beauty, short fiction, women, writing

Want To See Your Favourite Story In Print?

I’m looking to self publish an anthology of my short fiction and am interested in your opinions as to what your favourite stories of mine are.

Here are some of the popular ones according to the insights page.

Like Dog Bites

A disgraced pro footballer is haunted by his past crimes.

Rain In The Afternoon (NSFW)

A couple resolve their tensions through play.

Extracts From A Taxonomy of Clowns

Some abandoned, partially charred papers found at the scene of an arson attack.

21%

Corporate espionage takes a personal and deadly turn.

Please let me know if you have any favourites and share them in the comments below.

 

Matt

 

 

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fiction, short fiction, women

Had It Coming

Sarah looked out the window, her thin, pale hands wrapped around a large mug of hot chocolate. The marshmallows had melted, but she kept sipping it, even with the frosting of melted goo on her upper lip. Martin didn’t mention it to her, deriving a quiet stab of childish pleasure watching it settle on her upper lip before she swiped it away with her tongue.

 

She looked at him, thanked him for the hot chocolate and turned to look back outside. All he saw was their reflection, distorted and robbed of detail by the overhead lights and the night outside. He turned away with a sigh and went over to the couch, picked up the book and tried to read.

 

He scowled, knowing she couldn’t see it but felt another burst of malign delight at, to borrow the Italian phrase, biting his thumb at her.

 

Sarah had it coming.

 

Responsibility without authority was slavery, Martin believed and the years he had worked, maintained and pursued for a life of stability was such an example. A wealthy businessman, with an attractive wife and she had betrayed him.

 

With someone penniless in comparison.

 

Sarah looked out the window.

 

The chocolate had lumps in the bottom, so it was too weak and she had clumps of damp powder on her teeth. He had sulked over to the couch, and it was a relief. She was accustomed to his sullen silences, a small but anxious cloud of self-reproach and covert contracts never fulfilled. His squat, little body had softened out around the middle and wisps of hair clung to the side of his head. A perfect catalogue of his flaws was hers with a single thought.

 

She hears the splash before the quinine comes to her across the room. He’s having a drink, she thinks. It is his excuse for his inability to get an erection, or why he slept in the spare room most evenings. Sarah ached for comfort but he denied it to her, long before she ever sought anyone else.

 

At least, she tells herself that.

 

The first time she saw herself through John’s eyes had been in a bookshop. She ordered from the internet, but when she had met her mother for lunch, she had an hour spare before Martin came home and walked into the Book Hive.

 

The newer titles reminded her of how sparse her inner life had become. She was about to leave, unable to bear the sharp edge of her insight.

 

Which was when she saw him.

 

Warm, brown eyes. An awareness equidistant between the faint glimmering of need and a wry, playful hunger. Some white in the beard, but clear skin and he had good posture. Her eyes fell to his hands and her stomach flipped with a slow curious interest at his long fingers and the soft, brown curls of hair on the backs of his hands as he held the book.

 

They said nothing. A small, slow smile from him. A little overbite, but his teeth were white and his lips were full and the colour of fresh salmon.

 

Shaved head, which lent him an arrogance she found compelling. He followed her eyes.

 

Their words were ineffective jockeys riding vast primal beasts of want, stirred into being and her interest became an amusement.

 

She was open about being married as much to test his reaction. He smiled and asked none further.

 

They exchanged numbers. It all felt inevitable in hindsight. The free market of ideas, and this one, breaking a cardinal, ancient tenet.

 

Adultery.

 

They went to his, coupled with a ferocious energy which she hadn’t enjoyed since her twenties and he reintroduced her to her body and its capacity for joy with amused mastery and invention.

 

John never specified what he did for a living. She saw him writing a lot, and he travelled. A consultant, he said. He listened more than spoke, his implacable strong fingers running along the soles of her feet.

 

The curve of her buttocks.

 

She had a drawer of toys at his, plus some underwear she never wore for her husband.

 

They wrote to one another, bought the letters with them and left them in a lacquered box he made for her. A present she could not display, but it spoke to her heart in a way nothing her husband gave her ever could.

 

Not even the fucking car, she thought.

 

She was lost in a fog of hormones. Sarah missed the battered Ford Escort which followed her drive from home into the city.

 

Deaf to the small click when she called him.

 

Blind to the short, dark man who left the restaurant just after them and tucked a small leather notebook into his coat pocket.

 

Mute when she came home and found Martin sat there, flushed with indignation and gin as he slapped the manila folder on the coffee table.

 

She wouldn’t get a thing in the divorce.

 

He would get custody of the children.

 

Martin was an awful husband but an excellent businessman.

 

A sense memory came to her, cruel in its beautiful clarity. John on top of her, looking into her eyes with a hunger which made them dark whilst his fingers curled around her throat. She blinked it away as tears came.

 

After that, it was a negotiation.

 

She finished it by email. He made her delete and block his number from her phone. Martin walked her between the computer and the phone like a recalcitrant child.

 

Martin said he would have John hurt if she saw him again.

 

Or worse. He did business with some Polish construction companies. Men who were directors on paper but thugs in person. They would understand his anger, and act to help him. It was the closest he had come to potency for years.

 

Her worst fear was John coming to the house. Yet each day he didn’t, hurt even more. She held her children more, but it didn’t take from the anguish.

 

The cottage was his idea. Her sister had the children and been the one person she told about John. Lucy had never liked Martin, but loved her sister enough to listen saying nothing.

 

They didn’t have sex. He was enjoying his anger too much to allow himself the pleasure and the thought of having him inside appalled her. Talking things through, they agreed.

 

It had been silence for most of the evening. He communicated his disdain through his glances and the theatrical sighs which he did in between drinks.

 

He decided he would go through with it.

 

Lucy could have the children. He’d claim insanity and there was enough stashed offshore to keep the children until he got out. Wiping her from the face of the earth was a simple business decision. He had negotiated a deal which no longer benefited him.

 

She was so fucking beautiful and he disgusted her. His weakness burned like acid in his chest. He got up from the sofa and went to the bedroom. Sarah sighed with relief and kept looking out of the window.

 

There was a flash of a headlamp and then more of the damp dark kissing the windows.

 

It was small in his hand. Heavy and cold but it sat in his palm and when he curled his fingers around it, his cock stiffened with an electric urge as he opened the cylinder and checked the load. Six rounds.

 

He had perfume to confuse the gunshot residue. A revolver meant he could pick up the casings, dispose of them without incriminating himself.

 

A drive to the shops to get milk. She would have been alone in the cottage.

 

There had been burglaries along the coast. Bored teenagers, they said.

 

But, Martin had decided, what if they weren’t?

 

Even if he did time, it wouldn’t be long and he had resources. Friends in high places.

 

Low ones, too. His heart thumped against his ribs. Martin brightened and swelled as he left the bedroom.

 

She screamed when she saw the gun in his hand. His grin was a death rictus and his chin shone with a glaze of gin-scented saliva.

