Day 226 – Bad Day – Christmas Wish – Part Three – Short Story

I spat a mouthful of blood out onto the floor, in front of him, and raised my weary fists again, this was it, everything came down to this, just me and him.

They attacked like ants, coming from every angle, I could see now, why Kildone feared him, why everyone did, he was a strategist, and played big hands only. I went into instinct mode, so did Kildone, he ran, like the fat fucking worm that he was, with her, as his bargaining chip. He knew as long as he had her, I would make sure he was safe, and he was right. They poured up the stairs, firing, attacking, and so did I, they were careless, not trained, just thugs with guns, so I used my skill, one that had taken me years to master, and picked them off, one by one. The stairs soon became clogged with their bodies, I could hear cries, screams, calling for a god to save them, to answer their prayers, he wasn’t listing, but I was. As the blood trickled down my face, I felt above them all, ripping the pin from the grenade, and tossing it towards them, their screams called out one last time, as it exploded, vaporizing them, and half the floor as well. I lost my footing, and hit the floor below with a thud, I knew my leg snapped, fuck, I was fresh out of luck, but, I knew Kildone had made his getaway, and hoped he would keep his end and make sure she was safe.

I tried to catch my breath, which was a mistake, I knew it was, and the cold steel that pressed against my head re-affirmed that though, I moved swiftly, gave him a goodnight kiss and found myself staring down the barrel of another twelve, and he stood there, laughing.

He offered me a hand up, and said he was sorry he lied, but, a weapon must be used to its full potential, and he had done that. I rejected the hand and told him to do it, finish me off, I was sick of his words. He laughed again, and said he liked me, I was stubborn and skilled, but, very much dead, so why not make it fun. While the fire fight continued, he started to tell me how, when he was younger, he was a champion fighter, undefeated, and, knew of my past, my fighting history, seems he wanted to class up the place, and put on a show, and give me a fighting chance. I coughed up some blood, told him I wasn’t in any condition to fight, so he should just put a bullet in my head, he shook his, bent down, smiled, and grabbed me by the throat, lifted me to my feet, released his grip and walked away.

I rocked there, uneasily on my feet, while he took off his rings, his jewellery, his hat and coat, preparing himself for the fight. I muttered something that I was pretty sure fell on deaf ears, because he turned back to me, smiling, and said, ding, ding.

Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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