Diary of a Morbid Deviant: 2010

Dear diary,

My life was temporarily taken over by this short story by Aaron Rayburn. Not because it was good but because it was bad. So very, very bad and I couldn't let this atrocity against literature go unpunished. I now share my pain and give you....

The 22^nd Story

If you are reading this, then you have successfully read the first 21 stories. Congrats on a feat well done. Not just anyone can stoamch the creative genius of the author.

“Creative genius,” apparently doesn’t mean what I thought it did.

Please note that each of the prior stories have had one of the Devil’s children within its pages. You may have even dreampt of a couple of them.

Your ego could eclipse the sun, you know that? Are you what killed the dinosaurs?

But as you see, there is one more of these delectable offspring to read about.

For the love of Cthulhu, stop italicizing words! And “delectable?”

Even the wonderful book of Revelation is comprised of 22 chapters.

Well, aren’t you clever. You can count.

Why should this book be any different?

You’re seriously comparing yourself to the Bible?!?

Please understand that your fate rests entirely in your hands. If you choose to read on and learn the identity of the last of Satan’s children, then you will surely die as sure as the words you are reading.

That’s not a coherent sentence let alone a coherent threat.

The precise moment of your death is unclear, but know that your life will be cut entirely too short if you continue. You will soon read about a man who has picked up the very book you are holding. And learn of his fate. My advice to you is this: put down this book.

That’s the best advice you’ve given so far but not for the reasons you’ve suggested.

Put it down before it is too late. Put it down before the Anti-Saint finds you.

The what?

I am not a killer.

Uh…you’ve already admitted you’d like to be on. You said it would be fun.

The Devil is responsible—not me. It… it…

So, like many serial killers before you, you’re blaming the devil. How original.

It had been a good while since Cory Phillips took a stroll through the mall. The only time he went was when his girlfriend, Kirsten, dragged him there.

Oh good, a typical male. That’s a nice change of pace from your usual despicable sociopaths.

For him, the entire experience was numbing: follow Kirsten into every clothes store, through every isle, around every rack, like a monkey on a leash. And try not to get caught staring at the other gorgeous girls walking around. A tough, daunting task.

I feel no pity for you at all.

But Cory didn’t let the traps of the mall get to him too much. There were shops he was interested in. Like the sports shops, the crazy T-shirt shop, the hat shops, the candy store, video game store, Spencer’s, the CD store, and the bookstore.

I find this list of shops redundant, uninteresting, redundant, annoying, an example of poor writing, frustrating, irritating, and totally unnecessary.

The only time he’d read anything, namely a book, was when someone else around his social intellect highly recommended it.

So he’s an unread plebeian, glad that was established. What else do you read other then books that comes highly recommended? And who is in his social intellect class? Lemurs?

Mostly he was into the weird stuff: new age, space exploration, wichcraft, monster stories, deformed human stories, etc.,etc.

How is any of that considered “weird?” It’s called Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror and they’re very popular.

During the drive, Cory reckoned he’d get another hat, maybe a CD/DVD or something small like that.

Two pages in and already I want to castrate this guy.

But as he walked passed the bookstore, he saw a display of Aaron Rayburn’s new book, The Devil’s Children.

I told you! I fucking told you! The horror of horrors, this entire story is just him jerking off to his non-existent status as a horror author. His ego has been officially upgraded to Black Hole status.

Cory was at the beginning stages of becoming a big Rayburn fan, even though Rayburn had only two books out, The Shadow God and Spiritual Sorrow, both excellent books in his grandest opinion.

Fap fap fap fap

Never before had he read anything that had something happening on every page, in which the characters revealed themselves to be actual breathing people, and the events of the plots so mesmerizing and fantastically reality driven.

And we have jizz, people. His Ego has been upgraded from Black Hole level to surpassing that of Rush Limbaugh. Let us dissect that massive sentence. “…something happening on every page”: just like this story where jack all has happened of interest. “…characters revealed themselves to be actual breathing people”: Just like this guy, Cory, who we know nothing about and will continue to know nothing about. “…the events of the plots so mesmerizing and fantastically reality driven”: okay, that one doesn’t even make sense. Fantastic, maybe, but mesmerizing and reality driven? Not even in a parallel dimension where people shit out their eyes and breath through their toes.

And now Rayburns’ third book was looking dead at him.

Like the Necronomicon, it had mutated to grow eyes and was slowly eating his soul.

Cory trudged to the display, totally disregarding his manners, stepping in front of people as his concentration focused on the book.

“Trudged” denotes a weary walk, we trudge when we don’t want to go somewhere. The English language is fighting against you and you’re too damn stupid to know it.

He picked it up, holding it in front of him with both hands, thoroughly englufing the cover design in his mind. He smiled.

The cover, by the way, looks like it was done in MS Paint by a nine year old.

The cover was simplistic, but brilliant.

Wow, this guy doesn’t have a very long retraction time. You just know he’s beating his meat like a thirteen-year-old who just discovered internet porn right now.

A wooden cross with blood splattered on each end. At the top of the cross was Rayburn’s trademark, 7-point star.

Hieronymus Bosch is crying right now.

At the base of the cross were a number of eyes looking out. Awesome.

I’d just like to remind everyone that this is what the cover looks like:

Awesome, indeed.

Cory flipped it over, still smiling, still holding it firmly in both hands.

Because if you let your grip slacken the book takes that as a sign of weakness and rapes you.

In the back of his mind he was partially aware there was going to be a fucked up picture on the back, just like the previous two.

Why would he only be partially aware? Does he only have a partial brain? That would actually make sense considering his taste in literature.

His suspicion rang true. On this one, Rayburn displayed his shaved head, reddish beard with jet black goatee.

I…what? So he has beard and a goatee? Or does he color the part of the beard that would be the goatee, or…why is my nose bleeding?

He was clad in a priest’s shirt, the number 666 in red on the cloth, an upside down cross hanging from his neck. His eyes were also red. And he was holding what appeared to be the Satanic Bible.

What a hodgepodge of cliché “evil” symbols. I don’t get threatening vibes from this guy, I get desperate pay-attention-to-me-or-I’ll-cut-myself-to-prove-I’m-fucked-up-emo vibes. I hope he impales himself on those fragment sentences.

Raybrun’s author photos were totally against what author photos were supposed to be. That was what was so unique about him. Again, awesome.

I’m sorry, my jaw dislocated, give me a second. *Crack* There we go. Geeze, I though SMeyer was a self grattifying whore in her writing but this guy takes the fucking cake and goes American Pie on it.

“What is it?” Kirsten asked from behind him.

Where she belonged.

Cory held up the book for her like it was a magical artifact. “It’s Aaron Rayburn’s new book.”

Which has never seen the inside of a bookstore. Also, “magical artifact?”

Kirsten’s eyes lit up. She seemed to be a fan as well.

Or possessed.

“Oh, cool!” she said. “You’re going to get it, arent’ you?”

This guy thinks his charcters are life like? I’ve known fish with more compelling personalities.

Cory’s eyes appeared lackluster. “No, I thought I’d put it back,” he said sarcastically.

Because if you don’t announce it’s sarcasm we’ll never know.

