When Darkness Shimmers: The Collection

Deadication

For my beautiful wife Vickie, who turned my darkness into light, and who smiles even on the darkest of days and is my love and inspiration.

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Other Books

About the author

Introdarkion

It is funny when you revisit your early stories that you unleashed upon the reading public all those years ago. Obviously, the first impulse you have is to virtually rewrite them all. As in the years that have passed, you accept you have improved in all areas related to being a writer, and so I have.

Being a lover of classic horror themes, I started writing my first book of short tales which reflected this inside, especially in those first few stories. I braved the world of literacy and put it out there with nervous excitement to start my journey as a writer. These days I tend to write my darker stories from more life-based horror as I find I relate better and they scare me more! Oh, I still love a good monster or devil story and have written a couple especially for this collection. ‘Broken’ my first released book, was very much this - classic themes and was very different from my second collection - ‘Thirteen’, which was more the horror of our minds and blackness of souls. Yet to me some of the stories in both books were good, while others were more fillers rather than something I would cherish and always be proud of.

The selection I have chosen from both those early books plus the addition of new stories leaves me with a sense of satisfaction and completeness; it is more how my book of darkness was originally envisioned! They all represent my darker storytelling side of things that go bump in the night and to me, read well. I believe there is a well-mixed assortment of new and old tales in here.

I hope you enjoy this collection (even if you are revisiting a few oldies – but nearly all reworked and updated) as it does represent my present style of writing and my love of the darkness.

So ‘til we meet again with the lights out, enjoy

Jonny

When

Darkness

Shimmers

Contents

1 - Grammar Police

2 - Deathday

3 - The Messenger

4 - Black Sun

5 - The Miracle of Millie

6 - Second Chance

7 - The Dog Whisperer

8 - Stroke Me

9 - Under a Black Sun 2

10 - Trolley Man

11 - Condemned

12 - Shattered Mirrors

13 - Devil’s Daughter

All new and revised stories  Copyright 2019 Newell

Grammar Police - Author’s note

I will start this collection of short stories with a new one written late 2017 when I was reviewed on a certain blog page, not for content but grammar only. Oh, google my name, you’ll find it. I laugh now but at the time, I was pissed! Justice came in the form that the blogger himself made a grammar mistake of his own while reviewing, and was caught by one of his readers. But in reality, I had made terrible grammar errors and bet I still have with more than likely made a few in this book – the joys of self-publishing. I admit at first it shook me, as it had nothing to do with the content and to me was just simply nasty. I thought to myself he’s lucky I wasn’t as revengeful as Chopper Read … and then the lightbulb clicked on!

So I dedicate this first story to him – the reviewer, and also thank him for sparking my creativity.

Story 1

Grammar Police

Introduction

It still concerns me that the kids these days with their social media and smartphones rely on this alone, as their main source of learning life skills, and the now diminishing subject we used to call - English. Their fingers can go ten to the dozen over mine but just like a lot of old school ways … it’s been abbreviated or abandoned, just as most literacy and punctuation skills. Since when did the word – tomorrow, get spelled - 2moro (with a number 2 and only have four letters) or LOL – what’s a fucking LOL? What’s so hard with writing haha or hah? Hah has only three letters for fuck’s sake and makes more fucking sense! Numbers - I do wonder if a lot of kids can even spell to ten, let alone the rest? As long as we can abbreviate all will be fine (sarcasm intended). Why would they bother when they can press a relevant digit? And this to me was just pure laziness on the behalf of the current education system and our indolent society, with their soft-cock political correctness, and the acceptance of our old-school ways being wiped and replaced with technology. I finished school in the late sixties back when both basic Maths and English were actually taught correctly. I am not saying ALL teachers don’t have the skills and knowledge but a recent alarming survey of our Australian teachers has revealed – too many don’t! So explain to me why a good 90% of my generation can read and write? I still say it’s because discipline was dished out on the same plate as learning. If you didn’t learn your 12 x 12 tables, then watch out … for Mr. Cunthead and his wooden ruler was heading for your soon-to-be red-arsed cheeks.

