i hope this short story will be an interesting read. i felt excited when i finished writing it: it took me some five hours to do this story on the spur of the moment. albeit i've taken time to do some editing, it's not so a perfect story stuff; so, i'll really appreciate those who can read the tale and make their views known about my stuff.

happy reading,

here's an excerpt of THE TRIGGER:

“Hey, mister,” he started as he walked slowly toward the scene. The man had torn off the girl’s blouse and camisole. The girl’s feeble resistance could not stop the perverted man from sticking out his nicotine-tainted tongue to lap on the girl’s breasts. He took a suck left and right as he groaned with animalistic passion. Now as he was removing his trousers and boxers at the same time [still working his mouth on the teen’s breasts] Ozi slammed a small metal object, his midget, against the man’s head. He fell backward with his cooked legs tangled in his trousers and moaned curses under his breath. Before he could raise his head to ascertain what had hit him another slam “wham!” struck him. He stood above the man with a bloody plank in his right hand, looking like a cold-blooded killer. His face was expressionless: no anger, no fear; he just stood there as if paralyzed by some violent act.

“Oh thank you sir!” the teen began gratefully as she gathered the remains of her dress. “You saved my life. You saved my body. Thank you. Thank you sir!” she spoke feverishly. Ozi did not hear a thing until the girl, in appreciation, embraced him from behind. He felt the soft touch of the girl’s breasts against his body. He sharply turned around; looking embarrassed, he gently drew the teen away from him.
“It’s Okay. Are you hurt?” he asked the girl.
“Not much, unlike the last time I was attacked,” the girl said looking disheveled. She told him that was not the first time she had been assaulted. Only a reduction surgery, he thought, would put the girl out of her misery,

On the street was a car parked opposite the building harbouring his prey; inside the car was a man. He had an old newspaper in his hand. He was reading, with the aid of a pen-torch, an article with the title, Trigger and the Triumph. Deep furrows appeared on his brow as he read through the article. His lips began quivering violently as he read aloud the last two paragraphs of the article: Our society is nearing the brink of a precipice where each man and son, each mother and daughter will seek justice not at the law court; not from the legislative chamber nor through executive fiat, but we shall one and all seek justice through the pull of a trigger…draw the blood of atonement from the evil heads of corrupt cops guilty of wanton extrajudicial and careless killings.
No matter what appetizes their taste for madness and murders, these corrupt, murderous officers will meet their Waterloo one after the other. I am not a prophet. I do not own a crystal ball nor borrow one to gaze into. But the grass of the fallen innocent victims shall be watered with the blood of these trigger-happy policemen: the hunters and murderers. And after this long darkness, a new dawn; a new system of things; no trigger will be pulled. At that time it will be an honour to approach a cop – a dignified police officer; and not a hunter, a murderer. The conscience and the pen are much more lethal than the gun!

The pen much lethal than the gun. The man thought. He brought out a gun from the pigeon hole and took out a pen from inside his jacket. He placed the two objects on the seat beside the driver’s. He studied those objects with keen interest. A pen? A gun? Which is more lethal? He pondered. He chose the locally made pistol and kissed it tenderly like a sorely missed lover. “Hush baby, you’re not going to shriek so much tonight. Okay?” he told the gun. The potent but lifeless gun said nothing in the vice-grip of his lover and master. He wished he had a better gun, like a Beretta pistol. But the Chief had told him no mistake and no living of any trace. A locally made pistol would do. So this burly man had to improvise with the locally made pistol. He did not really care. To him murder was murder. He could even do it with bare hands. That was why they named him Handy. And with this man violent death always came in handy. He let out a victorious whimper.