Tag Archives: horror

SCB – Mickey

You know we nearly ended the human race….

Until we figured out that wasn’t a good idea. Unfortunately for us by the time we figured that out we outnumbered the food 30 to 1. So we were desperate, and lacking in options. The infighting between the clans and the species started to kill us faster than the humans could. And the starvation? Forget about it. We fucked up that bad. So we decided, well not “we” but a handful of us more forward thinking creatures of the night decided, that we will broker a deal between our world and the food. We were again a small minority, so it took a while and much desperate pleading to come up with a deal we both could live with. And not just something that’ll last a generation or two, but a status-quo that’ll last for now and the futures, future. Because unlike the food, we live a long time have a greater interest in keeping our promises (since violent death is the usual way out of them). So we sat down with the humans and decided that a small percentage of the your population will be our allowance, to feed on or to replenish our numbers.

And what was in it for you? Human civilization. The right to choose your own Renaissance and the benefits of having to only worry about serial killers and rapist at the wee hours of the night. Without the Treaty and this organization enforcing the rules…well need I remind you of the dark ages? Of the early attempts to settle the America’s? The rise and fall of Rome? I would like to blame religion but its a matter of ecology. To us, you are food and the incubators of our children. But to you? Well, their less kind nouns in your dictionary to describe us. Low words like virus and parasite. Pathogens that invade your blood streams and warp your DNA to suit our needs.  Is it a surprise you find theological reasons to cover up the base fear you have of us. Of our invisible power. Not really.

So what we have here is the old americana debate. The price of freedom, but not in the traditional sense of guns, glory and duty to country. No in the real world, its backroom deals with devils and men you’d call monsters. It’s selling your soul.

So in the meantime, it’s my job to keep sup world’s side of the bargain. The status-quo most be defended, that’s where the S.C.B comes in. Supernatural Census Bureau. To keep track, to take account, to smooth over and to eventually cull when necessary. I hate my job. Vamp clans, werewolves, keeping the zombies in the Nevada desert. Not my idea of a good time. My own people hate me. And for what? Keeping their mouths fed, keeping the heat off them, keeping the secrets of our existence in the dark where its suppose to be. And don’t get me started on the immigrants. Your division does too good of a job and you get them coming over in droves; wide-eyed, drooling mouths, not very concerned with how you runs things. That’s the one thing that bothers me, no matter how good you get at maintaining the status-quo there’s always a need to crack heads. Always. And in my opinion, I mean I hate to talk bad about my own people, but vampire covens are the worst. The worst….

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under SCB

A King

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.

“My liege.”

“It’s Arthur.”

“Your face.”

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.”

“Its Arthur.”

“Right.”

Awkward pause.

“My-Arthur, the supernatural activity, necro or demon?”

“Demon like you suspected.”

“Taken care of?”

“No.”

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

Just a Ling

Leave a comment

Filed under The Boy King

Just a Ling

“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.

“John!!”

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-

“Crrrrrck”

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.

“Fuck.”

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.

“One down.”

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

                                                                 

1 Comment

Filed under The Boy King

In the Apartment of Evil

Back up takes the fun out of daemon hunting, but the League of Shadows takes the tedium out of hunting necromancers. I could call them right now if it wasn’t for the 4th level abomination sleeping in some assholes basement waiting to be sicked on hapless teenagers. They’re better at the more boring assignments, the ones that don’t involve undead pirates and possessed grandmothers, but lean towards the subtitle difference between H.P Lovecraft and someone sacrificing goats and virgins in the backwoods by a lake shore. Granted, there are 6 billion people on this planet and despite all advances in social media and travel, it’s impossible to thoroughly investigate every Wicca club in the state of Missouri let alone the country. Sometimes they arrive too late and counter-demonology 101 has to be dusted from the shelves, friends need to be sacrificed….

Which is partially why I am rummaging through the mail Mr.McCoy leaves haphazardly in his bachelor-pad/apartment/condo. Who knows what their called these days. It’s a box on top of another box with two kitchens and a thick wall dividing the two renting units. One bed room, one bath, one living room and room enough for two barely adult sizes tables that denote the dining room from the living room. He as an impressive library of science fiction, pulp fiction, and old school fantasy before Dresden Files and Song of Ice of Fire with the occasional college textbooks un-open since the day it was bought. His TV looks expensive but only that, there is no sign he actually sits down and uses it; his cable is basic, his game systems include the original Xbox and an N64, and his fridge is mostly lined with beer and flavored tequila.

