Post by Logan on Aug 10, 2017 14:29:36 GMT -5
Chapter 3
Damn the butler,
With nothing to offer,
Damn the tiger,
Who is also a doctor,
Damn this day,
Until it vanishes away,
Damn the next,
Let light rest,
Damn me,
Forever to be.
Lord Logan Saladin, Restless Damning Syndrome
Days. Weeks. Months. They collectively passed without care on my end. If not for the routine visits of my butler, George Manson, to change chamber pots, spoon feed me, and funnel wine into my throat, I may have starved to death in a pile of shit and piss long before this beard grew over my chin, and that would’ve deeply pleased me. I could not recall the last time I left this bed, so judging from George’s grin when he burst into the room, I gathered he thought that may be today. His demeanor usually proved depressing, which in turn, furthered my own.
George Manson: My Lord!
Dry lips, itchy ass, clothes reeking of urine and wine gave me no intention to greet his grin, so I remained in my state of filth, eyes to the ceiling.
George Manson: The Doctor has paid visit.
A cough rumbled from my throat to lube vocal cords that I hadn’t exercised in forever.
Logan: Shoot him.
George Manson: Okay.
Logan: Then come back here and shoot me afterwards.
George Manson: Countless times before, my Lord, I have expressed my commitment not to betray you. I cannot, my Lord –
Logan: Yeah, yeah.
I shooed him off then turned over onto my side to snuggle into the grainy dirt and bug ridden blankets. Sleep did not find me. It never did. The sound of a musket firing off followed by a hideous scream of my butler also made it difficult. I soon thereafter heard heavy thuds on the wood floor, closing in to my bedroom. By now I recognized the approaching presence of George Manson, and this was not his approach. It was then that my ears picked up on a scratching in the doorway of my room, like the sound a cat may make with its claws on the wood of a door frame, only it produced a much louder tone. The Doctor, I presumed. I rolled over, presuming correct.
The Doctor: I disarmed your man. Quite easily, may I add.
Logan: Who shall wipe my ass now?
My words stunk more than my filth with sarcasm.
The Doctor: Didn’t kill him if that’s what worries you. Before I received my doctorate –
He sat and licked at his right paw, pausing to no doubt annoy my ears with a long tale.
The Doctor: I was an officer fighting alongside the French in the great battle at Fort Heins in 1809. Whenever one is faced without the time required to reload, without a sword, one becomes trained in the skill of unarmed combat. I have claws as well, so that helps.
Logan: Did his attempt to kill you bring any offense? If so, I ordered the hit, and if you have any urge to rip out my throat I will not resist.
The Doctor: Lord Saladin, your sense of humor brings me great amusement.
I was being serious.
Logan: Then you’ll find this hilarious; I shot myself once, right here, from the very lips that speak to you now, and why did I do this?
The Doctor: Flabbergasted.
Logan: To end the life that betrayed me. They even called me the Face of Treachery, which is ironic now, given the greatest treachery played in WCF was upon me after winning the belt. And then when I expect blackness, a forever end to my thoughts, I awake here in a different century, talking to a tiger, and the pain WCF caused me is all that I can dwell on. It will never escape me. So, maybe, I am dead, and perhaps there is a Hell and this is it. I can’t kill myself – again – I have tried. Every window I leap from there my butler is with a carriage of hay for me to land in. Every gun I have learned how to load turns out to be a dud when fired and I’m only left with a mouthful of dry black powder. Every blade in this house is so dull it cannot even break skin, and yet here I am… here I continue to be. Then this must be Hell. I am truly damned. It’s not really what I thought would happen after shooting myself, but I guess no one knows what to expect after they’ve killed themselves until they do.
The Doctor: You live, breathe, and stink before me. You are far from dead.
Logan: Then a coma. Somewhere out there I’m in a hospital that Seth has put me in, maybe I’ve been in it for years, or just a day.
I was unable to decipher the amount of time that had passed.
Logan: For whatever reason they haven’t pulled the plug. Not yet anyway. So if that’s the possibility, if I’m in a coma, and I do awake then what stops me from killing myself again and successfully doing the deed this time?
