Tag Archive: revenge


Debunk that


How exactly do you do that?

It was a question he was asked a lot but he never answered it.

He would distract them, or move on to the next person, or leave in a rush, with a swish of his cape and a raised eyebrow.

This was the norm in his profession- keep it in house, maintain the mystique. They don’t quite believe it’s really magic, but maybe, just maybe…

It was a pact between magician and thrill seeker – don’t look too close, don’to probe too much – they get the thrill, the magician maintains his semi-authentic status; everyone’s happy.

That wasn’t his reason though. He had no idea how he did it. With his colleagues, of course, it was all an elaborate hoax, sleight of hand, tricking the eye with diversions and suggestions. He was impressed with their skills, but it had nothing to do with his act.

He just found he could do things like this, one morning. It was after the storm six months ago. He’d been out in the garden trying desperately to get his washing off the line before it was soaked. He was running from the back of the garden to the house, when the lighting bolt struck him in the back of the head. He woke up face down in the mud with a slight headache and an enormous singe mark down the middle of his thick hair.

Since that day he’d been able to perform real magic. He could make things disappear, he could transport things and people over quite considerable distances and he could make something become another thing (hadn’t tried that with people yet, felt a bit risky, but he turned water into wine quite frequently rather than drive down to the off-licence.)

He only started the shows two months ago. It wasn’t the money so much; he could create that out of thin air whenever he wanted to, for him it was the thrill of confounding the sceptics, especially the smart-arsed ones who thought they knew how it was all done, and who delighted in telling the world.

He recognised this little know-it-all in front of him now, for instance. He had his own TV programme , based on debunking and humiliating what he called con-artists.  A lot of the magicians that he’d loved to watch as a child had been publicly humiliated by this smug-faced little shit.

So, he’d taken his cheap watch and turned it into a Rolex. No big deal. Obviously he didn’t believe it and was expecting some kind of switch to take place. Actually it was now a genuine Rolex. It seemed fair enough to give him a small gift to help him cope with the trauma which was just around the corner.

He had a much bigger surprise waiting for him when he went to the toilet.  In place of the traditional male genitalia he now had two chestnuts and a small cocktail sausage between his legs.

Debunk that Weiner boy!

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Make a wish


A decorated birthday cake
Image via Wikipedia

Arms like tree trunks and a head the size of a boulder. His fantasy defender was strong and effective but kind of hideous looking. He didn’t really think it would come true when he wished on the birthday cake, but he closed his eyes like his weird auntie told him and this is what he wished for. Obvioulsy he had to keep it hidden and the shed was about the only place he could think of. Trouble was its head was too wide for the door.

He woke up the morning after his birthday and saw it: the enormous craggy head resting at the foot of his bed, tiny eyes staring straight at him.

After screaming like a girl and hiding under the covers for a while he realised what it was.

It didn’t talk but it seemed to understand what he said and followed instructions. After failing to hide it in the shed he told it to wait in the woods for him until tomorrow morning.

He would collect it on his way to school and annihilate anyone who gave him a second look. Freddie Jenkins was obviously the first on the hit list but now that he had the power, he realised there were quite a few others that he wanted to hurt.

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The Japesters


That morning Horace was feeling particularly pleased with himself. He looked at his watch again, only a few minutes to go before his sister Prudence’s alarm woke her, which should mean only a few more seconds after that, before he heard the screaming.

This time it was the best he’d ever conceived of, had to be. She’d done so well last time, he had to admit, her planning was exemplary, even getting Nanny involved so he was convinced that she was away that night, at the Penshursts. So when she leapt out from under his bed in the middle of the night dressed as a witch, warts and huge pointy noise included, he’d been completely unprepared. She’d known it was his worst fear, that he’d had many nightmares about witches stealing into his room at night. As a result, he’d wet the bed and his sister had earned the praise of both parents for such a wonderfully executed jape. It was embarrassing to be so caught out like that, but he had to admit it was very well done; especially the part about Violet Penshurst’s dog dying and her needing to be consoled. It impressed him.

