The Bloodhound: An Anti-Hero Short Story.

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Is it weird that I dream about a psychopathic ex-Navy Seal, Green Beret, Dexter-esque type of character… A tiny bit tweaked in the head from being in the throes of an unjust war, unable to shake off the horrors, but secretly still longing for the screams, the blood and torment of it all. Battling to find his place within civilian society, fighting his urges to create his own personal war and start killing again… Until a kind-hearted, yet also knows that sometimes there are necessary evils in the world, tech-billionaire steps in to give his thirst-for-blood-addled brain some much needed guidance and direction.

A German pointer type fellow, using his massive fortune to triangulate and fund missions of paramount importance and utmost humanity…

The first port of call for my/our anti-hero, The Bloodhound (I think this name fits best), he’s parachuted into deep China: Mission Fuck the Fur Fuckers on the Fucking Fur Farms. He gets in there stealthier than your girlfriend going through your text messages when you’re not looking, they stood no chance, all they saw was a glimmer and the next thing they know is they’ve woken up strung up by their feet. Slowly their minds trying to come to terms with the fact that all of them, each and every single one is strung up by their feet, nobody escaped, nobody will come to their aid, the horror seeping in, one by one on a long clothing line of all the dirty washing in this world, their naked bodies blowing in the wind… The Bloodhound has come to clean up and feed his thirsty beast within, his twisted passenger clawing to the surface to be seen. His inner Shylock, acting as Judge and Prosecutor, in his self-styled Kangaroo Court, demanding their penance be of equal weight to their inhumane crimes. A glaze comes over his eyes like a storm rolling in over the ocean, dark, rumbling, angry…

“Right you disgusting vermin, you’ve been charged with the indignant and inhumane slaughter of these precious creatures of the jungle and the sentence is eye for and eye,” bursting out an unrelenting wicked laughter “muuuuuhahahaHAHAhaaaaHAA!!” He starts with the first one, cutting the skin near the ankle and yanking it free, tearing it from the limbs while whistling: “I’ve Been Working On The Railway All The Live Long Day,” as he peels them like grapes. Squeezing their heads between his knees to steady the body for harvest on those who are hampering his work on a clean cut, “stay still, I don’t want to mess up the look of my garments for fuck sakes,” their blood curdling screams are heard for miles, the birds and animals of the surrounding forest squawking, howling and barking in response. But there is nobody coming to help, nobody to stem the tidal wave of pain raining down upon their limp bodies, wriggling in vain to get free, vomiting, pissing and shitting themselves as they wait for their turn… Knowing their impending doom, knowing there is only one outcome… Feeble attempts for mercy, begging, crying only being met with a swift boot to the temple, followed by, “will you shut up, I’m trying to work here, have to meet quota by days end.”

Once The Bloodhound finally peeled the skin off over these ’animals’ heads like he’s removing socks from their wriggling bodies, their naked bloodied carcasses are thrown into a pit with their brethren who have met their demise before them. Some are still breathing, choking on their last few pathetic attempts at living, blinking maniacally. Their central nervous system is trying to comprehend and make sense of what has happened, it’s no use, the adrenalin in their bodies has run out, they’re in shut down, the computer says no. Some of their hearts are still beating after ten minutes, which brings The Bloodhound great joy, that they have battled this long to bear full witness to the outcome of their crimes… When the last of the bodies has been harvested and tossed into the pit, The Bloodhound takes his seat, The Hulk returning to Bruce Banner, starts stitching bedding and floor sheets for Fox Dens and Rabbit Warrens…The birds coming in to peck at the leftovers and the warnings left behind for the next Fur Farm that decides to spring forth. What a gloriously productive day, The Bloodhound his thirst quenched, his heart full, skips off into the sunset onto his next quest for nature.

*Camera pans over the dark African continent, zooms in on The Bloodhound* he’s running, on the chase, tossing brushes and thorny branches aside like flies… He’s in pursuit, he can smell their fear, the noises of cracking twigs and the rustling of the leaves on the forest floor bed guiding him on his quest, his thirst is back, he’s almost upon them, he can feel it in his bones, the hairs on the back of his neck erect at the thought of what treats lie ahead… Africa: Mission Fuck the Fucking Rhino Poachers in their Fucking Poes. Armed with a ninja star, a couple throwing knives, a taser and a grapefruit spoon (because he’s cool like that) aiming to stun, not to kill, he’s found them.

There’s a “whiirrrrrrr,” in the air, followed by another and another, then “Crack!” “Boom!” “Bang!” The stealth night insurgents navigating their way through the air daggering their intended targets… The ninja star inserts itself in the neck of one, he’s down, disarmed, useless. The throwing knives, like two terrible twins slicing through the silence of night air skewering their targets, one in the back puncturing a lung, the other in between the rotator cuff, they’re down… The one poacher tries to use his free arm in a last gasp quick draw on his pursuer, but it’s too late, The Bloodhound, like a panther in the night has already stuck the taser into his armpit, the electricity coursing through his body, as he lies convulsing on the ground. The chase is over, they stood no chance. Let the harvest begin.

He tie-down roped them, formerly known as calf roping, the classic old west ranch chore, casually checking out his watch to see the time it took complete, “damn it, a few seconds off, the next batch will be better,” he muses. Time to get to work. With one strategically placed boot on the tied wrists, a knee on the chest and using the palm of his one hand placed on the forehead of the first poacher, forcefully pushing the head backwards, firming it up against the ground, to avoid any interference with the duty to follow. The Bloodhound then takes the grapefruit spoon out from his pocket, the eyes of the poacher wide open, the endorphins of fear kicking in, in fear of what comes next…FYI: A grapefruit spoon is a utensil usually similar in design to a teaspoon that tapers to a sharp edge or teeth, the intent of the front serration being to separate the flesh of a grapefruit from its rind. The Bloodhound then starts hacking away at the poacher with the spoon, trying to separate the nose cartilage from the face, trying to uproot it entirely, to keep its shape, humming “Shosholoza…Wen’ uyabaleka Kulezo ntaba,” while he works his artistic talents. The gargled noises emanating from the poachers mouth, as the blood makes its way to his lungs while he tries to breathe through what’s left of his nose only makes The Bloodhound laugh, it amuses him immensely, “Hahaha what are you doing you muppet? You have no nose, stop doing that, you’re making me laugh and I’m trying to work here, ne?!?” Their muffled screams only bring in the animals of the night, inquisitive to see what may be left for them to finish.

Once The Bloodhound finished his art class on the three poachers, he lay them next to one another admiring his handy work, beating his chest and howling at the sky. He then lay in between the two, one on one side and two on the other, whipped out his selfie-stick and took a memorable photo to post on Facebook, captioning it with: “Hahaha I just defeated three Voldermorts with my bare hands, will the real Harry Potter please stand up?!?” With a disclaimer saying: no animals were hurt making this photo, baaahahahaha, get it?!? He then posted the three poacher noses off to a Zoo in China with a note reading:

Dear Zoologists,

I have enclosed three poacher noses, I heard somewhere when you grind them up and sprinkle the remains over Panda penises they work as a great aphrodisiac, a Panda Viagra if you will 🙂 Try it… If it doesn’t work, fuck, sorry, I tried.

Loves,

The Bloodhound

xxx

*long sigh* If only there were super heroes like this in the world and not only living in my head, instead of the pigs we’re left with (no offense to pigs)

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