As a matter of fact old chap…
by Sean McGahey
Writing is the most interesting action of any day for William, a refined looking opium addicted novelist who enjoys the un-sanitised act of writing filth. On this particular occasion his two golden retrievers are in the throes of spasmodic fits. “Lucky” the larger of the dogs has bitten her tongue clean off with blood flowing from between her teeth and splashing across the white tiled floor, walls and curtains; “Paisley” has already lost control of her bowels. Eventually they both flop to the floor like two bags of fat and bones.
Having knocked at the door, and receiving permission to come in, Thompson advanced into the drawing room. The room is overflowing with antique furniture, and on each of the two large sofas are three large cushions. In a very concerned manner, “I do believe…” began Thompson, addressing William “What a waste of two beautiful dogs” whilst stepping over matted lumps of flesh and hair. William closes his notebook, lights up a cigarette and slowly gets up from his chair. “A waste, how on earth am I to write about poisoned dying dogs if I’ve never witnessed or experienced the real thing?”
Thompson lights a cigarette and pours himself a drink “What kind of novel are you writing?” Thompson asks whilst looking at the last flick of a paw. Picking up his notebook William proudly declares “A preposterous tale of murder and rape!” Not sure where this conversation is going Thompson replies “Do you mean rape then murder?” Looking rather annoyed William snaps “Don’t be absurd!! Murder then the unholy act of brutally vandalising the victims’ body…rape! Not to be confused with necrophilia” Thompson looking slightly perplexed “Oh? Are you sure? What’s with the dead dogs?”
“The dogs are for another project and as for raping a dying person…the brain is still alive whilst they are dying, in some cases they can still see what is happening to them.” Lost in thought for a moment William mumbles “I’m sure you or I will experience this sooner or later.” Looking slightly worried Thompson quickly finishes his drink and asks “So how are you going to experience this barbaric ritual of murder and…rape?” The novelist places his notebook and pen on the table and from the inside of his smoking jacket pulls out a small revolver. “I’m glad you asked!” Thompson takes a step back “What’s with the gun old chap?” Within a blink of an eye the first bullet thuds into Thompson’s chest creating an almost perfect black hole the size of a 20 pence piece. Thompson’s brown jumper slowly turns black with blood. Thompson falls backwards and hits the wall, his face turns chalk white and is desperately gasping for air. The second bullet slams into his stomach; William opens his notebook and starts writing in shorthand. Thompson slumps down to the floor with a look of complete horror and disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. The novelist kneels down beside him and whispers “You cannot believe that this is actually happening? Can you? What’s it like? Are you in pain? Don’t worry my dear friend it’ll soon be over for you and the start of something for…them” With a loud thump the third bullet cracks into the side of Thompson’s head. The side of Thompson’s skull shatters across the floor. “Is he dead?” asks a voice from the back of the room behind a large heavy red curtain. “Absolutely dead as a door nail” William joyously replies. The curtain is swiftly pulled back and three naked men stroll forward already lubricating themselves.
William steps back and finding it hard to contain himself shouts “Now take your time boys, I don’t want to miss a thing!”