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jack_babalonContinued from Part 2:Driven by the night
Adam's a magickian.
Watch!
For his next trick he's going to make that line disappear up his nose.
Over the still waters of the mirrors reflection the spirit of God hovers. Countenance beholds countenance. He throws back his head and the ceiling light peels his eyes wide open. Thats okay though. He decides the light is good or at least better than nothing. He can feel it kick in now. The Artifical Confidence burns in the nostrils, crawls down the spine, tickles the mood, electrifies the blood and crystalizes the details. A sugar coated demon knocks on the front door of his ego. He lets it in and his skin shivers with a cold splash of pride. Laughter bubbles out of his skull. Lust squirms in the guts even as his balls hang numb. The microcosm metastasizes across the macrocosm. As above... so below the belt. A shotgun alchemical wedding. Sucking on his teeth between giggles he may kiss the bride.
"You okay?" Sarah asks reapplying a coat of red to her lips.
"Yeah" he hides the word in a snort, rubbing his hair back through his fingers and savoring the stars twinkling through his scalp. "Just one for the road so to speak."
"Y'know Antonio's waiting for you outside?"
"Who?"
"Y'know...big guy. Was just here a few minutes ago looking for you while you were ..."
"Right, right" Adam gives himself a once over in the mirror and smiles. It's a very expensive smile- dismissive, confident and cruel - a smile he's only willing to spend on himself. "Well then... guess I should go 'clock in'" He slings the red book bag over his shoulder, a shudder, a sharp sniff, a rub of the tip of the nose and he steps out of the Womens Room without looking back.
He never notices that Sarah has a smile of her own.
She walks over to the sink counter, picks up the mirror he was using (her mirror) and with a single red nail traces the sigil she cut while Adam was going down on her. She sucks the residue from the tip of her finger. Underneath the tickle burn of novacaine on fresh lipstick she can taste the remnants of Adam's reflection.
"Mine!" she repeats for the second time.
*****************
Three angels are approaching Trish, not from above as her Daddy promised, but calmly walking towards her indifferent of the pistol she has trained on them. Their skin glows translucent, the sheath of muscles lit up with an ultraviolet effulgence from a "divine" light within. It is this very same light that they wish to share with us. It is a gift of their perfect love. A blessing. A light divine that purifies the lost Children of Eve from the cage of sin by the burning of the flesh until the smoke of soul is finally free to ascend from the ash of existence. With this light they will make her clean, they will make her worthy of their perfection.
Trish thinks fast. She knows you can't kill an angel. She should know she's tried it before. They're nothing but ideas made form, sure, just another variation of tulpa thats escaped its creator somehow. But unlike other rogue thought forms like monsters or demons or any of the other creatures of the night shes had to put down on occasion, everyone believes Angels to be invincible, pure love, emissarys of a higher power and all that other can do no wrong bullshit. The best you can do, they say, is try to put a hurt on the pricks and hope to slow them down some. Still Trish has learned a thing or two over the years and though they can't be killed, like any other tulpa it can be named, it can be banished.
She steps back and clears her mind.
"There's really only one rule to remember when gunfighting" The Old Man of the Needle pours his words slowly through a gravely drawl on the grounds of the firing range "and that's T.Y.T."
"Yeah and what's that stand for, Grandpa?" Trish asks impatiently, at her age she's eager to shoot first and ask questions never. The 'Old Man' to her was little more than a wrinkled old skeleton in a cheap suit. He reeked of spilt ink and rotting oranges. What made her teachers believe that 'Grandpa Junkie' here had anything to teach beyond how to cook up his meds and ogle young men was beyond her.
"T.Y.T. means 'Take Your Time' for Ah-Pooks sweet sake!" The Old Man of the Needle snaps , the intelligence burns sharp behind an unbluffable stare, "Now fire!"
Trish spins and empties her clip. Six shots spill across the targets outline, barely hitting the outer circles while the other four have seemingly vanished from the range completely. The Old Man adjusts his bottle lensed glasses, raises a revolver almost as old as he is and in a sudden blur of motion squeezes off a single round.
The shot rings out and buries itself into a bullseye.
"Now then young lady" he squints at her under the rim of a battered fedora, "try it again... with patience this time!"
Trish pushes the memory back with a deep breath, narrows the tunnel of her aim as she side steps a breath of raw light that incinerates a section of the wall behind her. She notes how they resemble those 'Visible Man' model kit she had as a kid only if they were painted with glow in the dark paint. Calmly she squeezes the trigger four times...
Stop. Freeze the shots. Look. They hang in mid air glittering in the frozen light. Step up and see for yourself. There! Their silver tips etched with symbols? No look closer, they're Hebrew letters. So that the bullets read from right to left, bottom to top
There. Now step back and restart the clock.
