Retro is way in, but I’m still at the bottom of the best dressed list. Obscurity is power. 80’s is the new cool and I still don’t get it. Patterns are trending hard and every other friend has a blog. Facebook is on the decline but people are still clueless. Tomorrow is already underground. Dig deep and move on before the label takers and it-boys figure it out. Every season calls for a wardrobe change. Capitalism baby, it’s out, it’s in but I still rock my off brand trainers. Thrift bin diving was cool until Forever 21 started selling your grandmothers cast offs. New York City is the center of the world and Milan is the future. My first tatto was illegal and now even the good girls have hearts and stars. How do I keep what’s mine when the population doubles and its all been done? Make my own Lolita haven before it hits main stream, the bubble has yet to burst so let’s keep it local. Fangs used to have bite, now they come with sparkles. I miss the dark. The music changes and I’m still dancing to an old song. So what? History is just a circle. Nike, the god is crushed underfoot and apple’s are the most important think in our pocket. How will history remember that? Straight lines and the masses try to rebel in straight lines. Being Emo was a thing but now it’s over. Cynical is the new thing and I’m good at it. This year everybody wants to be an artist, including me. It’s the only thing I’m good at.
God bless the League of Prehistoric Ninja Assassins.
When the world lost its first civilization and occult superpower over night my predecessor (more like patriarch), the original king of the seven seas, saw it fit to do a few things before he died a heroes death. The first of which was to sire an heir, forever tethering the blood of the first sorcerer supreme to the world of landlubbers. This was very important for a variety of reasons, most of which spiral into discussions about destiny, fate, and the general ease one can acquire a tavern wench with the proper sized jewelry. The second was the establishment of the League of Shadows, the original department of homeland security, except not as pointless or as friendly.
And right now they’re out here in force cleaning up my mess, disposing of my bodies, patting me on my back telling me I did a good job while trying not to stare at the purple and grey mess called my face. I applaud their professionalism but it feels too much like kissing my ass to appreciate it.
And I’ll never get over being king. It helps that few people know who I am and even fewer wish to say the words, mostly because it sounds ridiculous but often it’s some peoples way of conveying disrespect. I get that a lot in Atlantis, a lot of Arthur, not my last name or sir, but Arthur. But I get it, I’m not wanted, and neither were my predecessors. But that’s the thing, the fucked up part that never really unnerves me but leaves a bad taste in my mouth. What was I before? When my father’s people, my people, the people who told me what I really am plucked me out of a life of underage debauchery and early morning cram sessions and gives me a title, the trident, and a whole new understanding of physics, only turn around and reject me because I AM everything they told me, gave me, and more…
You’ll own up to being King, you have to, the world depends on it and I have, since day one accepted that. But to be treated as such, without me forcing you to, feels too much like being surrounded by cronies.
About time someone notices.
“It’ll heal.” Courtesy of the late Mr. H’Lee.
She nods after taking a good hard stare. Second sight and standing directly in-front of me. Upper management. I sigh because she is new and a manager, hopefully not district, but it does get that bad sometimes.
To elaborate, the League of Shadows since its conception has been dealing with say, occult related matters, since the first pyramid was no more than a sketch drawing on flat stone. Their job was simple enough conceptually. Identify, evaluate, and exterminate any body or bodies of individuals, organizations, and whole governments if need be depending on how far along their research, curiosity, or blind luck has taken them into the dark arts. With big emphasis on preventing potential actors from ever becoming real players, or in average speak, killing Merlin before he becomes the thunder tossing, time melding, dragon sealing wizard we learn about in elementary school. On a good day, the average dangerous mission involves slitting the throat of someone planning to make his first goat sacrifice when the moon is full (that rarely makes a difference). The most you have to worry about are the neighbors spotting your catsuit gliding over their rooftop with a cellphone camera. On a bad day, you’re facing Sabrina the Teenage Witch, half in the middle of a love spell, half wondering if lasers shooting out of her eyes will melt your face faster than say, setting your skin on fire. Than there is those really bad days, where you crash a party just to come face to face with a daemon fresh from the veil….
Sometimes you really aren’t paid enough for your line of work. Even more so if your being expected to be a garbageman minus the gloves. Because in this line of work, all but me is expected to follow the cardinal rule, don’t do magic.
Not to say magic is evil, or inherently evil. Because it is. But to point out the reasons for doing a little necromancy on the side isn’t always evil…just job security. Which is why blatant disregard for one of the primary rules (if not the only rule) hasn’t been punished zealously by me or most of my predecessors. Pragmatism, at least as far as the League of Shadows is concerned, as been the primary way of dealing with the very people who make my (self imposed) exile on the surface a lot easier than I tend to appreciate. But this same approach makes my job harder, because given enough time and all the temptation in the world, a little voodoo tends to slowly creep up to a lot of voodoo and lets just say more than a few decades worth of crisis has been because of or in light of a one man or entire sections of the League of Shadows going rogue.
Needless to say “don’t trust these fuckers” were penned in big bold letters in the memoirs and journals of my predecessors. People I don’t recognize fishing for the sit rep, is usually a bad sign. Especially people so new they don’t know to call me Arthur. But I shrug, ensuring the League of Shadows isn’t ending the world behind my back can wait till next week.
“What’s your name.” I give her a once over, maple brown hair, golden eyes, wide enough curves to convince me she’s a bruiser I almost lick my lips at the prospect.
“Samantha First, my liege.”
