Showing posts with label Monster hunting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Monster hunting. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Getting hit By The Fan Club


The crypt around 3Am 

Donna had found the string in the sweater and she was pulling, and pulling.
It's funny how with a small bit of knowledge and the right circumstances we can put something together that wasn't there before. Our attackers had managed to elude us up until now. Normal police work or investigation would've never found them, but thanks to some science-fiction level science, shee tracked down a very solid lead like the world's most beautiful wolf.  Mz. Matrix wasn't about to let go until she drew blood and tore meat.
She searched and hacked and searched, than hacked some more.
After the initial lead, it took us less than 10 minutes to mobilize; she already had a good intle by then.
When old man Golding died, he left his son all he had: his pig farm, and all the pigs on it.
According to public record, his son Robert never turned up to get it. In fact, hadn't turned up anywhere at all. At least not under that name, and while chubby little Bobby Golding was gone - and has been for 10 or 11 years - a gentleman by the name of Jason Vagmer was very active. Vagmer was a synth pop/industrial artist who played in and around Necronomicon. By all accounts his music was pretty OK, if not a bit pedestrian, but his stage show featuring Chris Angel-like illusionist antics was spectacular. Despite rave reviews, it would seem he hasn't generated quite the fanbase he was hoping for. And in one interview Matrix found, it seemed like he was considering throwing in the towel:
"It would seem that the city does not appreciate real art or real artists. My stage show is state-of-the-art science and illusion. My songs are roadmap of human desires and emotions. But no one cares."
Ahhhh, the good old “no one cares”. It's a goth staple. Well, I still use it. The good thing about being part of the black lipstick and eyeliner set is that you can whine all you want and then casually pass it off as gimmick despite the fact you're really legit upset and really whiny.
Another thing I see a lot are people who will put five or six months into building a fanbase and then, when they're not filling up clubs, throw their arms in the air and blame the city. They don't understand the only reason that we have a fanbase in the city at all is that we were distracted and unmotivated enough to stay here way past our welcome.
Shortly after, Matrix had come up with Bobby's old MySpace page, which was full of him at our shows and wearing Deadites paraphernalia.  Lots and lots of photos; lots and lots of paraphernalia. It's clear we were probably a pretty big influence on his artistic endeavors.
A quick look at a school record showed he was a fucking super genius.
High school by 10
College by 16
By the time he hit 20, he was apprenticing under some of the greatest minds and science. This kid was fucking smart. Scary fucking smart.
Later on in another  interview, she hit pay dirt.
"It would seem like the people in the city have outgrown their childhood heroes, yet perhaps the city isn't big enough for both of us."
I call that a out and out threat.
If he was talking about us, anyway. And he was. Matrix read and read, pulled hard at this sweater, until there was nothing left but a pile of yarn.
It would seem at some point, fanaticism turned to resentment, resentment to jealousy, jealousy toward the hatred,which turned to a full on science-filled fucking vendetta.
Around that point, she was scanning through the flyer gallery on the band page of "Jason Vagmer and the Black Dragons." When she saw a flyer for the May show, she was going to call us, but stopped short on account of the explosion.

Start here
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Monday, July 13, 2015

Alive(ish)


Ground zero: were the Silio used to be on Golding's pig farm 3:22AM



I couldn't hear.
I couldn't see.
The dust and debris were not only blinding me, but making it impossible to breathe. The impact had thrown me against the wall.
The fall in the field.
The battle with the fake Round Trip Jones.
The explosion.
I wasn't getting up anytime soon. Every inch of me hurt. I felt old 20 minutes ago, and now I felt ancient. I felt like I was on the wrong side of dead. But for better or for worse I was alive.
I even managed to grab the thing by the ankles and with future strength worthy of a summer blockbuster, I tossed it out of the hole into the other end of the silo.
Someone grabbed my knee and then someone grabbed my shoulder. Standard protocol when senses are impaired is to establish physical contact.
2 hands + my lump body = we were all alive.
The good news was we weren't going to be ripped apart to pieces or crushed under debris.
The bad news was the bad guy was still on the loose and we had no idea where the real Round Trip Jones was or if he was even alive.
After what seemed like forever but not nearly enough time, we all struggled back to our feet. A few minutes more we were struggling to climb out of the trap door in what used to be the silo.
The explosion had blown the the roof and the walls completely to pieces. The construct we had previously been in was gone - as if it had never existed. The area a few yards outside of where the silo was looked more like a meteor impact than a pig farm.
This answered the question we were all thinking but nobody had said.
"How the fuck had we survived that?"
I wasn’t looking to get lucky, but not only did I toss the exploding clone outside of the trap door but outside of the silo entirely.
"Good shot," Tiny coughed.
"Fuck yeah!" barked Ethan, which somehow actually did sound like “thank you.”
We walked through the blast zone, into the tall grass, and almost like we planned it, we all collapsed.
The dust had settled so I could see the stars. I thought I could hear sirens in the distance. I also heard something that sounded like a whine and some other explosions but my ears and head were ringing too much to decipher what that could possibly mean.

