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Pistolwhip
Tweet Topic Started: May 19 2009, 10:20 PM (286 Views)
Post #1 May 19 2009, 10:20 PM Flak
Well, I recall Spartan explaining to me "I've yet to see your writing potential and always enjoy a good read" not too long ago. This was an odd and interesting reply. But stupid.

So, more for him than me, I post this up for a third time. And the forum will continue to ignore it's bombastic prose for a third time.

While, none of you will read it and it'll continue to be a fruitless effort, I do like to remind myself of how far I can stretch my abilities. I feel like the more I read it, the more I want to continue it. Trust me; I've had some crazy-ass ideas for this little bit of text.

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All Hallows Eve
1,071,369 A.D.
Home

-
“Screw you…”
Challenged Harry Beningfield in a lazy voice. It had been two hours since the Inspector had captured the sullied old alcoholic, dragging the wretch from his humble abode, a meager collection of metals and scrap torn from the hull of abandoned vehicles. Harry had been unceremoniously bound to a rickety chair that creaked, and, thanks to the interrogation, it had been creaking all through the cold night. Fortunately for the interrogator, the culprit’s mind was beginning to whine like the very piece of flabby wood he was seated upon.

It had been nearly thirty years since Junior Investigator Andrew Robert Turner fell into this dank pit, filled with a watery darkness that fluttered under a pale light; A pale light that spiraled downward, ‘till it could no longer illuminate this hole. Not even dimly. But thirty years is a long time to be spent in hell. ‘Home,’ the Vagrants called it. ‘Home.’

Robert was beginning to see why.

The Inspector removed his glove, a tan, mangled chunk of leather, wrenched off a man he murdered. The pinky section of it was long since missing, but it didn’t matter. Heat was a rare thing several thousand feet underground. A bare fist, white and clenched, hung in the air, tiny depths and folds in the skin adopting their own shadows, with pinches of hair sprinkled against it. Bits of dirt and grime he had collected over the years spotted the knuckles; Painted them. Pale, cerulean capillaries wrapped themselves around his metacarpals, tethered tightly, as if some dead plant was curling its roots up pale pillars of indiscriminant and unruly justice like rotten shades.

It was irritating, really; He had tried his hardest to leave this Home. Andrew really did. His efforts were in vain; Futile, dishonorable, despicable. The World he now unwillingly dwelled in was named ‘Road,’ for reasons that could be plainly seen.

If you were on the surface.

Andrew recalled his first visit to this hole: Highways – Oceans of pavement and asphalt- blanketed empty road. One could ride across them for days, and never see a single building; Never see a single person. Low walls would be your constant companion, bleached white in a sun that never truly sets. Generic yellow lines would blur past your vision, the low hum of the car’s engine keeping you awake while blue clouds fluttered in a red sky, such contrasting colors always causing one’s pupils’ nerves to command the brain to cackle in some eruption of glorious emotional outburst concerning the unfathomable concept of well-being.

If you were on the surface.

Robert diverted his attention back to the flabby little man sitting in the chair. For the first time that dark-solar, he studied the details of his plaything; Thick jowls hung down his cheeks, dragging his eyes down with them. A cliff of bone shadowed those tired retina, and thin, black, unkempt bristles of hair stroked his scalp with a touch lighter than the snow falling around them. However, among all these basic qualities, the Inspector notice one fine detail that intrigued him with firm zest; His bright, amethyst irises enveloped by a pitch black ring of nothing; Darkness. The owner of these dual gems was leaning over the floor, his immolated wrist bounded to the back of the chair by a grubby, narrow length of iron cable he wretch off the corpse of a long dead Angelus. The most unaware of onlookers could clearly observe the deep crimson lashes curling around his sweaty palms in no particular pattern; not caused by his captor, but by his own, failed attempts to pry his hands free of their bonds. His success was laughable; he only managed to draw some speckles of blood from his broken hide.

Robert sighed to waste such a knowledgeable man, as he would be, more than likely, the only other Human he would ever meet in his undeserved penance. Harry’s torturer eased himself into a nearby stool that had always been in the cabin, evidence of his history etched into the shreds of leather still clinging to the corkwood. Andrew could think of no analogue to their presence, and strived to ignore them. He leaned into the wall for a more comfortable view of this ugly lump of flesh bleeding over his flooring. He removed an expensive container of cigars from the inside of his moldy, brown trench-coat, a golden plaque punched into the faded leather, with various designs and glyphs etched about its frame. With a flip and a snatch, an unlit cylinder of lung cancer was removed from its prison. Robert spoke the brass voice of an aged, old man.