“Calm down,” she said. “I was just asking.”

Bitch, don’t tell me my bussiness!

“Of course I’m going to get it.”

I have to read it so I can gush over it and give the author more wank material.

“Maybe we can read it together,” Kirsten suggested. “I’ve heard it’s a bunch of short stories, right?”

It’ll be a nice change of pace from watching you play XBox.

Cory nodded, not knowing how the hell kirsten knew that.

Because otherwise the author would have to put effort into his writing.

And if she did, why hadn’t she told him that it was out? She knew how well he liked Rayburn’s stuff.

How well? Also, fap fap fap.

Not much of a real fan if you don’t know the release date of your favorite author’s newest book, eh?

Fapfapfapfapfap

Cory ignored that.

Oh goody, he’s Schizophrenic.

“How are we going to read it together?” he asked.

As sharing is a foreign concept to him.

“You read a story, then I’ll read it.”

Cory shook his head. “I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said. “It’ll take all the fun out of it.”

And as my slut you’re not allowed to have fun.

“Whatever, sweetie,” she said. “I guess I’ll just read it when you’re done.”

Cory gently laid his treasure on the cashier’s counter, careful not to scruff up the cover.

It’s not a fucking holy relic! It’s not made of fucking gold, how is the counter going to scuff it?

Once the clerk rang up his purchase, she looked at him speculatively.

Trying to determine what the hell was wrong with him.

“What?” he said, defensively. He thought maybe she was judging himn for reading a Rayburn book.

She is, we all are.

“Nothing,” said the clerk. “I was just wondering if you heard what they’re saying about this book.”

That it’s the worst book ever written and the author is a delusional sociopath.

Cory stared into the woman’s eyes, then shook his head.

“Well, I don’t want to scare you or anything, but people say that after you read all of the stories, you start having nightmares about them.”

The writing is so bad it haunts your dreams!

Cory smiled. What the hell was she talking about?

She wasn’t speaking Russian!

“Really?” he said, amused, glancing uncomfortably around the premises.

Contradiction of expressions there.

“Some of my friends claimed to have had nightmares,” she said. “And most of them are guys,” she added.

She’s a bit of a slut and they’re all a bunch of pussies.

“What about you?” Cory asked, not really wanting to get into a deep conversation wit this girl as his girlfriend stood two feet away from him.

The Clerk shook her head.

“I have taste, I don’t read this shite.”

“Well, I’ve read a couple of them, but I haven’t been dreaming about them or anything. I’m just warning you is all.”

“Maybe you should try Lovecraft instead. Or Poe. Or, you know, anyone but this god awful author.”

Cory took his bag. “Well, thank you, anyway.” As he walked away, he said, “I could only hope to have nightmares when I’m done with this.”

Kirsten giggled on their way out of the store. “Wow, that was kind of weird, wasn’t it?”

Yeah, so weird that a bookstore clerk might dissuade someone from reading a shit-tastic book.

Cory nodded. “I don’t think those bookstore people have any kind of lives. All they do is read all day and come up with these crazy concocted stories.”

Speaking for book geeks everywhere, “Fuck you, you conceited waste of air.”

The talk was minimal on the drive home as Cory casually flipped through the pages. They went to Kirsten’s house for about an hour, which was just enough time to turn on the television, fool around and have sex.

What riveting story telling. Nothing like a quickie why you watch the 9 o’clock news.

When he finally made it to his house he jumped into his recliner, popped open a can of soda, and devoured the first three stories.

He then had intestinal blockage from eating paper and died because he couldn’t poop.

He put the book down, wanting to pace himself and not read the entire thing in two days. Or worse, one night. But he really didn’t think he’d be able to help himself.

It’s like removing a bandage. Better to just yank it off in one go then slowly peel it off, exposing the festering wound beneath.

Once he was done with the story, Watchdolls, he closed his eyes, falling into a light sleep in the recliner.

Can you guess what is coming next? If you guessed something interesting, you were wrong.

He dreamed of a scruffy-looking teenager tying him to a set of railroad tracks.

Snidley Wiplash in his early years.

Cory soon realized he was dreaming of one of the characters from the book’s first story, Punishment. But just before the train hit him, he woke, sweat pouring from his face in buckets. He smiled as soon as he realized it was just a dream.

Wow, he thought. That crazy bitch from the bookstore was right.

I’m just glued to my seat reading this, can’t you feel the tension?

How werid.

Cory eventually fell back to sleep, but did not dream.

He woke the next morning, realizing he was on vacation from his job. What a wonderul feeling that was!

Because writing social interactions is just too hard for this author.

He milled around the house, ate breakfast, watched a little T.V., then read another three stories.

The exposition, it hurts.

Each of the first six stories was awesome.

Stop saying awesome!

Cory couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into the others. But he held off, taking another television break.

Because television doesn’t require thought and thinking makes his brain matter hurt.

He flipped on the news and saw a gray-haired reporter inside a house.

“…and here was the room in which the little girl was murdered. And found on the nightstand was this book.”

The camera zoomed in. A cold chill passed over Cory.

Turned out it was just his intenstinal blockage shifting around because there is absolutley no tension in this story.

“It’s called The Devil’s Children by horror author, Aaron Rayburn,” said the reporter.

Oh goody, the plot has arrived.

“This would be what you call and important piece of the puzzle, given the fact that this book was found at crime scenes in four other states.”

No, this is what you call an convuluted plot device.

Another cold chill took Cory.

Maybe he should grab a sweater.

“It is major publicity for the author,” said the reporter, “but a strange coincidence.”

This is just disgusting. Even Rose Potter wasn’t this disturbed.

Cory fled to his computer. Rayburn’s email address was in the back of the book. He wanted to see if he could get in touch with him. What the hell? He’d give it a try. What harm could it do?

Excuse me, I’m going to go apply my head to the wall until I black out. This is just too stupid.

He typed his message, then surfed the net for the next hour. He checked his inbox, but found nothing.

We’re actually reading about a guy surfing for porn. Literature just took a kick in the nuts.

Finally, an hour after that, he checked it again and found that Rayburn has responded.

Okay, are you ready for this? Of course you’re not, but here it is. This guy must be so chaffed by now.

Hey Cory,

Glad you’re a procliamed #1 fan! Yes, I have been watching the news, and it makes me laugh.

The murder of children always gets me giggling!

The reporters are right, it sure is good publicity, but I’ll take it any way I can get it.

But I prefer it up the ass with a studded strap on.

Just imagine!

I’d rather not, thanks.

My book being at the scene of a crime in four different states! I guess what I’m shooting for now is all fifty states! HA!

Yay murder! As long as I have book sales who cares about all the havoc I wreck! Fuck the victim’s families, I want money!

Wonders do happen. Take care of yourself and be looking for my next book, The Prisoner.

That’s right, I’m the cause of the death of a small, innocent child that has done me no wrong but you’d better buy my next book!

Feel free to message me again anytime!

It’s the only social interaction I get.

Your #1 author.

A.R.

*Sputter*

It felt wonderfully good to actually get a response back. It was almost like getting an autograph. He sensed a personal realtionship forming. He didn’t know why he hadn’t e-mailed him sooner.

