The night the Rhymer went whack

46

Sweat, puke, denim, meth, false bravado, Marlboros, black eyes, tooth decay, ignorance, Budweiser, piss stains, killers, rapists, concussions, work boots, tattoos, pool cues, mud, broken glass, scars, shotguns, 22s, armpit odor, bandanas, plaid, degeneracy and Nick

saturated a dive bar on the remote side of town waiting for the entertainment to begin. Boarded up with plywood and further protected with vile graffiti, it looked abandoned and decrepit with its dim lights and smoky air filled with puffs of maliciousness. Regardless, it was packed. Packed with the souls that belonged in that environment.

She, tall and heavyset, was led to the stage. Her eye bruised nearly shut and bloodshot, gown strap torn and hanging, limping as a result of one fractured heel. A false smile revealed tooth number nine was missing. Handprints and smudges dotted her pearl-white dress. The blotches showed she cared about her looks despite the visibility of dirt. She looked a mess but—she could sing. A shaky grip clutched the mic as glazed eyes circled the room for an escape.

She settled, realizing the only exit was in the mic she was holding. Her eyes sought darkness as she cued her music, patted dry her top lip then wiped her brow and cheek. They expected perfection, having come to this saloon for this exact entertainment, a respite from their troublesome lives. Her throat now cleared, ready, she opened her eyes and smiled toward the crowd. “At first I was afraid, I was petri—” That was as far as she got as it was her bottom lip, its quiver, that failed her. Those first few notes not on key enough, resulted in a shot right between her eyes.

But the show must go on as the MC methodically dragged her body off stage where she now laid in a pool of her own blood, blond hair now crimson, still with the mic in her hand. No “Boos” rang out in a place like this. Dislike meant bullets, so Nick tugged the mic from her warm dead hands before melodically making his way to the stage.

Chaos had usurped order as violence, destruction and terror stood tall. A great war had disrupted the world’s equilibrium tilting it totally to the side of injustice so with anarchy in the streets, it was every man, woman and child for themselves; armed and dangerous, kill or be killed. Town borders, distinguished states and country precincts had become a thing of the past. Now it was just Earth and its citizens, fighting like animals to survive with no order and no law. And some relished in this new world, killing for the fun of it, raping for the game of it and being mischievous for the sake of it. These vagabonds would often cross paths and at times even do battle amongst one another, so eventually, with gained respect toward each other they decided once a year to celebrate their wickedness. And tonight, was that celebration.

So Nick, privy of this annual gathering of the world’s worst killers and rapists, knew no better place to begin his destiny. With no invitation, he had snuck in and plotted his move. He looked too young to be in this environment. Not particularly out of place with his pale complexion, bald head and deep set eyes, just his small stature and virgin appearance didn’t measure up to the burliness and brute appeal of the audience. He now stood in front of the mic stand and waited. Forever, as he basked in the confused throng all with the same souls of death and amusement, yet pleasurably excited. He stayed paused, thoughtful of the world’s ill societies and how lawlessness now ruled the Earth and how he, beginning with tonight, would add depth to that unruliness and take his place as the most evil of the evil.

He was perfect for this world, the malignity that prevailed throughout was natural to him, combined with his skill set designed to master animal, man and all living things. And now with that talent perfected he relaxed in the room taking in its brutality and brusqueness; its anxiety, energy and strength. His time was now.

Finally, he squished his toes in the puddles of blood then raised his bare foot and stomped in it, splashing the patrons nearest the stage. The quick reflexed opened their mouths like chicks, tasting the gore, but where the hatchlings fed for life, these souls savored death. They hooted and hollered, loving it. “Can’t you see I set you free; I brought you to the light?” Nick rhythmically spoke softly into the mic.

The room fell silent. He then drew a deep breath, really deep, and hissed mimicking the high pitch of a tornado siren, he held that note until the crowd relaxed into grins and handshakes. Then he quickly breathed again before steadily decreasing his tone to a barely audible rumble, earthquake like, then lower, no longer noticeable to the crowd but nonetheless present. He held that note until all were engulfed in a hypnotic trance. Having achieved his effect, he quickly reversed course then high pitched the crowd, screaming and stabbing ears with an annoying ring that provoked a disturbance as they began attacking one another with bottles, knives and guns.

Within seconds, tables were overturned, shots rang out, knives penetrated flesh with total mayhem as no one tried to run for cover, all desiring to participate in the violence. “As I lay you down on blood-stained sheets,” Nick spat lyrically, enjoying the frenzy that he created. His smirk indicated his enjoyment as he continued, “with stains of the remains of those no longer pained.” He then forced out a scream, mouth wide open but no sound emitted from his throat.

Puzzled, the mob momentarily ceased until suddenly, a pack of wild dogs burst through the doors in full attack mode. With guns nearly emptied and knives still embedded in the dead, there was little defense as the mauling began, pitting human against beast while Nick stood there reveling in his creation. The cacophony of sound pleased him as he stood with his eyes closed, head tilted to the ceiling and arms extended and raised high: the whizzing of stray bullets as they found unintended targets, the snapping of bones from vicious bites, the grunts, the growls and the gasps of last breaths. The canines soon outnumbered the humans, steadily arriving and killing until no one was left standing except for Nick, bald-headed and slim, leather jacket and now bloody black jeans; his feet now an inch deep in blood as his eyes squinted maliciously in front of his mic stand, silently.

He clicked his tongue then emitted a high pitch yelp and immediately all the remaining canines that were chewing the flesh of the dead ceased. They howled at Nick, the alpha, and licked his hands and sniffed his legs as he exited the building. He went and untied the starved dogs out back as they too joined the wild pack and followed at his heels now willing to do his bidding. The dogs could sniff out negativity, fear, threats and impending danger. They protected Nick as he walked the streets surrounded by canines providing immunity to the pressures of the uncivilized streets, no guns or knives needed.