Clayton McKinley groans into consciousness as the sunlight blasts
away the remains of his troubled nightmares. Shadows creep as the light dances through the
tiny single bed apartment on the 6th floor he calls home.
At least I made it to the couch, is his first thought; it’s
not a happy one. He sits up, rubs his eyes; across the shabby living room, in the
only other chair, rests a familiar figure dressed in a deeply red suit, blue
shirt and black tie.
“We have dealings Mr McKinley,” says the steely toned voice,
his short blonde hair unnaturally cultured; a toothy grin on his weltered and
scarred face.
Clayton aches, his head pounds and trying to recall his
visitor’s name is a struggle worth foregoing.
“I bare you gifts Mr McKinley,” says the figure pointing
to a pair of Glock 9mms on the battered coffee table.
He recognises them immediately.
“Lincoln Garfield-Kennedy at your pleasure,” he introduces himself grinning menacingly, a desperate void comes over the two men.
“I have one purpose Mr McKinley,” says Lincoln cutting into
the silence, “I am here to facilitate your madness.” His teeth glow in the enduring sunlight. “Do you recall the events that brought us to this point? Last night? Think a minute it will come to you.”
Clayton covers his face and exhales, what is this sceptre
talking about? The haze lifts unexpectedly, a street, a pub, a girl dancing, a
cab, it dawns on him she’s still here. The suddenness of his realisation punches him square in the
gut with the force of a prize fighter. He turns to look at the closed bedroom
door with foreboding.
“She’s in there lying lifeless on the bed, red eyed and
purple lipped,” whispers Lincoln, as if not to wake her, “You had fun last night. Be assured, she
suffered greatly”.
Clayton’s stomach gives-way in a wave of bile and booze, it spews
through his fingers and onto the filthy carpet before he can do anything about
it.
“You strangled her with her own panties, you sic f***”.
“Why are you here?” says Clayton, when the heaving eventually subsides enough. He knows the answer even before the question is uttered; his throat burns and tears glisten in his bloodshot eyes.
“I am here to relieve you, unburden you of the guilt and
remorse. You sir, are a predator and they are lambs. You have a need for mayhem
and destruction.
“Now I could tell you that this is because your father beat
you like rug, or your whore mother rejected you as a child or even that the
gods have chosen you to do their terrible biddings against the wicked.
“What it all comes down to is this; Killing is who you are,
like a singer sings or an artist draws naked b*****s, it makes you whole”.
There is no denying this; Clayton recalls the powerful
elation that came over him in the seconds that her life slipped through his
fists.
“Pick up your weapons harbinger, bring savagery to the
civilised; bring the darkness of Hell to the sheep.”
He obeys.
“Bring them death,”
says Lincoln.
Clayton pauses at the front door, looks at his bare feet and
putrid soaked clothing and steps out despite of this, guns at his side ready
for malicious intent.
As the shots and screams rise in the morning air Lincoln
throws his head back and laughs.