So texting and reading social media outlets are and has already become the next generation’s quick and easy English and Literacy lessons. I cringe at the thought of all the illiterate and creative young wonderful minds out there missing out on opportunities because of this, as well as us, the readers … and Word Perfect can only correct so much.

I was always taught that the pen is mightier than the sword, but I question this now in today’s society. I am not saying I’m a perfect English Major, not at all, as I said, Microsoft Word fixes a fucking LOT! I’m just your basic fucked up retired hitman (from the seventies) that’s - ‘done his time for the crime!’ Finding a gift in the art of writing, later in life. Am I any good? Honestly, does that really fucking matter? As it’s only an audience you seek to share your life experiences with by them reading your self-expressed creativity with your words, and by leaving your mark on this fucked-up world.

Well that was what it was until the ‘Grammar Police’ threw their 2 cents worth in and fucked it all … my books stopped selling! I am a revengeful person, that I admit, but nasty to the innocent I am not! Some critics are just that with their scathing and self-righteous beliefs that they and their cruel words, belong in our (present) society. People always prefer the villains in the movies (I should know) and it’s even flowed into reality television shows; so let’s be one then! Social media remembers the nasty ones, the cunts, and the arseholes! Bloggers and their spiteful ‘grammar’ reviews, glorify this line of thinking! True villains seek notoriety and we give it to them. Why did I become a hitman in the first place? To kill or to be a name feared? Answer that!

Constructive criticism is one thing and can be accepted but we’re not talking about creative content here, this is about a simple punctuation challenge for a digital market. One too many exclamation marks or a misspelled word what about e.g. (does anyone know what e.g. means anymore)? Maybe I added a capital (as a typo) and auto-spell corrected incorrectly and I simply missed it at proof-read time … forgot to chuck in an extra full stop there? Maybe a hyperlink simply doesn’t work … whatever? Does this give them (a stranger to me) the right to make fun of me on their (don’t ask me how) popular blog page, live social media feeds, and the world’s ever-watching eyes? How funny was it that I only lasted 3 minutes 32 seconds out of a 30-minute grammar only time challenge that I never even asked for; I never fucking laughed! And now I am imprinted negatively in the world of Google with no way of hitting delete!

Repercussions of simple words and their power, have stopped sales of my EXPENSIVE 99c per copy (double inverted commas and capitals, mixed with deliberate sarcasm, used and extenuated for the blogger’s interpretation) of my downloadable first book of life stories as a hitman, about my jail time, my rehabilitation, and my reflection on life. How proud was I with my sense of self-achievement of simple writing and that my underground celebrity persona was still classed as an interest by today’s readers, with my first life inspired fiction going so well … until now!

I checked out the whole Grammar Police website (which I will not name) and they were cunts. Simple nasty little cunts! One in twenty to thirty books got a half-decent review and the targets were us, the easy targets - new writers. The new breed of internet uploaders that just want to share our stories and creativity with the world and mostly - write, edit, cover design, and upload without any help or ever expect to see huge profits if any at all. Let’s crucify the ones that are having a go! How many have taken the criticism too deeply and just put down the almighty pen … and walked away from their attempts just to be believed in as a storyteller?

Was it really him or her and their penned words that stopped my sales? How could I be sure? But this humiliating review did open a can of sealed worms. So I tore off the gaffer tape and ripped off the lid … and there she was waiting … my revenge! So on behalf of all the easy targets worldwide … I thought I’d better buy a ticket to America.

Old Dog, New Collar

Before I could take my overseas trip, I needed to reopen a few closed doors. Firstly, to visit an old friend in New South Wales (1000 or so kilometers from here) so I rang him, packed a bag, checked the car’s fluid and left that day. I drove all night listening to my old cassettes, cranking out CCR, Acca Dacca and Tom Petty. I hadn’t done this in so long, that I had forgotten how much I used to drive overnight singing out loud, along with the Boss and where he was born, before I had to fulfill a requirement or complete a transaction … so to speak.

