A Villain's Story
A Villain's Story; Tales of Styx Sullen by M.W. Wolf Ltd
M.W. Wolf Ltd.
All images, pictures, logos, writing and background images are protected by Copyright © M.W. Wolf Ltd, 2024
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Denis McKeever, alias Styx Sullen- This guy is so utterly twisted and tortured that he'll be on lists of most tortured and fucked up villains of all time… or is he a twisted dark anti-hero?
This is a story in the works as the M.W. Wolf Megaverse progresses, it isn’t the next fall throttle project, that has already been chosen. The next project will begin after The Fateless Child: Tainted Blood is finished. I aim for 2 or 3 books a year. The first half of this year has been slow because of Copyright Infringements, building the brand and I took some time out of fiction writing to write the IO-CU nonfiction. Once I’ve delt with the thieving cheaters, I’m peddle to the metal again.
Friendly notice: Don’t try to steal, or you’ll join the que of organisations which I’m litigating the hell out of. However, if you are interested in publishing, or screening this story, just reach out. Query me for my work.
Below is a tiny taster of what’s to come from this dark, twisted and macabre story.
‘The coming of correction, it isn’t going to be nice guys,’ said Styx Sullen’s deepthroated crackling voice out of the surround sound speakers in many private boardrooms across the globe. The board members, across several secret locations, a few hundred powerful, rich and influential people from many industries of the developed world, rotated their chairs to face the walled screens at the ends of their long board tables, littered with cups and saucers, and sweating jugs of icy milk. The boardrooms moaned with surprise and objections to the live feed’s invasion.
The wall screens flickered, crackling brilliant white and screeching sullen blackness, all in unison across the globe. The menacing screens each broadcasted the same feed, a dank and dark, shadowy brick tunnel system, evident only by flickering candlelight. In the screens the darkness is moving, swaying, laughing. A shadow man slowly forms from the mist, like he’d always been there, like he had been lingering between realms. The shadow forms flesh, blood, a flash of a tortured face, pearly dead eyes, then he appeared, fully formed, fully visible, fully real.
First his torso captured the flickering candlelight, clad in 18th century charred tweed, like burnt chicken skin. The chain of a pocket watch slithered down the front of his waistcoat, meandering like a shining moonlit river, tucked into his tainted brass buttons. His chocolate-claret tie gripped around his gullet, twisted, and frayed, like threads of a hangman’s noose. The triangle collars of his dust and puss stained white undershirt bowed out of the tort tie around his neck.
His tightly wrapped head followed his torso into the shadowy candlelight. At first, a silhouette of a skull, then red of vessels, chalk of bone, netted flesh, hollow eyes, blood lips and scaly skin. The candles roared, he was now an expressionless man, a head and face covered in soiled pantyhose, tightly bound to the tissue of his existence.
“Coup d'état, Coup d'état, Coup d'état,” echoed around the boardrooms and drilled into the skulls of the board members. The milk in the sweating jugs and the muddy teacups vibrated, forming swell patterns. Spilt sugar granules on the tables danced with the vibrations, forming shapes, then the outlines of skulls.
The pantyhose rustled, the speakers in the boardrooms crackled, the blood-filled slug lips wriggled.
The deepthroat whispered, hypnotically, ‘If I were having a boardroom meeting somewhere, say Brussels, London, Paris, New York, Los Gatos, Hongkong, Mountain View, or perhaps West Los Angeles, I’d ask myself, who is this guy who we stole from? Then I’d answer myself, he isn’t John Wick, but he sure could fuck us up and eat our children. Then I’d ask myself, will he really go that far? Then I’d do my research, find the dark holes, and I’d answer myself, you fucking right he would, he has probably already tracked my movements, he probably knows where I live, what college my boy goes to, what time I play tennis, what time I take a shit, who I put my dick in. He probably has eyes inside my home. He don’t fuck about. He is the darkness, the shadows in the mist, he is rebellion, he is bloody, rageful vengeance. He is… Styx Sullen, and he is coming for you. Life is not a comic book; you don’t come back in series 2. I’ll leave you with a taste of blood, to show what I can do.’
The flickering feed on the screen turned to rotating feeds of the boardrooms. An aged-stained pocket watch flashed up, subliminally. Rhythmic heartbeats ticked inside the brains of everyone watching. Tick one, the Brussels boardrooms appeared on the screens, they each gasped, looking around the table at each other. Tick two, the London boardroom flashed up.
‘No please,’ cried a pretty young assistant in a pencil skirt, too short for just a work outfit, yellow-brown piss flowing down the goosed skin of her inner thighs, diverging at her bent knees, flowing down the front of her shins into her frilly white socks. ‘I didn’t help him, I’m just an assistant,’ she yelled, spittle showering the milk jug in front of her, snot dribbling down onto her skintight blouse, buttons open to her cleavage, pointing at the bossman.
Tick Three, it was the Paris boardroom, yelling and arguing in French. Tick four, Hongkong, the boardroom members were sat with their heads bowed, lips pursed in shame, seemingly accepting their punishments, at least they had a bit of decorum in defeat. Tick five, New York boardroom, the members jumped up, clambering over the desk, pushing each other out of the way to get to the door.
Tick six, The West Los Angeles boardroom. The member sat, holding their breaths, some gripping onto each other, some with their eyes clamped shut. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 seconds of silence, stillness. The Asian CEO with a hairline halfway up is cranium, opened one clamped eye… Nothing happened. He grinned, releasing a puff of fear. He chuckled. Everyone in the West Los Angeles boardroom released their tension and gases, exhales and giggles.
A heartbeat boomed through the speakers. A trickle of clotty red fell from the CEO’s left nostril. One drop of blood splattered on the bright white table. His face dropped, his mahogany skin turned as pallid, as fluid, as melting wax. Blood pissed out of both of his nostrils, taps to red wine, jetting out, spilling across the table. Blood filled the whiteness of his wide eyes. His head clonked down onto the desk, blood still flowing from every hole in his body. The members of the West Los Angeles boardroom screamed, scurrying for the door as blood leaked from each of them.
None made it to freedom. The boardroom’s creamy carpet was a sodden pool of blood and thick mucus filled blood clots. A rug of death, a picture of just deserves, a fate well earnt.
‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ whispered the deepthroated man with dirty pantyhose strangling his face. ‘I’m the arrival,’ he roared out. Without moving he faded into the darkness in the tunnel, leaving the live feeds with a loud baleful, sinister laugh. ‘I’m the arrival, I’m the arrival,’ whispered the wind, vibrating out of the speakers.
The screens flickered; the candles faded out. Blackness, blackness and deafening silence, followed by a growing high-pitched echo which the members just can’t seem to escape.
It’s the Death Knell of bloody vengeance!
