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to have the biggest, most powerful nation of this world. He broke away from the others and built his own country, filled it with people taken from the other nations. In scant centuries he annexed areas, eradicating the indigenous cultures as he commandeered more and more land. His nation grew, all too swiftly, into a major culture but with arms to match.

The elders tried to persuade Antoninus to be more sociable, and peaceable, and that biggest was not necessarily best, but he did not listen. He accused them of interfering with the development of the nation, the greatest nation; ‘his’ nation. He threatened their civilizations with overwhelming force and many of the elders withdrew allowing the unruly child to take over what they had created.

Some of the elders resisted and castigated Antoninus by causing bankruptcy and paranoia amongst his people. He survived that, regained his

strength and became even more determined to have the biggest, best and greatest nation in the world.

He started campaigns of subversion and corruption, propaganda and persecution against the nations of the elders.

Outraged by his attitude the elders tried to stop him using reason, debate and argument, but their persuasions fell on deaf ears.

The greatest nation bowed to no one, and the campaigns continued.

With heavy hearts the elders were forced to use their own subversion and violence to stop Antoninus. The more ancient, yet smaller, nations were united in a common goal: that of bringing the juvenile delinquent nation to justice.

Antoninus escalated his efforts, fomenting insurrection amongst the leadership of the elder nations. Wars

ensued, famine and pestilence added to the misery of protracted attrition. Finally, the adults told Antoninus to leave the world.

Then, as always happens with spoiled children, he ruined the world, launching wave after wave after wave of nuclear missiles at the nations of the elders.

The response was automated and so it was that the conflagration had begun.

Consensus indicated the time for coddling the child had passed. Antoninus needed to be punished and guided more strictly in the correct ways of the gods.

The young should respect their elders, their ways and their methods, and not try to impose on them the impetuosity of youth.

Alas, for this world it was too late.

And so it was that Antoninus was bound to the world, even as the last of the

fires gave way to the monochrome of nuclear winter, to await the reawakening of the forces of nature.

Time was to be the teacher, patience the lesson.

The End

send him into absolute raptures. He was constantly sneaking as much time as he could to go rummaging through the books in search of new and fascinating statistics. His pedantic, not far short of moronic, approach to book management made him ideally suited to the job. He indexed, and cross-indexed, each and every book that he considered to have even the slightest connection. He was so good, in fact, that no one dared to ask him for any book for fear that they would be inundated with a list that could have been used to resurface every street in London.

Gray (the younger) had a similar bent and deemed himself to be the lucky one for he had achieved the lofty heights. He was a statistician. He actually collected, and collated, the numbers that meant so much to both him and his identical sibling. His demeanour rarely changed, but his brother – Gray (the elder) – could always tell when there was “something

going down”. He claimed to see a change in his brother’s facial expression.

You could guarantee that no one else could see it.

Their arrival was inauspicious enough. On a wet Thursday afternoon, a removal lorry pulled up outside number 152 Willow Avenue. Just behind it, literally, a Morris Minor arrived and stopped right on the tailgate of the lorry.

The driver, after a swift glance to the heavens, leapt out of the cab and hurried to the car. “You need to move the car back.”

The little old woman behind the wheel of the Minor just looked at him. “Eh?” she shouted.

The lorry driver signalled for her to move the car away from the lorry.

A grating, grinding sound issued from

the gearbox of the car as the engine was revved almost to maximum. Then the clutch was dumped like a hot rock and the poor little Minor jumped back at least three feet before coming to an abrupt halt when the engine stalled.

With a shrug of despair, the lorry driver tried again. “Further back! You must go further back!” He pulled the collar of his jacket closed. “Sodding weather!” he mumbled as he waited for the car to be moved again.

The whole process was repeated with the same degree of success on three separate occasions.

“Sodding women drivers!” The lorry driver grunted as he walked to the tailgate of the lorry.

The window of the Morris Minor wound down. “I heard that!” The old lady shouted at him through her nose.

“Now you can bloody hear!” He

murmured.