... and stitches four shots into the creatures chest. It staggers back. Two lidless eyeballs look back at her raw, its rictus grin seems to laugh and it wags a recriminatory finger back at Trish. Then there is a muffled crash, a tree falling in the distance and the eyeballs floating in the creatures face looks down to see black tendrils spread out of the four gun shot wounds, each thread connects into a web of patterns forming into a vertical spelling of the Tetragrammaton whose letters ignite into a silver flame.
The creature screams telepathic music. Brittle chimes rattling in a hurricane while someone plays the cello with a buzzsaw. A wave of psychic pain slams into her. Vision blurs and blood trickles from the nose but she holds on to consciousness. The creature is almost caked in a layer of charred black now and fumes seem to vaporate off it's body in a smoke haze. It's companions crouch and clutch their ears in pain. Then there is a sound of muscle being torn from bone. Two claws of a dull purple light push out of their scapula, followed by a widening arc of glowing phosphorescence that unfurls into a pair of wide ultraviolet wings.
Trish fires four more shots, this time at the one closet to her on the right.
The wings fan open, spread out, reach forward and collapse inward to form a bubble enveloping the creatures body. The bullets plunge into its surface, ripple and incinerate into a wisp of blue smoke. The wings open back up and their skinless faces peer up at her in mute rage, their jaws unhinge into an impossible yawn and release a ear piercing hiss that ends in a shriek.
They both leap up and glide across a short burst of distance. The first one lands on the right hand wall on all fours and begins crawling at a sprint towards Trish. The second one stares at her upside down clinging to the ceiling, scuttling left to right, zig zagging its way towards her.
"Fuck me running" Trish mutters under her breath, "Alright Nikki. I'm out of magick bullets. Your turn."
Another blast of light sweeps across the floor from the angel on the ceiling. Trish rolls backward, the light singeing the edge of her jacket and coming out of the roll in a crouch, Nikki appears in Trish's place, one hand pressed flat against the floor and her other hand in what is refered to by those who know as the 'Sign of the Enterer'.
"S'alright" she says calmly at the approaching angels, their wings twitching as they crawl closer, "I got this."
Adam's a magickian.
Watch!
For his next trick he's going to make that line disappear up his nose.
Over the still waters of the mirrors reflection the spirit of God hovers. Countenance beholds countenance. He throws back his head and the ceiling light peels his eyes wide open. Thats okay though. He decides the light is good or at least better than nothing. He can feel it kick in now. The Artifical Confidence burns in the nostrils, crawls down the spine, tickles the mood, electrifies the blood and crystalizes the details. A sugar coated demon knocks on the front door of his ego. He lets it in and his skin shivers with a cold splash of pride. Laughter bubbles out of his skull. Lust squirms in the guts even as his balls hang numb. The microcosm metastasizes across the macrocosm. As above... so below the belt. A shotgun alchemical wedding. Sucking on his teeth between giggles he may kiss the bride.
"You okay?" Sarah asks reapplying a coat of red to her lips.
"Yeah" he hides the word in a snort, rubbing his hair back through his fingers and savoring the stars twinkling through his scalp. "Just one for the road so to speak."
"Y'know Antonio's waiting for you outside?"
"Who?"
"Y'know...big guy. Was just here a few minutes ago looking for you while you were ..."
"Right, right" Adam gives himself a once over in the mirror and smiles. It's a very expensive smile- dismissive, confident and cruel - a smile he's only willing to spend on himself. "Well then... guess I should go 'clock in'" He slings the red book bag over his shoulder, a shudder, a sharp sniff, a rub of the tip of the nose and he steps out of the Womens Room without looking back.
He never notices that Sarah has a smile of her own.
She walks over to the sink counter, picks up the mirror he was using (her mirror) and with a single red nail traces the sigil she cut while Adam was going down on her. She sucks the residue from the tip of her finger. Underneath the tickle burn of novacaine on fresh lipstick she can taste the remnants of Adam's reflection.
"Mine!" she repeats for the second time.
Three angels are approaching Trish, not from above as her Daddy promised, but calmly walking towards her indifferent of the pistol she has trained on them. Their skin glows translucent, the sheath of muscles lit up with an ultraviolet effulgence from a "divine" light within. It is this very same light that they wish to share with us. It is a gift of their perfect love. A blessing. A light divine that purifies the lost Children of Eve from the cage of sin by the burning of the flesh until the smoke of soul is finally free to ascend from the ash of existence. With this light they will make her clean, they will make her worthy of their perfection.
