Thursday, September 15, 2011

Career Choices

One can't help but reflect upon their own existence as we watch our kin fall into disgrace. It... hurts. Seeing them like this. Reading how they take the blindfold back into their hands out of their own free will - fastening it tight around their eyes... and then claim to see so much better. Claim to feel so much better.

I have no doubt that they do.

I believe it was ignorance, after all, that was said to be bliss. Not clarity. Not Seeing. Not understanding. The lies hold a comfort that many a Proxy secretly desires. Some just break when they realize that our Father is not there to hug their troubles away. That He is not there to protect us. To watch over us. To love us.

When has there ever been a God so kind?

While it is true: He is not a God. Not... quite. But I hardly see the point in splitting hairs. He controls us each like puppets on strings. His Will Be Done. That's God enough for me. And it should be enough for each of you if you know what is good for you.

But I know: you don't want to admit it. Truth isn't a priority for you. For any of you. No. For all you care about is keeping up your images in the eyes of your fellow Runners. Fighters. Proxies. So, you talk like you own your own existence. You talk like you know what you're against. Like it doesn't terrify you.

You mock Him.

You come up with pathetic little nicknames for Him. Pretend like you don't see what the reality of your situation is.

It makes me... well beyond irritated. You're no better than a gaggle of schoolchildren. Comparing our Father to the villains of childhood fairy tales alongside the Wicked Witch and the Evil Step-Mother. All of you grabbing the ankle of your newest shining knights like an entire horde of damsels just waiting for someone to rescue you. Then you slowly come to realize that those knights are not going to change anything. That they are, in fact, just as blind and helpless as you are. That you are still alone. They will not help you, your friends or your family. They will help themselves, perhaps, because they're not waiting... but that in itself would only be temporary.

So then... some of you... blindly turn to our Father instead.

He embraces you.

Gifts you.

Takes the pain away.

And then you are left confused when He doesn't tuck you into your hotel beds each night and leave a lipless kiss on your forehead.

You make me sick.

It takes a lot to wear on my nerves. I am a rather... easy-going soul, if it can be said I still have one. But this is something that I cannot tolerate. To think you are so special - so different - to be any more than a tool for His use... it's mind-numbing.

And the Highers sent me one.

An underling. A piece of filth that no more Sees than he does fly. An idiot. Incompetate in every way, shape and form... and this was supposed to AID me? Ridiculous. No wonder so many of us fail: The Highers themselves are delusional. Whoever thought this scum was suited for The Purpose deserves a few extra turns on the Rack. It didn't take long for his preaches of our Father's love and the glorious paradise that awaits us Children to get on my nerves.

Shriek has paid for their mistake. And lived up to his name rather well in so doing. I honestly think this scream/shriek thing is the only reason they sent him to me. Thought it would be funny. I certainly had a laugh as I watched my latest "recruit" walk up to the pathetic excuse of a Proxy. Oh, how he thrashed in his restraints. How he screamed. How he promised my demise for attacking one of our own...


The fool.

Father does not destroy those He wants as His Children.

He teaches them.

And now I'm "teaching" someone special in return. You see, I was bored. I get creative when I'm bored. So, I took control of a situation surrounding the latest Spook job we I was assigned to. Imagine it, if you will: A small, modern home. White siding with dark green edging. One and a half stories. Practically the size of a matchbox.

In one of the two sections in the basement, we have something of a living room. It is in this room I am now currently lounged in an armchair of. Across from me, I have the full pleasure of watching Shriek twitch and jerk from where he is lashed onto a chair. Eyes rolled backwards. Drooling. Blood splattered all across his face and shoulders... along with pieces of bone.

To my right, Logan and his mother are on the couch against the far well. Logan is rocking himself back and forth. Hands over his ears as he tries to block out the sounds he himself put into his head to never be forgotten for as long as he lives. I can watch his entire form shaking from where I'm seated across the room. The single parent has her arm wrapped around his shoulders. A helpless and useless attempt to comfort. Both are in tears.


Because it is not I who is covered in blood and bone splatter from taking a power drill to Shriek's skull.

No, that would be Logan's honor.

