1 Name: Bunnyreaper : 2007-07-10 16:22 [Del]
Throughout the history of humankind there have been very few men and women who can be called heroes. Very few who have stood higher than that of any mortal being and done terrific acts of courage and bravery. Acts so terrific, that their tales have been passed down throughout the centuries to be told to countless generations. And as they were passed down, each generation in themselves would be encouraged to idolise these brave actions. To be the heroes of their age; to right the wrongs that plague humankind.
I was one of those countless children who have been serenaded with the tales of King Arthur and Joan of Arc. To have been taught the Christian morality, and to see what is right and what is wrong in the eyes of God. I have seen this world for the sinful place that it is, but only recently had they lifted the shroud that concealed all the hatred and treachery that lay before me.
The shroud, as it were, the blissful ignorance that had kept hidden from me the truth of this planet for so long was lifted from my eyes at exactly the same moment I saw a thing of such indescribable beauty, such immaculate purity, that it cleansed the darkness from my eyes. I saw the true world; a world so corrupt, so twisted, that I knew this thing of purity would not be safe without my protection.
I hid it.
I hid this immaculate beauty as far from the darkness as possible. I took it away from the corruption, away from the lies and away from the hideously torturous place that this world has become. I knew, from that point on, what my meaning on this sinful planet was: to protect this thing of purity from all the evils of this world, for this was the will of God. This was my quest, and like the heroes before me I would complete it with such courage and bravery that children for years to come would be told my tale. Through my own actions they would be encouraged to fight the evil that plagues humankind.
But she came.
The demoness found me, utilising her infinite hordes of minions, and stole the pure being from me. She whisked it away and imprisoned it in a globe of darkness, where even the purest light could not penetrate the gloom, and there it remained; slowly being consumed by the evil that surrounded it. I, captured by her horde of disciples, was tossed into a pit where I was beaten, savaged, sodomised and utilised as a human toilet for what seemed like a millennia by half-demons.
Half-demons: Men who have fallen deep into the depraved arts of sin and have become the slaves of those who can rise above minor acts of incredulous worship to the extent where they command incredulous worship. They look not as demons do, appearing human in shape, but if you look closely into their eyes you can see their souls burning brightly and screaming in agony.
I escaped that pit of torment, and returned to civilised society with more intent and vigour to renew my quest. I vowed to recover the pure being, to cleanse it of the evil that it had been succumbed by and to keep it safe from ever being captured again.
The brown plastic alarm clock rings loudly to inform me that it is two o’clock in the morning and thus time to wake up. However, as I have already been awake now for over an hour, I disregard the intentions it has by turning it off at the base and removing the plug from the socket.
The plug socket is mounted on one of the four walls of my apartment. All but one of the walls is decorated with a sort of green wallpaper that looks like pea flavoured baby food.
The fourth wall, the wall with the window, has no wallpaper. Instead it is covered with all the information that I have gathered on the location of the pure being, such as plans of buildings, reports of recent activity and pictures of houses and workplaces. The sort of information that allows me to deduce where the demoness is keeping it and certain information giving details on how I can infiltrate the building.
The window leads out to a fire escape, which is handy if I come across any trouble or there is a fire. The view could be better, but one makes do with the hand they are dealt.
The four walls enclose my abode and all my worldly possessions, which include a few sets of clothes, a pair of worn out shoes, a disposable camera and the brown plastic alarm clock. They each lie, strewn about the room in a purposely calculated mess. My mattress lies in the centre of the “mess” and it is on this I am lying now, awake, thinking about my current situation.
It has been several months since I escaped from that pit and it has been seven more months that the pure being has had to undergo severe torture under the cruel malice of the demoness. In those seven months I have integrated myself into the ranks of the half-demons. My time spent in the pit had not been wasted, and although my integration has taught me many things it has also alerted the demoness to my freedom.
The demoness knows that I am no longer trapped in her pit and her minions, pure demons, and assassins, amalgamations of her intelligence and rage, are searching the streets, causing my investigations to become hampered by their meddling.
