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The Floor's the Limit

They say it's a long fall from the top.

Well, in the Gutter, it's a pretty fucking far fall from the bottom, too.

The Floor's the Limit by Tess Makovesky

Johnny was on the laptop when the bitch walked in. Head down, poring over one of those sites he loved, where the girls did what you asked. Cost a fortune, of course, but it was worth it to see their eagerness to please. And please they certainly did. He had his hand in his pants right now. He was almost there. He didn't need an interruption from the bitch.
"The fuck d'you want?"
She curled her lip round the usual cigarette. "Not that filth again? I thought you'd agreed not to visit those sites any more."
"Fuck off. I can do what I want in my own house. 'S long as I pay the bills."
"You better pay them because I won't any more. I'm not working my fingers to the bone so you can jerk off in front of a bunch of freaks."
"They do a lot more for me than you ever did."
She curled her lip again. "Looks like a freak-show to me. Smells like one too. It stinks in here. Can't you open a window and let some fresh air in?"
He didn't want windows open; he wanted to be left alone, to watch, and pass on orders, and watch some more. He tried to grab her arm, but missed. She shimmied to the window, flung aside the curtains and threw the window wide.
Sunlight stabbed him in the eyes; he'd been in the dark too long and the brightness hurt. "Fuck it, are you trying to make me blind?"
"At least you wouldn't be able to watch that crap." She smirked, and he longed to smack the smile right off her stupid face. Couldn't, though. He'd tried once before and she'd brought her maniac brother round. He was shit-scared of her brother, who'd done time for beating some old codger half to death. The bitch told him he was evil, but her brother was worse.
His eyes adjusted to the new and appalling light, revealing the dust and detritus of a hundred lonely nights. Pizza boxes, beer cans, whisky bottles refilled with piss.... He supposed it was a mess. With the light came that noxious substance, fresh air, filling the room with the scent of new-mown grass. He sneezed. "For the love of God will you shut that window? You know I get hay fever at this time of year."
"You only get hay fever because you never go outdoors. Look at you. God's gift to mankind."
Her smile had become vicious, and the open window was giving him ideas. New and appalling ideas, which he'd never quite entertained before. Ideas that involved a long, long drop, and a smack on the concrete of the backyard far below. She couldn't call her brother if she was dead.
He hauled himself to his feet and fastened his flies. It was almost as though it was pre-ordained. She was right by the window, elbows on the sill, flicking her cigarette ash out. All he had to do was sidle up close, and use his weight to push her further still.

She fought, but she was no match for his sheer strength. He levered her up and out. She balanced for a moment like a dolphin on a pole, then shrieked and fell.
"Bastard...." he heard her cry. It seemed to last for ages before it stopped.
He smirked, and waddled back to the desk. Now he could concentrate, without her breathing down his neck. Now he could get back to unfinished business, and finish it off. He sat, and unzipped his pants.


He was almost done when the bitch walked in. He stopped mid-stroke and almost wet himself. "Wh-wh-how? What the fuck?"
She wiped blood from her face and smiled. "Hello, Johnny boy, weren't you expecting me?"
"But . . . you're dead. You fell out of the window. I practically heard the thud."
"Oh, you heard a thud all right. But that was just me breaking a stone off the garden wall." She hefted a green-tinged lump of stone, small enough to fit her hand, big enough to do some damage with.
"Yes, but . . . I don't understand. How can you fall all that way and not be dead?"

Her smile grew wider, like that of a crocodile. "All what way, Johnny? Have you forgotten? You swapped the rooms round last month. We're on the ground floor now."

It was true, he had forgotten. He kicked himself; it hurt. But not as much as the stone, when she threw it from where she stood. It hit him on the head. He felt a moment's flare of pain, then everything went grey.
"That should do it," he heard her say, through the crashing waves in his skull. "That should put you out of action till my brother gets here."

Liverpool lass Tess is now settled in the far north of England where she roams the fells with a brolly, dreaming up new stories and startling the occasional sheep. Her gritty stories, however, tend to reflect the dark and dingy back streets of her former home of Birmingham. You can follow her ramblings at