortable, the food was eatable, and the bill had been remarkably low. He was in good spirits, a most unseasonable joy weld up in him. With one hand on the wheel the other beating time to the music, he edged the T-Bird down the Interstate and reflected that if someone handed him a squawking baby and suggested that he might kiss the little Darling, he might even have obliged them. At least, as a sarcastic gesture before bowling the little brat out the window onto the rapidly passing tarmac, for a genuine bouncing baby 9-piner at over - SHIT - slow DOWN!
...
The T-Bird rolled to a halt, bathed in the flashing blue light, reflected flashs glinting off the shiny chrome trim. "Step out the car pleeeease." Officer Arsehole peered through the window, every inch of chest still remaining the obnoxious high school jock, he had been, short stubbly black hair and a sarcastic sneer on his face. "There are restrictions on use of state freeways by aircraft, which button do you have to hit before the wings pop out?" His partner, a balding, and incredibly over-weight officer, was munching a caramel bar, and convulsed with snorted laughter, spewing pieces of half chewed caramel out his podgy face. "We know you were way over the speed restriction as you went past. What speed were you doing sir?" Ted's face remained impassive, sensing a mental poker game. He folded his cards facedown "I don't know. What speed was I doing?" Officer Arsehole glared at him, circumstances had dealt him a rather weaker hand than usual, "You were way over the limit." "I was driving within the speed limit." Ted maintained impassively, thumbing the corner of a card threateningly. Officier Fatso chimed in. "Hey, you was footing it damn fast, but by the time we got the trap on ya, you was back under, but we pulled ya cos you gonna remember this, you're gonna keep you speed down from now, boy." He dug out another caramel bar and flicked the wrapper off. Officer Arsehole gritted his teeth, silently ripped the cards in half and threw the stubs on the table. Ted's face remained unchanged. "But..." He recovered, "we are going to do a full check on your vehicle and your papers had better be upto date!"
Ted maintained an impassive look for the next twenty minutes, and three caramel bars. Counting every second tick, and mentally counting every sticky figure mark. Counting every syllable as Officer Arsehole berated him about road safety.
Counting on the dumb pair not finding the stash of 8 ounces.
...
Finally, Officer Arsehole turned and walked back to the patrol car shooting a last glare at Ted. Officer Fatso half-turned to follow his partner back. He paused, grinning stupidly at the car, then patted a sticky carameled hand on the wing.
"Nice Birdie! You look after it now. Have a nice day, boy." He wiggled a pudgy eyebrow at Ted, then waddled off after Arsehole.
Ted collapsed back into the seat. He watched the Officers walk back to their car in the rear-view mirror, Officer Fatso unwrapping yet another caramel bar and casually flicking the wrapper into the roadside.
With a snarl of suppressed anger, Ted slammed his fist down on the steering column. Twisting the key, he decked the throttle down hard but instead of wheel-spinning out on to the road, showering his tormentors with sand, smoke and gravel, the T-Bird merely lurched and stalled.
"NO!" His whitened knuckles underlining the guttural rage. He closed his eyes, feeling every muscle straining at its roots, red haze building across his sight. "FUCK-" He leaned over to the dashbox and yanked the cover off and thrust his hand in. "YOU!!!" The steel handgun slipped inside his jacket, his foot kicked open the door, swung out, and Ted strode back towards the police car, a thunder filling every corner of his mind with pure dark hatred.
Officer Arsehole smiled patronisingly up at him out of the sidedoor window. "Can I *heeelp* you, *sieeer*..." he sneered. From the other side, Officer Fatso leaned forward and beamed across. "What's up, boy? Won't she start?" The caramel bar became an ignition key and a chewed end was twisted into the dashboard. "RRMMMOOOMMM! RRMMMOOOMMM! PUTTER-PUTTER-PUTT! Oh Dear! Hrh, Bad Birdie! Eh? Hee hee!!" The mashed caramel bar returned to ground zero.
For an eternal second, Ted took in their faces, Arsehole's mocking smile, Fatso's childlike eyes and raised eyebrows wiggling at him.
The handgun moved sabre-like through the air, barking twice, then held frozen, as if like a blade drawn out of the chest of a stricken opponent and held en garde against any final attack from the dying foe. Ted gazed into the patrol car, his ears ringing gently.
