King Manc

KING MANC

A dysfunctional street. Grey. Shiny with old rainfall. King could kill
for a ciggy. King remembered a pub from the old days. Local drink-hole
for weekly sesh many moons ago. Punk jukebox/reggae tunes and smell of
ripe dope in the backroom. Cool faces around a torn up pool table. King
turns a corner and there it is; The King's Arms Hotel.

Right now King spots a face. Young and wild, gabba-gabba-hey into cheap
mobile. Slack eyes check King out. King enters the boozer. A step back
in life. King had planned it a long time ago. Long hours of precision
planning. Every second strengthened the plan like steel grids for
concrete. Like the frame of the cage he'd built for her.

Flashback: Ice cold Evian in her face wakes her up. I need to see, to
feel her sink slow. Soak it up. Absorb it. Make it change me forever.
Now it's done. No going back.

&;#61613;&;#61613;&;#61613;

"Bushmills. Large." King then asks for 20 B&;H.
"Machine got shagged last night, pal."
King turns to Old Boy next to him, "You interested in selling me a
ciggy?"
"You a poof or what?"
King smiled, "A quid for one fag."
Old Boy scanned King's hands. King taps a silver pinky-ring on the bar.
Zoom in on nicotine stains, long habit, can never say no, "Two
quid."
Another King smile, "Done." King drops coin. Old Boy passes the stick.
Johnny Cash sings out the jukebox, Ring Of Fire.
King: Gotta light?
Old Boy: Cost you a quid.
King, laughing: You old scrote.
Old Boy's laugh comes up, crunches into a lung-shredder cough. King can
almost smell lung/tar chunks. Cash sounds all sombre/sober. Old Boy's
death cough rattling the bar.

Flashback: her wide eyes/empty of life/terror so complete I can touch
it. Her reality slaps in as she kicks and screams. Nothing for you,
bitch. Only cool death. Realisation this ain't a joke. Real. BIG real.
One second of truth after decades of lies. She screams into the
gag.

King opens his eyes. King drinks. Bushmills bites. Bushmills burns good
&; clean. Another?
"Bushmills. Large."
King asks Old Boy if he wants a drink. Old Boy stops dying for a beat
to spit,
"Double brandy, poof."
King smiles and drags the fag long/deep. King's drugs. Alcohol &;
Tobacco. Legit. No fucking around with anything else. Not. Right. Now.
King buys a double brandy.

Dream: All I want is a divorce. She won't. Stubborn bitch. Teeth in
deep waiting for payday. I twist the lever. She cries. More power
cranks up. More of the same. Scorched skin funk. Darkness &; blue
light/popping out. Sparks. She. Is. Stillness. Personified.

&;#61613;&;#61613;&;#61613;

King opens an eye. She's still there. Same colour hair as his wife. Too
young for a ghost. She's a sad piece of shit he picked up for a couple
drinks. Down some Northern Quarter booze hole.
King digs in an elbow, "Time to go."
Nix. Said she was a fuk-pic model. Proud of her work. Proud of her
habit. Maybe 20, 21 max. Na?ve as shit with 'victim' branded on tits
like a logo. Rough stuff history since she was a kid.
King nudges again, "Wakey-wakey."
Still nix. She's out till dusk. King is in a cheap hotel off Princess
Street. No time for this shit. King jumps out of bed. Tired/no
energy/fucked-out &; spent. King suddenly realises his age and
laughs twice. One mean laugh. One sad laugh. King dumps a score and
leaves.

&;#61613;&;#61613;&;#61613;

Exterior. Sunshining. A crafty breeze in the air. King crossed on a
Green Man. Always safe. Caged animals played in his head despite the
traffic rush. Tigers to skunks to apes. To naked white frazzled skin.
Broken nails bitten nails. To her face. Scared. Detained. In detention
for 5 days. 120 hours at his mercy. 7200 minutes is 432000 seconds. She
took a lot of seconds to die. Cruelty. King told her what she had left.
She used the time to beg. A waste when revenge was the motive.
King: It's all come back to haunt you.
Her, crying: Please, please, please let me go.
King: Like karma.
Her, crying: Please, please, please.
King had built the cage at the lock-up. Backlot down Corporation
Street. Tyre mountains/grinding trains/smell of diesel waste. Carefully
designed to fit in a van. To fit in the bedroom. She came home one day
and King caged her. Ruthlessly efficient. She was clueless.

&;#61613;&;#61613;&;#61613;

The last bar was low. Music loud &; infectious. A young mob, up for
it. Wriggling girls on tables/split skirts/hot hot pants. Hot &;
sweaty. Lads smoking/drinking/dancing/posing. King stood at the bar.
Barman offers. Barman wears jazzy silk shirt &; delivers the goods -
rum-coke - dark rum with a dash of cocaine. A drink from history. King
paid up and faced the floor. Heaving. He knew the score. Flash heavy
cash/blag a chick quick/split to hotel &; sex. The Routine. Long
time away from The Routine. Good to be back? Free? Alone.

King liked her hair. Like the wife's but younger. And alive. King kept
it one track. No swerves, no bullshit, just plain cold.
King: How about you &; me checking out of here?
Girl, smacky-smile: Okay, luv.
Girl touched King's hand. It was rough like grazed leather. She smelled
of cheap perfume. 2-4-1 @ Boots. King looked good for his age. There
was no guilt, only relief. Only a numbness. All the planning had
worked. Meticulous. Meticulous. Meticulous. &; she was dead.
King led the girl out into the night.

&;#61613;&;#61613;&;#61613;

King had bought the cattle prod at a rural car boot sale. A fresh
nifty. Farmer said he had no cattle left to prod. All dead. Executed
was the word he used.

King tinkered and tweaked the prod. Customising. All-nighters in the
lock-up with manuals and tools. Voltage upped into Danger Zone. Lethal
zaps/shocks/needle surge way beyond the red. King tested it on a stray
dog. Eyes popped bloody/skin fried/dead before a ten count. Smell of
hot dogs. King smiled.

Flashback: Sloshing her down with water. Better connection guaranteed.
My rubber gloves thick/sweaty clinging to my fingers. No nerves. No
fear. Only her pure terror. I connect with her spine. Piss/shit in
freefall. She looks me in the eye. Animal horror fog like the hot dog.
Nowhere to hide. Tears like blood. A taste in the air. Wet
concrete/acid. I jab her left breast. Flesh shudders grim/pale jaw
flopping/flapping. Drowning fish &; cloudy eyes. I end it with a
long feed to her brain. A cornea bursts/puss oozes slow. I dry heave. I
swallow air. I keep things down. Her chattering teeth one second then
stone still. Switch off.

&;#61613;&;#61613;&;#61613;

King is quitting town. King feels it's time to scoot. They'll soon find
the body where he left it. Caged. Frazzled. Very, very dead.

King is walking through Piccadilly. Once a feature now a building site.
The light is changing fast. Sinking sun, dimming of the day. A fog will
squat tonight.

King's stride moves him fast. A man heading for a train. A man in a
crowd. Piccadilly Station. More turmoil/chaos.
Reconstruction/refurbishment. Scaffolding blockades &; cluttered
walkways. King is pissed off the bar's gone.

King buys a First Class Single to somewhere south. Free drinks on the
train. Thanks. King needs a drink.

King walks to his train. At First Class a blond in red says, "Good
evening, sir." King palms her a ten. King winks, "I drink whisky." She
giggles/gets the message, "I'll keep them coming." King smiles freedom.
King springs onto the carriage and finds a seat.

The train leaves Manchester in five minutes.