Enochian Acid and other Distractions
May. 1st, 2009 12:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonEleven years ago in another city, in another life*:
Shit was going down.
Carlos Chameleon had gotten Intel that over the course of the last month; some fuck-head had been selling triple dipped hits of blotter at every occult night club, underground fetish party and psycho-orgy in Philadelphia. That this rogue dealer was operating in the Chameleon's exclusive territory with neither his permission nor having paid a minor cut of the profits to his crew was enough to piss him off on general principle alone. Still all this would be a minor offense at best to the easy going Chameleon. Kids will be kids after all. A broken wrist or ankle would normally suffice to correct this narco-faux-pas and serve to remind an ignorant dealer of the penalty for unapproved sales in his quadrant. It was only fair after all - by bullet and ritual - much blood had been spilt to win the sparse cut of territory from the competing coven-cartels. But what really sent the alarm bells ringing for the Chameleon was when a trusted road agent brought in one of the highly sought after sheets of blotter for his inspection.
Carlos knew what it was in a glance:
This went beyond some schmuck trying to make a quick buck and score themselves some righteous college pussy. This was straight up Enochian Acid Magick, the beginnings of some dangerous ritual work, utilizing the four watchtowers and artificially expanded consciousnesses to summon something big, bad and scary. The whole scheme came together in the Chameleon's head. So far there had only been three sheets of watchtower blotter sold - the north, west and south - each sold at events that corresponded map wise to the cardinal directions of his quadrant. Putting two and two together it only stood to reason that the fourth watchtower would be the east and most likely would show up at the annual Blitzkrieg Ball over at Club Never. That was only two days away. Word on the street said that the mystery dealer was going by the nom de plum of "Doctor Ellis Dee" and that no one had ever heard of this cat prior to a month ago.
The Chameleon put a new word on the street: Bring him the head of Doctor Dee in the next 48 hours and receive a reward "worthy of a king's remembrance". He also put together a 'maniac squad' of his own - comprised of his most loyal muscle and led by his apprentice and top dealer, Adam Last for a search and destroy mission. When the whole gang was summoned his men balked at the idea but only one, Skinhead Dan - Carlos' oldest and most trusted ally, voiced their concerns out loud. He laid it out and pulled no punches: Adam was smart no doubt, but had more balls than brains as most young men his age are prone to possess. Besides that it was no secret that Adam had been on a Hunter Thompson diet for the last three days. The kid was geeked out and serotonin dry and in no condition to be leading a maniac squad much less be on one.
Carlos knew all this and stated the opportunity would be as good a test of Adam's character as any. Besides, Dan would be there to keep an eye on his admittedly reckless apprentice.
Adam smirked at this news. With a confidence that exceeded his experience he told Skinhead Dan not to worry. That he'd work slow so the old man could keep up. Adam boasted about possessing a few contacts that had even eluded the Chameleon's almost omniscient knowledge of the Philadelphia underworld.
Big Dan the Skinhead laid a heavy hand on Adam's shoulder and gave it a squeeze that was anything but reassuring. The big skin only had seven fingers. Four on the right (missing a pinky) and three on the left (minus a pinky and ring finger). His surviving knuckles bore faded tattoo's of alchemical symbols - one for each of the seven planets. No one knew what happened to the missing three fingers - only that their cost had rendered the man as one of the best gunmen on the east coast. When that hand landed on Adam's shoulders a fierce chill went down his spine and froze the spin of his chakras in their cycle.
"You better be right, kid!" Dan sneered, "You ain't Carlos' first apprentice... and you won't be his last. Don't think your training gives you shit talking privileges to those who've proved themselves the hard way. We clear?"
Adam looked nervously to his mentor. Carlos only cocked an eyebrow at him and turned away to make some calls. Adam dry gulped and nodded meekly. Skinhead Dan removed his hand and Adam felt several dozen pounds of invisible weight lift from his shoulder.
"Good" Skinhead Dan grunted. "Alright, enough fuckin' around... let's get the Squad together and see about these contacts of yours."
* - This Adam story takes place over a decade before the other one currently running on my blog (which you may or may not have read). This is before Adam was banished from Philly and forced to hide out in Terminus. I did this as a sort of fast-fiction thing while I wait for a ride. I hope to continue one of these plot lines when time and inspiration make themselves available.
