Jesus piece and chain
JesusAndMaryChain
2020.05.10 18:44 patiencevalley JesusAndMaryChain
A place for all discussions and sharing of things related to the band The Jesus And Mary Chain
2021.01.23 15:16 SolarIcarus LegionOfReason
'They went across the lake to the region of the Gerasenes. When Jesus got out of the boat, a man with an impure spirit came from the tombs to meet him. This man lived in the tombs, and no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain. For he had often been chained hand and foot, but he tore the chains apart and broke the irons on his feet. No one was strong enough to subdue him...' 'Then Jesus asked him, “What is your name?” “My name is Legion,” he replied, “for we are many."'
2012.02.17 18:34 Advice from experienced mechanics from several fields.
This is more than a car repair forum!
2024.05.16 23:27 GovTech A Brogue Guide
Note: This guide contains minor spoilers.
Brogue is a challenging game and many players never manage to “beat” it, despite months or even years of attempts. This guide is intended as a framework for optimizing your gameplay so that you too can join the ranks of glorious heroes who’ve ascended the Dungeons of Doom with the Amulet of Yendor held high.
Part 1: Mindset
In his book Outliers, the journalist Malcom Gladwell makes the case that plane crashes aren’t usually caused by a single event, but an accumulation of small factors that eventually become unmanageable for the pilots. This is a useful analogy for dying in Brogue.
In most cases, a monster won’t simply walk over and kill you. Rather, you’ll use an unidentified potion that causes you to catch on fire and in the course of walking to the water, you’ll trip over a confusion trap and end up getting stung to death by eels and toads. Things start off fine, a minor accident happens and then problems pile up and suddenly you’re dead. How did this happen?
Most deaths in Brogue can be attributed to underestimating the dangers that surround you and not having contingency plans ready. Winning, therefore, is largely a matter of isolating threats and dealing with each individually, while meanwhile collecting as many contingency plans as possible. It’s much easier to kill a single pink jelly by backing yourself into a nook, for instance, than it is to stand in the open and fight eight of them at once. Your odds of survival are much greater if you have several weapons and means of escape at hand.
As you play, constantly assess how much danger you’re in. You should do this each time you descend to a new level, but also periodically throughout each level. It helps to be somewhat familiar with the game’s monsters and other hazards and to know on which levels they typically appear. By the time you reach depth 6, for instance, there’s a good chance you’ll start encountering ogres. Don’t wait until one is standing in front of you to come up with a means of killing it. Have as many plans as possible ready before you can even see her.
Tip: A common place people die is around depth 7 or 8. It’s by this time that, barring some great luck in early gear, you’ll need to begin committing to a build. The first few levels of the game will forgive a player who wanders around without much of a plan, but around depth 8, more difficult enemies appear and you need an efficient way to kill or avoid them.
Upon each descent to a new level, ask yourself, “How much am I risking by keeping this item unused in my inventory? Will using this now keep me alive on this level or am I simply wasting something that could be put to better use later?” Greedily hoarding six enchant scrolls because you still haven’t found the perfect weapon is a common precursor to death. Always just trying to stay alive for one more level is an ideal strategy if you can sustain it deep enough.
This leads us to the most underrated asset a player can wield in Brogue: information.
Part 2: Information
Like many roguelikes, Brogue is made more challenging because the player has incomplete information about his surroundings. The map is dark. There are hidden traps and enemies. Items and equipment are not identified. They could be cursed or harmful. And even if you know which items are harmful and which are helpful because you’ve used a detect magic potion, if it’s the first time you’ve encountered an item, you still won’t know precisely how it’s helpful or harmful.
Mere information is enough to keep you alive in many situations. That you could easily die with an unidentified teleport scroll in your inventory is evidence of this. The difference between being overcome by a group of furies or jackals and easily dispatching the group is knowing just where they are on the other side of that door. Waiting a few moments might save your life, if only you know well enough to do so.
You should not attempt to kill every monster in the dungeon. If you can clearly see that you can kill a monster and you’re sure that no other monster will approach during that fight, it’s generally a good idea to kill it so that it doesn’t later happen upon you at an inopportune time. But if there’s a dragon alone in a small room, it’s generally a good idea to leave him alone.
Scrolls of magic mapping, rings of awareness, rings of clairvoyance, telepathy charms and detect magic potions are incredibly valuable. Awareness gives your character free searches with each move, reducing the chance of stepping on a trap that could trigger a fatal chain reaction of events. Clairvoyance ensures you won’t miss hidden rooms and gives you advance notice of monsters. Telepathy shows you the locations and movement patterns of enemies. Detect magic ensures you won’t read a cursed scroll or equip a piece of equipment that could weaken your character long enough to kill him. Magic mapping ensures you and your allies don’t step on traps and it helps optimize your route, saving on food costs and aiding in tactical awareness for fights.
Your goal with regard to information should be a complete view of everything. This is not possible, but recognizing how much you can’t see and know is a useful step toward mitigating the risks that those information gaps present.
Tip: If you don’t have gear to help you detect hidden things, search often. (But not too often or you’ll run out of food and starve, perhaps the most ignominious of all Brogue deaths.) Clairvoyance and awareness rings are underrated — strongly consider taking them from vaults unless there’s a regeneration ring, which is perhaps the most powerful, or a ring you need for your build, like stealth or wisdom.
Part 3: Gear
Flexibility is key to survival in Brogue, because the environment is chaotic. Fires spread, clouds of noxious gasses unexpectedly fill the rooms and enemies grow greater in number as the player descends. Whatever your gear preference, the best way to survive is to decide on a build based on what’s available. Stubbornly clinging to the hope a broadsword will appear could mean an early death if you fail to use what gear is actually available.
A wide range of builds are viable. The key is to experiment, iterate and constantly assess how your selected loadout is faring against the dungeon’s threats.
Some seeds contain altars that allow the player to swap the enchants of one item to another, allowing the player to use one build in the early game and another for later levels.
Broadly, there are two strategies for gearing up. One is to put most or all enchants into a single item. The other is to spread the enchants around. Both can be viable depending on the seed.
Going all-in on a teleportation charm is a viable strategy with a bit of luck, and made more viable by armor that blocks dragonfire.
Fully enchanting a regeneration ring works best if the seed also happens to contain powerful weapons and armor with some level of innate enchantment.
Putting most or all enchants into a stealth ring can work if you have a war hammer, which is a slow weapon and otherwise difficult to use.
Many of the staves work well as the centerpiece of a build, as well.
There’s a table online that shows the amount of damage each weapon does. Consulting this can reveal tradeoffs in putting yet another enchant into your weapon versus diversifying and putting some enchants into a staff or ring, instead. It’s generally not worth enchanting armor unless it has a runic you’re using in your build.
Part 4: More tips to win Brogue
Even those who are good at Brogue die a lot. The No. 1 tip is to not give up. Replay each death, either in your mind or literally using the game’s recording function, to figure out what you might have done differently to survive. Eventually, you will prevail. It’s tough, but far from impossible.
Godspeed.
submitted by GovTech to brogueforum [link] [comments]
Brogue is a challenging game and many players never manage to “beat” it, despite months or even years of attempts. This guide is intended as a framework for optimizing your gameplay so that you too can join the ranks of glorious heroes who’ve ascended the Dungeons of Doom with the Amulet of Yendor held high.
Part 1: Mindset
In his book Outliers, the journalist Malcom Gladwell makes the case that plane crashes aren’t usually caused by a single event, but an accumulation of small factors that eventually become unmanageable for the pilots. This is a useful analogy for dying in Brogue.
In most cases, a monster won’t simply walk over and kill you. Rather, you’ll use an unidentified potion that causes you to catch on fire and in the course of walking to the water, you’ll trip over a confusion trap and end up getting stung to death by eels and toads. Things start off fine, a minor accident happens and then problems pile up and suddenly you’re dead. How did this happen?
Most deaths in Brogue can be attributed to underestimating the dangers that surround you and not having contingency plans ready. Winning, therefore, is largely a matter of isolating threats and dealing with each individually, while meanwhile collecting as many contingency plans as possible. It’s much easier to kill a single pink jelly by backing yourself into a nook, for instance, than it is to stand in the open and fight eight of them at once. Your odds of survival are much greater if you have several weapons and means of escape at hand.
As you play, constantly assess how much danger you’re in. You should do this each time you descend to a new level, but also periodically throughout each level. It helps to be somewhat familiar with the game’s monsters and other hazards and to know on which levels they typically appear. By the time you reach depth 6, for instance, there’s a good chance you’ll start encountering ogres. Don’t wait until one is standing in front of you to come up with a means of killing it. Have as many plans as possible ready before you can even see her.
Tip: A common place people die is around depth 7 or 8. It’s by this time that, barring some great luck in early gear, you’ll need to begin committing to a build. The first few levels of the game will forgive a player who wanders around without much of a plan, but around depth 8, more difficult enemies appear and you need an efficient way to kill or avoid them.
Upon each descent to a new level, ask yourself, “How much am I risking by keeping this item unused in my inventory? Will using this now keep me alive on this level or am I simply wasting something that could be put to better use later?” Greedily hoarding six enchant scrolls because you still haven’t found the perfect weapon is a common precursor to death. Always just trying to stay alive for one more level is an ideal strategy if you can sustain it deep enough.
This leads us to the most underrated asset a player can wield in Brogue: information.
Part 2: Information
Like many roguelikes, Brogue is made more challenging because the player has incomplete information about his surroundings. The map is dark. There are hidden traps and enemies. Items and equipment are not identified. They could be cursed or harmful. And even if you know which items are harmful and which are helpful because you’ve used a detect magic potion, if it’s the first time you’ve encountered an item, you still won’t know precisely how it’s helpful or harmful.
Mere information is enough to keep you alive in many situations. That you could easily die with an unidentified teleport scroll in your inventory is evidence of this. The difference between being overcome by a group of furies or jackals and easily dispatching the group is knowing just where they are on the other side of that door. Waiting a few moments might save your life, if only you know well enough to do so.
You should not attempt to kill every monster in the dungeon. If you can clearly see that you can kill a monster and you’re sure that no other monster will approach during that fight, it’s generally a good idea to kill it so that it doesn’t later happen upon you at an inopportune time. But if there’s a dragon alone in a small room, it’s generally a good idea to leave him alone.
Scrolls of magic mapping, rings of awareness, rings of clairvoyance, telepathy charms and detect magic potions are incredibly valuable. Awareness gives your character free searches with each move, reducing the chance of stepping on a trap that could trigger a fatal chain reaction of events. Clairvoyance ensures you won’t miss hidden rooms and gives you advance notice of monsters. Telepathy shows you the locations and movement patterns of enemies. Detect magic ensures you won’t read a cursed scroll or equip a piece of equipment that could weaken your character long enough to kill him. Magic mapping ensures you and your allies don’t step on traps and it helps optimize your route, saving on food costs and aiding in tactical awareness for fights.
Your goal with regard to information should be a complete view of everything. This is not possible, but recognizing how much you can’t see and know is a useful step toward mitigating the risks that those information gaps present.
Tip: If you don’t have gear to help you detect hidden things, search often. (But not too often or you’ll run out of food and starve, perhaps the most ignominious of all Brogue deaths.) Clairvoyance and awareness rings are underrated — strongly consider taking them from vaults unless there’s a regeneration ring, which is perhaps the most powerful, or a ring you need for your build, like stealth or wisdom.
Part 3: Gear
Flexibility is key to survival in Brogue, because the environment is chaotic. Fires spread, clouds of noxious gasses unexpectedly fill the rooms and enemies grow greater in number as the player descends. Whatever your gear preference, the best way to survive is to decide on a build based on what’s available. Stubbornly clinging to the hope a broadsword will appear could mean an early death if you fail to use what gear is actually available.
A wide range of builds are viable. The key is to experiment, iterate and constantly assess how your selected loadout is faring against the dungeon’s threats.
Some seeds contain altars that allow the player to swap the enchants of one item to another, allowing the player to use one build in the early game and another for later levels.
Broadly, there are two strategies for gearing up. One is to put most or all enchants into a single item. The other is to spread the enchants around. Both can be viable depending on the seed.
Going all-in on a teleportation charm is a viable strategy with a bit of luck, and made more viable by armor that blocks dragonfire.
Fully enchanting a regeneration ring works best if the seed also happens to contain powerful weapons and armor with some level of innate enchantment.
Putting most or all enchants into a stealth ring can work if you have a war hammer, which is a slow weapon and otherwise difficult to use.
Many of the staves work well as the centerpiece of a build, as well.
There’s a table online that shows the amount of damage each weapon does. Consulting this can reveal tradeoffs in putting yet another enchant into your weapon versus diversifying and putting some enchants into a staff or ring, instead. It’s generally not worth enchanting armor unless it has a runic you’re using in your build.
Part 4: More tips to win Brogue
Even those who are good at Brogue die a lot. The No. 1 tip is to not give up. Replay each death, either in your mind or literally using the game’s recording function, to figure out what you might have done differently to survive. Eventually, you will prevail. It’s tough, but far from impossible.
- Consult the in-game “discovered items” menu to see which items you’ve discovered. This can help make risk-reward assessments when using unidentified items.
- Using unidentified items in batches (away from enemies) is a good way of mitigating the danger of that activity. Using a hallucination potion or fire potion is much less dangerous if you can follow it up immediately with a life potion.
- Stay away from eels.
- Avoid equipping unidentified gear unless you’re desperate or have a way of removing cursed gear, such as a scroll of remove curse, scroll of protect armor, scroll of protect weapon, or an enchant scroll. The latter is wasteful but better than being dead, and many cursed items can make a run fatally difficult.
- Remember helpful landmarks. Bloodwort stalks, pools of lava and chasms can all be used to help you navigate tricky situations. Bloodwort pods can heal. Luring enemies upstairs and then jumping down through chasms can eliminate threats. Lava can be combined with beckoning or entrancement to kill most enemies in a single turn.
- Try not to miss hidden rooms. They might contain food, life potions, enchant scrolls or other gear that would make a big difference between success and failure.
- Negation kills golems instantly.
- Don’t get cocky. No matter how powerful you get, getting paralyzed in the wrong place will kill you, as will many other things.
- Consider the multiple uses that items may have. A little forethought and creativity, combining items with the environment, can yield powerful outcomes.
- You can use an item from a vault and then return it to get a new item.
Godspeed.
2024.05.16 22:20 dopaminewellbeing My Testimony
Dear reader,
My name is Francois, and I’m a 42-year-old man from the heart of South Africa, sharing my story from a place of vulnerability and hope.
My battle with addiction didn’t just appear out of nowhere; it was a seed planted in the tender years of my childhood, around 5 or 6 years old. These early behaviors, seemingly innocent at the time, unknowingly charted a course filled with challenges and heartache. The arrival of the internet in my life in 1997 opened the floodgates to a world of pornography, ensnaring me in a relentless struggle that, to this day, I am tirelessly fighting against.
After my schooling years, my curiosity led me down a darker path—smoking and then dabbling in street drugs. It was a descent into a world I never thought I’d escape. Yet, through divine intervention and the unwavering support of a Christian Rehabilitation center, I embarked on a journey of healing from February 2022 to August 2023. My plan was simple: heal quickly and leave. However, God had a profoundly different journey in mind, one that would test my resolve and reshape my understanding of patience and surrender.
In an unexpected turn of events, while still in rehabilitation, I was presented with an opportunity to return to my former role as a Graphic Designer in February 2023. The offer was met with mixed feelings; the thought of revisiting old grounds, potentially fraught with triggers, filled me with trepidation. Yet, upon introspection, I realized my reluctance was less about fear of relapse and more about a deep-seated dissatisfaction with my chosen career. Persuaded by former colleagues, I hesitantly accepted the offer, embarking on a path that not only led to unexpected fulfillment but also affirmed the transformative power of faith and God’s will in restoring one’s life.
This period of my life was further complicated when my father fell gravely ill in March 2023, passing away after several months of battling his illness in August 2023. The grief was palpable, a void that seemed insurmountable. Yet, it was through the strength of my faith, the embrace of my church community, and the unwavering support from the rehabilitation center that I found the fortitude to face each day without succumbing to old habits of substance abuse and self-destruction.
Today, while I celebrate the victory over substance abuse, I am candid about the battles that still rage within—smoking, lust, sugar addiction, energy drinks, and procrastination. Each day presents its own set of challenges, a reminder of my human frailty. Yet, I hold onto the promise, believing with unwavering faith that “I can do everything through Christ who gives me strength.” It’s a testament to the journey of healing, a path marked by setbacks and victories, each step taken in the certainty that with God, all things are possible.
My purpose in creating this website is to extend a hand of solidarity and support to those who find themselves entangled in the grips of addiction, just as I have been. It’s a space born from my heart’s desire to connect with others walking a similar path, seeking a beacon of hope and a way forward. Through the sharing of personal blog posts, inspirational YouTube videos, powerful scriptures, and thought-provoking journal prompts, my aim is to offer a reservoir of resources that can illuminate the path to freedom.
This platform is not just a collection of content; it’s a testament to the power of shared struggles and the collective journey towards healing. I believe that by weaving our stories together, by sharing the tools and reflections that have helped me inch closer to liberation from my own chains, we can create a tapestry of support that uplifts and empowers each one of us.
To anyone who sees a reflection of their own struggles in mine, this website is for you. It’s a place where hope resides, where wisdom is shared, and where every piece of content is a stepping stone towards a life unbound by addiction. Let’s embark on this journey together, supporting one another with compassion, understanding, and the shared belief that liberation is possible, one step at a time.
Sincerely, Francois
submitted by dopaminewellbeing to ChristiansAddiction [link] [comments]
My name is Francois, and I’m a 42-year-old man from the heart of South Africa, sharing my story from a place of vulnerability and hope.
My battle with addiction didn’t just appear out of nowhere; it was a seed planted in the tender years of my childhood, around 5 or 6 years old. These early behaviors, seemingly innocent at the time, unknowingly charted a course filled with challenges and heartache. The arrival of the internet in my life in 1997 opened the floodgates to a world of pornography, ensnaring me in a relentless struggle that, to this day, I am tirelessly fighting against.
After my schooling years, my curiosity led me down a darker path—smoking and then dabbling in street drugs. It was a descent into a world I never thought I’d escape. Yet, through divine intervention and the unwavering support of a Christian Rehabilitation center, I embarked on a journey of healing from February 2022 to August 2023. My plan was simple: heal quickly and leave. However, God had a profoundly different journey in mind, one that would test my resolve and reshape my understanding of patience and surrender.
In an unexpected turn of events, while still in rehabilitation, I was presented with an opportunity to return to my former role as a Graphic Designer in February 2023. The offer was met with mixed feelings; the thought of revisiting old grounds, potentially fraught with triggers, filled me with trepidation. Yet, upon introspection, I realized my reluctance was less about fear of relapse and more about a deep-seated dissatisfaction with my chosen career. Persuaded by former colleagues, I hesitantly accepted the offer, embarking on a path that not only led to unexpected fulfillment but also affirmed the transformative power of faith and God’s will in restoring one’s life.
This period of my life was further complicated when my father fell gravely ill in March 2023, passing away after several months of battling his illness in August 2023. The grief was palpable, a void that seemed insurmountable. Yet, it was through the strength of my faith, the embrace of my church community, and the unwavering support from the rehabilitation center that I found the fortitude to face each day without succumbing to old habits of substance abuse and self-destruction.
Today, while I celebrate the victory over substance abuse, I am candid about the battles that still rage within—smoking, lust, sugar addiction, energy drinks, and procrastination. Each day presents its own set of challenges, a reminder of my human frailty. Yet, I hold onto the promise, believing with unwavering faith that “I can do everything through Christ who gives me strength.” It’s a testament to the journey of healing, a path marked by setbacks and victories, each step taken in the certainty that with God, all things are possible.
My purpose in creating this website is to extend a hand of solidarity and support to those who find themselves entangled in the grips of addiction, just as I have been. It’s a space born from my heart’s desire to connect with others walking a similar path, seeking a beacon of hope and a way forward. Through the sharing of personal blog posts, inspirational YouTube videos, powerful scriptures, and thought-provoking journal prompts, my aim is to offer a reservoir of resources that can illuminate the path to freedom.
This platform is not just a collection of content; it’s a testament to the power of shared struggles and the collective journey towards healing. I believe that by weaving our stories together, by sharing the tools and reflections that have helped me inch closer to liberation from my own chains, we can create a tapestry of support that uplifts and empowers each one of us.
To anyone who sees a reflection of their own struggles in mine, this website is for you. It’s a place where hope resides, where wisdom is shared, and where every piece of content is a stepping stone towards a life unbound by addiction. Let’s embark on this journey together, supporting one another with compassion, understanding, and the shared belief that liberation is possible, one step at a time.
Sincerely, Francois
2024.05.16 22:13 _Triple_ [STORE] 900+ KNIVES/GLOVES/SKINS, 100.000$+ INVENTORY. BFK Lore, Gloves Amphibious, Skeleton Fade, Bowie Emerald, BFK Auto, Gloves MF, Talon Doppler, Gloves POW, Bayo Tiger, Gut Sapphire, Stiletto MF, M9 Ultra, Ursus Doppler, Flip Doppler, M9 Stained, Nomad CW, Paracord CW, AK-47 X-Ray & A Lot More
Everything in my inventory is up for trade. The most valuable items are listed here, the rest you can find in My Inventory
Feel free to Add Me or even better send a Trade Offer. Open for any suggestions: upgrades, downgrades / knives, gloves, skins / stickers, patterns, floats.
All Buyouts are listed in cash value.
KNIVES
★ Butterfly Knife Lore (Factory New), B/O: $7194.77
★ Butterfly Knife Autotronic (Minimal Wear), B/O: $2025.74
⎯★ M9 Bayonet Ultraviolet (Field-Tested), B/O: $557.87
★ M9 Bayonet Stained (Well-Worn), B/O: $529.41
★ M9 Bayonet Boreal Forest (Field-Tested), B/O: $465.39
⎯★ Talon Knife Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $1295.27
★ Bayonet Tiger Tooth (Minimal Wear), B/O: $746.28
★ Karambit Bright Water (Field-Tested), B/O: $688.15
⎯★ Flip Knife Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $547.93
★ Flip Knife Autotronic (Minimal Wear), B/O: $476.69
★ Flip Knife Case Hardened (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $278.18
★ Flip Knife Black Laminate (Well-Worn), B/O: $258.83
★ Flip Knife Urban Masked (Field-Tested), B/O: $181.64
⎯★ Stiletto Knife Marble Fade (Factory New), B/O: $686.04
★ Stiletto Knife Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $665.41
★ Stiletto Knife, B/O: $601.39
★ Stiletto Knife Crimson Web (Field-Tested), B/O: $418.25
★ Stiletto Knife Night Stripe (Field-Tested), B/O: $227.80
★ Stiletto Knife Boreal Forest (Field-Tested), B/O: $194.96
★ Stiletto Knife Safari Mesh (Field-Tested), B/O: $192.79
⎯★ Nomad Knife Crimson Web (Field-Tested), B/O: $518.11
★ Nomad Knife Scorched (Field-Tested), B/O: $169.78
★ Nomad Knife Forest DDPAT (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $166.88
★ StatTrak™ Nomad Knife Blue Steel (Field-Tested), B/O: $335.79
⎯★ Skeleton Knife Stained (Well-Worn), B/O: $442.05
★ Skeleton Knife Urban Masked (Minimal Wear), B/O: $426.24
★ Skeleton Knife Boreal Forest (Field-Tested), B/O: $314.03
★ StatTrak™ Skeleton Knife Fade (Minimal Wear), B/O: $2361.28
★ StatTrak™ Skeleton Knife Urban Masked (Field-Tested), B/O: $376.53
⎯★ Ursus Knife Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $557.12
★ Ursus Knife, B/O: $471.42
★ Ursus Knife Blue Steel (Minimal Wear), B/O: $212.37
★ Ursus Knife Case Hardened (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $187.66
★ Ursus Knife Damascus Steel (Field-Tested), B/O: $178.18
★ Ursus Knife Ultraviolet (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $155.13
★ Ursus Knife Boreal Forest (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $124.26
⎯★ Huntsman Knife Black Laminate (Minimal Wear), B/O: $204.83
★ Huntsman Knife Black Laminate (Field-Tested), B/O: $184.50
★ StatTrak™ Huntsman Knife Lore (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $224.11
⎯★ Bowie Knife Gamma Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $2142.02
★ Bowie Knife, B/O: $230.44
★ Bowie Knife Damascus Steel (Factory New), B/O: $209.20
★ Bowie Knife Ultraviolet (Minimal Wear), B/O: $180.51
★ Bowie Knife Ultraviolet (Field-Tested), B/O: $131.03
⎯★ Falchion Knife Night (Field-Tested), B/O: $132.54
★ Falchion Knife Urban Masked (Well-Worn), B/O: $112.81
★ Falchion Knife Scorched (Field-Tested), B/O: $108.81
★ Falchion Knife Forest DDPAT (Field-Tested), B/O: $107.82
★ Falchion Knife Safari Mesh (Field-Tested), B/O: $107.46
★ StatTrak™ Falchion Knife Ultraviolet (Field-Tested), B/O: $143.08
⎯★ Paracord Knife Crimson Web (Minimal Wear), B/O: $486.48
★ Paracord Knife Blue Steel (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $163.12
⎯★ Survival Knife Blue Steel (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $138.26
★ Survival Knife Night Stripe (Field-Tested), B/O: $131.03
⎯★ Gut Knife Sapphire (Minimal Wear), B/O: $1127.79
★ Gut Knife Gamma Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $286.17
★ Gut Knife Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $246.55
★ Gut Knife Marble Fade (Factory New), B/O: $240.77
★ Gut Knife, B/O: $210.49
★ Gut Knife Lore (Field-Tested), B/O: $194.22
★ Gut Knife Case Hardened (Battle-Scarred), B/O: $151.51
★ Gut Knife Blue Steel (Minimal Wear), B/O: $124.94
★ Gut Knife Rust Coat (Well-Worn), B/O: $118.99
★ Gut Knife Boreal Forest (Minimal Wear), B/O: $109.80
★ StatTrak™ Gut Knife Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $237.96
⎯★ Shadow Daggers Gamma Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $264.92
★ Shadow Daggers Marble Fade (Factory New), B/O: $253.03
★ Shadow Daggers Tiger Tooth (Factory New), B/O: $237.22
★ Shadow Daggers Crimson Web (Field-Tested), B/O: $153.40
★ Shadow Daggers Autotronic (Minimal Wear), B/O: $144.42
★ Shadow Daggers Blue Steel (Field-Tested), B/O: $105.20
★ StatTrak™ Shadow Daggers Damascus Steel (Minimal Wear), B/O: $150.46
⎯★ Navaja Knife Fade (Factory New), B/O: $365.99
★ Navaja Knife Doppler (Factory New), B/O: $228.93
★ Navaja Knife Marble Fade (Factory New), B/O: $227.43
★ Navaja Knife Slaughter (Factory New), B/O: $209.06
★ Navaja Knife, B/O: $203.16
★ Navaja Knife Case Hardened (Well-Worn), B/O: $132.57
★ Navaja Knife Damascus Steel (Factory New), B/O: $121.69
★ Navaja Knife Damascus Steel (Minimal Wear), B/O: $109.95
★ Navaja Knife Damascus Steel (Field-Tested), B/O: $100.41
★ StatTrak™ Navaja Knife Fade (Factory New), B/O: $369.01
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2024.05.16 22:05 RipPsychological5879 Body Language Expert Examines JP Miller Performance
I happened to watch this today. I feel like not only Mica’s family but all those who deeply care about justice for Mica, would appreciate this clip in the event they haven’t seen it already. This is more proof for the case to be thoroughly investigated.
We Don’t See Grief: Body Language Expert on Mica Miller’s Pastor Husband -
https://youtu.be/gTLAGOTcxo0?si=AhUoOb4hjSkQTMk2
When I watched the memorial psycho JP put on, I found it not surprising how he did not allow anyone other than that other pastor to speak about beautiful memories about Mica. All “controlled” from an out of control person. But also, watching it, it just felt so incredibly “off.”
Listening to this link above, helped me understand WHY. It’s weird all the things we as humans pick up on that we can’t articulate like this body language expert but just sense it, ie gut knowings. I pray everyday for Mica, Mica’s family, and ALL those victims of JP Miller and the ring leader his father. Mica belonged to Jesus not to JP. False prophets will be humbled.
Additionally, false prophets are a liability to the Christian faith. It’s what makes people run from the Bible. But like anything in life, those that truly are in Christ trust the process of life. Even in the valleys of the shadow of death.
There was a gentlemen on the Solid Rock YouTube channel that posted John 2:2-22 in the comments on one of the vids. WOW. An important read for all Christians.
Hugs.
2 But there were also false prophets among the people, just as there will be false teachers among you. They will secretly introduce destructive heresies, even denying the sovereign Lord who bought them—bringing swift destruction on themselves. 2 Many will follow their depraved conduct and will bring the way of truth into disrepute. 3 In their greed these teachers will exploit you with fabricated stories. Their condemnation has long been hanging over them, and their destruction has not been sleeping.
4 For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but sent them to hell,[a] putting them in chains of darkness[b] to be held for judgment; 5 if he did not spare the ancient world when he brought the flood on its ungodly people, but protected Noah, a preacher of righteousness, and seven others; 6 if he condemned the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah by burning them to ashes, and made them an example of what is going to happen to the ungodly; 7 and if he rescued Lot, a righteous man, who was distressed by the depraved conduct of the lawless 8 (for that righteous man, living among them day after day, was tormented in his righteous soul by the lawless deeds he saw and heard)— 9 if this is so, then the Lord knows how to rescue the godly from trials and to hold the unrighteous for punishment on the day of judgment. 10 This is especially true of those who follow the corrupt desire of the flesh[c] and despise authority.
Bold and arrogant, they are not afraid to heap abuse on celestial beings; 11 yet even angels, although they are stronger and more powerful, do not heap abuse on such beings when bringing judgment on them from[d] the Lord. 12 But these people blaspheme in matters they do not understand. They are like unreasoning animals, creatures of instinct, born only to be caught and destroyed, and like animals they too will perish.
13 They will be paid back with harm for the harm they have done. Their idea of pleasure is to carouse in broad daylight. They are blots and blemishes, reveling in their pleasures while they feast with you.[e] 14 With eyes full of adultery, they never stop sinning; they seduce the unstable; they are experts in greed—an accursed brood! 15 They have left the straight way and wandered off to follow the way of Balaam son of Bezer,[f] who loved the wages of wickedness. 16 But he was rebuked for his wrongdoing by a donkey—an animal without speech—who spoke with a human voice and restrained the prophet’s madness.
17 These people are springs without water and mists driven by a storm. Blackest darkness is reserved for them. 18 For they mouth empty, boastful words and, by appealing to the lustful desires of the flesh, they entice people who are just escaping from those who live in error. 19 They promise them freedom, while they themselves are slaves of depravity—for “people are slaves to whatever has mastered them.” 20 If they have escaped the corruption of the world by knowing our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and are again entangled in it and are overcome, they are worse off at the end than they were at the beginning. 21 It would have been better for them not to have known the way of righteousness, than to have known it and then to turn their backs on the sacred command that was passed on to them. 22 Of them the proverbs are true: “A dog returns to its vomit,”[g] and, “A sow that is washed returns to her wallowing in the mud.”
submitted by RipPsychological5879 to JusticeForMicaMiller [link] [comments]
We Don’t See Grief: Body Language Expert on Mica Miller’s Pastor Husband -
https://youtu.be/gTLAGOTcxo0?si=AhUoOb4hjSkQTMk2
When I watched the memorial psycho JP put on, I found it not surprising how he did not allow anyone other than that other pastor to speak about beautiful memories about Mica. All “controlled” from an out of control person. But also, watching it, it just felt so incredibly “off.”