The Doctor: Everything on Earth possesses an instinct to survive, even the flies that buzz ahead your funk.
Logan: I no longer do. I used to wake in the morning with excitement if only to spend an entire afternoon searching for a kittens head to bash with a rock. It delighted me. The little things like that.
The Doctor: And now?
Logan: If this room were littered with cats and rocks I wouldn’t budge.
Chapter 4
Plucking my apples,
From a tree,
Hearing your heart,
That beats for me,
Kissing your neck,
Is all my dreams see,
Within my arms,
Where you shall be,
You are mine,
And if you wonder,
Forever yours.
Lord Logan Saladin, Love Saved The Demon
Logan: Who is that, George?
George Mason: That is Victoria Mars, my Lord.
Logan: That thieving pile of tits is stealing apples from my trees.
George Mason: She’s a groundkeeper. You would know these things if you bothered to venture onto your own land, my Lord.
I shot him a glare.
George Mason: Sorry, my Lord.
By instruction my butler wheeled me to another window to further view this big breasted groundkeeper. I had no desire to walk, so the week prior I had the butler craft a wheelchair. She plucked fruit from a variety of trees upon the land; a land greatly enormous. I wondered what mysteries lay beyond. For now, finding mysteries laid beneath Victoria’s clothes should suffice.
Logan: Have her washed in the stables. No reason to dirty my tub.
George Mason: Yes, my Lord. As for you?
Logan: Bring me to the tub. Bathe me.
George Mason: Oh yes, my Lord!
His enthusiasm for washing my naked body seemed too great. I was an uncommonly handsome man, so it was little surprise that lesser men would drool at the opportunity to see me unclothed. Later that evening George wheeled me to the dining table where Victoria Mars awaited. She cleaned up nice. Those horse brushes kept in the stables did the trick. Spots of her skin were red from the rough lather, and those would be the spots that I would undeniably kiss first.
Logan: My apologies for the horse bath, though you must understand how badly you needed it, ground-keep.
She broke sip from a glass of wine.
Victoria Mars: Yes, Lord Saladin. It was quite refreshing but most rough.
Logan: As am I.
We shared smiles.
Victoria Mars: May I ask if it does not prove embarrassing as to how you ended in the wheelchair?
This angered me.
Logan: I did not invite the common brush trimmers into a Lordly house to listen to you talk!
Her face beamed red as the apples she plucked that morning.
Logan: But if you must know, I have the most beautiful talented feet, and this ground is unworthy of them.
Truth be told, I had become too lazy to walk.
Victoria Mars: Forgive me.
I could smell the musk protruding from her lap. I had this effect among women, my mere presence driving them into animal lusty states. The last thing I needed was another Lilith following me day and night and driving my ears to madness. Helpless woman.
Logan: George!
He scurried into the doorway.
George Mason: Yes, my Lord?
Logan: She bores me. Have her shot.
He nodded. A panicked gasp came interrupted once the butler pressed the barrel to the back of her skull and pulled the trigger. Her forehead exploded a tiny hole, forcing her to go face down into a bowl of soup. I dabbed a napkin to my cheek and wiped brain matter from it.
Logan: Clean up this mess you’ve caused.
George Mason: Yes, my Lord.
He tucked his arms underneath that of Victoria.
Logan: What are you doing?
George Mason: Disposing of Ms. Mars, my Lord.
Logan: Nonsense. Have that wound cleaned and bring her to my bed.
George Mason: But she’s dead… my, Lord –
Logan: Of course she is you fool. I may lack an eye but I am not blind.
George Mason: Oh.
And he finally realized my intentions.
George Mason: Oh yes, my Lord.
That night I shared my bed with the corpse of Victoria Mars. She was not a bad lay. Never once complained or asked me a hundred worthless questions. I might have even let her stay over for the night if she didn’t begin to decay. It was then that I realized what this woman had done for me besides providing a vessel to empty my seed. She had given me the first bit of interest I had ever known in this hell, and the haunting thoughts of WCF’s betrayal left me for that entire day. I felt renewed, so I flipped the stiff body onto her stomach and had another go.