 

If only she had been looking at him.

 

Martin had time to turn before he stared into John’s eyes, no longer warm as something caught him in the windpipe. John’s leg swept his feet from under him.

 

The floor smacked him between the shoulderblades as his finger squeezed the trigger.

 

John let go, clutching his left ear from where the gun had gone off. Sarah saw he was wearing black leather gloves which shone from the rain outside.

 

A pane of glass shattered and Sarah felt something splatter her cheek.

 

She fell forwards, crying out but moving towards John.

 

He staggered for a moment before he looked at her. He nodded before he turned around and drove the heel of his right boot into Martin’s sternum then onto his left wrist. Martin wheezed his protest before the slick crack of his bones breaking made him scream as much as his empty lungs allowed. The gun hung from his useless fingers but John stamped on his hand twice more just to make sure.

 

John knelt over and drew out a pen from inside his jacket and hooked it through the trigger guard before he retrieved a clear plastic bag and slipped the gun inside. Martin gurgled as he aspirated bloodied scraps of cartilage. John stood up and sealed the bag shut.

He turned and looked at Sarah.

 

‘You ok?’ he said.

 

She touched her cheek. Her fingertips came away wet with her blood and her knees were hollow as he put the bag on the floor and unzipped his jacket. She collapsed into his embrace, warm fur and muscle against her. It was like cool water on a hot day and she looked past him as her husband twitched out his last breath on the wooden floor.

 

‘What did you do?’ she said.

 

He took off his jacket and put it around her.

 

‘Go wait in the hallway. Touch nothing and wait for me.’

 

She said his name. He moved with an experienced economy as he lent over Martin before glancing over his shoulder.

 

It took only twenty minutes. He came to her and found another coat for her to wear.

 

‘Your sister will vouch you were there after the kids were asleep. You left him here because he was drunk. You called an Uber and he will testify you were upset and had a mark on your cheek from where he struck you.’

 

She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. He put his hand out to her and she took it.

 

‘He bought the gun a few days ago. Saw him leaving and did the percentages.’

 

‘What percentages? I don’t get it, John, you don’t know things like this.’ she said.

 

His eyes shone with a quiet, cold light.

 

‘With you, I got to come away from all that.’ he said.

 

She took a deep breath and fought tears.

 

‘I can’t believe he bought me here to fucking kill me. The cunt.’ she said.

 

He put his arms around her.

 

‘We need to go.’ he said.

 

The bike was outside. He passed her a helmet and she slipped it on.

 

The cottage compressed as they rode away. His jacket was warm from his skin and he smelled of the dark tobacco he smoked. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself against him as he opened the throttle up on the bike.

 

She had it coming, she told herself and ached to see her children again. Meanwhile with her arms slipped around his taut waist, she leaned into John’s back as the cottage grew smaller and flickered with activity.  

 

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beauty, erotica, love, short fiction, Sir, women

Sir 2.0 (NSFW)

https://mbblissett.com/sir/

A science fiction/erotica series about the limits of personal freedom, desire and technology.

Standard
men, politics, short fiction

White Rabbit

 

“Men ought either to be well treated or crushed, because they can avenge themselves of lighter injuries, of more serious ones they cannot; therefore, the injury that is to be done to a man ought to be of such a kind that one does not stand in fear of revenge.”

Nicollo Machiavelli, The Prince.

 

1.

 

Ibrahim walked down the street, cursing Ellen for making him clean out the frier again before he left to attend mosque with his uncle. He hated the job, but Mohammed insisted he finish out the summer before he got him an internship at the firm.

 

He didn’t want to be late. Mohammed was fastidious without being vain and he had known nothing but his faith but he did business without it being a problem.

 

Ibrahim drew comments and stares. No one wanted to feel alien in their own skin and he would slip out of the way, finding something to do in the back until their attention went elsewhere or he pretended not to have heard anything. He simpered and it hurt to do it but once he was working with his uncle, he would earn respect without being made to suffer for it.

 

He was running late.

 

It was the only thing which saved him.

 

He saw the mosque and quickened his pace before a massive hand slapped him backwards. He smelled his hair burning and his eardrops popped like balloons as he fell backwards, breaking his coccyx against the sidewalk.

 

Ibrahim lay there, mute with pain as his hair burned and his body turned inside out with pain. He had bitten his tongue and each swallow tasted of burnt copper as he struggled to breathe.

 

2.

 

Jessica drew on the cigarette, trying not to stare at the small throng of protesters who came every day. Wizened and pale, tan and hardy, they would take turns, behaving like fundamentalist ants, blazing with a narcissistic zeal which irritated her. David’s work took him all over the world, and since she had emigrated and married Blake, she kept up the correspondence, never getting a reply from him despite the anguish it created for her. She still loved David, but life demanded a compromise. Letting go had taken the desperation of an animal chewing off a limb to escape a trap but the pain stayed with her.

 

The women who came fueled her passion when she debated Blake about her work. He presented her with rational arguments, numbers on paper to show they didn’t need her to work, she could stay home with Brian, but Jessica saw it as a comfortable path to death. She loved her husband, but she couldn’t live as an appendage to him. Marriage was difficult enough, let alone one which served as a gilded cage for her.

 

The cigarette burned the back of her throat and she tossed it to the ground before she went back inside.

 

The door slammed into her, fractured her skull and the door handle punched through her left hip, propelled by the force of the explosion. She died before she hit the ground, the door stuck to her as a final, cruel insult from the universe.

 

3.

 

Terry took off the balaclava and wiped his face. He had put on a show for the video, speaking in a bombastic tone which he had borrowed from professional wrestling promotions and Alex Jones and it had tested his reserves of stamina to keep up the indignant righteousness necessary to put his point across.

 

The motel room smelled of powdered soup and stale cum, but he could use it for meetings and videos so he never gave Pete too much shit about it. He wanted to protect his family, and if it meant going out of his way a little, it was a small price to pay. Their enemies were everywhere, and he loved his family too much to put them in harm’s way.

 

He waited for the video to upload, sent messages to the others through an app which sent photo messages and deleted them after being watched. Terry knew the risks, but the technology was there to protect them, despite what people believed.

 

Terry looked at himself in the smeared full length mirror, the stubble on his cheeks and his lean, intense build gave him a renewed pride in his work. He ran on righteousness, and all the energy made him restless, had him capable of working eight hours on his construction job and then organising the rest of the guys until he collapsed into bed next to his sleeping wife. He got up, tucked the balaclava under the pillow, and left the room.

 

He watched the news when he got home, drank a beer as he watched the footage of the emergency services and struggled to hide his delight at the success of their first major operation. Once the video went live, people would know their group’s name but not his.

 

Terry had tried to make people see what was happening. The capitulation to progressive forces had castrated his country and it made him fear for his children’s future enough to act as he did. Other people had come into his world, convinced of his fears enough to help and once he had found his tribe, it became a thing of logistics over rhetoric.