*SPUTTER* HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAhahahhahaha hah ha he heh…..Hint hint, nudge nudge, huh? You’ve never got a fan email in your life, have you? You’re just jerking like mad to this little fantasy, aren’t you? How gummed up was your keyboard after you typed this?

A knock came at the door.

It came?

He opened it, finding Kirsten standing in front of him. Her eyes trailed down his body and stared at his hands. He was holding the book.

It was fused to his hand with spunk.

“Gimme that!” she snapped, snatching the book away from him.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Why aren’t you making me a sanwich, bitch?

“Don’t you know this was found in crime scenes cross the nation?” she asked, casually flipping through the pages.

That’s the second time someone has casually flipped through those pages. Me thinks the author doesn’t know any other way to say it.

Cory shrugged. “Yeah, so?”

“So?” she said, clearly disturbed. “I really don’t think you should be reading it.”

Bitch, who told you to think?

Cory sntached the book back. “Oh, yeah! Like I’m really scared something’s going to happen to me.”

That’s what we’re all hoping.

“You never know,” said Kirsten. “There’s some sick lunatic out there killing people who have either bought he book or he’s laying a copy of it beside them as some kind of morbid ‘mark.’”

And his name is Aaron Rayburn.

Cory smiled. “Yeah, isn’t it cool?”

What. The. Fuck.

“Not hardly,” she said, grabbing a water out of the fridge. “So how many of the stories have you read so far?”

When did she enter the house? This story jumps around worse than a kangaroo with ADD.

“Just six. I want to pace myself.”

“And what did you think of them?” she asked.

They’re shit.

“Why are you so curious?” Cory wondered aloud.

Kirsten shrugged. “Just because.”

“You want to read them, don’t you?”

Kirsten shook her head. “No, you know I don’t really like that kind of stuff.”

Snuff isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

“Don’t lie,” Cory prompted. “You liked his other two books, and now you want to read this one, don’t you?” He twisted the book in the air, teasing her. “Just admit it.”

And yet another Rose Potter flashback.

“Aboslutely not. I’m not about to subjet myself as a ‘mark’ on Rayburn’s hit list. Besides, I just read the other two because I wanted to know why you were fussing over them so much. And I wanted to see what the hype was about.”

Like Twilight there proved to be nothing of sustenance to it.

“And?”

“Turns out they weren’t so bad. A little far-fetched for my tastes, but feasible.”

Far-fetched: exaggerated and unconvincing. Feasible: reasonable enough to be believed or accepted. The English Language scores another point over Rayburn.

“And?”

“Would you quit saying that?”

“And?”

“And I guess I was a tad bit curious to know what the stories were about so far.”

“Fine,” he said, smiling.

That cruel, condenscending smile of his.

“The first one was about this guy getting jealous over his girlfriend screwing his best friend. And so, what does he do? He traps her in his piece of shit car on the railroad tracks. And just before the train hits, he jumps out. The train kills her.”

That’s a healthy reaction.

“That’s awful,” said Kirsten.

“Yeah, but it’s so damn cool. I’d like to see that scene in a movie.”

You just know the author has three fingers up his arse, working his prostate furiously, right now.

“And the others?”

“Why don’t you just read them?” said Cory. “You know you’re going to anyway.”

“I don’t need to if I’ve got you to tell me what they’re about.”

And I don’t want to touch that vile pice of shit. I might contract a demon STD.

“You know it’s not the same thing.”

Suddenly Kirsten’s cell phone rang.

DUN DUN DUN

She took it out of her purse, said a copule of lines, then snapped it shut. “Oh, darling, I hate to be leaving you like this, but my friend really wanted me to come see her.” Kirsten’s best friend moved to Minneapolis during the past summer because of a job offer and now she wanted Kirsten to spend a few days with her up there. Kirsten had agreed, only because she had wanted to go to the Mall of America.

And not because she wanted to spend time with the friend she dearly missed and loved. No, she’s a woman so it’s all about shopping. Condenscending, misogyinst fuck.

“It’s quite all right,” said Cory. “I’ll be all right for a couple of days. I’m off from work, I got food, money and this book. This is going to be a good week. Apart from you being away from me, of course.”

I love how he mentions food, because as his girlfiend she’s expected to cook for him constantly.

“It’s a good thing you added that last part,” she said. “Because I was about to get mad.”

“How could I not?”

“I’ll call you every night. I promise.”

We can have phone sex!

They kissed, said goodbye a hundred times, until Kirsten finally left the house.

Finally! Now I can take off these damn pants and scratch my balls all I want.

Cory and Kirsten were an average couple, who spent good quality time together.

This is all we are ever told about their relationship. Seriously, Bella and Edward had more character devlopment than these two.

But sometimes people needed a break from each other and that’s exactly what Cory needed.

He had to come to terms with his love for sheep in the privacy of his own home.

This week was going to do him some good.

He ordered a pizza and when it finally came he ate it, then settled into his recliner with his book.

Oh god, the suspense is killing me.

His imagination was running wild as he read. He actually played with the notion of writing a couple stories himself. He had a lot of “weird” ideas too, ones that he thought would definitely sell.

He, like Rayburn, is delusional.

Maybe he and Rayburn could someday collaborate on something. Maybe.

We’re up to four fingers up the arse, people!

Cory didn’t stop reading until he finished another six stories, stopping after the end of Breaking and Entering, which was one of his favorites so far.

Christ. Twelve stories down, only nine to go.

So much for pacing yourself.

What an utter load of bull.

The sun had set an hour ago. Cory closed the book, looked at the phone and wondered why Kirsten hadn’t called him yet.

Needy much?

It’s been almost three hours.

Change of tense! Also, it’s over a twelve hour drive between Cincinnati and Minneapolis, and you have to get to an airport two to three hours early these days. Double also, if she flew why the fuck didn’t his lazy ass drive her to the airport?

That wasn’t like her in the least bit. He picked up the phone and called her cell.

No answer. He left a message.

He wtached T.V., fell asleep and didn’t wake until the next morning. He woke up thinking he was being devoured by three small women like in the story, Watchdolls. The dream seemed so real.

As dreams often do when you’re having them.

He looked over at his phone base. There were no flashing numbers, which meant no messages. Clumsily, he tried Kirsten’s cell again.

He wanted his phone sex, damnit!

No answer. He left another message.

Now he was starting to worry. What the hell did her friend get her into last night?

Lesbian sex orgy. It was awesome and she’s never coming back to you.

How mcuh trouble could two females get into at the Mall of America?

Of course, as a female she’s only concerned with shopping.

With a credit card? Lots!

Again, fuck you, twat face.

What if they got into something, met some freak who kidnapped them or abducted them?

Kidnap means to abduct!

What if he snapped on the television right now and saw a horrible crime scene in which Kirsten was a part of and a copy of Rayburn’s book sitting on the nightstand? The possiblities were endless…and frustrating. It almost sounded like the intricate workings of a Rayburn story itself.

Oh god, I just collapsed a lung laughing too hard.

Maybe he should email the idea to Rayburn. Nah, he probably got shit like that too often as it is. Best not to become a nuisance.

And there goes the other lung.

