A short story that I wrote in March 2019, tweaked a bit in May. A bit rude, don't say I didn't warn you.
Luke Aldridge March/ May 2019
It had been a bit of an odd night so far. Got home from work pretty late, needed to unwind, head totally fried and doing ten to the dozen. I ordered a delivery from my local curry house and put on a Jean Claude Van Damme movie. I unplugged my brain and let a mix of the ridiculous action nonsense and exotic spices wash over me. Come on JC, hit him, don’t tickle him! Man, how did you not see that kick coming a mile away? I would have dodged that, no problems. Oh Jean, stick with me kid, I’ll show you the ropes…..
It was past midnight by the time I headed up to bed and even then, I couldn’t switch off. Plus, I had terrible, noxious farts after the vindaloo but couldn’t really be bothered to get out of bed to drop the kids off at the pool. I’m not sure what time it was exactly, somewhere after 1.30am, drifting in and out of the lightest sleep, regular parps fighting off any hope of a deeper slumber when I heard it. My back door opened. Something was sneaking its way through, trying not to be noticed but had failed. That last one wasn’t just a fart and I was suddenly in an irreversible turtle’s head situation. And then scrabbling at a lock, the familiar sound of the door handle sticking slightly, needing an extra shove and my actual back door opened. Incredibly quietly but someone had definitely let themselves in to my place. I rolled out of bed and shuffled to the top of the stairs, breaking through the fart cloud that had accumulated in my room, the unfortunate situation in my draws suddenly seeming less pressing. There was a glint in the darkness of the hallway, something metal, shiny, light pinging off the smooth clean surface from the moonlight that seeped its way into the hall way through the frosted glass of my front door. I had to know what that little speck of perfect light belonged to so I flicked the light switch. And there he was. Six foot six if he was an inch, looking more like Jason Momoa than Jason Momoa ever could. And then he turned to stare at me up the staircase. What he was carrying was now in full sight as his long black coat swept aside. It was an axe. And I don’t mean one that you can get in B&Q for chopping down a tree in your garden. This was a fekking battle axe. Double-headed. Runes engraved into the metal. It looked well used, polished and cared for but the leather on the handle was well worn and you could bet that it was as sharp as balls. He smirked as I let out an involuntary whimper, both my hands shooting up to my mouth to stop it but they were too late. Christ, why hadn’t my reaction been ‘fuck’, ‘holy shit’ or something similar. I bet Jean Claude never whimpered like a great big wuss, no matter how massive the blade or bloke that he was faced with. His huge black leather biker boots stomped up the stairs, making no effort to be fast, instead he seemed to be working it all for full intimidation effect, grunting as he ascended. I have no idea why I legged it to the bathroom. I guess instinct tells you that it’s a room with a lock. And then it became painfully obvious that it was a room with a lock so puny that an asthmatic gerbil at the height of its hay-fever season could have pushed it in, let alone an axe wielding demi god. I guess he could have kicked the door in. Hell, even I could have kicked the door in but instead he decided to put the axe to good use. He took multiple swings to fully demolish the chipboard door, his grunting becoming considerably more aggressive with every blow. I didn’t waste any time. I was out of the window quick. It wasn’t elegant, I almost completely lost my grip on the stinky drainpipe at the top, slipped half way down and landed nose first on the lawn. A couple of blades of grass tickled the inside of my left nostril and I let out a loud, unexpected sneeze. Tits. As if the window I had left open wasn’t enough of a giveaway, I may as well have shouted “Cooo-eeeee, Mr Axe Wielding Lunatic, down here when you’re ready!!” If I live through this, I must cut the lawn tomorrow. And my nose hair. And do the gutters.
I had managed to get out into the garden with the sound of my house being demolished still audible from upstairs. And then without warning it stopped. An outline appeared at the window, launching himself out into the night with a blood curdling roar. I’d taken too long deciding whether I was going to scramble over the fence, run out the front or hide in the shed. I was knocked to the ground by this monster landing on my lawn as if he’d just hopped out of a sun lounger, not leapt from a first-floor bathroom. He grabbed me by my hair, axe still in the other hand and dragged me back into the house through the door which he hadn’t bothered to close.