 We all laid there. Discouraged, disappointed. It hurt to breathe as if for the first time in my life, a mile away from where I live, I was going to stay forever.

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Thursday, July 9, 2015

Round trip Jones Throw Down

Inside the Silio on Golding's pig farm 3:12AM

 With a roar, Ethan grabbed the spear with two hands and lunged forward, pushing RTJ across the length of the rectangular metal box they ended up in when the trapdoor opened. The masked wrestler started to push back to drive the spear deeper into the angry slashers chest, but like lightning, Tiny was in the hole and cut the spear clean in half. Jones swung the end he still had like a bat, but Tiny parried it easily with the flat part of the sword, then drove his mask into the bridge of what we thought was our friend’s nose. I instantly keyed on the Swordsmen's body language; if this was Round Trip Jones then there wasn't much any of us or our conventional weapons could do to hurt him. If this was a clone? Well, in that case it was no holds barred anyway. Instinctually I went for Scourge, but shooting into combat is never great idea, and with the way my body's been it was a terrible idea, but I had just the thing for a situation like this! I went to my jacket pulled out a nice round,black, shiny eight ball I've been saving for just the right moment. I reckoned it’d be a great calling card if people started finding dead monsters around with 8 balls smashed into the head.

I tossed it as hard as I could and it was a direct hit!  It bounced with a crack off the back of Tiny's head and flew directly right at me. I only had to move slightly to catch it on the rebound which saved my pride... slightly... a little.

Jones monkey flipped the stunned samurai into the wall.  Tiny slid down and landed in a heap. Jones kept up, but I timed it and aimed it perfectly.  It would have hit him right between the eyes, but unfortunately he grabbed the eight ball out of the air before could collide with his huge masked head, and without a moment's hesitation tossed it back at me. Struck me right between the eyes. It ricocheted off my huge dome with enough force that I thought it snapped my neck. I heard it land somewhere that seemed 1,000,000 miles away. Needless to say, I wasn't super jacked about this 8 ball idea anymore.

I had barely collapsed to one knee when my attacker went for a kick that would've drove my head  a 1000 yards and through the uprights, if the Goliath with 1/2 a spear in his chest hadn't grabbed me by the collar and pulled me out of the way.

The masked man's momentum caused a full out Charlie Brown.  He flipped completely backwards and landed on his face. He was up fast, but it wasn't Lucy waiting for him when he did - it was one of the angriest, meanest killers on earth.

Magloofabits went to return the favor with the kick that would've knocked a man's torso from his waist. With the casualness that made the whole thing look more like dancing, Jones ran away to the right and kicked Ethan's prone leg out from under him. The momentum sent him flying back first into Tiny who was doing his best to get to his feet.

Before I could do anything about it, I was lifted up gut wrench style into power bomb position. He spun and I thought I was about to fall victim to the world's most deadly running "lygar bomb," and in reality, I probably would've preferred it. He took a few steps and launched me into the air. I landed without much harm on my buddies, but my 230 pound frame probably didn't do them any favors.

I suspected we looked more like the Three Stooges than trained killers trying to get to our feet and get our breath. For a second I was starting to believe this was our partner - he was strong, fast, and a hell of a fighter. But that all vanished when I got my composure.

When he tossed me, he launched himself into the air. And upon my release, fell flat on his front hands out like he was doing a push-up, or at least that's how he was when we got to our feet. He sat and stared at us like a snake.

"That ain't him," I spit out with my blood.

"Nope," said Tiny.

"Nobody cares I have a fucking spear in my chest?" snapped Ethan.

"So where's the real deal?"  I said over my tongue, which was moving across my chipped tooth in an effort to survey the damage.

"Hope he ain't dead," said Ethan, in an uncharacteristic show of any emotion that was not rage. His faced changed from nightmare to sad clown.  "Tiny, he better hope the real him's not dead," as Tiny pulled the spear out of Ethan's chest and handed it to him.

