A tale of Two Horses.

Part 7.

By Jackson Taylor (Wolfie Steel) and Drafty the Suffolk Punch.

Damn it all to hell, why the fuck did I let Drafty walk me home? Now I have his image filling my mind again, and in my slightly inebriated state that is not a good thing, I can see that the dishwasher has finished its cycle and so I put a hand on the edge of the counter top to steady me while I try to head over to the machine.

Unfortunately for me I have made the mistake of not switching on the kitchen light and so I have no idea how much counter top my hand as a hold of, to my ultimate grief I find out that it is not a lot as I catch my foot on the edge of the floor rug and then crash down to the floor, I give off a loud whinny as I catch my head on the corner of the counter top and then a smaller one as my back hits the entrance door.

Fortunately I manage to remain conscious but I am in excruciating pain, "Why the fuck did I let Drafty just walk away?"

I try to clamber to my feet, at first there is no joy as I collapse back against the door, I try again and this time I use whatever concentration that I can muster, I finally manage to get to my feet, keeping one hand on the counter top for support I use the other to locate the light switch, after a moment I manage to find it and flick it on, there is a low hum as the fluorescent light flickers into life.

I look down at the offending counter top and see a scene that resembles the Somme, blood everywhere from the edge of the counter to the floor, even the door has a good amount of my life force on it, so now I know that I'm in a pretty bad way.

I use my now free hand to check my head for the point of damage, as I touch an area of my forehead I find the point of contact, I pick up a cloth from the counter top and place it against my head, I slowly begin to stumble my way towards the bathroom making sure to switch on the lights as I go.

In my slightly stunned state I'm almost sure that I hear the door open, I guess that in my slightly drunken state I haven't latched it shut properly, I know that I should go back and make sure that it is secure, but at this moment in time my main concern is getting to my first aid kit which is in my bathroom.

The sound of the clopping of my hooves on the wooden staircase seems to be amplified by one hundred, I try to walk even slower and with softer foot falls but I now find that no matter what I do I am going to have one diamond splitter headache anyway, be it from the booze or the fall, and so knowing that I am losing quite a lot of blood I decide to speed up my travel as much as I can so that I can get to my first aid box sooner.

I finally arrive at my bathroom and head inside, I'm sure that any of you that have been in this situation where you are slightly the worse for wear and injured, you will know that doing any kind of menial task is nigh on impossible without help, so trying to do first aid on yourself by wrapping a bandage around your head is going to be pretty much akin to the brain dead Mule from the pub being able to come up with the meaning of life.

I open the cabinet that contains the first aid kit and with a shaky hand pull it from the shelf; I sit on the toilet seat and rest the medical box on my knees, I flip back the lid with my free hand but of course with not being able to support the box because I am holding the cloth to my head the box falls to the floor, scattering its contents all over the bathroom floor.

"Just fucking great can anything fucking else go wrong tonight?"

Tonight seems to be one of those nights where I really should not ask questions like that, because as that thought begins to clear, I hear more clopping footsteps on the stairs, so now it seems that my night is complete, not only have I publicly embarrassed myself in front of Drafty, but I have also given myself what I am sure is a huge gash to my head, and now I am about to be murdered in my own home.

My mind wonders back to the bridge, "Maybe it would have been better for all concerned if I had just jumped into the river to my certain death, I sure as fuck wouldn't have fought to get out"

I finally resign myself to my assumed fate, as my sight begins to fade to black I see the outline of the fur that is probably about to end it all for me, my mind just registers the fact that it looks like an equine that is about to put me out of my misery.

My eyes close and I wait for the moment where I take my final breath.

When the blackness finally consumes me my mind begins to play two scenes, one after the other, the first is the scene that I would prefer to be playing out in front of me now where the equine figure is that of Drafty, he has probably heard me fall against the door, and once I have managed to get to my feet and started my journey towards the bathroom, he has probably let himself into the cottage, maybe has had a fright when he has seen the amount of blood in the kitchen, and is now kneeling before me, picking up a roll of bandage from the floor and getting ready to dress my wound.

The second scene is one that is more likely to be playing out in front of me, the unknown equine figure has seen me in my distressed state and is now robbing me of my precious belongings before he comes into the bathroom with some sort of weapon, probably a knife of some description as a gun would be too noisy, he would then slit my throat and pull my tongue through the hole giving me what I've heard people call a Columbian Neck Tie. He will then hastily leave the cottage and I will remain slumped over myself sitting on the toilet seat until the police are called to investigate the disappearance of Jackson Taylor.

The paramedics will put my lifeless and worthless body onto a stretcher and take me to the waiting ambulance; the police will interview everyone who has had recent dealings with me, including Drafty, they will conduct a manhunt for the murderer who will just vanish into nothingness and never be found, and I will become just another unsolved murder.

It is funny how your mind can play so many tricks on you when your unconscious, I mean take now for instance, while those scenes are playing in my mind, I can also hear the soft, distant voice of Drafty, he is calling for me from somewhere unknown, I keep trying to pinpoint where his voice is coming from.

Suddenly I see another face in my mind, it is that of Carter, he has an evil smile on his face, could he be the one that will take everything away from me? Well I hope he does me the decency of turning off my dishwasher and emptying it of its contents before he leaves...what the fuck am I thinking about that for? Hoss you are losing it big time...well I guess I will never know what Drafty's meaty cock tastes like now because there is one thing I can be totally certain off, and that is that dead gay Horses don't suck cock.

My mind now registers something else, but this time it seems to be more realistic, I'm pretty sure that I can feel the hand that is holding the cloth to my head being moved, next I feel a bandage being applied, hehe yeah, like I said the mind can do funny things when you are out for the count.

As always, I would like to say a huge thank you to Drafty for helping me with this story, the hoss is really turning into one fantastic writer, trot on bud, trot on.

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