Blood Verse

By Patrick James Ryan

From the bestselling author of "The Night It Got Out!" Welcome to BLOOD VERSE, not your average collection of tales and verses of terror. Within these pages you’ll find how a serial killer uses an unusual method to stalk victims in South Chicago. A unique couple addresses infertility on a grand scale. Armageddon strikes twice in a small Iowa town at the hands of nature and a madman. A noble medical scientist undergoes a demented metamorphosis. The oldest and most powerful vampire on earth weighs in on contemporary culture. An obnoxious bigot goes to Hell to fulfill an ironic twist of destiny. An injured World Champion boxer fights his toughest opponent in a horrific bout beyond imagination. An outpatient psychiatric clinic places several patients in a setting that launches the ultimate terror and mayhem. A horrific futuristic twist on an American Scholastic tradition in Spelling Bee. A debut collection from a rising master of fantastic thrills that reads like Amazing Stories and Twilight Zone with a hellish twist, Blood Verse is sure to take you for an intense ride!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Bed Sheet Books
• Release date: Apr 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370677726

Patrick James Ryan

Patrick Ryan grew up in Columbus, Ohio and started writing after graduating from college with a Bachelors Degree in Communications and Marketing. After marrying Molly and living vicariously through the sports and activities of their children ~ Colleen, Michael and Patrick ~ while balancing work in the financial services industry, Patrick recently reignited his writing passion in earnest cranking out Blood Verse in a little over a year while working on two novels and a second short story collection at present. An avid sports and music fan, Patrick enjoys Football, Basketball, Baseball, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and hard rock. In addition to writing, Patrick is a voracious reader, taking in an eclectic swath of fiction and non-fiction across many genres, with horror being a favorite. A practitioner of martial arts for over 25 years, he holds a second degree black belt and is a huge fan of Bruce Lee.

Book preview

Introduction

Hello faithful reader of the macabre, terror, and tales of irony and twisted fate! I appreciate your acquiring this collection of short stories and short-verse poems designed for the simple purpose of providing entertainment, escapism and respite from what can sometimes be a dreary, tough world. Writing is an equally tough vocation, as one is torn between what they subjectively want to say versus what will please others. When an author writes, he or she strives to segment points of view from their own lens while trying to compose a story that will resonate with other people and provide enjoyment.

In an effort to meet that mighty expectation, I have attempted to write some interesting stories that are a little different than typical horror lore, but also still go right for the jugular. My hope is that you will find them a little different than the usual jargon and leave you wanting more. There is very little fluff in these tales. Each word has a purpose. Dialogue is phrased to move the stories along while allowing the reader to insinuate themselves into the shoes of the characters.

Crafting an effective short story is in some respects a harder task than a full-fledged novel. In this genre, it is my humble opinion that a story should be fast-paced and routinely shock the readers out of their comfort zones, hooking them to read more. It should also make readers think. For me, gore for the sake of gore falls short if there is not an underlying message to take away. If taking ordinary people and putting them in unusual situations, writing an imaginative thriller in the context of a historical period, tying historical people to fictitious characters in strange circumstances, extending science and medicine to ponder some macabre what-ifs, pitting man against nature, blending terror and irony with devils and demons, and throwing in some traditional monsters with a new spin, all suit your fancy, then you will enjoy this collection. If you start a story and can’t flip the pages fast enough to find out what is going to happen, then I have done my job and achieved the objective.

So, as you journey with all of the characters in this collection, curl up with a blanket in the winter by the hearth and make sure all the lights are on. If you read this in the summer, you may not want to read it out on the patio at night. Happy reading!

---- Patrick James Ryan ----

November 2011

PAIN AND THE BOXER

The left jab snapped out to the nose like a cobra striking prey, followed by a right hook to the body with a firecracker smack in the rib guard of the sparring partner. The opponent staggered backward two steps, stunned by the speed of the jab and hurt by the body shot, fear and alarm lighting up his face like a neon sign. Sensing the psychological victory of wits, the master pugilist zoomed in with a combination of jabs, right crosses, vicious hooks, uppercuts, and overhead rights, pummeling the poor sparring partner back into the ropes with a flurry of nine punches as blood began to flow from an uppercut to the nose and his mouthpiece flew across the ring in a shower of saliva and blood. The sparring partner’s knees buckled as he held his gloves up proclaiming defeat, warding off the barrage of vicious blows.