His closest is light on the wife beaters and jeans and more on the button ups and other business casual “comfortably working in an office” drape. No D&D, no He-man, or even a fetish for Star Wars. A guy with more condoms than video games probably stopped wearing his geek on his sleeve years ago. And most disturbing is no occult. None. And I’ve been to necromancers apartments, most don’t think to hide that type of shit from plain sight, some are more than proud to let you know they firmly believe gibbering horrors from beyond space-time did or should rule this workd, usually by way of undisclosed human organs laying about with crude “insert your favorite ancient civilization” runes and inscriptions mapped over floors and jars. I personally tend to start worrying when I start seeing Scandinavian/Germanic runes inscribed in various bodily fluids, no offense to anyone but when people start asking the “frost giants” and “dark elves” to cross the rainbow bridge from their cozy dark corner in the multi-verse into the “middle-realm”…well lets say the Viking’s disappeared for a good reason…

Was I wrong? I’ve been here for two hours without noticing, god I’m still bad at this. Stopped Iran from doing the “other” type of nuclear research (the kind that involves less boom or more num) but can’t find a single vile of “cocktail monster bait”. Well, if I think about this logically, he may have a lot of people come in and out his apartment for one reason or another. It would be a buzz kill for a one night stand to run into your collection of satanic rituals 101. Few necromancers know guys like me exist, not for the lack of paranoia on their part, but for the simple reason that while stories of witches are rather prevalent, the guys that hunt them are far less popular. This is partially on purpose (secret government agencies and the league of shadows wouldn’t be quite secret or shadowy otherwise) and mostly because the potential witch to hunter ratio is very skewed on the witch end. And besides the few bastards that slip through the cracks look less like Magikarps and more like Gyarados when they finally make the radar again, meaning there are few to none who are truly qualified to put them down.

Though I’m sure he isn’t that dangerous. I mean come on, what kind of social outcast doesn’t have an Xbox 360? I need his cellphone and or his laptop (no **** desktop to hack? fucking serious?), but I’d rather borrow his cellphone for now. So I do what any sensible king of the ocean floor has done for generations…hide under his bed just when he comes waddling in at 10pm in the evening, talking loudly and boisterously on his cell-phone.

“Look I’ll have next week column to you by Friday, I just spent all day at Starbucks getting the ideas down… Look I know, I know was late last week but Vicky came through didn’t she?… I know I know your paying me not Vicky but… Ok, ok I got you, rough draft before the clock hits 12, you have my word!”

Click

He settles on his bed by flopping on it, pulling out various cords from his briefcase/carrying bag before finally slapping the charger against the wall and letting his apple shinny rest after a long day in McCoy’s back pocket; which going by how readily this bed is touching the floor, it must have been rough. Real men have Androids, but I resist the urge to point that out, he needs to go to sleep or sit on his work desk, which ever is easier on my poor legs. He of course does neither, instead he dials another number, the phone whizzes back into action and another voice, defiantly male comes into speaker.

“Alex whats up.”

“You know whats up, they just found the girl.”

“Oh…”

“Where is Katherine?”

“Checking the cage.”

“BY HERSELF!??!”

“God no, she toke O’Hera and Joey with her.”

There was a long audible pause as both men breath sighs of relief.

The man on the other end breaks the silence,”So who stopped HIM.”

“Wasn’t me.” says Alex sharply.

“Next meeting we need to talk.” the distance sound of family obligations can be heard from the strangers phone.

“Yeah, yeah sure.” hangs up McCoy.

“I could slit your throat right now.” It wasn’t a threat but a promise. But my rage will have to wait. Bumping him off now will trigger a flight or fight response that always ends me up in Texas (whoever made this universe did two things wrong and one of them was Texas).

Besides they’ll be all together soon enough. In the mean time I’ll take my Mandriod and  connect to his I-crap, using my double whammy. Now don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate the good ol’ days when all you needed was a ward soaked in the entrails of a local thief and a few cursed items (basically objects with soul(s) tethered to them). And yes I could have easily made a few sandwiches with Alex’s brain for the information I need. But there is a time, a place, and a measure of caution you must have and I’m sure my predecessors would appreciate how much easier technology makes the busy work associated with daemon hunting. And besides stomping around in the mind of a normal person is traumatic (for them) but fine, doing the same to a person who just came face to face with a gibbering horror is varying degrees of dangerous and extremely traumatic but its doable, but…. the mind of someone paranoid and actively engage in magic… no way to not leave a mess (that’ll usually result it your choice in serious mental disease(s) or a mind wipe of the last 10 years of their life as a bonus), or hit a trap (see making messes), or leave a dead body(the other way of dealing with traps). And the worst case scenario IS leaving a cold unresponsive body behind…  Maybe I am being too cautious but I’d rather not try to stop another easy assignment from crossing the Mexican border if it can be helped.