 

Jenny called him upstairs and he drained the last swallow of beer before he switched the tv off and went to bed.

 

It had been a good day.

 

4.

 

David slipped out of the hotel room. He had broken up and flushed the syringe down the toilet, wiped everything down to remove any trace of his presence with a practiced care as the body cooled on the unmade bed.

 

He got into the waiting car and sat back, closing his eyes as it drove away. The arrogance of his targets never surprised him, and this one had been boasting about his company’s work for the intelligence community. David did not inform him such behaviour had signed his death warrant

 

Bastard of the British Empire he told himself. He loathed the arrogance of San Francisco and was eager to get back to London. David denied his feelings unless it was three a.m and he thought of her.

 

Doing the right thing hurt him but it kept her safe and him a secret.

 

The safe house was across town, and he took a long hot shower, ordered take out and sat down to relax with a few hours of inane American television. He made the mistake of watching the news, and when he saw the photo of her, he convulsed with feelings he thought buried in the graveyard of his soul.

 

Three years ago, David had bare flames held to his feet, threatening to perform the same function on his genitals before the SAS team burst in. He had not wept then, but as he looked at Jessica’s face, he put his face in his hands and wept for what might have been.

 

His grief galvanised into something familiar to him.

 

Anger.

 

When it abated, he took out his phone and made a phone call.

 

Two hours later, David was on a plane to Illinois.

 

5.

 

Mike struggled to contain his excitement as Terry passed him a beer.

 

‘What’s next?’ he said.

 

Terry scratched his chin and smiled.

 

‘We can expect a push back from the authorities, so the answer is nothing for now.’ he said.

 

Mike grimaced as he shook his head.

 

‘It’s not enough, Terry. We need to get our message out.’ he said.

 

Terry grimaced at Mike’s immature enthusiasm. He could never take the long view of things. It was a warm evening and they sat on the porch, keeping the conversation neutral until Jenny put Rachel to bed and they were free to discuss things.

 

‘Do you remember Waco, Mike?’ he said.

 

Mike swallowed and nodded. He had been in awe of Terry’s pilgrimage and his righteous anger at government intrusion into people’s lives. They condoned the tide of Muslim immigration and paid lip service to the sanctity of the unborn to such a degree it had prompted a response from the men of the White Rabbit Militia to stop talking and act. Mike resented the slow pace of their work, but Terry was so certain it killed his doubts.

 

‘We’ve shown our hand. It’s now up to others whether they heed the call to action.’

 

Mike had built the bombs for both targets, being a savant with things which made him useful, if not indispensable to the others. Pete had been in the Marines until he got kicked out, Chris ran the website and social media feeds, but it was Terry who was the cool, calm centre of the group. Mike wondered if Terry’s aloofness was a test of his character, but washed his anxious, frightened thoughts down with a deep pull on the bottle of beer before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

‘OK, I get it.’ he said.

 

Terry smiled and clapped Michael on the shoulder.

 

‘We can’t go into this thinking we’ll get away with it, Mike. We’ve got to accept the price of liberty and the consequences.’ Terry said.

 

Mike felt blessed by Terry’s touch but kept his face still. Instead he gave a terse nod and made a face he hoped looked like the right mix of determination and gravity.

 

‘Right on, Terry. Right on.’

 

Terry lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair.

 

‘We’ve just got started, Mike.’ he said.

 

If Terry had asked him to cut one of his testicles off, Mike would have asked him which one before doubting him. He wondered who would play him in the movie, he hoped for the guy from Stranger Things, the sheriff with the guy from CSI New York as Terry.

 

Mike had big dreams, but he was glad Terry was there to keep things calm and even. The work was getting started, but he wanted it to start there and then.

 

6.

 

David watched the video on repeat. He looked past the man on the screen, focused on the details behind him.

 

He made a note of the furniture, and the colour of the paint on the walls. David wrote the details in the blank pages of the ledger he carried everywhere. He contacted his handler, Larry, through a My Little Pony message board, where he left a message and waited for his phone to ring.

 

David answered on the first ring.

 

‘Why aren’t you on a plane, right now?’  

 

‘Personal matter. There’s nothing in the pipeline so I’m taking time off.’ he said.

 

Larry grunted with disbelief.

 

‘You pulled one of my analysts to look up everything on a pair of bombings in Illinois, David.’

 

David said nothing.

 

‘There was a woman killed. British, according to the news. Look, the FBI are all over this. Just come home and I’ll light a fire under their arses to get it dealt with.’ Larry said.

 

David swallowed, his throat tight with regret and a cold, hard anger. Watching the videos fed something terrible in him, kept the wound open and bleeding without the mercy of unconsciousness to ease it.

 

‘I know, Larry. I’m taking leave. I’ll behave myself.’ he said.

 

Larry sighed with a longstanding weariness.

 

‘If this turns out to be another Rotherham situation, we’re both fucked.’ he said.

 

The police still found bodies, members of a child grooming gang. David accepted the damage within himself, but he used it, like a wolf uses its howl to communicate.

 

‘No, it won’t be like Rotherham.’ he said.

 

David saw an email had come through and opened it. Forensics reports, eyewitness testimony, drafts of warrants to investigate militia activity all scanned and converted to digital files. David told Larry he would be in touch and switched off the phone.

 

A viscous tension pooled in his eye sockets but he read through everything. He made notes of the names before he opened his briefcase and found the FBI badge, slipped it into the pocket of his suit jacket and stood up.  

 

He called a cab to the hospital.

 

7.

 

Ibrahim drifted in and out of a cotton soft haze of narcotics. He would emerge to see daylight then drift off, returning to find it was dark as time passed on, indifferent to his grief and trauma.

 

He awoke to see the man sat at the end of his bed.

 

‘Hello, Ibrahim.’ he said.

 

Through his one good eye, Ibrahim saw him stand up and walk over to the side of the bed. He spoke to Ibrahim in perfect Arabic, introduced himself as Special Agent Garrett and wondered if he could ask him a few questions.

 

Ibrahim’s one good eye sparkled with tears as he nodded.

 

‘I understand there will be complications from your injuries and your recollections might be unclear but anything you can give me will help me catch these people.’

 

Ibrahim noted the use of the singular and tried to focus on the man. His use of Arabic was comforting but also unnerving to him.

 

He nodded and answered the man’s questions. They confused him, details about the routines of the mosque and its proximity to other places in town, before he asked after Ibrahim’s uncle.

 

Ibrahim cleared his throat.

 

‘You’re not from the FBI, are you?’ he said.

 

The man put his hand over Ibrahim’s and put his mouth to his ear to whisper.

 

‘The Prophet never avenged for his own self, Ibrahim. Neither will you.’ he said.

 

Ibrahim wept as much as the drugs allowed him, and the man left without speaking further. Ibrahim prayed for him.

 

8.