That’s enough! shouted a gravelly voice outside the ring that echoed throughout the acoustically-challenged former auto collision repair garage, now converted into a gym.

The sparring partner slumped down to a sitting position in the ring corner in obvious distress, breathing heavily, legs outstretched. He had just earned $200 the hard way, sparring World Heavyweight Boxing Champion Michael Walker to hone his skills for an upcoming fight with contender Enrico Ruiz of Spain. At 6’ 3" and 235 pounds of fighting machinery, Michael Walker loomed over the human punching bag and offered an arm to help the man up. The powerful African-American boxer was a cultural icon to the public and kept his personal life pretty clean. The voice outside the ring, belonging to trainer Sean Gerrity, spoke again to the sparring partner:

Go to the office and see Eloise. She’ll pay you for yesterday and today since she wasn’t here yesterday.

Will you be back tomorrow?

The man hesitated, looked at Michael Walker, then nodded his head yes and stepped out of the ring; his gait was still noticeably unstable.

Sean Gerrity knew the man would not return. He lasted four days as a sparring partner, well above average for those who dared to swap punches with Michael Walker. Gerrity was unconcerned as there was a never-ending waiting list of eager fighters pining away for a chance to spar the champ.

The sparring portion of Michael’s training had become a predictable routine. Day one the sparring partner would be filled with excitement, vigor and zeal. Day two there would be much more caution and far less enthusiasm. If there was a Day three, it prevailed only because the stubborn sense of pride would not allow the demoralized ego to admit reality.

Day four, which was very rare, showed a person who either desperately needed the cash, or did not care about future brain damage. Only one person had ever lasted five days, and his skills were good enough to prompt Sean into talking him into turning pro. Gerrity hoped this man would last through tomorrow. He had dinner plans and did not want to spend a better portion of his evening making phone calls from sketchy applications to find the next right brawler worthy of spending time with Michael. As he watched the beleaguered young man make it to the office without falling, he turned back to Michael and noticed the champ rubbing his right shoulder with his left boxing glove. The rotator cuff tendon had been strained about a week prior and ice, cortisone shots, and deep muscle massage heat therapy seemed to be failing in their efforts to provide relief.

Still hurts, huh? he asked Michael.

Like a sonofabitch, the powerful bronzed athlete replied.

I think we should see Dr. McCann tomorrow morning and get another X-Ray.

Shit, Sean...I am getting tired of bein’ poked and prodded by these doctors. How ‘bout we just take the day off man, and let me rest the thing?

I don’t know, Champ. If this thing doesn’t get any better, we should postpone the fight. You fight Ruiz five weeks from this Saturday and you ain’t anywhere near where I want you to be. You should’ve clobbered that slob today in one round. You let the bum last three rounds with you!

Oh bullshit, Sean! I was trying out some strategy, man. Weren’t you watchin’ that last flurry? I blasted him. Don’t worry about nothing, man. I am gonna kick the shit out of Ruiz and you can bank on it. I’ve got to, man…you know I’ve only got 6 more fights and I beat Marciano’s record. I can’t stop now no matter what!

Ok, ok, Michael. You know I’m with you. You are the best fighter I’ve ever seen, and you train harder than anybody I’ve ever known. But I’ve been around longer than you. I saw Joe Louis, Archie Moore, Ali, Frazier, and Holmes fight fights they had no business fightin’ because of injuries and emotional stress. You got both going on right now young man, and you better slow down and get everything in perspective! I told you to come to me when shit’s gettin’ the best of you. What the hell is goin’ on? Is it Tonya?

Michael knew Sean was right. The damn shoulder hurt like hell, and outside stress in his personal life was at an all-time high. For the first time, he had been holding things back from Sean and he was beginning to feel guilty about it, fueling a pervasive sense of doom that engulfed his emotions, threatening to stifle everything he’d worked hard for all of his life. He did not want to burden Sean about things he knew he couldn’t help with.

No, Tonya and me are good. It’s just money shit and this frigging shoulder.

Sean looked at him with skepticism, but did not comment.

Ok. Go catch a hot shower and put that nozzle on the massage setting right smack on that damned shoulder for about 20 minutes as hot as you can stand it. Take your time while I go make sure Eloise paid that lump of shit you just beat up, and I’ll drive you home.

