Beyond that Point of no Return
Amateurish Poetry-Rant hybrid, or emo-poetic-whining, but still somehow reflecting the truth of it. Sometimes I do not regret that I am the one who didn't get elite university dished for free...
Beyond that Point of no Return
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
Beyond that Point of no Return
where lusts and loves are damned to burn
I stand, as wreckage of my former self
stuck like an old book into another shelf
Time passes by, tears come and go again
Life now so bleak, once I was its big fan
Memories of torments from my own past
I still feel young, but yet aged damn fast
Beyond that Point of no Return
where only anguish and defeat remain
Our love once mutual, true, and radiant
Now just an altar of more lurking pain
The spirit of urges made one more stand
But all within me longs for that final end
I do something exotic, suppressed awhile
as I simply focus life with a honest smile
Beyond that Point of no Return
where I had always to survive on my own
Abandoned by my friends and god alike
Yes, once it did make me cry and frown
But deep within the indomitable remains
Unimpressed by all those scars and pains
Life will go on nonetheless, and so will I
Condemned to attempt anew until I die
Beyond that Point of no Return
Cause God & the World deserve to burn!
Vamp-Ire the Mars-Parade – Last Brouhaha Standing
Vamp-Ire the Mars-Parade – Last Brouhaha Standing
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
This is just amateurish roleplayer sermon, and intended as such!
Helpful LINK:
http://whitewolf.wikia.com/wiki/Vampire:_The_Masquerade_20th_Anniversary_Edition
There comes a moment, when the own ego no longer bathes us in ignorance, and we realize that midlife crisis is just another mainstream simplification. Real Life rarely looks as polished, as the Movies. Real life hurts us with or without justification, and that real life was worth it for a while, as it brought all the joy, all the sex, and all the indulgence we loved, too.
Terminology: Shows how fear of copyright violations & trademark stomping affect my mindset a little bit here and there... ;-)
For some of us letting the own facade down is difficult in precisely the solitude which would allow us to keep it secret. Still it is not just another misery loves company. It is one of those social rites which even the non-occult-crazed can understand. Some by instinct, some by gut-feeling, others due observation or prudence.
The little talk is set in generic city, and specifically into a cheap generic diner of it. Even the protagonists admitted that they ain't special enough to craft out a unique background!
Adrian: Another coffee, please. Lots of lactose-free milk and sugar.
Waitress: You sure they'll show-up at all?
Adrian: *shrugs*
And while customers enter or leave, and the waitress does her job, Adrian stares into the nightly sky, drifting into the tear-jerking nostalgia once more. A decade since his cat had died, and years after the loss of Huggy Woman. Life's been the longest road this bummer ever had to walk. Life.
Dodging his own tears his eyesight falls upon the Brouhaha T-Shirt they all purchased for their meeting. 'Better dead than uncool!' its slogan. What foolish, youthful pride they had once fallen for.
Thurston: You still owe me money!
Adrian: Mistaken Identity, Sir?
Thurston: Not again...
Adrian: Sorry, stock market courses, global porn-strike, and a dire need for drugs!
Thurston: Seen the Doctor?
Adrian: Yes, as if gut-rot wouldn't be enough. It is DJ LC early on stage.
Thurston hesitates for one blink of an eye. But then he regains his composure.
Thurston: So the Afterlife-Mafia may come soon?
Adrian: Only the Bosses know, J.T.
Thurston: Oh, dammit. You forgot ten university graduations and fifty ex-wives with one heart-failure, but the one thing you remember is...
Adrian: The darkest secret of all who ever came close to me.
Both chuckle, as the minor quirk of using his middle-name did stop worrying Joshua-Thurston decades ago.
Brakeman: If I wouldn't know better than I'd say that my business associate has fallen for another bum's tragic tale!
The voice of Brakeman makes both other Brouhaha jumpy. It is clear to see.
Thurston: Please, Sir, gimme a coin!
Adrian: Dear Mr. Brakeman, did my office fail to inform you that our business appointment has been shifted to the 30th of February, and from London to Tokyo?
Brakeman: Hm... *suspicious look*
Now three Brouhaha chuckle, and one waitress summons her 'no-nonsense composure', delivering a coffee to Adrian and asking the other weirdos what they want to order. The Fennesea-Roleplay Sermon they discuss DOES make the waitress pray for a Nerd-Slaying Serial, but so far none shows up.
