Daily Writing #1: Raged Illusions

Sweet!  The kickoff to my daily writing series has arrived.  I realize some of these will suck, but writing through the block is the best way to write better.  Enjoy!

The baseball bat caved in his skull.

“That’ll do it,” Vincent said.  “How many more do we have today, Jimmy?”

Tossing a handkerchief to Vincent, Jimmy rose from his chair and joined him in the center of the room, patting him on the back, “As many as it takes, Vince.  As many as it takes.”

Vincent used the handkerchief to wipe the blood off of his hands, and then stuffed it into his back pocket.  “I will need this more than you will then.”

Two men entered the room and pulled the body away by the tarp underneath it.  Once they had left the room, one of the men returned with a clean tarp and laid it on the area where the other had just been.

“Thank you, Mike,” Vincent said with a salute.  “Tell Jimmy he can send in the next one.”

Mike replied with a simple nod and exited the room.  Vincent placed a cigarette between his lips and patted down his clothes.  “Where the hell did I put those matches?”  Unable to find them, Vincent walked to the water heater in the corner of the room and placed the cigarette into the flame beneath it.  Satisfied, Vincent inhaled the toxic smoke and exhaled relieved.

The door slammed open and a man, escorted by Tommy and Jimmy, was pushed through.  He tripped over the intentionally placed footstool and fell to the ground face first.  When Jimmy grabbed the back of the bag around his head and lifted him up from the floor, a small, fresh pool of blood remained.

“Aww, Jimmy, don’t break my new toy just yet,” Vincent said.  “Just put him over there for now.”

Jimmy sat the man in the chair and tied his arms and legs to it.  He returned to his seat along the back wall, lit up a cigarette, and kicked his feet up on a stool.

“Are those my damn matches?” Vincent asked.


Vincent gave him a menacing look and waved him off.  The man sitting in the chair wore an expensive suit.  It was ripped and dirty of course from Tommy and Jimmie’s pick up job, but it still radiated elegance.

“You aren’t like the others I questioned today,” Vincent said, “you have some style.  And by the looks of it, money.  What is your name?”

The man did not answer.  He sat in the chair slumped over.

“Aren’t you scared?  By now, the others had pissed or shit themselves.  Their breathing was heavy and rapid.  Why are you so calm?”

The man still did not move or speak.

“No, no.  I am wrong.  They pissed and shit themselves when I did this.”

Vincent picked the bat off of the ground and tapped the wall with it.  The sound was unmistakable.  Vincent looked at the man, but he had not changed.  No piss, no shit, no anything.

“Well, you are a special one aren’t you?  Where did you pick this one up, Jimmy?”

Jimmy looked up from his cell phone and said, “I don’t remember. There’s too many of them to remember.”  Looking back at his cellphone he once again zoned out.

“I’ll ask you again.  What is your name?”

When the man still defied him, Vincent swung his bat into the side of his head, knocking him to the floor.  Vincent walked around the chair yelling and screaming.

“What is your fucking name!”

Another swing of the bat into the back this time.

“What is your name!  What is your name!  What is your name!”

Two more swings to the back, and one to the ribcage.  Vincent retreated to the center of the room.

“You are one stubborn son of a bitch.  I’ll give you that.”

Lighting up another cigarette, Vincent pushed his hair back and wiped a thin mist of blood from his forehead.

“Since you refuse to give me your name, I will go for the direct approach.  I assume you know who I am because, let’s be honest, no other man in this city is powerful enough to abduct as many people as I did and get away with it.  Now onto the big question, do you know who took or where my son is?”

The man stayed silent and still.

“Very well then.  I shall continue.”

Vincent slammed the bat into his head again, and again, and again. When the man’s leg finally stop twitching, Vincent removed the bag covering his head.  He fell to his knees still clutching the bat.  Droplets of tears began to well up.  His lower lip began to quiver.  When he turned to face Jimmy, he was gone.  The sadness turned to rage.  He looked back at the broken body and placed a hand behind his deformed head.

“My son…”

Author: My Life Sentenced

I am a 28-year-old aspiring screenwriter. I am tired of the "safe" job bullshit ​and am well on my way to dreams.

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