Two Page Shorts, Nick Venom [short books to read TXT] 📗

I wonder if I can get some scraps by nighttime. I remember seeing a half-eaten cake, Gene thought. Maybe those brats didn’t eat it up like they did last time. Those pests. He wandered the alleyways and dirt roads that the slums of East Hell consisted of. The slums were in bad health, covered in orphans and drug addicts. If you wanted to commit a crime or take in an illegal substance, the slums were the best place for it. 

Gene stopped short of the alleyway’s exit, peering out at the road. He noticed several drug addicts sleeping on the side of the road, all in the same drugged-out state. Drugs were rampant in the slums, more so than alcohol and guns.

Gene turned away from the road, retracing his steps while thinking to himself. What idiots. Wasting their lives on drugs. He stopped a few feet in, turning to face his reflection in a nearby puddle. His brown hair was matted with dirt and blood. His clothes, which used to be vibrant, lacked any color. They were stained with mud, blood, and sweat. The mud stained many parts of his body from his clothes, his feet, and his head. His face was in a better condition than his messy matted hair. His dark blue eyes shined through the scratches and dry mud on his face. His eyes stood out like a sore thumb, bright and vibrant - the complete opposite of his attire and appearance. 

He turned away, fixing his tee-shirt to the best of his ability. He fixed the collar of the shirt, being careful not to stain the only not mud-infected part of his attire. 

I need new clothes… and a hot shower. Maybe some more alcohol. He thought with a small smile on his face. “Ha!” He exclaimed, turning towards the direction where the druggies were at. “How can I afford a shower? It’ll cost me my entire body to afford it.” He shook his head playfully as he approached the end of the alleyway, walking with long strides. 

As he neared the exit, a man sprinted around the corner and towards him. The man appeared to be in a drugged-out state with exaggerated expressions. His mouth was widened into a large grin and his eyes were dilated and open. He was dressed in dirty and stained clothing that threw dirt and other substances off him while he ran.

The man approached Gene, closing the distance faster than Gene could widen it. Gene watched in shock as the man charged at him, holding something strange in his hand. It wasn’t the usual alcohol bottle or drug bag, but a syringe.  

Gene’s eyes widened as he recognized the syringe. He attempted to jump out of the man’s way, but the man had better reflexes for a druggie. He turned his body at the flip of a dime, headed straight for Gene. He raised the syringe, pointing it at Gene. 

“Leave me alone!” Gene shouted to no avail. The man pushed forward, one arm grabbing his skeleton-thin arms and pinning him against the wall of a garage. Gene tried to fight the man off, but the man’s strength surpassed his. The man grinned as he brought the syringe close to Gene.

“Die.” The man remarked, piercing Gene’s neck with the syringe. Gene flailed his limbs around, desperately trying to hit the man and be released. However, the man was a healthy adult with long arms while Gene was a starved underdeveloped teen. He lacked the arm length to push the man off him or even smack him in the face. 

The syringe’s contents were being injected into his system, making friends with his blood and flesh. It used his bloodstreams to attach itself to his cells, taking them over within seconds.

Gene began coughing phlegm and blood out of his system. The man who pinned him to the garage released his grip on Gene, backing away in time to escape the phlegm and blood spray. 

“Dead.” The man remarked, ripping the empty syringe from Gene’s neck, before sprinting away. His targets were sighted on another street rat, chasing after him and retracing his steps. He left Gene to die in the alleyway, now foaming at the mouth. The foam that came out of him was red in color, not the natural white color.

What’s happening to my body? I can’t… I can’t control my body. Why isn’t my body reacting to me? Gene began freaking out, but that expression wasn’t shown in his outside appearance. His outside appearance looked dead, still foaming at the mouth - not moving or flinching at all.

He was technically dead, his outside dying, but his inside remaining alive. It remained alive even after the foaming stopped. He regained control over his body several minutes after his body died. His body remained the same, not changing at all. It was as if he was never injected by the syringe. 

Gene stared at his palms, his back pressed against the wall. He was sure that he was dying, but here he was. Alive. 

“What happened to me? I should be dead, so… What happened to me?” He asked himself. He looked around his surroundings, sitting in the same dusty alleyway he entered through. “This isn’t Heaven, right? Wouldn’t it have more… clouds and white. Everything’s a shade of brown, black, or gray.” He noted, staring at every inch of the alleyway. 

He stumbled to his feet, headed in the direction where the man sprinted in. He reached the end of the alleyway. He peered over the corner of the alleyway, noticing the same drug addicts unmoved and unfazed by the man wielding an empty syringe. They were sleeping their worries and lives away. 

