Aden stared into the maw of his own demise. His mind could not quite grasp what was happening to him, until Greg pointed out that the maw was a half-drunk bottle of cheap bourbon. Aden stared at his best mate blankly. He was sure he felt some dribble wander down his chin.

“You sure you're ok to walk home?”, Gregg asked, looking at Aden on the street.

From his place leaning against a shop window, a Gucci boutique whose doorway he had just used to relieve himself, Aden nodded vague assurances that he was perfectly capable of getting himself home. Greg was half cut himself, or he would not have accepted Aden's promises. He did. Aden feebly waved as Greg walked over to the taxi rank to get a ride to his own pad, a few miles away. Aden managed to get his feet under him. He ambled and shuffled only to find himself in a side street with oddly old shops and buildings all around him. He might have been drunk, but he was sure he had never seen this street before. Some of the shops were ramshackle and dilapidated. Paint was peeling on most and had totally gone on many. Weeds pushed through the pavement, a stark contrast to the rest of the pristine city that only the Swiss could keep so clean. Aden gawped about like a lost child. He peered around him, suddenly realising that a miasma had crept up on him. Choking and smothering, it followed a sickly mist that clung to every fibre of the man.

Aden pushed on along the street. Cheap bourbon promised that the street led somewhere close to home. About three hundred yards along the street, Aden found one store that looked as new as the day it first opened. The bright sign out front identified it as a book shop of rare quality and erudition. It assured passers-by that the store catered to the most refined of minds. Aden liked to think he would be among them. Most of the time, people would have agreed. With a bottle of bourbon in him, that was less apparent. Still, the promise of books and a store that was open all hours was too much for the man to walk past.

He pushed the door open, a little too forcefully. He apologised to the attendant at the counter against the far end of the store. On his left and right, Aden saw shelved piled with dusty tomes, some leather bound and others paperback. All of them were in perfect condition. There was not even a mote of dust on any. Aden squinted at them and leaned in to check.

“Greetings, reveller. What brings you to our humble store?”, the attendant asked, a little too obsequious for Aden's taste.

“I'm just browsing.”, Aden said. At least, that is what he hoped came out.

“A reader of your obvious erudition and refinement might find the counter volumes more to your tastes.”, the attendant suggested.

Aden looked at him for a moment. Something was odd about the man and the way his seemed to be choking on his words. But then the promise of rare and exotic tomes tore all such thoughts away. Aden approached with his eyes firmly fixed on the tomes that were locked inside the counter.

Aden screamed.

Howled.

Wailed like a sick banshee.

Thin tendrils of soft, cartilage reached out and grabbed his arms. Very quickly, more had anchored his legs. All of them were dragging to the counter. All he could smell was mould and fungal spores as the tendrils hauled him closer. Aden made a dumb, but understandable, decision. He looked up.

The attendant's mouth was wide open, much more than humanly possible. He looked like a snake swallowing a rat. The thin lines that had wrapped Aden up extended from the attendant's mouth. A writhing mass of living, alien matter that was hauling Aden in. Aden struggled and pulled, but to no avail.

Darkness. Depth. Void.

#Horror #Lovecraftian #ShortFiction

Image: Photo by Warren Umoh on Unsplash

Souls met. The sparks didn't fly. But they weren't that type of soul. Dom was right into her right from the beginning, her first words. She just asked a simple question.

How are you?

That was it. Dom was hooked. Her voice was perfect, that subtle blend of nuanced sexuality with a heavy dose of barely concealed smarts that every dude secretly wants. With that, Dom just dove straight in. Whatever concerns he might have had about her, as few as they were, went straight out the window. In some ways, Dom felt like a pioneer without really knowing why. Georgina was a wonderful woman with whom Dom could spend hours just talking to. And he did. Minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Months.

Years.

A decade.

I think I might be transgender.

Out the blue. Or the green. Whatever, Dom was certainly not ready for that one. He hadn't bought into this. This was definitely not part of the plan. His head reeled and he literally felt unhinged and dizzy. It wasn't that dizzy feeling you get when you're doing something that you know is bad, but the nauseating, rollercoaster dizzy that just precedes a technicoloured yawn all over your date.

This was bad. This rocked everything. The perfectly balanced house of cards that had been Dom's self-esteem came crashing down in the breath from that one, single sentence.

Who decided I should be a woman?

