||[Aug. 12th, 2011|07:25 pm]
Is horror and is gory..OO;;;
||[Jul. 29th, 2011|01:03 pm]
Will be horror. ^^ It won't be gory, though, ironically. ^^
||[Jul. 28th, 2008|08:58 am]
Atop the night-bathed hill an elegant dark figure stood. Immersed in wispy clouds of darkness, surrounded by all of the night creatures who were his mere slaves, the king of night delicately licked a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and off from his finely-shaped fingers. The wolves howled in a frightful chorus, praising their indomitable master, this paragon of perfection that no lowly animal could ever hope to achieve. It didn't matter that their master was barely a baby, that he would never have the obedience of the wolves or bats if not for the hand, unseen, blinding them with a veil of magic.|
Yes, this vampire was all bells and whistles.
But like those who believe they have power, he commanded his undead slaves to rise up and to kill, to feed, to eat the meat of their former fellow humans and to make more of these killing, feeding machines.
Among the now-dead were Diane Cherry, the sweet kindergarten teacher, Officer Brickwood, the dutiful but friendly cop working to keep the city safe, Jerry Singleton, the singing comedian that did Happy Hours every Saturday, and Mr. Frank.
Mr. Frank woke up as he had normally done for the past thirty-odd years. He yawned to get the sleep out but was horrified to find out that he sounded like a tape slowed down so it almost sounded
|Wow, I'm here. OO
||[Dec. 12th, 2007|11:30 am]
I'm on the internet! I don't believe it. No good ideas, no inspiration, absolutely nothing...cravings...no motivation to do anything creative.|
|Maybe only partly..OO
||[Dec. 19th, 2006|01:43 pm]
Another wave sent he and the scrap of wood hurtling towards bubbling abyss. The strip of moldy beach grew further away. The Green One appeared in a rowboat with a metal oar. Red thrashed to steer himself towards the beach, the ocean fought him at every opportunity. He latched onto the Green One's boat and pulled himself on it. It tipped at a dangerous angle, gulping down the salt water. Nanaki eyed his dubious rescuer with one wary eye. |
"What are you doing here? I doubt you're here to fish." Nanaki bared his teeth in a controlled snarl. The Green One did not answer, but rowed the boat to shore. The moment he set foot on the sand the gray-brown grains melted into the water and the Green One tumbled into oblivion. Nanaki clamped onto a shell as the sand collapsed from beneath him. A lethal wind raged about him: why he wasn't shredded into pieces it wasn't exactly clear. The Green One fell upwards and came to a landing on the very same shell. Nanaki's eyes glowed and he growled with the shell wedged between his incisors. The soles of the Green One's shoes reeked of Mako. The Green One looked down and lifted an eyebrow as if he had just noticed Nanaki.
"Ah...the ferocious specimen. Welcome to the very center of dimensional rift 04207."
Ground once again appeared below Nanaki and he let go of the shell, that looked none the worse laden in drool and red fur.
|Huh? I'm alive? Impossible!!
||[Dec. 19th, 2006|01:28 pm]
Red rose on the tumbling waves that carried him to destinations unknown. Water doused his head and made him wet and cold. His nose sweated. He clung with a veiled anxiety to the fallen tree. The shore danced within his line of vision, the shells on the beach smelled of sand that slipped out of his grasp. He waited for the current to turn in his favor.|
|What's the title?
||[Jul. 20th, 2006|01:01 pm]
A lone Mushroom stood on the tile, slick from the sweat that had dripped down his body, collecting in grimy pools underneath his feet. The stone walls, his diabolical torturer, everything in front of him swam in blurred masses of color, and he stumbled on withering feet, dropping in a dead faint in his own sweat and tears in a writhing heap. |
Red dripped from the green devil’s hammer.
“TIME’S UP! YOU LOSE!!” the creature raucously laughed, and sank his teeth into a wad of fruit. He set down his fruit-stained hammer, disappered and then re-appeared in front of the Mushroom, picked him up by the cap and unceremoniously tossed him out the red door. Having disposed of the limp—(and apparently brainless)—fungus, he climbed atop his stone platform and stared at his poor yellow tile that didn’t even get up off the ground.
