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Crime - The Memoirs of Theodore Chance

Started by Ren, Dec 03, 2019, 08:16 pm

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The first post content
Please read first:

This is an Interactive Tale, just an old one.  So I'm going to post quite a few chapters that have already been written, and then go Interactive. Probably.  If not, I'll change it.

Anyhoo, also:  Warning.  This story contains adult stuff, lots of bad words, violence, sex, drugs, murder, violence and, well, take your pick really. 

Don't say I never give you anything.



Please read first:

This is an Interactive Tale, just an old one.  So I'm going to post quite a few chapters that have already been written, and then go Interactive. Probably.  If not, I'll change it.

Anyhoo, also:  Warning.  This story contains adult stuff, lots of bad words, violence, sex, drugs, murder, violence and, well, take your pick really. 

Don't say I never give you anything.


Chapter 1, part 1 - New Murderer on the Block.

The first one was an accident. 

A mugger, trying to take my wallet and the watch my old da gave me.  Well, the wallet I could have handled probably, but the watch was, what do they call it?  Sentimental.  Sentimental that's it.  Priceless you could say, to me at least.  The bastard would have probably chucked it anyway.  That priceless thing, thrown in the gutter or something.   Well, I couldn't have that could I now? 

I lashed out.  Quite by chance, almost unintentionally, I hit him in the side of his head with the bag I was carrying, which had my school books in.  I studied a lot then, and they were heavy.  Heavy enough to knock a man, or a youth at least, to the ground.  To the ground I say, where the bugger struck his head on a rock. 


Fate's a bastard, that much I've learned.  An uncaring bastard too.  I try to be like Fate.  Neutral, like the news is, at least on some channels.  What do they call it?  Oh yes... Objective.  I try to be objective I do. 

Of course, I'm not stupid, I know that I'm not Fate.  I'm only human.  Still, you have to have dreams right? 

Anyway, that was my first killing.

Wasn't my last though, not by a long shot.

I didn't really know how I felt when I got home, to be honest.  I mean, it's been a long time now, and time distorts memories right?  I mean, you remember something one way, and you think it's totally accurate, but then your mate, who was maybe there too, says he remembers it a different way. 

Who's to say who is right?  Buggered if I know, so this account might be a bit, what do you call it?  Flawed.  Well, like I said, I'm only human.  If only I wasn't. 

Anyway, from what I remember I was all breathless and shaking when I got back to my room.  It was a decent enough room, in a decent enough house.  Student digs.  I mean, they're all about the same right?  A house, shared by older teenagers who are supposed to be studying, but in reality are all out on the piss every chance they can get, trying to get it on with the local tart.  Am I right? You know I am. 

Still, when I came back there was only me in the place, my two housemates, and I use the word 'mates' loosely, were out.  Can't say I was surprised.  One was... well, a weasel was probably being hard on weasels, but he was a likeable weasel at least, as long as you didn't have money.  Always broke he was.  Always trying to scrounge or steal stuff. 

Mind you, with his missus who could blame him?  She was a bit of a porker she was.  Fuck, and a bitch too, right and proper. I could hear them through the walls.  Argument, argument, nag nag nag, fucking, argument and nag again, before crying and screaming on some nights.  Proper soap opera it was.

Not that she was around all that much. Said she didn't like the house.  Can't say it was a real chick magnet.  Dirty (we never cleaned unless the landlord was coming round) and furnished in the usual most basic student fashion.

Once a load of slugs, fuck knows where they came from, got in and left slimy trails all over the living room.  They were still there about a month later.  Like I said, we weren't big on cleaning.

We used to go out sometimes, when we could afford it.  Bit of a wanna-be metal head I was then.  Young and stupid is what I really was, but then pretty much everyone is at that age.  Am I right?  You'll know when you're forty. 

When we went out we used to hang at a place called Rebels, up on the top of a clapped out old building near the city center.  Not a bad old place as it goes.  Not like the places nowadays, all corporated up.  Nah, this place had character it did.  Served bottles of some local ale, can't remember the name of it now, and pints of beer in plastic glasses that you had to hold from the bottom.  You held them at the top they would squeeze in and you'd lose half the glass over the rim.

Bottles (which were glass) or plastic glasses.  Guess what everyone drank?  Yeah. 

So Rebels was my second one, you know what I'm on about.  This one was still a bit of an accident.  Well, I say accident.  I mean I had no choice, am I right?  That's what I tell myself.

I admit, my memory of the deed is a bit hazy.  I mean, I was a few pints into the wind, and Weasel had given me a few drags of some shit he'd pulled out of some hole.  Fuck knows what it was, but it did the job, know what I mean?

Anyway, I was getting in to it right and proper.  Abandoned my drink and was headbanging it up on the dance floor like only a drunken youngster can.  Some tart next to me was looking likely so I was working my moves with her. Can't really remember if it was working, but I was busting for a piss and then some, so who knows?  Could have been my future wife I walked out of. 

So I shouted something in her ear about going for one, made a joke about her joining me too, if I remember it right.  Obviously she didn't take that seriously.  So I staggered off to the pisser, speakers blasting out whatever the fuck was the in music back then, buggered if I can remember what that was. 

Weasel was nowhere to be seen by then of course, but I didn't expect him to be hanging on to my pecker.  When he went out he... what's that word?  Gravitated.  Yeah.  He gravitated towards the few people he knew who had cash.   Not me, obviously.  I could barely pay for myself.  Got by on my good looks and big cock half the time is what I say. 

Anyway, I went into the shitter myself, as you do unless you're a chick, and walked straight into a bit of a sticky sitch.  This hard cunt, Jobs I think they called him, didn't know his real name at the time, was hanging out there.  I'd seen him before of course, that was his office. Sold all sorts of natural herbal remedies he did, if you get my meaning.

The place was empty except for Jobs, who was leaning against the wall, next to the stall he stored his product at.  I remember nodding at him because, well, fuck, that's what you do right?

He looked at me and narrowed his eyes as I unzipped my pants and let the monster loose, breaking the seal. 

"Fuck," I remember muttering, as I swayed forward and let the damn burst.


"What? " I said.

It was Jobs, leaning against his wall, acting all cool.  "What a cunt," I remember thinking.

"You here to pay me?" he asked.

I squeezed some more out, then shook hands with the president before answering.

"What?" was what I said, if I remember right.  Like I said, I was a few beers in.

"Weasel said you'd pay for his stuff."

I put myself back into my pants and turned to look at him. Jobs was a bit of a fat twat, truth be told, but that just gave him weight.  He was taller than me too, but that was no achievement.  I'm not the tallest cunt in town, which can work to your advantage sometimes.  But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

Anyway, I was a bit put out, as my Auntie would have said.

"You believed Weasel?" I asked.  "That wasn't bright, considering his name and all."  Probably not the best thing to say to your local drug dealer, but then no one has ever accused me of being subtle.

"Step into my office," Jobs said.  I remember thinking he didn't sound as friendly this time, but who gives a toss when they're five pints to the wind? 

I stepped into his place of business, which was the stall nearest the wall.  Cozy.

"Weasel owes me," Jobs said, looming large over me.  The way I was, I just didn't give a fuck.  Funny that, what beer can do to you.  Take this as a lesson kids, alcohol fucks you up good.   "He said you'd pay."

"Like I said, not so smart," I repeated. 

That's when he pulled the knife out.  I can't remember the details really, but I do remember the handle was a kind of dirty white, which I thought was a bit girly.

Now, this sort of thing doesn't work on me.  I mean, I'm not the meanest bloke in the hood and all, but I'm a stubborn cunt and no mistake, and I'd rather take on a gang of five than admit I'm wrong. 

Once, when I was about ten, a group of kids wanted some cash for my mate and me to go under a subway.  I was up for it, but my pussy friend ran off.  Even I wasn't that stupid, but it rankled, you know?  I saw one of them some months later, on his own, and extracted some vengeance for it. 

I guess I've never been normal.

Anyway, Jobs waving his knife at me didn't help things, and I saw red.  Why me?

I just grabbed his hand and, before he could react, stabbed the fat fuck in the gut.

You ever watch someone die?  It's a unique experience. Try it sometime.

I remember really clearly this one.  Of course, he was a fat wanker, and that probably made it longer, some skinny cunt would have bled out faster. 

Anyway, Jobs' eyes bulged.  Probably was the shock.   He looked at me with those fat fucking eyes, like it was my fault or something!  Who pulled the blade out?  You walk around with metal you're just asking for trouble, am I right?  Proof is in the pudding.

So the asshole slipped to the floor. His breath was all raspy and gargly.  I hate that sound, the death gargle, don't you?  Well you probably don't know.  Trust me, not nice. 

"Oops," I said, as he slid to the floor.  And you know what I thought first?


