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Tarasha || Endless Tears || 7 Days || The Hole In The Wall || Behind Her Veil || Married || Maimed Soul || Belinda 2 || I Fell In Love || M.A.R.Y 2 || There And Back On Time 3 : The Shadow Chase || Is It A Sin || Is It A Sin 2 || Is It A Sin 3 || Isabella : In Love With A Mermaid || Once A Lover || There And Back On Time 3: The Shadow Chase || The President Son And I : 2 || Fierce || Ownets Adventure || Brouhaha in the house of God 7: Retaliation || Apocalypse: The Second Coming || The Heart Of An Assassin || M.A.R.Y 2 || Murica 3: The Forbidden kingdom || Adventure Of Tanaboy || Act Of Faith Season 3 || Isabella Season 2 || All In The Name Of Lovea class= || noopener

A Merry Chrismax (chapter two)

I was surprised that her beauty wasn’t having
the same effect on the moustachio. To hell
with danger! If I were in the man’s
position, I would still bask in the glory of
beholding her beauty. It would be nothing
short of good fortune to have such a paragon
of impeccancy pull the trigger on you if you
suffered a death-wish. But this was good,
anyway; it was good that the man was not
sharing my appreciation of her beauty. If he
was, I would have taken offence. I usually
tend to be overly jealous over things relating to
pulchritude in the opposite human gender; I
would have told the man to cast his eyes off
of her. I would have asked him, rather
rudely, if he realized that I was interested in
her—or that I would soon have her in my
arms at the end of the day. And if he
objected or doubted me, I would strangle him
before the lady shoot him, or kick him in
that tender place in the groin, or simply rain
abuse on him.
But this particular man was not seeing any
perfection or beauty about the lady, he was
actually seeing the opposite—terror. He was
under the shade of the shadow that the house
cast on the floor, yet he was perspiring much
more profusely than I who remained under the
ball of fire. Apart from sweating like a
drummer boy, he was also shivering; a weird
combination, an evidence of approaching
lunacy. I was momentarily worried he might
fall into an epileptic fit if he kept on his
“Please save me from her! Stop standing
there like an excited manhood and do
something!” He raised his pitch a notch.
I wondered what the nitwit wanted me to do
—save him by jumping between the gun and
him? Not a chance in hell. I can afford to
rescue a drowning dog with a helicopter (if I
have one), but I don’t think I would ever
rescue this uncultured man with a bicycle.
The distressed damsel looked at me as if I
were a roach that had just crawled out from
the pit of a latrine. She asked, “What do
you want here?”
If I told her what I really wanted with her, I
was sure she would shoot me with all the
bullets in the gun’s chamber and then knock
down the moustachio with the handle of the
pistol. Instead of being inanely honest to my
own detriment, I asked, “What has the
gentleman done wrong to warrant this
impressive assault?” My mind instantly gave
me the answer before the lady did. The man
had somehow managed to pluck her petal. I
desperately wished that was not the case; I
could not stand the thought of knowing that
this man—this ridiculous earthling-surrogate
—would have tainted this acme of perfection
with his groin. That would be terrible.
But the lady’s answer to my question was
more terrible.
“This man is a murderer,” She said
wrathfully. Hell hath no fury like a pretty
damsel scorned. “He killed my father!”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“What!” Moustachio exclaimed, his
moustache ruffled.
Our collective peals of exclamation were so
raucous that a grazing goat nearby ignored its
food, looked up and stared at us balefully.
“Wow!” I wowed. “That’s serious.”
“What nonsense are you talking about?” The
man ejaculated, still wide-eyed.
“Stop acting like you’re innocent! You’re a
“Of course I’m innocent, I didn’t kill
“Shut your ugly gob, murderer!” the
handsome lady was beginning to lose her
temper. Judging by the way she held the
pistol, I could tell that it was her first time
of holding a gun. This was bad; such kind of
weapon in the hand of a novice was way more
dangerous. She could shoot without intending
to; like her index finger might itch and
accidentally pull the trigger. And with the
weapon being clumsily held by this firearms-
dilettante, no one was really safe among us;
she might intend to shoot the moustachio and
blow off her own foot—or shoot me instead.
There was no way telling the extent of
disaster she could provoke.

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A Merry Chrismax (chapter one)
Updated: October 16, 2016 — 6:15 pm

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