The yellow tile stared blankly at the distressed black eyes.
“They just don't grow 'em like tbey used to," cried the green reptile into a handkerchief of obnoxiously similiar hue. He, his hammer, and his handkerchief looked almost out of place amongst the gray of the stone walls. His hulking shadow turned the stone black as he paced--a measly remedy, really--maybe he could clear his brain under the helmet that was the standard armor for Hammer Brothers.
But in his brain there were nothing but Mushrooms! And after a while they started to look all the same..and it blended into one big Mushroom in his green head!
He opened the book of his brain and looked up his current cadre of trivia questions.
It just occured to him that when getting into this Trivia Mindset (Patent pending) his brain expanded from the size of a Hammer Brother to one of a Nimbus person and his vocabulary and eloquence increased a thousand fold!
But what would you expect from the genius Quiz Master, Dr. Topper?
But as you saw earlier, a tragedy befell Dr. Topper. No one had won his Trivia game in thirty years!
"None of 'em can get past the first room!" he lamented. "They're hopeless! They're idiots! I lowered the game's difficulty level by 200--" He winced at the massive loss of intellectual quality his once-renowned trivia game sustained, at the agonizing ache in his gut. "Now I ask 'em "What is Frogfucius", and "What does Mushroom Boy like to eat"---" He dragged himself desperately through the rusty red door that hadn't been opened in years. "And they STILL get it wrong!" In an attempt to comfort himself he closed his eyes and remembered the good old days. "How many statues are in Nimbus Land---How many Fake Mushrooms form Yaridovich--Who is Culex?" He stumbled into the next room and with deep sorrow embraced the cobweb-entangled barrels. "My precious barrels--no one has counted you in years...the triathalon contestants all tried to kill me when I lied to them about keeping them in this room for thirty years...(It told them it was three minutes)..not to mention my Rock Candy's expired...and the balls!" His eyes grew misty with nostalgia. "They're RUSTING..RUSTING!!!" His pacing grew more frantic. He grabbed the sides of his head and started convulsing. "I've spent countless days arranging and re-arranging these simple--EASY puzzles for the public to enjoy---Now---Mustache.." His eyes grew misty once more. "He stank of mushrooms and pasta. I still wonder why he hasn't shaved off that eyesore of a mustache. He's a--" He made a repulsed noise. "--human." But--" He threw open with difficulty the even-more rusted doors of the last chamber. "He found my puzzles to be a cakewalk! And he took all my Rock Candy!" He beamed with pride at the thrill of that human's wit matched against his--but then the smile fell when he realized that was in the distant past.
They're stupid! They're mindless!
Dr. Topper's black eyes widened immensely as he was hit with a burst of precise calculated inspiration.
"They don't get out that much..But if I started askin' them about local affairs----" His twisted mouth began to curl into a semi-evil grin. He rubbed his claws together in the way that a figure of pure unmitigated evil would, and his cackling reverberated through the stone chamber while a menacing red light swallowed---
Well, that's what he WOULD have done if the place had windows.
Instead he packed up his hammer and the book in his brain, and vanished.
Ah, the Mushroom Kingdom. A tranquil domain in which all manner of Mushrooms found peace and prosperity--(actually it was only the ones with the spots on their caps--all the striped ones settled in Rose Town)
The Mushroom kids romped and frolicked in front of the house at the edge of town, in the long grasses that waved lazily in the gentle wind. The sounds of their gleeful laughter caused the whole world to laugh with them. A Goomba that doubled as a ball sailed in an arc which momentarily eclipsed the sun before falling into the hands of a carefree, kid, who tossed it to another one closer to the ominous-looking bushes. The kid missed it, and the Goomba rolled into the bushes. The kid ran to fetch the brown, fanged ball, when he stopped dead in his tracks. He was frozen, paralyzed in absolute terror.
"Now's my chance to get away---Sir! I didn't see you there, Sir!"
