fff#50

and then, by god, i killed the son of a bitch. i killed him in cold blood. there was nothing romantic about it; nothing particularly memorable. it was just his time. he fucking deserved it anyway. you can’t treat people like that your whole life and expect to get away with it. eventually someone’s bound to push back, and when it came to pushing back, i was the one who applied the pressure. it was my job and i enjoyed it.

i didn’t always have to kill the mark – sometimes it was just about scaring the shit out of them or torturing them a bit for information. this one was different though; personal. i wasn’t collecting on a contract or reaping a reward – none but the gratification of knowing that he would no longer be breathing.

with the cold steel still smoking in my hand i stared into his eyes so he would know exactly who had betrayed him. slowly, his eyes began to dilate and i knew he was probably searching through the darkness for meaning, wondering how he found himself in such a predicament. i watched as his body quivered and his eyes raced behind closed eyelids. they flicked open again, searching his killers face for some sort of explanation.

i heard him coughing up the blood that then began to pool on the tiled floor beneath us: choking on your own blood is much like drowning in a glass of water you can’t stop drinking. he wanted answers that he knew wouldn’t come. he knew my style as well as i did, so he wasn’t surprised when i said nothing over the duration of the transaction. i never spoke to any mark and he had been in the room every time.

we had spent our lives together fucking people out of theirs and i guess it was only a matter of time before the money got in the way. finally the contracts out on our lives would pay off enough to make it worthwhile. he didn’t understand that, of course, and never would have, so i had to take the issue into my own hands. i half expected him to actually get it this time, but who was i kidding, he had always been a selfish prick. the contract would soon be fulfilled and the reward would be dropped off to her in the morning. finally she would have the life she deserved.

i waited while he became quiet and stiff before i stepped over his body to position myself to finish out the contract. i cocked back the hammer of the gun in preparation. looking up from his body i caught my own eye in the mirror, bit down on the barrel and pulled the trigger. i felt nothing but redemption.

i presumably collapsed to the floor alongside my brother. maybe this last good deed would cleanse my soul – i didn’t really care about his. her life would change dramatically tomorrow when she was presented with the 20 million and the exact instructions i left her on how to launder the money. the offshore account in the caymans was already active with the few extra million i had dropped in it waiting for her. her life would be better because of our deaths, something i could never accomplish while i was alive.

my last thought was simply that she could appreciate it and find happiness.