He didn’t want to react too quickly; she’d be looking out for something. He needed to bide his time. For the next 6 or 7 weeks he did nothing but plan and carry n with his usual routine, going to school, playing with Edgar on the beach and tending to his beetle collection. She played her part well in all of this, pretending not to care as the days stretched into weeks. It was only by chance that he overheard her talking to Mama as he arrived late for breakfast one morning – then he knew it was starting to get to her.

‘He must be planning something stupendous Mama. Do you know? You do don’t you?’

Mama had said nothing of course, she knew nothing of his plans, but had she known, she wouldn’t have broken the code. Prudence knew, they’d both been taught this from an early age – never interfere with a jape. Say nothing,  even afterwards, not revealing a single thing about how it had worked, the planning or any other details – you never knew when you might need to use some of that information in the future.

Both of them knew Mama and Papa wouldn’t crack, but they tried, of course they tried, it would have been disappointing to their parents if they hadn’t. Perhaps a seemingly innocent question:

‘Have you seen Prudence, I’ve got a present for her’ was his most recent failed attempt.

As far as he knew they had never cracked.

Just then the alarm went off and he listened carefully waiting for his elaborate scheme to unfold. Sure enough, there it was, a high-pitched scream and was that what he thought it was, the sound of little footsteps, running towards her toilet, exclaiming and shrieking all the way as the dog’s mess he’d carefully planted in abundance by the side of her bed squelched through her toes and with each step, smeared and befouled the white shag pile carpet, from her bed all the way to her toilet.

He was by the door now and he could hear Mama and Papa racing up the stairs to bear witness. As they arrived he threw the door open and was ecstatic to find Prudence kneeling at the toilet bowl vomiting, her bare upturned feet still filthy and behind her a trail of brown malodorous footsteps – a complete success.

He would obviously never tell her how he’d managed to ensure that the pooh was so moist, nor would he reveal how he’d contained the smell.

Mama and Papa laughed and pointed at Prudence, they turned to him and the pride on both their faces brought tears to his eyes.

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Kill the cocksucker


Shutting up had always been a problem for the cocksucker. He’d tried it a few times back when he’d left school, but it didn’t suit him.

Fenton knew this, he’d known him for a long time and it was why he hated him and wanted him to have a bad accident and if possible to die. Even though he knew it was probably one of those things you just thought or said when you were angry, he’d aways thought it about the cockcsucker so he figured it was probably real enough.

If he did die or even, sometimes he thought, on a particularly bad cocksucker day, when he’d humiliated him or set him up or just acted like a cunt in one of the many ways he had, even if he actually had a hand in his demise in some way, it would be OK.

He had thought about remorse and the idea that after an event like that there’d be all sorts of guilt and maybe even flashbacks, and then what might seem like a good idea, like tampering with his brakes or pushing him off the platform late at night, would suddenly not seem quite so good.
He really didn’t want to be tortured, that would be like the cocksucker having the last say or continuing to have the last say or getting the upper hand like he nearly always did.

He’d thought it through though and he was pretty sure, having imagined all the details, the incident, the aftermath, other people’s faces, the girlfriend’s tears, the mother’s anguish etc etc, he was pretty sure he’d be OK. That he wouldn’t be too badly affected. Maybe a couple of sleepless nights, but the upside, the fact that he would be able to enjoy free rein at work without the cocksucker getting in his face, sending him an email which he copied into everyone else so they’d all know he’d fucked up, or shouting his name across the car park, that would override everything.

Plus, obviously, he’d take his job, get the company car and, if he was lucky and a little extra bit conniving, maybe even the grieving girlfriend. Show a bit of sympathy, no, a lot of sympathy, cry, they loved that.  If she tried to kiss you after a drunken grieving evening, say ‘no – it doesn’t feel right’ , all that sort of shit, and she’d be up for it after a few months, maybe even a few weeks. She’d always liked him.

That’s how the plan came together. It felt like he had to do it in the end.

