Short Shocks 2

by Andy Love

  The Mediator lifted his finger to his lips and created a hush sound.

  “Please be quite. Let me do my job or I’ll have to stop you talking.”

  The ugly little man, who tried to command her silence, offended Cindy into retort.

  “You are just like all the other men in my life. Why do you men always want me to shut up? I’ve been commented on my voice talent. I’m becoming an actress and…”

  The Mediator lifted his hand, her lips moved, but had lost her voice. She clasped a hand over her silent mouth then waved her hands in the air with panic.

  “Be silent and listen carefully, Cindy.” The Mediator moved toward her as the tail of his cloak left a trail of slime across the flagstones.

  “One of these angels represents what you believe is God, the other your image of Satan. The Satan angel will tell a lie, the other, truth. You must ask only one question, to choose your path.” He looked at the blonde’s still lips and sighed with impatience. “I’m going to give your speech back, but use the time wisely, and don’t ask stupid questions.” He raised his hand again. “You may now speak.”

  Cindy thought for a moment.

  “Path? What do you mean path?”

  The mediator crossed his arms and made a glum face. “Oh dear, not another one. You really are thick, aren’t you? Your chosen path would be heaven or hell.” The Mediator folded his arms across his cloak. “Personally, I wouldn’t give you a choice. You don’t deserve it.”

  “Aren’t we in hell just now?” She asked.

  “No, you stupid bitch…we’re in Sheol.” He noticed the blank expression on Cindy’s face. “We stand in Hades. You know, purgatory?”

  “Huh? Purga what? I don’t understand!” The blonde screamed as her eyes widened.

  The mediator grumbled. “Can we get on with this? I’ve got a lot of people to see.”

  The blonde mustered all her brain cells, and thought hard of a good question, before she asked the first angel. “Is God good?”

  “God is neither good, nor bad.” It answered.

  She turned to the Mediator and complained. “That’s not a proper answer. He didn’t say yes or no. This isn’t a fun game.”

  The Mediator shook his head. “This isn’t a game. Ask your question.”

  Cindy asked the same question to the other angel.

  “You question your faith.” It returned.

  Confusion stabbed into Cindy’s mind for the countless time in her life, before she pleaded with the Mediator.

  “Those aren’t proper answers. Which one should I choose? This isn’t fair.”

  “You must choose one.” demanded the Mediator.

  She defied the Mediator. Her clenched fists and frantic pumping of her arms, seemed to give power to the stomping of her foot. “No, I won’t choose. You can’t make me.”

  The man looked upward. Two ethereal figures appeared and created a circle of debate as they looked at the Mediator, to the two angels then at Cindy. The beautifully androgynous entity spoke first.

  “Not another one of these. It’s very clear to me that Cindy must go with you.” It pointed to the entity with a permanent blush. “She’s obviously defective…been tampered with…she’s certainly a bad apple. One of yours.”

  The blush deepened and spread to his whole face as he waved a hand of denial and growled. “Don’t start this again; you’re the one that created her. If she’s thick and doesn’t realise what she’s doing, then it’s your fault. Don’t blame me for your duff creations.”

  The androgynous form held up both hands. “Yes, I do create them, but I can’t always be held responsible for quality control.”

  “Well, I ain’t taking her; we’ve got enough of your rejects. Why don’t you take responsibility for a change?”

  The beautiful entity ushered the other away from the ears of others and whispered.

  “I’ll tell you what. If I let you corrupt some of my better specimens, would you be willing to accept her?”

  “I know your play on words; you always find a way to renege on what others think you said. I want an exact amount I can play with. Say, oh…10’000 of your good ones and 20’000 of your rejects?”

  “Yeah, ok. I would have given you more, but yes. I agree, but you can only kill 1’000 a year of my righteous flock.”

  “Agreed, but this Cindy Sinclair, would spend her eternal existence cleaning out the hounds’ lair and they are allowed to tear her apart after every meal?”

