Post by Sadistic on Oct 1, 2015 22:35:19 GMT -5
A not-too-distant place in the not-too-distant past.
Her lifeless body fell to the floorboards with a thud, the eyes pried open in pure horror. Her soft brown pupils conveyed many feelings: Shock. Horror. Fear. Betrayal. A well-worn pair of brown leather boots, cut in the European style and about a century out of place, stepped over the fresh corpse without a care in the world. Grabbing his heavy overcoat, the pale, gaunt monster walked out of the apartment without so much as a glance over his shoulder.
Delicious, she was. A bit on the sweet side, but tasty all the same.
Tall for a man and almost sickly in appearance, he moved with a fluid, powerful stride. An unspoken confidence. And the way he looked at passersby on the street...
I could have any of you. At my leisure. Maybe in an alley. Maybe behind that dumpster. Hell, I could do it right here in the middle of the street. Right here, right now, and the rest of you would scatter like cockroaches.
Each one of them...he looked them right dead in the eye. Sometimes he'd smile. Sometimes it would be a glare. Unsettling in appearance he certainly was, and each pair of eyes would shy away from his mesmerizing gaze.
'Did I forget to turn off the coffee pot?'
'...and I'll teach her a lesson good an' plenty when I...'
'...a better defense an' the Cardinals'll be jus' fine.'
His yellowish eyes, slightly off-kilter behind porcelain, sunken in cheeks, darted from one face to the next. Angular facial expressions ebbed and flowed with each passing frown, grin, or scowl. It was almost as if he could read their thoughts.
Because he could.
* * *
The pagan emperor's campaign against the Christians had been bloody and brutal. Tales of his merciless, barbaric treatment of these new superstition followers had traveled far and wide. Far enough and wide enough to draw the scrutiny of a certain band of moderators.
“Venerable Lord Nero has really outdone himself,” observed the taller, more wiry of the two. His unruly crimson mane billowed against a Coliseum-sized breeze befitting the heart of the Roman Empire.
The last vestige of sunlight was quickly bowing behind the mighty Roman skyline and time was of the essence. Poking a stick between the iron cage bars to prod the charred body, the shorter, broader of the two men masked his nose with the collar of his tunic. Burned human remains wasn't a stench one grew accustomed to. Still, the raven-haired agent worked his stick and found what he was looking for. “Crucifix,” was all he could muster.
Crucifix, indeed. A solid cross trinket hung from a thoroughly charred neck. And from the three bodies prior. All of them trapped in iron cages and burned alive. “Rumors give way to truth,” confirmed the sinewy man with the cardinal beard.
The truth of the matter was that Nero had been a bad, bad man. His imperial persecution of the Christians had included tortures and murders most heinous. The Emperor's favorite technique included an evening of strumming his beloved lyre beneath the firelight of caged, oil-dipped, burning, screaming Christians. It was a true symphony of destruction. And if the other rumor was true, the Black Hand would be in for a very long night. Probably several.
Inhaling deeply, the one with the charcoal beard shot a worried glance at his companion. A quick nod confirmed the worst. The burning stink emanating from inside the palace walls was growing thicker by the second. The tyrant had launched his grand scheme. Smoke drifted up above the palace walls. It was all going just as the bastard had orchestrated. Nero would clear enough land to build his precious Golden House and the Christians would play the role of scapegoat. Even the Order wouldn't let this stand.
As Rome was consumed in flames, Nero watched it burn from the Tower of Maecenas with lyre in hand. His lovely melodies served as a stark juxtaposition to the cries and screams of fleeing, terrified women and children. As the law of attraction would dictate, the bearded brothers were drawn to the strumming of his lyre like moths to a flame. They walked with purpose.
A sadistic grin split his black beard as he turned to his brother. “Nero shall fiddle no more.”
* * *
'...critter in them there bushes...'
'Beer. Bourbon. Beer. Beer.'
'...an' then I'm gonna git 'im after he gits off work.'
Of all the people I've encountered on this continent, these backwoods hillbillies take the cake. And these ones in particular...unbelievable. They are a certain sort of stupid. An infuriating kind of ignorant.
