Tuesday, 6 September 2011
BLOODY WOMEN! by Steven Chapman
In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it.
As I lay on the hard floorboards of Mrs. Stroud’s living room I tried not to think about the fact I was one of those people.
She was a small woman, but she had the kind of breasts you could see coming in time to check your breath and straighten your tie – before you had to talk to their owner.
She may have been small but she was as vicious as a bulldog with a new chew toy. Her toy of choice? A semi-automatic pistol, fully loaded; the safety off.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t scared. I’ve been threatened before, by women as well. Some of them were even prettier than Mrs. Stroud, but this time was different. She had clocked me pretty good when I entered the house and she had a strange look in her eyes, as if she wasn’t quite looking at me but staring into a void between us that only she could see.
“On the fucking floor,” she screamed again, spittle flying from her lips.
I was already as flat as I could manage, but I tried to oblige by pushing myself further into the cracks between the floorboards. I sidled to the right a little hoping there was a slight dip in the floor that would let me shuffle down even further.
“Stop moving,” she screamed, foiling my plan to inch out of the front door several feet away.
“Look, lady. I have no idea what your problem is but…”
“Shut up, shut up. I know what you want and you’re not getting it.”
She thought she knew why I was there.
If she did she wouldn’t be waving the gun around like a baton. If she knew she would have placed the barrel of her husband’s pistol against my perspiration-soaked temple and pulled the trigger.
But that’s women for you – always thinking they’re right!
“You can’t prove a damn thing,” she spat at me. And I mean she actually spat at me. The bitch hocked a loogy that ran down the side of my face. I thought about wiping it off but then thought a hole in the head would be more uncomfortable than the dripping phlegm.
“Look lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My husband! That bastard sent you here to get dirt on me.”
“I’ve never met your husband.” I have no problem lying to woman, especially ones threatening my life.
“He’s the cheating bastard, not me.”
“I don’t really care.” And I didn’t. “I’m a salesman; I’m selling these fine leather jackets.” I tried to indicate the fine leather jacket that I was wearing.
“Don’t… don’t move.”
I began to get to my feet. Slowly though, I’m not an idiot.
“Look, I haven’t met you or your husband before, I’m a salesman, you’re fucking crazy and I don’t appreciate you pointing a gun at me.” On my feet now. “I’m going to grab my satchel and I’m going to leave, if you want to stop me you’re going to have to shoot me.”
The gun wavered as Mrs. Stroud mulled over her options.
“My husband… he didn’t send you?”
“I’m just a salesman, lady.”
“Let’s just forget this ever happened, I was never here.”
She let the gun fall to her side.
“Oh God, I’m…”
The stupid bitch couldn’t even finish a sentence.
“I think you should put the gun down, before you hurt yourself.”
“Oh,” she dropped the gun onto the coffee table. I jumped as the heavy weapon crashed onto the glass surface.
Jesus, just like a broad to throw a loaded gun around.
She turned to sit down on the sofa and I picked up the piece.
I didn’t give her the chance to say anything else. She looked up and saw me holding the weapon. My God, the look she gave me made it look like her IQ had just dropped another twenty points.
I pulled the trigger and waved bye-bye to Mrs. Stroud.
Twisting my neck to crack the bones I rubbed my shoulder blades. Man, that floor was uncomfortable. I wiped my prints off the gun and placed it on the floor next to the sofa; there was no need to throw it around like she had.
With any luck the police would put two and two together and come up with Mr. Stroud. He’d never met me in person, just talked to me on the telephone. He was the only one who could be tied to this. If not it didn’t really matter, he’s paid me already so I don’t really give a shit who goes down for offing the bitch.
As long as it’s not me.
Slipping on my shades I placed the satchel on the coffee table. I flicked open the catches and retrieved my hat. I unzipped my jacket and took it to the downstairs cupboard where I hung it up and stowed the now empty bag.
Glancing in the hallway mirror I checked my appearance. A quick tug at my collar to straighten it. My shirt was already tucked in but I readjusted it, a policeman has to take pride in his uniform.
I took out my badge and polished it with my sleeve, before attaching it to my crisp blue shirt.
I could already hear sirens in the distance. Showtime.
The back of my head was still throbbing, but at least my hat covered the bump. I turned and took a final look at Mrs. Stroud. Even if he went to jail, at least Mr. Stroud had escaped the silly bitch.
Fair play to the old broad though, she had clocked me pretty good.
Steven Chapman is a horror and thriller author, who has been abusing the English language since 1984. He enjoys nothing more than a good blood-curdling tale and spends far too much of his time reading, watching or writing horror. Most days he just sits inside polishing his chainsaw and praying for the Zombocalypse. For more information on Steven, and his work, please visit http://stevenchapmanwriter.com