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A (Ghost) Writer

Tell everyone about some crappy video you made on youtube (or whatever thing you made) and get ridiculed by losers who are more pathetic than you are.

A (Ghost) Writer

Postby TurgidsonsGhost » Sun Sep 25, 2016 11:18 am

So I almost have a compilation of short stories done, connecting theme is that they're all really dark. And I may need some of my stuff ripped apart. Just cuz you need that. I have a sample here. Its based off of a news story when a rich kid in his late 20's murdered his hedge fund manager dad for not raising his allowance.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article ... eveal.html

White People Problems
Henry Pettyfer Jr. couldn’t believe what had just happened. His piece of garbage father had cut him off from his trust fund. It was what he lived off of, what he thrived off of. His parents had usually been so eager to support him, his father had let him use money from the hedge fund, but now it was all gone. Henry felt blindsided by this betrayal.
He figured he was probably going to see his father tonight, and that he would confront him about the trust then. His father, Henry Pettyfer Sr., ran one of the most esteemed hedge funds in uptown Manhattan, most of those other entitled, rich ***** couldn’t put up something that would compare.

He was a magnetic man, clocking in at about 6’4, and with grey hair, but not in that way someone has grey hair where the impact their presence has is somehow diminished. His suits were top rate, some costing as many as six figures, and he did not suffer fools, no, no he did not.
That was what Henry feared when he arrived at his parent’s place for dinner that night. The mansion was gargantuan and spacious. It was also secluded, Henry’s parents didn’t really have any neighbors; the nearest house was about five miles. Henry arrived and was greeted by his father’s butler, who led him down the hall, through his dad’s pelt collection, right to the dinner table, which was about 12 feet long and fairly wide. Henry wondered if sometimes his father could even hear him while he was in the process of hurling insults.
“Henry! How are you, son?”
“Good, father, fine.”
“That’s good. Were you able to find any work this week?”
“Why are you so obsessed with me working?”
“Because that’s what people do!”
“That’s not what we do!”
Mother motioned to father, he appeared to ease his features, and wanted to branch out into small talk. They talked about the game, and politics, and the weather and all of this other meaningless crap. Henry just sat there and let his resentment fester.
“Why do you hate me?” Henry was almost prepared to cry.
“Son, I don’t hate you, I just want you to learn good life skills!”
“Every time I come here you find a way to insult me!”
“Insult you? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s always some name you call me, or some jab. You always find one, why?”
Father looked irate “maybe if you weren’t so goddamn sensitive, you would actually pay attention to what I’m trying to teach you!”
Henry was upset. He needed to leave this situation, but socially was not permitted to. The festering was turning into an infection. He began to think. He thought about his childhood. He flashed back. He thought about his dad slapping him while he was doing homework. He was oh so awful at that Math homework. He thought about his dad constantly talking about how dumb he was. This had been going on for so long. So long. Henry felt so very old.
Dinner was finishing up. Henry was going to stay at his parent’s house tonight. He offered, and his parents seemed ok with it.
He told his parents that he was going to bed, even though he couldn’t sleep. The festering continued.
“I’m going to kill my father,” Henry thought to himself. “I’m going to do it tonight, and I’m going to smother him with his pillow.” He was probably in his room, which was at the other end of the house. There was nobody else in the house right now, the night cleaner was probably up; they’re usually working round the clock. I walked towards my parent’s bedroom, it occurred to Henry that he wasn’t sure how he was going to kill father without waking mother and having to kill her too. He would hate to do that, he did love mother so.
Henry’s parent’s bedrooms were in what would geographically be the far left corner of the house. The room bordered an ancient sword that his father had put up on the wall. He walked into his parent’s bedroom, he made sure to tiptoe so as not to wake anybody. He moved past the thousand dollar paintings his mother liked to collect, and moved to the left side of the bed, where father slept. He tapped on his shoulder, and eventually began to shake him.
“Henry, what do you need?”
“Could you come outside, father? I think there might be someone out there.”
“We can’t call the police?”
“No, I think it’s probably just some dumb kids, but we need to go chase them away.”
“Ok, just let me get everything on. Can you give me a minute?” Father groaned, stretched and yawned.
About five minutes later, he came out decently dressed, he was wearing a polo, and khakis. We began to walk together.

