Hickory Dickory Dock!

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"Hickory Dickory Dock!" He sunk his cleaver into the table. Its legs trembled but didn't buckle. "The mouse ran up the clock..." He stopped. His nails scratched his hair shy head.

He dipped into his many pockets and clawed out a watch. "Best part of this job is the monumentos I collect. Personal rewards for my hard work." He pulled the watch close to his eyes and gawked it. "Love clocks! I never did learn to tell the time. Mum did try and help me. She used nursery rhymes. She’d sing ‘em every night after her bottle of whiskey. But after Dad hacked out her tongue and sliced off her fingers she didn't want to do much counting or singing." He stuffed the watch into a different pocket. "Now I sing rhymes to help me relax, remind me of the good times. Do you have any requests?"

Silence crawled around the room.

"Oh, of course. Let me help you." He ripped off the tape covering her mouth and almost severed her head in the process. She fought back the screams, but her lips burned like an Englishman eating a Vindaloo.

"Hurry up little one, I don't usually take requests." He peered at her for a moment and then bounded over to a flickering lamp in the corner of the room. He pulled it closer to the girl and beamed it at her face.

"Request?" He said, popping a boil on his neck and rubbing away the flowing puss.

"Let me go… please." Tears wobbled her words.

"Don’t know the tune to that one. How about Humpty Dumpty?" He placed the lamp on the floor and readied his throat.

KNOCK KNOCK.

"Oh who is it now?" He searched his heavily pocketed jacket and found his tape. "Right don't move. I'm a little heavy handed sometimes." He held the tape between both of his hands and knelt down. The girl twisted and turned but her binds held her. He slapped the tape against her lips. "Beautiful." He beamed his tooth starved smile.

KNOCK KNOCK.

"Alright, alright."

He stomped over, mumbling to himself, and yanked the door open. "It’s three knocks. Not two! Three. Oh, it's you. What do you want?"

A man in a black coat stood at the door. His collar was upturned and his head barely rose above it. "You are to kill the girl. She is no longer needed." He pulled an envelop into the air. "Take this. You are to wait here for further instructions."

"I don't kill. I torture, I maim, I break, I starve, I reattach in the wrong place, if the prize is right, but I don't kill. It goes against my code." He beat his chest and it echoed like an empty oil drum.

“If she isn’t dead within the hour, you both die.” The honesty in his words was clear. He waved the envelope in his hand.

The mercenary grabbed and examined it.

"Open it when you are told and wait for further instructions." The man turned around and walked away. As the click of his heels grew quiet, he stopped but didn't turn around. "And make sure you dispose of the body properly. That's Princess Amal you have there, most of time and space are looking for her. Last thing we need is to be traced." He continued walking.

The mercenary grumbled and slammed the door. He threw the envelop across the room onto a pile of clothing.

Turning to the girl, he scratched his head. "I don't do killing! I don't…” His hands moved to his chin. “But it’s me or you."

He wandered over to the cleaver spiking from the table. Like Prince Arthur, minus the grace, he pulled it from its resting place and held it aloft. He turned back to the girl, who fought to shake her shackles. "No use wriggling little one, I've been tying knots since before my first pint. My Dad couldn’t break my knots and he wrestled bulls in his spare time. So there really aint no point trying." He stood over her. "I think I'll sing... oh you'll like this one. Wait, you have a request? That's the spirit." He bent down and peeled the tape from her mouth.

"Please don't do this." She pleaded.

"I must.”

"My father can protect you. Just return me to him. Please."

He waved the cleaver at her throat. "Or I kill you, Mr. Trench Coat is happy, and your father never even knows I exist. That's a cleaner option I think."

"But your code?"

"My code is my code!" Anger heated his words. He waved the cleaver above his head like a fan. His eyes closed as if he was meditating. "My code!" His eyelids flung open.

"Please!" Her screams bounced off the walls. “Please.”

He lifted the cleaver above his head and she shut her eyes. Everything she could control tightened.

...

Death shouldn't feel this painless she thought. Where was the flashback? The shiny white light? The voice of your maker?

She peeled her eyes open. Her hands were free. She turned to the mercenary.

He flashed his tooth scarce smile at her. "My code is my code."

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allthingsm4tt

Writer of things, meme supplier, semi-occasional six string swordist, sporadic cinema goer and smiler.