The Chamber

An extremely short story by Jimmy Twoskulls

 "Fuck!" Joshua Walters shouted abruptly, placing a rigid hand over his mouth with a shudder which
could easily have been a stifled sob. Joshua was a portly man in his mid-twenties with soft, pale arms and
bloated red cheeks. His auburn hair was shaggy and particularly long in the front so to conceal the bull-
dog folds of his acne-ridden forehead. As he dropped his hand, a few drops of blood fell from his top lip,
flowed down his chipped front tooth, and careened onto his dark blue tee shirt and acid-washed denim
jeans. His white sneakers trembled on tiptoes as he sat in the folding chair, sitting across from an older
gentleman in the middle of The Chamber's concrete floor. Two well-dressed men looked on as they stood
with their back to the door, one of them suppressing an incredulous laugh.

      "Oh, don't be such a fucking infant,' Joshua's uncle Greg said in a gruff British accent. He emigrated
from London with Joshua's father and their grandparents when he was twelve, but he refused to be
Americanized. 'The last thing America needs,' Greg would often say, 'is another bloody American.' The
accent was among the last remnants of his childhood, and was thus held as a cherished reliquary of a time
when his mother and father still lived, before the house fire.

     Greg's hair had long faded to disheveled grey madness which merged with one side of his full beard,
rounded the back of his head, and then collided with the other. The top of his head was bald and shining,
with great emphasis upon the numerous surgical scars. His glasses had always been crooked, and so had
he.

     "I don't see the point in this,' Joshua said, pursing his lips together as he sat back and shook his head.

     "You started this,' Greg said, pinching the itch out of his long red nose, 'with your fucking smart
mouth. Your go."

     "That doesn't answer my question,' Joshua said, reaching down to the pile of rocks on the concrete to
his right, 'why are we sitting in your basement, calling it 'The Chamber', and using it for this sort of
nonsense?"

     "Because such family matters are fucking serious,' Greg replied, taking off his glasses and setting them
behind his feet, 'we are a very public family, we are expected to deal out some form of justice in light of
wrongdoing, lest we lose face and, ergo, respect. It's either this, or I have your legs broke. Your go."

     The stone, roughly the size of a closed fist, collided with Greg Walters' left eyebrow with surprisingly
great force, considering John's reluctance. it began to swell almost immediately, and the blood rappelled
down the side of Greg’s face, which bore little emotional response. The only indicative reaction was a
soft chuckle. A pair of rigid fingers wiped some of the blood off.

     Greg held the hand out in front of him.

      "Nice work,' he said, 'I have one more, then we're though."

      "Jesus!" John shouted, dropping his hands to his sides with the palms turned toward his uncle, 'it
wasn't even that bad!"
      "When it's you and me,' Greg said, lighting a cigar and then reaching for another stone, 'it's always
this bad. Close your eyes."

      John did. The shuffling of feet made him uneasy, and he started at the sound of the stone as it fell
harmlessly in front of his right shoe.

      Greg's heavy work boot thrust the air out of him with a firm kick to the gut. John fell back with the
chair, and fought to bring the air back into his lungs as his furious uncle stood over him.

       "You will watch that fucking mouth of yours around company,' Greg demanded, 'and especially
around your father! Clear?"

      "Yes,' John gasped, curled into himself, 'yes."

       The two men in front of the door nodded in approval and made a slow, calm exit.

       "Good,' Greg Walters said, helping the man up, 'then let's have a drink."