Distorted Angel
League Member
- Joined
- Feb 22, 2015
- Messages
- 23
- Points
- 0
(Narration)
“There is no such thing as immortality, one can live as long as sun baked stones our precious cities are built upon but death is a patient mistress and she always gets her prize.
Dynasties crumble beneath the weight of expectation, legacies fade upon forgotten brittle pages and accomplishments wilt in the face of a glaring reality… Still everyone believes that they will be the one to defy, deluded with the vague possibility of eternal grandeur.
Pan. A name synonymous with evading the rigours of time, however even that is simply a façade… After all, I should know.
A descendant of the original, just another face falling into line.
I had a name of my own, just like any other- perhaps as utterly forgettable in the grander scheme of things but I came to quickly realize that no one will ever remember how you happen to be labelled, only the depth of the footprint you leave in the shifting sand.
As an adult, you’re taught that eventually you’ll have to pay the ferryman and receive judgement for time you sent on the mortal coil- however as a child… You’re taught to fantasise about never growing up and going on wild adventures across Neverland.
Same shit, different point of view.
Charon crosses the Styx, I seek the second star to the right- we’re just a means to a detached end. Sometimes those we carry make it across, sometimes they fall by the wayside- we shed no tear for them nor do we rejoice, we simply carry on cause contrary to popular belief- life manages to carry on, with an upturned nose of cruel indifference, just fine without you…”
********************************************************
=/= Glistening drops of dew linger on the edges of emerald leaves, capturing the morning sun like tiny kaleidoscopic tears shed from the face of God himself while birds like mottled precious stones flutter effortlessly between gnarled branches and dense foliage, twittering obnoxiously as though self-professed celebrities.
Cutting a swathe through the forest like a river of fissured grey flecked with moss, rugged stones meander between knotted trunks blotting out all but the most persistent of sunlight- a squirrel glances about anxiously on the path like a crack addict waiting for their dealer in the middle of a busy street, glassy eyes trying to see everything at once.
Muffled grumblings in the near distance send the jumpy squirrel scampering for cover, bushy ginger tail raised like a warning flag as short, weary figures emerge into puddles of sunlight.
Children, grubby faced and dressed in rags murmur between themselves, shame hovering like a dark cloud above their heads as whispers of accusation flit between them like scornful butterflies. =/=
“We should have just stayed”
“What’s the worst she could do…”
“How about kill us for losing the fairy”
“She won’t even know!”
“Every atom is a snoopy balloon”
=/= Ignoring the somewhat retarded child’s outburst, the rest continue to hiss feverishly yet weakly, so wrapped up with their fear of being overheard that they have company lounging lazily on a tree branch nearby. =/=
“Were you never told that it’s rude to talk about people behind their back?”
=/= Young faces, eyes full of fearful recognition realize quickly they’ve been busted in the act- caught in the glare of a pair of steely and rather unimpressed blue-green eyes. =/=
“Something the matter? Come now, you had no problem discussing me before so why falter now!
Go ahead and tell me what a bitch slut cunt whore I am or how I’m not worth the dirt that lines your boots- oh yawn.
Talk shit when you have something original and not just a bunch of expletives strung together in a grammatically incorrect sentence.”
“I- uh”
“Lost for words? I find it hard to believe…”
=/= Amber ‘Pan’ swings her legs off the edge of the tree branch, elbows resting lightly upon knees, thick locks of crimson like a waterfall of fire and wine tumbling over one shoulder in a messy plait. =/=
“I suppose it really is easy to talk a big game, after all that’s why so many do it… Believing no one will hold them to those hollow, wasteful threats… Words are nothing but sounds tumbling clumsily from an overly wide face hole when there is no action to back them up.
Riddle me this… If you threaten to tear another person throat out with your bare hands and you don’t do it- what does that make you?
Hypocritical perhaps, a liar for certain… Why should anyone believe anything you say when your words amount to nothing more than verbal diarrhoea.”
=/= Amber ‘Pan’ watches the children squirm on the spot, looking to each other for comfort and a damn backbone between them. =/=
“If there is one thing to learn from this- never take things personally kiddies, it always hurts more when you do”
*****************************************************
(Narration)
“Fairies are strange little creatures…
Always a chip on their shoulder, always something to prove, always waiting for someone to rescue them from the quicksand they consistently find themselves in.
