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DISCLAIMER: The X-Men, Gradon Creed and Trish Trilby, who all get a brief mention, belong to Marvel as usual. This story contains low level language and scenes that may disturb some people. Discretion is advised. Feedback is always welcome, unless it's a flame. In this case it will probably be read, considered and deleted. |
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If Your Hand Betrays You...by Acetal |
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"Yes, now you too can experience the power of the amazing Limb Trimmer 2000 for only 49.95 (plus 9.95 P&P). It slices, it dices, it even cuts wood. And for a limited time only the first 50 callers will also receive an inhibitor collar absolutely free! Handy for hunting or just keeping those pests down." the tv blared. Its flickering light illuminated a sofa surrounded by empty beer cans and mouldy pizza. Some of which looked as though it had made a tentative attempt at life but had decided that even its standards were too high to live there. ‘There’ in this case was a trailer that had long since been propped up on bricks and continually looked like it was about to fall down again. On the sofa sat Ed. A beer belly exploding between a pair of jeans that looked as though a family of rats had been the first owners and a t-shirt that once might have been white. He was unemployed and had been so for ten years, ever since some damn mutie had blown up the factory in which he had worked. Damn muties. He’d like to shoot every damn last one of them. He belched, scratched where his unwashed underwear had bunched a little too tight, and paid attention for the first time. "Call now on 1-900-545536 and slash your way to success. All major credit cards accepted." Ed reached for the phone, then cursed. He was broke and hadn’t had a credit card in eight years, ever since the bank had foreclosed on the house and the bitch had divorced him. Then he remembered the purse he’d found in the dumpster while scrounging for food outside Big Al’s. After much searching and a touch of swearing (to help him concentrate) he found it under the sofa. His hands trembling, Ed rang the number on the screen and gave the operator the number of the credit card with the name of T. Trilby embossed on the side. Hanging up with a grunt, he again looked to the tv. "...and in other news, the terrorist group the X-Men made an attempt on the life of presidential candidate Graydon Creed at a Friends Of Humanity rally early this afternoon. This attack is believed to have been an effort to distract attention from a bomb placed under the podium. Fortunately both the attack and the bomb failed. Mr Creed was uninjured and ..." the television exploded. Unnoticed by Ed, as he had become more and more incensed at what those muties had dared to do, his arm had begun to glow deeper and deeper red. Until finally, a bolt of energy shot from his hand and impacted with the screen. The limb trimmer arrived too late. When the police raided the caravan of the ‘alleged’ killer of Trish Trilby, the reporter who had been brutally murdered, they found Ed. He’d stuck his arm down the food waste disposal unit he used to chop up his food into manageable pieces (his wife had got the cutlery in the divorce). The consensus was he’d died from loss of blood. Just another dead mutie. |
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