The tiny almost-Mushroom saluted and became instantly non-ball-like. "I apologize for my negligence, Sir!"
The reptile didn't even hear the Goomba, consumed with the intent of subdueing his helpless prey.
Now that we are describing the horror of the Mushroom kids, who were now all cowering and/or screaming in fright, we might as well describe the root of their fear.
The reptile was at least three times as big as them, with a menacing beak, a helmet and a hammer in his heavy fist--armed to the teeth--a tail that whipped dangerously close to them, a shell that could crush ten grown Mushrooms, and a terrible gleam in his soulless narrowed eyes.
And like a nightmare, the green beast was gone.
The Mushroom kids fled in a a panic, screaming at the top of their lungs "Monster, monster!!!" Adult Mushrooms started pouring into the square from their homes, and the town was in an uproar. By now the ball Goomba had scurried into the bushes and from there to Vista Hill. How lucky he was that Dr. Topper himself came to save him from those awful kids!
The interrupted game was the least of the kids' worries.
"What exactly did you see?"
"A m-m-monster--i-it w-was s-seven f-f-feet tall!!" cried a Mushroom into his mother's face, and the mother held her child tightly, her eyes darting nervously. The old shopkeeper, or more commonly known as the Anal Shopkeeper, stood on the most elevated spot in town and started yelling for quiet.
"Now, listen here! I know what you're all going to say. Where's Mario? Mario will save us! But Mario had some urgent business in Italy or someplace like that, and until he comes back we're on our own." He pulled out something from inside his pocket, black and round. "After he left I took the liberty of talking with the Chancellor. The Chancellor agreed to have an army formed, which at this moment is massed on the border of our Kingdom: We'll wipe out that monster for good!"
A tremendous cheer thundered as loud as the tiny voices of the Mushrooms could manage.
The ranks of the Mushrooms waited at the border, ready to light their Bob-ombs. The Chancellor was nowhere to be seen, because he had locked himself in the castle. Thus the grand army was more like an angry mob. So the grand army/angry mob stood at the ready, while the harsh sun beat upon their spotted caps.
One of them was starting to shrivel from lack of shade when their mortal enemy appeared, ironically sauntering out of the grocery store. He had a Non-Living Mushroom (Those were perfectly fine to eat, even by Mushrooms!) in his mouth and was chewing away. All of a sudden all fourteen of the Mushrooms including the Anal Shopkeeper aimed their lighted Bob-ombs at the monster.
"A little touchy, aren't we?" snickered the green Hammer Brother. He popped the rest of the mushroom in his mouth, licked his face, and raised his hammer. The Mushrooms raised their Bob-ombs, that had a very long fuse.
The enemy struck hard and fast and with deadly precision.
"What is the boy at the inn's high score in Beetle Mania?
A soldier/angry mob member got so confused that he threw the Bob-omb harmlessly at the flower bed. A merciless beating ensued. The enemy started to tap his foot. He twirled his hammer by the handle.
"5000! And he's wasted enough time on that stupid Game Guy!" An exasperated Mushroom doing laundry blurted. She then turned in the direction of the inn, stormed in, and dragged out the purple-spotted boy furiously hammering the buttons on the Game Boy, and chaos ensued as they both started screaming at each other.
"It's Game BOY, ma--geez, get it right!"
"CORRECT!" yelled the monster in his obnoxious voice. "What color is the Chancellor's mustache?
The silence was immediately broken as the chancellor yelled "Brown!" out through one of the windows of the castle.
"CORRECT! What color are the beds in the castle?
"CORRECT! Who does the little girl want to marry?
And so it went on. Pretty soon the entire town was answering in unison. Of course, it wasn't like Dr. Topper to make the game ridiculously easy, and he delivered a deadly blow to the trained soldiers/angry mob when he asked them the identity of the Man Who Knows Everything behind the house. Several of them crumbled under the sheer cascade of questions---others from racking their brains, and others because they didn't have breakfast that morning.
Whatever the case the hours wore on, the Bob-ombs were diffused, and the grand army fell.
