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My mud-spattered boot kicked the door in, and there he was - huddled in the far corner of the vandalised room.
I approached his bedraggled frame. He was quivering like a newborn deer. I could hear his teeth chattering. He was mumbling some kind of inane prayer.
"Haven't you heard!" I scoffed, stamping my boot on the loose floorboards. "God doesn't listen to the prayers of spineless weasels!"
I observed a steaming yellow-coloured puddle slowly expanding around the seat of his grimy trousers.
"Jesus-Jesus-Jesus-Jesus" he blabbered. I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull.
"Filth like you should be drowned at birth!" - I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
The next day I was chatting-up some rich bimbo at the bar in a plush Paris hotel.
**Phone call for Monsieur Zultan**
I informed the bit-of-skirt that was me, then I strolled over to the phone at the Reception Desk.
"Yes?"
-Voice on phone: "Mister Zultan?"
"It is."
-Voice on phone: "Listen carefully. Escort the girl at the bar to Room 44 and eliminate her. Make it look like a rape gone wrong. You know the drill."
I hung up and returned to the target at the bar.
"That was a short call" she mused, unknowlingly fluttering her eye-lashes and flicking back her long black hair.
"Cigarette?" I asked.
She took one of my smokes and placed it between her scarlet-painted lips.
45 minutes or so later, after some shameless silver-tongued word-weaving, I was guiding her tipsy body through the door of Room 44. The point-of-no-return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death - my favourite combination.
I strangled the life out of her at the point of orgasm. Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same stick collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
Two weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The British Secret Service know it pays to take good care of their most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen him since the murder of Princess Diana.
Cliff Richard was there with his 'hush-hush' manfriend.
Even Defence Secretary Jeff Hoon was there, and he seemed rather nervous when I prolonged my conversation with his fine lady wife.
Through Henman's semi-final match I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one-and-only Jack Nickelson. He told me about the plot of his new movie: a thriller about an international hitman.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne.... if only the old devil knew.
I approached his bedraggled frame. He was quivering like a newborn deer. I could hear his teeth chattering. He was mumbling some kind of inane prayer.
"Haven't you heard!" I scoffed, stamping my boot on the loose floorboards. "God doesn't listen to the prayers of spineless weasels!"
I observed a steaming yellow-coloured puddle slowly expanding around the seat of his grimy trousers.
"Jesus-Jesus-Jesus-Jesus" he blabbered. I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull.
"Filth like you should be drowned at birth!" - I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
The next day I was chatting-up some rich bimbo at the bar in a plush Paris hotel.
**Phone call for Monsieur Zultan**
I informed the bit-of-skirt that was me, then I strolled over to the phone at the Reception Desk.
"Yes?"
-Voice on phone: "Mister Zultan?"
"It is."
-Voice on phone: "Listen carefully. Escort the girl at the bar to Room 44 and eliminate her. Make it look like a rape gone wrong. You know the drill."
I hung up and returned to the target at the bar.
"That was a short call" she mused, unknowlingly fluttering her eye-lashes and flicking back her long black hair.
"Cigarette?" I asked.
She took one of my smokes and placed it between her scarlet-painted lips.
45 minutes or so later, after some shameless silver-tongued word-weaving, I was guiding her tipsy body through the door of Room 44. The point-of-no-return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death - my favourite combination.
I strangled the life out of her at the point of orgasm. Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same stick collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
Two weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The British Secret Service know it pays to take good care of their most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen him since the murder of Princess Diana.
Cliff Richard was there with his 'hush-hush' manfriend.
Even Defence Secretary Jeff Hoon was there, and he seemed rather nervous when I prolonged my conversation with his fine lady wife.
Through Henman's semi-final match I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one-and-only Jack Nickelson. He told me about the plot of his new movie: a thriller about an international hitman.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne.... if only the old devil knew.
Ahh - sex and death again. My day is already complete.
Mr Snuggly wrote:
> Good one. Again, are you putting into a book? I've seen you write at
> least 15-20 of these things and they're all very high in quality.
I've never really thought about it. I just write these little stories to amuse myself. Maybe I should think about compiling them and sending them off to publishers. I'll give it a try when I've written a few more.
Thanks for the comments.
