Randall Flagg

A blood thirsty, bad tempered Doomsayer with trust issues




A Child’s Laughter.

The young boy stood in awe of his gruesome handiwork.
He was astonished at how easy it was. He expected a struggle of some kind. An inner conflict at least. He expected his conscience arguing the difference between right and wrong. The merits of good and evil. But there was no conflict. Better still, there was no guilt.
He was aware of how effortless it was. He realized how was calm he was. There had been no physical struggle, no exertion.
The astonishing power that had coursed through his body, streaming and pulling at his every fibre. Stirring and vibrating every atom in his body.
He felt energized.
He felt alive.
It was a lot more that could be said about the smouldering corpse that lay at the boy’s feet.
He looked at the stricken dead man with utter contempt, the satisfaction of his horrific death made the boy smile.
The echo of the man’s high pitched screams, his pathetic pleas and prayers of forgiveness caused the boy to chuckle. It was followed by a hollow laugh.
He tried to stifle the cold, emotionless laugh but could not. Eventually the laugh gave out to a muffled guffaw. The boy stopped suddenly, almost embarrassed at his outburst, then he started to snigger loudly. The boy creased up. He lost it. He broke out into a fit of the giggles. He could not control himself. Tears rolled down his face. The more he tried to stop, the more the giggles got worse. His stomach started to ache. He had never laughed so much. Ever. He couldn’t remember laughing like this before.
It felt really good.
Everything seemed vivid and exciting.
He laughed so much it hurt but yet he could not stop laughing. He slowed his breathing, trying to regain control then he remembered the man. The dead and charred man. The man he killed.
He spat out another guffaw and put his hand over his mouth. The look on the guy’s face. Holy moly! The shock of utter helplessness. The futility of trying to survive, trying to save himself. The man’s eyes!
The last look of unanswered prayers.
It was pathetic.
The boy started to giggle again, harder than before. He thought he was going to burst, his stomach ached so bad. He was hunched over, his arms folded across his belly. His tears of laughter falling to the ground.
That agonised look on the guy’s face as his screams were sucked back down his throat. Clawing, tearing at his own face and neck as he collapsed to his knees, choking and gagging, the man’s bloodshot eyes bulged as his swollen tongue was pulled back forcibly into his throat, jamming the last of his dying breath.
It had all been very easy, the satisfaction of inflicting that much suffering on someone. The summoning of his power. It was an emotionless choice, as easy as flicking a switch. He was not hindered by the remorse or the guilt that he was made to suffer in the past.
He would begin to enjoy this.
His power was not a curse, it was a gift. He would no longer accept punishment for it. He would no longer keep his power hidden away. He would be free to use his power as he pleased.
The boy continued to laugh so hard. There was no warmth or humour in it.
The boy had suddenly realized his power, his true potential. He had had “incidents” before but nothing like this. He had discovered he could finally control the power of the atom like never before.
Nobody would ever question him again.
Nobody would ever stand in his way.
“You?! Son? Young man, get away from the body!”
“I said, you, get away from the body. I’m not going to warn you again!”
The child’s laughter stopped abruptly. The empty silence was chilling. Eerily the boy slowly and deliberately straightened up, he let his arms fall by his sides. He unclenched his fists and opened his hands, palms out.
Tiny green sparks crackled and danced across and between the boy’s fingers. A small radioactive energy began weaving and revolving around the boy’s hands.
In no time at all, the boy had conjured two green, smouldering spheres of atomic power, brightly spinning in either hand, dangerously caressed by the deadly intent of his fingers.
He turned to face the voice that dared to tell him what to do.
“Listen kid, I don’t want any trouble!”
“Too late for that now!” The boy calmly whispered.
“No! No, it’s never too late. That guy, he had it coming. Nobody else needs to die.”
“I think you’re wrong. Everyone here deserves to die.”

Randall Flagg

The Reaper Campaign marshaljohnh666 ruus_ruus