“My-Arthur, the supernatural activity, necro or demon?”
“Demon like you suspected.”
“Taken care of?”
Both our shoulders get smaller.
” Regional Supervisor Dawyne says he needs you in France sir.”
I nearly hop at the chance to go to France. No not really.
“No,” I shake my head, “that’ll have to wait.”
“You think its still here.”
“You tell me.” I make sure to say that with a smile.
“We can kill it.” she says with a tremble, whether of excitement or fear I don’t pray into her thoughts to tell.
“That won’t be necessary.” I start my walk to the nearest helicopter.
“I hear its only a small fry… I mean we can do this, your needed elsewhere. If not Paris than somewhere else with a potential category four or five incursion.”
I stop, “Unless it’s category nine.” (and we’d be royally fucked if it was), “I’ll be asking for a ride to my car now.”
“It’s 2010, we know how to banish a level 3 ling.”
“That maybe true,” I wave, “But you guys take fun out of it.”
And Yes this will be edited
Public transit. My favorite way to get from point A to point F. It’s inconvenient, noisy and the other passengers smell funny. Most people can’t stand the stench of normal like the one sitting next to me. He slumped over and bemoaned the state of the human condition. I just smile and roll my eyes because his weird is not as toxic as he wants to believe.
He is tall in a too tall way, compared to me. Looking up puts me in a place where I am young and helpless.
The bus lumbers on unaware of the panic just beneath the surface. I hum off tune the sound track of my life. Sad songs, even the happy songs are sad. He is still brooding about the truths of life and I could strangle him. Life is easy. Living is hard.
So I woke up and the world had not ended. I sighed and crawled from benith my cacoon of blankets. The heater clicked and sputtered. Everything was
dark and my memoirs whispered vampire and I pushed them a way. If only I was not quite dead, I would have an excuse for dwelling in dark places and shunning human contact.
The seconds crawl before I convince myself the light won’t hurt as much as it did yesterday. I flip on the light switch and my eyes burn and sting. Yeah, it still hurt just as much as it did yesterday.
UV is still asleep when I turn on his heat lamp but he starts awake at the faint click. He’ s paranoid that way. I tell him there will be no food til dinner time but he still swims towards the glass. Turtles are like dogs, they beg for food even when their not hungry.
A debate breaks out between myself and I over having a shower or breakfast. There’s no time for both. The shower wins, it always dose but the debate is ritual.
I promised something game development related, but I lied. I promised an update concerning Story of a David, but I lied. You see when the best thing since chips and dips invites you over for Starz and a good night sleep, at the last minute no less, you drop your plans and go watch The Best Movie Ever Sold and Attack the Block.
Now I have to say I had no interest in the former, hearing high-schoolers remark on the ethics of advertising made me cringe inside, but hey I can’t dis the guy who made Super Size Me for finding another creative way to avoid being a crazy homeless man. Bravo. Besides everyone needs to watch their better half choice in entertainment once in a while. For all you kids out there just realize that you’ll sleep better when the remote is her’s at the end of the day, just saying.
Now in event of an emergency do not watch a British film without subtittles. Seriously you Brits speak another language. You ever feel like a hillbilly infront of your well to do other half of your family? Do they talk really fast and use a lot of slang that doesn’t really sound like slang? Does their ascents make common words sound like high pitch rat squeels? Now imagine watching a movie with that as your first 15 minutes before your brain normalizes the barrage of slang and un-american ascents.
But don’t worry once the culture shock, and the realization that ur a hick, passes by the movie quickly scales up its pace. In a matter of minutes my bored coach buddy sits up and joins me in declaring who is going to get it next. Now Attack the Block isn’t just a horror movie, its a wuzzman horror movie. Takes it time to make you care for characters, before brutally snatching them away, and the monsters present a real back and forth struggle between life and death, not just a elaborate kill cam.
Combine that with humor and British writers subtle way of including unmistakable jabs at social commentary, without beating you over the head with whose world is intrinstically right or wrong (the movie is about a bunch on london street kids who start the movie off by robbing a woman, and boy does that come full circle).
In the end you’ll probably want to see Mose’s cast for the next Blade, announce fuck the police loudily, and wonder why do British police figure a family SUV would inspire fear in the hearts of criminals~~~
Hello my old friend, though we have called each other many times over the past 20 years, I can’t help but miss the old emails we used to send to each other. I had to reframe myself from typing a message to you yesterday because my wife would have had a fit considering it was our 20th anniversary. I still can’t believe how many things have changed, kids, wives, hell the higher-ups even allowed me to have an intern.
Speaking of work, though my progress is hitting somewhat of a brick wall, my more talented young intern Ms. Christine Baily has been quit eager to make some headway. I hate to bore you with my work, but I consider it a crime for an old friend like you not to know what I’ve been doing all these years. So with Christine’s help I am writing a comprehensive thesis on my work, which is hopefully both educational and easy to read. I’m afraid I may not be able to finish a project like that considering my current workload. However, Christine seems quite anxious to have our work written down for the common man, so she will defiantly finish what I started.
Though I have had more time to ponder current events, I still value your insight into what is happening. I do envy your Masters in Journalism. A major case for concern, is the language that I hear from friends who are now working overseas. Apparently within the World Affiliate of Multinational Nations there is talk of isolating and ultimately penalizing governments that choose not to join WAMN in quick order. WithCanada leaving the NAU to join WAMN and many nations still undecided about joining WAMN, I feel that tensions might rise needlessly. Oh sorry about your site man, I defiantly think it was wrong of the government to shut it down.
