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The Devil Is Not The Only Thing With Horns

Neon soaked crime. Blood of the wicked on my silk shirt.

By Francis Curt O'NeillPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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Five of us in the car. The ride was mostly silent. But we're coming up on game time and I can tell Jimmy is itching to ask a question.

"Hey! El Toro! You got the balls to match?"

"Ask your mother."

"Sure he does! Can't you hear em swinging? Like church bells." Raf chimes enthusiastically. A little too keenly if you ask me.

"... Do I... actually have to listen?"

"Go ahead, scooch a little closer! Haha this guy!"

"Nah man! It's the horns. He's got the horns! We're in the company of an absolute devil." Santos clearly another member of the fan club.

"So which is it? Bovine or Beelzebub?" I ask.

"'Just a man. Flesh and bone. Like any other."

"Yeah...That's what he wants you to think. Lull you into a false sense of security... A few hoof stamps for theatre... tricks you into thinking you just might survive. Then he strikes! Full charge! No mercy! Masses gored, fountains of blood! Oh scream mother and child, scream, for the Bull has his sights set on you next!"

"Quite... Dramatic."

"He really does paint a vivid picture. Shame he only uses one color..."

"Just wait till you see it yourself. No matter the name, you'll know it. Pure. Slaughter."

At first I thought I was trapped in a clown car. Overdeveloped muscle stuffed into a tiny metal box. Enough cologne to be classified as the first barrages of chemical warfare. But it's not... It's a cage... For a wild animal. And we're just the leash. Something to get him through the front door. Entirely for show. Functionally useless.

Nothing would stop him. Control him. If he want's you dead that's just what you are. An' if there is such a thing as the devil, doubt even he could stop it. Lucky he's on our payroll.

So who's the poor schmuck waving the red rag?

Arkady Petrovich. Real upstanding member of the local Russian community. Particularly focused on charitable outreach with little girls... makes sure they go to good homes... Doting 'fathers' with a special kind of love. Even ships them in crates. He sells skin.

Only recently he sold pounds of flesh that ain't his.

And so there's a reckoning. Long overdue if you ask me. But I'm not the boss. Just an escort, newly assigned to his top enforcer. The Bull.

That's where we are now, one of Petrovich's clubs. Venue for all manner of dirty dirty things. It's an ungodly hour, and let's just say he's doing a stock audit. One we're keen to interrupt. Knock knock!

Bull? Meet china shop. Bone of an all together different kind.

We jump out the car and leave Bull to prep. Head 'round the back entrance... Neon pools at our feet, ripples with every step. Door is reinforced. I knock twice for good measure, nearly chip a nail. Bull performs his little ritual before the sacrifice. A rusted viewer slides open, revealing wary eyes.

"Got a meeting with Ark..." I begin with confidence.

"Mr Petrovich is currently indisposed. Important business. Return tomorrow."

"No can do chief. In fact, it directly concerns his... current engagement. You know... The precious cargo he loads up two by two." I walk my fingers along the peephole.

"Name?"

"Kozlov."

"You don't look like a Kozlov..."

"Merely a discreet representative very much inclined to conduct our business indoors."

They open up. Let the devil in...

"Santa Muerte. May my aim be true. May my enemies cower before my righteous anger. May this tribute be enough for another day's grace." Eyes closed, Bull raises a gold cross from his neck, formed with two scythes, brushing past a tattoo, the skull of his namesake. "Blessed." With a kiss he removes two pistols from their holsters.

I signal to the car. You can see it lift as he climbs out.

"Who's that?"

"Security."

"We are security." I clock his uzi.

"No... you? You're dead."

Before he can sound off we grab him. Now isn't the time for a shootout. Hand over his mouth as Jimmy makes him go real quiet. Stings as he bites into my palm. Surreal to think the last thing he ever tasted was my blood... Lucky we've got a cleanup crew. They'll be earning their pay tonight that's for sure. And with that, we let the Bull go to work.

I wait outside. Don't want to catch a stray.

Gunshots ring out. Church bells again. I can hear the bodies fall with the shells. Sanctified sin. Listen O' ye to the sermon, 44" caliber.

El Toro calls out to me so I finally make my way to the back room. Fresh coat of destruction.

Grips Petrovich by the neck. He's already battered and bruised, bloodshot eye, broken jaw. A real mess spilling over leopard print. Legs flailing as he's held just high enough for it to hurt. Gonna ruin those alligator shoes of his...

I remove a pink flip phone from my shirt pocket and start filming. Boss' orders. You know, for posterity... Or when you're bored at the family barbecue.

"Ark. You know what has to happen."

"No. No. I -"

"Doesn't matter. It's already done."

"I... gleckgh... Can pay..."

"We only take blood."

Bull places his plated magnum, engraved with death herself, to his bloodied temple and pulls the trigger. There's barely any recoil.

Across the room we can hear crying. Faint. Boss said the girls would be safe. Looked after. Not in the system either. I hope that's true. Too much pain these days...

But, that ain't my job. With Petrovich dead we're done here, make way for the next crew.

I finally understand all the aftershave... Covers the stench of death...

"So? What'd I tell ya?"

"... Don't mess with the Bull..."

"Amen!"

Short Story
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About the Creator

Francis Curt O'Neill

Writer and artist based in the north of England, passionate about all forms of storytelling.

@curtoneill on most socials

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