“You know what I think, Harry?”
The pathetic excuse for garbage lifted his head up lazily, a bruised and swollen face swimming through the gloom. Dry blood encrusted his lower lip. Robert continued.
“… I think that you’ve been a good man.” He paused, preparing an expression of inquisition.
“You’ve sat here for hours and told me all the little tidbits of information that I’ve required. That’s good… That’s good…”
He shrugged.
“Sure,” he said, waving around the cigar between his fingers for emphasis, “We’ve his a few bumps in the road, but they were nothing a bit ‘o… cooperation couldn’t handle. You were very unwilling when we began…”
Harry merely starred at him, too exhausted to even articulate hatred.
“You know what I like about you, Harry?” Andrew questioned.
“You’re a quick learner. I like that. It’s a good trait.”
Robert paused for a third time, his tone descending into anger.
“Yet, you run around this whole damn World, eating any fucking little bird that has ever told any fuck anything about everything.”
He flicked his wrist towards his victim.
“… That makes you quite the prize.”
The Inspector could tell that the lapses in his speech where beginning to grind away what little was left of the Harry’s sanity. A grim smile crept up Andrew’s features, but he did nothing to stop it.
“For your efforts, I think you deserve a reward.”
Harry’s eyes widened in despair, but this time it was different. In such commerce, such implications almost always meant certain doom. Robert noticed this, and leaned forward. He was practically breathing on the little hostage’s skin now, adding unnecessary moisture to an already cold brow, dampened by fear’s soft kiss.
“However, I’m running a rather important business here, as you know, and there’s one little question you’ve hedged and evaded all night.”
The word “all” was drawn out and the interrogator’s teeth clacked together as he pronounced “night.” Robert continued.
“You’re en-league with a very powerful group of individuals. You know the ones…”
His disturbingly cheerful smile faded, leaving behind an indifferent footprint.
“The Merchants… The Burgundy Merchants! That’s it…”
The fingers of his free hand snapped in approval to his discovery. He paused.
“They have been redirecting anti-freeze into their reservoir for awhile. Now, these bastards found their plan to be so ingenious, so subtle, that they thought we wouldn’t notice the slight drop in supply.”
He gestured to himself, cigar still in hand.
“I bet you’re wondering, “How did this sick fuck find out?””
He paused.
“… Let’s just say… A Little Birdie told me.”
Harry averted his glaze in disbelief.
“Now, what I want from you is just a few more facts; A single question to squeeze that last sliver of words from your mouth.”
A soiled finger signified his request.
“Just one,” Harry thought. Andrew leaned in closer, his nose mere centimeters from the sufferer’s cheek. The subjugator could smell the heavy musk of blood, sweat, and tears; a salty, mechanical odor that drove some innate, primal instinct within the bowels of this inquisitor’s black soul, a certain sagacity of materialism that made his job ever-so slightly easier. He reveled in the disgusting ecstasy ignited within him.
“I need to know the combination of pipes they’ve altered, so that we may redirect them into a more local source… Keep a more watchful eye on our possessions, y’know?”
The speaker’s tone was almost friendly now. Harry retained his silence, though. Unusual, considering his fiery and arrogant personality.

“Hm. I think I’ve broken him,” Andrew thought. That wasn’t his original intention; Thoughts of suicide where going through his unstable participant’s mind at this moment, and a desperate man was one to fear. Quickly, Robert continued his prepared speech.
“Tell me what pipes have been moved.”
Harry didn’t answer. Robert repeated himself, his voice elevated in volume.
“Tell me, Harry, what pipes have been moved.”
Silence.
“Harry, you’re a supervisor; You know what I’m talking about.”
Through his dialect, Andrew rose from his seat, his unhygienic palms supporting his body on the knees of bent legs. The subjugator stared at his kiosk of information for some duration; all the while, Harry remained silent. Golden eyes stared at lavender, the perpetrator’s eyes wandering about in a loose rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless. Harry was thinking. Andrew was listening.