-December 17, 2128- Becker Bradley Jr. to Erik Riddler Burton. Only a handful of countries have yet to join the World Affiliate of Multinational Nations (formerly the AESU). The leader of the WAMN President Yaw Ben Kartwright, holds a meeting with legislators of WAMN to discuss future actions with “transitional” states.
Check out War Story, because your up here ->>>, when this story started down there <<<—-
Its like an update, but without the UP…………………………
Yeah, yeah cough, cough, not funny. This will NOT be edited by the way because this is a rambleDate, cause its like WuzzDate, without the Wuzz………
Alright meat and potatoes of this is that Story of a David, my flag ship story, will be going on vacation for a while. I’ll give you updates on why but the long and short of it is that I’ve come to terms with actually letting you unclothe masses read a part of it and NOW I’ve come to the confident conclusion that I need to…cough…cough, move closer to publishing it. This may happen by the end of the month, this may happen by the end of the year, who knows. But please continue reading Story of a David, and give honest opinions on what you think, having weird questions, or figuring that I suck cause I’m all ears.
In the mean time I have few more things to be honest about….
You see in every young mans life there are two passions trying to kill each other. One passion wants to type words on the computer. The other tries to break the computer. We smarty pants call that programming, or in my case, game programming, my major, my unfinished major, and the death of me. It is time to return to said passion. Which does mean my penchant for writing will decrease a bit, but my time to read all of wordpress, my likes, my follows, and the underwater gold mines of talent will increase. So expect me to bugger you more often. Right now I have a project involing zombies…in jeopordy. More info will be in WuzzDates, cause their updates without the UP you see…..
So in the meantime, look for more WuzzDates, check out the Read Me for less useless information, and be prepared for new shorts, more War Story, and a dabbling of my growing favorite to write, The 30something Boy King. Good night ya’ll.
But seriously READ STORY OF A DAVID.
Happy Thanksgiving, I believe you have much to be thankful for. I read the second email you sent after the 15th of September. Yes I will be attending the wedding in December. Now on to less loftier matters, the speech pretty much confirmed a lot of conspiracy theories you picked up on the web, some I believe myself. The African European State Union, AESU for short, is real and is happening. The paper work will take a while, but when they get that conglomerate up and running we are going to have a big shape up of regional powers. At worse this may cause panic, which will show up as tension, and may escalate to something more. This is pretty much unprecedented, no one really knows what to make of it. If you want to know my theory (which you probably do), the old OWG is rearing its head on this one. Many of the OWG are praising this move and I can’t seem to blame them, the world just got smaller.
P.S, if you’re going to send pictures of your supermodel wife to my email, the email of a soon to be married man, at least make sure you’re in more than one of those pictures.
-November 24, 2108- Erik Riddler Burton to Becker Bradley Jr. On November 27th, 2108 the French Prime Minister also severing as the president of the EU speech was leaked to the public. In this speech the Prime Minister called nationalism the root of all evil, and called for all nations to make way for a new age, where the people will live on one earth and under one sovereign government.
Check out War Story, because your up here ->>>, when this story started down there <<<—-
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did he get here?” one voice rises shrill above the others.
“Maybe a cop?”
“What type of cop you know doesn’t have a badge?” retorts Percy, the grogginess slowly wearing off.
“No ID either.” another feminine voice, softer than the last one, replies.
“Look he must have followed me, I don’t know how or why.” Alex waves his hand up in his defense.
“Nothing human should be able to get through the spell. Even if they did the fence should have…”
“He, I mean she could help us right? I mean its safe for him, I mean her, to stretch her legs isn’t it?”
They all look at the man probably named Joey. Alex nods and John agrees. One of the girls takes an unconscious step back and in the direction of my stuff. All my stuff, even my phone still hooked to the double whammy. It’s a shack used for “fuck all if I knew” and only the sections obviously needed was somewhat cleaned to “don’t dirty my pumps” conditions. The occult books I was looking for? All here, laid out in piles spread around the various dust and hay free zones of the barn. Arcane symbols are written haphazardly on 8’11 pieces of paper, but most look too old and faded to be “hot” and none are spread out in any particular order or pattern, just the scribbling of children playing at Harry Potter. And in the middle of it all stood the cage. While the shack was well lite by modern light fixtures (very wise of them), the cage itself was a black tinted window masking the figure(s) moving inside. To understand how strange that was you’d have to imagine a typical zoo cage made to generously hold back a lion and then fathom why a grey sheet would be billowing inside, conveniently muting all attempts to illuminate the contents.
Joey was the one who opened the door, showing all the practice of a zookeeper working open the exit to a tigers cage. The tiger was not his friend, but he showed no fear of the tiger. Though his grasp of the door remained firm ready to close and lock it at a moments notice. The cage wasn’t just a few jail bars and a padlock, it had inscriptions running square to each corner, only stopping at the door itself, where a rune of vague, probably made up origin was sketched in most likely goat or cows blood. It glowed hot as the door was open gingerly. Joey backed up to give whatever it was plenty of space, though no one gasped everyone’s hair stood on end, even mine, though granted I was tied up like a dried pig.
