Fuck the noise, were already dead anyway.
I calmed down a bit since then, but I still haven’t found anything that could really help. Sure, this shop has all sorts of wonderful advice on mysticism, ghost channeling, and spirit calling, but nothing on satanic pacts of this sort. If I don’t find something James will start planning…
Entry Twenty-seven, 1/21/15
I shouldn’t hold it past him. I mean, I really can’t foresee how any other train of events could’ve possibly transpired. James Mustang is essentially a metal head bent on reaching some elusive mental image of unstoppable badass, which would officially make him beyond psychotic than previously thought. His plan? Of course, it begins with a plan, why would this possibly have nothing to do with one of His plans? He approached me this morning armed to the teeth with every fucking illegal weapon the neighboring pawnshop had to offer, and it alarmed me on multiple levels quite frankly. One, our pawnshops hold a lot more behind the counter than what is legally justifiable. I mean, why would a pawnshop carry an M16? Second, our youths have more access to weapons than initially thought, just sneak behind the counter and take your pick. Third, James is determined like hell to get us fucking killed!
I nearly laughed, but my concern for my own safety and survival took over, transforming my would be taunting laughter into harsh remarks of criticism. James reacted as if I gave him a compliment and walked towards the window, orally conducting a plan that he so thoughtfully perceived.
His smart ass fabricated a plan that boiled down to merely marching straight for the apartments in broad daylight, making us practically visible to any curious fucker that just so happens to look out the window. Assuming, the Marauders are as half decent as they seem, they would probably be more inclined to watch for any suspicious intruders. James seemed confused as to why I couldn’t agree to his plan.
After minutes of trying to convey to him the stupidity of his plan, I decided to take another route and just tweak his current plan. He seemed too determined for the apartment complex for me to advise otherwise, but he didn’t mind going a more discrete route through the networking alleys.
From a distance, we scouted with binoculars, observing for movement to find that perhaps marching head on would’ve work anyway, as the Marauders seem more concerned with sending out search parties than securing the fort. James led the way to a ground level apartment and climbed over the low fence, and suggested for me to follow as he peered through a window. The single bedroom abode was trashed, mattress against the wall, stains of bodily fluids, liquor, soda, hot sauce, and such embedded into the grungy carpet, while bullet holes form irregular patterns on the walls. Despite the mess, the coast was clear and we entered, taking our hunt one step at a time.
I only had a small chance to jot this down now, while James sits in contemplation, scanning carefully for the best possible attack route. At least, that’s what I assume he is doing.
Entry Twenty-eight, ~1/22/15
I thought the smell was horrid before, strong enough at times to evoke sudden vomit and convulsions, but those odors have nothing on this. Where ever this is. Hell, could it really be? I don’t know, and I doubt I would accept the truth even if it stood right in front of me. What I do know is that there isn’t much light, which means that the moist floor and walls could be any number of things. A womb? An intestine? The pale glow of my cell phone can only provide so much, revealing a dark corrosive substance lavishly lathered upon something unrecognizable.
How things all connected, and they connected so very well, I will never know. But the Marauders understood more than I initially thought and the truth came out once we raided the upper floor of the complex. With chunks blasted through the
I calmed down a bit since then, but I still haven’t found anything that could really help. Sure, this shop has all sorts of wonderful advice on mysticism, ghost channeling, and spirit calling, but nothing on satanic pacts of this sort. If I don’t find something James will start planning…
Entry Twenty-seven, 1/21/15
I shouldn’t hold it past him. I mean, I really can’t foresee how any other train of events could’ve possibly transpired. James Mustang is essentially a metal head bent on reaching some elusive mental image of unstoppable badass, which would officially make him beyond psychotic than previously thought. His plan? Of course, it begins with a plan, why would this possibly have nothing to do with one of His plans? He approached me this morning armed to the teeth with every fucking illegal weapon the neighboring pawnshop had to offer, and it alarmed me on multiple levels quite frankly. One, our pawnshops hold a lot more behind the counter than what is legally justifiable. I mean, why would a pawnshop carry an M16? Second, our youths have more access to weapons than initially thought, just sneak behind the counter and take your pick. Third, James is determined like hell to get us fucking killed!
I nearly laughed, but my concern for my own safety and survival took over, transforming my would be taunting laughter into harsh remarks of criticism. James reacted as if I gave him a compliment and walked towards the window, orally conducting a plan that he so thoughtfully perceived.
His smart ass fabricated a plan that boiled down to merely marching straight for the apartments in broad daylight, making us practically visible to any curious fucker that just so happens to look out the window. Assuming, the Marauders are as half decent as they seem, they would probably be more inclined to watch for any suspicious intruders. James seemed confused as to why I couldn’t agree to his plan.
After minutes of trying to convey to him the stupidity of his plan, I decided to take another route and just tweak his current plan. He seemed too determined for the apartment complex for me to advise otherwise, but he didn’t mind going a more discrete route through the networking alleys.
From a distance, we scouted with binoculars, observing for movement to find that perhaps marching head on would’ve work anyway, as the Marauders seem more concerned with sending out search parties than securing the fort. James led the way to a ground level apartment and climbed over the low fence, and suggested for me to follow as he peered through a window. The single bedroom abode was trashed, mattress against the wall, stains of bodily fluids, liquor, soda, hot sauce, and such embedded into the grungy carpet, while bullet holes form irregular patterns on the walls. Despite the mess, the coast was clear and we entered, taking our hunt one step at a time.
I only had a small chance to jot this down now, while James sits in contemplation, scanning carefully for the best possible attack route. At least, that’s what I assume he is doing.
Entry Twenty-eight, ~1/22/15
I thought the smell was horrid before, strong enough at times to evoke sudden vomit and convulsions, but those odors have nothing on this. Where ever this is. Hell, could it really be? I don’t know, and I doubt I would accept the truth even if it stood right in front of me. What I do know is that there isn’t much light, which means that the moist floor and walls could be any number of things. A womb? An intestine? The pale glow of my cell phone can only provide so much, revealing a dark corrosive substance lavishly lathered upon something unrecognizable.
How things all connected, and they connected so very well, I will never know. But the Marauders understood more than I initially thought and the truth came out once we raided the upper floor of the complex. With chunks blasted through the
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