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This message was posted by on Thursday, May 2, 2002 at 19:17.
Nihilist #2:
Entropic descent.
I do not want this… I’m losing ground…you know how this world can beat you down…I’m made of clay…I fear I’m the only one who thinks this way…
Nine Inch Nails, “I Do Not Want This”, Downward Spiral.
Imagine living in a world where everything you ever wanted in life was never available to you. Before you were ever born, the liar that gave you birth stripped you of any positive potential. He experimented on you until you reached maturity, turning you into something hideous and both more and less than human.
And before your eyes is carnage. Your carnage. You lashed out immaturely against those who judged you, judging them. And they all fear you now.
You should continue on your course. You really should wipe them all from the planet. It’s shallow, mean, and terribly linear thinking. But the rage that bubbles inside you can no longer be contained. You will suffer no more lies. You will brook no more incompetence.
And just as your rage has hit its melting point, those fools that you just atomized would have to have friends. And they’d have to shoot at you, because of some stupid primal urge to ‘kill that big ugly thing that’s different from us.’
The rage explodes from you, and you drop to your knees, slammed by a visceral migraine… and their jeep literally melts into the blacktop.
And above you, the fiend that brought you to this Earth cackles. It’s appropriate that this moral vermin is seated like a gargoyle, as he resembles one. You can say nothing, you can’t even blink; your eyes are like rubies—red, glowing, and impenetrable is your gaze. You whisper, “Father… Father… Your suffering will never end. For though we know much of Hell, and little of Heaven, your pain will be far too large to be contained by either.”
And around you, passersby gawk at the interaction of partially human demons, seemingly come to Earth to wrought a final judgement.
Snap. Flash. Snap. Flash. Take those photos. Just don’t be seen. These things are crazy… and it’s not like you’re big enough to defend yourself. Sure, your boss is a legendary madman, but even the indomitable writer of the GothaMetropolis York Squire Crime Column couldn’t harm demons. Snap. Snap. Flash.
Brianna Anderson runs as if the very demon dogs of Hell are after her after taking her pictures for her day’s assignment, and from the looks of things, they just may very well be. She stops every few strides to look over her shoulder, to make sure that she’s not being followed. It seems that she’ll make it to the Squire safely, that she won’t be bothered…
When hellfire explodes in front of the Squire’s door, blocking her entrance. The massive demon human she saw on top of the bank’s roof glares down at her, noticing with some glee the curves of her womanly form. “You’ll make a fine concubine…”
Brianna doesn’t bother responding verbally. Physically, she’s already across the street, in the opposite direction. She used to run track, and still keeps in great shape, as if living in GM has taught her anything, it’s to be prepared for physical assaults at the worst of times.
But as fast as she is, she’s only mortal.
You can run, and run, and run… but when evil at its worst is at your heels, sometimes you have no defense, other than suicide. And though she knows it’s arrogant and pointless, Brianna won’t allow this disgusting miscreant the pleasure. All she can do is spit in the demon-thing’s face as it roars its triumph in her face, and try not to tremble too obviously.
And a searing ball of hellfire begins to actually melt the blacktop that surrounds Nicolae and Brianna, as Nicolae’s son arrives in flaming rage.
“You misunderstood me. Your conceit and your power… I won’t allow you any more of that. Because I know you. How tiny you are, fundamentally. And as pathetic as you are, in my eyes, I know I’m moreso in yours. But consider—the historians will be the judge, as they measure the pit of radioactivity that I’m about to liquefy your soul with.”
Brianna has just enough time to run before another searing ball of flame eradicates the Squire’s door, and she watches in terror as demons dance an appalling waltz of mutilation.
Five stories above her, a long-haired, caffeine-addicted newspaper columnist watches in disgust as a building that he helped to build is under assault. He knows something of the life story of the combatants, but as he quietly vanishes, it’s simply a matter of preservation, to him.
Brianna hides behind the corridor nearest the battle, not wanting to sacrifice more photos just because her life’s in danger. She knows her boss’ stance on this kind of thing, but to her, showing people the carnage that other photographers wouldn’t get to is more important, ultimately.
Yet, as quickly as the battle is begun, it ends… both men teleport away, seemingly taken by some other means. She steps out of the shadows, and lets her long brown hair fall over her lower back, and pushes up the glasses that complement her green eyes.