So what the hell was he supposed to do for the rest of the day?

Jerk off like every other red blooded American male.

Worry about his girlfriend? Read some more stories? Both? He knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate if he was worrying about Kirsten.

What a douchebag. How dare his girlfriend make him worry and interupt his wank time!

Just then the phone rang.

DUN DUN DUN!

He picked it up without looking at the I.D. “Hello?”

“Hey, Cory, sorry I didn’t call last night.”

“My God! I was worried sick!”

You liar.

“Aw, you’re so sweet!”

“What happened?”

“Nothing…really. I didn’t realize my cell was off. I spent most of the night reading.”

Intead of spending time with her best friend who she hasn’t seen all summer. Got it.

“Readng?” said Cory. “Reading what?”

“You know.”

“The Devil’s Children? You bought your own copy?”

“No, my friend bought it at the mall. I was just reading hers.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m a sucker.”

“How far did you get?”

“All the way through Breaking and Entering.”

“That’s funny. That’s where I’m at.”

Kirsten laughed. “Slow ass.”

“I’m taking my time. Ingesting it all.”

Ha! It’s in his lower intestine right now. Rayburn talks like these are works of art to savor. They’re not.

“Yeah right. But guess what?”

“What?”

“I was so riveted by the stories I had a dream abuot one of them.”

“Really?” said Cory, thinking back to his dream about the watchdolls. “Which one?”

Ugh, I’m going to grab a soda. Tell me if I miss anything exciting.

“Homework,” said Kirsten. “It was weird. I was sitting in the classroom when the character got up to give his little speech, you know? And I watched him blow his head off. I didn’t wake up until everyone started screaming. My heart was pounding like crazy. I tried to laugh it off, but I was still a little shaken by the whole thing. Isn’t that weird? Tell me that’s weird.”

“Yeah, baby, that’s weird,” said Cory.

“That crazy bitch at the bookstore was right, wasn’t she?”

“Sure was.”

“Cory? What’s wrong?”

“Well, I sort of dreamt of one of the stories too. Watchdolls.”

“Boy, isn’t that typical? What were the little women doing to you?”

“You don’t want to know. It was awful.”

“Yeah, I bet. Maybe you should send Aaron Rayburn an e-mail and tell him we dreampt of his stories,” said Kirsten. “He’d probably get a kick out of that.”

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Well, I just called to tell you I love you,” said Kirsten.

“I love you back.”

“Bye, sweetie. And hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to dream any more stories, okay? Espeically the sex ones.”

Cory chuckled. “Yeah, you too.”

Okay, I’m back. I miss anything? Yeah, didn’t think so.

The line clicked dead. Cory hung up, then leaned back in his chair.

Has he gotten off that thing at all?

He was glad his girlfriend was all right. Now he thought he could enjoy the rest of the stories in the book. But before he could crack it open, he looked at the nine o’clock news braodacast.

Strap in, we have more useless, unrealistc newsbroadcasts!

“We have more breaking news about the people wo hwere found murdered in their home with a copy of Aaron Rayburn’s newest book, The Devil’s Children, at their side,” said the anchor.

“The newest theory is that upon realizing they spent money on this affront against literature they commited suicide.”

“Several of the family members of the deceased have said their loved ones were complaining about very vivid nightmares from the book’s stories just before their untimely death. Some victims have even recorded their visions in a diary or journal. These occurrences are very coincidental. Are the stories cocncoted from Mr. Rayburn’s imagination that terrifying? Or is there an underlying them such as a cursed artifact that is being mass produced? Mr. Rayburn could not be reached for question at this time.”

Ejaculate everywhere. Dear god, that was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever read and I’ve read My Inner Life.

“Holy fuck,” said Cory. “People are stuid.”

I’m overdosing on irony here.

The news reporter stuck a mircophone in a bystander’s face.

He was the anchor one paragraph ago. You do know they are two different positions, right?

“Do you believe in evil artifiacts?” he asked. “And could this book be one?”

Jesus, my liver is trying to crawl its way out of my body and away from this tripe.

The man shook his head, trying not to laugh. “C’mon, do you know how ridiculoous that sounds?” he took the book from the reporter’s hands. “It’s just a book.” He shook it. “See? Just a book. It can’t kill you.”

Cory laughed, then snapped off the T.V. He looked over at the book sitting on the end table. There were only nine stories left. He could proably get thourgh them today. He got up, grapped the book, then plopped down in the recliner, flipping to the next story – Provoked.

Then the phone rang.

The TV Guide has more tension than this.

Cory picked it up, thinking it was Kirsten. “Hello, sweetie.”

“Cory?”

He didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded like an old woman. He suddenly felt embarrassed. “Yes,” he said. “Who is this?”

“Mrs. Horton, Cory.”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Horton. How are you today?” Mrs. Horton was an old widow who lived next door.

“All right, I guess.” She sounded exhausted. “I was wondering if you could come over and move a couch for me. Shouldn’t take any time at all. I’ll pay you if you like.”

“No, Mrs. Horton. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be glad to help you. I’ll be right over.”

Your attempt at making him a likeable person is weak and falls on deaf ears.

Cory found that Mrs. Horton was already waiting with the door open. Her white hair was up in a bun on top of her head. She had a small hunch in the middle of her back and was wearing some kind of blue dress with yellow polka dots.

What a vivid scene you’ve painted. I can see every detail of that “some kind of blue dress.”

Her house always smelled of scented candles.

Which is really weird for an old person house.

Today was some kind of starberry preserve.

Your vocabulary isn’t very varried, is it?

Cory performed the task with ease and Mrs. Horton seemed overenthusiastic. She was such a sweet old lady.

We can infer that thanks, you don’t have to tell us everything.

“Why thank you, Cory. How can I ever repay you?” She always wanted to reward him with something.

Cory shook his head. “It’s all right, Mrs. Horton.”

“How about I bake you an apple pie?” she said, smiling her sweet grandmotherly smile.

I’m gagging on my own tongue here. My teeth are trying to escape down the back of my throat. Make it end!

“Yes,” said Cory. “If you want. That would be fine.”

“All right then. Homemade apple pie in just a few shakes of a lamb’s tail. I’ll bring it right over for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Horton. But you don’t have to, you know?”

“I know that, silly,” she said. “But it’s my duty to be neighborly to such a helpful young man.”

Who talks like that?

Cory smiled, looking into the next room. On the kitchen table he noticed something very out of place. A book.

How is that out of place? People read!

The front of it displayed a picture of a cross. At first, Cory thought it was some kindof religious book because he knew Mrs. Horton went to church every chance she got.

There’s the “some kind of” again.

But when he got a closer look, he saw that it was Rayburn’s book, The Devil’s Children.

Yeah, a real page turner this one.

He picked it up, examined it, then regareded Mrs. Horton with astonishment, who seemed to blush with shame.

Reading that garbage, she should be ashamed.

“I know, Cory, it’s awful,” she said.

Yes, yes it is.

“What is? The book?”

“No, no. The book is fine. I’m talking about my intrigue with the material. It’s quite a shame that I’m a professed Christian woman and my interests lie with such trashy story lines. But doggone it, Cory, sometimes I can’t help it.”

