September 16, 2012
— big shot footballler, comeuppance, disco dancing, evil footballers, flash fiction, footballers on cocaine, groupies, hired hitman, john travolta, perverted justice, short story, taking the law into your own hands
By Stephen Cooper
After the match, he’s prancing around the dance floor like John fuckin’ Travolta, untouchable, or so he thinks, on top of the world.
A couple of moves later and he’s on the coke in the toilets with the latest young star-stricken blonde, then fucks her whilst she’s semi conscious.
He’s even taken photos on his phone.
Worse still, he’s sent the photos to his agent.
I am admiring the view from this nice railway bridge.
Always liked railways, I have to admit.
He doesn’t like it up here, no sense of occasion these footballers nowadays, no culture you see.
I have already injected him with sodium thiopental and he can’t move, but I have rammed three grams of pure, uncut coke down his throat.
His eyes are like saucers and he has already pissed himself.
If his adoring fans could see him now, they would see a different man to the one they cheer on in their colours.
He looks a bit emotional tonight.
It is rare indeed that my job gives me an opportunity to really enjoy myself, but as the soft breeze gently lifts the ash from my cigarette, I can’t help but reflect that this is an opportunity to savour.
It’s the equivalent of an open goal for someone like me, but unlike the waste of space beside me, there is no chance of me missing, no defenders to intervene, and no keeper to deny the inevitable.
He looked invincible earlier today; he sickened us when he scored the winner and taunted us by kissing the badge on his shirt, running through a shower of spit and furious abuse from our crew.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he plays for our most hated rivals, and it looks like we might get relegated now, depending on next week’s result.
Tonight’s result will be dedicated to all of our long-suffering, faithful support.
He got off once before on a rape charge, a few hundred grand soon took care of that, his advisors had too much to lose.
However, he won’t be getting off this time.
His agent’s niece was recognizable at first glance.
I’m following precise instructions tonight.
He won’t play football again, and he won’t have much of a sex life either.
I take a hammer to his knees, reduce them to a bloodied pulp, and throw him unceremoniously over the bridge with the hope he breaks his back and ends up confined to a wheelchair.
I watch the freefall and as he lies motionless, I reckon his disco dancing days are probably over too.
John Travolta can sleep easy.