Thurston: Vanessa?
Adrian: Wasn't she pregnant?
Brakeman: Her husband considers it ill-suited to know her associated with the Brouhaha any longer, I daresay.
Adrian: Daresay, that is his version of 'I guess'.
Brakeman: *stares the traditional daggers into the eyes of the lowborn loudmouth*
Adrian: Didn't you two, both, marry your roleplaying wives? Queens of Hearts and so?
Thurston: My old boy is feverish. Had no choice.
Brakeman: Business calls on the morrow, sorry.
Adrian: Any sense in waiting for Bestial and K?
Thurston: Bestial seems very busy doing body-building.
Brakeman: And even we uncovered some of your TOTALLY harmless notes about the state of the art concerning K! *glares at Adrian*
Adrian: mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! *poses theatrically*
The bummer fetches a menthol-cigarette from a package, and lightens it afire. Inhaling, coughing, inhaling once again, though slower and focused on it, struggling.
Thurston: That is really a new low.
Brakeman: I had hoped you felt tempted to point-out being different, but that's really it. Lung Cancer for those useless tobacco sticks, and not the slightest regrets?
Adrian: I regret a lot, being me has never been part of that though.
Uncomfortable silence lurks for one moment, but decades of practice let the trio snap-back into the spirit of the True Brouhaha instead!
Adrian: Twenty years on psychology websites, and not one with a solution. Most with the same stereotypical explanation. Dammit, Vamp-Ire the Mars-Parade was simply the best we could achieve, no more, and no less.
Thurston: Oh, that night the Sabot struck I really thought we were dusted!
Brakeman: I must have been absent.
Adrian: Aye!
Thurston: Yeah!
Adrian: Nothing hit us harder than that fairy tale crossover!
Brakeman: Except the next adventure, maybe.
Adrian & Thurston: True!
Brakeman: And then you decided to switch sides, Join the Sabot, any memories why you did so?
Adrian: No, truly none. Maybe the inner turmoil of being one of the two Satanic Brouhaha anyway? Nah.
Brakeman: Hm... that deep fall you took does indeed remind of the Bali Clan.
Thurston: And now two Corporate Brouhaha listen to the Devilish Sermon of the one Satanic Brouhaha?
For a mortal in midlife crisis it does make so much more sense. In secrecy most of us had heard songs like 'Forever Young' or 'Who wants to live forever', too. Few above age 40 wouldn't consider a Faustian Bargain to become a Brouhaha Brawler Punky instead of withering away, lost in their routines of career, family or failure. It DID all become alike somehow. Mortality is a burden to live with, and it grows more heavy with every day we grow older, and thus grow consequentially weaker. Wiser, but still weaker.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHIIATt0BaM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TsOPjZEF6E
Adrian: Dreams of Today are Ego-Bursts of tomorrow, it is Cola time!
*Another social rite is indulged*
Adrian: A toast, for those forced to go before their true time had come!
Thurston: A toast, to the Society which hosts us!
Brakeman: A toast, to the future awaiting us!
Adrian: Now let's shake-off this sentimentality, as if any of us would have ever aspired to be part of the Brouhaha!
And so it was done. Right in time for a cellular-phone call to reach Brakeman.
*Emotionally-Touching Moment my prose couldn't get written* ;-)
Brakeman: Sorry, I have to leave early, but one last thing, Adrian, care to accompany me to the car?
Adrian: Until this becomes another gay-sex orgy we never had for real!
Brakeman: *eyes rolling*
Thurston: Don't worry, I drive our lil Bummer home!
Brakeman: Good, but that's not it. Let's go.
Adrian and Brakeman walk towards the parking lot.
Brakeman: So you die like a stubborn mule instead of asking any of us for help?
Adrian: I was tempted, but it is the price for my own choices made.
Brakeman: Can't you imagine that somehow WE ALL see that a bit differently? No man is left behind once held real meaning, you know.
Adrian: Sorry, never had a course on how to save a life the casual & cultivated way, I daresay.
Brakeman: We pay the best doctors money can buy, and you will struggle against the Cancer, as much, as you have struggled against every damn norm in your entire life!
Adrian: Ayouch!
