Day 288 – Bad Day – The Russian – Part Two – Short Story

One hundred and seventy-two staples, three teeth, a small amount of blood in my urine, my left finger, three boxes of pain killers, three balls of coke, a copy of playboy playmate of the year, nineteen eighty-two edition, half a box of tissues, and seven Russian gangsters, all in all, a very packed thirteen hours, although, I left out the rash running down my right leg, it could’ve been there before all this started.

My employer, Mister Killdone had pissed off some Russian mafia type characters, and they tried sending him a message, through my skull, it didn’t work out the way they planned, their hitman ended up colder than a Serbian outdoor orgy, where everyone relied on things not warming up, otherwise their dicks would thaw out and it would be like waving around silly string, minus the string, and emphasizing the silly.

The guy who is slowly choking underneath the bar of my seat is known around the area as The Bear, mainly because he’s big, hairy, and likes girls with little hands, so his cock looks bigger than it is, he had albums of photos, some of the girls look underage, others, just look disgusted, but, obviously they needed something, and, he needed something in return.

I smile as I down a glass of seven hundred dollar scotch and let it burn the back of my throat, I hear them coming, charging towards the back area, his face is pale, his eyes bulging from his head, fat fucker left before the fun began.

The door crashes open and they come at me, the first collects friendly fire in the back of the head as one of the guys at the back gets excited and his gun goes off before we start, what I expect from inexperienced kids, I drive the palm of my hand up into the face of the next guy, the cartridge from his nose acts like a spear, and shoots up into his brain, he’s dead almost instantly, I use him as a shield, spinning around and firing six shots into the heads of the next two, leaving me and the early starter, he’s wiping bits and pieces of everyone else off him by the time I’m up in his face and pinning him to the wall.

He screams, petrified, begging for me to let him live, he’s only doing this because the big moose has his family, he’s a good kid, he gave me great reasons.

I asked him the one question I ask everyone who begs for me to spare them.

“Do you personally know Shannon Tweed, and can you get me her autograph?”

Kid looked at me like he had just been given the best blow job in his life and was blowing a gale, he didn’t have time to prepare himself, which was probably better for him, the knife was in and out, and he was lying in a pool of his own blood.

This was a bust, The Bear knew shit, I needed a new plan, maybe something with bigger explosions, get all the rats to come running to me, instead of the other way around.

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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