The Man Who Sold The World, Part One
May 1, 2017 18:14:13 GMT -5
Doc Henry, God King Dune, and 13 more like this
Post by 6ix God on May 1, 2017 18:14:13 GMT -5
…..Incoming Transmission to New Jalaxaritkatusa…..
The Prophecy is almost at fruition. After five long years of nurturing this ‘Favorite Earth Child’, he finally has found his opportunity. Since the destruction of our home, we have been awaiting this day with patience and excitement. Here we are, Jimophy. I tasked you with locating the Chosen One and delivering him to the doorstep. Despite my initial apprehension of the selection of your candidate, I will concede your victory. Now I hope that this concession is not premature. Tell me, Jimophy, are you confident as well? Have you been sound of mind? Do you feel pride? I don’t think I’m quite sure.
The Earthling, E. Jared Holmes Jr., has been unpredictable lately. We’ve always known he was frustrating to entirely decipher, but our inability to probe his mind has exacerbated the problem. As the Chosen One has grown more accustomed to and further discovered the extent of his abilities, his grip on reality and sanity has seemed to be slipping. I’ve noticed this, Jim. I’m sure you have as well, but you’ve yet to confide any apprehension to me. I’m not a fool. I’ve been watching – I always am. His obsession with the Destroyer was always troublesome and destined to be problematic. We were fortunate that Holmes dispatched of Malignaggi in the manner which he selected; a battle between the two could’ve had catastrophic consequences. Your consequences. Don’t think that because we had a stroke of fortune that I’ve forgiven your incompetence and recklessness in handling the matter.
But I digress. There’s no sense lingering on what could have been when the reality of the present is ideal. The Earth Child, Frank Venable, should be of little consequence to the Chosen One. He has fallen many times before. He’ll fall this time as well. The Galactic Prophet will ascend the throne, and Earth will begin its slide towards entire subversion. Should everything go according to plan.
But not everything has gone according to plan, has it, Jimophy? In fact, quite the contrary.
I mention the instability of the Chosen One’s recent mental state because I’m concerned that the fruition of the Prophecy may not be as painless as believed. Not for Earth; for us. With the selfishness and recklessness of Holmes, why should I be entirely trusting of his designs for us following his conquest. Tell me, Jimophy, why you believe he will find us valuable once he has fulfilled his role. Why should I believe that the Chosen One’s intentions will be pure and beneficial for us? Should he turn his sights on the few of us that remain, we are doomed. We’ve seen his power. We’ve seen the power of the Arbiters. Why should I feel safe?
I’d like to recall a dossier that you sent me a few years ago on the Earth Child. This particular passage haunts me:
“Of the Earth Children I have contacted and cultivated to form our stable of elite warriors, perhaps none present quite the curiosity, mystery, or oddity which is Edward James Holmes, Jr. Named for his father, a successful lawyer and executive for Paramount Pictures with whom he shared an acrimonious relationship bordering on toxic, the Earth Child has chosen to be addressed by his middle name since he was twelve-years-old. In recent years, Earth Child Jared has been seeking to legally change his name and erase any legacy of his eponymous father.”
Consider the pettiness, Jimophy. Earth Child Jared feels little regard for the man that sired him. He would likely have no moral quandary with murdering the old man. He has once even beaten Earth Child Wade with a crowbar to protect himself. It makes your conclusion that “loyalty seems to be his most desirable trait” looks laughable. We can firmly conclude that Jared feels nothing for anyone but himself. I suspect he’d be willing to bury his own wife if he could benefit.
We have little time to plan accordingly. The destruction of Frank Venable will be a brutal affair, rendering Earth Child Jared in a position he’ll face few challengers. I do not want to be caught unprepared should he decide he no longer requires our assistance. We are not expendable – that is not what the Prophecy was supposed to entail.
Your loss of control and its effect on your ability to demonstrate competence in tangible. I need you to snap out of this, or I’ll take matters into my own hands. I’m already tempted to. The future of our race is at stake Jim. Jared Holmes must succeed. And afterwards, the Prophecy must continue entirely as planned. Do not fail me.
Jared Holmes: No, I’m sorry, I simply can’t believe that anyone would want to live in some mud huts running around Europe with rifles, living off the land, and acting like a bunch of militant hippies. There’s a reason those Burning Man faggots aren’t a legitimate voting bloc; no one wants their vision of Utopia.
Dag Riddick frowned as he dropped his steak knife on the metal plate before him with an audible clink. Behind the crude wooden table he’d personally assembled, the remnants of a butchered elk hung from a crude spit shoved into the ground besides the dying embers of the bonfire upon which it had been roasted. Initially, the Neo Nordicist was pleased when the reclusive leader of Pantheon had asked to come to dinner and visit the sprawling grounds the proud Virginian had amassed. Of all the members of Pantheon, Dag had recently the pleasure and benefit of meeting their acquaintances and learning from their expertise. Even that spastic negro Andre Holmes had proven surprisingly adept and a valuable ally. Yet, for the brotherhood he’d cultivated, a moment of camaraderie between himself and the man who’d invited him into the fold had eluded him.
Truthfully, Jared’s absence during the many exploits and accomplishments of Pantheon as of late had given Dag pause. For the proclaimed leader of the faction, John Rabid had been far more of a presence and mentoring figure than Jared. In the oncoming assault on Denmark, Rabid was leading from the front while Jared hid in the shadows, seemingly having no regard for the fate of his compatriot member of Pantheon. When the Six God had first contacted him this Monday, he’d feared facing violent retribution for losing his Internet Championship – he’d loaded his weapons and been prepared to do what needed, just in case. Instead, when the Celestial Shark expressed a desire to hunt and have dinner, Dagvald had felt a certain gladness. Perhaps his work, efforts, and value were to be acknowledged and rewarded. Perhaps Jared would express sympathy over the circumstance which led to the title loss.
With all of these assumptions in mind, the flagrant dismissal of his ideology and philosophy was a stinging insult. In a few sentences, Holmes had reminded the International Champion exactly why he disliked Jared so many months ago. The Six God delivered the blow without bothering to make eye contact with him, instead focused on tearing apart the roasted venison and stuffing it into his mouth. The Neo Nordicist clenched his fists in rage.
Dagvald Riddick: I suppose that’s an easy perspective to hold when your material wealth can furnish you with an endless supply of narcotics and whores without every lifting a finger to earn your keep.
The words came out in a low snarl. The rage intensified as Jared merely laughed and waved a hand.
Jared Holmes: Not just me, bro. It’s everyone. We’ve been having this conversation since Antiquity.
Dagvald Riddick: Have we?
Jared Holmes: Of course.
Jared placed his silverware on the plate and looked up, a thin smile crossing his lips as he folded his hands before him.
Jared Holmes: Read much?
Dagvald Riddick: Probably more than you.
Jared laughed again, shaking his head. It disturbed Dag – had his leader come only to bully him?
Jared Holmes: Ever read Plato’s Republic?
Dagvald Riddick: It’s on my list, but I can’t say I have.
Jared clapped his hands together and rubbed them slowly. His smile arched into a wild grin as he leaned forward on his elbows.
Jared Holmes: So. Book Two. Socrates is having a discussion with this guy Glaucon. And they’re thinking up what would make the perfect society, yeah? Well Socrates goes on about this tribalistic hippy shit: people eat vegetables and live in simple houses with simple furnishings in small societies where they all fuck each other and dance under the moon and yadda yadda.
Dagvald Riddick: That sounds like liberal Commie shit, and if you think that’s at all what I’m advocating then you clearly –
Jared Holmes: No. Let me finish.
Jared paused as the grin faded to a small smile.
Jared Holmes: See, Glaucon calls bullshit on this. As far back as Whatever BC, Glaucon got what people wanted. The Three P’s: perfume, prostitutes, and pastries. You wanted comfort and luxury and good things. People wanted to be lazy and pampered and indulge. And that’s why he called Socrates’ idea ‘a City of Pigs’.
Dagvald Riddick: Just because society has been brainwashed into thinking they have no obligations to their own and ought to only act on the drive for physical pleasure doesn’t mean it’s right. Society has become amoral and sick.
Jared’s grin widened again as he clapped his hands and voice rose excitedly.
Jared Holmes: But that’s just it! They aren’t brainwashed, Dag: they do want those things. No one gives a fuck about morality or a rigid life full of hard work they don’t have to do or building character or having roles if they don’t have to.
Jared lowered his head, his eyes staying locked on Dag the shark-like smile intensified. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth in excitement, his voice lowering.
Jared Holmes: You see, sometimes it’s not about what’s right. People don’t care about “right” and “wrong”. Not legitimately, anyway. Truth be told, there’s no such thing. If Wade wants to murder his father, Bates wants to murder a nigger, Andre wants to murder Katherine Phoenix, or they all just want to form a knitting circle, they’ll never think themselves anything but completely sure. People don’t aim at a target with the intention of missing it; they all think they’re doing the right thing. Hell, the Son of Sam never thought he was doing wrong when his dog told him to kill a bunch of hookers. If you want to get people to follow, you need to know how to hit their marks and adjust their aim. You don’t proselytize; you lay a crumb trail and watch them follow it to where you want them. The customer is always right. You just gotta make sure you can line up their “right” with your “right”.
Dag stared long and hard at the young man before him. His rage subsided, replaced with a strange feeling of apprehension. The piercing blue eyes of the man before him felt oddly hypnotic and disquieting. Had they even been jet-black for an instant?
Dagvald Riddick: Where are you going with this?
Jared grinned, his eyes unblinking as he kept perfectly still. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed – Dag’s mind reeled as it occurred to him that even the sounds of the forest seemed to have disappeared.
Jared Holmes: Do you believe in aliens, Dag?
Dagvald was quiet. It was an odd question, one which came out of nowhere. Regaining his composure and hoping to conceal his apprehension, he folded his hands.
Dagvald Riddick: I’d say it only makes statistical sense, I suppose.
