Bloodbath the gruesome murders part one

Bloodbath – The Gruesome Murders

The blood spots, streaks and ponded excess covered Peter’s face. His eyes tore out of this crimson mask with a piercing stare that would frighten any living soul unlucky enough to see them. There were none left to see. He’d finished, this particular session was over and it was time for the bloodbath, with more gruesome murders to follow.

Peter had started this frenzied attack like any other. He’d prepared. He’d been well rehearsed and quite comfortable in carrying out this blitzkrieg on innocent human flesh. This was his third meticulous and truly vicious mass murder.

Dismembering human flesh, removing internal organs and separating human parts so widely that their rightful place became blurred. Peter enjoyed this release of his inner feelings, the acts would suggest he possessed none, but deep down he felt pleasure in this rage and with each event sought even more.

Detective Harry Moon had woken from the best slightly drunk, chilled weather sleep he’d had in a long time. He loved it under the covers. The recent high temperatures and humidity made sleep very unpleasant in Hutson. This coastal town bore the brunt of the tropics climate with monsoon like storms in the evening and brilliant sunshine strangling out the humidity.

The continual ringing wet dash from the car to home had resulted in Harry’s apartment stinking like wet grass and stale mould. No matter how he tried, in opening windows and doors he wasn’t home long enough for it to have any effect. He did leave one window open last week and that didn’t help. It stank, but this morning he didn’t care he was brimming with that warm beautiful sleep feeling. He’d even feel a little cuddly if he had someone to cuddle.

Harry’s cuddling partner Ruth wasn’t likely to be seeing him today. She could only cuddle when her schedule allowed. It didn’t this week as she was involved in a complicated intellectual copyright case. One mumbling arse had decided that his gangster rap image had been ruined while being stolen by another. The interesting aspect was that the persona of “Numb” was a complete fabrication. While the other guy, the one he was suing, was very real, frighteningly real.

His street name was “Dead”. He had a real name, but only the locked juvenile court files held that closely guarded detail. His real name eventually became known during the copyright case, it was revealed to be Arthur Rupert Greentree.
After this pleasuring of himself in a manner that remained his secret, he left the scene. So far, he’d managed to avoid leaving any trace of his presence or his pleasure. He was well practiced in this vital component of his release. Peter left the tools and apron he used. He’d left these at each of the scenes. The Police had no DNA or provenance to help them track Peter or his discarded items. They could only hope to identify the victims, piece them together and trace their recent activity and recent contacts. This wouldn’t help either.

Harry was called as he showered and jumped on the phone as the message light flashed and beeped. It was the Captain, that sloth like fool. A Policeman yes, but while knowing how to negotiate the politics he couldn’t provide any protect and serve function. He was a formless blob of unfit, for physical activity or duty. Still he was in charge and had to be obeyed, albeit reluctantly. The station called him Rotund Boy behind his folded fat back.

The car started with a fart and a bang and Harry was off. This was the third mass hatchet job murder scene and he decide to wait till after to have his breakfast. The younger Police Officers that attended often relived theirs at these type of crime scenes. The DNA soup at the past two was already intense and these extra additions only made it more difficult. What they didn’t know was that Peter brought and spread a wide range of unconnected DNA just to make it all the more complex. He was well rehearsed and had watched a lot of quality TV in his time.

Harry walked up to the end of the lane way and realised this was indeed the same as the previous. Splattered body parts, liquids, internal organs that shouldn’t be seen, and gigantic ponds of blood on the ground, walls, fire escape and rubbish bins. The entire site was one sloppy abattoir. The only bright things to disturb this carnage were the white overalls of the Medical Examiner who’d set up his lights and the standard tent.

These routine acts would not help in this situation as the entire lane way was awash with things that should normally remain intact and internal. In being external and mixed they presented a monumental task of piecing together those that lay about in so many pieces.