 

Rick gave the man a pamphlet as he walked past the clinic. He stopped and looked at it like someone had spat into his hand, but he folded it before tucking it into the pocket of his suit.

 

‘I understand you were at the clinic.’ the man said.

 

Rick had been on a coffee run, but the second hand glory was too powerful to resist and his assumption of divine providence made him something of a martyr to the rest of the congregation. There was no one alive from the small group to contradict him, aside from Betty and she was in an unresponsive coma from where a brick had glanced off her temple, propelled by the force of the explosion.

 

Rick could not meet the implacable gaze and he gulped, struggling to contain himself.

 

‘Yes, sir, God’s wrath is a terrible and beautiful thing to see.’

 

The man’s face tightened and his lips drew back over his teeth. His brown eyes burned with something cold and vicious which made Rick step backwards.

 

‘What did you see?’ the man said.

 

He had heard the explosion, and as he drew closer, smelled the smoke and blood. He had stumbled over someone’s dismembered arm and saw how the clinic door had impaled the British nurse.

 

The man grimaced and stepped towards Rick.

 

‘Did she say anything?’

 

Rick tried to back away but the man’s fingers clamped around his elbow, pinching into the soft meat of his triceps and found a set of nerves which shot agony through his arm, pinned him to the spot as he looked around for someone to help.

 

Rick told him. The man walked away.

 

There were fifty pamphlets left but Rick went home, locked the door and drew the curtains, watched the 700 Club and struggled not to cry with humiliation. If God were watching, he would understand, he told himself.

 

9.

 

Mike soldered the wires with care, humming to himself as he worked on the last electronic components of the device, the guts of an old cell phone re-purposed to allow them to activate the explosion via bluetooth. The rest of the device was plastic and ceramic around a core of C4 explosive, studded with nails and razor blades. It fit inside a Blue’s Clues lunchbox, and there were six boxes of similar dimensions in the packing crate below his feet.

 

His workshop was in the garage. It had been a labour of love, built to indulge his hobby of amateur electronics before he met Terry and figured out a new use for the space and equipment. For a bomb maker, Mike was proud he had all his fingers and limbs, but the information was available, even from the jihadists who posted details and schematics amongst upper case rants on the depravity of the American people. There was an irony to it which escaped Mike, but ideology left so little room for nuance.

 

The tube light flickered overhead and went out. Mike swore under his breath and set the iron down on the bench, switched it off with a brush of his thumb. He pushed his stool back, thinking about where the spares were.

 

He did not have time to scream before the cloth clamped around his nose and mouth, the high chemical stink insinuating into his head as he passed out from the force. Someone caught him as he fell into a deep, implacable blackness.

 

Mike awoke with the worst headache and strapped to the recliner in the living room with bungee cords. Someone had turned his Xbox and tv on, so the introduction music on Battlefield One shook the air. Mrs Foster was his only neighbour and she had gone to her grandson in Columbus for a long weekend.

 

‘Good evening Mike.’

 

He could not place the accent through the impenetrable barrier of the headache. He narrowed his eyes and looked around his living room.

 

‘What is this?’ he said.

 

A low chuckle caressed the back of his neck and he shuddered.

 

‘You will tell me the names of the other militia members and where they meet.’ he said.

 

Mike grunted and struggled against the cords.

 

The man walked around to face him. He was tan, with short dark hair and spectacles, wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. He held a stained white towel in one hand and a litre bottle of water in the other.

 

‘Fuck you.’ Mike said.

 

His anger was genuine, but the fear grew more intense with each second.

 

The man laughed and Mike recognised the accent. British.

 

‘Now, Mike, I admire your bravado but I had a look in your garage and you’re better off telling me what I want to know.’ he said.

 

Mike’s laughter died in his throat as the man walked towards him.

 

‘I won’t tell you anything.’ Mike said.

 

It was the most courageous he had been, and no one was around to witness it. The thought weakened him but not as much as what the towel and bottle were for. The man lifted the towel up and raised his eyebrows.

 

‘This isn’t for refreshment, Mike. No, this is your sad little group’s biggest fear come to life.’ he said.

 

Mike squeezed out tears and grimaced as he shook his head over and over. The swelling strings of the soundtrack sounded mocking and grated his ears.

 

The man sat on the couch and put the towel and bottle on the coffee table where Mike could see it.

 

‘I only make the stuff. We’re fighting a war, man. We’re dying out.’ Mike said.

 

They were Terry’s words, not his and the man smiled as he sat back on the couch.

 

‘Who’s dying out? White men? Now there, you and I have common ground. I’m doing the work you and your friends dream of, but it’s more complicated than that.’ he said.

 

His tone was generous, without the coiled sense of threat Mike had absorbed from movies and television. He looked around him.

 

‘Do you read comics, Mike?’ he said.

 

Mike nodded in furious agreement. The man smirked and looked at Mike.

 

‘I’ve always been a nerd for them. Not so much the superheroes, but I grew up with 2000 A.D. We never went into superheroes so much, but comics, shit I’ve got tons of them in storage. Have you ever read Preacher?’ he said.

 

Mike hadn’t. He wished he had. He lowered his chin and shook his head.

 

‘There’s one of my favourite lines where Jesse, he’s got the Word of God, and he ends up a sheriff of this place called Salvation after getting chucked out a plane, and there are these Klan types and he walks up to one and tears his hood off.’

 

The man was smiling as he mimicked the action. Mike’s stomach clenched with fear and confusion.

 

‘He says something which struck me as profound for a comic book. Why are the biggest champions of the race the worst examples of it?’ he said.

 

Mike recoiled at the insult and struggled against the bonds without hope.

 

The man chuckled and sat back against the couch.

 

‘You’re buying into a narrative. The same one used to keep everyone down. Being a victim means you avoid having to take responsibility. If you’re black or disabled, gay or white, then it’s not your fault if you fail at anything, is it?’

 

Mike had no answer for him. The righteousness of his cause was real to him, and the man’s mockery stung more than the chemicals used to knock him out.

 

‘You’re weak, all of you. Bombing mosques and a women’s health clinic, that’s weak shit.’ he said.

 

Mike wept, but it garnered no reaction from the man at all. He sighed and waited for him to stop crying.

 

‘You’re a talented boy, Mike. You should be proud of your craft, despite being a massive cunt.’ he said.

 

‘It didn’t throw me. I’ve got a nose for these things, and when I found the groups you were into on Facebook, one phone call to Cambridge Analytica and I had your name and address.’ he said.

 

Mike shuddered and wept again. He did not see the blow coming until it turned his face, a stinging rebuke which blasted his self pity away.

 

‘Please, don’t kill me.’ he said.

 

The man stood up and ran his tongue over his lips.

 

‘The nurse at the clinic, the one who got impaled on the door. I knew her.’ he said.

 

‘I met the boy who will never walk again.’ he said.

 

His voice had roughened and Mike wondered if it was a trick of the light at the dampness in the man’s eyes before he picked up the towel and bottle.