The Bummer Brouhaha is visibly wracked by pain, crashing to the ground.
Adrian: *cough*... I am fine!
Brakeman: Yeah, THAT is clear to see.
Adrian: Olaf, get home well, greetings to your wife, and be ready, when your newborn needs a father!
Brakeman: Well, err, thanks. I 'guess'. Are you crying?
Adrian: Nah, just a tear-jerking from the pain! Now saddle-up, Cowboy!
Brakeman: Until next time then!
Adrian: Yes, until we meet again, Corporate Brouhaha!
Returning to Thurston in slow motion the face of Adrian displays an enervated, tired composure.
Thurston: So we came to save a life tonight. Did we?
Adrian: God may know. Time to drive home.
Thurston: Yes, Milord.
Adrian: Yes, Milord, let's eradicate those degenerate devil-worshipers once and for all!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhScW3PkaH4
The car drove with maximum speed, clearly ignoring the laws. Both passengers were pressed into their seats.
Thurston: Does he know?
Adrian: Will we live long enough to find out?
They both popped some pills, swallowing greedily...
Thurston and Adrian looked at each other...
Thurston: You still doubt any chance of an Afterlife?
Adrian: Outside of porn? Yes!
The impact killed both of them quickly, as they stopped being 'uncool'...
Deviants & Red, Horned Dragons
Deviants & Red, Horned Dragons
Humorous Minimalism & Flashy Fiction © Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
It was the age of fairy tales in the wonderful kingdom of Deviancy RT. Long Centuries of joyful productivity and happiness were only rarely disrupted by the craven deeds of the Wicked. Yet it had come to such once more.
Two evil advisers had convinced the beloved king, to accept a 'political-marriage' between the virgin and the knightly Horned Dragon. The nobles of Deviancy RT, just as vassals and commoners, found nothing wrong in a sign of trust. Though alas they were wrong.
Evil had arranged for a virgin which would be all but harmless. Necessarily, as the enormous costs and efforts to keep any evil teen a virgin for years was nearly indescribable. And knowing of the compulsive do-goodhearted attitude of Deviancy RT, Evil could connive its scheme.
So it came to be that the heroic Horned Dragon of Deviancy RT, a most unique specimen of his kind, was lured into a sinister trap spun forth by his fiancee the Evil Virgin. Long had the fiendishly Frigid schemed herself to thwart the plans of the Evil which had dared to force her into nunnery.
And when she had found the old Grimoire she had discovered a way! She would sacrifice the most powerful good soul in all the land to bargain with a Demon Prince. She planned to sacrifice the honored Red Horned Dragon indeed.
Deviancy RT had long lived in peace. And still, in this fierce crisis, the people of the realm did not falter. On the contrary, the best heroes and heroines of the Land arose to rescue the good, loyalist Dragon from the bewitching Virgin.
And so an epic journey began and a mighty quest awaited the heroic souls of Deviancy RT. Many challenges had to be overcome, plenty of grisly monsters had to be neutralized...
… finally, the four greatest heroes and heroines of the Land found the evil Virgin and interrupted her Satanic Ritual. Freed from the wicked magic the Horned Dragon himself delivered the false fiancee into the prison she deserved, the dragon's stomach!
The Land pacified he decided to marry a Horned She-Dragon and waited long hours until the first eggs began to crack and the future of Dragonkind was secured for Deviancy RT. And they lived happily ever after, until this author is merely another fantasist and a liar! ;-)
THE END..? Rhetorical Question.
Shadowrun - Family Affairs
I wrote this in Pietroschek Prose, not US-English, nor British English. Pietroschek Prose is something like unintentional, imbecilic-moronic violation of the two English versions to which it is often, and lets hope accidentally, compared to. ;-)
Background-World-Info: http://www.shadowrun.com/what-is-shadowrun/
Family Affairs Revision 1.10
“When forced into battle Fox always fights to kill, not stun or capture.” From Shadowrun – Shadows of Magic.
“Thou shall not suffer a witch to be born!”. That pseudo-prophetic-warning weighed upon my mood alike arcane significance, while I woke-up. Some brain-dregs like that formed the sermon of another, hopelessly outdated, yet supposedly-holy book. My problem about it was that the woman whom I had married was a witch, and my daughter thereby could be suspected to be a witch, too. Even by the shrivels of scientific education which I care to remember, Chummers.
