View Full Version : Short Story. Crocodile Hunter.

Spade: The Real Snake
8th November 10, 01:40 PM
"lol yesh i noes!!11!" clicking away furiously, Duell giggled silently to himself, "i is leik teh talest man on bullshido lol!11!."

The "reply" button his hit with a feeling of smug self-satisfaction and then he sighed and closed his ancient laptop.

"They really don't deserve me." he reminded himself aloud. "That place needs me."

Duell rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, not out of necessity nor out of habit. He wasn't sure why he did it, but he did. He stood and stretched, his back a tangled knot of pain and a constant source of frustration.

"Meek, your back! Is like a crocodile!" he once read this description of the wrestler Mick Foley's back. Long injured and crooked, yet still strong and true.

"Is like crocodile!" he said aloud to nobody in particular. "CROC," he began shouting with progressing emphasis, "O-DYYYYLLLE."

He stood a good four inches over six feet but liked to pad that number a bit from time to time. It made him feel better about himself and sounder more intimidating to those he termed 'the n00bs.' He reasoned that, like the man who was 5'11" claiming to be over six feet, he was allowed a little lee-way. What's a few inches among friends? It's not like people walk around with a tape measurer.

Duell glanced at the clock for the time. His eyes first darted to the ancient VHS player flashing across the room, not out of habit but just drawn to it's green LED siren's song, remembering it was never right. They moved to the kitchen, which helped being in a simple studio apartment, then to his cell phone.

"I gotta get to work!" He paused, checked his phone again for the time, then pocketed it.

He grabbed a banana and threw it in his worn green canvas backpack and rolled his bike out the front door. As he mounted his bike, two steps from his front door, his mind raced with disappointment.

He hated his job at the copy shop, he knew he was destined for greater things. He was so much smarter then the students coming in, demanding copies of books they were too cheap to buy.

His relationships were depressing and his living situation was equal. If these women would just shut up for a minute and listen, it would be so much better. And the damn Muslims were taking over all the neighborhoods he could afford. He couldn't even train anymore due in part to his physical condition and his several 'incidents' at the local gyms.

"I am a 31 with an old man's back and a child's job." he reminded himself. "I have a filthy apartment that is too small and I can't seem to keep a woman....." he trailed off with thoughts of the internet. It was the only place he was happy.

"Dammit, when I say something I am to be respected. I hate these foreigners that come here. The Micks and Gypos. Loud and drunk and always looking to take out the biggest man in the room." Last night flashed in his mind with a quick cut sequence. She looked like her so he went to her, thinking it was her, but it wasn't. Depression crept into his gut like a drunken cat and clawed at his soul. He tried to chase it with a promise of spirits and peace but it only made it more angry.

Words were passed and threats were made and he couldn't remember the rest. He awoke on an abandoned couch in an alleyway and made his way home. He went to the only place he knew of where people cared, where his word was law....and of course, she was there.

She became his tether to humanity. His muse. His reason for being. The soul he did not have and the one he cared for above all.

His mind flashed back forward. "Oh that fucking Steve.....he'll get his when I'm done with work. Always trying to make himself look bigger. Using me to look better." Duell hated a man he never met, nor ever would, but that wasn't uncommon for him. Better that hate be directed outwards across the electronic miles which connect them, then against a man in front of him.

He checked the time again....."Fuck, I'm so late." he hissed. As he rounded the corner he spied a large poster in the window of a local agency. It pictured an oddly shaped building glistening in impossibly blue waters. Each roof shell rose like a shark's fin. Duell could identify with this image as he often felt like a shark. "Never stopping. Never sleeping. Silent and deadly." he would recite to himself.

Duell's attention became so transfixed on this seeming oasis, he crashed. His bike careened into the street from the curb and Duell fell onto ground, yet his eyes never left the beacon of hope. A promise of life. The life he always wanted and deserved.

"That's it!" he shouted. "Why hadn't I thought of this before?"

Other people, who were coming to check on him began backing away. Duell didn't notice. He didn't notice the people, he didn't notice his wrecked bike in the road, he didn't notice the blood coming from his scraped hands. He noticed only one thing: hope. The picture of hope. Of promise. Of salvation.

That building was his church and his salvation lay within. She would be there. She would understand him. She would save him. She would save him from himself. From his situation. From his life and grant him anew.

He ripped open the door with such force the tiny bell which was to announce new customers entering had time to only make one sharp "ting". His eyes darted like a hawk searching for prey when they finally locked onto a small middle-aged woman who looked back, with widened eyes, at this tall intense man with bloody hands and determined eyes.


Angry Mandrill
8th November 10, 02:21 PM
i sed it buhfore an i'll say it agin...


too bad yur boihole is alreddy fulla mah rep

8th November 10, 02:31 PM
this entry is disqualified for going over the word limit.
you will obey the rules, boy.

Spade: The Real Snake
8th November 10, 02:32 PM

8th November 10, 03:38 PM
What a love song! :-)

8th November 10, 04:12 PM
Damn you Snake. I'll have something to rattle your cage this evening!

(surprisingly good but for the ending)

Spade: The Real Snake
8th November 10, 04:21 PM
You seem to turn Lebell into Sociocide's Trash Can Man, screaming at burning buildings "MY LIFE FOR YOOOOUUUU!

8th November 10, 04:32 PM
You're egging me on so you'll get an erotic story featuring you and your Sociocide son right?

Spade: The Real Snake
8th November 10, 04:50 PM
You were never named in this story and neither was anyone else, with exception of Steve.

8th November 10, 04:51 PM
The protagonist sounds like a real douche.

8th November 10, 06:29 PM
So now I'm assuming we're going to have to create a "non-fiction" category for this contest...?

8th November 10, 06:53 PM
Steve - ready story Boys Night!

Dr. Socially Liberal Fiscally Conservative Vermin
9th November 10, 06:39 AM