Sean had always reminded Michael of the old actor Barry Fitzgerald from the John Wayne movie, The Quiet Man. Sean made him watch it about a year ago on TV, promising him it was about a boxer and that he would like it. Michael had protested, "Why in the hell would I watch a movie with no black people in it about white people in Ireland? As it turned out, he did like the movie and he had been calling Sean the character’s name, Michelin O Flynn, to Tonya ever since. He smiled at the old man’s caustic demeanor and headed for the private bathroom at the rear of the gym.

Sean drove Michael to his 2.3-million-dollar estate he’d purchased after the pummeling of Pepper Byrne last year in Las Vegas, unifying the Heavyweight titles. Sean gave Michael explicit instructions to take two Darvocets, rest, and take the entire day off tomorrow. I’d rather take a couple steps back so we can go forward without worryin’ too much about this, ok kid? Sean said.

Michael silently fumed, knowing Sean was right, but was gravely concerned over the prospect of not being prepared for, or missing, the fight. He felt strong remorse for withholding a very personal situation from his trainer for the first time in their relationship, but he knew Sean would postpone the fight if he knew the circumstances. Sean knew Michael and his girlfriend Tonya had a little girl together named Keisha, who was eighteen months old. But Sean didn’t know that Keisha had been diagnosed with Lymphocytic Leukemia. High doses of chemotherapy initially held the disease at bay, but the child had experienced a relapse two weeks ago and a CAT scan revealed spread of the cancer to her liver, spleen, and brain with ensuing symptoms of headaches, vomiting, and easy bruising. Keisha’s hope for survival would be risky stem cell transplantation from the only possible donor, her father. Tonya was an emotional and physical wreck. Wedding plans had been delayed, while finger pointing spewed from Tonya’s mother who blamed Michael for every adversity ever faced by mankind. Neither Michael nor Tonya had health insurance to cover the expensive doses of chemotherapy and ongoing diagnostic testing to assess the spread of the disease and resulting treatment plan.

Michael had been covertly paying for all of the treatment out of his own pocket, to avoid publicity and preserve Tonya and Keisha’s privacy, but the stem cell transplant would cost over $300,000.

In spite of his boxing winnings, funds were tight due to the much-publicized lawsuit he filed against boxing promoter Kingston Hughes for fraud, embezzlement and breach of contract.

Michael’s accountant discovered that Hughes had essentially cheated Michael out of 10 million dollars in bogus administration fees, so-called consulting fees, and promotional expenses. Attorney fees to pursue the vigorous suit against Hughes had cost Michael over 3 million dollars in just two years, with no end in sight.

If things were not bad enough, in 2003 his financial planner advised him to put four million dollars into an IPO of a small, yet controversially-successful communication company known for embracing media entertainment that pushed the conventional envelope of decency.

This is a sure thing, Michael. We will double our money in a year, the enthusiastic broker promised. Less than six months later the Super Bowl wardrobe malfunction occurred, media moguls were fighting a public war against censorship and the FCC began to crack down on all media. The newly-formed company lost its advertisers and revenue base, filed bankruptcy, and the broker would not return Michael’s calls. He sold his Mercedes, bought a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and now had two mortgages on the house. Boxing was his solace, the reliable foundation which gave Michael security. Boxing was the only thing in life he could count on to relieve the stress of everyday life. Boxing was his emotional and financial way to prevail over all adversity, and now he was faced with a serious injury that jeopardized everything. His marriage was postponed with not even a tentative reschedule date. His financial stability was facing serious consequences, the monumental athletic achievement of beating the legendary Rocky Marciano’s undefeated record was starting to slip away. Worst of all, his precious little daughter was withering toward death right before his very eyes.

Don’t worry kid, Sean said when he dropped Michael off. Things always have a way of workin’ out. Take those pain pills and rest. I’ll drop by tomorrow night and check on ya. Call me if you need anything.

Michael swallowed two Darvocets with a large glass of water and sat down to call Tonya. He had not spoken to her for several days and he knew she had taken Keisha to the doctor for some follow-up testing to prepare for the stem cell transplant the day before yesterday. Frankly, he just needed to hear her voice and know that everything was ok with their relationship. To his disappointment, Tonya’s mother, Rosalie, answered the phone. Michael and Rosalie had never hit it off very well, and he always sensed a level of condescension anytime he spoke with the 59-year-old widow.

