Ink Death

A little ten-year-old dude and his dad are sitting in an urban park. There’s a fountain, people of different ethnicities. A spinster takes a decade to unwrap a sandwich. A man wearing sunglasses smokes a “peener,” which is a tiny marijuana cigarette. The boy’s name is Travis. The dad’s just Dad.

TRAVIS: Dad, this is a great day!

DAD: Shut up, fuckface!

TRAVIS: [Crying] Dad, what?? Why did you call me– that?? [Totally losing his shit, sobbing]

DAD: What, fuckface? I find it hard to believe no one’s ever called you a FUCK-FACE before!

TRAVIS: [Blubbering, paws at his own face trying to stem the flood of tears. Can’t speak but for all the blubbering. Awful sounds. Awful to watch. Crying, mewling, writhing.]

DAD: Christ. Sigh. Look. You hungy, little duder? Wanna sammich?

TRAVIS: [more mewling, settling down slowly]

DAD: Are you a little girl? What are those sounds you’re making? You’re not even a person — you’re a little girl skunk. A female skunk. I can’t look at you. I hate you.

TRAVIS: Dad…. [Opens his mouth to say something more, to moan, to groan, but instead his mouth darkens and darkens and darkens and darkens and gradually consumes the rest of little Travis, the increasing blackness of his mouth bleeding into the other non-mouth parts of him, until he’s gone, his entire world gone ink-black. That’s the end of Travis. Now everything’s just a big universe of uninterrupted inky black. The end.]