Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

A Killer’s Lamented Game

Gunner crashes to the ground, his pistol tumbling from his hand as he grabs his stomach, trying to hold his innards in. A quick, thick sea of red spills from his side and pools on the ground beside him, growing with each beat of his failing heart. A wave of nausea washes over him, and a cascading stream of sweat pours from almost every pore possible. He gasps for breath, squinting as his vision sways in and out, catching momentary glimpses of Quentin, who proudly strides before him, boasting words he cannot make out, as the screaming in his ears and the pounding of his heart drown out any hope of hearing anything else. A stray breath catches in his throat, and as he struggles to let it go and grab another, Quentin stops and looks down at him with morbid curiosity. Then his eyes light up, he smiles, slaps his hands together, and dances over to where Gunner lies.

“Stop the press, who is that man?” Quentin sings as he cups his hands around the side of his mouth, acting as a megaphone. Then he crouches before Gunner, with a wide-eyed grin painted across his face. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else, someone important, but now, as I see you up close, I realise you’re just another victim, in a long list of nobodies,” he cackles, standing up and dancing around the room again like a clown at a birthday party.

“F-F-F-Fuck you, a-arsehat! I-I ain’t gonna p-play into your g-game, s-so you might as well j-j-just get it over with!” Gunner spits through trembling lips as he tries to drag himself towards his discarded firearm.

Quentin’s lips curl, his nose scrunching as his face twists in disgust. He takes a few steps back before driving a running kick into Gunner’s stomach. Gunner cries out in pain, tightening his grip on his stomach. The sickening sound of something slipping from his grasp and hitting the floor brings another wave of nausea, and he vomits, twitching as he seizes momentarily before the dull pain and grey shadows pull him back to consciousness. Quentin is leaning over him again, tightening Gunner’s belt around his waist, holding in his guts with a crudely fashioned tourniquet.

“W-Why?” Gunner stammers. “W-Why not let m-me die?”

Quentin smiles broadly. “Then you would win, and I would have to play with my next contestant!” he boasts, as he holds a photo of Gunner’s wife up beside his face.

“D-D-Don’t you f-f-ucking touch her! D-D-D—” Quentin pulls the belt tighter, and Gunner winces in agony.

“Just remember who is in control, worm! If I want to beat your flavour stick holder to a bloody pulp, I’ll do it, and if I don’t, it’s because I don’t wanna, okay?”

Gunner clenches his teeth and hisses. “P-P-Please,” he stammers.

Quentin pokes out his bottom lip, frowns, and blinks his eyes playfully sarcastic. “I’ll tell you what,” he says as he looks into the far corner of the room and places a finger thoughtfully against his chin, before opening his eyes wide and holding a finger up in the air, proudly declaring an idea had struck him. “I’ll give you a chance to win, and, if you do, not only will you be able to walk—err, crawl free—but your wife will certainly survive. Does that sound like a deal worth making?”

“W-W-What’s the catch?”

Quentin laughs, “There is no catch, so, do we have a deal?” he says, holding out a hand for Gunner to shake. They stay locked like this for some moments, before the smile drops from Quentin’s face, and he puckers up his lips. “I get it, I do, you don’t know whether to trust me or not, but here’s a clue for something you should do—shake and make a chance, refuse my deal, and everyone you love dies too,” he snarls.

Gunner curls his top lip and grips Quentin’s hand. “F-Fuck you!”

Quentin laughs loudly once more. “AND FUCK YOU TOO!” he roars as he strides over to where Gunner’s pistol lies and picks it up. “Now, let’s see if you’re lucky,” he spits as he places the gun’s barrel against his temple and pulls the trigger, taking off half his head. His body drops to the floor, and Gunner stares on in disbelief. Then, after a few moments, he slowly begins to laugh to himself.

“Y-Y-You fucking s-s-stupid son-of-a-bitch,” he scoffs, as he lets himself fall to the ground. He stares up at the lightbulb as it glows brightly, pulsating with each beat of his heart.

“W-W-Wow, w-w-what a r-r-rush!” Quentin slurs as he sits up awkwardly, swaying from side to side while the chunk of missing skull slowly regrows.

“F-F-Fuck,” Gunner mutters, watching as Quentin clumsily gets to his feet and staggers toward him, pistol in hand

“R-R-Right, y-y-your t-t-turn!” Quentin sneers, raising the gun and firing.