It was almost comical to see. Officer Arsehole was sat back, his cap pushed forward down his forehead, staring cross-eyed upwards at the growing tickle of blood seeping out from under the brim, dribbling down his nose, and dripping off onto his uniform, with, it seemed, just the faintest trace of a dumb grin on his dead lips. As in life, as in death.
Officer Fatso was slumped forward onto the dashboard, head turned sideways, arms dangling ape-like to the floor, his eyes locked in a gaze of amazement at the end of the caramel bar protruding from his mouth, which his jaw had seized in one final death grip. Even the new red eye in the very centre of his forehead seemed to be following his stare. His bulging cheeks putting the final brush of paint on a cameo of absurdity.
Reason forced it's way back into Ted's mind and kicked aside the gleefully insane urge to capture the ridiculous moment with the camera. Sweat breaking on his head and palms, he returned to the T-Bird at a very brisk walk, light-headed, stunned by the moment that had now made him a killer. Fighting back the flood of jumble emotion, he sat and focused into the middle distance. Calm... and permit just one thought. If whoever finds those two fools has one shred of a tasteless sense of humour, they will piss themselves laughing! He leaned back, and closed his eyes.
He opened them again as the Police Car pulled out past him, swung round in an untidy U turn and headed off back down the road, Officer Fatso scowling at him out of the side window.
Ted sighed, fired up the T-Bird's engine and drove back out into the pale blaze of the rising winter sun.
The next time he stopped it was going to be late evening.
...
Somewhere in the dark, a pair of hands checked around a window and found the gap they were looking for. They squeezed a short metal wrecking bar under the window edge, then a second one further along. Satisfied, they withdrew back into the darkness.
...
Ms.Ratchet looked over the table, the set, the flowers, the candle in the bottle. This was the way *she* did seduction. She checked under the draw of the table. Check, ready and waiting. After sweets, she would step slowly behind him, her silk dress brushing lightly against him, and say "You're not thinkin'of leaving tonight, Ted?" He would grin cheekily up at her and say "Nope." She would then say "That's just fine..." and click. He won't notice the handcuffs on his arm until it was to late... A man has such an endearing quality when he is chained helpless to a chair and wondering just *what* you have in mind for him next, she thought. "Dear, sweet, innocent Ted," she murmured "You just don't know what you've let yourself in for, do you?" and thought longingly about the vast assembled array of devices, concealed carefully away beneath the bed upstairs. Pleased with the effect, she turned back to the kitchen to give the pot on the hob another stir. The secret of being a good seductress, she mused, has a lot to do with being a good cook.
The doorbell rang. With just a hint of girlish thrill, she turned in mid-stride and leapt for the door. Stopped and gave the horny little girl inside a slap. Control, a bit of detachment please. A cool, controlled, detached hand opened the door.
Not one man but two!!
"Howdy Miss. We've bought you a Christmas present. Us!"
Ms.Ratchet stared back at them through the security chain. Who the hell?
"We figured you would be feeling kinda lonesome, so we thought we would bring ya some seasonal cheer. Ya gonna let us in, it's chilly out here."
The door slammed shut. Ms.Ratchet sank back against the wall, as a deep gutting fear started in her stomach, crawled up her throat and into her mouth. Dorkus and Dipshit! Mr.Romantic Ideas Removal Man and his quiet gormless sidekick. Yes, she remembered them alright, drooling Dorkus, whose unwanted attentions had been seen off by a timely intervention from her Vommy. Springtime, beginning of April and the slightest of shadows over her new house.
And now they were outside again...
The door banged loudly. "Hey, that's notta nice thing t'do, missus! We just wanna friendlie drink an'a chat wiv'ya, tha's all..."
"Piss off, Shit head! Or I'm calling the cops!"
"Hey, come on, we just want a nice evening, some drinks, a few smokes maybe, nothing more, hey what do you say?" came Dorkus's voice though the door.
"I say no. I don't want your company or your frien-"
She spun round as there came a crash behind her!
Dipshit crouched on the broken window frame, a twin barrelled shotgun pointed nervously at her. "Go and open the front door, miss." he said quietly.
Gulping down the lump in throat, she slowly turned and, hairs bristling like razor wire on her back as she felt the shotgun follow her, she trod the floor towards the front door, each foot fall feeling like wearing lead boots. With trembling fingers, she pulled back the lock and chain. Dorkus stood in the doorway.
He stepped forward. "Fine damn way you treat guests, missus!"
