Hole Punch by Simmons, Garth (the dot read aloud TXT) 📕

straw chair in his allotment. He sipped from his glass of gin, pomegranate juice and ice. His young companion, Jo, sat on the cushion next to him and she rubbed massage oil through his wiry chest hair. He smiled down at her.

"Marvelous day today isn't it my kitten?" he said.

She looked up at him from her dutiful place and she playfully pulled his chest hair. She let go and watched it ping back to his bronze-oiled skin. She adored him. He had been like a father to her. He didn't want her for any other reason than her bright, young gaze.

The bronze chested man's mobile phone chirped with its song of birds singing Madame Butterfly.

"Hello. Ah! Prime Minister. Yes madam. Still on for four? I'll see you then."

Jo offered him a freshly peeled grape and asked: "Who was that?"

"Well Jo," he said, scratching the back of his neck with a display of snowy armpit hair. "That was the Prime Minister. I may have to give my approval for another air strike."

THE COWBOY

The cowboy walked through the hostile, lava landscape. There was a man here he needed to kill. There he was: running away. The cowboy pulled out his antique gun and blasted the man’s ankle off.

“P-p-please don’t kill me,” said the man as he lay next to a pool of lava.

The cowboy spat a hunk of brown tobacco goop at the man’s face.

“You shouldn’t have gone and started that war boy,” said the cowboy. “You made a lot of people die that day.”

The cowboy shot the man in the head and walked back to his cybotic space horse.

* * *

The cowboy sat in a space bar and downed shots of Xerozine-Z whilst a band of creatures with trumpets for faces played music.

“I’ve got to kill them all!” he shouted to the barman. “All the war criminals! That’s the only way things'll be put right! That'll stop the killing! I've got to kill them all!”

* * *

The cowboy walked through the hostile, Arctic landscape. There was a man here he needed to kill. There he was: running away. The cowboy pulled out his antique gun and blasted the man’s ankle off.

“P-p-please don’t kill me,” said the man as he lay in the thick snow.

The cowboy spat a hunk of brown tobacco goop at the man’s face.

“You shouldn’t have gone and started that war boy,” said the cowboy. “You made a lot of people die that day.”

The cowboy shot the man in the head and walked back to his cybotic space horse.

* * *

“The only way to achieve peace is down the barrel of the gun!” declared the cowboy.

“You are wrong,” said the wheel-faced pacifist leader of the Vadlarian Delegation. “Violence only breeds violence which only breeds more violence.”

The cowboy spat a hunk of brown tobacco goop at the floor then jabbed his finger at the pacifist’s chest.

“No! You are wrong! Not me! Stand up for your beliefs you chickenshit!”

* * *

The cowboy walked through the hostile, jungle landscape. There was a man here he needed to kill. There he was: running away. The cowboy pulled out his antique gun and blasted the man’s ankle off.

“P-p-please don’t kill me,” said the man as he lay in the thick mud.

The cowboy spat a hunk of brown tobacco goop at the man’s face.

“You shouldn’t have gone and started that war boy,” said the cowboy. “You made a lot of people die that day.”

The cowboy shot the man in the head and walked back to his cybotic space horse.

* * *

“Damn you!” shouted the cowboy, banging his fist on a bar room table as he stared at the vidscreen.

“War declared today on the peaceful people of Vadlaria,” said the vidscreen. “Earth Empire War Bricks will level their pacifist civilisation to dust in less than three hours, and the people of Vadlaria will be lobotomised for comedy and humiliation purposes.”

“I warned them!” the cowboy shouted, knocking over the table and spitting out a hunk of tobacco goop. “Peace can only be achieved down the barrel of a gun!”

FLAKE

Newness pervades the air once more. Here comes the New. No more cold humming. Not until it all decays, turns brown and falls and falls in fall.

A flaking death awaits the New.

A falling death.

For now though, they celebrate the New.

Suck it up.

Creamed on the sun.

Here comes the New again.

Happy Summer.

Watch it flake.

BENIDORM

Gaz stood in the queue for the Club Tropicana eighties themed nightclub.

“You can’t come in dressed like that mate,” said the big bouncer.

Gaz was wearing his best track suit and had all his hair cut off.

“C’mon pal,” said Trev, Gaz’s best mate. “Let us in, we’re not no trouble or nothing.”

Trev was dressed even smarter than Gaz.

They eventually went up the road to the next club: Limitations, a nineties themed club. They managed to get in. They stood at the bar. Gaz pulled out a Scottish £10.

Gaz peered at the woman’s face printed on the note. “Who’s this Mary Somerville?”

“Dunno,” said Trev. “She must have done something.”

The barman came over and Gaz bought the drinks as he had the best job. He bought two bottles of Budweiser.

Trev and Gaz went and stood at the side of the dance floor. Some girls were dancing to an old nineties tune by Jumper Cable.

“Some proper talent in here,” said Trev.

“Aye yeah,” said Gaz.

They drank their bottles then Gaz’s ran out. All empty.

“Fuck me,” said Gaz. “I need to get another drink.”

“I know,” said Trev. “They should sell their drinks in cans, cans last longer than bottles.”

“I’m off back to the bar then.”

“Yeah get me one as well. Maybe get two.”

“Aye I will do. Bit expensive like.”

“I know mate. Textbook robbery.”

Gaz went off to the bar and bought four bottles of Budweiser. When he got back to the dancefloor Trev was talking to two women.

“Jammy bugger,” said