Sven didn’t mean to eat the chauffeur.
He really didn’t.
Yet,
You know by now that the hunger of a cannibal can never be
satiated.
It’s just that he tried to be civil.
Here’s how it went down.
Bloodletting by
Concrete Blonde (a marvelous find by
waahoohah)
Sven walked to the door of the cottage, and the chauffeur
followed.
In the pink sunlight that glowed between the elm trees, over
the wide, manicured greens beyond, Sven had a moment that made him shiver.
Here at this place was an opportunity that afforded great
power. He could pay the man the money
that was in the hidden pocket of his expensive track suit and get some sleep. It had been one hell of a long night in the
bowels of the asshole of the desert.
He opened the door and the man rushed and kicked Sven down from
behind.
Sven went sliding across the hard tile on the small rug and
the Chauffeur slammed the door behind them.
He knelt down over Sven and turned him over. He said, “I want all of your money you
selfish rich bitch.”
Sven had the breath knocked out of him from the kick and his
back jolted with spasms. He struggled to
catch his breath, but the Chauffeur wasn’t having it. He punched Sven in the solar plexus just below
the ribs, and Sven saw the room go grey and begin to tilt away. The bastard was going to punch him into
unconsciousness and then probably tie him up before he awakened.
Sven knew about such things.
Torture: lovely and exquisite pain awaited him, after a brief moment, a
wink in time for his own awareness of his surroundings.
The Chauffeur bent down as Sven’s eyes rolled back in his
head and shouted in his face, “Nighty Night.”
Sven wrapped his arms around the man’s head and opened his
mouth wide as he pulled the man close.
He gnashed his jaw closed around the cheeks and nose of his
new victim and he bit hard and shook furiously left and right until they tore
away.
As he fell into the darkness, he heard the shrieks of pain
from the Chauffeur echo along the walls of the well of his mind, fading away.
He awoke again with a throbbing head ache and his breath
coming back in hitches. He tasted the
intoxicating flavor of iron from blood in his mouth, and he licked his lips.
The world steadied itself, and he looked about. His back let him know that it was not pleased
with the welcome home from the boot of the Chauffeur with what felt like prods
of white hot steel.
He steadied himself with his elbows and crept over onto his
side. His breath came back fully now,
but the hiccups jolted his back. He was
fucked up. He saw on the tile a great
many splotches of dark, red blood, and they lined up into a path that led off
to another part of the cottage.
His attacker would be found in the bathroom, probably trying
to put his face on.
The hiccups were causing him too much pain in his back to be
able to fight. At the risk of fading
back into unconsciousness, he held his breath to get rid of them.
Now listen. The cure
for hiccups comes in many forms, but to halt them efficiently and quickly, one
must understand them. Here is what is going
on: For whatever reason, the diaphragm
(the muscle that causes air to be drawn into the lungs) is having spasms. The only way to prevent the diaphragm from
doing this is to expand it until it can’t contract again.
How?
Simply intake as much air as you can until you can’t take in
anymore. But don’t hold your
breath. You have to keep trying to
inhale more, non stop; keep trying to expand that diaphragm. After the period of time when three or four
hiccups would have happened, the diaphragm should decide to stop having spasms.
Don’t test it by coughing, or they may return.
Sven did this thing, and while he was, he heard whimpering
from down the hall. Water was
running. His breath and his back stopped
having spasms, but his back continued to throb.
Sucker kick to the back. Bastard
deserved to have his face torn off.
He appreciated the effort of his new enemy. Sven had left himself vulnerable, and this
was his punishment. He would not allow
it to happen again.
He knelt and put his head down low and began to curve his
backbone out towards the ceiling, stretching the muscles there.
In a bit, he rolled to his side and arose from that
position, not using his spine.
He eased forward, testing his back as he walked, and turned
left into the kitchen. Anything he found
would do, but he was fond of knives.
There on the counter was a large wooden block with many types of cutting
tools in their wells.
He chose the cleaver and the carver. He held the cleaver with the blade up, and
the carver with the blade down and forward.
One was for chopping, and the other would slice with a passing forward
thrust.
He would cleave meat from bone. A nose and cheeks were not the only things
left on the Chauffeur’s skull.
Sven sneaked down the hall, avoiding the blood. He needed good, dry traction on the soles of
his tennis shoes. Thank goodness his
laces were tied up. Back in the time
period of the 1980’s, it was the style to walk about with laces undone.
He saw the pool of light on the floor from a room on the
left, and the sounds of whimpering grew louder.
Certainly, the man would be facing a mirror. He might even be in a state
of shock, and that would only help Sven.
He would have to make sure that he would have the element of
surprise, or he would face a struggle.
His back would not be his ally.
He reached the edge of the doorway and held the large,
gleaming side of the cleaver so that it reflected the floor in his sight, and
then he slid a short length of it beyond the door frame and turned it a
bit. In the reflection of the blade, he
saw the man’s fancy cowboy boots. They
were black. They were pointed to the
left. The mirror must be on the left wall and not directly opposite of the
doorway. That was good.
He twisted the blade up a bit more and saw the man with both
hands up to his face, trying to arrange a bloodied mass against it.
The running water (why run water when you are trying to save
face?) hid his quickened footfalls.
He raised the cleaver up high and swung down as he closed in
on the Chauffeur. The heavy blade met
with the wrist of the man before him, and the hand attached to it fell away,
hanging by tendons.
Sven had won, just like that.
The Chauffeur looked down at his hand dangling there and
said, “Oh no! How could this have
happened?”
Indeed, he was in shock already.
He turned to look just as Sven punched forward, and the
front edge of the carver blade sliced across the man’s eyes.
Sven stepped back to marvel at his work. He had been lucky. But he knew how to make
use of such luck.
And it had saved him.
He had a big day ahead of him.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out
Like Clockwork by
QOTSA
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