Post by The Anarchist on Sept 14, 2016 19:33:57 GMT -5
OOC: I’ve been dealing with being sick these last few days, so wanted to get this up while I have a chance to somewhat think. Little by little I’m getting better, but not 100% there yet. Luckily for anyone who reads this, it won’t be the friggen novel that the previous was =P
--------------
“Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves.”
--Matthew 7:15
WILL WORK FOR FOOD
HOMELESS. ANYTHING HELPS.
WILL DO ANYTHING FOR MONEY, PLEASE HELP!
These were just three of the signs hoisted to the heavens for God’s people to read (or outright ignore) as they passed by on a daily basis. Ian Hemlock was reduced to these outward pleads of help, hoping that enough people would acquiesce and be giving in his quest to get back on his feet. He was finding no such luck in the Orange County city of Fullerton, California. Instead he was met with occasional remarks such as:
“GET A JOB, YOU LAZY BUM!”
“I’M NOT PAYING FOR YOUR DRUGS!”
“THIS IS A SCAM, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED.”
That’s not to say that Ian didn’t pocket the random paper and coin from those who felt empathy for his plight. And regardless of the ignorant remarks from those who likely had no idea what it was like to be in his situation, he pressed on. It wasn’t always like this for the thirty-two year old. He was a former bartender, but after his establishment went up in flames under “mysterious” circumstances (he had nothing to do with the blaze, but someone sure did) and unable to secure further financing to retry again (this wasn’t his first business loss), Ian Hemlock found himself destitute on January 31, 2016.
“Thank you and God bless.” he replied to the kindness of a stranger. His blonde hair spiked from his head. His face was grizzled, clothes tattered. He sold all of his possessions shortly after things fell apart and resigned himself to his forthcoming fate. It was either that or lose them in an eviction as he had no one he could turn to. He had lost contact with family in his mid-twenties. Never married nor had children. Friends came and went like patrons, but most were just pretending so they could score free drinks. To his name, he had exactly fifteen dollars and twenty-three cents. Today was February 12.
For shelter, Ian was not picky. A standard cardboard box. Under the overpass. Any church or the park in town would do. Food would consist again of donations, the cheapest of things he could physically buy or things discarded in the trash from restaurants, which became a whole other ordeal as he would be chased off like a stray cat or dog might be. Humanity at it’s finest right there. But on this day, he found himself sitting in a pew in church. Alone and praying to the same Christ that everyone else did who went there.
“Lord. I know I haven’t always made the best choices in life, but right now times are tough and I need your guidance. I don’t know how much longer I can continue on like this. I’m losing my color. My appetite and my will to live. I have nowhere to turn and little income to my name.” his voice was beginning to crack as his once sense of pride was being eliminated in the form of tears. “All things are supposed to be possible through you, right? I’m questioning that.”
“As you should. It shows you still have a brain.”
Those didn’t come from the lips of Ian. A couple in black seated themselves behind him. He was so caught in his prayer that he didn’t notice anyone else had come into the building. Ian looked confused by the remarks of the stranger and his female companion, but her smile warmed his icy cold stare. The author of those words was none other than Jason Willard, who at this time was slowly planning to morph into Seromine upon his return to PCW two months later.
“This is a church” replied Ian, “Why would you come in to one and question the man upstairs?”
This brought a long drawn out sigh from Willard. Destiny giggled at the answer and leaned inward so that Ian could hear what she was about to whisper.
“Why are you? Ask yourself this. Where has he been when you needed him? Can you see him? No. You have to use your imagination, talk to yourself and hope for some sort of divine intervention to step in. You don’t know us, but we donated money in your cup.”
“A hundred dollars to be exact.”
“That’s a large sum of money for a stranger who by his own written admission needs help and is willing to do anything for it.”
Destiny leans back against the pew, placing her gloved hands in her lap. Jason was beginning to show a devilish smile in reply. Ian sat wide-eyed still, confused by the couple and as if he were trying to process this whole encounter, but coming up short in finding that memory.
“The question you must answer, Ian, is just how far are you willing to go to accept it? My wife and I are right here in the flesh. This is the second time we have come to help. You’re free to turn us down and suffer in the sea of your own bad decisions, no doubt made worse by those in the world out there who think they have it better. Or...”