Tonya’s not here, Rosalie stated.

Well, where is she? When will she be back?

Keisha’s come down with a sore throat and fever and she had to take her to the emergency room about an hour ago since her resistance is so low, Rosalie proclaimed rather curtly.

Michael could almost hear his future mother-in-law’s words between the words saying and it’s all your fault, you irresponsible deadbeat, for not having health insurance, and for not being a better money manager!

He ignored the tone of her voice and said, Why didn’t she call me? I would have taken them to the hospital.

She didn’t want to bother you when you were training. That Gerrity man has made it quite clear that you are not to be interrupted unless it’s an emergency, and this is probably only a cold. I told Tonya just to go by herself.

Michael felt blood rush to head, anger shooting through his brain from the blatant disregard of his participation in Keisha’s care, and lack of respect for his relationship with Tonya.

I think a little girl fightin’ leukemia that gets any new sickness would be an emergency, Rosalie, Michael spat.

With your schedule, it’s usually safe to assume you can’t make things like this.

Now just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Michael said raising his voice significantly.

See, there you go again. It’s impossible to talk to you, Michael. I am only trying to help.

The hell you are, you meddling bitch, he thought.

Ok Rosalie, I don’t want to argue with you. In the future, when anything happens to Keisha, or if Tonya needs me, I want to be interrupted no matter what I am doing. Is that clear?

Yes it’s clear. I’m not some senile old woman, you know!

Would you just please let Tonya know that I called? If she gets home in time and if it’s not too late? Rosalie, please just let her know that I called and will be up late because I’m not training tomorrow.

Well, she has to work tomorrow, you know…

Michael was almost to the point of no return with the woman, and was close to telling her to go fuck herself, but he maintained his composure.

I realize that, Rosalie. Just let her know that I called.

Ok, I’ve got to hang up now. I’ve got a pie in the oven that has to come out.

Michael was in the middle of saying, No problem, when the line went dead. You arrogant, snotty bitch, stuff your pie up your ass! he said aloud. He grabbed the empty water glass used to wash down the Darvocets and hurled it against the living room wall, shattering it into fragments, causing a spasm to knife through the injured shoulder. He grabbed the shoulder, grimacing in pain, as he began to pace back and forth on the luxurious tan carpet of the living room. The more he paced, the more the level of tension filled his mind. He felt a pervasive sense of doom with no way out. He was petrified that Keisha would die, then his fiancé would blame him and break off their engagement under Rosalie’s influence, and he would be left penniless and alone. The greater tension brought increasing tightness and pain in his shoulder. The injury began to throb continuously in spite of the Darvocets. Michael cursed in frustration and punched the wall with his left hand, driving his fist through the drywall and knocking down a small mirror.

God damn it, he screamed. Why is this happening to me?

Michael slumped down the wall and began to cry for the first time since his father died of a stroke four years ago. He felt totally alone and alienated. His mother had died in an auto accident when he was only six years old, and his father raised him, his brother and his sister, alone. His relationship with brother Eric and sister Monica could accurately be described as estranged, as they did not approve of his livelihood or the perceived affluence that accompanied it.

Outside of Sean Gerrity and Tonya, Michael did not have any close relationships with other people, and now circumstances were conspiring to threaten those relationships and destroy everything that was precious to him. He began to sob, and each convulsive shake of his body made his shoulder throb with stabbing pain.

After several minutes of crying, anger again began to swell up in Michael…a seething tidal wave of rage and maniacal hopelessness. His mind flashed in hatred at the face of Kingston Hughes. He clenched his fists and banged the back of his head against the wall, thinking of Keisha and the unfairness of her battle with Leukemia. He ached for Tonya, and envisioned himself punching Rosalie in the face for being such a bitch, interfering with their relationship. Ultimately, his anger turned toward God. Why would God allow these things to happen to him? He worked hard, led a good life, gave money to charities, and was not selfish or vain.

