A Grave Mistake

The car pulled up outside the druggies place. Walter took out the pistol from the glove compartment along with one clip. Ridge was next to him, in the driver's seat.

"So what we goan' do today, Walter?" Ridge reached down and pulled out the baseball bat from the side of his seat and put it in his lap.

"We goan' fetch ourselves a rat, fellas." Walter answered, twisting in his seat to face even Finch, who was in the back, brandishing a blunt machete.

Various mumbles of agreement could be heard from inside the little yellow Volkswagen Beetle.


"I'm in."

Walter ramming the clip into the pistol and snapping the barrel backwards was like the whistle blowing to signal the start of a running race, all the crooked crooks opened their doors and wedged themselves out of the car with much effort. Slamming their doors, they lightly smacked their bats to palms, or practiced slicing moves with machetes, or pointed guns straight ahead to hone aiming skills.

Ridge with the baseball bat lead the way up to the druggies place, Finch following behind in single file, while Walter tailed the end, tiptoeing over to the wooden-planked barred windows, to check whether good Ol' Muggy Dug was waiting for them, with a shotgun in hand or something.

Ridge tapped the door with the head of his baseball bat. No thumping footsteps. No cries of some drug-high loony in Tiddly Wink's land. This would be a simple break and enter. He put his ear to the peeling wood, still no sound.

"Go go go! In in in!" He whispered loudly enough for Walter to hear and tip toe back to Ridge and Finch. The bat collided with the door with a deafening thwok; the door was hollow, as the sound seemed to echo inside softly. Ridge kicked the door, the hinges gave way, and the door fell inwards, landing on the dirty carpet floor, displacing much dust and dust mite.

Finch turned to Walter when they were safely in the hallway. "Where is he? You know, Ol' Muggy Dug?"

"Shush, Finch, we'll find the bastard. Don't you worry. Now," He pointed to Ridge. "Ridge, start with that one." Walter pointed to the door to the left of them. "I'll take the stairs." He pointed to the stairs at the end of the hallway. "And Finch, you bring up my rear."

Ridge instantly turned round, and shook Walter at this outrage. "The Hell? What about my rear? My ass deserves to be covered too!"

Unknowingly to the three bumbling idiots downstairs, Ol' Muggy Dug had awoken upstairs from his drugged slumber, in a mess of his own used needles and pills. He crawled along the wooden dusty floor on his stomach to the revolver lying in the far corner.

Back down the stairs, Finch, Ridge and Walter had come to an agreement after about a minute of democratic polling. Finch would search the room, as Ridge was too much of a 'Pussy' to go forth by himself, so Ridge'd be Walter's rear.

"Okay, let's move." Walter whispered finally, and they all went their separate ways, Finch pulling his machete close to his chest (the side of the machete of course!) and creaked one creaky wooden floorboard after another into the dinky little smelly room. Whereas Walter and Finch were tiptoeing in a Loony Tunes type fashion, towards the stairs, which darkness seemed to flood from above.

Good Ol' Muggy Dug though, had a better position for attack, he'd edged himself -his back to the wall- to the side of the stairs, pointing his shaking revolver to where the stairs finished, and the one big second floor room started. His hands couldn't help shaking, the warped mind was still under the control of a host of 'goodies', namely Morphine shots and maybe a dash of Cocaine from the 'Dope Box' Ol' Muggy Dug kept in the fungus ridden warm fridge.

Muggy Dug peeked over the dirty railing and saw the two bobbing heads of the intruders, yet did not attack, still under a drug-induced daze. The corner of his mouth began to froth, either it was the daze or the sudden rush of excitement that had been brought upon him. The deathly green lips pulled back into a smile of a madman.

Suddenly one bobbing heads jumped to the top of the stairs, the head that screamed: "Ah ha!" turned out to be connected to a body, with a gun pointed at Ol' Muggy. The other head was quickly to follow, rushing up the stairs, baseball bat drawn.

