Post by weareanarchy on Jul 29, 2016 6:26:29 GMT -5
It begins as it always does, as a noise inside my head. Not a noise like a ringing alarm clock or the sultry pout of a cell phone reaching out to shake you into a world full of fear and pain and twisted scars. No, this noise was simple, a single drip…a drip like a pregnant drop of maple syrup falling onto a plate in a diner not a stone’s throw from where Belial is ripping the core out of some damned soul. I closed my eyes and attempted to make it go away but it simply would not.
I shook my weary head and opened my sleepy eyes and went to wipe the sleep from them only to remember that my face is a mask that hides another face, a face not my own deep down and far away in a land of slumber and hopefully, death.
For those of you who do not know me, I came to be in the mind of another man, a man who at first turned to me for salvation from the prison wherein he had become trapped and then attempted to turn me off like water from a spigot realizing only too late that madness, once tapped into, flows like a runaway ocean and before he could do more than bemoan his fate, I was here breathing air and announcing my birth to the world in the bodies of others. I have been called many things, but I prefer the name Lunacy.
But that meant very little as I woke to the world looking around and seeing a dead pigeon hanging from the rafters above me. It stared down at me with open eyes as if stunned by its unliving condition and I answered it’s stare as a point of challenge. Never lose a staring contest with the dead, I always say…they play for keeps. Fortunately I wear a mask so I can cheat…although as I have said before, it’s not a mask…it’s my face. Having exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the dead bird, I sat up from the cold stone floor I had chosen to make my bed the night before.
I’m sorry? What was the question? Why did I choose to sleep on a cold stone floor in an abandoned warehouse that featured among other things a dead pigeon as it’s adornments? I will tell you, myself and my associates declared ourselves free of your society a long time ago. In our freedom we have abandoned the things that most conventional folks use to identify themselves to those around them. Cell phones and Facebook accounts and drivers licenses and bank accounts and residences and vehicles. We walk the earth like Kwai Chang Caine, having adventures and free as the…
What? What do you mean you don’t know who Kwai Chang Caine is? Listen here, Sunny Jim, we are going to have real *bleep*ing problems if you don’t catch the easy references like Kwai Chang frolli-fuckin’ Caine! Got that past the censor, didn’t I?
Back to the point, my friends and I we don’t live like you people. We are not part of the hurdy gurdy, hustle and bustle the endless rat race that all of you have embraced. Frankly, we think you are a mass of simpletons, a collection of the most mind-wiped corporate suck ups there has ever been. We, unlike you, will NEVER bow to the will of our corporate masters. We will never turn the wheel by a yoke attached to our souls. We have cut ties to your society and are as free as the birds in the sky…well not the dead one hanging from up above but you get my drift.
DRIP!
There it is again! What is that god-awful noise! What is that thunderous fucking drip? It’s time to rouse the devils with whom I carouse. It is time to shake the chains that house the spirits to which my soul has been shackled. It is time for me to turn to my comrades and see if they can answer the 64,000 Dollar Question, what in GOD’S OWN NAME is making that fucking drip!
I walk into the next room where I find the Jackdaw hanging from the ceiling here he has somehow managed to suspend himself again like the World’s Largest and Oddest vampire bat. I cross over to him and push, his body begins to swing and while he has passed out from the blood rushing to his head the movement makes him wake up and soon he does a flip that allows him to land on the floor in style. He turns his masked visage my way and cocks his head in the manner of a giant raven…or perhaps a jackdaw.
I’m sorry? You say you don’t know what a jackdaw is? READ A BOOK!!!!
I ask him about the drip and he cocks his head to the other side, looks around and shrugs. The Jackdaw is no fool, though he can be thought of as one because he never speaks in the language of humans. Oh come on, it’s an old adage, it’s best to be thought a fool as opposed to opening one’s mouth and removing all doubt. The point is, The Jackdaw does not speak in a language like you or I would. The Jackdaw’s native tongue is violence. His natural emotional state is aggression. He seeks not happiness but dominance. It took long months to kill the man he used to be and create the Jackdaw, but he proudly stands by my side, never speaking, never wavering…I feed him blood and he sets the world on fire. Such is the nature of our relationship. So we turned and…
DRIP!
WHERE IN THE WORLD IS THAT INFERNAL DRIPPING COMING FROM? It is not water, nor is it oil or anything that one might naturally hear in an abandoned warehouse! What is it? Where is it coming from?!?