The morning broke through and the kangaroos awoke as well, hopping through the mist of morning. I loved this time of day, as I automatically freshened with the new air but I kept a clear look out for any road-crossing roos. Hitting one of those fuckers (especially a big grey or red) would NOT make my day. And I’d spent too many years restoring the old beast back from the dead to let her end up crumpled in and boiling over, with a radiator full of blood and guts.

I waited at the old rotting wooden gate to be greeted by my old buddy, Benny Butler. He opened the gate to the property for me to drive in. After he closed the gate, he hobbled around and jumped in the passenger seat of my old XB Ford. I turned off the motor and we just sat there looking at each other, and in unison we stated,

Fuck you’re old! We both laughed, lent over the center console (and my eight ball gear stick knob) and hugged before Benny complained,

Not so fucking hard … the arthritis is really bad at the moment … Dickhead! Benny complained and groaned again. I let my tightened embrace go and he punched me in the left bicep; I chuckled!

Old Bad Arse Benny, the man who once took a two day beating from the Ross Brothers, now a sad broken little man! I laughed as he gave me the finger and he complained yet again,

Look who’s talking … Mr. Rocking Ronnie Wilson, once a name to be feared, now an author of dribble and pap …. yeah I read it! What a pile of shit! You didn’t even put in what we did to that drug-fucked loser, the one we threw off Pearson Bridge … that job for Vincenzo … old Wriggler McKenzie, remember him? So I gave Benny a finger in exchange, as I started the car and my old 351 bubbled into life. And the three old farts made their way to his farmhouse.

Betsy

My back was killing me but I was nearly deep enough and then I hit it! I dug and scraped the dirt around the top and sides with the shovel until I could see and reach both of the ex-army metal case’s handles. I threw the spade down and got on my knees (no easy feat these days). I pulled hard and the old rusted box shifted from its resting place. With a deep breath, I managed to lift it out of the hole and placed it on the grass. How many years ago had I actually buried it? 25 years to be exact; my insurance policy! The memories flooded back as I opened the lid.

First memory - was my health and strength. I was never fit as a fiddle, like drinking and snorting a lot of wiz was my daily routine! The only two really bad habits (besides killing) I had back then, yet I was young, strong (slightly overweight), and very powerful with an aggressive streak the size of Africa. I used to box every now and then so I was fit enough to go 13 rounds with most losers but then again, most never lasted that long; I’d have shot them by round 7.

Second memory - I saw her! I looked at Old Betsy (my sawn-off shotgun), she was well rusted now and needed a good clean but I never expected to fire her, she was kept for sentimental value only; many had felt her power in her day and me, her power in my hands.

Underneath was what I had come for - my stash of cash: $30,000 … all in now an out-of-surplus currency, and mainly old 50 and 20 dollar notes wrapped tight and taped up in bundles of a grand. My old fake passports were in there as well, so I grabbed them just in case. I kissed Old Betsy goodbye and placed her back in the rusty ammo box.

I stomped down the last pack of dirt and gave Old Betsy her final burial wave where she would stay forever before I turned and made my way back to the farmhouse. The sun was extremely hot today and the humidity in the low forties. My tired muscles and sunburnt skin reminded me of my 68 years of being on this god-forsaken planet and that I was just that – 68 years 3 months and 2 days and not a fucking day less.

You’re fucking crazy, old man! Benny stated as he counted his $5,000 share, I had promised him 25 years ago (which was worth fuck all now) placing it all in one bundle as he asked, You seriously gonna do this?

Yep! I looked down at my coffee and questioned him, So do you know anyone that can jimmy up my old passport for me? Benny stopped counting, looked me in the eye and then looked at my prehistoric dodgy passports,

Crazy fucker … you’re really going to do this! He laughed, paused and answered the question, Yeah … Wally’s still alive and working.

Wally-Wally Fucking Walters? No! He’d be … eighty in the shade. My wrinkled face was in shock.

The old bastard’s never been caught, never once … amazing! Benny stated, picked up his coffee as I did mine and again in unison, we toasted,

To Wally the old cunt.