More to come soon!


I thought, "bet the fucker's hidden his main pile of stash."  And I was right.  Jesus.  I mean, what sort of paranoid cunt goes round hiding his livelihood?  Okay, yes, probably drug dealers.  Fine you got me.

Anyway, that's not to say I didn't make out of the whole transaction. The fat bastard, Steve, that was his first name according to his driver's license, had a good few thousand on him.  I pocketed it and thanked his fat corpse.  I took a few packets of the good stuff too, stuff he obviously had for sale. 

A couple of people came in to use the pisser whilst I was doing all this, I heard them, but I guess people just didn't come into that last stall.  And you know what?  That's when it really hit me, drunk as I was.

People just don't expect shit like this. They don't expect some Joe public to walk into a toilet, end the drug dealer and walk off with the loot.  It just wasn't done.

I guess that's when my life of murderous crime really began, with that drunken epiphany.  Of course, the key word here is drunk, which led to a bit of a fuck up on my part later on.

Hey, you learn by your mistakes is what I say.  As long as you don't count murder as a mistake.

So, I'm standing over this bloody corpse, green stuff in my pocket, white powder in my hand, and my first thought was, well, much like most blokes I guess... pussy.

That little fucking slut outside was up for it, I was sure.  All I needed was something to impress on her how cool and hard-ass I was. And what was cooler than a dead body?  I mean, didn't you ever poke a corpse with a stick when you were a kid?

Well, maybe not, no me neither, but I would have done if I'd have had the chance.

So I waited until the place was clear (how come everyone wants to use the toilet when you need privacy?) made sure I hadn't stood in the pool of blood, and then staggered back out of the stall, closing the door behind me.  I did at least remember to wipe the areas I'd touched with a bit of shit paper, not that it probably made any difference, it wasn't exactly a low footfall area you know?

Checking the mirror before I went back out, I discovered blood stains all down my front.  My good fucking shirt too!  Good job the thing was black.  Still, I pulled it off and turned it backwards, so the blood was under my jacket.  Made a mental note to burn the thing the next day (which I did) and proceeded to get me some slut.

Things don't always go to plan do they?  She was dancing with some wanker when I finally found her out on the dance floor. Admittedly I'd stopped for a bottle of ale and a quick chat with a mate of mine I ran into, but couldn't she have waited?

Pumped up as I was, I decided to butt in, all manly like.  Well, that didn't go so well with her.  Apparently I wasn't as tall or good looking as her new guy, I guess she was just into black cock.  Usually I'd have made a scene, as my gran would have said, but today I was loaded with the good stuff and cash.  And whilst she wasn't a bad looker, I knew I could buy better, and for once I had the folding stuff to make it happen.

Sometimes I get generous when I'm drunk, god knows why you do these things, but I sought out Weasel and flashed a bit of green at him.  That got his attention quick, let me tell you.

So we fucked Rebels off and sauntered off to a real dive we knew.  It was a really rough place, but strangely safe too.  I mean all this 'honour amongst thieves' shit is crap.  I'd have sold my best friend out for a couple of pints back then, assuming I had a best friend.  Still, The Underground was pretty safe insomuch as if you started trouble there you'd get the living shit kicked out of you by the bouncers.  So, good enough.

And tits.  Yeah, I must have taken a couple of grand easy off old Steve that night, and I blew pretty much all of it.   

 A waste?  Fuck you.  A high class tart with tits so perky I nearly poked my eye out rode my monster stallion like it was the fucking Grand National, and I spunked all over her face too. 

Now that's what I call your money's worth.  Am I right? You know I am.


The fact that not a single person even mentioned that Jobs had met his end until I went back to Rebels next time, and even then it was just in passing, only enforced my recent epiphany.   I guess no one really misses a drug dealer except his customers, and even then they'll find someone else to buy from pretty quick.  Market forces or some such, they call it.  Don't think I'm stupid, I know how the world works.  School of hard knocks me.  Some fucking hard knocks.

Anyway, sure enough, some other bloke was soon installed in Jobs' old stall, dealing like nothing had happened.  I considered doing him as well, but couldn't work up the enthusiasm.  I figured if I was going to do this then I probably shouldn't start a pattern.  That's what they get you on, according to the TV anyway.

So I slowed down for a bit.  Spent the green and snorted the blow and generally took it easy.  Had the good times that only comes with money.

It wasn't all roses mind.  My bitch landlady came round, moaning like a, well a landlady, they're all the same.  Money grubbing cunts wanting money for practically nothing.  Anyway, I did some kind of sob story about how my old Gran had died and had to go north to her funeral, or some such bull.  Can't remember now.   

Then, one day, probably about a month or so after I Job's unfortunate demise, I was hanging out in town and saw the selfsame bitch that blew me off for sambo in Rebels.   She was hanging out by the bus stop, chatting with some fellow slags.  I waited until her slutty friends had gone (though one had a nice rack I'd like to have explored further) before wandering over and standing near her.

Well, the old charm was still there.  I'm no bleedin' Casanova, but I'm not Goofy either.  Plus the fact she was about as tight as an old pair of y-fronts on a hung fat geezer, and within an hour we were down a local boozer giving it some face time. 

Several beers in and things were going real well, know what I mean?  Of course you do.  Nothing nicer than a cock-friendly tart and a few ales in the afternoon.  I was up for it good and proper, and she was of the same mind.

So off we went to her place, conveniently round the corner. 

I don't like to boast, well I do, but I have to say that I gave her a seriously good time.  In fact we had a nice old roll in the hay all round.  Her pad was some place that made my digs look nice.  Some apartment that was shared by a couple of other students and fuck knows who else.  I've seen squats more organized. 

Anyway, none of this mattered to me until her big old dark coloured boyfriend came back and caught me sticking my Thomson up her arse. 

Things went downhill from there, let me tell you.


"What the fuck!"  he said, standing there like someone had just farted.

Original, I remember thinking, even with the old John Thomas stuck halfway up her poop shoot.

"Scotty!" she cries out, all upset like.  Fuck me! She's on all fours with me riding her like a dog in heat, and I swear she'd had some of them too, and tries to act all put upon.  Women. Amazing.

Well, okay, I guess she was put upon, but it wasn't like it was hard to do. 

"He forced me!" she says, pointing over her shoulder, just over the tattoo that basically said 'I'm a slut, fuck me in any hole you want.' 

"Listen," I said, pulling it out with a pop.  "I don't want trouble, just keeping your missus warm for you, know what I mean?" 

Apparently Scotty, and by the way... hello?  Who the fuck names a black fellow Scotty?  Anyway, Scotty was all riled up, I could see it.  Like that was the first time he'd walked in on flappy fanny having it away with someone. 

Mind you, he was bigger than I remembered.  Just what I needed, a kicking from some big black bastard.  Hey, I can take it, but it's not like it's a pleasure.  Know what I mean?  I'm not one of them masochists who like having a giant rubber thing shoved up the shitter.  Well, okay, maybe if the mood is right, but that's not really the point.

So Mr. Africa steams over all pissed, and here I am, all starkers with my cock covered with this tart's breakfast from a day ago, if you see what I mean.  Hardly an enviable position. 

Luck was on my side though.  Don't underestimate luck, take the fucker with both hands when it presents itself I say.  It can be the difference between getting a serious smacking and saving your lily white ass.  Or whatever colour your ass may be.  Hey, I'm no racist, that should be obvious by now.

Well, if you've never had a fucking big angry nigger come at you, intent on re-arranging your face, whilst kneeling naked on a bed with a cock covered in poo, let me tell you, it's not a fun moment. 

I rolled back and went for the nearest point of egress, which happened to be the window.  A two story drop looked good right then and no mistake.

Scotty was pretty fucking quick though, and intercepted me.  Next thing I know I'm meeting his fist with my face. 

Like I said, not a fun moment.

Still, as hurt as I am, and it fucking hurt believe me, I managed to focus on the main event, which, at that point, was not getting hit again. I'm not a believer in pain, at least my pain.  So I jumped back over the bed, pushing the wailing tart out of the way in the process, and grabbed the first weapon that came to hand, which happened to be a porcelain lamp.

It's funny how, in moments of stress, which this certainly was, some things get impressed in your memory.  That lamp, it was a nice shade of blue - I've always liked blue I have = with a lampshade, was pastel yellow with blue trim.  Overall, it was a nice lamp.  I was almost sorry to have to use the thing on another human being's face.

Use it I did though.  I wacked it around his head hard as I fucking could, and bless that lamp, it cut him good and proper.  Opened his cheek up like a beauty.  Couldn't have done better if I'd tried.   Fine, I was trying, but you get what I'm on about.

