All credit to it's original conception still goes to Jhereko. Again, all add to novel, make your post as long or short as you want, just don't post twice consecutively. (You don't have to copy and paste previous entries)
Anyway here's what you may have missed
| The original authors wrote: | The heavy rain always masked unpleasant sounds. A crying baby, a barking dog, The Joshua Tree – it was almost like the rain was protecting our ears. This night though the rain was covering over someone screaming. In the dilapidated house on the corner of Manic St there were constant screams – but you couldn’t hear them unless you were 2 feet away from the source. As it so happened a cloaked man with stringy dark hair coming out from under his hood, was.
“I don’t believe you” uttered the cloaked man whose face was still hidden.
“I’m telling you the truth bruv!” cried the pale man tied to the chair.
“No one could like James Blake” hissed the cloaked man
“M8, Why would I lie about this?” said the prisoner in a thick irish accent.
“There are these…people…who are dishonest about what they like, I know it I just know it. There was something there..now it’s gone and floated off into the ether”
“Do you have proof?”
The cloaked man cackled a sickening high pitched cackle.
“Proof? You only have to listen to the music. I don’t like James Blake therefore it is dishonest for you to like it.”
“Look M8 I’m not even that bothered…I just wanna go down to the pub and have a pint. Te-toy-te-tay.”
“Look, GeevyDallas or DLGGLD whatever your name is today…You’re not going anywhere until you admit that you only like James Blake to look cool”
“I won’t admit that because it’s not true. Look I’m actually an alien in this country I just want to go home.”
“Alien? You say?”
“Aye, I’m from Eyerrrrlandddd te-toy-te-tay.”
“Alien…what…what if we shoot an alien?”
“Now- what do you mean ‘we’?” Geevy asked
“’We’ ‘they’ that is all there is” the cloaked man stated while pulling out a pistol and aiming it
“Now steady on mate, it’s just an album chart” Geevy pleaded
“There is no such thing as ‘just a chart’ in BEAland Geevy, you know that.”
“Okay, just try not to get any blood on my sneakers M8” Geevy cried
Outside the rain masked the screams again. a wet newspaper flew by. it read: 'MANIC STREET KILLER strikes again'.
Meanwhile, in a place far away, the one only known as "The Dingo's worst nightmare" extinguished his last Pall Mall as he played the final note on his new synthesizer, unable to muster any new creative ideas due to the fatigue of today's... unpleasent... buisness. Packing it away for the night, he double-checked to make sure both the doors of his small farmhouse was locked before heading to bed. Right before he was able to finally fall into his much-deserved slumber, the phone rang with what seemed like a violent urgency, maybe the fact that it was early in the mourning along with nobody having called him on his landline in a long, long time that sounded his personal alarm bell. Picking it up a bit hesitantly, he held it up to his ear and said "yes, who's calling?". "It's me, motherbitch", said the barry white-like voice that was coming from the otherline, "and Im calling you because he's back again", and the very next instant he could hear the person, the one he knew all too well, hang up with a particular potency. The brevity of the call, however, said everything this man needed to know, and after a long silence where he just say wide-eyed in the dark, he went downstairs, terrified of knowing what he needed to do next.
Purple puts the phone down on the receiver. I raise an eyebrow.
We'd done dirty work before. Made our share of messes. But tonight we were cleaning up after someone else. A grey matter rorschach pattern had been painted on the far wall of the hotel room with a shotgun, and the artist was laying before us, sprawled upon the floor, skull blown off from the jaw up, gore seeped carpet beneath her holy head. The maker and the medium. In the bathroom a vague warning is smeared on the glass in white lipstick. "He has come back again".
"What about the man," I say, bringing a cigarette to my lips, "the one they said was staying here with her?"
Purple walks forward and lifts the girl's skirt with his cane, "I don't think we have to worry about him anymore".
I stare between the fetid legs of death, "good call" I nod.
After dissolving the body we leave, I squirt some purel on my hands and rinse, rinse like I'm not used to blood on my hands. Closing the door, Purple slips the sign reading "Pam" out of the tab at the front of the door so it reads "vacant". Tonight was going to be a very long night indeed.
Different day, different country. The cloaked man, reluctant to surrender the mystique created by his strange fashion choices, was burning under the hot Australian sun. He looked at his watch and sighed. His objective was late. Typical of these hypocrites. This one was special, though. His lies went deeper than only music - he also pretended to enjoy bad and weird movies.
