| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted November 1, 2022 | Chapters: |
-1- 2... 
|
  |
Terry is an unusual guy
A chapter in the book The Beast
The Beast Ch.1
by Fleedleflump
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
The beast roils within me, lurching in my guts like a joyous orgasm of terror. He’s a dragon writhing in my stomach. No, not just that. He’s effervescent water tumbling across the sand in my veins. He’s the sky bursting open in my brain. If I think about him too much, my reality melts into a quagmire of doubt and dissolution. He is-
“Sir?”
I blink twice as the voice intrudes. All at once, sound and vision coalesce. I’m standing at a counter. A high-pitched hissing is filling the air and the earthy, dark scent of Colombian roast assaults my sinuses. I take in the face of the lady who spoke to me - deep, dark eyes to match her gathering of raven-black hair. A petite nose perches over her lips, painted to a high red gloss and just about maintaining a smile. Her skin is the colour of a well-milked Americano.
Yummy.
“Sir? I need a name - for your coffee.”
I smile to show I’m present and attentive. “Why does my coffee need a name?”
She giggles dutifully but without mirth, giving me the benefit of the doubt, allowing me to feel more like a comedian than an idiot. “I mean your name - for when your order’s ready.”
Call me The Beast. “It’s Terry.”
She scribbles on a cup, hands it to a barista, and then pointedly looks at the next customer, drumming her acrylic nails (red like her lips, one with a design I can’t quite identify etched in white detail) on the counter distractedly.
Taking my marching orders, I move along to the collection point. There’s a gaggle of teenage boys grinning and shoving one another amiably while they wait for their drinks. One catches my eye in particular - paler and smaller than his friends, with a giant, foppish mop of hair. A smattering of acne complements his narrow features and startlingly blue eyes. He’s pursing his lips so they look thinner than I judge they normally would, perhaps a defence mechanism. I raise my eyes and realise he’s seen me studying him. No choice in this situation - I crack a smile to show I’m no threat.
One friend cackles and shoves his small friend’s shoulder. “Mate, you’ve pulled. This bloke fancies you.” Another friend glares at me over their heads - protective or disapproving or both.
“Pumpkin-Spiced Latte with cream and sprinkles for Dennis,” says the barista.
The subject of my gaze smirks slightly as he takes his drink. “Thanksverymuch,” he mumbles as the group moves away. The tall friend throws me a few warning glances over his shoulder.
I move in front of the collection point, assessing idly. Dennis, I judge, is playing the follower - he’s allowing his mates to lead the small herd while he figures out who he is and what role he wants to play. There are five friends total in the group. Statistically, one of the group will become a career criminal, two will develop substance reliances, and three will be victims of some type of crime - about the same as will contract cancer. I smile idly at the correlation.
“Order for Trey!” hollers a voice three inches from my ear. Wincing, I grab my coffee and throw a look at the sour-faced, somewhat androgynous barista and her pretty accomplice as I leave. You know what you did.
Emerging from the coffee shop into crisp, early morning Autumn air, I take a deep breath. Huge mistake! Traffic fumes, body odour and excrement fill my lungs just as horns and engines batter my eardrums - I’d momentarily forgotten I was in central London. Commuters bunch and pulse along the pavement like cattle and for a time I join the herd, losing myself in the freedom of detached oblivion. I am a part of the amorphous blob, far less than the sum of its parts.
Look at them, marching the slow, pre-defined route to death. They are your food. They exist only as a baseline, a stable platform of the norm upon which you revel in power. They are foundations, and you the castle.
“Shut up,” I mumble, and then glance around, half expecting to be challenged by another herd member who thinks I was addressing them. All I see is an ocean of headphones, ear buds and glowing screens. I’m in the middle of wondering why nobody can leave their phones in their bags or pockets any more, when my own rings and I’m forced to join the circus.
I answer the call - ‘Heather’ pulsates on my display - and whip the phone to my ear. Old school. “Hey, hun. How’re things? Sorry for not saying goodbye this morning. I didn’t want to wake you. It was really early.”
“Oh, fuck off - like you even thought about it. I love you for saying it though.”
I hate you, peon. “I love you too, hun. What’s up?”
“Just checking everything’s okay. You left your travel mug on the counter - did you run out of time? Also, I caught an extra shift this evening, so can you go to the shops on your way home?” Her voice is droll and acrid, laced with knowing rudeness couched as unthinking honesty.