Peter had arrived home, immersed himself in the prepared bath and dosed off slightly. His bath was a cocktail of soap, bleach and disinfectant. It was cold but that added to today’s activity. Some strange aspect of punishing himself and cleaning the debris at the same time.

Only Peter could comprehend the combination but that’s all that should he thought. The final act of draining and cleaning the bath also provided a calming sensation. The water and its contents flowed directly into a large container which was then heated until it evaporated. It did not go to the city’s sewage network in any way.

The dry materials that remained were bagged into four small bags and dumped at waste transfers stations in various parts of the city. The container was rinsed and re-boiled after the dry remains were removed. Peter was very careful. He would then retire to his bedroom and sleep, while his air conditioning unit kept out the oppressive heat and life sapping humidity.

Harry sat in his car and lit a smoke. The fact that Rotund Boy had banned smoking in the Police fleet didn’t really bother Harry. That lard arse wouldn’t even know where the cars were, let alone get into one. The smoke from his cigarette filled the car’s interior and started to leak out through the driver’s window. Harry stared at this flow and wondered how he and his support team may catch the thing responsible for these terrible acts.

• How was this person (or persons) targeting these people?
• How was this person (or persons) corralling them all together?
• How was this person (or persons) start in on one, without the others fighting back or running away?
• How was this person (or persons) managing to do all this without being seen or heard?
• How was this person (or persons) getting away without leaving a trace of their identity?

Harry finished his smoke and walked inside the Police station, the workplace he called the Madhouse. Peter woke, dressed and walked to work. He also worked in the Madhouse.

The Madhouse

Harry stumbled into the homicide rooms as he tripped over the cleaner’s trolley. He mumbled a juicy obscenity under his breath while readjusting his rather ageing frame. He was fit sure enough, but he was in his late fifties and his unbalanced recovery was sometimes slower than those young turks that ribbed him about his senior years.

Harry collapsed with a groan down into his fancy office chair. He’d requested the Rolls Royce version as he complained of a bad back so much that rotund boy gave in and gave him one. The chair was a faux leather job with mesh inserts, armrests and a wonderful range of adjustments that only now six months later had he mastered and set for his reclining pleasure. He like to kick back, think and watch.

A serious response was to be provided to anyone who sat in his chair and a slow lingering death was the threat for anyone brave or dumb enough to change the settings. There was a lot of thinking to do this morning.
The homicide rooms were an exact copy of the cliched TV drama / cop show workplaces. So much so that their chaos was the motivation for the very latest show, Hutson Police. The rooms, the look, the smell, complete with the ramshackle mess that somehow allowed its occupants to close a great number of cases with remarkable success.

The TV show aimed to copy this exemplary work ethic and atmosphere and recreate it for the couch dwellers who rated these shows so highly. Hutson Police was launched to the jaded public two weeks ago and had smashed all ratings records. Not really a reality show but certainly based on one.

Peter was terribly pleased about this close connection. He’d watch the producers, location managers and general hangers on who flocked to the Madhouse. He’d especially loved it when they selected the homicide rooms. There was one young lady that was really tasty. She’d be a side project for Peter. He planned a quickie and set the scene.

It would be a solo effort and it was quick. She fell into his arms with such cow eyes, the look was wonderful. The fact that she had lost her stomach added to Peter’s pleasure. Sally had answered an ad for a small yellow car for sale and met Peter at the inner city car park were it was parked. Amazingly it was parked right next to Peter’s van and sadly for Sally, in one of the darkest and loneliest areas.

Sally had leapt out of her car as she had spotted the well-groomed professional looking man beside the small yellow 2 door hatchback. She’d walked towards him while admiring the bargain this vehicle purchase offered. Silly man she’d thought, doesn’t he know how much these little beauties go for? That was the last thing she would actually think as Peter lunged out and slashed her throat in a swooping motion that nearly took her head clean off.

