Toxicity by Andy Remic Page B

wild frontier
for partying nutcases, the rumours were always exaggerated; but always, as
these things were, based on a grain of truth. He’s as big as five men, son, the
bullshitters would bullshit. He can punch through plate steel, and has balls
the size of watermelons!
     
    But... why do they call him The
Dentist?
     
    Only he knows that, son. But one
thing I can tell you is that if you hear that name, you’d better run, ‘cause
your meat is deader ‘n dead meat.
     
    Jonboy had heard the rumours, of
course he had, everybody had, and the stories, and seen the pictures (artist’s
impressions) in papes and newscubes. The scenes of destruction. Of torture and
murder. The wanted posters containing blurry images and colossal reward sums
for information leading to the capture and execution of the killer known as The
Dentist.
     
    Nobody would invoke that name
without having some serious backup, or serious hardware. Jonboy looked
frantically for a gun, but could see none. No stick, no knife, no ‘dusters.
     
    Shit, he realised. This greasy
little pasty-face bastard was taking the piss!
     
    Jonboy let out a snort, partly
fuelled by alcohol, partly fuelled by the realisation that only a skinny little
bastard without real muscle was gripping his belt. A little bastard who
was about to get the kicking of his life.
     
    “You don’t fucking say,” Jonboy snarled, bravado returning on a surfboard of adrenaline and whiskey.
     
    “Yes.” Horace smiled. “Actually,
I do.” His hand came up swiftly, formed a fist, and drove into Jonboy’s mouth
like a pile driver. Fingers opened like grappling hook irons, and Horace gave a
violent twist of the wrist, like he was unscrewing a lightbulb, breaking both
lower and upper jaws with one swift crack, and extracting both gleaming
teeth and yellow jaw from the suddenly gaping cavity of the skull. The bone
trailed ripped tendons on a torrent of torn muscle and gushing blood.
     
    Jonboy gawped for a moment. He
had little option.
     
    Horace surveyed the excised
jawbone in his fist, and slowly analysed each tooth sequentially. He gave a
little smile, as if acknowledging some internal diatribe. He then dropped the
jaw to the ground with a clatter and strode away, watched by Jonboy who slowly
folded to his knees, hands pawing his missing lower face.
     
    Within moments, Horace was lost
in the crowds.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    HORACE
LIVED IN a big white house on a hill. The house overlooked a vast surrounding
countryside, which constituted flowing, waving keeka grasses and red-leaf
woodland. The expansive grounds of the house were marked by a clear boundary, a
high stone wall topped with black iron spikes. The drive was guarded by high
iron gates which could be controlled remotely from the house, and on the stone
pillars there was a marked absence of an intercom. Horace did not welcome
visitors. Horace did not like visitors. Horace did not welcome anybody.
     
    The house, which went by the name
of the Nadir, was a good hundred kilometres from the nearest village,
and nearer two hundred from the nearest city. The only access to the imposing
white-walled residence was up a narrow dirt track guarded on either side by
dangerous lakes and overhanging, sharp-thorned trees. The land surrounding
Horace’s home was not a welcoming place. It was the sort of location chosen by
a dedicated recluse.
     
    The seasons had shifted, an
almost imperceptible slide from autumn to winter. On this cold, crisp morning,
the lawns were peppered with ice crystals and a cold pastel sun hung low
against a sky as broad as infinity.
     
    Horace stepped from the side
entrance, and shivered. Silka, his pet shifta, slunk over to him and wrapped
herself between his legs, much the same way as an affectionate cat would. Her
long tail tickled his calves and he smiled, bending down, picking her up in one
hand. She purred, wide orange eyes watching him as her almost serpentine body
curled around his hand, six legs with their little