“Is he dead?” The man screamed crazily aiming his sniper rifle at the cops who were now trying to arrest him. “Is he fucking dead!” He smiled wildly with tears welling in the corner of his eyes.
Tate Kellen was a young man from Lincoln, Nebraska with room temperature IQ. He was the second born son, the first born thirteen years earlier. The family was religious, going to church every Sunday and well known in the community. Always lending a hand where needed, and never looking for compensation in any form, whether it was money or a favor to be collected later. That was until Tate was four and things changed in every context of the word. Something in Tate’s father snapped… not quite the word but it will work. He began to close himself off from his family, though what caused the separation of Tate’s parents was his father bringing banned material in to the house; movies, books and stuff of that nature. It wasn’t until he brought the ultimate taboo item in to the house that Tate’s mom and teenage brother left. Tate had been hell bent on staying with his father, and remained behind. The taboo material? They were books and they were by one author, Sheldon King.
Tate, even at a young age, had trouble with self-confidence and had a fear of everything. His father, since Tate opted to stay with him, told him that he would help him grow. Tate was hoping to reach what his brother was doing, which was speaking at public events. That was what he had told his father, when asked of him, whom just nodded and smiled malevolently.
“First, we need to break you of your fears.”
Tate responded by becoming a trembling, bubbling mess. His father's reaction was to hit him hard across the face yelling at him to quit that. Tate did, shaking inside.
And so begun the nightly listening of Sheldon King’s books.
The Voice was heard over the tape player from the living room whilst Tate was told to stay in the smaller living room next to the kitchen. It was deep and friendly at first making them comfortable to draw people in, close, home. Then the Voice changed to the voice of a predator from which there was no escape.
It took some time for Tate to actually hear the words in the Voice; the Voice itself set him on edge and installed fear. Over time Tate came to realize that the Voice was not going to go away and with the start of the third King book, he began to hear the words of the story. Though Tate had heard them ever since he was four, it was the words themselves Tate never really grasped; the confusing outlaying of the words were extremely foreign to Tate, for whom reading Curious Gorge was hard enough. What made all the difference was in the delivery by the Voice. The delivery of the words were always intense and full of darkness with the lack of remorse to any sensitive ears that might be listening and the Voice… the Voice was enough to make Tate’s skin crawl as though with every word it read it seemed to lean forward, lovingly drawing out every horrifying scene.
After every chapter of the night his dad would appear and comfort him just enough for him to relax into sleep.
“Do I have to listen to him?” Tate always would ask.
His father would reply with, “Boy, don’t you want be fearless?”
“Yes, but-” Tate would go to protest but his father would cut him off.
“No. Tate.” His father warned, annoyed by him. “Now go to bed.”
Tate would do so but his nights would be restless with nightmares, with the Voice depicting in great detail what he was already seeing.
When Tate was seven years old he had never stepped foot in a school or as much as interacted with another seven year old. His father had fulfilled his promise; Tate’s fear had diminished, though unsure if he had faced them. They, more or less, had became none existent against the hunting voice of Sheldon King.
Tate and his father were eating dinner at the kitchen table one night, following which was time to listen to King, but Tate had thought of a question.
“Dad, why is King so scary?” Tate, being the tender age he was, had become bolder in his question asking. Though his father was not so keen on him asking questions, Tate felt like he needed to in his way of try to understand the fear.
There was a hint of a satisfied smile, though Tate didn’t notice and even if he had, he wouldn’t have understood the meaning.
“That is just how some people are. They exist solely to strike fear in people’s hearts; King is no exception. The more people he scares, the more famous he gets… it is sick.”
After that, Tate began to put stuff together, building a reason for life. It was a slow process that took years, years of listening to the Voice, a voice that he had heard so much that he could pick up King’s books or any other book and would hear it. His fear of the Voice turned in to annoyance because it began to linger in his father’s voice, the only comfort from the Voice he had. It frighten him and finally it became so bad that Tate had to ask.
“Dad, what is wrong?”
