Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

A Cold Cup of Coffee

He sits there, staring into the now cold cup of coffee, lost in a million different thoughts all at once. So lost, in fact, that he doesn’t notice the man entering the café until he’s standing right in front of him.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” the man says. Detective Inspector Frank Clifford looks up from the cup; his face relaxes, and his eyes tighten.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

“In a roundabout way, although I know more about you than you do about me,” the man says with a grin.

“I’m not following. Who are you again?”

“Kevin Stafford,” he says as he holds out his hand.

“Stafford? You mean, the same piece of slime from the papers?”

“The very same. I was—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Frank is on his feet with his hands around Kevin’s throat. He slams him violently up against the café wall and drives a punch into his stomach. The girl behind the counter stops in her tracks and stares in shock, as do the three customers in the café.

“What the fuck are you playing at, you piece of shit? You write all that drivel about me in your little fucking column, run me into the ground, and now, you have the gall to show up here and what? Expect me to fucking answer your fucking questions?” he says as he shakes Stafford vigorously, slamming him against the wall several times.

“T-T-That’s no-not why I-I’m here,” Stafford stammers.

“Well then, whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested,” he says as he throws Stafford to the floor. “Now, fuck off before I give you what you really deserve, you little shit.”

“T-T-Two minutes, that’s all I want,” Stafford says as he slowly gets to his feet. “P-P-Please, two minutes and I’m gone, you have my word.”

“You want two minutes? Well, here’s your two minutes,” Frank says as he grabs his crotch and squeezes. “Now, fuck off.”

“I know who the Skinner is,” Stafford says quickly.

“Bullshit! Why come to me with this, when you could publish it in your piece of shit paper? Aren’t you all about sales and shit?”

“Because he knows I know. I’m afraid, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

“Why the fuck should I care? You called me, and I’m quoting your words here, ‘an ineffective tool in the shed that should be thrown in the bin and replaced with a newer model, with sharper blades and all its bits and pieces in working order.’ Those were your words, dipshit, so tell me again, why should I help you?”

“Look, I’m under the pump, just like you, and my editor wants over-the-top news. He wants to sell papers, just like you pointed out, and I want a job, so I fluff shit up for the readers,” Stafford says. “But you need to know this, you need to stop him. Only you can do it. So come on, how long has he been out there now? Eight months? And what, seventy victims have found themselves beneath his blade? I can help you. I can give you everything, and you can stop it all.”

“There are ten other guys on the force who are just as good, if not better, than me. Fuck, if I’m honest—really honest—I’d agree with your column. I’m old, done. I can’t stop this prick; he’s just too many steps ahead.”

“Then fucking let me talk instead of wasting time.”

“Two minutes is all you get. After that, you leave me the fuck alone to finish my coffee in peace, okay?”

“Deal,” Stafford says as they both sit back down at the table. Stafford pulls a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, places it on the table, and slides it over to Frank. “Everything you want to know is on that piece of paper: the name of your killer, why he’s doing it, and when he’ll strike next.”

“Bullshit,” Frank says as he grabs the paper. Stafford places his hand on Frank’s, holding the paper down.

“Once you read it, once you know, you can’t go back. Do you understand?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank says as he wrestles his hand free and opens the folded piece of paper. He flips it over and then flips it again. “Is this some kind of joke?” Frank says as he looks up from the blank piece of paper into the empty chair across from him.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he says as he slams a fist down onto the table. His cup jumps up from the table, crashing back down onto the saucer, spilling half its contents. “Now look what you made me do. Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT!” he yells. Silence follows as he takes another sip of his cold cup of coffee. The blood covering his hands has dried, and the scratch marks running down his face have started to heal, while the bodies of his victims lie scattered around the small café, growing colder. The sounds of sirens scream from outside as the walls begin to close in on the Skinner and his final victims. But he just sits there, lost in a million different thoughts all at once, lost within his own mind.