The fist hit her hard in the mouth, her head slammed back into the wall with the impact, knocking the cry of pain out of her smashed lips. The next fist slammed up into her stomach and under her ribs, her legs buckled out and she sunk down, gasping her breath with crushed lungs.
Dorkus made a gesture of pushing Dipshit back, "Hey, don't let's rush this!"
He turned back to the woman, and with the arms accustomed to lifting furniture, he lifted her casually up by the neck as if she were an ornate lampstand and held her up to his face. Even, in her dazed state she flinched as the next stench of breath hit her. "Cos we've got all night if we want. Don't just stand there, how's about showing us round your house, then?" he mocked. He gazed around him. "So much for the hall, let's do the lounge."
Dragging the woman's head under his arm, Dorkus took three even strides to the doorway, and looked round. With the same ease that a child lobs a ball with, he casually threw her across the room at the table. She landed flat onto it on her back, her spine shooting a blaze of pain though her. The table collapsed, and she came to rest in agony, amongst the broken timber, cutlery, cloth and shattered bottle glass, the flowers spread out in some grotesque arrangement in the mess.
Dorkus looked down at a single bloom which had rolled towards him "Nice flowers." he said, and ground it under his foot as he tugged his chin thoughtfully, "Yah know, I think ya *were* expecting someone, weren't yer?" He turned, to Dipshit and regarded him with a slightly confused expression. "It's not fuckin' Wednesday, today, is it??"
He looked again with a new sneering contempt at the stunned, bleeding woman on the floor, slumped in remains of the broken table. "Well - I think we're going to arrange a little reception party for your crazy lover boy, tonight. Ah wonder how keen he's gonna be on yer, when he's been made to watch us use you as a fucktoy tonight, huh?"
Dorkus's gaze moved across the floor. Quizzically he picked up the pair of handcuffs from where they had fallen.
"Mmmmm?" his face contorting into a huge evil grin as he dangled the cuffs in front of him. "You *really* *are* a kinky bitch, aren't you?"
"SLUTTY CUNT!!" he screamed and bought the cuffs slashing across her face and back. He raised them again, and in her own little world of pain the woman cringed, waiting for the arm to fall. It never did. All three heard the low throb of a smooth running heavy engine rolling up the drive. Dorkus pulled a handgun out his jacket, and flicked the safety off.
...
Ted pulled the carry all onto his lap, everything packed, clothes, laptop, digital camera (there might be some GIFs in it yet), mobile phone, a large handful of condom packs and the ObBoxofChocolates?Create.
Something for the weekend, sir? He smiled into the mirror, pulled his shirt collar straight and picking up the carry bag, strode confidently towards the door. The door was unlocked, and slightly ajar - "Ah, the old come you on...". He stepped inside, and was totally stunned by what he saw.
Two men, one casually covering Ted with a handgun, the other one holding a shotgun under the chin of a terrified woman, blood dripping from her smashed lip, and a red whelt on her face. The hold-all slipped out of his fingers to the floor.
"Well, shit!" exclaimed Dorkus. "Howd'ya know? It ain't the crazy one after all!"
Dorkus ambled over towards him, "Well, Ah don't need to tell ya, that any funny business from ya, and 'BANG'! Apart from that, you're gonna watch a little show this evening called 'Two cool guys fuck a kinky cumslut' an'if yer behave yourself, Ah might even let you have a go yerself, after we've finished with the bitch, or I can blow you brains out for you right now. Wadda'ya wanna do?"
By the time Dorkus had finished his speech of welcome, Ted had already figured this out. He slide his foot slowly under the hold-all.
"I want you to punch me cos I think I may be dreaming this."
A grin spread over Dorkus's face. "Just stand right there. You don't know how happy it makes me to-"
The hold-all hurtled into Dorkus's legs in mid-stride, sending him sprawling and in the same instant, Ted sprang over him and leapt up the stairs to the first floor. A torrent of abuse followed him.
Dipshit was at the foot of the stairs, shotgun pointed up into the darkness.
"No!" shouted Dorkus "Go back and watch the bitch! I'll get him for that, you're dead, you Wanker!!" He shouted up the stairs. and climbed slowly, shouting threats.
Ted crouched outside on the balcony in the darkness, heart beating and blood pounding in his ears. Without his gun, and facing a gun wielding foe? Not even a sword to die with? Hope, however, reigned firm. The idiot had already fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and with luck would fall for some more. The washing line had been pure inspiration and good luck.
