Next

by William Bowden

Next, the headless cadaver inscribed a slow arc towards the floor; not that I gave a flying fuck, Diane’s glorious arse was already leading me out of the room and onto the next victory. It was a doddle of an assignment really, and when I factored in the fringe benefits of working with such a beauty, it was a corker. As we entered the vestibule, I zapped another couple of amateurs who thought they’d surprise us with samurai swords of all things, and I realised it had been simply ages since I’d had a good kebab. In fact I resolved then and there to take Diane to a little Malaysian joint round the corner once we’d finished off the main man. And where the hell was he anyway? Gronk was nowhere to be seen, and despite pegging umpteen of his men we were still no closer to beer o’clock.

I was beginning to feel a bit bored.

Diane motioned me forward, “There,” she hissed pointing to a large shoe protruding from behind a curtain. I let fly with a couple of snaps and was rewarded with the sight of the big guy oozing all over the floor. It was Gronk alright; I knew that Jabba-The-Hut style figure a mile away. Poor old sod was still gurgling, and as I moved in to ‘mute the tv’ so to speak I heard him saying:

“Turn around, Turn fucking around, turn…”

I let him have it then, but something caused the old hairs on the neck to start dancing as I slowly straightened up. Diane and I both turned together, and slam… everything went black.

“So Mr Davies,” a voice was saying. ” You just thought you owned the place did you?”

“No,” I found myself saying in a raspy voice.

“Well you came in and fired all the staff, were you in charge perchance?”

“Sod you, you piece of shit!” At this juncture I felt a distant ripping sensation in my stomach, and heard myself grunting.

“Manners Davies, manners.”

“Who are you anyway?”

“I’m your target.”

“Then that fat shit was…”

“A clone yes…”

“And Dianne?”

“She’s right here beside you, why not open those lovely eyes of yours?”

A blurry impression of Diane came into view as well as the gloating visage of one Mr Julius Gronk: the purveyor of fine Consciousness Adjusters and Pleasure/Pain Amplifiers.

“Gronk you fuck, is she alive?”

“Oh yes Davies, she’s alive, and doing rather well considering the surgery. But sadly she’ll never walk again… I seem to have misplaced her legs, most remiss of me.”

“You bastard,” I screamed, thrashing against my restraints. Gronk spoke as I realised with horror…

“You’re perfectly ‘armless Davies, there’s really no point messing about. And as for your missing arms, I’ll give them back only if you return the men you killed. Now that’s a fair swap isn’t it?”

“Why don’t you just get it over with Gronk, you’ve had your fun surely?”

“Oh I don’t think so Mr Davies. You see we couldn’t help but notice a certain sexual chemistry between you and Dianne here, and so you’re both going to be spending a lot of time together from now on. I figure that for such a stylish couple like yourselves, we must pare things back a little, so that form doesn’t overwhelm substance, for it to have any chance at all. So between you I’ve left a pair of arms, one pair of legs, one eye each (don’t worry I’ll pop yours out in a minute), and I still have to do an eeny meany on the old genitals. Let’s see if your affinity is a little more than skin deep now shall we?”