"Ah ha!" Walter shouted again triumphantly, pistol outstretched to the filthy individual, like a swordsman who had just unhooked the sparring partner's sword from his hand with a Rapier. The gun then pointed down, hovered for a moment, and then fired. A thunderous bang echoed throughout the old house, as a light fizzled and fell out that had over hanged the bottom of the stairs, thanks to Walter's bullet that ricocheted off of the light, burying itself somewhere in the wall. Pitch-black now spread all over the house in the space of mere milliseconds, leaving everyone, Finch included (who had no idea what was going on upstairs, but had heard the "Ah ha!" 's and the scurry of feet up the stairs) in darkness.

"That was a pretty dumb move, no offense." Ridge whispered to Walter, feeling that he had his two-handed baseball bat head pointed at Ol' Muggy.

"Shut up, fool!" Walter whispered loudly back. With a ferocious snarl, Ol' Muggy lunged forward.

Finch looked around in darkness. "What the hell is goan' on up there?" He yelled into the darkness where he thought the hallway was. No answer floated back downstairs in reply.

"Fuck!" He whispered, holding his machete out in front of him, what he thought was the metallic glimmer reflecting off what he guessed was the blade in the darkness. Whoever had barred these windows, Finch thought wildly, had done a friggin' good job! He then heard rushed footsteps upstairs, as if some sort of thing was terrorizing his two companions. "Ridge and Walter! Shit!" Finch said out loud, and bolted, bounding like a rabid dog with a bloodlust towards the stairs.

Walter fumbled in the darkness, dropping his pistol. "Shit! Where'd he go?"

Ridge answered him: "Be buggered if I know!" in a whisper that almost sounded scolding. Walter felt the pistol next to his foot, cautiously and slowly, bent down and gripped it again tightly, before standing back to his steely stance.

Ridge, blind as a bat, turned around, and began hacking the air frantically with his baseball bat. "C'mere', you coward!" Ridge yelled, hacking and slashing blindly in the darkness. "Ridge, you fool! Shut up!" Walter's voice echoed in the silence behind. "Quick! Before-" Something cut Walter off, perhaps the rush of air that ran past him. Whatever it was bowled Ridge over, in a clatter of needles and white pills.

"Fuck!" Ridge squealed. "It's got me, Walter! The bastard's got me! Help me, Walter! Help –" What sounded like a stabbing sound.

"Screw this shit!" Walter cried, the sound of a valiant war general about to meet face to face with the enemy, turning to whatever Ridge and the thing were doing on the floor, and fired wildly. Thunderous bangs rang out again, this time three. Something grabbed Walter also from behind, Walter growled, and a gunshot echoed throughout the battlefield again. But it was not Walter's. The bullet buried itself into Walter's gut, blood flowing down his grubby shirt.

"Fucker!" Walter cried, in that same valiant war general voice, and another two shots rang out, this time his, penetrating his attacker's rib cage. They both fell to ther knees, then collapsed on each other.

Not a sound came from that house, until exactly three o'clock the next morning, when an early runner doing his morning jog ran past, his inquisitive side getting the better of him, entering with his torchlight flashed in front of him that had been strapped to his belt, and found; "this pile of corpses in the one big room up the stairs". The police were called, and they were at the scene within the hour. The runner would be in counseling for the next six months, after being tried in state court for the killings.

Later, about two days after the bodies were discovered, a Superintendent would be told in his office who the men of the slaughter were.

"Sir," The Officer stood to attention at the door of the office.

"Go on, please, take a seat." The superintendent told in a gentle polite tone.

The officer took a seat. "We have ID'd the victims of the crime up in Robertson, Sir."

"Excellent," The Superintendent leaned back in his chair, "tell, tell."

"Well Sir," the Officer began, shuffling his shoes beneath his chair, "the victims were Walter Gran, James Finch, Paul Ridge…and the strange bloke who seemed to own the place, named Doug Yawl. We are still looking for the mass-murderer, and we have two suspects, 'Teddy Bear Ripper', or, the runner that found the mess. But no motives yet, Superintendent, but we're working on it. One's bound to spill the beans sooner or later."

"Excellent. Keep me posted on the updates."

"Will do, Sir." And with that, the Officer forwarded out of the room, leaving the Superintendent to his free lunch break, coffee and a deli sandwich from the shop on the corner.