Dorkus peered through the darkness into the unfamiliar rooms, somewhere his quarry lurked in the darkness. He felt a cold breeze drift out of one of the rooms. Gun ready he stepped in, across the room to a door out onto a balcony just visible in the glow of distant streetlights. Jumped from a balcony? He stepped into the door way.
The end of the gun barrel nosed out, Ted frozen still choose his moment, and heaved the wash-line in his hand with all his strength. Dorkus stepping out onto the balcony, suddenly found his feet in the air, and sprawled his full length out. As he struggled back to his feet, the metallic feel of blood dribbling out his nostrils, an ornate flower pot crashed over his head, a pair of hands picked him up by the shoulders and slammed him bodily into the balcony rail. And pitched him forward... The last words he heard were "One Loser to GOooooo!"
The ground came up to meet Dorkus very fast.
Ted looked down over the balcony rail, the man below was lying in an eye twisting pattern. Circled in the light of the room below, Ted thought he looked like a freeze frame of an epileptic tard in full fit. Except that the angle of the neck was improbable even for an epileptic tard contortionist. Suppressing a triumphant yell, Ted settled for the honour of a finger salute to his dead foe. Picking up Dorkus's dropped gun and feeling a surge of confidence, Ted crept back out to the stairs.
Downstairs, Dipshit was peering round a door, cursing himself, distracted for only a brief moment by the commotion above, he had suddenly found himself in a ball of agony with most of the agony centred in his balls. The Ratchet bitch had dived out the room, and disappeared. He licked his lips and steadied the shotgun in his hand, and tried to blot out the waves of pain still radiating from his groin. From this vantage point at least, he was concealed and had a field of fire across the hall, the stairs and the window he had come in by. All he had to do now was wait. He wondered what had happened to Dorkus. He also began to wonder if he should waste Dorkus before he discovered that he had let the bitch escape. It was not going to be easy explaining that.
Ms.Ratchet was flattened as much as her body would allow, behind the door in the kitchen, the blood beating in her ears, a razor sharp carving knife clenched in her hand. Above the rhythmic pounding, she had heard Dipshit shuffling around at the end of the corridor. There had been a set of footsteps down the stairs.
Ted reached the bottom of the stairs, looked carefully down the hall, and crept over to the room across the way.
Ms.Ratchet peered carefully round the door post. Across the passage she saw Ted, gun in hand, with his back to her - and at the other end just stepping into the Hallway was Dipshit, his shotgun pointing straight at the back of...
"TED!" she screamed, dived at his waist and pushed him straight through the doorway to his side, and as he fell Dipshit fired.
In what felt like slow motion, Ted saw her head twist as the first bullet hit her neck, the red ribbon sliced through it, and the second bullet directly in the side of the head, flipping her over like a rag-doll. In a terrible instant, a dream turned to a nightmare.
Ted grabbed the door post and stared for a moment in shock and disbelief at the twisted body, and watched as the blood squirted out of the ripped throat. Then something inside him snapped.
Dipshit was fumbling with the shotgun, hastily chambering two new rounds. He didn't care what his first shot had hit. He raised the shotgun again and... And was slammed backwards by a something which one second ago had been a figure at the other end of the hall, but was now a blazing hurricane of fury incarnate. The shotgun fell out of his hands, and a welter of punches drove him to his knees. Reeling, he lurched to his feet, only to be sent flying back into the kitchen by a vicious uppercut to the chin, half fell against the kitchen unit and screamed as he knocked a scalding saucepan of water of the cooker and down himself.
Ted snatched up the rolling saucepan, grabbed the dazed Dipshit, dragged him upright, swung the pan and smashed it into his jaw. Dipshit's mouth dangled open, gargling, his unfocused eyes rolling. Ted saw only the eyes that had looked down that shotgun barrel, his hands discarded the saucepan and grabbed at the throat, locking tight as the splintered jaw swung over them drooling blood and saliva, wrenching Dipshit backwards and forwards, wringing at the sinews and crushing the windpipe between the thumbs, as if they were squeezing water from a towel. Inside him a cold calculation began to fold into the screaming rage, and with an wolf-like snarl, Ted began to force Dipshit over backwards, hauled him suddenly forward and slammed his knee hard into Dipshit's testicles. Dipshit sagged, as the explosion of acute pain, added a hand-grenade into the middle of the atomic chain reaction of agony, already wracking him. Dipshit stared back into twin flames of hatred, set above bared teeth in a face contorted back into the most ancient depths of human-ape ancestry that the muscle pattern could still create. As he watched, he saw it change, the stretched apart lips began to curl together, and transform into a demonic grin, the grip on his throat lessened by one hand.
