A Mischievous Boy

The neighbours boy lay on the floor of his woodshed; dead. Blood was pouring out through the gash in the back of the boys head where Mr Timmons had struck it with a claw hammer.

“It was his own fault”, thought Mr Timmons; standing, gripping the hammer tightly in both hands, his eyes full of a mad self-righteous anger as he looked down at the dead boy, “I kept telling him. I kept telling his stupid bleedin’ parents to keep him out of my back garden; out of my shed. Damn brat. Always up to mischief. Now look what he’s gone and done to himself”.

He would have to hide the body. That would be the first thing he’d have to do; then dispose of the hammer. He had some old tarpaulin and some big plastic bags in the garage. He could wrap the body up in them and put it into the back of his Landrover; take it down to his allotment after dark.

“You’ll be good for something at least, Tommy”, joked the old psychopath to the dead boy; a wicked, cold blooded smirk creeping over his face, “Good for the flowers”.

He noticed it was getting dark already. Best wrap up the hammer and clean himself off, then get the shovels but somehow the…somehow the handle of the claw hammer had got stuck to his hands, “What the?!”, he thought, “What the fuck?!”

Then he noticed the tube of superglue in the dead boys right hand and the smile still upon his face. Tommy had been a mischievous boy alright and now Mr Timmons was in big trouble.