Posts Tagged ‘Jesse Lynn Rucilez’

PRO-T-EN Man (Short Story Excerpt)

April 22, 2018

May 4th, 2099.

United States of America.

Southwest Quadrant, Sector Two.

2030 hours.

The night came alive with the low thrum of dueling engines. PRO-T-EN Industries Corps Savant, Gunnar Eck Rourke—Job Title: Strategic Executive, Rank: Captain—sat in the comfort of his machine; military grade, custom built, and synched to his private neural-net. Molded to his form, the soft seat reclined, keeping Gunnar low as he sped along the mapped route behind a small PRO-T-EN convoy. Though traveling by autopilot, his hands lay upon the manual controls; smooth metal spheres embedded in the armrests, the throttle-ball on his left, the steering-ball on his right. Above these controls, a multifaceted console lit up the dark interior with a sharp red glow. Through his helmet visor, Gunnar saw a green 40 holding steady on his digital speedometer.

“Non-PRO-T-EN vessels and personnel detected,” Gunnar’s neural assistant, Eos, warned in its soothing, mechanized voice. Thirty seconds before, Eos had been reciting an old poem about lost, violent souls while Gunnar relaxed. Then they’d both received an alert from one of the PRO-T-EN Corps Surveillance Savants, snapping them back to attention.

A PRO-T-EN drone had identified an incoming attack, but the Savant had been too busy to launch a counterstrike, or even perform a thorough scan.

“Analysis?” Gunnar asked with a smirk.

“Four human-persons and three civilian-grade vessels, Captain Rourke. Approaching from the west. Current speed for all vessels, approximately thirty-one meters-per-second.”

Gunnar flicked his eyes from the front viewing pane to his primary monitor. The screen projected a neon blue schematic of his surroundings. All PRO-T-EN vehicles—including his own—outlined in bright green. All non-PRO-T-EN vehicles—including these new invaders—outlined in bold crimson.

“Status?”

“Unknown, Captain Rourke. The human-persons appear to be Unemployed Civilians. No data files detected, and no neural-net activity present, viral or otherwise.”

“I see. Incompetents.”

Now Gunnar glanced at his digital power gauge. A green 90 held steady, showing his primary coils at almost full capacity; plenty of wattage for a little extra maneuvering.

“The human-persons are in violation of multiple ordinances, Captain Rourke. A state of Unemployment is a Class D Transgression in all Civilian Centers. Civilians trespassing in a Corporate Sector is a Class B Transgression. Operating a civilian vessel in a Corporate Sector is a Class B Transgression. Illicitly owning a civilian vessel is a Class C Transgression.”

Gunnar’s smirk became a lupine grin. Un-Civ Incomps; lower than the lowest criminals. Gunnar, of course, knew the PRO-T-EN Industries Corps Protocols back to front. If these Incomps worked for a competitive corporation such as e-PHEMERUS Incorporated or In-E-Ware Holdings & Securities, well, the rules of engagement would be different.

But they didn’t.

Which meant that Gunnar would have to follow strict interaction procedures.

“PRO-T-EN Corps Protocol dictates that you must initiate contact in an official and professional manner, informing the human-persons of their Transgressions.”

“Ten-four, Eos. Disengage auto-pilot.”

“Autopilot disengaged.”

Sighing, Gunnar rolled his right hand over the steering-ball, leaving the convoy behind. The incoming Incomps followed—as he knew they would.

“Breaking formation,” Gunnar said, engaging his neural-net to broadcast the transmission. “Un-Civs times three in pursuit.”

A moment passed, then a bland voice returned: “Backup, Captain?”

“Negative. Standby for update.”

“Ten-four.”

Time to be Professional, Trustworthy, and Energetic!

In tribute to its color and design—and his love of classic poetry—Gunnar called his vehicle The Raven. The PRO-T-EN machine handled with the greatest of ease; a hallmark of PRO-T-EN engineering. Sleek, jet black, and flying five feet above the desert terrain, the PRO-T-EN logo—a raised, golden T—gleamed in the moonlight on its hood. The Raven resembled a combustion engine hotrod, but far more compact, and a hell of a lot tougher. Like all PRO-T-EN Corps vehicles, it had been molded from a secret, patented alloy developed by PRO-T-EN Chemical Engineering Savants. Reinforced throughout—including its front and rear ends, making it an optimal battering ram—coated with PRO-T-EN’s patented radiation-absorbent polymer, and armor-plated, The Raven had been driven through every Corporate Sector in The United States, and had suffered little damage. Gunnar himself had seen more combat than his vehicle, and sitting there, encased in this techno-magnificent pod, he felt no apprehension about confronting the Incomps. He chose to leave the running lights off as he raced into the darkness, relying instead upon his state-of-the-art tracking system. The secondary monitor displayed a neon blue schematic of his surroundings, and Gunnar didn’t see much in the way of obstacles. He had the nerve, the weaponry, and the room to operate.