Listening to this link above, helped me understand WHY. It’s weird all the things we as humans pick up on that we can’t articulate like this body language expert but just sense it, ie gut knowings. I pray everyday for Mica, Mica’s family, and ALL those victims of JP Miller and the ring leader his father. Mica belonged to Jesus not to JP. False prophets will be humbled.
Additionally, false prophets are a liability to the Christian faith. It’s what makes people run from the Bible. But like anything in life, those that truly are in Christ trust the process of life. Even in the valleys of the shadow of death.
There was a gentlemen on the Solid Rock YouTube channel that posted John 2:2-22 in the comments on one of the vids. WOW. An important read for all Christians.
Hugs.
justiceformica 💜
“False Teachers and Their Destruction2 But there were also false prophets among the people, just as there will be false teachers among you. They will secretly introduce destructive heresies, even denying the sovereign Lord who bought them—bringing swift destruction on themselves. 2 Many will follow their depraved conduct and will bring the way of truth into disrepute. 3 In their greed these teachers will exploit you with fabricated stories. Their condemnation has long been hanging over them, and their destruction has not been sleeping.
4 For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but sent them to hell,[a] putting them in chains of darkness[b] to be held for judgment; 5 if he did not spare the ancient world when he brought the flood on its ungodly people, but protected Noah, a preacher of righteousness, and seven others; 6 if he condemned the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah by burning them to ashes, and made them an example of what is going to happen to the ungodly; 7 and if he rescued Lot, a righteous man, who was distressed by the depraved conduct of the lawless 8 (for that righteous man, living among them day after day, was tormented in his righteous soul by the lawless deeds he saw and heard)— 9 if this is so, then the Lord knows how to rescue the godly from trials and to hold the unrighteous for punishment on the day of judgment. 10 This is especially true of those who follow the corrupt desire of the flesh[c] and despise authority.
Bold and arrogant, they are not afraid to heap abuse on celestial beings; 11 yet even angels, although they are stronger and more powerful, do not heap abuse on such beings when bringing judgment on them from[d] the Lord. 12 But these people blaspheme in matters they do not understand. They are like unreasoning animals, creatures of instinct, born only to be caught and destroyed, and like animals they too will perish.
13 They will be paid back with harm for the harm they have done. Their idea of pleasure is to carouse in broad daylight. They are blots and blemishes, reveling in their pleasures while they feast with you.[e] 14 With eyes full of adultery, they never stop sinning; they seduce the unstable; they are experts in greed—an accursed brood! 15 They have left the straight way and wandered off to follow the way of Balaam son of Bezer,[f] who loved the wages of wickedness. 16 But he was rebuked for his wrongdoing by a donkey—an animal without speech—who spoke with a human voice and restrained the prophet’s madness.
17 These people are springs without water and mists driven by a storm. Blackest darkness is reserved for them. 18 For they mouth empty, boastful words and, by appealing to the lustful desires of the flesh, they entice people who are just escaping from those who live in error. 19 They promise them freedom, while they themselves are slaves of depravity—for “people are slaves to whatever has mastered them.” 20 If they have escaped the corruption of the world by knowing our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and are again entangled in it and are overcome, they are worse off at the end than they were at the beginning. 21 It would have been better for them not to have known the way of righteousness, than to have known it and then to turn their backs on the sacred command that was passed on to them. 22 Of them the proverbs are true: “A dog returns to its vomit,”[g] and, “A sow that is washed returns to her wallowing in the mud.”
2024.05.16 21:57 hoggersbridge Engines of Arachnea: The Bug World (Chapter 20: The God Speaks)
Link for all the chapters available here: Engines of Arachnea on Royal Road
Deep in the groaning halls of sinew and bone he awaited his audience with the god. At a wave of his hand the ribs which held up the ceiling contracted, tendons shifting within the pink walls of the chamber as the jagged, calcareous spurs that composed the doorway sank back into the spongy masses of tissue, revealing a passage curving down and out of sight.
Menash stood before the yawning portal and considered eternity. This was no an idle thought: here in the Dawning Chamber, the concept was very real. His father, Yulan, had stood in this exact spot times beyond count. When he was struck down in his prime by the Night Weaver and her Leaper offspring, torn limb from limb as he fought to defend Chthonis from a raiding party, Menash’s uncle, Aqavarr, had carried his broken remains over that grinning threshold to join the hosts of the dead, never to return.
A hot and heavy exhalation rattled up out of the depths, wafting in the acrid scent of the bonding pools and the wet slithering sound of the rebirthing canals. Menash felt a crackle of static in the corners of his mind before the signal sharpened and he heard It whisper distinctly:
“Enter…”
The familiar dread crept its way up the small of his back, and he gave a little shiver. No matter how many times he had communed with the Vitalus, he’d never been able to shake the feeling of his utter insignificance. But he persevered, walking bravely down the slurping passage, past the rows of broad antechambers lining either side of the hallway. Each one held a slumbering shape immersed in a cryogenic bath, towering hulks of muscle encased in ribbed and riveted plates of chitin. No two were alike in size or physiology, but all seemed to emanate the same primeval aura of dread that tickled Menash’s fight-or-flight-instinct, skewing it very much towards the latter response. These were the Hollowores, soulless avatars of the Vitalus, each one a tool capable of eradicating an entire species. As Menash approached, one of the living weapons stirred to life. A pronged, anvil-shaped head emerged from the bath, umbilical feeder tubes detaching from its armored flanks as the rest of its bulk followed, its mauve exoskeleton as sleek and shiny as amethyst. The Hollowore extended legs as thick as grown pine trees and lifted itself above him, its pairs of crushing pincers dripping amniotic fluids as it herded him towards the central room.
Bundles of white gossamer filaments spread all across the floor, encircling steaming pools of pus and acid. He saw arms and legs, sensory organs and entire exoskeletons being knitted before his very eyes, the amino acid chains being stitched on a layer at a time, the weeping pus evidence of microphages fighting off possible infections as the Vitalus did Its work.
These were the next generation of exomorphs, yet to be assigned to their hosts. It was here that Vitalus constantly improved the only thing that could ensure the continued survival of Menash’s subspecies. Exomorphs were bonded to Gallivants at birth, the organisms supplying their hosts with the means to breathe an atmosphere they was never meant to endure, and the strength to fight in a world that was red in tooth and claw. They were as swift as the summer wind and could multiply their host’s muscular power by up to twelve times their natural output.
But for all their God-given might, Gallivants were still mortal. They could and often did perish in the endless struggle for existence that the Vitalus called the Great Game. But even in death they could still commit their essence to posterity, passing down their defining traits through the malleable genetic code of the gilt helix. It was the Vitalus’ greatest boon; through the gilt helix a single individual could become a progenitor of an entire generation, becoming at one stroke the father of whole nations and peoples.
One day he too would prove worthy of the honor that Yulan had earned with his life. But he was not alone in that ambition. Menash was annoyed to find the crimson-clad Vezda and the cowardly Racek waiting for him inside, standing next to a large ball of filaments that hung from a tonsil-like growth hanging from the walls.
This node pulsed, emitting a small storm of bioelectric activity, networks of fungi conveying commands in the form of oscillating voltages to their communities of symbiotic bacteria, the latter containing greigite mineral crystals aligned in the shape of electromagnetic coils. Other networks hidden in the walls modulated and amplified the signals, and the three Gallivants steeled themselves for the onrushing flood of information as the Vitalus tapped into their minds.
He was a candle before the raging heart of the thunderstorm. For an instant Menash touched a fraction of Its intelligence, the divisions of time and space rolling back as they joined the ocean of shared consciousness, becoming one with the living systems of Arachnea. From the tiniest aeroplankton floating above the waves of the golden coastlines, to the herds of ultrapods munching their way through swathes of trees in the savannahs. Menash felt himself pushing up out of the soil, longing and lusting and reaching for the sunlight with a trillion green fingers uncurling, alive with the furious movement of life.
But what was that flicker of orange to the east? That searing heat, that prickling pain spreading like a cancer down his side?
The Vitalus scooped them up and hurled them headlong into hell itself. A roaring wildfire was sweeping into the heart of the eastern rainforests. Menash tasted ash and ruin, felt pieces of himself wither and burn, his branches tongues of fire, wood cracking from the intense blaze, sap boiling instantaneously upon contact and rupturing, splitting him right down the grain. He fled in terror, running, slithering, digging, swimming, flying away in crazed panic from the walls of red death closing in on him. As his skin flaked off in clumps of charcoal he looked back and saw it towering over the treetops, the epicenter of this howling vortex of destruction: the grey behemoth. Its burnished metal hide gleamed like copper, reflecting the fury of the conflagration burning well into the night.
Menash pulled his mind away before it was lost forever in the storm of electric potentials. He saw Racek and Vezda swaying on their feet, breathing hard and fast.
“Heart of the World,” he managed to gasp, “What is your bidding?”
The Hollowore maneuvered itself until it was facing him directly. Tiny beady eyes fixed him in their blank gaze. The node emitted a blue pulse and the creature shuddered as it received the signal. It opened a maw powerful enough to chew boulders into gravel and rumbled:
“This one is the alpha which survived first contact with anomalous variable. It will tell Us what occurred, and from whence this threat emerged.”
“It came from the karst mountain range, where the yellowjacket Amit live,” Menash replied, “It was destroying the largest mound in that area, massacring its inhabitants. It brought the mountain down on them—we’ve never seen anything like it. Zildiz was the first on the scene. She warned us not to approach, and that it was dangerous, but some of us,” here he cast an angry look at Vezda, “Some of us went ahead and tried to scavenge from the bodies of the dying. Then the behemoth ignited the air and burned scores of us to cinders.”
“Irrational. Why did you do this?”
“W-we thought that you had spawned the grey behemoth,” Menash stammered, embarrassed to say the least, “That it was the newest addition to the Great Game, another species of ultrafauna that would help perfect Arachnea.”
“Not so. It was made by an evil far older than the All-In-One,” replied the Vitalus, “It is called a Divine Engine. In cycles past, this evil sought to undo this world and all that inhabit it. In that, it almost succeeded.”
Menash felt his blood run cold at those words.
“Is it the only one of its kind?” Racek piped up. Menash and Vezda both bristled at his interruption; subordinates were only supposed to speak when spoken to.
“There were several deployed here in Our infancy. We had thought them all destroyed in the War of Creation.”
“Your Munificence,” Racek went on, heedless of the venomous looks he was getting from the other two, “Most of us survived because Zildiz persuaded us to dive into the river. She saved all our lives! But as I washed up on the riverbank, I saw the behemoth casting a seedpod into the skies. I did not see where it landed, but it was travelling in a high arc due east. Is this the behemoth’s method of reproducing? If so, then how many offspring can it generate from this one seed?”
The Vitalus met his questions with a minute of silence. Menash had never known It to take so long to respond to a query, and felt another stab of unease in his gut. Unless he was imagining things, the Vitalus seemed genuinely disturbed by the scenario that Racek has raised, enough to convince Menash that the danger was far from hypothetical.
“That is a distant possibility,” It said somewhat cryptically, “Regardless, We cannot allow the Engine’s continued existence.”
“Then it must be destroyed,” Vezda said, her barbed tail eagerly perking up.
“We are not certain that it can be,” the Vitalus said, and Menash heard Racek audibly gulp at the admission.
“But Your Omniscience, you alone are the arbiter of growth and decay,” Vezda said in disbelief, “Surely you can unmake this monster as well?”
“Perhaps. The Divine Engines were built to withstand the extremes of temperature, gravity, atmospheric pressure, acidity and irradiation found on semi-inhabitable exoplanets. Worlds of bareness and desolation, glassed by thermonuclear bombardment or infested with alien microorganisms. In the wars of Our youth, the Betrayers used tungsten-alloy warheads fired from space platforms to crack their bulkheads. Not even Our vessels, the Hollowores, could damage them in any significant way. We will need time to gather the raw materials and fabricate the weapons needed to end this threat.”
“What must we do?” Menash asked.
“If this variable is not dealt with, it could upset the delicate balance We have sacrificed so much to achieve. Already the wildfire it has caused will release close to 400 million metric tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere and destroy 2.3 million acres of forest before Our countermeasures can stop it. Time is our limiting factor. If the Engine cannot be destroyed now, it must be restrained.”
“It hasn’t moved an inch since we last saw it,” Vezda said brightly, “Maybe it has already died?”
“Yes, and maybe your mother was a horka toad,” Racek said snidely. Vezda scowled and took a step towards him, then stopped as she remembered that she trod on hallowed ground.
“Not so. It has merely gone dormant. Having expended its fuel, it is now running on the bare minimum of its reserves. My children, you must ensure that it does not wake again. Establish a quarantine zone around the Engine and let none approach, on pain of death. The Leaper kindreds will secure the ground while the Gallivants patrol the skies.”
Vezda and Menash exchanged troubled looks. Nobody wanted Leapers establishing a foothold in what was essentially a buffer zone between their subspecies. Once allowed to settle in a habitat, it would not take long for them to adapt and become masters of their new territory. Ousting them would become a battle of attrition, and given the lower birthrates of Gallivants, it was not one they could long afford.
“Respectfully, we do not require assistance from our brother kindred,” Menash ventured, “We are more than capable of safeguarding the area ourselves.”
The node throbbed again, the bioelectric flashes taking on an angry purple hue. With a sound like the grinding of a millstone the Hollowore clashed its claws together impatiently. All three of the mortals took a hasty step back.
“The alpha will obey, or another will be found that can,” the Vitalus growled at them, “All subspecies will observe a general truce during this period. This is a temporary addition to the Great Game. Those that serve Us well shall be rewarded. We shall also enlist the aid of your terrestrial cousins, as well as the Cataphract clans to replenish the soil, and lone Saints who shall rove beyond the quarantine zone.”
Menash’s unease deepened. The Vitalus was bringing together four different kindreds, some of which killed each other on sight, in a move that reeked of desperation. The kindreds had worked together before, of course, on complex projects such as altering rainfall patterns and husbanding struggling species, but never so many at once. This was bound to end in bloodshed.
“Those that break the truce shall be chemically neutered, and their gilt helix purged from the existing gene pool,” the Vitalus continued, “You will maintain this quarantine until We have dealt with the Engine.”
“It is understood!” Menash and Vezda said at once.
“But what about Zildiz?” Racek blurted out, again risking his entire lineage by speaking out of turn, “She might still be alive out there!”
“He’s right,” Menash found himself agreeing despite his dislike for Racek, “She’s our alpha, after all. It would be a shame to lose her helix. Do we have your leave to send out a party to recover her?”
The Vitalus pondered the request for a moment, then crushed his hopes when it said:
“Regrettable, the loss of the female. Valuable stock for the breeding program. But it has not responded to Our signals—it is unlikely to have survived. The female Vezda shall take up its duties as alpha.”
“But Your Benevolence—” both men cried out in unison.
“It is decided. She has risked the Great Game, and must abide by its outcome. To speak more on this would risk Our displeasure,” the god warned.
“We can’t spare the manpower anyway,” Vezda pointed out, trying not to look too pleased at Its decision. She darted a quick look at Menash, long enough for him to see the selfish desire festering in her heart. He turned away from her in disgust, baring his blades by the slightest of margins to let her know what he thought of her, then asked the Vitalus:
“But what of the Engine’s seedpod? Should we search for it?”
“Negative!” the Vitalus boomed, its node reinforcing the word with a spike of activity that sent needles of pain spearing into their heads, “We shall complete this task. It is dangerous and can be entrusted to no other.”
The Hollowore angled its massive head towards the cavernous ceiling, armored flaps on its back sliding aside as it unfurled sets of rigid sixty-meter wings. A wide sphincter on the roof gaped open and Menash saw the evening sky awash with the stars in their milky multitudes. The Hollowore took a deep breath through the spiracles lining its thorax and abdomen, pumping air through a pair of hollow tube-like protuberances under either of its wings. Menash and the others quickly scampered to a safe distance. Seconds later there was a scream of chemical combustion and the Hollowore rose into the evening skies, leaving behind a long trail of superheated gases, the backwash almost knocking Menash off his feet. They watched as the Hollowore gained altitude, making straight for the columns of billowing smoke on the horizon, a sweeping shadow blotting out the light of the heavens.
The Vitalus’ mental presence receded with it. When it did not return, they took it to mean that they were dismissed and likewise took flight and headed for Chthonis. They were hardly out of the Dawning Chamber when Vezda seized the scrawny Racek by his wings and anchored her feet right up against his back.
“Funny little man, are you? Crack jokes at my expense again, and I’ll see to it that you’ll never fly again!” she snarled, yanking hard. Racek yelled as his wings threatened to pop out of their sockets.
“Stop!” Menash said, ramming his shoulder into her and knocking the smaller male out of her grip. Vezda rounded on him, blades out and her tail aquiver with rage.
“As for you! No one should speak to the Vitalus like that!” she shrieked, “Much less gainsay It! Are you trying to get us all killed? It is the source and continuance of life itself—”
“But the Vitalus doesn’t always consider the individual scale of things,” Menash reasoned, controlling his rising anger as he tried to defuse the situation, “Its scope of thought is beyond ours. Therefore it is up to us to look after each other. None of us can win the Great Game alone. We need people like Zildiz for the species to prosper.”
“Your logic is flawed,” Vezda spat, “Empathy is a sham devised by the selfish action of the gene, which seeks only to preserve itself. At least I am honest enough to look after my own interests. Your obsession with that whore is misplaced. Heed my words, Menash. What happened today marks a change in the Great Game. Only the ruthless will reap the rewards of this era. Think on that, and act accordingly.”
The female darted off in another direction, leaving the two behind.
“Thanks,” Racek said, rubbing at his sore shoulders, “My, my. She’s really taking her promotion very seriously, isn’t she?”
“This doesn’t make us friends,” Menash said shortly, “We share a common interest, that’s all.”
The two flew together in silence for a time, the dark canopy unrolling below their feet. Racek had always been a bitter rival for Zildiz’s affections. In the mating seasons he and Menash had flown the damsel-dance against each other countless times, racing and dogfighting at top speed through the dense bamboo thickets in an effort to impress her.
But each time she had always chosen Menash. Naturally. He was the stronger, the braver, the son of the Scourge who had slain hundreds on his lightning raids into Leaper territory. Their pairings had been brief and passionate, yet she had always laughed at the end and gone on her merry way, a rose petal borne on a scented breeze, the dalliance as meaningless to her as other concerns like eating or breathing.
But not to him. Right now, all that mattered was her. And Racek was the only one in the whole wide world who knew exactly how he felt. Did that mean he could be trusted? Menash considered the enormity of what he was about to do, and wavered. Then he saw her face in the darkness of his home, the face she wore when they were all alone together, and he took a deep breath before breaking the silence, saying:
“I’ll be in charge of the quarantine. I can arrange for you to disappear for a few days. I can have one of the younglings mimic your magnetosynaptic signal, make it seem like you’re with the rest of us.”
“You’d do that? For me?” Racek said in astonishment.
“Hah. Not for you,” Menash laughed softly. He looked Racek straight in the eyes and continued: “What’ll it be, then?”
If he so much as hesitates, I’ll have to kill him here and now, Menash told himself.
“Why, yes. Yes, of course!” the little brown male said vigorously.
“Good,” Menash sighed with relief, “She’ll be very grateful to whoever brings her home. I’d do it myself, but as an alpha I can’t risk being seen as disobedient.”
“Then why give me this chance? After all that’s passed between us?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” Menash replied. Racek digested that for a bit, then out of nowhere said:
“If I find her—when I find her—I’ll tell her exactly who it was that sent me.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Bah! Just so we’re even, that’s all,” Racek grinned, his mouthparts slanting askew.
“Thanks, I guess. I’d…I’d appreciate that. You do understand what we’re risking here, right?”
“Sure. We’ll be total genetic write-offs if we’re caught. But it’s not like I wanted to see tiny ugly Raceks running around the house anyway. What about you, though? Why are you putting your neck on the chopping block?”
“You know why,” Menash said quietly, his thoughts still lingering on her face.
“Yes,” Racek agreed with a wistful air, “Yes, I suppose I do.”
And the pair spoke no more until they reached Chthonis.
Link for all the chapters available here: Engines of Arachnea on Royal Road
submitted by hoggersbridge to HFY [link] [comments]
Deep in the groaning halls of sinew and bone he awaited his audience with the god. At a wave of his hand the ribs which held up the ceiling contracted, tendons shifting within the pink walls of the chamber as the jagged, calcareous spurs that composed the doorway sank back into the spongy masses of tissue, revealing a passage curving down and out of sight.
Menash stood before the yawning portal and considered eternity. This was no an idle thought: here in the Dawning Chamber, the concept was very real. His father, Yulan, had stood in this exact spot times beyond count. When he was struck down in his prime by the Night Weaver and her Leaper offspring, torn limb from limb as he fought to defend Chthonis from a raiding party, Menash’s uncle, Aqavarr, had carried his broken remains over that grinning threshold to join the hosts of the dead, never to return.
A hot and heavy exhalation rattled up out of the depths, wafting in the acrid scent of the bonding pools and the wet slithering sound of the rebirthing canals. Menash felt a crackle of static in the corners of his mind before the signal sharpened and he heard It whisper distinctly:
“Enter…”
The familiar dread crept its way up the small of his back, and he gave a little shiver. No matter how many times he had communed with the Vitalus, he’d never been able to shake the feeling of his utter insignificance. But he persevered, walking bravely down the slurping passage, past the rows of broad antechambers lining either side of the hallway. Each one held a slumbering shape immersed in a cryogenic bath, towering hulks of muscle encased in ribbed and riveted plates of chitin. No two were alike in size or physiology, but all seemed to emanate the same primeval aura of dread that tickled Menash’s fight-or-flight-instinct, skewing it very much towards the latter response. These were the Hollowores, soulless avatars of the Vitalus, each one a tool capable of eradicating an entire species. As Menash approached, one of the living weapons stirred to life. A pronged, anvil-shaped head emerged from the bath, umbilical feeder tubes detaching from its armored flanks as the rest of its bulk followed, its mauve exoskeleton as sleek and shiny as amethyst. The Hollowore extended legs as thick as grown pine trees and lifted itself above him, its pairs of crushing pincers dripping amniotic fluids as it herded him towards the central room.
Bundles of white gossamer filaments spread all across the floor, encircling steaming pools of pus and acid. He saw arms and legs, sensory organs and entire exoskeletons being knitted before his very eyes, the amino acid chains being stitched on a layer at a time, the weeping pus evidence of microphages fighting off possible infections as the Vitalus did Its work.
These were the next generation of exomorphs, yet to be assigned to their hosts. It was here that Vitalus constantly improved the only thing that could ensure the continued survival of Menash’s subspecies. Exomorphs were bonded to Gallivants at birth, the organisms supplying their hosts with the means to breathe an atmosphere they was never meant to endure, and the strength to fight in a world that was red in tooth and claw. They were as swift as the summer wind and could multiply their host’s muscular power by up to twelve times their natural output.
But for all their God-given might, Gallivants were still mortal. They could and often did perish in the endless struggle for existence that the Vitalus called the Great Game. But even in death they could still commit their essence to posterity, passing down their defining traits through the malleable genetic code of the gilt helix. It was the Vitalus’ greatest boon; through the gilt helix a single individual could become a progenitor of an entire generation, becoming at one stroke the father of whole nations and peoples.
One day he too would prove worthy of the honor that Yulan had earned with his life. But he was not alone in that ambition. Menash was annoyed to find the crimson-clad Vezda and the cowardly Racek waiting for him inside, standing next to a large ball of filaments that hung from a tonsil-like growth hanging from the walls.
This node pulsed, emitting a small storm of bioelectric activity, networks of fungi conveying commands in the form of oscillating voltages to their communities of symbiotic bacteria, the latter containing greigite mineral crystals aligned in the shape of electromagnetic coils. Other networks hidden in the walls modulated and amplified the signals, and the three Gallivants steeled themselves for the onrushing flood of information as the Vitalus tapped into their minds.
He was a candle before the raging heart of the thunderstorm. For an instant Menash touched a fraction of Its intelligence, the divisions of time and space rolling back as they joined the ocean of shared consciousness, becoming one with the living systems of Arachnea. From the tiniest aeroplankton floating above the waves of the golden coastlines, to the herds of ultrapods munching their way through swathes of trees in the savannahs. Menash felt himself pushing up out of the soil, longing and lusting and reaching for the sunlight with a trillion green fingers uncurling, alive with the furious movement of life.
But what was that flicker of orange to the east? That searing heat, that prickling pain spreading like a cancer down his side?
The Vitalus scooped them up and hurled them headlong into hell itself. A roaring wildfire was sweeping into the heart of the eastern rainforests. Menash tasted ash and ruin, felt pieces of himself wither and burn, his branches tongues of fire, wood cracking from the intense blaze, sap boiling instantaneously upon contact and rupturing, splitting him right down the grain. He fled in terror, running, slithering, digging, swimming, flying away in crazed panic from the walls of red death closing in on him. As his skin flaked off in clumps of charcoal he looked back and saw it towering over the treetops, the epicenter of this howling vortex of destruction: the grey behemoth. Its burnished metal hide gleamed like copper, reflecting the fury of the conflagration burning well into the night.
Menash pulled his mind away before it was lost forever in the storm of electric potentials. He saw Racek and Vezda swaying on their feet, breathing hard and fast.
“Heart of the World,” he managed to gasp, “What is your bidding?”
The Hollowore maneuvered itself until it was facing him directly. Tiny beady eyes fixed him in their blank gaze. The node emitted a blue pulse and the creature shuddered as it received the signal. It opened a maw powerful enough to chew boulders into gravel and rumbled:
“This one is the alpha which survived first contact with anomalous variable. It will tell Us what occurred, and from whence this threat emerged.”
“It came from the karst mountain range, where the yellowjacket Amit live,” Menash replied, “It was destroying the largest mound in that area, massacring its inhabitants. It brought the mountain down on them—we’ve never seen anything like it. Zildiz was the first on the scene. She warned us not to approach, and that it was dangerous, but some of us,” here he cast an angry look at Vezda, “Some of us went ahead and tried to scavenge from the bodies of the dying. Then the behemoth ignited the air and burned scores of us to cinders.”
“Irrational. Why did you do this?”
“W-we thought that you had spawned the grey behemoth,” Menash stammered, embarrassed to say the least, “That it was the newest addition to the Great Game, another species of ultrafauna that would help perfect Arachnea.”
“Not so. It was made by an evil far older than the All-In-One,” replied the Vitalus, “It is called a Divine Engine. In cycles past, this evil sought to undo this world and all that inhabit it. In that, it almost succeeded.”
Menash felt his blood run cold at those words.
“Is it the only one of its kind?” Racek piped up. Menash and Vezda both bristled at his interruption; subordinates were only supposed to speak when spoken to.
“There were several deployed here in Our infancy. We had thought them all destroyed in the War of Creation.”
“Your Munificence,” Racek went on, heedless of the venomous looks he was getting from the other two, “Most of us survived because Zildiz persuaded us to dive into the river. She saved all our lives! But as I washed up on the riverbank, I saw the behemoth casting a seedpod into the skies. I did not see where it landed, but it was travelling in a high arc due east. Is this the behemoth’s method of reproducing? If so, then how many offspring can it generate from this one seed?”
The Vitalus met his questions with a minute of silence. Menash had never known It to take so long to respond to a query, and felt another stab of unease in his gut. Unless he was imagining things, the Vitalus seemed genuinely disturbed by the scenario that Racek has raised, enough to convince Menash that the danger was far from hypothetical.
“That is a distant possibility,” It said somewhat cryptically, “Regardless, We cannot allow the Engine’s continued existence.”
“Then it must be destroyed,” Vezda said, her barbed tail eagerly perking up.
“We are not certain that it can be,” the Vitalus said, and Menash heard Racek audibly gulp at the admission.
“But Your Omniscience, you alone are the arbiter of growth and decay,” Vezda said in disbelief, “Surely you can unmake this monster as well?”
“Perhaps. The Divine Engines were built to withstand the extremes of temperature, gravity, atmospheric pressure, acidity and irradiation found on semi-inhabitable exoplanets. Worlds of bareness and desolation, glassed by thermonuclear bombardment or infested with alien microorganisms. In the wars of Our youth, the Betrayers used tungsten-alloy warheads fired from space platforms to crack their bulkheads. Not even Our vessels, the Hollowores, could damage them in any significant way. We will need time to gather the raw materials and fabricate the weapons needed to end this threat.”
“What must we do?” Menash asked.
“If this variable is not dealt with, it could upset the delicate balance We have sacrificed so much to achieve. Already the wildfire it has caused will release close to 400 million metric tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere and destroy 2.3 million acres of forest before Our countermeasures can stop it. Time is our limiting factor. If the Engine cannot be destroyed now, it must be restrained.”
“It hasn’t moved an inch since we last saw it,” Vezda said brightly, “Maybe it has already died?”
“Yes, and maybe your mother was a horka toad,” Racek said snidely. Vezda scowled and took a step towards him, then stopped as she remembered that she trod on hallowed ground.
“Not so. It has merely gone dormant. Having expended its fuel, it is now running on the bare minimum of its reserves. My children, you must ensure that it does not wake again. Establish a quarantine zone around the Engine and let none approach, on pain of death. The Leaper kindreds will secure the ground while the Gallivants patrol the skies.”
Vezda and Menash exchanged troubled looks. Nobody wanted Leapers establishing a foothold in what was essentially a buffer zone between their subspecies. Once allowed to settle in a habitat, it would not take long for them to adapt and become masters of their new territory. Ousting them would become a battle of attrition, and given the lower birthrates of Gallivants, it was not one they could long afford.
“Respectfully, we do not require assistance from our brother kindred,” Menash ventured, “We are more than capable of safeguarding the area ourselves.”
The node throbbed again, the bioelectric flashes taking on an angry purple hue. With a sound like the grinding of a millstone the Hollowore clashed its claws together impatiently. All three of the mortals took a hasty step back.
“The alpha will obey, or another will be found that can,” the Vitalus growled at them, “All subspecies will observe a general truce during this period. This is a temporary addition to the Great Game. Those that serve Us well shall be rewarded. We shall also enlist the aid of your terrestrial cousins, as well as the Cataphract clans to replenish the soil, and lone Saints who shall rove beyond the quarantine zone.”
Menash’s unease deepened. The Vitalus was bringing together four different kindreds, some of which killed each other on sight, in a move that reeked of desperation. The kindreds had worked together before, of course, on complex projects such as altering rainfall patterns and husbanding struggling species, but never so many at once. This was bound to end in bloodshed.
“Those that break the truce shall be chemically neutered, and their gilt helix purged from the existing gene pool,” the Vitalus continued, “You will maintain this quarantine until We have dealt with the Engine.”
“It is understood!” Menash and Vezda said at once.
“But what about Zildiz?” Racek blurted out, again risking his entire lineage by speaking out of turn, “She might still be alive out there!”
“He’s right,” Menash found himself agreeing despite his dislike for Racek, “She’s our alpha, after all. It would be a shame to lose her helix. Do we have your leave to send out a party to recover her?”
The Vitalus pondered the request for a moment, then crushed his hopes when it said:
“Regrettable, the loss of the female. Valuable stock for the breeding program. But it has not responded to Our signals—it is unlikely to have survived. The female Vezda shall take up its duties as alpha.”
“But Your Benevolence—” both men cried out in unison.