His father looked at him truly confused, and not the usual anger, by the sudden question, “What are you talking about, boy?”
“Your voice it is gone and now it is King’s.” Tate said, frightened.
His father sighed, “He has caught you, and there is nothing you can do.”
Tate stared at his father with scared wide eyes. That was when his father placed his hand on top Tate’s arm.
“He has me too.”
“There must be something we can do.” Tate said, his tone much stronger than his father's.
His father shook his head, “There isn’t nothing till we go mad and are dead.”
Tate shook his head furiously, “No, that is not going to happen. I won’t let it.”
“You are young and have a stronger will against it. But my…” he trailed off and tried to look away before a tear fell.
Tate saw it, the tear, and became truly scared, as he had never seen his father cry before. “Dad, what is it? What is wrong?” Tate plead as tears welled in his own eyes, and he placed his other hand on his father’s hand that was still on his arm. His father quickly pulled his hand away and stood up.
“Son. Tate. I am going to leave-”
“What!?” Tate shot up from the chair, hitting the table with his thigh hard enough to spill their drinks, “No, you can’t! Why?” The thought of being left scared him even more then the Voice.
His father turned back, having heard the jarring of the table and the mixture of juice and beer hitting the tiled floor. He tried to look angry, but could not keep it given the current circumstances. His face softened as he grasped Tate firmly by his shoulders and his father sunk to his knees. He swallowed hard and begun.
“I have to, my… sickness is becoming too strong for me to fight and I don’t want to turn on you. But promise me this. You will never forget and… you might not be smart for the standard world, to me, you are smart. And when the time comes I want you to avenge me.”
“Dad?” The word ‘avenge’ struck him hard, “What are you going to do?”
Tate’s father smiled at this, “Something that should been done long ago. Promise me, Tate.”
Tate straightened up and sniffed to clear his nose, “I promise, Dad.”
His father placed a hand on his cheek and stood up, “Clean up the mess you made.”
Tate did as his father told him and listened to King at the same time. He was telling a story about the evilness of fate. The need to kill is stronger than the remorse felt afterward because that person who you were now standing over with a knife covered to the hilt in their blood, and the Voice in the back of your mind that is saying it was for the good of others. That person is now dying under you, as you watch with a satisfied smile.
Tate finished wiping up the floor while King depicted this to his ears with the most evilness in the Voice Tate had heard yet. It had gotten under his skin. Tate had thought, on several occasions prior, about going into the living room, to where his father had banned him from during this time, and destroying the tapes. This time he found it easy to push the thought completely away, though it scared the living daylights out of him. Hearing King’s voice was now so much a part of him that not to hear it would drive him mad. In the end, the reason for that was because King had given him a purpose.
That was the night Tate’s father left. However, he did not leave Tate, a ten year old boy, to fend for himself. Who replaced his father as caregiver was Henry Stroken, the only friend of Tate’s father and the only other physical person in their life. Henry had the same views of his father, especially the hatred for Sheldon King. Tate, though, had lost his comfort and he didn’t know how to talk to Henry. Now that his father was not there, Tate couldn’t start a conversation on his own, let alone hold one if he could start one. Tate loved listening to his father and Henry chat and sometimes he would chime-in in areas he understood and could pay tribute to the conversion but for the most part he had remained silent. Henry also didn’t know how to talk to Tate without Tate’s father acting as the link between them. He, of course, felt bad since he was now the only person for Tate.
Tate had come up with a way to get internal hardships out of him to relax him to sleep after listening to the Voice. It was a notebook which he called Tate’s Dark Tellings. In it, he would write out what was bothering him and how more clearly his purpose was becoming and, on some occasions, would write flash fiction about the death of Sheldon and his predatorily voice.
A month after his father left, Henry entered his room where Tate was unwinding from that night’s chapter. Henry’s face was troubled as he looked at Tate, to whom he hadn’t spoken to since take over the care of him. If he only could get his mouth to work now. Tate looked at Henry standing heavy shouldered in his doorway from where he laid on his stomach on his bed with his notebook opened before him, not angry, just confused.