“I heard that too!” A second nasal outburst.

He banged on the back of the lorry and his two mates leapt out of the comfort of the cab and they began the unloading process. The old lady climbed out of the car, followed by her twin sons. Strangely enough they all emerged from the driver’s door which was closed and meticulously locked by the last son to leave the vehicle.

Then they hurried inside, chittering to each other like a bunch of monkeys. Only with their nasal way of speaking it sounded more like an enraged swarm of bees.

Despite the best efforts of the lorry driver and his mates it took five hours to get everything off the lorry and into the pre-designated, and very precise positions assigned by the individual owners. When something was common property, a long

debate usually ensued delaying the whole process even further. To the driver and his mates, it sounded like three cellists playing riffs in turn.

It’s not surprising that the removal crew didn’t wait for a tip. They just shut the lorry as quickly as they could and raced away.

The very next evening the twins decided to visit the local pub.

Their mother didn’t approve of drinking, so she stayed away. “Don’t use your… abilities, boys,” she warned them as they put on their hats and coats. She never asked, and they never told her that they only drank cream soda. On rare occasions, usually provoked by extreme temperatures, they added ice to their drinks.

The Hare and Hounds was a typical pub. Two bars, the lounge bar - with

meals available and tranquil music playing, and the public bar - with snacks and a jukebox. Naturally the twins chose the lounge bar in which to take their drinks.

Gray (the elder) went to the bar, whilst Gray (the younger) went to claim a seat in a comfortable booth.

“Two cream sodas, both in clean glasses and no ice, please.” Gray (the elder) whined nasally.

“You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” The barman obviously thought it was a joke. This thin, grey-faced, weasel of a man with his pencil moustache, and his large black oval eyes, could not possibly be serious. He looked over to where Gray (the younger) was about to seat himself and shouted “Oi! You can’t sit there. That’s Mick’s seat.”

“I am not kidding, as you put it, I am entirely serious. So, once more, to avoid

any possible confusion; two cream sodas, both in clean glasses and no ice, please.” Gray (the elder) repeated barely moving his lipless mouth in the process.

In the meantime, Gray (the younger) had joined Gray (the elder) at the bar. “I believe that I am entirely within my rights, as a free citizen of this country, to utilise any seat that is not previously occupied at this particular moment in time.” Having finished he nodded his head at the barman, turned and walked back to the booth.

“You’re a pair of nutters!” The barman looked from one to the other and laughed, almost nervously, as he prepared the two cream sodas, checking that each glass was spotlessly clean before using it. “Bloody clones!” He mumbled under his breath.

“No. I am afraid that you are mistaken in that assumption. Whilst we do appear to be very similar in appearance, we are

in fact non-identical twins. My brother and I have certain characteristics that make each of us distinct and unique in his own way. For example, my brother’s moustache is 0.5 millimetres shorter, on either side, than mine.” The twin at the bar corrected the barman’s observation. “All too many people make the same mistake with us, but to believe that we are clones is a total fallacy which we are always obliged to correct on each and every occasion.” The nasal tones grated on the barman’s nerves.

“That’ll be three pounds, fifty. Guv’nor.” He declared as he placed the drinks on the bar.

Gray (the elder) inspected the glasses minutely, before taking out a tiny coin purse and slowly, and very deliberately, counting out the money. “Fifty, one hundred, one hundred and twenty, one hundred and forty, one hundred and sixty, one hundred and eighty, two hundred, two

hundred and twenty, two hundred and forty, two hundred and sixty, two hundred and eighty, two hundred and ninety, three hundred, three hundred and ten, three hundred and twenty, three hundred and thirty, three hundred and forty, three hundred and fifty!” He declared with a mild note of satisfaction. “Three pounds and fifty pence exactly.”

The barman swept the coins off the bar, opened the till, tipped the coins in and walked through to the public bar, pulling the curtain across behind him.

Gray (the elder) picked up the drinks and carefully carried them to where Gray (the younger) was sitting. Gray (the younger) took his drink, waited until Gray (the elder) was seated then said “Cheers”.