The poor Incomps behind him didn’t stand a chance.

Gunnar’s assignment had been a simple one from the start: provide an armed escort for three PRO-T-EN transports from the manufacturing plant in Sector One, Civilian Center B—once known as Los, then New Angeles, California—to a PRO-T-EN Distribution Center in Sector Two, Civilian Center A—once known as Phoenix, Arizona. Classified freight; property of PRO-T-EN Industries, the greatest corporation in the world. It wouldn’t be a typical food and supplies run, but still, it seemed like a banal assignment. Captain Rourke needed banality in his life, and volunteered on the condition of approval for an Extended Consensual Absence. PRO-T-EN Health and Reproductive Services had already approved both applications to co-parent a child. He and his wife, Melisma—Department: Medical Services, Job Title: Executive Pharmacologist—had submitted their tissue samples sixteen months ago. It took nine months to get the approval, then seven more to secure an appointment with their PRO-T-EN Reproductive Services Provider. Not that Gunnar complained; he loved PRO-T-EN Industries, and revered his Savant Status with an ardor unmatched.

But he hadn’t been home, or seen Melisma, in a good long while.

Thus, banal or not, Gunnar saw this assignment as a golden opportunity. The trip had been uneventful until they’d reached fifty kilometers south of Civilian Center A’s perimeter. That’s when the Incomps appeared, two on Omnert Enterprises hover cycles, and two in an e-PHEMERUS mini-shuttle which had to be at least twenty years old; a real clunker which didn’t even have retractable solar charging panels. And they wanted the PRO-T-EN cargo.

Which meant dealing with Gunnar Rourke.

“Decrease speed to three, zero, M-P-S.”

“Decreasing speed,” Eos advised.

The Raven downshifted, its engine thrumming beneath the hood. Its internal magnetic field disruptor plowed the sand below, billowing dust in its wake. A black blur against the black night. Heading nowhere, seeking destruction.

“Hold current speed.”

“Current speed held, Captain Rourke.”

Another smirk as Gunnar watched the Incomps close in on the schematic. In seconds, a hover cycle appeared on either side. Although similar to their earlier century counterparts, their front forks attached not to tires, but flat metal discs. The Incomp riders leant forward, hands and forearms resting in slots inside their steering consoles. They wore dark helmets with ancient logos, and tattered white clothing; the attire of scavengers. The mini-shuttle, larger than The Raven but nowhere near as durable, stuck close to Gunnar’s tail.

Four dead Incomps, too dense to know they are doomed.

Content to indulge in this joyride for a few moments, Gunnar held his controls steady, and it neither surprised nor concerned him when he heard a sharp thunk! on the portside viewing pane.

“Physical attack detected,” Eos advised. “Zero percent structural damage. The human-person is in violation. Damaging PRO-T-EN property and endangering the well-being of an on-duty PRO-T-EN Savant are both Class A Transgressions. Lethal force is now permitted.”

Gunnar shook his head. This non-employable scum thought he could smash his way in with a roto-hammer while piloting a hover cycle at thirty meters-per-second! Typical. Gunnar had dealt with their kind many times before. He despised them and their rabid, illogical unwillingness to join the Civilian Centers and contribute to society. And these particular Incomps had to be insane if they thought they could engage a PRO-T-EN Corps convoy and stand even the remotest chance of success.

Thunk!

“Physical attack detected. Starboard side. Zero percent structural damage. The human-person has committed the same Class A Transgressions. Lethal force is advised.”

Gunnar glanced to his right as the other Incomp started in with a roto-hammer, too. Through the viewing pane, he saw the brand-new Iron Steed ’99 Series hover cycle, with its marbled crimson bodywork, and felt a pang of regret.

What a shame; having to destroy such a beautiful machine. Perhaps one day, Omnert Enterprises would see the light and sell their stock to PRO-T-EN Industries.

“Would you like me to execute an offensive maneuver, Captain Rourke?” Eos asked with an eager lilt.

“Negative. Hold manual settings.”

“Very well. Remember that safety is a PRO-T-EN virtue.”

“Ten-four, Eos.”

The Incomps kept hammering—

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

—and the mini-shuttle rammed The Raven’s rear bumper—

Crunch!

“Vehicular impact detected. Aft end. Two percent structural damage. All human-persons present have committed multiple Transgressions. Lethal force is now encouraged.”

