The Sanity Clause by Frank Sonderborg

Gritty Santa.112I was in a dark place. My natural habitat. The stink of death lay around me. That pungent stench of life extinguished in terror. They had heavily tasered me, but I was not dead. I knew who my lifeless Dwarf comrades were. Bar staff from the “Darby O’Gilly”. We were packed tight in the big trunk of a smooth running motor – it sounded like a Mercedes – and on our way to some well-planned disposal station. The Serb, a soul-fucker by trade, had taken a beef to them and decided to remove the itch. I was burned by association and a hit contract. I took no shit from nobody and this was the result. The Army had sent me on anger management courses. Didn’t work. Just got angrier. The fire inside me began again. A white heat of pure hate. Against the mob, the world, the bitches that turned me down, the universe. They’d made a mistake when they grabbed me. They hadn’t killed me. My hands were tied with duct tape behind my back. I squirmed to put my ear to the back seat. One was in the rear seat talking loudly to the driver. Thought, the dumb fuckers can only speak in one volume. And that’s loud all day long.                                                                                                                                             

“What are you getting the kids? Xbox or PlayStation?”

“Ya mean, what’s Santa getting them, the crazy bastard.” They both started laughing.

“I’d love to cap that fucker for stealing all the limelight. Why should he get the credit? But no, the missus says it’s Santa Claus who brings the presents. Not their hard working Papa. No, sir. Some red robed fucking alien on a flying sleigh, who Homeland Security just happen to turn a blind eye to every fucking year.”

I was working to free myself as I listened. I clicked shoes and a sharp spike shot out of my heel. I pushed back and sawed through the duct tape. Free at last, free at last, Almighty Dwarf King. We are free at last. Then I laughed inside. I was a man not a Dwarf or some circus freak. I was small. But I was a man. Which helped in this trunk of death.  I listen again as the two ass-holes continued their shouting match conversation.

“The Chinks will feed these, what do the Micks call them, “Lepro-Cons” to the fish. Fucking freaks. The Serb wants them gone by the morning.”

The car came to a stop and started to reverse. I turned as best I could and started to unhook my Bolo. It was in a flat case, strapped to my back under my shirt. The Bolo was a much shortened, sharpened version of a machete. I had lain before, in darkened holes, with bits of rotting, decaying comrades to keep me company. And I knew I would have to pay the Ferryman his penny, many years in the future, for this unneeded rerun.

The car stopped and Xbox and PlayStation got out. I gripped the Bolo with my right hand behind my back. And lay between my silent comrades. The trunk opened.

“I’ll tell the Chinks the goods are here. You start pulling them out.”

Xbox headed off and PlayStation leaned in, two handed, to grab a hold of a body.

I opened my eyes and stared at him. I could see the surprise in his face as I buried the Bolo, sticking him in the excessive stomach he presented. My left arm grabbed his neck to keep him steady as I worked the tool in the excess of fat. An eruption of blood covered me and my silent companions while PlayStation screamed as I gutted him. I scrambled out of the trunk and the smell of brine on the cold evening air hit me, as the stink of death was blown away.

The car was parked on a short pier near a fishing trawler. Xbox had turned in response to the screaming and, gun raised, starting firing in my direction. I had an option to run, jump or hide. I slid under the car. Lying flat, limbs still stiff, I watched Xbox coming back to the car. “Fuck! Fuck!” was all he could say when he reached the trunk and saw the gutted PlayStation. Then he came around the side searching in the dark. Looking for where I had disappeared to.

I lay still and waited until his shoes were midways along the car. I reached out, grabbed his ankle and started pulling and sawing. His screams gave me such an immense high. I smiled. He was pumping wild shots into the ground. Losing his balance as he came down. I slithered out from under the sedan and started sticking him anywhere I could. I got on top of him and buried the Bolo as deep as it would go.

This is for the Dwarf King, beneath his halls of gold and this is for the Dwarf Queen, sleeping in her palace of cold. And this is for me, Gimli, the man. And I am a man, you piece of shit.

It was designed as a trench tool. And I dug a trench in that fat fucker, one the “Old Breed” would have been proud of. The trawler had pulled away at the sound of gunfire, but had started back. I picked up Xbox’s gun and started pumping shots in their general direction. They got the message and faded. I dragged and dumped Xbox and PlayStation off the pier. I searched the car for something to wear. All I could find was a Santa Outfit.

I knew where the Serb lived so I planned to deliver a Christmas present. There’s nothing better than a trunk load of dead Dwarfs to kill the Yule tide spirit.

That Serb fucker had placed a contract on my head for some perceived slight. But he didn’t know I was as crazy as herd of over sexed Bonobo monkeys.

Anyway, his contract never included a Sanity Clause.

B&WFrankSBio: Frank Sonderborg is a writer of Action and Adventure short stories. He is currently working on his first adventure novel Brighton City Of Gold. Frank was born in Ireland and grew up on the Northside of Dublin. He’s lived for many years in Denmark but is currently residing in Hampshire in the UK. His stories have been published in: Action: Pulse pounding Tales Volume 2: : Noir Nation: International Crime Fiction No.3: Pulp Modern # 6  JFK  Issue published by Alec Cizak and Uncle B. Publications. Frank is also working with and their latest Pulp-alternative publications.



Filed under Flash Fiction

2 responses to “The Sanity Clause by Frank Sonderborg

  1. Enjoyed this, Frank. Good working with you on it.

  2. Full of action, humor, and great lines. First rate!

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