Shit was going down.
Carlos Chameleon had gotten Intel that over the course of the last month; some fuck-head had been selling triple dipped hits of blotter at every occult night club, underground fetish party and psycho-orgy in Philadelphia. That this rogue dealer was operating in the Chameleon's exclusive territory with neither his permission nor having paid a minor cut of the profits to his crew was enough to piss him off on general principle alone. Still all this would be a minor offense at best to the easy going Chameleon. Kids will be kids after all. A broken wrist or ankle would normally suffice to correct this narco-faux-pas and serve to remind an ignorant dealer of the penalty for unapproved sales in his quadrant. It was only fair after all - by bullet and ritual - much blood had been spilt to win the sparse cut of territory from the competing coven-cartels. But what really sent the alarm bells ringing for the Chameleon was when a trusted road agent brought in one of the highly sought after sheets of blotter for his inspection.
Carlos knew what it was in a glance:
This went beyond some schmuck trying to make a quick buck and score themselves some righteous college pussy. This was straight up Enochian Acid Magick, the beginnings of some dangerous ritual work, utilizing the four watchtowers and artificially expanded consciousnesses to summon something big, bad and scary. The whole scheme came together in the Chameleon's head. So far there had only been three sheets of watchtower blotter sold - the north, west and south - each sold at events that corresponded map wise to the cardinal directions of his quadrant. Putting two and two together it only stood to reason that the fourth watchtower would be the east and most likely would show up at the annual Blitzkrieg Ball over at Club Never. That was only two days away. Word on the street said that the mystery dealer was going by the nom de plum of "Doctor Ellis Dee" and that no one had ever heard of this cat prior to a month ago.
The Chameleon put a new word on the street: Bring him the head of Doctor Dee in the next 48 hours and receive a reward "worthy of a king's remembrance". He also put together a 'maniac squad' of his own - comprised of his most loyal muscle and led by his apprentice and top dealer, Adam Last for a search and destroy mission. When the whole gang was summoned his men balked at the idea but only one, Skinhead Dan - Carlos' oldest and most trusted ally, voiced their concerns out loud. He laid it out and pulled no punches: Adam was smart no doubt, but had more balls than brains as most young men his age are prone to possess. Besides that it was no secret that Adam had been on a Hunter Thompson diet for the last three days. The kid was geeked out and serotonin dry and in no condition to be leading a maniac squad much less be on one.
Carlos knew all this and stated the opportunity would be as good a test of Adam's character as any. Besides, Dan would be there to keep an eye on his admittedly reckless apprentice.
Adam smirked at this news. With a confidence that exceeded his experience he told Skinhead Dan not to worry. That he'd work slow so the old man could keep up. Adam boasted about possessing a few contacts that had even eluded the Chameleon's almost omniscient knowledge of the Philadelphia underworld.
Big Dan the Skinhead laid a heavy hand on Adam's shoulder and gave it a squeeze that was anything but reassuring. The big skin only had seven fingers. Four on the right (missing a pinky) and three on the left (minus a pinky and ring finger). His surviving knuckles bore faded tattoo's of alchemical symbols - one for each of the seven planets. No one knew what happened to the missing three fingers - only that their cost had rendered the man as one of the best gunmen on the east coast. When that hand landed on Adam's shoulders a fierce chill went down his spine and froze the spin of his chakras in their cycle.
"You better be right, kid!" Dan sneered, "You ain't Carlos' first apprentice... and you won't be his last. Don't think your training gives you shit talking privileges to those who've proved themselves the hard way. We clear?"
Adam looked nervously to his mentor. Carlos only cocked an eyebrow at him and turned away to make some calls. Adam dry gulped and nodded meekly. Skinhead Dan removed his hand and Adam felt several dozen pounds of invisible weight lift from his shoulder.
"Good" Skinhead Dan grunted. "Alright, enough fuckin' around... let's get the Squad together and see about these contacts of yours."
***
* - This Adam story takes place over a decade before the other one currently running on my blog (which you may or may not have read). This is before Adam was banished from Philly and forced to hide out in Terminus. I did this as a sort of fast-fiction thing while I wait for a ride. I hope to continue one of these plot lines when time and inspiration make themselves available.