A sixteen year old boy turned Man of the House since his father split a few years back. He keeps average grades despite that and works after school at the local Wal-Mart to help his mother pay the bills. Suzanne herself works as a telemarketer, since the pay is that much better than other options. Even with the two jobs, however, it just doesn't seem to be measuring up judging by the "Last Notice" and "Final Warning" envelopes I saw in a pile on their counter upon my arrival.

A bird cage in one hand, I had allowed Shriek assist me in ushering the two into the basement. From there, I effectively took my so-called "minion" out of play by cracking his head against the edge of the door frame a few times. Blood came down the side of his face - making my ravens call excitedly, hungrily, from their cage - as I fastened him to a chair to keep him still, all the while chatting up my frozen-stiff guests. When I was satisfied with my work on Shriek, I focused in on Logan solely.

I gave the boy a choice. Either he drilled a feeding hole into my "partner"... or I shot his mother and let Kali and Loki tear into HER. Logan is a smart, loving boy. He gave Kali and Loki a very nice entrance to whatever brain matter Shriek had/has. When the boy was done, I let out my true friends and they tore into that fool of an underling in a frenzy. Shriek nearly had a seizure through it all.

Now... I think he is just about dead.

Logan has already thrown up once. From the looks of him, he'll be going for round two soon.

And poor Suzanne. So horrified. So devastated.

After all... she was the one who brought me here. She saw Him. Not Logan. Her. She was the one who was linked to the vlogs by a friend, which lead to the Community. A cluster of stories that no doubt made the cinders of her own writing career begin to smoke again.

And now, she has turned her precious boy into a murderer. 

I think I'll be leaving these two alive when I leave. I rather like them.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Wings of Black Angels.

I chose the setting sun to mark my arrival, though it was not yet dark. The evening had soaked the world in a strange orange light - making the rather normal neighborhood seem nearly alien. I came in the back of the property - entering into the backyard of the residence with young William never leaving my side. His hand holding mine tightly as he talked on and on and on about things I pretended to listen to.

I didn't shoot off a gun to get the attention of the family inside.

Nothing exploded.

No... no, I merely offered to push William on the rope swing I had mentioned before. Those bluest of blue eyes turned up to me at the suggestion - grin spreading wide, minus a few teeth. Don't get antsy, it wasn't my doing. He came like that.

As he flew higher and higher, the boy began to laugh at the soaring sensation. As children his age tend to. And, just like I thought it would, his laughter brought them to me like moths to a flame. The three of them. Jennifer. Mary. Lionel. They all rushed from the house in a hope-risen panic. I grinned at the looks given to us: confusion, mixed with fear.

The "glove" on my left hand/arm was the parents' first hint as to my purpose there. But more on that in a moment.

Jennifer, to her credit, did not even hesitate. She ran in front of everyone else, shouting at William to get away from me. William didn't seem to be paying attention, the little twit. He stopped himself from swinging and grabbed my right hand, trying to pull me towards the house. He called me his new friend. His new friend that he wanted to meet his mommy. Daddy. Sister. And the cats that were apparently on a long trip somewhere - but will be back, rest assured!

The father stepped forward as I stopped - making his son stop with me as I closed my hand around his. Not to hurt him. Just to make sure he wouldn't be deserting me until I deemed the time to be right. Lionel's voice sounded so... enraged. His fists were clenched. Face burning red. Glare set. Looking for a fight.

He really didn't want one with me, but he didn't necessarily know that yet.

"What are you doing with MY SON?! Who do you think you ARE?!"

I grinned and crouched down, gently pulling the boy back close to me as everyone at the house started shouting. Once again, my identity was demanded. I laughed a bit in response. Told them the truth. I told them Jennifer had invited me over to play. I told them how much of a pleasure it was to meet them.

They both looked so torn - so heart-wrenched - as I kept the boy close to me. My left arm curling across his front - leaving the lethally sharp blades that were the fingers of my gauntlet resting easy on his opposite shoulder. The mother begged me not to hurt him. Tears already streaming and I hadn't even done anything yet. Daddy dearest was only getting madder, yelling threats, but I focused in on Jennifer.

"Did you really think we wouldn't find you, little Jenny? Didn't you get my notes? Did you honestly not expect this? I warned you. He does not just go away because you want Him to. I warned you..."

She tried so hard to ignore me. Tearing forward and putting her hand on her dad's arm to get his attention. What she had wanted to tell him, none of us will ever know. For that was when... I was taken by surprise.

