He was hit in the ribs with a tremendous force, both bodies crashing into the door frame, pieces of wood swiping past his ear.  The large man followed unhinged by snapping up on his knees, dragging Warlock with him by the throat.  Warlock used the horrible balance and shoved his hands out, taking no aim, and striking the man in the gut.  It didn't push the man but an inch.  He retaliated by pulling his thick tattooed arm back and throwing a fist hard, Warlock gritted his teeth and ducked quickly, breath catching from the hand.  His only chance was the knife.

    As the massive fist collided with where his head used to be, the grip on his neck loosened.  He immediately used it to buck his head violently into the man's gut, sending him back further.  Lifting his legs, Warlock planted his boots on the man's chest, squirmed his shoulders higher up the slick door frame, and shoved before much reaction from the hulk.  The hulk's eyes widened as his massive body fell back first, momentum propelling Warlock up.  His left foot on the man's chest, the right slipping on the blood from the first man. 

    He fell to his knee, the hulk groaned as air was removed, shaking his head in pain.  Only for a moment, it was a sham, as Warlock grabbed for his knife, the hulk grabbed his wrist and threw him off.  Warlock's legs flopped wildly in the air, landing on his side, back to the wall.  He kicked with his left leg, at the man's side; once, twice.  Jumping up, he glanced to the end of the hall, there was no one, just isles of various products.  He looked back down at the hulk, meeting an unexpected boot to the left temple.  This time he wobbled to the right, towards the exit, keeping a weak and shaky balance on the rough wall. 

    Snarling, he lunged at the man, knife swinging horizontally in a fatal arch towards the throat.  The hulk dodged, kicked out for the gut, Warlock dodged with his own kick, boot connecting boot.  Both men fell back, quickly pushing themselves forward, knife versus fist, the blade slashed across the man's knuckles, blood spraying.  He grunted, winced, grabbed the wrist with the knife, Warlock twisted his  body, jerking the large man into the wall.  Brick chafed off as the bald head bounced off, skin red.  His hand was still caught, the larger man took him over easily, throwing Warlock over his shoulder and following with an elbow to the neck.  He dodged, bone snapped against the tile, the hulk screamed, reared back up.  Baring his teeth, Warlock head butted the man in the throat, crown of his head meeting nose.

    He pushed up and stood, his knife was gone.  It had clattered to the women's bathroom door when they fell.  He dove for it, shoulder hitting hard, knocking it open, grabbed the knife and lifted his upper body and balanced on his palms.  He lifted his head to a shotgun barrel, the owner pressed it harder against his forehead, forcing him to look up the barrel and into the face of a woman.

    "Don't move," she ordered softly, she nodded gravely to someone behind her.  Warlock's eyes widened, it was the woman who was in the bathroom in the first place.  She was never in trouble.  The hulk lumbered over him and took the knife out of Warlock's hand, groaning.  He squirmed against the barrel, eyes blazing.

    "Give me my gently caressing knife back!"

    Something hard cracked the back of his skull, he blacked out.
   
*****

    "Are you okay?" a voice asked him.  His eyes opened wider, a hot liquid sludging into his vision.  He blinked the blood away, slowly swiveled his head to the voice.  A woman was bound to a chair, hands behind her back.  His eyes widened, who was this woman?

Last edited by wolfblood17 (2010-06-13 19:50:13)

Hey Wolfblood

          After you respond to this message I'm going to go ahead and move this topic over to the Stories and Poetry Section, for though it doesn't contain werewolves within the tale it probably fits better over there.

          Oh and By the Way, very interesting tale.

Last edited by Vindicator (2010-06-18 14:03:58)

Hey your Welcome. 

     It's a bit more graphic than I usually read but interesting nonetheless.

Actually Vindicator, the more I think about it... you remember "Chronicles of a Psychopath" story?  I'm turning this into that... so werewolves are a yes.  I postponed the other one because it wasn't going anywhere, and I'm not very good at humor.  This one is much darker...

True, there could be some subtle humor moments in this, just not as funny as the other one.  There's a cockroach scene from the other story that should draw some laughs, every time I think of it I laugh!    Well, I'll say this is more horror/action/drama... with just enough characterization to care about the people dying.

My "Cabin 9" story is notorious now for the true horror!!!!!  And that one is another novel I'm working on.  In all there are three (last one in post production).  The last part of this is coming soon, just wanted to say that...

I'll edit this a little later.....



He immediately rolled to the side, shoulder slamming into the crate, a flurry of lead sparked where his gut was.  Warlock squeezed off two rounds, both denting the barrel with a vehement screech.  Sarah screamed behind him, he heard a violent struggle, but he couldn't look back.  Not yet.  He scrambled up before the gunman could turn the corner with a new weapon, leaped out from cover of the crate, towards the downed men.  He scrabbled for the closest automatic rifle.