The enormous fist around my neck tightened, cutting off the air supply and then lifted me clear off the floor. My toes wiggled involuntarily for a second before I was slammed face first into my dining table. Swedish of course, good solid build even if I do say so myself. Or so I thought. The leg directly under me went and I slid unceremoniously onto the laminate floor. Now I know where those left-over screws belonged. A burning pain had shot through my sinuses as my nose popped and blood flooded out, pooling around the placemats which I hadn’t put away since I moved in. When the table collapsed, they held firm, not moving an inch. Would blood stain the Beech effect I wondered? Christ, I hope not, it’ll be ruined if it stains. I didn’t have time to work out if my nose had been broken or not. I was picked up by the scruff of my neck and placed, face down on the kitchen work top. I actually pissed my pants as the axe stroked my cheek before being gently pushed into the solid oak as a demonstration of quite how sharp it was. And there it sat, literally a couple of inches from my face, a clear display of who was in charge. As if there was even the slightest of doubts. I couldn’t have estimated the weight of that giant chopper when I had all of my wits about me and I certainly wasn’t going to be making informed guesses in my current situation.
His warm breath on my face, the stench of barbequed meat and sweet black coffee fighting its way through the smell of my own blood. And then the scariest thing of all happened. A tug on my pyjama bottoms. So hard that I lost them all together, they shot down to my ankles and my hands were collected behind my back, held in a vice like grip by a familiar, hairy paw.
“Do you know what they call me?” He said in a low, gruff voice. I couldn’t place the accent, European, Spanish, Mexican, I couldn’t really focus as I’d just been debagged by this axe wielding lunatic.
“N-no?” I stuttered, whimpering for the second time since my uninvited guest had let himself in.
“The Destroyer. And do you know why they call me that?”
I had a pretty good idea. He looked like he could level buildings with his breath. I didn’t think that he would find this particularly chucklesome though.
“Because I don’t just kill a target. I destroy them from the outside in.”
It was at this point that I heard a zip go, followed by what I hoped was a babies arm brush over one of my buttocks.
“Fourteen inches of pure man and you’re going to take every single inch of it.”
What the actual fuck?! Where had that come from? I tried to wriggle free, which turned into a frantic attempt at escape. As if no-one had tried it before. As if he wasn’t prepared for it. But what else was I supposed to do? Someone tells you that you are about to be violated in the most unspeakable of places, you don’t just sit there, slumped there in my case, and take it. Despite this being the most terrifying situation that I had ever been in I simply could do nothing to fight off what was coming next. Find a happy place I thought, focus on that and hope that he leaves enough for them to identify when he’s done.
“So, Mr Saunders, have you ever been unmade, butt fucked within an inch of your life, ass raped until you beg for death?”
I snapped back into focus.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, have you ever been unmade, butt fucked within an inch of your life, ass raped until you….”
“Beg for death, yes I heard that bit, what did you call me?”
“Ah, that explains it. Saunders lives upstairs, 21a. This is number 21.”
“Yes, 21. There’s some post over by the fridge, you can check if you like.”
“…….. OK. Don’t move.”
Zipping sound. Stomp, stomp stomp. The sound of paper rustling. Pause.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I thought that you were Saunders.”
I pulled my jim-jams back up and slowly straightened from my enforced butt fucking stance.
“Easy mistake to make, his door is round the other side to where you came in. Happens every time we have a new postman or with every other Amazon delivery.”
“Thank Goodness you said something before my Mighty Mallet worked it’s magic!” He said with a chuckle. I nervously laughed too, unsure what else to do in the situation. I immediately wanted a name for my willy, dismissing it in the same thought, knowing that something like ‘The Mighty Mallet’ might be fitting if you’ve got a cock like a boa constrictor but not so much if yours looks more like a slightly mouldy baby carrot nestled between a couple of walnuts.
“I’m so sorry, you must let me pay for the damage to your lovely home. Here.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of fifties and a crumpled business card. It read ‘The Destroyer. Hitman. Specialist in Anal Invasion Punishment.’ And then a phone number.
“Please, put your home right, I would be happy to pay for the damage that I’ve done. I hope that covers it, please let me know if not and I’ll drop some money over. I really am truly sorry.”
“Um, OK, thanks. I will do that.”
“So, the side door you say, round the other side of the building?”
“Yes, that’s the one, go back to the front of the house and it’s just to the right, there are a couple of flights of stairs once you’re in and you’ll find his flat at the top there.”
“OK great. Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.”
“No problems Mr Destroyer, I hope that you get everything sorted.”
And with that he pulled his axe out of my Ekbacken, shook me firmly by the hand and strode out of the back door, closing it behind him.