I found an old bit of flash fiction i wrote years ago. Its about That Swell Guy and I think I’ll use it later as an example of the editing process. Look out for this later.
Here’s the original.
He wanted murder. He wanted it so badly that he could feel his stomach muscles cramping. His head felt light but at the same time slightly to big for the rest of him. It was a painless hurt, but it was insistent and demanding all the same. Like a hunger that is just making itself felt.
And it would get worse.
He was called the Betrayer. They spat on his feet those with the nerve and those that did not muttered behind his back. Each and every brotherhood and warband, army unit or company either sneered or shied away from him. Some, those whom time and tiredness had eroded looked at him and simply smiled. It was all they could do.
Had he betrayed anyone? Had he? The urge to kill seemed to go up his spine and sit at the very base of his brain, muttering its low and hypnotic urging. He wanted to give in and destroy, paint the troop carriers interior red. He would have his fill of blood soon enough. The drop ship would land and then he would be unleashed.
The others had betrayed themselves! Yes, like cowards they had turned from the true path. The eight fold path.
They feared him, yes that was good, he was a monster, he was an icon of fear.
They hated him, those who had called him Captain, those who had called him brother!
The murder-urge gripped him and he felt the muscles along his shoulders flex almost involuntarily and his legs tingle from want of movement. His hands clenched about his pistol and his axe.
The troop hold was dark but his sences picked out the twenty or so men sitting or standing in the shadows. Hurt them, attack them, kill them, he wanted it so much. Why not, what could it hurt, what was the harm in it? He was a beast and they all knew it. He could smell their fear and the hold was ripe with it. He could crush them all. He would, no! What was the point in it?
More skulls, more blood, more for the master, more for his lord on the brass throne, more for the forge of souls. More for the debt, more to stop the urge, to quiet it, more for him, to revel in the kill, more to hurt, more to slay…
He was standing now, ten paces from the nearest man. He was shadowed but still visable in the red light. Gods, the killing light, it profisied things to come. It is a sign, murder-make this room red. Crush this little man, and crush the next one.
Kill them all.
The eight folded path spread out before him and it was hellish crimson. But he stopped.
The murder urge screamed inside him but still he halted.
Claxons blared momentarily and the sirens for a combat drop blared.
Kharn the Betrayed laughed at the ugly noise.
Now none of these men had to die.
Well, by his hand anyway.