    Turning the corner, barrel first, he spotted no one.  Sarah screamed again, there were sounds of a large scuffle.  Grunts and a gurgling scream from a man.  Good girl, he thought, smiling grimly.  He stepped forward, two goons with rifles lurched into his sight, they turned and saw him.  Too late, sneering, Warlock pulled the trigger and released a folly of lead into the men.  Their chests and head's exploded with scarlet liquid, some of it even hitting his face.  Bodies jerking back from the force of the bullets, they fell to the ground, well beyond dead.

    Stepping to the edge of the crate, he looked out into the rest of the warehouse.  Three bodies lay atop each other in a hideous sack of blood, broken bones, and even some brains.  He looked away, there was heavy scuffling somewhere.  Groans, grunts, the sound of skin meeting skin.  Women were fighting.  Warlock needed to hurry.

    He backed out of the narrow alley between crates, into a hard object.  It moved, up and down along his spine, a chest.  The hulk.  He felt arms lifting at his sides, he ducked and whirled around, firing.  The hulk grunted and grabbed the seething barrel, pointing it away from his extended gut. 

    Warlock kept his finger on the trigger, hoping the force of the recoil would help him.  Bullets pelted the wall, the explosions deafened him, he kicked out with a foot.  It didn't connect, the hulk jerked back, speed defying his bulk, and tore the gun from Warlock's hands.  The trigger tore skin from his index finger away, he screamed in pain, he couldn't hear it.  No sound reached his ears correctly, the gunfire nearby became muffled pangs.  The hulk's voice was deep and low.  He noticed a rectangular piece of wood on either side of the man's thick neck.

    Lifting his lips in an enraged, silent snarl, the hulk lifted a heavy foot and kicked Warlock straight in the chest.  His body lifted into the air, back smacked hard into the ground, he winced from the pain.  Jerkily looked up, the hulk wasn't carrying an automatic rifle, a long wooden handled ax swung lightly in each hand.   Warlock's eyes widened in a surge of fear, it was a truly menacing sight. 

    The barreling chest of the seven foot monster that stood over him, massive arms the size of tree trunks, thick muscular legs.  Long grey hair lay in a pony tail along his back, two day old stubble lined his blocky chin, accentuating the dark green eyes.  He lay the axes on either side of him, removed the trench coat and through it aside.  Now he was in a bullet proof vest and jeans, arms wrapped by black tattoos. 

    He picked each ax up again, swung them in a wide circle, slicing the air.  Warlock finally moved, stood up on shaky legs.  Rolling his shoulders, he put both fists out in a challenge, waving his fingers.  The hulk screamed in the muffled air and charged, axes singing of a slow bloody death.  Warlock narrowly dodged the two blades as they jerked for his waist.  He leaped back two more steps, slipped on the blood, as the hulk recoiled and swung again.

    This time it was for the neck, he slid back on the blood, grabbed the corpse's clothes and propelled himself over.  The axes tore at the dead man's chest, spraying blood into both men's faces, the hulk wrenched the silver out of the corpse.  Warlock jerked up and kicked at the left arm.  It was successful, the ax fell to the side.  He picked up the automatic rifle at his side.  The ax came down with another arc, Warlock twisted the rifle, barrel and grip in each hand for shielding.

I love it
is there more?

Warning: Strong Pervasive Language and some Sexual Content



He stuck both axes in the bed of the truck, snapped the covering over it.  A large spout stuck out of the side of the old red brick, seemingly much older than the warehouse itself.  Ducking down Warlock turned the spout, almost jerking back when the rusted gold paint chipped off in his hand.  He shook his head, just a bit more to clean up, it won't harm anything.

    "Where did you learn to kill like that?" Sarah asked.  She was leaning on the grille of his truck, hands deep in her pockets against the cold chill of the night.  The blood on her blouse was more violet now in the dim light of the headlights. 

    "I'd ask you the same thing.  What you did in there couldn't have been part of gently caressing medical school." He busied himself with furiously rubbing his hands under the cold water, cleaning any blood off.  Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong.  He

    Sarah sighed, "My father was a soldier."

    "He was a Gunny?  That explains a lot..." he cleared his throat over the wall.
    "A Gunny?"

    "A trigger happy soldier, they love to shoot.  That's what I call 'em anyway, a Gunny.  gently caressing sadistic bastards," he whispered the last part, glancing down at his jeans.  His knees down were getting wet from the heavy spray, he decided to clean his face and neck now of the blood. 

    A long pause from Sarah, he could hear hard breathing, trying to control her anger.  "My father was a good man, not a sadistic bastard."