fff #49

this is only flash fiction compared to a novel and doesnt really truly follow the hero's journey but nevertheless - this is my fff. Vampires on a Train. he had always hated his fucking job (if you can call it that, he was more like a slave) and this time would be no different. he couldn’t believe they were actually expecting him to go into the subway of the world’s worst city just to take care of the so-called “pest problem.” even more odd was why they sent the mission to him via telegram. truth be told, the satellites had been down for weeks which he would’ve known if we wasn’t on the back end of a 3 month bender. he hadn’t been completely sober since the end of the last war; a war he was lucky enough to walk away from – no one else did. he knew going into the subway system would mean certain death but what was the difference; the coalition would kill him anyway if he didn’t go. secretly he had been hoping that the booze and cigarettes would kill him long before he could be called up for another favor. it, unfortunately, didn’t work out that way. after lying in bed until his vision cleared a bit, he tossed the telegram in the trash. lighting a cigarette, he threw his backpack over his shoulder and left. it wouldn’t take him long to reach the subway, though he would take his time to allow the nicotine to calm his nerves. he turned the corner onto 8th street and started down the steps toward the subway platform. only the heavily armed or the mentally insane would be brave enough to continue from here. like walking down into the belly of the beast, he felt like the saying “thrown to the wolves” held all new meaning. lighting up as he reached the platform he had nothing to do but wait for the next train uptown. if his memory served him right the next train couldn’t be but ten minutes away; the times were pretty regular even since they incorporated the automated system nearly 3 decades ago. he sat down on the cold stone bench on the platform and, inhaling deeply, reached into his pack and grabbed his gun; it couldn’t be to early to start protecting himself. it felt like the entire world rattled as the train pulled up to station. the already irritating fluorescent lights flickered, a thick dust filled the air, rubble and tiles fell from the ceiling; an omen that this was obviously a bad idea, but then again it was never his idea to begin with. he moved from the stone bench onto the train and as it shook away from the platform it became abundantly obvious that he was alone – or was he? racing through the tunnels the lights continued to flicker and flash and he stopped to think that maybe it was all in his head, not that it mattered much. his thoughts moved to his fresh cigarette and the cold steel he clenched in his hand. soon both would be streaming smoke and fire from their barrels. the lights flashed again and he jumped to his feet, cocked his gun, flicked his cigarette and prepared himself; he was no longer alone. the temperature had dropped maybe 20 degrees; he could see his breath and putting on his overcoat he remembered how much he hated these fuckers. the smell was terrible too which is to be expected – they are the undead. the smell would be even worse once he started pumping combustible rounds into these monsters; nightwalkers as they liked to call themselves. imagine the smell of 1000 rotting corpses ablaze in fire and you’ve only begun to understand the stench. it was disgusting. he had strapped up his ammo, fire grenades, incendiary sword and his prize possessions; duel classic desert-eagle semiautomatics (modified, of course, to be able to handle the combustible rounds). one gun still in hand he was ready for battle. then the lights flashed again and suddenly he was no longer alone. from the beginning of the underworld wars there had only ever been one true mission: kill the father. if legend was true then killing the father would destroy all of the father’s offspring. he had only ever came close once; in fact he had only ever seen the father once. of course that was when it was a little more of a fair fight and both sides had armies. now it was just him against the minions. thankfully during the last war he had killed the bride and last female of the nightwalkers and as far as he knew the father hadn’t yet resurfaced to claim a new bride. no new bride meant no new followers – their army might still be diminished. knowing this he figured he would try to end this war once and for all. it was like a high school reunion on the train. the father had sent his two firstborn and what looked like ten or twelve other nightwalkers – it could just as easily have been 50 since these bastards disappear when they’re in the shadows. the sons showed almost a sense of respect for him as they closed in, centering him in the train car. they certainly wouldn’t kill him; the father would want a word with him first. he drew his second gun from behind his back and raising the weapons pointed one in the face of each son. no words were shared; it was apparent he wanted to do this the hard way. he was up for the fight, but as he tired of the dance and prepared to clean house, the room flashed to black and the sons were gone. the train car lit up in new hues of light, bright oranges and yellows as he shot round after round into those sons of bitches, watching them burn from the inside out. it was a beautiful thing in his eyes and actually made him crave a smoke. his thoughts on the cigarette, he hardly noticed how many of the damned things he had killed until he slid his last clip into the gun. he would have to use his fire grenades soon which would easily engulf the entire train car. luckily, being fire resistant, this wasn’t his problem. standing in a few inches of ash as the car finally came to a stop at the end of the line, he lit a cigarette and was glad to smell something other than burning undead carcass. the train door opened and he stepped out of the flames leaving a few live fire grenades aboard to ensure everything on that train wouldn’t be coming back. he hated it when they tried to regenerate. mother fuckers. he always thought it looked like something trying to give birth to itself – it was enough to make him sick to his stomach. he had reached the end of the line, where a layer of ice covered everything and he was again thanking his cigarette; first for the smell, now for warming his lungs. he would find the father and sons here – or more likely they would find him. he began toward the dark end of the platform, unsheathing his incendiary sword when the darkness was complete. he watched as it exploded into flames, then with enough light to continue on he walked further down the platform until two figures appeared. the sons. the flame on his sword grew as he prepared for battle and the sons circled him. flares of orange would fill the platform for the next hour as he dismembered the sons, being sure to burn their hearts to guarantee their deaths. when the battle was over he stood in a pool of melted ice and ash, a sight the father would surely cringe at. with that in mind, he lit a smoke off his sword and decided to wait. he sheathed his sword, figuring the darkness would be more inviting for the father. the pool of water that had filled the platform suddenly froze solid, accompanied by a terrible screeching that was getting louder by the second. he immediately drew his sword again and lighting up the room instantaneously found himself surrounded by what seemed like millions of bats. a few slashes of his sword seemed to only infuriate the bats but seconds later they withdrew to the shadows. the screech silenced and from the depths the father emerged. the father’s actions were lightning fast, so fast the flames from the sword couldn’t even catch up. he fought smart, using what fire grenades he had left to make it near impossible for the father to hide; but who really needs to hide when you can fly? the battle raged on for what seemed like days and only ended when the father went in for the kill at his neck and he shoved the flaming sword through both their hearts. the father combusted in a pure white fire that quickly turned death black, and then he was gone. tired, wounded, and craving a cigarette, he began his long trip down the platform, back downtown, and back to his bed and his bottle. he hadn’t gained anything but the four recently discovered holes on his neck; but would finally get that long-awaited vacation from the coalition. the father’s venom would spread through his body over the next few hours and if the legend was true, with the father dead, he would die as soon as he became one of them. he figured he had just enough time to get home and get drunk. laying back in his bed, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other he felt the venom race through his veins and knew the transformation was about to occur. taking one last drag of his cigarette, he exhaled, and his whole body went up in smoke. ... and thats the end of that story.