“When did you hear these kids?”
“About an hour ago, I heard loud noises outside, and then laughing. I figured they’d just **** off after a little while, but they got even noisier.”
Father looked irate “Dammit, son, you could have taken care of this yourself. Just go yell at them yourself.”
“I guess I probabl---“
“forget it, this needs to get done. I’ll do it,” father grumbled. He walked ahead of Henry, stamping ahead to deal with this crisis that Henry’d invented. “How do I do the deed” Henry thought? They walked out to the back of the yard, and Henry saw a lawn mower. He tried to pick it up, but it was incredibly heavy. He was going to see that Henry was acting suspicious, so he had to move quickly.

You know what? **** it.
Henry charged at father and tackled him to the ground. He looked unsurprisingly startled. Henry punched him in the face once and then proceeded to strangle him. He had to commit to this now. He continued to choke him, and father gagged, and tried to breathe, and he fought Henry. Eventually there was silence. Henry walked inside, hoping no one would see. He was panicking. His fingerprints were all over father. He walked back up to my parent’s room to make sure my mother wasn’t awake. She wasn’t, but the cleaning guy was there.
“What are you doing up still, Mr. Pettyfer?”
“I was just wondering where my father was.”
“I’ll look for him for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Why do you have dirt on your face,” Henry began to sweat. He didn’t know what to do next. He began to move towards the sword.
“Well that’s an interesting story….let me tell you about it…just give me a minute…a quick second…” The cleaning guy looked suspicious, but he was staying in place, I was moving towards the sword. He turned his back:
“I think we should involve the police.” I grab the sword, still silent, and hoist over my head, and thrust at his head. I cut into the bone, and there is a lot of blood. The cleaning guy falls to the ground. He appears to be dead.
Henry was in full on crisis mode now, he had now killed two people, and his fingerprints were all over the crime scene. He needed to get out of the house. He went to his Ford Focus, got in, and had to drive. Drive somewhere. Where, he didn’t know, but he had to go somewhere.
He ran up to his car, but he heard someone yell. He did a 180. It was one of the neighbors! The one night I decide to go on a killing spree and the MOTHERFUCKING NEIGHBORS COME KNOCKING. It was an old lady, she was wanting to deliver some flowers to mother. God dammit, goddammitdogtammit.
“I saw your father laying down on the floor.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I think I should call the police.”
I got in my car and began to drive. I ratcheted up my speed, and it went up and went up and went up and I’ve now hit a tree. I have hit a tree. This is great.

I sit in my car for a few minutes. I’d like to say I’m doing the moral thing and wait for the police, but I think the accident gave me a concussion, and now I’m light headed. The cops come to pick me up.
A little later, at the police station, the cops bring me in for questioning.
“Mr. Pettyfer, what were you doing tonight?” At first I thought I was going to stay silent till my lawyer got here, eventually I figured I’d probably just buy them out.
“I killed my father for cutting me off from my trust fund,” The cops looked disturbed.
“It gets better. When I ran into one of the cleaning guys, I cleaved his head with a sword.”
One of the cops looked to the other “you wanna call it?”

“I have a proposal”

“It’s probably not going to stop you from getting life in pris---“
“I’ll pay both of you off. By the millions. But you have to let me go and bury this case.”
“We’d have to commit you to a psych ward.”
“Pay you by the tens of millions.
“And you are free to go!”
A Fat Person wrote: I swear, I am a (literally and figuratively) MASSIVE target...and still, these peons have aim that would disgrace a Stormtrooper. Sigh.
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Re: A (Ghost) Writer

Postby Mungo Jerry » Fri Jan 06, 2017 1:59 pm

This story is probably best read with this in the BG:

(Well, maybe just the "Father, I want to kill you" part.)
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