Jared Holmes: I mean here. Right now. Do you think they’ve made contact?
The follow-up was even stranger. Jared sounded oddly eager, like an excited child who learned a secret on the playground and was ready to spill it to everyone. After a moment of composure, Dag wasn’t so confident.
Dagvald Riddick: If any intelligent alien race was capable of reaching us, we wouldn’t be here right now.
Jared’s grin faded to a knowing smile as he leaned back on the bench he sat upon. His hands came up to his mouth and fingers drummed together slowly.
Jared Holmes: Suppose I told you was once a planet called Jalaxaritkatusa. It was a thriving, beautiful planet not unlike our own, inhabited by an intelligent race with scientific advancement beyond our wildest dreams. As they exercised their minds, the Jalaxaritkatusans evolved. They became frail, dominated by the power of their minds. They came together in a pluralistic society where they sought to unlock the secrets of life. But they were near-sighted; they didn’t realize the consequences of their technology. They poisoned their World. They depleted the planet of resources and sickened the air. On the brink of oblivion, one of their seers had a vision. A message. A Galactic Prophecy.
The forest was deathly still. For the horrors he’d seen and inflicted in his life – for all the bear blood he’d dumped – for all the things the Family had done from their bunker – Dagvald Riddick felt fear. A ripple went through the sky.
Jared Holmes: “In ashes, a flower blooms on a distant mountain. In the bud there lies brilliant seas reflecting paradise.
Amongst huddled forms of spears and flames, purest and most perfect of them shall Taste Heaven, and they will crawl from walking and sleep from waking.
Beware the man with two faces, for he is the worst of all your enemies, a smile hides a dagger in the dark, he sits, he waits, the child of prophecy will rise, as lightning falls, he ascends.”
Jared teetered forward, his eyes wide and black.
Jared Holmes: A drug addict will indulge until they die. You could ask Claire Shepherd if we got a Ouija board. The opium of the masses is not religion – it’s pleasure. Don’t you get it, Dag? It’s sex and EDM and reality television and fast food! It’s arena sports and video games and open air festivals. People don’t want to do anything; they want to feel good and have everything done for them. People love a dictator not for safety but for comfort. They don’t want to care and vote and read or do any of those things which could drain them physically and mentally; they want to build a gondola up Mount Everest so they can snap a selfie on the summit and get a thousand Likes.
Dagvald Riddick: Disgusting.
Jared Holmes: But true.
There was another pause. For a moment, Jared looked away and his spell broke over Dag. Yet before the Neo Nordicist could leave, Jared’s soft and cool voice lulled him back into hypnosis.
Jared Holmes: There’s no need for violence when you can simply take your time. Fatten the people up for the feast and then consume. You take them gently by the hand and you show them the road to the Void, paved the whole way by milk and honey. Why bother with a struggle when you can save your resources and efforts not to destroy… but to create? After all, they’re so weak. So very, very weak.
Jared seemed to savor the proclamation, dragging his tongue along his teeth.
Jared Holmes: Deep beneath the waves, in the bitter chill of the darkest depths of the ocean floor, they began to build. They pushed the needle just enough to keep the boat on course without ever alerting it to their presences. They’re here, Dag. They’ve been here. And they’re not from Slovenia. All they needed was to find their Galactic Chosen One. Their Favorite Earth Child. The one who could rise from his people and lead them into the sea.
Jared’s smile was soft and nostalgic. He let out a low chuckle, and Dag’s blood ran cold. The man before him was not the idiotic frat boy he’d thought. He wasn’t some spoiled rich kid more interested in smoking dope than achieving anything in life. The Jared Holmes he saw now was the real man. And he was dangerous.
Jared Holmes: They’ll consume. They’ll indulge. They’ll become slow and dull and never want to bother with responsibility. Why do that when they have a champion of their philosophy? They have someone else they see that’s successful doing just what they do, and they’ll idolize him in yellow. It won’t matter when the waters open up and the beasts pour forth – not when their Prophet says to pay no attention. They’ll roll back over and play their role, hanging on my every word.
He was frozen in place. The Shark grinned hungrily at him with eyes burning with malicious intent. The Prophecy was at hand, and they’d all laughed rather than watched the skies. What could possibly come of Frank in that ring? What would come of Pantheon in the wake of the Celestial Shark’s ultimate achievement? How much had been all according to plan? Jared only grinned as he whispered to Dag.
Jared Holmes: You’re face to face with the Man Whole Sold the World.
It was difficult for Thursday to not be bothered. How could she avoid the feeling when Jared’s behavior and moods had only grown more strange and distant in the past few months? Everything had been going so well – the trip to Mardi Gras had seemed to shake him out of his funk at first. He was kind and drank less and spent more time taking her out shopping and going to beaches and museums. After the match with John Rabid, it felt like Jared had finally exercised some demons and come to terms with his old enemy; they even seemed to be friendly and spend a significant amount of time in Jared’s study drinking and talking. Wade and Andre were coming around again, she’d made a wonderful new friend in Isabella, and even Andre Holmes seemed to treat her with respect.
So when did he slide back into himself? What was going on in his head?
Life had become odd and frustrating for the Six Goddess since the turn back for the worse of her husband. He was spending more time alone and reserved. He’d been jumping on planes every other week to different locations without bothering to inform her he was leaving or where he was going. He wasn’t drinking – at least not noticeable. But when she thought about it, she realized that she hadn’t really seen him much and could hardly be sure. Instead, she’d spent an increasing number of nights sleeping in an empty bed, just like when he vanished after Mexico. This was not Thursday’s image of a happy marriage.
The Queen in Yellow slumped down on the alpaca-skin covered leather couch of her New York apartment. It had gotten too weird and lonely to stay in the sprawling Malibu mansion Jared owned when he was hardly around. After pouring herself a glass of William Hill unfiltered Chardonnay, her hand reached for the television remote on the coffee table before her, and with the press of a button, the screen flashed to life.
News Anchor: Today, President Donald Trump signed an executive order to place DEA and ICE emphasis on combatting and deporting infamous street gang MS-13. White House Press Secretary, Sean Spicer, was quoted saying, “The President would like to rescind his friendship with WCF Hall of Famer, Gravedigger, who associates with known murderers and rapists. The President insists that he never knew Gravedigger’s gang affiliations and –”
Actor: Don’t you see, Michael? It just can’t work. I live in Britain and you live in Nebraska. I’m supposed to be married in three years! Damn you and your delicate eyes and miniature frame which grinds my –
Gordon Ramsey: Chef Tony, please step up. I told you to make a *beep*ing risotto. This was a simple dish that any *beep*ing grandmother in New York could make, yet you couldn’t even demonstrate basic competence. I haven’t seen a failure this gross since Gemini Battle fought Joey Fl –
She sighed as the screen went back to black and she dropped the remote on the couch beside her. It was no use – she couldn’t get her mind off of Jared. Picking her laptop off the coffee table before her, she flipped open the top and lazily typed the address to Facebook. In an instant, her timeline flooded her with the usual banalities of friends and acquaintances: 10 unanswered messages, 120 notifications, and 67 friend requests.
Not Logan: Haiiii babygurl, I got the BIG boodle for you 🍆🍆 👀👀 (see attached message)
Jeff Perkins: Mrs. Holmes, your husband has a scheduled interview for 3:30. He’s gonna show up, right??
Andre Sparkicity Holmes: SHOW ME YOUR BUTTHOLE
It was still no use. Her patience had worn through to a fray, and her brain pounded on her skull with anxiety. This was, after all, her life now: inundated with fan mail, creep mail, hate mail, and messages for her husband. The life of an aspiring debutante was exhausting. Closing the window, she pulled up Gmail to flip through their shared account. With thirteen new messages waiting, she audibly groaned before trudging through the list.
Then one email gave her pause. “Hmiller@madisonsquareapartments.net”. Thursday frowned; she didn’t remember renting an apartment on Chartres Street. Why would they need to? They already had a lavish apartment on Bourbon Street in New Orleans; there certainly couldn’t be another Chartres Street, could there? Why would Jared need another apartment in New Orleans – and why wouldn’t he have consulted her? Hesitant to jump to conclusions, she clicked the email.
A weight like lead hit Thursday in the stomach. There was no mistaking the contents of this email – Jared was keeping secrets. The only question remaining was “why?” Her mind began turning and racing as she closed her eyes and lowered her head, the moisture of tears welling up in the ducts of her eyes. Hadn’t they gotten past this? Didn’t this end? Were the secrets and mystery not supposed to disappear with marriage? Inside her mind, Thursday reeled.
Maybe he just wants some space.
It’s probably a surprise for you. You said Bourbon Street was too loud.
He’s cheating.
Why are you surprised?
He’s cheating.
Maybe this is worth bringing up?
He loves you.
She screamed as she hucked the laptop across the room, hardly caring as it slammed into the wall and the screen splintered into a spider web of cracked glass. The tears flowed freely as she stood up and clasped her elbows, hugging her arms tightly against herself, as she paced the room and worked to slow her shuddering breath. After a moment of emotional Hell, Thursday’s breathing slowed and the tears began to dry to saline stains and make-up smears on her cheeks. Her eyes still on the floor, she nodded firmly to herself.
Her mind was made-up. She’d get to the bottom of this. It was simple – she was Jared’s wife, and after a simple discussion with the landlord, she could procure a key, enter the apartment, and see if there was any damning evidence. It had all pushed her too far – she was too close to breaking to not confront the problem head-on. She picked up her phone and began to dial.
