(no subject)

Previously: “Okay…” Adam steps forward as his magical circle, (with bubble lettered glyphs and wild style sigils flowing throughout its perimeter), follows him in perfect synch so he never ventures outside of it, “my turn.”

Last Stand

In the absence of fear, it is not courage Adam feels but rather the single minded devotion of a lover, one who successfully strangles death back past the moment of surrender’s rapture. His face is the face of a man who stands naked on the roof during the worst of storms, outshouting the thunder to demand lightning’s immolation. Standing on the precipice of his death blindfolded, his enemies marshalling around the wake of his ambush and gathering strength in their numbers, he can truly say he has never felt so alive.

From inside his magickal circle everything’s filtered through “epiphany’s terror”. It’s like tripping on quality ‘shrooms, but only in the way being stoned is like tripping on quality ‘shrooms. Every color radiates with a secret significance on the cusp of revelation, every detail magnified around him to become the center of the universe’s perpetual bloom, every sigh a rumble, every breath the whispering echo of approaching angels. His thoughts have become an incendiary whirlwind raging around the depths of a suddenly bottomless skull, yet his resolve does not burn and the heat only serves to crystallize his attention upon his opponents.

In slow motion he watches Dent empty the clips on his 9’s, through memory’s grimorie he peels a graffiti tag from a snapshot of a distant wall. Three miles away the corresponding tag vanishes from the brick wall.

Adam mutters…



…snaps his fingers into a pistol that points bulls eye at the young mage’s face.

Time speeds back up as Dent is rapidly consumed in a wave of phosphorescent violet flames. No scream, no gasp, no time. Through the shimmering haze of the relentless blaze, the wavering silhouette of a diminutive figure drops to its knees and falls face down into a puddle of inferno.

Outside the factory – the ring of fire evaporates and vanishes.

Three to go.
( Read more... )

"By any other name..."

And now a brief list of names I've been called, while riding on public transportation, during my years here in Terminus.

Bald Head: Twice. Once by a prostitute who was propositioning me while I waited for the bus on Ponce De Leon. The second time by a drunk old lady while riding on the #124 out of Doraville Station. The bus had hit its brakes suddenly and everyone who was standing ended up mashing into each other under the momentum wave. The lady, who reeked of cheap beer, staggered into me and I caught her at the last second while just barely maintaining my balance. "Don't be trying to feel me up, Bald Head", she slurred and that was that.


Brother.

Friend.

Asshole.

Chief.

Big Man: Usually by cats trying to sell me bootleg DVDs, bundles of incense, CDs, bottled water and once a puppy. This last offer was made at Little Five Points station on the East Bound platform. Late night and winter with the train running predictably behind. The only other person on the platform was this human landslide of a man bundled up in a puffy, silver jacket. He waddled up my way, pausing a very conspicious yard away, looked around to make sure we were alone and stage whispered -

"Hey, Big Man. Check it out."

I turned around and saw Avalanche Joe there unzip his jacket down some and instead of reaching for a gun like I half expected, the tiny brown head of this mutt of a pup pops out.

"Twenty-five dollars and he's yours."

The pup panted excitedly. Big eyes, small snout, floppy ears. Cute but...

"Ummm... no."

"Twenty."

"Not interested."

And Avalanche Joe simply nodded, zipped up the pup, turned around and waddled back on down the platform.


Bull.

Slim Shady.

Dude: Often delivered with a poor imitation of the stereotypical surfer's accent.

Cochise.

American History X Looking Mother-Fucker.

Po-Po.

5-0: My favorite was while riding the South bound two years ago to visit Vee before we lived together. The train was stalled, blacked out and rush hour packed. August or somewhere around there and the dearth of ventilation was starting to grind at the lungs. It had been some time since we stopped moving. The heat stuck to us like a rancid fart and the collective funk of a battalion of passengers had everyone muttering. At one point this poor woman had lost control of her two grade school aged boys who began shrieking and hollering. She tried hushing them but her efforts only seemed to fuel their cacophony. Then one of them slapped the other. The brother responded with a punch. Then their escalation went from tiff to Mike Tyson in the span of seconds.

Frustrated, and on the verge of delivering a smack down of her own to these 21st century Katzenjammer Kids, she instead bolts out of her chair and thrusts a pointed finger at me.

The two boys cease fire and turn as one in my direction... as is most of the cab by now, now that I think about it.

"Don't make me have to call 5-0 on you!" She snaps.

The boys break off from their match and scuttle back to the single seat they shared by their mother's side.


Mister.

Sir.

Officer.

Money.

Bat-Man: During my first month at the Cube Farm, I worked a two to eleven shift. Luckily I didn't live that far off from MARTA at the time, so I was able to make the commute after my shift. One night though my friend the promoter was opening a new fetish night down at this club in the heart of Fratville, Terminus. It was on a Thursday of all nights and I wasn't able to get a ride, except from his then girlfriend, the Princess, over at the Buckhead MARTA station. So not wanting to arrive in my dress code sanctioned khaki's and white button-up, I waited until everyone in the office left. Snuck down to the men's room and changed into a pair of black pleather pants with a shiny, vinyl black t-shirt I scored from Oni's fashion boutique and a pair of pole-climber boots that screamed 'butch' so loud you could hear it a mile away.

