The Bitter End (Part 3)
A Crime Short Story
The last job takes me to Sullivan’s Supreme Pie factory, which lies off of New Rainham Road. I did say my boss has a lot of fingers in many pies and he literally does. He bought the factory outright. I say bought but the previous owner got into debt with Mr Sullivan so in payment he took it off his hands. It’s a good way of laundering dosh and there’s other perks too.
I park up and take out my baggy of coke. I tap out a small amount on the back of my fist and take a snort with my left nostril. I shake out some more for the right- lovely. Now I’m ready.
I bowl into the main building I’ve still got ‘Mike’ in my pocket as I step onto the factory floor. All the staff have been given the day off- no witnesses. There’s a small group of men in the centre of the huge room. Giant machinery all around stands silently watching.
The small group part like the Red fucking Sea to reveal a terrified looking man tied to a chair, naked.
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t old Timmy Tomlin. A little birdie tells me you’ve been talking to the filth?’ I say as I approach.
‘No, no Tommy it wasn’t me.’
I loom over Timmy and smile wickedly.
In the background the news is on the radio talking about how Russian mobile nuclear missiles have been seen moving towards NATO’s boarders.
‘Turn that shit off,’ I tell one of the lackeys. I then turn back to Timmy.
‘We know it was you. You were fucking seen. It’s just a question of what you’ve told them about our operations. That’s where I come in, damage control.’
I take out ‘Mike’ and show it to Timmy who literally starts to piss himself, the dirty little fucker.
I work on Timmy with ‘Mike’ for nearly three hours, coaxing every ounce of information from the fucking little grass. By the time I’m finished with him; his own fucking mother wouldn’t recognise him and was begging for death.
Well I consider myself a fairly reasonable man and granted the prick’s wish.
I order the men that have been standing there watching the show; some look a little green around the gills, I might add. They untie him and then bound his wrists with a long metal link chain. They attach the chain to a hook that hangs nearby. I watch as the broken, bleeding man is then hoisted up into the air and hangs above a huge machine that had sat behind Timmy like a sleeping metal giant.
The machine has a wide opening at the top which tapers down to a narrower end in its base- a funnel. A couple of feet from the base a wide metal pipe with many holes at the end juts out.
This was the end game all along. Hence Timmy being naked, me pulling out all his fucking teeth, finger and toe nails during the main event.
I watch Timmy dangling over the funnel like some hellish string puppet before I’m handed the remote control for the winch.
‘Gentlemen start your engines,’ I say before a low rumble deep within the metal funnel sounds, quickly turning into a growl that echoes around the cavernous factory.
I ignore Timmy’s pleads of mercy as I push the red button and he descends slowly into the funnel. This is one of the other perks of owning a pie factory. Killing someone is easy. Bang and it’s over. The real hard part is getting rid of the body.
Well problem fucking solved.
We all look on in fascination as Timmy is lowered into the giant meat grinder. His pleads turn to hysterical cries and then to agonise screams as his naked feet reach the powerful stainless steel cutters.
Blood coats the interior of the funnel and Timmy’s twisted face as the cutters and grinders go to work. Timmy’s screams reach new heights as his body is slowly devoured by the machine. At the pipe end Timmy starts to be ejected from the machine and plops into a waiting stainless steel tray below.
By the time the cutters and grinding wheels have reached Timmy’s chest his screams fall silent as he finally gets his wish and death falls upon him like a cold, wet blanket.
I watch in silence as the rest of Timmy is spat out. ‘Sullivan’s Supreme Pies’ are popular all over the East part of London and Kent, must be the secret ingredient that sets it apart from their competitors.
It’s just gone half five and I’m clocking off. I give Mr Sullivan the update on the blower when I’m back in the car. After I hang up I remember the race horse and check out the results on my phone.
I smile broadly as ‘Crimson Glory’ has won. I drive off and head to the ‘Barking Dog’ for a celebrational pint.
I sit in the corner of the pub my back against the wood paneled walls, a pint of John Smiths Extra Smooth in one hand. I take out Randy’s number from my pocket and look at it. I decide to give her a bell and see if she wants to meet up tonight.
As I’m punching in the numbers on my phone the mobile springs to life and emits a powerful siren. A message with a black and yellow striped boarder flashes. I look around and everyone’s phone is going fucking mental as well.
‘What the fuck,’ I mumble as I look at the flashing message.
‘Emergency, seek shelter immediately. Await further instructions.’
People start talking amongst themselves, wondering what’s happening. The Landlord switches on the telly that sits above the bar. Images of submarines, battle ships and tanks cover the screen. Writing on the ticker-tape at the bottom of the screen says that Russia and China have launched an attack on Europe and the first wave of nuclear fucking missiles was heading our way.
Fuck.
I step outside on wobbling legs, people all around me screaming, shouting and running around like headless fucking chickens. Not me I’m facing it head on. There’s no hiding from this.
I stand on the high street watching cars and a bus smash into panic stricken pedestrians as they try to escape- the fucking muppets.
I look up towards the early summer sky and see several black dots against the blue. I rise my glass to them as they speed towards London, before taking a hefty swig of my bitter.
I close my eyes and wait for the end.
Jason Duck 2024.
First published in Byker Books on 3rd July 2024. Feel free to check out some other crime stories from me and other writers on this excellent Substack page about council estate life.
The Bitter End - Byker Books
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