Discordia(NSFW)
Deep shadows were beginning to run their way across the gravel crossroads where Jim was resting. The tall trees embanking the small intersection provided a comfortable shade in the mid-afternoon Texas summer warmth and Jim enjoyed taking his siestas here, for more reasons than one. Isolation being another contributing factor. It was quiet here, miles from anything one could call important, and Jim appreciated that, hell, he damn near needed it.
He sat on an over turned wooden crate with his back 10 or so meters from the edge of a pothole strewn roadway, strumming a seemingly ancient Taylor acoustic guitar and humming to himself through a parched and gravely throat. His shoulder length brown hair cascaded over his dirty, weatherworn brow and glistened in the light, covered with sweat, grease and God knows what else. His thick, coarse beard didn’t offer much more in the way of pleasantness and seemed, almost, to be covered in a healthy coat of varnish, wet but stiff and rigid. His clothes, though average for a Texan, were dusty and patched with stains. His bandera plaid shirt with pearl snaps and rolled cuffs fit in a way that only a garment worn for years could, with a seeming understanding and sympathy for its’ wearer. His jeans, Levis of course, were once dark blue in their “glory days”, now they seemed to hover between the pale blue of the mid day sky and the light, earthy brown of the loose topped ground. His boots were...that’s it, they just...were. They were Jim’s boots and could obviously be no one else’s, as anyone who owns and loves a pair a of boots for years clearly knows. That was he, and for the moment, he seemed perfectly content with that. That moment did not last long, however.
As Jim was playing, drifting into another song, he began to hear the sound of something approaching. ‘Must be a car’ Jim thought as he cocked his ear toward the sound, ‘Too soft to be a truck’. And Jim was right, the oncoming sound wasn’t rich, thick or loud enough to be a heavy truck, the kind that workers and hunters used in these parts for their day to days. It could possibly be a small truck, the type that “real truck” owners would say wasn’t really a truck, but Jim thought that wasn’t likely. Besides, he was already almost certain who it was that was bouncing down the country road towards him. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.’ he thought and continued his picking.
A moment later the sound of shuffling gravel and creaking brakes came to Jim’s ears as the late 80’s, baby-shit brown Buick Regal came to a rocking stop behind him at the side of the road. Jim didn’t bother turning around, he knew who it was. He was expecting this little visit. And why not? With everything he had done so far he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner. ‘But all things must take their course.’ Jim thought to himself and the faintest hint of a smile rest upon his lips.
Jim kept his eyes into the wooded brush before him as the car door opened with a metallic grind and, a moment later, creaked to a close. The footsteps towards him were loud and intentional but Jim did not seem concerned. The footsteps stopped at about 5 feet behind him and the world seemed to stop with them. Jim sat quietly.
A moment later, Jim heard a rustling behind him as the man began searching through his pocket. Jim was keenly aware that there was a badge clipped near that pocket and a Glock holstered even nearer to that. The man behind Jim finished his excavation, took a deep breath and suddenly Jim became privy to the melodious warble of a harmonica. Jim gripped the neck of his guitar a bit tighter as he prepared himself to join in.
They played together for a bit, criminal and law. What came from them was a dark and low blues riff that was so full of tension and angst that it seemed to even struggle with itself. After a minute or two the lawman simply stopped playing and Jim slowed to a stop as well. Only the light breeze rustling around them could be heard.
