Trouble

Filed in Gather Writing Essential by on September 25, 2011 0 Comments

“I heard you detective,” said Wilbur. “I don’t need eyes to see you; I’ve got spiritual eyes to feast with, and a nose to choke your stench.”

            Soho never looked back; already half way to the top of the cellar stairs, already looking for another weapon, already looking for the nightmare to go away, and waking up safely home in  bed.

             But this wasn’t a dream; far from it rest assured. Wilbur grabbed hold of Soho’s ankles, pulling him violently back toward the cellar floor, back toward the hateful, blotted, doom, back toward Knox’s snapping teeth and hated breath.   

             ”Get off me mother fucker!” shrieked Soho.

            Words weren’t enough, neither retaliatory kicks nor smashing fists, or howling for help, could remove the dead thing at Soho’s heels, and the world didn’t care neither did a spider watching from a corner nor did a rat lurking in the murkiness.

            “No!” hollered Soho, as he was hurled across the stone bilge, across the choking ether, hitting brick and mortar with terrific screaming, and with the horror of the blinded fiend bearing down upon him once again for another tasting.

            “I am going to kill you,” said Knox. “Should have never locked me up, should have never gone against the Pilgrim . . . should have never got in the way of Soliloquy. It’s time to die detective; it’s time to pay the piper, mother fucker.”     

             “Is it?” barked Soho standing with the ax clenched tight, mouth opened, eyes opened, ears opened, and the same ax ripped from his clutches earlier had found its way home into his bruised arms, once again, and hollered, “Come on then, Wilbur, come and get me now.”   

            Wilbur did what he was told, did what he had come to England in the first place and careened forward whether he alive or dead, whether he could see or was blind or two hundred pounds of man flesh and bone, he didn’t have a choice.

            With axe raised Soho retaliated, hitting the fiend squarely in the chest with a sickening thud, hurling the both of them inalterably end over end, down the adjacent spiral stone stairwell until both hitting bottom someplace under Ghoulspoon Manor.

            Soho was thrown clear of the naked assailant, and laid several yards under the candles swept chandelier, the reeking and failing shadows of Wilbur grotesques upon bleak and austere walls their only claim to flame. Stunned, for the worse Soho wasn’t going anywhere, he laid there looking up at the undulating, the flickering of the twelve candles, the torrential silhouette of limbs and famine outstretched, the stiff arm of the axe still sticking out of Wilbur, hideously, and getting closer like storm clouds, like vengeance upon the ceiling, and there wasn’t anything Soho could do about it. He didn’t have the strength, others had beat it out him, had beat out what was left from Dr Buttercup’s handy work, and now Soho was all tapped out, was all beaten up, and laid there under a cloud of stench and death .   

  

P.A.L.

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