Harry wasn’t talking.

“Tell me what fucking pipes have been moved!”
Andrew’s voice rattled the still dust that had accumulated between the two, his fist clenched as his rage surged throughout his form. Suddenly, even before Andrew had finished his thunderous command, seemingly random letters and numbers began to flow from the lips of Harry Beningfield like water from a broken dam: One through Nine, A through B; Every possible amalgamation of literary characters and numeral symbols. But Andrew had shattered the mental barrier that had been forged into his repulsive mind by the Art; the whimsical phrases and codes hammered into his memory by strict discipline and subtle implications. The mallet: shadows of intentions and whispers of uncertainty. The hand: Monsters posing as Men.
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Post #2 May 19 2009, 10:34 PM Sgt. Tacoz
Very nice Flak. I would like to see more if you ever decide you want to write out those ideas you have.
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Post #3 May 19 2009, 11:03 PM Grunt_of_War
You seriously need to write more of this, Flak.
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Post #4 May 20 2009, 07:54 PM Flak
Not quite as fancy, but, Eh. It's progress.

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Some thirty minutes passed whilst Harry droned on in his monotonous tone, supplying the prerecorded information to some imaginary listener. Indeed, Andrew had reclaimed his ear only after few moments of the unyielding babble. He was leaned against a rickety metal table, its texture more akin to plastic than any sort of stable alloy, playing with his unlit cigar, the very same cigar that acted like an extended mental emphasis that the criteria of his speech required. The brick-colored container of fermented tobacco rolled and danced in his hand in no particular order or fashion. Robert himself was lost in a deep thought, the shifting stimulant playing the role of a catalyst to concentrate his boredom onto. The thought in question was akin to an amoeba; flexible, ever-changing, yet always straightforward: Sex one moment, violence the next; politics here, luxuries there, then all over again. The constant murmur of the patterns Harry didn’t know he was providing was drowned out as his senses dulled to allow his mind to work more freely. It was a Human thing.

The captive blinked several times after finishing Andrew’s intrusive request for knowledge. His lungs burned with the intense demand for additional oxygen thanks to an unmodified breathing tempo. He didn’t even understand why he was suddenly burdened with fatigue, a cumbersome weight that was draped across his grubby shoulders as a reminder for his inadequate inhalation. Harry took a moment for his body’s homeostasis to perform its assigned tasks before contemplating on what had transpired. Or, more accurately, what had not transpired. The last thing he remember was the Interrogator was spitting into his eyes, his voice boiling with irate stipulation. Harry blinked the spittle away and the man was suddenly - almost magically – leaning against a dented table he had failed to notice, no longer interested in him. Upon realizing this, the blazing criticism that was his character resurfaced.
“Not willing to wait for an answer, you impatience shitlicker!?”
He felt the warmth of rage envelope his mind, a feeling he savored. Andrew jerked his himself back into reality, his head vibrating as if that would somehow metaphorically shake him out of his inward reflection. The Interrogator glared at his little fish with evident curiosity, his mind racing with no outward facial expressions to display the psychological operation.


What happened to his depression? Andrew silently questioned himself? It must be a fail-safe for breaking the Art’s embedded shield. He ultimately decided. Inflicted short-term amnesia on recent events so that even the puppet can’t hear the master’s plan. Even after conquering the obstacle that was the subconscious barricade and freeing the information from the marionette’s mind, it was a last-ditch effort to retain some degree of control over the dummy, even if the particular brand of command wasn’t exactly reliable or functional. Even in defeat, the Art retains its immorality. I really need to learn how to do that. He allowed himself a bright grin that almost illuminated his face, a grand contradiction to his gloomy atmosphere that surrounded him. Andrew was much too young to be trained in the teaching, but playing with the occasional stray consideration never harmed anyone. Harry caught the smile and misinterpreted it.
“Fucking smiling now? Do you enjoy torturing people, you sick fuck?”
The expression faded from Andrew’s face, but he didn’t appear at all perturbed by Harry’s accusations, no matter how true they may be. The captive continued his advance with a bit of sexual affront.
“Bet’cha after you kill me, you’re gonna’ unzip your pants and ram you dick up my corpse, you fucking psycho!”
Andrew chuckled and responded calmly, the cigar slowly churning in his gauntleted hands.
“That’s not very nice of you to say, Mister Beningfield.”
“Fuck off!” Harry bellowed, his hoarse voice distorting the rebuttal. Andrew sort of nodded casually, his gaze going back to the cigar in his hand. Redmore’s Finest! The label of drug suddenly came to him, an ineffectual epiphany. Andrew no longer attempted to suppress any facial anomalies; his speech was over. He had his information.
“What the Hell are you smiling about!?” Harry questioned. The aggressive indictment of his query was edged with a bit of hysteria; a subtle admittance that Andrew’s smiling was penetrating that weak justification known as individuality. With this thought in mind, Andrew laughed. It wasn’t some meek titter as to inform the wary listener that they were catching on to their secret intentions: it was a laugh, a repetitive murmur that escalated into great chortle of joy. The “joy” in particular was sadistic and cunning, the mirth acting more as a surreptitious instrument than a blissful exhibition.