    He didn't answer; moved on to scrubbing the chilled water over his greasy face.  His breath came out in gurgling sputters of joy, glad for the heat to end.  Sucking some of the water into his mouth, he coughed as it went too fast down his throat.  Relishing didn't describe what he felt, so dry, scratchy and hot in the heat.  Pure and simple survival, nothing else.  Although he could really go for an icy beer.  Inwardly smiling, he nodded his head at the special insight.

    Cupping his hands together, he pooled more water and lifted it to his lips, dipping his head and drinking heavily.  He took two more long cups and stood up, legs straining from exhaustion, turned around with a light groan.  Sarah was still in her spot, staring at the ground, arms crossed under her breasts.  "You can clean up now," he said hoarsely, coughing.  Startled, she glanced up at him, fire still in her eyes, he stumbled to halfway between truck and wall.

    She breezed past him.  "I'm sorry if I insulted your family," he whispered, gripping her shoulder lightly, stopping her, "you're a good person too."

    They met eyes, her bright green losing the rest of the fire, replaced by confusion.  "Thanks," she mumbled, jerking out of his grip and continuing to the spout.  He didn't watch, stepping to the open driver's door and slipping in with a exasperated groan. 

    Leaning his head over the back of the seat, he stared at the grey ceiling.  Warlock felt like an asshole, companion to his exhaustion.  He shouldn't have said that to the woman, they help each other and he retaliated harshly.  Slapping a fist against his thigh in frustration, he shook his head.  When he chose to do the job eight years ago, he knew that there would be hard sacrifices.  One of them was loosing a woman, any relationships in general.

    His eyes drifted closed, preferring the darkness for deep thinking. 

    Something drew him to Sarah though, he didn't quite know what it was.  With the only other three women he'd been with in the eight years...

    "Flirt, have dinner, gently caress, and leave immediately.  gently caressing pathetic man," he cursed himself out loud.

    Don't do that with this woman.

    Why not?  I haven't had a woman in two years.

    This time is different, you actually have the time to get to know her!  You've already been with her for a few hours.

    Oh sure, most of those hours I was unconscious.  gently caressing logical side, do just that and gently caress off, for good.

    Accept the reality you asshole!  You want a woman, at least for longer than a few hours.  There's one right there in front of you.  Grow some balls for your pussy and get to know her!

    His eyes flashed open, well that was a bit harsh.  Sometimes that's what it takes...

    A hand tapped his shoulder lightly, he jerked, gasped, looked to his left.  Sarah was gazing at him warily, "Uhmm, can I borrow some clothes?  If you have any,"

    He blinked a few times, eyebrows knitting at the request, he smiled.  "Yeah,"

    "Thanks,"

    He briefly nodded, leaning over the seat and pulling his red leather suitcase out.  Thumping it on the passenger seat, over the two duffel bags of money, he zipped them open.  Sarah waited patiently as he dug through and brought forth greenish cargo pants and a black t-shirt.  Turning, he handed her the folded clothes and rested back in his seat.

    "They won't fit, but they're something," he said.  She nodded, stayed quiet, again stalking towards the spout.  He knew she was at war with herself, just as he was with himself.  He didn't know what it was about though.  This time he did watch her, for only a moment. 

    Sarah leaned down and rested the folded clothes on a nearby slab of concrete.  Her side was to him, so he saw the translucent blue blouse getting looser as she unbuttoned it slowly.  Almost in a seductive dance, a reward for her helper.  Warlock swallowed, not being able to help himself from the unintended show.  When it hung loosely from her moderate breasts, she shrugged the ruined material to the ground, only in white bra.  She felt his eyes on her, turning her head to stare blankly in his direction. 

    Warlock immediately looked away, he glanced back down; just enough to see a smile grazing her cheek as she turned.  He needed the radio to distract himself, a lust was starting to build in his loins.  "Two years without gently caressing and you get horny with a woman's bra.  Sick," he shook his head.  He pressed the power on for the radio and turned the dial until he found a working station. 

    It was at the end of a special news report: ".... a woman of average height and thin structure, with blonde shoulder length hair, mixed with streaks of brown and auburn.  Her name is Sarah Adamson..." he couldn't hear the rest, he didn't need to.

    His eyes snapped up to the woman, the cords of his throat standing up.  An enraged heat surged through his veins, he could feel it almost melting his cheeks.  He blindly gripped for the knife, hands shaking.  To actually think about gently caressing her, much less the far future of a little love!  gently caressing a homicidal b****, shaking his head in savage denial, teeth grinding, he glared at the woman for one more moment.

ooh
Que the dramatic music and sound effects

please go on

"So are you," he said blatantly. 

    She scoffed, "At least I don't kill children!"

    Warlock switched to more important matters, "Look, please get in the truck."

    "Why?  Your going to kill me anyway," she said, waving her arms in frustration.  "Just save the trouble of cleaning your car and do it right here."

    He groaned, rubbed his temples with the free hand, looked down at the ground.  "I'm not going to kill you.  Now get in the truck."