Corrupting the good, oh yeah, work the shaft, work the shaft!

Cory smiled. “I never would have thought.”

“Yeah, well. We each have burdens we have to live with.”

“Ain’t that the truth?”

What burdens do you have, Cory? From what I’ve read your life is just fine, better than most in fact.

“Unfortunately.”

“So have you read it?” Cory asked.

Mrs. Horton nodded. “Yeah, cover to cover.”

“Good?”

“Not bad.”

That’s being generous.

She looked at him with serious eyes. “I am nearing eighty years old, Cory. There are a lot of religious references in that book. I have seen a lot of things in my lifetime. And I can tell you that there is something funny with that book. Funny as in odd.”

Odd as in, “How the fuck did this get published?”

Cory wrinkled his brows. “What do you mean? Like it’s cursed.”

“The nightmares, Cory.”

“You’re having nightmares?”

Mrs. Horton nodded.

“About the stories?

No, about the donkey show she did back in college.

She nodded again.

For some reason it didn’t seem so odd that an old woman would have nightmares about the stories. “Which ones?” he asked.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed, sitting down on the couch. “I’m afraid I’ve had a terrible nightmare about each and every one of them.”

“All of them?” said Cory, hardly able to believe it.

“Yes.” She paused, then held out her index finger. “All except one. I’m still waiting on that one.”

“Which one is that?”

She looked up at him. “Have you read all the stories, Cory?”

Cory shook his head. “I’m reading them now.”

“Well, take it from an old woman who knows what she’s talking about. Quit reading them right now.”

“Why?”

Because their poorly written pieces of bull dung.

“Have you seen what’s been happening in the news?” the old woman asked.

“You mean the murders?” said Cory.

Asked, ASKED!

Mrs. Horton displayed her hands, shrugging. “Do you need any more confirmation?”

“I’m not getting something here. I’m sorry.”

You have to speak slowly, I stuck a crayon up my nose and into my brain when I was six.

“I’ve been reading up on this phenom. It seems that people of great interest in the subject says that once a prson has read all of the stories, then a last story sort of magically appears.”

“Phenom,” look everyone! I know a big word!

Cory snickered.

Condenscending prick.

“Come on, Mrs. Horton. You don’t honestly expect me to believe that, do you?”

She pointed towards her book. “Take a peek at the last couple of pages and see for yourself.”

Cory flipped to the back. “There’s just a bunch of blank pages.”

“Oh, dear,” mumbled Mrs. Horton. “It’s invisible to you then.”

“Invisible?” Cory didn’t know what to say. He thought poor old Mrs. Horton was finally going senile. “I hope this is one big joke, Mrs. Horton, because you’re really starting to freak me out here.”

Mrs. Horton trained her bright blue eyes on Cory. There was no humor in them whoatsoever. “This is far from a joke, Cory. I wholly wish it were.” There was a moment of silence in the room. Finally, Mrs. Horton spoke. “If you’re so adamant about this, Cory, then I suggest you finish the book and see for yourself.”

What a nice old woman, leading to him to his death.

“I have nine stories to go. You bet I will. Tonight.”

“I have to be the bearer of bad news, but when things start to happen, jus tknow…I told you so.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Could you do me a favor when you go?”

Cory nodded.

“I want you to take my book and burn it.”

“Burn it?” Cory asked, perplexed.

“Yes, I don’t care how yo do it, just do it.”

I recommend applying fire to it.

“Whatever you say.”

“Thank you, Cory. I’ll see to that apple pie now.”

Cory returned to his house and compared the two books. In his book there were a few blanks pages at the end as well, almost enough to fill in with another short story.

Blanks pages?

Did the last story really just appear? He tried to look closely at the pages to see if there was invisible ink on them.

How does that work exactly?

Suddenly he felt ridiculous. Mrs. Horton was just joshing him. The reason she told himm to take the book was because she didn’t want any members of her church to find it in her house. She planned all this.

What a cunning and deviant old lady.

Corly laughed out loud.

He lol’d.

“Good one, Mrs. Horton. I’ll try and remember that.”

Remember what?

He picked up his own copy of the book, sat down and began to read. When he finshed story, he peeked back at the last couple of blank pages, hoping to discover whatever it was Mrs. Horton was talking about. But no new words presented themselves.

At the night’s end, Cory finally finished the book. He read the last one to the Notes section, checked the blank pages one more time, saw that they hand’t changed, and closed the book.

“So much for conserving my time,” he said aloud. “I read the damn thing in two days. Now I’ll have to wait another year or two for the next one.”

Do you know how long I waited for the last Potter book?

He flipped on the T.V. Big surprise. Aaron Rayburn was being interviewed.

Cradle the balls, yeah, now work the head.

He looked up at the clock. It was almost ten at night.

So you saw the 9 o’clock news, moved a couch and read 9 stories in less than an hour. Realistic…yeah.

“So tell me,” said the interviewer, holding a copy of the book beside his face. “What is all the hype about this book.”

Serioulsy, it’s crap.

Rayburn smiled.

And puppies died.

“I can’t be for sure. But don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s happening. But the way it’s happening is pretty crazy, I’ll admit.”

WHAT IN GOD OF FUCKERY IS THIS SHITE! You could combine Hitler, Voldemort, Emperor Palpatine, Rose Potter, and Genghis Kahn in a bledner, bake it for ten hours, irradiate it and the following mutation wouldn’t be nearly as evil or egotistical as this asshole.

“What is your opinion about what’s going on out there concerning your book?”

He’s the next L. Ron Hubbard.

“You mean the murders?” said Rayburn.

What the fuck else would he mean?

“Like I said, pretty crazy stuff. The murders have happened one after the other in distances of almost three to four hundred miles of each other. So, really, it couldn’t be just one crazy M-F-er out there doing it.”

Doesn’t he just sound so proud.

“So you think there’s more than one person?”

Rayburn nodded. “Definitely.”

“Do you think they’re aware of each other?”

“Almost certainly. And if I was a guessing man, I’d say they’ll start springing up everywhere.” Rayburn laughed.

Professor! I’m reading an Asshole of Magnitude 11!

Magnitude 11! Impossible.

“It’s funny because you know murders happen everywhere; it’s unavoidable. But suppose once a killer does his—or her—thing, for whatever reason, he sports a sick sense of humor, and places one of my books at the scene of the crime? Just so he can be connected with the latest thing, I guess you could say. I can actually see that happening. Publicity is a killer. People will try almost anything to get some. Sort of their fifteen minutes of fame.”

You feel absolutely no remorse for this at all, do you?

“Yeah, that would be absurd. So why do you think they chose your book?”

I mean, when there’s so many better ones out there.

Rayburn shrugged. “That will always be a mystery to me.”

“As I understand, your first two didn’t do so well, not as well as you’d hoped, anyway. But this nationwide murder thing, connected to your book, really boosted your sales.”

Oh, god I just busted a blood vessel in my eye laughing.

“I’m glad in that regard,” said Rayburn. “Because it could’ve been anyone else’s book.”

People are dying! Have you no compassion? Oh, that’s right, you hate people who are overtly compassionate.