Harry couldn’t stand it. The depression he had forgotten returned and his usual self subsided under the beating waves of dismay. He began to respire with increased rapidity as Andrew’s laughter warped into a maniacal cackle. His brain, once more, was beginning to break down.

Andrew noticed this and abruptly halted his acoustic torment. Harry was no longer useful to him. Without a word, the Interrogator swapped his Redmore’s Finest for his personal projectile launching weapon: a gauss revolver named Perforator. The name was given for its extreme penetrating power; hitting an opponent with its accelerated shells inflicted smooth, sanitary wounds (As sanitary as one can be when shooting an entity.). The shots were designed cut straight through a target, disabling the target yet imposing minimal damage. Andrew always thought it was a stupid name, but couldn’t bring himself to change it. He placed the finely crafted weapon on the table, Harry’s eyes boring the tool of death down like some wild animal about to be slaughtered, the pistol acting in place of a blood encrusted axe.

Andrew’s hand disappeared into his attire again and removed a metal disc. Attached to the disc was the ammunition for Perforator; its “children.” With relaxed grace, the inquisitor opened the chamber of the weapon – the internal blue glow of the power core highlighting his gruff features –, inserted the bullets into it, closed and spun the cylinder for the sake of Lady Luck. All the while, Harry was convulsing and screaming in protest, his eyes wide with a haphazard solution of fury and sheer terror. Andrew ignored the wailing alcoholic and studied his firearm, making sure no incongruities or mistakes were present. He dug his free hand into a chest pocket and removed an oil-soaked rag. He threw it on the table as he stood up, disabling Perforator’s safeties with his thumb. Harry was absolutely horrified; salty tears and mucus crawled down his face, as if trying to escape their host’s doom. Andrew raised the gun, placed his other hand on the back of the weapon, and turned his head.

With the exception of the muted “whir” as the missile exited the weapon and the meaty crack from the same missile entering the cranium of a late Harry Beningfield. Oddly enough, this shot didn’t pierce through the rest of his brain matter. Andrew took notice of this, realizing that, perhaps, the shell was meant to stay in his mind… A simile for the pocket of information that was forcefully, if deviously, lodged into his skull. And now that information was his.

Andrew turned to leave, but halted a few paces from the door. He ran his fingers along the wall until he found what he was groping for. A thin sheet of LCD paper lit up on the wall it was adhered to, gleaming with a faint cerulean aura and lighting the dark shadow it was placed under. He carefully peeled it off of the wall and browsed its contents. As expected, a massive wall of text greeted his eyes: the entire algorithm for Harry’s revealed data had been recorded. A reliable device, Andrew thought. He touched the corner of the highly-advanced piece of paper, simultaneously disabling record mode and collapsing it into a cracker-sized card. He replaced the machine into his trench-coat, swung up the loose door, and stepped out into the raging snowstorm.
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Post #5 May 20 2009, 08:17 PM Sgt. Tacoz
Still great Flak, keep it up. ^.^
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Post #6 May 20 2009, 08:21 PM Flak
Thanks.
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Post #7 May 21 2009, 12:52 AM Grunt_of_War
Even if you tell me otherwise, the new material is just as fantastic as before. Excellent job; can't wait for more.
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Post #8 May 22 2009, 05:00 PM Flak
Honestly, I think I change subject too quickly within the sentences. They don't feel interrelated.

But, thanks anyways.
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