But as far as my double whammy, oh man what an awesome little device(and my only device). Connects to any phone. Check. USB enabled device. Check. Even has an extension for using fake credit cards to access ATM’s using bluetooth. Check. And best of all, none of those apple tards can use it. Go Mandriod. Without even having to crack his password, my Android app loads his shitty Apple OS and gives me complete access to his phone from the comfort of real smart phone position five feet. away Silently I go through his call history looking for the names of his mentioned friends.

“John Percy of course, Katherine H’Lee,”

Contacts.

“Joey H’lee, Jill O’Hera? Bingo. Wait…”

I nearly laugh. An alarm set for 4 am in the morning. Basically dawn. Looking at my target again, if I had met him 12 years ago he would be an overweight chili-dog stuffer but now he is reasonable buff, except for tell-tale signs of alcoholism starting to set in around his gut. He doesn’t fit the profile of a skinny, nebbish little man with wet black hair and beady little eyes. Instead he is has graying sandy blonde hair that stands at attention even while being rolled over a pillow. Light blue eyes and the type of “adorable” baby face one would find in a Seth Rogen comedy. No one would believe this asshole killed over 20 people, or that his actions are chewing at the fabric of space-time and inviting more of his pet Cthulhu’s to our little corner of the multiverse. Nay.

….

Oh the ease of hiding in the back of a car, a hot ward fading me into the shadows of an Mitsubishi Lancer, as Alex tumbles on in and fumbles for the keys. The only trick is staying silent, even as he throws his briefcase into my abdomen without looking. I could have shadowed him from the comfort of my car but its hard to notice someone following you in a small town at 4am in the morning. Especially when you go out into country side and all there is for miles is highway and corn-stalk.

“John.”

“Morning Alex.”

“The sacrifice, you found one?”

“Of course.”

“Boy or girl.”

“Girl.”

“Katherine will bitch.”

“Let her! Look, I’m stressed enough as it is and besides our mutual friend specifically asked for one.” John points out.

“Still one more missing girl, especially after… that…that Jessica girl the cops will think a kidnapper/rapist is one the loose.” Alex sighs.

“No, I heard from my cop friends that their blaming it on drug-sex traffickers or something like that.”

“Seriously?” Alex’s relief passing over like waves.

“Yeah they found a meth dealer eviscerated in a bath tub. They keeping a lid on that part.”

“Oh…but still…”

“Yeah I don’t like this more than you do, but lets’ get this over with before my kids wake up.”

Some 45 minutes later, not counting the 30 minutes it took to not even be half way there, Mr. McCoy parks the car. I look outside and all I see is two sports cars that looked that they starred in the fast and the furious, a Ford minivan that looks like the envy of suburbia and a grey Chevy Altima. All of which are surrounded by tall grass and wheat and an old shack looming in the foreground ominously. However Alex doesn’t seem to notice, he slams the door as he heads straight for the barn. I stare at him waiting for something horrible to happen but nothing does. Weird.

I step out the car and immediately my ears start to ring. Getting back into the car seems like a great idea, in fact driving away seems like a really great idea…

“So this is what it feels like to be repelled.”

Ok good trick. I ignore the ringing, the anxiety, the cursing myself for not simply taking my own car and for the most part it helps. Except the ringing, it seems to only get louder and its coming from my ward. I touch it and its blazing hot.

“Only a really good mesmer.”

And I push forward, hit something solid, realize what it is too late, reach for my ward too late, feel each hair on my body catch fire as my tongue dries, my eyes sizzles, my throat gurgles yesterday’s stomach acid as my entire body is being plugged into an outlet and all I can do on time is scream,

“SooON OOOOoooOOF AAAAa BIIiiiiiiIIITccccccCCH”

And yes this will be edited

                                                                 

2 Comments

Filed under The Boy King

A Day in October Part 2

“Jessica”

My face is an inch away from hers, but her attention, and her panic, is drawn to the combat knife I hold  in front of her saucer like eyes.

“Understand me, I do not intend on using this on you.”

