He picked the biggest target, fat shotgun fuck, squeezed his fists and moved forward, then veered right to the short turd brandishing a Magnum beside him.
Breathe. Stay calm. Get technical.
Turd raised the gun, but slow, so he kidney punched, grabbed his wrist and rammed the butt into his nose. Blood shock. Spun him round by the ponytail before slow fat-fuck fired the shotgun. When he did, rat-turd was in the way, being pushed forward into the barrel. Barrel down, trigger pulled in shock. Rat-turd’s knee exploded.
Scream. Blood. Breathe. Show.
He kept pushing rat-turd into fat-fuck and fat-fuck went down with the sails-winding thud of stupid on concrete. The shotgun clattered out of his grip and into Yanks and he heard the sweet kerching of the reload as his fellow escapee aimed it at the other four mongs.
“Brothers, you best be letting my brother do his thing.”
So he did. He lifted rat-turd’s head by the tail and brought it down onto fat-fuck’s nose, crunching both bones. Then again. And again. Again. Skull splintering skull, shattering, grinding. Soon the crunches turned to squelches, pulp on pulp, until only gurning cunt-gristle remained.
It was over long before he stopped. Eventually he did and stood up, blood splattered, shoulders bulging, panting and looked at the faces that looked back at him. He nodded to the Yank and he nodded back and the other four kept their hands raised and jaws dropped.
“Brothers, don’t think I’ll be fulfilling my pledge to the frat after all,” the Yank said as he turned the shotgun towards the mongo bikes and emptied it. The flames glowed nice in the sunrise.
THE TWO MEN WHO BECAME MEN AGAIN IN FRONT OF THEM
He picked up rat-turd’s Magnum from the gore pool and was glad he did. As they walked towards their own rides homeless there was the click of a third pistol. Must’ve come from a boot, he surmised as they turned.
“F-f-fuck you faggots.”
It was a showboat. They had to do something after their rods were burning and two brothers head-fucked. He raised the gun and aimed it at Hi-Hat’s shaking greasy head. He could do it easy, drop him without a breath, but everyone deserves a chance.
“Have a think before you fire that shot,” he said. “At this distance you’re going to miss – you just wanna do it for show, make yer mates think you tried. But you’re not that good, you’re a country cunt-fuck wannabe and you’re gonna miss. Me, I got 23 kills under my belt, best training in the world. When you squeeze your trigger, I’m gonna squeeze mine and your dumb green brains are going out the back of your head in one.”
There was a pause. He could see the cogs turning, dawning his words were true. The meat-sock threw his gun down on the ground, raising his hands. The gun bounced on the tarmac and fired all on ownsome, bullet hitting the twat in the leg, dropping him with a high-pitched Wilhelm yelp.
Good, he thought. It’ll look like he tried after all. Everyone’s a winner. Nobody helped the screamer. The other three were hollow arseholes and they gaped at the two men who became men again in front of them.
They didn’t need to say anything else, to them or each other. They walked slow and steady, got on their bikes and rode away.
Just like old times.
Hove Press 