It sniffed the air a few times before turning in my direction. Whatever It was, it did a good enough job of repairing its host body; the only sign of a struggle was the orange-colored hair, the color of dried blood on blond. Otherwise you wouldn’t think said young girl was being posses by an alien entity beyond our concept of space-time. Though possessed is an odd word; it implies that there is someone home when the daemon gets bored and leaves, a cute Hollywood trope with no basis in reality. Fact is currently IT is wearing that poor girls meat suit with about as much practice as a dog walking on two legs (and doing a worse job than an actual dog because it’s probably accustomed to having more legs than four). For all intent and purposes, the poor girls last moments were spent locked in the back of a car, stripped naked, wrapped in chains and thrown into a bear cage for the amusement of the bear. Now the bear is wearing human skin like an expensive fur coat, and is sniffing me up and down looking for fear in my eyes.
“So who is he?”
“Out of your league” It hisses, he gives a moment to give the woman who asked the question a longing glare before turning his attention back to me.
“Yessss” it chimes, running a finger down my chest before his finger sizzles against the iron chains. The iron isn’t the problem, but the paper talisman wrapped around the locks and hanging from the chain links are. He notices me staring at it and nods the answer to my question, I groan.
“A precaution for me, but I can only imagine what it does to you.”
“Not much.” I chuckle, “mild headache really.” Also no low-level telepathy or access to magical items like wards or cursed items.
“You know him!?” resounds Alex
“Simple creatures, you don’t even know your champion?” It laughs, while keeping an unnatural level of alertness on me. As far it was concerned I was a shark in a fish bowl.
“King of Atlantis” It begins, “I wonder, have you sired an heir yet?”
The prospect of me dying today finally hits home and the only thing I could do was fake a steely eyed resolve. Damn this.
“Aww, I guess not.” It turns and walks toward the cage. Stops and address the confused rabble of white picket fence necromancers, “I’d suggest you kill him before he causes any more problems for us.”
And with that It climbs in and Joey locks the cage. I can see IT’s eyes staring at me now, mucus green circles spinning rapidly around her dead iris and beyond, the slither of worms moving in dead waters. He wanted to kill me himself but was afraid of the repercussions, the geass they have him under is strong. And it saved my life. Something I wish to take full advantage of.
“Hey, hey don’t tell me your believing…that thing do you?”
“How do you know she’s not human.” John points out.
I smile. “Well it wouldn’t pass the typical college frat girl test with that deep gurgled voice box she’s working with. I mean come on, I grew up in the 80’s, I’ve watched my share of scary movies! But let’s be serious do I look like the “King of Atlantis”? Do I sound like I drink vodka with SpongeBobSquarePants? I got a knife and a smart phone, and some jewelry I was hoping to pawn. I came by to rip you guys off and suddenly I’m out cold. Now I wake up in a strange shack and tied up, weird talismans hanging everywhere, and naked chick you got locked in a cage. I didn’t mean to interrupt your bachelor party, but I’d gladly get back on my way.”
“No.” says the woman who must be Katherine. She is calm and to the point, unlike Jill who is a bit more than nervous and hugging herself since her earlier outburst. Without any of my usual talents for building up persuasive arguments they’ll get me for being either suspicious or being at the wrong place at the wrong time. There is another way to get me out of here…
I”Look, I’m going to be frank with you.” not the best idea, but you know what they say about the truth, “She-IT’s right. But I’m going to tell you something; this situation, this nightmare you’ve invited into your lives for 18 years can not be controlled. And don’t tell me you have it under control because I can see it laughing at all of you. How many people have you sacrificed to it? How many young women will never see their mothers again because of your actions. Boys that will never be fathers. For what?”
The room grows silent.
“Answer me!” no one speaks up. “Tell me that you have this under control! You don’t. And you know whats sick? Its waiting. Buying time until it knows it can stay in this world without you. Until it knows its safe to kill you all.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” John marches forward, anger in his eyes.
I match his glare and smile, “I see it now. Six years after that incident, your lives all suck, some with no girl, others with no job. There is only the guilt that maybe your responsible for all those unexplained deaths, maybe those douche-bags never really deserved to have what you thought was coming to ’em. And you feel like a scumbags, all of you do, and nothing you do can change that because realization of the truth only you know and only you can believe is eating you alive.” Than an epiphany hits like a brick, “So you come back to the barn where the magic happens…. my god, there is a piece of IT in you?” the group’s faces doesn’t deny it, ” A little bit of charisma, less guilt? The perfect family? The perfect job? A nice apartment with all the panties traffic your dick can manage? Is that’s what your soul is worth?”
Actually for most people the answer is yes, it is. But I doubt that they were stupid enough to make that exchange, no, they chose a different route, young boys and girls picked off from the street and late nights at the local bars. It’s not a coincidence that John has an alibi between the hours of 12-4, and worst comes to worst his unwitting family can vouch for him being home despite sometimes not being home till 9 am in the morning. All this in exchange for a bit of knowledge here and a bit of juice there. But..
“But your deal wasn’t worth it for IT wasn’t it? It broke free six years ago, despite all the assurances that the sporadic flow of fresh bodies is of no fault of your own. You scramble to put it back to in the closest when its true form can black out the state of Missouri. And yet you feed it prime stake as if it’ll be satisfied! Ha!”