Well this set the loose-holed tart off let me tell you.  Not sure if she was upset about darkie, the lamp or the blood on the bedding, but she started bitching and clawing at me.  Luckily with Scotty still reeling from my lamp attack I had time to smack her on the side of the head.  Fucking enjoyed that more than is normal too.  Maybe there's something a bit wrong with me.  Ah, guess we'll never know.

So, slut falls back on the bed, and I jump over her, still stark bollock naked, and give Scotty the hardest fucking head butt I've ever given anyone.  It gave me a headache for about two days, let me tell you, but it gave him bigger problems, 'cos he staggered backwards crying like his bitch.

Then, well, I guess my new resolve kicked in.

Funny really, how time can slow down.  How everything can suddenly become crystal.  I knew then I was going to kill this cunt. I wanted it.  It may as well have been destiny. 

Whilst the bastard was staggering about, I pushed him, hard as I could.  I pushed him right through the window.  The same window I was going to escape through only a few seconds before, only I'd planned on opening it first.

He flew like a fucking brick.  Gotta love, what do you call it?  Yeah, gravity. 

Still, it's not the fall that kills you eh?  It's the concrete in the parking lot below your window.  At least it was for Scotty. 

I always think of that joke about this time.  'What's the last thing that went through his mind?  His teeth.'

Good one. Though Scotty probably didn't see the funny side of it.

"You... you killed him!"  Flappy went white as a sheet, though not her sheet, which was splattered with more crimson than a knife shop after a stabbing competition. 

Reality kicked in fast for me.  One thing I suddenly realized about this killing lark: It was probably not the best idea to do it in front of witnesses.  Hey, it's a learning experience!

I took a grip of what was left of the lamp.  As good a fuck as she'd been, personal survival quickly overrides just about anything else, she'd have to... have an accident too.  That's something to bear in mind the next time you throw someone out of a window.  Planning, you can't have too much.

Anyway, the tart, and fuck me, I didn't even know her name at this point, she wobbles over to the shattered window (there goes your deposit I remember thinking) and peers out at the black and red mess that is what remains of Scotty below. 

Here's something else to remember: People are weird.  They never do what you expect them to.  Okay, that's bollocks.  They do what you expect most of the time, but just when you think you know what they're going to do, they do something else.  I guess that's this 'free will' crap the bible thumpers are all going on about.  Sounds like a cop-out to me, but it happens.

Anyway, Flappy stares at Scotty for a bit and I start to lift the lamp, ready to send her out of the window after lover-boy, but that's when the weird bit I was talking about happened. 

She turns around to me with the biggest fucking grin and jumps on me.  Not in a bad You-cunt-you-just-killed-my-boyfriend way, but in the, er, well I guess there's no real 'way' here.  It's not something that happens.  A good way though.

"Oh god!" she wails whilst rubbing her tits all over me. "You killed the bastard!  Finally!  You're my fucking god!  Fuck me! Stick it in wherever you want!"

I don't mind saying I was a bit surprised.  'Bit' is probably an understatement actually, but I was learning to take these things in my stride.  I've always been a fast learner my parents said. 

I'd like to say we called the cops and discussed our story right away, but in fact I screwed her like a rabbit on acid.  I know right?  Hardly the logical thing to do when there's a corpse cooling in the parking area, but we were young.  Good times.  Good times.   Luckily the rear of the building was fenced off and hardly used.  Broke students don't have much use for parking spaces, as a rule.

Still, reality has to stick its fucking oar in at some point, so whilst she was wiping my love juice out of her hair, I pointed out of the window.

"What are we going to do about your boyfriend?" I asked.

"He wasn't my boyfriend," she said from the tiny bathroom attached to her room. "He was my pimp."

That explained a lot. 

"Well, what are we going to do?  We can't leave him splattered all over the ground like that, someone's going to notice, even here."

She came out drying her hair and looked around.  The room was a mess.  Bits of lamp were a serious foot hazard, and there was smeared blood, both Scotty's and hers, all over the bed sheets, which we'd fucked on. 

'Way to mess up the crime scene,' I thought.


She was a cool one, this whore, I'll give you that, though you could have probably guessed as much by the: 'Someone's just been killed and I'm horny' response. 

She just shrugged and bounced over to the phone next to her bed (before cellphones here remember) and picked up the receiver.

"I know a guy," she said. 

"Lots of guys apparently," I remember replying.  What?  The beer was wearing off. 

 "Shh," she just said, dialing someone on her phone. 

I picked up my own jeans, which were thankfully blood splatter free, and pulled myself carefully into them (I was a bit tender in certain areas, if you know what I mean), then wandered over to the window and peered out at Scotty's cooling corpse as she spoke to someone with the unlikely name of Harry Smith. 

"...hurry up then, he's in the open," she finished with, and hung up.

I turned around.  "So, what's going on then?  Shouldn't we be scraping chumley up and finding some large plastic bags?"  I pointed with my thumb over my shoulder.

"Told you," she grinned.  "I know someone.  Funny thing is, Scotty was the one to introduce me."

"It's an ironic old world," I said evenly.  "Do you have anything to drink?  I'm feeling dry."

"Some vodka by the bed."

I'm not usually a vodka kind of guy, but it had been a long day, so in this case I made an exception and took a healing swig direct from the bottle.  I know, I know, I can be a pig sometimes.  Manners cost nothing is what me gran always said, may she rest in.

Suitably refreshed, I turned to my new partner in crime.  "So then, should I be worried?"  The lamp was still an option, but I was willing to wait a bit if some dude would clean the mess up for me.

She didn't get my drift.  "Harry's a stand up guy," she said, pulling on her top.  "He owes me a big one, so don't worry about payment."

"A big one eh?"  I raised an eyebrow and took another fortifying slug of vodka.  "Kinky bastard is he?" 

She gestured for me to pass the drink over, and I complied.  "Yeah.  Seriously.  I'll tell you sometime."

"Super."  I took a deep breath and looked around at her shithole of an apartment.  "So, now we just wait?"

"Well, we could pass the time in other ways."  She smiled and glanced down at my jeans.  Well, what can I say?  I was still young and fit back then. 

I smiled back.  "You're on top then."


Harry turned out to be some middle aged fat fellow with glasses and a lop-sided smile.  Totally someone you'd not notice on the street, which I guess is the point.  When you're young you  just want to show off how cool you are, go bragging about the shit you gone done, but when you get on a bit more you realize that's all a load of bollocks, and the trick is to look like a no-one, or even better, everyone.  No one notices an everyone.  Maybe that's how Harry had got away with... what he did... for so long, and no, I'm not just talking about the dead body cleaning service here.  We'll come back to Harry later.

 "Hello Doris," he said, panting from the short climb up the stairs, and finally providing me with a name for my shag. 

'Jebus,' I remember thinking.  'Doris!?'  Funny old world.

"Hello Harry," Doris replied.  She didn't move from her position on top of me.  Not a shy girl our Doris.  "He's outside.  Took a dive into the parking area.  You need anything?"

"I'm good my love," he said, walking over to the window and peering out.  He had a large black bag with him, which he put down as he looked around the room, lingering a moment on Doris, who was busy bouncing away.  I was a bit turned on if truth be told. Who knew I was the kinky type?  Well, okay, I did, but not that sort of kinky.  We live and learn I always say.
"When you're done,"  Harry said, "You can get the sheets and anything else with blood on and pile it in the middle of the room."

"Sure... thing... Harry," said Doris.  We were getting close to the big finale. 

The cleaner climbed outside, or maybe he went down the stairs, I was a bit busy shooting my load to take much notice, but by the time I'd wiped myself off and donned my garments, our good friend Scottie had vanished, and there was only a scrubbed area where he'd bled out that was noticeable.

"He's pretty efficient," I said. 

"Yeah," Doris replied, doing up her blouse.  "I took another swig of vodka."

"So listen, you may as well fuck off," she went on.  "I've got your number right?"  She didn't, so we swapped.   
"You sure..."

"Best you're not around Harry too much," she said, which I thought odd at the time, but I was fucking knackered, and my bed seemed a good idea about that time.   So I nodded and spent the next hour trying to find a way to get home.

It took me the better part of two days to get over that night.  Firstly, vodka doesn't really agree with me.  Secondly, vodka really doesn't agree with me after ten pints.  That and I'd been going at the booze pretty hard over the previous few weeks. 

I decided to take a bit of a break from the party life, give the old liver a break, and actually do some of my college studies, which I'd been neglecting.  I wasn't really bothered about this, college was just somewhere for me to be at the time, I'd joined it more because of the chicks than wanting to further myself academically. 

Still, it was something to do when bored, and some of the stuff was actually pretty interesting.  I've never been one of these people that don't care about the world around them.  You learn stuff, you learn how the system works, you learn how you can get around it.  Know thine enemy I always say.