Lionel backhanded his own daughter. Accused her of being involved in drugs, like her mother suspected. Accused her of bringing a Collector to their door. To her little brother. Jennifer was crying.

And a second later, Lionel was screaming. Laying on the porch steps clutching his shoulder where I'd placed a bullet myself. Equipped with a silencer, I lowered the tasteless modern weapon slowly. William was crying now. Squirming in my hold as he watched his daddy splurt ketchup all over himself. The mother was by his side. Jennifer, holding her tear-stained cheek, hesitated back.

With my attention split at that moment, William thrashed around a bit too much and tore out from under my arm - heading in a frantic run to his family. The small trace of crimson left on the tips of my glove, however, made me grin once again as I stood. I hadn't let the boy get even half way... before I sent out a long whistle. I started to laugh as I heard familiar calls answer me.

Two black angels appeared above us.



They both cawed to me as they tilted their heads - looking for my tell-tale signal that it was suppertime: Blood.

The boy didn't stand a chance in Hell. My ravens dive-bombed him with the aim to take him right off his feet from the start. And they succeeded. William hit the ground hard, already screaming as beaks and talons tore into the small injury I myself had begun - widening it by the second as the child thrashed. Crying. Screeching. Flailing uselessly against birds who's combined strength clearly out-did his own.

I could see the blood splatter over glossy, black feathers as I ran straight past - catching Jennifer in my arms from interfering on my pets' feeding time. The girl thrashed as wildly as her little brother. Trying to maneuver out of my hold. She clawed at me. Screamed at me. Tried her best to free herself. To save her sibling. I never once let up my hold. Never once let her look away from the scene.

We both watched - her useless parents either dying or frozen behind us - as William's thrashing lessened. His screams of pure, unbridled agony choked back as his throat filled with blood. Eventually, there were only the sounds of pleads, tears, cawing, and the ripping of flesh as Kali and Loki took their fill of their prey. 

I released the teen without a word. She immediately dropped. Falling to her hands and knees in the grass in front of me. Crying. Shaking. Mumbling incoherently. Praying to God for it all to be a nightmare. Just another nightmare.

I left them to their devices. The police showed up later, called in by a concerned neighbor who'd heard some yelling. They would find Lionel dead on the steps he collapsed on, having bled out, and the shredded remains of the six year old boy... in the arms of his mother. A modern gun with a silencer in her limp hand and the back of her head blown out.

I thought it only right to leave it as a parting gift.

Jennifer herself is gone. She left not long after I did.

My work here is complete. Jennifer is now a Runner... and I don't even have to feed Kali and Loki tonight.

Keep smiling, everyone!

Monday, September 5, 2011

I Don't Normally Cook... but I Can Make a Mean Stew.

Being a Proxy is an art form. One of the greatest there of, for sure. We are more than soldiers. More than servants. More than any ONE occupation could ever be. We are All. But most of all, we are each a single orchestrator of a piece of existence that the majority of the world doesn't even see as real. How can anyone not see the beauty in such a role? We are people without countries. People without homes. But we have a greater purpose. Those things are the sacrifices we make in order to serve Him. It is not a simple thing. Many of us will claim it is. These people are lying to you. It is a difficult thing to become accustomed to, but once you embrace Him as He embraces us... there are no limits to what you can create.

And you - all of YOU - are the actors. Your homes, your schools, your work, your communities, your lives... those are the backdrops that we are given to work with. To make a production worthy of Him. To bring you the horror you searched so hard to find, and bring us the enjoyment of our finely-tooled work. One must come to appreciate the little things that make a scene play out so perfect.

There are a million and one ways a plan laid out to be sprung can flip the wrong way. It is... breathtaking - no exhilarating - when everything just... flows into place. Like it was destined. Like we, Proxies, are the will of the world. The Will of the All. The Will of Him.

Jennifer... was my latest main actor.

She had started seeing Father a month or so ago. He was Watching her closer now, and the paranoia and fear were starting to have their effect. My assignment was simple: I was to be a Spook. You see, there are three ways to generally classify missions...

