Dinner at Vickery's

The pain kept of coming, sharply and randomly, and Padstowe groaned as he lay on the floor; his head throbbing, blind, his ears filled with the sound of rushing water, a voice mocking him - the words indistinguishable, the tone unfamiliar... Then a sharp, sharp, terrible pain as something pressed hard down into his injured shoulder, screwing into the wound and he near screamed as the agonies wracked his already bruised and beaten frame. There was nothing but pain; excruciating pain as he fell back into black oblivion.

Hakeswill cackled again.

"That's right... hurts does it?" He stomped his foot down on the captain's shoulder again, screwing his heel into the joint and feeling the satisfying crack of a bone breaking. "What you bleedin' deserve, you little bastard! Thought you could get one over old Obadiah, did you? Well think again, 'cause there's no one what gets one over Obadiah! No one!"

He was unconsciously raising his voice, almost screaming his scorn, but here was no one to hear the captain's cries of the sergeant's indignation.

"They all try to, some of 'em tries to kill me, they do, but they can't, see? They can't 'cause I cannot die! They tired to hang me, string me up like a goose, but I was saved, saved by and angel - and now I cannot die!"

He gave another manic cackle, his face twitching and shuddering in its strange spasms, and gave his victim a final in the ribs. When he heard no answering moan he glanced down to see that Padstowe was now unconscious. He examined the officer closely; his breath was ragged and shallow, blood spattered over his skin and clothes, his face bruised and swollen where he'd been struck, a thick trail of dark blood trickling from his nose down his parted lips and chin.

Hakeswill smiled - a terrible sight - his face twitching again with glee. Carefully he rifled the captin pockets - not a great haul; a silver pocket watch and a purse, along with some papers in a foreign language that he dismissed as worthless and left. The man was as good as dead, or would be left in the filthy street in the open, and if he did not die by himself some local footpad would probably come along and help him.

Giving Padstowe one final kick Hakeswill turned and left, pocketing his earnings and heading back to his billet with a song in his heart. A good night's work indeed.