“It is decided. She has risked the Great Game, and must abide by its outcome. To speak more on this would risk Our displeasure,” the god warned.
“We can’t spare the manpower anyway,” Vezda pointed out, trying not to look too pleased at Its decision. She darted a quick look at Menash, long enough for him to see the selfish desire festering in her heart. He turned away from her in disgust, baring his blades by the slightest of margins to let her know what he thought of her, then asked the Vitalus:
“But what of the Engine’s seedpod? Should we search for it?”
“Negative!” the Vitalus boomed, its node reinforcing the word with a spike of activity that sent needles of pain spearing into their heads, “We shall complete this task. It is dangerous and can be entrusted to no other.”
The Hollowore angled its massive head towards the cavernous ceiling, armored flaps on its back sliding aside as it unfurled sets of rigid sixty-meter wings. A wide sphincter on the roof gaped open and Menash saw the evening sky awash with the stars in their milky multitudes. The Hollowore took a deep breath through the spiracles lining its thorax and abdomen, pumping air through a pair of hollow tube-like protuberances under either of its wings. Menash and the others quickly scampered to a safe distance. Seconds later there was a scream of chemical combustion and the Hollowore rose into the evening skies, leaving behind a long trail of superheated gases, the backwash almost knocking Menash off his feet. They watched as the Hollowore gained altitude, making straight for the columns of billowing smoke on the horizon, a sweeping shadow blotting out the light of the heavens.
The Vitalus’ mental presence receded with it. When it did not return, they took it to mean that they were dismissed and likewise took flight and headed for Chthonis. They were hardly out of the Dawning Chamber when Vezda seized the scrawny Racek by his wings and anchored her feet right up against his back.
“Funny little man, are you? Crack jokes at my expense again, and I’ll see to it that you’ll never fly again!” she snarled, yanking hard. Racek yelled as his wings threatened to pop out of their sockets.
“Stop!” Menash said, ramming his shoulder into her and knocking the smaller male out of her grip. Vezda rounded on him, blades out and her tail aquiver with rage.
“As for you! No one should speak to the Vitalus like that!” she shrieked, “Much less gainsay It! Are you trying to get us all killed? It is the source and continuance of life itself—”
“But the Vitalus doesn’t always consider the individual scale of things,” Menash reasoned, controlling his rising anger as he tried to defuse the situation, “Its scope of thought is beyond ours. Therefore it is up to us to look after each other. None of us can win the Great Game alone. We need people like Zildiz for the species to prosper.”
“Your logic is flawed,” Vezda spat, “Empathy is a sham devised by the selfish action of the gene, which seeks only to preserve itself. At least I am honest enough to look after my own interests. Your obsession with that whore is misplaced. Heed my words, Menash. What happened today marks a change in the Great Game. Only the ruthless will reap the rewards of this era. Think on that, and act accordingly.”
The female darted off in another direction, leaving the two behind.
“Thanks,” Racek said, rubbing at his sore shoulders, “My, my. She’s really taking her promotion very seriously, isn’t she?”
“This doesn’t make us friends,” Menash said shortly, “We share a common interest, that’s all.”
The two flew together in silence for a time, the dark canopy unrolling below their feet. Racek had always been a bitter rival for Zildiz’s affections. In the mating seasons he and Menash had flown the damsel-dance against each other countless times, racing and dogfighting at top speed through the dense bamboo thickets in an effort to impress her.
But each time she had always chosen Menash. Naturally. He was the stronger, the braver, the son of the Scourge who had slain hundreds on his lightning raids into Leaper territory. Their pairings had been brief and passionate, yet she had always laughed at the end and gone on her merry way, a rose petal borne on a scented breeze, the dalliance as meaningless to her as other concerns like eating or breathing.
But not to him. Right now, all that mattered was her. And Racek was the only one in the whole wide world who knew exactly how he felt. Did that mean he could be trusted? Menash considered the enormity of what he was about to do, and wavered. Then he saw her face in the darkness of his home, the face she wore when they were all alone together, and he took a deep breath before breaking the silence, saying:
“I’ll be in charge of the quarantine. I can arrange for you to disappear for a few days. I can have one of the younglings mimic your magnetosynaptic signal, make it seem like you’re with the rest of us.”
“You’d do that? For me?” Racek said in astonishment.
“Hah. Not for you,” Menash laughed softly. He looked Racek straight in the eyes and continued: “What’ll it be, then?”
If he so much as hesitates, I’ll have to kill him here and now, Menash told himself.
“Why, yes. Yes, of course!” the little brown male said vigorously.
“Good,” Menash sighed with relief, “She’ll be very grateful to whoever brings her home. I’d do it myself, but as an alpha I can’t risk being seen as disobedient.”
“Then why give me this chance? After all that’s passed between us?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” Menash replied. Racek digested that for a bit, then out of nowhere said:
“If I find her—when I find her—I’ll tell her exactly who it was that sent me.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Bah! Just so we’re even, that’s all,” Racek grinned, his mouthparts slanting askew.
“Thanks, I guess. I’d…I’d appreciate that. You do understand what we’re risking here, right?”
“Sure. We’ll be total genetic write-offs if we’re caught. But it’s not like I wanted to see tiny ugly Raceks running around the house anyway. What about you, though? Why are you putting your neck on the chopping block?”
“You know why,” Menash said quietly, his thoughts still lingering on her face.
“Yes,” Racek agreed with a wistful air, “Yes, I suppose I do.”
And the pair spoke no more until they reached Chthonis.
Link for all the chapters available here: Engines of Arachnea on Royal Road
2024.05.16 21:52 Odd-Drive Family Matters sucks too
Like it's better than I expected from Drake, it's got a good beat and a couple bars are funny. “Kendrick just opened his mouth, someone go hand him a Grammy right now”, the short jokes "back against the curb”. But as a complete song, still sucks.
"I gotta go bad. I gotta go bad" “I really wanted to keep this PG" This is the lamest shit I've ever heard. Nickelodeon ass rapper.
Then he spends most of the song talking about other people. You're not tough for beefing with Pharrell and The Weekend. You got bars for Miley Cryus next? It's weak shit too. “Hey Pharrell, I bought your chains. Hey Weekend, how come I'm always hearing your music at the gay bars?” Maybe Drake's going to try the Kevin Spacey defense.
Even his Kendrick stuff is all over the place. Kendrick wants to be white? Kendrick Lamar? But he also doesn't want to be seen with anyone that isn't blacker than him? “Why don't you post more pictures of your kid" would be a weird line even without the pedo shit hanging over him, but also Kendrick's kid is on the cover of the last album. Then later he calls his son light skinned? What the fuck are you even on about? Baby Keem wrote all your best stuff? As an eight yearold? Drake needs to keep that “you're so mature for age" to the dms. "Get on pop records and rap for the whites”. That would hit if it was coming from literally anyone other than fucking Drake. Also rhyming white with whites, really breaking that pen out. He goes in hard on the Dave Free stuff, which he's already walked back. And the domestic violence allegations don't really stick when every other line is such thin bullshit. I'm not saying every bar has to draw blood, but Drake's batting average is lower than Jordan's here.
“Shake that ass for Free Well not that kind of free, I'm talking about my n– Dave” -Hey, Drake, they're not slow
Then, and this me just not being a Drake fan, but his delivery is so flat. He's swallowing half these jokes. His shit is sleepy. I space out listening to it. Euphoria is a really dense song, but it's all engaging and memorable because of how Kendrick twists his voice around
“You might pop ass with em" "What is it? The braids?” “Let me see you pusha T" "Some shit just cringeworthy, it don't even have to be deep I guess” “Givin him tools to walk through life, like day to day- know nothin bout dat” “I be at New Ho King eatin fried rice with a dip sauce and a blammy, crodie Tell me you're cheesin, fam” “OoOoooO"
Drake is so monotone. He's like when you see an actor rapping on a TV show and you're like, that's pretty good for Anne Hathaway. Not gonna buy the album though. The only line he plays with at all is Dave Freeeeee, and I'm guessing he wishes he didn't do that.
And specifically as a response to Euphoria? Euphoria changes up so much, builds momentum through the song, such an elegant piece of work. Family Matters tries to follow by changing the beat up, but it's janky. It feels like three mediocre songs stitched together, and the second one is a skip. I feel like people are grading on a curve because his next one was the biggest self own in music history, but this shit stinks too.
submitted by Odd-Drive to KendrickLamar [link] [comments]
"I gotta go bad. I gotta go bad" “I really wanted to keep this PG" This is the lamest shit I've ever heard. Nickelodeon ass rapper.
Then he spends most of the song talking about other people. You're not tough for beefing with Pharrell and The Weekend. You got bars for Miley Cryus next? It's weak shit too. “Hey Pharrell, I bought your chains. Hey Weekend, how come I'm always hearing your music at the gay bars?” Maybe Drake's going to try the Kevin Spacey defense.
Even his Kendrick stuff is all over the place. Kendrick wants to be white? Kendrick Lamar? But he also doesn't want to be seen with anyone that isn't blacker than him? “Why don't you post more pictures of your kid" would be a weird line even without the pedo shit hanging over him, but also Kendrick's kid is on the cover of the last album. Then later he calls his son light skinned? What the fuck are you even on about? Baby Keem wrote all your best stuff? As an eight yearold? Drake needs to keep that “you're so mature for age" to the dms. "Get on pop records and rap for the whites”. That would hit if it was coming from literally anyone other than fucking Drake. Also rhyming white with whites, really breaking that pen out. He goes in hard on the Dave Free stuff, which he's already walked back. And the domestic violence allegations don't really stick when every other line is such thin bullshit. I'm not saying every bar has to draw blood, but Drake's batting average is lower than Jordan's here.
“Shake that ass for Free Well not that kind of free, I'm talking about my n– Dave” -Hey, Drake, they're not slow
Then, and this me just not being a Drake fan, but his delivery is so flat. He's swallowing half these jokes. His shit is sleepy. I space out listening to it. Euphoria is a really dense song, but it's all engaging and memorable because of how Kendrick twists his voice around
“You might pop ass with em" "What is it? The braids?” “Let me see you pusha T" "Some shit just cringeworthy, it don't even have to be deep I guess” “Givin him tools to walk through life, like day to day- know nothin bout dat” “I be at New Ho King eatin fried rice with a dip sauce and a blammy, crodie Tell me you're cheesin, fam” “OoOoooO"
Drake is so monotone. He's like when you see an actor rapping on a TV show and you're like, that's pretty good for Anne Hathaway. Not gonna buy the album though. The only line he plays with at all is Dave Freeeeee, and I'm guessing he wishes he didn't do that.
And specifically as a response to Euphoria? Euphoria changes up so much, builds momentum through the song, such an elegant piece of work. Family Matters tries to follow by changing the beat up, but it's janky. It feels like three mediocre songs stitched together, and the second one is a skip. I feel like people are grading on a curve because his next one was the biggest self own in music history, but this shit stinks too.
2024.05.16 21:30 TonyChanYT Will Judas' remorse count for something when God judges him?
Matthew 27:
Unfortunately for Judas, the answer is "no". According to Paul, 2 Corinthians 7:
submitted by TonyChanYT to BibleVerseCommentary [link] [comments]
1 When morning came, all the chief priests and elders of the people plotted against Jesus to put Him to death. 2 And when they had bound Him, they led Him away and delivered Him to Pontius Pilate the governor.Judas came to his senses when he saw what happened.
3 Then Judas, His betrayer, seeing that He had been condemned, was remorseful and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, 4 saying, “I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.”Shouldn't God have pity on Judas when he judges him?
Unfortunately for Judas, the answer is "no". According to Paul, 2 Corinthians 7:
10 Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death.Paul contrasted godly sorrow and worldly sorrow. Judas experienced regret but no repentance. Matthew 27:
5 So Judas threw the money into the temple and left. Then he went away and hanged himself.Godly sorrow brings hope, not hanging oneself. Judas did not love Jesus and did not understand the love of Christ.
2024.05.16 21:23 wildwestwandery Do you think Christianity will play a part or be mentioned in one piece?
I just read Kuma's backstory again and it took me a while to realize how many crosses and bibles there were in pre and post time skip, whether it's in treasures, Kuma in his entirety, churches and nuns, it will be kinda cool if one piece will involve jesus/Christianity like Araki did in jojo's bizarre adventure part 7
submitted by wildwestwandery to OnePiece [link] [comments]
2024.05.16 21:20 infinitemind000 1
Introduction
Someone reading this book may wonder what sort of audience is being targeted here. They may also be confused as to what the endgame is behind such a book. The aim of this book is to parallel the different religious & mystic traditions & connect them to the tropes that we find near death experiences propagate. They often are reconnecting us with what ancient texts have said but in the modern secular world where materialism is the norm we have become numb to the meanings & impact behind such text. These texts are often considered archaic & primitive. Unable to contribute much to the modern world they may only be useful in prayer chants.
Thus I aim here to revitalise the spirit of these traditions and connect them to what many call the modern day scriptures. The study of near death experiences, neuroscience, consciousness & other paranormal phenomena.
The endgame of the mystic is to connect, achieve union, knowledge and self growth. Thus by approaching all these texts and the various evolving thought that emerged from it, we can explore the parallels and connections that bridge the gap between traditions. The beauty of mysticism and perennial philosophy is the freedom it offers in interpretation.
This book doesn't focus on the question of whether scriptures are divinely inspired, man made tools written for sociological and political agendas or some sort of corrupted divinity. That discussion is a debate that will never end. Rather the focus here is on the possible wisdom & theological beliefs which parallel and mesh together well in forming a higher meaning & connection to the divine. Whether it be a higher power, an all pervading source or a metaphysical truth. You aren’t required to literally believe the divinity of these texts. A simple level of curiosity & intrigue is sufficient.
However one may contend that it is easy to parallel traditions when they are in harmony but when they differ they directly contradict rendering these connections meaningless and superficial. Therein lies the limitations of this book. Therefore the following concepts won’t be discussed in here. These are mainly :
The rational mystic is one who is simply open to what may be beyond their senses. They may be mystically inclined, fascinated and open to the plethora of supernatural ideas. However they will not blindly believe any and all beliefs. They will discern using rational faculties what of mysticism is most compatible with reality, what the data or evidence shows & what is more probable than not. I believe people of all beliefs or no beliefs can fit this definition. Whether you identify by a religion, as spiritual but not religious, non religious, atheist, deist or agnostic. Thus a skeptic or believer may able to gain an appreciation for these belief systems.
This book dives into the verses and parallels of ancient texts such as the Old Testament, Gospels, Quran, Hadith, Bhagwad Gita, Dhammapada, Tao Te Ching & Gathas of Zoroaster. Other older parallels such as from Vedic India, Ancient Egypt, Greece & Mesopotamia may be referenced.
Alongside that are the testimonies of NDEs and how they may parallel or differ to these texts. This book also attempts to provide commentary on major philosophical themes & elaborate on various exegesis, mystical traditions such as Kaballah, Sufism, Advaita Vedanta, Neoplatonism & Chinese thought. Since mysticism is ultimately about experience it relevant and useful to enhance these discussions by contrasts to various scientific ideas, philosophy & pop culture.
NDE Filter Methodology
One of the problems with ndes is the fact that they are subjective experiences which we cannot objectively verify or replicate. This makes them a weaker form of evidence compared to empirical studies which can replicate the results. These present a challenge. An individual nde may therefore be subject to embellishment, fabrications & delusions. Therefore in picking our choice of NDEs here we can only look at ndes as a whole in terms of statistical patterns that form. This is the methodology used in NDE literature by various academics including neuroscientists & philosophers researching the phenomenon.
To elaborate we therefore will discard testimonies that appear embellished with fantastical details. These fantastical details may also be subjective from person to person. Calling an otherworldly journey fantastical is simply irony. However in following the certain patterns that appear cross culturally in ndes it is much easier to identify reports that are considered fantastical. The following tropes appear the most across multiple nde studies.
Those who are familiar with NDE reports and studies will know that NDEs tend to be very religion agnostic and at best subtly imply a religious correlation but rarely do we find massive amounts of nde reports cross culturally presenting exclusivist dogmas such as follow holy book x or you will burn, believe Jesus died for your sin or you will burn for eternity. When an nde does present this its seen as a red flag since this doesn't occur with the majority of other ndes. The most we have are subtle religious correlations. However NDEs do present us with certain philosophical dilemmas when it comes to religion.
For alot of people the need to connect to the transcendental is insatiable and religion provides a whole structure of beliefs that one can organise themselves on. For some this is very restricting and enforces a cultural dogma on to everyone. They may prefer a shopping cart version of religion where they take whats good for them and discard what they disagree on. For others they prefer to deny all religious concepts as dogma and cultural beliefs. One could argue that humans need the cultural clothing of customs and traditions to keep their lives going, something which they can use to relate with to the divine. Not everyone can believe in an abstract deity that they cannot conceive of in the absence of symbols such as scriptures.
Religious texts provide at the very least a gateway to which one can relate through stories of heroes, morals and metaphors of the divine. Of course none of this leads us to whether said divine being has revealed these texts, whether they are inspired but corrupted by man or fully man made. These symbols act as aids in feeling like we have a piece of the divine soul with us thus giving comfort and hope. Thus whilst some have no need for religions, for the masses religions have immense value.
So why dont NDEs prove religion ?
There are no clear answers to this (unless somebody has an nde and asks whoever they speak with to tell them in specifics what religion is from God and whats not) all we can do is speculate. The ndes that do ask or do mention a scripture are so few that we cannot form any conclusion on this.
While the aim of this book isnt to debate the afterlife or brain hypothesis, I will say that at the time of this being written, my view on ndes is to say that I consider them a plausible source of evidence towards consciousness surviving death & the afterlife existing. This view of mine may change in time towards either side. The following are some reasons I would argue for them being plausible.
1 Veridical NDEs : Numerous NDES report out of body experiences including witnessing of events in an environment when this should not be possible. More than 100+ veridical cases have been documented. Not to mention veridical cases from across different countries which further strengthens the case. We would have to be radically skeptical to consider all of these testimonies fabricated.
2 Lucid narrative : NDERS experience a highly lucid narrative that usually doesn't end in the middle or chaotically unlike dreams or hallucinations. Their ndes tend to be structured with a beginning, middle and end where they are either told, know or are sucked back into the body. This is quite a strange experience compared to delirium, delusions, hallucinations etc.
3 Deceased Relatives : Most NDES claim to see deceased relatives rather than alive people supporting the afterlife hypothesis. We should expect a mixed cocktail of alive & deceased people appearing in ndes if this was a case of dreams or hallucinations. The population that do claim to see a mixed group of alive and deceased is quite a small proportion of total ndes.
4 Intuitive Reality : NDERS are very convinced that they are in a hyper real reality that makes this world seem black and white, like a dream/illusion as some would say. They are intuitively convinced they are in something real the way we might be talking in person, as opposed to it being just a dream. In one study its believed that nders brain recollect their nde as if it's a real world memory.
5 ESP claims : NDERS may perceive no time at all, may experience a life review such that they can feel the feelings of others and recall memories long forgotten. They may feel like they intuitively know things without needing to learn. Some may report greater vision and detail than waking life, ability to hear thoughts, instantaneously appear, be in two places at once or pass through solid walls.
5 Religious Expectations : NDES often may contradict the beliefs of many Christians, Atheists and Muslims who have varying beliefs about the afterlife. Some may be surprised to experience the things they see & are particularly surprised at the ESP abilities as these are not predicted by religions. Particularly interesting are religious conservative ndes with more exclusivist beliefs who are surprised and end up becoming more pluralist and liberal.
6 Clinical Death Scenario : The best NDE studies focus on scenarios whereby the person undergoes cardiac arrest and thus clinical death. At this time a person has no heartbeat, no breathing, dilated pupils, no light reflex, no gag reflex and EEG reading of little to no brain activity. This is consistent with unconsciousness as no blood and oxygen can fully reach the brain. Furthermore the fact that most undergoing clinical death dont report any experiences means NDEs are odd occurrences & consciousness should not occur.
7 Transformation : NDERS often are transformed in their beliefs with less to no fear of death, detachment from the material, more interest in altruism and spirituality and are impacted by their NDE for decades, remembering it far more than a hallucination or dream. They see it as the most important experience of their life.
8 Double edged sword : The fact that not everyone has an nde may support the idea of nde being more than brain activity. After all if the nde simply was some evolutionary dying mechanism we would expect everybody to have one. This point could also support naturalistic hypothesis (See below)
However there is still uncertainty regarding the nde phenomenon and further data, & studies are required to build a case that is greater than just plausible. These are some opposing reasons to consider doubt in them valid
1 Embellishment : NDEs are unverifiable and therefore we cannot verify which ndes are authentic or which ndes are embellished over time with the nders own thoughts, interpretations or exaggerations. This makes it easier for fabrications and frauds to claim an nde experience.
2 Brain Activity : Since NDES happen during clinical death or unconscious states where a persons brain can be returned to living we cannot be sure that there isnt some deeper brain activity that causes an nde. We also cant be sure than an nde isnt happening in the window where cerebral blood flow hasnt ceased or in the window where CPR leads back to cerebral blood flow. EEG machines also have certain limitations such that they cannot detect deeper brain regions due to the skulls electrical resistance. EEG spikes may occur due to muscle twitches & electrical noise which can often make it harder to differentiate whether this is due to the NDE or not.
3 Cultural/Religious Contradictions : If we keep an open mind, its entirely possible that a Western nde could see Jesus, an Indian nde see Buddha or an Indian nde see Jesus & a Western nde see Buddha. It seems this can be reconciled by the idea that ndes are customized to fit what comforts people subconsciously. Japanese NDEs for example see a bridge/river symbolizing journey to another world, Westerners a portal/tunnel. Westerners relate best to Jesus, Easterners to other figures. However some ndes provide conflicting metaphysical views. This can be an issue with some ndes if nde 1 says they were told to keep reincarnating until they reach nirvana, nde 2 says something more fitting to abrahamic faith. nde 3 says hell doesnt exist and nde 4 says they saw hell realms.
4 Double edged Sword : This point can be argued for ndes (See above) but also against ndes. Only a small percentage 10-20% of those under cardiac arrest are said to have experienced an nde. This point leaves questions as to why aren't all people experiencing an nde. Should we not expect a larger proportion say more than half of people to experience an nde ? If there is a realm beyond the material should we not expect every person to experience an nde. A low proportion may mean that the nde is some sort of brain anomaly. We only have speculations as to why all dont get an nde.
5 Future Science : Current materialistic explanations may be inadequate to explain ndes but this doesnt mean that future understanding of the brain may not yield a new theory/explanation that explains it away. Thus it remains a potential argument.
All of these points are worthy discussions on their own and can be found in various other valuable books. The above points are simply a valuable framework by which the reader may be able to take away what they value out of this book. Everything written is simply my own research into the subject & I always advise people to take it with a grain of salt unless it makes rational sense to you & appeals to your intuition.
Diving into the depths
Spirituality & mysticism can be thought of as two sides of the same coin with philosophy the ring that runs the circumference of the coin. While spirituality deals with the human aspects such as soul, spirit, ego, morality & purpose, mysticism deals with the divine aspects of things such as essences, attributes, metaphors, realities, realms, entities, space, time, substances etc. We aim to dive into the following themes in this book.
The Divine Source : Everything relevant to defining the higher power & source of existence including essences & attributes.
Consciousness & Spirit : Everything relevant to the nature of consciousness, qualia, perceptions, the spirit & soul.
Reality : Everything relevant to the nature of perception, illusion, concepts, space, time, substances, modes, forms & realities.
Spirituality & Purpose : Everything relevant to the nature of human meaning, objectives, purpose & suffering.
Morality : Everything relevant to values, ideals, ethics & morals.
Knowledge & Truth : Everything relevant to the nature of seeking truth, seeking knowledge & attaining wisdom. These include concepts such as beliefs, truths, axioms, speculations, nature of inspirations & revelations.
Awakening & Dark night of Soul : Everything relevant to the nature of materialism, spiritual awakening, seeking inner peace, anxieties, depression, remorse, angst & layers of the psyche.
Divine Sorrow : Everything relevant to the nature of the eschatological souls corruption, redemption, purification, punishment, divine justice & mercy including modes & forms.
Divine Bliss : Everything relevant to the nature of the souls destiny, ultimate peace, happiness, bliss & divine love including modes & forms.
submitted by infinitemind000 to u/infinitemind000 [link] [comments]
Someone reading this book may wonder what sort of audience is being targeted here. They may also be confused as to what the endgame is behind such a book. The aim of this book is to parallel the different religious & mystic traditions & connect them to the tropes that we find near death experiences propagate. They often are reconnecting us with what ancient texts have said but in the modern secular world where materialism is the norm we have become numb to the meanings & impact behind such text. These texts are often considered archaic & primitive. Unable to contribute much to the modern world they may only be useful in prayer chants.
Thus I aim here to revitalise the spirit of these traditions and connect them to what many call the modern day scriptures. The study of near death experiences, neuroscience, consciousness & other paranormal phenomena.
The endgame of the mystic is to connect, achieve union, knowledge and self growth. Thus by approaching all these texts and the various evolving thought that emerged from it, we can explore the parallels and connections that bridge the gap between traditions. The beauty of mysticism and perennial philosophy is the freedom it offers in interpretation.
This book doesn't focus on the question of whether scriptures are divinely inspired, man made tools written for sociological and political agendas or some sort of corrupted divinity. That discussion is a debate that will never end. Rather the focus here is on the possible wisdom & theological beliefs which parallel and mesh together well in forming a higher meaning & connection to the divine. Whether it be a higher power, an all pervading source or a metaphysical truth. You aren’t required to literally believe the divinity of these texts. A simple level of curiosity & intrigue is sufficient.
However one may contend that it is easy to parallel traditions when they are in harmony but when they differ they directly contradict rendering these connections meaningless and superficial. Therein lies the limitations of this book. Therefore the following concepts won’t be discussed in here. These are mainly :
- Unverifiable supernatural claims such as ancient miracles for instance Moses parting the sea, Jesus walking on water, resurrecting etc. For someone expecting this book to be a source of evidence for a specific religion it unfortunately won’t be. However there are multiple correlations and connections and these may act as subtle signs of evidence for a specific faith or multiple of them.
- Reconciling contradictions between belief systems and scriptures. For example whether the Divine is a trinity or a unity. Whether a certain sage was superior to another. For instance comparing the personality of Jesus with Muhammad, whether the Bible is morally perfect or not & a plethora of other beliefs that may not agree with one another. The book simply assumes they all are imperfect systems.
- The scientific debate on whether NDEs are classified as hallucinations or genuine supernatural occurrences. Whilst an interesting topic in itself, it is out of the scope of this book with many other books discussing the science behind ndes. However when necessary nde claims will be contrasted with naturalistic explanations.
The rational mystic is one who is simply open to what may be beyond their senses. They may be mystically inclined, fascinated and open to the plethora of supernatural ideas. However they will not blindly believe any and all beliefs. They will discern using rational faculties what of mysticism is most compatible with reality, what the data or evidence shows & what is more probable than not. I believe people of all beliefs or no beliefs can fit this definition. Whether you identify by a religion, as spiritual but not religious, non religious, atheist, deist or agnostic. Thus a skeptic or believer may able to gain an appreciation for these belief systems.
This book dives into the verses and parallels of ancient texts such as the Old Testament, Gospels, Quran, Hadith, Bhagwad Gita, Dhammapada, Tao Te Ching & Gathas of Zoroaster. Other older parallels such as from Vedic India, Ancient Egypt, Greece & Mesopotamia may be referenced.
Alongside that are the testimonies of NDEs and how they may parallel or differ to these texts. This book also attempts to provide commentary on major philosophical themes & elaborate on various exegesis, mystical traditions such as Kaballah, Sufism, Advaita Vedanta, Neoplatonism & Chinese thought. Since mysticism is ultimately about experience it relevant and useful to enhance these discussions by contrasts to various scientific ideas, philosophy & pop culture.
NDE Filter Methodology
One of the problems with ndes is the fact that they are subjective experiences which we cannot objectively verify or replicate. This makes them a weaker form of evidence compared to empirical studies which can replicate the results. These present a challenge. An individual nde may therefore be subject to embellishment, fabrications & delusions. Therefore in picking our choice of NDEs here we can only look at ndes as a whole in terms of statistical patterns that form. This is the methodology used in NDE literature by various academics including neuroscientists & philosophers researching the phenomenon.
To elaborate we therefore will discard testimonies that appear embellished with fantastical details. These fantastical details may also be subjective from person to person. Calling an otherworldly journey fantastical is simply irony. However in following the certain patterns that appear cross culturally in ndes it is much easier to identify reports that are considered fantastical. The following tropes appear the most across multiple nde studies.
- Out of Body Experience
- Tunnel of Light
- Meeting deceased relatives or unknown beings
- Perceiving a highly luminous pervading light
- Feelings of absolute peace, comfort & love
- Arriving at an otherworldly place ie a meadow, garden etc.
- Life Review
- Border of no return
- Pluralistic message about love & wisdom
- NDE reports that are highly coloured with religious fundamentalist tropes particularly tropes promoting an exclusivist attitude to religion.
- NDEs that appear too detailed, fantastical & unrestricted appearing more like a science fiction or fantasy novel. For example nde claims of multiple lives on other planets or large scale prophecies & apocalyptic predictions & generally things that differ wildly from the core themes
- NDEs that talk too much about one specific spiritual concept, portraying themselves as special, prophets or mediums turning their nde into a narcissistic or monetary agenda through spiritual coaching, multiple books etc.
- Universal Divine Theory : This is the idea that prophets, mystics & sages from different cultures have been inspired through revelation from the same source & this explains the shared insights of a religion & ndes.
- Mystic Wisdom Theory : This simply means that certain religious writers and founders were simply wise spiritual men, mystically inclined honing on their intuition & knowledge.
- Intertextuality Theory : Each new religious founder simply built of older religious ideas assimilating it into their theologies.
Those who are familiar with NDE reports and studies will know that NDEs tend to be very religion agnostic and at best subtly imply a religious correlation but rarely do we find massive amounts of nde reports cross culturally presenting exclusivist dogmas such as follow holy book x or you will burn, believe Jesus died for your sin or you will burn for eternity. When an nde does present this its seen as a red flag since this doesn't occur with the majority of other ndes. The most we have are subtle religious correlations. However NDEs do present us with certain philosophical dilemmas when it comes to religion.
- If NDEs are vague about religion how are we to interpret these religions ? Are we to see them as man made socio-cultural constructs ? Are we to see them as inspired by God but limited to their time ? Are we to see them as partially divine partially man made scriptures ?
- If NDEs prove that religions are man made we must ask what purpose the creator has behind the nde. If the creator has allowed man made cultures to negatively influence and control the world throughout history and has not intervened or communicated with humanity one must wonder what point there is in a nde being a message in the 21st century. So on one hand the NDE presents us with a deistic God who doesnt intervene and let false religions begin and on the other hand the God of the NDE seems very personal, involved in human lives, keeps tracks, feels love and joy for humans etc
- If one, many or all religions are truly divinely inspired why do NDES never directly point to this ? NDEs seem more concerned in lessons but not in pointing people to a religion.
For alot of people the need to connect to the transcendental is insatiable and religion provides a whole structure of beliefs that one can organise themselves on. For some this is very restricting and enforces a cultural dogma on to everyone. They may prefer a shopping cart version of religion where they take whats good for them and discard what they disagree on. For others they prefer to deny all religious concepts as dogma and cultural beliefs. One could argue that humans need the cultural clothing of customs and traditions to keep their lives going, something which they can use to relate with to the divine. Not everyone can believe in an abstract deity that they cannot conceive of in the absence of symbols such as scriptures.