I turn to the Jackdaw who shoves me, and manages to catch me just off balance enough that I almost fall onto my back before realizing that he shoved me in the direction of a door. My own fault, really, consult someone whose native tongue is violence, they are probably going to be violent with you. I realized that he was pointing me towards the third member of our merry band, the man who played Little John to my Robin Hood and the Jackdaw’s Will Scarlet…Maylock.
Maylock is a former police detective and judging by his ratio of solved cases a darn good one. So good that friends of some guys he put in jail tortured him and murdered his family while he was forced to watch. Afterwards, he was forced off the police force and into counseling and therapy…something that never really worked for him. He felt as if he was merely a ghost of his former self haunting his former home. Years of medical attention could not repair his shattered face and years of mental help could not make him human again. I, on the other hand, I gave him the gift of clarity. A little hallucinogenic gas and the opportunity to get revenge made him realize that he never had a prayer as a police officer. He discovered that the public, by and large, is the creature that causes the problem. You see, it’s you sitting out there in your comfortable chair posting on Facebook, sharing your Tweets…you who are the problem. You who won’t lift a finger to change your world unless someone shows you how! You who sit there and accept your allotment of happiness from your Corporate Masters, stuffing the legal dope down your necks and not even willing to stand up for what you believe in. Once he realized you are the problem…well, getting him to join my happy little Manson-type family, that was as simple as killing a horse of a different color.
Lunacy, for such is the man’s name, holds up a horse’s head, hacked off at the neck. The head changes from white, to roan, to brown, to purple, to green. He drops it out of camera view.
I head towards the door indicated by the Jackdaw who kicks the horse head for good measure. We cross the threshold into the main space of the abandoned warehouse where Maylock towers over the other two men staring up towards the ceiling. The sky lights have broken and hanging through them is a man in a parachute harness, swinging freely. A large piece of glass protrudes through his neck. Blood covers him, still dripping from the wound, down his body, to his tennis shoe and onto the floor with a loud…
DRIP!
And there we have it, the source of the sound. But then I notice that Brother Maylock is not looking at the unfortunate parachutist (rich man’s hobby, the piece of crap got what he deserved) but rather something in the man’s hand. Following his line of vision I notice the man has his cell phone in a death grip and while he almost certainly was attempting to call someone to get help, the phone has somehow begun streaming some kind of television. On a black screen with loud music three letters appear in loud colors as an announcer practically screams them…’PCW!’
‘Pack your bags, boys,’ I say, smiling at the messenger chosen for us by Fortune, ‘seems we are about to find a new home!’ And to think, it all started with a noise in my head.
I shook my weary head and opened my sleepy eyes and went to wipe the sleep from them only to remember that my face is a mask that hides another face, a face not my own deep down and far away in a land of slumber and hopefully, death.
For those of you who do not know me, I came to be in the mind of another man, a man who at first turned to me for salvation from the prison wherein he had become trapped and then attempted to turn me off like water from a spigot realizing only too late that madness, once tapped into, flows like a runaway ocean and before he could do more than bemoan his fate, I was here breathing air and announcing my birth to the world in the bodies of others. I have been called many things, but I prefer the name Lunacy.
But that meant very little as I woke to the world looking around and seeing a dead pigeon hanging from the rafters above me. It stared down at me with open eyes as if stunned by its unliving condition and I answered it’s stare as a point of challenge. Never lose a staring contest with the dead, I always say…they play for keeps. Fortunately I wear a mask so I can cheat…although as I have said before, it’s not a mask…it’s my face. Having exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the dead bird, I sat up from the cold stone floor I had chosen to make my bed the night before.
I’m sorry? What was the question? Why did I choose to sleep on a cold stone floor in an abandoned warehouse that featured among other things a dead pigeon as it’s adornments? I will tell you, myself and my associates declared ourselves free of your society a long time ago. In our freedom we have abandoned the things that most conventional folks use to identify themselves to those around them. Cell phones and Facebook accounts and drivers licenses and bank accounts and residences and vehicles. We walk the earth like Kwai Chang Caine, having adventures and free as the…
What? What do you mean you don’t know who Kwai Chang Caine is? Listen here, Sunny Jim, we are going to have real *bleep*ing problems if you don’t catch the easy references like Kwai Chang frolli-fuckin’ Caine! Got that past the censor, didn’t I?
Back to the point, my friends and I we don’t live like you people. We are not part of the hurdy gurdy, hustle and bustle the endless rat race that all of you have embraced. Frankly, we think you are a mass of simpletons, a collection of the most mind-wiped corporate suck ups there has ever been. We, unlike you, will NEVER bow to the will of our corporate masters. We will never turn the wheel by a yoke attached to our souls. We have cut ties to your society and are as free as the birds in the sky…well not the dead one hanging from up above but you get my drift.