The second swoop was to open up her stomach. He particularly liked that outpouring. She fell back then almost immediately fell forward into Peter’s arms. He was soaked with blood, her entrails and sweat. He was peaking within this solo session.
Sally’s remains were carved up in his trademark fashion which looked frenzied to a casual observer but were in fact a detailed and specialised process to ensure maximum impact on those investigating the scene. Her body pieces strewn about the dank carpark. The eyes he liked to place in points that would indicate the victim was looking at the scene.

Each eye was on the opposite side looking in. He placed the somewhat intact ears on the alternate corners of the location. This placement was the source of much giggling while he did so. His small van had blood splatter trails down the side but he sprayed them with bleach before driving calmly out into the warm evening. The small gardening air pump spray was perfect for this task. It was time for a bath.

Harry adjusted himself as he sat and thought. He relaxed with a large moccochino and a chocolate croissant. He’d have to give this regular chocolate intake away and decided to do so after this morning’s serving. Just then he saw rotund boy heading his way.

“Harry what the fuck are you doing sitting back there feeding your face?” He went on … “Haven’t you got three murder scenes to work on, you lazy bastard?”

“Well yes, I do Sir” the Captain’s real name was Warren, but no-one called him that. Sir to his face and in written communication but rotund boy in all other situations. I have an appointment with the medical examiner in twenty minutes.

“I’m just getting ready for that gruesome meeting with some sugar.”

“Alright then – hurry the fuck up there Harry and get some leads.” … “This weirdo is making fools of us.”

Why was it that every police captain real or invented for films and television was firstly dumb and secondly void of any original lines? The same old dumb arsed shit came out at various points along the investigation or within the heavily edited plot dynamics. They normally yelled, looked like a red boiled lolly and more often than not said – “close the door on your way out”.

This exchange was pretty standard for rotund boy and Harry smiled and agreed wholeheartedly as Warren swaggered away back to his secure, quiet memento laden office. The curtains were drawn all the time and people only got a look in when they were really being yelled at. Not the standard open office bravado, but the “this is serious Bill” type ravings.

His secretary who sat outside this fortress of oblivion watched the merry dance all day long. Peter had been a citizen contractor for the Hutson Police for fifteen years and enjoyed his current posting very much indeed. A fact he now realised, “nearly” as much slaughtering and carving up innocent people. Peter also enjoyed listening to Warren’s phone calls and reading his private emails.

All the phones in the room seemed to go off at the same time. Each phone with a different ring tone. Harry had “Groove Armada’s Superstylin” while the medical examiner Paul had Abba’s Waterloo. Harry didn’t know if that meant anything other than his rather odd choice of music. The assistants phone also went off. It was one of those voice scripts and this one screamed “Stop – it’s the Police” very good, thought Harry.

They all raced to the scene in their respective vehicles, lights and sirens blazing. Harry enjoyed a celebratory cigarette on the way. He might regret the chocolate gorging this morning. He couldn’t be the one throwing up at the scene. There would be a junior fun stopper to do that for him.

Ruth is ready

Ruth meanwhile had turned up to court in her favourite professional yet screw me to the wall outfit and was ready for action. Not Harry action but proper legal action. She’d prepared for the case and was as ready as she could be. She was ready for her date with Dead.

Dead sat strong in the waiting room. He pushed an incredibly ominous presence, perfectly suited to the task of scaring those innocents who were sharing the rather bland and cramped space. Court waiting rooms normally had a single aged pensioner on duty to admonish unruly citizens and disrespectful children. Today the Court had assigned 12 fully armed and much younger guards, each one seriously beefy, bald and worthy of a cliched major action motion picture role.

They looked like Ukrainian missionaries standing their ground and ever ready to kill the lone battle-scarred hero. The waiting room looked like it was battle scared. The yellowing walls and ceiling offset by badly stained carpet kind of war. It was very unpleasant, even more so today.

Dead smiled on the inside as his street cred wouldn’t allow any public display of weakness. Smiling was weak, scowling was the front required. Dead had plenty of front, he was 6 1/2 feet tall, tattoos all over and up the wazoo. He wore a satin jump suit and enough solid gold chains around his neck to trigger a “huge boobs” back problem.

