Dead Men’s Secrets

You know, I never did learn how to move with the times, as they say. I suppose I will forever be a swashbuckler at heart, but I wasn’t really in the regaling mood, not at that exact moment.
The Arabs before me howled, unashamedly with laughter.
I knew that they were the lucky ones, they didn’t. And given the opportunity to ask them if they agreed with my conclusion, I’d say, they would definitely disagree. However, they were one of the few people condemned yo history, to die whilst actually laughing their cocks off.
My long dagger swashed above their loose clothing, neatly removing their laughing heads in one, fluid, stroke.
Two shots thudded with the ring of finality, jolting painfully at my teeth. Surprised, I looked down and fingered at the blooded holes in my chest and gut. Suddenly it wasn’t quite so easy to breathe.
I heard a scuffle and muted cracking going on behind me, sluggish I swaggered round, dagger at the ready. It was Grim, the dead Arab unceremoniously being dropped like a sack of dead cats, head facing the wrong way, hence the crunching.
‘Why did you have to go and get shot, again?’
Grim was mad, I could tell because he wouldn’t look at me. ‘Well, you know? What doesn’t kill you…’
‘How many times do you think you can disappoint the Tyrant and get away with it?’
I think the question was rhetorical, I shrugged and answered anyway, ‘well this makes four, so, ahhh, another five or six I reckon. Yeah…ahhh, something like that.’
‘I’m being serious Game! This isn’t England, unless you haven’t noticed? They might not know how to kill you but they will dig a big fucking hole and bury you alive. Trust me for once in your life, before we both end up regretting it.’
Grim wasn’t a man of many words and this, by his standards, was about as good as it gets. I knew he was right, of course he was, always fucking is.
The Tyrant was paying good money for the results we weren’t delivering, instead I just kept killing everybody. Dead men tell no secrets and secrets is what we were being paid to extract.
I lay down on the cluttered table, on top of the tattered Qu’rans, my blood infusing them, or so I like to believe, as Grim withdrew the nasty metal bullets with as much force as he could manage whilst still refusing to meet my eye. It was like the game Operation, except the aim was to make the light buzz as much as possible.
‘Don’t worry,’ I grunted through the pain, ‘the next one we find I will, ahhh! – thanks – I will let you do your thing before we kill them.’
Finally he looked me in the eye. ‘You fucking better. I like you Game, but I won’t die for you out here.’
The second bullet dropped to the tiled floor with a harsh clatter as he stood, wiped his hand on my leg and walked out of the room.


About Henry Game

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