 

‘But the nurse, Mike, I fucking loved her to the bone and I let her go because I thought this was more important.’ he said.

 

He unscrewed the lid on the bottle and tossed it to the carpet as he walked behind the recliner.

 

‘A man, Mike, has to have a purpose, even if it costs him to follow it.’ he said.

 

His voice cracked with emotion, which frightened Mike more than when he was glib and relaxed.

 

Mike twisted as the man put the towel over his face and held it in place with his left hand.

 

‘You’ll understand it when I’m done.’ he said.

 

Mike’s lungs heaved as he struggled for air beneath the careful deluge of water through the towel. His panicked breaths drew on every fibre of his being but he broke without too much effort.

 

It did not take much of the bottle before Mike was shrieking out names and addresses. The man made Mike repeat them without attempting to write them down.

 

‘I’m sorry I had to do it, Mike. I’ll make this quick.’ he said.

 

Mike wondered what he meant before the palm came up and hit him square in the centre of his face, driving the nasal bone into his brain.

 

David took a few things with him after he had wiped down where he had sat and left evidence which would throw things off enough to finish the rest of it.

 

10.

 

Chris rang Terry whilst he was on his lunch. Terry said nothing until his babbling had smoothed out into a choked sob.

 

‘Mike didn’t touch drugs, this has to be something else.’ he said

 

Terry told him to get the others and meet at the motel tonight. He ended the call and went back to the site, looking at the house he was building and wondering if he would see it completed. A cold sense of resolve washed over him as he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

 

‘It’s good work.’

 

Terry turned and looked at the man who stood next to him. He wore a dark pinstripe suit and smiled at Terry with a familiarity which tested his taciturn expression.

 

‘Thanks, I should get back to it. Can’t get the help these days.’ he said.

 

Beaners or niggers?’ the man said.

 

Terry scowled as he walked away.

 

‘I find having the courage of your convictions shows the measure of a man, Terry.’ he said.

 

Terry froze as his heart thumped. He swallowed and tasted copper as he stood up straight and turned around with care.

 

‘Do I know you, mister?’ he said.

 

The man shook his head.

 

‘No, you don’t. I bumped into Jenny when she dropped Rachel at daycare, beautiful family you’ve got there, Terry.’ he said.

 

Terry snorted through his nose and stood there, calculating the distance it would take to get close to the man and whether he could take him down. He had left the gun in the car, unloaded as the law demanded, but he itched to have it with him.

 

‘Mister, you seem like a smart man, if you’ve got something to say, say it.’ he said.

 

The man shook his head.

 

‘No, this is me fucking with you for sport. I don’t say things, I act.’ he said.

 

He turned and walked away without looking back. Terry’s hands shook as he reached for his phone and called Pete.

 

11.

 

Pete had set his rifle up from the back of the flatbed truck, hidden underneath a tarp with the scope trained on the window of the room they used. It was a.22 long rifle with a weaver scope and he had parked 150 yards away, just at the point where the round went from supersonic to subsonic. He adjusted for the drop at the distance but after popping sand niggers in the desert, Pete liked to think he was defending his homeland enough to factor in the physics.

 

Whoever the limey fuck was, he would not fuck with The White Rabbit and live. Pete knew the feds were circling, but they had time to get clear. Running was an option but Terry wanted this guy taken down. A last scalp before they all packed up and went out to Montana where there were people who could hide them until things blew over.

 

Plus, Pete thought, being white helped.

 

He chewed on the piece of jerky until it softened to the consistency of gum and sipped the bottle of water as he watched Chris and Terry enter the room.

 

Nice and smooth, he thought. They would lure the guy in, get him by the window and Pete would shoot him. The suppressor would reduce the sound to little more than a cough and it would be over.

 

The White Rabbit understood the first rule of guerilla warfare:

 

Make your weaknesses your strengths. They were a small, tight cell and able to react with speed but Pete had liked Mike, and so laid there, he vowed to avenge his brother. Running sucked, but it meant they could come back, harder and stronger when this fucker was in the ground.

 

He looked through the sight and waited to make his shot.

 

12.

 

Terry and Chris went through the motions of setting up a video, both touching the holstered pistols on their hips for unconscious reassurance as they waited for something to fall upon them.

 

‘He’s a limey?’ Chris said.

 

Terry grunted and nodded as he reached for the balaclava from underneath the pillow.

 

‘Shut up and film me. We need to make this look real.’ he said.

 

Chris nodded as Terry rolled the balaclava down over his head. He caught a whiff of something acrid and sharp before he tried to pull it off as he bellowed with horror. Chris dropped the camera with shock at the sight of Terry’s face.

 

Red and pink sizzling blisters covered his face. He held his hands to his face and bolted past Chris to the door as he scratched for the door handle. Chris ran to him, turned him around and caught the stink of corroding flesh before he vomited down himself with shock at his friend’s ruined face.

 

13.

 

Pete frowned as he reached for his phone but he stopped when he felt the weight shift in the back of the truck before a hammer blow landed on the base of his skull. He tried to roll onto his side but a foot stamped between his shoulder blades and forced the breath from his lungs, cracking ribs and tearing the tip of his scapulae off as he struggled to improve his position.

 

The man loomed above him.

 

‘I’m a man who likes to work with his hands.’ he said.

 

Pete felt his life slip away in a series of judicious blows as the man beat him to death with his own rifle.

 

14.

 

Chris dragged Terry outside, looking around as he watched Pete’s pick up rocking on its wheels as two men struggled in the back. He drew his gun and fired blind as Terry mewled with agony, limp with the insult as the skin melted off his face. Chris felt something wet and gelid fall onto his shoulder and when he turned, Terry’s cheek had fallen off. He screamed and pushed him away as he cried out in horror.

 

The figure stepped down from the truck and disappeared from view.

 

Chris looked at the gun and met Terry’s eyes as they melted down his face like defrosted ice cream. Terry clutched at his shoulder and rasped out a single word.

 

‘Please.’ he said

 

Chris looked at his friend and raised the gun as he heard the faint cry of sirens in the distance. He squeezed the trigger as he gave his friend the gift of mercy.

 

15.

 

Blake stood by the grave, numb and struggling to keep upright as he looked at the headstone. Life had paused at the worst moment, and he veered between bleak disconnection and anger at how the world had gone on without him.

 

The news featured the arrest of the militia member who had turned on the others and been shot by police at a local motel used as a base of operations. Blake had watched the tearful wife of the leader and felt nothing but a grinding contempt as she denied all knowledge of the enterprise. He came to see Jessica’s grave every day even as the sympathy of others around him depleted by the raw gravitational pull of his pain.

 

It was a warm afternoon when he saw the man walk over to him.

 

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ he said.

 

A British accent drew Blake from his inward focus as he looked up. The man was unshaven, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses as he looked at the headstone.

 

‘Did you know her?’ Blake said.

 

The man nodded without taking his attention from the headstone.