The Raven wavered, but Gunnar held his course. He had these Incomps right where he wanted them, far from the PRO-T-EN cargo, and disposing of them wouldn’t be hard.

Time to dispense some PRO-T-EN justice!


If you enjoyed this excerpt, please like, subscribe, and share!

Show support on Patreon @ https://www.patreon.com/jesselynnrucilez

Thanks for reading!

JLR

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Living The Nightmare (Promo Vid)

March 17, 2018

Hey, everyone! Check out this promo vid for my new book: “Living The Nightmare”…


Don’t forget to like, subscribe, and share.

Thanks for watching!

JLR

Living The Nightmare Official Page!

March 14, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Seattle, Washington: a lonely addict, down on his luck and desperate to score, finds himself in utter turmoil. A drug deal gone bad, with both his life and his sanity hanging in the balance.

Stark City, Oregon: a lonely birthday celebrant, drunk and enraged, calls out to the devil for vengeance against his soon-to-be-ex-wife. A wish with dire consequences—especially when uttered on All Hallows’ Eve.

Two lost souls who find themselves living the nightmare.

This novella-length book contains the stories: “Freeway Park,” and “A Messy Divorce.” Both dark and haunting explorations of the so-called American Dream. Don’t miss these two tales of suspense and terror by Jesse Lynn Rucilez, author of Bobby’s Dream and Bobby’s Fight.


Available in paperback @ Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1986415325


Available in digital format @ your favorite online store, including Amazon.com, Apple iBooks, Barnes & Noble Nook, and more: https://books2read.com/links/ubl/4NR629/


Promo Vid:


Read an excerpt of “Freeway Park” here: https://jlrucilez.wordpress.com/2017/01/18/freeway-park-short-story-excerpt/


Read an excerpt of “A Messy Divorce” here: https://jlrucilez.wordpress.com/2017/01/18/a-messy-divorce-short-story-excerpt/


 

 

Death’s Avenger Volume 1 Complete!

February 8, 2018

 

I’m happy to announce that I’ve completed Volume 1 of my serialized story: “Death’s Avenger.” “Death’s Avenger” is the story of Blaine Myers, a man chosen to be an avatar of Death Itself. With no choice but to kill, Myers decides to use his dark powers to fight crime.

Volume 1 chronicles Blaine’s descent into near madness as Death invades his life. It’s comprised of a prologue, and seventeen episodes.

Below is a preview of The “Death’s Avenger” Prologue.


PROLOGUE: SKELETON MAN

January 28th, 2018.

Stark City, Oregon.

1:01 a.m.

Here I stand on the vaunted Stark City archway, looking down on Stark Boulevard. The street has grown dark and quiet; few cars, and even fewer pedestrians. From my perch I can see the edge of Bartholomew Park, where no doubt there are drug deals and illicit sex taking place. I should be there, but I’m taking my time.

What can I say? I’m still pretty new at this.

The sky above is a dark, swirling gray. A light drizzle gives everything an oily sheen. The winter wind bites deep, but I hardly feel it. There’s a coldness inside me that no earthly wind could ever touch. That means no shivering, no chattering teeth as I lurk on the concrete arch. All I’m wearing is a cheap skeleton man Halloween costume, with a matching skeleton mask, skeleton gloves, and black sneakers. I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. But it’s partly what I’ve chosen to do, and partly what I’ve been ordained to do.

I’m not caped, and I’m not a crusader. All I really am is a harbinger of Death, trying my damnedest to be a hero at the same time.

If that’s even possible.

All I know is that, up until New Year’s Eve, I was just an ordinary guy named Blaine Gregory Myers. An I.T. associate at Fortress Engineering and Structural Design. Thirty years old. No kids, but living with my longtime girlfriend, Joan. A nobody, really. Nobody special.

Try as I might, even after all that’s happened, I still can’t understand why Death chose me.

Me, of all people…

Ah, well. Doesn’t matter anymore. At this point, nothing matters except what I have to do—which feels about as safe as juggling chainsaws while blindfolded and doing a tap-dance. I’m somehow supposed to unleash Death in my own discriminate manner and save my soul at the same time. Even now, I can feel my humanity slipping away. Morbid thoughts creeping in. Urges I’ve never felt before rising in my heart. I feel utter contempt for the living; driven to murder, to kill. The same way a junkie craves his junk, I guess.

But I won’t let Death turn me into a total monster. I’ll fight it ’til the bitter, bloody end.

Still, I have to admit, this power isn’t all bad. I should be freezing my ass off, but I’m not. I used to fear the darkness; now I welcome it, wrap it around me like a blanket. I can do…things…that no one else can. I don’t even know my limitations yet. And the strength! I’ve never felt so strong before; like nothing can stop me.