All of his fingers were completely hidden by a range of rings, knuckle duster and statement jewellery that impacted on his ability to perform normal toileting functions. He had to remove each of these, one by one just so he could wipe his own arse. At home he had someone to do this for him, but not here in the waiting room. He was crapping solo and even when he went for a quick pre-court wee, he had to dismantle the digital sideshow.

The silver satin jump suit had a hidden zipper and velcro tabs which made it look like it was one big sack of precious metal. When he sat on the vinyl chairs in the waiting room, the suit farted and squelched like a moose on heat. The innocents were too frightened to laugh, but one actually combined a snigger with a cough and thought he’d got away with it. It turned out he hadn’t.

Dead texted Muni, his closest and most trusted associate, who grabbed the sniggering coughing twat on his way out of the court. He was shot in the face and dumped on the footpath outside the Hutson Police station. “No more laughing or coughing for him” … thought Muni as he drove back to the inner-city warehouse, he called home.

Harry’s home was a spacious one-bedroom apartment with a luxury hotel feel. He loved minimal impact on his carefully structured domicile. He had planned the features to a tee. Tweaking the colours, tone, textures and lighting to suit his taste. Ruth liked some aspects of this clean living but sought to soften some parts of it.

Ruth didn’t have much success, it remained clinical, which was a description she regretted providing. It remained as Harry wanted it. The apartment had a vast balcony with a huge lounge in combination with an eight-piece table and chair setting. It was the spot for much frivolity, food, sex and relaxing visiting friends.

Of course, it wasn’t all of those things all of the time, but sometimes it was and that’s what helped to make it such a comfortable spot. The apartment’s colours were grey, white, very light green and a dark grey feature wall running the length of the space. This long wall was the art space, broken into zones with lights highlighting the art pieces.

The kitchen had a soft orange glass splash-back and the floor throughout the apartment was a highly polished concrete. Floor lights swept out from the skirting boards. This apartment was Harry’s pride and joy. Ruth liked being there but would like to have the chance to change the atmosphere. Dead was also looking to change the atmosphere. He’d have better luck.

Peter sat at his desk and restrained a giggle into his hand as rotund boy fell off his swivel chair. This happened when the rider was shocked and tried to react with grace. He had no grace and fell flat on his face. This particular shock was reacting to the arrival of the Mayor’s 2ic. Glenn Brown was a pig of a man and swaggered his ugly power in the face of anyone who came in contact with him. No one volunteered any real personal nude bits rubbing contact, he was a very lonely, powerful pig.

A man that Hutson’s escort companies had banned for being too violent, politically threatening and incredibly scary. He’d bashed one young rent boy into such a state that he died three days later. He died alone on a long-haul bus heading back to his distant country home. His injuries were deep and unseen, the few on his face were obvious. Rent boys were often smashed in normal transactions.

It was the severe internal injuries that Glenn enjoyed inflicting the most.

“Good Morning Warren” scowled Glenn, in such a tone that set rotund boy into his gravity collapsing display. “What the fuck is happening with these murders?”

“We have DCI Harry Coombs running the case” … “You know, he’s the guy who helped with the Mayor’s contribution situation.” … “He’s all over it”

“Fuck Warren, don’t say that out loud.” … “Of course, I remember the guy.” … “What’s he got, any leads, something I can tell the Mayor or the media.” … “Do you have any idea of what’s going on?”

All this pushing of tainted air was exactly the same as the overused Police Captain rants, cliched nonsense that somehow managed to rattle professional Police, despite the fact that it was horseshit. At the end of the day the Mayor’s office could blubber all it liked, but it’s well-worn bluster could not really hasten the case or action a response. It just made those pushing the taint feel better, or even more important.

