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Catching up on old times
January 14th, 2007
~Rob M.

Continued from CBITH(A)

Adam's Grandad, in the little bit of time he got to know him, laid it out simple one day. There are only three things in this world a man should ever run away from: The Law, Luck and Love. There's no reasoning with either of them and it's a sure sign of a fool the man who tries. There's no fighting them either, though the stuff of poetry is often made of such attempts. There's no hiding from the last two and a life hidden from the first ain't no kind of life at all. Nope, your best bet was to run and try to buy yourself as much time away from them as possible.

Make no mistake. Love, luck and law are some serioulsy bad shit!

And Sarah K. was all three rolled into one.

Adam scrambles to get up on his feet. The result is an ass splash back into the dirt and an accidental misfire that ricochetts xylophone music into the shadows. The ghost roaches, with their tiny little human faces crawl off him, scattering into the cracks and trash, hiss whispering subaudible curses before vanishing.

Yep. Even his demons were scared of her.

"I don't want to hurt you..." He tells her, focusing on keeping his trembling hand from firing again.

"Well it's a good thing that's not really an option for you then." She smiles innocently

"I'm serious." he pulls the hammer back. Sweat stings his eyes. He can feel the nausea wrestling to come back up the throat. Hard shakes showing in the hand.

"Nooo... you're drunk and mines bigger." She flashes her jacket open revealing the handle of her own piece hanging there heavy and patient as death. "Really, where we going with this, huh? You can't shoot for shit on a good day.. and todays not really a good day is it?"
Read more... )
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My little city dreaming
December 10th, 2006
~Rob M.

Liquor kills the magick, plain and simple.

Many a mage have ended their days at the bottom of the bottle. Like Genies in reverse, they crawl down the glass trap looking for oblivion in hopes of finally escaping their once precious 'Will'. Go ask your Uncle Al, dead in a boarding house at 72. A broke ass beast of a prophet, with a nightstand drawer full of 'dead soldiers' and a habit that would make old man Burroughs junk sick with envy.

Liquor kills the magick, it blacks out the dreams, edits down the memories, but in the end it only numbs the pain. It offers it's faithful a gray courage that throbs at the center of a dull awareness. It offers a clumsy armor made of false heat and watered down inhibitions. It offers an ugly strength that gnaws at the liver and shits in the soul.

Liquor kills the magick, so why can't Adam drink the visions off? Why can't he shake the ghosts once and for all? Read more... )


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