Maybe that’s not true, but that’s how I feel.

And tonight, I’m looking for trouble.

The drizzle fades as the breeze strengthens. I look around, gazing through my skeleton mask at the dark, dirty street and the bright traffic lights at each intersection. Will I kill tonight? Will I again bring terror to Stark City? I don’t know. Only time will tell.

In the distance, I hear a loud, thrumming engine. Looking north, I see a pair of headlights racing down Stark Boulevard. Much too fast for this street. Behind the mask, I smile. What could it be? Someone in need of help? Punks out for a joyride?

Or maybe, just maybe, trouble has come looking for me.

Silent as a shadow, I glide across the archway and descend the stone steps on the west side of Stark Boulevard. The car begins to slow, and my instincts guide me into a nearby alleyway. Waiting. Watching. Hoping the night has brought me something tasty.

I stand motionless—not even breathing, I think—as the car coasts to a stop before the alleyway. It’s a compact, four-door car, the color of coagulated blood. I hear the thumping of club music and it fills me with hope. The rear passenger door swings open with a burst of laughter behind it. A young man lurches out with bulging eyes. Clutching the door and the frame, he vomits violently onto the sidewalk. A hand clutches the back of his coat, preventing him from falling forward.

“Pussy can’t hold his liquor!” a deep, jovial voice calls from within, followed by another burst of laughter.

My smile fades. Just kids; not really worth the effort. They are, however, probably underage, and driving drunk. Either way, I should probably put a scare into them.

Might be the only thrill I get tonight.

Concentrating, I extend my malefic aura; the inner entropy which seems to seep from my pores. I don’t disable the engine, but it dies just the same. I hear a confused murmur as I glide toward the sick young man.

“What the fuck?” the driver yells.

“Start it back up, dumbass!” the passenger says.

Click! Click! Click!

Nothing.

I don’t want the car to start, therefore it doesn’t.

“Aren’t you boys out a little late?” I say, emerging into the dismal light.

The sick young man looks up, shakes his head as if trying to clear it.

“Who the hell are you?” the young man holding his friend’s collar asks.

“Me?” I reply, drawing closer. “I’m just a ghost.”

The two young men in the front are squinting through the side window at me. I look at them, resisting all sorts of nasty ideas.

“Hey, Halloween’s over, jackass,” Driver says with a condescending smirk.

“You seen any hookers around tonight, man?” Passenger asks, chuckling. “It’s our friend’s birthday, and he really needs to get laid. But I guess the rain drove ’em all away…”

For a moment, I say nothing. I was just like these guys during my college days. I don’t want to hurt them, but at the same time, I do.

“Just take me home!” Drunk Kid mutters, collapsing back inside the car.

Click! Click! Click!

“Fuckin’ thing won’t start!” Driver says.

“But the headlights are still on!” Passenger replies.

Drunk Kid reaches for the door, and I grab it as he pulls.

“Hey, man! What the—?”

Ker-thunk!

Relishing my newfound strength, I rip the car door free as easily as if it was made of paper. The old Blaine Myers would’ve been hard-pressed to even lift a severed car door, but I, Death’s Avenger, press it over my head without strain.

“HOLY SHIT!” Drunk Kid screams.

“Fuck!” Driver screams.

“Start the car!” Passenger screams.

“I’m trying, I’m trying!”

All four faces look panicked and afraid as I retract my aura. The engine comes alive with a loud vroom!, and I toss the metal door onto the car’s roof—

Clunk!

I chuckle as the car speeds off, spinning out and burning rubber as the drunken kids make their escape. Kind of a petty thing to do, I think, stepping off the curb. But maybe they’ll go home and sober up. Maybe they’ll think twice about boozing it up next weekend.

At least now they have an inkling of how dangerous life can be.

With a swift, casual motion, I snatch the car door up and toss it into the dark alleyway. The street is dead, so I begin strolling south down Stark Boulevard, walking the solid yellow line. The wind still blows and I still don’t feel it. Passing dark building after dark building, ennui begins to set in, and I begin to ponder going home. There’s always later tonight if my bloodlust isn’t satiated.

Another block drifts past and I find myself standing before the Stark City Mall. Three stories of puerile consumerism. Clothing shops, jewelry shops, and, of course, the food court. Never in my life have I questioned the existence of such a place. I’ve always just taken it for granted that humans have material needs, America is capitalist, and business is business. But now, imbued as I am with Death, I can’t help but feel contempt for that which seems so unnecessary. I visualize all of the humanity—of which I used to belong—streaming in and out and through this place on a daily basis, and I see nothing but waste.