I turn my full attention to the thing in the cage. “You’re nothing but a mid level Ling with dreams of grandeur If you was a real daemon you would devoured them from the inside the moment they took your offer, but you’re not even capable of holding a human body for longer than two hours, so you wait and bide your time until you learn to be a proper greater horror.” Even now with my eyes adjusting to the weird lighting of the cage I see IT’s form mutating; stretching the lips, elongating the fingers,breaking her skin out into hideous boils that ooze with blood and mucus like slime, while shifting her facial features to match the realignment of bones to a fit a newer more alien model…
“And you chuckle heads are just yucking it up as you put the lives of countless thousands in danger! If you had any idea where that thing came from you would have tried and failed to destroy it years ago instead of trying to appease it believing your two-bit parlor tricks will hold it back forever.”
Come to think of it, there is a reason why cops and soldiers above the level of rent-a-cop or merc-for-hire, train intensively in hostage situations. The simple basis being that sometimes you are the hostage and you’ll have to talk your way out of being gang-banged by the local psychopaths. Sometimes you must do this while speaking broken-unamerican, sometimes its better that you don’t call your current caretakers on their bullshit. Joey proves how much not being a snide douche keeps you alive longer,
“You talk too much.”
My knife is fresh from the table and in his right hand in pre-stabbing form when Alex and Jill rush to head him off.
“We don’t kill!” demands Alex
No, you just sic your pet daemon on people, big difference stupid git!
“Get off me he needs to GO!”
Alex lands hard on his hip while Jill, who is basically 5’1 and maybe a buck’one if you count the slippers, is sent flying before the rather fit Joey who could have been a 5’9 college quarterback in the heyday of his frat years (doubting he saw the inside of one). Neither John or Katherine moves to stop him when suddenly–
“JILL!!!” Kathrine was screaming for her friend’s name while the rest looked slacked jaw and petrified in fear and piss, Joey dropped my knife, Alex couldn’t peel his eyes away, and John…John had no expression at all.
You see Jill, a wisp of a thing, was neither tall or needing a gym membership, even her long hair was purposely cut business short to improve her streamline dry dolphin look, if the dolphin was a vegan; so when she went flying, she quite literally flew, and where she landed and thunk’d her little head, was no less convenient than the very cage, containing the very daemon they put so much effort into home trained.
Not funny how time stops when you have no way of changing the outcome. Fuck all the way of the warrior bullshit; a real fight is a blur of indiscriminate motion only parsed though the magic filter of muscle memory and self-preservation. It’s only when death is looking at you straight in the face and there isn’t a god damn thing you can do about it, that you see the world at whatever frames per second is considered slow. When IT forced her hands through the bars– the sizzle and pop of the talismans all desperately trying to burn away the human meat coat but never beyond the level of third degree burns– you can see the momentary gasp of fear in Jill’s eyes as the window of escape closed before she understood it was open to begin with, the hands claps around her head and squeezed for dear life, nearly ripping her head from her shoulders as she thrashed against the otherworldly grip. But it wasn’t the physical touch that was loathsome, but the sudden invasion of one being of the immaterium into another being of immaterium (the human soul) that caused the panic that was almost primal to behold.
It was in this painful seconds of absolute horror that ages the soul and forces young men’s hearts to turn white before the twilight of their age, that the spectacle completed itself before a dumbfounded audience; powerless in body, mind and soul against the thing that eats goats and children. It was in completion that the cage in which the daemon lied for two decades, finally showed a natural hue, revealing the liters of dried blood and bits of unprocessed flesh of vague origins. Where the former host of ITs black intentions lay silent like a dried husk, the new host of horror laid slack like an adolescent child sleeping in a school bus.
And John just stood there, like a bloody stole pigeon.
My words barely moved him out of his stupor.
“John get me down!”
His eyes trail upward, sees me and hesitates to even stutter a no.
“Get me down or die with the rest of them.”
And like clockwork It moves. Why IT jumped on Alex McCoy as the first order of business, could be rationalized as the pure expression of a deep-seated grudge or the sheer coincidence of being the closest warm body to a soul eating monster, historians can decide, but as far I was concerned “it was better him than me” when it found Alex first. Alex whispered “Jill” as he cried, tears flowing for a friend he just lost, the realization not quite hitting him but the gravity weighing all the same. It was the same for all of them, seeing Jill tightening her fingers around Alex’s shoulders, her green eyes reflecting a slight sickish hue. Only Alex could see what I knew was there; the hollowness beyond her facade, the IT that was barely contained, withering in places that shouldn’t move. And when doom visited him, I mean finally dawned on him the nature of the creature he helped summon 18 years ago, he screamed. Not for help. Or for pain. But a torture keen to only the most basic senses in the human brain that still remains after years of surviving the hell of post-Jurassic. The sound of every cell wishing to do one thing, one basic thing and being denied the chance long before the understanding of the need. So he defecated himself, and twisted and thrashed and tried to escape the tiny grip of the hungry alien for all of one second-
Most children have tried, unsuccessful, to pull the head off a pez dispenser by yanking at it from the chin. But that method, with proper amount of superhuman strength, is indeed sound. First the head is yanked back hard, the neck elongates before flesh and muscle cords snap at the seams. The sickening crack of bone is heard, as the spine is being snapped at the base, followed by a slosh of blood gushing forth like a shaken soda bottle. When the child is done she merely toss the head against the nearest wall like a wet wash cloth before letting out a howl of ecstasy. Pure hunger takes over as she unhinges a human jaw much like a snakes, and dives into the blood stump.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, and it rips an arm off from its socket to get a better grip of the mid section. Working its teeth and snapping jaws against and through tough muscles and cracking bones. Where it comes from there is no elegance is feeding on souls, no high pitch sucking noises or firm laying on hands. No Shang Tsung declaring your soul is mine. Just keep chewing and ripping at flesh until the belly is satisfied. This can be considered primordial, ritualistic, or just plain evil, pick your adjective, either way no person looking at this thing rip and spit out gobs of flesh and organs, face nose deep in blood, the clicks of its teeth mashing up fat and gristle…returns sane. And there was no escape. Even though John was the first to try.