Despite my overwhelming indifference, I can’t help but admire ‘Tinker’ Bell.
Ambitious and yet so very naïve, wanting to believe the best in people, giving the benefit of the doubt to those who have no reason to deserve it for the umpteenth time- I suppose it’s like touching fire and believing it won’t burn you because at one time or another it really gave the tiniest of fucks. Honest.
Maybe I should take a page from her book, show faith in a world that would rather harvest my organs for money and bathe their underdeveloped genitals in my blood than respect my right to sarcastic detachment.
Perhaps that rose tinted fairy tale fuck up doesn’t suit me after all.
Fool me once, fool me twice- the fairy prince can’t be hiding beneath the surface of every douchebag. There are only so many frogs you can kiss before herpes come calling…
Of course I’m certainly not one to begrudge a happy ending, there may be few I know who deserve it more than ‘Tinker’ Bell however my shoulder will not be there to cry upon when the tattered fantasy proves to be little more than the flushed dreams of a low quality Vegas stripper.
I will warn her of the rising tides as I have done many times before however I know she will pay me little heed, one cannot keep jumping in the deep end just to prove they know how to swim.
Eventually the waters will rise over even the most determined of heads, only then will ‘Tinker’ Bell realized she has flailed above her weight for too long- maybe I’ll extend my hand and pull her from the depths… Maybe I won’t.
There’s a very good reason why fairies don’t live for long…”
*****************************************************
=/= Open water ripples as though the feet of a thousand tiny dancers twirl and dance across the sun-kissed surface as waves capped with pale foam surge across sand, grasping shallow footprints and careless remnants left half buried and all forgotten.
Lightly salted breezes twirl around the sole male figure staring out across the water, red tails lined with false gold flutter lightly as the tattered jacket hangs loosely, blonded hair slicked back with a blasé smirk and harsh eyes squinting slightly under the suns glare towards where Skull Rock looms with sightless eyes and hollow smile. It’s stony omniscient gaze perhaps knowing every dirty little secret lurking beneath the superficially pleasant surface, simply waiting for mortality to strike even the ‘immortal’ down in their tracks.
Soft footsteps crunch towards where the figure stands stoically, smirk spreading like a disease across his features. Without turning, he addresses the figure with a cold recognition. =/=
“I’m sure this isn’t just a courtesy call, Red”
“If it were, I doubt there’d be much courtesy to receive”
=/= Amber ‘Pan’ stops beside the male figure, neither making eye contact as though some unspoken agreement between the pair.
Signature green outfit darkly speckled as she wipes her hands reflexively, dark smears of red in the wake…=/=
“Ripper, can you to get me to Skull Rock?”
“Flying too passé for you now?”
“If it were an option, I wouldn’t be wasting my time here”
“What’s in it for me?”
“How about not being a cunt”
=/= Ripper turns with a chuckle, a glint of metal flecked with rust along its semi-sharpened edge catches Amber ‘Pan’s eye, his hand replaced with a bloodstained blade. =/=
“Charming as ever I see”
“We’ll just blame it on too many hits to the head”
“What’s Skull Rock got of interest anyway”
“I didn’t realize you cared”
“I don’t”
=/= It’s Ambers turn to chuckle briefly, her gaze averting from the prosthetic blade back to the ominous smiling stone. =/=
“I have reason to believe that Black Bishop has his hands on a nosy little fairy”
“You keep chasing every time she gets into trouble…”
“Makes me feel better that someone might have more issues than me”
=/= Ripper shrugs with a knowing smile, his eyes move to the suspicious scarlet stains sprayed across her front but knows better not to comment. =/=
“Black Bishop- that certainly changes things”
“I thought it might”
******************************************************
(Narration)
“Some are the virus.
A societal cancer that ravenously spreads just below the murky scum-lined surface, an unquenchable fire burning the brown ring of decency, an infection that rots the genitals of civilization caught from a greasy French hooker with no term for hygiene.
While others are the antidote.
An injection of pure antibiotic goodness straight into cocaine laced veins, a cure-all for the venom seeping from morally squalid pores, an omnipresent blaze cauterizing the dishonourable family line.
Delusion is like an addiction, glorifying a point of view that exists solely within a psyche on par with a spoiled prawn sandwich.
So easy to believe the hype, even when the hype falls from your lips alone- I suppose if you tell someone a lie often enough, they’ll come to believe it as truth regardless of how absurd it sounds.