The camera opened to Jared sitting at the bar in the Tropical Isle, a neon-drenched den of absolute bacchanal somewhere off of Bourbon Street. Clenching Hand Grenade cocktail in its fluorescent green yard glass, he placed his lips to the long lemon yellow straw and took a sip. His eyes were covered with mirror-tinted Ray Bans aviators with gold shades, his floppy blonde bangs hanging down his face. Visible to the camera, he wore a powder blue bro-tank, reading: “I Beat FPV Twice And All I Got Was This Stupid Tank Top”. To his right, Andre Aquarius leaned back on the bar with the stolen #Fartcore Championship slung over his shoulder. On his left, Wade Moor dumped an unknown blue powder into his drink. The King in Yellow leered like a shark behind his lenses as he removed the People’s Title from his shoulder and placed it on the bar before resting his drink on it like a coaster. In the background, a familiar beat hit the PA as Jared began to speak.
Jared Holmes: That’s what I have to say to the accolade, Frank. Remember it? You got knocked off a rafter by that weirdo Kevin Bishop while trying to earn it and ended up licking the boots of Dion Necurat for a few months while the rest of us busied ourselves with more important business. The real irony of that loss was that you pinned Bishop a few weeks before, ending his streak on a throw-away Slam. Yay, a feather in the hat of Franky-Boy that he could never reaccomplish. That’s an apt summary of the career of Frank Patrick Venable, I suppose: goes when it doesn’t matter, and chokes when it does.
Dare I count the times? Enters WAR and fucking loses, not even making the final five. Faces Kevin Bishop for the People’s Title? Loses. Defending your Television Title against a true threat? Beaten like a dog and given a pity win to send a message. Defending it again the week before you have a chance to redeem that humiliation? Loses. Goes into that match with no belt but a grudge to prove? Loses. Blah, blah, blah. I could go on. But why? I’m sitting here, in a bar in New Orleans, getting tanked, and I’m questioning on what level I should consider the “new” Frank Patrick Venable a threat. And no matter what arguments or underdog “pump-myself-up” shoot you work yourself into, I just can’t alter my line of thought.
So here, I’m just gonna get this out of the way nice and early. Andre, flash the picture.
Andre Aquarius pulled his iPhone 7 out of his pocket and tapped away at the screen with a sneer. After a moment, he turned it towards the camera for a clear view:
Jared Holmes: I didn’t even make that, Frank! That was sent to me! My beating of you is a fucking meme now!
As Andre removed the phone from the camera, Jared flung his arms around him and Wade. Pulling them close, Jared’s grin only spread.
Jared Holmes: And that’s only going to repeat at Aftermath. A transitional champion leads to a transitional champion leads to the coronation everyone has been waiting for. This is inevitable, Frank. This is the sort of lopsided match-up anyone could dream about. Imagine if Hillary Clinton ran against a ham sandwich instead of Trump… Actually, scratch that, she’d still have lost. Imagine Obama running against Richard Spencer. Or George H. W. Bush actually just running against Billy Horton. Think Mike Tyson in a boxing match with Ghandi. Then go to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and soak in yourself for a moment. Drop the belt. Look at your jaundiced skin and buggy eyes. Look at your anemic frame and soft jaw. You’re a fucking pup who stumbled over one of the worst champions in recent history. I’d like to provide a little historical context quickly:
Adam Young has held the Trios Belts we dropped in a work longer than Jason O’Neal held the top belt in the company after being worked into his spot by a conspiracy which consisted of myself, Johnny Rabid, and Everest. We literally wrapped this in paper, tied a bow around it, and put it on your door step so I could kick a skull in with the least amount of effort possible and win the belt. You got fucking worked, you mark.
And I find it incomprehensibly stupid that you haven’t come to that conclusion yourself. I watch you, Frank. I listen to how you talk. It doesn’t matter that you got handed all of your good fortune on a silver platter after a Series of Unfortunate Events: you were air-dropped on third and started trotting forward, acting like you hit a home run. Are you seriously fucking retarded? Does it not click behind those dopey features and Smeagol eyes that you’re an installed regent for the explicit purpose of the #BeachKrewRevolution? I’m actually asking this. This is not a rhetorical question. I’m at a total loss of explanation where this preening arrogance comes from.
So how are you gonna come at me, Frank? Do you think you have me figured out? Maybe you’ve been sitting in a dark room watching tape after tape of footage, pouring over me and Rabid brawling in out or the matches you and I have had. You’re the studious type of geek, right? You’re probably falling all over yourself for a loop hole or a weakness of some sort. Anything that could change this match. You’ll pop a few Addy’s like the trailer trash you are – or maybe just hit the meth pipe – and spend an all-nighter on that mocha speed binge trying to twist your brain into knot. Eventually, it’s gonna hit you: you have nothing. Nothing would’ve changed the outcome of our matches. Nothing would’ve given you an advantage. You’re simply outclassed, outgunned, and outmatched. And as you slide that Rabid/Holmes VHS back in the tape deck like the cheap-ass ghetto white nigger you are, the final thought will hit you like a ton of fucking bricks: I didn’t even go full-auto on you.
I have spent the better part of my career manhandling your family and making them look like the fucking chumps they are. Before you, I buried your fucking brother under a heap of garbage. I slaughtered his whole crew for kicks and giggles. I repeatedly made Teo my bitch. Like, I think that guy probably took off the mask and put on the sunglasses out of PTSD of me beating him stupid so many times. I damn near ended the career of Spencer Adams – I put him on the shelf for a hot second at the very least. And then I held your brother down and raw dogged him like Tiffany White in a backwoods Alabama trucker bar.
And the fuck of it all, Frank? I then went and did the same thing to you. Outside of the multitude of beatings I laid down on you alone, I sent Damian Kaine scampering off with his tail between his legs. Dion? He carried on to the ICU, and he’s probably gonna do the same once I win this belt and he wins Trilogy. Kid Krazzy? Psychopomp? I murdered your whole surrogate family, finally taking the head and belt of Kevin Bishop as my prize. Brothers of a feather fall together, don’t they?
You see, Frank, some people are born at the top of the World. Yeah, I was born on third. Then I stole home five times over on skill alone. Sometimes Satan rolls dice, and a man is born with nothing going against him. Sometimes God takes a shit and out falls a faggy little bird-chest from a niggerpit like Atlanta.
Speaking of Atlanta, here is everything that’s shit about the town you’re from.
Jared raised his hand and counted off on his fingers.
Jared Holmes: One, the barbeque. Fat Matt’s is overpriced and dirty, full of dirty people.
Two, the Claremont Lounge. Seriously, it’s a fucking strip club with ratchet negresses, meth heads, fatties, and grannies shaking their stretch-mark covered tits to Tom Jones songs, and you pay a cover to get in. I don’t give a shit about this whole hippy shit “it’s a celebration of body positivity” shit. Some strippers should be put out to pasture. Others should be taken out behind the shed and shot, similar to their “favorite son” wrestler. Bitches like Tiffany White – aye kay aye mediocre lesbians – hang out at the Claremont. One day, they’ll level that hotel and bury the place with them. And good riddance.
Three, the Falcons. Don’t let your impending beating and subsequent spinal injury distract you from the fact that the Falcons blew a twenty-five point lead.
Four, the Holeman and Finch cheeseburger. Seriously, it’s just a fucking cheeseburger and doesn’t even have an El-Top. That’s “lettuce, tomato, onions, and pickles” for you plebs.
Five, the hip-hop. Holy shit, people need to shut the fuck up about “tha duuuurty souff”. Between Lil Jon, Shawty Putt, the Yin-Yang Twins, Desiiigner, Jermaine Dupre, and Ludacris – yes, Ludacris – I can’t even name a single decent Atlanta rapper. In fact, throw in Outkast just for the cheap heel heat; everything they did, Kanye did better. But seriously, a few ignat niggers say some dumb, clowny shit and everything thinks that’s funny? Talk about vagina and suddenly you’re a literary genius? Holy shit, why does this sound familiar, Frank? I can’t think of anyone else who once relied on “vagina” as a running joke and received undue acclaim for it.
Six, the Atlanta Underground. It’s sketchy and dirty.
Seven, literally everything else.
You see, I’ve always believed the whole “nurture” over “nature” thing, Frank. People born in shit are generally going to be shit. This is why Detroit is a garbage dump with no sign of legitimate recovery: there’s no way that city can foster a decent, competently educated human being who could offer it anything of substance. This is why Africa is, and forever will be, a shithole. Are you telling me that rocket scientists are coming out of Zaire? Fuck outta here. And similarly, when you live in a city most famous for its strip clubs and once being burned to the ground by William Tecumseh Sherman, the most bad motherfucker to ever live.
So consider this my March to the Sea, Frank. I’ve moved through your turf like an invading army, razing homes, salting the fields, and twisting your railroad tracks into knots. I’ve declared total war from you for a long time now, softening you up for the prime moment when I could stomp into the capital and burn it to the fucking ground. I’m knocking on your door, you gimp. And to quote the man himself, “I intend to make Georgia howl”. I’ll keep them on my mind as I brutalize you like Hurricane Matthew did Savannah.
Jared leaned back against the bar and picked the Hand Grenade off the People’s Title belt. He took a long drink before smacking his lips.
Jared Holmes: I’m upgrading my coaster, Frank. I can’t decide what I look forward to most: the look on your face as I beat you and hoist the belt, the look on your face when I send you pictures of me snorting Molly off the belt, or the pictures of me blowing my load on the belt while it’s around Thursday’s naked waist. Let’s find out, buddy. And let the #FuccboiGenocide commence.
This was not what Thursday had expected. The landlord had been friendly and helpful enough when she had called him; he simply required a valid identification to prove she was, in fact, the lawful spouse of his tenant, and he was more than willing to give her a key to the private abode her husband rented. After a long flight non-stop from New York to New Orleans, her head was foggy with fatigue. The office of the landlord had been nice enough – a simple room on the fourth floor of a skyscraper in the business district. After the meeting, she called a private driver to take her to the address she’d scribbled on a cocktail napkin back at the New York penthouse:
As the driver passed through the French Quarter and the Marigny, few thoughts passed Thursday’s mind. When the vehicle turned onto St. Claude and drove over the canal separating the Bywater from the Lower Ninth Ward, a fluttering sense of anxiety began to overtake her. No, this didn’t seem like Jared at all; as the colorful and tasteful old architecture of classic New Orleans gave way to dirgy and ramshackle homes of the New Orleans slums, she could feel every eye on the street aimed at her. This is wrong, she turned over in her head, Maybe I wrote the wrong address. Retrieving her phone from her purse, Thursday pulled up the email account and scrolled down to the email in question:
Turning from the phone, she looked back at the rolling fields of single-story houses and tentative houses which had been built in the wake of Katrina and simply remained permanent. As she nervously sucked on her lower lip, she leaned forward and knocked on the glass divider separating her and the driver. In a moment, it slowly rolled down.
