Pretty Things

The Miscreant

THE MISCREANT

Horace Tyler was an evil man…., an insidious man, with an inner copious bile that seemed to ooze from the very presence of his aura.

At 63, he possessed an impressive, lean and angular figure; but therein lurked a person of such vile self loathing; a man capable of manifesting calculated harm; always choosing his victims from among those he considered weaker than himself. His motivation; the simple pleasure derived from seeing those close to him, squirm uncontrollably, as if speared, harpoon like, in an unexpected moment of calm. A deer, caught in the headlights of impending doom.

Most of Horace’s machinations would take time in the doing…, sometimes months, and in some cases years; but there were exceptions. The ‘on the spot’ devastation; an ugly comment, delivered at just the right moment from a 'darted tongue', clearly intended to cut and wound.

It was Horace’s plan in life to wreck havoc on others, in order to deal with his unbridled seething self hatred.

The bite, when Horace first felt it, was scarcely more than a slight inconvenient itch. A pin-prick, ever so discernible, beneath a heavy layer of grey black forearm hair. A minor irritation, in the scheme of things.

It had, however, by early afternoon, reddened considerably, and as his arm began to swell, a throbbing swirl of tiny bumps lumped together on the inner side of his elbow, following the veins to his wrist, reaching the palm of his boney fingered hand.

When the first pang of scissor sharp pain shot through the tall man’s chest, he doubled over. He cursed, when the second dart of hostile intrusion, pierced his rib cage, and clutching the area over his heart, he dropped the frosted martini glass he was holding, falling face first into the sweet smelling primrose and wisteria patch that bordered the manicured lawns of Mavis Borden-Blatt’s summer home.

The black widow spider, tiny for it’s size, scurried out from Horace Tyler’s sleeve cuff, finding it’s way to a vine laden trellis.

Those of us, who stayed on for a late night supper of cold meat delicacies and lemon sherbet, all agreed, that dear Mave gave the best parties ever, ‘sans doute’.