The cooker hob brightened as Ted's free hand flicked the switch further round. Dipshit bent his head round and gaped in terror, as Ted switched his hold, to the sides of Dipshit's head. Dipshit's pain soaked mind grabbed a new and more horrifying realisation. His flailing arms clawed at the cooker hob, his body wrenching from side to side, legs lashing out to no avail, and his gargling screams rising to a ear splitting shriek as with a robotic strength, precision and passionless determination, Ted slowly ground Dipshit's face into the glowing red hob ring. Flesh spluttered, hair shrivelled in acrid smoke. Dipshit's frantic scrabbling arms found one last purchase and forced him upwards, melted strands of facial tissue stringing out to the blackened, smoking hob ring. Ted beheld the artwork of his adversary's mutilated face for a moment. A charred spiral etched into the face, and the broken mouth painted with a sickly grinning line seared into it, and a lash-less eye melted flat. Ted re-doubled his remorseless grip, slamming Dipshit's face back into the cooker and folding his arm over it, held it there, drank in the stench of burning flesh, and reeled in the swirling fumes. Finally, the last spasms died in Dipshit's body and Ted let it fall limp to the floor. Absently flicking the hob switch off, Ted gazed for a brief moment at the corpse. The face was virtually unrecognisable, it's features a scorched mockery of nature, and still smoking unearthly fumes.
Ted stumbled, giddily, back into the hallway and knelt down beside Ms.Ratchet's body. The red mist over the eyes, swirled and dissolved in the tears swelling and falling.
The emotions in him fought as he cradled the dead woman's head on his lap. Grief, anger, and despair circled each other, thrusting the odd stab into the man kneeling on the floor. He didn't feel them. The sense of detachment grew stronger, and an insane reason took gentle control.
Nurz was dead. All he had hoped for, the object of his plans, lusts and dreams, lay in a growing pool of blood in which he was knelt, his trousers soaked a brownish-red. His object of electronic net-obsessions and fantasies gunned down by two nameless thugs. He had exacted revenge on her killer, and a cold dawning of knowledge told him that he had enjoyed the act of killing. He smoothed the blood matted hair, this woman had sacrificed herself to save him, risking her life in order to push him out of the path of the bullets and paid the ultimate price. Where would that be written? In a heap of dead bodies, who is to know which of them died as heroes, and which of them died as cowards? He - the survivor - would be the one to write history, not the thug lying dead with the broken neck on the patio or the charred lump in the kitchen, and Nurz Ratchet would only be telling her story to the deaf knife of a coroner.
Ted knew where he could write it. He would write it where it would be read by thousands of people like him, no denial would stand against him. His word there would be trusted and respected as the truth. The Police might just find him eventually, their stupid lies would try and distort his truth, but thousands on people would have read it and in their hearts, believe it. He would have to leave now before the opportunity disappeared. Whether any of the neighbouring properties had reported the shootings yet he didn't know, but an urgency in his plans began to form.
One more element was needed. Ted the Senior News Journalist took in the scene. He reached over to his carry bag, lying where Dorkus had tripped across it. He carefully removed the digital camera, switched it on and framed Nurz's body in the finder. The click of a button. He was about to get up and acquire the images of her charred killer, but something stopped him.
The thought would have normally disgusted him, a sick image, an unimaginable act, a fantastically gross idea. And yet... It - an action - was now growing in his mind, it would be the greatest compliment he could pay to her, it would have been a dying wish had her stilled lips been only able to utter it.
With no further heed, he placed the camera down, stood shaking slightly, dropped down his blood soaked trousers and shorts. He knelt down again, crouching over her head and cradling it gently, he gingerly lowered his limp penis into the blood weeping bullet hole. He realised that there was no way, he could hope to climax but a curious sense of duty and immortality drove him on. His free hand retrieved the camera and flicked it to close-up mode. Click. Warmed to it's task, the glimmer of an erection started to form. Click. The bullet hole was not really large enough, but by turning the dead woman's head slightly, he squeezed the tip into the opening and felt the slight warmth still, of the tissue underneath it. Click. He lowered her head back down reverentially, leaned forward and lightly kissed her face. In among the reeking smell of blood and death, he was sure he smelt just a hint of her perfume.
