Evil Branches

-three DAVID BRATH short stories-

Copyright © 2016 DAVID BRATH

These three short stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

www.davidbrath.com

Satanic rape
Creature devouring collateral damage body parts
Horrific spy, spying on the spymasters

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In Utero

-a DAVID BRATH short story-

Senator Bubba Elder’s eyes were half closed. His soft, pudgy hands rested against his pasty belly. He was slouched in his large hickory desk chair, his hairy bare ass thrust toward the edge of the burgundy leather upholstery. His head, with the high and tight salt and pepper hair cut, was tilted over the chair’s back in ecstasy.
He groaned, spreading his knees farther apart, his pants and piss stained white boxers yanked down to his ankles, as Damien Klaus, remained steadfast and determined on his knees, sucking the Senator off like a champ.
Bubba lifted his hands and wrapped them around Damion’s bald head, gently holding it still, while he thrust forward, lifting his heavy ass off the chair. “Hhhhhmm, grrrrrrrrrrr.”
The Texas Senator was done.
He released Damien’s head, and with his own head still tilting over the back of the chair and his eyes shut, he pushed the wheeled chair back from the desk.
Soon Damien was cleaning up Bubba with a handkerchief pulling the Senator’s underwear and pants into place, adjusting the leather belt just so. Damien paused briefly positioning himself in a manner where the Senator could reciprocate if he so desired but it was apparent the Senator had no such impulse late on a Tuesday night.
Damien took the hint, unlocked the Senator’s door and exited the office without a word, as was often the case after a ‘Happy Meal’. Whenever the Senator had the itch, he would call Damien, his Chief of Staff, to see if it was possible for someone to fetch the Senator a Happy Meal. That was the code that the Senator was in the mood for a little action, to help set his busy mind at ease. Damien was always eager to oblige. After all, it’s why he was hired and the extra cash bonuses at the end of each month were beginning to add up to meaningful savings.
As soon as the Senator heard Damien close the door, he opened his eyes and stared at the high white ceiling. It was not lost on him that Damien had hoped to play too, and Bubba was tempted, but needed to establish firm lines in the sand. Damien was Bubba’s meat, not the other way around.
The Senator stood, walked over to the door and locked it from inside. He then went back to his desk, grabbed the large McDonald’s bag with two Happy Meals and a large strawberry shake Damien had brought and retreated to his large sofa in the library.
He propped himself up with pillows, grabbed a cheeseburger, began sucking the thick shake through the yellow, red, and white straw and clicked on Fox News. He loved a strawberry shake after getting off—always had.
At 11:47 PM on a Tuesday night the news was on a loop. A slow news day for America.
Bubba yawned. He had an early day tomorrow. As Chair of the Senate Select Intelligence Committee, he had a National Security briefing at 6:30 AM regarding the status report of the four hostages held in Myanmar by leftist rebels. Two of the four international hostages were Stanford students, one from Iowa and the other, Stacy Hassle, from his damn home state, South Carolina.
Then Tuesday night, Loraine and the girls were arriving for the week. One of the reasons he felt the need for a Happy Meal was at hand.
It was 12:22 AM by the time Bubba had finished the second Happy Meal. He often spent nights in his office, especially when Loraine was out of town. He had extra clothes in the closet and he was a couch guy anyways, whether in the office or back at their Capitol Hill Condo. He and Loraine hadn’t shared a bed in years.
Bubba strolled out of his office bathroom at 12:38 AM, in stripped pajama attire. He poured himself a quick toddy, bourbon and bourbon, swished it around his mouth before gulping it down, then crawled under his Clemson Tiger blanket. The library light was off but he left his office light on so that the light spilled into the dark library. In minutes, the two-term conservative’s conservative, Senator from South Carolina, Bubba Hayline Daneworth, was snoring in the Dirksen Senate Office Building in Washington, D.C.

Bubba’s head jerked up off his pillow. It took a moment to realize where he was.
There were footsteps in his office. He stared at the light spilling in from the library door. A shadow flitted across the threshold.
Bubba’s heart raced. He squinted at the digital clock across the room: 3:13.
The footsteps again—getting closer.
Bubba had a .45 Ruger but it was in his desk drawer in the office. Then he remembered the panic button. Each damn room had a panic button. Whoever it was stopped in front of the door. Shit. Bubba heard the door knob turn. The door opened slowly, soft light from the office spilling into the dark room. Bubba saw a man – or what appeared to be a man – dressed in a black suit and red tie. The figure noticed Bubba immediately and began moving toward the sofe.

“Who the hell are you?” stammered Bubba.

750 Flash

The blood on the knife from the deer he shot brought Robert back from the dead.

“It wasn’t me, asshole,” said Robert.

His eyes were dark and tired. He was unshaven, his salt and pepper stubble streaked with dirt. His voice wasn’t right—course and low.

John turned his hands upward, confused, kneeling in front of the small buck. It was hard to breathe. “Robert?” He squinted through the spitting snow staring at the man in front of him.

“It’s damn windy. Howls all the time.” Robert blew into his cupped hands. “And cold. Shit it’s cold.”

“I have another jacket back at the truck.”

Robert laughed, shaking his head. “It’s a different kind of cold. Blankets and fires don’t help. I’ve tried.”

John gazed down at the bloody snow, then back at Robert.

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if you’re real.”

Robert cackled, throwing his head back, then stared at John. “I don’t know either.” He laughed.

“Do you get hungry?”

“Always hungry as hell. Doesn’t matter if I eat or not. Just hungry all the time.”

John