Fuck Knows

Chapter The Second: Martha? Martha? Who the Fuck is Martha?

*This chapter is what's known in the industry as a 'flashback' sequence. What this means is that it takes place not in the present, as you'd expect, but in the past! It may strike you as a somewhat unconventional, even confusing narrative technique, but trust me, it really pays off!*

Lance & Martha's young, sensuous bodies writhed with pleasure as they indulged in the ancient act of 'making sex'. She threw back her head and moaned as he penetrated the shit out of her. Not literally. This isn't that type of book.
He grunted like a horny Neanderthal, sweat gushing off his forehead as though there were a watering can lodged in his brain.
Their hands explored, quested, groped at their partner's flesh, each touch of finger or thumb heightening the pleasure at least twofold. They were both enjoying themselves immensely, it was fair to say.
At last, after an epic banging session, Fuck could no longer contain himself, and climaxed in spectacular fashion. His pelvic thrusts lessened as his balls emptied inside of her, and he gave one final sigh of ecstasy. Martha put a hand to her head, like ladies in old films do when they're about to faint.
"That was some shit hot intercourse, m'lady", Fuck said, between gulps of air.
"You're not so bad yourself, Captain", Martha remarked, which Lance felt was a little backhanded, if he was honest.
"I really enjoyed being inside you, Martha. It just feels right, like a decent pair of walking shoes."
They then spooned for roughly ten minutes, Martha playing the part of the teaspoon and Fuck being more of a gravy ladle. She turned and looked down at his member, still twitching like a dying fish.
"That dick of yours is, is..." She searched the recesses of her mind for the correct adjective.
"Monolithic?" Fuck suggested.
"Exactly!" She replied excitedly. "The last time I saw one that big, it was being treated for about 50 hornet stings."
Fuck sat upright in bed suddenly.
"So there have been others?" He said.
Martha turned away from him, at once upset and not horny anymore.
"Lance, we've been over this. You're the only man I have eyes for now."
"And the others? What about them?"
Martha sighed heavily. "They meant nothing to me, they were just flings, nothing more."
Fuck jumped up from the bed suddenly, and threw a dressing gown around his shoulders.
"Oh, how I wish I could believe you, Martha, truly I do. But just yesterday I saw a man at your front door."
Martha looked quizzically at the back of Lance's head, trying to determine his expression. It was a fruitless endeavour.
"A man? But that's impossible, I've not seen anyone."
Fuck turned, his eyes blazing (metaphorically), and pointed an accusing finger at Martha.
"I know what I saw, you fucking whore! A man in red, with shorts, wearing a satchel. He gave you a parcel of some description. Talk your way out of that one!"
Martha shook her head, her auburn locks bouncing as she did so.
"Lance, that was the postman!"
"I can't believe you're banging an agent of Her Majesty's Royal Mail! Martha, you home wrecking slut!"
At this, she strode towards Fuck and slapped him hard across his chiselled cheek. He stumbled back, clutching his gradually glowing jowl.
"Martha, are you mad, woman?"
She stood, legs apart, hands on hips, defiant.
"No, Lance. For the first time, I'm seeing clearly. And not just because I've switched to contacts. You accuse me of humping every single man who so much as farts in my direction, and for what? Your suspicions have never once proven to be anywhere near accurate."
Lance searched around for a comeback.
"What about that old man I saw you kissing at the train station?"
"That was my dad, you psychopath, and it was the last time I saw him alive."
Fuck stared down at the ground. Even though he was almost 6'7" tall, he felt about 4'3", at most.
Neither of them spoke for a very long time. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was probably closer to 3 or 4 minutes, Xavier broke the silence by howling. He was still just a puppy (past, remember) and as such was extremely needy, even for a dog.
Lance moved to the door. "Guess I'll take him out, then."
Martha turned and gazed out of the window. The sobriety of the situation was undercut slightly by a vast parade balloon floating past. It was a gigantic Garfield, his rictus grin seeming to suggest he'd seen things no sane mind should experience.
Lance opened the door and stepped out into the throng of people, all dressed in gay costumes. (By which I mean old timey slang for happy, not homosexual. This wasn't Pride, it was Mardi Gras, which is arguably skewed towards a similar audience.)
The cheerful mood of the revellers was somewhat at odds with his own state of mind, and he stared down at the ground, trying to ignore it all. He kept finding himself fantasising about whipping out an Uzi and peppering Bart Simpson's face with a couple of rounds of ammo, but thought better of it. Never grab an Uzi, if you're feeling mad or boozy, that's what he always said, or in this case, thought.
No, better to just keep your head down, and think murderous thoughts. Maybe he'd make a start on his stress balls later.