But there were still the kids, who had found stones and were about to hurl them at the enemy. They didn't fall for the foe's tricks. It was so obvious what he was doing...but no, they didn't fall for it.
The Hammer Brother's expression didn't change, and he pulled some hard material out from his helmet. His trump card.
"What am I?
A quiz-obsessed freak
A Hammer Brother
Someone started to call out the letters "fr", and his mouth was formed into an "e" when the enemy vanished, and in its place was Rock Candy. The survivors could only be grateful that the monster hadn't attacked, and they cheered at the effectiveness of the grand army, and armed themselves with Rock Candy, since not one of the Bob-ombs had hit their target.
The mad Quiz Master once again was atop his platform, drilling a Mole.
His fragmented sanity was apparent by his crazed grin and widened eyes burning with impassioned delight at his mandatory game.
"Who is selling a Lucky Jewel?"
"Which trampoline is found in the mines?"
"The smilin' one."
And as he drilled the Mole into the ground, his soul fluttered and he bathed in the elation. In a way, he loathed changing the questions just because half the world was mired in embarassing ignorance. But---
The Mole had gotten eight out of twelve right, and the rusted red doors creaked open to reveal a roomful of barrels. The Mole's fur stood up in shock and gazed up at the huge stack of barrels. He could feel the gleeful eyes of the cracked Hammer Brother burning into his back, twitching in an fit of sudden nervousness.
"Heh-heh. Just wait 'till the last room...You got once chance--How many barrels are there?"
||[Apr. 29th, 2006|04:40 pm]
A burning eye looked over the city. The innovations of man took on the semblance of micro-organisms--preferablly some kind of bacteria. What would the bacteria have seen if they looked up right then and there? They would have seen, if they had hawk-eyes since the man was perched atop a thirty-storey building---a man in ragged suit that would have been fashionable and quite worthy of envy seventy or so years ago, but now it was moth-eaten, had holes in it, and its sharp gray had faded into obscurity. The bacteria would also notice that he was wearing dirty gloves and he was wearing a thick overcoat--if the bacteria had telescopic vision they would have noticed he was wearing all of this AND had a worn-out beret. The bacteria then would become extremely hot and sweaty.
And if he had telescopic vision, the bacterium would realize that the man’s shoes, that were once so shiny they almost sparkled, were now worn and crumbling at the seams. This wouldn’t have been so ridiculous if it wasn’t a blistering 90 degree July day. The driving bacterium sweated and roasted at the thought of the probably-roasting man on the roof. If the bacterium hadn't been distracted by the statue of Atlas, stoically attempting to show no signs of fatique as the world sat on his shoulders, he would have noticed that the probably-roasting man was leaning hunched-over on a cane.
Far, far above on the thirty-storey building, the man watched the bacteria, some motorized, some not. If one of the bacteria suddenly was whisked out of the driver's seat, leaving the old Ford to smash its face into the bumper of the next one and cause a pileup, furious honking, arrival of policemen and flashing lights and general commotion, ---and this in fact did happen--and this unwilling spectator was taken by a crow with incredible stamina to the top of the thirty-storey building, he would not need to have telescopic vision to see the probably-roasting man leaning on a black cane.What kind of asshole wore that many layers? it was 90 degrees Farenheit after all.
So now, level with the ridiculous man except that the ridiculous man was on the roof and the bacterium dangled precariously from many feet in the air, he could see this ridiculous man more closeley. This man in horribly outdated attire was leaning and hunched over on the black cane, had dark hair, and was in fact still wearing the overcoat over the once-fashionable suit. He looked, from behind, somewhere in the range of 30 to 70.
But the bacterium—which was now revealed to be a law-abiding, industrious man who had sold his soul to the American dream and thus worked every waking moment of his life, was understandably upset. Amazingly, he was not concerned that he was being held aloft perilously high in the air by a seemingly tireless crow—or—he didn’t know what the hell it was, it was a bird, one of those things that crapped on your car window—he was only yelling and fretting about his tardiness for work and how his car had been smashed and who’s going to call the insurance company and how can he file a report--?
