84. This be the account of my untimely death

This be the account of my untimely death and the ungodly acts that follow’d.

‘t was the year of our Lord 1666 and being 66 of age on the sixth day of the sixth month the cabin crew became convinc’d the Devil now walked among them, a grotesque delusion fuel’d by the demise of two powder monkeys and our vessel’s surgeon, disembowell’d, all three, their half-eaten hearts purloin’d.

Under the veil of night they attack’d. Still under Hypnos’ spell I had to wrestle the slumber before I could fight my assailants: a battle Hercules himself could not win.

I received no respite for my supposed villainy. Under a blood-red moon thick cords soon tied figures of eights round my joints as I was strung upside down from the mizzen-mast. The ship’s pastor mutter’d saintly incantations as each crewmember carved a pound of flesh from my shiv’ring body.

After they tarr’d me a torch set me alight, condemning me to a death so gruesome no description could do its horror justice. Yet the cheers sound’d louder than my excruciating screams as the crew celebrated Light’s victory over Darkness. A victory prematurely proclaim’d.

For in the fortnight since my charr’d remains blew across deck terror ruled the vessel. The boatswain excreted insects from all orifices before he ripp’d his innards out. The master carpenter flung his boil-riddl’d body from the stern and the quartermaster gauged out his eyes after feeding his manhood to the sharks that circled the ship. The most horrific demise was reserved for the captain. He was slowly pecked to death, bound to the same mast that had before held my body, his organs eaten by crows and seagulls.

They might have exorcis’d the Devil during that dark night but they did not escape his eternal wrath.

 

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68. The city’s veins were congested

The city’s veins were congested, clotted by corruption that ran all the way from the crime-riddled suburbs to the gilded doors of city hall. In the old days there were still some good cops to keep the festering disease at bay but now they too had given into greed and complacency.

Johnny had never known it any other way. He’d grown up in a rough neighbourhood, where each Saturday gangsters made the rounds of the local storekeepers to collect half of the takings. And half of that take went towards bribing the police. Johnny’s father never said a thing when the hoodlums rummaged through the till. Maybe that’s why he died a bitter man, aged 44. Felled by stroke. On a Saturday.

Johnny, barely 15 at the time, took over the store. He too kept his mouth shut when the gangsters demanded their cut. But at the end of every month he set aside a bit of money. Just enough so he could buy a gun by the time he turned 18.

The city’s veins might be congested, but Johnny intended to blow them open. One gangster at a time.

 

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.

Available at the Createspace Store, at amazon.com, amazon.co.uk or any other Amazon store in your territory.  E-book is also available.