Trish thinks fast. She knows you can't kill an angel. She should know she's tried it before. They're nothing but ideas made form, sure, just another variation of tulpa thats escaped its creator somehow. But unlike other rogue thought forms like monsters or demons or any of the other creatures of the night shes had to put down on occasion, everyone believes Angels to be invincible, pure love, emissarys of a higher power and all that other can do no wrong bullshit. The best you can do, they say, is try to put a hurt on the pricks and hope to slow them down some. Still Trish has learned a thing or two over the years and though they can't be killed, like any other tulpa it can be named, it can be banished.
She steps back and clears her mind.
"There's really only one rule to remember when gunfighting" The Old Man of the Needle pours his words slowly through a gravely drawl on the grounds of the firing range "and that's T.Y.T."
"Yeah and what's that stand for, Grandpa?" Trish asks impatiently, at her age she's eager to shoot first and ask questions never. The 'Old Man' to her was little more than a wrinkled old skeleton in a cheap suit. He reeked of spilt ink and rotting oranges. What made her teachers believe that 'Grandpa Junkie' here had anything to teach beyond how to cook up his meds and ogle young men was beyond her.
"T.Y.T. means 'Take Your Time' for Ah-Pooks sweet sake!" The Old Man of the Needle snaps , the intelligence burns sharp behind an unbluffable stare, "Now fire!"
Trish spins and empties her clip. Six shots spill across the targets outline, barely hitting the outer circles while the other four have seemingly vanished from the range completely. The Old Man adjusts his bottle lensed glasses, raises a revolver almost as old as he is and in a sudden blur of motion squeezes off a single round.
The shot rings out and buries itself into a bullseye.
"Now then young lady" he squints at her under the rim of a battered fedora, "try it again... with patience this time!"
Trish pushes the memory back with a deep breath, narrows the tunnel of her aim as she side steps a breath of raw light that incinerates a section of the wall behind her. She notes how they resemble those 'Visible Man' model kit she had as a kid only if they were painted with glow in the dark paint. Calmly she squeezes the trigger four times...
Stop. Freeze the shots. Look. They hang in mid air glittering in the frozen light. Step up and see for yourself. There! Their silver tips etched with symbols? No look closer, they're Hebrew letters. So that the bullets read from right to left, bottom to top
There. Now step back and restart the clock.
... and stitches four shots into the creatures chest. It staggers back. Two lidless eyeballs look back at her raw, its rictus grin seems to laugh and it wags a recriminatory finger back at Trish. Then there is a muffled crash, a tree falling in the distance and the eyeballs floating in the creatures face looks down to see black tendrils spread out of the four gun shot wounds, each thread connects into a web of patterns forming into a vertical spelling of the Tetragrammaton whose letters ignite into a silver flame.
The creature screams telepathic music. Brittle chimes rattling in a hurricane while someone plays the cello with a buzzsaw. A wave of psychic pain slams into her. Vision blurs and blood trickles from the nose but she holds on to consciousness. The creature is almost caked in a layer of charred black now and fumes seem to vaporate off it's body in a smoke haze. It's companions crouch and clutch their ears in pain. Then there is a sound of muscle being torn from bone. Two claws of a dull purple light push out of their scapula, followed by a widening arc of glowing phosphorescence that unfurls into a pair of wide ultraviolet wings.
Trish fires four more shots, this time at the one closet to her on the right.
The wings fan open, spread out, reach forward and collapse inward to form a bubble enveloping the creatures body. The bullets plunge into its surface, ripple and incinerate into a wisp of blue smoke. The wings open back up and their skinless faces peer up at her in mute rage, their jaws unhinge into an impossible yawn and release a ear piercing hiss that ends in a shriek.
They both leap up and glide across a short burst of distance. The first one lands on the right hand wall on all fours and begins crawling at a sprint towards Trish. The second one stares at her upside down clinging to the ceiling, scuttling left to right, zig zagging its way towards her.
"Fuck me running" Trish mutters under her breath, "Alright Nikki. I'm out of magick bullets. Your turn."
Another blast of light sweeps across the floor from the angel on the ceiling. Trish rolls backward, the light singeing the edge of her jacket and coming out of the roll in a crouch, Nikki appears in Trish's place, one hand pressed flat against the floor and her other hand in what is refered to by those who know as the 'Sign of the Enterer'.
"S'alright" she says calmly at the approaching angels, their wings twitching as they crawl closer, "I got this."
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no subject
on 2007-06-05 04:04 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-06-05 04:28 pm (UTC)To be honest this ones been a bitch to write so far. Its also the one I really, really want to come out right so I guess one goes hand in hand in the other. I keep rewriting parts of it which is why the posts disappear and reappear.