“You can come with us and find salvation from it all. We can get you on the right path and in return, all you have to give us your unwavering loyalty.”
Ian looked at both before turning his back to them. His head bowed down and now the remainder of his prayer would be done in silence. Jason and Destiny glanced at each other and shrugged. Quietly they stood up and began to walk away. They had almost made it out of the place of worship and it’s stained glass wonders before an “Amen” was followed by a loud “WAIT!”
They stopped and turned around as an absinthe green glow momentarily flashed in their pupils. Ian ran up to them and offered a handshake. “Show me the way.”
They had just found their Grizzly. Ian Hemlock would be known as Mercer in the new world.
--------------
Lawrence Verona by his own admission was a “wanderer amongst the stars,” a line he would use as he bounced from town to town up and down The Golden State. A trail of destruction was left as a calling card everywhere he went. Like a chameleon, he would blend in with whatever group happened to be camped out in the same vicinity he was. He started off as a charmer to gain trust and once he knew he had his fangs stuck into that, the poison would be pushed into their veins. The people he prayed on were those on the fringes of society, the “wrong side of the tracks” types. In Verona’s mind he was doing everyone a favor in eliminating the undesirables from their sight. He drove around in a rusty, cherry red ‘57 Chevy to start, but like a snake sheds skin, switched from vehicle to vehicle. Those he brought down by any means it took (usually clean methods like overdoses) would be left inside of the trunk to burn with the rest of the car.
He always made sure to leave it in locations were crime was already high, so that way it would be written off as “just another round of routine paperwork” that all cops surely hated to fill out. Lawrence had recently just turned thirty and up to his new way of life, was actually living the American Dream. But (as he told his wife before leaving her and their two kids), “I need an adrenaline rush and the outside world is my dealer.”
So he turned into what he is now. It is of his belief that he is a moral crusader, rather than psychotic killer. A few beams short of a skyscraper is what Lawrence Verona was. February 27 would be the final time California would see him. Tustin would never know who they were spared from, because while Lawrence staked out his next target, a swirling mass of purple and black opened. Jason and Destiny stepped out and calmly stood by his side.
“Birdwatching?” asked Jason.
Lawrence shot up and looked at the unknown who had at least three inches of height on him. His eyes went wide, his features snarled as Lawrence looked him up and down. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked with brimming anger, no doubt perturbed at his activity being interrupted.
“I’m the man who has come to take you home.”
“Yeah?”
Jason was now nose to nose with him, “Yeah. And unlike those you have put under the daisies, we know all about you.”
“Oh is that a fucking fact? Well let me tell you something, pal.” Lawrence poked Willard’s chest with every word spoke...before it was grabbed and bent back at such an angle that it was ready to break at any second. For her part, Destiny kicked her foot between his uprights and locked her arm around his neck as tight as she possibly could. Ian gasped for air and struggled to fight his way out of the predicament.
“No. Let US tell you something...pal.” Jason let go and instructed Destiny to do the same. “You may be able to pull a magic act with the locals, but we know the truth behind the illusion. Where we come from, we can see the souls of every body they inhabit. You crossed into our former county and saw fit to tarnish it’s name. I like that.”
Lawrence stopped favoring his neck long enough to shoot a look of pure “what the fuck?” at Jason. Destiny moved around to her husband, locking her arms around his chest as she uses his right shoulder as a pillow. “We like that, and have returned to give you a purpose. Give us your loyalty, Lawrence and in return for you buying into what we intend to do, will be afforded the chance to unleash against a society that wronged you. You aren’t an evil. You were pushed towards it.”
Lawrence couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“Like I said. We can see the souls of the every body they inhabit. We wouldn’t be here wasting our time if that weren’t possible. Join us. Or a simple phone call to the proper authorities will see that your next journey will end behind bars!”
It didn’t take any further persuasion for Lawrence. Especially once Destiny misted his eyes with a burning red liquid to knock him out with. Verona was dragged into the awaiting exit portal and like the others, would be dumped in his own room facing a winding checkerboard hall. The name on his door wouldn’t read his human name.
It would read VICE and under it, a picture of Baphomet.