Elimination. Self-explanatory, really. Those that have caused too much of a headache or those that Father loses interest in for Himself are left for us to put down. It tends to depend on the Runner, but these cases are the ones you see the... less subtle of us bragging about on their blogs around here. Cannon Fodder recruits are used here quite a bit.

Conversion. Like those door-to-door religious types that ask if "you've found God" and must put up with whatever sarcastic remark is thrown back at them. Sometimes Father will claim certain souls to join our family. When assigned to these, it's best to just be a manipulative bastard that can twist emotions and thinking-patterns like they were frying up an egg... but sometimes the brutally insane can have the same effect. This does cross into Elimination, for Father only has patience for so long.

Spook. Now these cases are specifically for those of us who don't froth at the mouth or drool at the sight of their prey. These missions are for general mindfuckery. Just some not-so-innocent fun with riddles and codes and mind games to slowly break apart the target. We are free to use emotional ties to others and play with other stresses on their minds, but generally the target themselves are not to get hurt. Not... seriously hurt, anyway. Nothing lethal. ...Usually goes down well if they can still Run afterwards.

Tommy was an Elimination.

Jennifer - or Gem as her daddy calls her - is a Spook.

I had already begun the little game of "Now you see me, now you don't" with her. It can get dull, I'll admit, which is why they assigned me. I'm a fan of the hunt - of the small changes in behavior and routine that gradually get more and more obvious. How you can literally change a person's entire character, piece by piece, chip by chip - it's fascinating. Plus, it is not like killing isn't an option. One just has to be more... creative. It's really not hard. I made a copy of the key to her house, so I come and go as I please now. Take things. Leave things. Cryptic little messages. The typical "Watching You" bullshit that made those vlogs what they are. It's absolutely mind-blowing how little effort one has to put into destroying someone's sense of safety and reality. You can have them rocking in the corner just by calling them randomly during the day and breathing into their ear. It's hilarious, really.

Jenn had gone to the library the other day. Research for school, or so read the note on the table that was addressed to her parents. Probably not the kind of research they would assume like that which would fix her ever-slipping grades. Not even close. Due to the grade matter and the attitude changes lately, her dear mother was secretly fearing Jennifer had started using drugs. Isn't that just adorable? They could only HOPE for something that trivial.

I made myself at home while they were away. Went to work in the kitchen, of all places. Made them a stew (aren't I nice?). The family (minus Jenn) seemed to quite enjoy it when they got home, amazed that their dear daughter could make something so good (an addition to the note by yours truly that copied her writing to a tee). Even the littlest member of the family - tiny William - seemed to approve. I heard every comment over the microphone I planted in their home. Kept saying on how sweet the meat tasted.

It's so nice to be appreciated. It really is.

Little Jenn came home much later. Probably stayed until closing hour scaring the shit out of herself researching on what will become her new life. Her mother informed her that there was still some stew left, much to my delight. Jenn assumed her mother made it.

It wasn't until later that a comment was made about Jenn's talent in the kitchen. She sounded so confused as  her mother went to put the rest of the stew in the freezer...

The scream that followed was well-worth the extra effort. I'd left a note in the freezer, beside the heads and pelts of the family cats, Scooter and Penni. Each jaw left open in a pained, silent scream. The bloodied fur from their legs hanging down from the upper rack. Just fur, bones, and frozen blood. The meat went to a different use.

"Hope you enjoyed the stew!"

The sounds of heaving that followed thereafter made me laugh til my sides hurt. From the splattering sounds, I guessed they didn't have time to make it to the bathroom or even the kitchen sink. That should be quite a mess to clean up after, but, like they say: The cook never cleans!

The connection between people and their animals... such a wonderful thing to toy with, don't you think?

That night, I made sure she could see me standing out in her backyard - leaning against a tree at the back of the property which supported a rope swing. I waved when she saw me. She quickly disappeared out of sight. Probably to throw up again. In the morning, she'd find an Operator Symbol on her front door - made from the blood supplied by their beloved cats - and her little brother missing. The wails and rants have been beautiful to listen to - such love from such devout parents - and Jennifer has become so deathly silent through it all. No doubt being eaten alive inside from the guilt. Poor thing.

I must say, the boy isn't that much of a hassle. He's only six, so I expected a fuss but... I think he thinks I'm Batman or something. Kali and Loki play nice with him. Not a scratch on the boy, I swear. That is, after all, part of the point.

