Zeke, Ugly Jack And A Suitcase, Part 2

 Mezzofinelli was an assassin. In fact, he liked telling people, he was the most dangerous assassin on this side of the ocean. When people asked him which ocean he meant, he would simply reply "All of them." He had shot a man from more than a mile away, right between the eyes. He had killed no less than three of his colleagues in a single night. He had beaten a heavyweight boxer to death with his bare fists. Granted, he had walked away with a black eye and three broken ribs, but at least he had walked. All in all, he fancied himself a pretty dangerous guy. So why, he wondered, was he having so much trouble getting hold of a briefcase?

Mezzofinelli was born from his Italian mother who had fled Italy in 2080, a month after the Intercontinental War had started. In the cold, cramped depths of a ship headed for Sussex, she died in labour and Mezzofinelli was born screaming and motherless into a strange and tumultuous world. His earliest memory was of a man - a giant clad in white - who carried him onto shore. He remembered the taste and smell of the sea; salty and sharp. It burned in his nose and throat. He remembered little else of his first years. He knew that the giant in white (probably a sailor from the ship) had taken him to the nearest orphanage and left him there.

Zeke, Ugly Jack And A Suitcase, Part 1

Harold Roberts was a 31-year-old businessman. He lived in London, he owned a Volvo S60, his watch was a golden Rolex and he sorely regretted stealing the briefcase he was currently clutching in his well-manicured hand. That is to say, he didn't regret stealing the suitcase as much as he regretted stealing the money inside it. He was fairly certain that Chris R. felt much the same way. He probably missed his two million pound sterling something fierce. Harold's pinstripe suit was stained and torn, and his Italian loafers were covered in mud as he fled through the backstreets and alleyways of Brixton.

***

"Bloody Polacks," Zeke said, taking a bite of his pizza. He glared at the men across the street through the car window. They wore orange vests and safety helmets, and from their labor came clatters and bangs as their hammers and picks smashed down the walls of an old, abandoned house. "They come wanderin' in 'ere, takin' all the jobs meant for proper English blokes," he said, turning towards Ugly Jack. "This country's a right bloody mess, innit?"

Ugly Jack grunted in agreement. A dusty leather jacket covered his broad frame, and a pair of black sunglasses covered part of the bulldog-like face that had earned him his nickname. He kept his black hair cropped close to his scalp, a pair of impressive sideburns framing his face. Ugly Jack never talked much, but Zeke, his partner in crime, more than made up for his near constant silence. Zeke was the polar opposite of his companion. He was short and wiry, always equipped with an ill-fitting suit, a fedora and a mouth that never stopped working. 

Author's note: This is the first part of a possibly ongoing series. More to follow.

Shift

Author's note: This story was heavily, heavily inspired by a passage from "The Drawing Of The Three", the second book of the Dark Tower series, written by Stephen King. 

The fever has taken a terrible hold on him. It courses through his veins, poisons his body and sickens his mind. Everything seems wrong, warped, reality slowly slipping away, leaving only shadows and whispers. The forest is dead, the ashen remains covering everything. The world seems to

shift

the sun stings him, cold and merciless. He shivers and coughs into his hand, and red droplets stain the skin. His gaunt, bony hands shake as he pulls his cloak tighter around his emaciated frame. He walks on, towards the mountains. They frame the horizon like the pointed, blackened teeth of a great maw, longing to devour. In his fevered mind, they are his doom and his salvation. In his fevered mind, they

shift

backwards, the hands grasping at his clothes. He falls, hard, his breath fast and ragged in his chest. He shuffles backwards. The ground rises and falls beneath his trembling limbs. His movement kicks up clouds of dust, and it stings his eyes. It enters his nose and his throat. It fills his ears, robbing him of his senses. The man that is not a man shrieks, and it shakes reality. Darkness descends, and the lights

shift

the scream never stops tearing tearing tearing through his head. The man that is not a man that is not a man that is not a man always screams. He can't see it, he never has, he never will, but he knows. He has never known and always known the screaming screaming screaming. It has hidden behind his thoughts, always screaming. It has hidden behind everything and nothing. The screaming is the source, the core, the truth. The scream continues and enters the final

shift

as mountains collapse, darkness shines and light freezes, the world ends.

Hey guys, apologies for the lack of updates this past week. Been under the weather, and still am, but updates should resume as usual next week. Might write something saturday or sunday, but no guarantees. Have a great weekend.


 - David

Switch

Tonight's story will be a little unusual. It's something I experienced tonight, and it basically freaked me out. So here you go.

I was just looking around the internet, seeking cheap thrills, and I stumbled upon some creepypasta. Being a big fan of creepypasta, I started reading. The first one I read was this:

http://img340.imageshack.us/img340/6610/1286009405762.jpg

And then this:

http://img3.imageshack.us/img3/7028/1286010011802.png

Now, if you've read those two, read on. If not, go take a look at them.

Ready? Excellent. On with the story.

My interest piqued, I started looking around for the aforementioned game, "Killswitch". After a bit of searching, I actually found a .rar called "Killswitch (1989) (Karvina Computing)". I downloaded it, promptly crashing my browser. I unpacked it, which caused 7zip to crash. Slightly freaked out, I opened the folder and looked for an exe file. I found one.

"switchinstall.exe"

Getting severely freaked out, I opened an unnamed .txt file, hoping to find some explanation. All it said was this:

you cannot install me
but if you must
enter in the 2nd number in the 3rd collumn on page 6 of the manual

I have not found a manual of any sort, and I have yet to try and install the game.

