Prompt Night Drabble 1: Brute Jon
Mar. 19th, 2013 10:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snooI really love this a lot. I'd say this is my favorite egotron thing I've written thus far, which I guess is a little sad considering how short it is. I'd love to do a full length Mudergrumps thing but I wanna wait until I can come up with something really good that won't feel run into the ground or predictable.
Word Count: 500
Prompt: Brute Jon
!WARNING! THIS IS ABOUT CRAZY HOMICIDAL PEOPLE SO, YOU KNOW. TREAD LIGHTLY.
All Jon saw was red.
He saw red when the stupid punk they had lashed to the wooden chair in the center of the basement spat at Arin and he saw even more red when he swung his hammer into his stupid tattooed face.
It was like he was a bull with a red cape dangling in front of it’s face, because as soon as he felt that anger bubbling up in the pit of his stomach all he could do was charge. He swung, and swung, and painted the room with the matador’s gore.
Arin was screaming at him. Jon could hear his voice angrily reprimanding him at the edge of his consciousness, but he didn’t give a shit. Arin would get over it eventually, and he always got to have all the fun anyways. Jon needed this. He barked out a wild laugh and brought his hammer home at just the right angle on the punk’s bloodied pulp of a head, sending it flying from his shoulders. It bounced across the floor with a few sickening thumps, but Jon wasn’t paying attention to that.
He was watching the fountain of red spewing forth from between the punk’s shoulders with a wide, toothy smile. The whole room was covered in the warm, sticky shade.
Arin’s cold hand suddenly latched like a vice grip around the back of his neck, and Jon knew he was in trouble now. Still, that couldn’t diminish his good mood, and he stared at Arin gleefully when he was yanked back and thrown against the wall.
“You’re a fucking animal, Jon. This isn’t art, this is a childish temper tantrum!”
Even Arin’s eyes that were typically a cold, murky brown seemed alive with flecks of fire. Jon tilted his head and glanced around their surroundings—at his ‘temper tantrum’.
All he saw was the burning, shimmering color. His anger and his frustrations were there, illustrated in the splatters for anyone to see. The monstrous, inhuman anger that gnawed constantly at his mind was pushed back at the sight, and he slumped against the wall in long-awaited relief. Arin didn’t understand, and he couldn’t. He did this for his art. His monsters were the figures their victims represented, and he always payed special attention to each of them. They died exactly how he planned them to, and each in a more clever or spectacular fashion than the last.
“Why are you still fucking smiling? I should kill you right now for making this awful mess I have to clean up,” Arin growled. He had his hand back on Jon’s neck and his fingers were pressing just hard enough into Jon’s windpipe that it labored his breathing.
Jon laughed as best he could and rolled his eyes over Arin listlessly.
“Because red is my favorite color, Arin.”
Word Count: 500
Prompt: Brute Jon
All Jon saw was red.
He saw red when the stupid punk they had lashed to the wooden chair in the center of the basement spat at Arin and he saw even more red when he swung his hammer into his stupid tattooed face.
It was like he was a bull with a red cape dangling in front of it’s face, because as soon as he felt that anger bubbling up in the pit of his stomach all he could do was charge. He swung, and swung, and painted the room with the matador’s gore.
Arin was screaming at him. Jon could hear his voice angrily reprimanding him at the edge of his consciousness, but he didn’t give a shit. Arin would get over it eventually, and he always got to have all the fun anyways. Jon needed this. He barked out a wild laugh and brought his hammer home at just the right angle on the punk’s bloodied pulp of a head, sending it flying from his shoulders. It bounced across the floor with a few sickening thumps, but Jon wasn’t paying attention to that.
He was watching the fountain of red spewing forth from between the punk’s shoulders with a wide, toothy smile. The whole room was covered in the warm, sticky shade.
Arin’s cold hand suddenly latched like a vice grip around the back of his neck, and Jon knew he was in trouble now. Still, that couldn’t diminish his good mood, and he stared at Arin gleefully when he was yanked back and thrown against the wall.
“You’re a fucking animal, Jon. This isn’t art, this is a childish temper tantrum!”
Even Arin’s eyes that were typically a cold, murky brown seemed alive with flecks of fire. Jon tilted his head and glanced around their surroundings—at his ‘temper tantrum’.
All he saw was the burning, shimmering color. His anger and his frustrations were there, illustrated in the splatters for anyone to see. The monstrous, inhuman anger that gnawed constantly at his mind was pushed back at the sight, and he slumped against the wall in long-awaited relief. Arin didn’t understand, and he couldn’t. He did this for his art. His monsters were the figures their victims represented, and he always payed special attention to each of them. They died exactly how he planned them to, and each in a more clever or spectacular fashion than the last.
“Why are you still fucking smiling? I should kill you right now for making this awful mess I have to clean up,” Arin growled. He had his hand back on Jon’s neck and his fingers were pressing just hard enough into Jon’s windpipe that it labored his breathing.
Jon laughed as best he could and rolled his eyes over Arin listlessly.
“Because red is my favorite color, Arin.”