Black Bishop believes he rules with charisma- even though his personality is dwarfed by a bent teaspoon. Believes he dictates with ruthless ferocity- even though his idea of ferocity is little more than pulling hair and calling mean names.
Believes his lack of respect for everyone without an absurdly high testosterone level simply makes him another level of superior instead of just a regular a-hole.
Perhaps the insults are considered quality in the playground and reduce the rest of the kiddies to relentless tears however my skin is just a little too thick to to be bothered by the countless expletives cluttering his limited vocabulary.
Perhaps the chauvinistic propaganda he preaches with such fervour may hold water for some, even if that water is lined with faecal matter and toxic sludge… Those derogatory and bigoted claims straight out of the 1950’s ‘how to train your wife’ manual alienating everyone who happens to have two brains cells worth rubbing together.
What will it take to break a die-hard from his precious time warp- perhaps a jump to the left or even a step to the right… However there will be no pelvic thrusting here for there are immature minds about!!
Someone once spoke of speaking softly and carrying a large stick- I suppose that makes Black Bishop dyslexic…
Yet for such a simple minded creature fuelled by chemical highs and degrading lows- he harbours so much… anger.
Could it simply be a side effect of all that pixie dust mixed with a healthy dose of bath salts coursing through his addled veins or perhaps his inadequacy as a man having to continually prove himself to women charging a fiver for a quick disabled toilet blowjob…
If that were me, I suppose I’d be pretty mad too…
Mirror mirror, shattered on the floor- who really is the maddest of them all?
While he plays the crazy card to justify his shortcomings and inability to identify with anyone not fucked out of their damn mind on powdered bleach…
There some out there who are legitimately messed up instead of just making excuses for their failure at life…
Personally- I’m a volunteer prisoner of the damaged mentality, a caliber of which is so fucking intense that the very notion would spectacularly implode your organs one by one…
After all, life’s pretty damn straight without twisties…”
********************************************************
=/= Nameless minions scamper up and down the rotting wooden ramp, rampant pitter-pattering of footsteps echoing as like a stampede of elephants falling down a staircase as they erratically balance stolen plunder between themselves.
Majestically posturing in the middle of the commotion with the proper sense of assholery, a male figure draped in luxurious black and the spoils of piracy arrogantly barks orders from the salt kissed decks- a mocking sneer hidden beneath a shaggy beard of badly painted steel wool.
Subconsciously, one gnarled hand rests loosely around the ornate handle of his sheathed blade, gleaming in the muted lantern light, a sharp security blanket for the woefully pathetic.
As the hustle and bustle resounds off stone walls and sodden wood, the thick aroma of sweat soaked rags and rum hangs in the air like a fog while shadows dance across weathered grey as though some bizarre mating ritual- amid it all, no one seems to notice the rickety row boat floating aimlessly in the darkened waters, nor the two dripping stowaways clinging to the ships side.
Aboard the ‘Madeline June’, Black Bishop draws a clear jar from a coat pocket up to his face, peering inside with smugness- inside a fairy with hair of neon blue sits cross-legged and entirely unimpressed, assertively trying to ignore her captor. =/=
“Keep trying to ignore me Bell, you’re only prolonging the inevitable…”
=/= ‘Tinker’ Bell grimaces in disgust as Black Bishop chuckles, tapping the glass obnoxiously. =/=
“You know, I've heard of playing with your food but this, this is a new level of fucked up- even for your horrendously low standards.”
=/= Black Bishop smiles, drawing his blade and lunges, tip aimed for the throat, slicing through the air with menace as Amber ‘Pan’ dodges by a millisecond, circling behind him fluidly. With a guttural roar, minions swarm the deck armed with blunt and rusted blades- each one dispatched quickly by the pair, most tossed unceremoniously overboard.
Within the melee of bodies and clanging of metal, Black Bishop maintains distance from the advancing pair meanwhile losing his grip upon the glass jar as it drops to the deck with a dull thud.
Almost in slow motion, the jar rolls along the deck towards the edge- unbeknownst until the last moment as it teeters- ‘Tinker’ Bell watching helplessly as Amber makes a last desperate lunge before it disappears over the edge, she can only watch as the jar quickly disappears beneath the stained red, with an expression of indifference.
