Posts Tagged Simple Man

Fortnightcap: Simple Man

Simple Man

A Fortnightcap by DL Thurston

Creative Commons License

They were wrong.

They were ever so wrong.

McKinley was dead, his insides torn up by an assassin’s bullet.  So shocking of a violent act against a president so clearly loved by his people.  Killed by this man who sat before them, defiant.

The two Buffalo police officers paced the dingy room, poorly lit, but he didn’t much care about the light.  They were ever so wrong, and that amused him greatly.

“You might make things easier for everyone if you just talk.”

The assassin shook his head.  His voice that bubbled up out of his throat, an unrecognizable accent that turned every word into a gasp for breath.  “I don’t care about your ease.  Your people are slow and weak.  Your leaders are paltry figureheads.  A new order will come.  Your president’s blood will slake no thirsts, it is only a taste.  It will embolden my people to rise up in greater and greater numbers.  This world of yours is over.”

“God damn it.  You know what we have here?” asked one of the men in uniform to the other.

“We have ourselves a god damned anarchist,” the other responded, spitting.

They were wrong.  He was not an anarchist.  Though he sought the downfall of the political structures built around the planet, he wished them replaced by order.  A new order.  A horrible order.  His order.

“Why’d you do it?”

His smile was broad, his teeth black.  “I did it for her.  So she would love me.”

“You think he means that Goldman bitch?”

“Get someone to bring her in as an accessory.  Been wanting to nail something on her for years.”

They were wrong.  He didn’t care about the love of this “Goldman.”  He wouldn’t have know her from any of the other women on this planet.  They all disgusted him.  They were maggots, whelps, god damn things.  He cared only about the love of his mother.  His horrible mother and queen.

The men asking him questions were scared.  He could taste it, like a fine sauce that made his mouth water for more.  They tried to mask it with their anger, but that only added spice to the air.  He let them hold him only because he wished to be held.  A meal is that much better when prepared fresh.  By hand.  He knew a fine feast awaited him, and that excited him.  He opened his mouth to get a full taste of the air.

“Want to say something else?  C’mon, give me someone else I can pull in.  Give me all your little anarchist buddies.”

Yes.  Yes, that was it.  The salty machismo that brought everything else together.  They were nearly done.  This whole world was nearly done.  From the south his kind would come, hundreds, thousands, millions.  They would savor their first full meal in eons.

He closed his mouth and the men tasted disappointed.

“You’re going to fry, you twerp.  You hear me?  Czolgosz is going to fry.”

They were wrong.  So magnificently wrong, and they wouldn’t know it until far too late.  He’d given his name to the woman, but she didn’t understand it.  She was thin, but she tasted fatty.  She would be his dessert.  He’d told her very clearly, his name was not Czolgosz.

His name was Shoggoth.

Fortnightcaps are biweekly experimentation into short form fiction. All Fortnightcaps are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. So if you like the story, please feel free to link people back here. And if you didn’t, maybe the one in two weeks will be better.  Title inspiration comes from The Ballad of Czolgosz, written by Stephen Sondheim for his musical Assassins.  Check it out, sung by Neil Patrick Harris.

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