“Henry, something the matter?” Tate's voice was concerned with an underlying hate that was now constant.
Henry took in a deep, shaky breath, his eyes stinging with tears. “Tate, I know we haven’t spoken since your father left and I hate that the first time will be riddled with heavy and painful words.”
Tate sat up on his knees, unsure of what he was about to hear, but tried to prepare himself. Henry didn’t move to sit as he delivered the news.
“Your father is dead.”
Tate’s breath was gone and his jaw dropped, then what Henry said next enraged him, “It was the cops protecting King.”
Tate’s eyes flashed with fire and started to growl, showing his teeth. Tate flipped from the page on which he was writing to a blank page. He nearly tore the page out as he turned it, shaking so badly that he could barely grip the pen, screaming his anguish and hatred, and wrote in big bold letters:
SHELDON KING WILL DIE!!!!
By the time Tate was nineteen he was a heavy drinker. Henry was no longer living with him, as he had left due to his health and the fact that Tate was old enough to care for himself for the basics. Tate now lived off a trust fund started by his mom when he was born and his father had continued to put into it until his death. Tate’s father trusted only Henry to not use the money for himself and to care for Tate until he was of the age of eighteen. Tate gave Henry five hundred dollars for his troubles and his worsening health. After that, Henry became his suppler for beer and alcohol with no argument. Tate had gotten all of the books by Sheldon and used the Voice to read them. While consuming alcohol on the rocks his mind would draw up theories that drove him deeper into madness. He began following the Sheldon King Fan Page; he had originally joined to not post opinions but just to observe the people who had set this monster on a pedestal. Obviously, they had fallen for the evil voice mixed with the pure darkness of the stories which raped the world’s population. Tate was amused to read that because of an incident King had remained out of the eye of the public. He became pissed off when he read that the fans were glad that the man who had attacked and landed him in the hospital was dead.
Of course, Tate did not know for sure that this incident was his father’s heroic act to rid of the world of a monster; he just assumed it was. The people who had willing protected the real monster from the supposed one had rendered a young child fatherless and that hurt Tate more than actually losing his father. Of course, if his father could have waited for Tate to get old enough, they would have been together as a father-son killing team. King would be dead and Tate would have a father. After a while, he began posting on the boards, gradually, doing it more and more to cause fights and arguments among the fans. Sitting there and watching his masterpiece unfold, sadly, would be as far as he could get.
He sat back from the screen and grabbed his notebook. There was one dark memoir in his notebook (which later led to more like it) that he kept going back to and reading that would make him smile and send chills down his spin at the same time. It was King’s exact moment of death that he wrote in one of his episodes of extreme detachment from reality with nothing but the haunting Voice to keep him company at that time. The entire scene rooted from King’s depiction of killing someone with no feeling.
My prey lays helpless on the ground as I approach him with a knife clenched in my hand. My prey caught in a trap making it impossible to get away, his eyes are wide but not in fear as I had expected but with amusement. He smiles this tight thin lip smile and the writer lays completely back not fighting or pleading in any way. I ask him this matching his evil voice to a T, “Why not fight or beg?”
He answers with his voice even deeper and dark that fear washes over me as if I am the one in the trap and not him, “I am the monster caught in the trap here. The look in your eyes tell me my fate regardless of what I do.”
I find myself standing over the man, hesitant. This is not what I had expected at all, he had taken the fun out of the kill…
Tate was mostly disturbed by this because it was his own writing King was affecting. How, he wondered. During the scene Tate discovered that he could not bring the knife down on his prey’s chest. This worried Tate because it meant he had sympathy towards the man who had gotten his father killed and beholder of a voice that was both horrible and entrancing… is that what it was? He was entranced so much by the Voice that even his writing was keeping him from killing the owner of the Voice? He shook his head in disbelief and took a swig of alcohol. He could see himself doing it but could not write it, even at twenty-five years old.
