Max ShepardMature

Stories (Hopefully imaginary) of where fate has come to the rescue! :)

What can I tell you about Max Shepard? Can I tell you he was a fat middle aged balding man, can I tell you he occaisionally cheated on his wife with a hooker named Doreen? Can I tell you he came home occaisonally from Chilli's smelling of Fajitas and bourbon?

The awnser is yes. I can tell you all of these things, but only because you need to know them, to know the man who broke and could never be fixed.

Max Shepard was lazy, highly opinionated and fat, with a small smattering of hair lying limp and greasy on a shiny head. He measured a slight five feet two inches high and smoke a pipe. Not because of any prior nicotine addiction, but because he felt it gave him a sense of prescene that his height caused him to lack.

He had been married for twenty-five years to his high school sweet heart Maisy, in those twenty-five years he had beaten her to the point where she could barely crawl away. beaten her so badly she would have to crawl feebly to the phone when she was done and call her sister Mabyl to come and pick her up for that inevitable hospital trip. For twenty-five years Mabyl had always obliged, grabbing her coat from the stand, yelling bye to her husband and children and driving come rain or shine to scoop her baby sister of a blood soaked kitchen floor.

Twenty-Five years.

Max Shepard had no children, he had contracted Chlamydia from an unknown source and failed to tell his already put upon wife. By the time she relised anything was wrong, the STi had destroyed any chance of her having children. Max has never apologised, he has never felt like he needed to.

Max Shepard works as a stockbroker in an office that he loves but with people he does not. He periodically hits on his secretary who finding the man repulsive would shudder away reminding Mr. Shepard of the office code of conduct before returning nervously to her desk.

I should think I have painted a pretty disgusting view of Max, made his life seem pretty dank and greasy, just like the man. And I would love to tell you that there was at least one nice thing to say about him, but there simply isn't. He is who he is. Which is why I paid a visit as I usually have to in cases like this.

I only ever come at night, and on this night it was perfect for it, a storm raging in the sky above me and lightning flashed upon the windows of the large detatched house I approached.

I had seen him arrive home before, still sober but planning on remedying that with the bottle of Vodka he had stashed in a deep trench coat pocket. I paused hunched upon the railing by the door as he passed me and I smelt the disgusting stench of pussy, booze and week old tobbacco on his breath. He paid me no mind, I'm rarely seen.

The door clicked shut behind him and I slipped into the shadow, slipped under the door. Following that stench with my nose, my eyes having been lost in the bleak darkness. I heard the solid 'thwack' as he obviously laid a good one on Maisy and there was the thud of her foot on the stair as she hurried away to cry into a pillow.

I glided effortlessly into the house, following the sounds of ice cubes in thick glass. He was near by, I could smell Doreen and Fajitas on his skin like a greasy aftershave. Shirking my shroud I walked into what looked like tall drawing room. Comfy chaise loungers were littered about the place and a large walnut drinks cabinet stood open. My shadow fell over Max as I looked down upon him, slung back with a large pot belly bulging out and his hands clasped around a large glass atop it, full to brimming with Vodka.

He opened his eyes a glare marring his features, probably expecting to see Maisy stood confidently infront of him, but it was not Maisy, it was only me and my long shadow blotting out his light.

The glare faded and his eyes glazed in horror, his mouth stretched impossibly long for a few seconds and I had time to lean down and with a long fingered hand I covered his mouth, trapping his scream like a bug in his throat.

He dropped the tumbler of Vodka on the floor where it shattered and the spirit rose and wafted in the air like its namesake.

My mouth isn't a mouth as such more of a webbed hole, blackened and gnarled, I pulled it close to Max's ear and felt him shrink a little, decreasing in mass as though he could shrivel away from me. Pulling him in like a lover I whispered the words I was sent to say.

"For all the things you do, for all the things you have done and would have done, this is your punishment.

You are moronic because for all the things you had done and all the people who hate you and wished this punishment upon you, one thing saved you.

Somebody prayed for you, day after day. And now because of one slap too many, she has stopped praying."

I felt the tears course down my hand and smiled sadly next to him, leaning my face against him in a small embrace. I drew back and my hand left his mouth and I gave him his undoing. I said the words I was sent to say before shrouding myself in shadow once more, invisible I sat and watched.

Max Shepard the man who made his wife infertile, who beat her every day for twenty five years and yet was still prayed for by her stood up slowly. His face was pale and haggard his body lurched slightly to the side as chubby hands reached up to slowly undo his shirt . I watched impassivly as he drew back the expensive cloth and with his free hand he reached down and picked up a large shard of glass.

He never screamed. They never do. Its as though they are locked in their minds with no way of getting out. He raked the glass slowly down his chest, crimson rivulets began streaming, flicking off the glass to land with a meaty plop on the parquet flooring. And there is his other hand pulling off flesh, heavy globules of skin and fat as he cuts deeper and deeper. I watch with a mild interest as he throws the flesh away.

A few more stabs, a few more slices. No major damage and he begins to slow down before he drops from blood loss and I begin to move along, can't do to linger. I slip into the cool night air just in time to hear his screams as he comes to. I don't pity him, you shouldn't either.

Just take great comfort in the knowledge that The Fates see all and right all when the time comes and poor old Max Shepard will slice himself open again and again every night until he dies and no one will know why except for Maisy. Maisy who finally gave up praying for Max Shepard.

Whenever she visits him in the hospital she thinks ''Twenty Five Years"

The End

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