Donkey by Paul D. Brazill

The decision, once Duncan had made it, became like a gate creaking in the wind or a leaky tap dripping and keeping him awake at night until, eventually, thought congealed into action. He stormed down York Road, his raincoat flapping in the wind, oblivious to the puking, mewling drunks in his wake.

The night was as cold as a shop soiled spinster. Duncan’s glasses steamed up as soon as he pushed his way into the sweltering kebab shop, the smell almost suffocating.

"Alright, Donkey,"said Charlie, pushing his thick horn rimmed glasses back up his greasy nose. Duncan reached under his coat and pulled out a sawn of shotgun that immediately exploded, as did most of Charlies’s face.

The customers scattered like frightened birds apart from an old man who stood frozen to the spot a, dew drop dangling from his nose.

"Why?" he asked. "Why?"

"He aw, he aw, he aw – he always c-c- calls me f –f- fuckin’ d- d- donkey," said Duncan as the sound of the police sirens grew into a scream.

Bio: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp, and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/