  “Fine.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  The images in front of Cindy became transparent then dissolve into the mist. She was alone and stood in the silence. Her feet began to heat up as the ground melted her shoes. The temperature increased as she heard faint barks and growls of large animals in the distance.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  A gentle breeze blew Cindy’s ashes into the mist, with a fantastic display of sparkles, until the colours faded into a black desolate void.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Soul Trader

  Jason Wicks locked his car and unfolded the collar of his coat. The winter air tingled inside his throat and down to his chest as he breathed. He wished to be in his warm apartment, where he could devour a buttered roll on chips past his overbite. There’s an urgency to have it heavily seasoned, with a splash of tomato sauce. It’s basic and unhealthy food, but he could never resist.

  The cold rain on a January night; the way it made the pavement look metallic and glisten under the bright streetlights…it encouraged his dour demeanour. He hated the way scum and shit floated from the cities guts. It spreads filth around his feet and soils life. Jason tilted his head back, looked up at the side of the ten-story apartment block with disgust.

  “Fuck sake,” he proclaimed as the rain-washed over his face.

  He began the short brisk walk to his home, in the adjacent dwelling. His sight caught a reflection in the surface of the marble-faced building. Jason looked intently at his own image with large hazel eyes. He adjusted the coat’s lapels and ran his fingers over the fedora’s rim. People mentioned his narcissistic personality, but he always defended it as confidence.

  When he approached the alleyway, which divided the buildings, he heard a depressed voice.

  “Spare a quid, man. Spare a quid?”

  Jason peered into the dark alley, where he saw a man propped against the wall, cupped hand at the end of an outstretched arm. Sunglasses obscured his eyes and a hood covered his head. A thought occurred to Jason. ‘Those white trainers seem odd, out of place and…not quite part of the picture.’

  “How bad do you need money?” He asked.

  “I haven’t eaten’ for so long, Mister.”

  He kicked the man’s legs. “Get a job you worthless bastard. Get. A. Job.” Each word punctuated with a kick. “And get off my street.” Jason warned.

  The man on the ground laughed. Before Jason could pause in thought of why, a strong arm tightened round his throat, and hauled him with force into the darkness of the alley. Gruff voices surrounded him. A punch to his back expelled air from his lungs. It forced him down to his knees with a gasp. A cough rasped from Jason’s throat as a male shouted.

  “Bastard, this one’s for the hell you put my family through!”

  A kick in his back reeled him forward, too late to break the fall with his hands. His forehead and nose cracked against the pavement. Laugher rang out and echoed in parallel with the pounding in his head.

  “What the fuck are you trying to do, kill him?” Derek Johnstone shouted with an irritated, yet slightly concerned tone.

  “No, I just got carried away,” Rick defended. “I don’t do this kind of thing every day you know, fuck sake.”

  Bob Saunders intervened to prevent an argument. “All right, I know he deserves it but...”

  Jason managed to open his eyes then crawled for the light on the main street. Someone flipped his body over, and he saw the three men who caused his anguish. The streetlights showed faces stood beside him. He tried har
d to place each one, to mentally burn the images on his brain.

  The one in the middle wore sunglasses on sharp facial features. Although he didn’t have a large baton, he did have something in his hand. A name popped into Jason’s head and immediately to his mouth.

  “Derek.” The word echoed in his mind, to a faded silence. An insentient blackness overwhelmed him. His eyes closed as he remembered.

  ‘Huh, Derek Johnstone. He built a website for my used cars, but I didn’t pay him. Instead, I bad-mouthed him to his customers and suppliers. After he lost them all he confronted me at my show room. I liked to torment my Rottweiler at the lot, forcing it to beg for a chip from my roll…it would get frustrated then mad, when I ate it…I loved to see the stupid mutt fly into a rage at the drop of a hat.

  ‘I set the mutt on Johnstone. It tore his arm to bits and pulled him to the floor. Couldn’t pull the mutt off, its jaws gripped on his throat. Man, what a laugh that was. I had to feed the mutt to get him free. He couldn’t type with that hand anymore…they thought he’d lose his voice too. Stupid fucker.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Jason regained consciousness and laughed in spite of his blood-filled mouth. The three men were astonished at his response to a split head and broken nose.

