53 Days Until The End – Bad Day – Little Guido, Part 2 – Short Story

Big Luis drove another mean, hard fucking arsed right hook into the side of my head as he ripped me from the ground, everything went from technicolor, to old school black and white, you know, like the days before sound, before Al Jolson danced his merry fucking dance to a tune, although my silent film did have a kick arse soundtrack, compromised mainly of a really fucking annoying ringing that didn’t have such a great beat. I’d heard it many times before, and knew, if I didn’t do something sooner rather than later, the ringing would be stopping permanently, and there’d be no later.

He pulled me away, as the human bicep lined up another of his custom haymakers, I blew the fucking muscle head a kiss, he stood there, in some other world, and I pulled my spastic arm up, free of the ropes, and his glock in hand. The first bullet whizzed past his cheek, tearing a new opening for his tongue to hang out of, and from there, it found its true target, old man Galdino. The old fuck didn’t even have time to suck in another desperate mouthful of air as his head exploded, I sent the next one into Luis, and then fanned out, through the crowd, each shot hit it’s intended target, unfortunately the clip emptied earlier than I’d hoped, I knew Luis wasn’t smart enough to keep his piece fully loaded, improvisation number twenty-seven was about to be called on.

I charged forward, using Luis as cover, he took a lot of the fire power that was intended for me, I took some myself, but not enough to stop me, I got my hands on more weapons, and the fight started to go my way, that’s when Matilda decided she wanted in on the action, bitch was quick, obviously she’d spent most of her nights on her stomach watching Bruce Lee movies while her brothers took it in turn to pump their watered down seed in her shit hole.

She connected with a couple of really good kicks, dazzled the fuck out of me, I almost wanted to sit down and watch her in action, but, that wasn’t going to happen so I need to take charge, and NOW! I hit the ground, she leap into the air, coming down with a spectacular diving knee towards my face, it was awesome, I moved, swiveled, and ended up with my fist stuck halfway up her musky love tunnel. She fell over sideways, it must’ve hurt, fuck, I winched in pain at the thought of it, but I knew this wasn’t the time to get emotional. Her younger brother Sly and his gangbang partner Arn made their move, finally, guess they saw their sister down and in need of some family loving, I grabbed Sly by the head and bit deep into his throat, the kid screamed as I ripped a chunk from him. Arn caught the initial spurt of blood in his face, he stood there, in shock, so I grabbed him by the balls, ripped them down and drove myself up, shattering his jaw with the crown of my skull, he hit the floor, shaking like a spastic, and then, it was me and cunt flaps again.

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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