Tale of the dark
‘I’m relying on you here boy; don’t let me down!’
That sentence remained firmly ensconced in my head, my Father had been the best, most bloodthirsty, most terrifying, most downright prolific mad axe-man of his generation. And now it was my turn.
It was the annual ‘Mad Axe Mans Challenge Cup’, every year, the best, the maddest, the angriest, the foulest and the downright most despicable mad axe-men from across the globe, gathered together to see who was the most insane and evil chopper of the whole sordid crew.
Only I didn’t want to be a mad axe-man; I wanted to be an acid bath murderer.
Ever since I had read the glorious tales of the acid bath murderers of the late Victorian, early Edwardian and World War two eras, I had wanted to kill in that fashion. To move quickly, encircle the throat silently; slide a nice stealthy blade across the throat, and then place the body of your selected victim into a deep, hot and welcoming bath of sulphuric acid.
Oh’ how that would be heaven.
I so wanted to be an acid artist, but instead I was ever condemned to be the crazed murderer running amok with a lumberjack’s tool of trade; I was never to have the finesse, the artistry, the glamour and the glory of an acid bath murderer.
Why?
Because of genetics that’s why.
The Secret Society of Criminally Audited Baddies or SSCABs as they are referred too is responsible for the selection of all murderers across the globe. Not the seat of your pants, spontaneous, oh dear I didn’t mean to murder you murderer.
Oh no, the proper licensed killer, the man or woman who commits more than one offence, and who aims to get away with it to make a name for themselves that passes into criminal legend.
So not only does SSCABs actually select who qualifies; but they also select what your specialisation should be. But often they are lazy, they don’t profile you on your own leanings, no they profile you on the genetic dispositions of your family.
And my family was full of mad axe-men, in fact my father had been the best mad axe-man ever; he had amassed an amazing 437 kills.
I was ever so proud of him as a junior apprentice; he was perfection in action, just the one perfect swing and the victim’s head would come flying off their shoulders; pure poetry in motion.
But I hadn’t inherited his exquisite swing, nor his powerful shoulders, not even his ability to split wood outside our log cabin home, where he would spend hours swinging the blade in all directions to hone himself to be the epitome of a crazed, but dazzling killing machine. But I had inherited something from my father; I loved the blade, because I loved to kill.
No, mostly I had inherited the traits of my mother; her fine mind, her ability to think herself out of the most craven of situations, and finally her ability with all things acidic and poisons.
But the trouble with SSCABs, is that not only is the organisation inordinately lazy, but it’s also inflexibly misogynistic. Therefore they took none of my mother’s DNA into account when they choose my class and discipline.
Thus here was I lined up with thirteen other mad axe-men, all dressed identically in ridiculous orange trousers, brown brogue shoes, a tan hide belt, a hideous tank top and matching silver bicep arm bands.
Then of course there is the regulation four and half feet battle axe, weighing approximately twelve kilos, with a blade that can cut so sharp it could cut you just by looking at it.
The thirteen other men consisted of an Australian, a Belgian who by the looks of him was a Fleming, two Americans, a Frenchmen, a German, two Swedes and no less than five Russians.
I was the sole Englishman.
To win the cup is very simple.
You kill everybody else.
What did you expect! This is a mad axe-man’s championship after all.
I shall let you know the calibre and class of opponent I faced that day; one of the Russians ‘got caught short’ as we say in England, so he dropped his trousers and defecated while we stood at the starting line.
Nobody blinked an eyelid apart from an American who muttered ‘Dude, this is not the time or place’ whilst wrinkling his nose in disgust.
To which I responded in a typically understated English fashion, ‘I really didn’t need to see that’ whilst pinching my nostrils together to mitigate the noxious odour coming from the hairy bottomed man from the Caucasus.
There, ladies and gentlemen shows you the average intelligence level of your typical mad axe-man.
Then the whistle went.
We all ran off in separate directions; the idea is that everyone must go to the edge of the marked playing area, which you then double back from and enter into ‘hatchet’s forest’, a densely wooded forest that covers the centre of the killing zone.
And from there it is every man from himself. National loyalties mean nothing, there is but one survivor and you can trust nobody.
As I stalked my way through the forest I forced my mind to concentrate on the task ahead, that task was namely survival.
Then I heard a piercing scream. I should say a short piercing scream, a scream that is cut off mid-cry as your head is removed from your shoulders.
I took in a crouching low gait and edged my way towards the sound; then I saw him, a Russian standing over the body of another Russian. He was looking at the corpse, perhaps mulling over whether he should pick up the second axe. He was certainly big enough to dual-wield.