She doesn’t believe me of course, but I don’t need her to, the knife comes down and brushes lightly against her throat, drawing blood as it slowly misses her major arteries, leaving no more than a paper cut behind.

“I know I did this before, but I need a fresh sample you see.”

And I slide the blade over my tongue.

“Mandrake… wolf-bane…garlic….. basil? Basil? Seriously?”

I read the confusion in her eyes as she mumbles complaints through her gag.

“You were roofied by amateurs, all the pros know to use paprika.”

No one knows what that’s suppose to taste like I wanted to add, but I notice her following the swaying movement of my dagger and sigh.

“Really?”

I hold the blade in front of her, her panic fully taking in the jagged, almost predatorial, nature of the seven inch knife that stole her breath. Granted it’s a damn terrifying instrument; few weapons I’ve come across give the impression that a great white contributed to its design.

I put the knife away.

“See” I hold up my hands, “no knife.”

For her credit she hasn’t peed herself once. She  blinks and exhales several minutes worth of carbon dioxide, nods her little head back and forth, sobbing a little but relatively calm. Taking my actions as slow and deliberate as possible, I cup her cheek in my hand and cradle her head as gentle as newborn.

“I need you to be calm.” I whisper.

I take her head in both hands and squeeze until her skull rigid in my grip. She doesn’t cry out in panic, by sheer force of will she stops herself from thrashing about vainly in her bindings. Not so much as a whimper escapes her gag. I try not to smile.

“I’m going to do something horrible to you. You will not enjoy this and I can not reiterate how unpleasant it will be. If you panic, if cry, if you fight me in any way, I will gut you like a fish.”

She doesn’t bother to nod but she knows I understand, though she is way off about my intentions, her relaxed body and emptying mind (“think of England” she mutters over and over again) will do. And besides I rather she not call my bluff; leaving a brain dead med student in the care of local authorities and worried sick parents leaves too much evidence behind for my taste. I may be a king, but I haven’t been to a country where hiding a body isn’t simpler, easier, and far less strenuousness on the diplomatic immunity. So with a shallow breath I open up the sardine can most people call a mind and start making sandwiches.

….

“Hey”

I wear my business casual smile with a hint of “aw-shucks, look how embarrassed I am” and awkwardly bring out my object of interest.

“Does this guy frequent your shop?”

The cashier/owner looks at my sketch of a slightly overweight Caucasian male, with heavy horned rimmed glasses, chubby perpetually rosy cheeks, a good old boy smile, and hair that hangs in wet mope like fashion over a comically flat forehead.  Recognition comes easy.

“Percy?”

“That’s right.”

“Is he in any kind of trouble.” The comic book stores owner’s face re-actively recoils at the thought.

“No, no nothing like that.” Disarming smile and awkward nebbishness turned on to max, “He wanted to sell comics on…craiglist, yes craiglist, but he is kinda hard to find and I came all this way, and well….”

“John Percy buys comics?”

“He’s a big collector.”

“Well he doesn’t buy any here.”

Looking at around at the mid sized collection, I can imagine my Percy boy reading but never buying the latest issues, huddled with 2-3 other disenfranchised man-child’s bemoaning the canonical nightmare which as become the Walking Dead. Or maybe he comes here alone, his friends teenage years of idle time spent behind Starbucks and bookstores long buried under the demands of sleep and menial jobs.

I shrug “Buys online?”

He shakes his head, “Probably.”

“Hey it was nice to meet you,”  I hold out my hand for him to shake which he does  vigorously despite the searing sensation, “And don’t tell him I was here looking for him.” A command not a request, but he doesn’t notice the difference, so he’ll nod and smile and forgot I was here all the same. He also doesn’t notice he has been marked, the price for the inscription a last courtesy from Jessica before the cops found her in a sleazy motel in the more rugged side of town due to an anonymous tip. The cops will eventually find a small time street dealer (whats left of him) in the bathtub… I don’t make any pretenses about killing an innocent, it could have been a mother of three, or a grampa coming back from vacation, marrow is marrow and after making a sandwich I get hungry. And besides I leave the vigilantism to the Bruce Waynes and Frank Castles of our universe, I tend to keep a good relationship with the criminal element– a few aspiring pimps and mobsters helped saved the world a few times.

….

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“John Percy went to school here, you was his main literary teacher.”

“I’m sure he was but as you said before that was 18 years ago. I’ve had thousands of students since than, and quite frankly most of them aren’t worth remembering…. Why are you interested in him?”