“Cheers.” Replied Gray (the elder).

And that was the end of the conversation. They sat and looked at their drinks, taking the smallest of sips every

five minutes. This, of course, they did in perfect synchronicity down to the little sigh of satisfaction afterwards.

At nine o’clock the door was thrust open and a well-dressed, wide boy walked in with a girl on each arm. When he noticed the Gray twins sitting in his booth, he disengaged himself from the girls and walked over.

“Oi. You’re in my seat.” He looked down at the two men.

“Your seat?” asked Gray (the elder).

“Is your name written here somewhere?” asked Gray (the younger).

“It will be written here very soon, and it will be written in your blood.” He leaned on the table menacingly.

“And what name would that be?” asked Gray (the elder) either ignoring the threat or totally oblivious to it.

“Mick.” He replied. “Mad Mick is what people rahnd ‘ere call me. ‘Cause I’m always gettin’ mad at people who do stupid fings like sittin’ in my seat.”

Gray (the elder) looked at Gray (the younger) and vice versa. Then they both looked at Mad Mick and spoke as one voice. “We are entirely within our rights, as free citizens of this country, to utilise any seat that is not previously occupied at the particular moment in time of our choosing it.” That said they turned their attention back to their cream sodas.

Mick howled in rage and grabbed Gray (the younger) by the collar, pulled him from the booth and swung a hefty right cross.

As Mad Mick’s fist struck Gray (the younger’s) nose there was a distinctive cracking sound. Barely a fraction of a second later Gray (the younger) hit the floor, but somehow managed to maintain

a conscious, if not a little dazed, condition. He sat up and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it both over and under his bleeding nose.

“Did that make you feel good?” His voice was even more nasal than usual thanks mainly to the crushed sinuses kindly given to him by Mad Mick. “If it did, I feel sorry for you. For it has been statistically proven that a single act of violence will never change anything, whereas statistics which have been meticulously gathered, collated and correlated have far more power behind them than your fist. Furthermore…”

Mad Mick, having turned to the other twin the moment that Gray (the younger) had gone down, turned back with a look of absolute amazement on his face. The stupid little prat was still giving it a large portion! His expression changed from total amazement to one of extreme anger and he stepped forward with both his fists

tightly clenched.

“…and any repetition of said action devalues the impact of the first such action by a factor of at least five. Now this may not seem significant to you…” Gray (the younger) had barely drawn a breath since he had begun his response to Mad Mick’s punch, “…and I really don’t see how you can feel that said action can provide you with any satisfaction whatsoever.”

As the sentence ended Gray (the elder) nodded his head in approval.

In the ensuing silence Mad Mick hesitated. He desperately wanted to punch the annoying little prick again, but if he did, would the monotone resume? He decided that it just wasn’t worth the risk. He shook his head, turned away, gathered his girls and walked right out of the pub.

He didn’t realise it at the time, but that

was the beginning of the end. The Grays had moved into his manor, and they weren’t leaving… ever!

The End

With hands that tremble with excitement he reads the note that promises to end his search. He has to go to Balea V, to the city of Arkall and search out “The Gormathic”, a back-street tavern. The supplier will contact him there.

He turns the paper over, backwards and forwards, but finds no obvious indication as to who the supplier is. Further analysis reveals that the paper is common stock readily available from any store. The ink is equally disappointing.

His disappointment is short-lived as he feels a rise in adrenalin levels. This small adventure is already providing him with stimulus, though not at the level that he is looking for.

It does not take him long to pack.

From a table in the corner of the bar room of The Gormathic, Marcus Saul

watches the comings and goings of the various patrons as he sips on a glass of Dirusian Ale. The Gormathic is nothing more than a back street “dive” in which anything, and everything, can be bought for a suitable price.

On his arrival at the bar a Salevian immediately comes to his table with a proposition. It is said that they can smell money at fifteen parsecs and they never miss an opportunity. They are one of the most sought after resources in the whoring trade.