Of course, he looked down and saw his fellow bacteria stream across the corridors of the mammoth city, and he was so terrified that he didn't notice the bottleneck. Somehwat mitigating his terror, he noticed that the bird wasn’t going to drop him anytime soon, and he went back to fretting.
He was so busy fretting that the appearance of a new person who materialized out of nowhere next to the man on the cane barely fazed him. This man was very tall and thin, and he dwarfed the man on the cane by several inches. The tall man was wearing something even more bizarre than the man on the cane: his clothes were completely filled with holes, to the point of obscenity. It was the pitiful remains of a checkered suit, a jockey’s cap, and a very old-fashioned pair of glasses---what do you call ‘em—the ones that don’t go on your ears—they just sit on your nose. But the glasses were useless, because both lenses were broken. The tall man had a sardonic leer on him---really insolent--an obnoxious old POS, really—with sparking, energetic eyes and a sort of slithering swagger. He sidled up so closely to the lame man that he was practically breathing on his forehead.
The lame man arched an eyebrow and gave a foreign-accented---and thus in an automatically snobbish and European or abroad inquiry without turning around to look at the new arrival: he already knew who it was from the proximity that would generally have made other people uncomfortable, even repulsed.
“Haven’t you settled your debt with the administration?”
The man with the crow forgot about his tardiness and the pileup momentarily—at the moment all he could think about is how loudly obnoxious the speaker’s voice was: the automatically snobbish and European guy—no American would ever invade someone’s space like that--- was yelling at the top of his lungs as if he was used to projecting in a large auditorium, when the other man was barely three feet away from him. Was he deaf or something? Maybe that’s why the other guy was screaming?
“Well, you know how the top dogs operate—how bored they are--dangling sweet freedom in front of you in your last year—“ The other closed his eyes and looked downwards, smiling knowingly and humored him---after all, he knew what it was really about. “--that year before your term is over, and just when you’ve paid up--“ he made a sweeping gesture with his hands and slammed one into the other palm, making a resounding crack that startled the man with the crow. “—they saddle you with another 500 years!”
But this dubious mention of 500 years completely escaped the man with the crow: he had long ago decided that they must be off-Broadway actors for some reason rehearsing on the top of a building. He didn’t have time to watch plays anyway, so he ignored them, and returned once again to thoughts of his car and the insurance.
The old or young---since we don’t know the profession of these two men, we’ll call them actors like the man with the crow concluded--- actor with the cane gave an amused smile and answered, waving the tip of his cane admonishingly at the tall actor and still facing away from him.
“My dear knight, I don’t believe you were ever in the business of telling lies to your sovereign.”
The tall one for some reason became very serious, but then answered in that same booming, unnecessarily loud voice, which, if I haven’t reminded you enough, was automatically snobbish and European.
“Well, it was like this, Messire—a breath of freedom struck me with a disease called euphoria. Crippled by my irresistible euphoria I was moved to—I absolutely—ABSOLUTELY HAD to…make a joke about the Garden. Oh, you should have seen it—--Azazello and Behemoth bust a gut from laughter----but the higher-ups weren’t so thrilled. But Messire, please---I absolutely HAD to.”
“You absolutely had to,” the actor on the cane repeated with a semi-exasperated sigh. He turned partly around on his cane, hobbling with slight difficulty, breathing hard, swung his dark head and stared in the direction of the man with the ear-less glasses. It was here that our industrious American dream man---we’ll refer to him as the man with the crow, who was his tireless companion on this journey---discovered that the curved actor was badly burned in the face.
“So, now I have a retinue again, all thanks to your hardened criminal instincts.” The man on the cane chuckled, and aimed his dark head towards the direction of the clouds and the stars beyond them.
Suddenly a third actor materialized, again out of nowhere, of the four-legged, feline variety. He was gigantic, about four feet tall. He wasn’t wearing anything at all.
“I resent that you acknowledge Koroviev—“ The cat threw a questioning glance at the tall one to confirm whether or not said tall one still called himself that. And a smug smile on the face of said tall one was enough to confirm it---“as your retinue and not me or Azazello!”
