You run your fingers over fingers over velvet He runs his talons through his hair Blade under sleeve and sleeve and The thought alone has you stifling with sweat He takes the pot and thanks the chair
You’re bent like a low card You dance across the house floor A high roller Charmer of pockets, he does more because
Now the scene shifts from floor to room to bed And you’ll run your fingers through his hair He’s velvet hair, velvet and You wonder how many times he’s been scarred by bullets His calling card says Thief of Heartz The roses he left on the nightstand are Jack Rabbit’s red Cheat this one night stand if you can
You’re bent like a low card A lay-figure for the game A high roller For a phantom with famous names
Bastard son on closet floor Father’s death on my account Or ripped up on a high amount Mother’s tears drip, fill your eyes of a knife Somebody call the midwife
You’re bent like a low card You’re left here with such a shame A high roller You distract and spare him the pain
—
Here are some lyrics I wrote a while ago about a woman who is simultaneously charmed and robbed through the tactics used by a card cheat. Unbeknownst to our charmer, the woman is pregnant and carrying the bastard child of his nemesis, the greedy owner of the casino. The poor woman suffers a horrible death as she delivers the baby herself. Meanwhile, the father hunts down our card cheat, the phantom-like Thief of Heartz.
A bolt of lightning danced across the sky, setting it aglow with a purplish hue and illuminating the skyline. Of course, the skyline didn’t need much illuminating.
The small buildings stuck out like small shards of glass, swept under the rug and forgotten about until someone who’s trouble is worth something steps on it.
Near the outskirts, I could still see the dumpsters where the bussers would take the garbage out. It was a city of waste where anything not of use was disposed in the most instantly convenient way. A paste made from sand, grease, and grime coated the foundations of the pubs and slums.
Small lights of penthouses shined out across the rooftops illuminating the paths less travelled by that would become oh so useful in a pinch.
It was a dark hole where everything smelled like liquor and trash. It was also the only place the poor jackals had.
Thunder rolled.
At the center of it all stood the desert gem. The Glass Locust Hotel and Casino. Spotlights bounced light up the thin pillar and shot off into the sky. A beacon of greed. And opportunity.
On the edge of the dust bowl valley in which the city sat was a highway that somehow appeared out of nowhere when the buildings ended, stretching out past me and into infinity across the desert.
The buildings had caused the wind to deposit sand dunes surrounding the city, forming artificial walls that could be effortlessly infiltrated along the road that was the only common way in or out.
Alternatively, you could climb 70 feet up a sand dune, and then slide down the other side. Of course, you’d have to do it in the dark and avoid the spotlights or have your blood spilled on the sand by a bullet ripping through your shoulder.
Yet here I was, just past midnight, sitting atop the dune wall.
Outside the dune walls, the landscape was mostly flat, with the gentle waves of sand blowing across and leaving a thin blanket over that photogenic highway.
The only major exception was the old motel. It was only two floors and had been abandoned years ago. That’s where Jack and I stayed, and the Doc’s been with us travelling back and forth between our hideout and his lab in the space hidden above a pub in the slums.
It looked like a cardboard box that needed to be broken down. The roof in the lobby had caved in, making the reception desk an excellent place to stargaze on a clearer night.
We made a supply room out of the second floor lobby in the Northwestern Wing, and my bedroom was just around the corner in room 218. Jack Rabbit’s was 222, and the Doc’s temporary space was 112, across from the steps down to his workshop in the boiler room.
Out beyond the motel was nothing but sand dunes and real jackals. Desert dogs that would tear you apart for fun. There were small amounts of vegetation but nothing substantial enough for anyone to make it out of this hell hole without a vehicle.
Rumor has it there are jack rabbits out there that would lure you in by copying your friends voice, crying for help from a ravine or a cave, only to shred you with a swarming frenzy of pirranha teeth. They bore the antlers of a stag and could only be caught by setting a trap with a glass of bourbon as bait.
No one from the Glass Locust or the valley had dared to travel too far to find out.
The lightning streaked across the sky again and the clouds blew across the deserts vast expanse.
I exhaled. Alone.
Just like every night before this, I ascended the steps as my eyes sealed.
Except, it wasn’t really like closing your eyes. It was more like when you step outside into the sun, and it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust. But suddenly you’re standing on your porch, or a bustling sidewalk, or in a field, or wherever that door normally takes you.
The door of my eyes, however, didn’t lead to any of those places. In fact, it was hard to tell if they lead anywhere at all. All I knew was that it was natural. It happened every night by a function of my mind.
