"To Live and Die for T.K." originally appeared in Tevun-Krus #27: FanFic Spectacular!
Author's note from MadMikeMarsbergen: Yet another story from 2016, this was my first attempt at a whodunit mystery. It's all based around some things I love: comedy, WattPunk and Tevun-Krus. So you'll be seeing some familiar faces in this tale of mine. I hope you all get a laugh or two and find the ending as creepy as I did when I wrote it. Definitely an all-time favourite, if I'm allowed to say that.
To Live and Die for T.K.
PROLOGUE
i
The writer leaves The Tevun-Krus Times Building in a storm of drunken, drugged-up bravado. While shrugging into his leather jacket covered in patches of various metal-band logos, he throws open the building's double doors, hitting a couple Editors coming back from their lunchtime recharge. They go spinning, do cartwheels and flips, fall into a nearby puddle and short circuit. The writer turns around, just as his boss comes out to beg for his forgiveness.
"And another thing," the writer says, taking a few seconds to whip out a crack pipe and fire it up. "I expect a raise. I'm the only thing keeping this shithole afloat, so if you want me to stay, I need a pay raise of, oh, let's say another hundred grand per day." He grins devilishly. One eyebrow raises. "Or I can just start my own magazine of kick-ass stories and run you knobs out of town. Your choice, grandma." Finished with his crack, he chucks the pipe at the pair of broken-down Editor-bots currently having seizures in the shallow pool of water. "You fuckers need me like I need a whore and some cocaine."
"Yes, yes," the writer's boss says pitifully. "Whatever you say, mate. We'll do anything for you, Hot-Shot! After all, you are our star! And you're right. We need you." He goes to his knees in another puddle, soaking himself to his crotch. "Will you please fuckin' stay?" He puts his hands together, raises them to just below his chin, a universal plea for help. "Pleeease?"
The writer smirks on one side of his mouth, showing off that one dimple which gets him both free girls and free drugs. He puckers his lips, like how he does in the magazine photo-ops. Relishing the moment, he pulls out a bottle of cheap warm beer he stashed inside his jacket for exactly this kind of moment. He takes his sweet time in twisting the cap off. Relishes it. Raises the bottle to the sky, as if toasting the world for his own success and egocentricity. He chugs it, embracing the taste of foamy piss all bad beer has, wipes his mouth with satisfaction. Looking up at his boss, who's now soaked up to his nipples, he says: "I'll think about it."
"Th-Thank you," the boss whimpers, before being struck by the empty beer bottle.
The writer takes off, hops into his overly expensive convertible, hits a few buttons on the dash to call up his main side-girl. He gets the car going and screeches out of the illegal parking zone, making sure to leave a wicked skid the road crew'll never remove. On the back of the car, his custom license plate can be seen: HOT-SHT, meaning either Hot-Shot or Hot-Shit; both applicable.
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, sitting lazily because he's super-buzzed, his main side-girl finally picks up. "Yo, baby, get your legs open, 'cause Daddy's comin' to fool around with your three holes. Hell, maybe I'll find a way to give you a fourth, too." He hangs up before she can reply, not that he cares what she has to say.
YOU ARE READING
Tevun-Krus #50
Bilim KurguThat's right. The big five-oh. The 50th issue of Tevun-Krus. No subtitle. No need for explanations. Dive on in and see what greatness is made of.