  “The bastard recognised me.” Derek gasped.

  Bob Saunders, the eldest of the three men, wore a few days stubble, which his hooded raincoat failed to cover. The streetlight bounced off his shiny black shoes and reflected his raised length of metal pipe.

  “Let’s make his memory go away, and wipe the grin off his face lads.”

  “Please, not my face. Not the face.” Jason pleaded, defending his face with crossed arms.

  Bob and Rick hammered into Jason’s body with batons, and continued despite every shriek from the broken man. Jason’s chest tightened, agony exploded under his ribs and down his arm. He moaned as his arms flopped to the ground. Peacefulness washed over him in a numb silence and lack of misery. His mind sank into oblivion. The men stopped the torture and stepped back. Derek knelt down beside their foe.

  “You really deserve this, Jason.” He hissed. “Why didn’t you just pay the money? We only wanted what you owed us.”

  The body lay motionless. A strange buzz echoed in the alleyway as Derek pushed a button. He stabbed Jason’s chest repeatedly with the two metal prongs. A few more thrusts with the electric current made the body convulse each time, to jump like a bug on a hot plate.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Jason regained consciousness and heard the muffled voices of his attackers. He opened his eyes and now recognised the eldest face of the three. Groans escaped his bloody mouth, but he didn’t suffer anymore. Helpless on the ground of the alley, his wet clothes chilled his skin. A sound rang in his ears, as he gasped for air and blood choked his throat. Jason remembered how he conned Bob Saunders, and many other people into financial ruin.

  ‘It was simple, really: My mate, Bruce…of Bruce Thyne Loans, and me, we bled the stupid fucker’s dry of their money. Sell them a car they can’t afford. When they couldn’t pay, I’d threaten to repossess the car. I’d suggest Bruce for a loan, so they could keep the car. Bruce and me cut the profit, and I got the car when they couldn’t afford repayments.

  ‘I remember visiting Bob at home, in a scum area of town. I arrived to repossess the car, and his terrier attacked me on the way to his front door. It tore my trouser leg.’ “No mutt chews on my best suit.” I booted it in the stomach, and it yelped. There should be a Chinese proverb. Dog like owner, stupid fucker.’

  “Hey, he’s coming round. I’m next,” Rick rasped excitedly.

  “Yeah, go for it, Rick. Make it a good one.”

  “Don’t worry; the sick fucker’ll feel this.” Replied Rick.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Rick Mills passed his baton of wood from left to right hand then grasped with both and raised it. Jason peered through swollen eyes as he awaited more broken bones.

  “Don’t Rick. Please, no more.” Jason pleaded in a slurred voice, through burst bloody lips.

  “What a fucker,” Rick shouted. “You should have thought of that before you fucked my wife. She took my daughter and left…for you. All you wanted was her money. You dumped both of them on the street…jeez man, you fucked my wife. You’ll pay for that.”

  Drained of energy, Jason couldn’t lift his arms in defence. He lay motionless, but pushed out a retort. “Your daughter…too.” Jason forced his voice to speak, and a smile of bloody teeth.

  Rick’s face contorted with rage. The wooden baton rustled as it pushed through the air with force, cracked against Jason’s jaw, and smashed the delicate bone. Rusty nail heads stuck out the end of the baton, which ripped small pieces of skin from his face, and created deep gashes. The last image Jason saw was his elegant suit, crumpled, wet and torn.

  “Rick! Rick, for crying out loud. Stop! We promised not to kill him, remember?” Bob warned.

  The broken man shook as Rick kicked his leg in agreement. Bob pulled out his mobile phone, flipped it open, and the screen illuminated his face in a blue glow.

  “Hi, send an ambulance immediately. A man is dying in Victory Lane, opposite the Pawn Brokers on Station Road.” He quickly closed the phone and stuffed it back in his pocket. “We need to get going, lads. The police will be close on the ambulance’s heels.”

  They stood for a moment, and looked at the mess of Jason’s mangled body.

  “I can’t believe we just did that,” said Derek, nervously.