Meanwhile Black Bishop turns his attention towards Ripper briefly enough for Amber to scramble back to her feet and drive her blade into the kidney of a distracted Bishop, the forward momentum driving him towards and over the edge without vocal objection- still dumbstruck as the bloodied dagger slips from his flesh with a sickening squelch as he tumbles awkwardly into the churning red below.
Before a breath can be taken, before a word can be spoken- as if on instinct, Amber and Ripper turn towards each other- weapons drawn and plunged into flesh.
No words spoken as eyes meet and the spark slowly fades… =/=
*******************************************************
(Narration)
“It is said we are defined by our greatest rival…
In my case it’s a demonic dog with a penchant for chasing its tail- snapping rabidly until it catches a taste and immediately let’s go cause it fucking hurts.
Doesn’t do much for my legacy considering the number of his knives twisted in my back- each one driven just a little further in than the last by an unrequited lust quenched only by the sight of my blood soaking his hands.
Ripper, darling, Ripper.
Can never quite decide who he wants to be- at one point he claimed himself a demon- faithfully following a master that may or may not have been a geriatric fraud, other times he claims himself as a simple suit trying to avoid confrontation as to not pull a thread from his knock off Armani.
He has been a friend, a comrade, a co-champion, an opponent, a monster, a right bollocks and really just a general cunt…
However, despite the continual identity crisis- there are things that a haircut and outfit change can’t hide… Overwhelming mediocrity that seems to accompany always being just one step behind. A need to be seen as a martyr by the trusting and gullible. An obsession to chase something he can never catch…
However despite all his shortcomings, which there are many, he is something more important than any of those things… A constant.
When the time does come and he eventually has the chance to wrap his fingers around my throat- I know he won’t end this cyclic misery.
Maybe its time I take this old dog out behind the shed and put a bullet between its eyes…
Perhaps one day my darling Ripper will look back and he’ll realize the stupidity of his vendettas and be left simpering in the corner like a child too fucking embarrassed to admit to his overbearing mother that he has pissed his pants in public again…”
When it’s all said and done- he who laughs last, laughs best.
Cliché at its finest yet obvious when you think about it… After all, they’re the only one left standing in the gloriously tragic warfare they brought down upon every poor soul who ever considered themselves any kind of threat….
Souls left empty to the point of being comical….”
“There is no such thing as immortality, one can live as long as sun baked stones our precious cities are built upon but death is a patient mistress and she always gets her prize.
Dynasties crumble beneath the weight of expectation, legacies fade upon forgotten brittle pages and accomplishments wilt in the face of a glaring reality… Still everyone believes that they will be the one to defy, deluded with the vague possibility of eternal grandeur.
Pan. A name synonymous with evading the rigours of time, however even that is simply a façade… After all, I should know.
A descendant of the original, just another face falling into line.
I had a name of my own, just like any other- perhaps as utterly forgettable in the grander scheme of things but I came to quickly realize that no one will ever remember how you happen to be labelled, only the depth of the footprint you leave in the shifting sand.
As an adult, you’re taught that eventually you’ll have to pay the ferryman and receive judgement for time you sent on the mortal coil- however as a child… You’re taught to fantasise about never growing up and going on wild adventures across Neverland.
Same shit, different point of view.
Charon crosses the Styx, I seek the second star to the right- we’re just a means to a detached end. Sometimes those we carry make it across, sometimes they fall by the wayside- we shed no tear for them nor do we rejoice, we simply carry on cause contrary to popular belief- life manages to carry on, with an upturned nose of cruel indifference, just fine without you…”
********************************************************
=/= Glistening drops of dew linger on the edges of emerald leaves, capturing the morning sun like tiny kaleidoscopic tears shed from the face of God himself while birds like mottled precious stones flutter effortlessly between gnarled branches and dense foliage, twittering obnoxiously as though self-professed celebrities.
Cutting a swathe through the forest like a river of fissured grey flecked with moss, rugged stones meander between knotted trunks blotting out all but the most persistent of sunlight- a squirrel glances about anxiously on the path like a crack addict waiting for their dealer in the middle of a busy street, glassy eyes trying to see everything at once.
Muffled grumblings in the near distance send the jumpy squirrel scampering for cover, bushy ginger tail raised like a warning flag as short, weary figures emerge into puddles of sunlight.