DRIP!
There it is again! What is that god-awful noise! What is that thunderous fucking drip? It’s time to rouse the devils with whom I carouse. It is time to shake the chains that house the spirits to which my soul has been shackled. It is time for me to turn to my comrades and see if they can answer the 64,000 Dollar Question, what in GOD’S OWN NAME is making that fucking drip!
I walk into the next room where I find the Jackdaw hanging from the ceiling here he has somehow managed to suspend himself again like the World’s Largest and Oddest vampire bat. I cross over to him and push, his body begins to swing and while he has passed out from the blood rushing to his head the movement makes him wake up and soon he does a flip that allows him to land on the floor in style. He turns his masked visage my way and cocks his head in the manner of a giant raven…or perhaps a jackdaw.
I’m sorry? You say you don’t know what a jackdaw is? READ A BOOK!!!!
I ask him about the drip and he cocks his head to the other side, looks around and shrugs. The Jackdaw is no fool, though he can be thought of as one because he never speaks in the language of humans. Oh come on, it’s an old adage, it’s best to be thought a fool as opposed to opening one’s mouth and removing all doubt. The point is, The Jackdaw does not speak in a language like you or I would. The Jackdaw’s native tongue is violence. His natural emotional state is aggression. He seeks not happiness but dominance. It took long months to kill the man he used to be and create the Jackdaw, but he proudly stands by my side, never speaking, never wavering…I feed him blood and he sets the world on fire. Such is the nature of our relationship. So we turned and…
DRIP!
WHERE IN THE WORLD IS THAT INFERNAL DRIPPING COMING FROM? It is not water, nor is it oil or anything that one might naturally hear in an abandoned warehouse! What is it? Where is it coming from?!?
I turn to the Jackdaw who shoves me, and manages to catch me just off balance enough that I almost fall onto my back before realizing that he shoved me in the direction of a door. My own fault, really, consult someone whose native tongue is violence, they are probably going to be violent with you. I realized that he was pointing me towards the third member of our merry band, the man who played Little John to my Robin Hood and the Jackdaw’s Will Scarlet…Maylock.
Maylock is a former police detective and judging by his ratio of solved cases a darn good one. So good that friends of some guys he put in jail tortured him and murdered his family while he was forced to watch. Afterwards, he was forced off the police force and into counseling and therapy…something that never really worked for him. He felt as if he was merely a ghost of his former self haunting his former home. Years of medical attention could not repair his shattered face and years of mental help could not make him human again. I, on the other hand, I gave him the gift of clarity. A little hallucinogenic gas and the opportunity to get revenge made him realize that he never had a prayer as a police officer. He discovered that the public, by and large, is the creature that causes the problem. You see, it’s you sitting out there in your comfortable chair posting on Facebook, sharing your Tweets…you who are the problem. You who won’t lift a finger to change your world unless someone shows you how! You who sit there and accept your allotment of happiness from your Corporate Masters, stuffing the legal dope down your necks and not even willing to stand up for what you believe in. Once he realized you are the problem…well, getting him to join my happy little Manson-type family, that was as simple as killing a horse of a different color.
Lunacy, for such is the man’s name, holds up a horse’s head, hacked off at the neck. The head changes from white, to roan, to brown, to purple, to green. He drops it out of camera view.
I head towards the door indicated by the Jackdaw who kicks the horse head for good measure. We cross the threshold into the main space of the abandoned warehouse where Maylock towers over the other two men staring up towards the ceiling. The sky lights have broken and hanging through them is a man in a parachute harness, swinging freely. A large piece of glass protrudes through his neck. Blood covers him, still dripping from the wound, down his body, to his tennis shoe and onto the floor with a loud…
DRIP!
And there we have it, the source of the sound. But then I notice that Brother Maylock is not looking at the unfortunate parachutist (rich man’s hobby, the piece of crap got what he deserved) but rather something in the man’s hand. Following his line of vision I notice the man has his cell phone in a death grip and while he almost certainly was attempting to call someone to get help, the phone has somehow begun streaming some kind of television. On a black screen with loud music three letters appear in loud colors as an announcer practically screams them…’PCW!’
‘Pack your bags, boys,’ I say, smiling at the messenger chosen for us by Fortune, ‘seems we are about to find a new home!’ And to think, it all started with a noise in my head.