the question

"who needs a sense of direction when you have a sense of adventure?" this question has been posed to me by an old friend of mine for years now. "where do we go from here?" i would always ask, knowing her response would be the same question over and over. i never really thought too much about what was being asked. the question seemed to simply be her way of saying we should do whatever we wanted -- or in her words, whatever our heart desired. heart, not hearts. she was convinced that everything in life was a part of something bigger so we must all share the same common similarities; like a heart or a heartbeat. getting back to the question at hand. who needs a sense of direction when you have a sense of adventure? i never spent too much time on this question while she was alive. never really thought too much about it after she died. all she was ever asking of me was to follow my dreams and the truth of the matter is that only now has that become abundantly clear. i miss her. with that said, heres to new adventures. on a lighter note i think this post makes foolish story hour a real blog and thus crazyfool an actual blogger. how'd that happen? ... and thats the end of that story.

something from the notebook

ive been persuaded to begin posting from the notebook and there is no better way to start such posts than this sketch; a self portrait. the sketch, at its core, resembles my constant struggle between good and evil. ultimately, it ended up a painting (acrylic on canvas for those who care). i may post a photograph of the painting at a later date. for now this is the first thing from the notebook and there will be more to come. ... and thats the end of that story.

fff#47

here it is... 400 words including dirt, hurt, curt, flirt, and an orange. i also wrote this with a little special twist for the few who will understand each and every referenece. consider this a shout out to the boys of 3 canal and anyone who can see the rain. enjoy.

pay dirt! after what seemed like lifetimes of searching, i finally discovered the location of last piece of the trinity. the truth was i had spent only a short while looking for the trinity but the thirst its presence created in my life proved greater than expected and consumed my world. the people in the village had asked me not to go; some wanted to make the journey together, but i knew the trip was mine alone. i had to be very curt with my family to convince them that i needed to complete this mission not just for me but for the millions (the tens of millions). it was eight at night when i sang a song for billy as he fell asleep and five, five, five in the morning as i ran out the door.

i knew the journey would be damn near impossible, but this was an emergency and i’m a survivor; like the sun in the morning it was my turn to rise up. i had been faced with many a grave situation in my time but none quite as dangerous as this. a constant flirt with danger, i felt oddly like i was in my element as i crossed the borderline and started the climb over the mountain. it was half way up the mountain when i got hurt but there was no time to send for the doctor or turn back; the trinity was near completion. all i could do at this point was rub some salt on my skin and hope the wound wouldn’t become infected.

as i made my way down the other side of the mountain i found a small orange grove not a hundred meters from the blue, blue sea. i grabbed an orange from one of the trees and sat as i pondered how to continue my journey. i needed a boat. i had to build one. a couple of orange trees and some conveniently located vines later a boat was created. i paddled furiously through the water; the last piece of the trinity was close now and i could feel it. piti, pata, piti, pata; my makeshift oar went through the water faster and faster. i floated over the spot where the final third was located and dived deep in the blue sea. when i surfaced i had found it. the trinity was complete: peace, love and possibility.

...and thats the end of that story.