At first, he felt bad for his victims. Oh, how they'd feared him...and he'd hated it. Of course, it became much easier to cope with his own...condition...once he'd started viewing them as prey instead of innocent victims. And it became A LOT easier once he began enjoying it.
'...heza dam mine dole each...'
'...werd is thar's uh majishun in town...'
'...wizard walkin' 'round here.'
Due to his feeding habits...and his insatiable appetite...he was forced to relocate every so often, lest he drum up suspicion. Louisville had been a fertile, giving feeding ground, but when enough dead bodies started to surface with no apparent cause of death...
'Startin' ta git darker earlier.'
'...mine dole each...'
'Sing at the table, whistle in bed, Phinehas will come and cut off your head.'
Regardless of the location, he couldn't escape their incessant thoughts. This town, though. The gaunt man had been to some backwards villages in his two centuries of existence, but the ignorant thoughts of these ignorant people were really beginning to wear on him. Typically, he'd be able to stretch three or four meals out of a town this size before moving on. For these fools with their petty, self-centered thoughts and their trivial little lives, he might make it a baker's dozen.
Unbelievable. A shoddy village full of bumpkins built around an oak tree.
'Sour milk is a real bugaboo of mine. Or is that a bugabee?'
'...fill the ice. Wipe the counters. Wash the...'
'...mine dole each goner forsher...'
The thick drawl and mindless ramblings had the unearthly drifter on the verge of feeding right there in front of the wax museum. He was a slave to his urges, but he knew better than to drop one of them in broad daylight. Although his appetite was calling...
'...kick the dog...'
Perfect! Grabbing the dog kicker by the wrist, he yanked the old man back behind the museum. Before the man could cry out in protest, the thin man's bony hands were clamped onto his head. The old codger's back arched involuntarily as the gangly attacker let out a satisfied groan. Having sucked out every last bit of the old timer's brain power, he lets him fall unceremoniously to the dirt. Eyes wide open. Not a mark on him. Brain sucked dry. Dead as a doornail.
Like eating hot garbage, but a meal's a meal.
'...mine dole each...'
These damn bumpkins and their damn incoherent thoughts! The vampire quickly fled into the woods to escape the mind-numbing ramblings so that he might get some peace and quiet. But he'd be back to feed again. Soon. And his next feast would be a grand one.
A pair of boots stopped at the old man's body. A pair of anti-freeze green eyes followed the trail into the woods left by the soul sucker.
* * *
The wound was healing slowly, but Billy Sadistic was gradually regaining his strength. Eira had nearly finished the job inside that forsaken cathedral. Going a round inside of a steel cage with Gem hadn't helped matters. And now the Phenom would have to pull a
“I caught your new wax sculpture today,” noted Phinehas as he passed his older brother on the couch, still nursing his impalement wounds. It had been a miracle that he'd survived against Gem in that steel cage, but now he had a brand new sculpture to show for it. “Excellent attention to detail. Lantlas would be proud.”
A crooked grin found its way onto William's face...the first one in weeks. “Just like Roth, and Murdoc, and Whitey...Gem won't be back. I'm cursed. A plague. Whether I like it or not, they all fall down.”
“Let's hope it carries over to the wizard,” wished Grimm in reference to Saniti. He couldn't even recall how long they'd been fighting. “If...you think you'll be up for it?”
Grimm's pale blue eyes found William's wound. “I took out Eira. I took out Gem. I'll be ready for Saniti. I'll be ready for whoever Foley throws at us.”
“I know.” Grimm and his whistling and his masks had already done enough to even the odds for his injured brother. All according to the Plan, of course.
Much like the illustrious Frank Foley had done with Whitey Ford, he was doing his best to get the PCW World Championship off of “The Phenom” Billy Sadistic. It was one brutal affair after another. The one common bond between Eira, Gem, and Nathan Saniti? They didn't just want to defeat Sadistic and take his title. No, no, no. They wanted to destroy him. Break him into pieces. Burn his bones and scatter the ashes. But Sadistic had the devil's own luck, and by hook or by crook, he'd found a way to keep his gnarled fingers wrapped around the golden strap adorned by his own black handprint. He wasn't a cheater by any stretch, but he definitely fought with a certain zest. Eira had impaled him and nearly finished him in the cathedral and Gem had smashed him into mush inside the steel cage, but he'd most certainly meet Nathan Saniti eye-to-eye at Deadly Intentions. Even if it meant crawling on hand and knee.