So I made my way out of the men's room on stealth mode, caught the elevator down with a visibly petrified cleaning lady, bolted out the lobby without earning so much as a glance from the security guard and then hiked through the wilds of office park country towards the Perimeter Station.

When I arrived the train I needed was just pulling in. Poured on the speed and bounded up the escalator taking the steps in two's and three's in a stride. The 'bing-bing' bell chimed and the doors began to swoosh closed before I slid through the snatch of their jaws.

Making for one very dramatic entrance as I literally skidded and stomped to a halt.

Then I noticed a group of teenagers huddled over towards the back. They looked me up and down with slack jaws and bewildered gazes. Finally one of them bellowed -

"Oh, Shit... we got Bat-Man, up on this bitch!"

Where the rest of this cat's crew burst into a riot of laughter.

"That's me", and I snapped them this quick salute off my temple before taking a seat and trying to focus past the undying laughter behind me.


Lex Luthor.

Buddha.

White Boy.

Man.

"By any other name..."

And now a brief list of names I've been called, while riding on public transportation, during my years here in Terminus.

Bald Head: Twice. Once by a prostitute who was propositioning me while I waited for the bus on Ponce De Leon. The second time by a drunk old lady while riding on the #124 out of Doraville Station. The bus had hit its brakes suddenly and everyone who was standing ended up mashing into each other under the ensuing momentum wave. The lady, who reeked of cheap beer, staggered into me and I caught her at the last second while just barely maintaining my balance. "Don't be trying to feel me up, Bald Head", she slurred and that was that.


Brother.

Friend.

Asshole.

Chief.

Big Man: Usually by cats trying to sell me bootleg DVDs, bundles of incense, CDs, bottled water and once a puppy. This last offer was made at Little Five Points station on the East Bound platform. Late night and winter with the train running predictably behind. The only other person on the platform was this human landslide of a man bundled up in a puffy, silver jacket. He waddled up my way, pausing a very conspicious yard away, looked around to make sure we were alone and stage whispered -

"Hey, Big Man. Check it out."

I turned around and saw Avalanche Joe there unzip his jacket down some and instead of reaching for a gun like I half expected, the tiny brown head of this mutt of a pup pops out.

"Twenty-five dollars and he's yours."

The pup panted excitedly. Big eyes, small snout, floppy ears. Cute but...

"Ummm... no."

"Twenty."

"Not interested."

And Avalanche Joe simply nodded, zipped up the pup, turned around and waddled back on down the platform.


Bull.

Slim Shady.

Dude: Often delivered with a poor imitation of the stereotypical surfer's accent.

Cochise.

American History X Looking Mother-Fucker.

Po-Po.

5-0: My favorite was while riding the South bound two years ago to visit Vee before we lived together. The train was stalled, blacked out and rush hour packed. August or somewhere around there and the dearth of ventilation was starting to grind at the lungs. It had been some time since we stopped moving. The heat stuck to us like a rancid fart and the collective funk of a battalion of passengers had everyone muttering. At one point this poor woman had lost control of her two grade school aged boys who began shrieking and hollering. She tried hushing them but her efforts only seemed to fuel their cacophony. Then one of them slapped the other. The brother responded with a punch. Then their escalation went from tiff to Mike Tyson in the span of seconds.

Frustrated, and on the verge of delivering a smack down of her own to these 21st century Katzenjammer Kids, she instead bolts out of her chair and thrusts a pointed finger at me.

The two boys cease fire and turn as one in my direction... as is most of the cab by now, now that I think about it.

"Don't make me have to call 5-0 on you!" She snaps.

The boys break off from their match and scuttle back to the single seat they shared by their mother's side.


Mister.

Sir.

Officer.

Money.

Bat-Man: During my first month at the Cube Farm, I worked a two to eleven shift. Luckily I didn't live that far off from MARTA at the time, so I was able to make the commute after work. One night though my friend the promoter was opening a new fetish night down at this club in the heart of Fratville, Terminus. It was on a Thursday of all nights and I wasn't able to get a ride, except from his then girlfriend, the Princess, over at the Buckhead MARTA station. So not wanting to arrive in my dress code sanctioned khaki's and white button-up, I waited until everyone in the office left. Snuck down to the men's room and changed into a pair of black pleather pants with a shiny, vinyl black t-shirt I scored from Oni's fashion boutique and a pair of pole-climber boots that screamed 'butch' so loud you could hear it a mile away.

So I made my way out of the men's room on stealth mode, caught the elevator down with a visibly petrified cleaning lady, bolted out the lobby without earning so much as a glance from the security guard and then hiked through the wilds of office park country towards the Perimeter Station.

When I arrived the train I needed was just pulling in. Poured on the speed and bounded up the escalator taking the steps in two's and three's in a stride. The 'bing-bing' bell chimed and the doors began to swoosh closed before I slid through the snatch of their jaws.

Making for one very dramatic entrance as I literally skidded and stomped to a halt.

Then I noticed a group of teenagers huddled over towards the back. They looked me up and down with slack jaws and bewildered gazes. Finally one of them bellowed -

"Oh, Shit... we got Bat-Man, up on this bitch!"

Where the rest of this cat's crew burst into a riot of laughter.

"That's me", and I snapped them this quick salute off my temple before taking a seat and trying to focus past the undying laughter behind me.


Lex Luthor.

Buddha.

White Boy.

Man.