26 Aug 2019

We Are 138 #24 - The 138 Word Death

He had one hundred and thirty-eight words to save his sorry skin. One hundred and twenty-six now and rapidly decreasing. 

The gun was in his throat, the pen jittered in his hand. A lifetime of procrastination, faux matriculation and pointless mastication with seconds on the clock of doom. Gagging on the barrel that whiff of cordite from the last shot, that redistributed the brains of his partner across the Anaglypta wallpaper like a crazed butcher's Jackson Pollack.

Sixty words left and counting.

“So dude, let us recap, you have to write down in one hundred and thirty-eight or less why I let you live. As you can see from your now headless partner, I will not be accepting a scribbled note in blood with the words Screw You. I have standards you know”

Five words left.

“Screw You”

Andy Hill likes to think, write and eat cheese. He is British, so has poor teeth and talks like Hugh Grant having an enema. Buy his stuff here - Andy Hill

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