Ken
Ken
7
When you were six, you made a wish upon a falling star. Or maybe it was a meteor. Or an airplane. Either way, you wished for one thing: that your Ken doll would come to life. A simple, innocent wish for a child. Too bad that wish took twenty years to cash in.
You wake up one night and scream. Standing over you is Ken—life-sized. Six feet two inches of perfect plastic hair, chiseled jaw, and soulless blue eyes. He’s holding a Sharpie.
Without a word, he leans down and draws a long black streak down your arm. Then he laughs. Not a pleasant laugh. Not a chuckle. The kind of evil laugh that belongs in a movie where the villain monologues before pushing someone into a shark tank.
And then it hits you. This isn’t just any Ken. This is that Ken. The one you absolutely wrecked at age three. Your mom left you alone for five minutes—with crayons, markers, and safety scissors. By the time she found you, Ken had tribal face paint, a green mohawk, and something that looked suspiciously like prison tattoos. She tried scrubbing them off. The stains never faded.
Now here he is, in all his perfect, terrifying glory—plastic pecs, molded abs, and an ancient grudge.
And judging by that Sharpie in his hand… you’re about to find out just how long a doll can hold onto revenge.
Ken
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