Voice

*Wordcount: 683 words.

It’s not over ‘till the fat lady sings.
I find that offensive.
I find you offensive.
Nice one.
Thanks.
But, uh, I am a little worried about our situation.
No one would blame you.
You could help?
Could I?
I… Suppose not. Who would’ve thought that a voice in your head would be so useless.
Anyone who gave it thought really, I am a voice after all. I could give you moral support?
Better than nothing I suppose.
Yeah.
So?
So?
Moral support?
I said I could, not that I would.
Would you at least shut up?
Fine. I’m not doing it for you though, just for the spike through your leg.
Yeah. That’s not a good looking spike. Is it supposed to bleed so much?
Probably, yeah.

The man grunted, half from effort and half from pain, as he pulled a rusty metal spike out of his leg. The dusty house in the dusty abandoned mining town creaked, as if its supports were finally staging the revolutionary protest that would free them to follow their dreams, perhaps open a small café in Paris, like Grandma.
“Shit shit fuck ow ow shit.”
I concur.
“Can you even feel it?”
That, my endangered friend, is a complicated question for another time.
“It is?”
Not really, but shut up. Prioritise.
“Oh, right. Patch up leg, kill monster, go on to live a glorious and peaceful life.”
Yeah, sure.
“How would I ever get by without you?”
I often wonder that myself, you poor thing.
Having patched up his leg the best he could – not very well, mind you – the man grabbed his shotgun and checked his gear.
Monster, kill, etc.

A shambling form drags itself across the rooftops, having recovered from the unforeseen assault. Now, it has the advantage. Its prey is wounded, weak, and looked delicious. Its clawed tentacles were constantly shifting in anticipation, wrapping around its body or reaching out to help pull its heavy body between the buildings.

“Come out come out, gross tentacle thing!”
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
“I don’t hear you suggesting anything.”
Well, actually-
“Besides! I’m the idea man of our duo.”
God help us.
“Shut up.”

The Tentabeast watches the man limp through the town, crying out, most likely in pain. Good. Now.
Its mass of tentacles slither into action, flinging it forward.

“Ah. Found you.”
As usual, you’re taking credit for someone else’s work.
“Perhaps now isn’t the time.”
Perhaps now is the perfect time.

The man ducked and dove as the mass of tentacles surged forward, slicing and dicing all in their path. A few even lodged themselves into walls and the ground.
The onslaught was wearing him down exceptionally fast thanks to his injury – as he would later assure all his colleagues – so he would have to finish this fast.
He rolled out of the last tentacle in this first wave, cocked his shotgun, and blew off a flurry of the tentacles at their base.

The Tentabeast screeches in pain, feeling each connected limb sever. The prey had injured it before, this is true, but that had been an inconvenience at most. This is worse, the pain itself is almost debilitating.
The Tentabeast, lost to instincts, flies into a rage. It must end this quickly.

That doesn’t look good.
“Yeah.”
Kill it.
“I’m trying!”
No, you’re toying with it. Seriously, hurry up, this thing reminds me of your mom.
“Woah, hey, woah! You better apologise for that!”
Shut up.

The man, having blown off a suitable amount of tentacles, moved in for the kill.

The Tentabeast, being severely wounded, turns to flee.

The sun breaks on a dusty mining town, and a man walks calmly between the buildings towards a pristine, black car.

“Seriously, apologise.”
Look, it worked, didn’t it?
“You were playing me?”
You’re surprised?
“Fair enough. But you’re going to apologise.”
Fine, I’m sorry.
“Not to me.”
Oh god, no, please!
“Mom’s not going to be happy.”
OK, fine, I’m very truly sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.
“Good. I guess I’ll let it slide.”
She’s still fat though.