Wasted money.

Wasted time.

Wasted energy.

An insect colony with no hierarchy, no purpose; accomplishing nothing. They deserve what they’ll get in the end, I think. They deserve Death. They deserve me.

But, no. I must not believe that.

It isn’t true. Of course. It’s just the dark force within, driving my thoughts into a deathly spiral.

Yeah…time to go home.

I turn, intent on leaving downtown, but a faint whimper catches my attention. I turn back to the mall, and from the courtyard I hear scuffling footsteps coming toward me. Intrigued, I wait and watch as a woman emerges from the shadows behind one of the large concrete columns. A streetwalker, wearing a faded pink hoodie, black leggings, and black high-heels. Hunched against the icy wind. Hair hidden by the pink hood. Hands thrust into her pockets. A black purse dangles at her side, the strap draped crosswise around her chest and shoulder.

“Hey, mister!” she calls, hurrying toward me. As she nears, I see that she has a black eye.

Probably in her early thirties, but she’s lived a hard life, and looks fifty. Her bottom lip is also swollen; grotesque as she smiles suggestively.

“Yes?” I reply, as if a man in a cheap Halloween costume, standing in the middle of the street, in the dead of night was completely normal.

“You just leave a costume party or somethin’?” Then, before I can answer, “You lookin’ for a date? Maybe a little company?”

“What are you doing down here?” I ask, ignoring her questions.

Her smile fades. “Look, I got in a fight with my friend, and he left me stranded down here. I’m cold, mister. I need a place to stay for the night, ya know?”

Eager, shivering, she stops at the edge of the curb, and I walk toward her, smiling behind my mask.

“Been a rough night for a poor girl like me.”

Looking into her eyes, I know that she’s lying. The old Blaine wouldn’t have known, but I do. In fact, I have no idea what the old Blaine would’ve done in this situation. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to kill her. He wouldn’t have known that she was anxious because her pimp had beaten her up, and because she needed a fix that only he could provide. He wouldn’t have known that her pimp was actually in a car one block over, waiting for her to pick up a John. And he wouldn’t have known that the unlucky John would’ve gotten a hell of a blowjob, but also would’ve awoken to having everything of value in his place stolen, including his wallet.

But I know, simply by drinking in the fear coursing through her gaze.

“So how ’bout it? Promise I’ll make it worth your while…”

Without a word, I seize the hooker by her pockmarked throat and squeeze. Her eyes bulge with surprise, then anger, then fear as she feels the weight of my grip. My skinny arm shouldn’t feel like an iron vise, but it does. Choking, crumpling, she slaps and pounds at my face and outstretched arm; all just a waste of time.

“Call him!” I command. “Call your loser pimp!”

Left hand clutching my wrist, she fumbles for her purse with her right. I ease my grip and allow her to breathe as she finally unbuckles her purse and reaches inside. Her mortified eyes never leave mine as she raises her phone and presses the screen.

“Wh-what do ya want me to say?”

“Just tell him the truth as you see it,” I reply, giving her throat another squeeze.

She gags, then jerks as a voice streams through: “This better be good news, bitch.”

“Help,” she utters. “I need help, Stevie. Some freak’s got me and he won’t let me go…”

At this, I can’t help but chuckle.

“What?” Stevie says. “You in trouble? Be right there!”

The phone blinks, and I see a photo of a young girl in pigtails on the screen. Must be the hooker’s daughter. The wind rises as I stare at her, contemplating breaking her worthless neck.

“I called him, mister! Now please lemme go! Stevie’s gonna be pissed! You better run—NOW!”

A rather convincing speech, but I refuse to let go. She begins to panic, again beating at my face and arm, forcing me to apply my strength. She stiffens. Her knees buckle. Her eyes look hurt and confused as she sinks to the cold ground. An engine roars. Tires squeal as a big sedan takes a sharp right turn onto Stark Boulevard.

I turn, still gripping the hooker’s throat, and watch as the sedan lurches to a stop next to the curb. The door flies open, and a large man in a heavy coat slides out.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on here, Nilah?”

The man shuffles around the front end and steps onto the curb with a giant stride. His hair is slicked down, and a large overcoat hides what I assume is a rather portly frame. His scowl becomes an expression of shock when he sees me, then he rushes forward, right finger thrust out like a gaudy hood ornament.

“Hey! Let her go, jackoff! Or I’ll bust your kneecaps!”

Laughing, I shake my head.

After a short sprint, Stevie halts; stalling as he catches his breath. Out of shape bastard. His eyes reflect rage and frustration as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a large switchblade—

Snick!

