Deadly Drafts - CH 44

MAGIC WAND 

 

Sheila Talbot sat in the hush of her basement apartment, computer warming her lap. The muted television flickered its weak light. She sought distraction in page after page after page of the internet. But. Every time she closed her eyes, the dark voice filled her head. Imaginary hands thrust from the shadows to choke the air from her throat. A draft slithered around the plywood covering her broken window, curling down her neck, bringing her back every time she found forgetfulness. Her BitTorrent client hovered behind the internet's parade of memes and porn and cat pictures, a half-dozen Brat Pack movies chugging to download. 

The knocking at her door boomed like gunfire. Sheila's heart skipped. Her vision blurred. She jumped from her sofa, sending the laptop tumbling. Ducking low to the ground, she craned her neck to look out her basement window. A shadow obscured her porch light. She shivered. Instinctively, Sheila ALT+F4'ed her BitTorrent client. One never knows when the MPAA will send their goons. 

Deadly Drafts - CH 43

FUNNY GIRL

Harris ran through Rainbow Lanes' parking lot, unsure of any specific direction other than "away."

"Go! Go! He's going to suplex us to death! This is worse than Death Fist!"

Arthur ran alongside him, neon cheeks and fluttering hair. "Why are we always fighting people with nicknames! Oi, Kavi, your house isn't too far, is it? We can lead him to the cops staking it out."

No one answered.

"Kavi?"

Arthur slowed to a jog. Harris stopped. They turned. Bernard emerged from the bowling alley, a lifeless form slung over his shoulder. Like loading mulch bags, he lumbered through the yellow light of the parking lot and dropped Kavi into to the trunk of a small Honda Civic.

Deadly Drafts - CH 42

CONSTIPATION RELIEVED 

 

The Admiral sat on the toilet, head in hands and heart in the shitter. His magazine—his lovely, gruesome magazine—chuffed on life support. Miss Leslie lived. The bitch. The prison riot bore no fruit. Barring divine intervention, the Admiral lacked capital to buy continued silence from his conspirators inside the prison. Pants at his ankles, he could only imagine sinking down to Davy Jones' Locker.  

He looked to the clock over the vanity. 11 p.m. It seemed only a matter of time now, dwindling ticks and tocks, before his mice escaped their maze. In all likelihood, he'd still be on the toilet, stewing in figurative and literal constipation, when the cops came. Bernard had stormed off in the Honda, leaving the Admiral sans chauffeur. 

Even if he had someone to drive him, the best the Admiral could come up with was to go and shoot the bastards. Shooting a person (or three) couldn't be harder than picking squirrels off his bird feeder, but alas, without transport, without a working phone or money to hire a cab, his sharpshooter fantasies were moot. The dopey Irregulars, for their vomit of slush, never penned a tale of a three dopey idiots gunned down by sniper fire. And while his skills were more than capable of aping their horrible prose, he hadn’t the time to write a new Irregulars story.