Wanking Wally

Naaaaah … they’re way too old Cob! Wally handed the ancient passports back to me. But if you want one … I’ll make one last one for an old friend … for nicks. I smiled as the decrepit old bastard hobbled past me with his walking stick, waving his hand for me to follow him. So I followed the old wanker and we made our way to the porch, grabbing two beers from his fridge whilst in transit. Old Wal looked a 100 years old to me, his hand shook with Parkinson’s but his mind was as sharp as the day I met him in ’69. I was a young fella back then, so was green as grass and had a lot to learn. I was taken in by the legendary Eddie West, his boys were all hard nuts; they taught me well! They ran their chunk of the Aussie contention of the Cross back when times were hard but good. I started out with a bit of running contraband back and forth between Queensland and New South Wales, before beefing up and becoming a right-hand fist. Wally was always a talented fucker and excellent forger and he took a shine to me in the early days. He was the best and a soon to be a legend in our fucked-up industry. He was more likable than any of us and that worked in his favor (proof in the pudding now, with no major convictions against his name), he knew how to keep ‘everyone’ happy, from the hard-arses to the crooked cops, and even the good ones.

Been a long time Ron … fuck I miss the old days! Not the same now, worlds full of angry little cunts! Wally cracked open his stubbie, toasted,

To the old days. A brief pause and then his eyes lit up, Fuck, remember Polly? Eddie’s daughter … she was a cracker back then! Gawd … I’d always wanted to bang her! I cracked open my stubbie, clinked his and cheekily smiled as his old squinting eyes popped. You fucking arsehole! Wally smirked and his old face said it all, so much so, I could see the gap where his front teeth used to be (with the rest), You lucky bastard … and you never said a fucking word! I just smiled as I remembered how fucking hot Polly actually was and how good she was in bed! Wally finished with, Ten grandkids and three great-grandchildren, last I heard.

We just sat there and gas-bagged, reminiscing about our youth and all the horrible things we were involved in. Our lives were destined to buy us a one-way ticket to meet the Devil and on his terms! But oh boy, what a life it had been for us, so-called gangsters. Yet we both agreed, we’d do it all over again, and at the drop of a hat! We’ve hurt, fought, drank, killed, even cried over lost mates but what we mostly remember is the laughter; we enjoyed being thugs and murderers! Who wouldn’t?

Hold ON, Mr. Johnson

Have a lovely flight Mr. Johnson. The airport attendant with her welcoming smile handed me my boarding pass to New York and my (fake) passport, which Old Wally’s shaking hands had done a tremendous job on. He even put me in contact with a reputable money launderer that exchanged my old currency, for brand new in-the-bank credit cards. It cost me a packet but I had more than enough left to do what I had intended.

I made my way to terminal 4 and grabbed a coffee and a car magazine from the Newsstand, before glancing at the estimated boarding time and saw I had a good hour to wait. The caramel latte coffee was good, really good, so I got up to get another with a cinnamon bun this time, as the brunette (in her early thirties) behind the counter, recognized me.

Are you Rocking Ron … Ronnie West? Her face was a little flustered, I’ve read your book online. It was great! My Dad loves you and told me all about you.

Shit! That’s all I need … to be recognized. I believed my face from the paper’s headlines of yesteryear, would’ve been long forgotten. I was last jailed in the late nineties for fuck’s sake! Yeh-yeh, I did that 60 Minutes interview nearly a decade later when I was still behind bars, telling all (like fuck)! I knew it rated well but my celebrity status is on a low radar these days. I thought it best to lie.

Sorry, I’m not Rockin’ Ron West! I smiled and added a bit more for her to swallow, I always get compared to him, my whole bloody life! If only eh? If only! I tapped my card (courtesy of Wal) across the EFTPOS machine and grabbed my coffee 'n' bun.

Thank you and have a great day Love. She apologized and with a parting smile, she was easily satisfied, I could tell.

Even though I could afford business class, I advised myself it was best not to. I found my seat in the middle, near the wing section of the 747. Being a bigger man, it wasn’t the most comfortable but I made sure I got a window seat, so at least I had a window to lean on. A young woman sat next to me and she had a small frame; my trip had just been made a tad more pleasant!