The blade shimmers beneath a nearby streetlight, and I begin to imagine all of the places I’d like to stab this flabby pimp; blood pulsing from each slick wound.

“Ya know, you’re more trouble than you’re worth!” Stevie says, pointing the switchblade at Nilah. Then, turning to me, he smiles, waves the knife like a magician with a magic wand. “And what’re you supposed to be, buddy? Some kinda cosplayer? Think you’re a superhero or somethin’?”
Staring into Stevie’s hard gaze, I shake my head. What he doesn’t know is about to get him killed.

“Watch out, Stevie!” Nilah says, lips quivering. “He’s stronger than he look—”

My grip tightens, strangling her final word.

“Shut up, bitch,” Stevie says. His smile melts back into the hard scowl which is probably his usual expression. “Now listen, asshole. You let her go right now and I’ll just smack ya ’round a little. If not, I’m gonna carve ya into little pieces for the cops to find come daylight. Understand?”

Another laugh as I shake my head.

Stevie’s scowl falters for a split second. He’s obviously not used to having his bluff called, and though he doesn’t care at all about Nilah, I know he’d rather die than lose face in front of her.

And Stevie’s about to get his wish.

“Alright, dude. If that’s the way ya want it…”

The big man steps forward, hunched, ready to slice me to ribbons with his beautiful switchblade. I don’t move, just apply more pressure to Nilah’s throat as he circles and draws near. Lips pulled back, yellowish teeth grit, Stevie executes a half-ass football shuffle and rears back. But before he can swing, a sound stops him up short.

Another engine, roaring in the distance.

“Fuck!” Stevie hisses, drawing back. Turning to the street as he warns, “You better hope it’s the cops, asshole…”

Enjoying Stevie’s predicament, still choking Nilah as she flails and fights, I wait for the swelling engine’s approach. I know it isn’t the cops because there’s no siren. But it’s definitely someone in a hurry.

Let’s see what else this night can bring.

I turn as the approaching car screeches to a halt. Heading north, it crosses into the southbound lane and roars toward the curb. Its rear end collides with Stevie’s sedan’s rear end—

Boom!

—and Stevie jerks in surprise.

“Hey, shithead! What the fuck are ya doin’?”

Indeed. What is he doing? I wonder as I gaze toward the street. It’s the same car I’d encountered near the archway, but now only the driver and the passenger remain. Drunk Kid and his friend are safe in some warm apartment somewhere, I figure, while these two morons decided to come back for revenge.

Should be entertaining!

Both front end doors swing open as Stevie sprints toward the collision.

“There he is, man!” Driver says, jumping out.

“Yeah, that’s him!” Passenger replies.

“GET HIM!”

Right, I think as Nilah goes limp in my grasp. Come and get me.

“What’s your problem, Bozo?”

Driver’s eyes widen as Stevie rushes him, waving the switchblade. “Hold up!” he says, raising his hands. “We got no beef with you!”

“Fuck you!” Stevie replies, swiping at him.

Driver stumbles back into the open car door, which shuts behind him—

Thunk!

Stevie now has Driver pinned against the running car, and both are wrestling for control of the knife. “Hey!” Passenger screams, and by the glare of the headlights I see him scramble over the hood and onto Stevie’s back.

“Fuck ya both!” Stevie yells. “Cocksuckers!”

The sounds of huffing, grunting, and scuffling fill the cold night air as I look down at Nilah. Not quite dead, but unconscious. Pitiful, I decide, but the thought of the little girl’s face on her phone keeps me from breaking her neck.

A girl needs her mother, even if her mother is a pitiful hooker.

Fuck it.

I drop Nilah and turn toward the fray. Between the curb and the cars, Driver and Passenger have all but subdued Stevie. The big man is flailing, but the younger men have him in their grip, punching indiscriminately out of fear. His nose is bloody. Screaming, Driver rips the switchblade free and tosses it in my direction—

Clack!

Idiot.

“Fuckin’ punks!” Stevie blurts, his words slurry and garbled.

“Crazy fucker!” Driver yells, stepping back.

“Get outta here, man!” Passenger demands. “We came for the weirdo!”

Said weirdo smiles as I pass the car, again willing it to die. This time, for fun, I cause the seal around the oil filter to crack, and thick black goop begins to leak from under the hood.

“Guy in the suit?” Stevie asks, panting and staggering.

“Yeah!” Driver says. “He ripped off our car doo—”

Clutching the switchblade in my left fist, I backhand Passenger with my right hand as I pass him—

Thwack!

Stevie and Driver jerk toward me as I thrust the glimmering steel deep into Stevie’s potbelly—

Thuck!