-------------
SEROMINE’S EFFIGY
“Brothers and Sisters, we were failed at Trauma. Let down by the weak creature who calls himself BONES against a trio that shouldn’t have found themselves celebrating victory. I want his head. Let it be known to all who will listen in their world, that a bounty is on the head of BONES. I want him alive if possible, if not WASTED! But I want him. Unless...”
Seromine turned his head away from his followers. They weren’t out in the usual clearing within the groves for this sermon. Instead, candles gave light inside of the barn. The smell of smoke was a fixture in the air, as if the barn itself had been on fire recently. The structure remained in tact. It just looked charred even if it weren’t. Seromine saunters between the light and shadow, kicking at anything in his way. Going in a circle, he walks in-between everyone. His hands slithering across their bodies as he passes by.
“Sister Alexandra punishes him for us.”
“And what if she doesn’t?” asked Mercer.
Seromine turns his head around, “There is no what if. She’s an ally, brother. She lives to be violent and nothing more. No doubt she will be upset by this as well. While on the subject of violence, our next target is a new target. A boy who thinks himself crazy!”
A cackle of laughter bellowed between the planks. The group finding humor in such a thought, even if there was truth behind it. “Tyrone Smith. One of Nathan’s former (un)Stable failures. A man who has been with PCW for a very, very long time. His name has been enshrined into the same Hall of Fame that mine has. He’s very accomplished...and if he believes he has a prayer in our match, is also very foolish. PCW has done a masterful job in protecting our true enemies. Providing sacrifices along the way for us to bury in the ring. They say patience is a virtue, Brothers and Sisters...”
Seromine again walks alongside his followers, this time he finds himself in-between Lylyth and Effix. “I say that our patience is wearing anorexic thin. So, as we must do, The boy of crazy shall be made an example of. He shall be chewed up and spit in the face of those in power. Violence shall beget violence and unfortunately for Tyrone, I don’t care about securing victory. He’s going to be a message sent. PCW would be wise to step aside and cast those who have it coming to them towards us, so that we can make sure that they are put down for good.”
Brenna. Kelli. Nathan.
Brenna. Kelli. Nathan.
BRENNA. KELLI. NATHAN!
This chant would become more and more animated as Seromine leads the others in such. During the spirited exchange, a mock of Tyrone Smith is set ablaze, to which the group dances around to their hearts content, while Seromine goes over the plan with Destiny.
--------------
“Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves.”
--Matthew 7:15
WILL WORK FOR FOOD
HOMELESS. ANYTHING HELPS.
WILL DO ANYTHING FOR MONEY, PLEASE HELP!
These were just three of the signs hoisted to the heavens for God’s people to read (or outright ignore) as they passed by on a daily basis. Ian Hemlock was reduced to these outward pleads of help, hoping that enough people would acquiesce and be giving in his quest to get back on his feet. He was finding no such luck in the Orange County city of Fullerton, California. Instead he was met with occasional remarks such as:
“GET A JOB, YOU LAZY BUM!”
“I’M NOT PAYING FOR YOUR DRUGS!”
“THIS IS A SCAM, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED.”
That’s not to say that Ian didn’t pocket the random paper and coin from those who felt empathy for his plight. And regardless of the ignorant remarks from those who likely had no idea what it was like to be in his situation, he pressed on. It wasn’t always like this for the thirty-two year old. He was a former bartender, but after his establishment went up in flames under “mysterious” circumstances (he had nothing to do with the blaze, but someone sure did) and unable to secure further financing to retry again (this wasn’t his first business loss), Ian Hemlock found himself destitute on January 31, 2016.
“Thank you and God bless.” he replied to the kindness of a stranger. His blonde hair spiked from his head. His face was grizzled, clothes tattered. He sold all of his possessions shortly after things fell apart and resigned himself to his forthcoming fate. It was either that or lose them in an eviction as he had no one he could turn to. He had lost contact with family in his mid-twenties. Never married nor had children. Friends came and went like patrons, but most were just pretending so they could score free drinks. To his name, he had exactly fifteen dollars and twenty-three cents. Today was February 12.
For shelter, Ian was not picky. A standard cardboard box. Under the overpass. Any church or the park in town would do. Food would consist again of donations, the cheapest of things he could physically buy or things discarded in the trash from restaurants, which became a whole other ordeal as he would be chased off like a stray cat or dog might be. Humanity at it’s finest right there. But on this day, he found himself sitting in a pew in church. Alone and praying to the same Christ that everyone else did who went there.
