“Please kill me,” he pleads. She can’t look at him. Slowly, she retreats. Her final words are: “You’ll never walk out on me again.”
The police find him. He has lost seven pints of blood and it has taken two days for him to die.
They never find his legs.
It had been nine years. He never expected to see Billy again.
He passes prison security and waits. Billy appears. Worn, altered. Older.
Silence. Then: “Thanks for seeing me. Before…too late.”
Hesitation. Then: “Thank you for putting me here, Dad. I understand. Finally.”
They embrace for the last time.
Franklin strode into town like a hungry dog. His pistol finger red raw, his eyes blood-swept. He booked into the first whorehouse on Main and had himself a feast. Six beautiful women in six hours. Fat Sheriff Anderson arrived and shot Franklin stone cold dead.
Jealousy is a miserable thing.
The wolf gnashed at the boy’s ripe jugular and in a bloody fountain chomped off a fatty cheek. Then he devoured the squirming boy’s beef-lined intestines.
The shepherds gave wolf a nod. “Thanks for that mate. We owe you.”
“No problem,” said the full-bellied wolf, “the pleasure was a-a-a-a-a-ll mine.”
The virus spread. By June it had infected the Northern hemisphere. By September, only a few thousand of us were left alive. Our immunity was a puzzle. There seemed no reason whywe had survived. Then ‘Dark December’, someone claimed to have sight in one eye. We made him king.
A curse befell the town. Children started disappearing. The town panicked. Was the haggard woman on the hill a witch? The mayor led the townsfolk to her shack and hammered the door down. She was already dead. Bludgeoned by the small fists of a hundred children who were never found.
Two charred bodies were discovered within when the commune was burnt to the ground. Tragic lovers who had met twenty years ago in a Colorado college where they had fallen instantly in love, married and had an only child who grew up loathing their liberal attitudes and loving fire.
We stayed in a haunted house. Held hands and couldn’t let go. Flinched at noises, winced and huddled under covers. Finally a ghost appeared, we screamed, he apologized for frightening us and as a goodwill gesture spent an hour doing a stand up comedy routine about being dead and Thatcher.