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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A sick, desperate degenerate gets his just desserts.

Submitted: October 18, 2016

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Submitted: October 18, 2016




Mike “The Fiddler” Davis woke up early; his stomach felt as though it was filled with a hundred screaming tumors. He took a bump from the vodka bottle, and immediately vomited blood. The ulcer was getting worse and it was hard to get out of bed.  He was trembling all over...


He knew the day that was in front of him, and he was beyond nervous. Mike had to repay his debt to Mr. Salducci. When he borrowed the thirty grand, The Fiddler did not intend to pay it back.  He planned on fleeing to Mexico, but that didn't happen.


Salducci found him before he could go. He had eyes everywhere. When Mike told the Don he could not pay, he was given a job to square away the debt. The task put before him was horrendous, but it was this or two bullets to the head.

Salducci did not fuck around.

He was to kidnap a child, and deliver it to Salducci's office to be sold on the black market.

Mike had a lurching pain in his bowels and he was sweating profusely. He was no kidnapper. Mr. Davis shook as he planned this horrible deed. A wave of sickness came over him when he saw the direction his life had taken. He paced back and forth in his tiny apartment, playing different scenarios out in his head. The prospect of escaping this horrible situation was not likely.

Mike looked out the window and saw one of Salducci's men standing in front of his apartment. It was Stevie “Meathooks” Carbone, the Don’s first in command. This was serious.

The Fiddlers mind reeled. He had no experience abducting children and the thought of doing so appalled him. So many questions were tearing through his brain; he found it hard to focus. He tried another slug of vodka. This time it stayed down and helped Mike regain his composure.

Where would I go to snatch this kid?

After thinking it over, Mike figured the mall would be best. It seemed a logical place, plenty of kids, and a lot of confusion.

God, what am I doing?

He got dressed, and took a three-second chug from his vodka bottle. This was so fucked up, Mike could not believe what he was about to do. He locked up his apartment and walked to his car. He threw a small bag containing duct tape and rope on the front seat.


The fiddler gritted his teeth, and got into the car.


After a twenty-minute drive, Mr. Davis arrived at the South Bend Mall.


He took a breath, and then hit the vodka one more time. After lighting a smoke, Mike slowly started walking to the storefront.


After snuffing out his cigarette at the entrance, he grabbed the door handle. Mike stopped for a minute, and got his bearings. The Fiddler entered the mall, and looked around. There were plenty of kids, but he did not know what to do next. A wave of sick anxiety washed over him and he had second thoughts about this whole thing.

 The alternative was death, so the decision was easy.

After trolling the mall for over an hour, Mike could not get up the nerve to do the deed. He shook his head and sighed. Another failure.

He left the mall, half relieved, and half terrified. Mike accepted the fact that he was going to die. After lighting a cigarette, he started the long drive back to Salducci’s.

As Mike passed by the cemetery, he spotted a young boy, kicking a can. This was a secluded part of town, and there was no one else around. The Fiddler felt a wave of excitement shoot through his spine. This was the kid.

Mike slowed the car down and passed by the boy. Preoccupied with his can kicking, the kid did not even notice him. The Fiddler stopped the car and got out. He quickly snatched up the child and put his hand over his mouth.

For some reason, the kid did not even put up a fight.

As Mike threw the boy into the backseat, he looked into the kids eyes. Immediately, a sense of terror washed over him.

Mike got into the car and drove off. The world was buzzing and out of focus. The Fiddler could not believe what he had just done. Sweat poured down his forehead as he tried to calm down.

The Fiddler pulled on to the freeway, still agitated and nervous. An eerie sound came from the backseat. It was the boy. He was humming. The hair on Mike’s neck stood up as the melody creeped into his brain. He recognized the tune from when he was young.

The humming got louder and then, in a shrill voice, the boy began to sing.


Don't ever laugh when a hearse goes by,

Or you may be the next to die.


Mike was terrified. He looked back at the young boy, he was smiling, and his eye sockets were empty.


They wrap you up in a bloody sheet,

And bury you under about six feet.


Shut the fuck up, kid.” Mike whined. He began to tremble.


All goes well for a couple of weeks,

But then your coffin begins to leak.


The Fiddler clawed at his face. “Stop…please stop.”


The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out,

The worms play pinochle on your snout.


The singing got louder. Mike tried to cover his ears but it did not help. He bashed his fist on the steering wheel. “No more…no more!”


Your stomach turns a slimy green,

And pus comes out of you like whipped cream.


The car veered from side to side, slamming into the other vehicles on the freeway. Horns were honking, and the sound of screeching tires mingled with the boy’s song. Mike swerved into oncoming traffic and collided, head on with a pick-up truck.

 The Fiddlers skull liquefied and the seat belt cut him in two.


You lap it up with a piece of bread,

And that's what you eat when you are dead.


The first deputy on scene approached the wreckage. He saw both drivers were obviously dead. After the accident scene was cleaned up, the officer asked the firefighter about the boy in the backseat.

“There was no boy, only a pair of shoes.”



© Copyright 2018 Christof McTarnahan . All rights reserved.

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