Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist!

continued from chapter 5:"The speaker was an angel"

Trish knows that the greatest lie ever told was that the world was anything but wonderful. That it was faith alone that haunted this universe. There were no monsters under the bed and there were no angels looking over our shoulders. Nothing new was under the sun. After all magick was a dead myth, God was nothing but the math of chance and the rest was best left as guess. After all seeing is believing... even if there's nothing left to see here.
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Continued from Part 3: Waiting so long.

"What a shithole" he thinks outloud looking around.

The place is crawling wall to wall with psychic vampires. The drama drifts across the air thick as a fart and twice as deadly. He can feel it seeping through his mood with that unique stink of rotting friendships and rumors that have been left out too long. He tries to kill the smell with a cigarette. It doesn't work but it improves his disposition a little. He keeps a few feet behind his guide Antonio, as they make their way to Sam's office, carefully drifting along the outer shore of the dance floor. At one point they have to wait as an improvised chariot race goes down. Adam cranes his head over the waves of stoned stoic faces. He manages to catch two black vinyl clad doms riding seperate wheelchairs that are tethered to the collars of a pair of men who are horribly naked and racing on all fours. The Doms crack whips across their backs and occasionally, in a brief Ben Hur on Acid moment, each other. They pass by Adam and Antonio. No one claps. No one notices. The DJ switches songs. The crowd goes back to their aggro ballet. Antonio continues and Adam follows. They come to a side hallway tucked between the VIP lounge and the main bar. Two steriod queens with arms inked in tribal weaves stand guard wearing rubber masks that give the one on the right a Rooster head and the one on the lefta pigs. Adam rolls his eyes. His Bullshit alarms are ringing. Adam's been long diagnosed as being 'Art School Intolerant'. He's not done with the smoke in his mouth and already he needs another one. Cock & Pig step out of the way to let Antonio through. Adam follows and snickers off their attempt to eyeball fuck him as he passes.

"What a shithole" he repeats to himself with a shake of his head. ( Read more... )

Continued from: Part 1: Look back in anger

Sarah K. sits on the altar preparing the spell with a delicate attention. The ritual is in the details after all and without notice of such can quickly turn into mere routine. The room has been banished of undue influence, the thoughts purged from 'the lust of result' through a steady measuring of the breath and finally, one by one, she consecrates the four magical weapons: A hand mirror becomes the pentacles, the symbol of the universe is simply her reflection. On top of the mirror rests a bare razor blade, the dagger of her reason, dark metal and sharp. Next to it lies the cup of dreams, a clear plastic baggie squeezed open with a spill of bright colored powder pouring over the lip of the seal. Finally she rolls a twenty, the wand of her will, the fire of her resolve. ( Read more... )