 

‘Yes, she was a good girl.’ he said.

 

His voice was slow and rough with fatigue as he took off the sunglasses and offered his hand to him. Blake was taken aback by the pain in the man’s eyes but he took his hand with whatever grace was available to him.

 

David looked at Blake, forced down the tumultuous blend of emotions, envy and kinship for the mutual loss alongside the need to control his emotions. It was a beautiful day but David felt like he was underneath a long, cold shadow wherever he went. The fact he wasn’t alone offered no comfort and an explanation of his association with Jessica would make things worse. He looked into Blake’s eyes with a cold frankness.

 

‘I killed them and I made it hurt, Blake. It doesn’t bring her back but you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’ he said.

 

Blake furrowed his forehead as David let go of his hand and put his sunglasses on. He smiled at Blake and walked away.

 

David’s phone rang and he answered it. Larry had a car waiting for him and asked if he was coming back to work. David remembered the late nights with Jessica, back when this life was an idea and he had a choice to make about his future and the warmth of her skin, the overbite when she smiled and the way she rolled her cigarettes.

 

David sighed and looked at the Lincoln which idled at the kerb. He didn’t have to tell Larry he was back at work.

 

He had never left.

 

Standard
beauty, love, lust, sex, short fiction, women

Rain In The Afternoon (NSFW)

She had been squalling all day. A quiet irritation and restlessness had lent an edge to her demeanour. He had noticed it as he put the cup of tea down on the table that it would build and burn her out then exhaust her. He could ignore it but he saw how it hurt her and wanted to do something about it

 

The responsibility stirred him. She picked up the pencil and continued to sketch. Another issue of their comic book, working from his script but her pencils and inks. Last month, they had gone to the movie premiere and laughed at how surreal it felt to see the late night conversations come alive on the screen. He loved her work, and had finished the script for the next issue then spent sat at the kitchen table and watched her work as he rolled another cigarette.

 

She caught him looking at her.

 

‘What?’ she said.

 

Her voice was sharp.

 

He watched her face as he lit his cigarette and sat back in his chair.

 

‘You’ve been restless all morning.’ he said.

 

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

 

‘I’m not looking to define it but just acknowledging its there.’ he said.

 

She huffed and returned her attention to the page. He picked up his coffee and drank then took a puff on his cigarette which made his head swim with nicotine as he watched her. He could have gone home, which was something of a gordian knot approach to take but he enjoyed being around her. She was a test as much as a celebration.  Most of the time, he watched her like the weather and dressed his soul according to what the sky of her predicted.

 

It looked like rain this afternoon.

 

He put the cigarette out and went to the sink, washed his hands and dried them as he turned and looked at her.

 

‘I think you’re being a brat.’ he said.

 

There was a playfulness to his voice which made her look up and pout. Her eyes narrowed and she set the pencil down.

 

‘No, I’m not. I just get like this sometimes. It’s not you.’

 

He walked over to her and shook his head.

 

‘I know it’s not. But I know it needs addressing.’ he said.

 

She fought the small smile which burst on her lips like a sunrise. He tamped down his own pleasure in seeing the unspoken assertion of her playing along. Her depths were something he enjoyed, and no matter what else was going on between them, they played well together.

 

‘Oh does it now?’ she said.

 

He nodded.

 

‘Yes it does. Now I have a responsibility to deal with it He said

 

She turned her head and pouted. He reached his right hand, palmed her jaw and splayed his fingers across her cheek. He felt her smile vibrate down into his hand as he turned her head towards him. There was no force in it, but there was power, easy and calm as she looked at him, pouting with a playful irritation.

 

She grunted and tried to turn her head but he held her firm, grimacing as he put his other hand at the back of her head and gripped her hair hard enough to make her draw breath.

 

‘Stand up.’ he said.

 

She pushed the chair back and he pulled her hair again, made her gasp before she pouted and tried to pull away.

 

‘I’ve been good, haven’t I?.’ she said.

 

He shook his head and squeezed her jaw between his fingers as he stared at her.

 

‘I decide that.’ he said.

 

She smiled, breaking character for a moment and he grinned before returning to an expression of brooding imperiousness. The delicacy of the pleasure he took was in its control. His heart thumped in his chest as he let go of her and took her left arm by the wrist.

 

He walked her to the living room and let go.

 

‘I want you to go and stand in the corner and think about how you’ve behaved.’ he said.

 

His attention was rewarded with watching the delicious micro-conflict, the missed notes played often enough to become phrases in the symphony of her. She shuddered with delight as she lowered her head.

 

‘That’s not fair.’ she said.

 

He sighed and pointed towards the corner.

 

‘Do as you’re told.’ he said.

 

She snarled and turned away. He reached out and took her by the wrist and walked her to the corner, then put his hand on the small of her back, underneath her sweater and guided her into the corner.

 

‘How long for?’ she said.

 

He leaned over and whispered in her ear.

 

‘Every time you ask, it gets longer.’ he said.

 

She giggled and straightened up, put her hands by her side and pouted.

 

‘OK.’ she said.

 

He got his coffee and brought through an ashtray and his pouch of tobacco, sat on the couch and rolled a cigarette. The air sung with tension but he absorbed it, letting the incipient vibration gather strength in the pit of his stomach. Looking at her was a pleasure and she moved her hips from side to side, knowing the thrill it gave them both.

 

‘Don’t fidget.’ he said.

 

He lit the cigarette and decided to make her wait the time it took him to smoke it.

 

‘I’m not.’ she said.

 

He chuckled and watched her, the burn in his lungs from the cigarette mingled with the slow build of his arousal. She stood in the corner, trembling in silence and when he crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray, he stood up and walked over to her.

 

She started to turn around but he told her to stay still. His voice was thick, a growl from his belly. They spoke a language of playful restraint and tension, and for all its art, it was a primal state of grace between them.

 

He walked over to her and brought his arms around her from behind. His right hand rested on her stomach whilst his left hand came up and cupped her chin in his hand. She pressed back against him, found him hard and ready as she pushed her backside into his crotch, revelling in the hot squeeze of his arms around her. His breath was warm against her cheek.

 

‘Have I been good?’ she said.

 

He grunted and slipped his right hand under the waistband of her cotton pants and stroked the crotch of her panties. There was a warmth seeping through the cloth and he petted it with his fingertips. She sighed and pushed back again. He grunted and turned her head, brushed his lips against hers which made her give a small moan from the back of her throat.

 

He plucked her underwear to one side and opened her with his fingers. She sighed as he pressed his index finger into the liquid heat of her, testing the unspoken assertion of her mood with a small circle which made her groan.

 

Their lips danced and played with one another as he stroked her in small circles. She brought her arm around behind her, urged him closer as though she could push him into her. He bucked back and she softened. He came forward, keeping the rhythm of his fingers constant and focused as her arousal soaked his fingertips. Each stroke was an expression of delicious, deliberate friction, and they built upon one another. She pulled her mouth away from his, and her eyes were heavy-lidded with pleasure.