I moved in a flash and crossed the space between us; remembering a piece of sage advice given to me by my father; ‘move quickly, do not dwell’, I startled myself with my own speed, as I swung the axe down and through the back of the Russian’s skull; it made a dull and wet thwack, I withdrew the blade and then ran, lest another mad axe-man came calling.
So just the two fellow killers down and still eleven to go then.
As I ran on into the forest, I began to slowly decrease my pace, this aided me in slowing my breathing and ensuring I did not run full tilt into another axe-man.
Then another scream, but this time it went on, this was the sign of a classic botched job. The killer had swung for the head, missed and hit another part of the body, it made for a messy job and also lost the attacker vital seconds.
The victim was swearing in French, so I guessed that would be the sole Gallic representative now expunged.
I closed in slowly to find an open clearing in the forest; the Frenchman was prone on the ground in a puddle of blood, his left arm hanging off, he would soon be dead from blood loss. More interestingly however the ‘dude’ American from earlier was busy aiming increasingly desperate swings of his blooded axe at the body of a smiling encircling Swede; obviously ‘Dude’ had made the mess of the Frenchman.
But now the Swede was looking to tear him apart.
With both men suitably distracted I edged my way closer, I wanted to time this to perfection.
So I waited.
I waited for the moment of triumph for the Swede. Only it never came.
Just as he was about to dispatch the American, he slipped, fell over and landed at the feet of ‘Dude’, Dude then swung up and down with his own axe in three short movements.
The Swede was dead. The American tilted his head back in triumph to give a feral wolfish howl. He stretched his neck out lovely for my strike I must say.
One blow and dude’s head came off. My father would be proud.
Again I moved on quickly, in the distance I heard two more epically proportioned screams; but on both occasions when I stalked to the sounds of violence only the victim remained.
I found the first had had his head removed ever so sweetly. Whilst the second had had all his limbs removed too. The mark of a real mad axe-man at work there methinks.
Oh, and the victims were the Australian and the other Swede.
I did a rough count in my head; six of them left.
As I moved slowly through the evergreen foliage I remembered to keep myself small and quiet. Then as I moved to the southern end of the forest and as the sky began to turn red before the dark of night I heard the most almighty racket.
I moved slowly towards the noise and activity. From behind a tree I saw four men dancing crazily around each other swinging their axes whilst hoping for a lucky strike.
I decided to take to the high ground; I climbed the tree I was hiding behind, and sat myself near the top, still perfectly camouflaged from anyone below me.
Two Russians, the Belgian and the last American were busy trying to chop bits of each other.
From my perfect vantage point, I could give each man a critique, and I found myself giving them marks out of ten. None of them scored more than a five.
First the Belgian went down, he took a blow from the first Russian to the back of his knee, and he then let out a high pitched squeal as he hit the ground, only for the second Russian to take his head off with a couple of messy blows. With the second Russian now distracted the American closed in and took his head off with a nice clean blow. Ok maybe I should have given the American a six out of ten.
The surviving Russian and the American looked at each other, with a crash and snarl they came together. The American got lucky and hooked his blade behind the Russian to the detriment of his balance; the American then finished him off with a quick blow to the front of the head with a concealed knife in his left hand.
Cheat! Smart thinking though.
As the American stood under my tree smirking, I toyed with the idea of jumping down and dispatching him. In the end I saw and heard the noises of he last two remaining competitors, the final Russian and the lone German.
I recognised the last Russian; it was ‘hairy bottom’ from earlier in the day.
The American leapt at the Russian as he was the closest; the German stood frozen and then suddenly made his mind up; he crashed into the American and sent him flying to the ground, the American’s weapon’s went spinning away from him, the Russian then swooped and struck his axe between the American’s eyes. Finally the German picked up the American’s fallen knife and stuck it between the ribs of the Russian. The Russian gasped and then expired.
The German laughed and then began to use his axe to dismember the body of the American. So he was the true mad axe-man then.
With the element of surprise on my side I jumped from the tree and landed on him; I could hear the explosion of air from his lungs and his ribs break as I landed. I pulled back his head with both hands and snapped his neck to the right; then with an audible crack from his spine he was dead.
I had won the competition.
This was my tale of the dark; I darkness I that I revel in.
Though I still wish I was an acid bath murderer.
Damn genetics!
Grote Smurf
[DUEL] Shankbot de Bodemloze vs. Rex Anglorum: TIE-BREAKER
Wrinkly Wordsmith
Originally Posted by Firey5
A big thanks to those who already have.
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