In the final convulsions of death, Mr Pink Scarf’s heart was removed. His heart was removed! The beat of death drummed loudly in his house. An insane justice had been done.
Read more extracts from Blood Relationships:
A Song in a Storm: It was nearly three in the morning. The floor was of marble quality. The polished tiled surface inversely reflected Tom’s body as he lay like a discarded puppet in the corner of the cell...
Auld Lang Syne: The trouble with memories they can be like a swarm of mosquitoes sometimes, attacking you from all sides, until one gets you, and you feel the pain, too late to catch the one that got away...
The Wray Inn: How quaint everything was back then. The boats nestled on the opposite bank were tied together, like horses waiting for their cowboys to have one more shot of whiskey in the saloon. By the look of the paintwork, some of the cowboys had stayed inside for too long...
Historical Documents: Many readers will be well aware that September 1, 1939 marked the day when Germany invaded Poland in a brief alliance with the Soviet Union. One fact, not so many readers may realise was that on this day, Hitler secretly authorised the extension of the euthanasia programme to adults, one which had been successfully run and had been disposing of disabled children since the mid 1930s.
See also: Verifiable Events and Facts.
Written on the occasion of the
Peterloo Massacre, Manchester
And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw -
'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!
Wednesday, July 4, 2012 – Friars Mead, Tower Hamlets, London
The itch in the killer’s mind had become insane. He could not resist it. He did not, in the end, want to. He scratched at the scab and felt the venom rush like a Japanese commuter train up through his brain and into the sinews of his body. The rush was raw and visceral.
The venom had been on a slow release burn, hidden, a serpent waiting to spit, to urge him, to drive him, to force him to kill. And he did. And the first killing felt so good, so right. God’s justice.
The power he felt over the final moments of death was an intoxicating drug when the last fragments of life convulsed as his victim fought back with one last surge to survive, until the grip of death twisted the final juices of life out of its prey. The man’s tongue turned blue, then black. Froth, spittle and then blood oozed out of his mouth. The dark brown hairs across the murderer’s forearms formed an ebony river coursing over his tattoos. Try as they might, the hairs were unable to cover the images.
On his left forearm, the words, ‘I am God and King and Law’ encircled a scale of justice icon. On his right, in blood red ink the following words had been scored, ‘The Mask of Anarchy’. Underneath, a gruesome smiling face of death was wrapped in the grip of a hissing serpent.
Psychological Thriller, Historical and Contemporary
Nazi human experiments stopped at the end of World War II. History tells it differently. In 1974, life began in the Petri Dish. The first opened their eyes. London, July 4 2012. Two killers show no mercy. So, begins the discovery of one of history's darkest secrets. From the evil of Nazi Germany to the fear stalking England’s capital, from a breathtaking race across Southern and Eastern Europe and from the wickedness of humanity to its purest expression, Claire Yohanus faces the darkest of fears and the biggest challenges of her life and that of the whole world.
Beautifully written, meticulously researched. A chilling, contemporary artistic thriller, full of fascinating historical insights. A truly terrifying yet moving account of what the future might hold. The author mixes science with the arts effortlessly, to brilliant effect - not easy to achieve. A must for those who continue to believe in humanity, in this crazy world, and are able to think for themselves. Definitely recommended.
Death had beaten its drum in the early hours of the morning. Beat the life out of the man who wore a pink scarf to highlight his face, but in reality was worn to hide the wrinkles of age around his neck. The scarf had been a gift from his lover. A lover he had no more. There was no one to miss him. The unfortunate, as he was now, had been walking alone along Manchester Road. He had been in the wrong place, and in the murderer’s eyes, he was in the wrong game. That was his sentence, deliverance to the Almighty sooner than his victim would have wished.
In the pub’s crowded gay scene, he had seen the coarse and muscular man in fleeting glimpses across the several bars inside. Once or twice they had caught each other’s eye. His build had made him acutely conscious of needing to be wanted again. And when finally he had drunk enough courage to broach a dance, the man had dematerialised and was gone; forlorn, Mr 'Pink Scarf' had left and cut back home.
As he mused on the night’s events, a car pulled up alongside of him, the lights were turned off and there smiling was Eros born. His strong tattooed arm rested on the open window of the car. Beckoning him into the passenger seat, they drove off and back to Mr Pink Scarf’s house. A night of pulsating passion awaited them both.
On the back seat the car owner’s black dog rested his head on its paw. Mr Pink Scarf reached over and patted him. The dog wagged his tail. He liked Mr Pink Scarf.
Inside Mr Pink Scarf’s home, his cat watched as the couple entered the hallway and made their way into the living room. Lust and swelling turned to fear and froth, as the strong, powerful man tightened not loosened his scarf. He was forced to the floor. He wanted to scream. He wanted so desperately to shout. His eyes bulged. His tongue lolled. A knife slit quickly across his throat.
The only sounds he could make, none could hear, other than his murderer. In the final convulsions of death, Mr Pink Scarf’s heart was removed. His heart was removed! The beat of death drummed loudly in his house. An insane justice had been done.
In the bathroom the judge washed away his victim’s blood. He enjoyed the warmth of the shower as the water trickled down his forearms and face in rivulets. The scum of death diluted, disappeared down the drain.
On the way home, the judge’s dog enjoyed a new form of meat in the early hours of the morning. One he would take a liking for. His master hadn't forgotten him; it was a dog's life after all.
Copyright 2017 Philip A Oldfield - Author of cross genre psychological thrillers and romantic comedies, all with strong female protagonists
Exeter, Devon, England. All rights reserved.