I've been getting a few requests for Riffs lately, mostly for crappy stories that the requestor finds. However, every once in a while, someone asks me to Riff their story. That's the case when it comes to this one, "The Long List." This story was actually an entry for the finals of the 2015 Creepypasta Freestyle Competition, so it's probably not complete garbage, and is in fact likely to be very good. Actually, the writer of the story, HumboldtLycanthrope, is a pretty good writer. Check out his stuff, after you finish the Riff of course. Anyway, now that the minor background and advertising is out of the way, let's Riff this bitch.

When Melissa was fourteen years old her father sold her to a crank cook named Diesel for two pounds of crystal meth and a broke-down Trans Am. “Melissa insisted she was worth at least 3 pounds of meth.” Diesel kept her chained to a rusty woodstove during the day with a mason jar of water and a box of Cheerios, That’s what a growing girl needs: chains and Cheerios. while he worked in the lab back behind the trailer, breaking Sudafed and Ephedrine tablets down into glass-like shards of amphetamine. In the evening, Diesel would swing open the door, the cat piss stench of burning chemicals wafting into the tiny trailer, As someone who knows how cat piss smells, I have to wonder if it really smells like that. and unchain her so she could make him meals, wash dishes and mop. You really expect her to do all that after giving her only Cheerios and water? You have extremely high expectations, buddy. At night, as the bullfrogs began to bark and the dogs croaked and the crickets chirped, she would press her fist into her mouth, trying to stifle her cries of pain as he lay upon her, his rank smell of sweat and chemicals overwhelming her. Dude, at least bathe first.

Two months later a couple of Boy Scouts found her naked corpse in a drainage ditch in a patch of woods outside of Eureka, California Huh. I guess Boy Scouts are useful.: a pale tangle of limbs sticking out of the trash and sewage of the dirty culvert. Charlie Sheen in a nutshell. Though the case officially went to Homicide Detective MacClenny, Detective Standler had been at the crime scene assisting. Since I can’t use the Law and Order noise, just use your most dramatic tuba to make a decent facsimile of it. Standler had helped take her by the arms and pull her remains from the rank sewer water and debris. “Unfortunately, he accidentally ripped the corpse in half.” As her body rose up from the muck her head had lolled to the side to stare at Standler and her wide, staring eyes had looked straight at him. In Soviet Russia, dead people see you! For a moment, Standler thought he saw a flicker of life register in them, though her gray, bloated face clearly revealed she was long, long dead. Maybe she’s a zombie.

Detective Standler (now ex-detective Standler, suspended, out on bail, and awaiting trial for manslaughter Wait, what, when and why did that happen?) settled deeper into the seat of his car. He was parked in front of the police chief’s suburban home, waiting for the fat fuck to arrive home from work. “Fat Fuck” is actually his loving nickname for the chief. He sipped from a pint of Wild Turkey, washed it down with a warm Budweiser, “and followed it up with a line of coke” and thought to himself, someone who could do something like that to a fourteen year old girl, how can you let someone like that live? Because the justice system doesn’t approve of vigilantism. You’re a detective; you should know. Who would possibly miss them? Who could possibly care? The people the guy sells meth to?

And no one had. Nobody missed that piece of shit Diesel. We don’t count meth addicts as people. Two weeks paid administrative leave was what Standler had gotten after he emptied his service revolver into the sick degenerate’s face. “It actually ended up improving his looks.”

It had been a big bust Yes, they were. And jiggly too. Wait, I’m thinking of something else: the lab, kilos of meth, and an arsenal What’s Roy Harper doing there? of weapons. Everyone in the department was happy and all he had gotten was two weeks paid leave and a wild party at The Alibi thrown by the other detectives and a gaggle of uniformed officers. Let’s not forget the out of uniform officers, if you catch my drift…

When the inquest asked him why he had gone out there, outside his jurisdiction, to that backwoods no-man’s land, he had simply replied “I AM THE LAW!” he was following up on a lead from an informant.

