Some Proper Writing

Since one of the purposes behind this whole exercise was to put out some of my writing, and since I’m already slacking off on the schedule I promised to keep, here’s an extra update. It’s a very short, largely out-of-context fiction piece I put together some time ago on an old forum. It probably won’t make a lot of sense, but I’m proud of it.

Have to keep moving, have to keep running. If only the ground would stop trying to crawl away from me. Nothing makes sense at this point, its all become some weird parody. I’m not laughing though. I’m gasping, trying to breathe, sweating bullets, washed out like a junkie. Coming off the pills, all those goddamned pills I quaffed like fucking candy. The detox might kill me before they do, or before this thing inside me does. Inoperable. Second opinions, third opinions, fourth opinions. “Inoperable.” Even if I wasn’t too weak for surgery they say it’s grown too fast, they’d never get it all at this point. It’s just going to keep on growing like some necrotic new organ, hemorrhaging its shit into my system. Its building up there, whatever weird shit it was that thing produced. It’s slowly changing my body chemistry. I smell different than I used to. That’s not good. Sooner or later it’s going to reach toxic levels and my body will reject it and then I’ll die. Simple as that.

They aren’t finished with me yet, though. The certitude of that is like a weight in the pit of my soul. Its only a matter of time. They’re going to want it back, and they’re going to want it before I have the chance to keel over somewhere where they can’t find me. If I let those bastards cut on me again though, there’s no reason why they won’t just dig their shit out and leave me bleeding on the table. So I run, for as long as I can.

Have to keep moving. Can’t sleep, they never do. Bad dreams anyway. Passing the ninety hour mark soon. Everything is taking on this surreal comic-book quality and I can’t tell what I’m really seeing anymore. Graffiti on the walls start narrating my thoughts. Down every dark alley I see an operating theater, an abattoir, where men with lawyers’ suits and surgeons’ tools are taking me to pieces, grinding my bones for a poultice.

At the end of the alley I see him. Tall and thin, yet somehow filling the space he occupies from one wall to the other. It’s his posture that gives him away, a certain killer comfort in the way he carries himself. He’s the one. I can’t even be sure I haven’t just conjured him out of my nightmares, but before I know it he’s going for it and one way or the other I have to react. Normally I’ve got reflexes that could catch a bullet, but I’m so shaky and strung out that I can barely stay ahead of him. His knife makes it home and I feel serrated teeth ripping into my flesh. He’s playing for keeps. The merchandise is what matters here. His movements are a blur, and I don’t know if that’s because of him or me. I can’t keep on top of him for long, I’m too tired. I have to even the playing field.

On more time I jab the nasty angry knot of scars to use the implant. Pain radiates out from it in typhoon waves but I can feel it working. He tries to get a hold on me and I throw him off like a rag doll. I make a couple shots to his ribs and I’m sure I feel one of them buckle. I throw a haymaker that would take his head off but he turns and I miss. Too slow, too clumsy, too tired. His knife takes another chunk out of me. I’m starting to lose blood. A desperate jab puts him back on his heels, but I can’t seize the initiative. I can’t get enough air. Feels like I’m breathing water, gargling with every breath. I can taste something welling up in the back of my throat, choking me. It’s foul, like bile, and I can feel it filling my throat and lungs, drowning me in the open air.

He lunges for me again. I kick him in the groin but it only slows him down. I feel the blade sink deep into my shoulder, grinding my teeth when it scrapes against the bone. His momentum carries me down, landing hard on the concrete and coughing up something vile. He recoils from it instinctively, giving me an opening to grab my hands around his throat. I’m giving everything I’ve got into crushing this fucker’s larynx, but he isn’t quitting yet. He pulls the knife out of my shoulder, taking gore with it, and jams it straight down into my abdomen. It burns like nobody’s business, even more when he twists it. I can feel the strength leaving my arms, loosening around his neck, and I can taste blood mingling with the bile in my mouth. I wonder idly if I’d rather be killed by Anthony Head or Jude Law.

The shit you think about when your heart stops beating…


Confirmation of termination reported at 0208 EST by [REDACTED]. Agent unable to conduct postmortem debriefing and reclamation on site owing to injuries sustained while facilitating termination. After securing site, Agent forced to seek immediate medical attention for injuries, Rapid Response Retrieval called in to acquire subject. However, upon arrival recorded at 0235 Retrieval could not locate the subject on site. Investigation unable to determine at this time how subject was moved nor how site perimeter was breached. Misidentification of subject as deceased possible but unlikely, given Agent’s impeccable credentials. Current recommendation to close out subject’s company file at this time and to open new file in event that subject somehow resurfaces.

Final note: Subject did not pick up last paycheck; please forward matter to human resources and payroll.



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