A Most Malicious Prosecution

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic


Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“You feel that?”

Drip.

“That’s you dying, Ricky!" Laughs.

Drip.

“You a juicey boi!”

Drip.

Drip.

“Leaking all that blood that gives your system motion and thought.”

Drip. Drip.

“You gonna be dirt in a lil while, and I’m talking to a fading soul!”

Drip. Drip.

“Man, how does it feel to know your time is just so dang limited?”

Drip. Drip.

“Come on, don’t leave me hanging dear! Give me some parting words!”

Drip. Drip. Drip….Drip.

“… Alright fine,” responded the bleeding man.

“Judging from this situation you have a lot longer to live than I do… so, I wish you well! I wish you a wonderful and long and boring life. No, not because I’m mad at you…  I’m not being spiteful. Dead ass serious – I hope you have a family and kids and watch Friends reruns late into your 100th year. I’m pretty tired from all this torture, and quite frankly, I’m ready to die. I know it’s going to happen any minute now. I’m just sort of… chillin… you know, waiting it out. I’m definitely scared of the afterlife or lack thereof, but I’m feeling real cramped here on Earth. And it’s not just all this body damage I’ve got going on here either. It’s everything, man. How mean people are to each other... I mean, look at this situation – you’ve got me looking like a pumpkin and over what… I still have no idea why I’m here. I mean, dude, I work at a factory… I have no idea why you thought you would have a good time killing me. I’m such a boring game… like shooting a doe during the rut, man. I just… frankly… this whole thing has been horrific for me… I’ll give that to you, but it feels like an absolute waste now that I have gotten numb and a little chilly. Just like the job I work at that pays me $600 a week when my VP just bought a $600,000 house. I mean, shit - big killer, why not gut him and be mean to him?! But of course your ass picked me… of course, the lottery of bad luck, someone’s gotta win it. What do you expect me to say? It’s not like you kidnapped a poet or a politician whose prose might give you something to tell your fan club in prison about when you get there. I don’t know… maybe I should ask you… rhetorically, why are you murdering me… what do you want?”

Some time passed, and the murder man thought about what our dearest Ricky had told him. The murder man went ahead and finished off Ricky.

 

 

 


Submitted: September 09, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Wilfantry. All rights reserved.

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