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The Lighter


It was by no means a jubilant night when our lighter made its first appearance.

In fact, the night permeated that odour of impending danger, that touch of cold dampness, that taste of fresh gasoline. That which can be found in the most downtrodden places and the most luxurious mansions, in parks and on street corners, in shopping malls and airports, in small laundry rooms and in attic dark rooms, was lurking around.

Yes indeed, death was looming and our lighter was its witness.

There was a man standing on the deck of a small yacht called ‘The Revenge’.

He was a fat man and he knew he was a fat man, but no one ever made mention of it as that was just the way he had always been. A black bowler hat covered his bald head and an unbuttoned black trench coat hung about his shoulders down to his feet, revealing an unhealthy amount of stomach and a buttoned down white shirt with a red necktie beneath its collar.

Behind him stood two men, both had bulging muscles and were sour faced. They were those guys that you saw at the gym every day of the week pumping iron. Those guys that gave you dagger eyes and a condescending grunt when you dropped a weight on your foot and yelled like a girl. Those guys that thought yoga was a little alien from Star Wars. They were also those guys that would beat the crap out of you if their boss told them to.

All three men were staring at a man tied to a rickety wooden chair in the middle of the deck. He was fairly well into his sixties and quite a bit of grey streaked his head at the temples, invading the once dark forest of hair that was almost a thing of the past. His face was a handsome one, with high cheek bones and a solid jaw line that was covered in stubble. There was a cloth gag in his mouth covered in duct tape. He was also doused in about ten litres of gasoline.

If there was a full moon out, the moonlight would have caught on his damp forehead, reflecting the silhouettes of the three men standing before him. But there was no moon out that night, for the business at hand did not permit it.

“What d’ya think boys? Does Mister Coleridge look cosy enough?” said the fat man…

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Posted by on June 10, 2011 in Short story

 

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