Mr D.

Mr D. sits alone. In the dark. In a room. His room. His facial expression is one of a man miles away, gone, not here. Oh how this one man wishes this were true.

But it's not. He is deep in thought. He's deciding. A minute or two pass, slowly.
Rain patters the pavement outside gently and rhythmically. It's almost hypnotic.

Mr D. seems to have come to a decision with himself. He leaps off the bed, bounds down the stairs and into the kitchen. He fishes in a drawer.

Then the drawer closes, as does the kitchen door after that and the front door after that.

Night-time. Dark, except for the odd orange glow of a lamp-pole blotching the concrete floor. Mr D. rather foolishly only in jeans and a t-shirt starts walking down the road. There's a late-night diner on the horizon.

To many people, the pelting rain would have been refreshing, revitalising the skin, cleansing even. But not for Mr D., he feels saggier and more saturated with every drop; as if he's filling up inside, drowning from within.

He reaches the harsh, neon red sign "Teddy's Diner". He enters. It's dirty, run-down and everything was covered in grease, from the plates and the seats to the face of the "chef"(who lookede like the real Super Mario).

The glass door jingles as it shuts behind Mr D. and he stands for a moment, soaking wet and dripping water onto the grey floor.

A middle-aged waitress tosses him a glance from behind the counter. She looked like she had seen better days; she had a dark mole above her lips and a rather alarming amount of facial hair.

Two men sitting at the counter don't bother to turn around. One is too tired to do so, the other not tired enough.

Mr D. takes a seat at the counter, to the right of both the men. "Coffee", he says, when the waitress looks at him. She begins to talk but he butts in "Black, no sugar".

A small cup is thrust in front of him and a wrinkled hand pours from a pot. Mr D. sips, letting the warmth flow under his bones and electrify his nerves.

The lashing of the rain intensifies and pings off the metal roof; and for a split second the lights in the joint flicker out.

Mr D. finishes his surprisingly delectable coffee and then acts.

He smashes the white cup off the floor, sending a thousand pieces of porcelain everywhere. Next, he produces a bread knife from under his coat; once a utensil of his kitchen, now his weapon of choice.

The stainless steal glints as lightning shocks the sky. Mr D. turns and stands facing the portly man beside him. The man, shocked, has no time to react, as Mr D. plunders the blade deep into his soft neck.

The waitress screams and drops behind the counter as the only other customer retreats backwards, jerkily and with terror burnt onto his retinas.

Mr D. yanks the knife out and watches as his victim grabs at his gaping wound, then falls off his chair. His head thuds against the floor and the sound makes Mr D. wince.

Then Mr D., now a killer, turns his purposeful gaze upon the other customer. He lunges towards him but slips on a puddle of crimson and takes a heavy fall. Thunder bellows as the wind gushes and blows the door open. The glass in the door shatters. Commotion

The other customer tries to leap over Mr D. and make his flight to live. But Mr D., from the floor, thrusts his blade up,up, up into the belly of his victim. The man yelps like an animal and falls as the bread knife tears along his stomach; revealing entrails of mustard yellow, deep red and other colours not meant to be seen on our side. His stomach erupts like a dozen snakes turned crazy; rasping all around.

Mr D. pushes his fallen foe from him and gets up gingerly as he roars in delight. In this chaos the waitress had jumped the counter and sped off into the black outside. The chef had also made away, probably through some backdoor.

Rainwater was trickling in the open doorway and mingling with the blood of the dead to form a pale pink, almost like wine spilled on the floor.

Mr D. dropped the utensil that had served him so well and walked into the bathroom. It smelt of piss and disinfectant. The smell rushed up Mr D.'s nostrils, went straight to his brain and swirled. All his senses were heightened now. He was buzzing.

He removed his green t-shirt, now drenched in red. He then proceeded to wash his hands, but this didn't stop them from shaking.

He thinks for a moment. He needs to clear his head. (Although he hasn't done this for many years now.) The rain now reaches a constant screech.

He leaves the gents to find water streaming into the diner, up to his ankles. It's as if God wants to wash the bodies on the floor clean. Mr D. sits back in his seat and shouts "Hello, what 'av you gotta do to get some service around here? eh?" He chuckles as he says it.

Silence. Then he hears it. Distant. Sirens. Police sirens. Mr D. looks almost relieved. He was the picture of serenity, sitting in an old, flooding eatery with two butchered companions.

The sirens were close now, howling through the rain and thunder, trying to attain authority.

The screech of tyres on gravel. Two policemen burst in brandishing pistols. "Fuckin' hell!" one of them yells as the other grabs Mr D. from behind. "Help me!" he shouts at his partner, who wades through the knee-deep pink liquid and punches Mr D. in the face.

Mr D. falls off the seat with the force of the knock and the two men of the law handcuff him. "Hey! You made my nose bleed," Mr D. shouts through laughter. "Drink the pink champagne boys, it's on me!" he continues, almost delirious now.

They walk him outside. The darkness is fading now. The sky is a soothing purple/grey/white. A small crowd of people have gathered. The rain has ceased.

Mr D. is thrown into a waiting police van. He's inside, again. He sits alone. In the dark. His face is blank, but one cannot help but feel glee is lurking under his surface.

It was over. No more choices. No more decisions. Mr D. knew exactly where he'd be and what he would be doing for the rest of his life.

Ahhhh, bliss, he thought to himself as his cage rattled away down the hill, towards the rising sun.

And out of sight.