    Sarah's eyes widened, "From gutting me to giving up?"

    "I'm too damned tired, every muscle is sore, my joints are popping like an old fart.  I'm not going to kill you."
    She eyed him warily for a long moment, "If you weren't tired, what would be the reason for keeping me alive?"

    He sighed, ignored the question.  Now he was being interrogated himself.  Warlock didn't enjoy that at all. 
"Look, I'm giving you a second chance at life, and give up on asking the questions.  You know what?  If you get in the truck..." he paused, shook his head, "Oh gently caress it, just get in the truck."

    "No," she said, confident and truly defiant.  She would have been a b**** in adolescence. 

    He sheathed the knife back in the holster at his hip, glaring at the woman.  One nod, assuring her.  Immediately he rushed at her, arms wrapping around her waist, she screamed.  It was moments ago all over again, he was stronger now though.  Far more determined to just leave, and rest.  Why was that so difficult to ask for? 

    Kicking savagely at the air and leaping back into him again, she proved to be a tough match.  He soon reached the passenger door, grunting with each strike of skull against his collar bone.  Quickly moving one arm to her neck in a strangle hold, he latched his free hand quickly to the handle and yanked the door open.  "Stop screaming," he ordered harshly, shoving her into the car hard.  Her lower legs bounced off the bottom of the door frame and the back of her head collided hard with the ceiling. 

    The screaming stopped immediately with a snap of grinding teeth.  Sarah's eyes rolled wildly, closing, head slumping limply to the side.  His eye's widened in shock, he didn't realize how hard he threw her in.  It was almost a reflex, it happened so fast.  "Damn," he cursed, stepping back and slamming the door.  He lumbered over to the water spout and turned it off with a loud screeching; turned and retrieved his clothes from the concrete slab. 

    Quickly hopping into the car, he flipped the engine on, severely disappointed.  Warlock didn't get the chance to use his knife tonight.



All right, I've changed the ending... much better?

Last edited by wolfblood17 (2010-07-25 23:25:45)

Yes, I realize the sappy ending now... anybody have any ideas on fixing it?  And thanks for the review!

The old man nodded sagely, narrowing his eyes and scratching his stubble.  He shook his head, "Sure thing sir.  It has air conditioning, clean bathroom and beds, anything you'd want in a motel."

    Great, some air conditioning, he smiled at that.  The air blowing out of the vents in the ceiling dried the cold sweat on his the back of his neck and chest, matting his longish hair.  "Great, it's hotter than hell out there," he paused, glancing at the mock van Gogh painting of Starry Night.  A mild chuckle huffed heavily out of his lungs, sounding more like a snort.  Why did all motels have some sort of odd, out of place painting like this.

    "Can I do anything else for ya?" the manager asked, scratching at his nostrils with a knuckle. 
    "Uh, no, not right now, I'll just sign in."

    A slight jerk of the head in a nod, face professionally stoic for both them.  Warlock figured he was a bit intimidating, so neither men wanted a full blown conversation with the other.  The relationship was strictly business, absolutely perfect for Warlock. 

    He signed the names as Eric Straights and Emily Bryant, inked the date, glanced up at the clock, glanced back down to scribble it neatly.  Warlock ran his index finger through the last column, checking if he missed anything.  Distinctly aware of the chair rolling back to him, he didn't look up until a knobby, liver spotted hand shoved a key in his vision. 

    "Thanks," he muttered, gripping the key.  It had a large red, neat eight stenciled in.  Warlock cleared his throat, dismally thinking he'd made a mistake about either name.  He shook his head slightly, forcefully shoving the thought into much darker recesses of his mind.  Now wasn't the time. 

    Looking over his shoulder, he stood straight, then gazed back down at the manager.  "That'll be twenty three seventy five each night," the old man said.  "How long are you staying?"

    Warlock shrugged, "I'm not sure yet, can I pay for tonight and see how it all goes from there?"
    The manager nodded, "Twenty three seventy five,"

    He reached into his pocket for the few strand bills.  Two twenties, without speaking he handed them over the old desk, rested his elbows on the edge.  There was nothing to say.  Warlock didn't want to talk pleasantries, he wanted those burgers.  Stared up at Starry Night in boredom.  The manager brought his attention back with a clearing of his throat, handing the change to him. 

    "Have a good night Mr. Straights,"

    Warlock pocketed the change quickly and nodded curtly, "You to," he mumbled, turning for the doors.  He passed by the vending machines with only a half glance, large fountain drinks were already in the cup holders.

    "Wait," the old man yelled behind him, Warlock turned, eyebrows lifting.  "Room's to the left, fourth door,"

    "Oh, thanks," Warlock huffed a laugh, nodded, stepped out the door.  He didn't look back, gazed at Sarah's outline through the tinted windows.