Day 307 – Bring Me Palco – 50 Word Story Expanded

“I said, I didn’t care what you thought, I just want you to do what I say!” He yells, smashing a fits down onto the table, a plate jumps with the impact, and crashes back down, splitting in half, She looks down at it, then up at him angrily.

“Bastard! That was my grandmothers!”

“Who gives a fuck about your fucking grandmother, I want Palco! You stall me any longer, and it wont be a FUCKING plate I brake, it’ll be your fucking neck you bitch!” He says, thrusting the table away, as he launches to his feet. “NOW GIVE ME FUCKING PALCO!”

She sits there, calmly, looking at the table, sitting on it’s side, her grandmothers plate, now in pieces, and then, to Big Bertie, as he stands over her, his hands clenched into fists, his face red with anger, screwed up, like he’d been sucking on a lemon all day, he was so engrossed in the moment, he didn’t hear the door swing open, or the click of the revolver, as the hammer slammed down, but he felt the bullet slam into the back of his head, he feels the warmth of the blood run down his face, and then, everything goes dark, and he feels the ground crash into his face.

“Are you okay?”

“Am I FUCKING OKAY?” She says, wiping bits and pieces of Bertie’s brains from her face. “What the fuck did you do to piss Bertie off enough he was willing to kill people over?”

“Nothing, I swear! Whatever Bertie’s problem was, it was nothing I did.”

“Bullshit Palco, you did something, you always fucking do,” She says, getting slowly to her feet and looking down at her dress. “This dress is going to stain for sure,” she says, looking up at Palco, “I fucking loved this dress.”

“Sorry, I’ll get you another,” Placo says.

“You can’t, it was a limited fucking edition, only so many made, shit!”

“look, I’m sorry okay, I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“Bertie’s people are going to come looking for him, and my door will be the first FUCKING place they come to, so, FUCKING tell me braniac, how the fucking hell are you going to make it up to me?”

They stand there, staring at each other, for some time, before Palco finally breaks the silence, “Well, I’ve got ninety grand I swindled off Bertie, we don’t need to be here when they turn up.”

“Fuck Placo, if you wasn’t my sister, I would fucking shoot you myself.”


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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