He quickly changed out of his bloodied clothes and stuffed them into a plastic carrier bag. Somewhere he would find a place to bury or burn them but for now he had to leave. He blew a last regretful kiss to the dead woman lying in the sticky pool of blood in her hallway, then stepped out into the pitch dark of the cold night air.
Stopping only to hurl the bags into the boot of the car, he fired the engine up. Using only the light from the street lamps, he drove down the empty street, and only switched on the headlights at the end and headed for the expressway to the city limits.
...
A few miles out, Ted pulled the T-Bird over into the roadside. He plugged the camera into the laptop and flicked it on. As camera and computer locked into silent discussion, he clicked the mail program up. His message typed out though exhaustion, numbed senses, shattered nerves and tear-blurred vision. With an unsteady hand ,he plugged the thin black cord from the back of the laptop into the phone. The finger unguided rattled out a few brief familiar keystrokes.
The screen flickered.
[Connecting...]
The modem light began to blink.
...
In a comfortable room a man starred into the glow of a computer screen. Across the plush carpet, a television flickered, the incessant jabber of a suited News Head silenced for now, by a distracted finger landing on a remote control. Someone, whose sense of taste had seen fit to stick strings of silvery tinsel around the walls, had included the TV set in the grand scheme of things. The computer sat on a distinguished looking mahogany desk, and the middle aged man, with the receding hairline and the distinguished looking middle age paunch, sat in a worn, leather armchair. The sort of chair aged by the continued purchase of dust, fibres, skin flakes, hair and cigarette ash, ground into the soft sprung mortar by a pestle of squirming, sweating buttocks as they were gripped by alternating moods of anger, irritation, boredom and on a couple of occasions, sexual climax which had left just the trace of a pale stain on the seat front. A chair which when not in use and pushed under the desk, stared up at a wooden cavern roofed in a sea of nostril stalactites. As might be guessed, the same sense of taste had seen fit to stick a length of tinsel round the desk, with much the same deft finish as a sprawling waiter spills a silver bucket of ice cubes at the moment an iceberg gouges its way through the side of a super-liner.
One of the man's eyes flicked to and fro across the screen, as the words thereon colliquated into thought. The other eye, seemingly bored by the vision which beheld the rapt attention of its neighbour, stared with a glass disinterest into space. Before him scrolled the descriptions and commentary on every diseased and depraved aspect of humanity. Written in some cases, he mused by some of the very diseased and depraved aspects themselves. Fine company, damn fine whiskey too! He momentarily viewed the screen through the lens of the tumbler, re-filled it and raised it in a mocking ceremonial gesture.
"Cheers, hyenas, have yourselves a Happy Crr..." his goodwill tailed away.
The eye read and re-read and re-read again the line it had fallen over.
12/24/99 : Citizen Ted : RACHET DEAD
The mouse pointer blurred over the screen, and the message dropped open.
It was Ted alright, but the words were jumbled, caps and rogue spaces sprinkled over, the calm eloquent style which usually developed a unseen cursive script of its own, had descended into hammered out courier.
The posting was direct and to the point. Written in plain terms. It described in brief, the chain of events, that Ted had driven over to see Nurz, arrived at her flat, discovered two intruders and fought them. It was during this that Nurz was sho...
The eye continued to read, then re-read, then re-read again, and as it did it became more and more like the eye next to it, glasslike, starring unseeing into the middle distance.
The message ended with "POsted gif in ab.p.t, its what sh ewould have wanted."
Unasked, the hand moved the mouse pointer across the screen, and clicked it twice. Down folded another window of text. The pointer hovered over one glaring line in the list
12/24/99 : Citizen Ted : DEAD RACHET
The other hand clenched hard around the tumbler, straining the crystalline structure to a dangerous level, lurched towards the mouth which instinctively choked down half of the liquid contents at once...
And instantly choked it back up in an arcing spew over the keyboard.
His own little Nurz. Lying, head turned away, eyes a vacant stare, a red tear across her throat, and a blooded mess in the side of her forehead, which... which had... which had a...
A penis stuck in it.
He almost laughed. It was sick. Not real. Just a sick joke. But real. Very twistingly real.
