Whats with random shit from my dashboard being turned into posts? Lovely as that photo of Darvill playing that synth was, i didnt intend to reblog it.
Anyway.
Whats with random shit from my dashboard being turned into posts? Lovely as that photo of Darvill playing that synth was, i didnt intend to reblog it.
Anyway.
I have no idea how that happened (the reblog.) Must’ve been careless about fingers on iPad. Anyway. Back to your regularly scheduled Silence.
A moment away from Chernobizzle: to show you a magic trick.
Here are two men, both dead. They wear virtually identical suits. They wear identical gold tie pins. The pins are elaborate and beautiful. The pins have a roaring lion’s head positioned, somewhat gruesomely, over a sword blade. Perhaps a tiny swordsman left before the sculptor was quite finished. There are garlands and laurels and olive branches aplenty, but if one looks closely, one observes in the intricate miniature branches and limbs and stalks a tiny but observable discontinuity. Not quite a break. Just a hairline fracture.
Et voila, a third man appears. Of course he has an upturned collar! And a beaten, slouchy fedora. Our magician.
He steps gingerly around the men. One is face-up and the other, lamentably, face down. The magician is careful to remain forensically neutral, but easily works his trick. He has made these two men back into plain old federal agents, who were killed in this very room, yards away from a giant rotting bug of some sort. The identity of the killer is known to the authorities at this time and now back to
Chernobizzle was halfway to the Pathways, using side streets and the occasional back alley, when an actual voice came from an actual darkened doorway. In the shadows he saw a small but man-sized form - maybe a teenager still looking forward to learning to drive. He stepped a little closer and the shadowy mirage shrank until a tiny tabby kitten looked up at him. “You’re being followed,” the kitten said, in lightly accented but perfectly clear English.
“Thanks, buddy,” Chernobizzle said. He finished tucking in his shirt while he considered a palate cleanser. “I’m aware of the situation.”
The kitten just stared at him.
Chernobizzle stared back.
The kitten kept staring until it said, a moment later, “Oh Crampus. Look, I’ll scratch your ears if you’ll scratch mine. Fair?”
Chernobizzle thought for a second and then started to lean down. The kitten rolled its eyes and once the humanish Chernobizzle was almost within reach, he let out his mightiest war howl and charged up Chernobizzle’s arm, tiny claws making a dainty ripping noise in the wool of his jacket sleeve. The kitten got to his shoulder and started air-boxing with many a tiny hiss and growl. After a moment’s strenuous exercise, the kitten turned and looked Chernobizzle in the eye from mere inches away. There was a tiny golden thing pinned between his fine razor fangs. The golden thing looked like a shrimp that was maybe an inch long fully stretched out.
The kitten locked eyes with him and bit down on the metal thing in its jaws. The shrimp thing made a popping noise and a brilliant, pure white ball of light expanded past both of them and then disappeared.
In the crazed blurs of short-term retinal damage, all that was clearly visible to our hero was a tiny pair of eyes and tiny glowing-white teeth. The cat belched directly into his nostrils and said, “Well? They’re not gonna scratch themselves, fucker.”
They were pounding at the door before he was even awake. He rolled over to the unmistakable stink of dead azuzodemon, observed a lack of respiration disturbing the fine hairs near her numerous spiracles, noticed the dried slime. He didn’t have to cut her open to know that her ichor was still, unmoving. She was gone.
Deader than Hell, one might say if one had never visited. If nothing else, Hell is a lively place, and it is always open for business.
So he danced over to the door, leaning well back as he peeped through. Two men in somber blue suits, one short and one tall, stood there. Each also wore a gold tie pin that shouted their membership in the elite Vatican Special Operations Division. Hard men with hard haircuts and hard expressions.
They superficially resembled humans, but then again, so did Chernobizzle. Two Kennebunkport Vatican troops, even SOD, even if they had some demon in the woodpile, shouldn’t be a problem.
“Who is it?” he called in a singsong falsetto.
“Is that Chernobizzle the Charmed, demon of the Fifth Rank?” the tall one called back.
Well, fuck, he thought. They knew his name. The public version, anyway.
He threw open the door, grabbed the tall one by the face - so very kind of evolution to place such useful handholds on the human face! - and brought the other one in close for what an onlooker might believe to be a friendly one-armed hug.
Human after all. They didnt react. He crushed the tall one’s skull with his lamentably weak host’s hands and ate the other.
Not the whole guy. That would be ridiculous: there wasn’t an ounce of mustard in the hotel room.
Just his soul. It tasted bland and wan, like a Communion wafer chased with water.
He took their weapons. The guns, anyway. Just standard-issue H&K pieces. Jacking a round out of one, he detected the distinct odor of multi-purpose rounds, meant for a pretty good array of supernatural targets.
It should go without saying that he didn’t touch the tie-pin badges. Those had some ass to them. Human host, Fifth Rank inhabitant… His hand would probably explode like a bony balloon. Never mind the twin geasa the badges would lay on him, causing him to stay in his current host and seek out the nearest Vatican representative.
He burped. How could something so bland and boring on the way down, come up so rancid and meaty?
So once there was a demon named Chernobizzle. He played steam baritone saxophone in a trio: the drummer was a werewolf and the bassist was an angel.
One night the angel ate the werewolf. The band pretty much broke up at that point.
Weeks later, during a bender, a man in Reno stabbed Chernobizzle just to watch him die. Supernaturally enough, Chernobizzle survived the encounter. And he had just decided to get off the human blood for a while again. Reno is just one of the many places where boundaries between dimensions are thin.
Another was Kennebunkport, Maine: the one other place on earth where the sound of a steam powered baritone saxophone was welcome. Chernobizzle was trying to get an album of standards together, including infernal classic “Glockenspiel Polka.” The album would be available for auditory download presently, and would be titled “Chernobizzle Live in Kennebizzle.”
But…
In a human bar, a woman in a red dress is frequently thought to be looking either for trouble or for love. There is a body of anecdotal evidence in support of this.
In a demon bar, a female in vintage dinoleathers is definitely up to something.
So when this female azuzodemon strutted his way and said, “Brother, can you help a Little Sister out,” of course Brother said yes. She didn’t have to tell him what she needed, but she needed plenty.
There was a thing, and someone had taken it from her. She wanted it back. He was fixed on her luscious ante-hips and her moist shoulder rings, or he might’ve gotten more out of her story. As it was, he had to figure it out as he went.
See, they went to bed together, squelchy sounds were made, room service provided liquors, and one thing and another and he wakes up next to her dead body.