“It’s a very difficult Glenn.” … “There’s no DNA, no trace and as yet no linkage between the victims.” … “This fucking maniac is somehow grabbing these people, carving them up and getting away like a ghost.”

“Well what are you going to do? – sit on your fat arse and dream of retirement, or catch the nut job?”

Peter sat at his desk listening to this exchange, it wasn’t hard to do, everyone in the homicide room couldn’t help but hear. Even a scanked out drug mule who was being logged into booking had gained a new perspective into the inner workings of a Police station.

Ralph sat back in his drug crazed homeless stenched fog and enjoyed the show. Rotund boy said his goodbyes and then decided to attack his subordinates by yelling at them. Ralph even copped a spray as he sat there smirking. Rotund boy stormed back into his office and rang Harry.

Harry had finished doing what he could do for Sally here in the carpark. He’d have to find the culprit. He’d met Sally as they scouted for the TV show and she was lovely. If he hadn’t a relationship with Ruth, he’d be looking to form one with Sally. Sally knew it too; she’d said as much. The phone went as he sucked on his newly lit cigarette. “Damn it’s rotund boy.”

“Harry, I’ve just had Glenn Coombs in my office screaming the place down looking for results.” … “Please get me something to tell him, he’s blue in the face waiting for a result.” … “Have you any leads from this one today?”

Harry explained the situation to rotund boy and hit the final red button on his phone, just as Groove Armada swung into action.

“Good Afternoon, this is Harry” … he announced. Yes, Ok, how long ago? … Any witnesses? He hit the red button again and wondered who the fuck would kill a junior fun stopper and dump him outside the Madhouse in broad daylight? No one saw anything, forty-eight officers in and out, cars, parking people, cleaners or even the dumb arsed public. Not one person saw it.

It turned out that the CCTV missed it was well, it was sweeping its area but had just swept past onto its furthest reach. It did not, nor could it return to the spot quick enough. It caught the body sitting there bleeding and dying while recording the arrival of help. All too late.

Ruth walked into the waiting room to introduce herself to Dead and two of the witnesses called for this case. Dead seemed very polite she thought, and the witnesses had somehow disappeared. The hard-boiled guards had not seen them, and a public announcement failed to produce them. They had seen Dead, they’d left, and they would not return.

Not for any money, they wanted to continue their living. Dead was living his.

Numb was dumb

He was speechless and stupid. He was waiting in a private VIP waiting room at the courthouse. It was reserved for those that were normally as guilty as hell, but had the money to be found innocent, regardless of being so or not. Much money had been spent on this copyright infringement case and his legal team, including Ruth, had spent an inordinate amount of time in preparation. All in time to now find that the witnesses they’d gathered and trained for weeks had suddenly disappeared.

Muni had set loose a tight crew which was tasked with rounding them all up. There were three of them in total. Each of them was trying to sneak out the back of their respective shelters. They were really set on disappearing for good. One hadn’t the fortitude to go to court at all.

He hid in his basement laundry until he thought the case was well underway. Little did Rick Myrtle know that it hadn’t and that he would be underway himself. Set in concrete in the new downtown multi story apartment/office complex, which was well underway.

Rick was a professional witness. Someone who could be called upon to confirm almost anything – for a price. The fee for this drastic performance was spectacular, 82 thousand dollars. This coincidentally was the street number of “Highlife Towers”. Rick would be an integral part of this exciting new development, but not by occupying the apartment he’d bought off the plan. He’d be playing a more supportive role. He was dumped and drowned in the foundations of the swimming pool.

Margaret was scooped up as she hid in her garden while waiting a clear dash. She was waiting for the large black SUV limousine to move away from her back gate. She’d been very reluctant to go to court but believed the assurances given by Ruth. Although they were offered with the best intentions, reality had impacted on her hard. Margaret was single, in her late forties and worked at Molly’s Irish Bar. She’d been working there for about three years and therefore a witness to Dead’s activities.