So the next week or so was pretty quiet.  Old Doris didn't phone me, and I didn't call her either.  I just went to my classes, stayed in at night and generally caught my breath.

Still, always at the back of my mind was old Scotty, and our favorite drug dealer, as well as  the mugger guy I'd done for.  Three people had died at my hand.  I was kind of waiting for the guilt to kick in.  Ever seen American Werewolf in London?  Good film, check it out.  Anyway, spoiler alert, his victims come back to haunt him, literally.  I was kind of expecting the same, but you know what?

Nothing.  Total absence of guilt.  Or rotting corpse ghosts come to that, which was almost disappointing.

I wondered if this was normal, but then I guess killing people isn't really normal to begin with, unless you're in the army or something.  And it wasn't like I could go to a shrink of anything, even if I could afford one.  I was fairly sure they'd dob me in if I went blabbing on about killing three people. 

Then there was Doris.  I was a bit worried about her, but I reasoned that she was in it as much as I was, so the chance of her calling the cops was pretty much close to zero.  Still, when she didn't call it began to niggle.

So I called her.

Yeah, desperate much? 

Then again, I'd been a choirboy for two weeks, and there's only so much a body can take, or not take, before release is needed.  So yeah, I called her.  Bite me.

Anyway, turns out this wasn't the best idea in the world.

"Hey Doris?  It's..." I started.

"Oh thank fuck!  Come over right now, I need you!"  She sounded upset some.  Crying and all that.  I hate crying bitches.  Nearly hung the phone up there and then, which could have changed history.

I was a stupid twat though, and didn't.

"What's up babe?" I asked.

I had to go and ask.  Idiot.


"Listen, just come over okay?" she said. "I need help."  Then she slammed the phone down.  Back in those days you could really slam the phone down, not like now, when we're all mobile and stuff.  I miss that sometimes, it's good to take your anger out on something, and phone calls are often a source of anger, or so I've found.  Maybe I just live a life of general non-happiness.  So it goes.

So, I considered things for a minute or two, but eventually decided to go and see what the fuss was about.  I was bored shitless mainly, but I hadn't had a good fuck since the old flying Scotty incident, and Doris, if nothing else, was not a stuck up virgin.  Hell, she was about as far from virgin as is possible to get. 

So I went.

You ever have a moment you can actually recognize changed your life?  This was probably one of mine.  What the fuck am I talking about, there's no probably about it.  Life changing moment.  You really don't get many of them, and this is talking from experience here. 

So off I pop.  Get on the bus, no car for an unemployed student, and, half an hour later alight near the place that Doris called home.  Others would call it a shithole.  Maybe I was one of them.

I wandered along and pushed on the door to her house, which was open.  Security can sometimes be having nothing anyone wants to steal.

I wandered upstairs and knocked on her door, which swung open.  Carefully I stepped inside.

You know what Man's weakness is?  Women.  Without women we'd all have a great life.  Alright, it would be a gay life, but sometimes the cost is worth it. 

Anyway, inside her shithole, and I'm talking about her apartment here, rather than her more personal one, was Doris, standing over a bleeding Harry Smith, who was lying on the floor on a mat with many colored spots on.  The mat was ruined, covered in his blood as it was.

Old Harry wasn't out of it though.  When I walked in he was quick to engage in conversation.

"You!  Help me!  Get me away from this crazy bitch and I'll make it worth your while!  I know people!  I have money!  Just take her out!"

He gestured at old Flappy, and I looked over at Doris.  She was standing there, stark bollock naked, which affected me in a number of ways, holding a fucking gun on old Harry. 

"He's threatening to dob us in about Scotty." she wailed.  This is the problem with women.  All emotional.  Can't get on top of a situation unless there's a cock on it.

"What the fuck is going on here then?" I said.  Can't say that I was very happy with Doris waving a gun about.  I mean, women, they don't really have the limb control of men, know what I mean?  Just look at their driving.

Well, they both started off, shouting at me at the same time.  Doris though, with the gun, won out.  She kicked old Harry in the leg and he shut up.  Okay, that's not true, he wailed like a guy with a red hot poker up his arse, but he stopped talking. 

"He's threatening us on the whole Scotty deal," said Doris. "He's going to betray us!"

"Indeed?" I said.  I remember I raised one eyebrow, James Bond style.  I always thought that was kind of cool, and this was just the kind of situation that called for it in my opinion.

"Indeed?" shrieked Doris. "Is that all you have to say?  We could all go down for this!  He needs to be taken out!"  She waved the pistol about, and I winced.  Like I said, women don't have great control over their bodies.  It was time to take charge.

"Ok babe," I said.  "Just give me the gun alright?  I'll sort this.  Come on." 

What can I say?  Women, they just melt when I turn the charm on.  Anyway, Doris, a bit hesitantly I'll admit, handed over the gun.

I'd never touched a gun up to that point.  It was heavier than I thought, though I have to say if felt kind of... right in my hand.  'With this,' I thought, 'I could do things.'  Oh, how right I was.  Sometimes I embarrass myself how good I am. 

Anyway, about then old Harry starts jabbering again.

"Listen, I can tell you're a man of resolve," he said.  "I have contacts.  I can help you.  Just ice the bitch and we can talk."

I must admit, I didn't really like the look of this guy.  He looked sleazy and then some.  Turns out I was so right.  Sometimes it's hard being right all the time.  Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself, all that shit comes later.

"Go on," I said, curious.

"Don't listen to this cunt!" screamed Doris.  "You don't know..."

I cut her off with a quick slap around the head with my spare hand.  I do hate hysterical women, don't you? 

She wailed and fell back on her bed, cursing me.  These whores have some language in them, let me tell you.  I was almost shocked.

"Go on," I said again, giving Doris a Look.

"I know people, people who need good men with no morals..."  I cut him off right there.

"Who the fuck says I've no morals?" I said.  "I've plenty of them, you twat."  A quick kick to his leg asserted my standing in this area.  Always kick a man whilst he's down I say, 'cos that's when he's less likely to kick back.

"Alright, alright!" Harry said.  "You have talent, I can see that.  The people I usually work for need men of talent, and they have a lot of money to pay for it too.  You ice this bitch and I'll give you and in, an I mean right at the top."

Well, let me tell you, this sounded pretty nice.  Of course, Doris started up again.

"Why are you listening to him?" she wailed.  "Just do him!  Do him!  I'll do anything you want.  Anything!"

Well, can't say that I was surprised at that offer.  Old Doris had proven herself in the fucked up pervert department already.  Maybe that was what made my mind up.  I mean, I'd already sampled pretty much all she had to offer.  On the other hand, this Harry guy seemed to be connected, and what he was talking about made sense.

There's a saying these days, "Bro's before Hoe's".   I didn't know it back then, but if I did it would have been pretty spot on. 

"No!" shrieked Doris, as I turned the gun on her.  "No!"

Do you know what I hate about most guns?  They're fucking loud.  I learned that that night, hence my penchant for silencers these days. 

Anyway, the shot was much louder than I thought it would be, maybe because of the small room or something. 

Of course the first one missed totally.  Sheesh, I was such an amateur then.

In the end it took four shots to put the bitch down.  What a fucking mess.

When it was done though, I looked a Harry, who was holding his leg.

"You better not be messing me about," I said.  "Or you're next."

Damn, I'm cool sometimes.


"I'm not messing," said old Harry.  I think he was impressed I actually had the nuts to put old Flappy down.  He couldn't know I was just tired of her voice.   

People don't realize it's the little things that have the biggest effect.  I mean, she may have a body you could kill for (no pun intended here), but if you have to listen to her screeching on all day, the bod means nothing.  There's a joke out there:  For every hot babe, there's a guy who's sick of her.  Well, there you go, society backs me up on this one.

And Flappy wasn't even that hot.  Loose though.  Loose and really, really twisted. 

Anyway, Harry looked at the bleeding mess of Doris and, after a few moments to collect his thoughts, nodded at me. 

"Nice," he said.  "Thorough."

I pointed the gun back at him.  "If you're fucking with me, you're next."

"No, no," he said, raising his hands.  "It's obviously foolish to fuck about with you."

"Good," I replied, lowering the gun a bit.  "And you're going to have to clean this up too."

"Not a problem, it's what I do," he said.  Then added:  "If you want to give her one final fuck, I won't get in the way."

"You sick..."  I stopped and looked at Doris.  I'd hit her in the stomach mainly.  Her tits and other vital areas were still intact.  Lot of blood though.

"It's best before they're totally cold," Harry said.  Voice of experience there.

I have to come clean, I was tempted.  Who wouldn't be?  Oh, okay, probably lots of people.  But like I've said already, I've never been altogether normal, and I'd been practically a monk for the previous two weeks.  I felt a stirring, I'll admit it.

In the end the mess decided me.

"No," I said.  "I'm good this time."