Tate, startled by a knock on his front door, moved quickly to see who it was. It was Monday and Henry visited on Wednesdays, the visits consisted of Henry restocking Tate’s alcohol stash (Tate never left the house) and maybe a homemade meal which Henry would either bring or make there to give Tate something other than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and TV dinners, maybe even a round of blackjack as it was the only card game that Tate understood. But the windows showed that the two people standing at his door were ones he hadn’t seen since he was four; his brother and his mom.
Tate sighed. What could they possibly want? He did check himself over, knowing it was too late to even attempt to straighten himself up, let alone the house. Tate opened the door and saw them try to not wrinkle their noses at the overwhelming smell of alcohol and other smells, hoping that they would see that coming was a grand mistake..
“Can I help you?” Tate addressed them as he would any other stranger.
His mom looked disappointed and sadden by this, but his brother had worn the look of absolute disgust and anger.
“Tate, it is your mom and brother?” Her voice was high with sadness.
“I know that.” Tate said sourly.
The slim hope that Tate’s mom had went away, “Son, may we come in?”
“On what?” Tate’s brother spat.
“On what you hope to accomplish by this visit?” he shifted his eyes to his brother.
Tate’s mom looked lost and hurt but determined to visit with her estranged son, “I just wanted to see you and know how you are doing.”
Tate realized that he couldn’t use disrespect to send his stubborn mom away. He stepped aside and let them in. His brother walked passed him, staring him down. Tate knew that if Mom hadn’t been so close that his brother would have addressed Tate’s behavior in the appropriate physical matter. Knowing that, Tate smiled at his brother with a mocking smile that made his brother shift uncomfortably as the door shut behind them.
“What do you guys want?” Tate stated as they stood around in the front room because the place was a mess.
His mom let out a nervous chuckle, “Where to begin?”
“Jee, I don’t know. Dad has been dead for fifteen years, yet you show up now.” Tate let loose.
“I’m sorry, son.” His mom moved forward to try to hug him.
Tate shuffled back, “NO!”
He startled both of them, “Why did you not come after he died? Huh?” Tate had tears in his eyes.
At that his mom remained silent, ashamed.
“Come on, bitch. You come here, expecting me to open my arms to you, yet you can’t answer my only fucking question!”
His brother stepped forward and shoved him into the wall, “Do not speak to her like that!”
“We are all adults here. Tell me, brother, why?” Tate asked tauntingly.
His brother looked at him, fuming, and their mom did not even try to stop her boys from fighting.
“You want to know!”
They stood almost touching nose to nose both red in the face and breathing heavily.
“We knew you were a lost cause.” His brother said quietly and full of hate.
Tate looked away in defeat, and allowed his brother feel as though he had the winning hand. When his brother backed away and began to turn when Tate pulled back his right hand, clenching into a tight fist and punched his brother in the face, throwing his weight into the throw. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he fell like tree into their mom. Tate’s mom shrieked and attempted to yell at her son. Tate retaliated.
“Try and yell at me for being bad, Mom! I am just your 'lost cause' son. What was your fucking purpose for coming here!?” Tate fumed, eyes flashing and body tense as he stared at him mom trapped under the unconscious heap that was his brother with blood trailing from his mouth. She was crying, in fear, Tate supposed.
“I had hoped to connect with my younger son.” She said as she looked down and tried to arouse her other son.
“Too late, Mom.” Tate left the room and went into the kitchen.
Tate was breathing heavily, trying to get himself under control, not wanting to go any farther than hitting his brother. He didn’t want them in his life and them being this close was making him pissed. He could hear movement in the other room and a painful groan that let Tate know that his brother was coming around. Who knew what could happen now, though Tate suspected that his brother would retaliate simply because his younger brother bested him. Typical sibling rivalry.
“Stan!” Tate’s mom cried out, giving Tate a warning unwittingly.
