These guys made enough money to buy “Enchanted Elven Mithril Vests” so McColl took no chances on body shots.
It is true, McColl though, time does slow down when you are having fun.
Traverse right. Smooth. Keep it cool, keep it smooth.
The North side Vipers were moving towards McColl so the next four went through their head and throats.
A death-thrown knife whistled by McColl’s head.
He heard a crash behind him, the sound of a premature ejaculation of a hard on gun going off, as it was being hurriedly pulled out.
It made McColl smile.
Traverse. Right, right, right, still cool, still smooth, still rock steady.
Surprise, surprise, the local Baz muscle behind McColl had their pistols out but nobody was home.
Just dumb stares, not used to seeing people getting shot for real.
Not really believing what they where seeing. Suspended in time.
Watching in shock as their future and their heroes fall.
Welcome to the killing dome, McColl thought.
Both went down with head shoots.
McColl could hear a bar hostess screaming and screaming as he advanced on the two fallen movie stars. He changed magazines and put two more bullets through their heads.
Took out the Spyderco Native Knife and slit their throats.
Then he carved a big cruel J on their foreheads.
As an artistic gesture you understand.
He pumped a couple more into the two Vipers lying on the floor.
Again head shots. To be sure, to be sure.
The gun and knife where dropped and McColl walked out of the Baz Bang Gang Bar.
Thought, after this, it will have to change its name to the Baz Bang Bang Bar and smiled.
He picked up the holdall outside and stepped into the waiting Mercedes and was driven away.
"Well what are we going to do with you?" said Detective Chief Superintendent Brown as all the phones started going off in the office. There was a loud commotion outside his office door.
The duty officer for the day burst in and said breathlessly, “There has been a shooting at the Baz Bang Gang Bar. It sounds like a gangland massacre, sir.”
“And what does it sound like to you DC Silkton?” Brown said, turning to Anne.
“To me, Sir, that sounds like justice.”
BIO:
Frank Sonderborg is a writer of Action and Adventure short stories.
He is currently working on his first adventure novel 'Brighton City Of Gold': A novel of human survival after the great economic crash. Before taking up writing he was a shipbuilder, Webmaster and IT Consultant. He is currently residing in Hampshire in the UK.
GOOFY BRINGS THE HOUSE DOWN By Richard Godwin
He sat at the bar, back to the stage, the soft light mellowing his face.
‘The thing about Goofy is he ain’t,’ I said, waiting for his wise crack. Marty always had a way of putting you down.
I looked at the women getting ready to dance, squeezed into outfits so tight I thought I could hear sequins scattering across the stage. They reminded me of broken teeth and back alleys a long time ago. Marty’s bloated face drifted towards me through the cloud of smoke. A blonde looked over at us, her gaze hovered at my face, then skipped onto him, stared at the back of his head, looked away, as she whispered something to her fellow dancer, a buxom brunette who shook her head and checked her stiletto. I wondered what he’d done to them.
Marty cracked some nuts, licked the salt from his fingers and said, ‘Ain’t what? Johnny you always saying ain’t this and ain’t that. What are you fucking talking about?’
I leaned towards him, my fist white beneath the table.
‘Ain’t goofy, he ain’t dumb at all.’
Marty smirked.
‘That right?’ He nodded and threw his shoulders back. ‘You and fucking Disney. And how about you, are you?’
‘You know I ain’t.’
‘So, job tonight, think you can handle it?’
‘Where are you going to be?
He winked towards the stage where they were dancing, some doped, most bored.
‘Looking after my women.’
I could see which one he had his eye on. He had that look on his face. It led to drinks in his office alone and a locked door. The coercion he used was simply the option of cash instead of rape. And all the women who worked for him knew which one to pick when invited to his office. He handed me a piece of paper.
Outside I spat into the dirt. I got into the Jeep and drove there as a warm wind lifted debris from the cracked pavements and hurled them pointlessly at doorways in which I saw the lolling forms of drunks. The wind rippled the London plane trees, their leaves like the riffled cards in a deck. I drove there, rage inside me, all the way to the bloodbath.
It was a bar on his territory or a bar that was a front. The barman was named Don, and Marty had scrawled his name in eyeliner on a napkin from his club. I stared at it, wondering which waitress the eyeliner belonged to, and thought about all the times he ripped me off. Marty ducking my brother’s head under the water. Marty kicking a punk in the face, aged 14, Marty age 16 scalding his bitch with an iron. Marty who I wanted dead with every twisted sinew in my body. I wanted to hear him scream. And I was going to. Goofy had begun to collect machetes; he liked to watch the moonlight drift across their surfaces. Goofy became a hustler the day Marty killed my wife.
I knew all his jokes, the ones he cracked about me when I was still in earshot. He called me Disney; he used to take the piss of how much I liked cartoons as a kid.
I saw Don wince and walk away when I entered his bar, just another smurf wearing a badge that said I was Marty’s boy. But that was all about to change.
At the back, beyond the boxes of crisps and barrels of beer, down the dark staircase, through the piss-stained basement, the women were all in cages. And those that weren’t could hardly stand. I could smell the fear. Faces loomed at me out of the semi-darkness. Marty kept them like that. Commodities he could sell to the highest bidder. Mostly young women caught in the drug trap, on a ride to a dream that didn’t exist. They’d meet Marty, spend a night with him, lose some years in his basement. And when time caught up with them he cast them adrift, useless, wasted flesh. I’d seen girls end up on skips, nothing to say for their lives except the scars that climbed the side of their thin arms.
Marty had got word that Don was short changing him and using the women for his own ends. I checked out the state of affairs in the office at the back, went through the takings in the safe. Short.
So I called Don in, sat him down and said, ‘Have you been keeping all the money?’
‘Sure.’
There was alarm in his voice and his body was tense.
I walked behind him and shot him in the back of the head.
I thought of Goofy as I pulled my Glock and blew his brains away. And I thought of Marty, as I squeezed the trigger, his head wasted, just a mass of blood. I had plans to show Marty who I really was.
I carted the body out of there with one of the bouncers and buried it under a streak of moonlight that failed to illuminate much more than our shadows at the back of the building. And I thought of Annie, her pale face on the pillow as I pierced the dry cold ground with the edge of my spade. The night I smelt him on her and the night I made the decision.
War was about to break out. And I was going to stand at Marty’s right hand and shoot the living crap out of whoever came at him, because I wanted him all to myself. A fight for gangland territory erupted all over London that week.
Back at the bar Marty was climbing into a silk gown. I watched him stand there, an erection protruding from beneath it as I told him what went down. A waitress pulled a G-string onto her arse at the back of the office and I smelt semen, stale and cold in the air conditioned vault.
‘So we need a new barman?’ he said.
‘We do.’