The pale man was starting to sweat. He wouldn't take his cloak off, not ever. He saw something move out of the corner of his yellow, slitted eye. A young man was walking down the dry, hot street. He was wearing a white shirt with rhombuses on it.
"Rhombuses? That's wrong. That's bad taste. Why'd he wear that?" the man wondered.
He followed the unsuspecting man down a couple of blocks, using this thing humans called "newspapers" to conceal himself whenever the target looked around. He started getting apprehensive, he had had enough of this small town in the middle of nowhere. He was ready for his mission.
David opened the front door to his house. He saw a strange shadow move quickly, and then everything went black. When he opened his eyes, his head hurt. He was dangling by his wrists from a rope in the ceiling of his living room.
"Greetings, human." said the pale, robed man. "I've come to unravel your lies."
"What the foick, mate? What's the foick's happening?", said the hanging man as he struggled. "This isn't noice at all"
The alien unraveled a list, smirking. Tsk, tsk.
"Owen Pallett, The Books, Talk Shmalk. Tim Hecker. Why?" asked the man sitting in David's couch.
"What are you toilking about? Is this about last noight?"
"Why would you lie about the music you listen to? Is it just to seem cooler than everyone else?"
"What the fuck. I like those bands. Now would you please untiee me?"
"Don't. Lie. It won't help you. Admit your sin and you'll walk out of here alive. Why do you people insist on pretending about the music you enjoy? I don't understand it. William Basinski. Who could ever enjoy that? Nobody. You're all lying."
"Jesus Christ, mate. I really do like that kind of music! Music taste is subjective, after all."
"That word. It keeps coming up. My translator modules can't find the correct translation in my native language."
Suddenly, he reached an item in the list which made him cringe. He narrowed his eyes and hissed sharply.
"Joanna. Newsom. There's no forgiveness for you. Arty garbage for liberal chic students."
The pale man looked up and smiled. His mission wasn't over yet. He would get to the bottom of this.
He raised his gun and aimed carefully at the Australian's terrified face.
Somewhere, in a place in the far north, removed from civilization as most of us know it, a japanese schoolgirl and a muscle-shirt-and-shades spouting local were trading jokes and insults at an eskimo bar. "I do honestly have the Good Vibrations" the boy known as Nachesian said with a smirk, and his friend known only as Ritsu emphatically rolled her eyes, suggesting they put on some Kenny G. "Haha fuck no" said Nach, "Im rocking some XX" he said as he made his way over to the jukebox. "Fucking douche" muttured ritsu as she went back to her cocktail. "Oh they're all like that" chuckled the one nearest to her at the bar. Stopping for a second, Ritsu replied "I haven't seen you here before, who are you?". "Oh you may know who I am" said the stranger, and he pulled up his hand and formed a mouth with his thumb and index finger and changed his voice completely, and instantly Ritsu felt a flush of excitement. "Finnigan!" she exclaimed immediately. "Indeed, he's super bad ass" he replied instantly. "Holy shit, what are you doing here?" asked Ritsu with great curiosity. "Im actually here to see you two" he said with a sudden solemnity.
"we watch things on V-C-Rrrrrs" Nach hummed as he returned to the bar, after noticing a new stranger was talking to his friend he immediately got curious. "Who are you?" Nach echoed ritsu as he introduced himself to the stranger, noticing ritsu's countenance of trepidation. "Not to beat around the bush, Im here to see both of you. Something bad is happening, in a place far from here, but it's involving people you have known in the past, have worked for. Im only a messenger, but I know mentioning the words... (he looked over both his shoulders and dropped his voice to a quiet whisper)... Dingo's nightmare... will tell you all he need to know. Because someone is back, and that's only part of the story. There's more this time. All I want to give you is this". He handed Nach a piece of paper. Reading it slowly, all the good vibes he was feeling this evening dissipated immediately. "The one's responsible for delivering this message need you. Right away. That is all I can tell you at the moment, for I know nothing more. But is likely you will see me again. I wish you all the best of luck. You're going to need it" he said, never changing his tone of utter solemnity and clear sense of dread. "What's your name in case we need to contact you again?" asked Nach. Stopping for a second, the messenger responded with "My given name is unimportant, but you can call this number (he handed them a card), on a secure line, and ask only for "Junodog".
