The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 9 — Nothing to Lose [Part 3]

Bob lost his family; they were taken from him by a group of thugs, for sheer enjoyment. He’s pissed and is going to make them all pay. Bob fears no reaper, and he sure as hell doesn’t isn’t afraid of any pretentious spoiled little street thugs.

The thugs came at Bob at first one by one, like morons. One came at him swinging a baseball bat wildly. Bob punched him in the throat with all his might, causing the man to drop to the ground instantly. Then they grew a pair and started to come at him in droves. Bob couldn’t help by smile at the overwhelming odds.

They had machetes, hammers, crowbars, baseball bats, cattle prods, and God knows what else. Those with guns were told to hold, that the leader wanted to see the folly of the fool who came to his death.

Bob took a few hits here and there, but always returned the thugs’ offering tenfold. One came at him with a knife, displaying his fancy knife skills.

“You call that a knife?” he said as he unsheathed the dagger of darkness, “Here’s a knife.” The blade glowed red, emanating the hatred and anger that flowed within Bob. All the thugs laughed and came at the man.

Bob hacked and slashed his way, occasionally getting hit, cut, or knocked down to the ground. He’d get back up and the fire burning within fueled his rage. The images of his dead family nearly caused him to lose all control. He couldn’t let that happen.

The thugs’ numbers were starting to dwindle. Those that could still fight tried to get back up and strike at the mad man of slaughtering, however, they were either cut down, or put back in their place; on the ground. The gang leader had, had enough. He gave the motion to have the man annihilated by gunfire.

Bob laughed hysterically before collapsing on the ground. “You think you can hide behind your pathetic weapons and goons? It doesn’t matter if I die here, I will come back, I will find you, and I will kill you. I will make it as slow and painful as possible.”

The leader grinned smugly. “Look at you, old man. You’re done. You brought this on yourself. Now you can join your whore and brats in death.”

Bob coughed. “Thanks, kid. That’s just what I needed,” he said.

Gunfire rained down upon him. Bullets whizzed and ricocheted around. Time slowed down again, much like it did in the bank. He gathered his rage, his vengeance, and rushed for every single one of the gang members.

One by one, he slit the throats, stabbed their evil hearts, drove the blade of vengeance through their wicked skulls. The blood feast fueled the dagger, increasing his speed, his power, his anger. As he got to the last few shooters and the leader, he started to see the red haze and black out. A few bullets had hit him, but it was nothing of substantial concern. He focused on the pain, using it, he rooted himself in reality. He decapitated the shooter to the left of the thugs’ leader, then stabbed the other multiple times in the gut, used them as a shield and shot the rest with their gun. Lastly, he tossed the man over the rail for good measure.

Time restored to the present, active, unwavering. There, Bob stared into the eyes of the gang leader. Cold, lifeless eyes. A doll’s eyes. He smirked. He wondered what his eyes looked like right now.

The leader looked around and saw the carnage that had befallen his gang. “What—what the hell happened!?”

“I told you, I would save you for last and make your death as painful as possible. I aim to keep that promise,” said Bob.

“Look man, c’mon, you can’t be serious!” pleaded the thug leader. “I—I got a wife and kids too, I got a sick mom. I just —“

“JUST WHAT?! I had a wife and kids too…and you took them from me!” Bob roared. He took a step closer to the man before him, “You think I will show you pity? Mercy? No, I have none to offer for someone like you.”

“C’mon man!” the thug pleaded, secretly trying to get his ‘ace’ from his sleeve. He faked a punch at Bob, then pulled his ‘ace,’ shooting the vigilante in the chest. “That’s what you get, bitch!”

Bob tumbled to the ground, bleeding profusely. The man stood over him with the gun pointed square at his face. “Where’s your talk now, bitch? You ain’t nothin’!”

Bob smirked as he coughed up some blood. “I had planned this from the start.”

The thug then got a radiating pain from his ankles as both of his Achilles’ tendons were severed. He cried out in sheer pain. “I will die, yes, but everyone dies. I will go to the dark after you do. However, I will not stay dead. I can’t say for sure if you will.” Bob rolled over and started to slice tendons and do small cuts all over the thug’s body. “If you do, though I suggest you give up your life of crime, disband your gang, help others, spend time with your alleged wife and kids, and help your mother.” He gripped the man’s skull firmly, slicing off his ears, nose, and eyelids. “You never know when you’re going to go. You should make the most of life.” He then cut out the man’s tongue and forced it down his throat.

Bob sat back as the man choked on his blood and tongue. “I could have done worse, not my best work, then again, I was always killing myself, never really others. Still…it’s something to be admired.”

The man gagged and shortly died soon after.

Bob lazily reached his feet and wandered to the rail. He could feel life leaving him once more. A sensation he was familiar with. He heard a howling sound. He couldn’t tell at first if it was the wind or something else.

Red and yellow eyes began to pierce the veil; he knew them well. The wraiths were coming for him again. Perhaps he owed that thug a favor in a sense that he needed to leave this world sooner…but the kids…his wife.

One day, we’ll be together. I hope.

He shed tears for his family, as the wraiths drew near, their arms outstretched, ready to take him.

“Sorry boys, not today,” he said as he willed the knife and dug it deep into his heart.


For Episode 9 — Nothing to Lose [Part 1] Click here.

For Episode 9 — Nothing to Lose [Part 2] Click here.


THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS AN ONGOING WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS ONGOING STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

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