“Lord. I know I haven’t always made the best choices in life, but right now times are tough and I need your guidance. I don’t know how much longer I can continue on like this. I’m losing my color. My appetite and my will to live. I have nowhere to turn and little income to my name.” his voice was beginning to crack as his once sense of pride was being eliminated in the form of tears. “All things are supposed to be possible through you, right? I’m questioning that.”
“As you should. It shows you still have a brain.”
Those didn’t come from the lips of Ian. A couple in black seated themselves behind him. He was so caught in his prayer that he didn’t notice anyone else had come into the building. Ian looked confused by the remarks of the stranger and his female companion, but her smile warmed his icy cold stare. The author of those words was none other than Jason Willard, who at this time was slowly planning to morph into Seromine upon his return to PCW two months later.
“This is a church” replied Ian, “Why would you come in to one and question the man upstairs?”
This brought a long drawn out sigh from Willard. Destiny giggled at the answer and leaned inward so that Ian could hear what she was about to whisper.
“Why are you? Ask yourself this. Where has he been when you needed him? Can you see him? No. You have to use your imagination, talk to yourself and hope for some sort of divine intervention to step in. You don’t know us, but we donated money in your cup.”
“A hundred dollars to be exact.”
“That’s a large sum of money for a stranger who by his own written admission needs help and is willing to do anything for it.”
Destiny leans back against the pew, placing her gloved hands in her lap. Jason was beginning to show a devilish smile in reply. Ian sat wide-eyed still, confused by the couple and as if he were trying to process this whole encounter, but coming up short in finding that memory.
“The question you must answer, Ian, is just how far are you willing to go to accept it? My wife and I are right here in the flesh. This is the second time we have come to help. You’re free to turn us down and suffer in the sea of your own bad decisions, no doubt made worse by those in the world out there who think they have it better. Or...”
“You can come with us and find salvation from it all. We can get you on the right path and in return, all you have to give us your unwavering loyalty.”
Ian looked at both before turning his back to them. His head bowed down and now the remainder of his prayer would be done in silence. Jason and Destiny glanced at each other and shrugged. Quietly they stood up and began to walk away. They had almost made it out of the place of worship and it’s stained glass wonders before an “Amen” was followed by a loud “WAIT!”
They stopped and turned around as an absinthe green glow momentarily flashed in their pupils. Ian ran up to them and offered a handshake. “Show me the way.”
They had just found their Grizzly. Ian Hemlock would be known as Mercer in the new world.
--------------
Lawrence Verona by his own admission was a “wanderer amongst the stars,” a line he would use as he bounced from town to town up and down The Golden State. A trail of destruction was left as a calling card everywhere he went. Like a chameleon, he would blend in with whatever group happened to be camped out in the same vicinity he was. He started off as a charmer to gain trust and once he knew he had his fangs stuck into that, the poison would be pushed into their veins. The people he prayed on were those on the fringes of society, the “wrong side of the tracks” types. In Verona’s mind he was doing everyone a favor in eliminating the undesirables from their sight. He drove around in a rusty, cherry red ‘57 Chevy to start, but like a snake sheds skin, switched from vehicle to vehicle. Those he brought down by any means it took (usually clean methods like overdoses) would be left inside of the trunk to burn with the rest of the car.
He always made sure to leave it in locations were crime was already high, so that way it would be written off as “just another round of routine paperwork” that all cops surely hated to fill out. Lawrence had recently just turned thirty and up to his new way of life, was actually living the American Dream. But (as he told his wife before leaving her and their two kids), “I need an adrenaline rush and the outside world is my dealer.”
So he turned into what he is now. It is of his belief that he is a moral crusader, rather than psychotic killer. A few beams short of a skyscraper is what Lawrence Verona was. February 27 would be the final time California would see him. Tustin would never know who they were spared from, because while Lawrence staked out his next target, a swirling mass of purple and black opened. Jason and Destiny stepped out and calmly stood by his side.
“Birdwatching?” asked Jason.
Lawrence shot up and looked at the unknown who had at least three inches of height on him. His eyes went wide, his features snarled as Lawrence looked him up and down. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked with brimming anger, no doubt perturbed at his activity being interrupted.
