with a period strode towards you. They were good-hearted people who were trying their best to deal with his mind-bending life.
Today, All Saints Day, one and dot walked through our door with someone new. He was a slight man, brown hair starting to gray and stubble on his slightly pockmarked cheeks. He had a slight, minced bounce in his step and smiled nervously on meeting us.
I/We nodded and thought, what a pansy.
Time: November 1 st , 1973, Boston Massachusetts, U.S.A.
In a shop window, Xar-eel looked at a wall of televisions showing the aftermath of ritualistic carnage. He smiled at the beauty of it. He looked down at a newspaper under his feet that sported a headline to the right of its story about the mounting Oil Crisis Embargo that blared “MASSACRE IN L.A.”
“And Paris, Cairo, Montreal, and Timbuktu,” Xar-eel said to the world through his new body’s slivered smile. Adam wouldn’t recognize this dilapidated, filthy vagrant as the same slim, dapper gentleman who was partly responsible for his incarceration. The devil had possessed what most would call a bum. He felt he needed to stay beneath notice for a short time and chose the filthy meat suit he now wore. He hadn’t bathed in weeks and must’ve soiled himself when Xar-eel took hold of him. This was perfect for his needs: someone who would be purposely ignored and remain overlooked. He stood at the #14 bus stop and to his surprise, the bus stopped for him.
The bus driver was furious at his sudden appearance. He could’ve sworn he wasn’t there the instant before. Having glanced at the next scheduled stop and seeing nobody waiting and nobody needing to get off, he only checked his schedule and traffic at the intersection. He was ahead in both and about to speed up when the man was suddenly waiting at the stop startling him.
He barely had time to stop and upon reflection almost didn’t let the grimy figure on. He walked onto the bus dressed in a long overcoat, jeans and canvas sneakers and passed the driver without paying. He barked at this unshaven, grimy vagrant with thinning hair and hands stuffed into his pockets who took a seat without paying the toll.
“Sir, you have to pay the fare,” he said simply.
“I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour and a half. You call this service? The Hell I’m paying. I froze my ass off out there. Drive the bus and shut up.” Xar-eel decided this would be another tribute to his Redeemer. Sooner or later he would find the proper sacrifice. He just had to keep trying.
The driver was a burly, middle-aged man. His bald head reflected back the little light in the bus as he grabbed his latest passenger and ejected him into the street.
In a blur, Xar-eel leapt back on and shoving the driver back, impossibly stretched out his hands and grew monstrous claws out their fingers. Wrestling with the driver, he overpowered him and with three quick slashes cut open the driver’s pants and severed his cock. He shoved the screaming, now falsetto driver back into his seat, picked up the phallus and lit it. Oblivious of the rest of the passengers and drawing a few good puffs, he got the gruesome stogie going and focused his attention on the driver.
“Shut up. You were going to die eventually anyway. This way it’ll be memorable in the next life,” he said through a cloud of cock-smoke and burning flesh.
Some of the horrified passengers choked from the stench of charred meat, and the driver only groaned plaintively, but all were terrified of the man resting his clawed, blood-dripping hand on the driver’s shoulder. Xar-eel admitted to himself, it would also be best to let this body go and as he looked back on the rest of the bus he slowly transformed into his own leering, rail-thin form.
The clothes he was wearing rotted with the skin falling away like dough from a hot knife. He stood in front of them finally wrapped in nothing but his Darkness. It was a cadaverous, serpentine form whose vigor defied its slender, bony
Today, All Saints Day, one and dot walked through our door with someone new. He was a slight man, brown hair starting to gray and stubble on his slightly pockmarked cheeks. He had a slight, minced bounce in his step and smiled nervously on meeting us.
I/We nodded and thought, what a pansy.
Time: November 1 st , 1973, Boston Massachusetts, U.S.A.
In a shop window, Xar-eel looked at a wall of televisions showing the aftermath of ritualistic carnage. He smiled at the beauty of it. He looked down at a newspaper under his feet that sported a headline to the right of its story about the mounting Oil Crisis Embargo that blared “MASSACRE IN L.A.”
“And Paris, Cairo, Montreal, and Timbuktu,” Xar-eel said to the world through his new body’s slivered smile. Adam wouldn’t recognize this dilapidated, filthy vagrant as the same slim, dapper gentleman who was partly responsible for his incarceration. The devil had possessed what most would call a bum. He felt he needed to stay beneath notice for a short time and chose the filthy meat suit he now wore. He hadn’t bathed in weeks and must’ve soiled himself when Xar-eel took hold of him. This was perfect for his needs: someone who would be purposely ignored and remain overlooked. He stood at the #14 bus stop and to his surprise, the bus stopped for him.
The bus driver was furious at his sudden appearance. He could’ve sworn he wasn’t there the instant before. Having glanced at the next scheduled stop and seeing nobody waiting and nobody needing to get off, he only checked his schedule and traffic at the intersection. He was ahead in both and about to speed up when the man was suddenly waiting at the stop startling him.
He barely had time to stop and upon reflection almost didn’t let the grimy figure on. He walked onto the bus dressed in a long overcoat, jeans and canvas sneakers and passed the driver without paying. He barked at this unshaven, grimy vagrant with thinning hair and hands stuffed into his pockets who took a seat without paying the toll.
“Sir, you have to pay the fare,” he said simply.
“I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour and a half. You call this service? The Hell I’m paying. I froze my ass off out there. Drive the bus and shut up.” Xar-eel decided this would be another tribute to his Redeemer. Sooner or later he would find the proper sacrifice. He just had to keep trying.
The driver was a burly, middle-aged man. His bald head reflected back the little light in the bus as he grabbed his latest passenger and ejected him into the street.
In a blur, Xar-eel leapt back on and shoving the driver back, impossibly stretched out his hands and grew monstrous claws out their fingers. Wrestling with the driver, he overpowered him and with three quick slashes cut open the driver’s pants and severed his cock. He shoved the screaming, now falsetto driver back into his seat, picked up the phallus and lit it. Oblivious of the rest of the passengers and drawing a few good puffs, he got the gruesome stogie going and focused his attention on the driver.
“Shut up. You were going to die eventually anyway. This way it’ll be memorable in the next life,” he said through a cloud of cock-smoke and burning flesh.
Some of the horrified passengers choked from the stench of charred meat, and the driver only groaned plaintively, but all were terrified of the man resting his clawed, blood-dripping hand on the driver’s shoulder. Xar-eel admitted to himself, it would also be best to let this body go and as he looked back on the rest of the bus he slowly transformed into his own leering, rail-thin form.
The clothes he was wearing rotted with the skin falling away like dough from a hot knife. He stood in front of them finally wrapped in nothing but his Darkness. It was a cadaverous, serpentine form whose vigor defied its slender, bony
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