What had he done to deserve all of these tragic events? Surely, God would not place these horrible things in his life without giving him a fighting chance to prevail over them. Yet, with each stabbing pain in his shoulder, it was beginning to sink in to Michael that he would probably not be able to fight again for a long time, if ever, and his ability to overcome these adversities had been irreparably compromised. This goddamned shoulder was killing his ability to successfully combat these obstacles to his well-being and peace of mind. He felt cheated.

Michael had been raised in a home filled with faith, but after the death of his mother, he began to question God, and the life experiences that had socked him in the teeth over the past five years had raised doubts that made him question and blame God more and more.

Michael began to dwell on his shoulder.

God damn you, if you were a person or a living thing, I would kick the shit out of you, he seethed at the pain out loud through clenched teeth. Get out my body, dammit. I don’t need this shit. Just go away, you fuck! I wish you were a person so I could fight you! Come out of me and fight me, he screamed in torment.

Michael’s heart began to race dangerously fast, beating in conjunction with the pain of the injury. Spittle and drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth as he became one with the pain.

He fainted.

He awoke minutes later, after what seemed to be hours, to an extremely putrid smell that filled the living room, hall and wet bar area. The smell reminded Michael of a stifling outhouse on a hot summer day, or the smell of a dead roadkill carcass baking in the heat. He gasped and covered his mouth as his senses slowly returned. Across the room, a yellowish-green mist emanated from out of the fireplace and drifted toward Michael. The mist floated horizontally at first and then began to shift to a vertical position. When it reached approximately ten feet from Michael it began to solidify. The stench was almost unbearable. Suddenly, a loud, gravelly, guttural shriek pierced the air, making Michael cry out in alarm.

He sat back rigidly, pressing his back against the wall, watching the vertically-shaped mist take on a solid form. Short bursts of visible red heat stretched out of the entity as it took form, reminding Michael of sparklers from his youth on the Fourth of July. After about twenty seconds, the sparkling ceased and Michael stared up into the face of a being few men had ever seen before. Michael’s first thought was that it was some type of reptile standing like a man. The creature was taller than Michael, close to seven feet in height, covered with reptilian grayish-green scales like an alligator. A sharp conical horn protruded from its head, flanked by oversized yellow eyes with black pupils that seemed to bore a hole right through Michael’s face. There did not seem to be a nose, and the creature’s mouth was gigantic, filled with razor-sharp jagged teeth surrounded by cracked, puss-filled purple lips curled into the most diabolical smile Michael had ever seen. The creature had hands like a man with nails that were at least two inches long with serrated edges. A pair of oversized opaque wings attached to the back of the creature loomed in the background. A constant opening and closing of the creature’s scales unleashed a torrent of smaller, winged replicas of the creature that reminded Michael of a flurry of gnats paying homage to a light fixture in the dead of night.

Michael fumbled for words, unable to form a complete sentence, seized by mortal fear.

"What the.....? Who....? Oh, my God!"

The creature’s smile widened, displaying a cocky air of strength and superiority.

Hello Michael, it said through the same bass-toned, gravelly voice as it had initially shrieked. Don’t fear, if I wanted you dead, I would have already taken you. As it sneered, a foul, slime-coated black tongue slicked across the puffy purple lips.

Michael’s mind was racing, thoughts coming and going too fast to absorb. What is this thing? Am I dreaming? What does it want? Do I have any weapons, or heavy things to fight it with?

"What do you want?? What are you?"

Calm down. Relax and I will explain. I am granting you your wish, Michael. Allow me to introduce myself. I am PAIN. Your intensity and questioning of your faith impressed me enough to pay you a visit and give you a shot at me. But, I warn you, if you think you have pain now boy, I will show you a side of myself very few puny humans ever get to see! The creature smirked.

Oh my God, Michael said, stunned and dazed by the revelation. This can’t be happening!

Trust me, Mikey, God has nothing to do with me. I answer to another master, the creature mockingly said. Your God has turned a blind eye to the world. Instead of sticking up for his beliefs, and defending his so-called followers, he allows misery and heartache to run rampant across this little shit-hole you call Earth. He can’t even fight his own battles. He had to send an overwhelming horde of goodie-two-shoe angels led by that pussy Arc Angel Michael to cheat my master out of his rightful place of glory. But Lord Lucifer had the last laugh when he got that bitch, Eve, to munch on that apple. In fact, when I am done with you Michael, I will show you the nice shrine we have for her. We have a nice flaming bronze statue of the apple at the main gate to Hell, placed rather provocatively on Eve’s body. Anyway, once that slut bit into the apple, the Master needed some assistance to inflict hardship on humankind. I was created and have been diligently employed ever since, the creature bowed in mock reverence. But enough of the history lesson, let’s get down to business. I don’t normally do this, but I was bored and you looked like you would be a heap of fun to abuse and torment in person.

