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The
Bigger They Are
©
K J Bennett 2004
Approx
746 words Contains strong language.
The soldiers lined up shoulder to
shoulder, a gaggle of hairy-arsed misfits in a war
between like-minded enemies - like-minded in as much as they both wanted
victory. Across the valley
a voice vibrated the earth. David guessed that the owner of it must have
found an old amplifier, though quite how anything with small parts could
survive the relentless bombing of the past few years was anyone's guess. 'I've had it with this shit,' the voice
yelled. 'Just send one man to fight me. One man, one knife,
one fight. Send me your best. If he wins, you win.' Sounded good to David, but he was only the
hired help - someone to mind the livestock, and run errands;
to hand food parcels to the fighters. ' 'Where d'ya get the pickle?' grunted an infantryman. 'Ask where I got the turkey; that's even
more unlikely.' 'So: where'd ya
get the turkey?' David handed the package over. The soldier
ripped it open, biting into the undercooked dough. His expression changed
from ugly to uglier. 'No turkey and definitely no fuckin'
pickle, arsehole.' 'It is a sandwich, though.' 'Processed shit, same as always. Hey,
what's that grease-mark on your forehead?' David wiped it with the back of his hand.
'It's Sam. He's gone a bit mad. Keeps
hearing voices ... God talks to him, that sort of crap. Apparently God told him to rub cooking oil on my head. Can't get the stuff off. Anyway, what's
with the challenge from over there? Is he serious? One of us beats him, we
win the war?' 'Yeah, he's serious.' 'Why's no one accepted it?' The soldier glowered. 'You ain't seen him.' 'You mean no one has the bottle to go out
there and fight him? Shit, we're all gonna die if we do nothing, what've we got to lose?' 'He's a fuckin'
psycho, that's all. Go and give out the nosh before everyone dies of
starvation.' Five minutes later David stepped up to the
ragged tent that was called the War Office. Good
protocol would be to knock, but in the absence of a solid surface
he coughed loudly and walked in. General Saul looked up from a map that was spread on the low table. 'Whatever crap you've got, put it over
there and get out.' For once, David disobeyed him. He walked
to the table and held out a package. 'It's recycled something or other and
you'll hate it.' 'That's a certainty. Now get out.' He took
the package. 'I want to fight him.' Saul glared at him. 'I don't know what
your name is, young man, but you're four-foot fuck-all on tippie-toe.
You handle livestock and sandwiches: how does that qualify you for combat
duties?' 'No one else will do it, they're too
scared.' 'You haven't seen him.' 'So what's the worst that could happen - I
get killed and can't bring you a shit sandwich tomorrow?' 'Hmmm …' * 'Remember, David: close your eyes and
it'll soon be over. Good luck. Hope he doesn't make
you suffer.' Saul patted his shoulder and pushed him onwards. Armed with a sheath knife, David side-stepped the potholes. After three hundred metres he yelled: 'I've come to
fight you!' The booming voice that replied was definitely not amplified. 'You're dead meat, shorty!' The owner of the voice stood up from behind a
large camouflaged bunker. It had to be large. David's mind flew back thirty minutes to
Sam. So much for anointing me and calling me King.
Daft twat! Out loud he managed to say, 'Wow! You're a big fucker!' * General Saul looked on in amazement as the hysterical cheering grew louder. Sam
stood next to him. 'Told you he was the one, didn't I?' The cheering dissolved into chanting. The
General burped: shit-sandwich tasted no better in reverse. 'A nifty
technique. That guy was at least eight feet tall and
built like a juggernaut. When he shook David by the ankles I thought was all
over, but head-butting him in the cobblers like that
- a masterstroke! And his knife control. Ooch!
Brought tears to my eyes, that did.' 'Yep,' said Sam. 'He's
a winner, all right, General. Had God on his side from the word go. I'd look out for your job, if I were you. He'll go far,
that one.' ___________ FURTHER |
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