Saturday, February 18, 2012

All you do is talk and talk...

"It’s either this or I’ll destroy everything you love. Every single one of them, Doctor. I will parade them in front of you and I will kill them, slowly, in different, imaginative ways. Them AND their families, if they managed to make any families after you left them… And then I’ll stack them here, all the bodies. With name-tags, of course.
Or you’d rather see severed heads..?"

He glanced towards him and scratched his scruff.

"Mmm.. "

He paused for a brief moment.

"Maybe heads, better for identifying and remembering every name…

Beg, Doctor. You do it so gracefully… Beg and hope and pray for my benevolence. "


Thursday, February 9, 2012


John was a bit bored to sing this night, he knew about the gig since several months ago, it wasn’t like they got to play that often anyway, but he felt moody and bored and his fingers didn’t quite want to move, as the rest of his body and, possibly, his soul. He’d be happier at home with a beer, or several, listening to Joy Division and The Cure, but that’d prolly make his mood worse. Plus, he wasn’t the type that’d ditch his band to go and get wasted; he wasn’t even sufficiently famous for that. Yet, his fingers moved mechanically and the microphone felt superfluous in his hand. He listened to his own voice as from afar and kinda hoped they’d get to finish earlier but, looking at the audience in the club, that started dancing in the meantime, there wasn’t even a chance. So he did his best to sound at least amused and get it over with. He’d need to drink a lot after and forget everything.

He felt almost grateful that they got away with no encore, they usually did some extra songs more, but the bar had gone out of stout, so they let them stop since they couldn’t sell more. John smiled bitterly, they were like sluts, venue managers used them to sell stuff and threw ‘em away when they were not needed any more. He slowly shrugged. At least he got to do something he liked, if it wasn’t for this bloody mood…

He stood leaning at the wall, then paced around a bit staring at his shoes, waiting for the rest of the band to finish with all the socializing and packing, he only had his mike and monitor, hardly cumbersome things to pack, anyway…
Sighed and lit a ciggie, gawd he needed that, threw his head backwards, leaning at a wall, listening to the noise in the background.

John was too preoccupied thinking about his cigarette and swallowing its’ smoke, it going down into his lungs and out again, mesmerized by the sound of music in his internal PA system, tapping his hand on his thigh, 'twas The Beatles now ..the Walrus, goo goo goo joob.. when his ears informed him he was not alone.

"Lend me a fag?"


He growled between his teeth, the bleach stung and felt like it was eating through his flesh, but, in the same time he liked it in a weird way. It felt like it was provoking him to be angry and he liked angry, he needed angry, he felt so confused and angry and… powerful and was practically waiting for something or someone to taunt him, craving for release.

He dipped his hands into the water in the sink, still stung. He washed his face and waited, he haven’t kept the box so he’d have to estimate the amount of time it’d take for his hair to be completely different than before, he wouldn’t risk everything looking still like Harold Saxon, even if he was wearing old and tattered clothes now – a blessing he acquired from a VERY short lived friendship – he still looked like him so he needed something drastic.

He stretched his back and waited more, looking angrily at the mirror.

He shoved his head under the faucet and started rinsing maniacally, get rid of that stuff, the sting, off with it, off, he wasn’t going to be waiting any more, that ought to be enough, this thing was powerful the damage to his hair color would be considerable by now. He felt so hot and full of energy his hands were almost dry now so did his hair, it felt weird but good, starving though, really starving, he could eat a whole…

Man. In his bathroom. In his public bathroom, anyway, it was HIS regardless. He swiftly turned, there was a muffled sound of joints cracking, vertebrae.

"Why you…!"

He stopped and abruptly changed his tone, no need to be obvious, you are not desperate, Master… You were always more polite with your victims, now, don’t be an animal…