This one is in the form of a female, a real beauty at that, but he knows that it can become any permutation of gender that he asks for. When he declines the offer, the Salevian transforms into a handsome young man. After his second refusal the Salevian, cursing him as “one-that-pleasures-itself”, departs.

Marcus smiles quietly to himself. He

has been called worse.

Atricallan music provides a background to the murmured conversations that take place in the smoky, incensed atmosphere. Normally, Marcus would have enjoyed the sound and allowed its soothing melodies to relax him, but he is too keyed up by the promise of things to come.

Time drags its heels as he waits for his contact to make himself known. Patrons come and go, but no one, other than the Salevian, bothers him.

He is about to give up and retire for the night when a fight breaks out between a couple of Xericov knights and a Dalluric warrior. The music stops and all eyes turn towards the antagonists. He watches the fight as the Xericov knights attempt to outflank their Dalluric opponent. He knows that they stand no

chance of achieving that objective.

The Dalluric, with eyes on all sides of their heads, are famous for their all-round vision capabilities. This tends to thrust them into scouting roles, but that does not mean that they cannot fight, and this one is no exception. The battle is as short as it is brutal. Two Xericov bodies, sliced in two by a single sweep of a scimitar, fall to the floor, even as the Dalluric warrior turns back to his drink.

Marcus grunts and returns his attention to his near-empty glass.

“Waste! Stupid Xericov, never learn?” A voice close to his left ear sounds loud, even though the words are murmured.

He starts as he realises that he is no longer alone.

An Obsidar, swathed in cloth, sits by his side. All but the eyes are hidden from view by the traditional robes of the Brotherhood.

“Not startled look. You look for I?” In broken English the Obsidar engages Marcus in conversation.

His heart starts pounding as Marcus begins to realise that this could be his mysterious contact, but he is careful not to let anything other than a bland expression onto his face. “Why would I be looking for a member of the Brotherhood?”

“Brotherhood yes, but also provider.” The Obsidar’s eyes flash a yellow colour, before returning to their original lime green. It is enjoying the “cloak-and-dagger” game.

“Provider of what?” It is important that Marcus does not mention what he seeks. Places like this are tolerated, but only because the authorities have bugs in every last nook and cranny.

“I Cha’het Tikar, we do pleasure?” A tentacle rises above the surface of

the table and lightly touches Marcus’s arm.

“Don’t you mean business?” Doing his best to look disinterested, Marcus allows his gaze to wander round the room.

“No. We play game, big game.”

Marcus’s eyes meet with Cha’het’s. They are a bright, almost golden yellow.

“Yeah, okay. We play big game. Now what?”

“We meet again. I tell all.” Cha’het rises up and slithers away.

Marcus watches the Obsidar leave and slowly finishes what little remains of his drink. A slow smile creeps to his lips as he leaves the bar room.

A message is delivered to Marcus Saul’s room the next morning.

The next meeting will take place in a

private apartment at fourteen thirty hours. He is to arrive alone, and unarmed. After much soul searching, Marcus finds he cannot decline the invitation. There is no way to guarantee it isn’t a trap and it is, quite possibly, the best opportunity for him to achieve his goal.

At the appointed time, Marcus Saul operates the intercom for the apartment. No questions are asked and no instructions are given, but the latch on the door audibly releases. Taking a deep breath he opens the door and steps inside. The door swings shut behind him and the latch clicks home.

He is in an empty hallway, with only the outside door behind him and a plain, unfurnished door ahead of him. He feels the tingle of a sensor sweep that checks him, inside and out, for the presence of any weaponry. When the sweep is finished the door that he faces swings

open. The room behind the door is as plain and empty as the hallway, but at least it contains the Obsidar.

Cha’het slithers towards him. “Greetings Mister Saul. We talk free now.”

Marcus nods and steps into the room.

“You want, I got.” The Obsidar waves a tentacle at Marcus.

“What have you got?” The enquiry is automatic.

“I got hunt, Mister Saul. Hunt.” Cha’het’s eyes flash yellow again.

