Monday, November 1, 2010


John could feel it, well before he got to his destination. It pulsed like a becon that causes hair to stand on end and balls to retreat to wherever the hell it is they go when they retract into your body like strange little turtles. The air itself seemed to be rich with the smell of blood, sweat, tears, and lamentations of those who survived the battle but still needed to be cut down by the death squads who hadn’t finished sweeping the area. It is the smell of power, stronger than any narcotic, and better than any 257 orgasams which have been crystallized, pulverized, then snorted off of the ass of some hooker who is well on your way to giving you orgasm 258. The senses blots out the moon, dims the street lamps and gives the alleyway which is normally filled with the smell of urine, the blood in the urine, cheap beer and vomit an almost holy feeling. This land of pain and suffering has become transfixed into a place of power, a place where very soon pain will become king, a place where John is needed.
The roads in this part of the city are horrible, and while he can clearly feel where he needs to go, he soon realizes there is no clear path and that he will have to travel on foot if he is going to make it. Stepping out of his impeccable black Mercedes he leaves it behind unlocked, confident in the fact that no one would dare touch it, that his car, much like the ritual being preformed near by is a sacred thing that couldn’t possibly be understood without going a little mad first. Striding off into the alley he moves quickly, but never at a run. People like John don’t run, they never run. Running is what other people do for you, running is what happens when you don’t plan properly, running is only necessary when it has all fallen apart and it is your last resort, and while things at the moment are unusually bad, there is no reason to run. Not yet.
The area itself is bad. When people talk about “the wrong side of town” this is not the place they are talking about. The place they are talking about is a few blocks over. If those people knew this place excisted they would probably die. The buldings were mostly abandoned, now however, the have been converted into crack dens or worse. This is the place where people go when they have no where else to live, and options left. Human bodies line the streets, some by choice, others are those who just collapsed there under the weight of whatever chemical loadstones they have burdened their bodies with. None of the drains in the area seem to work right as a result there is at least a half inch of “water” sloshing over John combat boots. While he is fully aware that the chemical composition currently seeping into his socks is far more diverse than a combination of two parts hydrogen to one oxygen he chooses to believe that it is only water. The know the truth is go a little mad. Three piece suit and combat boots, the combination may look odd, but it will save him from having to burn the suit, hopefully, then as he looked over at the slime covered walls he acquiesced himself to the fact that his cloths are a lost cause.
Trudging down one alleyway, and through another he briefly relects on the fact that areas of power didn’t excist in this city before they showed up. Now that they all are here there are all sorts of hidden nooks and crannies where they can squeeze through and excercize control over the world around them. While striding through the muck he sees a man in front of him stumbling around, without thinking John shoves him out of the way, no bothering to slow his pace. He had somewhere to be after all. Continueing on he could hear the man stumble and fall, he could hear the splash, and he knew deep down within the depths of his heart that the water was deeper than half an inch. Turning quickly, he saw his fears realized. The man so out of it had landed face down and hadn’t moved. Sighning angerly John went back and flipped the man over. Moving on he couldn’t decide if he was doing him a favor or not but he pushed that thought out of his head. Thoughts like that were trouble. If you doubt why you should save one, then why should you save any of them. The nieghbors with their little cunt kids could use a trip to the bottom of this alley, and that asshole who always honks his horn instead of getting out of the car and just walking up to the door, or the UPS guy who refuses to leave the fucking package at the god damned door. NO, it is better to just press on ahead. There is a ritual to break up and if he doesn’t get there soon things will become unsually ugly. That isn’t much of a concern though John is close by.
Off down a side alley he can see where his quarry pushed through the ruined remains of a chain link fence to get to his chosen spot, a building that looks completely like every other building in the god damned area. As John stepped inside he saw him. Crawling around on the floor slick with flith, muttering to himself prayers to a thrice damned god, he frantically draws an elaborate series of runes and sigiles using the body of a snake who’s head has been removed, most likely bitten off in a fit of religious ecstasy. In the far corner of the room two women, no girls really, huddled in the corrner terrified, their uncomprehending eyes glazed overing in fear, urine freely flowing from between their legs. John couldn’t tell if they were to be part of the ritual or they just happened on him in the middle of, but he could see that whatever was left of their minds was breaking from the strain. He didn’t blame them, there are certain things people are just no meant to see and hear. Things that are better off lost from time, things that should of never of been recovered or brought back to this city. None of this is supposed to be happening. John isn’t supposed to be here. He is supposed to be at home, in a comfortable sweater, reading a book, and sipping on hot cocoa with little marshmellow in it. This isn’t supposed to be real and for just one moment he wished he could have the old days back again. This short of shit wouldn’t fly in the old days, no sir. This would be “Unacceptable”. Still it is 2010, the year the future starts and the year that everyone is allowed to get on with their lives, and most definatly the year where John’s friends stop coming to one of the worst slums in the nation to bite the heads of snakes so he can cast the spell that will bring forth the great and powerful snake god who will crush the universe in its coils and swallow everything whole. In a weird sort of way John can’t help but to find himself impressed. Nothing he’s ever done involved the universe, destruction or otherwise. He also doesn’t look like someone who would do this. His comb over has fallen to one side, leaving his bald head, glistening with sweat, to shine onto the moonlight like a beacon that his better angels choose to ignore in lieu of watching another rerun of Friends. He paunch, which rides the line between being pleasantly plump, and fat, hangs down from him as he contines to draw frantically. He looks like the sort of man you see when you go to visit acounting because you forgot to list all of your travel expenses, or maybe a professor of Buisness Management. He doesn’t look like the sort of man who can shake the world, and yet there he is crawling around on the floor naked driving two women insane with just his words, and possibly the cellulite on his ass. The haunted realization that this strange little man actually takes the time to shave his genitalia is what snaps John back into the moment. That realization will come up at the worst moments he just knows it, and this little farce has gone on long enough.
