And he’s running down through these narrow city streets, which are hard and glossy as coal. It was raining earlier, a heavy and soaking rain, but now it only spits.
As he runs the beat and tenor of a thousand vengeance thirsty voices are rumbling. Making his way through alleyways and older, smaller streets, hoping they don’t suddenly band out, get smart about this, branch around and surround him, start closing in. The streetlights have gone out, and the only light is that of the moon, which has come on from behind the low grey sky.
How can two thousand feet move so quickly?
The voices are getting louder, or the mob is getting closer; it is difficult to tell which. But the voices can now be understood. It’s a rhyming AAAABBA chant, made up on the spot or, he shudders too think, thought out and written down somewhere, in the cold and lonesome basement of some angry revolutionary:
Through the lawns, we will meet
And march our way through the street
Till the puppets sway their feet
Till the knocking on your door
Comes across as fear no more
If there is darkness, there is light
Come on get off your ass and fight
Through the lawns, we will meet. . .
And sometimes:
Oh, in Prussia they never eat pussy
They’re ladies are much too pushy. . .
It’s hard to make out the rest.
They have followed him here, down to this bleak and fateful alley. The singing has stopped. Has the morale broken? Once he is caught they will cook up his intestines in front of him and sell his organs. It’s not an ideal death, but you hardly ever get to pick. What makes him so special?
The crowd has grown still and silent. A tall young man steps forward.
“You are about to be tried and sentence by the new Founding Fathers. What is your name?”
“Jack Sweden.”
“Jack Sweden, you are here by charged with aiding the oppressive republic of Barack Obama, firing guns against innocent, peaceful protesters, and not completing your duty to the people of the United States. You did not intervene against your fellow riot police when they opened fire.”
“But I did not fire.”
“Not at them or at us. How many lives could you have saved if you had mowed down your fellow bureaucratic dogs? Has your defence come to an end?”
“. . . .Yes.”
“How does the court find the defendant?!”
ALL: “GUILTY! AAAAGGHGGHHHH!!”
“So it is decided. Send Hank forth for the punishment.”
A low voice speaks from the crowd.
“Goddammit Marshal! You said you’d let me do one!”
“Oh, all right. . . .”
Forward steps a great big man, maybe over eight feet tall, arms and legs like California Redwoods, blood trickles down his arms and into puddles, his hair and face hidden behind, oh my, a truly dilapidated and undersized Micky Mouse Onzie. A swollen and purple testicle hangs out his costume, touching his left thigh. The man carries no weapon. This death will be both brutal and entertaining, just wait.
The man steps forward and Jack must crane his neck painfully up to look his killer in the eye. The stench is unspeakably awful.
“Are you going to be the one to kill an innocent man?”
“Don’t be silly, the revolution is your killer.”
And with that Jack is hefted up high into the air and tossed to the very back of the alley. From Jacks blurry field of vision he can see the man dragging behind him, ah geez, a large wooden mallet. The crowd has once again picked up chanting. They shout only four terrifying syllables: WHACK EM’ MICKY! WHACK EM’ MICKY! WHACK EM’ MICKY!
The man is close enough now, and manages out a high pitched, cartoonish giggle just loud enough for Jack to hear as the mallet comes down. . . .
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139,529 Literary Works • 672,599 Reviews
I think I understand the humour there and unlike some people I rather enjoyed it. Your writing style is good though it could be worked on.
Its a little jumpy, which is confusing. I think I got it.
The humour is satirical? I think. Like you are making a point by say showing how dumb stuff is. A lot of people dont get that side of humour and it probably contributed to the, eh, rather rude reviews other people have given.
Are you making a point about polive brutality...racism? because thats the general jist of what I'm getting. I'd edit over it but as a first draft it is very good.
Honestly this is dull. Sorry, deathly dull!
"And he’s running down through these narrow city streets, which are hard and glossy as coal. It was raining earlier, a heavy and soaking rain, but now it only spits."
WHAT A CLICHED AND UNORIGINAL BEGINNING!
Did you write this with an intention to bore the reader? The flow is horribly choppy. And the plot is "cartoonish" at best.
"The crowd has grown still and silent."
What an innovative line! And why is this classified as humor? Are you so dumb that you find this funny? And why is this dramatic? Puking at your own wedding is better than read this pile of sh!t.
I couldn't even finish reading it.
Bottom line: 2 hours of root-canal is less painful than seeing your work. Forget reading it. Ok, that's it from me, I need some pain killers, cant tolerate more sh!t
If you would have finished it, you would know what parts are INTENDED to be funny.
Well, this certainly was a bizarre and creative mini-story. It's very descriptive, and magnificently written. I like how well you describe things in a sickening and grotesque manner. It's rather... Quaint. Good job!
it's awesome! Haha.
The left testicle hanging out of the man's costume is a bizarre addition to his character, and It's an awesome cliffhanger to randomly cut off in the end like that. Creative and clever.
Now, my question is... How does he die?! >:D hahahaha.
Keep up the excellent work! ^_^ well done.