“Uh-huh.” Marcus Saul masters his emotions and looks as disinterested as he possibly can.

“Big hunt.” The Obsidar adds. “Many hunters, many weapons and good price.”

“Really?” If it is at all possible Marcus Saul sounds a little bored, but his heart is

pounding with excitement.

Cha’het reaches inside his garments and produces a portable view screen. “See, I got plenty. You choose.”

Marcus takes the screen and scrolls through the available images. Creatures from various races, including a few that are officially protected by the authorities, are shown. Amongst them are a number of sentient, intelligent and quite belligerent species. With the last of the species viewed, Marcus returns the screen to Cha’het. “Interesting selection.” He murmurs.

“Yes. You choose four, we talk price.” The Obsidar manipulates the screen and offers it back to Marcus.

The creatures are gone, replaced by a catalogue of weaponry extending from small bladed weapons to the largest of weapons that an individual might be able to operate on their own.

“Price not problem for you. We talk detail, not money.” Cha’het sounds dismissive.

Marcus Saul isn’t fooled. This will not be cheap and the Obsidar is in a hurry to close the deal. “Four opponents and any weaponry I want?”

Cha’het snorts and ducks his head, the Obsidar equivalent of a shrug. “Which four?”

Marcus hands the screen back to Cha’het. “Show me again and then I’ll choose.”

Cha’het swiftly manipulates the screen and returns it to Marcus.

After a reviewing the list Marcus returns the screen to the Obsidar. “Grummer, Dalluric, Orinox and Willumat.”

Cha’het pauses before returning the screen to the folds of his clothing.

“Sure?”

Marcus nods. “Sure.”

“Good choice. One million credit for each Grummer, Orinox and Willumat. Two million for Dalluric.” Cha’het breathes in reply.

“I’ll pay you four million.” Marcus Saul may be wealthy, but he is no spendthrift.

“No hunt!” The Obsidar turns away, showing how offended he is. “You go now.”

“Okay.”

“No! Wait.” Cha’het swiftly calls him back. “Four million, seven hundred thousand.”

“Four million, three hundred thousand.” Stony faced, Marcus turns to look at Cha’het. Inside, he smiles. This is just another part of the negotiations. He is not surprised when they eventually agree

a price of four million, five hundred thousand credits.

“Okay. Price agreed for creatures, now we talk weapons.” Cha’het sounds pleased with himself.

“Uh-unh.” Marcus Saul shakes his head. “That’s an all inclusive price, or it’s no deal.”

Cha’het begins to turn away, but stops, pausing before turning back and agreeing. “You fight like you deal?”

“Harder.” Marcus Saul grins at the crestfallen Obsidar.

“Okay. You got deal, you thief.” A tentacle is extended towards Marcus.

He grips it briefly as the deal is sealed. “All that remains is how, when and where?”

“This you know, when I get payment.” Cha’het ducks his head again.

“Transfer suitable?” Marcus activates

his personal communicator.

“Now?” Cha’het’s surprise shows as his neck extends instead of ducking down.

“Sure.”

The Obsidar provides the account details and Marcus Saul authorises the transfer.

“Kellos port, three days. You ready?” Cha’het provides the missing information.

Marcus Saul smiles at the Obsidar. “I’ll be there.” With business concluded, he leaves the apartment.

Three days later, as promised, Marcus Saul meets with Cha’het at Kellos port.

The Obsidar guides Marcus to a small craft at the edge of the apron. “She not big, but she good.”

Marcus Saul doesn’t bother to

respond, he isn’t interested. He simply follows Cha’het into the craft. A short while later he rests as the craft carries them to their destination. He dozes fitfully for a while, before falling into a deep sleep.

When he awakens he is no longer on the small craft.

He shakes his head to clear it, sits up and then swings his feet over the edge of the bed in which he finds himself. The room spins for a moment, but settles very quickly. Other than the bed it is unfurnished. There is a door, but no windows. Marcus Saul is still fully clothed and a number of weapons lie strewn about the foot of the bed. A swift check reassures him, as they are all the weapons he requested for the hunt, and there is sufficient ammunition for each weapon to be used for a reasonable, if limited, duration.