Without thinking, I put one shoe in front of the other, up these marble steps. They clacked against the marble and the sound reverberated for minutes. I waited as long as it would take for the sound to dissipate before taking the next step, but not for my enjoyment of the sound. Rather, the steps were hard to take. It felt like pushing up these steps against the lead weight of sleep on my eyes.
‘Step. Echo. Echo. Step. Echo. Echo. Step-‘
And a clicking sound.
One I had never heard before.
It was like a winch being suddenly unlocked, allowing the gear to click as it spin rapidly, a massive cargo on the other side falling into the abyss.
The reptilian pitch lowered, and I slowly fought fatigue to raise my gaze from my shoes on the steps.
Four claws with four talons each gripped the stone archway above the steps. They belonged to a long, contorting creature, with eight giant spider eyes and a wide smile of needle teeth the color of obsidian. It was covered in a thick coat of fur that was a color I had never seen before.
Its expression said ‘sadistic parasite.’
Its mouth was frozen in that chilling grin.
Somehow a voice boomed, sounding as if it were behind me, but the creature’s gaze petrified me like stone, holding me there, hypnotized.
“Hello, child.”
I tried to respond, but I could only gasp for air.
“No need to speak, child. I can hear your thoughts like God may hear your prayers.”
It cackled, all of these words coming without it moving its mouth. Its voice was like a whisper so loud it could deafen you, coming from all angles. It was like a skull being ground into pavement. My head ached with every word, disorienting me and distorting my vision.
I tried to focus enough to put a sentence together:
“What are you?”
“I am The Ventriloquist. You may not rest until I leave.”
It became apparent to me that ‘The Ventriloquist’ had thick steel cables wrapped around its appendages, neck, and torso that extended up into the great sky, beyond any colors and clouds I could see.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m hungry.”
I had a sudden sinking feeling and a sharp pain in the crown of my skull.
The clicking sound returned, and the creatures fangs parted.
Suddenly, a tongue woven from the same steel cables shot out of its mouth and wrapped itself around my neck, binding tighter and tighter until my vision blacked out and all I could feel was the harsh grip of steel burning against my neck. The same deafening whisper slammed my head:
“Now that I have your attention, I must inform you that your psyche belongs to me.”
Like a blurry photo held under a pond, I could see my dreams. Not just the ones that occurred to me at night, but my big dreams too. My aspirations and goals:
Visions of me with a wife and family. Playing with the kids and our dogs. Lovely days in the yard behind our house. Our house. Completing my degree and finding work in a veterinary clinic. Living close to my friends and watching each other raise families, growing old in parallel. Laughter.
So many dreams that seemed impossible, and simultaneously so real now that I could see them in front of me. I loved my wife, she was beautiful, and though I had never met her, I could tell she loved me. Our children were growing up so fast right before my eyes. I got to help animals and families in my work.
And then The Ventriloquist appeared.
First in the end, in my living room, surrounded by my friends in our old age. It appeared as a reaper, taking our lives one by one. One talon touch to our shoulders sent a river of cancer into each of our bodies.
Then to my work, and my home. It set them both ablaze, and I watched as they burned to the ground. My gut wrenched, and I couldn’t do anything to fight it. Those thin, crooked teeth cracked apart letting out screams of the next scene.
My wife and our children kneeled around a pile of lifeless fur. A closer look revealed it was our dogs. They wept. And I wept too.
Then The Ventriloquist stepped closer to them, just out of their view. I knew what was to come. I wanted to scream, to warn them, to tell off this evil being. I opened my mouth, and my throat tensed, but no sound managed to come out.
I watched in horror as the Ventriloquist bit off the heads of my family, laughing in between at my distress. Tears streamed down my face and I struggled desperately to no avail.
The Ventriloquist then gluttonously devoured the bodies of my family. First the dogs. Then then children. And lastly my wife. The only colors left were the gory reds of their blood and the sharp, glossy black of those obsidian teeth. It savoured consuming the entire scene, and my vision filled with that color I had never seen before. Almost grey, or beige, but also somehow psychadelic.
“I’ll be back.”
I woke with a start, hyperventilating and sitting in a puddle of my own sweat. The clock on my nightstand read 10:36 PM.
How was that possible? I had gone to bed at 11 PM, like I do every night. I checked my phone, and the date was the same as before. March 14th, 2027. I hadn’t slept an entire day.