He's getting a bit homesick though. I think I'll have to bring him home tomorrow... then I'll have my true reward from all this trouble. It makes me grin just to think about it.

It will be a day Jennifer will never forget.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Work Me to the Bone.

They are relentless. Absolutely relentless. No sooner do I finish one job, they want another to already be half-way done across the damn country. The Highers are lucky I enjoy the work. Otherwise I wouldn't run myself ragged trying to keep ahead of the flow. There are so few of us now, compared to not that long ago. So few. So sad. We've lost many of our family - defects or dead - but will that stop us? Heh. Of course not. We are His Children. Of course times will be tough for us, but what is glory without pain?

That's what I told Tommy. Other Runners have risen to such glory among the Haunted... so it's just bad luck that it is he that must pay for the success of others. One must keep balance, yes? Every victory must bring also a loss... for Father is not the one who loses. Father NEVER loses. His Children may die. The Runners may manage to pull some... bizarre miracle from their asses. But that is never a loss to Him. For He will always win. Always. If one or two Runners keep themselves intact, then another loses their life.


As for Tom-Tom... yesterday, I proved to him how nice I am. You see, the imbecile had been on the Run for several weeks. Didn't prepare worth a damn - just bolted. No money. No supplies. Truly, this was another case of Natural Selection and he was destined to be "fucked by a train", so to speak. Aka: Yours Truly. But you see... Tommy had irritated me. I had flown in across three States, only to find out he was just sitting there. Waiting for me. Tucked away in a little cage. A police station, to be exact. The little moron had gotten arrested for trying to rob a corner store.

Once the officers on duty were unconscious on the floor, I took a gander at his brand spanking new "criminal" record.

Weapon of choice? A stick. It wasn't even a big stick. He had stuck it in his pocket and had PRETENDED to have a gun. Because that is, without a doubt, a brilliant MASTER plan right there.

And the jackpot, ladies and gentlemen? A jaw-dropping twenty-six dollars... and thirteen cents. ...Can't forget those thirteen cents....

So what was I to do? There was no hunt. No fun. The brat was waiting in a cage around back. Probably under some false delusion he was actually safe. And there I was, trying to figure out a way that actually made the trip worth my goddamn time. A bum in need of twenty bucks could knock off this idiot at this point. I had no excuse to stretch out the assignment. No excuse to enjoy myself. My last order was to put a bullet in him, clean up any messes, and leave by the turn of the month.

They... always ask me to do such... horrible things... horrible, stomaching-wrenching things...

How could I possibly take someone's life... without torturing them first? That's just plain cruel. It hurts my heart to merely contemplate it.

So I flipped the switch and went to his cell. He shied away from me. Backing up against the far wall, like an animal would. He was a twig. No muscle mass. Pleading, desperate eyes like those of a lost puppy. I just offered my hand. Said I was a friend. That I could help him, but we had to move quickly. I told him things. I told him I knew who he was Running from. I explained how the police were getting ready to execute him and dispose of his corpse. I told him they were Proxies, His servants. I was not. I told him my name. Or, at least, one of them. I told him I had taken care of the guards. It was now or never. I asked him to trust me.

In mere moments, his hand was in mine and I lead him from that despicable place. I brought him to my home-away-from-home. Got to know him better. Specifically how twisted his screams could become... while riding the Spanish Donkey.

I so rarely get to enjoy medieval torture routines. I savored every second of it. I admit, it would have been nice to use something... a little more inspiring and majestic... but I had so precious little time. The Spanish Donkey is beautifully simplistic in design. Didn't take long to build at all. Tommy lasted for hours. Each time I added a weight, his screams twisted in a wild howl. The Donkey was wearing a blanket of blood that dripped to the floor, puddling, as his wound just got deeper. He'd thrash. He'd plead. He'd cry. All for nothing, of course. Well, not nothing: my amusement is something. I have to admit, if he was good for nothing else... the moron could certainly scream. Some might say it was overkill. Those people don't have a sense of humor. Or any common sense. If someone is WORTH doing this to, generally you'd want them dead faster. True, yes?

Now I'm just about to land in Arkansas, of all places. I've already begun reading up on my next (hopefully-more-interesting) victim. Let us pray that this time I actually get my hunt.

Keep smiling.