I could never sleep on planes ever, so I watched (with headphones) a movie and of all the choices, they had: The Shawshank Redemption. Yes, of course, I’d seen it. I’d lived it out in my own way and not quite as dramatic or as successful (escaping); I nearly made it! There was no melancholy ending or escaping my crimes. Did I like it? Well come find me and I’ll tell you – haha! Oh sorry, I mean LOL.

Airplane food had improved slightly, but I was taken back to a time as a young fella when I remembered the NO SMOKING signs meant you put one out! Holy Fuck … that was an eon ago. Now you can’t puff anywhere and reason enough not to. Did I miss smoking? Fuck yeah! Why lie about it as a lot do? As soon as they make a smoke that doesn’t cause cancer or even cure it (and I don’t mean this strawberry flavored vaporizing shit, really), watch the world do a back-flip then and I’ll be first in the queue!

The trip was too long for my beat-up old bones and I was stiff as a board when we disembarked. U.S. Customs was quite thorough and I expected that especially since all that Isis shit went down, and my views on that are mine, as yours are - personal! My bag was emptied and repacked before I was ordered to remove parts of my clothing for testing and anti-terrorist requirements (even my fucking shoes). My old hardened face was just that, as I thought it best not to use my happy one and look suspicious.

Things had definitely escalated in customs since the early nineties. Yet Mr. Paul Johnson was finally cleared through customs and I was welcomed to the United States of America, told to enjoy my first trip to Disneyland, Statue of Liberty, and the Grand Canyon. How would they ever know I’d been here before to fulfill an employment requirement … and did so. A drug dealer from Melbourne (quite a big dealer actually) only ever got to use his 3-day Disneyland pass on the first day, as I waited in the car park of his hotel after his return. I cut his throat, quick, neat, and was out of there before he even hit the deck (well nearly). Next morning, I was up at the crack of dawn and took an overnight train trip to Sacramento to visit the zoo. So this following day was simply a day of fun in my scheduled holiday alibi. I was back home in Australia after a 2-week working holiday and let’s say … I made a killing!

Now I was here and I would pick up the previously booked (off the record) hire car, with my new international license in my back pocket and all thanks to Wal the fucking legend. Again it cost me an armful, but my American currency was waiting for me to pick up as I got off the bus. It was stashed in the boot of an old ‘68 Mustang … STOP! LIE-LIE-LIE ALERT! I didn’t hire a ’68 Mustang (oh I wanted so badly too, just to drive that bad boy all the way across the U.S.) yet I knew that would possibly draw attention – it was a rule of the game set in stone years ago … not to! So I hired a silver Hyundai instead. I picked it up from a biker named – Fat Pig, and my stash of goodies was waiting in the back. He said nothing as he handed me the keys, as he nodded behind the counter of ‘Heavenly Harleys’. He recognized my face whether from my reputation or simply a contact but I knew, so I never said a word either! He pointed to the shitbox and I went and opened the boot to put in my travel suitcase … and there was the bag. I unzipped it and saw my five grand cash as requested; it was time to buy a piece!

Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!

I drove straight to Boston and arrived there about 7:00 pm at night. I’d booked myself into some flea-bitten hellhole called – The Kimble. It really wasn’t that bad, yet it was a 3-star rating at its best. As long as I didn’t get bed bugs then it would suffice while I did my thing. I was sure no one gave a flying fuck who or what I was doing here, so it served a purpose in more ways than one.

After breakfast, I made the call from my strange smelling room,

I’m looking for Marsha Brady. That’s all I said when a man’s gravelly voice with a strong Colombian accent answered,

Marsha here … who the fuck’s asking?

Mick Dundee … got your number from an old friend … Skippy … the bush kangaroo. I kept quiet as he did as well. I listened closely, he was talking with his hand covering the microphone of his mobile … then he was back,

Stranger … Skippy rang me last week said you’d be in town and calling me. You looking at purchasing a new instrument … to play for a special concert you got on. So what exactly you after? Marsha asked.