He rises to his feet and begins his preparations, applying camouflage paint and strapping various pieces of equipment to his body. As he works a small panel slides open and a viewer is revealed. A quiet beeping tone alerts him to the presence of the communicator. He stops his efforts, walks to the communicator and activates it.

Cha’het’s face appears. “Hi Mister Saul. You ready for hunt?”

Marcus nods. “Yes, but where are the others?”

“Others come soon.” The Obsidar responds. “For you.”

Something does not sit right in what Cha’het has said.

“Coming for me?” Marcus seeks clarification.

“Soon.” Cha’het replies with a dismissive wave of a tentacle, and the

screen goes blank.

Marcus Saul backs away from the viewer and sits down on the edge of the bed. He smiles and shakes his head slowly. "Cha'het, Cha'het, Cha'het..." He understands now.

They will be coming for him.

Soon.

He isn’t the hunter.

He is the prey!

The End

More nods, another step forward, ever nearer to the end.

My throat hurts, but I will not give up, not when there’s even the slightest hope.

Docile, unheeding, unthinking creatures they move forward again.

I walk alongside them, their eyes glazed and unblinking, their smiles fixed, their heads nod, nod, nodding.

To the very last I scream my defiance into deaf ears and catch a glimpse of what lies beyond.

The one next to me stops, nose to the door.

A scant heartbeat passes and the maw opens.

I try to prevent their passing, but fail as they tear out of my tired grasp.

Tears well in my eyes as I witness the horror.

I turn away, vomiting then dry retching as another one is consumed.

Consumed by the system that will ultimately betray them, change them from what they are into the cattle they represent.

I straighten and throw my arms around the neck of the nearest one and scream.

“Tell them ‘no’. Tell them you don’t want it to end like this. Tell them there are better candidates outside of their parties. Vote for freedom from the constraints of a democracy that doesn’t work any more. Not for you, or me…”

They turn their eyes to me. Their smile does not fade, nor do their eyes blink, and they ask, “What do you reckon? The blue party, or the red party?”

The End

rest.

Like it says in th’ bible…

Us what had nothin’ before, got it all now.

Amen.

The End

A second version follows...

The first swarm shot the people with nowhere to run.

Though the swarm was shot down the same day.

The next swarm consumed anyone who hadn’t been hit by the first swarm.

Money, politics and power; glass, concrete and steel were all useless.

The world’s quieter.

We, the homeless and dispossessed, are what’s left of humanity inside the city.

Don’t know why they had to die.

Don’t care anymore than they cared about us.

It’s our world now.

The End

Be patient.

Be kind.

Because...

It’s not every day you get a review from an idiot who knows not the difference between “critique” and “critic”.

The End

Dad just couldn’t resist her red hair, pale skin and freckles… and of course her knockout figure. He said it wasn’t easy, but then things worth anything never are, are they? He flirted, chased her, teased her, brought her gifts and promised his undying love for her, as he had to the other hundreds of women that he’s seduced over the years.

She kept on refusing, but he persisted and eventually… well, you know… I was conceived. Nine months later I was born, named and then Dad just up and left.

Jenny’s husband stood by her for quite a while.

I gotta say he was tough, but when the whispering and the pointing got too much, he took his own life - spraying his brains all over the insides of the barn.

I was about ten when he did that.

Momma took to the booze. She had a lot more boyfriends then, too. She stopped going to church. Spent a lot of time on her knees, but never stopped praying. In the end she also gave up, overdose, you know.

By that time I was old enough, and ugly enough, to look after myself.

Except for the job-hunting thing.

I’d get to the interview and things would go well until the penny finally dropped on the interviewer.

They’d ask me about my name.

I’m kinda sensitive about it, you know, and when they start laughing I just get madder and madder until the horns appear.

Then the interviewer gets serious and apologises, but… it’s too late!