Dead fancied Guinness and often paraded about the bar being all gangster, drunk and claiming to be Numb. Margaret’s sworn testimony would be to offer examples of when Dead was claiming to be Numb.

He wasn’t and that was why that stupid Hollywood pretend gangster was taking him to court. The claim being that the persona Numb had purchased was covered by intellectual copyright and Dead couldn’t claim to be him, use the life history details or benefit from them. Complicated case, fucking stupid actually, but with the enormous amount of money behind it, the case had every chance of succeeding. Legally that is, but not in the real world or harsh violent swill of the streets.

Margaret was thrown into the boot of a large SUV and driven to the seaside. They bound her head, arms and legs together hog style, wrapped her in a chain mail netting and then weighed her down even more with a dozen concrete blocks. She flew off the back of the fishing boat like a flapping turtle and then with a loud sucking swoosh she was gone. Sinking fast and for the last few seconds of her life swallowing enough seawater to fill her lungs, she was dead. She sat rotting whilst feeding sea creatures for many years. Never found.

The remaining witness had a stroke of luck. Amy had managed to escape through her hidden backyard gate into the shopping centre behind her house. The tight crew saw her and only missed her by a second or two. She’d managed to leap into a shuttle bus that had only just closed the doors behind her. Off it rumbled to the next stop with the crew in hot pursuit.

Their gigantic SUV cut a path through the traffic and screamed “get out of my way” by sheer force and bulk. Black, as all good law enforcement or gangster vehicles should be, it’s tinted windows giving no clues as to who hid, or what was going on, inside. The crew also used this mammoth beast to shoot porn and found they could park anywhere. No-one would know what mischief was going on inside.

The once a “star” was a reluctant naked one of course. She managed to unlock the back door and nearly escape into the crowded peak hour mayhem. Muni had grabbed her in time and sucked her back into the sweaty gathering occurring within. They would remember the child locks in future. They also killed the star and her manly lovers when they’d finished, as they did with all their performers. No such thing as a series in their world. Shit loads of money, no witnesses and strict obedience to Dead was their purpose.

Amy stared out of the bus and saw the huge black thing following. It was cutting through traffic, swerving and racing along behind. She wondered how she might make the next escape. Jumping from the moving bus would be very difficult, for a start the doors were closed, and the windows offered no openings. Fate for those that believed in such things was on her side. The bus “t boned” an extra serious cavalcade from the G20 summit.

The security assigned to such a snake of serious power and influence leapt into action. Their truck mounted weapon was revealed, the undercover agents weren’t undercover any longer and proceeded to lock down the scene. All a flourish of men and women with automatic weapons and radios with controlled chaos.

The support vehicles running a few meters behind the last vehicle were untouched. Almost immediately the passengers who were smashed into their seat belts and airbags were released and then like lightening, relocated into these safe support vehicles. Some could not be released but groaned and yelled as the medics attended to their needs. One had died.

The tight crew watched this extraordinary event unfold and realised that the bus passengers (that could walk) were also being ushered into to this haven of security. They’d not be able to get Amy, for now at least.

Of course, Numb was oblivious to these events. His hair needed attending to and his stylist picked and preened his hair to such a dramatic affect that it made the nightly news. He was moved by the warm response when he left the courthouse.

“Defying all good taste and psychics” was the best headline announcing Numb’s day.

The fact that three witnesses from this titivating case were missing and that the convoy of “the world’s trough nibblers” were nearly wiped out – wasn’t. No, that wasn’t news.

Numb’s coiffed hair was the most important thing on everyone’s mind. It certainly hurt Numb’s as the gel and hardware had dried and tightened that much that it gave him a mother of a headache.

Amy was in a huge Hummer with other bus passengers heading to who knows where? She’d not seen the SUV monster after the crash. The three-armed guards in the Hummer would not let her know where they were heading. Anywhere would be good she thought as she collapsed back into the seat.

Dead was not pleased at all and let the tight crew know in no uncertain terms. He shot one of them in the leg before going down to Molly’s Irish Bar for a pint of Guinness or more.

