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Colin Makes His Hit
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TITLE (EDIT)
Colin Makes His Hit
DESCRIPTION
Colin takes advantage of the new Peoples' Licence to Kill legislation.
[1,165 words]
TITLE KEYWORD
Horror
AUTHOR
Rowan Davies
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I kick arse for the Lord.
[December 2005]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (19)
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Daddy Ain't No Man No More (Poetry) Figure it out. [99 words] [Comedy]
Death Of A Friend: Chapter 1 (Novels) Really need some technical crit on this! A man discovers the death of a forgotten friend and becomes far more involved than he could have possibly imagined. [1,930 words] [Relationships]
... Die By The Sword (Short Stories) Victor loves TV... His obsession with a certain cop show gets him in more trouble than he could possibly imagine. [2,335 words] [Suspense]
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Man, Ape And The Rather Large Boulder (Short Stories) Longer! Funnier! Un-cut! This is a beautiful story of one man and his monkey friend and some druids who, incidentally are naked and some small, brown furry creatures. Did I say monkey?! I meant Ape! P... [3,037 words] [Comedy]
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The Story Of Trading (Featuring Man And Ape) (Short Stories) 'Tis a humourous tale of the begins of trade. Ape knows the key to saving Man's life, and unfortunately Man has to trust him. The trade that starts their friendship is also their downfall. [1,609 words] [Comedy]
Thoughtless Crime (Poetry) Another Ed Gein (The Plainfield Psycho) related poem. Well, no one reads my stuff unless it's got death in it. Perhaps I'll get a collection going. [155 words] [Horror]
Colin Makes His Hit
Rowan Davies

Colin took a fork from the drying rack by the sink and flipped the bacon in the frying pan. The fat sizzled and spat in protest before succumbing to the heat.
     He was hungry after such a long day at the office and had been relieved to find the pack of bacon tucked away at the back of the fridge. It was nearly cooked now; the flesh tinged brown and slightly crispy at the edges, just as he liked it. He licked his lips.
      Looking around the kitchen once more, he saw it was bright, well stocked and expensive. Colin approved. An array of pans hung along the ceramic tiled walls, glinting in the sunlight. It had taken him a good few minutes to choose one that he thought fitting for the frying of bacon. Unnecessary of course, but he had enjoyed the choice nonetheless.
     The pans weren’t his though and neither was the kitchen. They were Michael’s, the colleague whose house he had come over to after work. It had been a long day at the office, but to come here afterwards made it all worthwhile. Michael was now waiting for Colin in the living room and probably getting a little impatient.
      ‘Be through in just a minute,’ called Colin through the connecting door. He couldn’t see Michael for the wall but could hear him moving about. That’s the thing with wooden floors, he thought. They make so much noise. Colin personally preferred carpeted surfaces and had laid them throughout his own house. Luscious red carpets.
     He switched the hob off and tipped the bacon onto a plate he had found. Then, taking a couple of slices of bread and a bottle of ketchup from the cupboard, he put a sandwich together. Lots of ketchup. It wasn’t a bacon sandwich without it.

When Colin entered the living room, Michael was still lying on his side, whimpering quietly. A pool of blood was spreading slowly on the polished beech floor. Though it was a dark, rich red, from where Colin was standing it reflected well the blue neon light from the fish tank and made him think briefly of alien blood.
     He carried his sandwich over to the armchair opposite Michael and placed it on the arm. The coppery tang of the blood made its way up his nostrils as he settled into the chair. He picked the sandwich off the plate and took a large bite, tearing the bacon and chewing it slowly.
      ‘Michael, you really have a great house here,’ he said enthusiastically through the mouthful. ‘I only wished my kitchen was half as fun to cook in as yours is.’
      Michael painfully angled his head to face Colin, the strain it took illustrated by the sweat that trickled from his forehead. Multiple droplets were rolling slowly down his nose and dropping delicately into the blood below. The pool had nearly reached Colin’s feet now, but he made no attempt to lift them out of the way.
      ‘You fuck.’ Michael eventually managed to sputter. ‘You’re killing me for a meaningless fucking promotion?’ He choked on the last word before re-fixing his stare at Colin. The blood was seeping quickly from the gash in his belly.
      ‘There’s no need to be unsportsmanlike, Michael. It’s not a meaningless promotion, it’s one that I quite like the sound of.’ Colin paused to take another bite out of his sandwich, speaking through a mouthful of bacon. ‘And besides, I just don’t like you very much and when I found out yesterday that you had got it instead of me, well, I was a bit pissed off. I don’t need much more reason than that.’
      ‘On even ground I could have snapped you like twig, you sly bastard.’
      ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that Michael. That’s why I slipped that blade into you as soon as you opened the front door. I didn’t want to give you the advantage.’
      ‘Fucker.’ Tears now accompanied the sweat as Michael began to sob. He squirmed about desperately on the floor, smearing the blood that had collected at his side.
      ‘You know,’ said Colin, oblivious to the other man’s actions. ‘When they enforced this whole one-kill-per-person… no, what did they call it? Ah, the Peoples’ License to Kill. Yeah, when they enforced that I never thought I would have a need to use it, or would even enjoy it as much as I have today.’
     Michael suddenly realised what Colin was saying and stopped his whimpering.
      ‘You can’t have done this legally. I went to the registrar last week. I took out hit protection…’
      ‘Hit protection,’ scoffed Colin. ‘You rich bastard. If you can afford protection then you deserve to die. The Government intended this law to make things a bit fairer, so that it’s not just punks in estates and bums in gutters slitting the throats of the innocent. But you rich bastards still think you can buy your way out. Well you’re wrong. Well, this is my one kill and you won’t take that satisfaction away from me.’       Michael’s eyes widened suddenly.
      ‘No, listen, Colin, it would have gone through by now. I put the cheque in last week. If you went to some backend hit registrar to get the licence, the Government will find out. They run checks and they’ll kill you for it. Take me to a hospital. I won’t press charges, I promise.’
      ‘Denvill & Hutchinson aren’t backend. They’re high street registrars.’ Colin put the last of the sandwich in his mouth and leaned forward so that his face was he inches from Michael’s. ‘They even give you a little certificate of your kill if you pay them an extra tenner. I can afford to do that now that I’m getting your promotion.’
      ‘You can’t have.’ Michael spat droplets of blood as he spoke. It mixed with saliva and dribbled down his chin.
      ‘Well, I did. And do you know what they told me? They told me you should always register for protection with cash in hand. Cheques always take awhile to go through and, er…’ Colin smiled and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘They have a tendency to bounce.’
      ‘Wh-What? It’s fuck-er-ing… Oh God. Please. Pleesh. Puh-’ Michael’s speech was losing coherence. Colin chuckled. He brushed the crumbs from his suit and sat back a little to take in the scene. What a mess. What a silly, pathetic mess. If the company had known they were promoting a man who died like a child, they would have surely dropped him in an instant.
     Colin pulled his trouser leg up and took the knife from the sheath strapped to his shin. He held the blade high and waited for Michael to scream before making his move.

 

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2005 Rowan Davies
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
December 2005
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1723
 

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