Captain of Industry

Slam!, and he was on the floor, clutching his head, overwhelmed.


At the same time, he was standing, thrusting upwards with a great shard of perspex, a handy sabre grabbed from the rubbish strewn across the squat.


Felt the press of humanity, the closeness of so many bodies, their stink, the smells of cooking flesh pressed down by the low ceilings, the psychic shock of change to a mind not admitting to the first flush of middle age.


Simultaneously he was alone with the stinking fat bastard.  Ducked, weaved, feinted, then he slashed, and watched as the man looked down with disbelief at the contents of his gut discharging, the purple and grey slippage making its way down his front.  Felt the tremor along the plastic.  Don’t believe it, then.  Makes no difference.  This is where it all ends, an eleven year old boy sending you into the darkness.  A thought crosses the face, the eyes change, but before the man can yell and bring death swarming upon the boy, his throat is torn out, and the boy is down his rat hole.


Where did that come from? …

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