“So you say you’re glad the murders are happening?”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

Yes, you did!

“Some people say that you orchestarted this whole thing, that if there are more than one murder, that you brought them together.”

“Sort of like hired help?” said Rayburn.

How is that anything like hired help?

Cory laughed.

We’re reading a Douchbag of Magnitude 12! Oh God save us!

“Something like that,” said the interviewer.

What kind of interview is this?

“Well, people can say wahtever they like, but I’m telling you I have nothing to do with any of it. The murderers may very well be linked together, but I have nothing to do with them. Has anyone ever considered them to be just extraoridnary fans?”

No, because you have none. And am I the only one that finds it hilarious how smart he’s trying to make himself sound?

“I even have here an account of a woman who said you had the original manuscript cursed by a witch somewhere in the Caribbean.”

“Like I said before, people will go to great lengths to tell their version of the story. We’re all great storytellers, just some are more gifted and prolific than others.”

Others being everyone but you. I’m bleeding out the ears from laughing so hard.

“Before our time runs out, what would you like to tell America?”

The camera zoomed in on Rayburn’s face. Cory could almost detect a demonic quality to it.

That’s just inbreeding.

Rayburn opened his mouth to speak—

And the electric went out.

Cory got up and peered out the window, toward Mrs. Horton’s house. Her electric, as well as the rest of the neighborhood’s, was out too. So there was no sense in going to the basement to try the breaker. He sat in the recliner, listening to the sounds of the night, listening to the bewildered people coming out onto their porches.

Isn’t he worried about the old lady with no lights who probably can’t see very well falling down and hurting herself?

His cell rang.

Cory picked it up.

“Cory?”

It was a man’s voice. One Cory cound’t quite recognize.

“Yes?” said Cory.

“Do you know who this is?”

“No.”

“Take a wild guess.”

Vladamir Putin?

The voice was raspy, almost as if he were trying to camouflage it somehow.

“I really couldn’t guess,” said Cory, pressing the phone tightly to his ear, trying to pick up any distinct sounds in the background.

“How did you like my interview?”

*Groan* Let the wanking begin.

Cory opened his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. Then a sense of reality bit him.

It did what?

He relaxed, feeling a bit foolish. “You really expect me to believe this is Aaron Rayburn?”

“Why not?”

“Because the real Aaron Rayburn would have no reason to call me.”

Maybe he’s lonely. It’s not like he has any friends.

“He would if he had something really imporant to tell you.”

Oh, god we’re going to have another long ass dialogue. I’m going to go have lunch. Don’t bother to fill me on the details, I don’t care.

“Like what?”

I just saved a bunch of money on my car insuance! Sorry, I’m going. I need a beer.

“Like someone close to you is going to die soon.”

Cory’s heart was slamming against his chest, anger stirring inside him. He let the words traverse across his mind more slowly, then rapidly.

“What’s the matter, son? Cat got your tongue?”

“What did you say to me?”

“About the cat or the death?” the mysterious caller asked.

This was no time to get cute. “The threat, motherfucker!”

“Ohh, getting angry, are we?”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“But for some reason you are; you’re interested—you’re intrigued.”

“Go to fucking Hell!”

“Yes, I will, there is no doubt, but first let me tell you that your dear Kirsten will board a plane and unfortunately, you’ll never hear from her again.”

The line clicked dead.

Corty tried to search for the number, but the number had been blocked.

“What a fucking asshole,” said Cory.

Truer words have never been uttered. I’m back, did you miss me?

He tried to hit redial, but his cell rang first.

You have no idea how redial works, do you?

He dropped it in surprise. He looked at the ID. It was Kirsten.

He thought maybe someone was playing a prank on him and she was in on it.

Some fucking prank, he thought.

Seriously, what kind of prank would that be? What purpose would it serve? This is reaching astronomical heights of stupid.

“Kirsten,” he said. “Hey, baby.”

“Just checking on you, sweetie.”

“The electric just went out.” He wasn’t going to mention the prank unless she mentioned it first.

There’s a plan of brilliance.

“Did it? I was just wanting to know if you caught that Aaron Rayburn interview.”

Cory’s heatbeat wouldn’t slow down.

It turned out to be a heart arrythmia and he died.

He kept thinking about his last phone call. “Yeah, I caught the last part of it.”

“What did you think?”

“Weird shit. If I was him I wouldn’t know how to handle it, either.”

He seemed to handle it fine. Didn’t you how how pleased he was that people were dying?

“Did you finish the book?” Kirsten asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yep.”

There was a moment of silence. It was as if neither of them wanted to talke about it. Cory wanted to tell her what Mrs. Horton had said and ask her about the last phone call, but he didn’t want to frighten her.

Or warn her.

What he did want to aks her was if there was some kind of hidden last story in the book, but he didn’t want to sound as if he was actually buying into all that bullshit hype.

Because that would be the smart thing to do.

“So what are you going to do in the dark?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Sit here and wait for the power, I guess.”

“Don’t you have a gas fireplace?”

Cory laughed to himself. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He let a huge breath of air, got up and switched on the fireplace. A soft orange-yellow glow gave the room a cozy mid-1800s feel.

I really don’t think the Victorian Era was all that cozy.

“Now that you have light, what are you going to do?” Kirsten asked.

“What’s with the questions?” he asked, suspicious.

Oh God, she knows about the sheep!

“I’m just asking,” she said defensively. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing.”

“So…”

This is just riveting, I’m hanging on by my fingernails.

“So, I guess I’ll reread some of the stories in the book. You know, my favorites.”

“Which were?”

“Breaking and Entering was pretty good. The Lord is My Sheperd, Sanctified. I might even get inspired to start my very own.”

Very own what?

Kirsten made a cooing sound.

It was from the hole I put through her neck.

“I didn’t know you wanted to do anything like that.

“Either did I,” said Cory.

It’s Neither you dried, ass berry.

“But I think Rayburn’s writing is the type that inspires people to do it. I can’t really explain it.”

Christ, he’s pulled out the sex swing. And, yeah, people read this and think, “If this shite can get published than so can I!”

“Well, go for it, big boy. And whatever you come up with, I’ll love it!”

She’ll be the only one.

“Thanks, Kirsten. I really appreciate that.”

“Just so long as you don’t write anything like Another Kind of Abortion. I dind’t like that too well. That was sick.”

Here’s your chance. Ask her.

“Kirsten. Was that the last story in the book?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just wondering. Were there any blank pages at the end?”

“Yeah, I think so. Right after the Notes section. More than usual, I think. Why do you ask?”

“It’s stupid, really. I heard that after you read every story, there’s supposed to be another story that magically appears on those blank pages.”

Kirsten didn’t say anything for a while. “Well, that’s stupid.”

Do you just randomly pick which words to italicize?

“Just telling you what I heard.”

“First, the book girl tells you about nightmars and now there’s supposed be a hidden story?”

“Just telling you what I heard,” he said again. He picked up his book, casually flipped through the pages with his thumb, came to the last couple of pages and saw print.

Holy shit.

Just think, somewhere paint is drying and we’re missing it.

He dropped the book.

“What was that?” Kirsten asked.

