by Glen Johnson
LOBSTERS AND LANDMINES
Another Nine Disturbing Short Stories About the Darker Side of Human Nature
By Glen Johnson
www.sinuousmindbooks.com
Published by Sinuous Mind Books
www.sinuousmindbooks.com
Also available as a paperback from Amazon
Copyright © Glen Johnson 2012
Cover image: Shutterstock
Cover design by www.sinuousminddesigns.com
Glen Johnson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without Sinuous Mind Books or Glen Johnson’s prior consent. Except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.
Typeset: Caecilia LT Std/Italic
ASIN: B00AJ6VBU8
Also by Glen Johnson from Sinuous Mind Books
(Available in ebook or paperback from Amazon)
Horror
Lamb Chops and Chainsaws: Nine Disturbing Short Stories About the Darker Side of Human Nature.
The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh.
Apocalyptic/Zombie
The Sixth Extinction: An Apocalyptic Tale of Survival. Part One: Outbreak.
The Sixth Extinction: An Apocalyptic Tale of Survival. Part Two: Ruin.
Fantasy
The Gateway: Close the World Enter the Next. World One of the Seven Worlds.
The Spell of Binding: Part One.
Occult/Supernatural
War of the Gods: Part One – The Devils Tarots.
Children/Young Adult
Parkingdom: You Can Be Small and Still Make a Big Difference.
For my friend –
Matthew D. Chilcott (Chilli)
Contents
1 Lobster Theodore
After a violent outburst, Jim’s life will be forever changed. However, every cloud has a silver lining when the captain discovers the perfect lobster bait.
2 Little Prick
A HIV infected man injects women with his tainted blood. One victim gets the ultimate revenge.
3 Man’s Best Friend
A disfigured ex-army bomb disposal expert has carved out a piece of paradise for himself in Vietnam. He collects women as slaves to live on his farm, and children to be used by his American clients who fly over once a year. Today is the day they arrive, but not everything goes according to plan.
4 Towers of Tears
On September 11th 2001, two friends are forever separated.
5 Fit for the Job
Jenny’s medical checkup clears her for a job as an airhostess for a small Brazilian airline. However, it seems they want just a little more than most employers do.
6 The Last Cake
Grace has won every baking competition she has ever entered. She has just one cake left to make before she hangs up her oven-glove. But what are her secret ingredients?
7 Lockdown
A doomsday prepper has everything he needs to survive any end of day’s scenario. His underground bunker is all prepped and ready. However, in his haste to survive he has made one critical, life-changing mistake.
8 Nosey Parker
A computer firm is raking in hundreds of millions by selling their latest algorithmic computations to cosmetic firms, cutting out the need to test on animals. However, below ground, one section of the vast computer server hosts a disturbing secret.
9 Regrets
A businessman is taking a flight he has flown hundreds of times before. At home, he leaves an unfinished argument with his wife. However, the flight does not go according to plan, and he realizes what the most important things in life really are.
Acknowledgments
Being a writer is a lonely occupation, but there are some people I would like to thank, who helped along the way. My older brother, Gary Johnson who went over the raw manuscript with many read-throughs, editorial help, and suggestions. Also to Keith Brooke and Patricia Douglas for reading through my books and giving honest feedback. In addition, to Kevin Connaire and Christine Shapter for their support. Also Pauline Milner, Steven Mcleod and Nigel Johnson. And Matthew Chilcott, Anthony Pike, Victoria Tamkin, Sarah and Rachel Shapter, Kate Pike, Sarah Kelly, Jamie Kerr, Stacy Folan, Pete and Jo Butchers, and Kimberley and Stacey Driver.
Whereas the locations in this book are a fusion of real and imagined, some of the events and characters are merely a fabrication of my imagination. However, three of the stories are taken from facts, changed slightly, but keeping the details in place. Sometimes the worst nightmares are from real life!
Glen Johnson
“The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”
Albert Einstein
“Man is the cruelest animal.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
Prologue
We live in a cruel world.
Millions die each year from wars and genocide, starvation and disease, murder and sexual abuse; hate crimes and terrorist attacks. The newspapers, magazines and the television are overflowing with bad news. Everywhere you look, there is pain and suffering, anger and hatred, misery and despair.
It is a violent world.
The bad things are no longer happening to someone else, someone from another country, or another religion; they are happening to us and our loved ones, in our cities, towns and villages, in our neighbourhoods and on our doorsteps.
It is an evil world.
This cruel world, in one form or another, touches us all; we are all affected by the wickedness that saturates our species. People capable of acts of unbelievable evil surround us all, and sometimes – when push comes to shove – we are the perpetrator of the evil that touches others.
-1-
Lobster Theodore
Discipline your son, and he will give you rest; he will give delight to your heart. Proverbs 29:17
Four o’clock in the fucking morning. Shit, I need another line of work. And it’s Saturday!