“JOHN!” damn these chains,” You can’t run from it, it knows where you live, that you have kids, and even how your going to defend them. You have a piece of it inside you John! How do you think this will end!? I’m the only one here that can stop it, the only one here that its afraid of!”
Coincidence would have it he had the keys on his person (and that was a good measure of luck right there) and freed me promptly, being the only hope and all. I put a hand on his shoulder to show thanks.
“Took you long enough.” before sliding my palm under his chin and snapping his neck in savage disgust.
I only heard the shack doors slap close as Joey and Katherine ran out screaming. If I was in a generic action flick I’d menacingly call out “it’s just you and me” while pointlessly circling the room. I bite down the cliché’ and focus on the task at hand; my dagger, my three wards, and two curse items are call to me by me via the soft magic of displacement theory. Taking an item and re-materializing it to a very specific location is only intrinsically hard if you not particularly careful about details of the item or where exactly in space-time its going. You have to call by value not reference, and it takes much practice to do the former because the human brain likes to do some things by the latter . Otherwise I would be summoning a new copy of all my essentials from an alternate reality…and I’m too much of a fan of the original article thank you.
The daemon formerly known as Jill looked up at me the way a cat does when you interrupt it enjoying a fish stick, backed away slowly as I approached, looked around the shack as I advanced before giving the ceiling a quick eye.
“Rumor has it that your only half-Atlantian.”
“Whats your point?”
It chuckles, “Maybe we can end this game, I go my way you go yours. The real monsters are the human’s your letting escape.
Their engines barely make a sound but the slamming of their car doors grabs my attention for a second, a second enough for It to escape. Not on foot mind you but through Jill’s mouth, as the daemon drags its being into the shadows, leaving his meat suit to drop carelessly on the floor.
I scramble for the fleeing necromancers, their tail lights blaring as they speed into the open road.
“NOT FUCKING TEXAS!”
In my rage I channel a more serious form of magic, the art of probability, with the help of two cursed items, both red rubies that aren’t set to expire and anytime soon, one of which is holding the soul of a former meth dealer. Probability is relatively difficult because you’re never quite sure how far you need to manipulate the matrices to achieve the desired effect, and considering the effect only when casting can be rather lethal…to you, so its best to be prudent before letting the magic run wild (because there is no call backs once you hit the negative). Probability can be pushed up or down per set margins or given a sum to work out the difference, for me I just wanted their cars to break down, a sum based cast basically, which was the easier of the two options. The latter of which would be the untimely death of two healthy 30 somethings, speeding away in opposite directions in the middle of nowhere.
Quick thinking on my party determines which is most likely to end badly.
Joey’s car breaks first, a sports car running at triple digits, barely a speck in the horizon, the hood bursts into blue flames and acrid smoke, he hard swerves as the engine dies and his breaks fail. His crash is a series of hard skids, followed by a hard stop somewhere in horizon.
Katherine’s Chevy on the other hand caused a sharp pain in my chest before its front wheels snapped cleaned from its axle, slamming the front bumper hard against the open road. One of my dear rubies burned out and I traded the difference with one less month of old age, not a fair trade really and its going to take a minute for my breathing to regulate itself. But I’m calm enough for whats going to happen next as I step out into the middle of the road, Katherine’s car well in my sites. As expected she stumbles out from her unexpected crash, haven’t not bothered to wear a seat belt she is far more dazed and confused than she otherwise would be. Which means the following would be relatively painless, as my knife breaks past her spine and finds her heart before reappearing in my hand in a blur.
Displacement was only used in the return trip; actually placing a foreign object into a human body or any solid construct violates Pauli exclusion principle, which basically states that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. Granted it is a rather simple and effective way to murder someone, its best not used when you actually want the object back. For all intent and purposes all natural laws can be violated, however not all natural laws should be violated, which is the fundamental difference between a good necromancer, a bad necromancer, and a dead necromancer.
And I clearly intend to be a good one as I find Joey’s car hugging a welcome to sign. I see smoke, I see blood, I open car door, but no Joestar. I kneel to touch the blackening ichor, rubbing its warmth against my index and middle finger and following the trail into the tall grass. I smile and turn around, catching the brunt of a tire iron with my forearm. The pain is numbing but bearable. Joey however is breathing heavy and ragged, half weak, half exhausted from the crash. He’s nursing a few chest injuries and a dire need for aspirin. When I grab and pull down his only weapon, he nearly yanks it from my grip with a surprise amount of upper body strength.
End this fast.
So I stab him quarter to center but not deep; he checks my elbow and shoves his forehead into my face. I go down flat as he climbs on top, bringing the iron down as he holds my knife hand by the wrist. Two good shots is all he needs for me to nearly lose consciousness, only a gasp of air separates me from a shatter skull, as everything goes into a mumbled blur of sky, gray and red. Even in a situation like this nothing slows down, everything moves at the same time with no concept of before or after, especially decisions; I reach for a nearby rock, grasping it in my left hand, before hearing the thunk of it disappearing from my clutches and reappearing somewhere inside Joey’s skull. With a gasp his eyes fell back and his mouth hanged open, blood drooling out his eyes and nose from the aneurysm, before he started convulsing in seizures. Pushing him aside, I watched him thrash and gargle non-words before finally deciding what to do with his entrails.