As he got off the main drag and away from the crowds, he began to feel his mood lift gradually. He walked past the old Wilkinson place. Nobody had been there in years, and the place was boarded up to buggery. People say old man Wilkinson just snapped one day and murdered his entire family with a hedge strimmer. Others say he got put in a home and his family just didn't come to see him anymore. The former was the less depressing, Fuck thought. As he stood there, staring at the decrepit craphole, he felt a shiver run down his spine. It was as though a giant and very messy toddler had dripped ice cream down the back of his shirt.
Something wasn't right. He spun around and made for home, for some reason shouting "Fire!" as he ran.
He knocked people aside like large skittles made of bone and flesh, some of which didn't get back up again. 6'7", remember.
As he picked up the pace and turned a light jog into a frenetic sprint, Martha's face hovered in his mind's eye, spurring him on as though he were a donkey and her floating visage the proverbial carrot. Something had happened, was happening, or was about to happen to her, he could feel it in his bones.
He turned onto their street, his legs aching and the blood pounding in his veins. But still he carried on, gasping for breath like someone who's just run a marathon dressed as a womble or something.
It was at this stage he glanced down, into the eyes of Xavier, his faithful hound, who's soulful eyes seemed to be spurring him on, as though he fully understood the situation. In reality, he was gasping for breath himself, Fuck having dragged him most of the way home on his lead. Lance dropped it and patted the irate mutt on the head, who snarled back in response.
"See you back at home, boy", Fuck shouted over his shoulder, before reapplying the gas once more.
He could see their house, a little modest terrace and felt a pang of intense sadness as though someone had just injected it into him with an invisible syringe.
He was able to see right into the house, into the living room. For a few moments, his confused mind couldn't process what was happening. Had someone stolen their front door? He got a little closer and realised that it was simply open. But why, and by whom, or what?
He flew (ran) through the open portal, straight upstairs to where Martha had been. It was then he saw the intruder, dressed as the back half of a horse, and stood over Martha, who was lying down, possibly asleep.
"Help me", she muttered. Martha had a habit of talking in her sleep.
It was then that Fuck noticed the crowbar that the assailant clutched and the bloody gash on Martha's face and realised it wasn't as innocent as it had at first appeared.
He leapt into action, both literally and metaphorically. The horse man swung wildly in the direction of Lance's brain, but he ducked and the crowbar smashed into the wall. Fuck punched the man in the spine, normally a deal breaker, but this guy's spine was particularly tough and he only succeeded in hurting his hand. As he reeled from the pain, the centaur dislodged his weapon from the wall and swung again, clocking Fuck on his noggin. The room around him began to turn all wavy and Lance thought he was about to black out. But something inside wouldn't let him. Maybe it was the look in Xavier's emotional gaze, maybe it was the fact that he'd had 7 coffees before midday. Whatever it was gripped him tight, pulled him close and whispered in his ear that if he gave up, he'd be getting a kick in the spice rack for Christmas. Sounded like one of his dad's turn of phrases.
Whatever it was worked. Lance sprung up, fists and feet flying. He connected once, twice, three times. The horse man fell back, clutching his face, the crowbar clattering to the ground. Fuck's punches were landing, and how! With his fourth punch, bang! He broke the guy's nose. With his fifth, he dislocated his jaw, boom! With his sixth, well, you see where I'm going with this...
The semi equine intruder wasn't about to give up without a fight, however, and booted Fuck square in his meat and 2 veg. Tears welled in his eyes, and he fell sideways, sprawling onto the wooden floor like a spider who'd just been kicked in the nuts. Then the assailant was on top of him, and had reclaimed his crowbar once more. He held it horizontally and pressed it down onto Fuck's windpipe, attempting to choke the very life out of him. But Lance wasn't ready to die, not yet, no way José, no sirree bob. He only had 3 monthly payments left on his mortgage, for starters. Not to mention Martha.
Fuck played it cool. Letting his part ruminant attacker think he had the upper hand was key. Lance pretended to pass out, even slowing his heart rate way down, a technique taught to him by former magician/twat David Blaine.
He opened one eye ever so slightly. There was a pause, the crowbar still poised, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Then, he retracted it slowly, inch by inch. Fuck had to wait for just the right moment to make his move.
He felt the release of pressure as the man moved his knees from Lance's chest. And then, Fuck rose, like a phoenix from the ashes, ready to fuck up a centaur. Using the momentum of his weight, he forced the man onto his backside, and in the blink of an eye, was standing over him. He thrust out a hand and snatched the crowbar from him in one swift movement.
"Hey, that's not mine, I'm borrowing it off a friend", wailed the half man, half horse hybrid.
Lance looked down at him.
"Stick a crowbar in it, why dontcha?"
It wasn't the best line, but he had to commit to it now. He raised the weapon high in the air vertically, and brought it down, into the thugs gaping mouth.