The alarm had not woken Jim Fuller up, because he always seemed to sense just before it went off. Besides, his fiancée, Tracy Dunn would give him shit if he woke her up too early, or her obese ten-year-old son who seemed to run the household with his tantrums and fighting. Fat Theodore, the little shit. Who in this day and age calls their kid Theodore, for fuck’s sake?
Theodore had recently been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. He has always been hyperactive, loud, attention seeking, rude, angry, and disobedient.
ADHD my arse; he is just a rude, obnoxious child who gets away with it purely because they come up with a new, so-called, disorder. Why don’t they just say it as it is, NGSD, Needs a Good Slap Disorder? In my day, there was none of this, don’t-hit-them shit. If a child misbehaved, you smacked them, simple as that. I used to get a good whack; it didn’t do me any harm. I learnt respect that’s for sure.
Jim gave a long sigh, mixed in with a yawn.
Just another ten minutes. What is the point of owning my own business if I can’t sleep in? However, he knew it was just wishful thinking. He may own the boat, but Mr. Kenshaw was his real boss. No one else in the area was interested in buying his lobsters, Mr. Kenshaw practically dictated what he was going to pay, unless he wanted to drive over an hour to the next town, and even then, the prices were not much better.
Bloody EU dictato
rs, shipping too much over from Europe.
America was also having a crisis with an over abundance of lobsters flooding the market. This time last year, he could get three pounds for a pound, now it was down to just one pound thirty-five pence.
The bastards!
Jim Fuller was a fisherman from Clovelly, a beautiful, privately own village in North Devon, England, which has been in the same family since 1738. It is picture perfect, with its cobblestone streets and whitewashed cottages, against a four hundred-foot cliff backdrop.
His father had handed over the prosperous little company to him, just months before his cancer was diagnosed.
All that hard work. All those years, and he didn’t even get to enjoy his retirement. Sixteen-hour days in all weather, bringing the catch home to sell to the highest bidder by the dockside. In those days, people lined up to out bid each other. Now all I have is one greasy haired, pasty dickhead waiting for me to sell to at the wharf.
Jim stretched his legs; they both cracked at the knees from arthritis from too much standing in cold, wet weather.
So here I am, about to start another day, trying to rake in enough money to pay the mortgage and have enough leftover for bills and food. If Fat Theodore didn’t eat so much, things wouldn’t be so bad.
He had to put up with the attitude and arguing from Tracy as well. She always complained she didn’t have money to go out with her friends, or buy new clothes like them.
Clovelly was beautiful, but it didn’t have a nightclub or rowdy pubs, so it was expensive to have to keep traveling to the neighbouring towns and cities.
If she didn’t smoke sixty fags a day, we would be better off. She is like a smokestack, always with one burning away in the corner of her mouth.
She was only twenty-seven, just four years younger than Jim, but her constant smoking made her look ten years older.
He would have dumped her years ago, before her son started getting too big and lazy, and she turned into a chimney, but the business had been going downhill even before she turned up.
The small two-bedroom cottage used to be his fathers, left to him after he passed, and due to his mother passing away eleven years before, after a series of nasty strokes, he was the only other relative inline. However, he had re-mortgaged twice on the property just to keep the fishing business afloat. The bank refused the third request. If it wasn’t for Tracey’s benefit money, and child support from Theodore’s dad, they would be in the red all the time; hence why he kept her around.
Jim rolled over and sat up. His big-callused hands rubbed down his stubbled face. He used the light from a streetlight right outside their bedroom window to peer at his rough hands. For the last six months, Tracey did not allow him to caress her body. She said it was because his hands felt like sandpaper. He thinks she is having an affair.
He looked down at her as she slept. Her hair was a mess, all knotted and straggly. She hadn’t even bothered to wash her makeup off when she had come in blind drunk just after 2 AM. She said she was out with friends, but he knew she only ever went out with two friends. One was away visiting family, and the other phoned just after nine and left a message on the answering machine to say Theodore was missing his mum, and could she go and pick him up; she said she couldn’t drop him off because she had had a couple of glasses of wine while watching TV.
Jim stood up and pulled on his dirty, smelly clothes from the day before, and made his way to the small bathroom. Jesus I need a holiday. He couldn’t remember his last one. Ten years ago? He was not sure. He couldn’t afford not to work, and what little he did make went into boat repairs or bills. He couldn’t remember the last time his bank wasn’t overdrawn.
He went to brush his teeth and noticed Tracy hadn’t bothered to go shopping again.
She probably spent the money on drink.
He wandered down to the kitchen for his morning shot of caffeine. There was just enough in the bottom of two bottles to make one cup of cheap chicory coffee. He peered into the fridge. Half a tin of value range baked beans and only two slices of wafer-thin ham that had gone hard on the edges. There was no milk for his coffee. And for some reason, Tracey’s handbag was on the bottom shelf along with her mobile phone.