Scratching the back of my neck and pretending to struggle to keep eye contact with Professor Milesaw, “I’m a reporter from the Missouri Bugle and it turns out your former student has made quite a name for himself. I wanted to get the first interview with the man who he admits inspired him so much.”

Milesaw puffs his chest in pride and leans forward, “Oh that John….” he really wants to talk out of his ass but some invisible force seems to be holding his tongue,  I smile as he literally chokes on his bullshit, “…. no….”

Memories are like terminates, they’re not hidden and they don’t go away, there only waiting for a good reason to come up.

“John Percy he was nothing special, but his friend, Alex McCoy, he was a true talented. You should read the story he published through the school paper, he was like a Steven King.”

“So your saying Alex also inspired John? Funny I’ve interviewed Mr. Percy and he never mentioned Mr. McCoy.”

Milesaw yawns, “Well I don’t know what happened with those two after they graduated. In my opinion the class of 1992 as a whole wasn’t the same after that incident that happened 18 years ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well many dropped out, I think John was one of them. Every school in this county and a few of the neighboring ones across Missouri closed for two months. Even some of the colleges and of course this one.”

“Really?”

“How do you expect people to react when there is a crazy axe murder on the loose killing people’s children?”

I hold back a smile; you’d be surprised how quickly people get back to business as usually when their crazed axe murderer leaves evidence that looks less like that creepy guy next door and more like a giant honey badger.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Alex.”

“He lives on the other side of town at 1421 Malbarry Rd.”

“How did you know that?”

“He uses me as a reference for his free-lance jobs and sends me thank you letters.”

And with that I tap his forward head and guide him as he feints.

“Thank you for your help but I need you unconscious.” I angle him into his seat, “But,” I lean in close to whisper in his ear, “your password per favore.”

“1122345”

…..Honestly better than the Japanese Defense Minister’s home office password being “123”.

John Percy being a college drop out explains the bartending gig, he doesn’t look the type to appreciate free drinks and boobs. But Alex, yeah he defiantly sounds like a player. A quick query for his name in the archives of old school papers using the good Professor’s desktop gives me a hit… well call me cthulu. May not be mountain of madness, but he didn’t get his master of horror degree from “i think too much about candles and pentagrams with my other weird friends who dress in all black.”. He was that kid and a cool one at that if Milesaw could appreciate him. Wearing your satanic worshiping tendencies on your sleeve was rather frown upon until some depressed teenagers made it cool sometime mid 90’s. His short story “the Witch behind the Wardrobe” reads less like a pious manifesto and more like a genuine leaning towards what man shouldn’t know.

“I’m jumping to conclusions.”

So was assuming the 6’3 bartender that marked Jessica and Kevin would be a big comic book nerd.

“Rule 1 of the multi-verse: If you seek it, you will find it or it will find you.”

I have two names, one address, and all I had to do was a make a little girl relive the night her boyfriend got eaten… several hundred times.

And yes this will be edited

                                                                 

1 Comment

Filed under The Boy King

A Visit to the Shrink

“I see here that you’re a recovering sex addict and alcoholic.”

“Yes”

“You’re twenty-two years old.”

“I don’t see how that is relevant.” the boy fidgets.

“Well, it is quite unusual for an adult white male of Irish descent to be a recovering sex addict and alcoholic, and to have self admitted himself for both.”

“I’m not normal.”

I give him an apathetic grin.

“Well give me an example.”

“I have these thoughts…. I mean all the time…and…and… I can’t turn em off… I mean it’s always sex, even now always sex and…and… all the female nurses, the positions…. I came here because I thought you can help me?”

“I didn’t mean to take light of your…condition… Can you tell me, what are you in these daydreams?”

“I often bend them over an-”

“No” I interrupt, “Not what you do, but what are you.”

His eyes glaze over as he tries to remember. I try to give him a healthy push in the right direction, though too healthy and he’ll foam at the mouth gibbering about the end of space-time.

“I…I don’t know…”

“So you’re not you.”

He pauses, almost in a self-induced blue screen, before slowly restoring his easy bake brain to proper sentence forming ability.

“No…”

And that’s all I need to know before I lock the door and disable the cameras. He panics, but he doesn’t make it to the door before his skull hits the green and white tiles.

“Sorry.”

