246. Manitoba Lee

Manitoba Lee took a swing at Dr. Gerhardt Messerschmidt, renowned historian, chief art collector of the Third Reich and – foremost – his nemesis. The doctor, a keen boxer in his youth, avoided the punch and slammed his fist in Manitoba’s side, who sank to his knees in pain.

“Hand me the painting,” the Nazi yelled.

“Never!”

“You are really prepared to die for a piece of art?”

“Only if you are prepared to kill for it.”

“Offensichtlich,” Messerschmidt said with a sardonic smile on his unnaturally thin lips as he produced a thin rapier from his sleeve.

The train – still gaining speed – hit an uneven rail at this point, catching Messerschmidt off-balance and giving Manitoba Lee the chance to grab a meat fork from the dining cart. He countered the first wave of attacks with it and cut Messerschmidt on the shoulder. The Nazi was not perturbed.

“Fencing is a funny game. Every competitor will take hits. But in the end, the German wins.”

And he leapt forward, pushing Manitoba back, against the coach door, which after a few knocks flung wide open and rushed a fierce cold wind through the carriage. Sparks flew as iron hit iron and the superior fencing technique of the Nazi shone through. Within half a dozen blows, he disarmed Manitoba Lee.

“The painting,” Messerschmidt demanded once more.

Manitoba unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the small, exquisite canvas, taped to his chest.

“Es ist wunderschön,” the Nazi said.

“It is. Better take a good look,” Manitoba said. “It’s the last time you’ll see it.”

And on those words, he flung himself out of the carriage, into the 200 feet deep ravine below.

He would not survive the fall, that was certain.

But the painting would not hang on the Fuhrer’s walls.

That was all that mattered.

 

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109. Its giant tentacles embraced the building

Its giant tentacles embraced the building, squeezing its crumbled walls, its weathered naps sucking the life out of the structure while at the same time breathing it into existence.

The thing had been dormant for many years but the wrecking balls and bulldozers that had come to tear down the office block had awoken it from its slumber. It looked like a scene from a Lovecraft story: an Old One leaving its mark on the city while the commuters couldn’t help but glance at its majesty on their way to the train station.

Jimmy was one of those in awe. The kid had been picked up from school by his hurried dad but insisted on taking a short breather on the pavement across from the decrepit office building. He wanted to admire this son of Cthulhu from up close. Wanted to touch its curvy tentacles that reached all the way from the stone rubble on the ground floor to the cracked toilets seven stories higher. He wanted to know where it came from and how long it had been dormant, forgotten by all but its creator.

Jimmy wanted to know all this and more but above all he wanted to walk into the nearest hardware store, buy a dozen spray cans and start practicing to become as brilliant a street artist as the one that had decades ago painted this ominous octopus on an office building wall.

 

Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

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