Richard Duke's Thrower

The line spanned street after street, it seemed. I waited for what felt like hours, watching the line ahead dwindle as the Barnes and Nobles workers funnelled us into the store, prodding the line up three flights until we reached that lone table, stacked high with bright orange books whose spines and covers read, in black matte letters, THE GLIMMER by RICHARD DUKE. I’d already read it twice now, bought three copies and lined them on the bookshelf in my shitty little apartment living room neatly, beside all the rest of Duke’s books. Every year since I was seventeen, Richard Duke published a book. He was an amazing horror writer, his words so well crafted they might’ve been spun by fucking demons to make us fall in love and fear them. And his …show more content…
I was bored, avoiding my Chemistry study guide, and figured reading something about a broken tower would be far more entertaining than that horseshit. It was like a hurricane; those words ripped themselves from the pages on a hellish wind and tore my goddamn brain apart. It was fucking awesome— the main character, this dude named Jacob Bach, and his adventures through this fucking horrorshow of a nightmare, waking up to find that this whole time he wasn’t fighting monsters, but actually killing fucking people in real life in a zombie-state? Fucking awesome. It was then that I fell in love with Richard Duke, and god damn I’ve been trying my fucking hardest to meet him ever …show more content…
When I last saw it, he had thick Jeffrey Dahmer glasses and a mess of brown hair, a beard hiding his mouse-like teeth. Now, he was shaved and significantly older, his glasses a bit more in with the times and thick-framed. But, one thing’s for sure, he was still wearing the same ratty Pink Floyd shirt, the vibrant colours sucked out over countless washings in the stomach of a machine. I watched him sheepishly grin at a woman about his age, his glasses shining white with a glare, then puff his cheeks and snatch the next copy of THE GLIMMER from whatever lucky shit was next in line. For the longest time, I sat there wondering: What in the hell am I going to say to Richard fucking Duke? The question rolled around in my brain, as if to savour and contemplate the taste. Was I going to hold out my hand, flash him an awkward grin as he signed my book—
“Hello, Mr. Duke,” I’d say, teeth practically clattering in my mouth, “I loved your book,”
“Oh?” he’d said— I imagine his voice is sort of rough, bit like Clint Eastwood or something.
“Yeah,” and it would be as simple as that. He’d hand me back the book and