Thursday Holmes: Excuse me?
Driver: Yah?
Thursday Holmes: I think you’re in the wrong area.
The fear was palpable in her voice, as the final word quaked from her lips. The driver merely chuckled in response.
Driver: Nah, this da locale, ma’am. Godda couzin livin’ ‘round here.
Thursday Holmes: Oh…
Her voice was low as she leaned back in her seat, staring down at the phone screen a second time to double check.
Thursday Holmes: 2345 Chartres Street?
Driver: Yas’m.
Thursday Holmes: You’re positive?
Driver: Yas’m.
Thursday looked down at the screen again, her stomach slumped in her chest.
Thursday Holmes: I see…
Taking a moment to regain her composure and swallow her fear, she let her voice regain its normal volume and candor.
Thursday Holmes: Thank you. You may roll the divider back up.
Driver: Yas’m.
After twenty minutes crawling deeper into the rattier corners of the city, the car came to a stop before a derelict two-store apartment building. Two large double-paned windows framed a wooden door with peeling white paint, and on the floor above, two balconies suggested that the entire tenement consisted on eight separate apartments – four on each side. From beside the door, tarnished brass lettering stared back at her:
Never removing her eyes from the building, Thursday reached into her purse for a pair of oversized Gucci sunglasses and a scarf. As she put the sunglasses on her face and tied the scarf around her head, she cursed not bringing a jacket with her – anything which could render her even more discreet to anyone who may be curious about the waifish blonde woman walking from a vehicle with tinted windows into a slum in the Ninth Ward. Of course, the weather was oppressively hot and humid, rending that idea even more likely to draw attention. Regardless, it was a moot point.
Stepping out of the vehicle, she let her hand slide into the top of her open Prada purse. Out front of the building, a young Caucasian man sat on the step leading to the door. In an instant, their eyes locked and they stared at each other quietly for a moment. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-eight, but abuse of drugs and oppression of poverty had clearly weathered and age his face. He wore no shoes, his feet dirty with grotesque yellow toenails poking out from the cuffs of a pair of stained light blue jeans. Thin arms covered in a mottle of tattoos gave way to surprisingly large hands which clenched a bottle in a brown paper bag and the smoldering end of a Pall Mall cigarette. He grinned at her, revealing a mouth with a few browned and rotting teeth framed by a thin goatee. His eyes were wild. Stepping forward, Thursday’s hand clenched the stock.
After walking the path to the stoop, a cracking concrete walk sprouting scrub and dandelions more places than one, Thursday came to a halt before the man. His grin widened and eyes shined like beetles. Reining in her screaming instincts, Thursday spoke firmly.
Thursday Holmes: Please move.
The man did not acquiesce.
Man: Whassa purdy thang like yew dewin’ roun’ here?
Her composure wavered. Her hand tightened inside the purse.
Thursday Holmes: Sir. Please move.
The man only continued to grin as he set the bottle down.
Man: God musta loss tracka wonna his angels er sumthin. Lucky day fer me here.
As Thursday’s confidence began to completely unravel, her finger slid the safety to its “unlock” position. The sound of a metal click snapped her back to her senses as her fear replaced with cool anger. Her voice was low as she stared the man down.
Thursday Holmes: Now you listen to me, you disgraceful little ditchpig .
At the sound of the slur, the man’s eyes popped open, and his features contorted to shock and anger.
Man: Tha fuck yew call me, bitch?!
As he rose to stand, Thursday’s hand snapped from her back and whipped the stock of the Beretta pistol across the man’s mouth. He reeled to the ground, blood and brown shards of rotten enamel falling to the concrete as Thursday pulled the stock against the base of his neck. She hissed to him.
Thursday Holmes: As I was saying… either fucking move or you won’t just be sucking food out a straw: you’ll be tasting your fucking brainstem.
The man whimpered as his hands slowly raised in surrender. He sobbed softly to himself through blood and broken teeth.
Man: Yew bish… yew pthycho fuckin bish…
Stepping over the obstacle, Thursday’s hand clenched the door knob. The confidence drained from her body once more as she slowly turned the handle and stepped inside, finding herself in a small hallway.
Keeping her eyes from the water-stained and rotting ceiling panels or the moldy carpet beneath her feet, her eyes followed the numbers on the four doors.
Standing before her destination, Thursday looked down at the gun in her hand. Shocked at her carelessness, she flipped the safety and stuffed it into her purse before checking behind her for any witnesses. After a few seconds of observation and a confident sense of relief, she turned to the door and reached into her purse for the brass key. It slid into the lock with ease, and with a turn and a click, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Closing and locking the door behind her, Thursday turned to an empty living room. The apartment was quiet save the low hum of the air conditioning unit in the window, and from a first glance, the apartment seemed untouched. Of course, this made little sense to her; her discussion with the landlord revealed that Jared had been renting the apartment since he’d returned from his disappearance in September. Turning to the kitchen, she found the refrigerator and freezer untouched, as well as the cabinets completely bare.
As she stepped into the living room, it occurred to her that the apartment was impeccably clean in comparison to the rest of the building, considering its seeming lack of a regular tenant. Looking down the hallway, a closed door stared at her. Her stomach turned over and electric shivers crept up her ribs as she stepped down the hallway and placed her hand on the doorknob. Turning it, she entered the bedroom.
The room was similarly bare, save a single cot shoved in the corner of the room besides an electrical socket. It lacked a cover, instead simply consisting of the lumpy mattress pad, a single sheet, and a bare pillow. An iPhone charger cable sat in the electrical socket beside the cot, and beneath that lay a half-empty water bottle, a small mirror covered in a white substance with a razor blade laying atop it, and an orange pill bottle. Picking up and examining the pill bottle, the fuzzy blue plant inside was all too familiar to the Six Goddess – Jared had undoubtedly been here. And recently. But why?
The question screamed and turned over in her head as she pulled the sheet back and threw the pillow across the room, tearing the bedding apart to find something – anything – which could give her a piece of mind. After minutes of frantic searching, and no results, Thursday turned to the closet. Pulling the door open, she found a multitude of white plastic hangers with no occupants. It was equally bare.
She screamed aloud, slamming her fists against the back of the closet in frustration. After the second pounding, an audible click resounded from the wall. Thursday stopped – a thin line had appeared from the paint, going floor to shelf to floor again. A door. With trembling hands, Thursday pushed the panel back and slid it to the side. And she found herself staring into the Void.
Stepping into the pitch black room, Thursday closed her eyes to compose herself. Despite the light of the bedroom behind her, nothing seemed to penetrate the new room. In her time knowing and loving Jared, she’d seen many absurd and strange things. But those were just drug-fueled hallucinations, right? With the bedroom behind her and blackness around her, Thursday walked forward with outstretched arms. When she finally came to a solid surface, it briefly occurred to her that the dimensions of the closet simply couldn’t exist without an incredible protrusion from the side of the apartment building – she certainly hadn’t seen one on the way in. Before she could entirely comprehend the disturbing fact, the wall before her gave way as well.
White light spilled into her eyes, temporarily blinding her as she trundled forward. As the affects of the sudden flash wore off, she opened her eyes. Her body rooted in place, her jaw falling slack and silent as her eyes moved across the walls, every new discovery and sight turning the knife in her chest. The colors – the smells – the revelations. It was too much. A million eyes gazed upon Thursday as she doubled over and found herself vomiting upon the cold, brilliantly white floor beneath her. And when the final dry heaves and shudders left her, she turned back to the horror surrounding her.
The obsession lined the walls of the room from ceiling to floor. Torn eyes and hideous, crazed scribbles. That same face she’d seen so many times repeated over and over again, some in perfect condition and others defaced in crazed blasphemy. Her mind reeled as a tear slid down her cheek. The sound of the footstep behind her didn’t register. But the low, calm voice that accompanied its ceasing certainly did.
Jared Holmes: Have you ever heard the Tale of Bluebeard?
………Transmission Accepted. Connecting to Jim Thuggin………
……………Connection Secured………….
The Prophecy is almost at fruition. After five long years of nurturing this ‘Favorite Earth Child’, he finally has found his opportunity. Since the destruction of our home, we have been awaiting this day with patience and excitement. Here we are, Jimophy. I tasked you with locating the Chosen One and delivering him to the doorstep. Despite my initial apprehension of the selection of your candidate, I will concede your victory. Now I hope that this concession is not premature. Tell me, Jimophy, are you confident as well? Have you been sound of mind? Do you feel pride? I don’t think I’m quite sure.
The Earthling, E. Jared Holmes Jr., has been unpredictable lately. We’ve always known he was frustrating to entirely decipher, but our inability to probe his mind has exacerbated the problem. As the Chosen One has grown more accustomed to and further discovered the extent of his abilities, his grip on reality and sanity has seemed to be slipping. I’ve noticed this, Jim. I’m sure you have as well, but you’ve yet to confide any apprehension to me. I’m not a fool. I’ve been watching – I always am. His obsession with the Destroyer was always troublesome and destined to be problematic. We were fortunate that Holmes dispatched of Malignaggi in the manner which he selected; a battle between the two could’ve had catastrophic consequences. Your consequences. Don’t think that because we had a stroke of fortune that I’ve forgiven your incompetence and recklessness in handling the matter.