Matt Crossneck was the lone survivor of an unsolved murder/disappearance 6 years ago when he lured away Stacy Daniels, age 15, from a friends pool party one autumn weekend. The police found plenty of blood but no body. A dazed and confused Matt Crossneck, covered head to toe in lacerations and bruises, was the only witnesses and shortly suspect, but no one wanted to believe a drunken 16-year-old with not so much as a learner’s permit can dispose of a body as quickly and efficiently as a thirty something 6’2 overweight white male.

That was six years ago. And considering I’ve spent the entire day pouring over this towns more violent headlines, this is the closest thing I have to a lead. And I nearly missed it because the age groups don’t match. Unless my supernatural grizzle bear has a girlfriend, I’m guessing whatever ate my mark last night probably establishing a pattern. Eighteen years to this date, a group of college kids were eviscerated at a house party. Would go down as a typical Friday the 13th unsolved except for the fact that besides the blood and gore, very little of their actual bodies were found. And while this is Missouri, the local cops at least did their job as well they could, considering how many police records I’ve read in how many languages, I would know. Nevertheless, whoever wrote the scene had no fucking clue what happened. Besides maybe the victims being chewed up by a lawn mower. Drag ass to twelve whole years later and this young man is the solve survivor to what I take is the same kind of nasty event, just on a smaller scale and a much younger age group.

The case gets mighty curious from here. And my desire to hunt it is starting to burn out of sheer curiosity than compulsion.

The age thing stumps me good. Understand that daemons are creatures of habit, because what tethers it to this plane of existence is mighty thin and the slightest hint you don’t belong here registers a kick in the ass by the universes firmware. Like a good virus you want to inmate natural occurrences in our world. Or you simply want a defining set of rules and procedures that govern your behavior. At least for a bottom feeder daemon that withered its way into our world through whatever crack chance the multi-verse gave it, them’s the options. And because them’s the breaks, you end up having to care about little things, like what you eat….

Now I’m not a monster hunter. Though I’m highly qualified to do so. I’m more of a case worker. Because monsters don’t exist. Really they don’t. But that’s the lie we tell people to ensure that they don’t really exist. I want the little sheep to believe that just over that fence there isn’t a pack of hunger wolves. Frightens the sheep and excites the wolves, lose lose situation in my book. So while I rather not run around protecting all the sheep, and lord knows I can’t, I’m very much compelled to do so. Not because I personally want to, but because a geas is a bitch of a thing to have. The type of soul binding destiny trap that ensures that like my daddy before me and his daddy before him, I’ll be a farmer just like them. The kind with the shotgun pointed at the fence, snarling at whatever comes through.

So yeah I “could” have saved them. The boy anyway. Funny I call him a boy when I probably not that much older than he is physically. But doing so, wouldn’t give me a case. And I work cases. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, and by extension the geas that runs my life. So while I’m really not a therapist, and not exactly one to care much another mans sexual deviancy, or the lack there of, I figure I do Mr.Crossneck a favor and get rid of his hang up for him. A little on the house I guess, so I press my fingers against his temples to make the mucous green circles around his irises disappear. When I arranged the meet, I noticed he had them, which is how I knew the cases were related off the bat. Terror is like disease passed on by the most harmless of actions, lying dormant for years while silently eating its host alive from the inside. When he wakes up he will remember nothing and his grey hairs will stop growing at an alarming rate. However when ladies look into his eyes, they won’t be mesmerized by tiny sliver of demonic magic desperately  trying to pass its evil on to the next host, which means he’ll get laid less often but he’ll thank me when he can finally settle down with a girl that likes him for him. Or he’ll be alone forever, he is a special kind of loser this one.

In any case I’m done here, so  I “persuade” a nearby orderly to call for a janitor and consider the lack jawed patient lying in his own pool of blood as merely an office accident a few stitches can work out, before driving to my cheap motel for some RR and Colombian roast.

Returning to my cheap motel, the case greets me as the papers rustle when I slam the door. I yawn, none of those will help me now, so I shove them aside and unpack the testing equipment. Microscope, blood slides, PH testers, intoxication metrics, and various instruments for detecting genetic abnormalities and hormone levels. Sighing, I have to wonder why I insisted on doing this myself instead of giving it to the league of shadows or trusting in the governments counter occult agencies for once. I’ve already prepared a 2000 page training manual that should be relevant for the next four decades (in 6 languages no less)… No, I should know better than that– my predecessor would.

So I prepare a blood slide for Matt’s blood sample. I was sure to take it before I exorcised his inner demons, but I kept my fingers cross that what I’ll find would match the sample I took from the woman I have gagged in my bathroom.