Thoughts snapping back into crystal clarity he realizes he underestimated the snake man’s strength and first with the mental drift and then with the incredible array of protective wards he managed to throw around the place before starting. He could see snakes coiled in the darkened corrners where the light did not reach, the places where John fervently wished his friends naked body would go so he would no longer have to look at it. Growling, he realizes that he may have to resort to “measures” to bring this to a close. Muttering a quick prayer John steps further into the room. That’s when the impossible starts. Snakes do not lunge through the air. Specifically, snakes do not go from a coiled to position to lunging through the air neck level. Their poison does not cause concrete to sizzle, and there is no god, snake or otherwise. And yet as he steps forward one snake flies through the air. Faster than an eye can follow, and certainly faster than a speeding snake, John’s right hand springs out and catches the snake by the head, keeping his thumb under its throat, he spins around simultaneously snapping its neck and using the snakes mouth to catch the other snake that is sprung from the other side. Coming back to his original position he tosses the tangled mass to the ground, and moves past it as the two corpses start to smoke. The next row of sigils looked much harder to by pass. These were no cheap parlor tricks that would cause snakes to do impossible things. This would require time to move through. If a normal person were to look at these things their minds would be blasted out of their skulls, turning them in to ever devoted thralls to the snake god, who has some ridiculously long unpronounceable name. If that somehow didn’t work there were a series of runes that would cause flesh to melt, and souls to be shredded. The whole place is starting to smell of jungle, and the ritual prayer has begun to pick up pace, with more than one meaningful gesture made twords the two girls in the corrner, two girls who are starting to be encroached upon by more snakes.
There are rules to be followed, many many rules. Rules that John himself made. Rules that causes all of the to take massive risks without a whole lot of reward. Rules that he chooses to live by, and is willing to die by. However, undoing the sigils within those rules will take time, those girls will be worse than dead, and honestly John himself is unsure that even he would be able to break them, “God damn you Winston” he mutters to himself. Winston. Even the name is something non descript it belongs to a boring man who needs to be at home in front of his tv dinner next to some woman who once loved him but now doesn’t really like him very much which children upstairs who resent him. Not on the floor naked with snakes forcing John to break the rules. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out his knife. It is old. Old like the ritual being preformed now. On the back of his left hand he makes a tiny cut, no more than a scratch really, he’s gotten worse shaving. The amount isn’t important, but the blood is. It is amazing how long it took him to disover that. He then takes a ring out of his pocket wipes it across the scratch and puts it back along with the knife. Then he claps them together, rubs them once, and in one fluid motion he slaps the floor. The only thing is his pockters are two knives, that ring, car keys, and a bill fold. He now wishes he brought hand sanitizer. There is a loud low “wumph” sound as the power from all the sigils suddenly disapaits, leaving John free to walk forwards, grab Winston by the ear, and slap him across the face. Rage fills his eyes, and he begins another chant, a different one, one that is not to be completed, thanks to the second slap. Then and there the sanity is restored, the light comes back on, and the crawling realization of what he’s done becomes etched across Winston’s face which grows pale, and once again his eyes become that of a man who knows shame. His knees give out and he sags against, John, and for a whole minute they stand there in the moonlight, like two dancers still around at last call in the back room at a leather bar, the quiet sobbing of the two girls providing the ambient music. Then Winston’s legs started to support him again and once he is able to stand under his own power he looks around with room with wonderment, “It certainly is amazing how far things can go isn’t it?” His voice has made the return to the shallow reedy thing that mumbles over most words causing most conversations with him to become a game of “fill in the blanks”. Stumbling a little bit he walks over to one of the dark corrners, whispering something inaudible. John hears a snake hiss quietly and slither off, though he sees none if it but miraculously Winston returns with his clothing. Sheepishly he dresses himself, putting his brown tweed suit back on, augmented by a pair of kackies, and some cheap shoes that try very hard to look expensive. The whole outfit gives him the remarkably accurate air of “down on his luck” used car salesmen. As they turn to leave Winston stops, “Erm John what about the women, we shouldn’t just leave them here”.
John paused and didn’t turn around right away. He didn’t want Winston to see that his face had blanched and that his composure which is at all times impeccable had slipped. Loosing composure is like running. It just doesn’t happen. Striding over to the two women they look up at him, eyes doe like, terror filled, in pain, “It would be best to kill him” he thinks to himself as he looks over at their bodies, riddled with tract marks, skin yellowed, their hair falling out. Ordinarily, he would be all business, can’t leave witnesses, people can not see what it is they do, not because of any great secret but because it changes you. It is like loosing your virginity, there is no going home once it happens. These girls though, no one would believe them, no one would help them, and even if they cleaned up their lives tomarrow they would be dead within ten years. The body can only take so much abuse. Reaching into his pocket the girls recoil and start to wimper, “They expect the knife” he thinks and just for a moment he fingers the handle and wishes upon a star. Then he grabs the billfold, removing $500 he looks down at them and says, “ Now look ordinarily I don’t really condone this sort of thing. But after what you’ve seen tonight I think you need it. Take the money and go live out the rest of your lives in peace”. Neither of them move, both of them still rooted to the spot. Shrugging John turns, collects Winston with a nod of his head, and the two of them walk out into the alley.

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