Post by Sicko on Apr 7, 2024 11:22:47 GMT -5
For breakfast I had two girls, a blonde and a brunette; Leaving behind the vagrants who'd been rescued from the side of the road motel, it would be hours before the maid came to clean the room and would find it tossed; pillowcases shredded by deep slashes of a knife, and bedding coated in blood, red claret which also daubed the wall in sigils. I didn't dedicate the agony-feast to Mabon, I just did it 'cause I wanted to; Such is the mantra I'm living under now that I'm driving. Because I wanted to.
It looks to be a good day.
By this point, I'm already behind the wheel of my ice cream truck, and as I glance into the rear-view, my eyes search the face for any hint of resistance, any tic that says that the subsumed are trying to come to the surface. I'm not allowing it.
The Ephrain Aspect is down on the bottom layer of the Mind Palace, in his suburban home weeding his garden.
Before we had begun to fracture into a half-dozen, I was there, slumbering in the dark. Before the machinations of Jason, before Ephrain promised a shard of his soul to an eldritch god, was I. All he'd hungered for was that place in the sun, a place to call his own, and he deserved to have it.
But a much stronger instinct is imbued into him by the extensive years of his body being used as a weapon for others to wield. It was that which opened my eyes for the first time, and led to the restructuring of a deal to where a shared control wasn't enough.
Let him sleep now. He can have his home, in time, after I'm finished slaughtering.
I rub my hand along the jowly chin of Ephrain's body, and his yellowed, cracked teeth flash out in my smile. A shark's smile, a predator's smile.
On the hunt, I exit the truck, letting the door slam, and I'm out behind an alleyway of some stinking, shitpile of a city.
I pass by a deep alleyway, and something snicks out in the darkness. I’m aware of what it is, even as I see the face behind the blade. His olive skin is dark, his face and neck are covered in tattoos and his greasy mustache frames a shifty, rat-like appearance.
And he doesn’t seem perturbed by my size and muscular frame, all he sees is an easy mark, fooled by the broadness of my unmasked face.
He grabs hold of the folds of my coverall, and attempts to pull me in, attempting to stick the knife in my face. I just smile. “Gimme your wallet, man,” the thug says, his voice grim and businesslike. There’s no show of nerves here, I fully expect that if he wanted to he could end me at any time.
I respect his cold, murderous demeanor even as I’m disappointed by his small-time thinking. A greasy thug, like the original Ephrain Ortiz so much used to be, limited, pathetic, nothing.
He lacked the capacity for greatness. He wanted to be more. As I aspired to be more, I wanted to be in control.
I apologize. I’m so lost in sizing up the young man I forget that he’s threatening to kill me.
The knife dipped, and his expression went slack. Then his brow knit in fury, "Ain't you listening bitch? Gimme your money!" The knife was up again, now digging into the throat, drawing blood.
I sigh. Stupid and thoughtless. So I ask him, simply, “You know your girlfriend is cheating on you.”
"How do you know that-" he said, knife dips off of my neck.
"I know. And I know if you go home right now, you’ll catch her with Julio from around the way." My face could break even the best poker-player’s concentration.
"The thing’s she’s saying to him right now, … do you want to hear? How he’s making her scream on the pullout bed in your house? How she’s telling him to drive it harder, papi- "
"You… you ain’t right, man…" he denies, but I just stand there. Letting my words sink in. "Madre dios, you ain’t right, how can you know all this -"
I tap my eye, is all. I see things. The punk pulls out a St. Christopher medallion from the cathedral across the way, and, eyeing me fearfully, he begins to head up the street, to find his girl presumably. He's afraid to take his eyes off me. "You ain't right," is all he can say.
"Oh, I'm right," I tell him, but my eyes aren't for him now.
I smile.
From Faust and Mephistopheles to Benet's "The Devil and Dan'l Webster", folklore is rife with the tales of those who met the devil on their day-to-day journey, and spent the rest of their days looking over their shoulder, but I am not him, exactly.
I know there are other aspects, locked into the rooms of this house that might think of me as that, but I've always thought of myself more as a Jester.
Standing by the ice cream truck; I place my hand on the rapidly-cooling hood, feeling tactile pleasure and sensation as I run my fingers over the peeled stickers. The freezer in the back, stuffed into a box piled with popsicles, holds the body of a nun.
I smile, fondly.
