One for being a cheeky git. Two for being a sneaky bastard. Then the third…which is a rather unfortunate one, for killing a man. Over a pint. With a pencil, a very sharp pencil mind you. Blunt is not nearly efficient enough. Well, it was good pint. Not sure it was worth the bullet, but damn close enough.
You look up as you hear a door open somewhere in the warehouse. The empty echoes of footsteps remind you of the warehouse in a way your swollen eyelids won’t. You hate that. Not the footsteps, you’re quite fond of echoes, so poetic. But the warehouse. It is such an unbelievable cliche. The fact of dying in a cliche pisses you off to no end, because fucking cliches are the bane of creativity, and hey, you kill someone with a pencil over a pint you better believe you are one creative SOB.
That same creativity that got you tied up to chair, beaten to a bloody pulp and left to chill in an empty warehouse. No doubt there was a lone swinging bulb hanging somewhere above your head. What shit. You couldn’t even spit blood dramatically like some badass because the same assholes who tied you here taped your mouth. The footsteps are close now, you see some figures through the blurry remains of your vision. One of which rips off that tape.
‘Jesus’. A thick pool of bloody spit dribbles out from your mouth. ‘That is some thick tape. Thought my spit could maybe un-stick it.’ Someone behind you snorts. ‘Well can’t fault you for trying mate.’ A gentle hand touches your shoulder. There is an awkward cough. A throat clears. ‘Right, so, first we do one and two right? Then we gives you a minute, a last word and the like before three. Sound good?’ You snort derisively. ‘Don’t have much of a say do it?’
‘Nah mate, that pencil thing. Got everyone rattled see. Can’t have a deadly loose cannon. Not good for health, dying by pencil. Not exactly a manly way to go’. Ugh, this macho crap again is unbelievable. Why did you ever sign up for a such a bullshit line of work. You should have been a poet. If only you weren’t so obsessed with killing people. Dammit. Screwed myself again. Not in a fun way either.
‘Well, here goes.’ There is a sharp cracking noise as the brass knuckles collide with your nose, spewing blood and snot clear across the room as the bridge splits open. Silence, followed by hollow laughter. Only you are laughing now. Everyone else stands around horrified. ‘What the fuck is he laughing at.’ The same person who hits you points at the speaker menacingly. ‘You shut the fuck up, he can laugh if he wants alright? Some bloody respect for the dead.’ He turns back to you. ‘No offence mate.’ You shrug callously. Far as you’re concerned you’ve been dead a while. You focus on bracing for two.
The man hitting you is a man, undoubtedly manly. Classic British pitbull, bald, chunky, looks like he spends most of his time down at the pub having more than few pints. Got knuckles so scarred it looks they were woven together from separate strands of skin. This big lad is reaching over for a length of steel chain. Two other men head over to the patient tied to the chair, and spread his legs. ‘Two is in the balls, just like the sneaky fuckers go for. Sorry about this mate.’
The chain swings forward and connects with the soft tissue in a squelchy softness. Everyone visibly winces, the man standing quietly to one side even gently rearranges his legs into a more protective stance. Everyone winces, except for the hapless victim. He howls with laughter. Yes, we must sadly leave the 2nd person due to the mental instability of that victim, as you can guess from any man laughing at his balls being turned to scrambled eggs. ‘THANK FUCK! THAT’S BEEN ITCHING ALL DAY HAHAHAHA’. The watchers look on in disgust. Someone hastily passes a knife to the “doctor” so they might move on to the third quickly, but he waves it away and pulls out a heavy revolver.
‘Mate, I did promise you some last words.’ The bullet drops into the chamber. ‘So, what will they be.’ The victim, trying hard not laugh, is crying from something as he looks up at his jury. After a few frantic giggles, he regains enough composure to ‘Thank my right hand for services well rendered throughout the years, adieu mes amis’. He then bows his head and bursts in silent laughter. The trigger is pulled, freezing the laughter into eternity.
‘Thought you was meant to cut him, through the eye, like he did with the pencil.’ The man turned, then gestured at the dead. ‘We do that to make a point. Did it look to you like that point was working, eh? What the fuck do you think that achieved? Jesus, usually they cry. I think I’d prefer pitiful sobbing to that shit. At least I’m content in their cowardice. That, was twisted. I feel bad for whatever poor bastard takes care of him in hell.’ With that, they turn and walk out of the warehouse. There was, in fact, a single naked bulb swinging dramatically from the ceiling.
Andre Hirschler 