“Uh, nothing. I just dropped something.” His heart was rampant inside him, his senses flaring.

So his heart is occuring unchecked, growing wildly, or fierce and his sense are inflamed.

“Can you call me later? I really have to go to the bathroom. It’s urgent.”

“Sure. I love you.”

“Love you back.”

Rayburn has never seen a real couple interact, has he?

Cory hung up the phone and picked up the book. He turned to the last page of the Notes section, turned the page to the picture of the star, then slowly turned to the next page.

That’s a lot of words to say, “He turned to the last story where the pages had previously been blank.”

Staring up at him was the title, The 22^nd Story.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled. He scanned down the print, turned the page, and found it blank. He went back to the prior page.

He, he, he, he, he. Repetitious much?

“The 22^nd Story,” he said, then began to read. Once he got to the bottom he realized the story was just getting started and the sentence was broken by the end of the page. Hew turned the page, staring at a blank page, not understanding. Then the words of the page began to materialize like dead fish rising to the surface of a pond.

That is the dumbest metaphor I’ve ever read.

“Holy shit,” he said again, watching to words form in front of him.

He started to read, but his concentration was broken by a siren in the distance. Before he could get halfway down the page, he noticed the siren was getting closer—closer than usual.

Are the police normal visitors to your neighborhood?

Now it was on his street. He looked up and saw flashing red lights. It pulled into the neighbor’s driveway, killing its siren.

“Mrs. Horton?” he said, standing up, letting the book fall to the floor.

She heard a Who.

He went out the door and watched the scene unfold before him.

Mrs. Horton was carried out on a stretcher, her son beside her, crying. Mrs. Horton was not moving.

His phone rang again. It was Kirsten again.

“Cory!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I opened the book up again—just now—and I saw it!”

Calm down. Just calm down.

This is the least tense scene in the history of literature.

“Saw what?”

“The goddamn story, Cory. It’s called The 22^nd Story.”

Calm down. Just calm down.

Stop telling me what to do!

Cory didn’t know what to say. Should he tell her that he had already read the first page and a half or tell her he hadn’t seen it yet?

Why lie?

“I know,” he said. “It’s in mine too.”

“Did you start it yet?”

“Not really, “ he said. “I was just interrupted by an ambulance at Mrs. Horton’s house.”

He doesn’t sound worried, he sounds inconvienced.

“Oh, God. Wht happened?”

“I don’t know. All I seen was Mrs. Horton being carried out on a stretcher.”

“Jesus, I hope she’s all right.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“You don’t think she needed some kind of electrical device to survive, do you?”

What?

Cory thought a moment. He couldn’t remember if she was hooked up to anything or not. He shook his head. “I don’t know. But the electric hasn’t been out that long.”

Those things run on batteries, you fuck wit! It’s more likely she fell and hit her head trying to find a flashlight because you were too fucking dumb to go check on her!

Suddenly the electric came back on.

“The freaking electric just came back on.”

“Oh, poor Mrs. Horton.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame,” said Cory, turing down the volume on the T.V. “I hope she’ll be all right.”

Do you feel anything at all?

“I’m coming back on the first flight there,” said Kirsten.

Goosembumps flared over Cory’s skin, the words of the mysterious caller echoing loudly in his ears. Was she trying to send him to red alert? It was working.

The Threat Level has been upgraded to Plaid! I repeat, we’re at Code Plaid!

“My friend is driving me to the airport now,” said Kirsten.

The friend not worthy of a name.

“You’re coming back now?” He still wasn’t sure if he should tell her about the werid phone call he got a moment ago.

Why the fuck not!!!

“Yes, I’m scared. I want to be with you.”

“Honey, I want to be with you too, but there’s nothing wrong here.”

“I know, but…want…”

“Hello? Kirsten? You still there?”

Cory waited but nothing came. He clicked the phone shut. “Goddamn it!” He tried to dial her number, but the call wouldn’t go through. “Shit.”

The news anchor came back to life, his voice rising, as if someone was turning the volume up.

You’re sitting on the remote, dumbass.

“Nationwide catastrophe strikes,” said the anchor. “Allow me to start from the beginning. Earlier this evening, there was an account of a man from Cynthiana, Kentucky—just north of Lexington, who tied his girlfriend to the railroad tracks. Authroities have not released the names of the invovled. They were not able to rescue the victim.

“Off the coast of Washington in the town of Pacific Beach, a man was seen swimming in the ocean at dusk. A couple on their honeymoon noted to police that the man kept getting further and furhter out. The man was never found

“On the shoulder of Interstate 27 Northbound in Texas—just south of Amarillo, tow bodies were found inside an abandoned 1992 Camaro. The identites have not been found. Dental records are pending.

“The authorities in the small town of Indiana, Pennyslvania have apprehended a local Baptis preacher for the murder of a man wo was convicted of the rape of his daughter. The convict had been recently released from prison.

“At a US Bank in Jonesboror, Arkansas, it is reported that a man has strapped a bomb to himself and has taken an undetermined amount of money. The man did not get far. The bomb detonated one-hundred yards from the bank, injuring ten people and killing three, including himself.

“In the small town of Lost River, Idaho, there was reported a man who barricaded himself in his home, claiming suidice. The victim never made it out alive. Upon further inspection of hishome, there were found six other victims in three deep freezers in the basement.

“And lastly at a prison in Alabama it is reported that a female guard has opened fire from a watch tower of ten of her co-workers. This event had just happened minutes ago, so there are no names to report.

“It has also been brought to my attentiuon that all of these occurrences are very similar to stories from Aaron Rayburn’s newest book, The Devil’s Children, which have been found in numerous crime scenes across the nation. Whether any of these tragic events have anything to do with the pehnomena regarding the recent events from the book is not known. Mr. Rayburn could not be reached for questioning.”

*Yawn* Was there a point to that completely, unrealistic news cast? I mean, other than for Rayburn to wank to it. And, for the love of monkey spunk, will you figure out tenses? That was painfully hard to understand.

Cory’s hand was over his mouth as if to stifle the shock that exuded from him.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked himself. “I feel like I’ve just been thrown into a Twilight Zone episode.” He looked around for Rod Serling. But of course he wasn’t there.

He wouldn’t be caught dead associating with this shit.

But if he had been…

What? Was that an injoke or something? That made no sense.

No, that was ridiculous.

Really? An old lady just died, you got a threatening phone call, and your girlfriend may be about to bite it and this is your reaction?

He peeked out the window toward Mrs. Horton’s house. Everyon was gone. The ambulance was gone.

They don’t stick around, you know?

Nothing but darkness and solitude. The neighborhood was quiet…as if it was waiting.

The ice cream truck was late!

He flipped off the T.V., sat in the recliner, grabbed the book, and opened it to the last story.

Thses list of actions are getting tedious.

He started from the beginning again. But this time there was different script, different words, a different meaning.

Oh God, we have to read through this tripe again. Actually, no fuck it. It’s just more fap material. I’m not typing it out. It’s the exact same intro from the start of the story, go read it there. My fingertips are raw enough as it is.

Cory rejected the urge to turn the page. A force of great will made him close the book and throw it into the fire. Rayburn’s image stared up at him.