Religious texts provide at the very least a gateway to which one can relate through stories of heroes, morals and metaphors of the divine. Of course none of this leads us to whether said divine being has revealed these texts, whether they are inspired but corrupted by man or fully man made. These symbols act as aids in feeling like we have a piece of the divine soul with us thus giving comfort and hope. Thus whilst some have no need for religions, for the masses religions have immense value.
So why dont NDEs prove religion ?
There are no clear answers to this (unless somebody has an nde and asks whoever they speak with to tell them in specifics what religion is from God and whats not) all we can do is speculate. The ndes that do ask or do mention a scripture are so few that we cannot form any conclusion on this.
- The simplest answer is that all religions are man made for good or bad intentions but this would of course lead us to the philosophical deist dilemma.
- Perhaps the NDEs message focuses on the lessons and ideals itself and sees scriptures and religions as redundant (even if there is a divine hand behind some) After all these are mainly symbols and cannot compare to a direct mystical experience (something fundamentalists struggle with)
- Perhaps an attempt to promote any specific faith would lead to an assumption that the nde message is about exclusivist salvation and leading to the worship of scriptures/religions (something fundamentalists struggle with)
- Perhaps this proves that religions are limited to their century and context and that we should only look to them for the universal timeless message they offer not the specifics. After all all major scriptures teach the core values that NDEs have revitalised ie love, mercy, kindness etc
While the aim of this book isnt to debate the afterlife or brain hypothesis, I will say that at the time of this being written, my view on ndes is to say that I consider them a plausible source of evidence towards consciousness surviving death & the afterlife existing. This view of mine may change in time towards either side. The following are some reasons I would argue for them being plausible.
1 Veridical NDEs : Numerous NDES report out of body experiences including witnessing of events in an environment when this should not be possible. More than 100+ veridical cases have been documented. Not to mention veridical cases from across different countries which further strengthens the case. We would have to be radically skeptical to consider all of these testimonies fabricated.
2 Lucid narrative : NDERS experience a highly lucid narrative that usually doesn't end in the middle or chaotically unlike dreams or hallucinations. Their ndes tend to be structured with a beginning, middle and end where they are either told, know or are sucked back into the body. This is quite a strange experience compared to delirium, delusions, hallucinations etc.
3 Deceased Relatives : Most NDES claim to see deceased relatives rather than alive people supporting the afterlife hypothesis. We should expect a mixed cocktail of alive & deceased people appearing in ndes if this was a case of dreams or hallucinations. The population that do claim to see a mixed group of alive and deceased is quite a small proportion of total ndes.
4 Intuitive Reality : NDERS are very convinced that they are in a hyper real reality that makes this world seem black and white, like a dream/illusion as some would say. They are intuitively convinced they are in something real the way we might be talking in person, as opposed to it being just a dream. In one study its believed that nders brain recollect their nde as if it's a real world memory.
5 ESP claims : NDERS may perceive no time at all, may experience a life review such that they can feel the feelings of others and recall memories long forgotten. They may feel like they intuitively know things without needing to learn. Some may report greater vision and detail than waking life, ability to hear thoughts, instantaneously appear, be in two places at once or pass through solid walls.
5 Religious Expectations : NDES often may contradict the beliefs of many Christians, Atheists and Muslims who have varying beliefs about the afterlife. Some may be surprised to experience the things they see & are particularly surprised at the ESP abilities as these are not predicted by religions. Particularly interesting are religious conservative ndes with more exclusivist beliefs who are surprised and end up becoming more pluralist and liberal.
6 Clinical Death Scenario : The best NDE studies focus on scenarios whereby the person undergoes cardiac arrest and thus clinical death. At this time a person has no heartbeat, no breathing, dilated pupils, no light reflex, no gag reflex and EEG reading of little to no brain activity. This is consistent with unconsciousness as no blood and oxygen can fully reach the brain. Furthermore the fact that most undergoing clinical death dont report any experiences means NDEs are odd occurrences & consciousness should not occur.
7 Transformation : NDERS often are transformed in their beliefs with less to no fear of death, detachment from the material, more interest in altruism and spirituality and are impacted by their NDE for decades, remembering it far more than a hallucination or dream. They see it as the most important experience of their life.
8 Double edged sword : The fact that not everyone has an nde may support the idea of nde being more than brain activity. After all if the nde simply was some evolutionary dying mechanism we would expect everybody to have one. This point could also support naturalistic hypothesis (See below)
However there is still uncertainty regarding the nde phenomenon and further data, & studies are required to build a case that is greater than just plausible. These are some opposing reasons to consider doubt in them valid
1 Embellishment : NDEs are unverifiable and therefore we cannot verify which ndes are authentic or which ndes are embellished over time with the nders own thoughts, interpretations or exaggerations. This makes it easier for fabrications and frauds to claim an nde experience.
2 Brain Activity : Since NDES happen during clinical death or unconscious states where a persons brain can be returned to living we cannot be sure that there isnt some deeper brain activity that causes an nde. We also cant be sure than an nde isnt happening in the window where cerebral blood flow hasnt ceased or in the window where CPR leads back to cerebral blood flow. EEG machines also have certain limitations such that they cannot detect deeper brain regions due to the skulls electrical resistance. EEG spikes may occur due to muscle twitches & electrical noise which can often make it harder to differentiate whether this is due to the NDE or not.
3 Cultural/Religious Contradictions : If we keep an open mind, its entirely possible that a Western nde could see Jesus, an Indian nde see Buddha or an Indian nde see Jesus & a Western nde see Buddha. It seems this can be reconciled by the idea that ndes are customized to fit what comforts people subconsciously. Japanese NDEs for example see a bridge/river symbolizing journey to another world, Westerners a portal/tunnel. Westerners relate best to Jesus, Easterners to other figures. However some ndes provide conflicting metaphysical views. This can be an issue with some ndes if nde 1 says they were told to keep reincarnating until they reach nirvana, nde 2 says something more fitting to abrahamic faith. nde 3 says hell doesnt exist and nde 4 says they saw hell realms.
4 Double edged Sword : This point can be argued for ndes (See above) but also against ndes. Only a small percentage 10-20% of those under cardiac arrest are said to have experienced an nde. This point leaves questions as to why aren't all people experiencing an nde. Should we not expect a larger proportion say more than half of people to experience an nde ? If there is a realm beyond the material should we not expect every person to experience an nde. A low proportion may mean that the nde is some sort of brain anomaly. We only have speculations as to why all dont get an nde.
5 Future Science : Current materialistic explanations may be inadequate to explain ndes but this doesnt mean that future understanding of the brain may not yield a new theory/explanation that explains it away. Thus it remains a potential argument.
All of these points are worthy discussions on their own and can be found in various other valuable books. The above points are simply a valuable framework by which the reader may be able to take away what they value out of this book. Everything written is simply my own research into the subject & I always advise people to take it with a grain of salt unless it makes rational sense to you & appeals to your intuition.
Diving into the depths
Spirituality & mysticism can be thought of as two sides of the same coin with philosophy the ring that runs the circumference of the coin. While spirituality deals with the human aspects such as soul, spirit, ego, morality & purpose, mysticism deals with the divine aspects of things such as essences, attributes, metaphors, realities, realms, entities, space, time, substances etc. We aim to dive into the following themes in this book.
The Divine Source : Everything relevant to defining the higher power & source of existence including essences & attributes.
Consciousness & Spirit : Everything relevant to the nature of consciousness, qualia, perceptions, the spirit & soul.
Reality : Everything relevant to the nature of perception, illusion, concepts, space, time, substances, modes, forms & realities.
Spirituality & Purpose : Everything relevant to the nature of human meaning, objectives, purpose & suffering.
Morality : Everything relevant to values, ideals, ethics & morals.
Knowledge & Truth : Everything relevant to the nature of seeking truth, seeking knowledge & attaining wisdom. These include concepts such as beliefs, truths, axioms, speculations, nature of inspirations & revelations.
Awakening & Dark night of Soul : Everything relevant to the nature of materialism, spiritual awakening, seeking inner peace, anxieties, depression, remorse, angst & layers of the psyche.
Divine Sorrow : Everything relevant to the nature of the eschatological souls corruption, redemption, purification, punishment, divine justice & mercy including modes & forms.
Divine Bliss : Everything relevant to the nature of the souls destiny, ultimate peace, happiness, bliss & divine love including modes & forms.
2024.05.16 21:09 WestNo3744 setup advice needed please 🫶🏻
 | this is my current setup (missing the vertical helix i now have which i beautifully drew on the picture) and i've ordered the jewellery in the last two pics! i'm thinking of putting the dangly one in the flat with the chain to the rook and a marquise (i ordered two pieces) in my tragus in at least the first ear. submitted by WestNo3744 to Legitpiercing [link] [comments] i'm thinking of going for a ruby x smoky quartz type of setup but do yous have any ideas? especially for the helix piercings... i have so many piercings but the gold balls and hoops alone are getting so boring. |
2024.05.16 20:58 Excellent-Spite3515 Updated Points on the Case
These are updated key points on the case from the Daily Mail article
Speaking of the autopsy: "The report gave more details on the grisly injuries the teen sustained in the hours before he died"
3.' Additionally, a clump of hair was observed on the right buttock without blood or tissue,' Roquero wrote.
4.Both his upper and lower teeth were broken 'with few fragments and found inside the mouth' and others strewn across the road several feet from his body.
5.He was bleeding out of his ears and had a cut on his lower lip and one on his tongue.
submitted by Excellent-Spite3515 to NoahPresgrove [link] [comments]
Speaking of the autopsy: "The report gave more details on the grisly injuries the teen sustained in the hours before he died"
- Roquero detailed extensive injuries to the teen's upper body, including 10 broken ribs, serious skull and neck fractures, internal bleeding, and abrasions all over his body.
3.' Additionally, a clump of hair was observed on the right buttock without blood or tissue,' Roquero wrote.
4.Both his upper and lower teeth were broken 'with few fragments and found inside the mouth' and others strewn across the road several feet from his body.
5.He was bleeding out of his ears and had a cut on his lower lip and one on his tongue.
- Presgrove's C1, C2, C6, C7 vertebrae were fractured to varying degrees and C1 was displaced - indicating a seriously broken neck.
- There was one extensive skull fracture running across his head, 'splitting the middle base of skull into two', and multiple smaller ones, with police investigators describing his head as being 'caved in'.
- Roquero wrote that there were 'no vehicle parts or debris observed on the scene', indicating Presgrove was almost certainly not hit by a car.
- 'Additionally, there were three pieces of a white metal chain as well as part of a tooth present several feet from the decedent.'
- Roquero noted there was 'a drawing in black ink of a stick-figure person on the side of the right thigh'.
- A video from the Saturday night of the party, on September 2, showed Presgrove's friends drawing their names and other doodles on his back and buttocks.
- He went home and washed some of it off, but is believed to not have been able to get all of the marker off before he went back to the party the next evening.
- The Adidas shoe Presgrove was wearing was his, and the other, a 'Hey Dude' slip-on, was from another party guest who was asleep at the time.
- The shorts he was wearing were undamaged, despite the grazes on his buttocks
- 'Currently, the OHP is not investigating Presgrove's death as a murder,' it said.
- Then he rode an ATV ranger vehicle with several men that had a roll over incident. The decedent was alive following the incident and returned to the party where he got into an argument with his girlfriend,' it read. 'The decedent left the house party and was not found until the morning of September 4, 2023, on the side of the highway.'
- Presgove's best friend Jack Newton, who was at the party but claimed he was asleep when he disappeared, said it was his ATV that was in the accident.
- 'All of all close friends said that he wrecked my SXS I had there around 3,' he wrote in a message to another friend.
- 'And he was super dirty and super drunk so a couple of girls helped him in the shower.' Newton explained this in the same conversation: 'When he got out [of the shower] he wanted to sleep in one of the girls' bed and she [said no and] that upset him and he walked off.'
- One video from the night he died showed some of Presgrove's friends writing their names on his bare buttocks with marker.
- The writing was not still there when his body was discovered in the early hours of the morning but it was not known how and when it was removed.
2024.05.16 20:30 Aioli_Chemistry Feeling stuck/where do I go from here?
I feel like my career has me backed into a corner.
I'm an AO24 and luckily it pays the bills, but I absolutely, unequivocally, without question, hate my job. My team is great, but every single piece of work that comes across my desk is something that I could care less about. I'm not doing a single thing that I'm passionate about. I also feel like my skill set could be used elsewhere or in a higher classification, but I have an ED that "doesn't believe" in hiring 30's. A 24, in my program area, is my ceiling.
Every job that comes up is more of the same, or has really oddly specific education & experience requirements that I wouldn't even screen into. I work from home full time and would love to be outside or less chained to a desk, but if I were to apply on those types of positions I'd either a) need a science degree, which I don't have, or b) would be taking a major pay cut. I'm super passionate about preserving nature and fighting climate change, so I'd love to work in a dirt ministry...but there aren't very many opportunities over there.
I'm seriously considering leaving the public service. I am really badly feeling the "golden handcuffs" blues right now and I feel trapped. I'd love to stay, but there are no opportunities out there that are remotely interesting.
Please talk me off the ledge. Have you experienced a similar career trajectory? How did you move forward? Or, if you have a really cool job, what do you do and what sector do you work in?
submitted by Aioli_Chemistry to BCPublicServants [link] [comments]
I'm an AO24 and luckily it pays the bills, but I absolutely, unequivocally, without question, hate my job. My team is great, but every single piece of work that comes across my desk is something that I could care less about. I'm not doing a single thing that I'm passionate about. I also feel like my skill set could be used elsewhere or in a higher classification, but I have an ED that "doesn't believe" in hiring 30's. A 24, in my program area, is my ceiling.
Every job that comes up is more of the same, or has really oddly specific education & experience requirements that I wouldn't even screen into. I work from home full time and would love to be outside or less chained to a desk, but if I were to apply on those types of positions I'd either a) need a science degree, which I don't have, or b) would be taking a major pay cut. I'm super passionate about preserving nature and fighting climate change, so I'd love to work in a dirt ministry...but there aren't very many opportunities over there.
I'm seriously considering leaving the public service. I am really badly feeling the "golden handcuffs" blues right now and I feel trapped. I'd love to stay, but there are no opportunities out there that are remotely interesting.
Please talk me off the ledge. Have you experienced a similar career trajectory? How did you move forward? Or, if you have a really cool job, what do you do and what sector do you work in?
2024.05.16 20:16 DontFireMeImPoor New/Returning Player Leveling Help Guide
Welcome (Back?) to Fallout 76
I have seen tons of new players coming in to the game lately, and even more returning to the game much like myself. I won't say I'm the smartest and best informed Fallout 76 player, but I have had tons of help from some people I can say probably are some of the smartest and best informed in the game. So I've decided to compile this handy yet vauge-ish leveling guide to some things you might be curious about, or might find helpful, or whatever! First off, however, let's go over some things the new players might not know: Etiquette in Fallout 76!Etiquette of Appalachia
While this is a game about lawless chaos in a hell-like wasteland, there are some rules you really should follow!- If you don't want to engage in PVP, turn on pacifist mode in the settings and read the popups on your screen about contesting workshops!
- Don't start events until the very last ~30 seconds! Give other players a chance to make it to the event so it's easier to complete and everyone gets loot/xp from enemies!
- Don't go overkill and destroy everything in public events! Killing everything before anyone gets a chance to do any damage to the enemies makes it so nobody else gets any XP or loot.
Leveling Up
This is probably your main way of getting poweutility; through leveling up and collecting those sweet, sweet perk cards. I'm just gonna tell you how it is and say hey, don't shoot the messenger. Unless I told ya wrong, then shoot me a message so I can correct it.How to Increase Your XP Gain
First off, lets go over how XP Bonuses are calculated. First, there is the base XP of an enemy. Then your INT stat will add to that base at 2.072% per point of INT you have. Then the resulting number is multiplied by the percentage base XP buffs you might have active such as the Leadership Bobblehead, Lunchboxes, or Well Rested. Here's the formula:(Base XP + (Base XP * (INT * 2.072))) + ((Base XP + (Base XP * (INT * 2.072))) * %Buffs)
CALM DOWN!!! To make it easier on you folk out there who aren't running Egghead IRL, your INT stat essentially makes your base XP reward higher so your lunchboxes can give you way more XP.
So how does a fella max their INT? Well I'll tell ya! Other than the obvious idea of maxing it out by respeccing your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. stat allocation, you have armor slots that can all roll legendary star stats such as boosting your INT by +1 per piece, and if you don't mind running a low health build while power leveling, the Unyielding affix that can roll on any non-power armor can give players a whopping +15 INT at +3 INT per piece equipped (body, arms, legs.) Also, you can wear the Casual Shielded Underarmor OR the Flannel Shirt for another +3 INT. Also, there's chems and foods that can temporarily boost your INT, though you can have only one of each type active at the same time. Some of the best ones to run for boosting INT are Brain Bombs for food and Berry Mentats for chems. All of these things can be purchased from other players too! Also, if you run mutations like Egghead and Herd Mentality, the Charisma Perk Card Strange In Numbers can boost your INT by another +4 so long as you're in a party. Which you should be, because forming a bond with 3 players in a Casual team will net +4 INT as well! And last but not least is the Mechanical Derby Game some players have in their C.A.M.P. which boosts your INT by +2 for 30 minutes!
Now how about boosting XP via percentages to multiply that huge INT boosted base XP you worked so hard for? I've got you covered! Same as before, some things stack but some don't. In this usage case, the Live & Love 8 (+5% XP) magazine doesn't stack with Live & Love 3 (Boost Effects of Food), for example. Same with the Intelligence Bobblehead (+2 INT) and the Leadership Bobblehead (+5% XP). Lunchboxes can stack only up to 4 times and if you pop a lunchbox around other players, the other players all get a boost too! Same if someone pops one near you, free XP boost! Lunchboxes grant +25% XP per box popped, so with four popped, that's double XP! You can also get a whopping +15% XP boost from the Charisma Perk Card Inspirational, and the event going on now, the Mothman Equinox, gives you another +15% XP for an hour if you interact with the purple eyed moth at the end. Also, the easiest bonus to get is your Well Rested/Kindred Spirit/Lover's Embrace buff that gives you +5% XP and is obtained by simply resting in a bed for a bit.
In conclusion and to wrap up this part I want to clarify that you will typically get MUCH more XP in a Casual Team over an Events Team because for a majority of the events, you will be killing tons of enemies and missing out on a +8% boost to the BASE XP of all enemies, ya know, before the multiplier boosts which adds up to be much more XP than you get from the completion reward, even when its doubled. Daily Ops is a different case because you are typically trying to run it fast and skip over fights if possible, but otherwise don't sleep on Casual Teams.
How to Farm XP
So now that we've written a small book on how to boost our XP, how are we going to actually GET the XP? Well the best ways is to kill enemies with a high base XP reward, and lots of them. For example, the super mutants at the famous WesTek Research Center provide a high base xp reward and so do glowing enemies, like ghouls, which can be more or less "made" by dropping a nuke on Whitesprings. Events are great for this as well, especially Radiation Rumble and Eviction Notice, but typically all of the events have a good amount of enemies to kill and reward you with exclusive rewards, so its typically savvy to hit the events as they come up unless you know what it has to offer and just don't need it.Now hold on there, pardner! You don't actually have to do all the work when it comes to killing the enemies to get their XP. And to squash any rumors going around, doing more damage does not, in any way, net you a higher amount of XP!!! You simply have to do 1% of the damage to an enemy to get its FULL XP reward, and yes this applies to every single enemy, even bosses. Really all you have to do is shoot each enemy maybe once or twice and you'll be drowning in XP during those big events. A great weapon for this is the Tesla Rifle because it chains to nearby enemies when you hit something, allowing you to tag multiple enemies while only having to aim at one! Also, Nuka-grenades have a massive AOE, just make sure you aren't boosting explosive damage or anything so you aren't one shotting everything (and yourself.) And try to make sure your party is there doing the event with you because if they happen to get a kill you missed, you still get a little bit of XP which is better than nothing.
That's all for now though, and do let me know if I missed anything or messed up any info!
2024.05.16 20:12 baambaay A complete cited timeline and THEORY of what I think could have happened.
Just a theory, possibly totally unrelated. But there are some new confirmable pieces and connections that I haven’t seen mentioned at all yet. So if I’m wrong at least there is a partially correct timeline here that can be edited to correctness. My last attempt to connect any dots I think. Please feel free to find holes and debunk it and suggest edits.
TLDR: Maybe the big deal is that these items were from a robbery that took place nearby days prior. There were two bags taken and articles only mention one being found. The robbers were reported to have been seen else where on CCTV counting money, so they may have been able to make a sale in the area. The same bag could have ended up at the Mark, and maybe even be the bag EP intentionally shows in hotel lobby on CCTV footage. EP said he was given a big bag to dispose of. In EP’s case the chain of custody should be legally sound, but for someone else buying or possessing stolen property prior to that, it’s illegal in NY even if you’re unaware.
The robbery occurred on 1/18/23 and was reported on 1/21/23. This is on 83rd and The Mark Hotel is on 77th. Half a mile walk through the park away. EP mentioned a big bag that hotel staff was told to dispose of.
Here is what appears to be a bag in the video EP posted. There was a girl in the frame too.
A NY post article about this murder mentions:
“A young woman — who was entering the building carrying a large bag that appeared to contain clothing - choked back tears when asked if she was related to the victim. ‘It's very, very hard for me and my family. We've already talked to the police and the district attorney. I don't want to talk anymore,’ the woman said, without identifying herself.”
The victim was SA’d. House was ransacked. “The two suspects loaded up Hernandez’s belongings into a blue rolling Jansport backpack and a green rolling bag and were on CCTV divvying up cash, prosecutors said.”.
Same day Drake is seen leaving The Mark hotel.. He is seen the next day at a listening party in New Jersey.
These were posted August 2023 by EP on his Facebook page. They look like older lady clothes. But ofc, this could just be things left behind at the hotel by others.These are the only clothes EP ever posted on his Facebook.
The victim being an upper east side woman she probably had some nice things, clothing and jewelry in particular as ladies do especially at her age. And the jewelry EP posted didn’t look new or like it would have been for a younger girl.
EP implies Drake/team only wanted one thing from a big bag and EP implies there was loads of jewelry left behind. They said the rest of the stuff in the big bag was trash. Because the items were expensive and not really just any random stuff, it was instead put into lost and found.
There’s an incident report from Mark security on July 20th. Probably when EP had to work as security with protests that Theodore organized.. EP appears to express frustration with the protestor situation for which he nearly got arrested. This was probably the next time he saw Drake since January. EP keeps mentioning 7/27/23. This is the day he was named the protestor lawsuit.
EP mentions Officer Viola had a CCRB citation for trying to contain the protest. Officer Viola and EP both impacted negatively. EP mentioned that this rapport with the officer probably saved him from getting arrested
EP is going thru it at this point. [EP cites many examples of why he takes offense for treatment of staff. And hubris. The man he almost got arrested he alleges staff isn’t being treated in a way that feels respectful He mentions he still has to give the friendly enjoy your evening. He cites cultural frustrations as well, echoing Kenny’s “not like us” sentiments.
At some point EP’s is instructed by his director to clean out the lost and found. By August he’s so fed up that he’s going to sell these things redacted lol figure it out ig. He posts them on Facebook.
Fast forward to now, and Kendrick drops a diss track. At some point, Akademiks told that EP had the items and accused theft, according to EP. or him and Drake both did not sure who he’s directing this at.
“Meet the Grahams” comes out and EP said I understood the assignment. Kenny at some point gets the album art from EP with item’s that appear to have belonged to Drake.
Drake releases “The Heart Part 6” said that he fed the cover art content to Kenny. Why would he lie about that? Why not say wow Kenny you got people going through my trash? Or is he telling the truth?
Buying stolen goods is illegal. But EP, on the other hand, obtained the items after they were disposed of, which should be legal if I understand correctly especially if unclaimed after x many days.
EP’s manager finds out about the album cover and questions him about how the items were obtained. But staff knew that EP had these items already according to EP. He was instructed to not throw them in the trash originally and then months later instructed to clean out the lost and found. EP implies that policy/practice allows him to claim the items at this point.
He claims he explains to his boss how the items were obtained. She advises him to get a lawyer which is strange because staff knew these items were in the lost and found and that by law, if they aren’t claimed within a certain amount of time they’re fair game. But if they’re stolen from a murdered scene, yeah you might want to speak to a lawyer because possession of stolen property is illegal even if you didn’t know it was stolen. It also may implicate you in a murder that took place nearby. It doesn’t make sense to me that EP’s boss would advise a lawyer when she would probably know the chain of possession and policies. It could be that it was only due to theft allegations from the album cover release but if policy and law was followed then this seems a little out of place, especially if they didn’t want the items back anyway.
EP alleges that police were called because someone got assaulted this night. I’m not sure who this is but It appears to be the same man pictured about a minute later.
EP tweeted
“Those were good men… One was from Texas. He loved cowboy boots, guns, and horses. other was from the Bronx, and well on his way to becoming a "Blue H.E.N.R.Y."
[redacted fill in the blank urself ok]
Tweets about them: Here Here Here
submitted by baambaay to DarkKenny [link] [comments]
TLDR: Maybe the big deal is that these items were from a robbery that took place nearby days prior. There were two bags taken and articles only mention one being found. The robbers were reported to have been seen else where on CCTV counting money, so they may have been able to make a sale in the area. The same bag could have ended up at the Mark, and maybe even be the bag EP intentionally shows in hotel lobby on CCTV footage. EP said he was given a big bag to dispose of. In EP’s case the chain of custody should be legally sound, but for someone else buying or possessing stolen property prior to that, it’s illegal in NY even if you’re unaware.
The robbery occurred on 1/18/23 and was reported on 1/21/23. This is on 83rd and The Mark Hotel is on 77th. Half a mile walk through the park away. EP mentioned a big bag that hotel staff was told to dispose of.
Here is what appears to be a bag in the video EP posted. There was a girl in the frame too.
A NY post article about this murder mentions:
“A young woman — who was entering the building carrying a large bag that appeared to contain clothing - choked back tears when asked if she was related to the victim. ‘It's very, very hard for me and my family. We've already talked to the police and the district attorney. I don't want to talk anymore,’ the woman said, without identifying herself.”
The victim was SA’d. House was ransacked. “The two suspects loaded up Hernandez’s belongings into a blue rolling Jansport backpack and a green rolling bag and were on CCTV divvying up cash, prosecutors said.”.
Same day Drake is seen leaving The Mark hotel.. He is seen the next day at a listening party in New Jersey.
These were posted August 2023 by EP on his Facebook page. They look like older lady clothes. But ofc, this could just be things left behind at the hotel by others.These are the only clothes EP ever posted on his Facebook.
The victim being an upper east side woman she probably had some nice things, clothing and jewelry in particular as ladies do especially at her age. And the jewelry EP posted didn’t look new or like it would have been for a younger girl.
EP implies Drake/team only wanted one thing from a big bag and EP implies there was loads of jewelry left behind. They said the rest of the stuff in the big bag was trash. Because the items were expensive and not really just any random stuff, it was instead put into lost and found.
There’s an incident report from Mark security on July 20th. Probably when EP had to work as security with protests that Theodore organized.. EP appears to express frustration with the protestor situation for which he nearly got arrested. This was probably the next time he saw Drake since January. EP keeps mentioning 7/27/23. This is the day he was named the protestor lawsuit.
EP mentions Officer Viola had a CCRB citation for trying to contain the protest. Officer Viola and EP both impacted negatively. EP mentioned that this rapport with the officer probably saved him from getting arrested
EP is going thru it at this point. [EP cites many examples of why he takes offense for treatment of staff. And hubris. The man he almost got arrested he alleges staff isn’t being treated in a way that feels respectful He mentions he still has to give the friendly enjoy your evening. He cites cultural frustrations as well, echoing Kenny’s “not like us” sentiments.
At some point EP’s is instructed by his director to clean out the lost and found. By August he’s so fed up that he’s going to sell these things redacted lol figure it out ig. He posts them on Facebook.
Fast forward to now, and Kendrick drops a diss track. At some point, Akademiks told that EP had the items and accused theft, according to EP. or him and Drake both did not sure who he’s directing this at.
“Meet the Grahams” comes out and EP said I understood the assignment. Kenny at some point gets the album art from EP with item’s that appear to have belonged to Drake.
Drake releases “The Heart Part 6” said that he fed the cover art content to Kenny. Why would he lie about that? Why not say wow Kenny you got people going through my trash? Or is he telling the truth?
Buying stolen goods is illegal. But EP, on the other hand, obtained the items after they were disposed of, which should be legal if I understand correctly especially if unclaimed after x many days.
EP’s manager finds out about the album cover and questions him about how the items were obtained. But staff knew that EP had these items already according to EP. He was instructed to not throw them in the trash originally and then months later instructed to clean out the lost and found. EP implies that policy/practice allows him to claim the items at this point.
He claims he explains to his boss how the items were obtained. She advises him to get a lawyer which is strange because staff knew these items were in the lost and found and that by law, if they aren’t claimed within a certain amount of time they’re fair game. But if they’re stolen from a murdered scene, yeah you might want to speak to a lawyer because possession of stolen property is illegal even if you didn’t know it was stolen. It also may implicate you in a murder that took place nearby. It doesn’t make sense to me that EP’s boss would advise a lawyer when she would probably know the chain of possession and policies. It could be that it was only due to theft allegations from the album cover release but if policy and law was followed then this seems a little out of place, especially if they didn’t want the items back anyway.
EP alleges that police were called because someone got assaulted this night. I’m not sure who this is but It appears to be the same man pictured about a minute later.
EP tweeted
“Those were good men… One was from Texas. He loved cowboy boots, guns, and horses. other was from the Bronx, and well on his way to becoming a "Blue H.E.N.R.Y."
[redacted fill in the blank urself ok]
Tweets about them: Here Here Here
2024.05.16 20:06 Flagg1991 Children of the Night (Part 3)
An hour after getting back from the Mason apartment, Bruce Kenner had the distinct misfortune of meeting Bertha Henderson.
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?
submitted by Flagg1991 to MrCreepyPasta [link] [comments]
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?
2024.05.16 20:04 Flagg1991 Children of the Night (Part 3)
An hour after getting back from the Mason apartment, Bruce Kenner had the distinct misfortune of meeting Bertha Henderson.
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?
submitted by Flagg1991 to LighthouseHorror [link] [comments]
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?
2024.05.16 20:02 Frosty-Country4755 The Forbidden Feast
I have to share this. It’s not just a story; it’s a warning. If you value your sanity, stop reading now.
I spent my junior year of college studying art history in Rome. It was everything I’d hoped for: the architecture, the paintings, the endless history. But what happened during my last week there still haunts me. The Vatican City tour was supposed to be the highlight of my trip, but it became a nightmare I can’t escape.
Our guide, an older man named Marco, led us through the usual tourist spots, but he seemed distracted. His eyes kept darting to a small, unmarked door at the end of a corridor in the Vatican Museums. After the tour, I lingered, watching as Marco slipped away from the group and towards the door. Curiosity got the better of me. I followed.
I approached the door, and to my surprise, it was ajar. I peeked inside and saw a dimly lit staircase leading down. I hesitated, but then I heard voices – chanting, whispering. I descended, my heart pounding. The air grew colder with each step, the walls narrowing, until I emerged into a cavernous underground chamber.
