by Jack Plues
saddle and helped the brothel enforcer through the resistance of a mud wall, the merchant regained color and raised a drink addled smile before passing into the dominion of unconsciousness. When he finally stirred from the stupor of wine saturation I force fed him on bread and a few stuffed door mice, laughing in amusement as his body repelled the half chewed nourishment that splattered onto our small fire to sizzle on embers like the fat of a baby pig. As he rallied to partial sobriety, shaking with tremors that would shame Vesuvius, I warmed to this individual that I had nonchalantly sacrificed to the infection of evil and vowed to pay amendment for my disregard and keep him stocked in comfort and safety for the rest of his natural days.
When death finally relieved his diseased body from the grip of a virulent killer, I had become accustomed to his presence and amicable conversation that shrewdly schooled me in the complex intricacies of human nature and behavior. Our comradeship was gifted a mere five years before the sadness of his demise.
On occasion, as I huddled alone around the dull brightness of my nighttime campfire, I felt the comfort of his warming presence, honoring me with attendance to prove his continued existence in the afterlife and encourage unwavering desire of our anticipated unification once again.
It is without restraint I profess my love for this man even after the ache of wasted epochs that have passed between him and I to hopefully impress upon you that it is never too late to repel the darkness from your life and more importantly save your eternal soul! My expertise in such matters is ingrained within genes inherited from the master of the pit who stands at your shoulder as you become aware of this work, whispering ridicule and doubt of the validity of this disturbing information.
Take heed my unknown friends to educate your slack minds and experience the bristle of chill my tales will surely bring to the blanket that covers your thick skins, and if by outrageous chance your follicles remain dormant, your contamination may be complete and I am addressing students or soldiers of my father’s persuasion.
If so dear devils, milk these words for all they are worth, then advance towards my hospitality and feel the wrath I have leashed and stored that gnaws at restraint for chance to have at creatures such as yourself.
I fear Jack enters the written fray to duly govern my appetite for aggression and coax me towards transformation of foul scenery I most vividly project.
Although true to the cause and fully unveiled to its horror, he is a relatively new puppy to the pack and allowances need to be adhered for his misplaced sense of protocol. His impertinent disregard for safety in the hands of a renowned being who has survived the most brutal skirmishes and battles does nothing to curtail his opinion, but Jack possesses the gift of a moral yet misunderstood heart that only permitted familiarity when I saved him from the encircling surety of death at the hands of Satan’s thugs. I will also reveal that his cheeks redden slightly as I pressure him to divulge this information, but I am sorely chastised and advised to cauterize my loose banter and return to other intense matters lest my exuberance should casually reveal more personal revelations.
I stand corrected and move from less intimate topics and return to the initial subject, the tale of dirty Deborah.
Deborah hailed from the underbelly on the wrong side of a town that attracted human flotsam that bred poverty and pit bulls in equal measure. Like her momma before her she tended to the household requirements of her dominating father and warmed his bed with her company on nights when he couldn’t afford to blind himself with moonshine.
When she reached the age of seventeen, she took his favorite felling axe and bludgeoned him to death as he sat enjoying a bowl of possum stew.
After lopping his remains into manageable chunks she fed his rapist ass to his malnourished pack of dogs who filled their empty bellies with his hated guts then howled at the moon to declare the welcomed death of their heartless master.
In the early hours of a sticky night, when the exhilaration of freedom had succumbed to fear of discovery and retribution from her kin, the house enveloped her in its stifling silence and my father stepped from his secretion in an unnatural shadow to prey upon her lonely fragility and extort agreement to the enticing proposal he unfurled before her. The promised rewards that glittered so tantalizingly within her grasp enticed Deborah to pack what little she possessed into a battered suitcase and leave when the first rays of the rising dawn blanched the steaming shingles of the roof.
Under stern tutelage from her ancient benefactor, Deborah thrived in the cut throat world of big city business, copulating for speedy advancement into the boardrooms of colossal skyscrapers to enable her recruitment of powerful men into the damned corporation of her master Satan.