What was he going to say? That a ghost had told him where to look? That works. I find that’s a reasonable excuse. “Why are you doing this?” “Because a ghost told me to.” No one asks anything else after that. That the little dead girl had come back from the grave and told him? I feel like these are rhetorical questions. That in the dark, predawn hours, that twilight time between sick drunk and excruciatingly hung-over Better known as 3:17 a.m., he would awake, lacquered in sweat, his wife snoring loudly beside him, the room spinning, his heart threatening to break free from his chest, and there she would be: a frail, little girl, at the foot of his bed, her stick figure limbs draped in a white nightie, its hemline stained in dark, crimson streaks? Slender Man’s daughter is as much a troll as her father.

The first time he had seen her he had screamed, horrified, the raspy noise of his own startled voice burning his dry mouth and throat. His wife awoke and shot straight up in bed.

“What is it? What is it?” “A g-g-g-g-ghost!”

Standler blinked his alcohol swollen eyes. Only darkness. Why is Batman in his room? The girl was gone. There was nothing.

“Nothing, honey. It was nothing. Just go back to sleep. Jeff the Killer is going to sue. I just had a nightmare.”

“Kay, honey.” His wife had rolled back over and immediately began snoring again. That was quick. He lay there till the room grew pale in the morning light, his flesh tingling, wondering what he had seen, if he was going insane. Well, this a Creepypasta, so probably.

The next time the little girl had appeared he was calmer. “This time he just wet himself.”

He blinked twice quickly, expecting her ghostly form to disappear like last time. But she didn’t disappear. “Instead, she started break dancing.” She remained there, looking down at him with her cold eyes, sunken deep in their dark sockets. He stared in disbelief. Was it real? Or is it just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. Could this pale figure possibly be real? That’s when she had stepped up to him, quickly, and her blue lips parted and she began to speak, to tell him things in a whisper. “Swiggity swanus, prepare your anus.” He thought he could smell the grave on her breath as she murmured in his ear about the night her father had sold her to Diesel. “It was kind of a relief. Daddy was talking about the Illuminati controlling everything.”

It had been a dark night, deep in the backwoods of Southern Humboldt. Subtle, Mr. HumboltLycanthrope. Past the mountains of Alder Point and Blocksburgh, in a place that didn’t even have a name, It has a name. It’s Greg. near Zinnia, on the Trinity border, “next to the Neo divide” where it snowed in the winter and the cold mornings found the hills hardened in ice. It must be fun to swim there. The sky was black and it was pouring rain. Her father had been drunk and handled her roughly, pulling her by the arm through the muddy front yard. Why are all abusive fathers drunks? Just once, I’d like to see a fictional abusive father addicted to collecting fabrige eggs.  She was terrified, and devastated that her daddy’s big Danner logging boots were splashing mud up all over her dress. She’s being taken to some drug making pedophile, and she thinks about her dress. Logic. Her mother had been dead less than three weeks.

Her father had shoved her roughly through the front door of Diesel’s trailer. He has absolutely no manners.

“She’s all fucking yours,” her father had spat at the old, bearded man in greasy overalls. He’s going to meet his new servant or whatever, and he doesn’t have the decency to shave or dress nicely?

Diesel had shuffled forward and took her cheeks into his grizzled, calloused hand, squeezing her face tightly, moving her head back and forth for inspection. “Yep, she’s got a face alright.”

“Oh, she’s a pretty one.”

“If you say so,” her father said. “She’s got that weird eye and those fucked-up teeth. Well, you fucked your sister.  But she can cook real good, and clean. She’s damn handy with a broom.”

“Oh, yes,” the old man chuckled, handing over the sealed bundles of meth-amphetamine. “She’ll do. She’ll do nicely.”

And two months later she was dead and abandoned like so much trash. Ok, apparently she didn’t do nicely.

The sick fucks. How could he have let them live? By not shooting them. And no one missed Diesel. No one mourned him. They had thrown Standler a party. He had been a hero. AND THEY SAY THAT A HERO CAN SAVE US, I’M NOT GONNA STAND HER AND WAAA-AIT!

That time.

The second time was different. “The second time involved the sacrifice of the chief to Cthulu.” That one had gotten him suspended, most likely fired. No pension. No 401K. He might even see some time for that one.

Standler sipped his whiskey, reached down between his legs and lifted up the Beretta. An old pistol, his father had given it to him, long ago. “Son, I know you’re only 3, but here’s a pistol.” He cradled the heavy, cold weight of the gun, waiting for his old boss, that fat fuck, to arrive back at his nice suburban home. Hey! He’s very sensitive about his weight. Maybe his wife would find him dead on their well-manicured front lawn, maybe one of his teenage kids. Maybe it’s Maybelline. Oh well, to have a sick fuck like that for a father: just desserts. He’s the chief of police! He’s not a sick fuck! He’s a fat fuck.