All she had wanted was to get to that teenage-band 'Celtic Soul' concert. Well, we had not forbidden that, just failed to tell her about it in time. So she did what every good daughter does. Rebelliously she made use of the personality traits inherited, and learned from her parents.
“Next time you tranquilize your elders you might wake up in the cauldron along with spices, Dear.” I wished I could tell her, as for now she was still missing. When we had finally gathered enough cash and credit both, me and my wife, had decided to proverbially leave running the shadows, and the big city life, behind.
Technology was mobile so we did not miss much and did spend our time in an arcology much like those retired rangers often tend to do. Controlled environment, security, and some comfort. Independence, as we could produce our own food and water. Except for me nearly all others knew how to brew alcohol, too. Not Synthanol, but real, handmade-brew alcohol...
When it all started, back in 2053, I had been a Street-Shaman. Or better said I may have once been supposed to become one. Fox was my calling, but a criminal underclass was my environment. There is no great prudence which a high caliber bullet into my head could not neutralize instantly. We had our problems from the start. Because I guess Fox knew it, yet decided to leave my choice to me. Even the well-meaning can hurt one brutally that was not new to me.
I had done that. After ten years of running with Fox, and as Fox, I told my Totem that we better depart. It was mutual. I did not lose all my magic. I was not killed by some breach of my spirit either. Without Fox I simply was a proverbial shadow of a man. There was no day in my life I could be fully awake for more than four hours. That was the price to pay. Lifelong imprisonment on the borderline to dreamy slumber. Like a sedated lunatic. I hated Fox even more, yet knew it was not his misdeed. Fox was just one more totem, and the fat and bloated man whom I had become did not look prudent or tricky at all.
We had done, as parents typically do, when their child goes missing. We had instantly indebted ourselves, and hired a private investigator who had scored some successes in Seattle, precisely the city where 'Celtic Soul' were predestined to jump upon the stage. But there is this truism about solutions among shadowrunners: “An easy solution is no solution at all!” The Bitch named Consequence is not fucked by anyone without dire repercussions to follow. My wife tended to smack me with one of her elbows whenever I was caught babbling vulgarism aloud...
The Sleuth had returned to us with one of those facial expressions one only wants to see in SimStim entertainment. The fact that he visited an arcology at all proved him professional enough to me. He delivered a message from my daughter's pseudo-kidnapper. Kinda: “Come, jump into my trap so I can avenge myself, or your offspring... signed K.”
Insanity has only one limit and that is certain death. I should have killed K straight the first time he had proven himself a false friend. I did not, brainwashed by the laws of old, long-gone democracy calling it murder. So he had risen in power, and was eager to put the blame upon me once again.
“He'll have you raped, and tortured to death!” my wife commented with the shimmer of divination magic in her eyes.
“Or worse: He forces me to listen to his self-pity-fuck sermon again! I will not abandon our child to his fangs!” I tried to fake a smile, and to pretend immortality.
K had become the boss of a special gang. Süpür-K <-> Homosexual Turkish Criminals. Funded by some corporate media friends of him, them hoping that K, who happened to be a vampire since 2055, would gift them immortality! K had played the patience-card. Bluffing about how his rise in power would mean the blood by which they will soon be created would be much stronger. Well, the virus in that blood to give some detail. Corpse-Lovers and Coffin-Sleepers are wrong in the head for sure.
So I ventured into the big city one more time. I needed neither magic nor scouts to find a K who wanted to be found. Shortly after midnight, shortly after because my fat old me was out of breath, I had entered the gang-hosting mansion of the vampire. Former friends make fierce enemies. A mutual wisdom. The stench of feces alone could have killed me, and I always had the suspicion that certain homosexuals perceived it as perfume of a kind. Disease Worship, pretty common.
K was well prepared. Neither my weapons, nor my suicide-capsule escaped the vigilance of his guards. I wasn't surprised. So I went into the vampire mansion. Once more a black sheep coming home. Ready to face my self-declared judge. It was much, as I had anticipated. K wanted something, which I could not offer. I saw it in his eyes, when he made his melodramatic moves, sneaking around my bound daughter like a ghoul around a passer-by who had just died of heart-failure.