Soon, I'll find a place to dispose of the body, and, perhaps I'll indulge some impulse to satiate my curiosity, my first time out in the world being able to lay my hands on blood, and bone, and gristle.
I want to play for a while.
I want to enjoy my newfound freedoms.
It's been a good day, so far.
It looks to be a good day.
By this point, I'm already behind the wheel of my ice cream truck, and as I glance into the rear-view, my eyes search the face for any hint of resistance, any tic that says that the subsumed are trying to come to the surface. I'm not allowing it.
The Ephrain Aspect is down on the bottom layer of the Mind Palace, in his suburban home weeding his garden.
Before we had begun to fracture into a half-dozen, I was there, slumbering in the dark. Before the machinations of Jason, before Ephrain promised a shard of his soul to an eldritch god, was I. All he'd hungered for was that place in the sun, a place to call his own, and he deserved to have it.
But a much stronger instinct is imbued into him by the extensive years of his body being used as a weapon for others to wield. It was that which opened my eyes for the first time, and led to the restructuring of a deal to where a shared control wasn't enough.
Let him sleep now. He can have his home, in time, after I'm finished slaughtering.
I rub my hand along the jowly chin of Ephrain's body, and his yellowed, cracked teeth flash out in my smile. A shark's smile, a predator's smile.
On the hunt, I exit the truck, letting the door slam, and I'm out behind an alleyway of some stinking, shitpile of a city.
I pass by a deep alleyway, and something snicks out in the darkness. I’m aware of what it is, even as I see the face behind the blade. His olive skin is dark, his face and neck are covered in tattoos and his greasy mustache frames a shifty, rat-like appearance.
And he doesn’t seem perturbed by my size and muscular frame, all he sees is an easy mark, fooled by the broadness of my unmasked face.
He grabs hold of the folds of my coverall, and attempts to pull me in, attempting to stick the knife in my face. I just smile. “Gimme your wallet, man,” the thug says, his voice grim and businesslike. There’s no show of nerves here, I fully expect that if he wanted to he could end me at any time.
I respect his cold, murderous demeanor even as I’m disappointed by his small-time thinking. A greasy thug, like the original Ephrain Ortiz so much used to be, limited, pathetic, nothing.
He lacked the capacity for greatness. He wanted to be more. As I aspired to be more, I wanted to be in control.
I apologize. I’m so lost in sizing up the young man I forget that he’s threatening to kill me.
The knife dipped, and his expression went slack. Then his brow knit in fury, "Ain't you listening bitch? Gimme your money!" The knife was up again, now digging into the throat, drawing blood.
I sigh. Stupid and thoughtless. So I ask him, simply, “You know your girlfriend is cheating on you.”
"How do you know that-" he said, knife dips off of my neck.
"I know. And I know if you go home right now, you’ll catch her with Julio from around the way." My face could break even the best poker-player’s concentration.
"The thing’s she’s saying to him right now, … do you want to hear? How he’s making her scream on the pullout bed in your house? How she’s telling him to drive it harder, papi- "
"You… you ain’t right, man…" he denies, but I just stand there. Letting my words sink in. "Madre dios, you ain’t right, how can you know all this -"
I tap my eye, is all. I see things. The punk pulls out a St. Christopher medallion from the cathedral across the way, and, eyeing me fearfully, he begins to head up the street, to find his girl presumably. He's afraid to take his eyes off me. "You ain't right," is all he can say.
"Oh, I'm right," I tell him, but my eyes aren't for him now.
I smile.
From Faust and Mephistopheles to Benet's "The Devil and Dan'l Webster", folklore is rife with the tales of those who met the devil on their day-to-day journey, and spent the rest of their days looking over their shoulder, but I am not him, exactly.
I know there are other aspects, locked into the rooms of this house that might think of me as that, but I've always thought of myself more as a Jester.
Standing by the ice cream truck; I place my hand on the rapidly-cooling hood, feeling tactile pleasure and sensation as I run my fingers over the peeled stickers. The freezer in the back, stuffed into a box piled with popsicles, holds the body of a nun.
I smile, fondly.
Soon, I'll find a place to dispose of the body, and, perhaps I'll indulge some impulse to satiate my curiosity, my first time out in the world being able to lay my hands on blood, and bone, and gristle.
I want to play for a while.
I want to enjoy my newfound freedoms.
It's been a good day, so far.