But I digress. There’s no sense lingering on what could have been when the reality of the present is ideal. The Earth Child, Frank Venable, should be of little consequence to the Chosen One. He has fallen many times before. He’ll fall this time as well. The Galactic Prophet will ascend the throne, and Earth will begin its slide towards entire subversion. Should everything go according to plan.
But not everything has gone according to plan, has it, Jimophy? In fact, quite the contrary.
I mention the instability of the Chosen One’s recent mental state because I’m concerned that the fruition of the Prophecy may not be as painless as believed. Not for Earth; for us. With the selfishness and recklessness of Holmes, why should I be entirely trusting of his designs for us following his conquest. Tell me, Jimophy, why you believe he will find us valuable once he has fulfilled his role. Why should I believe that the Chosen One’s intentions will be pure and beneficial for us? Should he turn his sights on the few of us that remain, we are doomed. We’ve seen his power. We’ve seen the power of the Arbiters. Why should I feel safe?
I’d like to recall a dossier that you sent me a few years ago on the Earth Child. This particular passage haunts me:
“Of the Earth Children I have contacted and cultivated to form our stable of elite warriors, perhaps none present quite the curiosity, mystery, or oddity which is Edward James Holmes, Jr. Named for his father, a successful lawyer and executive for Paramount Pictures with whom he shared an acrimonious relationship bordering on toxic, the Earth Child has chosen to be addressed by his middle name since he was twelve-years-old. In recent years, Earth Child Jared has been seeking to legally change his name and erase any legacy of his eponymous father.”
Consider the pettiness, Jimophy. Earth Child Jared feels little regard for the man that sired him. He would likely have no moral quandary with murdering the old man. He has once even beaten Earth Child Wade with a crowbar to protect himself. It makes your conclusion that “loyalty seems to be his most desirable trait” looks laughable. We can firmly conclude that Jared feels nothing for anyone but himself. I suspect he’d be willing to bury his own wife if he could benefit.
We have little time to plan accordingly. The destruction of Frank Venable will be a brutal affair, rendering Earth Child Jared in a position he’ll face few challengers. I do not want to be caught unprepared should he decide he no longer requires our assistance. We are not expendable – that is not what the Prophecy was supposed to entail.
Your loss of control and its effect on your ability to demonstrate competence in tangible. I need you to snap out of this, or I’ll take matters into my own hands. I’m already tempted to. The future of our race is at stake Jim. Jared Holmes must succeed. And afterwards, the Prophecy must continue entirely as planned. Do not fail me.
……….Transmission Ended………..
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BE REAL IT DOESNT MATTER ANYWAY YOU KNOW ITS JUST TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BE REAL IT DOESNT MATTER ANYWAY YOU KNOW ITS JUST TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Jared Holmes: No, I’m sorry, I simply can’t believe that anyone would want to live in some mud huts running around Europe with rifles, living off the land, and acting like a bunch of militant hippies. There’s a reason those Burning Man faggots aren’t a legitimate voting bloc; no one wants their vision of Utopia.
Dag Riddick frowned as he dropped his steak knife on the metal plate before him with an audible clink. Behind the crude wooden table he’d personally assembled, the remnants of a butchered elk hung from a crude spit shoved into the ground besides the dying embers of the bonfire upon which it had been roasted. Initially, the Neo Nordicist was pleased when the reclusive leader of Pantheon had asked to come to dinner and visit the sprawling grounds the proud Virginian had amassed. Of all the members of Pantheon, Dag had recently the pleasure and benefit of meeting their acquaintances and learning from their expertise. Even that spastic negro Andre Holmes had proven surprisingly adept and a valuable ally. Yet, for the brotherhood he’d cultivated, a moment of camaraderie between himself and the man who’d invited him into the fold had eluded him.
Truthfully, Jared’s absence during the many exploits and accomplishments of Pantheon as of late had given Dag pause. For the proclaimed leader of the faction, John Rabid had been far more of a presence and mentoring figure than Jared. In the oncoming assault on Denmark, Rabid was leading from the front while Jared hid in the shadows, seemingly having no regard for the fate of his compatriot member of Pantheon. When the Six God had first contacted him this Monday, he’d feared facing violent retribution for losing his Internet Championship – he’d loaded his weapons and been prepared to do what needed, just in case. Instead, when the Celestial Shark expressed a desire to hunt and have dinner, Dagvald had felt a certain gladness. Perhaps his work, efforts, and value were to be acknowledged and rewarded. Perhaps Jared would express sympathy over the circumstance which led to the title loss.
With all of these assumptions in mind, the flagrant dismissal of his ideology and philosophy was a stinging insult. In a few sentences, Holmes had reminded the International Champion exactly why he disliked Jared so many months ago. The Six God delivered the blow without bothering to make eye contact with him, instead focused on tearing apart the roasted venison and stuffing it into his mouth. The Neo Nordicist clenched his fists in rage.
Dagvald Riddick: I suppose that’s an easy perspective to hold when your material wealth can furnish you with an endless supply of narcotics and whores without every lifting a finger to earn your keep.
The words came out in a low snarl. The rage intensified as Jared merely laughed and waved a hand.
Jared Holmes: Not just me, bro. It’s everyone. We’ve been having this conversation since Antiquity.
Dagvald Riddick: Have we?
Jared Holmes: Of course.
Jared placed his silverware on the plate and looked up, a thin smile crossing his lips as he folded his hands before him.
Jared Holmes: Read much?
Dagvald Riddick: Probably more than you.
Jared laughed again, shaking his head. It disturbed Dag – had his leader come only to bully him?
Jared Holmes: Ever read Plato’s Republic?
Dagvald Riddick: It’s on my list, but I can’t say I have.
Jared clapped his hands together and rubbed them slowly. His smile arched into a wild grin as he leaned forward on his elbows.
Jared Holmes: So. Book Two. Socrates is having a discussion with this guy Glaucon. And they’re thinking up what would make the perfect society, yeah? Well Socrates goes on about this tribalistic hippy shit: people eat vegetables and live in simple houses with simple furnishings in small societies where they all fuck each other and dance under the moon and yadda yadda.
Dagvald Riddick: That sounds like liberal Commie shit, and if you think that’s at all what I’m advocating then you clearly –
Jared Holmes: No. Let me finish.
Jared paused as the grin faded to a small smile.
Jared Holmes: See, Glaucon calls bullshit on this. As far back as Whatever BC, Glaucon got what people wanted. The Three P’s: perfume, prostitutes, and pastries. You wanted comfort and luxury and good things. People wanted to be lazy and pampered and indulge. And that’s why he called Socrates’ idea ‘a City of Pigs’.
Dagvald Riddick: Just because society has been brainwashed into thinking they have no obligations to their own and ought to only act on the drive for physical pleasure doesn’t mean it’s right. Society has become amoral and sick.
Jared’s grin widened again as he clapped his hands and voice rose excitedly.
Jared Holmes: But that’s just it! They aren’t brainwashed, Dag: they do want those things. No one gives a fuck about morality or a rigid life full of hard work they don’t have to do or building character or having roles if they don’t have to.
Jared lowered his head, his eyes staying locked on Dag the shark-like smile intensified. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth in excitement, his voice lowering.
Jared Holmes: You see, sometimes it’s not about what’s right. People don’t care about “right” and “wrong”. Not legitimately, anyway. Truth be told, there’s no such thing. If Wade wants to murder his father, Bates wants to murder a nigger, Andre wants to murder Katherine Phoenix, or they all just want to form a knitting circle, they’ll never think themselves anything but completely sure. People don’t aim at a target with the intention of missing it; they all think they’re doing the right thing. Hell, the Son of Sam never thought he was doing wrong when his dog told him to kill a bunch of hookers. If you want to get people to follow, you need to know how to hit their marks and adjust their aim. You don’t proselytize; you lay a crumb trail and watch them follow it to where you want them. The customer is always right. You just gotta make sure you can line up their “right” with your “right”.
Dag stared long and hard at the young man before him. His rage subsided, replaced with a strange feeling of apprehension. The piercing blue eyes of the man before him felt oddly hypnotic and disquieting. Had they even been jet-black for an instant?
Dagvald Riddick: Where are you going with this?
Jared grinned, his eyes unblinking as he kept perfectly still. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed – Dag’s mind reeled as it occurred to him that even the sounds of the forest seemed to have disappeared.
Jared Holmes: Do you believe in aliens, Dag?
Dagvald was quiet. It was an odd question, one which came out of nowhere. Regaining his composure and hoping to conceal his apprehension, he folded his hands.
Dagvald Riddick: I’d say it only makes statistical sense, I suppose.
Jared Holmes: I mean here. Right now. Do you think they’ve made contact?
The follow-up was even stranger. Jared sounded oddly eager, like an excited child who learned a secret on the playground and was ready to spill it to everyone. After a moment of composure, Dag wasn’t so confident.
Dagvald Riddick: If any intelligent alien race was capable of reaching us, we wouldn’t be here right now.
Jared’s grin faded to a knowing smile as he leaned back on the bench he sat upon. His hands came up to his mouth and fingers drummed together slowly.
Jared Holmes: Suppose I told you was once a planet called Jalaxaritkatusa. It was a thriving, beautiful planet not unlike our own, inhabited by an intelligent race with scientific advancement beyond our wildest dreams. As they exercised their minds, the Jalaxaritkatusans evolved. They became frail, dominated by the power of their minds. They came together in a pluralistic society where they sought to unlock the secrets of life. But they were near-sighted; they didn’t realize the consequences of their technology. They poisoned their World. They depleted the planet of resources and sickened the air. On the brink of oblivion, one of their seers had a vision. A message. A Galactic Prophecy.
The forest was deathly still. For the horrors he’d seen and inflicted in his life – for all the bear blood he’d dumped – for all the things the Family had done from their bunker – Dagvald Riddick felt fear. A ripple went through the sky.
Jared Holmes: “In ashes, a flower blooms on a distant mountain. In the bud there lies brilliant seas reflecting paradise.