"Very well."

"So," I went on.  "You need anything?"

"Just for you not to shoot me."

I lowered the gun.  "Okay then."

He nodded again.  "Best if you got going.  You can keep the gun, but don't kill anyone else with it until I say so.  I'll deal with this.  It's what I do."

"I can see we're going to get along just fine," I said.

Chapter 3.  Employment.

The next few weeks were quiet for me.  Harry had told me to keep a low profile and just get on with my normal life, whatever the fuck that was supposed to be.  So I went to college, drank and generally hung out, which seemed to fit the bill.  Even managed to get laid a few times.

College, what a great time that is.  In hindsight I always say that college chicks are wasted on college dudes, but at the time I enjoyed it.  Ah, the innocence of youth.  Well.

Still, I was kind of bored.  After the adrenaline rush of wasting a few people you can't easily settle in to normal life.  I guess it's kind of like when you take drugs or something.  At first you're okay with coke or smack, but then you want more, and the next thing you know you're shooting heroin into you dick.

Okay, maybe I wasn't quite that bad back then, but you get what I'm on about.

I was settling down into a regular routine when Harry called me on the house phone.

"It's me," he opened with. 

"Who's me?" I asked.  Dumb shit I was back then sometimes.  Some people would say I haven't changed.

"Who do you think?  Your old girlfriend's friend, remember?"

"Oh, Harry.  What's going on?" I said.

There was a sigh from the receiver.  "Listen you stupid fuck, we try not to go about using names over the wires, okay?"

"Oh sure."  I remember thinking at the time that the dude was taking it a bit too far, but since then I've learned better.  You're only paranoid if they're really not out to get you.  "So, we on for the meeting?"

"Yes.  Tomorrow, outside your ex's place.  Midday."

"Should I..."  I stopped talking, he'd hung up. 

I replaced the receiver back on the hook and, after a few moments of contemplation, went back upstairs to my room and pulled the gun I'd taken from Flappy's place out of hiding.  Making sure it was unloaded, you can never be too careful, I spent a few minutes playing with the thing and posing in front of the mirror.  What?  You'd do it too, admit it.

"The name's Bond," I said.  "James Bond." 

God I was cool.

Then I put the gun away and spanked the monkey.


The next day I rolled up outside old Flappys' place at exactly noon. 

When I say rolled up I actually arrived there on foot, having taken the number seven bus.  I didn't have my own transport back then, unless you counted a pushbike I'd not ridden for about a year.

The gun was in my backpack.  Like I said, I was cool.

A car pulled up about ten minutes later, just as I was wondering if Harry had set me up.  It was an old blue Ford if memory serves.  The driver wound down the window and leaned over to me. 

"You Harry's friend?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Get in then."

I did as I was told.  Climbing in to the passenger seat.  The cassette player was blaring out Marc Bolan. 

"Hey," I said.

The driver just grunted and pulled out. 

Sitting next to him, it was quite hard to size the driver up, but I got an impression of a fat guy with a stained green t-shirt and greasy dark hair. 

"So," I said after about five minutes of silent driving.  "Where we going?"

"Shut up kid," he said.

"Fine."  I stopped asking questions, but sang along to the tape, just to irritate. Okay, not just to irritate.  I liked his music.  Still do.

"...just like rock and roll..."

"We're here."  We pulled up in front of a rather dilapidated building, interrupting my singing.

"Looks snazzy," I said, opening the door and climbing out.  "You not coming?"  Fatty was still in the car. 

"Second floor," he replied. 

I've since found that pretty much everyone in the industry tries to be cool, whilst trying also not to appear to be trying to be cool.  This includes being short to the new kid. 

"Thanks," I said.  Politeness costs nothing, as me old Gran used to say.

I must admit, the building wasn't what I was expecting.  I'd though a crime boss would have some kind of penthouse suite.   I was wrong there too.

Climbing the smelly stairs, I made my way up to floor two and the one door that was apparent there.

It opened as I approached, some kind of security system I guessed, so I stepped inside.


I didn't know what I was expecting really, but with Harry blarting on about some big crime boss, it was certainly more than the reality I was confronted with.

The apartment was fairly big, but it wasn't exactly the Ritz.  A manky brown carpet covered the floor, and various items of furniture rested upon it.  I'd not heard of feng shui at that time, but if I had, I'd have known this wasn't it.

The furniture was old and mostly covered in cigarette butts or ash.  The source of these was sat in the grubbiest armchair I'd ever seen. 

Frank was a large man even back then, with a huge walrus moustache that dominated his face.  He'd probably grown it to take attention away from his features, which weren't going to earn him any beauty awards.  A large red nose sat underneath two small blue eyes, which twinkled with an intelligence that could easily be overlooked.  His head shone under the harsh glare of the unshielded lamps and, for a moment, for some reason, I was reminded of the lampshade that I'd used on Scotty.   His attire looked like something Sherlock Holmes would wear, all tweed.  In one hand he held a scotch glass half full (always the optimist me) of what I could only presume was whisky.

"So, you're the lad that Hawwy sent."  I couldn't see his lips move under the 'tache.

"Sorry?" I said.

"Don't make me wepeat myself boy." 

I stifled my giggle. Probably not best to laugh in the face of a crime boss, even a fat faced red nosed one.

"Yes," I replied, then, thinking something else was in order:  "Name's Theodore, Theodore Chance.  What's up?"

"Hawwy says you're a cool one. Is that so?"

"As a cucumber."

"Heard you killed some negwo."

"Sorry?"  I asked.

"I said," the man repeated slowly, "I heard you killed some negwo."

"Negwo?"  I asked again.  As I've said before, I wasn't all that bright at times back then.  Call it an area of weakness.

"Are you fucking with me boy?"  Suddenly he looked a lot less friendly.  And a lot more red in the face.

"Hey, take it easy old timer..."  I started, but then had to duck as he threw his glass at me.  Shocking waste of good alcohol.  I straightened up in time to see that he had closed the space between us with frightening speed, right in front of me. He grabbed my collar, that shirt was never the same again I'll tell you now, and slammed me against the wall.

"I said," he snarled, getting scotch flavored spittle all over my face, "Are you twying to be funny?"

"No!  No.  Not at all.  Sir," I added for good measure.

"Good, because I don't like people who extwact the water, are we cwear?"

After a small pause to decipher this, I nodded. "As crystal."

He glared at me for a moment with those piercing blue eyes.  Someone told me once, or maybe I heard it on the TV, that everyone has one beautiful feature, and Frank, one of nature's ugly creatures, had all his charm in his eyes.   They were his only redeeming feature, at least visually.  He was sharp as a tack as well, but that wasn't immediately obvious.

"Good," he said, and let me slide down the wall.  "Because Hawwy has vouched for you we'll call that your one chance then."  He walked over to a dwink... sorry, drink cabinet and poured himself another glass.  "Want one?" he asked, all calm again.

"No, I'm good."  I was never really one for drinking at lunchtime myself, unless I was going to continue on for the rest of the day at least.  And whisky has never really been my drink of choice anyway.

"So, you don't mind a bit of violence then?"  He sat back down in his chair and pulled a cigarette out of somewhere.

"When it's called for," I said.  "And as long as it's me giving it out."

"Intwesting."  He lit the smoke and took a long pull, followed in quick succession by a large swallow of whisky. I half expected him to ignite.  "So then, a little test is called for I think."

"What do you need?" I asked.  I'd been half expecting this.  I mean, a crime boss is hardly going to only go on the word of someone else alone.  Am I right?  You know I am.

"You have a weapon?"  He waited until I nodded then carried on.  "Good, then I'm going to send you out on a little job. If you pass, you're in."

"Right on," I said. 

"There's a fellow," Harry said, sitting down in the chair again and lighting up a fag.  "He's been a good customer before, but his latest loan is overdue.  I need a chap to go along and give him a fwendly weminder.  Do you think you could manage such a task?  You awen't a vewy big man, physically I mean."

"S'not what the lasses say," I responded.  You have to have a bit of bravado in these situations, tempered with humor of course.  Everyone likes a bit of levity, know what I mean?  You and the dead clown over there.

"Vewy well. I'll see you when you weturn.  The dwiver will take you to the location."  He waved a hand and took a deep pull on his cigarette. 

"Sure thing boss."  I nodded, all confident like.  Balls of steel, that's what you have to have in interviews.

I made my way back downstairs trying to bring myself back under control. Fucking interviews, I've always hated them.  I'm sure a shrink would have said it's my fear of failure or something.  Well, fuck them, sure it is. Who the hell likes to fail?  Stupid wankers.

The same blue Ford, with the same fat arsed driver, was waiting for me outside.  I climbed in and nodded at the bloke, who didn't respond even as he started the car up.