 

‘Can I come?’ she said.

 

He smiled and shook his head. His fingers found a spot which made her gasp and lean forward, palms to the wall as she squeezed out a plea for permission.

 

‘No.’ he said.

 

She shuddered and whimpered as she pulsied over his fingers. She pleaded with him and he denied her, knowing the anticipation was becoming unbearable and revelling in the power of being able to test her through his actions and their consequences.

 

After her third request, he put his mouth to her ear and made her ask him again. She babbled through it, shaking with the war she was fighting, on the tightrope of an ecstasy which he took as his due. His fingers were a silken magic trick between her thighs and it was all she could do to hold on.

 

He told her yes, and she cried out as she clutched for him. She pressed herself against him as she hollered through the pulsing spasms of propulsive delight, her skin alive with the crackling wonder of her orgasm. She felt rather than thought, went into the place within where his hands and body, his words spun her into playful paroxysms of feeling. When the spasms subsided, they held one another in the corner. She kissed him all over his face, gasping and sighing as he enjoyed the febrile waves of heat coming off her. He petted her between her thighs, painting up her navel with her own juices as they kissed and murmured to one another.

 

‘I feel so much better now.’ she said.

 

He kissed her on the forehead.

 

‘Good.’ he said.

 

She glanced up at him and smiled as she stroked his face.

 

‘Thank you. I’m going to get those pages finished. You can get the washing in.’ she said.

 

He grimaced and asked her why. She smiled and kissed him again.

 

‘It looks like rain.’ she said.

 

Standard
politics, short fiction

A Moral Adoption

 

 

The route took you all over. You look at your reflection, mesmerised by the glittering nerves of activism in your eyes, stinking of lighter fluid and spray paint. It sits in your brain like temple incense.

 

You used white spray paint. It contrasted against the rich, dark wood they used. All the history of your enemies enshrined in materials which should have been your people’s by right.

 

You look around you, all the crumpled, exhausted people going about their lives. All their mundane concerns about the money they’re not making and the sex they’re not having.

 

You’ve been busy tonight, and they will continue to lose themselves in duties and distractions whilst you will go onto start the great conversation about power and its place of residence.

 

Its chosen people.

 

Not everyone will understand but in time, your actions will force dialogue and action.

 

As you walk out of the subway, a flash of alabaster cheekbone and a flip of a limp tangerine fringe makes your heart ache. He smiles at you with the arrogance of someone who collected broken hearts like lint in their coat pockets. This melancholic observation sinks fish hooks into your stomach and tugs hard enough to make you lean forward.

 

The dull rattle of the empty cans in your backpack is a musical cue. You stand up, push your shoulders back and raise your head.

 

One perfect, lubricated fuck would complicate things.

 

You recall a firm, callused hand on the small of your back. He smelled of liniment and cough drops. His breath was so sweet it bought tears to your eyes. There was an awful gravity to it if you could describe it. You do not. There are better battles, better ideas and they are your ideas and battles now.

 

He turns away and your nerves prickle with the reward of your denial.

 

Your building is quiet.

The Leins are asleep. Alex has gone to Vermont to visit her ex. The walk to your apartment has a dark, quiet quality to it which feels like fate.

 

Once you are inside, you empty everything into a garbage bag.

 

The spray paints.

The charcoal briquettes soaked in paraffin

Waterproof matches

Claw hammer

Roll of tape.

 

Your gloves go in last of all. Whilst you take the bag to the disposal, your phone rings.

 

‘Hi Justin.’

 

A twist of disdain starts in the back of your throat.

 

‘I don’t go by that name anymore, Rebecca.’

 

You tell her name like it is a splinter you’re trying to extract from the roof of your mouth.

 

‘David said. It’s Saul now, isn’t it?’

 

You correct her.

 

Saul Avishai Ali.

 

A name is a statement. A performance which requires immersion to be convincing. You must, as a prophet of your ideas, be complete in thought and deed.

 

You wrote out variations of different names until you found one which looked pleasing in print.

 

She sighs and you hear the polite weariness in her voice. Tolerance is a playful practice in the abstract but you relieved Rebecca   of trying to understand you.

 

These poisonous lessons were plentiful during the five years you lived with them.

 

‘Well, Saul, I hadn’t heard from you. I don’t want you to disappear.’

 

You bare your teeth, fight the urge to spit about your erasure.

 

Instead you toss the bag down the chute and go back to your apartment.

 

‘I won’t.’

 

‘Good, good. Are you still taking your medication?’

 

Your knowledge and purpose have eliminated the need for medication. Without shaking hands and sleep paralysis, there is a jangling, bold purpose to you which means the medicine slows you down. There is a shining, harsh purity to your world which needs nothing to mute its chorus of truth and primal, tribal wisdom.

 

There is liberation in knowing your enemies.

 

You tell her you are fine but go. It satisfies her but you tell her someone is at the door so she can end the conversation without straying from the clipped script you both read from when you speak.

 

It is important she believes people gravitate to you. You are the bright sun in someone’s sky, when you struggle with accepting love from people. It feels rehearsed and spoiled at the same time.

 

The callused hand, smelling of liniment, it burned out something inside you.

 

Your purpose is a way to assuage your loss.

 

Life has been a rehearsal for having a secret identity. Someone without a name but with actions to carry out.

 

When you lived with David and Rebecca, there was always the promise, vague and inconstant, of arranging something formal. Legal.

 

The novelty of you sounded like the seconds on a clock, growing louder as the time slipped away.

 

David found you somewhere to live.

 

A few blocks away, but it might as well have been the moon.

 

It was whilst in exile, you had time to process the personal through the filter of the political.

 

Rebecca does not know she spoke to a man who struck a blow against his enemies.

 

You heat a bowl of sprouts and rice noodles. Online, the photos appear faster than the television news can cover them.

 

No one mentions the fires.

 

Your handiwork is incidental. What matters is the reaction to it. There are statements from the synagogue officials and the actress who organised the event. Her flamboyant ugliness and arrogance offend you, and you put your opinions out there.

 

They label you many things and some of them are true, but like so many things, context matters. The opinions bloom like fireworks as your synapses sing with recognition and affirmation.

 

You cruise until three a.m. The conversation tapers off and despite a last round of statements, there is nothing left to say.

 

It is whilst you are asleep they release the surveillance footage.

 

Sleep has a fullness like you’ve been fucked well and held afterwards. This idea which has possessed you, it is old and has the craft of lovers and prophets. Its kiss of purpose on your forehead has married you to action and it croons lullabies enough to keep memories at bay long enough to allow you some peace.

 

They knock on the door with enough force to make the door rattle in its frame.

 

You stand up, zip up the hooded sweatshirt you wore last night. Fire engine red.

 

You hope they captured your good side as you go to answer the door.