Stupid, drunk bitch!
Tracey’s friend must have dropped Theodore home after all because he could hear him snoring. He hadn’t noticed he was even gone when he got home.
He normally finished around six in the evening, and after spending half an hour arguing with Mr. Kenshaw, about prices and the undersized catch, he popped into the Jolly Sailor for a pint. He knew he couldn’t afford it, but he couldn’t face going straight home. Therefore, he sat in the corner of the pub nurturing his pint for an hour before having to face the madness. When he got home, he nuked a ready-meal in the microwave, and ate at the table by himself. He then showered and went straight to bed, while having to listen to Theodore running around, screaming, and swearing at his mother.
Jim knew he was becoming severely depressed, but he just could not see a way out of his situation, so rather than face his fiancée or her obese, hyperactive son; he simply crawled under the sheets and escaped into the oblivion of sleep.
Tracy even gave up complaining about him not being around. He was sure she was fucking someone else.
Good riddance to old trash, he thought.
He went to put some bread in the toaster, but there were only two slices of crust left, and they were both moldy.
Fuck what a life! Where did I go wrong? I never had it this bad when dad was alive. We always had food on the table and money in the bank.
Jim looked at the clock on the microwave. It was almost 4:30 AM, and if he wanted to check all his pots and get back in time for Mr. Kenshaw, he had to be out on the boat by 5 AM.
He noticed the open letter on the kitchen table. He flicked it with his hand. Another letter from the local do-gooders at number thirty-three, opposite, telling him he needed to paint the front of his cottage. Apparently, he was letting the whole street and village down.
Fuck off! Why can’t they mind their own fucking business? Stuck up twats with the trust funds and company shares. That was the only downside with living in such a small village; everyone was in everyone else’s pockets.
He should have left by now, but he just did not seem to be able to get up the strength. He pulled out a chair and dropped down onto it. He sat with his head in his hands. He was tired, hungry and fucked off with life.
“I’m hungry,” said a voice from behind him that echoed his own thoughts. Fat Theodore had heard him moving around and had wandered into the kitchen for something to eat.
Considering he is so hyperactive; running around and smashing the place up, why is he still such a fat fuck?
“Go back to bed. Your mum is still asleep. It’s early,” Jim said through his hands that cupped his face.
The ten-year-old boy just stood in his tight fitting, Doctor Who pajamas, with his arms limp at his sides, stomach protruding, still half-asleep, staring at Jim’s muscular back.
“I’m hungry,” Theodore stated again, after completely ignoring everything Jim had just said. “Make me breakfast!” Jim swore he heard a muffled stamp as Theodore brought his slippered foot down.
“Go to bed, it’s early!” Jim mumbled. He was tired and depressed; he did not need this shit today.
“I want some smooth peanut butter with strawberry and vanilla jam on white toast, and some Honey Nut Loops. Not too much milk, don’t drown them. I don’t like them too soggy.” He gave a loud sniff and wiped the snot down his pajamas sleeve.
“And turn the TV on. I want Thundercats.” Sniff.
“You’re not making my fucking breakfast! Do it now! I am hungry!” His voice sounded offended and had raised a few octaves. The fat little bastard sounded just like his whiny mother.
“I want a larger house! I want a bigger car! I need more makeup! I need more shoes! You need to work harder and longer hours!” Rang through Jim’s head. They are both the
same, thinking money grows on trees!
“It’s early, go to fucking bed you fat little prick!” Jim could hear the boy’s sharp intake of breath.
So he can hear me, Jim thought.
Jim spun around. “Why are you still stood there? Fuck off! Go to bed you fat shit!”
The boy’s eyes were wide and staring. Some dribble ran down Theodore’s triple chins. Then his eyes changed, turning hard and calculating, and his face turned into a sneer.
“I hate you! Mum hates you! Mum says I am gonna get a new, better daddy soon! You’re a loser she says! LOOOOSEEEERRRRR!” The boy was animated, shaking his tubby arms as he shouted loser repeatedly; his whole body wobbled and shook like a huge pink jelly.
In a flash, Jim gripped the chair next to him and swung it in an ark. The wooden seat hit the boy in the face, and like a sack of potatoes, the fat boy dropped to the tiled floor with a slapping sound, and the sound of a long sigh, as the breath left his lungs for the last time.
Jim stood over him; bloody chair still gripped in his large callused hand. He blinked down at the child who did not seem to be breathing.
Realization dawned.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He knelt down and pushed two fingers against Theodore’s rubbery, bloated neck. Nothing!
Jesus Christ! Fuuuuuck!
He stepped over Theodore and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. Tracy was still fast asleep, and most probably would be for hours to come, while sleeping off the booze.
After Jim had made Theodore’s bed, and made it look like he had not been home, he shut all the doors between their bedroom and the kitchen, just so it would give him some kind of warning is she got up.