“I hate the travel mug,” I reply. “It splashes my hand and it always tastes like last week’s coffee.” I join the herd in a side-step veering manoeuvre around some clipboard-wielding charity types. Everyone’s gaze remains glued to their screens or feet. “No probs with the shopping. What bits do we need?”
“Carrots, burger buns, and something sweet. You’ll have to get me some fanny pads, too - I am gushing right now. Sorry ‘bout it.”
Foul wench. “Hey, it’s what the self-checkouts are made for, right?”
“And I don’t give two shits whether you use the travel mug, but if you’re not going to, hide it well ‘cause Aunt Vera got you that for your birthday and she is not a forgiving woman.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oi, don’t you-”
“Love you too, speak later.” I hang up and slip the phone back into its pocket.
Peeling off from the herd, I enter the office building and make my way to the lifts, nursing my coffee like it’s a bowl of chicken soup and I’ve just been rescued from a deadly blizzard. I press the button for the fourth floor and stand right in front of the doors wearing my best scowl until they swish closed, leaving me alone with my aromatic coffee steam. I glance briefly at the ceiling of the lift carriage. I’ve always wanted to climb on top the way they do in movies and ride the cabin like a steed, grasping an oily metal cable in lieu of a mane. Of course, there’s no convenient hatch in the ceiling - indeed, I’ve never seen one my entire life.
Bing! Doors opening.
I traverse two corridors before arriving at my destination - the most boring door in the world, all wood veneer and dull metal handle with a keypad beneath it. I throw a glance over each shoulder before entering the code and cranking the handle, slipping through, and closing myself within.
The store cupboard looks the same as it did 34 minutes previously - just how I left it. It’s about fifteen feet between the door and the back wall, and I’m standing flanked by deep shelving units, with just enough room for a broad man to walk between without having to twist. The shelves play host to a mixture of yellowing stationery items and dust-drenched cameras and digital projectors - the fossils of an evolving office building.
Closing my eyes, I pop the thin plastic lid from my coffee and draw in the steam, revelling in the caffeine cloud that fills my throat and chest.
Can we get on with this?
I breathe jets of steam from my nostrils, keeping my eyes closed. “Let me enjoy my coffee.”
The longer we take, the greater the risk.
“I can’t do this without steadying my nerves first. You know that.” I fill my mouth with hot coffee, letting it spill across my tongue and flood beneath - I’ve timed it right, and it’s the perfect temperature. Swallowing a warm hug of glory, I take another mouthful, pause, and repeat. The warmth suffuses my body and I feel it spreading to my arms and legs. Invigorating. Blissful. Perfect.
For fuck’s sake.
I open my eyes. “Fine.” Popping the lid back on the empty cup, I slip it into a pocket. From another, I extract a wobbly pair of surgical gloves and stretch them over my hands. For the first time, I look down at the floor.
At the dead body on the floor.
I know she was human, or perhaps still is. I know there was once a feminine figure. I know she had features, and fingers and toes. I know she had nipples. I know she had labia and a clitoris. I know none of these things belong in zip-lock bags and rolls of cling film. I know all these things and file them away on the mental shelf of unhelpful information. I know I am here and some things simply need to happen. I blink back a rising sensation throughout my body, looking away from the floor again. No, no time for that.
I take in once again the display of macabre plastic parcels.
Exquisite.
Bending down, I pick up the knife, using only the tips of fingers and grasping it by edges. A glance up at the ceiling shows me what was missing in the lift - panels. Lots of them, all cheap polystyrene and grey corporate pattern. I reach up to lift one aside with the back of a hand and, rising onto my very tip-toes, I place the knife in a tray of cables running above the tiles. Easing the tile back into place, I let my body relax and slump. Retrieving one small bag from the floor, I pull off my gloves one after the other over it, secreting it in a blue balloon. This also gets stowed in a pocket.
Now get the fuck out of here.
Sometimes, a task is simply inevitable. Sometimes, we are but cattle, ambling towards our fate so something more glorious can feed. And so I do not shed the tears. I do not feel the emotions. I do not think too many of my own thoughts. I had my morning coffee. I moved the knife and collected the bag. And now, I have some shopping to do.
And the beast? He roils within me.