At first, I thought it was some kind of ancient chapel, but the sight before me was far from holy. There were robed figures gathered around a long, stone table, chanting in Latin. On the table lay a human body. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I tried to convince myself it was some kind of bizarre reenactment or performance art, but the smell of decay and the horror etched on the lifeless face told me otherwise.
I hid behind a pillar, my heart racing, praying they wouldn’t see me. The chanting grew louder, more frenzied, and then they began…eating. The realization hit me like a freight train. These were no actors. This was a ritual, a feast – cannibalism. I could barely keep from vomiting as I watched them consume the flesh with a grotesque reverence.
They started with the organs, tearing into the liver and heart with their bare hands, the sound of ripping flesh and the sight of blood running down their chins making me dizzy with horror. They passed around pieces of flesh, some searing it over candles, others eating it raw. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the stench of death.
One of the robed figures held up a severed arm, chanting in a low, guttural voice before biting into it, tendons snapping under the pressure of his jaws. The others followed suit, tearing at the body with a hunger that was both primal and ritualistic. Their eyes rolled back in ecstasy, mouths stained red, as if they were partaking in some unholy communion.
Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned, expecting the worst, but it was Marco. His face was pale, eyes wide with fear. “You weren’t supposed to see this,” he whispered. “They’ll come for you now.”
He dragged me back up the stairs, but it was too late. The chanting had stopped. I could hear footsteps, quick and purposeful, coming up from behind. We ran through the labyrinthine corridors of the Vatican, the ancient stone walls seeming to close in on us. I could hear them – the robed figures, their whispers echoing in the halls.
We burst out into the daylight, but the Vatican guards were waiting. Marco was seized and I was dragged away, screaming, trying to explain what I’d seen. They locked me in a small, windowless room, and for hours I sat there in darkness, waiting for whatever fate awaited me.
Eventually, a cardinal entered. He was calm, composed, and utterly terrifying in his placidity. He sat across from me, his piercing eyes examining my soul. After what felt like an eternity of silence, he began to speak.
“What you witnessed,” he said, his voice smooth and unsettling, “is a sacred rite, a tradition older than Christianity itself. Long before the establishment of the Church, our ancestors discovered a way to commune with the divine, to gain knowledge and power beyond human comprehension.”
He leaned in closer, his breath cold against my face. “This rite, this consumption of the flesh, is a way to absorb the essence, the life force, of the departed. It grants us visions, strength, and longevity. It binds us to the ancient ones, those who walked the earth when it was young and untamed.”
I could feel the bile rising in my throat, but I couldn’t look away. “But why?” I stammered. “Why would you do something so… monstrous?”
His smile was chilling. “Have you ever wondered why the Eucharist, the Communion, is such a central sacrament in Christianity? When Jesus said, ‘This is my body… this is my blood,’ it was not merely symbolic. It was a continuation of an older, more powerful tradition. By consuming the flesh and blood, we become one with the divine.”
The cardinal stood, his robes rustling like whispers of the damned. “But the bread and wine are just a shadow of the true rite. Here, in the depths of the Vatican, we keep the original covenant. The flesh we consume is sanctified, chosen. It is our way of maintaining the connection to the divine, of ensuring the Church’s power endures.”
I was horrified, but he continued, his voice a soothing monotone that belied the horrors he described. “The world is filled with darkness, with forces that seek to corrupt and destroy. We are the guardians, the keepers of balance. To fight such evil, we must embrace the forbidden, the unthinkable. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “You have seen too much. But fear not, for your silence will be assured. You will return to your life, but you will never speak of this. Not to anyone. For if you do, the consequences will be dire.”
I was released the next day, warned never to speak of what I’d seen. Marco was gone. I returned to the States, trying to forget, but the nightmares won’t let me. Every night, I see their faces, hear their chanting. I feel their hunger.
I don’t expect you to believe me. I’m sharing this because someone needs to know. If you ever visit the Vatican, stay with the group. Don’t stray. And if you see a small, unmarked door, turn around and run. Some secrets are worth dying for.
submitted by Frosty-Country4755 to nosleep [link] [comments]
I spent my junior year of college studying art history in Rome. It was everything I’d hoped for: the architecture, the paintings, the endless history. But what happened during my last week there still haunts me. The Vatican City tour was supposed to be the highlight of my trip, but it became a nightmare I can’t escape.
Our guide, an older man named Marco, led us through the usual tourist spots, but he seemed distracted. His eyes kept darting to a small, unmarked door at the end of a corridor in the Vatican Museums. After the tour, I lingered, watching as Marco slipped away from the group and towards the door. Curiosity got the better of me. I followed.
I approached the door, and to my surprise, it was ajar. I peeked inside and saw a dimly lit staircase leading down. I hesitated, but then I heard voices – chanting, whispering. I descended, my heart pounding. The air grew colder with each step, the walls narrowing, until I emerged into a cavernous underground chamber.
At first, I thought it was some kind of ancient chapel, but the sight before me was far from holy. There were robed figures gathered around a long, stone table, chanting in Latin. On the table lay a human body. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I tried to convince myself it was some kind of bizarre reenactment or performance art, but the smell of decay and the horror etched on the lifeless face told me otherwise.
I hid behind a pillar, my heart racing, praying they wouldn’t see me. The chanting grew louder, more frenzied, and then they began…eating. The realization hit me like a freight train. These were no actors. This was a ritual, a feast – cannibalism. I could barely keep from vomiting as I watched them consume the flesh with a grotesque reverence.
They started with the organs, tearing into the liver and heart with their bare hands, the sound of ripping flesh and the sight of blood running down their chins making me dizzy with horror. They passed around pieces of flesh, some searing it over candles, others eating it raw. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the stench of death.
One of the robed figures held up a severed arm, chanting in a low, guttural voice before biting into it, tendons snapping under the pressure of his jaws. The others followed suit, tearing at the body with a hunger that was both primal and ritualistic. Their eyes rolled back in ecstasy, mouths stained red, as if they were partaking in some unholy communion.
Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned, expecting the worst, but it was Marco. His face was pale, eyes wide with fear. “You weren’t supposed to see this,” he whispered. “They’ll come for you now.”
He dragged me back up the stairs, but it was too late. The chanting had stopped. I could hear footsteps, quick and purposeful, coming up from behind. We ran through the labyrinthine corridors of the Vatican, the ancient stone walls seeming to close in on us. I could hear them – the robed figures, their whispers echoing in the halls.
We burst out into the daylight, but the Vatican guards were waiting. Marco was seized and I was dragged away, screaming, trying to explain what I’d seen. They locked me in a small, windowless room, and for hours I sat there in darkness, waiting for whatever fate awaited me.
Eventually, a cardinal entered. He was calm, composed, and utterly terrifying in his placidity. He sat across from me, his piercing eyes examining my soul. After what felt like an eternity of silence, he began to speak.
“What you witnessed,” he said, his voice smooth and unsettling, “is a sacred rite, a tradition older than Christianity itself. Long before the establishment of the Church, our ancestors discovered a way to commune with the divine, to gain knowledge and power beyond human comprehension.”
He leaned in closer, his breath cold against my face. “This rite, this consumption of the flesh, is a way to absorb the essence, the life force, of the departed. It grants us visions, strength, and longevity. It binds us to the ancient ones, those who walked the earth when it was young and untamed.”
I could feel the bile rising in my throat, but I couldn’t look away. “But why?” I stammered. “Why would you do something so… monstrous?”
His smile was chilling. “Have you ever wondered why the Eucharist, the Communion, is such a central sacrament in Christianity? When Jesus said, ‘This is my body… this is my blood,’ it was not merely symbolic. It was a continuation of an older, more powerful tradition. By consuming the flesh and blood, we become one with the divine.”
The cardinal stood, his robes rustling like whispers of the damned. “But the bread and wine are just a shadow of the true rite. Here, in the depths of the Vatican, we keep the original covenant. The flesh we consume is sanctified, chosen. It is our way of maintaining the connection to the divine, of ensuring the Church’s power endures.”
I was horrified, but he continued, his voice a soothing monotone that belied the horrors he described. “The world is filled with darkness, with forces that seek to corrupt and destroy. We are the guardians, the keepers of balance. To fight such evil, we must embrace the forbidden, the unthinkable. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “You have seen too much. But fear not, for your silence will be assured. You will return to your life, but you will never speak of this. Not to anyone. For if you do, the consequences will be dire.”
I was released the next day, warned never to speak of what I’d seen. Marco was gone. I returned to the States, trying to forget, but the nightmares won’t let me. Every night, I see their faces, hear their chanting. I feel their hunger.
I don’t expect you to believe me. I’m sharing this because someone needs to know. If you ever visit the Vatican, stay with the group. Don’t stray. And if you see a small, unmarked door, turn around and run. Some secrets are worth dying for.
2024.05.16 20:02 Flagg1991 Children of the Night (End)
The pain was the worst thing`Dominick Mason had ever known…and he knew what it felt like to die. It felt like his brain was in a blender, being chopped to liquid for a Jeffery Dahmer smoothie and though it seemed melodramatic, he imagined he could feel himself losing brain cells by the minute. The sun, Merrick told him, would not burn him, but it would decay him faster, so sleep or rest during the day. With the sick, throbbing agony in the center of his brain, however, that was impossible. He spent most of the day curled up on his side, hugging his knees, and moaning. He had flashbacks to dying in his apartment, and that made things even worse. The room became too small, too close, the air too stale. His heart, filled with the blood of last night’s meal, pounded in his chest, and he went from slightly chilly to hot and feverish as blood was forced through his circulatory system. It mixed with the embalming fluid and left him feeling full and constipated. He didn’t want to get up, but he also didn’t want to go on lying there. He was the definition of miserable.
Before long, the pain became too great and he got up to pace, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and gritting his teeth. Merrick, who slept very little if at all, sat in his chair and watched, trying his best to talk him through it. “It’ll be over soon,” Merrick said. “The pain receptors in your brain are the first to go. When they burn out, you won’t feel anything.”
“When?” Dom asked, his voice raising with the tide of pain.
“A couple days?”
“A couple days???”
“The pain will lessen gradually,” Merrick said, “this is the worst of it.”
Dom believed that this was, indeed, the worst of it, but he doubted it would lessen gradually. For the rest of the day, the pain got worse and worse until every light blinded him, every sound turned his stomach, and the smell of anything made his gorge rise. The cloying smell of the embalming fluid, the light but unmistakable odor of dead flesh, and the scent of stale blood sitting in decomposing stomachs made him want to vomit, but he was afraid to. He didn’t think he could handle the sight of blood rushing from his mouth and splattering the floor. He still possessed enough of his facilities, he believed, to go insane.
Pain has a way of darkening one’s mood, and by the time the sun began to set, Dom was in the most sour mood possible. Even Merrick’s calm, fatherly voice was beginning to get on his nerves. When he took the oath to him the day before (or was it the day before that?), he turned his faith and trust over to Merrick entirely. He was finally accepted, included, finally had the love and fellowship that, in the pit of his soul, he had always wanted. Merrick understood him, Merrick was kind to him.
But deep down, Dom realized that he didn’t fully trust him. He said that his brain didn’t rot because he was “lucky.” That sounded like some bullshit to Dom. Why wasn’t Joe a blithering idiot too? Was he lucky as well? Did lightning strike in the same place twice? In life, people had done nothing but hurt and lie to Dom. Why would death be any different? He thought back to the strange liquid that always seemed to leak from Merrick’s nose, and Joe’s. He thought it was embalming fluid, but it never leaked from his own nose, or from anyone else’s. He tried to tell himself that it was far too soon to judge, but once he began to doubt something, his mind raced away. He felt a twinge of guilt, as Merrick had done absolutely nothing to deserve his doubt, but goddamn it, his head was on fire and he wanted it to stop. Anything to make it stop.
Just after sundown, the music began as Club Vlad opened for the night. It throbbed in the center of Dom’s head and made him want to claw his eyes out. When it became too much for him, he slipped away and stumbled into the sultry summer night. He came out in the alley running behind the club, clutching his head and breathing through bared teeth. He staggered, bumped into a metal trash can, and roared at the top of his lungs, as if he could purge himself of the pain by screaming.. His voice echoed and came back to him, making the pain worse.
Merrick was lying. He knew it. People always lied to him. His brain was rotting and PEOPLE WERE LYING! Flashing with anger, he slammed his fist into the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant. He barely felt anything so he did it again and again until his hand was lumpy and shaking. He sat heavily on the ground and pressed his hands to his head. It felt like maggots were burrowing into his brain, and he was suddenly terrified that they really were. He needed to stop this awful pain, but how?
An idea came to him.
The funeral home.
Maybe there was something there.
He was on his feet and lumbering there before the thought had even finished reverberating through his mind. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. On the way there, he stuck to the shadows, staying out of the light cast by the streetlamps and avoiding people. When he passed them, he kept his head down. When he reached the funeral home, he went to the back door where he and Jessie had gone the other day. He tried it, and it opened.
Inside, he bounced off the walls like a pinball, knocking over an end table and tearing at the flesh of his head, pulling it away in long, gray strips. He panted like a wild animal, his body a raging tempest of emotions. It was reaching a crescendo, he thought, his brain was about to go supernova. The world dimmed, things got really echoy. The young man he’d picked the embalming fluid up from was there, looking scared.
Flashing, Dom grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall, knocking a painting of a flowery field to the carpet. Everything seemed to go in slow mo. “How does Merrick keep his brain from rotting?” Dom heard himself demanding from far away. “How does he keep the pain away?”
The man trembled. “I-I-”
Dom slammed him again. “Tell me or I’ll make you like me.”
“No!” the man wailed. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wet with fear.
“How?”
“He-He uses a solution,” the man stammered. “Some kind of special thing. It preserves his brain. That’s all I know.”
An idea occurred to Dom.
Holding the man by the back of his neck, Dom dragged him into the embalming room and pushed him against the table. His head felt like it was swelling. Hot, screaming, getting ready to explode. He looked around, found the embalming machine, and grabbed the hose. There was a sharp tip on it so that you could jam it into a body. He held it in his hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to his temple. The man watched in horror as Dom slowly shoved the tip into his head. It tore his flesh, broke through his skull, and sank into his brain. He felt no pain, only pressure, but cried out anyway. His eyes rolled up into his head and a shudder went through his body.
“Turn it on!” he yelled.
“That’s not what he -”
“TURN IT ON!”
Starting, the man turned the machine on. Cold embalming fluid squirted directly into Dom’s brain. Almost at once, the pain began to ebb away, replaced only by a fuzzy sense of numbness. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, looking for all the world like an addict taking a hit of his favorite substance after a long and trying day. Fluid leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes and dripped down the back of his throat.
The man waited for a long time, then turned the machine off.
The pain was gone.
At least for now.
“Tell me again,” Dom said.
The man did. Merrick used a special preserving agent to keep his brain intact. Joe, the man suspected, got it as well. So Merrick had lied to him.
Dom felt betrayed.
And angry.
Leaving the man (Dom realized that he didn’t even know his name), he walked back to Club Vlad, his hands fisted in his pockets. All his life, he had been hurt, lied to, and ignored. All his life, people had done wrong to him. And all those years, he just took it.
He resolved not to be so accepting in death.
At last, he was going to stop being a sniveling little bitch and stand up for himself.
When he reached Club Vlad, he slammed through the back door and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he called out Merrick’s name. The old man was sitting in his chair, being attended to by Jessie and Matt. He looked startled when Dom came in. “You lied to me,” Dom said, stalking over to his benefactor.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick asked, doing his best to sound innocent.
“You lied to me!” Dom screamed. He bent over and got so close to Merrick’s face that he could have kissed him. “You told me there was no way to save my brain, but that’s not true. You’re pumping your head full of shit and letting the rest of us rot.”
A dark shadow flickered across Merrick’s face. “Watch your tone when you talk to me,” he said. His voice was low, menacing.
“Fuck you,” Dom said. “I should k -”
Suddenly, Dom was being grabbed from behind and yanked back, an arm around his neck. He cried out in alarm as Joe swung him around and slammed him face first into the wall. He heard his nose crunch, felt his teeth shatter. Next, Joe wrestled him to the glitter-sprinkled floor and wedged his knee between his shoulder blades.
Merrick watched with a sneer of disgust, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He wheeled himself over, Jessie holding his IV stand steady and following behind. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Merrick said, “you’re lucky to be a part of this family.”
Cold fear filled the pit of Dom’s stomach, yet he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down. He had lived his entire life like a mouse in a burrow, he wasn’t about to live his entire death the same way.
“Fuck your family,” he said defiantly. “And fuck you.”
Merrick’s face darkened and he sat back in his chair. He looked at Jessie and nodded. She went away and came back a moment later holding something in her hand. Dom’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
A wooden stake, one end honed to a razor point.
Why they had one of those lying around, Dom didn’t know; it’d be like Superman keeping a piece of kryptonite on the mantle over the fireplace. Merrick directed Max and Matt to hold Dom’s arms down/ Joe pivoted, kneeling on his head now so that Dom’s back was exposed. Dom’s heart slammed with terror and tremors raced through his body.
“Is this what you want, Dominick?” Merrick asked. “To die? To truly die?”
Dom swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to live, to love, to have a family one day. He wanted a happy, normal life, the life TV and social media had been promising him since he was a little boy.
But all of that went out the window the night he died in his little apartment. There was no life anymore, just a grotesque parody of life. What was there for him other than death? Clinging desperately onto life for decades like Merrick? Stuffing himself full of embalming fluid and moth balls? Grinding for one more minute just so he could sit hooked up to a machine?
Dom spoke.
“What?” Merrick asked, not having heard.
Dom licked his lips. “Just fucking do it.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Expectation hung in the air. Finally, breaking the tension, Merrick nodded to Jessie. Kneeling down, she brought the stake up, and Dom closed his eyes.
This was it.
He braced himself for death.
Jessie brought the stake down just as a shot rang out, deafening in the small space. Her head whipped back, embalming fluid, skull fragments, and gray, sickly pieces of brain showering from the back of her head. She flopped back and landed on the floor with a sickening thud.
A woman cop, her black uniform in stark contrast to the burning white light, stood in the doorway to the hall, her gun drawn. Everyone did, indeed, freeze, more out of surprise than respect for authority. They all looked at her, their dead mouths agape, resembling children who’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Everyone on the ground!” she barked.
No one knew what to do. They hadn’t expected to be raided by the police so had not prepared. She jerked her gun and everyone instinctively flinched. “On the ground!” she repeated. To Max: “You too, bone boy.”
The first one to react was Joe. He sprang at her like a big, undead frog. She brought the gun around and fired, but he was already crashing into her. The shot went wild and struck the IV bag next to Merrick; he ducked and let out a sound of fear. The others rushed her, and Dom got quickly to his feet. Jessie lay on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream and her bony fingers frantically examining the ragged hole in the center of her forehead. For a moment, he was frozen; everything was happening too fast. Then, when Merrick saw him and cried, “Stop him!, he came alive. Jessie tried to grab at his leg, but he kicked her hand away and stomped on it like it was a giant spider. On the other side of the room, Matt, Joe, and Max had forced the cop to the ground. Perhaps excited by all the action, perhaps just hungry, they began to tear her apart. She howled in pain, and the last thing Dom saw before he fled was her open, blood-filled mouth. Her eyes were filled with pain…with terror.
After that, Dom ran.
***
When the interloper was dead, Merrick directed Joe and Matt to dispose of the body. “Get rid of it,” he said wearily and rubbed his temples, “make sure it isn’t found.”
They rolled her into a carpet from the office, and the way her feet stuck out may have been comical under other circumstances.
Goddamn it, this was bad. Merrick’s entire philosophy rested on avoiding detection. He had done well in that regard. Whereas other vampires had attacked their villages and gotten themselves dug from the ground and staked, he had made it four decades. He never shat where he ate, and there is no bigger turd than killing a cop. They might dawdle on all the boys who’d gone missing - taken because their blood was stronger and more robust than the blood of girls - but they would not take a cop dying lightly at all.
Merrick owned various businesses around the country. He and the others would simply move on. Tomorrow night, they would disappear into the night. They had done it before and they would likely do it again. Once things were settled at their new base of operations, he would have Joe killed for all the trouble he’d caused.
And Dom?
Let him go.
The little rat wouldn’t last a month on his own.
“Jessie?”
Jessie sat against the wall, gazing into space.
“Jessi…start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear. The shot had all but lobotomized her.
Damn it.
Joe backed the van up to the back door of Club Vlad, and then helped Matt carry the carpet-rolled body down the stairs. They loaded it in and closed the back doors. Together, they drove around looking for a place to dump it. Merrick wanted it to go unfound, but Joe doubted there was anywhere isolated enough in the city. On a whim, he drove to Washington Park, a vast expanse of green trees and shadows. There was a large pond there. It seemed the best option. They were leaving tomorrow anyway, so did it really matter?
Joe backed the van to a railing overlooking the dark water and put it in park. He and Matt got out, fetched the body, and carried it to the railing. They lifted and heaved it over. It splashed. Thus, they rid themselves of Vanessa Rodregiez.
***
Bruce sat anxiously up in his easy chair and waited for his cell to ring.
Parked in front of the TV by warm lamplight, a beer wedged between his legs, he’d been watching the 11’o’clock news when the phone rang. He picked it up and it was Vanessa. “Hey,” she said, “I think I found our body?”
“Which one?” Bruce asked and took a drink. “We have a lot of those these days.”
“Dominick Mason.”
Bruce sat forward in his chair. “Dead Dom? Where?”
“He just came out of a funeral home, ironically enough.”
“That sounds about right,” Bruce said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m following him east on Central.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bruce asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”
Bruce sat the phone aside and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, his head lulled to one side and his mouth open. He snorted himself awake, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He checked his phone and was perturbed to see that it was past 2am.
Vanessa hadn’t called.
He dialed her number and let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. Sighing, he ended the call, then waited a few minutes and called again.
Still no answer.
It was possible she had forgotten. Maybe the guy turned out to not be Dead Dom after all. She followed some random guy around, realized it, and that was that. Hell, she was probably too embarrassed to call and tell him about it.
Something told him that wasn’t right, however.
There was something else going on here.
Something…darker.
Just before 3am, his phone rang. He snatched it off the end table next to the chair and answered it. It was Burt, the night sargent. “Rodriguez is missing,” he said simply.
Bruce’s heart sank. “Missing?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t checked in for hours and she isn’t answering calls.”
“I’m on my way,”
Bruce tore through the house, pulling on his uniform, socks, and shoes in less time than it took a Daytona 500 pit crew to service a car. In ten minutes he was speeding down 787, the Albany skyline rising in the distance. As he hurried to the station, he thought back to his last conversation with Vanessa. She’d found Dom the Dead Man, the “corpse” who’d scared Ed Harris out of a 20 year career. Despite all their talk about vampires and the living dead, Bruce didn’t believe it, not really. Even so, he was sure that Dominick Mason had done something to Vanessa.
He checked in at the station before doing anything else. They had triangulated Vanessa’s last known location via cell towers. Cops were already out searching the streets for her. Bruce went out as well, intending to start from her last known position and work his way east on Central. The closest funeral home was Tebbutt and Frederick on Central. There was also Lasak & Gigliotti on North Allen Street. Bruce didn’t know which one Vanessa had seen Dom come out of, so he checked both.
Both were deserted at this hour.
Undeterred, Bruce drove up and down Central Ave. At one point, he noticed a shape in an alleyway that looked human. He hit the brakes, jumped out, and pointed his gun at it. “Freeze!”
An old wino stepped out of the darkness. “Alright, you got me,” he said, hands up. “I started COVID. It was an accident, I swear.”
Bruce sighed and put his gun away.
For two more hours, Bruce searched the streets of Albany for Vanessa. At 4am, he spotted a squad car abandoned in the rear parking lot of an abandoned gas station on lower Lark Street. He called it in and the desk sergeant confirmed that it was the one Vanessa had signed out that night.
Still there was no sign of Vanessa herself.
Just after dawn, as the city came alive and CDTA buses began lumbering up and down the streets, Bruce got a call on his cell. “A jogger found a body in Washington Park.”
Bruce was in his personal car. He had no bubble light, no siren. Even so, he sped through the streets like he did, blowing through red lights and stop signs with little care to himself or anyone else. When he got to Washington Park, he found an army cops by the pond, the scene cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and jumped out without even turning off the engine.
The body was rolled up in a carpet and lying on the bank. Two beat cops unrolled it at Bruce’s direction. “We should wait for -” one of them started, but Bruce cut him off.
“Do it.”
They compiled, and at the carpet’s center, like a rotten cream filling, was the body of Vanessa Rodregiuez. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes wide and staring. Her throat had been mangled and ripped away, her head nearly severed. Even in the black and red mess, Bruce could make out the teeth marks and puncture wounds. They may have looked like something else to anyone else who saw them, but he knew, in that moment, what they were dealing with.
A sharp pang of horror sliced through him, and his knees went weak.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the beat cops drew.
Bruce fell to, rather than knelt on, one knee. He bent over the body, a mixture of horror and grief welling his throat. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her in death, but he stayed his hand. Instead, he visually examined the body. She had bruises on her face, defensive wounds on her hands, and her gun was gone. Whoever had attacked her, she put up a fight.
Something glinted on her pants.
“What’s that?” one of the cops asked.
“I dunno,” the other replied, “but it’s all over the carpet.”
Indeed, there were glinty little specks all over it, winking like mocking eyes. Nice work, eh? We really fucked her up, didn’t we? Wink wink.
“It looks like…”
The other cop cut him off. “Glitter.”
Bruce flashed back to his visit to Club Vlad the other day.
There had been glitter everywhere.
Bruce stood up.
He had work to do.
***
Instead of going back to the station to start his shift, Bruce went to Lowes. There, he bought a mallet, a gas can, and a dozen sticks of wood. An employee in a blue vest used a machine to sharpen them to a wicked point and he took his purchases to the car. Next, he drove over to the Mobil station and filled the gas can. He was so hellbent on revenge that he sprang for premium, the good stuff. No expense shall be spared.
His final stop was at a Catholic church. He filled a canteen with holy water from the marble font by the door, then swiped a crucifix from the wall. He stopped by the station, went inside, and grabbed a black duffle bag with POLICE written across the front in yellow. He opened the gun cabinet in his office, took out a shotgun, and loaded it with shells. He grabbed a handful from the box and stuffed them into his pocket.
He was just finishing up when Bertha came in. “There you are,” she spat, “I’ve waited long enough for you to do something. I demand -”
Bruce shoved the duffle bag into her arms. “Make yourself useful.”
“What?” she demanded.
“We’re going to get your granddaughter,” Bruice lied. Kind of.
Bertha’s demeanor changed. “Good. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were a complete incompetent.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Outside, he plucked the bag out of Bertha’s hands and tossed it into the backseat. He slipped behind the wheel and Bertha sat in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Club Vlad,” Bruce said and started the engine.
“I want all of them arrested.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said.
She barked orders the entire way there. Bruce was so deep in his thoughts that he barely heard her. The image of Vanessa’s ruined throat and terror-twisted face haunted him, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Hot tears filled his eyes but he blinked them back and forced himself to calm down.
I’ll cry when I’m done killing, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of Club Vlad. It was a hot and sunny day and the place seemed even more ominous because of it. The windows were black, the front cast in perpetual shadows by the old marquee from when it used to be a theater. The place was surely closed, but Bruce could hear music still playing from inside, some techno dance bullshit. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go.”
Getting out, he slung the dufflebag over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, the canteen full of holy water clasped to his belt. Bertha carried the gas can, looking confused. “Why do we need this?” she asked.
“We’re burning the place down.”
Bertha blinked in surprise…then an evil grin carved across her face. “That’ll show the bastards.”
Unlike last time, the door was locked. Bruce used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the door, being careful not to cut himself. This was the point of no return. What he had in mind would probably get him kicked off the force or even thrown in jail - and we all know how tough jail can be for a former barnaclehead. The memory of Vanessa’s contorted face pushed him on, however.
He’d suffer any consequences he needed to just so long as he got the sons of bitches who did this to her.
Inside, the club was cool and cave-like. Strobe lights flashed, on and off, black and white, dazzling Bruce’s eyes. The bartender was at his station, cleaning up from the night before. When he saw Bruce and Bertha come in, he started. Bruce pointed the shotgun at him. “Don’t fucking move,” he commanded.
The bartender hesitated, then reached for something under the bar.
The shotgun kicked in Bruce’s hands, and the bartender flew back, turning as he crashed into the barback. Bottles, glasses, and mugs crashed to the floor along with the bartender. Bruce racked the gun, and the shell flew out. He moved low and fast now, expecting to be swarmed by vampires, living thugs who worked for vampires, or vampire thugs who worked for themselves.
Though the shot had been like thunder, no one came.
Bruce had no idea where to go, but he imagined that vampires were naturally gravitate to the lowest part of the building. Was there a basement? Shit, he should have looked up the building plans at city hall. Damn, this is what happens when you go off half-cocked. He searched around a bit, opening doors and sweeping the rooms beyond with the shotgun. He found no basement, only stairs leading up. “Stay close,” he said to Bertha.
In the lead, Bruce crept up the stairs, the flashlight on the shotgun providing a cone of clean, white light. At the top of the stairs, he went right, and came to an office and a store room. Backtracking, and bumping into a bungling Bertha, he went into the next room. It was large and open with a vaulted ceiling, almost like a ballroom. Here the same strobe lights throbbed on and off, making him dizzy. Was this to dazzle prospective vampire hunters?
Either way, this was the place. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some curled up on their sides and others in the classic vampire pose: Flat on their backs with their hands laced over their chests. In the center, like the sun to the planets, Merrick Garvis lay slumped back in his wheelchair, his neck exposed for any potential assassin to come and cut. Not that it would kill him. At least Bruce didn’t think it would.
“They’re all dead,” Bertha whispered. She looked around and gasped. “There’s Jessie.”
Jessie lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Oh, God,” Bertha wavered, “someone shot her.”
He hoped it was Vanessa. And he hoped it fucking hurt.
Looking around, Bruce couldn’t find Dominick Mason. Was he the one who killed Vanessa? Was it a group effort? He wanted the little son of a bitch bad, but it looked like he’d have to go on without him. They didn’t have much time.
Unshouldering the duffle bag, he knelt down and rummaged around. “Start splashing that gas on the bodies,” he said.
“But -”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
There must have been a harder edge in his voice than normal, because Bertha jumped and did as she was told. She upended the can and began to splash gasoline onto the sleeping forms, the smell of it acrid and strong.
Taking out a stake and the mallet, Bruce went over to Merrick and knelt down. He gripped the stake in one hand and placed it firmly against Merrick’s chest. He brought the mallet up and hesitated, the gravity of what he was doing finally reaching him. What if he was wrong? What if -
Merrick’s head whipped up and their eyes locked.
Too late.
Bruce brought the mallet down as hard as he could. The stake drove deep into Merrick’s heart, and the vampire let out a howling screech that rang through the chamber like the cry of a banshee. His bony fingers clawed at the stake and his head whipped from side to side, his back arching and his robe coming open. In the quick strobe pattern, Bruce was shocked to see that his body was little more than a wood frame, chicken wire, and cotton balls. His blacked heart was hidden behind a screen of mesh that the stake had easily torn through. It throbbed, seemingly in time with the strobe lights, and Merrick let out another wail.
Bertha screamed, and Bruce jumped to his feet.
The vampires, drawn by their master’s cries of distress, were rising to their feet. Two, four, six of them, pale and ethereal like ghosts in a gothic mansion. They came toward Merrick, and Bruice fell back a step. The old man had gone still and lay slumped to one side, his eyes open and his mouth slack, embalming fluid leaking from the corner of his lips. Jessie bent over him and touched his face. Though she moved like a zombie, with no human emotion, Bruce was crazily sure that it was a touch of tenderness and love. Merrick didn’t stir.
