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When I struck, it was with the searing white chill of joy – the finely-tuned skills of the hunter at play.  

Fucking poetry in motion, man.

None of that animalistic, heated instinct that fiction likes to ascribe to us.   No way.   It’s pure, cold, furious pleasure.   Action as art: the calculated, crafted act of death and devouring.   Exhilarating.

He was surprising though.   Fought back, in the dark – fought too fast, too powerfully.   Too fucking silently.   Threw him against the side fence to slow him down, shook him like the Cat shakes rats, and wrestled him to the ground.   Finally overpowered him with one knee in his chest and a steely right hand clasping his left wrist, while the other knee pinned down his skinny right forearm and the free hand clutched his throat too tightly.   The night was quiet and still.

I leaned in close to the turned-away face, and said, “About time we met.”

And he looked up.

And we had met.


I knew him.   I fucking knew him.

So do you.

Month ago.   The mall.   That familiar smell of stale breath and unwashed flesh and worse things.   The drugged-out old crazy who struck up a conversation.  And mentioned a name.

What the hell?

“What the hell?”

He grinned at me then, and his teeth were grey in the shadowy half-light, and his irises were very white.   Then he snivelled, and made a sudden sharp attempt to throw me off.

He failed.   Just.

I leaned in again and showed my own teeth.

“What – the – fuck – are – you – doing – here?”

He nodded, then shook his head sadly.

“Couldn’t handle it, buddy.   But couldn’t fight it.   And I was wrong – she did know.   She knew, kid.   And she said…”

He blinked and forgot.

“What?   Said what?   What the fuck did she say?”

He looked from side to side craftily, and leaned up to confide in me.

“She said I should keep an eye on you.   Or I wouldn’t like what happened to me.   But – but I don’t like what’s happened to me anyway…   She’s gonna be pissed at me, now though.   Pissed at me now…”

He cried a bit and snuffled, while my thoughts raced and my attention wandered.

And my hands slackened.

A quick mad convulsion, and he had an arm free and had flung me across the yard and solidly into a tree.   And ran like the maniac he was.


There you have it.   Stalker caught, stalker talked, stalker baulked.   And Jonathon’s fucked.

Why?   Because Amelia wants to play again.  


Fuck me.




One Comment

  1. YES.
    we’re finally getting to know who Amelia is..

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