Harry was deep in concentration. He’d parked his Police car in the darkest skankiest lane way the city could offer. He was smoking, thinking and smoking. The cigarettes helped him to focus. He had some of his best ideas while smoking, the other while having a relaxing pee. This filthy private laneway offered an opportunity for both.

Again, he strained with the same thoughts … “How the fuck can this bloke or blokes get away with this macabre slaughtering over and over.”

“Was it a bloke? Was it a few, was it a woman?”

The clues led nowhere, and the scene revealed nothing other than the perverse carnage and brutal gore. Harry was startled by the noise just a heartbeat before the impact smacked down like the end of the world landing on his car.
The complete nong who was sort of living a life, in one of the glamour free units that spewed their being into that lane, had decided to dispose of his beer, sweat and vomit stained lounge chair. This rocket scientist on a really bad day, decided that throwing it out the window would be a good idea. To make it worse, he didn’t even look.

He’d opened the barely seen through window and simply rolled it out. Out of the restricted opening and then as does happen, gravity took over. The level of gravity enjoyed that day ensured this lumbering piece of decaying and smelly furniture hurtled straight down to arrive at a less than settled rest on Harry’s roof.

Whack – bounce, rock and settle

Harry literally shat himself, his pants were that badly stained the paramedic had agreed to give him a spare pair, a choice of trousers they’d had on hand for similar situations. Not that lounge chairs flew out of windows and totalled cars that often, but many times a patient had an unintended bowel release. It was better for all in the ambulance that such a outcome be left behind and not be transported to the hospital.

The old shit stained pants did not look out of place in the crappy lane way, in fact a homeless person was very pleased when she found them. Gathering her ensemble was an acquired taste, less than fashionable but warm as toast.

Dead had no such back up. His excessive Guinness driven excitement had forced his blacker than black fart spray. He didn’t realise such a tremendous fart would flow with a liquid follow through. Dead was stranded in the men’s room, rings loose in his hands, not on them and litres of brown stains dribbling down his legs and filing his shoes with amazing pace. He could only jump into a cubicle shut the door and call someone to come and help him. Help him quick.

“Bring some fucking pants, and fucking hurry up” … The poor crew member didn’t really understand but had to do what was asked of him, despite his confusion. When Dicky arrived at the club, he managed to drop the freshly laundered pants right in the middle of the bar area as he walked to the gents. Big mistake, discretion and subtlety was an intended message of Dead’s demands.

Dropping his very clean and expensive change of pants in the middle of the bar for all to see was not very good for Dicky’s career advancement. Dead walked out of the gents scowling and pretending that everything was fine but was surprised and terribly annoyed at the looks and obvious sniggers from the patrons.

They’d realised immediately what must have happened, well at least the change of pants for certain. The fact that Dicky was following up behind and carrying a plastic bag a bit too far from his face was the other clue. The smell took some time to permeate the normal bar stink and even though it took it’s time, it hit home big time. It was putrid, flowing and squelching in that tightly sealed plastic bag. Dead pretended to be oblivious to this hilarity – but he knew they knew.

“They’d die to regret it” … thought Dead. Dicky’s life in Dead’s world was very short lived. He made it to the car he’d taken from the crew’s carpool and was shot on the spot before he could even get into the luxurious car. Oddly enough the shot went straight through the shit bag and splattered the contents all over him. Any chance of hiding the recent need for a wardrobe change was completely shot.

As was poor Dicky, dead on the ground with shit and plastic bag stands making the statement for all to smell and see. Dead was very lucky that the explosion of shit and plastic didn’t blast all over the car, he jumped in and tore off. Shit free.

Harry was fine, after a check of his heart and for some reason his testicles, he showered and then he was off. He did return the pants (after their cleansing) and added a six pack of imported beer for the paramedic crew in appreciation. He was off back to work at the Madhouse.

Bloodbath – The Gruesome Murders part two

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