Regardless, the family from my dreams was still in my dreams, and so was the Ventriloquist.
At least for the Ventriloquist, I hope it stays that way.
Like all the others The walls are made of a plaster Like canvas of an oil painting
The door is guilded mahogany And guilt once sat in the bathtub As red stained the grey marble of the floor
What happened Behind that door? Thicker than a vault, yet By design, Just as easy
Just one door before The room of a king Three consecutive 7’s align In a window The width of a greedy gaze
As such, None would suspect All the attention is suspended and directed At the winner’s suite
The love between two Or the solitude of one That occurs behind all these closed doors But in 778?
Precious Held close What is dear And near to you Your heart is a lockbox And I am just a thief A knavish master of picks and tricks
Rich Your son Two conflicting interests You chose the one Which cannot love you back Which can buy you most anything The boy becomes enslaved to your empire
Shining Desert Gem The Glass Locust Hotel, casino, and trap A place to survive or Perhaps a place to dry out Your pride and joy, subjects without choice
Scum, Top Banana, You are king And the worst kind Caring not for your people Rather their coin, their losses, vices Raised fists uncage the jackals upon you
—
It’s been a long time since I’ve written on here.
I’m happy to be back!
When you keep telling yourself the same thing over and over again, do you start to believe it?
“I’m a good kid. I’m a good kid. I’m-“
The other kids watch me march up the steps made of planks that precariously jut out the side of the island above the clouds. I am on my way to the alchemy laboratory. My favourite place. They turn away after I let the door slam behind me and continue to kick their ball of leather scraps and rubber around the courtyard. They are used to it, for I make my way up the cliff face every day, my brownish robes flapping with each volume of air that slams upwards.
As I enter, a gust of wind sends my notes across the room after they had been left out on more than just one table.
If that tonic could kill a person, it could definitely kill a messenger bird, right? There had to be a better way to get it to Master Rin anonymously. If I gave it to a raven, the scent of the brew would kill the bird from inside the package before it could even be delivered.
“I’m smart enough to figure this out, so I can’t be a bad kid.”
I wanted him to listen to me. Master Rin was almost as bad as the school children that laughed at me in their robes without a thought in their own heads.
The same heads that I would make roll.
The Northern Garmic armies were already marching. It was like I could feel the sounds of their machines of war pumping billow after billow of smoke in the rhythms of the breezes that scraped our mountaintop.
If Master Rin wouldn’t do something about it, someone would have to take his place, or watch as he let our people suffer.
A tyranny.
No, tyranny is evil.
I would do it for the good of our people.
Or was it all in vain?
They will write history about me and say that it’s because that’s what I wanted. Fame. Immortalization.
No, I’m a good kid.
I don’t need the power.
I just need someone other than Rin to have it.
And if no one else will take it from him. To take action.
Well…
I was smart enough to figure out that if you start with Yorek’s tea and add crushed broodstone with a dash of hardroot shavings, you get a nasty white powder-type substance that will shut down your organs minutes after smelling it or getting it on your fingers.
Could some punk do that?
It sleeps in dead cold
It is a hard, unforgiving bed from which the small tufts of grass once grew Funny how life had to start there Now that all is dust, we bury the dead, those we all knew
Maybe there’s a large weight holding them beneath the surface It’s colder and harder than the rest of the underground Once the grave has been filled, there’s little hope they can be found
We forget them and everything but the trouble they would cause with time As it swallows them whole, worms climbing between ribs like knitting needles through a dark wool They become part of it, disintegrating into a fine grime
They too, will sleep in a dead cold
If only you would stop talking But your words are an obligation I really should get walking You see, we've found a complication
And just over your shoulder Someone else I spy I'm the beholder If beauty is in the eye
I wish not to be rude Because you seem to take interest Over this lovely food But when I look across, I can't help but be impressed
I push in my chair as you take note of how brief You frown, I let out sigh of relief
Maybe it was about the money this time.