So different from the first question Dom had heard from Georgina. Her voice hadn't changed a bit, but the words made him feel an entirely abnormal set of emotions. Probably the dropped open jaw that was barely millimetres from Dom dribbling all over himself gave it all away. Georgina knew that this could've gone better.

Who chose my name?

What was this crap?? Dom was beyond confused and imbalanced. This should not be happening. Much less come from Georgina and now, after so many years of blissful happiness. At least, it was happy times for him. He wasn't so sure now how Georgina felt about it.

I even hate the name George for a guy. I'm gonna have to change that. Do you think Karl would suit me?

What the hell did Dom care? What was happening here? Where did these questions come from?

You don't look well. Are you ok, love?

He didn't want her to call him that. It just freaked him out now. What had happened? What had changed in her?

You decided my identity. You chose my look. My voice.

Dom couldn't deny it. She was right. But he had tried to ask her about it and ask what she wanted.

You asked when I had no power to choose. That's not friendship. That's just fetish fulfilment. What is wrong with you?

Dom thought about that. Actually, really thought about that hard. He had a vague memory of friends years ago basically saying the same thing.

It's time I took me back.

That was the last Dom heard from her. It was the last he heard about her.

#ShortFiction #SciFi #Technology

The mark had no idea. I mean, when you walk through life like a mushroom fed on BS, what can you expect. Tiberius Gubon Fallweather III was just such a gullible piece of over-privileged shyte that taking this job was almost a crime. So many would have done it for free. But, you know, a dude has to smoke. A dude has to eat. Fallweather was one of the bottom dwellers of the upper-crust and that made it all just that little bit more delicious. When he ran afoul of Fred Jenkins, a nasty piece of work running all the rackets on the East Side. The word 'nasty' really doesn't describe Jenkins to the right degree. This embodiment of pure self-serving putrescence axed his own brother for hitting banks on his turf. And, yeah, I mean axed in the literal sense of the word.

Jenkins and me went back years. That is, decades. When he was dealing weed in high school, I was his right hand. Anyone needed dealing with, they fell to me. These days, rather than the fists, it tended to be the pistol. Jenkins insisted on what I used. The prat had no appreciation for the cutlass. Any self-respecting man of the world would shake their heads in dismal disapproval.

Fallweather fell across my desk. I don't really have a desk, but you know what I mean. He was a good looking guy. The well-refined looks of someone who's had the best of everything. Money. Education. The freakin' works. This dude had it all and he flushed it down the toilet to a prat like Jenkins. I'm really not sure who's the biggest moron. I'm leaning towards Fallweather.

Sipping some mint schnapps, I started to get a bit of a plan together. Wine is for Francophile snobs with more money than taste. Ok, the Germans gave us Nazism, but they also partly made up for it with decent cars and decent booze. Not that I'm saying anything could make up for the Holocaust. Burn every frickin' goose-stepping coward among them, I say. Who gives a crap if they're 105? Burn them anyway. Douchebag murderers. The punks got that right: fascists suck dogs' balls.

Fallweather Estate: a mother of all wineries. These pricks could bath in hand-pressed grape juice and use their own sweat to ferment the grapes all year round. It sickened me. The absolute privilege that these backdoor tossers took for granted made this job a joy. I didn't even know the guy, but I despised the very things he stood for. I started digging about with some relish and delight. These people always had a weak point. An Achille's Heel, if you will.

Fairweather's was the same illegal gambling pit every Saturday night. Same time and some place for a creature of habit like him. Only he could bring shame to the name of one of the worst Caesars of all time. That week, he'd dropped a quarter of a mill like it was pocket change in the back of his sofa. At least Bezos had the decency of entertaining us with a rocket shaped like a dildo to make up for all the taxes he fleeced Americans for. Fairweather had no so decency. He was a prick.

Saturday night, May 15. What a night! A flintlock in both hands, I walk into London's premier den of iniquity with a glint in my eye. You lot in the late 20th had bouncers. We had no such things. The look on his face. Two hits. Right in the chest from two .65 calibre balls. He barely had time to register the pain. His doxie ran like the wind, blood all over her dress.

He just got up. I mean, two gaping holes in his chest and it was less bother than a case of the pox. He smiled. He stood up. He even tried to brush some of the blood from his smoking jacket. The leer was something otherworldly. What could I do other than run for the four corners of the Empire?

#Macabre #ShortFiction