She kicks and screams just when I look inside the microscope, both are muffled noises to me and defiantly mute points to the outside world, but nevertheless rather annoying.

“Jessica.”

Her name doesn’t calm her.

“Jessica, do understand that this is the safest place you can be.” for other people, “And I have a lot of work to do. The quicker it’s done, the faster you can go back to your banal life of frappes and gossip girls.”

I’d figure all the pillows I layered the walls and floor with to mask the sound of her constant banging would be appreciated. It’s easier when the female gets eaten, no one care about a young male who hasn’t been seen in two weeks. But let little miss sunshine not call her mom in twelve hours and there will be a squad cars on every third block. Only the multiple wards I have in place keeps this sleazy part of town out the police radar. For now anyway.

“Fucking necromancers.”

I take a good look in the mirror before heading off to complete my work. A blood sample would be all I need if I’m right. I keep my fingers cross.

There are two problems with this case. One manifestations are creatures of habit. Pure and simple. They are picky eaters and generally prefer under aged meat. Monsters, apparitions, ghost, aliens, adults may see them, but children believe in them. If a real life gray skin alien were to show up on your front porch any rational adult would think Halloween came early. Or some comic book convention has found its way to their town, or a movie was in mid shoot, or anything to discredit the possibility of the supernatural. That’s the magic of adulthood, we wish our reality to make sense and it does. However children, especially the ones who haven’t hit puberty, aren’t very picky about how many arms and legs actually belong on a ten foot tall spaghetti monster.

Which becomes a problem when some asshole brings the spaghetti monster to our side of reality, because children don’t care about the laws of physics or understand why cockroaches can’t be 20 feet long. Habitually slaughtering scores of children is what most low-class abominations do when tethered to our plane of existence. Which leads to the second problem, the difference between Medusa and the Minotaur. Medusa was her own lady with a big grudge on men, hunted by an established MO, and did it by the several dozen. The Minotaur however was the pet daemon of a mad sorcerer king who found a relatively cheap way to kill people by gruesome wild animal. Why is this so important? Because one involved a necromancer who can summon these things over and over again, and one was a freak accident involving a particularly pissed off lady saying the worst kind of prayer, when the stars have aligned.

The lesser horror doesn’t match the MO. Hunts young adults, but doesn’t bath in their blood or even preys on the same age group. He’s obviously nesting here but hasn’t established a meaningful pattern. Six years ago it attacks Matt and Stacy at a pool party, kills Stacy, leaves Matt relatively unharmed, though he clearly was part of the menu. twelve years before that it slaughters 16 young adults, all between the ages of 20 to 26, but stops.

The blood work is conclusive, no match.

“Figures.”

But my theory matches. Something was unintentionally summoned 18 years ago, either by a bunch of goth kids who had nothing better to do, or by a really intelligent young man or woman(as unlikely as it may be never rule out the women) for the sole purpose of handling a certain group of people.  The problem is few bottom feeders are interested in anything older than 12, so most likely whatever came through wasn’t particular easy to handle. Especially considering whoever was behind this probably didn’t think their dabbling into necromancy 101 would actually work. Whether or not they actually knew their lesser horror actually existed, I can’t tell, but the second part of the plan involved spiking someone’s drink with a particular set herbs and spices. Not something to get drunk off of, but a discrete way to train their pet daemon on a particular group of people. For this to work with the minimal amount of collateral damage, they’d need a house party our necromancers of honor weren’t invited to (naturally). What follows next, any B-rated horror slasher film can tell you, but the main point is that 18 years later Jessica, and probably Kevin as well, has trace amounts of something voodoo in their system. The type of soul binded pocus that stays in your system for years. My honest guess, after the deed was done 18 years ago, the sorcerers involved probably put two and two together and realized what they have done. And didn’t feed the beast for 12 years….

And yes this will be edited

                                                                 

3 Comments

Filed under The Boy King

A Day in October, 2010

To all confused readers. This post and similar post I, the wuzzman, will make like it are not part of the main story, i.e Story of a David, but are separate entities which are given their own categories. Please enjoy this short story which will be updated once per week and do come back for other new stories or shorts posted through out the weekday. Again sorry for any confusion, I do enjoy your rage too much.

“Fuck partying like a rock star, time to sleep like one!” shouts the young college student leaving from the late night bar, girlfriend in tow.