A Glock and Spiel … if you got one? I answered.

Got a few of different sizes friend, any in particular? Now we were getting somewhere so I answered him,

43 inches… would do the job. I waited for Marsha’s reply.

Uncle Marty’s Diner on Belson Avenue, midday no later. Buy a burger with the lot and sit outside, we’ll find you … bring the cash, in a brown bag … $500! The phone clicked off.

Marsha, Marsha, Marsha

… if I were Only Younger!

I did as asked and waited with my oversized cholesterol monstrosity. Next minute three huge tattooed covered homeboys of Hispanic heritage, sat at my table. One sitting opposite me was the obvious leader, as he leaned in, grabbed my untouched burger and took a bite before dropping it back in front of me, chuckling. He eye-balled me before speaking; it was Marsha!

Hey, throw another shrimp on the Barbie, mate! Marsha took the mickey as I sat emotionless, Got the money old man? I nodded, then he spoke the obvious, Fuck, you must be at least seventy fucking years old Homie! He sarcastically chuckled again as they all did. I pointed to the brown takeaway packet under the table. He looked at it, pulled a sad frown of approval and nodded before he spoke, Skippy says you a big deal back in the land Downunder … look like a silly old fucker to me! Marsha placed his brown bagel bag under the table and I took it straight to my right side and the weight confirmed the contents. I pushed the money bag across to Marsha with my foot. I just eye-balled him back remaining emotionless and without saying a word but years ago my first move would’ve been to lean across the table and with my left hand, summon him closer, while my right removes the flick from my right pocket. As he would lean to me, his nose would’ve been broken with a southpaw jab, before he even spoke. I would’ve stabbed his leg from under the table leaving the knife embedded. While he would be screaming in pain, I would withdraw my handgun and shoot both the two henchmen in a kneecap each and down they would go. The screaming and commotion would’ve been my exit point, with the money left behind as a simple reminder, Rockin’ Ronnie was here doing business and without a single word spoken! But those days were long gone and old age has made me more and more patient with a reminder of my physical limitations. So Marsha’s nose stays straight today!

No one was really paying any attention, except one young boy who was staring at Marsha’s tattoos, not what was going down. Marsha picked up the bag, glanced inside and stood up with his henchmen,

Later old fucker! Say hello to Skippy the bush kangaroo. A pimped up purple car with tinted windows pulled up with music (rap shit) pumping the bass nearly louder than any AC/DC concert I’d ever been to, and then they all hopped in and were gone in a tire screech … back to the Brady household, and Alice’s homemade drug-induced cookies, I guessed. I grabbed my bag up and walked away leaving the half-eaten burger behind. The little boy’s attention was now back on his own fries and juice. As I rounded the corner to my Hyundai, I opened the bag to see the homies hadn’t ripped me off just as Skippy said they wouldn’t. She was beautiful! A shining Glock 43 handgun with a few extra clips, I held her and the weight felt good in my hands. I aimed at myself in the rearview mirror and looked at the old man staring back. Could I actually do this? Fucking oath!

I replaced her in the paper bag, then tucked her up under the springs of the front seat. I turned the key and the shitbox started first click. The drive back to the Kimble was satisfying as the plan was coming together. I left her in the car for now as if ANYONE got wind of my little adventure, then I’d at least have a chance to walk away scot-free, with nothing tying me to the gun or the car.

It was time to track the target down.

X - Marks the Spot

Let’s call the target – X … that’s all you need to know, gender-free. How do like that in your new shit 21st P.C. era of gender equality? I’d done a fair bit of research back in Australia, obviously re X, otherwise how the fuck would I know what state to fly to. X lived in Newton Highlands and was an English teacher at Boston College. But that’s about all the real personal shit I knew from all I could find online, but it was enough. As this was the first job I was all, client, employer, and employee. I would treat myself by getting to know the target a lot more personally than I ever did. Usually, I would turn off the emotion switch and release Rockin’ Ronnie the hound-dog from his chains, do the job, and reel him back in.