Kill the cocksucker.

West


Gerard was right, probably, it made no real sense to go after them. The possibility of getting any of the food or horses back weighed against the fact that it would leave us all more at risk, divided and depleted. It all made sense but that lying little toad had looked me in the eye and sworn that nothing was happening, just last night. I knew or I suspected, he was planning to do something. The way he looked at Gerard or looked around at others, just the sly glances when he was making a pronouncement or deciding what we would aim for. It was undermining and it was cowardly. We’d always allowed for challenge but it should be declared in the circle, before everyone then a decision could be made. This way no one had a chance to think about it, they just woke up to find 6 men gone, 8 horses and half of our food.

This left us with just 6 horses between 12 men, and there were the women and children too. Some rode in the wagons but there weren’t enough horses now or food to do this. We were in trouble now and two nights ago we’d found another of the lookouts with his throat cut and the guts spilled out just like all the others, dragged out really and tied round the neck in some primitive savage ritual. Whoever they were it was clear they didn’t show any mercy and had no problem killing a man. Why would they want to kill us? Same reason I guess that we would kill anyone of them if we saw them, which we never did of course: fear, defending your own and trying to survive.

I guess you could see their point of view; this was their land and he we were invading. We didn’t need much and there seemed to be so much room for the people that were here, judging by the forests and the amount of game that was available. It was easy hunting really, the food replacement wouldn’t be too much of a problem, it just took time we didn’t have, or though we didn’t have. No one knew really but we thought, based on the only information that had ever come back from this place once someone set out, based on the news from the Herrington Expedition, although no one ever saw any of them only found a journal apparently, so it wasn’t necessarily reliable. But still we gathered that we had to get west, right over to the far west of this strange land before winter and according to calculations, Gerard mostly and Esther, who fancied herself a bit of a seer, the winter was only 2 months off. So if we stopped for anything, to hunt or to fight, for long, we wouldn’t get there and then we’d die in the freeze.

Once the cold came it came hard, so they said. Heavy heavy snow and it didn’t let up for months. It all made sense then or added to Gerard’s argument that we shouldn’t go chasing after the traitors, but I couldn’t help it, I took a horse, one we could ill afford to lose, I agree, and told them to move fast and I would catch them. It would be easy as some were on foot now so they’d have to go at their pace, hence the rush, to get west. If I could get some of the horses back and in the process kill that smug faced bastard then it would help them and it would help me. I couldn’t go on, in the end without having a go.

At first I’d tried to buckle down to Gerard’s decision and move along slowly with the group heading ever west and eking out our food. But there’s nothing else to think about out here, little to see except grass and trees and animals, a load of buffalo and some strange looking deer-like creatures, always just out of range but still, it got me thinking all the time about them, and I couldn’t go on. The group let me go, which was amazing of them really. I think a lot of them felt the same way but they knew I was the best rider and I could throw a spear better than any of them, so they let me go, gave their blessing and I will NOT let them down, I will not!

Why they’d headed North anyway Job only knows, its well known that we have to head west but that was typical of him, he always thought he knew best and he would roll his eyes whenever Gerard made one of his speeches urging us to keep going, keep struggling and we’d get there and we’d be rewarded for it was a paradise and there was hardly a winter to speak of in the west and the sea was emerald green.

He reckoned it was baloney, never said it to anyone’s face but I’d heard him whispering, reckoned North was the place to go, reckoned that the Herald and his people, who’d come here more than 20 years back, reckoned they were up there and they had it all sorted. Cattle and ploughed land and some order and some army that kept away the savages. Job knows where he gets his ideas from but if I get my hands on him he won’t be having any more ideas and he won’t be rolling them eyes at no one because I’ll have plucked them from his rotten head.

Two hours ago I found a track and I’m pretty sure it was my horse, Meredith; I recognised her left back foot print. It looked pretty fresh and the manure I’d found was almost warm so I could be on the bastards in a few hours if I kept this pace up I reckoned, then we’d see who was the savage.

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