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Paul D. Brazill

The tall men in the black hats and long black overcoats looked like shadows as they cut through the snow smothered square.

A ghostly spiral of smoke drifted up from the husk of the burnt out car as Darko fell to his knees, the low hum that hovered in the distance growing louder.

He looked up, gasping, as the plane roared overhead. His fingers buzzed and tingled and the sensation spread through his hands and up his arms. The weight of an elephant was on his chest and then he felt the cold hard metal against his forehead.

Then the day dissolved to black.

* * *

First there were trickles and then there was a flood until what seemed to be hundreds of people spilled out over the square, like jackals searching for carrion. The men in the black overcoats slipped through the crowd as the approaching sirens screamed nearer.

Shuffling into the corner a nearby alleyway, Brendan pushed back the brim of his black fedora and plucked a battered packet of Galois from his raincoat pocket. He handed one to Arek, sweat peeling from his acne scarred face.

‘Another one bites the dust,’ growled Arek, his accent as thick as treacle.

‘Aye,‘ said Brendan, the traces of a grin appearing at the corner of his mouth. ‘Just not the one we were after.’

He coughed and spat on the ground. He wiped his mouth, revealing the red tatto on his wrist.

‘Are you gonna call or am I?’ he said.

Arek inhaled deeply and looked up to heavens, at the stars and the moon, as if hoping for help from above.

* * *

The aquarium bubbled and gurgled, bathing the office in a sickly green light. The air in the room was warm and soupy and Dragan steadily sipped a glass of gin.

At a large desk, a raven haired woman was using a gold credit card to chop up a little heap of cocaine. She leaned forward and snorted through a Harrods pen.

‘Ay Caramba, mother fucker,’ she said, her Latino accent as thick and dark as an Irish coffee.

Dragan poured himself another large gin.

‘Gin makes you sin,’ said the woman, with a chuckle. Dragan glared a her.

She turned away, retouched her make up and stood up. Guilt rumbled inside Dragan like a thundercloud. He’d sworn that the previous time would be the last time but once again he’d broken his promise to himself.

The woman walked over to him. She was tall and in her early twenties with wan looking skin, red lipstick slashed across her full lips and her black hair cut into a Louise Brooks bob. She was wearing a red PVC raincoat and shiny black stiletto heels. Dragan took a wad of cash from his wallet and wearily handed it to her.

The James Bond theme began to play and Dragan took out his mobile phone.

‘Tak,’ he said and listened for a few moments before answering.

He slumped over the large oak desk .

‘And exactly how much of a bollocks is ‘a bit of a bollocks’?’ he said, his expression volcanic.

‘Maybe I’ll go?’ said the woman.

Dragan waved indifferently toward her and she walked out of the office door, her head held down but still watching.

And still listening.


Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland.

His stories are available in print in NEEDLE MAGAZINE (The Sharpest Tools In The Box), Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal (The Stamp Of A Vamp) and RADGEPACKET 4 (The Nightwatchman).

COMING SOON ARE STORIES in the anthologies Harbinger*33, Daily Flash, Daily Bites Of Flesh, Don’t Tread On Me, FLASH! and Bats In The Belfry.

His story The Tut was nominated for a 2010 Spinetingler award. .

His stories have appeared online at A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, disenthralled, Radgepacket Online, Powder Burn Flash, Blink Ink, The Flash Fiction Offensive,Shoots & Vines, Six Sentences, Pulp Metal Magazine, MiCrow, The Legendary, Thrillers Killers ‘n’ Chillers and other such classy joints.

His column “I didn’t say that, did I?” is a regular sore spot at Pulp Metal Magazine.

* * *

This is Michal Giedrojc‘s first appearance at disenthralled. You can see more of his work and contact him through his website:


Part One of WARSAW MOON can be read in Issue #6.

Part Three is in the works.


Produced by Walter Conley.

Upcoming issues will include Theater, Fiction, Poetry, Art and, provided I live through the encounter, excerpts from the unpublished friendship manual by Katashi Katsu.

I recommend that readers of disenthralled check out VAGABONDAGE PRESS. The March 2010 issue of The Battered Suitcase includes work by disenthralled contributor Roberta Lawson.

You can reach me, Walter, at and on twitter as pitchbrite. Submissions to Please take the time to familiarize yourself with our journal and guidelines before submitting.

All material copyright©2010 by respective creators.



  1. Thanks for this Walter and thanks to Michal for the brilliant photo.

  2. Great scene development and right proper dialogue. Just Grand tale telling and the photo is spot on perfect. Stonkingly good, pdb. Fitting compliment to #1 which is already a clsssic.

  3. Paul, this is dark and eery; right up your alley. I felt sorry for her as walked away. Great detail, and you left us waiting for more.

  4. Like us, that poor girl is anxiously awaiting more. Good stuff.

  5. Another excellent episode, so very dark and gritty, and the accompanying artwork fits beautifully. This is a great series unfolding before our eyes. Top marks, Paul.

  6. You have yet to write a story I did not like! You are one of my top favorite writers.


  7. Hard, tough and atmospheric, the Brazill way.

  8. That photo grabs you, and Paul’s story pulls you in.

    I await with giddy anticipation for the next installment.

  9. Thanks everyone. Hope I can keep your interest!

  10. Paul, this is great. You’ve sketched out a very dark, dangerous world with a few taut lines. You’ve got my interest for wherever this goes, have at it.

  11. Touhdcown! That\’s a really cool way of putting it!

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