I sang along a bit again on the journey, but my spirit wasn't really into it.  I was working myself up, ready for whatever was ahead.

I don't know if you've ever been involved in any violence, but it's best approached in a certain state of mind.  Drunk is one of course, and panic/fear are others.  But they aren't controlled states of mind.  To approach someone with aggression deliberately in the picture takes a different sort of mindset. 

Still, I figured, it's all or nothing.  Like Harry had pointed out, I wasn't the biggest chunk of meat on the pig, but then that doesn't have to be the case.  I knew a kid in school, Richard.  Skinny runt he was, skinnier than me back then even, but none of the school bullies would touch him. 

The reason for this was when Richard had been a new entry to our class, one kid, a big lad, had tried to put the screws on him. Well, Richard had just fucking exploded.  Went totally mental like. The teachers had to peel him off the-would-be bully, the little kid was biting and scratching and hitting with every available body part.  No one went near him after that.

That taught me something though.  Being mental helps, at least in certain situations.  Do what people don't.  Cross the line.  I took a deep breath and nodded to myself, just as the car pulled up at a small detached house surrounded by a bushy hedge.

"In there," said my fat driver friend. "Name of John.  He owes the boss two hundred, from last week."

"No problem," I said.  Then a thought struck me. "You have any sort of beating implement about you?  I didn't bring mine, and I'd rather save the gun for serious work."

Fatty jerked his head, and I saw a large cricket bat resting on the rear seat.  "That will do nicely," I said, appropriating the device.

Through the gate, the garden was a nice affair, reminiscent of some old lady who liked to potter about planting potatoes and herbs and whatnot.  All very pleasant.  I strolled up the path in a strange state of mind and knocked on the blue door.

Blue again.

It opened, and a tall, skinny guy with greasy black hair peered out.  "What?" he asked

I pushed at the door and shoved him on the chest, making him stagger backward, and then swung the bat as hard as I could at his leg.  It made a satisfactory cracking sound, very quickly replaced by screams.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" he cried, from his new position on the floor.

"I think you know John," I said.

"John's my brother you cunt!  He's upstairs!"

"Oh.  Sorry."  There was a lesson. Always make sure the person you're beating is the right one.  "Better put some ice on that," I said, as I made my way towards the stairs through the nicely decorated living room.

John wasn't hard to find.  He was the one trying to climb out of the window of his bedroom. 

"No!! Please!" he squealed as I stepped inside. "I'll pay double next week!" 

"Harry's more concerned about last week," I said, looking around the rather sorry environment of my target.  "Why don't you climb back inside?  You could hurt yourself like that."  John was sitting on the sill.

"I don't have the money!" he wailed. "My overtime was cancelled and I... SHIT!!!" 

The last was because I'd quickly tired of his whiney tone, which sounded like a bitch nagging, and hit him with my newly acquired bat.  Some sports implements are just great. Unfortunately this had the unforeseen side effect of causing him to lose his balance and fall off his perch to the ground below. 

"Fuck," I said, walking over and peering out.  It wasn't my day; John had landed on his head, making a big mess on the garden path.

"Fuck."  I repeated.  People and windows.  This was getting to be a habit.

After a quick evaluation of the situation I retreated downstairs, ensuring I wiped off prints from anywhere I'd touched. 

That only left John's brother, who was still blubbering at the foot of the stairs.


"What have you done?" the brother blubbed, when I took him gently by the nuts and dragged him, limping, into the living room.   He screamed a fair bit at that, until I stuffed some rag into his mouth. 

John's brother had been where I left him, at the foot of the stairs, clutching his leg.  He was hardly a great threat on his own, but he'd seen me, which was a problem.  Still, I was still young and reckless back then, thought I was invincible.  Ah, the innocence of the young.

So I slapped him around the face a few times, which did nothing much to improve his demeanour, but helped me quite a bit.  Don't know what all these fucking therapists are on, a bit of violence helps relieve stress no end. 
Anyway, I was keenly aware that there was yet another defenestrated body seeping out over the garden, and this simpering cunt was keeping me from cleaning it up. I didn't dare call Harry from their phone, so it was a matter of hiding John until I could get word to the cleaner.

I sat down in an armchair and leaned the bat on against it as I sneered at the sobbing brother and contemplated the situation.  The corpse was a priority, but the hedge around the garden meant that it was unlikely any passer-by was going to spot it.  Still, it had to be moved fairly quickly. Perhaps it was time to get my friendly driver to do some actual work.  It wouldn't be a bad idea to get him implicated anyway, make sure he'd keep his gob shut. 

"Hey, fuckhead," I said.  "Is anyone else likely to come here?"  I didn't want their gran walking in on things, killing old ladies struck me as somehow wrong.  What? We all have our personal code; mine happens to be that stoving in the skulls of senior citizens is just not right.

Brother-of-John shook his head.  I wasn't sure I could believe him a hundred percent, but it didn't seem like he was lying, so I was okay going with that for now. 

"Good. So, next.  Where do you keep the sheets for the bedding?"


It took some doing, but I managed to recover some large sheets and then, with the help of my fat driver friend, who, I found could swear like no one else I'd ever heard, scraped up the remains of John that was splattered all over the garden path.  Then we shoved the body in the back of the car and I left the driver, whose name I still didn't know, muttering under his breath in the driver's seat whilst I went back to deal with the currently-surviving kin.

"Get up," I said. 

The miserable excuse for a person dragged himself upright.

"Right then," I said.  "You have a bank card?  For the machine?"  Remember, back then ATMs were a new thing.  Anyway, he nodded.  "Good," I said.  May as well make a bit of cash on the side.  "You have it on you?"  Another nod.

I was about to make a triumphant exit, when a loud hammering on the door interrupted me.

"Police!"  came a stringent voice through the letter box.  "We know you're in there.  Open up!  In the name of the law."

Fuck, the pigs!  What the hell did they want?

"What are they here for?"  I hissed at my injured friend.

"I don't know," he moaned, once I'd take his gag out.

I hit him on his newly broken knee.  I know, I know, needless violence right? I'm usually such a gently soul too, but having the boys in blue come knocking when I'd just hidden a body outside made me a little edgy. 

"Try again fuckhead," I growled, as the filth hammered on the door again, louder this time.

"J...J... J..."

"John, beloved brother, sadly missed," I supplied.

"J... John, he was in... into... some... some... stuff.  Cops pro... probably found out."

"And as usual they pick the perfect time to come a calling," I finished. 

The fuzz shouted through the door again, threatening imminent entry.  Perhaps, I thought, this would be a convenient way to kill two birds with one stone, or bullet.  It would mean the loss of my gun, and a bit of luck but...

Deciding not to overthink things, I pulled my precious gun out of my pack and checked it was ready to fire.  Scuttling to the front door on all fours, I took aim at the figure through the frosted glass and fired up at it. 

The effect was gratifying. 

There were immediate shouts and the shadow of the door knocker disappeared.  I found out later he survived, but lost an arm.  Better than nothing I guess.  One less pig on the street to bother innocent civilians.

Anyway, I didn't hang about, but crawled back to John's brother and took a few pot shots out of the front window, just to stir things up a bit more. Then I turned and shot the sorry brother in the head from point blank range. 

I tell you now, if you ever want to pop someone close up, make sure you're wearing something waterproof.  The blood went everywhere.  And here was me wearing my new shirt too.  That was never the same again I can tell you. 

Confusion sowed, I fired a few more times and then wiped the gun carefully down and put it in my latest victim's hand, the number of kills was really mounting up.  I squeezed the trigger with his finger, firing out of the window again and using the last round, just to get powder on his hand.  Even then forensics weren't stupid.

Task done, I recovered my gear, including the bat, stuffed it in my bag, and then made my way to the rear of the house and slipped out of the back passage, as they say.  I know right?  Seems too easy. Well, sometimes things go that way.  I didn't go out of the gate of course, but over the hedge to next door's garden, and then over the fence to their next door.  I did that several times until I judged I was far enough away, and then strolled out onto the street, cool as a cucumber. 

My fat driver friend had fucked off, no doubt not wanting to draw attention to himself, especially with a body cooling in the back, so I wrapped my jacket about the bloodstains on my shirt and scarpered home sharpish. 

Made it back just in time for my favourite TV show too.  Some days you have all the luck. 


 was feeling pretty fucking smug when I went to see Harry next time, I can tell you.  Shows what a na├»ve idiot I really was. Harry brought me down to earth real fast.

"What the fuck do you think you were doing?" he shouted at me. 

I wiped the spittle off my face and frowned. "What you told me," I replied, with the sulky face that youngsters the world over have.

"I told you to get the twat to pay up!" my boss continued, ignoring my response. "Instead you leave two cowpses, an injuwed cop and a bawwow load of cwap behind!  And no money!!  What the fuck were you thinking?"

