Rufus McCain

Happy Thursday and here is a new short story inspired by the wonderful art from Germany’s most Beloved Son,  Mike Heinl.

Rufus McCain

Composed

by

Layden Robinson

The key is to lose yourself within the performance, become one with it and never look back; That is exactly how Rufus McCain lived.

                Stern-faced, Rufus McCain burned down the house, never showing an ounce of remorse or regret.  He casually and confidently strolled away, silently saying his goodbyes within an internal whisper; (Never give others a Tell to pin you on a hand.)

Rufus McCain was obsessive of hate, but also had an understanding of the power of hatred and what it was capable of destroying.

He had gone to his late Mother’s resting place when the bullies chose to interrupt his respectful moment with his lost loved-one; heckling him, pushing and sticking him with their fuck fingers; (Ill advised.)

Just because Rufus McCain was a quiet, silent soul didn’t mean he was inferior, weak and feeble; ready to lie over and be a submissive bitch for anyone that mistakenly thought that they had more power than they truly had.

Like a vehement banshee, Rufus McCain turned and tore the fucking throat from one of the intrusive bullies, throwing the lifeless piece of flesh mass at the other surrounding piss-filled followers.   They ran for the distance, as Mr. McCain went back to his zone of solace, kissing his Mother’s headstone before he rose and headed West.

Towards the West, within the West, Rufus McCain fantasized about the fairytale; what it would be like to feel Love, be in Love, become one with love.  Ahead he saw a frigid castle holding captive a Maiden that waved for him to save her.

“Fucker.”    Rufus McCain hardly used vulgarity, but he was overwhelmed by emotion, that insidious possession that can seep so deep inside of you, make you scream out-loud for a new beginning.

                He knew what he needed to do as he walked, with confidence and strength, towards the frigid castles’ structure, looking above to where the helpless maiden had been waving her SOS to him.

“WHO GOES THERE?!?” Came a booming voice from the dropping front gate of the Medieval prison that kept his destiny captive.

                Out rode a dark knight that matched the color of the deepest, most vengeful serpent, raising his saber high, aiming Rufus McCain’s immediate way.

“I ASKED WHO GOES THERE!”   The dark knight was powerful and firm with his penetrating roar.

“My name is Rufus McCain and I have been sent to rescue the Maiden above.”   Within an emotionless tone and the most severe of Poker faces, Rufus McCain stared down his adversary, never flinching or showing a hint of fear.

“Is that so young lad? Well¸ if that is case. PREPARE TO DIE! “

                The black knight wasted no time charging Rufus McCain’s way with his saber aggressively swinging and his screeching mare, spitting like the whore she was, with his true intent never a secret. Rufus McCain took from inside his corduroy jacket the .44 Magnum he had personally stolen from Inspector Callahan, blowing a massive hole wide open within his aggressor’s chest; (the mare was now free.)

Above, Rufus McCain saw his in-need Maiden re-appear, as he looked above introspectively.

“Is this the way it is supposed to be?”    Rufus McCain knew that there was no time to waste; the rest of The Black Knight’s brigade would be arriving back sooner rather than later.

“Please. Take me with you!”  The Maiden was wet from head to toe as Rufus McCain scaled the dark stone confines walls, like a feisty arachnid, effortless. Above, taking what he had always yearned for, within his strengthened arms.

“What becomes of us now, my hero?”  The Maiden spoke between kissing her saviors lips and soul so deeply.

“There is no end and only new beginnings.”

                A distance away, but close enough to be lethal, Rufus McCain could hear the rhythmic gallop and thunder upon the un-sturdy ground’s dwindling firmness, heading their way.

Rufus McCain- Now and Currently Living within the Present.

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