Walkin Killings Pt. 3

Perfect Day, by The Constellations.

Seen pointed the gun in his hand into the old man’s face and he pressed the brown bottle he held in the other that contained a curious white powder against Sven’s nose.  He said, “You left this little brown bottle on the counter, near your mess.  And you left this metal weapon in the cupboard above.  What have you been doing? What did you intend to do, with me, with these?”  He pressed it against Sven's nose so hard that it made a crackling noise.

Sven looked up beyond the barrel of his own pistol, into Seen’s eyes.  He felt urine seep out.  He was about to die: he was certain of it.  He said, “I intended to kill you.”

He felt a charge of electricity in his loins; such a sick bastard that he was.

Seen sighed.  He pulled both evil things away from Sven’s face and sat down, and he placed these tools down on the table, away from Sven.

Seen said, “You are honest here and now, and that is payment for more life for you, for a short length of time.  Let us begin on a new footing, shall we?”

Sven nodded, and he felt a bit of semen flow out.  Indeed, he had a bit of an orgasm.  Gross bastard.

Seen continued, “Now is the Question and Answer Time, do you comprehend?”

Sven nodded.  He did not know what was about to happen, but he was fully involved.  He wanted more, for some strange reason.

Seen said, “Good.”  He sniffed the top of the green bottle of beer and smiled.  It was safe.  He smelled the open brown bottle of powdered sedative and he frowned.


He held up the green bottle and chugged that beer down.  He did not take his eyes off of Sven, and when he was finished, he threw that green bottle at the wall behind Sven’s head with such force that it punched through the wall-board and hit the outside siding and then clunked down between the studs.

Sven said, “May I have a sip of my own beer?”

Seen nodded.  “Of course.  Beer loosens the tongue.”

Sven grabbed his own green bottle, and when he did, Seen whipped up the pistol and said, “Wait a minute.”  

Then he took the green bottle from Sven’s hand and set it down between them.  He said, “How much of the powder does it take?”

Sven felt watery shit seep out from his arse.  He said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Seen punched Sven in the left eye with his huge, meaty fist.  He said, “You must not play this game in such a manner.  Now listen: how much of the powder in this brown bottle does it take to do what you intended to do with me?”

Sven shit himself as he orgasmed in his tighty whities.  He was, indeed, no match for this newcomer.

Sven said, “About the size of a grape.”

Seen said, “How much will kill you?”

Sven said, “I've never bothered to find out.”

Seen dumped the contents of the brown bottle into the green bottle and he saw that the beer began to rise.  He dropped the gun onto the table and pressed down upon the top of the beer bottle with his palm.   He watched Sven reach for the gun and he whacked Sven with the hand that was steadying the bottle, and this gave Sven a swelling on his right eye.

Seen said, “You cannot cheat.  It is not your move yet.”

The pressure inside the bottle eased, and Seen let the exhale of noxious fumes from this new concoction escape beneath his palm, in small passes of gasses.  He bent and sniffed each time he did this.  He stood back up, and removed his palm.

He said, “The scent from this bottle is much like the escaping wind from the fermenting body of a dead warthog in a mid summer’s day.”

He wiped his palm off on the small patch of hair upon Sven’s old head to dry it off from the putrid smell, and he grabbed up the pistol with the other hand.


He pressed the pistol into Sven’s left eye, which was swelling and turning purple, and he said, “Now you be the judge.  You have to decide how many sips you will take until you finish the bottle.  Each sip will mean the loss of a digit.  A thumb for a finger of lager, a toe for a sip of your life, until you finish it all.”

Sven finished shitting and cumming and pissing himself, and he looked at the empty brown bottle and he looked at the bubbly green bottle of tainted beer before him on the table.

He had had never known such fear, and at the same time, he had never known such joy.

What would he do?

All answers would be acceptable to Seen: Sven knew this at such a moment.

He had an instinct that none of us should ever know.



This is what that means:

Sven grabbed the green bottle and held it up, and he looked into Seen’s face with his one good eye.



He said, “Fuck You.  Kill Me.”

He swung the green bottle at Seen’s head and Seen ducked.



When the pistol fractured his skull, he felt the release of another bodily fluid: blood spurting out. 

White light drained into red drained into black drained into brown drained into green drained into clear, and then he was back in his youth.

Swizzeland.

Lederhosen.

Wheel and stick.

Licorice.

It smelled like the scalding of flesh.  It smelled like a barbeque.  It smelled like someone had cauterized a weeping head wound with a red hot spoon from a gas stove in a shitty apartment in Fuckno.

My Moon,by Feist. Grizzly Bear Mix.

His wrists burned.


His arms were tethered behind him.

His right eye opened, but the left would not.  A blurred figure wavered before him, awash in the pink of seeped blood.

Sven said, “I thought I killed you, Father.” He went away in his head again...

He awoke again in the flash of a new white light, and then the white flash exploded again.  Seen smacked him a third time with his open palm. 

Seen said, “I will not hit you again with this marvelous iron weapon.  But perhaps you would like to play this game for yourself in a better manner?”

Sven shook his head to make it clear, but this action made his eyesight grow dim and his head to throb more.  He said, “Please don’t hit me again.  I will do what you say.”

Seen said, “That will purchase you more time.  You should know that I had to stop the bleeding from your skull with a hot iron.  Sometimes, the wound heals.  Most times, it turns green and begins to stink, and then death follows.  That may take a week of pain.”

Sven grimaced.  “I don't want to get an infection, gangrene.  I need to get to the hostibal.”

Seen’s eyes widened.  He said, “Do you mean the place where you and I first met?”

Sven shivered.  He recalled how he had almost turned onto a side street to get home, instead of driving past the hostibal.  How would everything have turned out if he had simply turned left?

Seen said, “If you are nice, you can go there to the hostibal.  You should see what I have done to your lower digits.”  He held up a small teacup, and inside, there were five small toes.

Sven passed out again.

Seen laughed.  He put the teacup back into the refrigerator, near the green bottles and a plate of sausage. 

This excellent cold box invention with the green bottles of beer inside of it chilled his own toes, as the cold air seeped out onto the floor, over the sandals he wore.  



Birkenstocks.

He grabbed another green bottle, to sip in patient rest, for the re-awakening of his prey.

As he sat back down, gulping half of the bottle, he heard a soft sibilance in his left ear.

“Sssssseeeeeeeeeeeeen…..”

This Walkin got the willies.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.