*What happens next is extremely graphic, and is not for the faint of heart, or women. Proceed with caution, and maybe a sick bucket or two.*

The crowbar flew downwards in accordance with gravity, shattering the man's teeth like bird's eggs. His tongue was torn from its moorings and cast aside like a red, floppy boat. His screams were quickly silenced as the c'bar scraped down his throat, ripping his vocal chords to buggery. He started to gag on the big metal pole now occupying the majority of his oesophagus and Fuck started to regret his actions. Not because the scumbag didn't deserve to feel the clammy embrace of death, but because it was disgusting to have to watch. The thugs eyes popped out of his head, and rolled across the floor. Blood began seeping from the empty sockets as though his very brain was leaking. This was rather unexpected. Lance held the c'bar in position as the man kicked and thrashed around like a shark on acid. Finally, after around 40 minutes of this, he stopped. Was he dead? Only one way to be sure. Lance pulled the weapon out of the man's destroyed face and hooked it around his neck. In one smooth motion, he jerked his head clean off his shoulders.
He probably should have just done that to begin with, in all honesty. Now he was deader than disco.
Throwing the c'bar to the floor in shame and disgust, he fell at Martha's side.
"Martha, Martha my dove! Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?"
It became clearer with each passing moment that Martha was not simply pretending to be asleep. The amount of blood leaking from her head had doubled, if not tripled.
Fuck attempted to revive her the only way he knew how, by singing Meatloaf songs at the top of his voice. Unfortunately, he only knew Bat Out of Hell, so he repeated it 7 or 8 times, cradling her in his arms all the while. The last rendition was mostly sobbing, as he realised Martha was gone. Not physically, her body remained where it was, but she was dead. Deader than the aforementioned disco.
He held her close to him for a long time, kissing her neck like he did when she was still alive. At some point, Xavier wandered in, and sensing something was wrong, did a wee on Martha's hair. Lance laughed giddily in spite of himself. Classic Xavier.
Right there and then, Lance swore he would never be a slave to grief. He would find out who was behind Martha's murder, and why and how, and when. Except not when.
He raised a fist at the sky, as though challenging the gods themselves.
"I will avenge you, Martha, if it's the last thing I ever doooooo!"
He said the 'doooooo' with an upwards inflection, so it sounded dramatic, rather than stupid.
"AVENGE YOU!"

*Annnnd end of flashback. Didn't I say it was worth all the bullshit?*