“Nathan Saniti,” spat Sadistic. The name burned his tongue like a Staronova drop of acid. “Magician. Wizard. Mind Le...”
“You remember how we'll have to deal with him?” Grimm cut his brother short.
The morbid excitement caused William's pupils to dilate.
* * *
The spindly man had finally found what he was looking for: Peace and quiet. A tranquil meadow. Stretched out beneath the drooping branches of a giant blue ash, he laced bony fingers behind his head for some rest and relaxation. The soothing flow of a nearby river was beginning to weigh on his ivory lids. The sun had all but disappeared beyond the horizon.
A quick nap. Then a feast. A meal like I've never treated myself. Seven full courses. I'll feed until I swell. For starters, one of those filthy little grade schoolers. Maybe one of those buxom bar wenches for dessert. By the time they realize what's happened, I'll be miles down the river.
It wasn't long before the drifter had entered the land of dreams. His breathing grew deep and steady. Those yellowish eyes twitched beneath heavy lids. His dreams were...quite vivid. Torrid, even. There was something about these backwoods idiots that unnerved him. They were just a bit...off. Even for nincompoops.
'Mine Dole Each.'
He'd heard that in town. A few times. Sure, there were miners, but most of the bumpkins were farmers or drunkards. Was it the drawl? Was it...?
“Mine Dole Each.”
Minedleach.
Mind Leech!
His eyes snapped open in horror! Those words weren't part of a dream or a thought. But before he could react, a powerful hand pressed his head against the earth. With the other hand, the black-bearded Horror drove a stake through his heart. Impaling him. And before the sycophant had time to consider the possibility that there had been others like him, the crimson-topped Fiend of the Furrows ended his existence with one fell swoop of his Reaper's scythe. The angular expression on the angular face conveyed many feelings: Shock. Horror. Fear. Betrayal.
* * *
They'd been called many things over the centuries by those that were aware of their existence. Wizard. Mind leech. Magician. But they all shared one common denominator: They couldn't help but prey upon the weak-minded. Call them a delicacy, but their brains were the sweetest of all. Of course, the mind leeches that fed upon their victims all in one sitting...well, they aroused much suspicion and were usually hunted down and eliminated. The ones that existed from one century to the next adapted their feeding habits. These survivors discovered that they could feed on one host over a prolonged period of time, slowly sucking the life out of them. Weeks. Months. In some cases, years. Slowly weakening them. Slowly making them more and more dependent upon the mind leech. These victims were usually confused individuals. Drug addicts. Women with daddy issues. People that simply wanted to feel needed, desired, or accepted.
“Saniti is slowly draining the life from Kelli,” grumbled the Phenom.
“So?” came Grimm's sharp reply as he arched an eyebrow. “Why do you care?”
“He's using her. He's distracting her and entertaining her with parlor tricks and shiny objects while he sucks her dry. He's manipulating the masses - our people! - into thinking he's some sort of hero, and Kelli along with them!” William's fists were clenched white knuckle tight.
“Again,” Grimm calmly responded, “why do you care?”
“What do you want me to say, Phin?” William, clearly flustered, struggled up off the couch to face his brother. “That she's a good person? That I like her? That she doesn't deserve this? We've done a lot of bad things to a lot of good people over the years and you know that just like you, I'm one of the most heartless bastard's this world's ever known, but if you think this has to do with some sort of candy crush on that annoying little scamp, you're out of your mind! The Black Hand needs her. I know it, and you know it.”
Satisfied, Grimm folded his arms across his chest.
“Letting Kelli see the true Nathan Saniti will drive her away from him. It'll send him further down the rabbit hole and allow the masses to see him for what he really is,” foretold Sadistic. “But first...”
Grimm nodded knowingly. For Saniti's part, he would love nothing more than to watch the Pure Class Empire burn down around him.
“Saniti shall fiddle no more.”
NEX ADDO