“What, so you too can’t be reformed..!” the first actor raised both eyebrows in mock surprise and slight real irritation. He leaned more heavily on the cane and not-so-imperceptibly twitched. “The devil take your intractability!” While saying this he grinned demonically.
The cat returned with a wry and mischievous grin.
“Yes, I am proud to admit that I am an incorrigible sinner!” The cat made an extravagant bow, and looked up, his eyes gleaming deviously. “But--Messire, may I be so impudent to remind you that you’re in for the longest of us all.”
The one called Kaaaahororvvyyyehhhvvv nodded solemnly in agreement. The man with the cane suddenly went silent, and he pierced the horizon with his eye as if looking off towards eternity.
“Occasionally the fool makes of the king a fool, and himself a king. Bravo, Behemoth—“ The actor unexpectedly with a very deft and fluid motion with his cane rushed towards the cat and scratched him behind the ears. He purred with smiling eyes. The first actor then reeled backwards and planted the cane behind him and regained his balance. “--though might I remind you that’s the only reason I keep you. If you didn’t provide such entertainment I would chuck you the devil out of my sight.”
“I am honored to serve you again in the capacity of a fool, Messire.” The cat made a low and graceful bow, this time out of reverence, his paw scraping the concrete.
The man with the crow was no longer obsessing over the fact that he was late for work, that he had caused a pileup, that he had left the scene of an accident, or that he was being held aloft at a very lethal height by a bird no bigger than his torso. All he could think of at that moment was:
That cat. Is talking.
If that weren’t enough, a fourth man materialized from out of nowhere. He was wearing only one layer: a shirt and some light trousers, and almost looked like he was actually dressed for scorching 90-degree weather, if not for that weird bowler hat on his head. Who in their right mind wore bowler hats, anyway? The bowler hat was also in wretched condition. It looked like it had been shot to pieces.
The cat smirked and snickered and jabbed a thumb at the new arrival.
“You know what, Azazello?”
“What?” came the growl.
“You look hideous.” The cat looked the fourth individual up and down, grinning.
The stocky man abruptly grasped the cat by the throat and began to squeeze with a practiced motion.
“And who do I have to look pretty for, huh? You?!” he rasped, and the man with the crow froze in horror at the believability of the actor’s performance and his appearance---maybe he was in some horror movie flick?---fangs in his twisted mouth and an altogether unpleasant, freakish countenance.
“That’s enough, Azazello.”
The assassin loosened his grip and the cat fell in a heap. He sprang up with terrified eyes and yelled weepingly,
“He nearly strangled me—did you see that? It’s animal abuse!! I’ll never be the same!”
“So, what, are you going to press charges?” growled the one-eyed man with a menacing leer, leaning over with his coarse, hairy hands shoved in his pockets.
“You had it coming to you, Behemoth!" the tall one with an un-American and therefore unpronounceable name jeered and gushed a sympathetic smile at the same time. He leaned way down and stroked the cat's ears and head excessively, half in mockery and half in earnest in a sugary baby voice, “What did the big bad cycwops do to you?” Behemoth’s carefully-groomed fur was all in disarray—Messire did it with infinitely more tact. Azazello was not very happy either and he advanced on Koroviev with his mean fists.
The man on the cane waved a dark hand and muttered in true irritation this time,
“You can settle your differences on your own time. Knight, tell me about this city—no, this country.”
The man with the crow got very excited in a burst of patriotic fervor. He could almost hear the words of glowing praise for the best country in the world! Maybe those Europeans weren’t so bad after all!
Koroviev, now black-and-blue, wriggled out of the death-grip of Azazello and sauntered over to the shorter man with the cane. It looked like Koroviev now had on an awkardly huge hat on top of the ripped shreds of the jockey’s cap, because Behemoth was sitting on his not-so-well-groomed head—repaying the favor, no doubt. “Oh, Messire, Messire---how can I start?” Koroviev swayed back and forth on his long legs, looking rather elastic. “For starters, I am simply forbidden to call you Messire. It’s too aristocratic, monarchical, like England or something.” He waved his finger chidingly. “No…Mister will do. Even the illustrious leader of the country is called ‘Mr. President’.”
