Day 287 – Bad Day – The Russian – Part One – Short Story

I taste the blood, spit a wad of it to the ground, and force myself to my feet. The  room spins, and he laughs, fucking piece of shit, if he didn’t smack me in the back of the head like a coward, this would be a fair fucking fight, shit, anything right now would be fair, but, when you can’t make heads or tails of the scenery, you either cop out, and join all those pieces of shit that have gone before, or you find that inner harmony, that sonar, and use it.

Sadly, for this Russian piece of trash, my inner self and I had spent way too many moments like this together, so, I just close my eyes, clench my hands into fists, and let everything else do the talking.

I feel his fist connect with my stomach a few moments too late, and the wind gets sucked out of me, okay, sure, I’m rusty, but give me a fucking break, it’s not exactly simple, fuck, even a bat or two hit something from time to time.

He swings another one, I’m ready this time and duck, swivel, twist, turn, then swing one of my own haymakers, it connects, unfortunately with a fucking brick wall, and he’s on my back, driving several solid punches into my kidneys, piece of shit.

He grips my hair and slams me into the wall face first, I feel my nose burst over my face, and then, everything shudders to a stop, I feel weightless, as I hit the ground, he drives a kick into my stomach, then another.

And then, he stops, he’s going to gloat, I can feel it coming.

His accent is pretty strong, and I can’t make out much of what he’s saying, but the jist I get from the shit I can understand. Apparently my employer Mister Killdone had screwed his boss out of a pretty big deal, and he wanted that fat fuck dead and buried, but first he wanted his operation hurt, seems they decided I was a good place to start.

I started to laugh, and the big fucker pulls me up by my head and wraps one of his big meaty fucking hands around my throat like it’s a sausage fest and I’m knee deep in German bratwursts. I think he asked me what was so funny, but I can’t be sure, like I said, his accent was thick, and, he’d started choking on his own blood, courtesy of a six inch blade I’d stuck there.

I crash into the ground followed seconds later by the big Russian son of a bitch, he’s on his knees next to me, coughing and spluttering, then, nothing, silence, as he hits the ground face first, I feel the warmth of his blood pool underneath me, and hope he doesn’t have anything I can catch, because I’m not moving for a while, not that I don’t want to, I just can’t.

Seems like Killdone is going to owe me some overtime.

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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