Amongst huddled forms of spears and flames, purest and most perfect of them shall Taste Heaven, and they will crawl from walking and sleep from waking.
Beware the man with two faces, for he is the worst of all your enemies, a smile hides a dagger in the dark, he sits, he waits, the child of prophecy will rise, as lightning falls, he ascends.”
Jared teetered forward, his eyes wide and black.
Jared Holmes: A drug addict will indulge until they die. You could ask Claire Shepherd if we got a Ouija board. The opium of the masses is not religion – it’s pleasure. Don’t you get it, Dag? It’s sex and EDM and reality television and fast food! It’s arena sports and video games and open air festivals. People don’t want to do anything; they want to feel good and have everything done for them. People love a dictator not for safety but for comfort. They don’t want to care and vote and read or do any of those things which could drain them physically and mentally; they want to build a gondola up Mount Everest so they can snap a selfie on the summit and get a thousand Likes.
Dagvald Riddick: Disgusting.
Jared Holmes: But true.
There was another pause. For a moment, Jared looked away and his spell broke over Dag. Yet before the Neo Nordicist could leave, Jared’s soft and cool voice lulled him back into hypnosis.
Jared Holmes: There’s no need for violence when you can simply take your time. Fatten the people up for the feast and then consume. You take them gently by the hand and you show them the road to the Void, paved the whole way by milk and honey. Why bother with a struggle when you can save your resources and efforts not to destroy… but to create? After all, they’re so weak. So very, very weak.
Jared seemed to savor the proclamation, dragging his tongue along his teeth.
Jared Holmes: Deep beneath the waves, in the bitter chill of the darkest depths of the ocean floor, they began to build. They pushed the needle just enough to keep the boat on course without ever alerting it to their presences. They’re here, Dag. They’ve been here. And they’re not from Slovenia. All they needed was to find their Galactic Chosen One. Their Favorite Earth Child. The one who could rise from his people and lead them into the sea.
Jared’s smile was soft and nostalgic. He let out a low chuckle, and Dag’s blood ran cold. The man before him was not the idiotic frat boy he’d thought. He wasn’t some spoiled rich kid more interested in smoking dope than achieving anything in life. The Jared Holmes he saw now was the real man. And he was dangerous.
Jared Holmes: They’ll consume. They’ll indulge. They’ll become slow and dull and never want to bother with responsibility. Why do that when they have a champion of their philosophy? They have someone else they see that’s successful doing just what they do, and they’ll idolize him in yellow. It won’t matter when the waters open up and the beasts pour forth – not when their Prophet says to pay no attention. They’ll roll back over and play their role, hanging on my every word.
He was frozen in place. The Shark grinned hungrily at him with eyes burning with malicious intent. The Prophecy was at hand, and they’d all laughed rather than watched the skies. What could possibly come of Frank in that ring? What would come of Pantheon in the wake of the Celestial Shark’s ultimate achievement? How much had been all according to plan? Jared only grinned as he whispered to Dag.
Jared Holmes: You’re face to face with the Man Whole Sold the World.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BE REAL IT DOESNT MATTER ANYWAY YOU KNOW ITS JUST TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was difficult for Thursday to not be bothered. How could she avoid the feeling when Jared’s behavior and moods had only grown more strange and distant in the past few months? Everything had been going so well – the trip to Mardi Gras had seemed to shake him out of his funk at first. He was kind and drank less and spent more time taking her out shopping and going to beaches and museums. After the match with John Rabid, it felt like Jared had finally exercised some demons and come to terms with his old enemy; they even seemed to be friendly and spend a significant amount of time in Jared’s study drinking and talking. Wade and Andre were coming around again, she’d made a wonderful new friend in Isabella, and even Andre Holmes seemed to treat her with respect.
So when did he slide back into himself? What was going on in his head?
Life had become odd and frustrating for the Six Goddess since the turn back for the worse of her husband. He was spending more time alone and reserved. He’d been jumping on planes every other week to different locations without bothering to inform her he was leaving or where he was going. He wasn’t drinking – at least not noticeable. But when she thought about it, she realized that she hadn’t really seen him much and could hardly be sure. Instead, she’d spent an increasing number of nights sleeping in an empty bed, just like when he vanished after Mexico. This was not Thursday’s image of a happy marriage.
The Queen in Yellow slumped down on the alpaca-skin covered leather couch of her New York apartment. It had gotten too weird and lonely to stay in the sprawling Malibu mansion Jared owned when he was hardly around. After pouring herself a glass of William Hill unfiltered Chardonnay, her hand reached for the television remote on the coffee table before her, and with the press of a button, the screen flashed to life.
News Anchor: Today, President Donald Trump signed an executive order to place DEA and ICE emphasis on combatting and deporting infamous street gang MS-13. White House Press Secretary, Sean Spicer, was quoted saying, “The President would like to rescind his friendship with WCF Hall of Famer, Gravedigger, who associates with known murderers and rapists. The President insists that he never knew Gravedigger’s gang affiliations and –”
Click.
Actor: Don’t you see, Michael? It just can’t work. I live in Britain and you live in Nebraska. I’m supposed to be married in three years! Damn you and your delicate eyes and miniature frame which grinds my –
Click.
Gordon Ramsey: Chef Tony, please step up. I told you to make a *beep*ing risotto. This was a simple dish that any *beep*ing grandmother in New York could make, yet you couldn’t even demonstrate basic competence. I haven’t seen a failure this gross since Gemini Battle fought Joey Fl –
Click.
She sighed as the screen went back to black and she dropped the remote on the couch beside her. It was no use – she couldn’t get her mind off of Jared. Picking her laptop off the coffee table before her, she flipped open the top and lazily typed the address to Facebook. In an instant, her timeline flooded her with the usual banalities of friends and acquaintances: 10 unanswered messages, 120 notifications, and 67 friend requests.
Not Logan: Haiiii babygurl, I got the BIG boodle for you 🍆🍆 👀👀 (see attached message)
Denied.
Jeff Perkins: Mrs. Holmes, your husband has a scheduled interview for 3:30. He’s gonna show up, right??
Denied.
Andre Sparkicity Holmes: SHOW ME YOUR BUTTHOLE
Denied.
It was still no use. Her patience had worn through to a fray, and her brain pounded on her skull with anxiety. This was, after all, her life now: inundated with fan mail, creep mail, hate mail, and messages for her husband. The life of an aspiring debutante was exhausting. Closing the window, she pulled up Gmail to flip through their shared account. With thirteen new messages waiting, she audibly groaned before trudging through the list.
Replydaemon@xxxsupplystore.com SBJ: YOUR PACKAGE (#283759302 13 INCH STRAP-ON DILDO) IS ON ITS WAY
Seth@wcf.com SBJ: can u plz retyspond i jussst need someuione to tallkk to : (
SassyPuertoRican@blacklivesmatter.org SBJ: GODDAMNIT SEND ME YOUR FUCKING BUTTHOLE
SassyPuertoRican@blacklivesmatter.org SBJ: I’m sorry, that was strong.
SpencerAdams@uci.com SBJ: RE: Are you sure you don’t wanna guest GM?
DRiddick@Pantheon.net SBJ: Resignation Letter
Replydaemon@coolshirtprint.com SBJ: YOUR PACKAGE (#294323 MOTHER’S DAY MUG) IS ON ITS WAY
donaldtrump@whitehouse.gov SBJ: Jared, Have You Seen This? (Donate Please)
JRabid@Pantheon.net SBJ: Urgent a/b Dethwar
WMoor@Pantheon.net SBJ: lmfaooooo kuh im drunk af in Murfreesboro where u @
hmiller@madisonsquaredapartments.net SBJ: INVOICE: Your rent payment at 2345 Chartres Street
nigerianprince419@notascam.org SBJ: Help me my friend
SassyPuertoRican@blacklivesmatter.org SBJ: Let’s try again: I’d love to see your puckering anus
Seth@wcf.com SBJ: can u plz retyspond i jussst need someuione to tallkk to : (
SassyPuertoRican@blacklivesmatter.org SBJ: GODDAMNIT SEND ME YOUR FUCKING BUTTHOLE
SassyPuertoRican@blacklivesmatter.org SBJ: I’m sorry, that was strong.
SpencerAdams@uci.com SBJ: RE: Are you sure you don’t wanna guest GM?
DRiddick@Pantheon.net SBJ: Resignation Letter
Replydaemon@coolshirtprint.com SBJ: YOUR PACKAGE (#294323 MOTHER’S DAY MUG) IS ON ITS WAY
donaldtrump@whitehouse.gov SBJ: Jared, Have You Seen This? (Donate Please)
JRabid@Pantheon.net SBJ: Urgent a/b Dethwar
WMoor@Pantheon.net SBJ: lmfaooooo kuh im drunk af in Murfreesboro where u @
hmiller@madisonsquaredapartments.net SBJ: INVOICE: Your rent payment at 2345 Chartres Street
nigerianprince419@notascam.org SBJ: Help me my friend
SassyPuertoRican@blacklivesmatter.org SBJ: Let’s try again: I’d love to see your puckering anus
Mr. Holmes:
Your check for $10,725 has cleared. Your apartment on 2345 Chartres Street #12, New Orleans, LA has been approved for twelve months. Should you have any issues with accommodation, feel free to respond to this email.
Best,
Henry Miller
Manager, Madison Square Apartments
(504) 643-1893
Your check for $10,725 has cleared. Your apartment on 2345 Chartres Street #12, New Orleans, LA has been approved for twelve months. Should you have any issues with accommodation, feel free to respond to this email.
Best,
Henry Miller
Manager, Madison Square Apartments
(504) 643-1893
Maybe he just wants some space.
Is this why he’s been so distant?
Or maybe being distant led to this.
He’s cheating.
Jared loves New Orleans – he probably wants a spot to himself.
He’s cheating.
It’s probably a surprise for you. You said Bourbon Street was too loud.
Haven’t you been good to him?
He’s cheating.