The first thing to do was to confirm the information I already had was actually true. I made my way to the campus, as the good Australian tourist I was. I asked around and the kids (more like adults) were quite friendly and I was asking about my lovely niece - Olivia Newtown John (as if I’d tell you what actual name I’d really used), who was majoring in English and Literature there and being taught by Mr/Miss/Mrs/Mz. X.

It was amazing how many students said they knew my fictional niece Olivia, but more importantly, my questioning led me straight to my target, - X. I got a good description and picked out X easily while leaving at the end of the day. I followed the target home and watched as X got out of the old Chrysler, locked it, and walked into the yard to be greeted but a yippy yapper, a little black and brown Maltese terrier. After playing with the dog, X checked the mailbox, withdrew the letters and flicked through them. I sat and watched as X went inside the white cladded cottage and shut the door. I had enough for today, so I started the Hyundai and left. My work for the day was done.

I treated myself to a night out at the movies (since it would be my last overseas vacation) and had a good laugh at the new Will Ferrell and Mark Walberg flick. Afterward, the chill in the air got to me, so I bought myself a hot chocolate with marshmallows and took a slow walk through Boston Common. The wind was picking up and the temperature was dropping by the minute and I knew catching a cold wasn’t going to do Rockin’ Ronnie’s old bones any good. I made my way back to Beacon Street to catch a bus back to - The Kimble.

I closed my eyes and went to sleep for the last full night, for tomorrow the play would begin its first deadly act.

X-rated

A hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs (easy over) and a pot of hot tea/no sugar was always a working day’s starter meal. I never ate bacon and eggs or drank tea for breakfast any other days (not even Sundays), other than when I was fulfilling a job. This was the first cooked breakfast in well over 20 years. I’m usually a Weet-Bix kid and a very fucking old one at that!

I waited until X went off to work before I broke into the white cottage and first things first; I locked the yapper in the bathroom with a steak, I pulled from X’s freezer … and that annoying off-putting barking stopped immediately (and if you believe that, well then that’s a good thing for you). I searched around X’s house for any clues of what my next action would be. I was determined for the first time in a very long time, I was going to let myself just go with the flow … enjoy the kill!

X lived alone and I found a laptop computer, it was left on but the password kept me out of it, so I moved onto the lounge room. There was nothing here but a pile of DVDs on the overly neat shelving that told me X was a boring little fuck! There wasn’t even one Arnie, Sly Stone, or Chuck Norris movie amongst the lot, plenty of musicals though, and a few arty farty ones that I would never watch in a million years. I put them back and walked on before I thought to myself, ‘Fuck it!’ So I went back and shuffled through them and stole one – An Unmarried Woman. I’d never seen that movie and would never watch it, but I was in new uncharted territory today. I liked the cover and the broad’s crossed legs so I would give it a crack when I got back to the hotel. I stuffed it in my jacket pocket and started looking at all the pictures in frames around the room and confirmed X wasn’t just a nerd, they were a nerd with terrible dress sense and wore thick black rimmed glasses. Searching through a pile of books on the coffee table, I found an exercise book full of notes re the blog page. I had plenty of time to kill (no pun intended) as X would be gone for most of the day. I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge and found the milk. I placed it on the wooden stained bench-top while I searched through the cupboards and found the cups. They were above the sink to the right and to my surprise, one stood out to me; it had cats on it! After perusing all the different breeds from Persians, Siamese, to one of those bald fuckers. I love cats as they intrigue me with their fuck you attitude, unlike dogs and their unconditional loyalty. I placed it next to the milk and boiled the jug. With my coffee made in my new holiday cup, I made my way back to sit on the lounge and read the exercise book.