  “This never happened, right lads?” asked Rick. “Right?”

  He received a unanimous agreement and the three men parted company.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Jason forced his eyes open as he was wheeled backward into the hospital on a gurney. The flash of lights from the ambulance appeared to wink at him in jest as the colours danced around in merriment. His eyes wandered, unable to keep focus then closed again.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  He awoke in the hospital bed and groaned continually through a wired jaw. The brace around his neck appeared to inflate the bandaged head. His manic eyes bulged and darted around as he tried to keep focus on the fluidity of the room. The strange muffled voices and misshapen people around him compounded his confusion. For him, the room appeared to be alive; the walls pulsated, and made him nauseas. Jason slipped into unconsciousness.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Nurse Carolyn Tennant tended to an unconscious patient, when she noticed her friend, Doctor Janice Worthing in the corridor. The nurse looked at her friend’s clothes.

  “Hi Honey.” She shouted and walked to her friend. “Wow, its weird seeing you in a skirt; no scrubs. I take it that’s your last shift, before the wedding?”

  “Yeah, thank Christ. Thanks for being my bridesmaid, Carolyn. I’m so excited.”

  “Oh Janice, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “I guess you’ll have a lot to prepare for. I’ll come over after my shift and help you?”

  The rhythmic beep from the heart monitor sounded relaxed and content, until the irritation of the monotonous and shrill tone interrupted. Doctor Worthing and the nurse ran into Jason’s room. Janice pointed to the defibrillator and shouted.

  “Give me 300, now.” She commanded then lifted a paddle in each hand and placed them on Jason’s chest. “Ready to shock.” She announced and a unanimous consent returned from everyone around the bed.

  “Clear!” 300 joules of power excited Jason’s heart back to work as it pumped blood through his wasted body. The rhythmic beep returned.

  Drool slid down the side of his mouth as he whispered. The Doctor left the shock paddles on Jason’s chest and leaned over his face to listen. He grabbed the doctors’ hands, forced a shock paddle onto each side of her forehead, and squeezed the triggers.

  With lightness in his voice, he smiled. “You’re cleared.”

  Nurses yanked at the patient’s arms, eventually retrieving the paddles. The doctor slumped to the floor and juddered
for a short time. She lay unconscious with legs splayed, her old monthly knickers on show. A male nurse pointed to the little love hearts, and smiled when he turned to Carolyn. She raised her eyebrows, tightened her lips and stared intently at him. He dropped his hand and everyone concentrated on their jobs. Jason passed out with a smile. Doctor Singh rushed through the door and took control of the situation. He ordered staff to take Janice to side ward, and administer care. Jason was transferred to a communal ward.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Later at night, Doctor Singh approached Jason’s bed, dressed with his white lab coat and turban; he appeared taller than his five foot four inches. The Doctor struggled to push the hatred deep into the back of his mind and bury the fear of Jason down in the pit of his stomach. He must be professional, and stood beside the bed as he clasped his hands tightly behind his back before he spoke.

  “Good Evening, Mr. Wicks. I’m telling you of the extent of your ailments.”

  The patient looked at him and chuckled. “Shit, man. You look like a huge tampon. How long have I been here?” asked Jason.

  Doctor Singh clenched his teeth, sick of stupid remarks from racist morons like this. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly before he spoke in a controlled manner as he pointed at Jason’s head.

  “For one looking like a suppository, you have lot to say, Sir.” Doctor Singh couldn’t believe the words passed his lips. He continued. “Oh, about a week now, Mr. Wicks.”

  A smirk crossed Jason’s lips before he groaned. The Doctor took off his spectacles, grabbed a leg between his fingers and swung them nervously.

  “Although we resuscitated you from heart attack, you are disfigure for life…I’m sorry to say.” The Doctor pointed his spectacles at each of Jason’s limbs as he described the severity of the injuries. “You had stroke from trauma to head. This means left side of body has damaged tissues. Right leg and arm no good now, due to muscle damage. Right hand has limited motor skills, and not grasp with it for a while. You need to adjust lifestyle and let others help. Now you use wheelchair.”