The W

Switching it up today to a flash fiction piece I did. This was written to an old Wu-Tang song. Grats if you know which one it is.

This hero smashed down the wooden barricade. The crash of the door was muted, far away, overwrote by the thrumming in his body. This hero entered the room, unabashed, his serrated knife drawn.

That villain, the one who had stolen the Cure, the only thing in the world that could bring him peace, that could remove his pain, rose from where she sat, drawing her weapon, lunging forward.

That villain’s pistol went click click.

This hero’s blade went snick snick.

Another injustice aborted. Yet, still, this hero’s vision wasn’t clear. Violet hues still dominated this hero’s horizons. This hero’s nostrils still burned with the damage wrought upon him by the Disease. The constant humming consumed this hero. This hero’s God communed through this hero’s mind.

Clack Clack.

Suddenly, this hero spun to catch the newest rival’s vindictive swing of the baseball bat. This hero’s forearm veins disgustingly bulged.

“Who are you?”

This hero lashed out. Bang bang. The latest challenge fell. Clang clang.

This hero knelt down, crying out in ecstasy, seeing what had fallen from that villain’s pocket.

The Cure.

Snick snick. This hero conjured a flame.

Hiss hiss. This hero’s vision was sure to now clear.


They had finally responded to a report about a break and enter, weeks too late. No one ever responded too quickly to events happening in these parts of town. Three corpses lay upon the floor in various states of death. The stench of putrefying bodies and old blood dominated the ghetto apartment.

The oddest body they found was a male, a bloodied, serrated switchblade lying upon his lap, and a dirty syringe in his arm, tied off with a shoe lace. He lay there with his face masked, accented by purple-tinted goggles over his eyes. Beside him, a pair of headphones, buzzing with bass.

Somethin’ in the slum went rum-pum-pum-pum.

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