Man's Worst Enemy is Man

It's 2020 in London, UK. Crime levels are at record highs, jobs are non-existent and benefits are a distant memory. The working classes are rebelling and something has got to give. This tale chronicles the struggles of a mentally disturbed boy trapped in a twisted city as world war 3 swiftly approaches....


1. To Think it All Started with a Knife!


A Note from the Narrator...


War...  a terrible pastime. It usually starts because someone wants something that somebody else has; collateral, land, oil or good old-fashioned supremacy. There have been many brutal wars in the past, but this is the most blood-curdling of them all. Across this planet all that can be heard is a chorus of screams, a continuous soundtrack of sobs. Simply because of the limitless chaos created daily by the greedy psychopaths who have instigated this world’s largest ever blood-bath. Millions of people have lost their lives as a result of this ongoing carnage, and no-one seems to care.
For years countless brave and courageous souls have fought, and continue to fight, amongst the mayhem of this war. They are all exceptional people who willingly go into battle to protect the lives of today’s world. But if you ask them what they truly fear, the answer from the majority will be death.

I can honestly say I no longer fear the inevitable fate of human demise. That wasn’t always the case, but years ago my opinion was swiftly changed. Since that dark and twisted day, I’ve been called a psychopath, inhuman and diagnosed as a schizophrenic. Obviously I strongly deny all these claims although I do play on the latter slightly to make the doctors think I’m slower than them – it makes them easier to manipulate. Ah, yes, I’ve sent the world’s best psychologists bumbling back to their desks more than once.


..Oh, I almost forgot, of course an introduction. My name isn’t important at the moment, for now I’m just Bob.


-Part One-

‘Dark Days’

Chapter 1 – To Think it All Started with a Knife!


My story began when I was eleven shortly after we’d moved to London. I was raised, until the age of nine, in a small backwards redneck town. Money was scarce and education was non-existent. Apart from that, we were happy. We had a vast and positive family unit around us. The town was quiet, apart from the odd few youngsters committing petty crimes.

The trouble began when my mother’s addiction became uncontrollable. She had first been introduced to narcotics by my blood father who was a fierce and feared drug dealer and gang-lord. He was later incarcerated and by now will have been released, and most likely, his dead body will be slowly decaying somewhere after a vicious feud.

It was after the sudden demise of my maternal grandparents that my mother’s fatal need became something more than a cheeky habit. After everyone had washed their hands of her, mother fell into the arms of another evil and destructive man, Joey, a cockney drug dealer and shoplifter, who exposed her weakness and promised her the world. Against my better judgment and will, we were forced to move to the Big Smoke and we all ended up in a lice-ridden dump of a flat which he called home.

Day after day I would sit watching Joey stare down into an empty whisky bottle, moaning and groaning, perfectly content to remain sitting in his own excrement. My mother grew more unrecognisable as every hour past. She was unhealthily thin and her body was no more than a skeleton covered with an opaque layer of yellowing flesh. Her dearly beloved would supply her with food and water. More often than not, Mum and I would share a can of baked beans while he gluttonously indulged himself on beef and gammon steaks.
I thought this was my lot, and I’d have to be subjected to this mental and physical torture until one of them dropped dead, but in a bizarre and painful twist of fate, came the night which would change my life forever...

I was sitting opposite Joey at the dinner table staring into his nasty eyes as they rolled around his head tirelessly as a result of the that day’s cocktail of narcotics and alcohol. I then stared at the lines on his forehead which resembled a toast-rack; I would have felt pity for this poor excuse of a man if every inch of his being didn’t disgust me. From his receding hairline, his putrid brown and crooked teeth, to his beer-gut – I loathed it all! Mum shakily emerged from the kitchen and placed his gammon steak and cutlery before him. He drained his whisky bottle, and placed it down on the table. As mum walked passed, he stuck his foot out and tripped her up. It was purely out of spite. He always beat her when he ran out of booze; it was a daily occurrence that she unfortunately learned to live with. She stood up and walked on. As she did he cursed and pulled her back to him by her belt-loop. He smiled before punching her in the face. When she had fallen to the floor, he continued with his meal. Today he wouldn’t be let off lightly. She found her feet and with her eyes blurred by blood, she ran forward and with a scream, punched him on the bridge of the nose. After years of relentless abuse, she had finally snapped. Good for her, ‘well done mum,’ I whooped inside my head, but the happiness was short-lived. Joey steadied himself after the punch, steak knife in hand he speared the gammon, then picked up the empty whisky bottle and smashed it against my mother’s cranium. She fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes; the reality of Joey’s actions sobered him momentarily.  He fell to his knees to check for a pulse. There was no point, she was gone. As I watched her collapse, something inside me snapped, the last of my boyish innocence immediately drained away.
Without turning from the corpse, Joey began to speak:
“You see boy, this is what happens when you push me! For years I’ve put up with your mother and you. All she was and you are, is a bag of unneeded stress. She always was a sour old cow...!”
I let him drone on for a few more minutes as he attempted to assert his drunken dominance. I slowly stood, walking around to the other side of the table; I silently slid the steak knife from the slab of grilled pig’s carcase. He finished cursing my mother’s name, rose to his feet and as he did so, I forced the blade into his round stomach with every bit of hate-fuelled energy in my young body. I quickly pulled out the blade so as not to kill him – he had to suffer for this one. He fell to his knees clutching his open wound, I punched him hard on the nose and he fell back. He began to crawl away at a snail’s pace; I ran forward and booted him in his dissected stomach, hard enough to put him on his back. I looked down at my white trainer which was now covered in blood. The sight brought a grin to my face which I remember fondly to this very day. He clambered against the yellow painted wall leaving a crimson trail in his wake. I grabbed his massive floppy head and smash it against the wall. I still remember the sound of his facial bones shattering... it was lovely. For those few minutes I could see no reason, the little boy I once was had escaped me. Despite all her faults, addictions and weaknesses, I loved my mother dearly and felt the deadly compulsion to avenge her death.
Joey rose to his knees once more and coughed out a meagre sentence or two.
“Come on, you little rat, kill me, finish me off! Come on then big man – KILL ME!!”
His dying roars were a beautiful symphony to my ears. I took hold of the knife again, ran forward like an Olympian about to throw a javelin and thrust it into his throat. As the blade penetrated, blood spurted from his neck like a garden sprinkler. I smiled, he wheezed and he died.               

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