She puts her hands in her pockets, and narrows her eyes. Something’s not quite as it seems, here…
I beat my machine it’s a part of me it’s inside of me
I’m stuck in this dream it’s changing me I am becoming
The me you know had some second thoughts
He’s covered with scabs he’s broken and sore
That part of me isn’t here anymore
All pain disappears it’s the nature of my circuitry
Drowns out all I hear there’s no escape from this my new consciousness
The me that you know used to have feelings
But the blood has stopped pumping and he’s left to decay…
Nine Inch Nails, “The Becoming”, Downward Spiral
Nicolae Anton is suffering from a twinge of guilt, his first in years. All he can hear is his mind screaming with the voices of those he’s psychologically, physically, and spiritually raped and murdered. And he can’t keep the images of the acid victims out of his mind… He knew life was fragile, so, so, so fucking fragile, but he never imagined the fury of a doomed woman screaming in rage as the toxic acid melted her flesh. It was more personal to him because the woman in question was his mother, but he’d done that decades ago. He’d thought he’d adjusted to it by now, but the dreams, the horrific ghosts in his head, were invading his daylight hours, now. If you have pity in your heart to spare for one of the lowest forms of life in the extended universe, don’t. Nicolae Anton may have conquered a spiritual hell, but his psychological hell is his own demented cross to bear.
He looks across the seemingly hollow halls at his son, who glares with all the hatred that a mortal shell could contain at him. Nicolae knows full well that there will come a day when he’ll have to cease Szandor’s breathing, for both their protection. Still, it is the tiny speck of humanity that’s left in Nicolae that allows for Szandor’s continued survival. Both men have reverted to their human forms, with Szandor’s long blonde hair hanging in his bloodshot bluish green eyes, and Nicolae’s powerful frame curled into a ball, and his shaved head and dark eyes returned his son’s glare.
Both men gasped in astonishment as the lamps around them vanished, and as the soft cawing of thousands of ravens echoed around the walls nearest them. They started, as raven beaks and raven claws poked and prodded them. Normally, Nicolae would have evaporated them, but he knew full well the nature of their master. He knew the consequences of declaring war on the Library, a realm that Satan himself respected.
Szandor screamed as a pale glowing light materialized, in the beginning stages of a human skeleton. The skeleton slowly materialized into a robe-covered apparition with red, glowing eyes that told the life stories of both men.
Nicolae was slowly getting over his astonishment, and glared triumphantly at the King of Tales. “You have no jurisdiction over me.”
“Perhaps… but consider this. The Parodyverse is a dimension of story, is it not? The Parodyverse is where old gods and ancient ideas come to rot, where the sufferers in Hell are allowed some kind of mercy, for it is here where they travel when they are most in need of relief. Their minds are taken elsewhere, for a time, to the realm of ideas. And I ask you, what are dreams, if they are not stories or ideas? I ask you further—what jurisdiction do stories and ideas have in Hell, which is an idea itself?”
“Are you declaring war on the throne?”
“Why wish for power over the suffering, when I already possess it?”
“You know that The Master is of greater experience than you.”
“I know that The Master was defeated by his own arrogance.”
“And you’ll be defeated by yours.”
“Who is Man to comment on arrogance, on failure
When it is his species that cannot cancer cure
When it was representatives of his species that committed the simplest, yet gravest of errors
By measuring intelligence and learning capability by skull-size, almost as productive as judgment by style of hair
Though to this day, it is ever evident
That in the totality of the universe’s knowledge, humanity shall never induce more than a dent.”
Nicolae glared at the raven that alighted itself on the King of Stories’ shoulder. “You…will pay for that, Corvus corax.”
The King of Stories loomed centimeters from Nicolae’s face. “Is that a declaration of war?”
Nicolae lowered his eyes and dropped to his knees. “Not at all…sire.
When Nicolae opened his eyes, the King’s hood was covering his son’s face, as he appeared to be whispering in his ear. It was a short conversation, as the King snapped his “fingers” and both men found themselves in the Bean and Donut Coffee Shop. Sarah Sheperdson greeted them with a flirtatious smile, and Nicolae’s face paled as his son smiled at him. It was the sort of smile that told you in a no-nonsense tone that Szandor could now destroy Nicolae any time he chose.
Nicolae began shaking with rage as he noticed the pictures on the front page that his son placed in front of him. “SQUIRE EXTRA: DEMONS DISCOVERED FIGHTING ON THE CORNER OF DEAN AND CARRINGTON AVENUES. MORE INSIDE.”
“You…will all surrender your need to breathe…”
Szandor smiled at Sarah, who waited expectantly for their order. “I’ll take a coffee, black as the devil’s heart… and he’ll just take a Thorazine drip.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow and left to complete the order, as Nicolae glared at his scrawny son. Szandor just smiled. “Oh, believe me. Your humiliation hasn’t even begun yet…”
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