Grit 7

He walked past the bodies of the two men he had just killed, opened the front door and emptied both barrels of his sawn-off shotgun into the gut of the person that came charging at him. It stopped the guy dead in his tracks. He cracked off two head shots from the custom glock, buried the axe in the breastbone of another guy, left a flick knife protruding from the left testicle of a fourth guy and, standing before John, was pleased to note that he had in no way exhausted either his resources or his reserves of energy.

‘There’ll be more coming, Grit. You can bet on that.’

‘I doubt it. John – from what I’ve seen you don’t run a very tight ship. If this shower of cunts was supposed to impress me they didn’t do a very good job, did they?’

‘You got lucky, you shithead.’

‘Yeah, I did. Now where is the one that Grimoire wants dead?’

‘Stupid bastard’s lying over there with your knife hanging out of his ballsack.’

‘Know what this is about? Why does Grimoire want him dead?’

‘He never mentioned it?’

”He just said business but I am curious if there is something more to this.’

‘Sonny here stuck his cock in Grimoire’s daughter and the guy ain’t too happy about it, that’s right Frank, isn’t it?’

Through gritted teeth Frank offered up confirmation. Shit – a fucking domestic; Grimoire had got him involved in a fucking domestic. This bullshit would not stand. There was no way on God’s green earth that Grit was going to go through shit like this because some kid did what kids did. Takes two tango as they said. Bang! Grit shot John through his right eye – dead as a door nail, his head opened up and spread around the room. He walked over to Frank, slid the barrel of the gun in his mouth, whispered this is regrettable, and then pulled the trigger.

Grit was a professional. Grimoire had to be yanking his chain putting him on a job like this – this should have either been something he handled himself or something he threw to some worthless dickhead that wanted to make a name for themselves. Grit was pissed. Grimoire owed him.

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One Response

  1. OI! Grimsley! These are great stories. They rock hard as blog writing flash fiction, literary skill enough so they work but a huge fucking market as well the violence and remind a little WSB. Why are you fiddling arseing around making huge pointless social networks? Focus your energy, man. Point all this energy in one direction, these stories. You can be a wanker New York Poet in your spare time. I have made $3, 021 dollars from my writing this year on the internet. That’s Australian dollars i.e. no bullshit. How about you? Go look at my blog, and at the very least put me on your blogroll. I wasn’t wrong in the fucking Writers Cafe, was I?

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