It was a warm night and he had the window down, the whine of passing trucks on 101 softly humming in his ears. “He had his radio on, blaring Nicki Minaj.”

He thought of Hamlet. “His former lover, Hamlet.”

He had taken a Shakespeare class back in college when he was studying criminal law, still entertaining the idea of going on to law school and becoming an attorney, before Charlotte got pregnant and he quit school and joined the force so he could start making money for his new family, only to have her give birth to a stillborn boy seven months later, never to conceive again. This paragraph seems like a Trojan ad.

Hamlet. That tale of the haunted Danish prince “The Not-So-Fresh Prince of Denmark” had always stuck with him. Standing atop the castle parapet, the ghost of his father crying out for him to avenge his savage murder. His father was Willem Dafoe?

Ghost: My hour is almost come when I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames must render up myself. What?

Standler always wondered: was Hamlet insane? No, Shakespeare was. But no, that would mean they were all insane. Horatio, Marcellus, Barnardo, they had all seen it. They all saw Two Girls, One Cup. They couldn’t all be insane. It had to be true. The ghost had to be real.

The second time the little girl told Standler to kill, things hadn’t worked out like they had with Diesel. “Wait, you want me to kill the president?” “Yep, create anarchy!”

My father''', she had whispered. Kill him. Remember, fathers, be good to your kids, or they’ll come back from the dead and tell cops to kill you.

And how couldn’t he? Anyone who would do something as sick as sell their own daughter surely deserved to die. I’d say he deserved to be tortured excessively, but sure, death works. She described his car, where he would be, the pound of meth Standler would find in the trunk “along with multiple dead hookers”, the Glock he always kept under his seat.

Standler had waited at the Red Lion Hotel on Broadway, right where the little girl had told him to, and just like clockwork Don’t remind me of that story. the car had rolled right into the parking lot. Standler had been amused at the look of surprise on the man’s SHIA SURPRISE! face when he strolled up with his .38 leveled right at eye level, squeezing a round off before the jerk even had a chance to utter a word. The word he would’ve uttered: Tohopekaliga

But there was no meth in the trunk, no gun under the seat, and it ended up it wasn’t her father at all. Oops. At least that’s what the investigators said. They claimed it was just some business man from Santa Rosa.

But when Melissa appeared before him the next night, shimmering and ghastly in the moonlight, she told him, no, it had been her father. She also said that she needs scissors, and 61. They were lying. All of them. Except for George. Lying liars, Redundant redundancy the little girl had whispered to him with her pale, blue lips and graveyard breath. They had tried to hide it. It was a conspiracy and they had fired him because the police chief was in on it. He’s going to start wearing a tin foil hat soon, isn’t he?

That’s why the police chief was next. He had to go “to Hawaii.”. That’s why Standler sat in his car outside his house, a pistol cradled in his hands. He had to kill his old boss. “That’s what the voices in his head say.” Off that meth dealing, slave keeping, degenerate son of a bitch. He’s a cop!

And there were more. 15, in fact.

There are many of them, the frail ghost had murmured.

His wife was one of them. This is how many divorces start. She had made the list. She was a cheating meth-whore, fucking the whole department for crank. The little girl had told him all about it, late at night, moments before the morning, when the earth swelled silent and cold and his heart beat so it threatened to leave his chest. Yes, that’s it, listen to your hallucination. Totally not crazy.

Yes, there were many of them. A whole list. And it was a long list. Roll credits! Wait, this is the end, so that works.

This story is actually pretty good. There's really not much here to complain about. It's well written, interesting, and very dark. (In fact, part of the reason Mr. Lycanthrope wanted me to Riff the story was because of comedy being juxtaposed with such a dark story) It's not as dark, say, "He Was A New Man," but it's still pretty dark. And unlike most 90s comics, it's dark done well. Anyway, tune in next time for a multi-part Riff of a rather...noir pasta.

So, what do you all think? Was the story good? (If you say no, please reread it until you get the right answer) Was the Riff good? Do you wish I'd be killed by a cop being goaded on by the hallucination of a dead girl? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.