The beast roils within me, lurching in my guts like a joyous orgasm of terror. He’s a dragon writhing in my stomach. No, not just that. He’s effervescent water tumbling across the sand in my veins. He’s the sky bursting open in my brain. If I think about him too much, my reality melts into a quagmire of doubt and dissolution. He is-
“Sir?”
I blink twice as the voice intrudes. All at once, sound and vision coalesce. I’m standing at a counter. A high-pitched hissing is filling the air and the earthy, dark scent of Colombian roast assaults my sinuses. I take in the face of the lady who spoke to me - deep, dark eyes to match her gathering of raven-black hair. A petite nose perches over her lips, painted to a high red gloss and just about maintaining a smile. Her skin is the colour of a well-milked Americano.
Yummy.
“Sir? I need a name - for your coffee.”
I smile to show I’m present and attentive. “Why does my coffee need a name?”
She giggles dutifully but without mirth, giving me the benefit of the doubt, allowing me to feel more like a comedian than an idiot. “I mean your name - for when your order’s ready.”
Call me The Beast. “It’s Terry.”
She scribbles on a cup, hands it to a barista, and then pointedly looks at the next customer, drumming her acrylic nails (red like her lips, one with a design I can’t quite identify etched in white detail) on the counter distractedly.
Taking my marching orders, I move along to the collection point. There’s a gaggle of teenage boys grinning and shoving one another amiably while they wait for their drinks. One catches my eye in particular - paler and smaller than his friends, with a giant, foppish mop of hair. A smattering of acne complements his narrow features and startlingly blue eyes. He’s pursing his lips so they look thinner than I judge they normally would, perhaps a defence mechanism. I raise my eyes and realise he’s seen me studying him. No choice in this situation - I crack a smile to show I’m no threat.
One friend cackles and shoves his small friend’s shoulder. “Mate, you’ve pulled. This bloke fancies you.” Another friend glares at me over their heads - protective or disapproving or both.
“Pumpkin-Spiced Latte with cream and sprinkles for Dennis,” says the barista.
The subject of my gaze smirks slightly as he takes his drink. “Thanksverymuch,” he mumbles as the group moves away. The tall friend throws me a few warning glances over his shoulder.
I move in front of the collection point, assessing idly. Dennis, I judge, is playing the follower - he’s allowing his mates to lead the small herd while he figures out who he is and what role he wants to play. There are five friends total in the group. Statistically, one of the group will become a career criminal, two will develop substance reliances, and three will be victims of some type of crime - about the same as will contract cancer. I smile idly at the correlation.
“Order for Trey!” hollers a voice three inches from my ear. Wincing, I grab my coffee and throw a look at the sour-faced, somewhat androgynous barista and her pretty accomplice as I leave. You know what you did.
Emerging from the coffee shop into crisp, early morning Autumn air, I take a deep breath. Huge mistake! Traffic fumes, body odour and excrement fill my lungs just as horns and engines batter my eardrums - I’d momentarily forgotten I was in central London. Commuters bunch and pulse along the pavement like cattle and for a time I join the herd, losing myself in the freedom of detached oblivion. I am a part of the amorphous blob, far less than the sum of its parts.
Look at them, marching the slow, pre-defined route to death. They are your food. They exist only as a baseline, a stable platform of the norm upon which you revel in power. They are foundations, and you the castle.
“Shut up,” I mumble, and then glance around, half expecting to be challenged by another herd member who thinks I was addressing them. All I see is an ocean of headphones, ear buds and glowing screens. I’m in the middle of wondering why nobody can leave their phones in their bags or pockets any more, when my own rings and I’m forced to join the circus.
I answer the call - ‘Heather’ pulsates on my display - and whip the phone to my ear. Old school. “Hey, hun. How’re things? Sorry for not saying goodbye this morning. I didn’t want to wake you. It was really early.”
“Oh, fuck off - like you even thought about it. I love you for saying it though.”
I hate you, peon. “I love you too, hun. What’s up?”
“Just checking everything’s okay. You left your travel mug on the counter - did you run out of time? Also, I caught an extra shift this evening, so can you go to the shops on your way home?” Her voice is droll and acrid, laced with knowing rudeness couched as unthinking honesty.
“I hate the travel mug,” I reply. “It splashes my hand and it always tastes like last week’s coffee.” I join the herd in a side-step veering manoeuvre around some clipboard-wielding charity types. Everyone’s gaze remains glued to their screens or feet. “No probs with the shopping. What bits do we need?”