Damn the butler,
With nothing to offer,
Damn the tiger,
Who is also a doctor,
Damn this day,
Until it vanishes away,
Damn the next,
Let light rest,
Damn me,
Forever to be.
Lord Logan Saladin, Restless Damning Syndrome
Days. Weeks. Months. They collectively passed without care on my end. If not for the routine visits of my butler, George Manson, to change chamber pots, spoon feed me, and funnel wine into my throat, I may have starved to death in a pile of shit and piss long before this beard grew over my chin, and that would’ve deeply pleased me. I could not recall the last time I left this bed, so judging from George’s grin when he burst into the room, I gathered he thought that may be today. His demeanor usually proved depressing, which in turn, furthered my own.
George Manson: My Lord!
Dry lips, itchy ass, clothes reeking of urine and wine gave me no intention to greet his grin, so I remained in my state of filth, eyes to the ceiling.
George Manson: The Doctor has paid visit.
A cough rumbled from my throat to lube vocal cords that I hadn’t exercised in forever.
Logan: Shoot him.
George Manson: Okay.
Logan: Then come back here and shoot me afterwards.
George Manson: Countless times before, my Lord, I have expressed my commitment not to betray you. I cannot, my Lord –
Logan: Yeah, yeah.
I shooed him off then turned over onto my side to snuggle into the grainy dirt and bug ridden blankets. Sleep did not find me. It never did. The sound of a musket firing off followed by a hideous scream of my butler also made it difficult. I soon thereafter heard heavy thuds on the wood floor, closing in to my bedroom. By now I recognized the approaching presence of George Manson, and this was not his approach. It was then that my ears picked up on a scratching in the doorway of my room, like the sound a cat may make with its claws on the wood of a door frame, only it produced a much louder tone. The Doctor, I presumed. I rolled over, presuming correct.
The Doctor: I disarmed your man. Quite easily, may I add.
Logan: Who shall wipe my ass now?
My words stunk more than my filth with sarcasm.
The Doctor: Didn’t kill him if that’s what worries you. Before I received my doctorate –
He sat and licked at his right paw, pausing to no doubt annoy my ears with a long tale.
The Doctor: I was an officer fighting alongside the French in the great battle at Fort Heins in 1809. Whenever one is faced without the time required to reload, without a sword, one becomes trained in the skill of unarmed combat. I have claws as well, so that helps.
Logan: Did his attempt to kill you bring any offense? If so, I ordered the hit, and if you have any urge to rip out my throat I will not resist.
The Doctor: Lord Saladin, your sense of humor brings me great amusement.
I was being serious.
Logan: Then you’ll find this hilarious; I shot myself once, right here, from the very lips that speak to you now, and why did I do this?
The Doctor: Flabbergasted.
Logan: To end the life that betrayed me. They even called me the Face of Treachery, which is ironic now, given the greatest treachery played in WCF was upon me after winning the belt. And then when I expect blackness, a forever end to my thoughts, I awake here in a different century, talking to a tiger, and the pain WCF caused me is all that I can dwell on. It will never escape me. So, maybe, I am dead, and perhaps there is a Hell and this is it. I can’t kill myself – again – I have tried. Every window I leap from there my butler is with a carriage of hay for me to land in. Every gun I have learned how to load turns out to be a dud when fired and I’m only left with a mouthful of dry black powder. Every blade in this house is so dull it cannot even break skin, and yet here I am… here I continue to be. Then this must be Hell. I am truly damned. It’s not really what I thought would happen after shooting myself, but I guess no one knows what to expect after they’ve killed themselves until they do.
The Doctor: You live, breathe, and stink before me. You are far from dead.
Logan: Then a coma. Somewhere out there I’m in a hospital that Seth has put me in, maybe I’ve been in it for years, or just a day.
I was unable to decipher the amount of time that had passed.
Logan: For whatever reason they haven’t pulled the plug. Not yet anyway. So if that’s the possibility, if I’m in a coma, and I do awake then what stops me from killing myself again and successfully doing the deed this time?