Tate braced himself for the attack, wanting to give his brother the sense that he had gotten the better of him. Tate felt the arms wrap around his mid-section and his brother yanked him up and backwards, clearly intending to throw him over his shoulder. Tate used his right foot to kick out from the counter to throw his brother off balance; it worked. Stan stumbled backwards with Tate still in his grasp, not quite over his shoulder, before he slipped on some dust on the tile floor and went down. Tate remained heavy as they hit the ground and Stan let out angry grunt.
Their mom screamed at them to stop.
“Mom, it is just years of me not having my younger brother to beat up on.” Stan grunted sarcastically.
Stan proceeded to shove Tate off of him. Tate regained his foothold, quickly reaching out and ripping a drawer from its place under the microwave, throwing it, contents and all, at Stan who was still trying to get to his feet. The drawer full of Tupperware lids hit him in the chest; it had hindered Stan but did not stop him.
“Brother, stop or you will regret this.” Tate warned calmly, trying to get his own rage under control.
Stan laughed a maniacal laugh, blood spraying from his mouth, “What could a little shit like you do to me?”
Tate just stared as his brother got fully to his feet. “I advise you to take Mom and leave and forget about me.” Fighting to keep his voice calm, his internal storm was raging nearly overwhelming him.
“Gladly. As soon as I get this lesson through that thick head of yours.”
Tate ignored that statement, “Mom, you’d better get him and you out before shit goes down.” Tate didn’t know how much longer he could remain under control, the Voice was starting to creep in and begin to narrate a scene that had not happened yet, and he didn’t want it to happen. They were family; estranged yes, but still family. No, what was being narrated was a crime against humanity.
“Mom, go out and wait. This won’t take long.” Stan calmly eyed Tate, clearly calculating his own success, circling around slowly.
Tate just shook his head, for he knew how this was going to end. His hard headed brother would not give in until Tate had surrendered, which was never going happen.
Stan launched into a dive for Tate's legs, who simply side stepped out of the way of the attack he had already anticipated, Stan landing on the floor. Stan whipped from his belly to his back, clearly intending to dive again, but watched in stunned horror as Tate pulled the entire refrigerator down on his legs. Tate’s mom and brother both yelled out, one in horror and the other in pain.
“Tate!” His mom firmly grabbed his arm.
Tate turned on his mom, grabbing her tightly at her biceps. She stared at Tate, nothing more than a bag of frail bones. Tate spoke with the Voice, “I warned you! Did I not warn you?”
“You let her go!” His first victim yelled from where he laid on the floor trapped under the refrigerator.
Tate did not stop looking at his mom and growled, “What will you do?” Tate softened his voice, struggling internal to only have one victim to deal with. “Mom, I will give you this chance to walk away.” His mom looked toward Stan, and Tate shook her for her to look back at him, “As of now you no longer have sons.”
The Voice's statement brought her back to reality and she began to struggle, pleading. “Tate, stop this, you need help.”
Tate threw his second victim down hard, the back of her fragile and elderly head slammed against the floor with a sickening crunch. Tate internally cringed at the sound and the sight of his mom, no, his victim lying there in complete stillness. He shut his eyes for a brief moment before he turned on his trapped prey.
“MOM! SOMEONE HELP!” Stan screamed.
Tate approached the first victim, taking a knife from the sink and clenching it tightly in his right hand. Stan’s eyes were wide with fear as he tried to hit and push Tate away. Tate easily pinned the victim’s arms above his head, “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Tate said not trying to prolong something that he never wanted to do as he drove the knife into the chest. After he was sure that his victim was dead Tate spoke without one tear, “I am sorry, but you brought it on yourselves.” It made him feel better knowing that if they would have just listened to him, they would still be alive. The fact that Tate didn’t kill on impulse made him feel better about the entire situation.