> Good one. Again, are you putting into a book? I've seen you write at
> least 15-20 of these things and they're all very high in quality.
I've never really thought about it. I just write these little stories to amuse myself. Maybe I should think about compiling them and sending them off to publishers. I'll give it a try when I've written a few more.
Thanks for the comments.
I love the way you put those words together! Very interesting..
Good one. Again, are you putting into a book? I've seen you write at least 15-20 of these things and they're all very high in quality.
nice one mate.
very entertaining
very entertaining
My mud-spattered boot kicked the door in, and there he was - huddled in the far corner of the vandalised room.
I approached his bedraggled frame. He was quivering like a newborn deer. I could hear his teeth chattering. He was mumbling some kind of inane prayer.
"Haven't you heard!" I scoffed, stamping my boot on the loose floorboards. "God doesn't listen to the prayers of spineless weasels!"
I observed a steaming yellow-coloured puddle slowly expanding around the seat of his grimy trousers.
"Jesus-Jesus-Jesus-Jesus" he blabbered. I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull.
"Filth like you should be drowned at birth!" - I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
The next day I was chatting-up some rich bimbo at the bar in a plush Paris hotel.
**Phone call for Monsieur Zultan**
I informed the bit-of-skirt that was me, then I strolled over to the phone at the Reception Desk.
"Yes?"
-Voice on phone: "Mister Zultan?"
"It is."
-Voice on phone: "Listen carefully. Escort the girl at the bar to Room 44 and eliminate her. Make it look like a rape gone wrong. You know the drill."
I hung up and returned to the target at the bar.
"That was a short call" she mused, unknowlingly fluttering her eye-lashes and flicking back her long black hair.
"Cigarette?" I asked.
She took one of my smokes and placed it between her scarlet-painted lips.
45 minutes or so later, after some shameless silver-tongued word-weaving, I was guiding her tipsy body through the door of Room 44. The point-of-no-return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death - my favourite combination.
I strangled the life out of her at the point of orgasm. Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same stick collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
Two weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The British Secret Service know it pays to take good care of their most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen him since the murder of Princess Diana.
Cliff Richard was there with his 'hush-hush' manfriend.
Even Defence Secretary Jeff Hoon was there, and he seemed rather nervous when I prolonged my conversation with his fine lady wife.
Through Henman's semi-final match I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one-and-only Jack Nickelson. He told me about the plot of his new movie: a thriller about an international hitman.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne.... if only the old devil knew.
I approached his bedraggled frame. He was quivering like a newborn deer. I could hear his teeth chattering. He was mumbling some kind of inane prayer.
"Haven't you heard!" I scoffed, stamping my boot on the loose floorboards. "God doesn't listen to the prayers of spineless weasels!"
I observed a steaming yellow-coloured puddle slowly expanding around the seat of his grimy trousers.
"Jesus-Jesus-Jesus-Jesus" he blabbered. I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull.
"Filth like you should be drowned at birth!" - I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
The next day I was chatting-up some rich bimbo at the bar in a plush Paris hotel.
**Phone call for Monsieur Zultan**
I informed the bit-of-skirt that was me, then I strolled over to the phone at the Reception Desk.
"Yes?"
-Voice on phone: "Mister Zultan?"
"It is."
-Voice on phone: "Listen carefully. Escort the girl at the bar to Room 44 and eliminate her. Make it look like a rape gone wrong. You know the drill."
I hung up and returned to the target at the bar.
"That was a short call" she mused, unknowlingly fluttering her eye-lashes and flicking back her long black hair.
"Cigarette?" I asked.
She took one of my smokes and placed it between her scarlet-painted lips.
45 minutes or so later, after some shameless silver-tongued word-weaving, I was guiding her tipsy body through the door of Room 44. The point-of-no-return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death - my favourite combination.
I strangled the life out of her at the point of orgasm. Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same stick collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
Two weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The British Secret Service know it pays to take good care of their most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen him since the murder of Princess Diana.
Cliff Richard was there with his 'hush-hush' manfriend.
Even Defence Secretary Jeff Hoon was there, and he seemed rather nervous when I prolonged my conversation with his fine lady wife.
Through Henman's semi-final match I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one-and-only Jack Nickelson. He told me about the plot of his new movie: a thriller about an international hitman.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne.... if only the old devil knew.