Once I'd decoded his rant, I snarled and shook my head.  I may have been a junior employee, but I wasn't going to take this sort of thing. I've never been good with people telling me to do shit, which is both a strength and weakness. In hindsight it was probably more a weakness when I was younger and still wet behind the ears. 

"He wasn't cooperating. I thought it best to send a message."

Harry looked at me and sat down in his disgusting armchair.   He poured a large measure of some kind of brown liquid into his glass and took a deep draught before responding.

"Well," he said. "I have to admit, my boys haven't had much pwoblems with collections the last day or so.  Maybe we can work with it."

"See..."  I started.

"I didn't say you could speak!" he shouted, cutting me off. 

I shut up. Sometimes even the dumbest fuck knows when he's pushing his luck.

After taking another deep drink of his concoction, Harry nodded to himself and addressed me again.

"Go home," he said, then immediately held a finger up to stop my impending complaint.

"You need to lie low low a while.  Just follow you're usual woutine.  Keep your head down.  Let the heat cool off a bit."

This seemed sensible advice.  I needed to catch up on my studies anyway, so I nodded.

"Good.  Now, fuck off."

I hesitated.

"What?" he said.

"Does this mean I've got the job?"  I asked.  I was short of cash and this was what I'd come here for after all.

For a second I thought he was going to tell me to stick it, and I was half contemplating beating out his brains with his whisky glass, when he nodded.

"Yes.  You have potential.  I'll see you soon."

"Fair enough."  I fucked off.


After a couple of murders and a shootout with the cops, college life seemed easy, but I put Harry and other things aside and tried to actually study for a change.  To be honest, I'm not the best student in the world.  Not that I'm stupid mind, IQ tests I've taken say I'm just short of a fucking genius,  I'm just not a whizz at learning out of books. Show me something once and I have it, but if I have to read instructions I tend to nod off halfway down the page. 

Anyway, after a few days of this I was bored. I get bored easily, so sue me.

Weasel was out of town for a few day, avoiding someone he owed money to, so, practically friendless as I was, I was forced to go out on my own, which I've never really liked.

It was when I was staggering home late, well, next morning, that I heard the scream.  I would usually just have ignored it, but I was not in the best of moods. The tarts hadn't been cooperating, and the beer hadn't done its usual job of making me happy.   Basically I was fucked off.

So when I heard the cry of a maiden in distress, I decided to see what was going on.  Turns out two guys were holding down some chick with short peroxide blond hair with the intention of introducing her to their little fellows.

I was drunk, in a bad mood, and have always had a thing for peroxide blond hair, so you know what I did?

Of course you do.

I didn't have anything in the way of weapons, barring my own savvy of course, so I waited until they were, shall I say... distracted with the girl before I made my move. 

I don't really give a fuck, if we're speaking frankly (which is what I do best), about helping others unless there's something in it for me, know what I mean?  'course you do, everybody does.  But here my charitable side kicked in, and I decided to be a good citizen for a change.  Of course, if the tart had been an ugly fat slag, I'd likely not felt quite the same way, but no one said life's fair. 

So I picked up a likely looking bit of wood, and by bit, I mean it looked like a chair leg someone had discarded, and approached as quietly as being half cut on fuck knows how many pints allowed, and smacked the geezer holding down our damsel hard around the head.

I admit, I'd never beaten someone around the head with a hefty chunk of wood before, so I may have overdone it a trifle.  By a trifle, I mean the top of the chaps head came right off.  Splattered shit all over the wall and the loving couple below too.  Right ruined their evening, or morning I guess, if we're being precise.

Naturally chumley pulls out sharpish like, his attention taken away from blond chick below by the brains of his friend coating her tits.  Things like that can distract you from your loving I've found.  Anyway, he started to say something, probably some witticism like 'what the fuck' or such, just as I removed his teeth with my wooden helper.

That was a bloody good chair leg that was.  They just don't make them like that anymore.

Anyway, teeth and gums and jaw and stuff joined the bits of brain and skull all over the floor, and matey simply slid to one side and hit the ground. 

Now, bear in mind I was drunk as a fuck, but I remember me kneeling down next to the cute chick and saying something like:

"Come with me if you want to live."  Whereupon she opened her legs and we did it hard.

Of course, the problem with this memory is that it's bollocks.  I mean, Terminator hadn't even come out back then, and, well, the drunk thing.

A more accurate rendition would probably go along the lines of me slurring: "You 'k?  You're hot.  Wanna fuck?" 

I was the soul of sympathy, even then.

Trouble was, she was screaming, probably at the blood and brains and whatnot splattered all over the ground and, unfortunately, her.  Well, some people are a bit squeamish. 

It's funny that the films don't show this sort of thing, it would probably glamorize it a lot less.  Anyway, I have a vague recollection of her throwing up, before I hauled her to her feet, her arms and legs kicking, and half carried, half dragged her back to my pad, probably with the intention of sticking it up her bum.

I vaguely remember getting home, throwing my new friend onto the sofa, and then passing out, still fully clothed, on my bed.

I know, I'm such a gentleman.  Didn't feel her up or anything.


Apr 18, 2020, 08:31 pm #11 Last Edit: Apr 19, 2020, 01:25 pm by Ren
I didn't even remember my new friend when I first woke up the next morning, still in exactly the same position on the bed, and still dressed in the gear I went out in the night before.

All I wanted to do was relieve my bladder, so I staggered upright, and I did stagger. I'd drunk a lot even for me, and it was getting it's own back.

Anyway, it wasn't before I'd finished letting loose a mini Niagra falls that I remembered my guest. To be honest, I thought she'd have probably scarpered by then, I mean, we didn't exactly meet under the most auspicious circumstance, and it was just possible I hadn't been the gent I usually was.

On this assumption I stripped off and had a shower before venturing back out.  And fuck me sidewise, there she still was, lying on the sofa. I was mildly surprised, to say the least.  Not surprised enough to do anything about her until I'd downed about a gallon of water though. 

Fucking beer.  I'll never understand it.  You drink, and then piss out, a barrel of liquid, and then your body wants more of it.  The human system is crap if you ask me.  Badly designed all round.

Still, once I'd dealt with that, I crept forward to examine my prize in a bit more detail.  Her face looked pretty, a cute button nose above nice lips, with pink lipstick on!  Holy shit, this doll was pressing all my buttons!  Pink lipstick comes just under peroxide blonde hair on my list of turn-ons.  If she'd been wearing dungarees I'd have blown my load there and then. Anyway, I couldn't check the rest of her out as she'd found a blanket from somewhere and decided, rather selfishly, to cover herself. 

As I stood there she opened her eyes (blue!) and looked at me.  If she had screamed right there and then, I wouldn't have been shocked.  Here I was, looming over her wearing nothing but a towel.  Mind you, all modesty aside, maybe that's why she didn't scream.  Must be nice to wake up to a fucking sex god standing ready, as it were.

Instead of the screaming then, she smiled slightly, and swung herself off the sofa.  If she had been wearing a jacket the previous night (and I couldn't remember off-hand), then she'd taken it off.

She wasn't shy, I'll tell you that right off the bat.  She'd obviously removed any dress she'd been wearing too, although, thinking about it, it was probably covered in brains and the like.  At least my sofa was still clean.

So she stood up in a bra and knickers, and that was enough; my old John Thomas came right to attention. 

She was a cute thing, petite, with a good pair of tits on her, yet without the fat ass that usually accompanies such stature.  Ten out of fucking ten!

"Name's Alice," she said, eyeing the massive tent that was now sticking out of the front of my towel.  "And I think we've got a problem."

Cool as a fucking cucumber!  My god, I nearly messed myself.

"What's that then?" I said, trying to act all nochalant.  Takes some doing it does, acting nochalant, when you're only wearing a towel and a massive boner.

"You killed my brothers last night."

That stopped me in my tracks, metaphorically speaking. 

"What?  But they were trying to... er..."

"Fuck me?  Yeah, I know."  She looked around.  "You got any smokes?"

"What?"  I was still catching up on the whole rapey-incest thing, so, not my sharpest comeback ever.

"Smokes?  Fags?"  She made a smoking gesture.

"Er, no.  Yes, maybe."  I didn't smoke, filthy habit, except when I used it as a way to get talking to a chick, so I did sometimes keep a packet in my apartment.

"You're not so bright are you?"  she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"They were your brothers?" I asked, finally catching up. "I, er... Um...  Sorry?"

"Yeah, don't worry about them, I've three more at home.  You'll no doubt be meeting them if they find out who you are." 

"But they were..."  I was starting to sound like a stuck record now.

"It's not unheard of," she said, wandering over to my bedside cabinet and opening the top drawer. "Plus, this," she added, making a gesture at her own body.

Couldn't argue with that.