He was dead.
Jessie looked at him. Yellow liquid leaked from her eyes like tears. Instead of attacking him, she turned on her grandmother and slammed her against the wall. Bertha screamed and dropped the can. It landed on its side, its contents sloshing out onto the floor. A man that resembled the pictures Bruce had seen of Joe Rossi only deader rushed him, slamming into him and knocking the shotgun aside. It hit the floor and skidded away. Joe grabbed Bruce around the throat and squeezed. Still the lights flashed, off and on, off and on. The walls thrummed with the mechanized beat of dance music, pierced only by Bertha’s screams as Jessie ripped out her throat.
Joe leaned in, his fangs wicked and glowing in the light. Bruce clawed at the monster’s face, tearing away strips of dead flesh. Joe turned his head to the side, and Bruce kneed him in the groin. Even dead, getting kicked in the balls hurt like hell, apparently. Joe’s grip loosened and Bruce was able to shove him off. Bruce unclasped the canteen and frantically screwed the cap off as Joe recovered. Joe sprang at him again, and Bruce splashed him in the face.
A sound like sizzling meat filled the air, and Joe screamed at the top of his lungs. He pressed his hands to his face and danced around the room, his skin liquifying and oozing between his fingers. The others were coming now, led by a terrible skeletal thing. Bruce scooped the shotgun off the floor, brought it around, and fired. The blast hit the thing dead center, tearing it literally in half. The top half flew back, an all too human look of surprise on its face, and the bottom half fell over with a wet thud. Another vampire came at, and Bruce slammed it across the face with the butt of the gun. He heard its jaw crack, saw teeth flying.
Bertha lay dead on the floor, Jessie bent over her. The smell of Bertha’s blood attracted the others, who seemed to forget about Bruce, Merrick, and everything else. Joe was on his knees, wailing in pain, and the skeletal thing was pulling itself toward Bertha. A feeding frenzy broke out as vampires fought to get a piece of her the way piglets might fight over their mother’s teat. Bruce watched in a mixture of horror and fascination, but recovered himself. He grabbed the gas can from the floor and dumped the rest of its contents on Merrick’s body, the feeding vampires’ backs, and the floor, using the last of it to make a little trail to the door. He tossed the can aside, bent down, and stuck a match.
A huge, fiery whump filled the room, and fire streaked along the trail. The vampires all went up in a huge ball of flames, and fire shot up Merrick’s body, catching his robe, his hair, and the wooden frame that had kept him semi upright for God knows how long. Letting out inhuman screams, the vampires broke from Bertha’s corpse. One stumbled around, bounced off the wall, and fell; another toddled toward Bruce before falling to its knees. The half skeleton kept drinking from Bertha’s neck even as it burned.
The heat was enormous, baking. Bruce backed away, and the last thing he saw before smoke obscured his vision was Merrick Garvis.
He was literally melting.
***
Dominick Mason tried to go home, but he no longer had a home. All of his worldly possessions sat on the sidewalk in front of his building, discarded coldly as easily. His key didn’t work in his door and there was a FOR RENT sign on it. Why would it be any other way? He was dead. Sooner or later, everyone forgets you when you’re dead, and all the things you held so dear wind up in the trash. It was a hard pill to swallow, but most people aren’t around to see it after they die.
He was.
From his building, he walked east toward Washington Park. In the distance, thick, black smoke billowed into the air, and sirens rose. He barely noticed and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. No more rubbernecking for him. That was for the living.
The pain that had plagued him so the previous day came back, only less this time. Maybe he was imagining it, but it was getting harder to think. Not that he cared, really. What was there to think about anyway? How he had no one to mourn or miss him? How he died and not one single person, except for maybe his mother, cared, or even noticed? How he had done nothing with his life? Even to the women he’d slept with, what was he? Just another dating app hookup. They probably didn’t even remember his name.
Merrick had been right about one thing. Death was easy. It was life that was hard…life that hurt.
With that in mind, Dominick made his way to Washington Park. It was a vast and deep place with many small caves and thickets. Kids played on the playground, their cries of laughter scenting the still air. It had grown cloudy and began to rain. Still, smoke poured into the sky in the direction of Club Vlad. Dom didn’t wish ill on Merrick and the others, didn’t hope it was them burning. He didn’t care anymore. Not about them, not about anyone. For better or worse (and he would argue it was worse), his life was over. His time came days ago, he just missed the boat.
Picking out an isolated little area, Dom sat against a tree with his legs splayed out in front of him. He titled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, thinking was hard now. His mind felt sluggish, cold. He was thirsty…so, so thirsty, but he ignored it.
Slowly, the bugs found him. Flies buzzed around him and laid their eggs in his skin. Beetles scuttled over him, followed by worms.
Next, it was the birds. They ate out his eyes and nibbled at his blue, bloated skin.
The animals came last.
Their appetites were bigger.
And they left little remaining of poor, outcast Dominick Mason.
***
That night, Bruce sat alone in his little trailer, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and unshed tears in his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the darkened TV set and took long swallows from the bottle. He planned to drink until he forgot or passed out, whichever came first. He tried to not think about Vanessa, but in his addled state, he couldn’t control himself, and began to cry. When that storm passed, like the others before it, he chugged from the bottle.
As distant church bells clanged the hour - midnight - a feeble knock came at the door. Bruce took another drink and it came again. Getting up, he stumbled, nearly fell, and gripped the bottle tightly. He didn’t want to lose one precious drop.
Again, the knock.
“I’m coming,” Bruce slurred. He staggered to the door and fought with the lock. He was dizzy and seeing double.
When he got it, he opened the door.
The bottle dropped from his hand and clanked onto the floor.
Vanessa, clad in a puke green hospital gown, stood on the step, her hands pressed to her chest and a look of anguish on her milk white face. Her head tilted to one side, the wounds on her neck cleaned but open, gaping. Her dark eyes shone with tears. “I’m dead,” she said.
Breaking down in tears, she collapsed against him and they sank to the floor. She was cold and smelled. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest anyway. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he said drunkenly. “Hey, it’s alright.
“I’m dead,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “I don’t want to die.”
Bruce held her close, trying to warm her icy skin. He didn’t know what to say, so he cried with her.
“You’re safe now,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.”
“I want blood,” she said and sobbed harder, “I want to hurt people.”
“Shhh,” Bruce said again. “It’s okay.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a utility knife. He flicked the blade across his wrist and searing pain shot up his arm. “Here,” he said and offered her his blood, “drink this.”
He did this without care and without thought. She needed him, and one barnaclehead always backs up another.
Vanessa hesitated, looking from his face to the oozing blood, unsure.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Vanessa brought his wrist to her mouth.
And began to drink.
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Before long, the pain became too great and he got up to pace, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and gritting his teeth. Merrick, who slept very little if at all, sat in his chair and watched, trying his best to talk him through it. “It’ll be over soon,” Merrick said. “The pain receptors in your brain are the first to go. When they burn out, you won’t feel anything.”
“When?” Dom asked, his voice raising with the tide of pain.
“A couple days?”
“A couple days???”
“The pain will lessen gradually,” Merrick said, “this is the worst of it.”
Dom believed that this was, indeed, the worst of it, but he doubted it would lessen gradually. For the rest of the day, the pain got worse and worse until every light blinded him, every sound turned his stomach, and the smell of anything made his gorge rise. The cloying smell of the embalming fluid, the light but unmistakable odor of dead flesh, and the scent of stale blood sitting in decomposing stomachs made him want to vomit, but he was afraid to. He didn’t think he could handle the sight of blood rushing from his mouth and splattering the floor. He still possessed enough of his facilities, he believed, to go insane.
Pain has a way of darkening one’s mood, and by the time the sun began to set, Dom was in the most sour mood possible. Even Merrick’s calm, fatherly voice was beginning to get on his nerves. When he took the oath to him the day before (or was it the day before that?), he turned his faith and trust over to Merrick entirely. He was finally accepted, included, finally had the love and fellowship that, in the pit of his soul, he had always wanted. Merrick understood him, Merrick was kind to him.
But deep down, Dom realized that he didn’t fully trust him. He said that his brain didn’t rot because he was “lucky.” That sounded like some bullshit to Dom. Why wasn’t Joe a blithering idiot too? Was he lucky as well? Did lightning strike in the same place twice? In life, people had done nothing but hurt and lie to Dom. Why would death be any different? He thought back to the strange liquid that always seemed to leak from Merrick’s nose, and Joe’s. He thought it was embalming fluid, but it never leaked from his own nose, or from anyone else’s. He tried to tell himself that it was far too soon to judge, but once he began to doubt something, his mind raced away. He felt a twinge of guilt, as Merrick had done absolutely nothing to deserve his doubt, but goddamn it, his head was on fire and he wanted it to stop. Anything to make it stop.
Just after sundown, the music began as Club Vlad opened for the night. It throbbed in the center of Dom’s head and made him want to claw his eyes out. When it became too much for him, he slipped away and stumbled into the sultry summer night. He came out in the alley running behind the club, clutching his head and breathing through bared teeth. He staggered, bumped into a metal trash can, and roared at the top of his lungs, as if he could purge himself of the pain by screaming.. His voice echoed and came back to him, making the pain worse.
Merrick was lying. He knew it. People always lied to him. His brain was rotting and PEOPLE WERE LYING! Flashing with anger, he slammed his fist into the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant. He barely felt anything so he did it again and again until his hand was lumpy and shaking. He sat heavily on the ground and pressed his hands to his head. It felt like maggots were burrowing into his brain, and he was suddenly terrified that they really were. He needed to stop this awful pain, but how?
An idea came to him.
The funeral home.
Maybe there was something there.
He was on his feet and lumbering there before the thought had even finished reverberating through his mind. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. On the way there, he stuck to the shadows, staying out of the light cast by the streetlamps and avoiding people. When he passed them, he kept his head down. When he reached the funeral home, he went to the back door where he and Jessie had gone the other day. He tried it, and it opened.
Inside, he bounced off the walls like a pinball, knocking over an end table and tearing at the flesh of his head, pulling it away in long, gray strips. He panted like a wild animal, his body a raging tempest of emotions. It was reaching a crescendo, he thought, his brain was about to go supernova. The world dimmed, things got really echoy. The young man he’d picked the embalming fluid up from was there, looking scared.
Flashing, Dom grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall, knocking a painting of a flowery field to the carpet. Everything seemed to go in slow mo. “How does Merrick keep his brain from rotting?” Dom heard himself demanding from far away. “How does he keep the pain away?”
The man trembled. “I-I-”
Dom slammed him again. “Tell me or I’ll make you like me.”
“No!” the man wailed. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wet with fear.
“How?”
“He-He uses a solution,” the man stammered. “Some kind of special thing. It preserves his brain. That’s all I know.”
An idea occurred to Dom.
Holding the man by the back of his neck, Dom dragged him into the embalming room and pushed him against the table. His head felt like it was swelling. Hot, screaming, getting ready to explode. He looked around, found the embalming machine, and grabbed the hose. There was a sharp tip on it so that you could jam it into a body. He held it in his hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to his temple. The man watched in horror as Dom slowly shoved the tip into his head. It tore his flesh, broke through his skull, and sank into his brain. He felt no pain, only pressure, but cried out anyway. His eyes rolled up into his head and a shudder went through his body.
“Turn it on!” he yelled.
“That’s not what he -”
“TURN IT ON!”
Starting, the man turned the machine on. Cold embalming fluid squirted directly into Dom’s brain. Almost at once, the pain began to ebb away, replaced only by a fuzzy sense of numbness. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, looking for all the world like an addict taking a hit of his favorite substance after a long and trying day. Fluid leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes and dripped down the back of his throat.
The man waited for a long time, then turned the machine off.
The pain was gone.
At least for now.
“Tell me again,” Dom said.
The man did. Merrick used a special preserving agent to keep his brain intact. Joe, the man suspected, got it as well. So Merrick had lied to him.
Dom felt betrayed.
And angry.
Leaving the man (Dom realized that he didn’t even know his name), he walked back to Club Vlad, his hands fisted in his pockets. All his life, he had been hurt, lied to, and ignored. All his life, people had done wrong to him. And all those years, he just took it.
He resolved not to be so accepting in death.
At last, he was going to stop being a sniveling little bitch and stand up for himself.
When he reached Club Vlad, he slammed through the back door and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he called out Merrick’s name. The old man was sitting in his chair, being attended to by Jessie and Matt. He looked startled when Dom came in. “You lied to me,” Dom said, stalking over to his benefactor.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick asked, doing his best to sound innocent.
“You lied to me!” Dom screamed. He bent over and got so close to Merrick’s face that he could have kissed him. “You told me there was no way to save my brain, but that’s not true. You’re pumping your head full of shit and letting the rest of us rot.”
A dark shadow flickered across Merrick’s face. “Watch your tone when you talk to me,” he said. His voice was low, menacing.
“Fuck you,” Dom said. “I should k -”
Suddenly, Dom was being grabbed from behind and yanked back, an arm around his neck. He cried out in alarm as Joe swung him around and slammed him face first into the wall. He heard his nose crunch, felt his teeth shatter. Next, Joe wrestled him to the glitter-sprinkled floor and wedged his knee between his shoulder blades.
Merrick watched with a sneer of disgust, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He wheeled himself over, Jessie holding his IV stand steady and following behind. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Merrick said, “you’re lucky to be a part of this family.”
Cold fear filled the pit of Dom’s stomach, yet he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down. He had lived his entire life like a mouse in a burrow, he wasn’t about to live his entire death the same way.
“Fuck your family,” he said defiantly. “And fuck you.”
Merrick’s face darkened and he sat back in his chair. He looked at Jessie and nodded. She went away and came back a moment later holding something in her hand. Dom’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
A wooden stake, one end honed to a razor point.
Why they had one of those lying around, Dom didn’t know; it’d be like Superman keeping a piece of kryptonite on the mantle over the fireplace. Merrick directed Max and Matt to hold Dom’s arms down/ Joe pivoted, kneeling on his head now so that Dom’s back was exposed. Dom’s heart slammed with terror and tremors raced through his body.
“Is this what you want, Dominick?” Merrick asked. “To die? To truly die?”
Dom swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to live, to love, to have a family one day. He wanted a happy, normal life, the life TV and social media had been promising him since he was a little boy.
But all of that went out the window the night he died in his little apartment. There was no life anymore, just a grotesque parody of life. What was there for him other than death? Clinging desperately onto life for decades like Merrick? Stuffing himself full of embalming fluid and moth balls? Grinding for one more minute just so he could sit hooked up to a machine?
Dom spoke.
“What?” Merrick asked, not having heard.
Dom licked his lips. “Just fucking do it.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Expectation hung in the air. Finally, breaking the tension, Merrick nodded to Jessie. Kneeling down, she brought the stake up, and Dom closed his eyes.
This was it.
He braced himself for death.
Jessie brought the stake down just as a shot rang out, deafening in the small space. Her head whipped back, embalming fluid, skull fragments, and gray, sickly pieces of brain showering from the back of her head. She flopped back and landed on the floor with a sickening thud.
A woman cop, her black uniform in stark contrast to the burning white light, stood in the doorway to the hall, her gun drawn. Everyone did, indeed, freeze, more out of surprise than respect for authority. They all looked at her, their dead mouths agape, resembling children who’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Everyone on the ground!” she barked.
No one knew what to do. They hadn’t expected to be raided by the police so had not prepared. She jerked her gun and everyone instinctively flinched. “On the ground!” she repeated. To Max: “You too, bone boy.”
The first one to react was Joe. He sprang at her like a big, undead frog. She brought the gun around and fired, but he was already crashing into her. The shot went wild and struck the IV bag next to Merrick; he ducked and let out a sound of fear. The others rushed her, and Dom got quickly to his feet. Jessie lay on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream and her bony fingers frantically examining the ragged hole in the center of her forehead. For a moment, he was frozen; everything was happening too fast. Then, when Merrick saw him and cried, “Stop him!, he came alive. Jessie tried to grab at his leg, but he kicked her hand away and stomped on it like it was a giant spider. On the other side of the room, Matt, Joe, and Max had forced the cop to the ground. Perhaps excited by all the action, perhaps just hungry, they began to tear her apart. She howled in pain, and the last thing Dom saw before he fled was her open, blood-filled mouth. Her eyes were filled with pain…with terror.
After that, Dom ran.
***
When the interloper was dead, Merrick directed Joe and Matt to dispose of the body. “Get rid of it,” he said wearily and rubbed his temples, “make sure it isn’t found.”
They rolled her into a carpet from the office, and the way her feet stuck out may have been comical under other circumstances.
Goddamn it, this was bad. Merrick’s entire philosophy rested on avoiding detection. He had done well in that regard. Whereas other vampires had attacked their villages and gotten themselves dug from the ground and staked, he had made it four decades. He never shat where he ate, and there is no bigger turd than killing a cop. They might dawdle on all the boys who’d gone missing - taken because their blood was stronger and more robust than the blood of girls - but they would not take a cop dying lightly at all.
Merrick owned various businesses around the country. He and the others would simply move on. Tomorrow night, they would disappear into the night. They had done it before and they would likely do it again. Once things were settled at their new base of operations, he would have Joe killed for all the trouble he’d caused.
And Dom?
Let him go.
The little rat wouldn’t last a month on his own.
“Jessie?”
Jessie sat against the wall, gazing into space.
“Jessi…start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear. The shot had all but lobotomized her.
Damn it.
Joe backed the van up to the back door of Club Vlad, and then helped Matt carry the carpet-rolled body down the stairs. They loaded it in and closed the back doors. Together, they drove around looking for a place to dump it. Merrick wanted it to go unfound, but Joe doubted there was anywhere isolated enough in the city. On a whim, he drove to Washington Park, a vast expanse of green trees and shadows. There was a large pond there. It seemed the best option. They were leaving tomorrow anyway, so did it really matter?
Joe backed the van to a railing overlooking the dark water and put it in park. He and Matt got out, fetched the body, and carried it to the railing. They lifted and heaved it over. It splashed. Thus, they rid themselves of Vanessa Rodregiez.
***
Bruce sat anxiously up in his easy chair and waited for his cell to ring.
Parked in front of the TV by warm lamplight, a beer wedged between his legs, he’d been watching the 11’o’clock news when the phone rang. He picked it up and it was Vanessa. “Hey,” she said, “I think I found our body?”
“Which one?” Bruce asked and took a drink. “We have a lot of those these days.”
“Dominick Mason.”
Bruce sat forward in his chair. “Dead Dom? Where?”
“He just came out of a funeral home, ironically enough.”
“That sounds about right,” Bruce said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m following him east on Central.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bruce asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”
Bruce sat the phone aside and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, his head lulled to one side and his mouth open. He snorted himself awake, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He checked his phone and was perturbed to see that it was past 2am.
Vanessa hadn’t called.
He dialed her number and let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. Sighing, he ended the call, then waited a few minutes and called again.
Still no answer.
It was possible she had forgotten. Maybe the guy turned out to not be Dead Dom after all. She followed some random guy around, realized it, and that was that. Hell, she was probably too embarrassed to call and tell him about it.
Something told him that wasn’t right, however.
There was something else going on here.
Something…darker.
Just before 3am, his phone rang. He snatched it off the end table next to the chair and answered it. It was Burt, the night sargent. “Rodriguez is missing,” he said simply.
Bruce’s heart sank. “Missing?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t checked in for hours and she isn’t answering calls.”
“I’m on my way,”
Bruce tore through the house, pulling on his uniform, socks, and shoes in less time than it took a Daytona 500 pit crew to service a car. In ten minutes he was speeding down 787, the Albany skyline rising in the distance. As he hurried to the station, he thought back to his last conversation with Vanessa. She’d found Dom the Dead Man, the “corpse” who’d scared Ed Harris out of a 20 year career. Despite all their talk about vampires and the living dead, Bruce didn’t believe it, not really. Even so, he was sure that Dominick Mason had done something to Vanessa.
He checked in at the station before doing anything else. They had triangulated Vanessa’s last known location via cell towers. Cops were already out searching the streets for her. Bruce went out as well, intending to start from her last known position and work his way east on Central. The closest funeral home was Tebbutt and Frederick on Central. There was also Lasak & Gigliotti on North Allen Street. Bruce didn’t know which one Vanessa had seen Dom come out of, so he checked both.
Both were deserted at this hour.
Undeterred, Bruce drove up and down Central Ave. At one point, he noticed a shape in an alleyway that looked human. He hit the brakes, jumped out, and pointed his gun at it. “Freeze!”
An old wino stepped out of the darkness. “Alright, you got me,” he said, hands up. “I started COVID. It was an accident, I swear.”
Bruce sighed and put his gun away.
For two more hours, Bruce searched the streets of Albany for Vanessa. At 4am, he spotted a squad car abandoned in the rear parking lot of an abandoned gas station on lower Lark Street. He called it in and the desk sergeant confirmed that it was the one Vanessa had signed out that night.
Still there was no sign of Vanessa herself.
Just after dawn, as the city came alive and CDTA buses began lumbering up and down the streets, Bruce got a call on his cell. “A jogger found a body in Washington Park.”
Bruce was in his personal car. He had no bubble light, no siren. Even so, he sped through the streets like he did, blowing through red lights and stop signs with little care to himself or anyone else. When he got to Washington Park, he found an army cops by the pond, the scene cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and jumped out without even turning off the engine.
The body was rolled up in a carpet and lying on the bank. Two beat cops unrolled it at Bruce’s direction. “We should wait for -” one of them started, but Bruce cut him off.
“Do it.”
They compiled, and at the carpet’s center, like a rotten cream filling, was the body of Vanessa Rodregiuez. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes wide and staring. Her throat had been mangled and ripped away, her head nearly severed. Even in the black and red mess, Bruce could make out the teeth marks and puncture wounds. They may have looked like something else to anyone else who saw them, but he knew, in that moment, what they were dealing with.
A sharp pang of horror sliced through him, and his knees went weak.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the beat cops drew.
Bruce fell to, rather than knelt on, one knee. He bent over the body, a mixture of horror and grief welling his throat. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her in death, but he stayed his hand. Instead, he visually examined the body. She had bruises on her face, defensive wounds on her hands, and her gun was gone. Whoever had attacked her, she put up a fight.
Something glinted on her pants.
“What’s that?” one of the cops asked.
“I dunno,” the other replied, “but it’s all over the carpet.”
Indeed, there were glinty little specks all over it, winking like mocking eyes. Nice work, eh? We really fucked her up, didn’t we? Wink wink.
“It looks like…”
The other cop cut him off. “Glitter.”
Bruce flashed back to his visit to Club Vlad the other day.
There had been glitter everywhere.
Bruce stood up.
He had work to do.
***
Instead of going back to the station to start his shift, Bruce went to Lowes. There, he bought a mallet, a gas can, and a dozen sticks of wood. An employee in a blue vest used a machine to sharpen them to a wicked point and he took his purchases to the car. Next, he drove over to the Mobil station and filled the gas can. He was so hellbent on revenge that he sprang for premium, the good stuff. No expense shall be spared.
His final stop was at a Catholic church. He filled a canteen with holy water from the marble font by the door, then swiped a crucifix from the wall. He stopped by the station, went inside, and grabbed a black duffle bag with POLICE written across the front in yellow. He opened the gun cabinet in his office, took out a shotgun, and loaded it with shells. He grabbed a handful from the box and stuffed them into his pocket.
He was just finishing up when Bertha came in. “There you are,” she spat, “I’ve waited long enough for you to do something. I demand -”
Bruce shoved the duffle bag into her arms. “Make yourself useful.”
“What?” she demanded.
“We’re going to get your granddaughter,” Bruice lied. Kind of.
Bertha’s demeanor changed. “Good. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were a complete incompetent.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Outside, he plucked the bag out of Bertha’s hands and tossed it into the backseat. He slipped behind the wheel and Bertha sat in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Club Vlad,” Bruce said and started the engine.
“I want all of them arrested.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said.
She barked orders the entire way there. Bruce was so deep in his thoughts that he barely heard her. The image of Vanessa’s ruined throat and terror-twisted face haunted him, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Hot tears filled his eyes but he blinked them back and forced himself to calm down.
I’ll cry when I’m done killing, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of Club Vlad. It was a hot and sunny day and the place seemed even more ominous because of it. The windows were black, the front cast in perpetual shadows by the old marquee from when it used to be a theater. The place was surely closed, but Bruce could hear music still playing from inside, some techno dance bullshit. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go.”
Getting out, he slung the dufflebag over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, the canteen full of holy water clasped to his belt. Bertha carried the gas can, looking confused. “Why do we need this?” she asked.
“We’re burning the place down.”
Bertha blinked in surprise…then an evil grin carved across her face. “That’ll show the bastards.”
Unlike last time, the door was locked. Bruce used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the door, being careful not to cut himself. This was the point of no return. What he had in mind would probably get him kicked off the force or even thrown in jail - and we all know how tough jail can be for a former barnaclehead. The memory of Vanessa’s contorted face pushed him on, however.
He’d suffer any consequences he needed to just so long as he got the sons of bitches who did this to her.
Inside, the club was cool and cave-like. Strobe lights flashed, on and off, black and white, dazzling Bruce’s eyes. The bartender was at his station, cleaning up from the night before. When he saw Bruce and Bertha come in, he started. Bruce pointed the shotgun at him. “Don’t fucking move,” he commanded.
The bartender hesitated, then reached for something under the bar.
The shotgun kicked in Bruce’s hands, and the bartender flew back, turning as he crashed into the barback. Bottles, glasses, and mugs crashed to the floor along with the bartender. Bruce racked the gun, and the shell flew out. He moved low and fast now, expecting to be swarmed by vampires, living thugs who worked for vampires, or vampire thugs who worked for themselves.
Though the shot had been like thunder, no one came.
Bruce had no idea where to go, but he imagined that vampires were naturally gravitate to the lowest part of the building. Was there a basement? Shit, he should have looked up the building plans at city hall. Damn, this is what happens when you go off half-cocked. He searched around a bit, opening doors and sweeping the rooms beyond with the shotgun. He found no basement, only stairs leading up. “Stay close,” he said to Bertha.
In the lead, Bruce crept up the stairs, the flashlight on the shotgun providing a cone of clean, white light. At the top of the stairs, he went right, and came to an office and a store room. Backtracking, and bumping into a bungling Bertha, he went into the next room. It was large and open with a vaulted ceiling, almost like a ballroom. Here the same strobe lights throbbed on and off, making him dizzy. Was this to dazzle prospective vampire hunters?
Either way, this was the place. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some curled up on their sides and others in the classic vampire pose: Flat on their backs with their hands laced over their chests. In the center, like the sun to the planets, Merrick Garvis lay slumped back in his wheelchair, his neck exposed for any potential assassin to come and cut. Not that it would kill him. At least Bruce didn’t think it would.
“They’re all dead,” Bertha whispered. She looked around and gasped. “There’s Jessie.”
Jessie lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Oh, God,” Bertha wavered, “someone shot her.”
He hoped it was Vanessa. And he hoped it fucking hurt.
Looking around, Bruce couldn’t find Dominick Mason. Was he the one who killed Vanessa? Was it a group effort? He wanted the little son of a bitch bad, but it looked like he’d have to go on without him. They didn’t have much time.
Unshouldering the duffle bag, he knelt down and rummaged around. “Start splashing that gas on the bodies,” he said.
“But -”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
There must have been a harder edge in his voice than normal, because Bertha jumped and did as she was told. She upended the can and began to splash gasoline onto the sleeping forms, the smell of it acrid and strong.
Taking out a stake and the mallet, Bruce went over to Merrick and knelt down. He gripped the stake in one hand and placed it firmly against Merrick’s chest. He brought the mallet up and hesitated, the gravity of what he was doing finally reaching him. What if he was wrong? What if -
Merrick’s head whipped up and their eyes locked.
Too late.
Bruce brought the mallet down as hard as he could. The stake drove deep into Merrick’s heart, and the vampire let out a howling screech that rang through the chamber like the cry of a banshee. His bony fingers clawed at the stake and his head whipped from side to side, his back arching and his robe coming open. In the quick strobe pattern, Bruce was shocked to see that his body was little more than a wood frame, chicken wire, and cotton balls. His blacked heart was hidden behind a screen of mesh that the stake had easily torn through. It throbbed, seemingly in time with the strobe lights, and Merrick let out another wail.
Bertha screamed, and Bruce jumped to his feet.
The vampires, drawn by their master’s cries of distress, were rising to their feet. Two, four, six of them, pale and ethereal like ghosts in a gothic mansion. They came toward Merrick, and Bruice fell back a step. The old man had gone still and lay slumped to one side, his eyes open and his mouth slack, embalming fluid leaking from the corner of his lips. Jessie bent over him and touched his face. Though she moved like a zombie, with no human emotion, Bruce was crazily sure that it was a touch of tenderness and love. Merrick didn’t stir.
He was dead.
Jessie looked at him. Yellow liquid leaked from her eyes like tears. Instead of attacking him, she turned on her grandmother and slammed her against the wall. Bertha screamed and dropped the can. It landed on its side, its contents sloshing out onto the floor. A man that resembled the pictures Bruce had seen of Joe Rossi only deader rushed him, slamming into him and knocking the shotgun aside. It hit the floor and skidded away. Joe grabbed Bruce around the throat and squeezed. Still the lights flashed, off and on, off and on. The walls thrummed with the mechanized beat of dance music, pierced only by Bertha’s screams as Jessie ripped out her throat.
Joe leaned in, his fangs wicked and glowing in the light. Bruce clawed at the monster’s face, tearing away strips of dead flesh. Joe turned his head to the side, and Bruce kneed him in the groin. Even dead, getting kicked in the balls hurt like hell, apparently. Joe’s grip loosened and Bruce was able to shove him off. Bruce unclasped the canteen and frantically screwed the cap off as Joe recovered. Joe sprang at him again, and Bruce splashed him in the face.
A sound like sizzling meat filled the air, and Joe screamed at the top of his lungs. He pressed his hands to his face and danced around the room, his skin liquifying and oozing between his fingers. The others were coming now, led by a terrible skeletal thing. Bruce scooped the shotgun off the floor, brought it around, and fired. The blast hit the thing dead center, tearing it literally in half. The top half flew back, an all too human look of surprise on its face, and the bottom half fell over with a wet thud. Another vampire came at, and Bruce slammed it across the face with the butt of the gun. He heard its jaw crack, saw teeth flying.
Bertha lay dead on the floor, Jessie bent over her. The smell of Bertha’s blood attracted the others, who seemed to forget about Bruce, Merrick, and everything else. Joe was on his knees, wailing in pain, and the skeletal thing was pulling itself toward Bertha. A feeding frenzy broke out as vampires fought to get a piece of her the way piglets might fight over their mother’s teat. Bruce watched in a mixture of horror and fascination, but recovered himself. He grabbed the gas can from the floor and dumped the rest of its contents on Merrick’s body, the feeding vampires’ backs, and the floor, using the last of it to make a little trail to the door. He tossed the can aside, bent down, and stuck a match.
A huge, fiery whump filled the room, and fire streaked along the trail. The vampires all went up in a huge ball of flames, and fire shot up Merrick’s body, catching his robe, his hair, and the wooden frame that had kept him semi upright for God knows how long. Letting out inhuman screams, the vampires broke from Bertha’s corpse. One stumbled around, bounced off the wall, and fell; another toddled toward Bruce before falling to its knees. The half skeleton kept drinking from Bertha’s neck even as it burned.
The heat was enormous, baking. Bruce backed away, and the last thing he saw before smoke obscured his vision was Merrick Garvis.