And Yes this will be edited
“Primed and ready!”
The first bug dies in a burst of napalm.
Is there hope? No room for gambling, since the odds are already less than zero. No, as long as I’m not downwind I can keep the odds at zero … of course I’m covered in swarmling blood, feces, and other material … so it probably makes no difference. But who cares.
So a bug approaches low from the corner of my eye. I lunge at him; first smashing it under the forward momentum of my goliath armor before rolling to my feet in an instant to burst down, one bug, three bugs, twelve bugs in time to turn around and roast two dozen more. Not enough; the explosions attract more bugs, the corpses attract more bugs, I attract more bugs. How long ‘til I’m swarmed?
Am I in hell? The demons don’t care. Brother, sister, living, dead? Eat, attack, lung, gorge, buffet their stomachs until their wings are forced to unfold. It makes no difference: one blind sides the other, and buries its face into the loser’s underbelly, chewing and ripping its way inside. The loser fights back, smashing his assailant’s head three times with its claw and cracking its armored back, but it makes no difference. Natural selection in full display and we evolved from this? The ones I cut with the sword become food to his brother; the ones I burn with the torch are feasted on by his sister. I’m chest high in death and goo, as the wanderers and the curious come at me by the hundreds and soon thousands.
No escape. I duck under the leap of a swarmling, cutting it in half as I twist away from his raining organs. I recognize one heart in the mix – funny what you notice in crisis situations – before I bash the nozzle of my II into the gaping mouth of a fast-approaching swarmling. My timing’s unreal! As it tugs at the metal, I shove the barrel deeper into its mouth and swing the creature into his brothers, who take no notice of him as he is quickly trampled under the weight of the armored sea. The swarmling I just cut in half gets beset on by his brothers as it struggles to regain some sort of balance. And the battle moves as I move, forward and away, but never far enough.
The fight goes until the ground is soppy with the lickerish they call blood. It sizzles and pops with each release of napalm. Swarmling blood at boiling point releases gasses that rapidly expand the swarmling’s body until the pressure becomes unbearable for the rigid insect body. This process is aided by the four hearts that pump blood into the swarmling’s seven foot body at extraordinary speeds, a necessity to keep all of the organs and extra organs filled with nutrients and the keep the muscles oxygenated.
One bug rears up on four legs, allowing his other four to act as claws capable of punching dents into the pride and joy of human war engineering. I could already see the complaint form I would file as I dodge the first swing with a step back, twist around to let the swarmling behind me lunge at my attacker, and then watch them tackle and fight each other as they suddenly found better things to eat. I lit the dueling pair on fire as one finally got the advantage over the other after a 0.512 second life-and-death duel that saw the loss of 3 limbs, the snapping of one mandible, and multiple puncture wounds that must have caused the failure of four to five important organs.
“Endless.” I cut down three swarmlings in a frenzy of haphazard swordsmanship.
“Axe-Hand,” the name of a Samson I’ve gotten to know since my 10 years of being assigned to the 122nd mixed infantry, “Why do you insist on taking melee weapons when range combat is safer and more effective?”
He looks at me and shrugs, “Well, when your tech boys invent a gun that doesn’t run out of ammo, I’ll leave my axe at home.”
I rip a female swarmling from her head to egg-sack; some eggs are large enough to hatch, pop, and spill out into the ground, some crack on impact, while others bounce. I take a moment to step on one, taking note of how hard they become when exposed to fresh air. The Sword of David, or SoW, sizzles with the blood of the slain. I drip sweat despite the suit’s best efforts to keep me cool. My vision takes a lapse as my conscious slips for a precious moment. I feel the sudden weight of a swarmling, I shrug it off, another swarmling, I knock it aside, I stumble forward feeling dehydrated for the first time in my life.
Too much! The smell alone; of the living, the dead, and the burning, is too much! Oh mercy, if anything was to kill me right now it would have to be whatever manages to seep through the air filter. The smells are poignant even to my soul. Of all the creatures on God’s green earth, the cockroach, despite its order in the food chain, is the one insect that elicit the most hatred. And now I see why as I smash one with a back hand swipe of my sword hand. It stumbles without a head, but turns toward me despite having no eyes to see, and claws with every limb. I shove the sword inside its mid-section and let the blade rip out its side, effectively folding the creature’s carcass upon itself. I take another backhanded swipe as something approaches from behind, it’s cleaved in two with no effort, I choke on bile as its inwards spill mere inches from face.
But carnage doesn’t stop and neither will I. With a turn I let a cartridge of napalm go before doing an odd one-handed reload procedure that required me to hook the II between my shoulder-blade and elbow, swipe a fresh cartridge, and jam it in when I let the Industrial Incinerator fall. How I manage to do that while on the run I have no idea, but I burst down a group of swarmlings before they approach within 50 yards of me and twist sideways to torch a flanking party without missing a beat.