The Doctor: Everything on Earth possesses an instinct to survive, even the flies that buzz ahead your funk.
Logan: I no longer do. I used to wake in the morning with excitement if only to spend an entire afternoon searching for a kittens head to bash with a rock. It delighted me. The little things like that.
The Doctor: And now?
Logan: If this room were littered with cats and rocks I wouldn’t budge.
Chapter 4
Plucking my apples,
From a tree,
Hearing your heart,
That beats for me,
Kissing your neck,
Is all my dreams see,
Within my arms,
Where you shall be,
You are mine,
And if you wonder,
Forever yours.
Lord Logan Saladin, Love Saved The Demon
Logan: Who is that, George?
George Mason: That is Victoria Mars, my Lord.
Logan: That thieving pile of tits is stealing apples from my trees.
George Mason: She’s a groundkeeper. You would know these things if you bothered to venture onto your own land, my Lord.
I shot him a glare.
George Mason: Sorry, my Lord.
By instruction my butler wheeled me to another window to further view this big breasted groundkeeper. I had no desire to walk, so the week prior I had the butler craft a wheelchair. She plucked fruit from a variety of trees upon the land; a land greatly enormous. I wondered what mysteries lay beyond. For now, finding mysteries laid beneath Victoria’s clothes should suffice.
Logan: Have her washed in the stables. No reason to dirty my tub.
George Mason: Yes, my Lord. As for you?
Logan: Bring me to the tub. Bathe me.
George Mason: Oh yes, my Lord!
His enthusiasm for washing my naked body seemed too great. I was an uncommonly handsome man, so it was little surprise that lesser men would drool at the opportunity to see me unclothed. Later that evening George wheeled me to the dining table where Victoria Mars awaited. She cleaned up nice. Those horse brushes kept in the stables did the trick. Spots of her skin were red from the rough lather, and those would be the spots that I would undeniably kiss first.
Logan: My apologies for the horse bath, though you must understand how badly you needed it, ground-keep.
She broke sip from a glass of wine.
Victoria Mars: Yes, Lord Saladin. It was quite refreshing but most rough.
Logan: As am I.
We shared smiles.
Victoria Mars: May I ask if it does not prove embarrassing as to how you ended in the wheelchair?
This angered me.
Logan: I did not invite the common brush trimmers into a Lordly house to listen to you talk!
Her face beamed red as the apples she plucked that morning.
Logan: But if you must know, I have the most beautiful talented feet, and this ground is unworthy of them.
Truth be told, I had become too lazy to walk.
Victoria Mars: Forgive me.
I could smell the musk protruding from her lap. I had this effect among women, my mere presence driving them into animal lusty states. The last thing I needed was another Lilith following me day and night and driving my ears to madness. Helpless woman.
Logan: George!
He scurried into the doorway.
George Mason: Yes, my Lord?
Logan: She bores me. Have her shot.
He nodded. A panicked gasp came interrupted once the butler pressed the barrel to the back of her skull and pulled the trigger. Her forehead exploded a tiny hole, forcing her to go face down into a bowl of soup. I dabbed a napkin to my cheek and wiped brain matter from it.
Logan: Clean up this mess you’ve caused.
George Mason: Yes, my Lord.
He tucked his arms underneath that of Victoria.
Logan: What are you doing?
George Mason: Disposing of Ms. Mars, my Lord.
Logan: Nonsense. Have that wound cleaned and bring her to my bed.
George Mason: But she’s dead… my, Lord –
Logan: Of course she is you fool. I may lack an eye but I am not blind.
George Mason: Oh.
And he finally realized my intentions.
George Mason: Oh yes, my Lord.
That night I shared my bed with the corpse of Victoria Mars. She was not a bad lay. Never once complained or asked me a hundred worthless questions. I might have even let her stay over for the night if she didn’t begin to decay. It was then that I realized what this woman had done for me besides providing a vessel to empty my seed. She had given me the first bit of interest I had ever known in this hell, and the haunting thoughts of WCF’s betrayal left me for that entire day. I felt renewed, so I flipped the stiff body onto her stomach and had another go.