But...but....how? You actually cause all the....you mean that you???? Michael stammered.

Yes, you pitiful hunk of worthless flesh! I cause all of the pain and suffering throughout the world, and have done so brilliantly throughout the centuries. You see my children flying about me? the creature asked, lifting his arms. "They have all been assigned to inflict pain on some idiot human. They will contract their size to no larger than a speck of dust and fly into the mouths of these worthless beings to conduct their craft in the brain, in the heart, the knee, back, whatever hunk of flesh that opens itself up to me! You humans are so weak, and stupid! You make my life so easy. You are a bunch of witless, careless idiots with your overzealous passion for sports and physical challenges. Why, your very shoulder is a cause of a mindless sport, and I am loving every minute of it."

The creature beamed as Michael caught a brief glimpse of a rotten greenish foulness down its mouth.

The easiest part of my job you morons created yourselves: fatty foods, alcohol, drugs, and cigarettes. I can really inflict long-term suffering with them. But there is nothing like a good old injury. They are my favorites! Take your puny little shoulder, Michael. Right now, one of my children is embedded into your tendon, chewing away little microscopic tears of flesh as we speak, the creature laughed.

Michael stared at the creature with absolute disdain, fear suddenly replaced with a loathing hatred for an entity that could only be perceived as a pernicious iniquity; pure unadulterated evil with no remorse, and no conscience. All heartache, all of his frustration with adversity immediately became focused on this perverse thing in front of him. At that moment, Michael Walker felt a pinnacle of rage few people ever aspire to.

You rotten sonofabitch, he snapped. You sick, disgusting fuck, Michael shouted as he rose to his feet.

The creature smiled the broad grin again. Oh, you will pay for that disrespect, Michael. I hope your knuckles are tough, boy, because my skin is like high-grade sandpaper.

Michael ripped his shirt off and tore it in half, in a quick motion that surprised the creature, and wrapped the torn pieces around each of his hands.

Come on mother fucker, I’m gonna show you world-class boxing and kick the livin’ shit out you, human-style.

Michael crouched into a stance and raised his fists, ready to counter-punch whatever came at him. Without warning, the creature flew up into the air toward the living room’s cathedral ceiling fan and swooped down upon Michael, its fists clenched, heading for Michael’s head. Michael raised his arms over his head, blocking a torrent of blows with the muscle of his forearms. The blows were very powerful, but he did not sense any broken bones. He winced in pain as the skin on the creature’s knuckles and hands had cut his arms; blood began to ooze out from several deep gashes.

How did you like that? the creature mocked as it backed away from Michael, assessing the effectiveness of the initial attack.

Is that all you got, you fat tub of shit? Michael called out, faking confidence and bluffing the creature.

Oh no, the creature hissed while the bloated, rotting tongue slimed across the putrid purple lips again. That was merely what you call a jab. I have a complete arsenal of knock-out blows, and if I decide to use my teeth on your flimsy flesh, you will get to see Eve’s bronze statue before you can blink, it laughed.

Keep talking, you jive piece of shit. I came from a neighborhood where your punches would be laughed at, slime ball!

The creature’s face contorted in anger and it rushed towards Michael on foot, wildly throwing blows with its fists, and simultaneously attempting to head butt Michael with its horn. Michael ducked and moved under a blow from the right and then the left, bobbing and weaving away from the viciously sharp horn, finally coming up inside the creature’s defenses with a hard upper-cut punch into the fleshy part of its ribs. He followed with a powerful left hook toward its right eye, which landed squarely on its head right into a scaly area, splitting open the knuckles of Michael’s left hand. He cried out in pain, but also saw surprise in the creature’s face from the power of the upper cut to the ribs. Ok, Michael thought, it can feel pain too! If I hurt it once, I can do it again!

Pain backed off momentarily, surprised that he felt the pressure of a blow from the puny human.

I know you felt that, you sonofabitch, Michael said. "And I got