I’m already pissed at them.

So I give them what they least want.

For him it’ll be a small, almost non-existent penis; warts; big, blotchy birthmarks, the kinda thing that turns women (and men) off.

For her it’ll be a flat chest, a big, fat mountain of an ass, cellulite thighs, or something else that she finds equally repugnant.

How can I do this? I am my father’s son. I’m Bartholomew Leviticus Zachariah Bubb Yeah, you’ve got it.

B. L. Z. Bubb.

Dad’s a funny guy, huh?

Got any work?

The End

He's had his fun and now he'll wallow in the memories of his most recent playtime.

He always has to be ‘entertained’.

Not in any ordinary, mundane manner.

No.

He needs to show me what exists in the darker recesses of my mind.

That's where he lives, with all the other unvoiced atrocities, vilifications, lusts and desires, but they cannot do anything while he is in charge.

And neither can I.

He is always quiescent after he’s perpetrated whatever misery he’d planned for the latest unfortunate soul to enter the dilapidated property I call my home.

I’ve let it go to rack and ruin in the hope of dissuading visitors.

But still they come.

Brave or foolish, young or old, male or female, doesn’t matter to him. Except maybe to excite him further if it is a foolish, young female.

He always tries to engage me in conversation about what he’ll do to the next unfortunate who comes his way.

Always his way, never our way.

That small mercy is something I can be grateful for.

It gives me a chance to keep him away from the quiet spaces in my mind.

He hates quiet.

I need it.

Need it to plan my escape.

If he knew, he’d stop me.

It is his only weakness.

He needs me.

Without me, he can do nothing.

He can’t lead them in with clues, sounds, or signs, nor can he trap them with poisons and potions to incapacitate them, leaving them conscious all the while he has his fun.

Normally, I pray for a long delay between his playtimes, but my plan needs a special victim to keep him distracted, and I am weakening, I'm not sure how long I can keep it a secret.

His strongest competitor for control is lust, and it is strongest whenever the victim is younger.

Then she comes.

Naïve, pretty, blooming into adulthood.

He is swift to get me to intercept her, guide her and trap her.

His excitement is such that I can barely understand a word he says.

In the cellar, he strips her and chains her to the wall.

He’s made special contraptions, which he attaches to her torso leaving her breasts open to a cage, into which he plans to introduce a rat, or perhaps a hungry crow. Over her head he places a contraption that covers each ear and he chuckles at the thought of the introduction of some hungry centipedes. Wicker mittens and boots are applied in readiness for the introduction of scorpions, not deadly ones, but painful stingers nonetheless.

I smile.

He takes that as I sign that I am beginning to enjoy his games, and I am happy to let him.

Lust challenges him to wait until it is sated and the girl is a gibbering wreck, but he is too focused and so they argue.

In my mind they argue for control, and whilst they are distracted, I am able to release her from her bonds. Too drugged to run, she staggers to the door, stumbling on her caged feet.

I close my eyes so that neither can see what is happening.

By flashing images of her still chained, naked and adorned with the wicker cages through my mind, I fool them both.

Feeling my way along the wall, I touch many objects some of which make me cringe as they house the creatures that are to be inflicted on her defenceless body.

Then, I touch what I seek.

All too late he realises what I am about to do, and he can do nothing to stop me for lust continues to fight him, taking advantage of his distraction.

My hands grip the jar.

I will my hands to turn the lid, but he fights hard to stay in control.

The lid comes off and I sigh, right before we scream in unison as the ragpickers destroy any evidence that we’ve even existed.

The End

“What…?”

“That is the total annihilation of your enemy.” A deep-voiced, sour-humoured laugh. “And your own. ‘Known thine enemy’ is good advice, but better to know your enemy before you take his hand.”

“Who, then are you?” Once commanding, the General’s voice trembles.”

“You might know me as Pestilence.” More laughter. “Death has grown impatient of War’s inability to provide him with sufficient sustenance.” He bows. “That’s why he sent me.”

The End