Short Shocks 2
Page 17
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Pete’s childhood memory faded, as the safety of maturity calmed him, in the comfort of the vehicle’s warmth. He looked down at his legs and giggled intermittently, curious why his body shook. The knees bounced up and down like human pistons as he smiled. His feet shuffled forward, backward and side-to-side. Pete’s black eyes stared hard as he laughed short and rough from his throat.
His head quivered as the mouth and face muscles twitched. The contortions were visible to anyone, except he who boiled with rage. He shifted his upper torso left and right, and yelled with joy. He recalled his recent and long planned conviction with his creator and giver of pain – his father – Sir.
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Jack Bonner resorted to his slovenly ways, after a month of release from prison. His alcohol-reduced finance stretched to a grimy one-roomed flat. Rats and cockroaches infested the building, and paper peeled from the walls. He slouched on a burst sofa, with the stench of stale sweat filled the room. A can of beer balanced on his paunch and dried puke had crusted down the front of his vest. He watched television in a room, which glowed in a dim light from the lamps dusty, bashed and askew shade. A soiled bed sheet covered a window from the night. The distant noises in the apartment block incited his slurred annoyance.
“Those dammed fuckwit neighbours.”
The television reported local news of an escapee from a Government facility.
“Please do not approach this man. The 22 years old has evaded medication for some time and should be viewed as a dangerous man. The Dragtoun Police Department are currently on the search for…“
A clinical smell wafted past Jack’s nose, as a picture of the escapee appeared on screen.
“Hello, Father.”
Jack’s face froze in horror. The beer slipped from his hand and dropped onto the dirty and untreated floorboards. The cheap fluid poured out into fizzy puddles.
“I made you a special coming out present. Do you like it?”
Pete pulled a long wooden knife from his jacket. The intricate patterns carved on the handle and the carefully serrated edge, were meticulously crafted over many years. His Father rose up. He held on to the worn arm of the sofa to steady his weak legs.
Jack scanned his son from head to foot for the changes of time: black greasy hair, large dark pupils with a pallid complexion and a large muscular frame – his son’s dress sense, no better than his own.
“Well, well. Fuck me. If it ain’t the little crybaby, all growed up. Looks like you’re a chip of the old block.” He shifted weight onto his left leg, to stop the sway of his body. “What do you think you’re going to do with that, boy? You wanna stick your old man? You’ve not got the balls, you freak!”
With the addition of grey hair, he was the same drunk: unkempt hair; crumpled clothes and beer stains. It brought back a rage of memories.
A big white grin spread across Pete’s pallid face as his head inclined. “I picked and picked, and the bricks gave up.” The smile faded and his head tilted to the other side. “Do you like cartoons, father?” His head resorted to vertical. “I do.”
“What the fuck’re you on, boy?”
He lunged forward and swung a punch. Pete stepped aside and plunged the wooden knife into his father’s fatty gut. He moved his face against Jack’s, grinned and kissed his sticky forehead.
“Good to see you this way, father.”
He forced the knife deeper into the gut, yanked the hilt to the left and ripped a bigger hole. Pete jarred upward on the knife and broke the blade off with a dull snap. He laughed aloud and moved in front of his father’s face.
“I hope that’s painful.”
Jack stooped and clutched the hole in his stomach as blood ran between his fingers. He gasped for mercy, through the glut of blood in his throat.
“Pete, son. For fuck sake, help your old man. Get help.”
The escapee backed away, with hands on his hips and admired his masterpiece. He rejoiced in the sadistic eloquence as his father’s death neared. Extending his arm in front, he pushed his palm against Jack’s forehead and toppled the slob backwards.
“TIMBER!” Pete yelled at the top of his voice.
Sir flopped to the wooden floor and a grunt escaped his lungs. His head bounced a few times.
Pete straddled the wrecked body, sat on the chest and stared intently into his father’s eyes. He grabbed Jack’s ears and smacked the head repeatedly on the floor as he sang.
“Bang his head, ‘till Dad is dead.”
His excitement grew brusquely. The red stained floor caught his son’s attention. ‘Big red, butterfly.’ His mind cleared and the situation returned. The crippled man groaned in agony as his son spoke.
“Huh. I can help you, Sir. I’ll find that nasty thing in your gut. Would you like that, eh?”
Jack’s mind failed to command his head to shake, or his mouth to scream, ‘No!’ His mouth burbled as it expelled blood. Pete turned and pushed his hand into the hole he made earlier. Fingers searched through the blood-soaked fat, hair and flesh as his head turned quickly to his father again.
“I’m sure I left it in here, somewhere. I’ll find it, don’t worry.”
His father screamed in agony and splattered the floor with globules of bloody saliva. Sir passed out, but Pete slapped his father’s face until he was conscious.
“Guess what I’ve found, father?” He pulled out the serrated part of knife and held it in front of him. He examined it carefully, found a piece of intestine and picked it off with annoyance.
“Yours I think, Sir.”
He smeared his gut-dripping fingers across his father’s vest. His smile descended into hell with his emotions.
“You broke my toy. Bad Daddy. You’re bad!” Jack’s mouth moved in gurgles. “Stop whispering. Get out my head! Stop. Stop!” Pete yelled. The corpse failed in response.
He stabbed the eyes of ‘Sir’ alternately, repeatedly. The blade plunged deep into its brain, and Pete laughed without control, as he sat on his dead father.
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The door burst open and four policemen flooded the room. Sergeant Bailey shouted as he once ordered his recruits.
“Stop what you’re doing! Stop, Pete!”
Pete focused on his fathers’ destruction beyond death, oblivious to the real world. The three Constables rushed past the Sergeant, and a hail of batons beat across every conceivable part of Pete. He continued to laugh until unconscious.
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Pete viewed the old wooden house as an adult. The image obscured by the smudges of blood on the car window. The voices returned. They were closer, clearer. ‘Where’s the pain?’
“You’re a fucking lunatic. You are completely, mad!”
He didn’t know if the voices were in his own mind, or not.
An uncontrollable scream of confusion escaped in response.
“I’m not mad. Mad? Not mad. No, no…” He yelled hysterically.
The man behind the steering wheel glanced in the rear view mirror. He pointed his thumb at Pete, caged behind the metal mesh.
“Look at the mad fucker, trussed up in that jacket like a turkey.”
The other man looked, smiled and shook his head. “I’ve finished my lunch, can we get going now?”
Both men laughed as the sunshine reflected off their white coats. They made turkey sounds, as the estate car made its way back to Dragtoun Sanatorium.
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About the author
Andy Love was born in 1962 and raised in Scotland, where he lives with his wife and two cats. He always looks forward to visits from his two children and four grandchildren.
He draws inspiration from a sordid, brutal and horrific Scottish history, where an abundance of fables, folklores, murders and superstitions fester.
Scottish history constantly fuels his passion to research and write horror.
His simple wish, is for people to read, enjoy and escape into his work. Andy’s passion to write horror has
grown over the years, and is proud to present his second book, Short Shocks 2.
“I hope my stories horrify and linger in your head, long after the book is read. A scene may disturb you, when it surfaces at the least unexpected time; night, or day. Above all dear reader, I want to serve you the joy of fear.”
For up-to-date news of Andy Love’s work, please visit his website.
www.AndyLoveAuthor.co.uk
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Also by Andy Love
Short Shocks Volume I
Available in
E-Books & Chapbooks:
Minion
A Night With Frost
Nobody’s Inn
Dead Beat
Dial A Demon
Soul Trader
Whispers
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