It was close to midnight as the cloaked man made his way back to a quiet and idyllic neighbourhood somewhere in the suburbs of West Midlands. He approached a modest but newly built house that, despite its average appearance, still gave away the feeling of being abandoned. That thought had crossed his mind, as he observed his untidy front lawn and watched the leaves rustle underneath his feet. Suddenly, as if he had heard a sound, he turned around and looked down the street. The light was on in the house at the end of the street, but apart from that, the world around him seemed asleep. Still, not being able to shake the feeling of being watched, he wasted no more moments before unlockinng the door and finally entering the house.
There was an uneasy emptiness to the living room. A smashed television with DVDs ripped apart laying in front of it on one side of the room, and only one piece of furniture - a rocking chair, turned towards the corner, where the only remaining object in the room stood. The sight of the Christmas tree, fully decorated for months, brought the cloaked man a smile on his face, and he slid into the chair, still fully dressed, to finally take a rest after what has been a long day. He joyfully observed the flickering lights on the tree, before being thrown out of his daze by a sound of a phone ringing. He slowly walked upstairs to the room where the sound was coming from. The phone, sitting on a night table was the only object in the room, but it has been used for other purposes before. The blood stains on white walls gave away that much. He picked up and waited for the person on the other side to speak.
They knew it was stupid. The long songs of voliatle rage clearly gave the impression (accurately, no doubt) that they we're playing Red House Painters. And what else would someone suspect when the words "FAAAAADEEE INTO UUUUUUUUU" we're uttered so slowly and dreamlike? Mazzy Star. An "unforgiveable" choice of music in these times. They saw the reports coming out of Manic Street, but they thought that just stayed on Manic Street. They were dead wrong. This was happening everywhere.
When Golden Walrus woke up, he noticed several things. First he noticed a heavy bag was covering his face, with only tiny slits giving them any sort of outside view. He noticed his friend, known only as Mr Toader, lying next to him. He noticed they we're chained to the ground they were laying on. If that wasn't alarming enough, it was becoming clear that the pitch black room they were currently inhabiting was moving, as they could hear the gravel being drove on beneath them. Instantly he wanted to communicate with Toader, but with that the most frightning discovery was made: his lips were sown shut.
It seemed like an eternity this drive for which they had no idea how it started nor where they were going. Eventually they heard some wheezes and then the vehicle that must've been transporting them came to a sudden halt. For a while (too long) there was nothing but silence. Then a pair of doors directly behind them swung open, and two pairs of hands violenty grabbed hold of them and pulled them outside. Being dragged along what seemed like a rough gravel walkway, Golden Walrus could vagely make out what was happening around him. Scarily Mr Toader looked lifeless behind him. Perhaps more hideous was the person dragging him down the road. His face seemed...carved... into a hideous grin, and he caught a glimpse of his forehead, where a dark tattoo was conspiciously blazing the logo OBJECTIVITY. Not knowing what to make of this, GW kept his head down, desperately thinking of a way he could get out of this. After about a block or so walk, they eventually arrived at what seemed like an almost medieval castle, something that had to be very, very old. They were a long way from their beloved Bay Area allright. As they were forced up to the front doors, Golden Walrus noticed the words JG on the giant handles.
After they were forced inside, their masks were removed and the doors swung close quickly behind him. Golden Walrus initially tried to make his way back to the doors, but hearing what sounded like a giant bolt being placed against them and remembering the steel handcuffs were still upon him, it made the attempt at a quick escape useless. His eyes veered wildly across the room. He noticed his friend was slowly stirring awake, but still looked pretty dazed and lifeless. The more striking thing he realized was how their was a bright light glaring above them, but at the other end of the room there was an almost force-field like sphere of total darkness. He had no idea what was happening other than he was scared out of his wits.
"So nice of you to join us here" a high male voice called out suddenly. Startled, GW noticed it was coming out of the sphere of darkness. Instinctively he wanted to call out for help, but of course that wasn't possible now. "Do you enjoy Hayden?" the stranger replied after a long, tense pause, and then paused again as if GW could respond. "Who? You may ask that. Well I think he's the world. luckily I have him right here. Hayden!" the man yelled and then snapped his fingers. An eerie blue light suddenly appeared to the right of the sphere, and Walrus noticed a boy, about his age of eighteen, was standing there with a giant saxophone and started to play, a composition so calm and perfect it was, under these circumstances, utterly terrifying. After he played for a minute, the shadow-hidden man replied "hmm, doesn't seem to be to your liking. I guess if it's not about hospices or computers that are OK, you people don't fawn over it. That's a shame. Well I guess enough of this nonsense, it's time for me to step out and explain what's going on before you're no longer able to hear it. Now I warn you, many people say I can be their very best nightmare. I prefer to say Im their sexiest" he said, exiting out of the darkness after he uttered that last word and finally revealing himself in the light. If GoldenWalrus could scream, he may have been able to shatter the walls, cause even after all this nothing prepared him for who he saw at this very second.