But not for the reason you think. I have been diagnosed with a vascular degenerative disease. My blood vessels are slowly collapsing and cutting off blood flow to my body, starting with my tiniest capillaries until my arteries cave in and then finally, my heart will implode, but by then I will already be dead. The doctors say I have about a year before the disease is moving faster than anything the doctors can do. It's treatable right now, but it requires a risky operation that is so experimental that it would cost someone like me millions. You would think that there would be some safety net, but it doesn't apply to me. You see, they think I have millions. I don't. That's what working in a place like this will cost you. You spend enough time pretending to be up there with the big shots at the top and pretty soon people will start to believe you. And it's not that I don't have cash, because I have a sizeable amount in my possession. It just doesn't belong to me for very long. Dealing with devils will sometimes result in some people owing you lots of money. Other times, it will result in the opposite. I have 7 different mobsters that are regulars here at the Glass Locust Casino. I owe all of them more than I'd like to admit. But if I'm going to pay something off to prevent it from killing me, well let's just say that the mobsters out here in the zone operate much quicker than vascular degenerative disease. Larry 'Knuckles' Bagnasio was a fat motherfucker, but I've heard he prefers the term 'big bodied.' He bought us out a table in the dining section on the grand casino floor of the Glass Locust tonight. Nicest thing he's done for me since his planted dealer cheated me out of winning a big game of rummy. I glance over at the Korean barbeque and elaborate shrimp dishes set out before us. The chatter of the busy casino floor is comforting to me, because it means that no one has shown a gun yet. I'd rather not have to shoot someone tonight. Bagnasio stares into me as he mows into a fork full of an expensive salad, his bodyguards sitting on either side, also eating. Ironic, I think to myself. I was unable to eat while my focus was dialed in and sweat was running down my neck into the collar of my shirt. "I wonder, are you stupid enough to show your face, or have you finally decided to pay me," Bagnasio projects across the table. "Sorry, I was distracted watching your bald head wrinkle while you said that." I was trying to get in his head. Make him feel like he wasn't in control of the situation. "I paid a lot of money to offer this food so we could talk, you know," he shot back. "Don't act like it's easy to show gratitude to a man who wants you dead." "I just want my money, and killing you would ensure that I never get it." "And killing you would make sure I never have to pay it, right?" I smiled. He let out a hearty laugh and slammed his fist on the table, glasses clinking together. "That's a good one tiny man, but you're never going to get away with that. I was surprised at his arrogance, but would not be surprised if he had several hidden bodyguards in this massive room. I glanced to the side to check the balcony, and saw Business cross with his hand on the rail towards the stairs. When I told him about the offer from Bagnasio, he was instantly down to try and take out another mobster in the zone. Especially one that shares a home casino with us. I juggled the conversation until I saw Business land about 30 feet away to my right, just in front of the bar. "You know, Bagnasio, I've got a lot of reasons I haven't paid you yet, but one of them is that I don't think I need to." After not having eaten anything, I finally raised a shrimp to my mouth. "Why is th-" He was cut off by the sound of a gunshot. Both of Bagnasio's bodyguards fall dead in the same direction with a clean collateral through both of their heads. When I chose to work with Business, I did it for a reason. Crowd screaming ensues, as usual. I dive under the table a draw my pistol from under my leather padding as I hear a few more gunshots go off. Darting out from under our table and behind the next as cover, I take a few shots at some of the men Bagnasio had predictably planted around. A marksman positioned on the balcony had to be the first to go. Once he was down, a few of the men in the gambling area who had also drawn pistols became my targets. I heard one or two of them yelling behind me as Business continued to take them down one at a time. Bagnasio quickly made his way up to the balcony and barricaded himself in one of the theaters on the second floor, with two guards standing outside, rifles drawn. Once we had mostly cleared out the grand casino floor, Business and I pushed through the crowd that was still flooding through the hall and rushed up the stairs. Business and I took cover behind a plant display and took shots at the guards by the door. They were outfitted with bulletproof vests, which made them tougher targets, but they were no match for Business's accuracy with his signature plated revolver. "Nice shot with the bodyguards at the table," I complimented him. "Happy accident," Business said under his breath as he smiled. We burst into the theater and were greeted by another hail of bullets. Bagnasio had found himself a machine gun. Business dodged each volley masterfully and laid down a diversion of covering shots from the front while I snuck past Bagnasio through the aisle to his left. As I approached Bagnasio, I drew my jagged blade from its leather sheath. Under the golden light of the extravagant fixtures in this theatre, it looked like a lightning bolt. I jumped onto the back of Bagnasio and held it to his throat. "This will cost you," he heaved. "No, actually. This will save me about 1.4 million dollars." A spurt of red shot onto the seat cushion in front of me as my blade came across his neck. Business and I quickly dashed out like ghosts of the night across the desert as wind whipped sand into our faces. We settled back into our apartment and wrapped up for the night. As I laid in bed, I thought about how this was just the beginning. 1 down, 6 to go.