David Barber was born and bred in Manchester, England, but now lives in Crieff, Scotland, with his wife and their two daughters. He has been published in numerous online magazines, including Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, Near to the Knuckle, The New Flesh, and Blink Ink. He is currently working on a few projects, including a novel, and he''s the editor of Thrills, Kills 'n' Chaos.


About the Author

David Barber

sIck in the Head

PULP FICTION
PREMIUM
PULP of the MONTH

Dad, it's late
What are you still doing down here
You look a state
Have you been hammering the beer

I've been waiting for you, son
Did you forget the curfew
It's not much fun
Waiting and worrying about you

This is so lame, dad,
I'm not a kid anymore,
I'm 21, no longer a lad
I've got the key to the door

There's a killer out there
And I don't want you dead
Do you think it's fair
I'm worried out of my head

As I've just said
I'm no longer a child
I've got a good head
I'm not foolish or wild

Age is immaterial
To a hunter of the flesh
Be it singular or serial
Be it old or be it fresh

Dad, if you want the truth
I went down the pub
I met up with Ruth
I think we're in love

Are you being serious
That slut from The Crown
Son, that's hilarious
She's the bike of the town

You don't have a clue
You're so wrong about her
I'm done with you
This conversation is over

You could find another
Instead of that dirty one
You can do a lot better
Get rid of her, son

My ears are sore
And your words are dead
I'm not listening anymore
I'm going to my bed

Tomorrow you're going nowhere
Did you hear what I said
There's a maniac out there
Who is sick in the head

Dad, the killer targets females
It said so on the news
And according to details
Takes away their shoes

A guy or a chick
It doesn't matter, son
If his mind clicks
He'll strike - job done

Wait, how do you know
That the killer's a he
The news never said so
It could be a she

Just go to your bed
You'll be safe up there
I'll be on guard
Sitting in my chair

I walk up to my room
And quietly close the door
My dad will be sleeping soon
Of that I'm sure

I take out my hatchet
From the bedside drawer
And walk over to my closet
Slowly opening the door

In there are my prizes
On a shelf behind my clothes
All styles and sizes
In nice neat rows

Black ones, navy ones
Red ones, too
All expensive leather ones
The best kind of shoe

I leave my room
The weapon in my hand
And walk through the gloom
Not making a sound

I enter my dad's room
He's still snoring down there
In a world of dream
Asleep in his chair

I walk up to his wardrobe
And open a door
I move aside a bathrobe
And assess the score

I count up the shoes
My dad's one pair ahead
I think this now proves
We're both sick in the head

Will Ruth be his next victim
Of that I can't be sure
I can no longer trust him
He thinks she's a whore

I creep back downstairs
The hatchet held high
He's still in his chair
The end is nigh

His eyes open wide
As the hatchet comes down
He has nowhere to hide
No time to frown

The blade hits his head
With a satisfying thud
His eyes are now dead
His tears are now blood

I feel no woes
I feel only pleasure
Another pair of shoes
To add to my treasure

It's almost the end game
And I will beat my kin
But it will be a shame
To kill Ruth for a win ...



Copyright © 2015 David Barber.