Killing Mr Cornflakes

October 22, 2012 25 By Paul D. Brazill

Mr Cornflakes eased the two plastic carrier bags onto the wet pavement and wiggled his fingers. Squeezed his left arm. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he picked the bags back up and waddled on down the high street.
+++++He’d changed somewhat over the twenty years since Roddy had last seen him. His psoriasis, which had earned him his nick name at the comprehensive school, looked like it was under control but his skinny neck seemed elongated to snapping point now and his eyes were yellow, bulging. He was completely bald, too.
+++++Roddy thought he looked like one of those dinosaurs, a raptor, he thought they were called. He was sure that’s what the kids would call him now, if he was still teaching. Still making kids’ lives a misery.
+++++Roddy drove slowly past him, replaying all the humiliations that he’d endured at Mr Cornflakes’ hands. The times he’d wanted to smash his skull in. Jab a fountain pen in his eye. Thought about how easy it would be to ram his car into him and drive off. Crush those bent legs.
+++++But the old man just looked pathetic now, in his worn suit, with his arthritic hands. And Roddy thought about how much he’d achieved, his expensive cars, homes around the world, and how living well really was the best revenge.
+++++For the most part, anyway, he thought, as he turned the car, sped up and splashed through a puddle, soaking Mr Cornflakes.
+++++Sometimes, it was the little things that made a day.


Asia switched off her laptop and took a sip from the glass of Bombay Sapphire. She didn’t usually drink before her shift at the hospital but her other job, as a video cam worker, was eating into her, making her feel stained. Dirty. The drink seemed to cleanse her, though. At least most of the time.
But tonight’s last caller had been a real creep – obsessed with necrophilia- and had freaked her out more than somewhat. She finished her gin and poured herself another glass.
+++++Earlier in the week, Annie-May, one of the psychiatric nurses at the hospital, high on self-prescribed pharmaceuticals, put the wind up Asia, saying that some of the callers were probably cyber nerds. Brilliant hackers who could track the workers down. This had scared Asia even more than the phone calls.
+++++She put on her coat and was about to walk out of the door of her flat when she heard a screaming sound. She raced over to the window and looked out. An old man was stood on the kerb side. Shouting at a car that was haring down the road. He looked like a real nutter. And then she was sure he started looking up at her flat. She checked the Taser in her handbag.


George Middleton’s foul mood was getting worse by the minute. He was sure that the idiot driver in the expensive car had soaked him on purpose. Typical of the youth of today. Money but no manners.
+++++He put down his shopping and fumbled in his pocket. His fingers were stiff and it was a struggle to pull out his hip flask. It was looking a bit worn now but it had seen him through many a bad day. He’d never have survived all those years at that hell house of a school if he hadn’t been able to have his little nips of brandy. This time he took a deep swig.
+++++The comforting warmth filled him and he took another drink. He looked up at the clouds spreading across the sky like a cancer. He’d really have to get a move on if he was to avoid getting pneumonia.
+++++He picked up his shopping and headed off down the street. But stopped as he started to feel numbness in his left arm again. And then the weight of an elephant on his chest. He rushed and staggered toward the block of flats as he saw a woman in a nurses uniform step out.
He headed towards her, to ask for help but he couldn’t form words. The woman started screaming and pointing at him with something that looked like a sparking, toy ray gun. And then darkness and peace slowly enfolded and smothered Mr Cornflakes until he was dead.

© Paul D. Brazill 2012

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Paul D. Brazill
Paul D. Brazill is the author of Cold London Blues, The Last Laugh, Guns Of Brixton, and Kill Me Quick! He was born in England and lives in Poland. He is an International Thriller Writers Inc member whose writing has been translated into Italian, German and Slovene. He has had writing published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books of Best British Crime. He has even edited a few anthologies, including Exiles: An Outsider Anthology, and True Brit Grit.
Paul D. Brazill

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