Ted? Not Ted. Not the erudite, amusing writer he was familiar with. This was an alien, it wasn't... Nobody like him could actually do that to...
It was ...
He starred out across a cold, grey desert of unfeeling, strangely lost for words - any words - to give shape to his confused feelings...
The letters traced themselves into the dust of empty nothingness. In dumbed shock, he murmured them to himself.
"O n T o p i c ..."
Starring at the picture on the screen, his fingers punched a familiar number on the telephone pad, the handset trembling against his ear.
"Pick up the damn phone!" His thoughts half screamed, half pleaded, "This is just a very sick troll, I gone an'fallen for..."
A male voice, almost absentmindedly, "Urr-Hello? Oh, err Wait... " There was a muffled series of sounds, and through a hand came "It's not your phone, you don't need to pick it up." The voice changed to a different, more official sounding one "Hello? Who is this calling."
"Well! Just who the hell *are* YOU?!?"
The voice took on a tone of official boredom, "I am a police officer and I am attending an incident at this address, now may I ask again, who is calling?"
"An Incid-is she o-I-what's happen'd?!?"
The voice at the other end became measured. "Sir, I must reassure you that the situation is under control and"
"Fuck that! Is she okay?!" A couple of beads of sweat dripped into the telephone earpiece.
"Are you a relative of... the woman ... living here?" The voice struggled with the concept of the word "living", that it's eyes were denying and pointing out the body bag being unfolded.
"Yeah, I'm her-er-er-husband!"
"Okay, Sir, here's what I want you to do is this. Your- Your wife is being taken to hospital and we'll send a car right over to pick you up and you'll be taken down to see her right away, don't you panic, sir, she do'll okay, just please remain calm. As ah'say, we'll have a car straight over to you, sir, can I have the address where you're calling from, sir? ... Mister? Can you .... Hello? Ca"
The voice faded as the handset drifted back to the set, and whispered a final soft click.
On the silent TV in the corner the News Head was now split screened with a Microphone Mouth, illuminated in flashing blue lights behind him.... Behind him.... was a familiar house. As he watched the Mouth gulping air and waving wildly, emphasising the unheard adjectives, the front door opened and a couple of men carrying a stretcher with a body bag on it, struggled out. The camera barged past the Mouth and waved in and out of focus as the stretcher slid into the back of a van.
Unbidden, the whisky glass took the moment to slip out from his hand and smash onto the floor.
This wasn't happening. The mental soap evaded the grasping hand of reason, beneath the clouding foam of alcohol. Nurz. Dead. The Police. Questions. The howling News media scum. Every little jar of evasions, and half-truths overturning on the shelf, pouring out their dirty secrets. Answers. Answers he did not want to give. Answers that would destroy him. Respect, business, friends, even his damn marriage. Everything.
No place to hide from the questions. Everything in life to be answered. Everything to be destroyed.
Everything.
He watched as though spellbound as his hand undid the catch on the desk drawer, reached inside, felt the familiar grip of a handgun slip into his fingers and it's surprising weight as he drew the barrel shaking up to the side of his forehead. The gun roared in his hand. His world became a blaze of white.
His vision cleared. Now, he was no longer at his desk but drifting up into the air. The body which was his a moment before had collapsed forward, like a string puppet cut from it's strings. Distracted from it, he became aware of two distinct forms appearing as if from a mist in front of him.
They seemed familiar. A memory, or not a memory - Da Queen... Wintermute... Glubdamn reception committee. Sheesh.
"Hello you chimps."
He looked down at the sorry figure slumped over the desk, a growing deep red stain spreading over the mouse mat, and dripping softly onto the carpet. His vision took in the spray pattern across the wall, and the shattered plaster on the floor. A dull half open eye starred accusingly back at him. The other eye nestled on a heap of papers, the glass surface glistening in the pale glow of the monitor. It didn't seem to matter now. He turned back to the two hovering figures shrouded in the growing darkness.
"I'm done here - let's go."
Three grey shadows faded away. Two disappeared. The third seemed to hover for a moment longer, as if taking in the scene one last time.
A small flicker of regret burning slowly away.
"Merry fucking Christmas..."
In the comfortable room, a piece of skull bone, still with some skin and a tuft of hair peeled itself away from the wall and fell silently to the floor.
Far away, in the night across the city, a single mournful siren began.
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