5

By Ripley King

Five deliciously dark stories.

A man seeks revenge.
Another aspires to rule the world.
A Dark Warrior appears on Earth.
Just where did that little demon dolly come from?
A young girl prays for death, becoming more than she bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ripley King
• Release date: Jan 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301338092

Ripley King

I'm a storyteller, with many published credits. Now I do my own thing. Have fun.

Book preview

5 by Ripley King

Dark Fiction

A man seeks revenge.

Another aspires to rule the world.

A Dark Warrior appears on Earth.

Just where did that little demon dolly come from?

A young girl prays for death, becoming more than she bargained for.

Stories and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2012 Ripley King. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locals, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over, and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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For those who need a little of the dark side.

5

Serve Revenge Hot

Bryan with the bright green eyes saw it coming. His mother’s eyes, intelligent eyes, expressing love and joy. Eyes alive with wonder at almost everything this world had to offer. Eyes filled in their final moments with an unfathomable fear.

He pushed his fat, raspberry colored, fluffy teddy bear Pudgy to one side, off the back seat of the car and onto the floorboard so Pudgy wouldn’t get hurt. Such a considerate boy.

He closed those beautiful eyes, actually pinched them shut; then hunched his narrow shoulders and pulled a thin arm up to cover his handsome little-boy face.

A useless gesture, like all useless gestures, conceived of in a moment of desperation. It was the best he could do. The only thing he could think of at the time. Nobody could fault him for it, he was only five fucking years old.

The sawed-off scattershot blew his little arm and hand apart, a bloody wad. Bryan’s head splooshed into a cloud of red and gray, yellow hair and pinkish-gray brain tissue coating the automobile’s plush rear interior.

Everything he was—the questioning crooked smile, bundle of feet running through the house when he was told repeatedly not to, stubborn foot stomping I don’t wanna go to bed yet! bouncing baby boy—gone. Just gone.

BRYAN!

Screaming your dead son’s name jolts you awake, your heart racing. The grisly vision of your son’s murder fresh in your mind. Cold clammy sweat pours off you to dry in the chill night air, realizing it was another nightmare, one of several, realizing it wasn’t quite light out yet, the dawn a couple of hours away from what the digital display says.

You’ll never get back to sleep now, and it’s no big thing. You haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in three years. Five hours most nights, four hours this night.

Did the neighbors hear you scream?

Maybe the scream was all in your head. And if the walls did carry the sound, it wouldn’t be the first time. Frankly, you don’t give a shit. The nosy neighbors can kiss your hairy ass, for all you care. Give your farthest hole a good Frenching. Like they don’t have their faults?

Old man Cruthers, across the hall and to the left, all gut and no ass, pacing the narrow hallway at night in his dirty socks, boxers and tee. The old man is tolerably lucid, and when asked can hold an interesting conversation about the state of the building or the weather. A serious attempt at an overall exercise program? Shed a few pounds?

Walking, good for the soul.

Or desperate Deena, forty-five years desperate, fat and ugly ta-boot. Nightly ordering takeout from every joint around the neighborhood, hoping to get lucky, hoping one of the delivery drivers is more desperate than she. Most waive the tip and run like hell. Once in a great while she gets lucky and gets laid. She has to have a hell of a job to pay for what little comfort she receives.

The warmth of another soul, pushing the bush.

Last but not least is Mrs. Boswellia directly across the corridor, hovering day and night by her peep hole. The only thing more exciting than NYPD Blue reruns or Oprah is the soap opera that plays out beyond her apartment’s windows or peep hole. Maybe Mrs. Boswellia has a thing for old man Cruthers in his boxers, fat gut and flat assed as he is.

Maybe old man Cruthers is hoping desperate Deena will notice him and extend an invite. Give him a nut draining blow job or a roll on the carpet. Fat people sex.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

You push slowly out of bed, the pain grips you by your balls, threatening to walk you around the room on tiptoe. It’s bad today, but pain is your life. Every minute of every waking day is filled with mountainous pain. Physical pain that sharpens all your facilities. Emotional pain for surviving one more day. Pain you inflict upon yourself because you have to.

The shower’s coarse spray heats your skin and warms muscles, stopping the dull ache in your bones. Underneath that