The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller by Richard Long Page B
Authors: Richard Long
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
blam! …dirty… blam! …filthy… blam! …creatures… blam! …that killin’ the little bastards… blam! …feels good right down to the marrow of your bones!” Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam! Rat guts, bones and clumps of fur painted the side of an old washing machine like a vintage Pollock. “So what do you think, buddy boy? Ready to give it a try?”
Martin shook his head and turned his face to the ground, expecting the sharp blow that always came when he said no to Momma. He didn’t want to see it coming from a hand this big. To his complete amazement, the hand came down and gently lifted his chin so he could see the big man leaning over to kiss his forehead.
“Don’t you worry, now. You don’t have to do anything ’til you’re good and ready.”
Martin stood up straight and beamed at the man with such a smile that he couldn’t resist picking up the tiny weight of the boy and giving him a growling bear hug. “You’re a very special boy, Martin,” said the man softly. “A very special boy, indeed.”
Martin was bursting with joy. He wished and wished with all his might that this one would never ever leave. “Will you be my for real daddy?” he asked shyly, turning his head away again, bracing himself for an even bigger blow. But the big man didn’t say the words he expected…the push-away words that hurt even worse than the slaps and shoves and names Momma called him. What he said was this:
“Yes, I’ll be your daddy. I’ll be your daddy for ever and ever and ever.”
Daddy pointed at the cargo in the truck bed and Martin shouted, “Wow!”
“You bet your ass ‘Wow!’ little buddy!”
Martin stared at the green metal footlocker. There was a rifle with a really long barrel that had holes drilled in the side and made a loud ca-chunk sound when Daddy showed him how it worked. “Special forces riot shotgun,” he said dryly. “Semi-automatic with a twenty-four-round chamber of armor-piercing titanium slugs.”
“Uh-huh,” Martin nodded, pretending he understood. And there were more: a dozen pistols in all shapes and sizes, resting snugly inside gray plastic cases with foam rubber cut to the exact shape of each shiny weapon. More rifles and shotguns too. They were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. There was one that made him gasp out loud. It had a black matte finish and looked like a cross between the pistols and the rifles.
“Excellent taste,” Daddy said approvingly. “Sawed-off, pistol grip, twenty gauge, side-by-side shotgun. Easily concealed for close-quarter fighting and convenience store stickups.”
“I want that one!” Martin shouted with a grin too wide for his face.
“Welllll…I don’t want to discourage such noble instincts, but I’m afraid it would rip your little chicken wing right out of its socket.”
Martin pouted and scuffed his sneakers on the dusty ground.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Daddy smiled. “Let’s do it together. Put your hand under the barrels like this,” he said, curling Martin’s fingers beneath the twin pipes. It was a stretch, but the span of his palm finally managed to contain them.
“Good,” said the big man eagerly. “Now put your other hand here,” he instructed, wrapping Martin’s small fingers around the pistol grip.
“Now listen carefully,” Daddy said slowly, his head resting on his shoulder. Martin could feel his blond mustache grazing his cheek. “A shotgun isn’t a rifle. It’s a clumsy, brutal weapon. All you have to do is point it in the general vicinity and ahead, always ahead of the way the dirty beast is runnin’.”
“But how do I point if I don’t look down the barrel?” Martin asked, more uncertain than ever. It was probably the most words he’d said to anyone but Norine.
“You move your arms…” Daddy answered, steering their joined hands on the shotgun toward a particularly plump specimen waddling between a box of laundry detergent and a Big Wheel tricycle, “…and you point with
Martin shook his head and turned his face to the ground, expecting the sharp blow that always came when he said no to Momma. He didn’t want to see it coming from a hand this big. To his complete amazement, the hand came down and gently lifted his chin so he could see the big man leaning over to kiss his forehead.
“Don’t you worry, now. You don’t have to do anything ’til you’re good and ready.”
Martin stood up straight and beamed at the man with such a smile that he couldn’t resist picking up the tiny weight of the boy and giving him a growling bear hug. “You’re a very special boy, Martin,” said the man softly. “A very special boy, indeed.”
Martin was bursting with joy. He wished and wished with all his might that this one would never ever leave. “Will you be my for real daddy?” he asked shyly, turning his head away again, bracing himself for an even bigger blow. But the big man didn’t say the words he expected…the push-away words that hurt even worse than the slaps and shoves and names Momma called him. What he said was this:
“Yes, I’ll be your daddy. I’ll be your daddy for ever and ever and ever.”
Daddy pointed at the cargo in the truck bed and Martin shouted, “Wow!”
“You bet your ass ‘Wow!’ little buddy!”
Martin stared at the green metal footlocker. There was a rifle with a really long barrel that had holes drilled in the side and made a loud ca-chunk sound when Daddy showed him how it worked. “Special forces riot shotgun,” he said dryly. “Semi-automatic with a twenty-four-round chamber of armor-piercing titanium slugs.”
“Uh-huh,” Martin nodded, pretending he understood. And there were more: a dozen pistols in all shapes and sizes, resting snugly inside gray plastic cases with foam rubber cut to the exact shape of each shiny weapon. More rifles and shotguns too. They were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. There was one that made him gasp out loud. It had a black matte finish and looked like a cross between the pistols and the rifles.
“Excellent taste,” Daddy said approvingly. “Sawed-off, pistol grip, twenty gauge, side-by-side shotgun. Easily concealed for close-quarter fighting and convenience store stickups.”
“I want that one!” Martin shouted with a grin too wide for his face.
“Welllll…I don’t want to discourage such noble instincts, but I’m afraid it would rip your little chicken wing right out of its socket.”
Martin pouted and scuffed his sneakers on the dusty ground.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Daddy smiled. “Let’s do it together. Put your hand under the barrels like this,” he said, curling Martin’s fingers beneath the twin pipes. It was a stretch, but the span of his palm finally managed to contain them.
“Good,” said the big man eagerly. “Now put your other hand here,” he instructed, wrapping Martin’s small fingers around the pistol grip.
“Now listen carefully,” Daddy said slowly, his head resting on his shoulder. Martin could feel his blond mustache grazing his cheek. “A shotgun isn’t a rifle. It’s a clumsy, brutal weapon. All you have to do is point it in the general vicinity and ahead, always ahead of the way the dirty beast is runnin’.”
“But how do I point if I don’t look down the barrel?” Martin asked, more uncertain than ever. It was probably the most words he’d said to anyone but Norine.
“You move your arms…” Daddy answered, steering their joined hands on the shotgun toward a particularly plump specimen waddling between a box of laundry detergent and a Big Wheel tricycle, “…and you point with
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