K believed the brain-crap he was babbling, he did not just play the victim. With all his nocturnal powers he was still trapped. He had to blame me, for he failed to accept the responsibility for, and consequence of, his own misdeeds. I couldn't end our friendship, for he had always been faster than me. Didn't he know that much at least?
“Now you miss that capsule I presume?” K asked in his triumphant mood. His fangs nearly shining in the semi-darkness.
“A bit. Still I just wanted you to be distracted until the spell works...” came my reply.
The last memory I had was the realization dawning in my child's eyes. My daughter was transported home, as I unleashed the energy of a forbidden spell. An old, Norse witchcraft born of merciless demand. The one even attempting such a spell is torn to shreds within the proverbial moment of his deed. It is a spell made only for females. It saved my daughter, and robbed my oldest adversary of his vengeance. I died gratefully. I had understood the prophecy. I just had not expected my daughter to be already pregnant.
End of Story 1
Justice from out of the Mists
Pietroschek's Ravenloft Fan-Fiction
Justice from out of the Mists
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
Ravenloft Fan-Fiction Short-Story for “The Mists of Ravenloft”, some worthy art you can find by following the attached LINK. Ravenloft for those who don't know: Imagine the time of 'The 3 Musketeers' or 'Pact of the Wolves' mixed with 'Dracula' & 'Frankenstein'; in the province of Barovia Count Strahd von Zarovich holds domain, a vampire driven nigh-mad due losing his love, pacting with Eternal Evil to rule over 'us' lesser mortals! That is a vague description of the dark, horror-bend world, and the heroes & heroines trying to survive in it.
This very small text was inspired by reading and art-watching through the “Mists of Ravenloft” gallery.
“May those who have the need to separate the world into a contrast of good and evil decide themselves which side to chose.” Varian Fidelio, Mist-Born Avenger.
The roadside Inn was shrouded in darkness. Mist formed an artful underlay to it. At least for those not easily spooked! Dread was in the atmosphere and the few travelers all seemed cautious, as if the slightest outburst could summon vilest Evil.
Bernelle had already earned her living when she encountered Varian. She was a nomad by passion, another soul wandering the realm. Her secret lay in her heritage. She was Half-Vistani and had learned long ago, that some customers can be eased by more than storytelling, song and tune.
Varian felt sad. He would have to repose the charming female bard even though he sensed no ill-intent in her approach. All she wanted was a look into his future. Sadly though, Varian had no future, as only Death and Damnation remained. Bernelle just shrugged and turned her attention to the next patron of the inn.
Varian paid his due and left. Back into the night, back into the nocturnal embrace of darkness and mists. There was just one task left for him to do. And it was the time to do it now. Fidelio followed the road which once had seemed like the path into life and fulfillment to him.
Short before midnight he had returned to the village of his rebirth! It did no longer hurt him to call it such. It felt no longer sickeningly and wrong. He knew the old stone surrounded by trees. He knew that his target would be there.
Her wards could neither warn her of his approach nor keep him at bay. It was the moment which had to come. Varian struck her from behind. A deed as craven and free of honor, as she had earned it. Yet she had earned so much more and Varian wanted her to get her due.
His right index finger punched into her left eye, merely a precaution to disable her abilities of unleashing certain unspoken curses and spells. When his left fist punched into her side she had to gasp, just like Varian had to bite her tongue-tip off! There was no hate involved in his deeds, that proverbial fire had long burned out.
Smacking his right elbow brutally into her stomach he ensured, that she would remain on the ground while he called the others. And they appeared. Spectral forms of three fellow villagers who had once been his companions.
United again! For one moment pain, cold and torment were forgotten and the four were simply friends meeting each other.
Yet their task was a grim affair. Marielle whom they had once called their Mistress lay on the ground, choking and bleeding. Yet her pain was nothing compared to the torment she had wrought upon the four.
In unison the four companions decided what there was to do about her. And in horrid silence did they cannibalize her life away. Starting from the arms and legs towards her torso. The Mist began to creep through the wards of her hag-born witchery as her life faded away.
Dropping a letter for the four families and a bag of gold coins Varian finished his quest and dropped dead, just in the moment in which his old companions started to dissolve out of reality forever.