Despite his swagger he isn’t as drunk as he appears, being the designated driver this night takes the fun out of being a 21 year old. However the young lady next to him was barely able to hobble along on her 2 inch heels, her hand placed permanently on the end of her skirt paying token attention to pulling it down when it road too far. The air was a nice autumn hum of insects and drying leaves, as the summer months yields to the short interlude of reasonable weather before descending into winter madness.

For all intent and purposes there was nothing out of the ordinary about this particular late night, not even the full moon, clear in the sky, enticed the neighborhood dogs to howl to it. Young adults of drinking age and below wheeled out of various crevices to the waiting armada of police vehicles filling up their states coffers, while the more cautious took huddled walks home half freezing from the sudden splash of soberness and lack of blaring dance pop.

If anything, except for me stalking the young couple from a distance, nothing was out of the ordinary. And I hoped so; if the only thing exciting to happen in some nowhere college town in Missouri was this chicks ass cleavage, I would be satisfied with sleeping like a rock star myself.

“Do you smell that!?” shouts the brunette boy, his nose cringing comically but nothing more.

He had his chance to run. He could have saved himself, and her, right now, if he just turned around. But no, the superstitious atheist has no fear; at least not since he was 10 years old and watched the Men in Black’s giant cockroach alien crawl in and out of someone’s skin the way we do jeans. So he remains ignorantly bliss to the smell of ozone, layered over the alley like a rotten egg resting in a trash can. Or the fact that he missed the left turn to his girlfriend’s car by three blocks.

I have to credit the thing that’s stalking them, it wasn’t fooling around waiting for some poor sap to go into his death trap. It was deliberate and selective. And worst cautious. I can save them now, I only need to make my presence known to it.

“I lose it and it feeds somewhere else.” and I don’t see myself visiting Texas in 10 years.

One block, two blocks, four, Kevin still thinks Jessica car is around the corner, Jessica babbles on about Tracy cheating on Derick to the tune of a live audience. If I could tell them to run with my mind, which I could, neither would heed. For one Kevin’s eternal search for Jessica sweet ride is rapidly being eclipse by the number of ways he can get his hands to her erogenous zones. Currently he can’t seem get past two, despite his personal goal of eight. Rapidly his intoxication starts to show, as he lazily wraps his arms around her waist, taking her full body into his chest with awkwardness and gusto. Convinced of his studdness he brushes away the only defense Jessica has for her black velvet thong, as he cups her swaying body into his eager hands and presses her against the wall.

I wish I can say I saw it all in slow motion. As IT descends all that can be reasonably made out is a black withering mass, slithering like a snake but without the form or a form to consider the difference between a head or a tail, as it tumbles through the sky with intelligence and speed. And great speed, before speech and realization can be uttered, Kevin was engulfed, his head bashed against the brick of the office build he leaned Jessica against, the girl’s features growing wide as saucers, her all within grasp of its…its…things…

But I was wordless and unconscious in my own attempt to resist the evil that I’ve prepared this whole night to put down. The hollow rock, as thick as a deck of cards and inscribed in blood and purpose, silently tumbled  into the stale night air as it landed squarely at the feet of Jessica and Kevin. Without even a moment of explanation or pause, the ward bucked IT to the foreground, the luminous explosion revealing the absolute horror of too many arms and legs flailing about in disharmony. Such was the sight that Jessica’s hair turned white as her pupils lost all color. Somehow I notice this in my own sweat and shaking; without knowing my body had taken a knee and my breathing was beyond haggard and entering into respiratory like labors.

One for food, one for flesh. The image of a 10 foot roach climbing into Joe the farmer, wrenches the second weeks breakfast from the sides of my stomach but I hold long enough to hear the scream of the damned.

“Fucking animal!”

I could hear Kevin screaming, not with his mouth, having been smashed, or his mind, which was unconscious, but with his very soul. Five years and I can’t stop hearing it. The sound of real torture, not for some silly notion state, or heroics, or any such necessities, but for the sheer purpose of breaking a man, down to every nerve and atoms that compose them. It wasn’t scream, and it wasn’t a sob, or even a cry for help. It was the denial of hope, the sound of millions of bacteria being dissolved in digestive acids. And I only I could hear it! Isn’t that insane?!

So I ran at it obscenities rolling fourth from the belly, not words devised under the limitation of the English language, but primal fury, the battle cry of every rat forced to rush a bear. And in my rage IT ran. With only a combat knife in one hand and a ward clenched tight enough to draw blood in another, IT ran from me, dragging the boy into the supernatural abyss in which it came.

And yes this will be edited

4 Comments

Filed under The Boy King