She plucked a packet of ciggies out of the drawer, and then started looking around for a light.

I sidled over to the kitchen and pulled out a lighter I kept to light the gas cooker, and threw it over to her. 

"Thanks," she said, catching it. She lit up a ciggy and took a deep puff. 

"So then," she went on, leaning against the wall.  "We have a problem."

"We do?" I said.  Like I said, I wasn't running on all cylinders, and the whole situation seemed rather fucked up, which is saying something for me.

"Yeah.  You see, I was handing over a load of blow last night, and when you bashed the skulls in of my dear brothers and carted me off, it was left behind."

"So?" I said, taking a seat, as much to hide my hard on as anything.

"Well, it wasn't a small amount of blow, and my dad's going to want it back.  And I'm totally fucked if I'm going to take the fall for that, so you need to help me get it, or at least the cash equivalent."

"Your dad?"

"Yeah, he's Johhny Weller, in case you were interested."

That did get my attention.  Like I said, I've never been that much into puff, or blow, or whatever the slang of the day is.  Just a bit for recreational use on the odd occasion perhaps, but I knew who the players were, and old Johhny 'Kneecap' Weller was right up there at the top, or perhaps bottom would be a more accurate description. 

He was a gypo, okay okay, traveller as we're supposed to say today.  Back then they were just called thieving gypsy bastards of course, but political correctness means we can't use accurate descriptions any more.

In this case perhaps, vicious gypsy bastard might have been more accurate though.  And he had a big family I heard, though if what my new friend was saying, not as big as it used to be.

"So what, I rescue you and I'm expected to pay?" I said.  Always open negotiations aggressively.

"You don't have to," she said, stubbing the fag out on my table.  "You could just wait until they hunt you down and beat you to death."

"Mmm," I said, tapping my chin and mulling things over.

"Whilst you're thinking about it," she piped up.

"Yes?" I said.

"Fancy a fuck?"

That didn't take any thought at all.  I stood up and dropped my towel.  Maybe I was as good as dead, but I'd go out happy.


"So then," I said. "What's your immediate plan?"

We were laying on the floor, after, what?  Maybe the fourth round of banging our brains out.  Ahh, the energy of youth.  I'm lucky if I can half get it up these days.  Anyway, the point is I got it whilst I could, so no regrets there.

"Dunno," she said, taking a drag on another of my ciggies.  I wrinkled my nose.  Call me a prude if you must, but I'd never taken to the smell.  After a night out your clothes reeked of it.  The young generation don't know how grateful they should be it's banned in most places now.

"So, how much are we talking about then?" I asked her.

"Not much," she replied.

"Well, that's a relief."

"Probably about fifty grand."

"Fuck me!" I said, although she already had.  "Fifty K?  That's not much?" 

"My dad may be many things," she said, "but he's a bloody good drug dealer.  Shifts a lot of gear." She looked at me with those big baby blues.  "So, what's the plan?"

I took a deep breath, and then coughed.  Bloody smoke. 

"I know someone," I said, thinking of Frank.  "He may be able to point us in the right direction."  It was a long shot I'll admit, but needs must, you know?

"Good."  She climbed to her feet, giving me an unusual, but magnificent view of her naked bod.  "Where's your toilet?  I need to clean myself up."

I pointed out the location, admired her form as she walked away, and then struggled to my own feet.  I rubbed my balls, which ached from use, but if that had been my worst problem I'd be a happy chappy.  No, I was worried what Frank would say.  I had a feeling he wouldn't be very impressed that I was asking for help so early on in our relationship.  Plus I hated owing people. 

I couldn't think of anyone else who might have the resources though, so I was a bit stuck, and young and stupid as I was, I was keen to impress Alice.  I'm telling you lads, you can be as smart as fucking Einstein, but pussy makes idiots of us all. 

So, upon discovering that I had a jar of what appeared to be mould in my fridge, Alice and I went out to the local cafe for a hearty fry-up.  Fuck all this vegan health shit I say, sometimes your body wants egg, beans and bacon.  Lots of bacon.  And fried bread.  And toast.  That's what won us the war, not tofu fucking sausage.   

"I have a friend," I said to her, as I wiped up the remains of the egg on my plate with a slice of fried bread.

"I find that unlikely, but go on," she replied, taking a slurp of tea from the giant white mugs my local cafe used.  Like I said, proper food.

"He's..."  I hesitated, unsure how to describe Frank.  "Well, I guess he knows people.  He might be able to help me out, or point me in the right direction.  Unless you know of anyone who could be useful?"  I raised an eyebrow.

"I know a few people, but only as a last resort," she said.  "Let's go with your guy first."

"Fairy snuff," I replied, stuffing the eggy bread into my mouth.  God, what a charmer I was.

She smiled, which was enough to get my little head stirring again. 

"I don't know what to make of you Theodore," she said, tilting her head in a ridiculously cute manner.  "You come over like a right thick cunt, yet I don't think you are, are you?"

I shrugged.  "Smartest fucker you'll ever meet," I said, modesty oozing out of every pore. 

She laughed, and I nearly choked on my bread.


I wasn't laughing at all when I walked up the path to Frank's house, I tell you.  In fact it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say I was nearly wetting my pants.  I hadn't known Frank a long time, but I had a strong feeling, a bastard strong feeling, that he would be less than impressed with my request.

Still, fortune favours the brave they say, though I say it favours fucking dumb ass lucky idiots too, so maybe I was twice blessed.

The door swung open as I approached and a large chap, and by large, I mean a bloody brown bear would have been cowed, opened the door.

"Fucking hell," I said, "I bet when you walk in front of the sun people wonder why there's been an eclipse eh?"

The man, or bear or whatever, just grunted.  Upon closer examination I saw that he was mostly fat. Not to say that I'd have liked to have a go at him. I'd have probably lost my hand up the elbow in his stomach blubber.

"What do you require young fellow?" Bear-man asked, in a voice that was so light and well spoken that I was almost shocked. 

"Er, Theo, here to see Frank," I replied, eyeing him up.  Maybe I'd underestimated him.  Something to bear in mind, no pun intended.

"Who is your lady friend?" he asked, nodding a triple chin at the end of the path, where Alice was lurking.

"She's, er, my lady friend?"

"You don't sound very sure of that."

"Oh no, I'm, well fuck me, I'm not sure.  But I've shagged her brains out all morning, so she's something."

Bear-man nodded again, an action that carried on for several moments.  "Tell her to approach," he said. "It would be remiss of me to leave her loitering outside, drawing attention."

Well, she would certainly do that, I thought, so I waved at her. 

"Hello," Alice said, all innocent, as she bounced up.

Bear-man just nodded, and then stood back, out of the way, or at least as much out of the way as his bulk would allow.  "The boss will see you know," he said.

"Thank you Jeeves," I said, and, taking Alice's hand, for my own moral's sake as much as anything, in we went.

Frank's room was pretty much exactly the same as last time I'd visited, not that I had expected anything else.  And Frank was still sitting in his manky armchair sipping, for all I knew, the same glass of whisky.

"I though I told you to fuck off for a while boy," was his greeting.

"I did, but now I'm back."

"And who's this chawming young lady eh?" he asked, nodding at Alice.

"She's my lady friend," I replied.

"She looks like fucking Knee-bweaker Weller's daughter to me," Frank said, sipping at his glass.

"The two are not mutually exclusive," I pointed out.

Frank sighed.  "What to you want kid?  It's too early to dick about."

I adopted the famous Mexican-villager-in-distress pose, sans-hat, and cleared my throat.  "Well," I said.  "I have a small problem.  Circumstances, which were totally out of my control," I added, "mean that I need to find a... certain amount of money and or drugs before Alice's dad sends people around to cave my skull in."

"I see."  Frank looked at Alice appraisingly for a moment, and then back at me.  "One assumes that this amount of money is more than ten quid?"

"Yes," I replied.  Limit what you need to say in these situations is my motto.  One of my many mottos in-fact.

Frank swirled his drink around for a moment, whilst I remained still.  Cat under the mouse's glare kind of thing.

"I may have a way you can solve your pwoblem," he said, eventually.  "And it might even help me out too.  So you wouldn't owe me too much.  I assume you are not advewse to large amounts of violence?"

"As long as it's done to other people, I'm all for it," I replied.

Frank smiled.


So then, what's Frank got in mind?  Any and all ideas welcome!

Hope this was readable, had a few drinks.  Surprise!



This story is why I joined here!  It's a great tale in my humble opinion, right up my street!  Violence and un-morality abound! 

If I may add my idea...

Someone's stolen something from Frank, and he wants it back.  Of course, there's an element of... danger involved haha!
New writer.  Be gentle!


Thanks Pon!  Happy to have you on board! 

I'll add your idea to the, er, list?   ;D

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