This, I figure, isn’t very good. Without any means of receiving information from my contacts I will not be able to keep a constant track record on the actions of the demoness. Without a constant track record, how will I be able to utilise her daily routines to my advantage? How will I rescue the pure being without a basic idea of where she is?
She is too powerful; I can’t stop her on my own. I need those links; I need that information. Without it, I am blind in a maelstrom of pain; searching, in vain, for a dimmed light.
In a sense of rage, I kick my unplugged brown plastic alarm clock and it hurtles through the air smashing into my paper covered fourth wall with a crack. Little bits of loose paper drift down from the wall, loosened further by the force of my brown plastic alarm clock smashing into them, and as I lean down to pick them up I notice the damage I have caused to the brown outer shell of my alarm clock.
I look down at my broken alarm clock with the tears of exasperation still gleaming in my eyes. I have almost given up. I have almost given up on myself and on my ability to rescue the pure being. No, I think to myself, I cannot just fob my duty away just because the chances of failure exceed the chances of success. Did King Arthur give up? Did Joan of Arc give up? No. They were valiant to the end, and thus I shall be too. For my name is Richard Phillips, and I have sworn an oath to protect the pure being from any harm.
Standing, instead of looking out of my window to see my ever so fantastic view of the opposing apartment building, I check my reflection against the blackness of the night’s sky. The red marks around my eyes, although dimmed by the backdrop, do not seem to be too noticeable but the large spot located above my right nostril is.
The unfortunate thing about trying not to be noticed is that you have to blend into a crowd of people with such finesse that even if your hunters had a detailed description of you they could not decipher who or where you were. This, however, is made incredibly harder when you’re a very short white male living amongst a majority of tall black people. It’s even worse when you have distinguishing marks, like (for example) a large spot just above your left nostril.
Luckily, I do not have a spot just above my left nostril, but I do have one over my right nostril which deems the whole act of feeling relieved about the lack of spot situation on the left side of my nostril entirely wasted.
I slowly begin to panic about the spot situation so much, that I cannot see that the knob on my door, my doorknob, is being turned slowly in an anti-clockwise direction. I did not panic about this for two reasons: 1.To open my door you need to turn the knob in a clockwise fashion. 2. I did not know about it.
Hearing movement behind me, I turn away from the short, bald, big-nosed gentleman reflecting back at me, and creep softly towards my doorway trying to remain as quiet as possible. I watch as my doorknob is turned in an anti-clockwise direction and I chuckle to myself on how it has to be turned in a clockwise fashion. I consider telling the person trying to break into my home that they have to turn it the other way but instead I ready myself to attack whoever walks through that doorway by crouching down as low as I can.
I don’t know why I crouch down as low as I can but as a technique it works out fine when attacking people. Most people are initially confused and thus easier to take by surprise when I crouch down low and thus I do it often when attacking. I’ve always attacked people like this since when I was a small child because I knew from an early age if you are ever going to succeed in this world you must see every weakness of your enemy and exploit it without mercy. I do not believe in mercy. Even though God does say ‘love thy enemy’, mercy is a detail in battle that is earned. To quote a popular phrase, ‘the enemy shows us no mercy so neither shall we’. The demoness is evil in its purest form, and thus deserves nothing more then total annihilation.
My foe realises that he has to turn the doorknob in the opposite direction to open the door and does so with malicious intent. Click. The door unlocks with a click; a sound which coincides perfectly with me turning off the light. The shape sneaks in suspiciously and clicks on a flashlight which shines just above my right shoulder. It creeps right past me, looking at my cleverly strewn out items and pieces of paper, I step right behind it and crouch low. I do a short cough to let it know I’m here. It turns round and shines the torch in my face. With a cheerful and sunny disposition I say, “good morning,” and launch myself onto his upper torso, clamping my jaw down onto his neck until he falls to the ground. At this point I pummel him until he goes limp.
