The Lizard King

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
Based on the work of Jim Morrison. A man flees into the desert after murdering his father.

Submitted: July 20, 2010

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Submitted: July 20, 2010



The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on. Lifting the edge of his mattress, he pulled the gun out from beneath it. Holding it limply in his hand the killer walked on down the hall. He stopped at a door midway down the passage and silently opened it.

His sister stirred in bed. The killer watched her as if waiting for some unknown enemy he knew was coming to jump out of the shadows and attack her. Nothing came. The killer watched a moment more, then closed the door and preceded down the hall. Stopping at another door the killer opened it.

His brother lay sleeping in his bed. The killer walked across the room. The only sound to be heard was the CLUNK, CLUNK of his boots on the wooden floor. Setting the gun on the bedside table the killer took the twisted and wrapped blankets at the end of the bed, fixed them and laid them over his still sleeping brother.

The killer picked up the gun once more and, holding it at his side, went back across the room and out into the hall.

Proceeding down the passage, the killer paid no attention to the faces on the wall, but kept going until he came to a door at the end of the hall. He turned the knob, almost as silently as he had done with his brothers door.

The killer was completely calm and emotionless as he entered the room. Sprawled across the bed lay a single man, oblivious to the killer standing over him.

“Father…” the killer said.

The man stirred.

“Yes, son?”

The killer raised his gun calmly and shot him in the head.

Red warmth hit the killers face. He left the room, closing the door behind him and left the house. He walked, not knowing where he was going, the gun still in hand. The sun rose. The heat of the day dried the blood of his father to his face.

He was in the desert, barely feeling the sun slowly baking him alive. He came to a gathering of trees surrounding a small stream. Just a little oasis in the middle of nowhere. The killer cupped the water in his hand and splashed it into his mouth.

The killer washed his face and, stretching out under a tree, he fell asleep.

The killer dreamed. He dreamed of shouting voices and crying women. Of bruised and beaten women. Of children huddled together under a bed and whiskey smelling men with belts. He dreamt of creeping noises in the hall and shadowy figures over his bed.

Waking not long after, the killer stared into the eyes of a small lizard resting on his chest. He rose to his feet, brushing the lizard off and, tucking the gun beneath his shirt, continued through the desert. He came to a highway. A stretch of road going as far as the eye could see. It didn’t even look like it belonged there but it was.

A car was moving along the highway and the killer-turned-hitchhiker stood by the side of the road and leveled his thumb. The car slowed to a stop and the driver popped the passenger door open.

“Where ya headed?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” the hitchhiker said. “Where are you headed?”

“Los Angeles.”


The hitchhiker climbed in and the car was moving again before he had even shut the door.

They hadn’t gone far when the driver noticed the hitchhiker, almost as if for the first time. His hair, a great mane of brown, tangled hair, fell past his shoulders. He was unshaven and his jeans and boots were caked with dust.

“Hey’s that beer in the back?” the hitchhiker asked.

“Uhh, yeah.”

The hitchhiker reached in back and popped open a can with his gritty fingernails. He propped his feet up on the dashboard and started sipping. This irritated the driver, who had just purchased the Mustang the week before, and he said so.

The signs and the streetlights laminated the night of Los Angeles. It was a different world after dark. Less structured. People could hide, which made it safer and more dangerous at the same time. In a burned out block of L.A.’s nightlife the once-hitchhiking-killer stood inside a phone booth, waiting.

“Hi,” he said. “Yeah I just got in town… I don’t know… it’s dark man, I can’t see anything… yeah I figured they would be… he wasn’t the only one though… no I’m not shitting you… just this guy who gave me a ride, he started giving me trouble… alright.”

The killer hung up.

The killer walked down the brightly lit boulevards of phantastic L.A.

“Hey guys, you got any LSD in there?” he asked a few guys hanging outside a club.

“Nah man, sorry,” one of them answered.

“Jesus, I thought this was supposed to be L.A.” the killer remarked.

The killer was tripping in some dive later that night, trying to separate from himself. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but it felt like hours passing as swiftly as minutes. He felt someone tugging at his shirt.

“Stop that,” he said, somewhat detached.

He could feel a woman’s hand lifting up his shirt.

“What is that?” she asked, referring to the large scar on his ribs.

“My father was a real bastard.”

“Hey, mine too.”

He could feel her hands run over the scar.

“I said don’t so that!”

He turned violent and shoved the woman across the room. The bartender reached for something behind the counter and started to pull out something, but the killer reached for his gun and blew him away.

In a fit of rage, one that he hadn’t experienced when shooting his father, the killer emptied the rest of his clip into his reflection behind the bar. Someone came up behind him and, not bothering to look who it was, the killer slammed the butt of his gun into the person’s skull. Tossing the gun to the floor, the killer ran out the door.

He didn’t have to go far when he came across a middle-aged woman exiting her vehicle. Without breaking stride the killer grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the car door. Grabbing her keys he started the ignition and raced off.

The killer raced along the highway. He ran his bloody fingers through his tangled hair. He hadn’t wanted to kill the bartender… or the driver. But he didn’t feel guilt over them either. It was necessary.

Dawn’s light began to peak over the horizon and the killer didn’t know how far he’d gone. He looked at the speedometer. It read seventy-one. The killer could see a truck coming towards him from the opposite direction. He didn’t know what it was about the truck the captivated him, but he watched it as they moved towards each other.

Something moved out in front of him on the road. It was a lizard. A large, beautiful lizard. One that you shouldn’t have been able to locate in the Western America. The killer swerved the wheel and the car slammed into the side of the truck as it passed him. The last thing the killer saw were the Indians, huddled in the back, thrown from the bed of the truck as it flipped over.

The killers body lay sprawled across the road. When the ambulance came the Paramedic wanted to remove the body, but it was covered in small lizards. He tried to frighten them away, but none of them would move.

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