"This is better than the other clones. A lot better," I said, still trying to shake the cobwebs.

"Yea.  Why did you hit me with a cue ball?" Tiny asked.

"It was an 8 ball," I answered.

"Sorry, I couldn't tell on impact," he responded plainly.

"It's ok - good on you for knowing what hit ya by feel."  I was legitimately impressed.

"Thanks, buddy," he said.

"Welcome," I said, not taking my eyes off of what ever wore my friend’s appearance.

We all charged it, and though we were in it's space in a couple of strides, it rolled up to it's feet to greet us. It rolled through us, landing strategically placed blows on all of us as it pirouetted through and around us. All of us ended on opposite sides of the room from where we started. Team us was much worse for ware.

Then, without warning, the thing charged.  It was the only mistake it made so far; it wouldn't get the chance to make another. As if we planned it, we created our kill zone. Ethan ran straight at him at top speed; they would've met up and semi-crashed head-on, unless me and Tiny got there first.

We looped around on either side of fake Round Trip Jones - me stopping a step behind, and Tiny a step ahead. We snapped shut like a trap!

I swept his legs at the same instant Tiny went airborne and connected with a brutal spin kick. The wrestling world called the maneuver "Total Elimination;" most people hit with it weren't conscious enough to call it much of anything.

Ethan has been in place in case the it somehow dodges our play, but it turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. It landed on the back of its neck with a velocity that looked like he was dropped on the floor and folded up like an accordion then flipped over. It ended up sitting upright on his ass. Tiny leapt over him, getting behind him, and delivered a couple of stiff kicks to the spine for good measure,then proceeded to go for the thing’s mask.

Wasn't sure why, I certainly never asked. Neither one of us had ever seen Jones without his mask on. I suspect it was more of a symbolic act of humiliation. Either way, I'm glad he did.

The thing had no face. No features at all. My nerd brain competed with my survival instinct and tried to remember what twilight zone episode thing lack of faced reminded me. Luckily, the survival instinct won out. Between eyes was a timer. It's cliché, but like all clichés, 100% true. Time slowed to a crawl.

0:05

"Fuck me," said Ethan diving for it.

0:04

Tiny backed away.  He wasn't sure why, but he knew he should.

0:03

Ethan grabbed the thing by the ankles. "Weird," I thought.

0:02

Was I messing it up with "Eye of the Beholder?”







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Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Trap door Madness

Inside the Silio on Golding's pig farm 3:10pm. 

 Tiny and I rushed to the opening of the trapdoor, immediately looking down. Nothing in the world would have shocked and confused me more, even if the Cat in the Hat was wrestling a bunch of midgets in a giant tub of pudding at the bottom.

I wish it were that, that would have put a smile on my face. What I actually saw, did anything but.

Round trip Jones had somehow come up with a long spear, around 6 feet long, and must've had some sort of sharp end. I, unfortunately, couldn't see the end, opposite the undead Lucha sensation, because it was buried in the chest of Ethan.

"What The Fuuuuck Dude!", bitched Ethan

I trick myself into thinking this night couldn't get any weirder and that this whole ordeal couldn't get any more terrible. I was pretty fucking wrong.


Thank ya Kindly world now fuck off 



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A revlation and a nightmare

Inside the Silio on Golding's pig farm 3:01Am

 It happened so fast: the sound of the couch smashing at the bottom of the 20 foot drop barely didn't even register but it did. It looked like it folded in half on impact, like a jobber taking a Misawa suplex.  Round Trip Jones, who was anything but a jobber, managed to land on his feet unharmed as he stood looking back up at me. Standing next to him was Ethan Magloofabits, who had jumped in after his buddy without even looking. Dumb? Crazy? Reckless? I prefer loyal! Fearless! Bad ass! But  if pressed I reckon I would not argue the validity of  the first three so much.

In a baffling display of energy conservation empathy, RTJ switched off the flat screen tv that was mounted on the back wall of the silo. Which obviously triggered the trap door to collapse. The entire floor dropped and in an instant the couch, the end tables, the lamp, the rug, and the luchadore were all gone.

I ran to where the makeshift living room now was. Ethan ran past me and was over the side before I could even consider telling him not to.  When I arrived at the perfect rectangle hole in the floor, my teammates were fine.

Wimpy clones.
Dumb traps.
Taking a vacation from terrorizing us.
Other than the dragon and the soldiers, it would seem our antagonist was more concerned with irritating us then actually hurting us.