Children, grubby faced and dressed in rags murmur between themselves, shame hovering like a dark cloud above their heads as whispers of accusation flit between them like scornful butterflies. =/=
“We should have just stayed”
“What’s the worst she could do…”
“How about kill us for losing the fairy”
“She won’t even know!”
“Every atom is a snoopy balloon”
=/= Ignoring the somewhat retarded child’s outburst, the rest continue to hiss feverishly yet weakly, so wrapped up with their fear of being overheard that they have company lounging lazily on a tree branch nearby. =/=
“Were you never told that it’s rude to talk about people behind their back?”
=/= Young faces, eyes full of fearful recognition realize quickly they’ve been busted in the act- caught in the glare of a pair of steely and rather unimpressed blue-green eyes. =/=
“Something the matter? Come now, you had no problem discussing me before so why falter now!
Go ahead and tell me what a bitch slut cunt whore I am or how I’m not worth the dirt that lines your boots- oh yawn.
Talk shit when you have something original and not just a bunch of expletives strung together in a grammatically incorrect sentence.”
“I- uh”
“Lost for words? I find it hard to believe…”
=/= Amber ‘Pan’ swings her legs off the edge of the tree branch, elbows resting lightly upon knees, thick locks of crimson like a waterfall of fire and wine tumbling over one shoulder in a messy plait. =/=
“I suppose it really is easy to talk a big game, after all that’s why so many do it… Believing no one will hold them to those hollow, wasteful threats… Words are nothing but sounds tumbling clumsily from an overly wide face hole when there is no action to back them up.
Riddle me this… If you threaten to tear another person throat out with your bare hands and you don’t do it- what does that make you?
Hypocritical perhaps, a liar for certain… Why should anyone believe anything you say when your words amount to nothing more than verbal diarrhoea.”
=/= Amber ‘Pan’ watches the children squirm on the spot, looking to each other for comfort and a damn backbone between them. =/=
“If there is one thing to learn from this- never take things personally kiddies, it always hurts more when you do”
*****************************************************
(Narration)
“Fairies are strange little creatures…
Always a chip on their shoulder, always something to prove, always waiting for someone to rescue them from the quicksand they consistently find themselves in.
Despite my overwhelming indifference, I can’t help but admire ‘Tinker’ Bell.
Ambitious and yet so very naïve, wanting to believe the best in people, giving the benefit of the doubt to those who have no reason to deserve it for the umpteenth time- I suppose it’s like touching fire and believing it won’t burn you because at one time or another it really gave the tiniest of fucks. Honest.
Maybe I should take a page from her book, show faith in a world that would rather harvest my organs for money and bathe their underdeveloped genitals in my blood than respect my right to sarcastic detachment.
Perhaps that rose tinted fairy tale fuck up doesn’t suit me after all.
Fool me once, fool me twice- the fairy prince can’t be hiding beneath the surface of every douchebag. There are only so many frogs you can kiss before herpes come calling…
Of course I’m certainly not one to begrudge a happy ending, there may be few I know who deserve it more than ‘Tinker’ Bell however my shoulder will not be there to cry upon when the tattered fantasy proves to be little more than the flushed dreams of a low quality Vegas stripper.
I will warn her of the rising tides as I have done many times before however I know she will pay me little heed, one cannot keep jumping in the deep end just to prove they know how to swim.
Eventually the waters will rise over even the most determined of heads, only then will ‘Tinker’ Bell realized she has flailed above her weight for too long- maybe I’ll extend my hand and pull her from the depths… Maybe I won’t.
There’s a very good reason why fairies don’t live for long…”
*****************************************************
=/= Open water ripples as though the feet of a thousand tiny dancers twirl and dance across the sun-kissed surface as waves capped with pale foam surge across sand, grasping shallow footprints and careless remnants left half buried and all forgotten.
Lightly salted breezes twirl around the sole male figure staring out across the water, red tails lined with false gold flutter lightly as the tattered jacket hangs loosely, blonded hair slicked back with a blasé smirk and harsh eyes squinting slightly under the suns glare towards where Skull Rock looms with sightless eyes and hollow smile. It’s stony omniscient gaze perhaps knowing every dirty little secret lurking beneath the superficially pleasant surface, simply waiting for mortality to strike even the ‘immortal’ down in their tracks.