Driver screams. Stevie gasps. Shock and pain contorts his bloody face as more blood begins to seep through his coat. I extract the knife as Stevie rushes me. Shoving him off, I spin, and the big man goes stumbling into Driver, knocking him to the ground.

“Hi, there, boys,” I say, driving the blade into Stevie’s left flank, just below his ribcage. Again, Stevie gasps, stiffening, falling forward onto Driver’s car. Driver scrambles to his feet, and before he can decide which way to run, I’ve got him by the throat. Just like Nilah. Except I lift him up, defying the size difference between us, and gravity itself.

“ACK!” Driver manages, eyes bulging.

Eyes which draw me in like swirling pools of crystalline water…

Seeing into him. Seeing everything. Driver’s name is Brent Hardwick. Last year, he raped a seventeen-year-old girl at a house party in Hinckley. He’d spiked her drink, and when she’d awoken the next day, she didn’t even know she’d been raped. Certainly had no proof. Brent had been gentle, using a condom and lubricant, cleaning her up once he’d finished. He’d enjoyed it…and planned to do it again with another girl as soon as he could…

Vile scum.

“STOP!” Passenger screams, slamming into me from behind. I stumble forward, tossing Brent down like a rag doll—

Thump!

“GET OFF HIM!”

Annoyed, I turn as Passenger connects with a sloppy punch to my gut. It hurts, but only in a dull, concussive way. Real pain—sharp, biting, pain—no longer exists for me. Still, I hunch forward, expecting a stiff uppercut. Instead, Passenger launches into a hysterical volley of punches and slaps, driving me backward toward Brent. I hear Passenger sniffing and gasping between punches. Obviously hurt and afraid, but pissed to the point of ineffectiveness.

Too bad.

On my left, I hear a deep groan. From the corner of my eye, I see Stevie yank the knife from his side as he collapses to his knees. The big man is all wet with blood, which gives me a perverse thrill.

Meanwhile, Passenger’s blows are beginning to lose their snap. I straighten, allowing him one clean shot to the face—

Thwack!

before I shove him onto the curb with my right hand—

Thump!

Wasting no time, I lunge to my left and plant a hard kick into Stevie’s left side—

Thwop!

Hearing and feeling his ribs crack beneath my shin is a perfect reward. Stevie groans in pain and flips onto his back, eyes shut, jaw clenched. Hands clasped over his stomach. Knees in the air, trembling.

“What in God’s name are you?” Brent says behind me, struggling to his feet. His voice sounds thick, pained; wavering with dread.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” I reply, turning. “Rapist.”

Massaging his throat, Brent jerks. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, radiate pure terror. It washes over me like a refreshing breeze; pulling me like a moth to a flame.

“What?”

I shake my masked head at the dumb kid. “Last September. You drugged and raped her, and told her nothing happened the next morning. She didn’t believe you, but she had no proof. That’s why she didn’t go to the cops.”

“Liar!” Brent screams.

“You liked it very much…”

“LIAR!”

“And you want to do it again.”

“YOU EVIL FUCK! I’LL KILL YOU!”

Brent’s right. I am an evil fuck. But he won’t kill me. He can’t.

“Try it. Please.”

But the tears on Brent’s face belies his hollow threat. I, on the other hand, intend to carry out that very threat, immediately.

Stepping forward, I reach out. Screaming, Brent turns to run, then jump as he realizes he’s trapped between rear ends. But before his young, muscular legs can propel him upward, I snatch a handful of his thin blonde hair, and yank him back onto his heels. Screaming, he begins to flail as I reach around his face and cup his chin with my left hand.

“STOOOOP!”

With Brent firmly in my grasp, despite his pointless flailing, it’s a simple matter to jerk my hands in a short circular motion, thereby breaking the young man’s neck—

Crack!

You’ll never rape again, I think as Brent goes limp and crumples to the cold, wet, blacktop.

Dead as dead can be.

This is the fourth life I have taken in the last three weeks. With each one came a feeling of elation, of sheer, primordial power coursing through my bones.

Horrid, yet undeniable.

I can only describe it as…rejuvenation.

Shaking from this surge of energy, I turn toward Stevie and Passenger. Stevie still lies on his back, curled in agony. Passenger has rolled to his hands and knees, gasping for air. He looks like a kid who’s just been hit really hard for the first time. Shocked, and confused.

I turn to Stevie, and smile. His face is swarthy, grizzled, and, like Nilah, looks much older than he really is. The bloody knife lies on the ground beside him, and I grab it as I kneel down. The steel feels so light and balanced in my hand. I want to use it. I have to use it. On the other hand, I want Stevie the pimp to die a slow, tormented death.