He was literally melting.
***
Dominick Mason tried to go home, but he no longer had a home. All of his worldly possessions sat on the sidewalk in front of his building, discarded coldly as easily. His key didn’t work in his door and there was a FOR RENT sign on it. Why would it be any other way? He was dead. Sooner or later, everyone forgets you when you’re dead, and all the things you held so dear wind up in the trash. It was a hard pill to swallow, but most people aren’t around to see it after they die.
He was.
From his building, he walked east toward Washington Park. In the distance, thick, black smoke billowed into the air, and sirens rose. He barely noticed and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. No more rubbernecking for him. That was for the living.
The pain that had plagued him so the previous day came back, only less this time. Maybe he was imagining it, but it was getting harder to think. Not that he cared, really. What was there to think about anyway? How he had no one to mourn or miss him? How he died and not one single person, except for maybe his mother, cared, or even noticed? How he had done nothing with his life? Even to the women he’d slept with, what was he? Just another dating app hookup. They probably didn’t even remember his name.
Merrick had been right about one thing. Death was easy. It was life that was hard…life that hurt.
With that in mind, Dominick made his way to Washington Park. It was a vast and deep place with many small caves and thickets. Kids played on the playground, their cries of laughter scenting the still air. It had grown cloudy and began to rain. Still, smoke poured into the sky in the direction of Club Vlad. Dom didn’t wish ill on Merrick and the others, didn’t hope it was them burning. He didn’t care anymore. Not about them, not about anyone. For better or worse (and he would argue it was worse), his life was over. His time came days ago, he just missed the boat.
Picking out an isolated little area, Dom sat against a tree with his legs splayed out in front of him. He titled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, thinking was hard now. His mind felt sluggish, cold. He was thirsty…so, so thirsty, but he ignored it.
Slowly, the bugs found him. Flies buzzed around him and laid their eggs in his skin. Beetles scuttled over him, followed by worms.
Next, it was the birds. They ate out his eyes and nibbled at his blue, bloated skin.
The animals came last.
Their appetites were bigger.
And they left little remaining of poor, outcast Dominick Mason.
***
That night, Bruce sat alone in his little trailer, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and unshed tears in his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the darkened TV set and took long swallows from the bottle. He planned to drink until he forgot or passed out, whichever came first. He tried to not think about Vanessa, but in his addled state, he couldn’t control himself, and began to cry. When that storm passed, like the others before it, he chugged from the bottle.
As distant church bells clanged the hour - midnight - a feeble knock came at the door. Bruce took another drink and it came again. Getting up, he stumbled, nearly fell, and gripped the bottle tightly. He didn’t want to lose one precious drop.
Again, the knock.
“I’m coming,” Bruce slurred. He staggered to the door and fought with the lock. He was dizzy and seeing double.
When he got it, he opened the door.
The bottle dropped from his hand and clanked onto the floor.
Vanessa, clad in a puke green hospital gown, stood on the step, her hands pressed to her chest and a look of anguish on her milk white face. Her head tilted to one side, the wounds on her neck cleaned but open, gaping. Her dark eyes shone with tears. “I’m dead,” she said.
Breaking down in tears, she collapsed against him and they sank to the floor. She was cold and smelled. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest anyway. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he said drunkenly. “Hey, it’s alright.
“I’m dead,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “I don’t want to die.”
Bruce held her close, trying to warm her icy skin. He didn’t know what to say, so he cried with her.
“You’re safe now,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.”
“I want blood,” she said and sobbed harder, “I want to hurt people.”
“Shhh,” Bruce said again. “It’s okay.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a utility knife. He flicked the blade across his wrist and searing pain shot up his arm. “Here,” he said and offered her his blood, “drink this.”
He did this without care and without thought. She needed him, and one barnaclehead always backs up another.
Vanessa hesitated, looking from his face to the oozing blood, unsure.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Vanessa brought his wrist to her mouth.
And began to drink.
2024.05.16 20:00 Flagg1991 Children of the Night (Part 5)
As the last orange light of day drained from the sky, the living dead in Club Vlad rose. Max the skeleton and Jessie the…not skeleton…sewed up the gaping Y-shaped incision on Dom’s chest under Merrick’s direct supervision. Dom sat there, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. He’d woken with a headache and a feeling of cold, and even now, he could feel the dull throb above his left eye. It felt like someone was tearing his brain apart with a fork. He had told Merrick, and Merrick had nodded sadly. “Is my brain rotting?”
“Most likely,” Merrick had said.
There was a certain peace in the idea of losing his cursed humanity. As Merrick had said, he would feel no pain, know no quandaries. He would live only for the night and for his master. On the other hand, watching someone like Matt sit and stare into the distance, drool coursing down his chin and nothing happening behind his dead eyes, scared Dom. He didn’t want to be a braindead idiot. He didn’t care about keeping his emotions, he just wanted to function.
Like Merrick.
There wasn’t much he could do, however. He was dead and that was the end of it.
Once Dom was patched up and dressed in a pair of jeans and a hoodie, Merrick called his children before him. “I have done my best to love and protect all of you,” he began. “Jessie, you were miserable with your grandmother, were you not?”
“Yes,” Jessie said tonelessly.
“You were depressed, bipolar, and cut yourself. Now you’re happy.”
“Yes,” she replied again.
“Joe, you were a two bit nobody staring down a ten year stretch in jail.”
“Yes.” Thin yellow liquid dripped from his nose.
“But now you are free.”
“Yes.”
“You appreciate what I’ve done for you.”
“Yes.”
Merrick flashed then, slamming his fist onto the arm of his wheelchair. “Then why do you keep fucking up? The police were here earlier. They have messages between you and Jessie. I told both of you to delete those. Then I find out that you bit someone and turned them despite my orders. We have an endless supply of blood here but you still went off on your own. How many are there?”
“Just one,” Joe said.
“Are you being honest with me?”
“Yes.”
Merrick sagged back in his chair, looking somehow older. “Joe, take Matt and go to her. Bring her back here before she causes any more problems. God alone knows how many people she’s changed. Too many vampires without a father will bring heat on us, and you know what happens in that case? We get pieces of wood shoved in our chests.”
Turning to Dom, Merrick said, “I have a job for you and Jessie. We’re nearly out of embalming fluid. You haven’t had your first dose and the rest of us are starting to get ripe as well. I have a contact at a funeral home. He texted earlier that the order he placed on my behalf has come in. I want you to pick it up and to pay him.”
Dom had never been picked for anything in his whole life. No one had ever wanted him on their team and no one had ever placed their trust in him the way Merrick was now. He was honored, proud, and would do anything to not let Merrick down.
“That cop who came here might be a problem,” Merrick went on. “We may have to deal with him, but we’ll leave that for another night. In any case, I want this place cleaned from top to bottom. If the police come, I want them to see nothing out of the ordinary.”
Now that everyone had their marching orders, they dispersed. Merrick handed Dom an evelope stuffed with cash, and Dom slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie. The other team - Joe and Matt - left, while the remaining vampires began tidying up.
A fleet of vehicles waited in the parking lot behind Club Vlad. Dom and Jessie took a black pedo van with no back windows. They drove in silence, the radio off. Dom did not want to hear music, nor did he wish to speak to Jessie. Their kinship was one of blood and circumstance, not one of words and emotions. He had no questions for her and wished to answer none of his own. The only thoughts he had were of the mission ahead and of the growing pain in his skull. He thought of the staring stupid Matt, of the decayed Max, and a shiver went down his spine.
What was left of his humanity recoiled at the idea of becoming like them.
The pain grew hotter, more intense. He forced it away and focused on driving.
The funeral home was on North Allen Street, next to a restaurant called Pepperjack’s. A tall, white house with dark shutters and a sign out front, it looked like a quiet, peaceful place. “Pull around back,” Jessie said.
Dom pulled the van around back and parked under a balcony, killing the headlights. They got out and went to the back door, Jessie in the lead. He assumed that she had done this before and that the seller would recognize her. She knocked, and a few moments later, the door opened. A youngish man with a shaved head appeared, wearing an apron and gloves. He saw them and tensed a little. Dom could smell, rather than sense, his fear, and his throat panged with thirst. “Come on,” the man said quickly. He stepped aside and allowed them to enter. Dom noticed that he walked behind them, wary of putting his back to them. “Do you have the money?”
“Do you have our order?” Jessie countered.
“Yes,” the man said, “I’m really risking my neck for this. They don’t just give embalming fluid away, you know. They keep track of it and if they realize I’m over ordering, someone from the state’s going to come down here and check.”
He led them into an embalming room. Three boxes sat on a table. Dom gave the man his money, and he and Jessie carried the boxes outside, loading them into the van. The whole time they were there, the man was edgy, like he was afraid they were going to attack him. Dom would be a liar if he said that the hot smell of the man’s blood didn’t excite him. Perhaps once his brain rotted away, he wouldn’t be able to control himself, but for now, he could.
A lightning bolt of pain shot through his head and he nearly dropped the last box onto the ground.
Once the man was paid, Dom and Jessie drove back to Club Vlad. In fifteen minutes, they were drinking side by side from two passed out partygoers, their reward for a job well done.
Meanwhile, across the city, Joe and Matt weren’t doing as well. They were standing outside of Heather’s apartment. Joe, slightly annoyed (anger being another emotion vampires could feel, along with fear) pounded on the door. He knew she was in there; he could smell the putrid odor of decay. “Let us in,” he said. “We won’t hurt you.”
Joe could barely remember changing her. He didn’t mean to, it just…happened. Like an unwanted pregnancy. You can bite someone as much as you want and drink as much as you want, but if you take too much at once and they die, you get the vampire equivalent of a baby. Joe liked the hunt. It was exciting. Having his meals brought to him Club Vlad didn’t arouse the same level of excitement. It was like shooting an animal tied to a tree. Or hiring a prostitute instead of wooing someone. No real satisfaction to it.
That was probably his greatest downfall. He had lured Jessie the same way, though Merrick was indeed interested in rescuing her from her grandmother. People you have saved obey just as well as people with no brains.
He felt fluid on his upper lip and sniffed. “Come on, let us in,” he said.
No response.
He looked at Matt and nodded to the door. Together, they rammed their shoulders against it. It shook in its frame. They were both dead and weak, but modern American architecture is even weaker, and the door eventually slammed open. The apartment beyond was dark, messy, and reeked of death. They searched high and low, and eventually found Heather huddled in a corner, trying to hide. She was naked save for a pair of panties, her body bloated and beginning to turn black. Her skin hung from her frame and her eyes were filled with blood and fear. It was a wonder no one had called the police yet. The smell was overpowering. “We’re here to help,” he said. “You have to come with us.”
She shook her head and trembled. Maybe she remembered that he was the one who did this to her. Maybe her memories had rotted away. Those were usually the first to go. Then your emotions, then your personality. Finally, your capacity for higher reasoning. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” he said. That was a lie. He was not remorseful. Nor was he proud, for that matter. It just happened. Like rain. “But I want to help you. We can fix you.”
No amount of coaxing or conjoling could induce her to move. Joe weighed his options. He doubted anyone would call the cops even if they heard the door coming down - people who lived in places like this rarely called the cops, which helped Joe and his cause immensely. Even so, there was the possibility. Every minute they spent here was a minute that something could go wrong, and Joe had a lot to lose.
So, too, did Merrick.
Giving up, Joe took out his cellphone and called Merrick. “She refuses to come,” he said simply.
The line was quiet for a moment, then Merrick’s voice came back. Cold. Calculating. “Then do what you must.”
That was the go ahead.
Hanging up, Joe looked around the apartment and found a wooden chair in the kitchen. He lifted it over his head and slammed it on the counter, shattering it into a million pieces. He selected the longest, sharpest, and sturdiest looking one. He went back into the room and directed Matt to hold her down. She fought, kicked, and spat, but she was weaker than even they were. They had been embalmed. She hadn’t.
Matt pinned her hands above her head and Joe straddled her. Animal terror filled her eyes and she whipped her head from side to side. Joe lifted the makeshift stake with both hands, and brought it down as hard as he could, driving it deep into her heart. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and a high, otherworldly scream ripped from her throat. She bucked, thrashed, and kicked her feet. Her resistance began to ebb away until she was twitching…until she was still.
Heather from OKCupid was dead.
Truly dead.
Joe couldn’t help wondering what it was like.
Pulling the stake out, he tossed it aside and got to his feet, Matt doing likewise. A soul petrifying scream might be cause for even the tightest of lips to start talking. “Let’s go,” he said. And together, he and Matt fled, leaving the poor, dead body of Heather behind.
***
As it turned out, one of Heather’s neighbors did call the cops. At 10;13pm, Vanessa Rodregiez arrived with two patrolmen and found the front door of Apartment 237 knocked down. Guns drawn, they entered, Vanessa at the head. The first thing she noticed was the smell. It jammed itself into her nostrils, shoved its tongue down her throat, and violated her - all without even buying her dinner first.
Vanessa hadn’t been at this as long as her buddy Bruce had, but she knew a dead, rotting body when she smelled one. They searched the premises, and sure enough, they found a vic in the bedroom, lying in the gap between the bed and the wall; it looked like the former had been moved, perhaps in a struggle. Vanessa knelt down to check the vic’s pulse, but stopped.
There was no need.
The vic - who looked like a female but could have been an overweight male - hadn’t had a pulse in a very long time.
Examining the body, Vanessa found a wound in the chest, just above the heart. Black, stinking goo leaked from it, and Vanessa gagged. She fisted her hand to her mouth, retched, and then ran for the kitchen sink. Her partner for the night, Jim Walsh, stared down at the stiff before him, and his face turned a sickly shade of green. He avoided puking because he didn’t nose fuck the wound like Vanessa had, but he wasted no time in getting out there, dry heaving in the hallway where the air was somewhat fresh.
After leaving her lunch in the sink, Vanessa radioed back to headquarters, and before long, the place was crawling with cops. The assistant medical examiner - who had taken over after Ed Harris quit the previous night - knelt over the body and studied it. A solidly built black man with a mustache, his name was Leon and he knew death just as well as his old boss, so when he said the vic had been dead nearly two weeks, Vanessa accepted it.
That begged the question: Who broke in and screamed just now? A relative? The caller clearly heard screaming and peeked out her door to see two males fleeing on foot. Maybe they found the vic and freaked out? Or maybe they were the killers returning to the scene of the crime. After all, the vic had clearly been murdered.
In fact, they found a likely murder weapon. A long sliver of wood soaked in black goo. Blood turns black after a while, but there was something different about this stuff. “What is it?” Vanessa asked Leon.
“I’m not sure,” Leon said and pulled off a pair of Latex gloves he’d donned to examine the vic, “could be blood or…”
“Or what?” Vanessa asked.
“Or something,” Leon said. “Give me a few hours.”
And a few hours it was. Just before 1am, Leon called Vanessa at her desk. “I think you should come down here,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, Vanessa stood over Leon as he pulled the vic’s chest open with a pair of tweezers. “That’s the heart,” he said, “whoever stabbed her scored a direct hit, but this…this is what concerns me.”
He prodded a furry lump with the tip of his scalpel.
“What is it?” Vanessa asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “it looks like mold.”
That word - mold - triggered a memory in her brain. “Ed said something about mold last night. He found it in -”
“The Mason boy,” Leon finished.
“Yeah. The one who got up and ran off.”
Leon turned away from Vanessa and looked at the dead woman - for it was a woman. Vanessa got the impression that he didn’t want her to see his expression. “I’ve known Ed ten years. I know something happened last night, but a stiff getting up and walking off? I thought he was confused. Now…I don’t know. That makes two bodies in 24 hours. And get this. The chest wound? It was done post-mortem. I can’t find a cause of death anywhere. Except maybe blood loss but it’s hard to tell at this point. And speaking of blood…”
“What?” Vanessa asked quickly.
“When I opened her stomach up, a whole shit load of blood spilled out. And a lot of it was a lot fresher than she is.”
Vanessa furrowed her brow in confusion. “You mean…?”
“It’s not hers,” Leon said. “I can’t be 100 percent sure until I run tests, but I’d put money on it.”
Vanessa’s head spun with information both new and old. You know that full, heavy feeling you get when a poo is brewing in your guts? That’s kind of what Vanessa was feeling, only in her head instead of her stomach.
Leon was just as mystified by the whole thing as she was and stayed up late to run a few preliminary tests. By sunrise, he had confirmed that the blood inside of Heather’s stomach was not hers. In fact, it had come from at least three different sources. “Is it human?” Vanessa asked over the phone.
“Yes,” Leon said, sounding troubled, “it’s human.”
In the cobalt hour before sunrise, Vanessa sat at her desk and tried to piece this whole thing together. They had:
The idea that vampires were real was dumb, but the more she turned it over in her mind, the more she became convinced that it was at least an option. A lot of things people thought were fantastic and made up turned out to be real, so why not vampires too?
Shortly after 8, Bruce came in. He was just sitting down when Vanessa came in and slapped her report on the desk. “Buckle up, bitch,” she said, “things just got weirder.”
He stared up at her with one of those grumpy - but cute -expressions he was so good at putting on. As he read, however, his brow knitted. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh.
“I have a theory - kind of,” Vanessa said, “but I don’t want to say it.”
“You might as well,” Bruce said. “It can’t be more kooky than reality these days.”
“Okay,” Vanessa started, “what if - and I’m just thinking out loud here - what if there are vampires in Albany?”
She expected Bruce to give her a dirty look, but he chewed it over, actually taking it seriously. “And those missing boys are victims?” he asked finally.
“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “That girl’s been dead two weeks. Maybe she bit Dominick Mason and he came back for revenge after realizing he was cursed to be a goddamn shit sucking vampire forever.”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, but who turned her?”
“I don’t know,” Vanessa said, “I don’t know.”
***
Before dawn painted the eastern sky, Merrick Garvis sat in his chamber like a withered king, a mess of IVs hooked into his arms and neck. The vault was silent save for the soft noise of the machines as they filtered out the old embalming fluid and replaced it with new embalming fluid. Embalming fluid always made him spacy, like a drug. The others had gone first, and even now lay near comatose around him like addicts in an opium den.
As far as he knew, Merrick was the oldest vampire in the world, perhaps, even, the oldest vampire to ever live. Though he was not fully honest with Dom, he was not lying when he said that vampires rotted like any other dead thing. Conditions considered, you had a few weeks tops if left untreated. There may be living vampires in remote corners of Egypt or the northern most reaches of Russia, where the climate preserved dead things, but unless you made it to one of those places, you were pretty well fucked.
Merrick was not a proud man, nor was he concerned with saving face - the dead have no need for that. He was being truthful when he said that he feared death. What’s more, he feared being helpless. Deep down, vampires are people, and people don’t exactly have the greatest track record with caring for their infirm. He read once that the first sign of a civilization was a broken leg that had healed, as it showed that someone stayed with and cared for a fellow human long enough for them to get well again. In Merrick’s opinion, that was true…and thus there was no civilization. Merrick was fifty-one when he died in the year 1982. In his lifetime, he had seen The Great Depression, World War II, and a million small acts of cruelty and selfishness in between. He’d seen beggars starving in the streets, abused children shuffled out of sight and out of mind, and disdain for the poor and the weak.
The living were awful, and the living dead were no different. Once their humanity rotted away, they cared only about filling their stomachs. They were like ticks - they would drink until their bellies literally ruptured…and then keep on drinking.
That left him in a precarious position. He was old, his body was weak. He couldn’t stand unassisted and if left to fend for himself, he would decay into a pile of bones within days. He would be cursed to lay in one spot for all eternity, aware and hungry, little more than a ghost tethered to a black and still beating heart.
He refused to let that happen to him. Thus, he had created a family, a clan of vampires loyal to him and to him alone. He did this through acts of simple kindness and understanding…but also through deception. He knew, for instance, how to preserve the brain. He’d figured out how to do it early on - you pickle it. Like a fetus preserved in a jar. He sawed off the top of his own head and filled it with a special solution that kept his brain - and his intelligence - intact. It slowly drained out through the nose and ears in a thin, yellow liquid, but it worked well enough. He couldn’t save everything, however, and had lost vital things in the process, such as most of his human memories, his sense of humor, and some motor functions. He shared this secret with only Joe, and a few others before, because he needed a strong captain. He kept the others in the dark because vampires - like people - are easier to control when they don’t think for themselves.
Right about now, however, Merrick was beginning to regret sharing the formula with even Joe. Joe had brought him nothing but grief. Joe, you see, could think for himself. He could make decisions. He could go behind Merrick’s back. Joe had something called free will, and free will is a worse affliction than vampirism. Free will is messy, free will is dangerous.
Free will could very well turn Merrick into a pile of bones.
That was, of course, if they weren’t discovered first. Joe had made several mistakes lately, not least of which was the turning of Heather. Sitting there in the predawn hour, attended by Tony, his gay bartender and human familiar, Merrick decided to have Joe killed. There are only two ways to kill a vampire: The stake and the flame. The latter seemed somehow appropriate in this case. After Joe, there would be no more captains, only him, one father with absolute power. That was how it had to be. One man, one vision. Democracies didn’t work. That was especially clear today. Everyone was so divided and nothing ever got done. If the humans had one strong leader, they might go in the wrong direction, but at least they would go somewhere. Instead, they stagnated.
Merrick didn’t particularly look forward to killing Joe, but it had to be done. To protect the family. To protect him.
And Merrick would do anything…anything at all…to protect himself.
***
Vampires.
Bruce kept coming back to that single wor, hoping each time that he would chuckle at the absurdity of it.
But he never did.
Did that mean he believed it? Not necessarily, but damn it, he considered it a possibility, and that alone was enough to make him feel like a fucking clown. All the evidence he had pointed to vampires, but then again, it might point to other things as well. Like aliens.
But let’s say the whole vampire thing was real. Who, like Vanessa asked, was patient zero? Who started this whole mess?
A name came to mind.
Merrick Garvis.
He had not had time to check into Garvis the previous day, but by God, he was going to do it now. He ran his name and social through the system and everything seemed to check out. Merrick Garvis was born on June 31, 1963 in -
Wait a minute. Weren’t there only 30 days in June?
Bruce checked, and there were, indeed, only 30 days in the month of June. Hm. Bruce did a little digging and found something out. Before 1987, social security numbers weren’t issued at birth. You had to sign up, using other forms of ID. Merrick Garvis applied for his in April 1984 and the date of birth on his state issued driver’s license was June 31. Bruce spent an hour on the phone with the DMV and learned that they had never issued a license to a Merrick Garvis. He then spoke to the Social Security Administration, and after much wrangling and frustration, he managed to get a photocopy of the license Garvis used to get his social security number. It was dated 1983.
The face staring back at him was almost exactly the same face he’d seen at Club Vlad, except maybe a touch less stiff and waxy. Though not as rough looking, there was no way in hell Garvis was 20 in that picture. It had to be a fake,
Bruce thought back to the events of the previous two days. Missing bodies, staked corpses, hearts that still beat after death.
Vampires didn’t seem like such a crazy explanation.
And if anyone was a fucking vampire around here, it was Merrick Garvis.
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“Most likely,” Merrick had said.
There was a certain peace in the idea of losing his cursed humanity. As Merrick had said, he would feel no pain, know no quandaries. He would live only for the night and for his master. On the other hand, watching someone like Matt sit and stare into the distance, drool coursing down his chin and nothing happening behind his dead eyes, scared Dom. He didn’t want to be a braindead idiot. He didn’t care about keeping his emotions, he just wanted to function.
Like Merrick.
There wasn’t much he could do, however. He was dead and that was the end of it.
Once Dom was patched up and dressed in a pair of jeans and a hoodie, Merrick called his children before him. “I have done my best to love and protect all of you,” he began. “Jessie, you were miserable with your grandmother, were you not?”
“Yes,” Jessie said tonelessly.
“You were depressed, bipolar, and cut yourself. Now you’re happy.”
“Yes,” she replied again.
“Joe, you were a two bit nobody staring down a ten year stretch in jail.”
“Yes.” Thin yellow liquid dripped from his nose.
“But now you are free.”
“Yes.”
“You appreciate what I’ve done for you.”
“Yes.”
Merrick flashed then, slamming his fist onto the arm of his wheelchair. “Then why do you keep fucking up? The police were here earlier. They have messages between you and Jessie. I told both of you to delete those. Then I find out that you bit someone and turned them despite my orders. We have an endless supply of blood here but you still went off on your own. How many are there?”
“Just one,” Joe said.
“Are you being honest with me?”
“Yes.”
Merrick sagged back in his chair, looking somehow older. “Joe, take Matt and go to her. Bring her back here before she causes any more problems. God alone knows how many people she’s changed. Too many vampires without a father will bring heat on us, and you know what happens in that case? We get pieces of wood shoved in our chests.”
Turning to Dom, Merrick said, “I have a job for you and Jessie. We’re nearly out of embalming fluid. You haven’t had your first dose and the rest of us are starting to get ripe as well. I have a contact at a funeral home. He texted earlier that the order he placed on my behalf has come in. I want you to pick it up and to pay him.”
Dom had never been picked for anything in his whole life. No one had ever wanted him on their team and no one had ever placed their trust in him the way Merrick was now. He was honored, proud, and would do anything to not let Merrick down.
“That cop who came here might be a problem,” Merrick went on. “We may have to deal with him, but we’ll leave that for another night. In any case, I want this place cleaned from top to bottom. If the police come, I want them to see nothing out of the ordinary.”
Now that everyone had their marching orders, they dispersed. Merrick handed Dom an evelope stuffed with cash, and Dom slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie. The other team - Joe and Matt - left, while the remaining vampires began tidying up.
A fleet of vehicles waited in the parking lot behind Club Vlad. Dom and Jessie took a black pedo van with no back windows. They drove in silence, the radio off. Dom did not want to hear music, nor did he wish to speak to Jessie. Their kinship was one of blood and circumstance, not one of words and emotions. He had no questions for her and wished to answer none of his own. The only thoughts he had were of the mission ahead and of the growing pain in his skull. He thought of the staring stupid Matt, of the decayed Max, and a shiver went down his spine.
What was left of his humanity recoiled at the idea of becoming like them.
The pain grew hotter, more intense. He forced it away and focused on driving.
The funeral home was on North Allen Street, next to a restaurant called Pepperjack’s. A tall, white house with dark shutters and a sign out front, it looked like a quiet, peaceful place. “Pull around back,” Jessie said.
Dom pulled the van around back and parked under a balcony, killing the headlights. They got out and went to the back door, Jessie in the lead. He assumed that she had done this before and that the seller would recognize her. She knocked, and a few moments later, the door opened. A youngish man with a shaved head appeared, wearing an apron and gloves. He saw them and tensed a little. Dom could smell, rather than sense, his fear, and his throat panged with thirst. “Come on,” the man said quickly. He stepped aside and allowed them to enter. Dom noticed that he walked behind them, wary of putting his back to them. “Do you have the money?”
“Do you have our order?” Jessie countered.
“Yes,” the man said, “I’m really risking my neck for this. They don’t just give embalming fluid away, you know. They keep track of it and if they realize I’m over ordering, someone from the state’s going to come down here and check.”
He led them into an embalming room. Three boxes sat on a table. Dom gave the man his money, and he and Jessie carried the boxes outside, loading them into the van. The whole time they were there, the man was edgy, like he was afraid they were going to attack him. Dom would be a liar if he said that the hot smell of the man’s blood didn’t excite him. Perhaps once his brain rotted away, he wouldn’t be able to control himself, but for now, he could.
A lightning bolt of pain shot through his head and he nearly dropped the last box onto the ground.
Once the man was paid, Dom and Jessie drove back to Club Vlad. In fifteen minutes, they were drinking side by side from two passed out partygoers, their reward for a job well done.
Meanwhile, across the city, Joe and Matt weren’t doing as well. They were standing outside of Heather’s apartment. Joe, slightly annoyed (anger being another emotion vampires could feel, along with fear) pounded on the door. He knew she was in there; he could smell the putrid odor of decay. “Let us in,” he said. “We won’t hurt you.”
Joe could barely remember changing her. He didn’t mean to, it just…happened. Like an unwanted pregnancy. You can bite someone as much as you want and drink as much as you want, but if you take too much at once and they die, you get the vampire equivalent of a baby. Joe liked the hunt. It was exciting. Having his meals brought to him Club Vlad didn’t arouse the same level of excitement. It was like shooting an animal tied to a tree. Or hiring a prostitute instead of wooing someone. No real satisfaction to it.
That was probably his greatest downfall. He had lured Jessie the same way, though Merrick was indeed interested in rescuing her from her grandmother. People you have saved obey just as well as people with no brains.
He felt fluid on his upper lip and sniffed. “Come on, let us in,” he said.
No response.
He looked at Matt and nodded to the door. Together, they rammed their shoulders against it. It shook in its frame. They were both dead and weak, but modern American architecture is even weaker, and the door eventually slammed open. The apartment beyond was dark, messy, and reeked of death. They searched high and low, and eventually found Heather huddled in a corner, trying to hide. She was naked save for a pair of panties, her body bloated and beginning to turn black. Her skin hung from her frame and her eyes were filled with blood and fear. It was a wonder no one had called the police yet. The smell was overpowering. “We’re here to help,” he said. “You have to come with us.”
She shook her head and trembled. Maybe she remembered that he was the one who did this to her. Maybe her memories had rotted away. Those were usually the first to go. Then your emotions, then your personality. Finally, your capacity for higher reasoning. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” he said. That was a lie. He was not remorseful. Nor was he proud, for that matter. It just happened. Like rain. “But I want to help you. We can fix you.”
No amount of coaxing or conjoling could induce her to move. Joe weighed his options. He doubted anyone would call the cops even if they heard the door coming down - people who lived in places like this rarely called the cops, which helped Joe and his cause immensely. Even so, there was the possibility. Every minute they spent here was a minute that something could go wrong, and Joe had a lot to lose.
So, too, did Merrick.
Giving up, Joe took out his cellphone and called Merrick. “She refuses to come,” he said simply.
The line was quiet for a moment, then Merrick’s voice came back. Cold. Calculating. “Then do what you must.”
That was the go ahead.
Hanging up, Joe looked around the apartment and found a wooden chair in the kitchen. He lifted it over his head and slammed it on the counter, shattering it into a million pieces. He selected the longest, sharpest, and sturdiest looking one. He went back into the room and directed Matt to hold her down. She fought, kicked, and spat, but she was weaker than even they were. They had been embalmed. She hadn’t.
Matt pinned her hands above her head and Joe straddled her. Animal terror filled her eyes and she whipped her head from side to side. Joe lifted the makeshift stake with both hands, and brought it down as hard as he could, driving it deep into her heart. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and a high, otherworldly scream ripped from her throat. She bucked, thrashed, and kicked her feet. Her resistance began to ebb away until she was twitching…until she was still.
Heather from OKCupid was dead.
Truly dead.
Joe couldn’t help wondering what it was like.
Pulling the stake out, he tossed it aside and got to his feet, Matt doing likewise. A soul petrifying scream might be cause for even the tightest of lips to start talking. “Let’s go,” he said. And together, he and Matt fled, leaving the poor, dead body of Heather behind.
***
As it turned out, one of Heather’s neighbors did call the cops. At 10;13pm, Vanessa Rodregiez arrived with two patrolmen and found the front door of Apartment 237 knocked down. Guns drawn, they entered, Vanessa at the head. The first thing she noticed was the smell. It jammed itself into her nostrils, shoved its tongue down her throat, and violated her - all without even buying her dinner first.