Further down the road, Gene noticed the man being pinned to the ground by another man, a handsome muscular man who resembled a WWE superstar out of nowhere. The Muscular Man held the man on the ground easily, laughing at him. His piercing laughter floated down the road, entering Gene’s ears and attacking his eardrums. He shook the laughter out of his head before focusing on the Muscular Man again. This time, however, he noticed all of the drug addicts awake, all staring at Muscular Man.

“Go to sleep.” Muscular Man, glaring at everyone staring at him. They all looked away from him, except for Gene. His curiosity forced him to continue staring. He watched as Muscular Man, who turned back to face the man pinned to the ground, raised one fist high into the air. The fist cracked towards the man, sparking into flames midway towards the man’s head. The fist slammed into the man’s head, singing his hair. Muscular Man slammed his fist against the man’s head, keeping his fist against his face. He slowly burnt the man’s hair off, forcefully balding him. The man wailed louder and louder as the fire made its way towards his scalp. Muscular Man raised his fist and began pummeling him with several strikes.

After a while of tormenting, Gene noticed something weird, his eyes squinting to focus on it. Muscular Man’s lit hand suddenly turned into bones. All of his flesh on his hand disappeared, now only showing his bones. 

Muscular Man continued to beat on the man’s head, but, somehow, his hair was still burning - which confused Gene. He could only see bones, but there was still a flame attached to his hand.

Muscular Man quickly stopped torturing the man, grabbing him and the syringe. He draped the man over his shoulder while pocketing the syringe. He sprinted away from the scene, leaving a small pile of half-burnt hair behind.

Gene watched as Muscular Man disappeared a few blocks away, diving around a corner and leaving his sight. He was now left with several hundred questions and no answers. What was inside the syringe? Who was that man? Who is Muscular Man? I didn’t see the fire on his bony hand, so why was the man’s hair still being burnt? What is happening?

Gene backed away, glancing behind him. The screams of the man attracted attention. He ducked from the attention, sprinting away from the alleyway and towards a series of abandoned warehouses and other buildings. In their glory days, the warehouses were used to pump out war materials before the war ended and the warehouses were slowly being reclaimed by nature. They remained vacant ever since, broken into by homeless orphans and other street rats or painted on by local gangs. They were a dreaded sight for someone to see.

He arrived at the closest warehouse, pushing the door in. He attempted to get the door open but failed to do so. “Go away!” He heard somebody scream from inside the building. Someone had taken over his home while he was away. He no longer had a home.

Gene kicked at the door, moving away. “Damn brats.” He referred to anybody who sounded even a tiny bit younger than him as brats and anybody older as seniors. 

He moved towards another warehouse, trying the door with no luck. He went around the other side, testing the other door. They were chained locked. There would be no way to get in easily unless he had bolt cutters. 

“Damn!” He exclaimed, kicking the wall of the warehouse before immediately regretting it. He massaged his sore foot. The walls of the warehouse were made of durable iron instead of the dirt, wood, and twigs buildings that dominate the slums. A rare minority of buildings in the slums were made of bricks. An ever rarer minority were made of iron and strong materials.

Gene touched the wall before pressing his forehead against it. “What is happening to me?” He asked himself softly. He closed his eyes, reliving memories of his family. His family lived with him in the wealthy neighborhood of East Hell but were killed after a devastating earthquake hit the upper half of California. He was the sole survivor of his family. His home was destroyed in the earthquake and he quickly resorted to begging for food and money and living in the slums. His life changed in an instant.

He opened his eyes, looking straight at the wall. He wasn’t facing an iron wall, but the inside of the warehouse. Somehow, he had traveled through the wall and entered the warehouse. 

He spun on his heels, looking around his new surroundings with his jaw brushing against the floor. “How did I get inside? What is happening to me? It has to be that man who did this to me!” He exclaimed. “What was in that damn syringe.” He threw his hands up in an expression of irritation,

He faced the wall, pressing his hand against it. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was on the other side of the wall, opening his eyes and looking straight. He was still in the warehouse.

Gene shook his head disapprovingly. He closed his eyes and retold himself the story of his parents, stopping short of their deaths. He opened his eyes, now outside of the warehouse. He had phased through the wall with his memories as the fuel.

If my memories are what lets me phase through, then can I phase into the bakery and rob them of their bread… wait… Do solid objects follow me inside? Or would I phase through by myself? I need to test this. Gene tested his theory, grabbing a rock and facing the wall. He closed his eyes and retold his parent’s story before opening his eyes. He no longer held the rock. He couldn’t phase through with any solid objects joining him.

“This is sorta amazing!” He remarked, looking at the heavy machinery and other objects in the warehouse. A staircase led to the second floor of the warehouse where offices, a break room, and lighter machinery were placed. He sifted through the offices, finding a small jackpot of coins in one of the offices. He stashed the coins in his pocket, happy to see his pocket jingle