Not sure if I'm gonna do it.

What do you say? Yes? No? Let me know in the comments section. Or don't. Whatever you feel like.

Jonn

Got a bit of a fever, so tonight's story will be later than usual. I pray your forgiveness and I hope that you will enjoy it nevertheless.

"Come on," Jonn said, exasparated. He pulled on the rope, breathing hard. "Would you just..." He gave another tug, moving forward a couple of inches. "...cooperate!". He threw down the rope in disgust and glared at his captive. The girl sat flat on her backside and glared back at him, his rope tied securely around her midriff and her arms behind her back. Her features were sharp and angular, her long, black hair tangled with twigs and dirt.

"Keghtot khoz!" she spat, sneering at him.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I know what you mean."

He sat down with a thud and mopped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve. He stretched his back, wincing at the stiffness. Dragging a bound girl around for five days in a row will do that to you. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out a strip of dried meat and a hunk of stale bread and started chewing listlessly. The forest around him was alive with animal sounds; birds were singing overhead and mice rustled through the dead leaves that covered the ground. The sky above him was the no-color gray of autumn, leafless trees reaching up, as if seeking sunlight. He took a swig of his wineskin to wash down the bread.

"If you weren't Kralj Lovac's only daughter," he said to the girl. "And if he hadn't offered ten thousand gold coins for your safe return, you best believe I'd have brought him your head instead."

He took another swig of wine.

"Frankly, I don't see what's so appealing about those commoners. I mean, you lived in a perfectly fine castle. You had maids, servants, soldiers and more coin that you could spend in a lifetime."

He spat on the ground. "And for some reason," he said, frustrated "You decide to run off and live with the rabble. And when I try to bring you back to your blasted father, you act like a spoiled child!"

"Ću iseći svoje srce i hrane ga psima-," she started, but stopped when Jonn drew his sword. He looked beyond her, eyes unfocused, a concentrated look on his face.

"Riders," he said. "Damn it."

Before he could pull the girl off the road, the riders came into view. Five men, all clad in leather and mail sat atop brown horses. They pulled to a stop in front of him, and one of them stepped forward.

"Well, well, well," he said. "What 'ave we got 'ere?"

His voice was slurred, a long scar running from right temple to left chin. His hair was cropped short, and he wore a crude sword at his side.

"A kidnapper?" he asked, raising a heavy eyebrow.

Jonn stood between the riders and the girl, sword in hand.

"She is my prisoner of war," Jonn said. "I won her fair and square. Now I'd ask you to be on your way, sirs. I have no business with you."

The man Jonn presumed was the leader gave a barking laugh. "Sirs!?" he laughed. "Hear that, lads? He thinks we're sirs!"

He dismounted and walked towards Jonn, pulling his sword from its scabbard.

"Sorry to disappoint, but we ain't no sirs," he said. "We're just friendly bunch of travellers trying to make our way in the world. And that girlie right there looks like just the thing to brighten our day."

He held out his hand, palm up.

"So why don't you save yourself some trouble," he said, his voice low. "And hand over the rope?"

***

When it was over, Jonn sheathed his sword and picked up the rope. The smell of blood had made the horses panic and run before Jonn had had a chance to catch any of them. He sighed and pulled on the rope, sliding the girl across the blood-soaked ground.

"I better get a blasted knighthood", he muttered. "I want, like, a hundred knighthoods."

The girl just glared at him.

Zeke and Ugly Jack

"So Lucy got me this book, right?" Zeke said.

"Right," Ugly Jack said.

"An' it's about this French bloke called 'Sarder' or summin'."

"Sartre."

"Sure, yeah. Now, I read meself a couple o' pages, right?"

"Right."

"An' this geezer's got 'is knickers all in a twist about wot defines summin', and like, 'ow if it ain't in the plan, it ain't real, right?"

"Right."

"An' 'e keeps goin' on an' on about existentianism an-"

"Lism."

"Wha'?"

"Existentialism."


"Right, just that."

Ugly Jack 

"About bloody time," Zeke said. "You drive like me mum, swear to God."

He stepped out of the car and stretched. It was almost noon, and the sun shone brightly on the old, red farmhouse. He took a deep breath and abruptly started coughing.

"Whew! Wot a bloody stench!" he said. He waved a hand in front of his face, and made a face that left no secret as to what he though of the odour that wafted over them.

Ugly Jack pulled on a pair of heavy, black gloves and popped open the trunk.

"Here," he said, and threw a similar pair of gloves to Zeke.

"So anyway," Zeke said, as he and Ugly Jack gazed down at the body in the trunk. "This Sawder bloke was awarded the Nobel Prize fer something or other, but - you grab 'im by the legs, I'll take the arms - 'e flat out refused it! Bloody frenchies, I tells ya."

They started across the yard, hauling the body between them.

"An' this bloke got so obsessed with all this thinkin' and philosophasin' that 'e ended up getting all smacked out on drugs, jus' so 'e could keep thinkin' and philosophasin' 24 hours a day! I tells ya, Jackie-boy, those frenchies are bonkers."

"Right bonkers," Ugly Jack said.

They rounded a corner and the pigsty came into view, a dousin pigs snorting or sleeping in the muddy pen. With a heave, they threw the body over the fence and next to pigs. Zeke pulled off his gloves and threw them next to the body.

"So these pigs'll eat anything, right?" said Zeke, walking back towards the car.

"Right."

"I'm driving back," Zeke said as Ugly Jack closed the trunk. "Maybe we'll be back in time for tea."