I also want to leave a calling card for the rest of this damned city. A sign that dark justice awaits in the shadows…

When it’s done, Stevie lies on his right side, clutching his face. Blood, and a thick, milky fluid drips from between his fingers. He’s howling in pain, which is music to my jaded ears—mainly because I know how much it hurts to howl with his broken ribs.

Now…time to deal with Passenger. The pained young man is still on his hands and knees, crying and quivering. No doubt he’s heard everything that’s gone on behind him, and he’s too scared to even move. He looks like a Hinckley kid; blessed with rich parents. But he could be from Dibert—hell, even Proebstel for all I know. Doesn’t matter, though. Rich or not, I won’t kill him. Like Nilah, he’s more just a victim of circumstance than an actual criminal.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I walk over to him.

“Go on home, kid,” I say, nudging him with my sneaker. “And try to stay outta trouble…”

Passenger takes a deep, wet breath, and begins to say something which I’m sure will be pathetic and infuriating. So I cut him off by throwing the souvenir in my hand down to the ground in front of his face—

Plop!

Other than a sick hallucination, I’ve never seen a severed eyeball before, and I’m betting neither has Passenger. It doesn’t roll, but sticks to the damp pavement like a glob of jelly. The pupil has contracted to a pinhole. The iris shines a bright blue. Scarlet streaks have stained the white around the iris.

“JESUS, FUCK!”

Screaming, Passenger springs forward, running on all fours like a dog, and collapses several feet away. Struggling to regain his feet, the poor young man vomits like Drunk Kid earlier.
Relishing Stevie’s agonized mewls and Passenger’s guttural moans, I turn and leap onto the hood of Brent’s car, arms held in a V. The night has been rewarding, and already I’m looking forward to the next murderous adventure.

Another leap and I’m standing on the roof, waiting. Smiling behind my ridiculous mask as the wind rises. But not just any wind. A dark, powerful wind from the center of the earth. Again, I leap, into the primordial vortex which bears me aloft like a black spear into the sky.

Into the swirling shadows of oblivion.

Into the very heart of darkness.

***

If you enjoyed “Death’s Avenger,” please like, subscribe, and share!

Read more of “Death’s Avenger” @ https://deathsavenger.wordpress.com/

Thanks for reading!

Ramingo’s Porch (Promo Vid)

December 28, 2017

Hey, everyone! I finally got my contributor copy of “Ramingo’s Porch, Issue #1,” featuring my short story: “Lucifer In High-heels!” Here’s a short promo vid I made for the magazine:

Thanks for watching!

JLR

Interview @ Ramingo! Blog

November 27, 2017

 

Hey, everyone! My short story: “Lucifer In High-heels,” has been published in Ramingo’s Porch Issue #1, and here’s a link to my author interview @ Ramingo! Blog:

Jesse Lynn Rucilez

Thank you to everyone who continues to support my work!

JLR

Lucifer In High-heels @ Ramingo’s Porch!

November 25, 2017

 

Hey, everyone! The first issue of Ramingo’s Porch Literary Magazine, featuring my short story: “Lucifer In High-heels,” as well as other stunning prose and gorgeous artwork, is now available @ Amazon.com:

https://www.amazon.com/Ramingos-Porch-Issue/dp/0998847658/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511617834&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Ramingo%27s+Porch

Thank you to everyone who continues to support my work!

JLR

Evelyn Grimes (Spoken Word Excerpt)

November 17, 2017

Hey, everyone! Check out this spoken word excerpt from my novel: “Evelyn Grimes.”

 


If you enjoyed this video, please like, subscribe, and share.

Thank you!

JLR

“Evelyn Grimes” (Promo Vid)

November 17, 2017

Hey, everyone! Here’s a promotional video I created for my novel: “Evelyn Grimes.”


If you enjoyed this video, please like, subscribe, and share.

Thanks for watching!

JLR

Delirium Tremens Has Been Accepted By Anotherealm Lit-Mag!

November 16, 2017

 

Hey, everyone! I’m very happy to announce that my short story: “Delirium Tremens” has been accepted for publication by Anotherrealm Online Literary Magazine! Furthermore, I’m incredibly proud to add that Anotherrealm is also a paying market! The above photo is me with my signed contract, marking the first time to date that I’ve been paid for my work!

I’ll announce more as the info about Anotherrealm’s next online issue becomes available.

Thanks to everyone who continues to support my work!

JLR


Read an excerpt from “Delirium Tremens” here:

https://jlrucilez.wordpress.com/2016/12/20/delirium-tremens-short-story-excerpt/


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