Yellow Mama E zine

Tipping Point

 

by Mark Humphries

 

      1

          The burger box was the tipping point. 

          Rubbish, and the pensioner’s stifled rage, had been massing for months. Then one morning, during his daily walk around the village, Reginald Blackthorn had halted at a greasy polystyrene container. It was fluttering in the hedgerow like a fractured pigeon wing.

           A half-munched burger and torn sauce sachets had joined the beer cans, roach ends and Pringle tubes beneath.

            Tyre marks gouged the littered verge.

           Blackthorn had stood in silence and stared at the once-beautiful hedge. After a full minute of rocking on his heels, grinding his yellowed teeth and clenching his arthritic knuckles, the retiree had whispered, “Enough’s enough.”

            He hurried back to his cottage oblivious to his knees’ protests. The old man had a plan.

       2

             Reginald sat at the village library computer, scanned the items on the website and read their effects. He muttered, “Excellent.” 

             And clicked on ‘Add to Basket’.

       3

             The alarm made the retiree jerk awake in his armchair. It was midnight.

             Reginald rose to his feet, grimaced as his back cracked, and prepared a strong coffee. Then he opened Moira’s old shopping trolley and inspected the contents. 

            Everything was there.

             He pulled on a long-sleeved thermal vest and long johns. The top stretched tight over his paunch. Both were black. Then he put on his brown woolly jumper, corduroys, and blue fleece. He stuffed a black balaclava into the pocket, squeezed into his wellies, and wheeled the trolley to the back door.

           There, he hesitated beside his dead wife’s picture.

           He leaned forward and kissed Moira’s beaming face.

           “This feels right, love.” He added, “It can’t go on.”

           Then he opened the door and trundled out into the starlit night.

     4

          Reginald Blackthorn eased the creaking gate shut and crouched in the sodden field. The lane was on the other side of the crap-cluttered hedgerow.

          His heart was thumping, and he felt woozy. He wondered if he was about to collapse in the wet grass. He counted to ten and allowed the panic to subside.

           Shrugging off his outer layer, he pulled on the balaclava.

           Then he reached inside the trolley and retrieved a flask of hot tea.

           Dressed in black, the pensioner squatted in the field, warmed his insides, and readied himself.

           It wasn’t long before he heard the bass, saw the headlights flicker through the foliage, and heard the tyres crunch to a halt over the litter.

           His trembling hand reached inside the trolley.

     5

          Dezza sat in the driver’s seat and grunted as smoke poured from his mouth and nostrils.

          He said, “Faaaak, that’s a tasty, little jay my friend….” He passed the joint to Jacko. The reefer flared in the other teenager’s eager fingers.

          Jacko replied, “Niiiice, man. Nice.” And turned the volume up on his phone. Hip hop rattled through the steamed-up interior. The passenger took another drag as he watched his mate pop the top off a Pringle tube and toss it outside.

           Dezza was about to crank the window closed when the plastic lid came spinning back inside and bounced off the gear stick.

            The two red-eyed boys peered down at the projectile.

Jacko breathed, “What the fuck?”

            At that point, a balaclava-ed head materialised in the opening.

            The figure said, “I believe that belonged to you.”

            Both teenagers flinched.

            The man was holding an aerosol can. 

           Jacko swallowed. Dezza gawped.

            The stranger added, “And this is an important lesson.”

            Blood rushing in his ears, Reginald Blackthorn aimed.

            And fired.

     6

          The boy in the driver’s seat screamed as his eyeballs raged and streamed. He bent over and vomited into his lap. His back contorted and shook.

          Blackthorn froze and watched. The other teenager didn’t move either. They peered at Dezza as he coughed and wheezed. He sobbed, “I can’t see…I can’t fucking see!”

          Reginald tilted the pepper spray towards the light and squinted at the small font on the can. He read aloud, “Causes immediate eye closure…And temporary blindness.”

          The friend still hadn’t reacted. He was trembling and staring at the stooping figure in the window.

          Satisfied, Reginald shrugged, pointed the nozzle at the second teenager’s bloodshot eyes.

          And pressed the trigger.

    7

          Dezza and Jacko spat and vomited onto the rubbish on the grass verge. They were on their hands and knees. Reginald prodded the first teen with his bread knife and giggled as the boy squealed. The old man had told the blinded boys it was his bayonet.

         He noticed something dangling from Dezza’s trousers and realized it was a used condom. It swung in sync with the boy’s heaves. 

          Reg frowned, reached inside his trolley, and retrieved the bin liners. He grabbed Dezza’s wrist and shoved one into his fist.

          The adolescent recoiled and dropped the bag. “What is it?!” He still couldn’t open his eyes. Jacko was crying beside him.

           Blackthorn sighed and replied, “Clean up time.” He glanced over his shoulder. The lane was clear. He added, “Come on now. Chop chop. I haven’t got all night.”

           Dezza squinted up at the blurred shadow. A rabbit with myxomatosis. He groaned. “Fucking psycho.”

           The retiree threw a second bin liner to the other boy. He had stopped sobbing and was shivering in his snot-stained t-shirt. Black clouds smudged the adolescent’s vision.

           Reginald shook the pepper spray. Dezza heard the contents shuffle. And scrabbled for the bin bag.

           His friend followed suit.

    8

          The birds were beginning to sing as Reginald Blackthorn kicked off his wellies and stood at his wife’s picture. His body craved bed. He leaned forward, kissed her photo, and whispered, “Night, love.”

          Yawning, he rested one wrinkled hand on the trolley and smiled. 

          He hadn’t had that much fun since before Moira passed away.

          …. And he still had half a can of pepper spray.

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      Mark Humphries works as an English teacher for refugees and asylum seekers but is happiest when writing. His stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including Tales from the Moonlit Path, Stygian Lepus Magazine, Schlock!, and Dragon Soul Press’s A Winter Kiss. Links to all his fiction can be found on his Facebook page. His debut novel, Performance, is also due for publication, with Nightmare Press. He lives with his wife in Leeds, England.

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       Hillary Lyon is an illustrator for horror/sci-fi and pulp fiction websites and magazines. She is also founder and senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. An SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet, her poems have appeared in journals such as Eternal Haunted Summer, Jellyfish Whispers, Scfifaikuest, Illya’s Honey, and Red River Review, as well as numerous anthologies. Her short stories have appeared recently in Night to Dawn, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Sirens Call, and Tales from the Moonlit Path, among others, as well as in numerous horror anthologies such as Night in New Orleans: Bizarre Beats from the Big Easy, Thuggish Itch: Viva Las Vegas, and White Noise & Ouija Boards. She appeared, briefly, as the uncredited "all-American Mom with baby" in Purple Cactus Media’s 2007 Arizona indie-film, "Vote for Zombie." Having lived in France, Brazil, Canada, and several states in the US, she now resides in southern Arizona.  https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/