There was a pensive pause, an ironic grin from the cane-man, and he again looked off into the distance, at the swollen streets that wound on endlessly. He stroked his hairless chin, tapped it with his forefinger, and concluded, again without turning around,
“Then it is..comrade under another name.”
The man with the crow wanted to burst out in protest. Comrade? Isn’t that what the Reds or whatever used to call each other? This is the United States of America, not China, goddamnit! He was wrong, those Europeans are rotten to the core!
“Mr. Woland!” As if mimicking the evidently upset man with the crow, the tall man bent down to the man on the cane, whom we will now call Woland, and took him in a familiar way by the shoulder. The cat was still stuck on the tall man’s head. The stocky man was punching his fist that needed much more exercise in his palm and glaring at both of them with a scowl. At the same time the unplaceable European accent disappeared, and Koroviev started talking with an unplaceable American accent. “There are no comrades in America! Everyone knows that the Soviet Union was rife with inequality and false doctrines of egalitarianism! Capitalism—“ He raised a long finger and leaned backward and looked inflated and important. “—and democracy, the two-pronged approach to heaven on earth! Follow our flawless model, and in no time at all your backwards, stagnating society will look just like ours!”
Woland gave a heavy nod, hobbled forward on his cane, set it down, and seated himself at the edge of the roof, hanging his legs over the side. A hot wind blew. He tasted it like a serpent and it was full of confusion, doubt, one self-assured doctrine against another. He also had discarded his foreign accent for an American one.
“I see..another utopia.” He narrowed his eyes, bit his lower lip pensively, stretched his neck the other way in the direction of the tall one and threw it in the direction of the city below. He balled his fist and rested his burnt chin on it, and with the other hand, twirled the cane on the concrete. He raised his head and stared straight into the distance. At the teeming bacteria. “And what of the potential receptivity?”
It was all very clear that Koroviev knew his lord already had an idea of what the answer would be. Perhaps he just wanted the details—after all, Koroviev had been free to go where he pleased, however shortly—he should have heard the noise in great detail. Koroviev gleamed and now was walking across the roof, the cat still on his head, ruffling his light hair under the jockey’s cap, and in response the tall one periodically shoved his dirty hand into Behemoth’s face.
At this point he started talking in frantic, hysterical tones, never diminishing his volume, and indeed his bulging eyes looked like they would burst from their sockets.
“The Virgin appeared on a piece of toast! It’s a miracle---the stigmata is a result of psycho-somatic phenomen caused by staring at a picture of the crucified Christ---The universe was created in six days! The universe was created by natural processes over billions of years—no God to it—we evolved from ape-like ancestors—we are the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve---survival of the fittest justifies subjugating weaker races---we’re actually defending the rights of weaker nations to carve out their own destiny—we must punish the oppressive governments of nations with our full military capacity to spread the good word of democracy and freedom---save the trees—drill oil in Alaska—support the booming economy of China! Support torture and oppression in China! America, America, God shed his grace on---gasp—you mentioned God! You’re going to hell---the secular kind, of course---“ Abruptly he stopped his ceaseless shouting and respectfully turned to Woland. “This is our target, Mister—“ He smirked sardonically and winked. “Woland.”
The man with the crow, his eyes widened in fear of the un-ambiguous anti-Americanism in the merciless tone of the highly infuriating actor, and he flailed around impotently. And even worse—target! Were they terrorists?! What were they planning to do, the bastards?!
Woland was now no longer twirling his cane, but had stood up and was leaning one arm on a sword, its blade piercing the concrete below him. He slightly turned to the tall man whose throat amazingly did not hurt in the slightest and chuckled again.
“Yes, yes…and I suppose there’s no patronymic, either?”