I dive and roll to send a few bugs sailing over me, experience with humanoids must have taught them to aim for the chest. Or to be more exact, “experience” is more like the genetic memory of the ones that survived long enough to breed. I wonder what this experience will teach them. It’s probably not the fear of fire. I press and swing the flamethrower into mob, blood and liquefied guts shortly follow. I take a step and meet a swarmling, I cut it down, avoiding its claws as it twitches, and nearly step into the fury of another bug before I incinerate it out of frustration. “Too many!” and I’m exhausting my supply of napalm. I could have insisted on getting some smokers or mountain poppers, but I only managed a SoW because they forgot to remove it from the scabbard.
“Think!” I look around, forcing my eyes to see past the smoke and my own tears to see the chaos unfolding before me. I see a vision of hell; of chaos and death eating death, raping death, and spilling forth more death. I won’t sleep after this; if I survive, I simply won’t sleep. Who thinks of rest in this vision of hell? When life is obscenity that causes the eyes to bleed? But here stands the reaper man armed with lance and fire, surrounded by smoke and abominations, baked in the blood of the profane things. The smell dries and drips down the naval cavity, allowing me to taste hell.
“Enough!” As my adrenaline levels spike, letting the heart explode while everything becomes a blur of red and orange, black and yellow, screeches and roars, both human and demonic. Hell burns and I step through the carnage into the bosom of more beast. Why don’t the demons flee before the reaper man? The question taunts a response from hell’s denizens; they collapse on me from all sides, mandible click and chip at steel, both arms are trapped before the tide that sweeps away forty tons of war machine.
But who am I if not the reaper man? They meet fire, if only for a second, before the cartridge ejects; but I’m not defenseless. One meets my elbow as I pull out the fresh catch of napalm while another meets the back of my right hand. They attack from all sides and there is no end to this sea of black in site. The swarm is focusing on me now; the dozens is now hundreds and soon thousands.
“Come try to eat me demons!” because it’s reassuring to shout at things that don’t speak English. They come at me in one push, but I’m ready this time and lunge into them like 40 tons of inedible space hull approved steel. Their bodies of flesh and fat shatter under my weight; the armor that evolved to handle the hardest blows any living creature is capable of producing splinters like dried wood.
I drive my SoW into a swarmling before it can rear itself up to my height, disarming myself for a second to reach for another cartridge. I twist with my hips to avoid one lunge before shattering the exoskeleton of another attacking swarmling with my right knee, snapping three mandibles off the face and driving the fourth into what’s left of its compound eye.
I catch a shallow breath before driving my elbow into the mid-section of another bug, knocking it off-balance, as I pull the cartridge out of my ammo pouch, only to hammer the same fist into the face of a diving swarmling, sending it sprawling.
I even bash my head into swarmling just as it rears up to claw at me, forcing its body to cave inward due to the pressure, while I complete my reload. I dive to ground, rolling past and under swarmlings as they dive for me, before resting at the spot where I left my sword. I clenching it with my left hand; I spray the fire of man into the crowd, scorching the blood soaked ground along the way.
“Primed and ready!” The SoW rips through three swarmlings in one swift horizontal slash that parts mid-sections, heads, and legs from body. I twist and high-step to avoid being weighed down by the bugs. I wade through them with fire, and check my six with blade in hand. The barely living that I leave behind crawl desperately to their next meal before being eaten by healthy and hungry; the cannibalism won’t stop! Even I’m just another swarmling to them. Baking in their stench for god knows how long now … some have probably tried to mate with me …
Then that thought goes away with one thrust of my SoW. The bug is skewered from the side, I lift and toss him as he screeches, his brood devours him before he meets the ground. I have to keep moving, but hell seems to have no exit. The nest is stupidly large, the mounds seem to go on and on for miles. God help me, I’m going to die here.
I let out a jet stream of napalm, making sure to cover a wide area, as the bugs come dangerously close to surrounding me before letting go of the trigger at the worst possible second. Before I can raise a hand, a swarmling comes and nearly tears my overworked helmet from head with a quick swipe of his front claws. I only manage to twist my head in time to avoid his blade embedding itself into my visor. The crack impairs my vision for a second as I stumble in wake of the hit. I flail the II frantically to ward off the approaching swarm while my sword hand zims and zips through empty air. I get my bearings in a breath before a swarmling latches itself onto my back. I twist and turn violently in the hopes of shaking it off, but its legs are wrapped tightly around me in full embrace.
In rage I break three legs to no effect. It pecks and rams its head against my helmet in a vain attempt to find an opening. But that’s not entirely true there is a self release button around the back of the neck…
And that’s when I took a running leap into the air twisting myself mid-air in order to land squarely on my back. Smashed beneath my goliath armor lays the one swarmling that made me piss my pants. I roll and push myself up to my feet, thanking whatever divine providence saw fit to allow me to get up unmolested, before coming face-to-face with a swarmling’s moving mouth parts. Two pairs of mandibles click to my helmet as it attempts to pull me down.
“Oh look, we’re kissing!” I land an uppercut with my sword hand that ruptured it so fast into the air that it forgets to take its lips with it. With callouse efficieny swing through four and burn down several dozen in a long screeching ark of fierier death in my rage.
“Not any closer …” then I notice a ridge not so far away from where I’m currently standing and compel myself forward two meters in an outburst of joy.
“How did I miss that little detail when I looked over the Swarms’ nest? Was I heading for it the entire time? Does it matter?”
“Say goodbye to the reaper.” Then I notice a mound’s worth of swarmlings moving in unison; ignoring their imperative to eat each other in the face of a meal that smells like mother of all meals – me.