Title art by L.H. Grey

 

 

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Rufige Kru “Darkrider”

 

 

 

 

 

She’s a ruffrider, no question.
Got 36 crazy fists and, at the flick of her wrist, has 36 more just as swift to whip fools into shape.
No escape once she breaks from formation.
You can run, you can hide, but I’m inclined to remind you, she will find you.

 

And about that reputation.

 

Let’s just say that her spree spans all fifty as thrifty she ain’t and restraint is not a trait she greatly cares for.
There are kick drums and snares in the chrome of her dome and these subatomic phonics give her chronic indigestion.
Not to mention lack of need to give a truculent fuck for the sitting ducks she plucks as she’s been known to run amok when stopping by at her discretion.

 

Cracking skulls like a titanium yo-yo.
Ending days like a mug of hot cocoa.
And that’s before she goes loco.
She won’t be going easy as her need to make you queasy leads directly to her demon seed and there’s no bleeding heart within receding.

 

For those intent on needling, I feel obliged confiding this is not in any way inclined a wise move.
What’s more, it offers shortcut to your last move.
Your drawbacks are her rein slacks.
Your shakedown her giddy-up.
She won’t be asking nicely as she flosses with your thorax.
Won’t be any less than spritely when your skullcap cracks.

 

Should you divvy up the body parts, then you’ll see she has a thing for meat.
Like the Butcher of Baghdad she hacks, whacks and chops.
Then rinses to repeat.
Lingering only to work out what to do with you.
As by the time she’s through with you.
You’ll be finger food, see.

 

Once those eyes blacken.
It’s entrapment.
No turning back as there is no behind you.
Just a shit ton of gashes to fashion and penchant for snuff and rough stuff as she huffs, puffs and blows your damn house in.

 

This little piggy went well with brown mustard.
A tad flustered perhaps as she skinned it and split it.
But still tender enough for an entrée.
A little appetizer just to get the juices flowing.
Sowing demon seeds in your psyche just to grow them into maple trees.
Until she decides to do just as she pleases.

 

Once etiquette slips, it’s feeding time.
And that’s desperate news for the apple-gagged swine in question.
As one look in her eyes should see fate surmising.
Make for exhilarating table conversation.
Trepidation aside, it’s a privilege to die at the hands of a technician so adept at excision.
She’ll be in and out in practically no time.
Each incision precise as her scalpel blade slices through eyeballs like lychees and cuts down to size any plans you might have on the line.
Piss this one off and you’ll see a whole new side to her.
And, just to concur, you will not like it.

 

This is no lack of discipline, just that her heart pumps nitroglycerin.
And she has a thing for viscera, you see.
Likes the way it glistens.
Listen intently and you may discern whispers.
Stir of echoes in falsetto delivered in allegro.
Give her an inch , she’ll pinch of intestine.
Use it to dangle you over a ravine, and then let go.
Truth be known, you were dead meat from the get-go.
The moment her peepers turned espresso.

 

Black hole suns spun from slumming with the ignorant.
The self-induced just so happen to fit the profile willingly.
No shorts as she cuts losses with a chop chop and her chop shop is a hot spot for such lowlives.
They play with knives by taking her lightly.
Fall to the wayside as she applies some fresh perspective.
Irrespective whether blessings are extended her.
A whole war of terror on account of human error.
Perhaps you would be better served not testing the patience of the dweller that paces her cellar.

 

Whatever you do, don’t move a muscle.
As any dumb attempt to hustle means exemption from a quick death.
And you dug yourself a shallow grave with your own bloody shovel.
Thus, your eulogy is her jubilee.
Your misery her company.
Your pain her antiseptic.
And your lies her peptic acid.
Breaking you down with a smile that frowns, she’ll defile every molecule and won’t stop until you’re soluble.
But don’t think her dishonorable.
As the results would be imponderable.

 

She’s a ruffrider, no question.
Got blood on her lips, no recollection how it got there.
As any bloody murders staged play in Cimmerian shade.
Not to say she wasn’t lucid in that moment.
No senses on postponement.
But remembrance is just an added bonus.

 

She’s a ruffrider, no question.
Clocked the hard knocks in preschool.
She is nobody’s fool.
And can be copiously cruel if you persist to dismiss her sage advice.
No sugar, no spice, just all things frightful.
A tidal wave of crime that pays, one man tsunami that obliterates calmly.
I would choose your next move with due care if I were you.
And don’t forget to make it timely.

 

She’s a ruffrider, no question.
And I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the Antichrist.
Padding barefoot through entrails, she’s a devil for those details.
And she revels in derailing empty vessels masquerading beneath thin veils.
No poker face can withstand a spiked mace being swung just for the japes as simple manners are misplaced.
She will see right through you in Cimmerian shade.
And then, and only then, she will cut to the chase.
Erase the features from your changing face.
Replacing them with scalpel blades.
Make number of alterations.
Turn you into a monstrosity.
Just another curiosity in the museum that is she.
Now get down on your knees and wash her feet.

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

 

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