“I’m the man who has come to take you home.”
“Yeah?”
Jason was now nose to nose with him, “Yeah. And unlike those you have put under the daisies, we know all about you.”
“Oh is that a fucking fact? Well let me tell you something, pal.” Lawrence poked Willard’s chest with every word spoke...before it was grabbed and bent back at such an angle that it was ready to break at any second. For her part, Destiny kicked her foot between his uprights and locked her arm around his neck as tight as she possibly could. Ian gasped for air and struggled to fight his way out of the predicament.
“No. Let US tell you something...pal.” Jason let go and instructed Destiny to do the same. “You may be able to pull a magic act with the locals, but we know the truth behind the illusion. Where we come from, we can see the souls of every body they inhabit. You crossed into our former county and saw fit to tarnish it’s name. I like that.”
Lawrence stopped favoring his neck long enough to shoot a look of pure “what the fuck?” at Jason. Destiny moved around to her husband, locking her arms around his chest as she uses his right shoulder as a pillow. “We like that, and have returned to give you a purpose. Give us your loyalty, Lawrence and in return for you buying into what we intend to do, will be afforded the chance to unleash against a society that wronged you. You aren’t an evil. You were pushed towards it.”
Lawrence couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“Like I said. We can see the souls of the every body they inhabit. We wouldn’t be here wasting our time if that weren’t possible. Join us. Or a simple phone call to the proper authorities will see that your next journey will end behind bars!”
It didn’t take any further persuasion for Lawrence. Especially once Destiny misted his eyes with a burning red liquid to knock him out with. Verona was dragged into the awaiting exit portal and like the others, would be dumped in his own room facing a winding checkerboard hall. The name on his door wouldn’t read his human name.
It would read VICE and under it, a picture of Baphomet.
-------------
SEROMINE’S EFFIGY
“Brothers and Sisters, we were failed at Trauma. Let down by the weak creature who calls himself BONES against a trio that shouldn’t have found themselves celebrating victory. I want his head. Let it be known to all who will listen in their world, that a bounty is on the head of BONES. I want him alive if possible, if not WASTED! But I want him. Unless...”
Seromine turned his head away from his followers. They weren’t out in the usual clearing within the groves for this sermon. Instead, candles gave light inside of the barn. The smell of smoke was a fixture in the air, as if the barn itself had been on fire recently. The structure remained in tact. It just looked charred even if it weren’t. Seromine saunters between the light and shadow, kicking at anything in his way. Going in a circle, he walks in-between everyone. His hands slithering across their bodies as he passes by.
“Sister Alexandra punishes him for us.”
“And what if she doesn’t?” asked Mercer.
Seromine turns his head around, “There is no what if. She’s an ally, brother. She lives to be violent and nothing more. No doubt she will be upset by this as well. While on the subject of violence, our next target is a new target. A boy who thinks himself crazy!”
A cackle of laughter bellowed between the planks. The group finding humor in such a thought, even if there was truth behind it. “Tyrone Smith. One of Nathan’s former (un)Stable failures. A man who has been with PCW for a very, very long time. His name has been enshrined into the same Hall of Fame that mine has. He’s very accomplished...and if he believes he has a prayer in our match, is also very foolish. PCW has done a masterful job in protecting our true enemies. Providing sacrifices along the way for us to bury in the ring. They say patience is a virtue, Brothers and Sisters...”
Seromine again walks alongside his followers, this time he finds himself in-between Lylyth and Effix. “I say that our patience is wearing anorexic thin. So, as we must do, The boy of crazy shall be made an example of. He shall be chewed up and spit in the face of those in power. Violence shall beget violence and unfortunately for Tyrone, I don’t care about securing victory. He’s going to be a message sent. PCW would be wise to step aside and cast those who have it coming to them towards us, so that we can make sure that they are put down for good.”
Brenna. Kelli. Nathan.
Brenna. Kelli. Nathan.
BRENNA. KELLI. NATHAN!
This chant would become more and more animated as Seromine leads the others in such. During the spirited exchange, a mock of Tyrone Smith is set ablaze, to which the group dances around to their hearts content, while Seromine goes over the plan with Destiny.