“Carrots, burger buns, and something sweet. You’ll have to get me some fanny pads, too - I am gushing right now. Sorry ‘bout it.”
Foul wench. “Hey, it’s what the self-checkouts are made for, right?”
“And I don’t give two shits whether you use the travel mug, but if you’re not going to, hide it well ‘cause Aunt Vera got you that for your birthday and she is not a forgiving woman.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oi, don’t you-”
“Love you too, speak later.” I hang up and slip the phone back into its pocket.
Peeling off from the herd, I enter the office building and make my way to the lifts, nursing my coffee like it’s a bowl of chicken soup and I’ve just been rescued from a deadly blizzard. I press the button for the fourth floor and stand right in front of the doors wearing my best scowl until they swish closed, leaving me alone with my aromatic coffee steam. I glance briefly at the ceiling of the lift carriage. I’ve always wanted to climb on top the way they do in movies and ride the cabin like a steed, grasping an oily metal cable in lieu of a mane. Of course, there’s no convenient hatch in the ceiling - indeed, I’ve never seen one my entire life.
Bing! Doors opening.
I traverse two corridors before arriving at my destination - the most boring door in the world, all wood veneer and dull metal handle with a keypad beneath it. I throw a glance over each shoulder before entering the code and cranking the handle, slipping through, and closing myself within.
The store cupboard looks the same as it did 34 minutes previously - just how I left it. It’s about fifteen feet between the door and the back wall, and I’m standing flanked by deep shelving units, with just enough room for a broad man to walk between without having to twist. The shelves play host to a mixture of yellowing stationery items and dust-drenched cameras and digital projectors - the fossils of an evolving office building.
Closing my eyes, I pop the thin plastic lid from my coffee and draw in the steam, revelling in the caffeine cloud that fills my throat and chest.
Can we get on with this?
I breathe jets of steam from my nostrils, keeping my eyes closed. “Let me enjoy my coffee.”
The longer we take, the greater the risk.
“I can’t do this without steadying my nerves first. You know that.” I fill my mouth with hot coffee, letting it spill across my tongue and flood beneath - I’ve timed it right, and it’s the perfect temperature. Swallowing a warm hug of glory, I take another mouthful, pause, and repeat. The warmth suffuses my body and I feel it spreading to my arms and legs. Invigorating. Blissful. Perfect.
For fuck’s sake.
I open my eyes. “Fine.” Popping the lid back on the empty cup, I slip it into a pocket. From another, I extract a wobbly pair of surgical gloves and stretch them over my hands. For the first time, I look down at the floor.
At the dead body on the floor.
I know she was human, or perhaps still is. I know there was once a feminine figure. I know she had features, and fingers and toes. I know she had nipples. I know she had labia and a clitoris. I know none of these things belong in zip-lock bags and rolls of cling film. I know all these things and file them away on the mental shelf of unhelpful information. I know I am here and some things simply need to happen. I blink back a rising sensation throughout my body, looking away from the floor again. No, no time for that.
I take in once again the display of macabre plastic parcels.
Exquisite.
Bending down, I pick up the knife, using only the tips of fingers and grasping it by edges. A glance up at the ceiling shows me what was missing in the lift - panels. Lots of them, all cheap polystyrene and grey corporate pattern. I reach up to lift one aside with the back of a hand and, rising onto my very tip-toes, I place the knife in a tray of cables running above the tiles. Easing the tile back into place, I let my body relax and slump. Retrieving one small bag from the floor, I pull off my gloves one after the other over it, secreting it in a blue balloon. This also gets stowed in a pocket.
Now get the fuck out of here.
Sometimes, a task is simply inevitable. Sometimes, we are but cattle, ambling towards our fate so something more glorious can feed. And so I do not shed the tears. I do not feel the emotions. I do not think too many of my own thoughts. I had my morning coffee. I moved the knife and collected the bag. And now, I have some shopping to do.
And the beast? He roils within me.
.
.
This is my NanoWrimo project for 2022. As such, this was written today and may get changed as the story develops later. I may not post a chapter every day but will aim to post quite frequently.
I hope you enjoyed the read.
Mike
.
.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. .
This is my NanoWrimo project for 2022. As such, this was written today and may get changed as the story develops later. I may not post a chapter every day but will aim to post quite frequently.
I hope you enjoyed the read.
Mike
.
.
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. Fleedleflump All rights reserved.
Fleedleflump has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
