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The words are all mine, most of the pictures are not. Some of the words are not mine either.

Monday, 11 April 2011

Vince the Fish. a horror story.

The weather of late has been a welcome break from the normal doomy, gloomy grey skies and I for one have taken advantage of this by staring at the sun and doing things a bit slower than usual, hence the late arrival of this blog.

But enough of apologies, for they are for the weak minded let’s get on with the show....

This week I bring to you – the ungrateful masses of the internet – a brand new tale of chilling horror.


The story I want to tell you today is that of a looser named Vince.

Vince the vandal was a petty vandal.

It is quite easy to imagine him. Every town has them. the cap, the jogging pants even though they arnt "sports people" the chewed down finger nails that betray the guilt of furious masterbation whenever and where ever they can.

its all there plain to see. But that was Vince.

Always had been and always would until the day he dies. There was no other life for Vince.

As our story starts Vince was running down the back alley ways back to his home, after scrawling graffiti on the shutters of Mr Patel’s corner shop that read “pakys go home.” Vince was not very good at spelling.
Amongst his many failings, attending school was just another in a long list of wasted opportunities he had embraced.

It’s not as if he had any other options. He neither smart, good looking, charming or lucky.

Vince the Fish was one of life’s real losers.

It is a shame that there has to be losers in life. But for every winner, for every successful person who makes it, there is a Vince.

And so Vince the fish had become the one thing he always would be. A small time hoodlum in the town of Rochdale. Vince was always someone you could count on to mess things up. He was a waste of everybody’s effort and he knew it.
The police knew it. And were always there ready to arrest him whenever he broke into someone’s house or stole a car.

Vince didn’t know what to do. He had been in court more times than he could count. He had been forced to pay fines for property damage and even suffered community service but never was sent to prison.
And that’s all he wanted.

To Vince, doing time was he only goal in life.

He desperately wanted the acceptance of his peers. To rise in the ranks of the underworld of Rochdale and the only he could it was by serving time at her majesties pleasure.

Unfortunately Vince had neither the brains nor inclination to perform an act of violence that warranted him been sent to the clink.

He was very much a small time villain.

As he raced into the block of flats that he called home, Vince dived into the lift and pressed the 14th floor. He struggled to get his breathe back as the lift lurched its way upward to his door.
Once he had finally got inside and closed off the outside world, he started to laugh to himself. He didn’t know why exactly. The act of graffiti wasn’t up there with the most dangerous crime he had ever committed and it wasn’t that he had anything against Mr Patel or his shop. Vince never considered himself a racist. In fact Mr Patel’s shop was the only place he had never stolen from or targeted before.
Vince didn’t know why this was, but Mr Patel had always shown him the same welcome he showed everyone who bought from his shop. To Mr Patel, Vince was just another normal person. And nobody ever treated Vince as normal.

Not long after he had got home Vince rolled himself a joint to celebrate his latest piece of handy work. He smoked another one straight after and found himself staring vacantly out of his filthy window at the top of the shopping centre, mindless thoughts drifting from end of his cranium and floating back the other way unhindered by any real intelligence, when he was thrust back into the here and now by a knocking that came at the door.

Vince jerked himself fully upright and stared at the door, as if he could look straight through it if he gawped hard enough.

The knock happened again.

Vince stood up and walked over to the door like Pavlov’s dog and spoke.

“Who is it?” he growled hoping to sound mean and fierce.

There came no reply.

A shadow hovered through the frosted glass of the door. Vince had no way of telling exactly who the stranger was without opening.

The knock came a third time. Louder and with more intensity.

Vince backed away.

No-one would want to come to see him.

Not unless they wanted to hurt him.

He had done many bad things in his life. And although none of them were enough for the legal system to put him away, Vince knew he had upset many people in his time. The latest being Mr Patel.

Deep down Vince was aware that theft and vandalism was wrong, but they were his only outlets in life.

He didn’t have a job, had little chance in getting an interview and above all else had absolutely no inspiration to be employed.

The few friends he had all gave him chances and offered him part time work in garages or shops. But Vince would always repay their kindles by stealing stock or
simply not turning up after a few days.

There was a fourth knock at the door.

Vince began to panic.

Could Mr Patel have seen him? Did he chase him back to his house to have a go at him?

The copious amounts of dope he had smoked that afternoon were taking their full effect and paranoia had set in.

But either way, Vince was a coward and he knew it.

Backing away from the door, Vince shuffled along the wall back toward the window at the back of his bedsit.

He silently opened the patio door that led to the balcony.

He couldn’t see the shape at his doorway but knew it was there, waiting for him. Wanting to exact some form of retribution upon him.

His breath was shallow now, he could hear his fast beating heart throb within his chest.

“shitshitshit..” he whispered to himself.

There was no way out. He was trapped in his own home.

Desperation made him look for an escape. No chance of climbing up or down. No chance of anything.

His eyes darted back and forth and made him feels dizzy.

He vowed never to smoke weed again. The retching of his stomach gave him cramp and he slumped to the floor.

The rain was falling heavy now and high up in the tower, the wind slapped his face with cold icy fingernails.

“fuckfuckfuck...” he panicked to himself as he arched his head round to see if the figure was still there.

It was.

It just stood there. Motionless. Waiting for him.

Vince stood up and pressed himself further against the balcony wall. He pressed his hands against the top of the wall to steady himself.

A fifth knock at the door.

It seemed louder than the others. As if it was inside his head.

“Oh god oh god...” Vince leaned even further back against the wall and shuffled himself as far as he possibly could away from the murder at the door.

Murderer, yes. That what it was. A hitman.

Someone, no everyone he had ever hurt had got together somehow to pay someone to wipe him out.

It all made sense. He was no good to anyone. Nobody liked him and . . . Christ! Even he didn’t like himself.

The bastards had decided to have him killed.

Vince leaned over again to see the door.

From the corner of his vision he could see the figure still standing there. Vince dare not, could not breathe. But then...

Then the figure moved away.

They had given up.

He was safe. For now.

He had to pack. Had to get of town as fast as he could.

Vince pushed himself up off the ledge and made for the door.

He didn’t make it.

The slippery top of the balcony fell from underneath Vince and he fell backwards and then immediately downwards toward the ground.

It only took a few seconds before he hot ground head first.

In those few seconds he had left, Vince had just enough time to once and finally regret everything he had ever done.

Vince died on impact. His head a bloody pulp, his back broken in four places.
At the moment in impact, on the 14th floor of the tower block Vince’s next door neighbour heard a knock at the door.

Mr Fallow, who lived next door to Vince opened his door and before the visitor could speak said “ah, your here for the Betterware catalogue, here you go.”

And with that Rochdale was a slightly better place to live.

But if course there are plenty more individuals out there who will ensure that Vince’s legacy of petty crime and wasteful lives will be continued.

1 comment:

  1. Damn, I was going to propose a sequel lol.

    Very good La. A new genre is born:- The urban short story.


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