And on the next day there was much debate in the village. About a grisly murder at the shrine and the letter accusing the harmless herbalist to be a hag-blooded she-fiend who had committed human sacrifices and worse. Four families could finally mourn their deceased and slept better from then on. The truth though depended much on whom was asked. Was justice finally done, or was it another villainous lie? Each bard has the own interpretation...
For now this is THE END...
Desperate Measures – A flashy-fiction Horror-Story
Desperate Measures – A flashy-fiction Horror-Story
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
This story is darkly, may be considered horror or occult detective fiction, and I found it is one for my 'failed projects' folder anyway. Originally I had hoped that one of my female author contacts would write the other half, the contextual female perspective, but those craven sissies all were too lazy (busy making money or living a happy life) or too afraid (smarter than expected) to put their name next to mine. x-)
In absence of the money for university-reeducation I offer the following warning to readers in many of my cost-free files:
I wrote this in Pietroschek Prose, not US-English, nor British English. Pietroschek Prose is something like unintentional, imbecilic-moronic violation of the two English versions to which it is often accidentally compared to. ;-)
Arnold's Perspective:
I was running for my life. A mad dash through the forest, which only minutes ago was intended to be my grave. I escaped my captors after a vicious and desperate brawl. Did not even find out why those goons wanted to kick me into a grave I had to shovel for myself.
I spat an acidic, brown slime every rest, as I paid the price for years of smoking. Nicotine is a nerve-soother and ego-booster, but as well one toxin to be careful with.
My instinct made me take the path less traveled, avoiding the easy routes, as any pursuer would catch someone like me. Right now the fatal accident of my wife and the loss of my job soon thereafter, during the 'depression' I still knew as traditional mourning-phase, seemed the least of a problem.
Still they had taken their toll on a rough and humble dude, spoiled much of the sports I did in better years, too.
I ran for my life, coughed-up a toxic juice I had myself to blame for, and didn't even know into which direction I was running. But at least I was still alive enough to try.
A felt eternity I progressed with no pursuer showing up or gunning for me. I felt so reminded of the movie 'Wrong Turn' that I lack the words to describe it.
But this was real life. Pain, sweat, and coughing reminded me fiercely enough. A two-lane road split the forest ahead of me and I spotted a car. The joy within arising only until I could see that it was a wrecked car, collided with a tree.
But hope is persistent as oft, as it is treacherous or futile. Maybe some clothing, food, drink, or a mobile phone could be salvaged from the wreckage? I had no hope for a handgun, as I was already lucky to still exist.
I hopped down the little hill which I was sure had been erected artificially, one of those state-projects which make prison-inmates do physical labors for the greater public good. Dunno, if it was true though.
The nausea arose due my foolish lack of logic. A wrecked car spoke of an accident, and one possible result was a dead driver or even worse, an entire family leaving only their corpses behind. Flies buzzed around me, as I searched the car.
It was the lack of time which made me overlook the first hint. In retrospective I should have seen that the solitary driver, now a corpse in early stage of decay, had a weird, though vague, resemblance to me. Lucky me, an identity I could use to keep a low profile and get rid of my past troubles.
I switched the identity cards and snatched the drivers license and wallet without any hesitation, though not without speaking a prayer for the deceased, for I was a Catholic in the good years. Disturbing the Peace of the Dead was one of those crimes against the soul we may be held accountable for on judgment day.
I took a soft-case bag reminding me of the notebook-bags which became trendy shortly after the year 2K bullshit had calmed down. I stuffed all from the car into it, or into my pockets, as I was in a real hurry. And last but not least I got a small plastic-bottle of water, a French brand I never had before.
Deciding not to risk more I didn't walk along the road, but instead through the woods on the other roadside. I didn't want to make it extra-easy for whoever lusted for my funeral.
Mortgages and loans temporarily dissolved due the fact that my identity was now a corpse in a car did somehow make me smile. For now I was Arnold Brice, and, wondering about more info about my new self, I went through the loot I had snatched from a dead man.
The first thing I got was a cell-phone, one of those mini-computers of the modern age, I hate 'em. The logo was so weird that I fail humor it. The eye above a pyramid, faint memories of a TV documentary came back into my mind.