The first thing I realized while reading it was, that X wasn’t the actual reviewer of our little stories. Oh yes, X was the blogger but folded in between each page was a printed out A4 page from various students. They had unknowingly done the dirty work for him/her. I could see notes and comments and X was marking them for their own reviews! Each loose page was a different reviewed story by a different student, with their name and score on top. Flipping through the book, the notes corresponded to the student’s review/essay handed in and he/she was as unkind to them as us authors. Their reviews were firstly corrected, crossed out and redrafted with a just tad more of X’s bitterness and sarcasm (and I’m being sarcastic as he/she was a total cunt)! X could be just as cruel to them, as I read a few of the punishing reviews of their analysis. I found mine and it had been reviewed by - Dolly Parton, and she scored a B for it, which was one of the better ones. Fuck, I wish Dolly’s review was the one posted as she had read the whole fucking book; and she actually liked it! The student’s review was more of an overall assessment and reviewed the content as well as grammar. But I could see where X had taken lines from the review and added more, circling and honing in on my shitty punctuation/grammar errors.

The book was a continuation of this system, where X plagiarized their own student’s efforts to his/her advantages. The more I read, the more I let myself enjoy the knowing of my decision to fly here wasn’t a waste of time, and the on-coming kill was warranted. Yet I accepted my decision that X’s death needed to be postponed … for my curiosity had the better of me now; I needed to meet X, face to face!

Let’s Do Lunch

Sure thing that would be excellent! X replied over the phone, to my offer of meeting for lunch today. I knew X’s ego would never be able to refuse my offer of letting me interview him/her for an upcoming story in my brand new Australian University based magazine - I come from the Words Downunder. I bullshitted by saying I was here holidaying and would love the opportunity to do an interview with a real American English Major to discuss the nuances between our languages and a humorous take on our Aussie slang and would publish the interview; isn’t ego wonderful!

On his/her suggestion, we would meet at 12:30 for lunch at - Barnaby’s on Hudson; done deal!

Malcolm Fraser

I waited out front of Barnaby’s and I was tapped on the shoulder, I turned … it was X.

Mr. Fraser? X asked as I smiled before replying,

Call me Malcolm, please. We shook hands and entered Barnaby’s.

We sat at a table near the front window. The eatery was quaint, very Georgian in its styling but had a nice warm feel about it. The menus were handed to us and I ordered a cappuccino and X a latte.

The lunch went well but X never had a clue of what hurricane was about to hit, really believing and laughing at my Aussie terminology … ‘Fair suck of the sav mate!’ X was pleasantly arrogant, as was I and my curiousity was more than satisfied when X belittled the waitress for not taking away the empty plate quick enough and taking too long to refill the coffee; X was a sniveling little nasty fuck!

I had X bluffed re my non-existent forthcoming magazine and the areshole’s ego was out of control. I so wanted to smash X’s face in and knew by this meeting (and breaking of my own rules) had awakened my emotions into the picture. Restraint was hard and I admitted, I was no longer what I used to be!

Sometimes windows of opportunities open when you least expect as, after lunch we said our farewells to each other, and as I looked back across the car park … and there it was. X was getting into the Chrysler, glancing around, and I very well knew the car park was deserted. I quickly made my way towards the car waving to ‘Wait up’ in an ‘I forgot something to ask’ motion. X saw me and wound down the driver’s door window, smiling. I reached the car puffing, leaned on the window with my left arm, I smiled in return and said the last 2 words X would ever hear before brains and claret would be sprayed throughout … and the words were,

Grammar Police!

I quickly withdrew the gun with my right and the trigger was pulled instantly as it lined up between X’s eyebrows; it was done quick, clean and simple! So I turned to leave and to my horror, the waitress was at the rubbish bin. She dropped the bag and ran back inside, and she had seen and heard it all! My mind went into damage control and I had 2 options.

#1: take her out.

Or

#2: Leg it out of here.

I chose option #2 and did my best to move like a spritely forty-year-old would, (I wasn’t anywhere near forty, my legs told me) and hastily limped straight back to my Hyundai. My old heart was pumping and hard. Adrenalin had kicked in and I was out of there as the sirens grew louder and louder. Cop cars screamed by me as I drove the opposite way.

Option 2

I made it back to - The Kimble and packed my bags … it was time to leave! I placed the handgun in my jacket pocket and would drop it into the first rubbish bin I would see. I did my best to keep my heart rate down, but was I winning? This old body was finally paying its long overdues and a heart attack would surely fuck all this planning. I needed to get out of