It was this unbridled estimation of her own esteem that led her to our vigilant attention, raising a blip on our sensitive radar that can sniff Devil’s meat within the coordinated hurl of a well-balanced spear.
Her demise, now intrinsically part of your own memory, will rise occasionally to pester your suppressed thoughts and plunder any trace of pity you may or may not feel for her, but do not worry or feel weakened by this, it is only natural for someone who is in part, generally good.
As she burns to the color of sinned crisp and screams for eternity with the rest of the foolish gaggle, her children wallow in the warm affection of their released father, struggling to remember her face that snarled and bitched when she slapped their legs above the lace edge of their pretty dresses to hide the welt marks left from the imprint of her palm.
If the local dump ever regurgitates her deteriorated remains and forensic scientists stumble upon clues left purposely to aid their assumptions, her demise will be added to the extensive catalogue of gruesome homicides, executed by Americas most wanted, Eduardo Gissente, A.K.A, ‘King of the Maniacs’.
I stand with inflated chest and proud of my labor, invigorated by the vacuumed air that feeds my body to continue in earnest until the day finally arrives when Lucifer himself is called to the stand and condemned to total obliteration.
The journey so far has been many lifetimes long and arduous to those associates of a more fragile inclination, but the goal warrants the hardship and must be achieved at all cost, even if the price demands my own moral bankruptcy. When God finally deigns to retire my services and quench my curse of immortality, the goal to revel in the surround of treasured company of expired friends and loved ones once again boils my warrior blood that courses speedily through my bold heart to spur me to stupidly courageous, uncommon action. Although I enter these forays with blind contempt for any restraint or safety, I am not without weakness as you will learn through the study of my travels glamorized so romantically by Jack’s eloquent scribbling.
On one particularly degrading occasion I was separated from the main body of an invading force of pirate marauders set on course to rape, plunder and annihilate a village of people who lived peacefully near the shore of a great rough ocean that fed them with not only the surfs bounty but an abundance of valuable black pearls.
In this land where bull elephants were once used in battle and sacred traditions were bestowed upon the young of each tribe, I was reduced to humility by the scythe of a teenager’s sickle who clinically reacted to the program of his inherited brainwash to take both feet from the rest of my body. As he squealed with delight and danced in circles with feverish joy, his face abruptly spat virgin blood and filled with horrific surprise as one of my heathen comrades put a lance through his bony chest and lifted him off his ancestral ground.
Just like Deborah, my greatness inevitably toppled and in a land where they took down huge, queer shaped mammals by the hacking of their broad feet, I to had been reduced to the fate of a fallen foe.
When I languished back on board our vessel, swinging to and fro in the wrap of my outlandish sized hammock, I could hear my brethren raise flagons of ale to their mocking mouths that concocted laughter at my cost, unaware of my immortal gift that began repair to my injury whilst bare feet danced above on wooden deck an
d drew sticks for first choice of my belongings. By the passing of their drunken binge I was once again whole and those that mocked my affliction and had designs on my property lay dead or thrown overboard as food for the fish.
My revenge would seem complete, but not so. In my blind rage I forgot that a ship requires crew and I had stupidly slaughtered every last salt infested seadog. All that remained was a tiresome monkey that I strangled in frustration and nailed to the mast to remind me of my act of idiocy. It was only by chance or my father’s interference that a French naval frigate saved me from unmanned drift, flogging and shackling my scurvy skin in chaffing irons then throwing me into a soaking hold to paddle amongst the stench of stagnant sea water and the waste of diseased rodents.
How long do you think you would continue in such a predicament, hmm? I’d lay a wager not long, but then we have yet to be introduced to enable me to gauge your mettle in such an instance. The cost of my familiarity may indeed rock the very foundations of your cozy world, instigating wishes whispered in fear for the return to the safe rhythm of a cherished life you once knew. Unfortunately once the seal is broken I am afraid there is not a wish in existence that could return