Tate contacted Henry to help him dispose of the bodies and the during which not a single word spoken between them. They went ten miles up into the hills and buried them in six foot unmarked graves and Henry took care of the car after he dropped Tate off. For Tate, this made Sheldon King a marked man. It was no longer enough to cause arguments on the fan page or writing about his death. The time had come for Sheldon's life to end. It was because of him that Tate had murdered his mom and brother. Tate started planning…
Four years later, the perfect opportunity presented itself in the form of a newsletter on King’s fan page on early Thursday when he read it. He was going to be in Mason, Utah to unveil his newest book. Tate rubbed his hands together as he thought it couldn’t be a more perfect destiny.
It would be a thirteen hour drive and King was to speak on Saturday at two in the afternoon. Tate planned to have Henry drive him the night he found out so he could get there and scope out the location for the best vantage point.
Henry played an important part in this, and so Tate went to great lengths to keep him out of trouble after everything went down. For instance, he was supplying the gun that Tate was going to use; the gun had belonged to Tate’s father. Henry had taken the gun and hid it at his place so the cops could not take it. Also, he had kept Tate’s secrets.
Tate withdrew all his money from his fund (which was a total of five hundred fifty-eight thousand, four hundred seventy-eight dollars) and gave it to Henry to do with it what he wanted after he dropped Tate off in Mason.
On the entire drive Tate either slept or wrote in his Dark Tellings notebook.
I am going to do it or die trying, Saturday I will finally put an end to the monster who is the reason why my family is dead. But I will rid the world of the monster with such an evil voice and the dark stories. Stories that people welling read and enjoy makes me sick as they make a monster rich. I will not hesitate as I have many times trying to write his death. It is mostly the damned voice that drives me nearly mad. It is not a normal human who has a voice like that… but after I kill him then what?
That was what bothered Tate the most. This had consumed his whole life, what was to follow after its end? Tate pushed it aside for if he escaped with his life, it was a good worry. There was going to be something different between the murdering of his family and murdering of King; King was not going to have a shred of warning.
Tate had his father’s disassembled sniper rifle and his notebook in a duffel bag. Henry always referred to Tate as the smart idiot, which Tate would agree. He was smart in his own way; his father had been right to keep him out of school, for he would always say that they would not understand Tate. Henry had only taken the gun apart and put it together once before Tate could do it and did so perfectly.
The sun was rising on Friday when they were nearing Mason, Utah. Henry chose that moment to say some well thought-out words to Tate.
“Tate, these words are not going to be me trying to talk you out of this little plan of yours. I tried it with your father and they were just wasted words. Will you truly hear me?”
Tate stared at Henry, shutting out what ever might impair him at that moment to hear Henry as he had asked.
“Don’t take offense, but I see you as my son, I have words that are meant for a son. Granted, I have never given you any fatherly advice; nevertheless I love you like a son. That is why I have stuck around even though I am dying.”
Tears welled in Tate’s eyes as he looked down at his lap.
“Putting aside the mishap with your mom and brother, I am proud of you and I am going to miss you. Son,” Henry put a hand on Tate’s shoulder, “Your father loved you and I love you. I just hope that I have conveyed that enough to make you not feel alone.”
Tate scooted over to the center of the seat and leaned against Henry. This was Tate’s first form of warm human contact in a long time. Henry was holding Tate as they arrived in Mason and that was where they said their final goodbyes to one another.
Henry dropped Tate off a block from King Street with his bag, the Voice and his plan to keep him company in what he felt…knew were his final hours. He was going to make his final moments his finest.
Tate headed to the Lessee Auditorium for which, with Henry’s help, he had acquired a blueprint of the building and he had decided to take for his advantage point the temporarily closed off balcony level. Tate, so as to not blow his cover, could only enter the balcony by way of the roof access. There were stairs, but Tate was smart enough not stroll in through the front or back doors. It was simple enough…too simple, he thought as he hid in the darkness and reassembled the gun. His thoughts didn’t stray off his destiny as he laid in wait.
'This isn’t just for me. This is for my family killed in relation to the Voice to which drives on the madness. Whether meant or not, I believe it was and had been his plan all along. However he never foresaw my dad or me seeing through his rich writing to the monster he truly is. I have him in my trap and I will not hesitate.'