Jared has always been private.
Why are you surprised?
He’s cheating.
There’s probably a logical explanation for this.
He’s cheating.
Shame on you for not respecting your husband’s privacy.
He’s cheating.
Maybe this is worth bringing up?
He’s cheating.
Just talk to him.
He’s cheating.
He’s cheating.
He’s cheating.
He’s cheating.
She screamed as she hucked the laptop across the room, hardly caring as it slammed into the wall and the screen splintered into a spider web of cracked glass. The tears flowed freely as she stood up and clasped her elbows, hugging her arms tightly against herself, as she paced the room and worked to slow her shuddering breath. After a moment of emotional Hell, Thursday’s breathing slowed and the tears began to dry to saline stains and make-up smears on her cheeks. Her eyes still on the floor, she nodded firmly to herself.
Her mind was made-up. She’d get to the bottom of this. It was simple – she was Jared’s wife, and after a simple discussion with the landlord, she could procure a key, enter the apartment, and see if there was any damning evidence. It had all pushed her too far – she was too close to breaking to not confront the problem head-on. She picked up her phone and began to dial.
5-0-4-6-4-3-1-8-9-3
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BE REAL IT DOESNT MATTER ANYWAY YOU KNOW ITS JUST TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The camera opened to Jared sitting at the bar in the Tropical Isle, a neon-drenched den of absolute bacchanal somewhere off of Bourbon Street. Clenching Hand Grenade cocktail in its fluorescent green yard glass, he placed his lips to the long lemon yellow straw and took a sip. His eyes were covered with mirror-tinted Ray Bans aviators with gold shades, his floppy blonde bangs hanging down his face. Visible to the camera, he wore a powder blue bro-tank, reading: “I Beat FPV Twice And All I Got Was This Stupid Tank Top”. To his right, Andre Aquarius leaned back on the bar with the stolen #Fartcore Championship slung over his shoulder. On his left, Wade Moor dumped an unknown blue powder into his drink. The King in Yellow leered like a shark behind his lenses as he removed the People’s Title from his shoulder and placed it on the bar before resting his drink on it like a coaster. In the background, a familiar beat hit the PA as Jared began to speak.
Jared Holmes: That’s what I have to say to the accolade, Frank. Remember it? You got knocked off a rafter by that weirdo Kevin Bishop while trying to earn it and ended up licking the boots of Dion Necurat for a few months while the rest of us busied ourselves with more important business. The real irony of that loss was that you pinned Bishop a few weeks before, ending his streak on a throw-away Slam. Yay, a feather in the hat of Franky-Boy that he could never reaccomplish. That’s an apt summary of the career of Frank Patrick Venable, I suppose: goes when it doesn’t matter, and chokes when it does.
Dare I count the times? Enters WAR and fucking loses, not even making the final five. Faces Kevin Bishop for the People’s Title? Loses. Defending your Television Title against a true threat? Beaten like a dog and given a pity win to send a message. Defending it again the week before you have a chance to redeem that humiliation? Loses. Goes into that match with no belt but a grudge to prove? Loses. Blah, blah, blah. I could go on. But why? I’m sitting here, in a bar in New Orleans, getting tanked, and I’m questioning on what level I should consider the “new” Frank Patrick Venable a threat. And no matter what arguments or underdog “pump-myself-up” shoot you work yourself into, I just can’t alter my line of thought.
So here, I’m just gonna get this out of the way nice and early. Andre, flash the picture.
Andre Aquarius pulled his iPhone 7 out of his pocket and tapped away at the screen with a sneer. After a moment, he turned it towards the camera for a clear view:
Jared Holmes: I didn’t even make that, Frank! That was sent to me! My beating of you is a fucking meme now!
As Andre removed the phone from the camera, Jared flung his arms around him and Wade. Pulling them close, Jared’s grin only spread.
Jared Holmes: And that’s only going to repeat at Aftermath. A transitional champion leads to a transitional champion leads to the coronation everyone has been waiting for. This is inevitable, Frank. This is the sort of lopsided match-up anyone could dream about. Imagine if Hillary Clinton ran against a ham sandwich instead of Trump… Actually, scratch that, she’d still have lost. Imagine Obama running against Richard Spencer. Or George H. W. Bush actually just running against Billy Horton. Think Mike Tyson in a boxing match with Ghandi. Then go to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and soak in yourself for a moment. Drop the belt. Look at your jaundiced skin and buggy eyes. Look at your anemic frame and soft jaw. You’re a fucking pup who stumbled over one of the worst champions in recent history. I’d like to provide a little historical context quickly:
Adam Young has held the Trios Belts we dropped in a work longer than Jason O’Neal held the top belt in the company after being worked into his spot by a conspiracy which consisted of myself, Johnny Rabid, and Everest. We literally wrapped this in paper, tied a bow around it, and put it on your door step so I could kick a skull in with the least amount of effort possible and win the belt. You got fucking worked, you mark.
And I find it incomprehensibly stupid that you haven’t come to that conclusion yourself. I watch you, Frank. I listen to how you talk. It doesn’t matter that you got handed all of your good fortune on a silver platter after a Series of Unfortunate Events: you were air-dropped on third and started trotting forward, acting like you hit a home run. Are you seriously fucking retarded? Does it not click behind those dopey features and Smeagol eyes that you’re an installed regent for the explicit purpose of the #BeachKrewRevolution? I’m actually asking this. This is not a rhetorical question. I’m at a total loss of explanation where this preening arrogance comes from.
So how are you gonna come at me, Frank? Do you think you have me figured out? Maybe you’ve been sitting in a dark room watching tape after tape of footage, pouring over me and Rabid brawling in out or the matches you and I have had. You’re the studious type of geek, right? You’re probably falling all over yourself for a loop hole or a weakness of some sort. Anything that could change this match. You’ll pop a few Addy’s like the trailer trash you are – or maybe just hit the meth pipe – and spend an all-nighter on that mocha speed binge trying to twist your brain into knot. Eventually, it’s gonna hit you: you have nothing. Nothing would’ve changed the outcome of our matches. Nothing would’ve given you an advantage. You’re simply outclassed, outgunned, and outmatched. And as you slide that Rabid/Holmes VHS back in the tape deck like the cheap-ass ghetto white nigger you are, the final thought will hit you like a ton of fucking bricks: I didn’t even go full-auto on you.
I have spent the better part of my career manhandling your family and making them look like the fucking chumps they are. Before you, I buried your fucking brother under a heap of garbage. I slaughtered his whole crew for kicks and giggles. I repeatedly made Teo my bitch. Like, I think that guy probably took off the mask and put on the sunglasses out of PTSD of me beating him stupid so many times. I damn near ended the career of Spencer Adams – I put him on the shelf for a hot second at the very least. And then I held your brother down and raw dogged him like Tiffany White in a backwoods Alabama trucker bar.
And the fuck of it all, Frank? I then went and did the same thing to you. Outside of the multitude of beatings I laid down on you alone, I sent Damian Kaine scampering off with his tail between his legs. Dion? He carried on to the ICU, and he’s probably gonna do the same once I win this belt and he wins Trilogy. Kid Krazzy? Psychopomp? I murdered your whole surrogate family, finally taking the head and belt of Kevin Bishop as my prize. Brothers of a feather fall together, don’t they?
You see, Frank, some people are born at the top of the World. Yeah, I was born on third. Then I stole home five times over on skill alone. Sometimes Satan rolls dice, and a man is born with nothing going against him. Sometimes God takes a shit and out falls a faggy little bird-chest from a niggerpit like Atlanta.
Speaking of Atlanta, here is everything that’s shit about the town you’re from.
Jared raised his hand and counted off on his fingers.
Jared Holmes: One, the barbeque. Fat Matt’s is overpriced and dirty, full of dirty people.
Two, the Claremont Lounge. Seriously, it’s a fucking strip club with ratchet negresses, meth heads, fatties, and grannies shaking their stretch-mark covered tits to Tom Jones songs, and you pay a cover to get in. I don’t give a shit about this whole hippy shit “it’s a celebration of body positivity” shit. Some strippers should be put out to pasture. Others should be taken out behind the shed and shot, similar to their “favorite son” wrestler. Bitches like Tiffany White – aye kay aye mediocre lesbians – hang out at the Claremont. One day, they’ll level that hotel and bury the place with them. And good riddance.
Three, the Falcons. Don’t let your impending beating and subsequent spinal injury distract you from the fact that the Falcons blew a twenty-five point lead.
Five, the hip-hop. Holy shit, people need to shut the fuck up about “tha duuuurty souff”. Between Lil Jon, Shawty Putt, the Yin-Yang Twins, Desiiigner, Jermaine Dupre, and Ludacris – yes, Ludacris – I can’t even name a single decent Atlanta rapper. In fact, throw in Outkast just for the cheap heel heat; everything they did, Kanye did better. But seriously, a few ignat niggers say some dumb, clowny shit and everything thinks that’s funny? Talk about vagina and suddenly you’re a literary genius? Holy shit, why does this sound familiar, Frank? I can’t think of anyone else who once relied on “vagina” as a running joke and received undue acclaim for it.
Six, the Atlanta Underground. It’s sketchy and dirty.
Seven, literally everything else.
You see, I’ve always believed the whole “nurture” over “nature” thing, Frank. People born in shit are generally going to be shit. This is why Detroit is a garbage dump with no sign of legitimate recovery: there’s no way that city can foster a decent, competently educated human being who could offer it anything of substance. This is why Africa is, and forever will be, a shithole. Are you telling me that rocket scientists are coming out of Zaire? Fuck outta here. And similarly, when you live in a city most famous for its strip clubs and once being burned to the ground by William Tecumseh Sherman, the most bad motherfucker to ever live.