Soft footsteps crunch towards where the figure stands stoically, smirk spreading like a disease across his features. Without turning, he addresses the figure with a cold recognition. =/=
“I’m sure this isn’t just a courtesy call, Red”
“If it were, I doubt there’d be much courtesy to receive”
=/= Amber ‘Pan’ stops beside the male figure, neither making eye contact as though some unspoken agreement between the pair.
Signature green outfit darkly speckled as she wipes her hands reflexively, dark smears of red in the wake…=/=
“Ripper, can you to get me to Skull Rock?”
“Flying too passé for you now?”
“If it were an option, I wouldn’t be wasting my time here”
“What’s in it for me?”
“How about not being a cunt”
=/= Ripper turns with a chuckle, a glint of metal flecked with rust along its semi-sharpened edge catches Amber ‘Pan’s eye, his hand replaced with a bloodstained blade. =/=
“Charming as ever I see”
“We’ll just blame it on too many hits to the head”
“What’s Skull Rock got of interest anyway”
“I didn’t realize you cared”
“I don’t”
=/= It’s Ambers turn to chuckle briefly, her gaze averting from the prosthetic blade back to the ominous smiling stone. =/=
“I have reason to believe that Black Bishop has his hands on a nosy little fairy”
“You keep chasing every time she gets into trouble…”
“Makes me feel better that someone might have more issues than me”
=/= Ripper shrugs with a knowing smile, his eyes move to the suspicious scarlet stains sprayed across her front but knows better not to comment. =/=
“Black Bishop- that certainly changes things”
“I thought it might”
******************************************************
(Narration)
“Some are the virus.
A societal cancer that ravenously spreads just below the murky scum-lined surface, an unquenchable fire burning the brown ring of decency, an infection that rots the genitals of civilization caught from a greasy French hooker with no term for hygiene.
While others are the antidote.
An injection of pure antibiotic goodness straight into cocaine laced veins, a cure-all for the venom seeping from morally squalid pores, an omnipresent blaze cauterizing the dishonourable family line.
Delusion is like an addiction, glorifying a point of view that exists solely within a psyche on par with a spoiled prawn sandwich.
So easy to believe the hype, even when the hype falls from your lips alone- I suppose if you tell someone a lie often enough, they’ll come to believe it as truth regardless of how absurd it sounds.
Black Bishop believes he rules with charisma- even though his personality is dwarfed by a bent teaspoon. Believes he dictates with ruthless ferocity- even though his idea of ferocity is little more than pulling hair and calling mean names.
Believes his lack of respect for everyone without an absurdly high testosterone level simply makes him another level of superior instead of just a regular a-hole.
Perhaps the insults are considered quality in the playground and reduce the rest of the kiddies to relentless tears however my skin is just a little too thick to to be bothered by the countless expletives cluttering his limited vocabulary.
Perhaps the chauvinistic propaganda he preaches with such fervour may hold water for some, even if that water is lined with faecal matter and toxic sludge… Those derogatory and bigoted claims straight out of the 1950’s ‘how to train your wife’ manual alienating everyone who happens to have two brains cells worth rubbing together.
What will it take to break a die-hard from his precious time warp- perhaps a jump to the left or even a step to the right… However there will be no pelvic thrusting here for there are immature minds about!!
Someone once spoke of speaking softly and carrying a large stick- I suppose that makes Black Bishop dyslexic…
Yet for such a simple minded creature fuelled by chemical highs and degrading lows- he harbours so much… anger.
Could it simply be a side effect of all that pixie dust mixed with a healthy dose of bath salts coursing through his addled veins or perhaps his inadequacy as a man having to continually prove himself to women charging a fiver for a quick disabled toilet blowjob…
If that were me, I suppose I’d be pretty mad too…
Mirror mirror, shattered on the floor- who really is the maddest of them all?
While he plays the crazy card to justify his shortcomings and inability to identify with anyone not fucked out of their damn mind on powdered bleach…
There some out there who are legitimately messed up instead of just making excuses for their failure at life…
Personally- I’m a volunteer prisoner of the damaged mentality, a caliber of which is so fucking intense that the very notion would spectacularly implode your organs one by one…
After all, life’s pretty damn straight without twisties…”
********************************************************
=/= Nameless minions scamper up and down the rotting wooden ramp, rampant pitter-pattering of footsteps echoing as like a stampede of elephants falling down a staircase as they erratically balance stolen plunder between themselves.