That said my body has been out of whack ever since this thing started. The big brains I work with told me I was clear of the poison, but I've been getting worse and worse, further away from my optimum abilities every day since I woke up from my Alchemy induced slumber.

Or maybe 200 + (+ a lot) years of booze, drugs, and misadventures had caught up to me. I aged in increments pretty much every 60 years or so.  I looked 18 until the last change - then boom. Old. Grey hair. Shit metabolism. Old. My body took a step away from me, but skills, knowledge, and repetition made it easy to compensate.

I had maybe one more change, though legend has it some noble endeavor would keep me from slipping into elderly territory, but I haven't found it yet. Most folk get to rely on biology and hard science to help them chart the cause and effect Russian roulette that's their life span.  Good living + modern medical advancements - outside stimuli (things like out of control trucks or Falling safes) = a long healthy life. Me? Every thing I know about me came from an old guy in a cave. Finding out what I really was didn't help much; in fact it made shit more confusing. FUCK MY LIFE.

Not having a very good grasp on your own mortality or in my case quasi Immortality made stuff like this ten times more scary. I had no clue what was wrong with me or if I was getting better. But I suspected I may find some ANSWERS here, in what would appear to be the home of the person who was responsible for me getting poisoned in the first place. It was probably just another trap, but I was ok with that. If they had super cleverly planted the evidence that led us here, then we will get through.  I will dissect it and get one step closer. Every lil jab they make is another opening, and I'm famous for taking a punch to give a punch.

"You can't run forever, fucker," I said out loud.

"Dynamo," said two voices at once. I was closer to the hole so I walked over to where my comrades were still stuck.

"Yes?"

"Cerdo," said RTJ.

"What about em?" Holy crap, he was right! Where were the pigs??

When the pig farm closed ten or so years ago, the old man "just dispersed”. His kid owned the land, but no one could find him, so some genius town official just decided the best thing to do was to let the pigs free. But they didn't go any place. They just kinda overran the east side of the property. It was one of those classic small town fuck ups that contributes to the local idiosyncrasy that make these small towns awesome.

College kids would go there to steal pigs. Grade school bullies would threaten to drop kids off to be eaten by the pigs.  There is even a legend that the horney pigs would rape anyone unlucky enough end up in their territory. Ok... I started that legend, but it's really gaining steam! It was retold to me recently by a drunk kid who swore the pigs had mutated into pig men!

The problem is Tiny and I went right by the farm. No pigs. Before I could clue Tiny in, he motioned me over.

"Tiny, there's no pigs."

"Did you eat them all?" he said, not looking at me.

"Shut it."

"There can be only one," he said, with a grandiose flourish of his arms.

"Shut.  It."

"Look at this," Tiny said, crossing his arms.

Above the desk was a series of show posters. I recognized some of the bands and most of the clubs they were all in. Necronomicon, but the scene had definitely moved on without me.

One band was on it over and over again.

"Jason Vagmer and the Black Dragons."

Judging by the bands I did recognize, I'd guess he was in a similar genre to us - some sorta electronic band.

"Someone likes this Black Dragons band," I said, totally the transition to a pig revelation.

"Likes them or..." Tiny answered

"Orrrr likes them a lot?" I knew I was wrong but took a swing at it anyway.

"Orrrrrrrr" Tiny said, almost before I could finish my stupid answer.

"Orrrr they ARE THEM!! Holy Shit! I owe you, you were right!!!" I yelped.

"You owe me a coke!” Tiny said.

The attacks had started just before the show and stopped right after. Tiny had brought it up in one of the multiple war room meetings we had, but something about rock shows and vendettas didn't add up.

"But..." Tiny interrupted me, before I could ask why someone would go to all this trouble making clones to stop a Deadites show. His out stretched hand pointed to a flyer in the middle. The poster had a guy who at first glance I would have mistaken for Dave Navarro, but he was chubby and looked to have had one too many broken noses.  He was wrapped in a black cloak that was a bit too big.  The text under the band read:
"A Phantasmagorical Super Kick Right Through the Heart of Dance Culture"

"Well, that's looks a bit familiar," I chuckled.

Tiny was still pointing - he placed his finger on the the poster, and moved it down.

Down past the band name.
Down past the chubby Navarro.
Down past the plagiarism.
Down past club I had never heard of.
Down to a date:
"May 2nd"

Fuck, he was running opposite us.

Before I could protest out loud, the absurdity of a super villain local synth pop artist spending science fiction amounts of money to make science fiction to take us down so we would not be competition playing the same night as his show, a sound erupted from the trap door. Bad sounds. 





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