Yeah! A private investigator license and ID plastic. Oh, not a sane one though, paranormal investigations. Like that drug-crazed freak on You-Tube, or wtf? Dammit, the modern age really had it with the opening of psychiatry doors. Yes, how rude of me to value my sanity.
Needing a rest anyway I decided to sort through the loot now, preparing myself to function like a citizen, if need of it arose.
I had a rolled-up 'rain-jacket', one of those company-giveaways which were soaked through after 5 minutes of downpour. Its logo was once more that accursed eye above a pyramid. Damn, God sure wants me to look like the one fool on the run.
I got the cell-phone plus paraphernalia, like a loading station, a mini-keyboard, and papers. Documents about the work my deceased benefactor had on his schedule. Too much to read, but I already knew it was Witches and Haunted Houses or Ritual Spots, two decades of TV had not failed to hammer the basics into public awareness.
Whoa, a mini-flashlight compatible with the loading station of the phone? Sure as consequence such wasn't the cost-aware way to gear-up. But for me the next 72 hours would mean life or death, as anything beyond failed to make my mind consider it at all.
Continuing my walk parallel to the road I hoped for a Diner or Gas-Station in the vicinity. I could need a Coffee or at least a Cola to get my blood-sugar level up again. And soon after food there would be shelter to worry about.
Assured that I had just lost my mind, as dimension travel was scientifically impossible, I stared open-mouthed unto the neon-sign. It read: ''Trudy's Diner, 10 Miles to Mercy's Sake''.
I sat down, focusing on the most crucial task at hand. Signature faking. I copy-catted the signatures of the ID, and from both credit cards. After a while I found myself satisfied with the spontaneous results, three out of three clearly resembling the originals, and mustered my confidence.
Long Tale made short: I cleaned my shoes and pant, rejoiced in that Ghosthunter-Jacket suiting me decently, and made my way to the Diner. My only real worry was that certain goons could lurk for me or arrive shortly after me.
But I could feel that trouble was not yet brewing. And neither was the County Sheriff the Diner's most frequent customer. Not like the movies, often a good sign! Though I remembered 'Fahrenheit – The Indigo Prophecy Demo' with a Diner Experience of a darker sort... Could oneself get away with murder? In that game I did.
With a dead man paying for my expenses I enjoyed my rest, not without a streak of guilt, as I minded one more silent prayer. Catholic Imprinting is weird, but no the worst either.
With vegetables unavailable I had to content myself with a Coffee and a pancake. Not much of a problem, when falling face-first into a grave was the most recent offer I had in comparison.
And then I heard the heralds of my future course. Once more not my pursuers, but the waitress. She had recognized my Jacket, and concluded that I must be one of those 'Investigator-Types'. From that to the old woman waiting for one took just twenty minutes.
Not too eager too blow my own cover I paid my bill, signing the fluid signature I had practiced, and went to work. Down a small road which was hard to see from the roadside.
I made the acquaintance of Donna Pearson, a granny vehemently insisting that there is urgency in investigating the witch-house. The Witch-House being the last outskirt of civilized folks, found at the other end of a downtrodden forest-path in that no-men's-land.
The old woman had told me that something had changed recently, and that the locals didn't dare to go there, as the priest scolded them in public. Luckily the Granny still knew what business meant, as she had shown my that she can pay, too.
With some effort I could rent myself a car, and take a dive, before anyone traced down the deceased investigator's whereabouts!
It was afternoon, when I made way on the forest-path. It took its turns, surprisingly often so, but in an estimated twenty minutes I found myself outside a house, not a mere ruin.
My eyesight fell unto the door-bell, which was triggered by an electronic mechanism and a classic button to press.
The woman who opened the door a short while later was black-haired and green-eyed. Her stature what I would call a typical female of medium size.
'Ma'am, I am Arnold Brice, and I came to see, if everything is well out here in the woods.' I showed my investigator ID in a foolish notion of mimicking TV.
'Nice to meet you, I am Aileen Blackthorn.' she gestured me to follow her into the house, casual and unafraid I would say.
What followed was the most comforting chat since my wife had died. And neither did a black cat lurk around us. An adult woman doing some academic study in the field of Herbalist history. My host was far from a Satanic Priestess or Ghostly Apparition, about that I was certain.
'Mr. Brice, did you arrange lodgings, or may I offer you my guest room for the night, and my company for the evening meal?' asked Aileen Blackthorn.