Time ticked by and Tate sat in wait, knowing he had a day yet before he could fulfill his reason for being alive. It just tickled him to know that King, in a little under twenty-four hours, was going to be standing on that stage, revealing himself and his new book to the world and Tate was going to make him know of his grave mistake of making himself public.
I dreamed of fire, King was surrounded by it. Screaming, how it makes me smile, though, I am not there. I know I am not there because King looked right through me. In my dreams I normally have full control but this one I was just watching. Sure it is great but what does that mean for what I am waiting for.
Saturday came and it was a half an hour till the monster showed himself. Tate watched all the people filed into the auditorium; he was not good at reading people but he didn’t need to be to know that all those below him were smiling in excitement. He guessed that he would never understand how people could be so blind and worship a monster like King.
A chubby man walked on to the stage and addressed the audience, “I am Lloyd Middel and I want to thank you for coming here.” He paused, waiting for applause to die; “Now this man need no introduction, the master of storytelling…”
The applause drowned out the rest of the sentence and King entered from the left part of the stage, Tate’s body grew tense and his eyes locked on the writer who he was now seeing for the first time in the flesh, a thin stature of a man with gray hair. Tate sunk low like a cat ready to pounce. He saw right through the man’s weak appearance. He did not take aim as he was waiting for the right moment, the moment that would guarantee not just King’s death but also the greatest reaction from the people watching.
“All this hype. You guys know that this is a book reveal not a rock concert, right?” He asked, ending in a wide thin lip smile.
There was a round of applause, Tate, struck dumb at the gentle and soft voice cracked with age. He was about to cry out pure frustration. 'He knows I am here and is trying to throw me off!'
“Thank you! Now, it is weird for me to be up here. I am a fucking writer!” He said. A pause followed that, with a smiled he continued, “This is the very reason for the book which is why I am standing before you. Before I reveal the name let me tell you why I hid it,” A sly smiled crept across his lips, “I did it just to mess with you. You know why?” He stopped as there was muttering among the audience. Tate smiled slightly. Is this where he slips up? King spoke in a low cracked voice, “Because I can. Am I the master of horror or not!” he cackled as there was applause, Tate prepared himself. Chuckling, King began again “Alright, here is the moment and the reason we are all here. This new book title is, The Wordslinger's Oath. So there are writers, we are after the money or fame or both. However, there are Wordslingers now these people are truly remarkable. It dangerous as they life among their characters. I know, you all mutter, but they do. Just remember this, if you pick up a book and if the character or the storyline is scarily close to your own life. You just might have picked up your story, it just changed at your touch... ”
Grasping the gun, Tate could feel sweat on his brow; it was now or never. Tate got on his knees, steadied himself, looking though the scope of the gun and aiming right at the man’s heart. He was unseen, though in the open, so he took his time with two deep breaths, wanting to make it count. King had stop talking and was staring at something, and then Tate saw something gray in the scope obscuring the red shirt of his target as he pulled the trigger. He stood straight up as both King and person dressed in a gray suite hit the stage. Tate let out a war cry as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs behind him. He turned to see two cops.
“Is he dead?” Tate screamed crazily aiming his sniper rifle at the cops who were now trying to arrest him, “Is he fucking dead!” He smiled wildly with tears welling in the corner of his eyes. Tate didn’t feel any different, then again he wondered if he would have regardless of the outcome. Whether King died or not, the Voice, his true voice would still haunt him for the rest of his life. “KILL ME!” He screamed and pulled the trigger and one cop pulled his own trigger as he fell.
Henry Stroken was on a plane bound for the United Kingdom; he cared not to know the fate of the last person he had cared about. During flight, he held in his hands the story of a jealous obsession of a father who lost his chance to make it big to another lesser person. The father dedicated his life to understanding why and, to help draw his son in. Though the Voice was played by Henry himself, the father was convinced that it was King and lost his mind. Henry had promised his friend that in the event of his death he would continue the Voice readings for his son in the hopes that his son could bring down the single person who destroyed his life.