Majestically posturing in the middle of the commotion with the proper sense of assholery, a male figure draped in luxurious black and the spoils of piracy arrogantly barks orders from the salt kissed decks- a mocking sneer hidden beneath a shaggy beard of badly painted steel wool.
Subconsciously, one gnarled hand rests loosely around the ornate handle of his sheathed blade, gleaming in the muted lantern light, a sharp security blanket for the woefully pathetic.
As the hustle and bustle resounds off stone walls and sodden wood, the thick aroma of sweat soaked rags and rum hangs in the air like a fog while shadows dance across weathered grey as though some bizarre mating ritual- amid it all, no one seems to notice the rickety row boat floating aimlessly in the darkened waters, nor the two dripping stowaways clinging to the ships side.
Aboard the ‘Madeline June’, Black Bishop draws a clear jar from a coat pocket up to his face, peering inside with smugness- inside a fairy with hair of neon blue sits cross-legged and entirely unimpressed, assertively trying to ignore her captor. =/=
“Keep trying to ignore me Bell, you’re only prolonging the inevitable…”
=/= ‘Tinker’ Bell grimaces in disgust as Black Bishop chuckles, tapping the glass obnoxiously. =/=
“You know, I've heard of playing with your food but this, this is a new level of fucked up- even for your horrendously low standards.”
=/= Black Bishop smiles, drawing his blade and lunges, tip aimed for the throat, slicing through the air with menace as Amber ‘Pan’ dodges by a millisecond, circling behind him fluidly. With a guttural roar, minions swarm the deck armed with blunt and rusted blades- each one dispatched quickly by the pair, most tossed unceremoniously overboard.
Within the melee of bodies and clanging of metal, Black Bishop maintains distance from the advancing pair meanwhile losing his grip upon the glass jar as it drops to the deck with a dull thud.
Almost in slow motion, the jar rolls along the deck towards the edge- unbeknownst until the last moment as it teeters- ‘Tinker’ Bell watching helplessly as Amber makes a last desperate lunge before it disappears over the edge, she can only watch as the jar quickly disappears beneath the stained red, with an expression of indifference.
Meanwhile Black Bishop turns his attention towards Ripper briefly enough for Amber to scramble back to her feet and drive her blade into the kidney of a distracted Bishop, the forward momentum driving him towards and over the edge without vocal objection- still dumbstruck as the bloodied dagger slips from his flesh with a sickening squelch as he tumbles awkwardly into the churning red below.
Before a breath can be taken, before a word can be spoken- as if on instinct, Amber and Ripper turn towards each other- weapons drawn and plunged into flesh.
No words spoken as eyes meet and the spark slowly fades… =/=
*******************************************************
(Narration)
“It is said we are defined by our greatest rival…
In my case it’s a demonic dog with a penchant for chasing its tail- snapping rabidly until it catches a taste and immediately let’s go cause it fucking hurts.
Doesn’t do much for my legacy considering the number of his knives twisted in my back- each one driven just a little further in than the last by an unrequited lust quenched only by the sight of my blood soaking his hands.
Ripper, darling, Ripper.
Can never quite decide who he wants to be- at one point he claimed himself a demon- faithfully following a master that may or may not have been a geriatric fraud, other times he claims himself as a simple suit trying to avoid confrontation as to not pull a thread from his knock off Armani.
He has been a friend, a comrade, a co-champion, an opponent, a monster, a right bollocks and really just a general cunt…
However, despite the continual identity crisis- there are things that a haircut and outfit change can’t hide… Overwhelming mediocrity that seems to accompany always being just one step behind. A need to be seen as a martyr by the trusting and gullible. An obsession to chase something he can never catch…
However despite all his shortcomings, which there are many, he is something more important than any of those things… A constant.
When the time does come and he eventually has the chance to wrap his fingers around my throat- I know he won’t end this cyclic misery.
Maybe its time I take this old dog out behind the shed and put a bullet between its eyes…
Perhaps one day my darling Ripper will look back and he’ll realize the stupidity of his vendettas and be left simpering in the corner like a child too fucking embarrassed to admit to his overbearing mother that he has pissed his pants in public again…”
When it’s all said and done- he who laughs last, laughs best.
Cliché at its finest yet obvious when you think about it… After all, they’re the only one left standing in the gloriously tragic warfare they brought down upon every poor soul who ever considered themselves any kind of threat….
Souls left empty to the point of being comical….”