'Mrs. Blackthorn, I never meant to cause you any inconvenience. I was merely so enervated from my day that I lost my sense of time. And I would gladly accept your offer, yes.' But I felt like the Eunuch-King of Morons that moment.
I had totally forgotten my manners, and any care for those around me. My body needed rest, and had tricked my brain into a naivety I found a notch too anti-social.
The evening went on while I befriended my host with all the sympathy she so easily made possible. Occasionally I felt the sting of emotional scars which I still had to endure aplenty. Still Aileen was an individual I found much less erratic than the city folk I was used to.
Before we both withdrew for the nighttime she gave my a slight hug. Without a kiss or telltale touch that usually meant sympathy and being close, no sexual advance. Once more assured I went into the guestroom, my last question for the evening about where to find the toilet.
We wished each other a good night and went into the solitude of our rooms. I had my first chance to think through all which had happened, and I already felt the treacherous insomnia shaking-off the leaden lethargy which had slowed me throughout the evening.
Luckily I had not made the worst kind of impression unto my host, as Aileen was blameless in the charade I pulled off and, so far, in the worries of Donna Pearson.
Unaccustomed to the room I decided to take the mini-flashlight with me into bed, and positioned the cell-phone in its station to serve as a night-lamp within reach. I had abandoned the thought of crafting an improvised baton, as my host had given me no suspicion which could legitimate it.
Sleep caught me, and I awoke in cold sweat, lucid images of killers, my grave, witches and nightly terrors (Latin: timor noctis, as even the old Romans and Barbarians already knew such) were still fresh on my mind.
It was short after midnight, and I needed a smoke. No egomaniac I readied myself, got dressed and sneaked downstairs, intent to smoke in the open doorway before tainting the room of my host. I guess I was comparably silent, as I made it to the stairs.
Inhaling from the cigarette I felt the chosen poison kick in, nicotine comforting my nerves, though impairing my body in other ways, too. A weird feeling seemed to force a connection between my dreams and reality unto me, but I had read Milton and that H.P. Lovecraft guy, and was done with it.
Dissociate Personality Disorder and Drug Abuse were the truisms TV taught us about all that occult hogwash and need for the paranormal. Spirituality wasn't good enough for spoiled-city-people who considered smartphone Apps to be anything but archaic remnants of the urge to commit slavery!
But, in another silent prayer, I thanked God for the shelter, the pleasure of Aileen's benevolence, and prayed for protection of the house and its inhabitants nonetheless.
'Could I have one of those cigarettes?' asked Aileen.
'Sure' came my reply, even though Faith and Pain took one instant to struggle within me.
While handing my lighter back to me she inquired: ' Since when did you know?'
'The moment I felt you behind me, for it felt too good to be true'. I answered.
'How sad'. Noted Aileen.
'Maybe, somehow depends on your next decision, doesn't it?' I stammered.
Her body pressed against my backside, as she slung her arms around my chest and belly. I knew the Beast I had disturbed in its lair. And I had no need of a Curse of the Wendigo, nor of any Black Widow Mystery. I knew my own dark side, and the moment prayer made me sensitive enough to feel her presence it was clear.
I had fallen to the one Evil I hadn't expected, the one Evil I had always harbored within myself, the best-known Evil of all. Two killers, each with a minor cannibalistic streak, shook their bodies in a rhythm only their proverbial hearts could perceive.
Both caught between their belief and their urges, both uncertain how to decide now. No God interfered, and no Gate of Hell opened to devour either of us. We stood there, knowing that our feelings, even if mutual, would wax and wane for a while, only to falter while our urges still remained.
It was the Death and Rebirth of Love and Faith, but it was, too, more than mortals were able to handle. It was too close to perfection to allow us being satisfied with normal life ever again. Killing each other or a suicide pact were all which remained an option. And which it was is meaningless, as in both cases I can't tell you more of it, right? ;-)
National Poetry Day
I was inspired to write that after 'being German' blocked me from participating in a contest.
National Poetry Month 2016
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
Patriotism,
a scapegoat of sorts
hunted by cowards
to cover-up crimes
or merely for sports
Still holy by roots
that love of national good
arises from ashes
phoenix of the hood
Scorn the Bad& Abusive
Encourage what’s Good!