So consider this my March to the Sea, Frank. I’ve moved through your turf like an invading army, razing homes, salting the fields, and twisting your railroad tracks into knots. I’ve declared total war from you for a long time now, softening you up for the prime moment when I could stomp into the capital and burn it to the fucking ground. I’m knocking on your door, you gimp. And to quote the man himself, “I intend to make Georgia howl”. I’ll keep them on my mind as I brutalize you like Hurricane Matthew did Savannah.
Jared leaned back against the bar and picked the Hand Grenade off the People’s Title belt. He took a long drink before smacking his lips.
Jared Holmes: I’m upgrading my coaster, Frank. I can’t decide what I look forward to most: the look on your face as I beat you and hoist the belt, the look on your face when I send you pictures of me snorting Molly off the belt, or the pictures of me blowing my load on the belt while it’s around Thursday’s naked waist. Let’s find out, buddy. And let the #FuccboiGenocide commence.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BE REAL IT DOESNT MATTER ANYWAY YOU KNOW ITS JUST TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This was not what Thursday had expected. The landlord had been friendly and helpful enough when she had called him; he simply required a valid identification to prove she was, in fact, the lawful spouse of his tenant, and he was more than willing to give her a key to the private abode her husband rented. After a long flight non-stop from New York to New Orleans, her head was foggy with fatigue. The office of the landlord had been nice enough – a simple room on the fourth floor of a skyscraper in the business district. After the meeting, she called a private driver to take her to the address she’d scribbled on a cocktail napkin back at the New York penthouse:
2345 Chartres Street Apt #12
As the driver passed through the French Quarter and the Marigny, few thoughts passed Thursday’s mind. When the vehicle turned onto St. Claude and drove over the canal separating the Bywater from the Lower Ninth Ward, a fluttering sense of anxiety began to overtake her. No, this didn’t seem like Jared at all; as the colorful and tasteful old architecture of classic New Orleans gave way to dirgy and ramshackle homes of the New Orleans slums, she could feel every eye on the street aimed at her. This is wrong, she turned over in her head, Maybe I wrote the wrong address. Retrieving her phone from her purse, Thursday pulled up the email account and scrolled down to the email in question:
hmiller@madisonsquaredapartments.net SBJ: INVOICE: Your rent payment at 2345 Chartres Street
Thursday Holmes: Excuse me?
Driver: Yah?
Thursday Holmes: I think you’re in the wrong area.
The fear was palpable in her voice, as the final word quaked from her lips. The driver merely chuckled in response.
Driver: Nah, this da locale, ma’am. Godda couzin livin’ ‘round here.
Thursday Holmes: Oh…
Her voice was low as she leaned back in her seat, staring down at the phone screen a second time to double check.
Thursday Holmes: 2345 Chartres Street?
Driver: Yas’m.
Thursday Holmes: You’re positive?
Driver: Yas’m.
Thursday looked down at the screen again, her stomach slumped in her chest.
Thursday Holmes: I see…
Taking a moment to regain her composure and swallow her fear, she let her voice regain its normal volume and candor.
Thursday Holmes: Thank you. You may roll the divider back up.
Driver: Yas’m.
After twenty minutes crawling deeper into the rattier corners of the city, the car came to a stop before a derelict two-store apartment building. Two large double-paned windows framed a wooden door with peeling white paint, and on the floor above, two balconies suggested that the entire tenement consisted on eight separate apartments – four on each side. From beside the door, tarnished brass lettering stared back at her:
2345
Never removing her eyes from the building, Thursday reached into her purse for a pair of oversized Gucci sunglasses and a scarf. As she put the sunglasses on her face and tied the scarf around her head, she cursed not bringing a jacket with her – anything which could render her even more discreet to anyone who may be curious about the waifish blonde woman walking from a vehicle with tinted windows into a slum in the Ninth Ward. Of course, the weather was oppressively hot and humid, rending that idea even more likely to draw attention. Regardless, it was a moot point.
Stepping out of the vehicle, she let her hand slide into the top of her open Prada purse. Out front of the building, a young Caucasian man sat on the step leading to the door. In an instant, their eyes locked and they stared at each other quietly for a moment. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-eight, but abuse of drugs and oppression of poverty had clearly weathered and age his face. He wore no shoes, his feet dirty with grotesque yellow toenails poking out from the cuffs of a pair of stained light blue jeans. Thin arms covered in a mottle of tattoos gave way to surprisingly large hands which clenched a bottle in a brown paper bag and the smoldering end of a Pall Mall cigarette. He grinned at her, revealing a mouth with a few browned and rotting teeth framed by a thin goatee. His eyes were wild. Stepping forward, Thursday’s hand clenched the stock.
After walking the path to the stoop, a cracking concrete walk sprouting scrub and dandelions more places than one, Thursday came to a halt before the man. His grin widened and eyes shined like beetles. Reining in her screaming instincts, Thursday spoke firmly.
Thursday Holmes: Please move.
The man did not acquiesce.
Man: Whassa purdy thang like yew dewin’ roun’ here?
Her composure wavered. Her hand tightened inside the purse.
Thursday Holmes: Sir. Please move.
The man only continued to grin as he set the bottle down.
Man: God musta loss tracka wonna his angels er sumthin. Lucky day fer me here.
As Thursday’s confidence began to completely unravel, her finger slid the safety to its “unlock” position. The sound of a metal click snapped her back to her senses as her fear replaced with cool anger. Her voice was low as she stared the man down.
Thursday Holmes: Now you listen to me, you disgraceful little ditchpig .
At the sound of the slur, the man’s eyes popped open, and his features contorted to shock and anger.
Man: Tha fuck yew call me, bitch?!
As he rose to stand, Thursday’s hand snapped from her back and whipped the stock of the Beretta pistol across the man’s mouth. He reeled to the ground, blood and brown shards of rotten enamel falling to the concrete as Thursday pulled the stock against the base of his neck. She hissed to him.
Thursday Holmes: As I was saying… either fucking move or you won’t just be sucking food out a straw: you’ll be tasting your fucking brainstem.
The man whimpered as his hands slowly raised in surrender. He sobbed softly to himself through blood and broken teeth.
Man: Yew bish… yew pthycho fuckin bish…
Stepping over the obstacle, Thursday’s hand clenched the door knob. The confidence drained from her body once more as she slowly turned the handle and stepped inside, finding herself in a small hallway.
Keeping her eyes from the water-stained and rotting ceiling panels or the moldy carpet beneath her feet, her eyes followed the numbers on the four doors.
10…11…12
Standing before her destination, Thursday looked down at the gun in her hand. Shocked at her carelessness, she flipped the safety and stuffed it into her purse before checking behind her for any witnesses. After a few seconds of observation and a confident sense of relief, she turned to the door and reached into her purse for the brass key. It slid into the lock with ease, and with a turn and a click, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Closing and locking the door behind her, Thursday turned to an empty living room. The apartment was quiet save the low hum of the air conditioning unit in the window, and from a first glance, the apartment seemed untouched. Of course, this made little sense to her; her discussion with the landlord revealed that Jared had been renting the apartment since he’d returned from his disappearance in September. Turning to the kitchen, she found the refrigerator and freezer untouched, as well as the cabinets completely bare.
As she stepped into the living room, it occurred to her that the apartment was impeccably clean in comparison to the rest of the building, considering its seeming lack of a regular tenant. Looking down the hallway, a closed door stared at her. Her stomach turned over and electric shivers crept up her ribs as she stepped down the hallway and placed her hand on the doorknob. Turning it, she entered the bedroom.
The room was similarly bare, save a single cot shoved in the corner of the room besides an electrical socket. It lacked a cover, instead simply consisting of the lumpy mattress pad, a single sheet, and a bare pillow. An iPhone charger cable sat in the electrical socket beside the cot, and beneath that lay a half-empty water bottle, a small mirror covered in a white substance with a razor blade laying atop it, and an orange pill bottle. Picking up and examining the pill bottle, the fuzzy blue plant inside was all too familiar to the Six Goddess – Jared had undoubtedly been here. And recently. But why?
The question screamed and turned over in her head as she pulled the sheet back and threw the pillow across the room, tearing the bedding apart to find something – anything – which could give her a piece of mind. After minutes of frantic searching, and no results, Thursday turned to the closet. Pulling the door open, she found a multitude of white plastic hangers with no occupants. It was equally bare.
She screamed aloud, slamming her fists against the back of the closet in frustration. After the second pounding, an audible click resounded from the wall. Thursday stopped – a thin line had appeared from the paint, going floor to shelf to floor again. A door. With trembling hands, Thursday pushed the panel back and slid it to the side. And she found herself staring into the Void.
Stepping into the pitch black room, Thursday closed her eyes to compose herself. Despite the light of the bedroom behind her, nothing seemed to penetrate the new room. In her time knowing and loving Jared, she’d seen many absurd and strange things. But those were just drug-fueled hallucinations, right? With the bedroom behind her and blackness around her, Thursday walked forward with outstretched arms. When she finally came to a solid surface, it briefly occurred to her that the dimensions of the closet simply couldn’t exist without an incredible protrusion from the side of the apartment building – she certainly hadn’t seen one on the way in. Before she could entirely comprehend the disturbing fact, the wall before her gave way as well.
White light spilled into her eyes, temporarily blinding her as she trundled forward. As the affects of the sudden flash wore off, she opened her eyes. Her body rooted in place, her jaw falling slack and silent as her eyes moved across the walls, every new discovery and sight turning the knife in her chest. The colors – the smells – the revelations. It was too much. A million eyes gazed upon Thursday as she doubled over and found herself vomiting upon the cold, brilliantly white floor beneath her. And when the final dry heaves and shudders left her, she turned back to the horror surrounding her.
The obsession lined the walls of the room from ceiling to floor. Torn eyes and hideous, crazed scribbles. That same face she’d seen so many times repeated over and over again, some in perfect condition and others defaced in crazed blasphemy. Her mind reeled as a tear slid down her cheek. The sound of the footstep behind her didn’t register. But the low, calm voice that accompanied its ceasing certainly did.
Jared Holmes: Have you ever heard the Tale of Bluebeard?