“Fucking assassins,” I find myself saying. “Sneaking around trying to catch people off-guard you should be ashamed of yourself.” The assassin doesn’t answer, so I kick him in the chest. “Sneaking into peoples houses!” I exclaim, “c’mon, can’t you guys try something original to get information about me?” I get struck by an idea and I have to sit down for a second as I think of something witty to say that will not only imply my intentions but also leave a sense of mystery. “Why don’t you do something original?” I ask the unconscious assassin. “Like torture?” With my intentions duly noted in the assassins subconscious, I set about ripping my bedclothes up to make rope so I can tie its arms and legs together.
Assassin: Amalgamations of the demoness’ intent on my capture and demise. Given intelligence, strength and wit, these creatures are a worthy adversary. Notably, they are the elite of her horde; however, they follow a distinct moral code and will always go for the hurt instead of the kill. This is their weakness and it is duly exploited at all given times. Their intelligence and strength are not masked by their appearance; they are malformations and can be easily spotted, thus their tactics of sneaking around are well-enforced. They have an extremely large face that contains six eyes and a large mouth. To each pair of eyes there is one nose, so they can balance an elongated pair of sunglasses on their face. Their bodies are no larger than that of a human, but are toned to a greater extent than that of any normal man.
The assassin awakes with a groan, be it his realisation of being captured by the enemy or a yelp of pain. I cannot really be sure, so I give him a little wave and tell him what he is going to do. He exudes a great force of negativity so I hit him in the face and tell him what I will do if he doesn’t do what I have told him to do. He giggles behind the gag, a maniacal giggle, and so I remove it and ask him “What are you laughing at?”
“You will never find her!” He laughs “You’ll never see her again as long as we have her!” He then spits in my face and starts laughing again. My rage overwhelms me and I break all three of his noses. He stops laughing.
I walk over to my brown plastic alarm clock lying shattered against my paper lined wall and break off a particularly sharp piece of brown plastic. Bring it over to the semi-conscious assassin and start cutting into the disjointed cartilage that holds his noses in place.
I remove all three and lie each of them out in front of him in a line. I tell him that the pure being is not a “she”; it is higher than the mere labels mortals place on one another and should not be talked about by filthy demon spawn such as himself. I ask him again. “Where is the demoness keeping the pure being?” The assassin just begins to weep slowly, and so I change the subject. “Do you need all of your eyes?” I ask him offhandedly.
He looks up at me, tears running through the bleeding stumps where his noses used to be, “I will never tell you where she is!” The assassin refers to the pure being as a she again, obviously not listening to me properly, so I insert the brown plastic shard into one of his six eyeholes and poke out one of his six eyes.
It hangs down across his cheek, dangling like a confused yo-yo. I grip the eyeball and ask him one last time, “Where is the demoness keeping the pure being?” With that, I begin to squeeze the eyeball, until it turns to gloop in my hands. Amidst his screams he reveals a place, a building on the west side of town. I give him my thanks and leave him to bleed to death in my apartment.
I don’t go straight to the building. From my previous experience I can pinpoint the exact point where I went wrong.
Thinking now, I always knew, but had ignored my own thoughts. Back when I was fifteen years old and I was alone with the Scout Master in the old cabin up in “Barnaby Woods”. He said to me: “always be prepared, Jim… never let your guard down”. However, after my Scout Master was arrested, for dealing drugs to Beavers/Cubs and animal cruelty, I took all his wise sayings and pushed them deep into the dark crevasses of my mind where they were lost; forgotten for all eternity. That was where I went wrong in my previous efforts to recover the pure being; I was not prepared.
Not anymore. I am now prepared. I have my shotgun with plenty of spare shells, and my baseball bat. Now, it does not matter how many minions she throws at me; I will not be captured and I will rescue the pure being.
One last stop before the building: Church. I pray for myself and the pure being, but mostly for the sanctity of my quest and his protection as I go now to smite the evil demoness and save the pure being from complete corruption.
The building is a large, trendy, apartment building which has been converted from an old warehouse into fashionable homes for the relatively well off. The pure being is being kept hostage at number seven, and I know that once I went in there is no backing out.
