Arthur and Jack - Adults only - Violence and Language

Sojo

“And just one more slice of brown bread”, said Arthur, completing what can only be described as a work of art in the world of sandwich-making, “and hey presto! A sandwich so fine it would make dying worthwhile were it on offer as a last meal!”
Arthur cut the sandwich, causing some of onions from the middle layer to slip out onto the table.
“Waste not, want not!”, said Arthur packing them back into the sandwich along with all the other ingredients – too many to mention!
Placing the miracle-feast onto a plate, he moved into the sitting room and turned on the television. Ricky Lake was on – Arthur had never liked this show, and now at the age of forty-seven he really didn’t feel he should have to settle for such sub-par television, especially when he was in the presence of such a fine sandwich! He flicked from channel to channel in search of some fine televisual viewing and settled on the mid-day news as his only other option was a children’s cartoon and the voice of the dog character made Arthur’s skin crawl.
“Dogs don’t talk like that!”, he roared at the television, “Dogs don’t talk like that at all!”
Lumpy bumpy bumpy. Lumpy bumpy bumpy. Every word the newscaster spoke sounded like lumpy bumpy bumpy to Arthur and he couldn’t deal with that right now. He picked up one half of the sandwich to take a bite and sent half a severed finger sliding out from between the crusts and falling to the floor.
“Waste not, want not!”, he chimed and fell to floor to devour the finger-flesh.

One sandwich later, Arthur decided it would not be a good idea to stay in the house for much longer. Little Timmy’s absence from school this morning would probably be raising some questions and if anybody should think to call to the house they would find Timmy far too dissected to learn his six times tables today. Not only that but he knew Mrs. Bradley’s screams had been just a little too loud the night before and the fact that Mr. Bradley’s car had not left for work this morning meant that if the neighbour’s kids had been to school lately they might put two and two together and realise something wasn’t quite right.
Taking some scissors Arthur played re-arrange with Mr. and Mrs. Bradley’s faces and swapped their eyeballs to see if anybody would notice. Then carving an “A” into Jame’s, Margaret’s and Timmy’s foreheads with a Philip’s head screwdriver and stopping to watch for a while as blood dribbled down their faces, Arthur exited the house through the back door. A five minute walk and he was home. He drew the curtains, sat down by the fireplace and wondered why he had done all that. No answer came, he didn’t know why, but he knew he’d enjoyed it. He would do it again. Certainly.

Jack O’ Mara was already having a bad morning. His cat had gotten sick in his breakfast cereal, his breakfast cereal had blocked the sink, his sink unblocking was going to cost twice as much as he’d spent in the pub the night before, and the pub wasn’t open tonight because his cat had gotten sick into one of the keg’s and the place was now under inspection. By the time he’d gotten to work he wished he’d crashed along the way. Boring, boring, boring. Someone got punched in a bar, someone threw a brick at a car, someone mistook a prostitute for a masseuse. Never anything exciting. Detective Jack O’ Mara hadn’t had a decent case since that sale on Budweiser in Tescos. Imagine Jack’s surprise when he received a phone call at half three from a distressed sister saying she had found her brother, sister-in-law and nephew lying in pools of each other’s blood.
“Holy cat-sick!”, he exclaimed down the phone, “Three dead you say!? Are you sure you didn’t count wrong!? I mean one would be brilliant, but three!?”
“Of course I didn’t count wrong!!”, screamed Mary Bradley, “They’re all dead!”
“I’ll be there quicker than it took for them to die!”, assured Jack to the distraught women, “Well maybe not the kid, they never last that long once they’ve been stabbed in the heart.”

Jack put the pedal to the floor of his Ford Fiesta.
“Finally we can see what this baby is capable of!”, said Jack as he pushed fourth gear.
The rusted piece of car made its way across Limerick City to Mallow Street to where three neighbours were trying to console a hysterical Mary Bradley.
“Get away from her!”, screamed Jack shooting his gun in the air, “I need her full attention!”
“For God’s sake! Was that really necessary!?”, shouted Steve Mallard, one of the Bradley’s lifelong neighbours.
“Just doing my job!”, said Jack coolly as he punched the eighty-year-old square in the jaw, “Now pick up your teeth and get away from the crime scene. Mary come with me into the house, I’m going to need you to identify the bodies.”
“Just…just give me a minute…”, said Mary too weak to stand up.
“I don’t get paid by the minute, I get paid by results. So come with me now!”, said Jack pulling her to her feet and dragging her inside the house.

The walls of the house were painted in blood or else a very cheap red paint, Jack decided. More than likely it was blood.
“Oh God…!”, Mary exclaiming reliving the moment she had found the bodies.
“God’s no use here Mary. From now on you can think of me as your God and I promise you I’ll put whoever is responsible for this behind the bars of hell.”, said Jack taking a hit of whiskey from his flask. “Now let’s identify these bastards.”
Mary lead Jack up the stairs as her tears mixed with the blood on the steps. She could only point in horror to the bathroom. Jack drew his gun and edged his way carefully to the bathroom door in case the killer might still be inside. He spun around, kicking open the bathroom door and fired off three rounds in quick succession.
“Sorry”, said Jack calling out to Mary, “thought yer brother had come back as a zombie or something.”
Mary walked slowly into the bathroom, trembling, only to find the face of her brother blown open by Jack’s bullets.
“These them?”, asked Jack.
“Y…yes…”, said Mary too stunned and terrified to talk properly, “T…that’s my brother a…a…and his wife and little Timmy…just…just…”
“Right you can leave now Mary. Time for me to inspect the crime scene and look for clues and stuff like that.”, said Jack taking another hit of whiskey.
“Do you think you’ll b… be able to-?”, Mary began asking.
“Just get out and let me do my job!”, roared Jack pointing his gun in Mary’s face.

Mary ran from the house screaming at the top of her voice leaving Detective Jack O’ Mara to begin putting the pieces together. He was dealing with a real sicko here, that was for sure. Why had the killer targeted this one family? Why the “A” carved into their foreheads? And would he strike again before Jack could catch him? Only time would tell!

pwd

funny

Fysh

Nice

There's a couple of sentences that run on a bit long, Douglas-Adams-style, and lose their exact meaning unless you re-read them a couple of times, but other than that, it was good.

Is it wrong that I was laughing all the way through?

Blush_01

Funny. Some felt a little trying-very-hard, but really really enjoyable!

Dave3x

I think this could have done with an extra read through. Only little things, though, like:

"Jack O’ Mara was already having a bad morning. His cat had gotten sick in his breakfast cereal, his breakfast cereal had blocked the sink, his sink unblocking was going to cost twice as much as he’d spent in the pub the night before, and the pub wasn’t open tonight because his cat had gotten sick into one of the keg’s and the place was now under inspection."

It's a bit too long-winded, as Fysh said. But it really doesn't add to the comic effect, as some writers use it for.

But, in general, good idea. The killer's objectivity is a good touch. Unusual style too.

Waltons

Really liked this! Well done