Tag Archives: Frank Sonderborg

Red and the Jesuit by Frank Sonderborg

Loud banging on my apartment door is always a bad sign. Even with a door that had steel reinforced pins to stop any sudden entry. I was positioned between the legs of a six foot Russian, red haired model. Naked and feeling very vulnerable. I knew the red was direct from a bottle, as my mouth was full of blond snatch.

“They found me,” she said, from somewhere up beyond her towering twin peaks.

The door was holding up well to the battering and I could hear a stream of Russian curses as the goons tried to smash it down. I was off the bed and in my cloths, quicker than you can say “Putin on my Top Hat.”  Red was pulling on her panties, long jeans and T-shirt.

“Who the fuck is it?” I asked.

“Max. He wants his blood money.”

I said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

In my line of work you do need a Plan B. And a Plan C, D and if possible an E. The door was coming apart as we scuttled through my Narnia escape cupboard and into the next apartment. We left by a side fire escape. The backup Dodge fired up and we headed for the Jesuit’s place. He had texted me the night before to say he was in town and we should meet up.

“Gimli,” she said, “I’m afraid.”

The reason a four foot nothing ex-soldier was doing the beast with two backs with a stunning six feet of red headed sex was simple – I knew no fear. Angry, always. Touching the insanity pad, frequently. Afraid, never.

On my special adapted muscle car seat we blasted on and into the night.

Cal was a retired Jesuit. An enforcer for the old Lord of the Dance, a lapsed Papal assassin and a good friend. Dressed in his trademark all black outfit, he let us into his town house.

“Indians on the warpath?” he asked, as I ushered Red into his home.

“Yeah, Russian in, where Archangels fear to tread. They’re after Red.”

He laughed at my bad joke.

“So how is Gimli? No, don’t answer. Pissed off as usual?”

“Pissed at the idea that these tattooed Russian circus fuckers are ruining my day.”

Red was staring at Cal.

I said, “Sorry, Red, this is Cal – the original Man in Black.”

Cal looked at Red. “This isn’t about money, is it?”

She looked at me. “It’s about ownership.”

“OK, Gimli the Dwarf,” said Cal, looking at the close circuit TV, “the bad guys have arrived. Its kick ass time, again.”

I knew he wanted me mean. So I obliged. “I’m no fucking Dwarf, goddamnit. I’m a man.”

“Can you use a gun?” Cal asked Red, ignoring me. She just put out her hand and took the offered Glock.

“We’ll need to kill them all,” I said. “It’s the only thing they seem to understand.”

The front door exploded in a shower of glass and wood, as the goons left subtlety to another day. Three masked, armed military guys came pouring through the door, throwing flash bangs as they came forward.

Cal ran at them, hacking his axe, aiming for the neck. His speed was blistering as he motored towards the door.

They were also breaching through the upstairs windows. I headed their way.

Red was terrified but she held it tight, along with the Glock.

There was three black masked, body armoured guys, moving through the flash bang smoke. I darted through them with speed, axe in one hand and sticking them with their impending demise. Cal had access to a lot of deathly toys and sticky explosives was just one of them.

I was flat on the floor when the plop of death went off and three healthy men expired.

I got up, grabbed the rope outside the window and was on the roof in seconds, chasing the backup.

I saw Cal was killing his way out through the front.

The two guys on the hoist weren’t expecting a mad, axe-wielding mini-man to come back up. They died very quickly as I hacked them apart. I looked down at Cal advancing on the two darkened SUV’s. The Russians had had enough and were trying to make a getaway.

Cal was shooting his sticky bombs at the SUV’s. They blew apart almost immediately. The short war was over. Long live the long war.

We gathered up Red and drove away in Cal’s Range Rover to the wailing oncoming sound of the NYPD.

“Why?” was all he asked Red.

“Because he’s fucking crazy that’s why.”

“Nobody’s that crazy,” was his answer, as he headed out of town.

“His name is Roman Solonik, nicknamed Max. An ex-KGB boy from Moscow. Lots of things about this guy but crazy is not one,” I said.

“He’s my husband,” she said quietly.

Cal hit the brakes and pulled over.

He looked straight ahead as his knuckles tightened on the wheel.

“We wiped out a complete Speznaz assault team because of a fucking domestic dispute.

Have you never heard of counselling?”

“So,” I said, “Do you think Max will be upset?”

Cal thought this was funny and smiled.

“Why Gimli?” Cal asked her.

“Because everybody is terrified of Max. Even me.”

“So get a fucking divorce.”

“I tried and this is the result.”

“I think he’s got the message. You can go back to him now,” I said.

We dropped her off near her apartment. It was the price of love and a possible armistice.

I had convinced her she would be safe. Or I would be coming for his head.

Between Max and Cal’s contacts, the encounter would be swept under the NYPD Russian File carpet. Cal headed for the nearest Jesuit safe house.

“Gimli,” he said, “next time can you stick it to an unmarried Dwarf Princess?”

B&WFrankSBio:  Frank Sonderborg lives in the UK and does his best to write interesting stories.
His stories have appeared in: Action: Pulse Pounding Tales 2, Noir Nation 3, Noir Nation 5, Pulp Modern JFK Issue #6, Shadows and Light, 100 Words 100 Books – (The O’Brien Press), TheBigAdios, Thrills, Kills ‘n’ Chaos, Shotgunhoney, Near2TheKnuckle.
Amazon page: amazon.co.uk/Frank-Sonderborg/e/B00F8P3AX6
Blog: franksonderborg.blogspot.co.uk/

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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: Shotgunhoney.net : 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 Prose-press.com and their latest Pulp-alternative publications.
Blog: http://franksonderborg.blogspot.co.uk/
fb: facebook.com/frank.sonderborg

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