Fiction

The Cold River

Scorp

Down in Texas, a shot rang out. A man died in a popping flash of red. A motorcade broke apart. Panic spread. A nation was shocked. A world joined them- in some regions. In other places, knives were audibly sharpened in the form of pointed words, vicious and feral, and backroom plots were hatched.

A circuit was completed. A phone rang. The High Priest answered. It was done. He smiled his toothy grin. His hands were red. He closed his eyes and inhaled ecstasy. He said three words “Praise the Scorpion.” The line went dead.

He let his head roll back. He felt dizzy. He locked his knees, wobbled on his heels, fell backwards with a thump. His body was scrawny and lithe. He didn’t eat much. His arms were akimbo. He started to move and slither. He could feel the clouds forming. “This is just the beginning!” he said aloud. One thing would lead to another. It would all happen very quickly.

He smeared his bloody hands across his white carpet. He held his hands like pinchers. He tried to feel his tail and imagine its sting. He bit his lower lip. He felt its juice. He inhaled deep through his nose, smelled the burning incense. He saw the pain that so many others were feeling through his closed eyes.He imagined the cold water rushing over him and the dying amphibian as the river took them

“This is just the beginning…”

 

 

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