right, Horace heard the attack dogs coming from the darkness, with a pitter
patter of promised violence. The lead dog snarled from the darkness, a huge
black and tan beast baring its fangs, saliva drooling at the thrill of a fight
and a feast. It leapt for Horace, and was easily half his size, rippling with
muscle and a coiled spring of aggression.
Horace moved fast, stepping
forward, left hand grabbing its long snout in mid-air, right hand cutting
under, between the dog’s legs, and grabbing its cock and balls in one great
handful. The dog, surprised at this sudden turn of events, grunted and
Horace... folded it in half, with a terrible cracking of breaking spine
and neck and jaw. The dog hit the ground limply, as its four brethren emerged
from the darkness like demons. They were growling, eyes fixed and focused, long
strings of saliva pooling from twisted fangs.
Horace held both hands wide,
almost in pleading, in supplication, in a posture begging forgiveness.
“Here, doggy doggy,” he said, and
the dogs leapt...
The night was soon filled with
snapping, cracking and breaking sounds.
~ * ~
HAVING
REMOVED HIS shoes, Horace padded silently through the house. The place oozed
opulence, but in bad taste. The sort of opulence learned by a poor
person who’d made it good and rich, as opposed to opulence instilled by decades
of breeding and education. It mattered little to Horace. Because Horace was The
Dentist, and he was here to do his job.
He’d found the central console
for the alarm system, and with deft fingers, had twisted, removed components,
and isolated the entire camera and alarm system to external alert. It was
almost with disappointment that he realised there were no armed guards to kill.
Obviously, this particular politician-slash-Greenstar-company-director hadn’t
quite upset enough people just yet. But it would come, Horace knew. It
always did.
The stairs were broad, sweeping
in a generous curve to a wide balcony overhead. Horace moved at a leisurely
pace. There was no hurry. His target wasn’t going anywhere, he would be asleep
and fat and snoring, with his snoring fat wife beside him, both of them pumped
and slumped on rich food and red wine and bad perfume and drunk sex. After all,
it was Saturday night.
He searched through various rooms
before finding the master bedroom. The door opened softly on well-oiled hinges,
the work of a master craftsman; ironic to find one operating on a planet filled
with junk. Still, Horace was wise enough to understand the entire planet of
Amaranth would hold these pockets of perfection every once in a while. Power
and wealth bought quality no matter on what shit-hole one decided to exist.
Horace chose the word exist as opposed to live. For Horace didn’t
believe that people such as this, with planetary atrocity on their tox-smeared
hands, could ever truly live. Living was what the noble of heart did.
Existing... well. He smiled. That was left to the rest of the trash.
The bed was large and vulgar, as
befitted a director of Greenstar. Two blubber mounds were tunnelled under the
blankets like fattened, hibernating pigs. One was snoring like bubbles blown
through a mouthful of marbles. Horace gave a narrow, straight smile. Oh, the
comedy of the situation! It will be a pleasure cutting the slabs of fat from
your distended bellies...
Horace’s nostrils twitched and
his eyes flared and he knew in an instant something was wrong. A metallic
scent. The scent of...
A boot hit his head, slamming him
backwards to the ground, where he rolled fast, savagely, into a crouch. The
figure, highlighted by weak starlight, landed, whirled, and Horace caught the
flash of silver. A knife. The attacker came at him again, knife slashing down
left, right, left. Horace shifted from each stroke, then grabbed the wrist,
ducked under a right hook, spinning behind the attacker, and dragged the knife
back into the attacker’s own chest. Horace let
patter of promised violence. The lead dog snarled from the darkness, a huge
black and tan beast baring its fangs, saliva drooling at the thrill of a fight
and a feast. It leapt for Horace, and was easily half his size, rippling with
muscle and a coiled spring of aggression.
Horace moved fast, stepping
forward, left hand grabbing its long snout in mid-air, right hand cutting
under, between the dog’s legs, and grabbing its cock and balls in one great
handful. The dog, surprised at this sudden turn of events, grunted and
Horace... folded it in half, with a terrible cracking of breaking spine
and neck and jaw. The dog hit the ground limply, as its four brethren emerged
from the darkness like demons. They were growling, eyes fixed and focused, long
strings of saliva pooling from twisted fangs.
Horace held both hands wide,
almost in pleading, in supplication, in a posture begging forgiveness.
“Here, doggy doggy,” he said, and
the dogs leapt...
The night was soon filled with
snapping, cracking and breaking sounds.
~ * ~
HAVING
REMOVED HIS shoes, Horace padded silently through the house. The place oozed
opulence, but in bad taste. The sort of opulence learned by a poor
person who’d made it good and rich, as opposed to opulence instilled by decades
of breeding and education. It mattered little to Horace. Because Horace was The
Dentist, and he was here to do his job.
He’d found the central console
for the alarm system, and with deft fingers, had twisted, removed components,
and isolated the entire camera and alarm system to external alert. It was
almost with disappointment that he realised there were no armed guards to kill.
Obviously, this particular politician-slash-Greenstar-company-director hadn’t
quite upset enough people just yet. But it would come, Horace knew. It
always did.
The stairs were broad, sweeping
in a generous curve to a wide balcony overhead. Horace moved at a leisurely
pace. There was no hurry. His target wasn’t going anywhere, he would be asleep
and fat and snoring, with his snoring fat wife beside him, both of them pumped
and slumped on rich food and red wine and bad perfume and drunk sex. After all,
it was Saturday night.
He searched through various rooms
before finding the master bedroom. The door opened softly on well-oiled hinges,
the work of a master craftsman; ironic to find one operating on a planet filled
with junk. Still, Horace was wise enough to understand the entire planet of
Amaranth would hold these pockets of perfection every once in a while. Power
and wealth bought quality no matter on what shit-hole one decided to exist.
Horace chose the word exist as opposed to live. For Horace didn’t
believe that people such as this, with planetary atrocity on their tox-smeared
hands, could ever truly live. Living was what the noble of heart did.
Existing... well. He smiled. That was left to the rest of the trash.
The bed was large and vulgar, as
befitted a director of Greenstar. Two blubber mounds were tunnelled under the
blankets like fattened, hibernating pigs. One was snoring like bubbles blown
through a mouthful of marbles. Horace gave a narrow, straight smile. Oh, the
comedy of the situation! It will be a pleasure cutting the slabs of fat from
your distended bellies...
Horace’s nostrils twitched and
his eyes flared and he knew in an instant something was wrong. A metallic
scent. The scent of...
A boot hit his head, slamming him
backwards to the ground, where he rolled fast, savagely, into a crouch. The
figure, highlighted by weak starlight, landed, whirled, and Horace caught the
flash of silver. A knife. The attacker came at him again, knife slashing down
left, right, left. Horace shifted from each stroke, then grabbed the wrist,
ducked under a right hook, spinning behind the attacker, and dragged the knife
back into the attacker’s own chest. Horace let
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