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Bad Ending
A Thursday Prompt story
© 2024 by Walter Reimer
Prompt: skin
A harsh buzzing pulled the stallion out of his drugged sleep, and he became fully awake as he tried to move and failed.
He blinked and looked around, assessing his predicament before licking dry lips and saying in a conversational tone, “While I’ll concede it’s a hot day, was it really necessary to shave off all my fur from the neck down?” His voice was strained, partly from the drug that had knocked him out and partly from being suspended by his wrists from the ceiling. His hooves were securely manacled to the concrete floor of the warehouse, leaving him looking like a Saint Andrew’s Cross.
True, he was from Scotland, but this was ridiculous.
He really had to stop falling for a pretty face or a well-turned pastern.
“Flippant as ever, Commander Bland,” his captor said, and the horse looked up from studying his shorn form to see a white-furred feline in black overalls vigorously plying a brush to a set of electric clippers. “I would apologize for removing your fur so unceremoniously,” the cat said as he put the shaver into a soft-sided tool case, “but every artist needs a blank canvas.”
“So, torture, eh?” Bland asked. “Do you expect me to talk?”
“What a tired old line,” his captor sighed, taking a rolled velvet case from the toolbox. “I don’t expect anything from you, Commander. Interrogating you is not my job, you see.” He took the case and a small folding table and moved to face the stallion.
“When I get loose, I’ll make sure to kill you first,” Bland said.
The feline smiled. He set up the table and unrolled the velvet case, revealing gleaming set of surgical knives. “You see the tools of my avocation, Commander,” he said. He picked up a dermatome and admired the thin, slightly curved blade. “You may talk. In fact, I expect you to. I also expect you to moan, and scream, and finally to beg me to kill you. Rest assured,” and he gave Bland a smile that chilled the officer’s blood, “that I will remain unmoved. An artist must be able to shut out all distractions.”
Knife in paw, he walked up to the stallion as Bland’s composure broke and he began to struggle against his bindings.
***
The box was rather large and heavy, dropped off at the headquarters of the intelligence service by a hired courier. The box had no return address, but postage was due, and it was duly X-rayed according to procedure.
What the screener saw on the display made her start screaming, and a cordon was set up by security before the building’s bomb disposal team could show up and ensure that the box wasn’t booby-trapped. Only after it was declared safe was it moved to the service’s forensics lab to be searched.
Commander Bland’s head was buried with full military honors. The baseballs that had shared space in the box proved to be made of the stallion’s flayed hide, and all but one were destroyed. The accompanying note reading ‘Commander Bland was a person of taste, but rather stringy,’ bore no signature or fingerprints.
The single remaining baseball was encased in clear plastic and placed on a shelf in the intelligence service’s director’s office as a lesson and a warning to all future officers.
The lesson was to never think that they were invincible, no matter how many close scrapes they got out of or how stupid their adversaries might be.
The warning was to beware of Phillippe ‘The Shearer’ Chatfou.
End.
A Thursday Prompt story
© 2024 by Walter Reimer
Prompt: skin
A harsh buzzing pulled the stallion out of his drugged sleep, and he became fully awake as he tried to move and failed.
He blinked and looked around, assessing his predicament before licking dry lips and saying in a conversational tone, “While I’ll concede it’s a hot day, was it really necessary to shave off all my fur from the neck down?” His voice was strained, partly from the drug that had knocked him out and partly from being suspended by his wrists from the ceiling. His hooves were securely manacled to the concrete floor of the warehouse, leaving him looking like a Saint Andrew’s Cross.
True, he was from Scotland, but this was ridiculous.
He really had to stop falling for a pretty face or a well-turned pastern.
“Flippant as ever, Commander Bland,” his captor said, and the horse looked up from studying his shorn form to see a white-furred feline in black overalls vigorously plying a brush to a set of electric clippers. “I would apologize for removing your fur so unceremoniously,” the cat said as he put the shaver into a soft-sided tool case, “but every artist needs a blank canvas.”
“So, torture, eh?” Bland asked. “Do you expect me to talk?”