I kick down the main entrance, gun in hand, and begin advancing up the corridor to number seven. Sirens are wailing - the demoness would be well informed of my arrival, but I no longer cared.
I see the two grunts guarding number seven and I walk towards them with my gun pointing directly at their faces. The beauty of the shotgun is that it can fire a spray of ammunition and thus can hit multiple targets without the need for multiple rounds to be fired. They tell me to put down the gun. I reply with, “you didn’t say Simon says” which is, for an improvised statement, pretty apt.
Grunt: Beasts created, as their name suggests, for grunt work. They are striped head to toe with the purest black and white scales which are strong enough to withstand a rifle shot. Because of this, they rarely wear clothing. Instead of eyes they have blue crosses which shimmer and shine out of crevasses in their heads. Without noses they breathe through large holes in their cheeks, and it is in these cheeks do we find their weakness. By clogging these holes or penetrating them we cut off their air supply, resulting in their demise. The drawback with grunts is that they will never actually use force without good reason or distinct orders to and thus by not posing as a threat we can take advantage of their trusting nature.
I fire my gun and it enters the cheek holes of each of the grunts dead on. They vomit a red liquid and fall into a heap on the floor. “Service these days,” I mutter to myself, before opening the door with my boot.
The pure being lies, cowering in the corner of the expensive apartment, the prison of darkness staining the purity. I approach it with an ever increasing optimism mixed with a heart pounding flow of excitement. I stand above it and tell it that I am here to rescue it and that it should not be afraid, for I am its guardian.
I then see how much the darkness has spread. I see how much the demoness has tortured and poisoned the pure being by the sudden spasm of negativity that spewed from the mouth, killing my optimism and excitement in one fatal stroke.
“It’s too late.” I sigh. “The darkness has penetrated deep into your body”.
“Why are you doing this?” It asks quietly. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to rescue you,” I tell it again, “and if that means I have to purify you myself so be it”. I undo my trouser buttons and remove my undergarments, “I will fill you with my light so you will be pure once more!” I exclaim. “But to do that, we must become one”.
The evil causes the pure being’s body to repel my immediate advances, screaming “no!” and pushing me away, so I place it in a headlock with my left arm and using my right hand I cover the mouth with my palm and close the nostrils with my finger and thumb.
The pure being sinks into a deep slumber allowing me to insert myself inside of it without resistance and release my light into the belly. My light, infused with Gods will, combats the darkness and overpowers it, enabling the pure being to return to its old self.
“Now to make sure that you’re never captured again,” I whisper into the pure being’s ear as it stirs quietly in its slumber. I pick up my baseball bat, aim at the face of the pure being and begin to pound at the shell. As the shell cracks, I see the purity leaking out into the ether, so I continue to smash away until the continual flow of light can be seen escaping into space.
My quest is complete.
The pure being is free from the corruptive powers of the demoness and all that I have left now is to destroy her and the world will be safe from her evil forevermore. I stand up and exclaim with gusto: “now bitch, I’m coming for you!” but this proves to be rather pointless, as straight afterwards I am shot from behind by a grunt.
Bugger.
*
Charlotte Barrystock had been divorced from Richard Phillips for twelve years and had raised their daughter alone for all those years. When she had heard of his release, several months ago, she had placed a private detective on him to provide information on his whereabouts. When it became obvious that Richard was planning to kidnap their daughter, as he did twelve years ago, the police were informed and she and her daughter were placed under police protection.
Charlotte was identifying the body of her private detective, found mutilated in Richard’s apartment, at the same time Richard was busy ransacking their home, killing two police officers and ultimately raping and killing his own daughter. Not receiving the hourly report, an officer was sent to check on the guards and found them peppered with bullets. Thus, an armed response unit was moved in to deal with the situation.
Richard Phillips was dead.
Madam Phillips was dead.
Charlotte Barrystock looked at the ruined body of her daughter, and bullet ridden corpse of her late ex-husband and, with tears running down her face, whispered almost inaudibly, “you bastard”.