“No, not a single patronymic in sight!” Behemoth chimed in, looking through a pair of old binoculars, and had moved from Koroviev’s head to his shoulders, looking like a great black scarf. He swiped away an enraged punch from Azazello, still wearing a mask of fury. The unstoppable cat continued, while Koroviev nodded and nodded, “It’s sexist and un-American! You know, because everyone’s free and equal and all that. And women are the heads of companies! Only a select few, but that’s no fault of the other half of the dominant population—all in all, it’s every man and woman for hisself or herself, and everyone can get a piece of the pie!”
The man with the crow wanted to protest,
But it’s TRUE…We are all equal! That’s why there’s no greater country than the U.S. of A!
Woland hobbled off of the ledge he’d been standing on—no, he didn’t hobble off at all—he had jumped off as if his leg had suddenly been cured! He landed lightly and with the beginnings of a diabolical grin he turned on two perfectly good legs to his retinue, that until now were in a haphazard mess.
“Well---Mr. Koroviev, Mr. Azazello, and Mr. Behemoth----it seems that we have a seemingly impossible task ahead of us.” He now held the sword like a sword instead of a cane, brandishing it with noble flourish. He walked amidst them, now no longer stooped and bent over to support himself but erect and quite princely. “The difficulty of enlightening a populace with one resounding obstinate voice seems to pale with the task of enlightning a populace with a thousand contradictory voices, all of them obstinate.”
He smirked, winked in the direction of the man with the crow, and wedged his sword between his arm and side. Before the man with the crow’s eyes, the tattered clothes of Woland vanished, and in their place, was a sober gray suit fashionable to this day and age, and he was leaning on a crutch instead of a sword or a cane. At the same moment, Koroviev’s rags melted into air, and they were replaced with a striped suit, a pink shirt, a blinding orange tie, with no cap but with the same indestructable pince-nez, except one lens was cracked. And at the same time, Azazello’s bowler hat flew off his red head, and he suddenly he was wearing a leather jacket over a sleeveless shirt, fingerless gloves and a pair of loose-fitting jeans. And simultaneously the naked cat had hurled himself off of Koroviev’s shoulders and stood on his hind legs by the newly-changed group, all gazing into the smoky distance in an intimidating and comical line.
The man with the crow was stunned and his mouth hung open dumbly.
“Now, then,” Woland had by now fully turned around and both his crazed green eye and hollow black one bore into the man with the crow. A disarmingly charismatic, yet obviously twisted smile sliced across his burned face. “You being such an astute fellow---heard our conversation?” The man with crow nodded jerkily. By now he had concluded they were probably not actors at all, and this wasn’t a performance. “Then if you will be so kind as to tell me---“ He strode right off the building walking on nothing but air and leaned forward on his crutch so that his now-frightening face almost brushed the man with the crow’s. “Does God exist?”
And thus it began.
|Re: Chapter 3: Green
||[Mar. 17th, 2006|09:20 am]
I might have asked why, maybe I didn't. I was WONDERING why. I had made it from Drachma to Central and I was fine. Why would I need someone's help? And this old--man--why would I need his help|
"trghhho hrghearrgh sringgring."
The man leaned his narrow head in and quirked an eyebrow.
"Aiiiii waantrhh troghh hrghhear srringgring."
"Well if you want to hear the singing you'll have to have a ticker. To purchase a ticket you'll have to have currency. To hold the currency you'll have to have thumbs. Do you have thumbs, my friend?"
Thumbs were what he had, right? I shook my head and hung it sadly. What was he getting at? I couldn't hear singing after all the trouble I went through?
"That's--why you'll need my help."
That much I was able to understand. What I didn't was why he suddenly took off his faded brown coat and stuffed me in it. It was really dark. The white sky suddenly went black. I heard noises as he went inside the building. No more singing, but music. It was all on one note. SOmeone played several notes that went up. It was a big noise. There were people outside the man's brown coat. They were talking and talking, but I only understood some of it. "Curtain"
"orchestra" "It's about" "dinner" "scenery gorgeous" "I have to catch a train at ten" and a lot of other words that melted into one big mumble.
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