Kill it with fire! KILL IT WITH FIRE!!

The edges of the book burned, but that was it.

Even fire is hesitant to touch it.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Kirsten?” he said, walking toward it. But he knew it was impossible that Kirsten would be at the door. Unless she had taken an early flight and wanted to surprise him.

If I roll my eyes any harder they’re going to fall out of my head.

He turned the knob and pulled the door open.

Standing before him was Aaron Rayburn. At least someone who looked like him.

Poor bastard.

Rayburn smiled, then stepped through the threshold, his shoulders almost touching both jambs.

I’ve seen your picture, I don’t believe for a second you are that big.

“Who are you?” Cory asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Rayburn, raising his right hand. The fire in the fireplace went out and the book flew into his waiting hand, the pages flapping like the wings of a bird in his oversized palm.

Smack my ass, SMACK MY ASS, now call me Susan!

“How dare you try to burn my masterpiece.”

We have an Ego update. Rayburn’s ego is now so large it is developing a gravitational pull strong enough to effect other galaxies. Astronomers fear this could result in the destruction of the universe.

“Was that you who called earlier?” Cory asked.

So the witchcracft phased you none?

Rayburn did not answer. He seemed to bore a whole thorugh Cory with his vicious stare.

Oh, I’m so evil and intimidating, I scare small children. Oh yeah, say your afraid of me. Say your afraid! *sob*

“Why are you here?”

And why aren’t I having an emotional reaction to your invasion of my home?

“It is time to serve your punishment,” said Rayburn.

“I didn’t read the last story!” Cory shouted. “And I haven’t dreampt of all the stories, either!”

Rayburn laughed mockingly.

Your adverbs suck suckily.

“There’s no need to,” he said. “It was my father who has told me to come get you.”

“Your father?”

*sigh* It’s Satan, isn’t it?

Rayburn pointed to his feet.

Son of a bitch.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?”

Cory was more confused as ever. His mind was turning, but there was a miss somewhere. “Just tell me wath’s going on. With the book, with you, with what’s going on around the country, with everything!”

Strap in people, this self gratifying fantastical piece of cat shit is about to take off. And on top of all that, it’s some of the weakest writing I’ve ever seen published. Rayburn is the king of cheap tactics.

Rayburn shrugged. “It really makes no difference to me.”

You have no idea what a trope is, do you?

“So tell me.”

“I thought you were one of my number one fans?” said Rayburn.

“You’re writing is great, but as far as you, as a person, I know nothing.”

“You’re writing is great.” YOU’RE writing. I believe that speaks for itself.

“Allow me to start with the book. It is the Devil Himself that makes it so good. A little bit of His debauchery goes into each book printed. It is His curse that has everyone who has read it in its entirety, die. As for the events spreading across the country…Think of me as a modern day Nostrodamus. Maybe I wrote stories that foretold the future. But maybe because because of the stories, people have acted out the plots.” He raised his hand again and the television winked on.

That was so stupid I think my brain cells are starting to commit suicide.

Cory looked at the anchor once more. The scene shifted to a deserted field. In the center of the screen was a burning, smoking pile of rubble. He looked over at Rayburn, confused.

This is apparantly the only emotion he knows.

“Listen.”

Cory turned back to the T.V.

“The lastest in a chain of occurrences spreading acorss the country, directly or indirectly related to the stories in Aaron Rayburn’s book, The Devil’s Children, was an airplane that went down near Kokomo, Indiana. The airplane was Flight 665 from Minneapolis to Cincinnati. There were no survivors.”

And guess what, Cory, you didn’t warn her so it’s your fault!

Kirsten immediately entered into Cory’s mind. “No. No, this can’t be happening.”

This might be sad expcept for the fact we know nothing about them other than they’re an “average couple,” have horrible taste in books, and say “I love you” every five seconds. We don’t know how the met, how long they’ve been going out, what their hobbies are, even what they look like. There is no emotional connection to these characters.

“What’s the matter, Cory? Was what I told you not the truth?”

Cory diarled Kirsten’s cell phone. She did not pick up. Fury steamed within him.

He’s cooking fury inside of himself?

He held up a shaking hand at the T.V. “Did you cause that?”

“The story is not in this collection,” said Rayburn, holding up his book. “It’s a work that was omitted from this collection.” He shrugged. “So in retrospect, I guess it was a part of this collection.” He gestured toward the television. “Hence the occurrence.”

Rayburn, please stop trying to sound intelligent. You just come off as pompous.

“My furutre wife was on that plane,” Cory growled through angry tears.

See. See! He’s not sad, he’s angry and inconvienced. Rayburn has no idea what real human emotions are.

Rayburn touched his chest gingerly.

Because that is where I had just shot him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. But did I not try to warn you?”

“It was too late!”

No, no it wasn’t.

Cory shouted, tears squiriting from the corners of his eyes.

….Wait, what? How is that physically possible?

“And you knew it!”

“What is it that you would like me to do? Compose a story where the two of you live happily ever after?”

Reality was something Cory didn’t like to deal with much of the time, but reality in this here and now was telling him that he had to do something, something he wasn’t comfortable with.

Get down on his knees and worship Rayburn. Physically.

Rayburn was here for a reason.

To get his ego stroked.

Whether he was some sick Devil-worshipping freak or not, Cory felt he had to take control of the situation. What that meant, he wasn’t quite sure.

*Yawn* Watching my cat attack its own shadow has more suspense and mystery than this.

A surge of adrenaline took control of Cory and he charged the looming figure in front of him.

Looming? *snort*

But just before he took two full steps, the front door flew open, and a gust of ice-cold wind blew inside. And with it came dozens of people.

Because Rayburn needs an audience to feel validated.

Cory recognized each and every one of them: Chuck, Alex, Bryan, Victor, Walt, Gertrude, Jack, David, Max, John, Glenn, Justin, Kassidy, and Don.

That’s only 14. That’s a Baker’s Dozen plus 1. It’s awfully impressive that you recognize all of them since Rayburn is shit at description.

They were the characters from the stories.

We got that, thanks.

He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did.

That makes two of us.

And the last of course was Aaron Rayburn. The leader of the pack, the last of the Devil’s children. The Anti-Saint.

That’s right people, the Anti-Saint. Behold the pinnacle of Rayburn’s “genius.”

All figures converged on Cory.

As Cory’s life faded away, the television blinked on one last time.

Jesus on a giraffe, this is anti-climatic.

Aaron Rayburn was leaned back on a couch somewhere in T.V. land. The question, “How many people do you think have died from reading this book?” was aksed from someone off screen.

Rayburn smmiled wickedly, then said, “Have you seen the four horsemen lately?”

“No,” came the answer.

“Then not enough.”

###

Oh, thank Cthulhu, it’s over. The only horrifying part of this story was the fact that the author thinks it's good. That it's a work of "genius." 90% was boring as hell dialogue that went no where. This could have been a thousand words shorter and lost nothing.

And if you think that was bad you should read his introductions. The man is delusional, dangerously delusional.

I'm done for now. I need a shower, a beer, and a good cuddle with my teddy bear.

Diary of a Morbid Deviant

Friday, December 3, 2010

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