Second part of my serialized novel – Kill That Scrote.
A bit of a disappointment
The sound of the doorbell, after an eternity of idling in the hallway whilst summoning up enough backbone to do the deed, loudly punctured the church-like silence and rendered Mo’s ear-drums temporarily out of action, seemingly. Mo literally gasped for breath as the ice-waters of shock cramped the warm blood of sudden sound. His legs were doing a fair imitation of a once popular Eddy Cochran 45. The mandatory trickle of sweat was in place and wasn’t letting the side down as regards its journey Southwards. As Mo’s demeanour and equilibrium got back on nodding terms he was about to thank providence that his prospective host wasn’t at home to callers. As Mo was about to do a Harry, the door opened.
“Yeah man…?” enquired the McDonald’s slaughterer.
Not quite what Mo was expecting! Mo wasn’t at all sure what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t the vista that now confronted him. It was just after 11 0’clock on a Friday morning and Mo really didn’t need this.
Tina Turner, but twice as tall, stood facing Mo and it was obvious she had had little or no sleep since her little display the previous evening. Unsteady feet staggered back and opened the door a little wider to let Mo in.
This was Mo’s out, he could simply have mumbled something about a wrong number, apologised and hurriedly left. Instead, Mo held her hostile gaze and entered the grubby yet expensively furnished flat. All the time Mo took in his new surroundings. He told himself he couldn’t learn anything from this wreck and she wouldn’t want to hear about his theories and future plans.
“Get it over with man,” Mo’s host challenged resignedly whilst extending her 2.4 metre frame (that’s 6 feet 7 inches for those still dealing in old money) readying herself to absorb the imagined impact.
2 and 2 suddenly began to equal 4. Mo’s eyes took in the needle on the floor, the blackened spoon on the table, the length of rubber hose on a chair. Mo tried to breathe as little as possible. Every slight inhalation disturbed his delicate senses as they were assaulted by the acrid smell of decay and dope. The scene shouted ‘druggie’. Mo wanted to turn and run.
The tension of the situation lightened markedly as Mo’s expression of bewilderment became obvious to his tall countryman when it fairly quickly dawned on her that Mo’s mission wasn’t to kill her. Following an embarrassingly long silence the McDonalds murderer whimpered, “I need help man.”
part 3 follows shortly
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