A random section from my imaginary autobiography…

…and with that I reached down and picked up the rock. It was time, he had it coming to him. He was an arse and, quite frankly, I was fairly certain that just once, just once I should do something that would be remembered long after I was gone. It meant nothing and it meant everything.

I pulled my arm back, arching myself like some kind of medieval war machine as I hurled the rock as hard as I could, aiming straight at his stupid, puffy, lying face.

The rock span; in my mind’s eye a sickening slow motion special effect until it smacked him square between the eyes. I swear I heard a crunchy “thwack” as it made contact.

There was a pregnant moment of unbelieving silence from the gathered crowd, his “public”; even the secret-servicemen just looked as if they had been frozen by some kind of Godly remote control pause button.

Then all hell broke loose. Arms and fluorescent jackets blurred around me as I was crashed to the floor and squashed into submission beneath an impromptu playground bundle of unthinking duty-bound gut instinct official muscle. I just had time to see him teeter and then fall backwards, stiff limbed like some great felled tree with a glorious mixed look of shock, recognition and total incredulity frozen into his features.

Spark out. With a reddening and quite distinctive rock imprint between his eyebrows.

The last thing the cameras picked up was the huge toothy smirk I was pulling. Then I blacked out with the metal taste of blood between my teeth.

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18 thoughts on “A random section from my imaginary autobiography…

  1. Brilliant. I agree with Pinky. More More More.
    Oh yes and my autobiography is only a few pages long that i started quite a while ago. lol Maybe i will post that on my blog if i can find it.

  2. I intended to start an autobiography, but I couldn’t find anyone to write it for me . . .

    . . . however, I believe mine starts as:

    The Ferrari engine awakened from its slumber, pipes snarling like twin demons unleashed from the outer ring of the seventh circle.

    Wait, maybe that was my entry for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. I forget . . .

  3. Bulldog doesn’t autobiography mean that……oh wait. πŸ™‚ Ferraris are indeed from the outer ring of the seventh circle of hell. This usually only becomes apparent the first time you take it into a repair shop and hear about the price charged for any spare parts….

    Lisa, many people say I’m full of all sorts of stuff; interesting ideas is just one of them. Marmite is another.

    Sammy, Fabby; you like this? I might do a few more then. I think it’s yet another way for me to fiddle with words whilst Rome burns.

    I could write a couple of entries and have a competition to see if people can guess which one actually happened for real….hmmm….now that IS an interesting idea….

  4. Bulldog: There are ratios? I just write rubbish and people come and read it. πŸ˜€

    Fletch: no, you’re not. πŸ˜‰

    Fabby, Sammy, Violet: I’m toying with you. Toyyyyyying.

    Gem: There’s a filthy reply to that…

    Hmm, ok, this is fun – I might have to knock up some more – what do we fancy – prologue or epilogue to this section?

    [Goes off to find protractor to check ratios…]

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