“What a tired old line,” his captor sighed, taking a rolled velvet case from the toolbox. “I don’t expect anything from you, Commander. Interrogating you is not my job, you see.” He took the case and a small folding table and moved to face the stallion.
“When I get loose, I’ll make sure to kill you first,” Bland said.
The feline smiled. He set up the table and unrolled the velvet case, revealing gleaming set of surgical knives. “You see the tools of my avocation, Commander,” he said. He picked up a dermatome and admired the thin, slightly curved blade. “You may talk. In fact, I expect you to. I also expect you to moan, and scream, and finally to beg me to kill you. Rest assured,” and he gave Bland a smile that chilled the officer’s blood, “that I will remain unmoved. An artist must be able to shut out all distractions.”
Knife in paw, he walked up to the stallion as Bland’s composure broke and he began to struggle against his bindings.
***
The box was rather large and heavy, dropped off at the headquarters of the intelligence service by a hired courier. The box had no return address, but postage was due, and it was duly X-rayed according to procedure.
What the screener saw on the display made her start screaming, and a cordon was set up by security before the building’s bomb disposal team could show up and ensure that the box wasn’t booby-trapped. Only after it was declared safe was it moved to the service’s forensics lab to be searched.
Commander Bland’s head was buried with full military honors. The baseballs that had shared space in the box proved to be made of the stallion’s flayed hide, and all but one were destroyed. The accompanying note reading ‘Commander Bland was a person of taste, but rather stringy,’ bore no signature or fingerprints.
The single remaining baseball was encased in clear plastic and placed on a shelf in the intelligence service’s director’s office as a lesson and a warning to all future officers.
The lesson was to never think that they were invincible, no matter how many close scrapes they got out of or how stupid their adversaries might be.
The warning was to beware of Phillippe ‘The Shearer’ Chatfou.
End.
Category Story / Gore / Macabre Art
Species Horse
Gender Male
Size 120 x 92px
Listed in Folders
Probably a lovely au gratin and a nice aged Cabernet. He's French, you know.
If Bland was still stringy, then Chatfou didn't take the time to marinade the meat properly.
What a lapse in good taste.
What a lapse in good taste.
Jiminy Cricket! Also you never announce you are going to kill someone first, you tell them you'll kill them last... for suspense.
Why baseballs I wonder, especially if they are French? I have no idea what sports the French play.
Why baseballs I wonder, especially if they are French? I have no idea what sports the French play.
Baseballs are made of horsehide, and as far as we know only the crazy cat was French.
Avocation. Love that word. Also—discovering a box like that . . . Yeesh.
The Shearer has a certain flair to his work. Complete psycho, but the soul of an artist.
First, "Goldfinger", then "The Godfather". What other movie references are there?
Insert terrified gasp and disquieted fidgeting.
That... yeesh. What a read. O.O
While I'm not overly fond of darker, more frightening themes, I must admit that you constructed this short story exceptionally well. The dramatic shift in the late Commander's demeanor made my hair stand on end. His sadistic captor put a chill in the bones. Chapeau, Monsieur Chatfou...
That... yeesh. What a read. O.O
While I'm not overly fond of darker, more frightening themes, I must admit that you constructed this short story exceptionally well. The dramatic shift in the late Commander's demeanor made my hair stand on end. His sadistic captor put a chill in the bones. Chapeau, Monsieur Chatfou...
Thank you very much!
I wrote it while waiting for my car to get routine maintenance, and transcribed it when I got home.
I wrote it while waiting for my car to get routine maintenance, and transcribed it when I got home.
Most welcome!
So... does that mean your car was the inspiration for poor Commander Bland? Q.Q Exchange hydraulic lifts for handcuffs and a pneumatic wrench for a scalpel, and you've got a parallel!
So... does that mean your car was the inspiration for poor Commander Bland? Q.Q Exchange hydraulic lifts for handcuffs and a pneumatic wrench for a scalpel, and you've got a parallel!
No, I just started rolling the word 'skin' around in my head. It can be both a noun and a verb, of course, and the line about it being a hot day (it was) started the story running in my head.
Oooh! Phew! That clears it up. I was worried for your four-wheeled compatriot there for a hot sec
Getting some serious "I want to play a game" vibes. I love it.
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