Vanessa hadn’t been at this as long as her buddy Bruce had, but she knew a dead, rotting body when she smelled one. They searched the premises, and sure enough, they found a vic in the bedroom, lying in the gap between the bed and the wall; it looked like the former had been moved, perhaps in a struggle. Vanessa knelt down to check the vic’s pulse, but stopped.
There was no need.
The vic - who looked like a female but could have been an overweight male - hadn’t had a pulse in a very long time.
Examining the body, Vanessa found a wound in the chest, just above the heart. Black, stinking goo leaked from it, and Vanessa gagged. She fisted her hand to her mouth, retched, and then ran for the kitchen sink. Her partner for the night, Jim Walsh, stared down at the stiff before him, and his face turned a sickly shade of green. He avoided puking because he didn’t nose fuck the wound like Vanessa had, but he wasted no time in getting out there, dry heaving in the hallway where the air was somewhat fresh.
After leaving her lunch in the sink, Vanessa radioed back to headquarters, and before long, the place was crawling with cops. The assistant medical examiner - who had taken over after Ed Harris quit the previous night - knelt over the body and studied it. A solidly built black man with a mustache, his name was Leon and he knew death just as well as his old boss, so when he said the vic had been dead nearly two weeks, Vanessa accepted it.
That begged the question: Who broke in and screamed just now? A relative? The caller clearly heard screaming and peeked out her door to see two males fleeing on foot. Maybe they found the vic and freaked out? Or maybe they were the killers returning to the scene of the crime. After all, the vic had clearly been murdered.
In fact, they found a likely murder weapon. A long sliver of wood soaked in black goo. Blood turns black after a while, but there was something different about this stuff. “What is it?” Vanessa asked Leon.
“I’m not sure,” Leon said and pulled off a pair of Latex gloves he’d donned to examine the vic, “could be blood or…”
“Or what?” Vanessa asked.
“Or something,” Leon said. “Give me a few hours.”
And a few hours it was. Just before 1am, Leon called Vanessa at her desk. “I think you should come down here,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, Vanessa stood over Leon as he pulled the vic’s chest open with a pair of tweezers. “That’s the heart,” he said, “whoever stabbed her scored a direct hit, but this…this is what concerns me.”
He prodded a furry lump with the tip of his scalpel.
“What is it?” Vanessa asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “it looks like mold.”
That word - mold - triggered a memory in her brain. “Ed said something about mold last night. He found it in -”
“The Mason boy,” Leon finished.
“Yeah. The one who got up and ran off.”
Leon turned away from Vanessa and looked at the dead woman - for it was a woman. Vanessa got the impression that he didn’t want her to see his expression. “I’ve known Ed ten years. I know something happened last night, but a stiff getting up and walking off? I thought he was confused. Now…I don’t know. That makes two bodies in 24 hours. And get this. The chest wound? It was done post-mortem. I can’t find a cause of death anywhere. Except maybe blood loss but it’s hard to tell at this point. And speaking of blood…”
“What?” Vanessa asked quickly.
“When I opened her stomach up, a whole shit load of blood spilled out. And a lot of it was a lot fresher than she is.”
Vanessa furrowed her brow in confusion. “You mean…?”
“It’s not hers,” Leon said. “I can’t be 100 percent sure until I run tests, but I’d put money on it.”
Vanessa’s head spun with information both new and old. You know that full, heavy feeling you get when a poo is brewing in your guts? That’s kind of what Vanessa was feeling, only in her head instead of her stomach.
Leon was just as mystified by the whole thing as she was and stayed up late to run a few preliminary tests. By sunrise, he had confirmed that the blood inside of Heather’s stomach was not hers. In fact, it had come from at least three different sources. “Is it human?” Vanessa asked over the phone.
“Yes,” Leon said, sounding troubled, “it’s human.”
In the cobalt hour before sunrise, Vanessa sat at her desk and tried to piece this whole thing together. They had:
- A corpse that (allegedly) woke up and dipped out
- A dead girl who’d been stabbed in the heart with a piece of wood after somehow ingesting the blood of three different people.
- Some missing kids
- Oh, and both bodies - the girl’s and the runaway corpses’ - had the same weird fungus in their heart cavities.
The idea that vampires were real was dumb, but the more she turned it over in her mind, the more she became convinced that it was at least an option. A lot of things people thought were fantastic and made up turned out to be real, so why not vampires too?
Shortly after 8, Bruce came in. He was just sitting down when Vanessa came in and slapped her report on the desk. “Buckle up, bitch,” she said, “things just got weirder.”
He stared up at her with one of those grumpy - but cute -expressions he was so good at putting on. As he read, however, his brow knitted. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh.
“I have a theory - kind of,” Vanessa said, “but I don’t want to say it.”
“You might as well,” Bruce said. “It can’t be more kooky than reality these days.”
“Okay,” Vanessa started, “what if - and I’m just thinking out loud here - what if there are vampires in Albany?”
She expected Bruce to give her a dirty look, but he chewed it over, actually taking it seriously. “And those missing boys are victims?” he asked finally.
“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “That girl’s been dead two weeks. Maybe she bit Dominick Mason and he came back for revenge after realizing he was cursed to be a goddamn shit sucking vampire forever.”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, but who turned her?”
“I don’t know,” Vanessa said, “I don’t know.”
***
Before dawn painted the eastern sky, Merrick Garvis sat in his chamber like a withered king, a mess of IVs hooked into his arms and neck. The vault was silent save for the soft noise of the machines as they filtered out the old embalming fluid and replaced it with new embalming fluid. Embalming fluid always made him spacy, like a drug. The others had gone first, and even now lay near comatose around him like addicts in an opium den.
As far as he knew, Merrick was the oldest vampire in the world, perhaps, even, the oldest vampire to ever live. Though he was not fully honest with Dom, he was not lying when he said that vampires rotted like any other dead thing. Conditions considered, you had a few weeks tops if left untreated. There may be living vampires in remote corners of Egypt or the northern most reaches of Russia, where the climate preserved dead things, but unless you made it to one of those places, you were pretty well fucked.
Merrick was not a proud man, nor was he concerned with saving face - the dead have no need for that. He was being truthful when he said that he feared death. What’s more, he feared being helpless. Deep down, vampires are people, and people don’t exactly have the greatest track record with caring for their infirm. He read once that the first sign of a civilization was a broken leg that had healed, as it showed that someone stayed with and cared for a fellow human long enough for them to get well again. In Merrick’s opinion, that was true…and thus there was no civilization. Merrick was fifty-one when he died in the year 1982. In his lifetime, he had seen The Great Depression, World War II, and a million small acts of cruelty and selfishness in between. He’d seen beggars starving in the streets, abused children shuffled out of sight and out of mind, and disdain for the poor and the weak.
The living were awful, and the living dead were no different. Once their humanity rotted away, they cared only about filling their stomachs. They were like ticks - they would drink until their bellies literally ruptured…and then keep on drinking.
That left him in a precarious position. He was old, his body was weak. He couldn’t stand unassisted and if left to fend for himself, he would decay into a pile of bones within days. He would be cursed to lay in one spot for all eternity, aware and hungry, little more than a ghost tethered to a black and still beating heart.
He refused to let that happen to him. Thus, he had created a family, a clan of vampires loyal to him and to him alone. He did this through acts of simple kindness and understanding…but also through deception. He knew, for instance, how to preserve the brain. He’d figured out how to do it early on - you pickle it. Like a fetus preserved in a jar. He sawed off the top of his own head and filled it with a special solution that kept his brain - and his intelligence - intact. It slowly drained out through the nose and ears in a thin, yellow liquid, but it worked well enough. He couldn’t save everything, however, and had lost vital things in the process, such as most of his human memories, his sense of humor, and some motor functions. He shared this secret with only Joe, and a few others before, because he needed a strong captain. He kept the others in the dark because vampires - like people - are easier to control when they don’t think for themselves.
Right about now, however, Merrick was beginning to regret sharing the formula with even Joe. Joe had brought him nothing but grief. Joe, you see, could think for himself. He could make decisions. He could go behind Merrick’s back. Joe had something called free will, and free will is a worse affliction than vampirism. Free will is messy, free will is dangerous.
Free will could very well turn Merrick into a pile of bones.
That was, of course, if they weren’t discovered first. Joe had made several mistakes lately, not least of which was the turning of Heather. Sitting there in the predawn hour, attended by Tony, his gay bartender and human familiar, Merrick decided to have Joe killed. There are only two ways to kill a vampire: The stake and the flame. The latter seemed somehow appropriate in this case. After Joe, there would be no more captains, only him, one father with absolute power. That was how it had to be. One man, one vision. Democracies didn’t work. That was especially clear today. Everyone was so divided and nothing ever got done. If the humans had one strong leader, they might go in the wrong direction, but at least they would go somewhere. Instead, they stagnated.
Merrick didn’t particularly look forward to killing Joe, but it had to be done. To protect the family. To protect him.
And Merrick would do anything…anything at all…to protect himself.
***
Vampires.
Bruce kept coming back to that single wor, hoping each time that he would chuckle at the absurdity of it.
But he never did.
Did that mean he believed it? Not necessarily, but damn it, he considered it a possibility, and that alone was enough to make him feel like a fucking clown. All the evidence he had pointed to vampires, but then again, it might point to other things as well. Like aliens.
But let’s say the whole vampire thing was real. Who, like Vanessa asked, was patient zero? Who started this whole mess?
A name came to mind.
Merrick Garvis.
He had not had time to check into Garvis the previous day, but by God, he was going to do it now. He ran his name and social through the system and everything seemed to check out. Merrick Garvis was born on June 31, 1963 in -
Wait a minute. Weren’t there only 30 days in June?
Bruce checked, and there were, indeed, only 30 days in the month of June. Hm. Bruce did a little digging and found something out. Before 1987, social security numbers weren’t issued at birth. You had to sign up, using other forms of ID. Merrick Garvis applied for his in April 1984 and the date of birth on his state issued driver’s license was June 31. Bruce spent an hour on the phone with the DMV and learned that they had never issued a license to a Merrick Garvis. He then spoke to the Social Security Administration, and after much wrangling and frustration, he managed to get a photocopy of the license Garvis used to get his social security number. It was dated 1983.
The face staring back at him was almost exactly the same face he’d seen at Club Vlad, except maybe a touch less stiff and waxy. Though not as rough looking, there was no way in hell Garvis was 20 in that picture. It had to be a fake,
Bruce thought back to the events of the previous two days. Missing bodies, staked corpses, hearts that still beat after death.
Vampires didn’t seem like such a crazy explanation.
And if anyone was a fucking vampire around here, it was Merrick Garvis.
2024.05.16 19:46 Cold-Ranger-2172 Assistance in my career
Hello everyone, I want to preface this by saying in my opinion, I know I’ve made certain mistakes and I have taken accountability for those mistakes, however I feel as though my leadership has also made mistakes pertaining to my specific situations and there was no accountability or change made on their part, and all that’s left is me suffering. I really need help because I want to go to IG but I’m afraid nothing will happen and don’t know what will be the right route to take.
Firstly, let’s start two years ago. I missed work because I was sick, I informed my direct supervisor I was sick and could not make it to work. He replied with a thumbs up and (because he never got anyone to cover me), the fault came down upon me and I was served an LOR. In the LOR from my direct supervisor he attached a screenshot of our messages where he deleted his reply. In my rebuttal, I attached the screenshot of the text message with his reply. Because of that, the LOR was demoted to an LOC, however I don’t believe I should’ve received any paperwork because I notified my supervisor and my supervisor prior, that is what I would do when I was sick. I never had an ACA with this direct supervisor so he never set guidelines. Additionally, he served me this LOR during an ACA, where he also put me down as a human being essentially saying nobody likes me.
When the LOR got demoted to an LOC, this was in a meeting with my SEL and old supervisor and new supervisor (because I requested a new supervisor) and my SEL told me I could’ve gotten worse paperwork for “malingering” and then told me (after I told him I have a real heart condition) “that happens to people like you a lot” (talking about my race) as he further said “I knew a Hispanic man who ran on the track and died”, imagine how scary that was for me.
Secondly, I received an LOR from my OIC for not reporting in blues on a blues day. The day prior, I had just returned from a month long TDY (I returned on a Sunday) where I had no access to my email. Nobody from my chain of command notified me of having to be in blues, and I didn’t purposefully not wear blues because they weren’t ready or whatever the case. Right before I went on TDY I had a blues inspection, so my blues were ready. I simply did not know. They justified it because the other member I went on TDY with reported in blues. However he had a personal computer with a CAC reader so he was able to check his email when he got back, I did not have a personal computer with a CAC reader.
Third, I received an LOR from my commander for reporting to PT in OCPs and leaving PT 15 minutes early. I took full accountability as I really did forget my uniform and I was under the assumption PT was 45 minutes and they were just playing for fun at that point. I am also on a waiver that says do not participate in PT nor at my own pace. After receiving the LOR, I was told “oh you don’t have to go to PT anymore because you’re on a waiver”
Fourth, I tried to commit suicide and after being inpatient, my first sergeant and my supervisor served me a RIC. This RIC was only setting standards my supervisor wanted me to follow since I would be in and out of treatment. My first sergeant said verbatim “I chose a RIC because it’s easier to fill out than an ACA” and convinced me that it wasn’t administrative or punitive, so I agreed.
I am now required to get an MFR signed from any medical appointment I go to stating I attended the appointment, I’m required to check in with my supervisor every day before 0830 (since I’m in treatment), and I’m not allowed to take leave (even on weekends) unless I remain in the local area.
Because I’m in treatment and high interest list, they’re required to do weekly safety checks however I can count on one hand how many weekly safety checks I’ve had since November.
Because of this, the last piece of paperwork I received (for arriving to PT in OCPs and leaving 15 minutes early, which I took full accountability for, I forgot my PTUs and I was under the assumption PT was 45 minutes not an hour), before I received it, I informed my first sergeant i wasn’t on medication and if they were serving me with any negative news/paperwork, to please hold off until I am medicated, as it could be detrimental to my life. They still served me with the paperwork, not checking if I was on medication (which they would’ve done if they did their safety checks, which led to me again attempting to take my life. (I am diagnosed with bipolar disorder, so it’s easy for something to set me off into a major depressive episode where I attempt to take my life if I am not medicated)
Aside from my new SEL saying several things that affected my mental health and what my supervisor said, as well as my old SEL, many of this seems wrong. I am expected to do more than any other airman and am still treated like a DBA.
I wrote this kind of fast, and I’m sure there’s many details I missed. But this is the gist of it. If you have any advice or any questions please reply. I seriously need help as even being around anyone from my squadron at this point is affecting my mental health.
submitted by Cold-Ranger-2172 to AirForce [link] [comments]
Firstly, let’s start two years ago. I missed work because I was sick, I informed my direct supervisor I was sick and could not make it to work. He replied with a thumbs up and (because he never got anyone to cover me), the fault came down upon me and I was served an LOR. In the LOR from my direct supervisor he attached a screenshot of our messages where he deleted his reply. In my rebuttal, I attached the screenshot of the text message with his reply. Because of that, the LOR was demoted to an LOC, however I don’t believe I should’ve received any paperwork because I notified my supervisor and my supervisor prior, that is what I would do when I was sick. I never had an ACA with this direct supervisor so he never set guidelines. Additionally, he served me this LOR during an ACA, where he also put me down as a human being essentially saying nobody likes me.
When the LOR got demoted to an LOC, this was in a meeting with my SEL and old supervisor and new supervisor (because I requested a new supervisor) and my SEL told me I could’ve gotten worse paperwork for “malingering” and then told me (after I told him I have a real heart condition) “that happens to people like you a lot” (talking about my race) as he further said “I knew a Hispanic man who ran on the track and died”, imagine how scary that was for me.
Secondly, I received an LOR from my OIC for not reporting in blues on a blues day. The day prior, I had just returned from a month long TDY (I returned on a Sunday) where I had no access to my email. Nobody from my chain of command notified me of having to be in blues, and I didn’t purposefully not wear blues because they weren’t ready or whatever the case. Right before I went on TDY I had a blues inspection, so my blues were ready. I simply did not know. They justified it because the other member I went on TDY with reported in blues. However he had a personal computer with a CAC reader so he was able to check his email when he got back, I did not have a personal computer with a CAC reader.
Third, I received an LOR from my commander for reporting to PT in OCPs and leaving PT 15 minutes early. I took full accountability as I really did forget my uniform and I was under the assumption PT was 45 minutes and they were just playing for fun at that point. I am also on a waiver that says do not participate in PT nor at my own pace. After receiving the LOR, I was told “oh you don’t have to go to PT anymore because you’re on a waiver”
Fourth, I tried to commit suicide and after being inpatient, my first sergeant and my supervisor served me a RIC. This RIC was only setting standards my supervisor wanted me to follow since I would be in and out of treatment. My first sergeant said verbatim “I chose a RIC because it’s easier to fill out than an ACA” and convinced me that it wasn’t administrative or punitive, so I agreed.
I am now required to get an MFR signed from any medical appointment I go to stating I attended the appointment, I’m required to check in with my supervisor every day before 0830 (since I’m in treatment), and I’m not allowed to take leave (even on weekends) unless I remain in the local area.
Because I’m in treatment and high interest list, they’re required to do weekly safety checks however I can count on one hand how many weekly safety checks I’ve had since November.
Because of this, the last piece of paperwork I received (for arriving to PT in OCPs and leaving 15 minutes early, which I took full accountability for, I forgot my PTUs and I was under the assumption PT was 45 minutes not an hour), before I received it, I informed my first sergeant i wasn’t on medication and if they were serving me with any negative news/paperwork, to please hold off until I am medicated, as it could be detrimental to my life. They still served me with the paperwork, not checking if I was on medication (which they would’ve done if they did their safety checks, which led to me again attempting to take my life. (I am diagnosed with bipolar disorder, so it’s easy for something to set me off into a major depressive episode where I attempt to take my life if I am not medicated)
Aside from my new SEL saying several things that affected my mental health and what my supervisor said, as well as my old SEL, many of this seems wrong. I am expected to do more than any other airman and am still treated like a DBA.
I wrote this kind of fast, and I’m sure there’s many details I missed. But this is the gist of it. If you have any advice or any questions please reply. I seriously need help as even being around anyone from my squadron at this point is affecting my mental health.
2024.05.16 19:36 SirJosephGrizzly Stuff
Missy loved to shop.
No, she wasn't one of those spoiled brats buying up all the Jimmy Choos on Rodeo. She was sensible, practical; a thrifter. There hadn't been a garage, yard or estate sale in a 20 mile area she didn't ravage. Twice a week, if not more, she would rampage through every clearance aisle in town. No Goodwill or Salvation Army was safe either. "The Circuit," her kids who didn't understand her compulsion always called it.
The only thing Missy enjoyed more than buying stuff was keeping it.
Over time, her home had become a certifiable death trap. Boxes of outdated appliances stacked high atop every seating surface, unrelinquished clothes filled up every square centimeter of every closet and a smorgasbord of cheap nick-nacks had eventually added up to an expensive collection that was worth nothing.
Guests had been few and far, including her children. Brian hadn't even called her since that wife of his broke her ankle walking to the bathroom. Missy always assumed she was faking it on her son's orders to make her feel guilty. At least they didn't bother her anymore. Cortney was on a mission to take everything away from her. Didn't she realize this was all gonna be hers one day? Was it so hard to be grateful? It wasn't like she was covered in dog shit and roaches. This was good, clean stuff.
"It's us or the shit," the daughter gave her an ultimatum one day.
The repeated warnings started going to voicemail. Very worried and even angrier, Cortney drove the two hours for an emergency intervention she planned on the fly. The traumatic memories of living in a cluttered home flooded back the entire route. The dad who gave up, the embarrassment of lying to friends, Thanksgiving gatherings cut short so mom could pregame for her decimation of Kohl's. That was even before Black Friday was even a thing. That was all that mattered. That was all she talked about. In Missy's world, whoever had the most stuff won.
"Jesus," her brother recoiled in repulsion upon breaking down the door, nearly getting side-swiped by three long unused mops in the process.
Their rotted mother sat on the lone unoccupied spot of the crammed sofa, her tissue fused with a bin full of frayed cords, a giant pile of DVD cases (most missing the discs,) and periodicals dating back to the Clinton Years. Missy, or what used to be Missy, demanded their exit, already sensing their disapproval. The called squad was scared off by the squelch and the yelp of pain upon picking up a piece of the assimilation.
City officials are too scared to condemn Missy's Museum of Massive Miscellany to this very day. Years have passed and even the vermin stay away. This doesn't bother the inhabitant. She may be the only one in there but she would never be alone.
submitted by SirJosephGrizzly to shortscarystories [link] [comments]
No, she wasn't one of those spoiled brats buying up all the Jimmy Choos on Rodeo. She was sensible, practical; a thrifter. There hadn't been a garage, yard or estate sale in a 20 mile area she didn't ravage. Twice a week, if not more, she would rampage through every clearance aisle in town. No Goodwill or Salvation Army was safe either. "The Circuit," her kids who didn't understand her compulsion always called it.
The only thing Missy enjoyed more than buying stuff was keeping it.
Over time, her home had become a certifiable death trap. Boxes of outdated appliances stacked high atop every seating surface, unrelinquished clothes filled up every square centimeter of every closet and a smorgasbord of cheap nick-nacks had eventually added up to an expensive collection that was worth nothing.
Guests had been few and far, including her children. Brian hadn't even called her since that wife of his broke her ankle walking to the bathroom. Missy always assumed she was faking it on her son's orders to make her feel guilty. At least they didn't bother her anymore. Cortney was on a mission to take everything away from her. Didn't she realize this was all gonna be hers one day? Was it so hard to be grateful? It wasn't like she was covered in dog shit and roaches. This was good, clean stuff.
"It's us or the shit," the daughter gave her an ultimatum one day.
The repeated warnings started going to voicemail. Very worried and even angrier, Cortney drove the two hours for an emergency intervention she planned on the fly. The traumatic memories of living in a cluttered home flooded back the entire route. The dad who gave up, the embarrassment of lying to friends, Thanksgiving gatherings cut short so mom could pregame for her decimation of Kohl's. That was even before Black Friday was even a thing. That was all that mattered. That was all she talked about. In Missy's world, whoever had the most stuff won.
"Jesus," her brother recoiled in repulsion upon breaking down the door, nearly getting side-swiped by three long unused mops in the process.
Their rotted mother sat on the lone unoccupied spot of the crammed sofa, her tissue fused with a bin full of frayed cords, a giant pile of DVD cases (most missing the discs,) and periodicals dating back to the Clinton Years. Missy, or what used to be Missy, demanded their exit, already sensing their disapproval. The called squad was scared off by the squelch and the yelp of pain upon picking up a piece of the assimilation.
City officials are too scared to condemn Missy's Museum of Massive Miscellany to this very day. Years have passed and even the vermin stay away. This doesn't bother the inhabitant. She may be the only one in there but she would never be alone.
2024.05.16 19:09 mareks05 [Store] [selected. ★900+Skins★] Karambit SAPPHIRE,Vice,AWP Prince,Poseidon,AK Hydroponic,Butterfly RUBY,M9&Kara Doppler,BFK Fade,Kara Fade 98% 0.008,Kara F&I,M4 Howl,BFK Marble Fade,Pandora Box,Talon RUBY,Skeleton Fade,AK Gold,Skele Crimson,M4 Phosphor,AK Case Hard (iBP Holo Kato14),AK CH (#670)
🔥 Feel free to send me an offer or add me ! 🔥
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🟩 I am also BUYING and SELLING skins for cash/crypto and on Marketplaces, add me to discuss ! 🟩
🟩 [TL] https://steamcommunity.com/tradeoffenew/?partner=83681844&token=QAXcgHQ4
🟩 Not everything is listed, check out my inventory for all new skins !
https://steamcommunity.com/profiles/76561198043947572/inventory/
Check MY INVENTORY for updated list of items !!!
All Prices are negotiable and might not be 100% accurate and updated !
★ Butterfly Knife Doppler - FN RUBY B/O 12000usd
★ Karambit Doppler - FN SAPPHIRE B/O 10000usd
★ Karambit Doppler - FN RUBY B/O 10000usd
★ Karambit Doppler - FN B/O 1500usd
★ Sport Gloves Pandora's Box - FT 0.22 B/O 6000usd
★ Talon Knife Doppler - FN RUBY B/O 5000usd
AK-47 Gold Arabesque - MW B/O 3500usd
★ Karambit Fade - FN 98.8% 0.008 B/O 4500usd
AWP The Prince - FT B/O 2800usd
AK-47 Gold Arabesque - FT B/O 2800usd
AWP The Prince - BS B/O 2400usd
AK-47 Gold Arabesque - BS B/O 2200usd
★ M9 Bayonet Gamma Doppler - FN - x2 Phase 4 B/O 2100usd
★ Specialist Gloves Crimson Kimono - FT Tier 6 0.20 B/O 4500usd
★ Skeleton Knife Fade - FN - x2 B/O 1800usd
Boston 2018 Cobblestone Souvenir Package B/O 2000usd
Souvenir AWP Desert Hydra - FT B/O 1800usd
★ Karambit Marble Fade - FN Fire & Ice 0.002 B/O 4000usd
★ Karambit Marble Fade - FN Fire & Ice B/O 3000usd
AWP Desert Hydra - WW B/O 1700usd
★ Sport Gloves Vice - FT 0.20 B/O 2000usd
★ Bayonet Gamma Doppler - FN Phase 2 0.008 B/O 1300usd
★ Bowie Knife Doppler - FN SAPPHIRE B/O 1200usd
★ M9 Bayonet Lore - FT - x2 B/O 1200usd
★ StatTrak™ Skeleton Knife Crimson Web - MW 0.070 B/O 1500usd
★ StatTrak™ M9 Bayonet Autotronic - FT 0.22 B/O 1200usd
M4A4 Poseidon - MW B/O 1100usd
★ Karambit Case Hardened - FT (Blue pattern) B/O 1200usd
★ Skeleton Knife Slaughter - MW B/O 900usd
★ Butterfly Knife Case Hardened - WW B/O 900usd
★ Karambit Ultraviolet - MW B/O 900usd
★ Sport Gloves Slingshot - FT B/O 900usd
and many more !
AK-47 Case Hardened - WW (#670) B/O 8500usd
M4A1-S Hot Rod - FN (Crown Foil) B/O 1150usd
★ Bayonet Case Hardened - FN 0.0010 (4# in the world) B/O 900usd
StatTrak™ AK-47 Case Hardened - MW (iBUYPOWER Katowice 14 HOLO) B/O 4500usd
USP-S Orion - MW (King on The Field Sticker) B/O 150usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - BS (#265) B/O 250usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - BS (#4) B/O 900usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - WW (#764) B/O 500usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - FT (#169) B/O 600usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - MW (#65) B/O 600usd
AK-47 Redline (4x mousesports Foil MLG Columbus 2016) B/O 100usd
AK-47 Predator (Virtus.Pro Holo Dreamhack 2014) B/O 100usd
AK-47 Redline (Virtus.Pro Holo Dreamhack2014) B/O 100usd
P90 Blind Spot - FN (LDLC Katowice 2014) B/O 50usd
M4A1-S Boreal Forest (Crown Foil) B/O 100usd
Desert Eagle Hypnotic - FN (LGB Katowice 2014) B/O 180usd
StatTrak™ Glock-18 Bunsen Burner (4x Titan Cologne 2015) B/O 50usd
https://steamcommunity.com/tradeoffenew/?partner=83681844&token=QAXcgHQ4
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
submitted by mareks05 to GlobalOffensiveTrade [link] [comments]
🔵 Discord : selected.
🟩 I am also BUYING and SELLING skins for cash/crypto and on Marketplaces, add me to discuss ! 🟩
🟩 [TL] https://steamcommunity.com/tradeoffenew/?partner=83681844&token=QAXcgHQ4
🟩 Not everything is listed, check out my inventory for all new skins !
https://steamcommunity.com/profiles/76561198043947572/inventory/
Check MY INVENTORY for updated list of items !!!
All Prices are negotiable and might not be 100% accurate and updated !
★ Butterfly Knife Doppler - FN RUBY B/O 12000usd
★ Karambit Doppler - FN SAPPHIRE B/O 10000usd
★ Karambit Doppler - FN RUBY B/O 10000usd
★ Karambit Doppler - FN B/O 1500usd
★ Sport Gloves Pandora's Box - FT 0.22 B/O 6000usd
★ Talon Knife Doppler - FN RUBY B/O 5000usd
AK-47 Gold Arabesque - MW B/O 3500usd
★ Karambit Fade - FN 98.8% 0.008 B/O 4500usd
AWP The Prince - FT B/O 2800usd
AK-47 Gold Arabesque - FT B/O 2800usd
AWP The Prince - BS B/O 2400usd
AK-47 Gold Arabesque - BS B/O 2200usd
★ M9 Bayonet Gamma Doppler - FN - x2 Phase 4 B/O 2100usd
★ Specialist Gloves Crimson Kimono - FT Tier 6 0.20 B/O 4500usd
★ Skeleton Knife Fade - FN - x2 B/O 1800usd
Boston 2018 Cobblestone Souvenir Package B/O 2000usd
Souvenir AWP Desert Hydra - FT B/O 1800usd
★ Karambit Marble Fade - FN Fire & Ice 0.002 B/O 4000usd
★ Karambit Marble Fade - FN Fire & Ice B/O 3000usd
AWP Desert Hydra - WW B/O 1700usd
★ Sport Gloves Vice - FT 0.20 B/O 2000usd
★ Bayonet Gamma Doppler - FN Phase 2 0.008 B/O 1300usd
★ Bowie Knife Doppler - FN SAPPHIRE B/O 1200usd
★ M9 Bayonet Lore - FT - x2 B/O 1200usd
★ StatTrak™ Skeleton Knife Crimson Web - MW 0.070 B/O 1500usd
★ StatTrak™ M9 Bayonet Autotronic - FT 0.22 B/O 1200usd
M4A4 Poseidon - MW B/O 1100usd
★ Karambit Case Hardened - FT (Blue pattern) B/O 1200usd
★ Skeleton Knife Slaughter - MW B/O 900usd
★ Butterfly Knife Case Hardened - WW B/O 900usd
★ Karambit Ultraviolet - MW B/O 900usd
★ Sport Gloves Slingshot - FT B/O 900usd
and many more !
AK-47 Case Hardened - WW (#670) B/O 8500usd
M4A1-S Hot Rod - FN (Crown Foil) B/O 1150usd
★ Bayonet Case Hardened - FN 0.0010 (4# in the world) B/O 900usd
StatTrak™ AK-47 Case Hardened - MW (iBUYPOWER Katowice 14 HOLO) B/O 4500usd
USP-S Orion - MW (King on The Field Sticker) B/O 150usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - BS (#265) B/O 250usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - BS (#4) B/O 900usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - WW (#764) B/O 500usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - FT (#169) B/O 600usd
AK-47 Case Hardened - MW (#65) B/O 600usd
AK-47 Redline (4x mousesports Foil MLG Columbus 2016) B/O 100usd
AK-47 Predator (Virtus.Pro Holo Dreamhack 2014) B/O 100usd
AK-47 Redline (Virtus.Pro Holo Dreamhack2014) B/O 100usd
P90 Blind Spot - FN (LDLC Katowice 2014) B/O 50usd
M4A1-S Boreal Forest (Crown Foil) B/O 100usd
Desert Eagle Hypnotic - FN (LGB Katowice 2014) B/O 180usd
StatTrak™ Glock-18 Bunsen Burner (4x Titan Cologne 2015) B/O 50usd
https://steamcommunity.com/tradeoffenew/?partner=83681844&token=QAXcgHQ4
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________