"Just one more?"
The bartender shook his head.
"Then I'll take my business elsewhere, thankyouverymuch" slurred Purple, as he span around, slipped off the barstool and proceeded to get violently acquainted with the particular texture and aroma of the establishment's piss-soaked floor.
He got to his feet and stared wildly around the room, searching for his partner. As it so happened, Jack was currently being assaulted by a gang of skinheaded twenty-somethings and involuntarily exiting the building via a shattering window. While Purple knew that based on prior outings this was probably entirely Jack's fault, he nevertheless felt obliged to permanently blind at least one of the assailants. He grabbed a pool cue and beat down two of the boys before being winded by an incoming fist. He too was thrown through the window, albeit with less shattering.
Purple landed on the pavement next to Jack.
"What the hell did you say to piss these guys off?"
"Nothing! I asked if any of them were fans of Coheed and Cambria and they just went nuts."
"I'm too fucking drunk to think of a witty response right now."
The skinheads piled out of the window and stood over them. One crouched down and whispered to Jack.
"This is just a warning. Don't let us catch you talking like that again, or we might be inclined to give you a tattoo."
The skinheads chuckled at Jack's confused expression. One by one they rolled up their sleeves, revealing the same identical tattoo:
OBJECTIVITY
The skinheads strolled back then into the pub, as Purple threw up all over Jack's face. |
TO CONTINUE:
As usual, all the one simply known as "Lethal" wanted was a good dish of curry and a cheap pint. This place was remote enough, where surely he wouldn't be discovered. He's done a lifetime of troubling things to give himself a global reputation and a well-deserved monikor of "Lethal", but this tiny, quaint pub seemed innocous enough. Indeed the place had good food and the cheap pint was perfectly pleasent, so all seemed to work out. However, the music kept blaring, alternating between whatever generic fit of masculine rage, and the locals kept turning it up and making a constant racket. Calmly he tried to ask him if they would turn it down a bit, please. What, you don't like it? asked the one who seemed to be their, uh, leader of sorts, due to the fact he was banging his head the longest. I just want to enjoy my meal in peace, Lethal said with equal calmness. Haha, no way, this music is the greatest ever, objective fact. That line made him cringe, but he grinned and beared it for a little bit. Eventually one of them asked So what kind of music does the almighty enjoy?, clearly mocking him in the lamest way possible. Uh, I enjoy hip-hop the most but things like reggae, singer-songwriter and dub-step as well. They all snorted. Oh fucking hell, like Rappers have any talent, as they turned around and went back to their pool tables.
They dug their own shallow graves at that point.
He was taking shelter deep in the woods where he was sure nobody would find him, with the only person he knew in the world he could trust. He was being treated to a bottle of fine wine and many great ominiously soothing singer-songwriter records by this more courteous gentlemen. Given he did have to watch one-man plays where the one known as Namron Setab would alternate between his own clothes and that of his dead mother's, but I guess that was just inevitable in a safe house like this. All seemed to be going well until they heard a knock on the door late at night. Lethal jumped up with a fright, but Namron told him to be calm and wait up here while he checked it out. Peeking out from the door, Lethal saw Namron open the door and a short-statue visitor appeared at the doorstep. "Hello, I am here to partake a message to Lethal. It's okay, I come in peace, but Dingo's Nightmare needs him now. He (saying 'He' with particular emphasis) is back, but the problem is there seems to be a lot more this time. Lethal is needed badly, and were more than willing to protect him from his outside problems he's currently experiencing. Please give this to him, it's life and death now. That is all" and he disseapered in an instant.
Lethal sat stone faced in the doorway. Ramron came back up and after stopping at Lethal's door, he proclaimed "I guess the past will never truly stay buried. You're needed, as you must've heard. You know what to do".
Lethal went downstairs, knowing what he needed to bring to the meeting that was sure to take place and what he eventually needed to do. It wasn't going to be pleasent, but he's made his way in the world doing a lifetime of unpleasent things that needed to be done. After a long gulp, Lethal said goodbye and parted the safe house, on his way to meet the people he knew all too well.
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