 

Standard
dogs, short fiction

Like Dog Bites

 

 

Preston rolled his shoulders back, stuck his chest out as he looked at the crowd. When the mayor handed him the key to the city, there were a few boos from people but nothing more. Preston’s security flanked him either side like pillars but these were events where he felt fragile. Hundreds of people still offering him their shame, and how he writhed against the offer.

 

Fucking dogs, he thought.

 

The starched collar of his shirt rubbed against the back of his neck as he squinted against the flashes until something etched the strain into his skull. He agreed he wouldn’t drink at these events and so Preston was already contemplating the first smooth burn of brandy when he got home.

 

He posed for photographs, noting there were fewer people eager to have their photograph with him. Still, it had been a tough road to get this far. Preston had a career, and he played the role of regret with a stoic enthusiasm but there was an ugliness to things which exhausted him. It was an endless drill under Georgia sun all the time. Preston’s soul begged for water, but what relief there was, came in small public sips and gluttonous private feeding.

 

When his assistant, Keiko came over to tell him his car was ready and he looked at her with gratitude. She was reporting back to Sharon, but she made herself scarce when it benefited her.

 

The bark wasn’t close but the hackles on the back of his neck rose, stinging where the collar burned into the skin as he looked up. Keiko was ushering him out to the car, and he convinced himself he imagined it as he got into the back of the car.

 

His hands shook when he reached for the vape pen and pressed the ignition button as he sucked down the smoke. The CBD kept his head straight and his knees from killing him every day. As the smoke settled into his synapses, he sank into the seat and looked out of the tinted window at the sun flashing off the windows.

 

Something caught his eye. Spry and aggressive as it leapt from the sidewalk, a loping shadow but he couldn’t make out the point of origin. His eyes burned as he pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

 

Keiko woke him by saying his name. His chin was damp and his head hurt, but he staggered out of the car with gratitude to be home. Preston was relieved of the burden of performance.

 

Well, one kind, anyway.

 

Sharon was in the living room, feet up on the couch as she typed into her tablet.

 

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.

 

He grimaced and shook his head.

 

‘Tired.’

 

Her nose wrinkled with disappointment as she sniffed.

 

‘Stoned too. Shit, you got one hundred and thirty million dollars to burn, motherfucker?’

 

Preston swatted the air with one thick hand as he loosened his tie and staggered through to the master bedroom. He waved the air conditioning on and kicked his shoes off as he crawled onto the bed before he clapped his hands and switched the lights off.

 

In the cold dark, he laid there and breathed in, tried to let the tension which clung to his skin like second hand smoke.

 

The growl was soft. He sat up, clapped the lights on and found it stopped. Preston swore under his breath as he looked around him. No one heard him, and he sat there, heart thumping hard against his ribs as he wiped chill sweat from his forehead.

 

Preston checked under the bed and found there was nothing waiting for him. He laid back down, clapped the lights out but sleep was a long time coming.

 

2.

 

Preston had gone to church, grew up with the Bible stories.

 

His fear of dogs came from there, but he lacked the means to reach far enough inside himself to grasp it.

 

“For without [are] dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.”

 

Revelation 22:15.

 

“And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table: moreover the dogs came and licked his sores.”

 

Luke 16:21.

 

It was close to whore in the amount of insults. His issues with women came later, but it was dogs which betrayed them.

 

Then, it was his brother.

 

The irony, like his sense of self-preservation, escaped him. His viciousness grew florid in line with his success. His status armoured him against any moral considerations.

 

No became why not?

 

Why not became

 

Why

 

The

 

Fuck

 

Not.

 

His brother Stanfield got picked up on a possession charge and gave them Preston’s house as his place of residence. The sheriff’s department sent a team out to search the house and grounds.

 

They found the kennels.

 

Truck axles dug into the ground with thick lengths of chain welded onto them.

 

The pit, laced with lime which grew so full they were debating another one before the police came.

 

Forensics found thirty dogs buried in the pit, but the process of decomposition made it difficult. Preston was unsure himself. People bought their dogs from all over, and some of them were left there. He enjoyed watching the dogs fight, and the money wasn’t even the point, just an excuse because everything he needed was in watching two animals fight until one of them was dead.

 

It was the same on the field, and it was something no one ever asked about.

 

Money made most of it go away. The shame was something he pretended to accept, and after some court-mandated therapy and the promise of season tickets, his agents returned his calls again.

 

When he walked into the kitchen for some water, he heard the clatter of claws on the kitchen tiles. A rapid tattoo played on his nerves as he turned away, crawling with unease. He opened the bottle and drank in a deep gulp as something moved in his peripheral vision. A blur of motion registered but when he looked in that direction, there was nothing.

 

Preston shook his head and whistled under his breath as he put the cap back on the bottle and replaced it in the fridge. He chuckled to himself as he walked out of the kitchen.

 

He heard the wet rasp of a dog panting.

 

Handsome Jimmy had been the only dog allowed in the house. His daughter and worse, his wife had taken to it and despite his protestations, it slept inside.

 

It meant Jimmy was never getting in the pit but Preston saw the utility in it.

 

It was his breathing Preston heard.

 

He ignored it, walking to the living room and sinking into the custom recliner, found the remote and switched the television on.

 

Sharon hadn’t left him. She wasn’t a ride or die bitch, but the prenuptial agreement would have put her out on her ass without a penny to her name. His daughter got everything and she got an allowance. Preston’s name meant something and Sharon swallowed her disgust before things went back to normal again.

 

His daughter knew better than to ask about Jimmy.

 

Preston swallowed and his head throbbed. He had some pills in the bathroom and he went upstairs to get them. His heart was thumping like he had been doing wind sprints but he figured it was just stress. He wanted to be out on the field where none of this shit could touch him.

 

A wave of sadness overwhelmed him and he sat on the stairs, fighting a thick, ugly impulse to cry and when he heard Jimmy’s panting as it came up the stairs, he gave in and wept.

 

He wondered if he would ever stop.

 

3.

 

Sharon pulled up at her sister’s house and turned to her daughter who sat in the back seat.

 

‘If she asks about your dad, he’s fine.’ she said.

 

Tanisha sneered without looking up from her phone.

 

‘She ain’t going to ask, momma.’ she said.

 

Sharon pouted and clicked her fingers at her daughter.

 

‘Bitch will eat out for a month on the news her brother-in-law’s a vegetable.’ she said.

 

Tanisha looked up, wounded and appalled but not surprised by her mother’s assessment.

 

She had found him on the stairs, weeping and inconsolable. He was three hundred pounds of breakdown. Keiko arranged for Preston to visit the hospital. Sharon had said the scans showed evidence of too many blows to the head, trauma which left scars on his brain which would never heal.

 

Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy

 

As they got out of the car, Tanisha agreed not to say anything and Sharon adjusted her hair one last time as she tried not to think about how the trauma in her husband’s brain had looked.

 

Like dog bites, she thought.

 

They looked like dog bites.

 

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