“You’ve been busy.” the lawman said without an ounce of emotion in his voice. “Mmmh.” Jim grunted, only acknowledging that the man had actually tried to communicate with him. “Two more have gone missing in the past week.” The lawman said this in such a way as if he were simply discussing the weather but Jim could sense the underlying tension beginning to mount in his voice. “But that’s no surprise to you.” The view of a poorly lit garage flashed into Jim’s mind. A middle aged man lie, gagged and hog tied on the ground, whimpering, and then red. Jim blinked, breathed slowly and gave no response. The law man shifted his weight to his other leg, “So what does that make now? Nineteen? Nineteen disappearances since you decided to ramble into town?” The lawman’s voice was beginning to rise. “And the only reason you haven’t been charged with anything is because there’s no evidence to convict you! They’re all just...missing!?!” He said that last word with such inflection that his voice creaked. Jim stayed stoic, staring into the woods before him despite that now the scene of a train yard was playing in his head and he watched as a woman with two broken legs and a ball gag in her mouth was trying to pull herself along the ground away from him. And then red again. The lawman bent down and put his mouth next to Jim’s ear and spoke in a whispered voice that made Jim shiver ever so slightly, “But how long do you reckon they will stay missing? Sooner or later something is bound to reveal itself and when that happens...” The lawman didn’t finish, Jim guessed he was supposed to use his own imagination on that one. The lawman stood straight again and Jim could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head as he began pacing behind him.
Now Jim was back in the garage, poking the hog tied man in the neck and face with a Bowie knife, not stabbing really, just poking, purposely fucking with the guy. Feeding off of his fear. Red. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart don’t ya boy?” the lawman hissed at him through clenched teeth. Back to reality. “Don’t call me boy.” Jim responded hoarsely but without hesitation. Jim hated being called boy, had hated it ever since he could remember. It made him feel small and weak and no one was allowed to make him feel that way, not anymore. The lawman halted his pace and considered what Jim had said, THAT Jim had said anything actually, but decided to not only ignore it, but use it to boost his anger, he was on a role after all. “You think you might have everyone fooled as to who you are but I don’t! I know what you are! You’re a fuckin’ monster! Hell, if my older brother hadn’t have died before you came along I would have figured YOU as his killer!” Jim’s head was all at once reeling with visions. The train yard ladies’ muffled screams as her eyeballs were scooped and scraped from their sockets with the lid of a rusted tin can, the blood and membranes clumping down her face in ribbons of gore. Red. The garage mans’ terrible puddle of blood, sweat, shit and piss that seemed to be pouring out of every single one of the hundreds of holes poked throughout the man’s flesh. Red. Another woman, this one hanging upside down, her screams unable to be heard through the motorcycle helmet on her head, duct taped at the visor and neck. Her screams however, died out only a quarter way through her field dressing. Red. A man, tied to fence post and completely engulfed in flames. Red. A beheaded woman. Red. A quartered man. Red. Blood. Red. Fear. Red. Screams. Red. Red. Red.
Jim's eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he stared into the brush before him but he remained silent. The lawman took a deep breath, no doubt attempting to calm himself. “You’re gonna fuck up eventually, that’s all there is to it. Whether it’s a witness that catches you or someone happens upon one of the missing, it’s gonna happen.” Jim sighed deeply and turned his head ever so slightly to address the lawman. “Are you so sure?” Jim asked simply. The lawman put his hands on his hips, staring at the side of Jim’s dirty face and said, “Yes, I don’t see there being any other way this could go.” “Well.” Jim said as he began to stand up, sliding the guitar around his shoulder to his back and faced the lawman. “I suppose...” They were now eye to eye, acknowledging each other, seeing each other clearly. “That you will just have to do your job a bit better, won’t you? Keep any tracks I may leave well hidden. That is, if you want me to stick around.” The lawman’s eyes narrowed. “You know as well as I do that you aren’t going anywhere.” “Well then,” Jim said through a small grin, “I guess that’s that.” The lawman sighed, “I guess so.” And then the lawman turned around, suddenly alone, and slowly walked back to his car with a seemingly ancient Taylor acoustic guitar on his back. He put the harmonica to his lips and played a dark, bluesy melody to his empty surroundings. Empty, save for the shallow graves that lie just inside the tree line where he was facing, talking to himself (or a version of), just a moment ago. Shallow graves that totaled nineteen.
The End.
I wrote this. https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/comments/1rjip2/discordiansfw/