Rolling Stone Vidizine Issue #15

"Serious Issues"
- K. D. Bryan shares his thoughts with us on the newly reissued "Use Ointment - The Best of the Fungal Issues"

by Mariannar Trent

I am sitting on a wicker chair, beside a calico kitty, in the middle of a tropical bungalow, across from a legend, below a thatched ceiling, over a river and through some smoke, as I stare openly at the infamously reclusive K.D. Bryan.

My jaw hangs agape and a trickle of drool falls unnoticed as Bryan, now aged 67, prepares for the installation of a SubCue receiver.

His famous intensity does not seem to have been dulled by age. His pupils still stare with the fevered passion seen on the album covers of the mid 00's, his hands seem as powerful as when they beat a man to death with drumsticks for booking the FI's on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno, his eyebrow is raised in the same manner it was raised when his famous wedding photos with Gina Gershon were shot, his -

"Are you just going to keep staring at me like that? 'Cause you're giving me the heebies."

His voice sends tremors of excitment up and down my internal organs. I desperately wish for the days of his youth, when young reporters could use laptop computers to cover the obvious bulges in their pants or pocket protectors to hide their frenzied nipples. I am armed only with my excitement and can sense that we will get nowhere fast unless I get right down to business.

I try to hide my aching desire through a sheen of haughty disdain.

"This is your first time using SubCue? That surprises me, given your producer and manager status of newer music. How do you keep cutting edge with your clients, like The Hatefuck Trio?"

K.D. merely sighs, muttering "I fucking hate reporters. Somebody get me another Banana Shooter." I am flush with anxiety and eroticism.

Soon, the installation is complete and the living legend in front of me settles back deeply into a wall of pillows. "Let's get this fucking show on the road. Trivia about the hits on the ablum, quality of the transfer, blah fuckity blah. Right. C'mon. Here we go. Where's my fucking shooter?"

Bryan's kimono-style Fiberwear nestles in tightly around his veiny torso and his eyes close. Soon, very soon, he shares the tidbits, comments and profane commands that you can only read here in RSI. First, please enjoy this comvid for delicious Supple, the drink that gives you firmer skin - now in muscat, ginger and milk flavors!

The vibrations of the music begin, causing his head to vibrate slightly. The small Bryan smile, so recognizable from billboards and posters, comes into view. I fight to keep from molesting myself. His comments are as follows:

"Shiny Like A Ninja's Heart!"
from their debut album "No Time for A Title"

"Mmmmm. Yeah. This is what put us on the map. At first, we were worried that it wouldn't get enough airplay because of that line about [performing oral sex] on the corpse of Emily Dickinson. But, heh, I remember Brian - good old Brian, he went to every major airplay market in the country and he - He had this voice changing machine he bought at a dollar store. What he did was, he called every radio station and said he'd blow it up if they didn't play the new single from the Fungal Issues. Ahhh, Brian. What a guy. I think Sarah showing up at that record executive's door naked with a riding crop probably helped a lot too. That and well, the music itself still makes me fucking proud as hell. Travis' wood block solo on this one? I STILL get chills just listening to it. We've had our differences but that, man? That was golden."

"Nativity Sex"
from their third hit album, "Infectious Fingernails"

"Okay, okay, this one is- I'm sure you've heard this story already but I'm going to set the record straight. The line "Lick my clit, Baby Jesus" doesn't come from Tim X-13's ex-girlfriend's orgasms. Nor was it from Travis, though that glory-hound would like you to believe he crapped out the entire band on a 15-minute cigarette break. Sorry. Sorry Travis. Bad blood, trying to get hemoglobin treatments for it. Anyway. "Lick my clit, Baby Jesus." That was from Brian, who else?

We were all stuck in Germany on Christmas Eve and we were all in a pretty bad way. Travis, Tim and I had all gone out for curry which we ended up not being able to find. We came home in a terrible mood, only to find out that Sarah had tied up our concierge and was forcing him to ritualistically suck on her toenails. Because she felt badly that he had to work on Christmas Eve. Or something.

We didn't mind so much but now we had nobody to harass for our curry. That was when Tim found Brian curled up underneath the sofa, whispering to himself and crying. Turns out he'd eaten our entire supply of acid while watching the Charlie Brown Christmas Special in French. I bent in close, just to make sure he wasn't swallowing his tongue or something and I heard him muttering the magic words - "Lick my clit, Baby Jesus". I turned to Travis and said "Get me my tape recorder, right the fuck now." and the next morning we had a lyrics track for our third gold platinum hit. Heh. Memories.

Boy, the Right-Wingers didn't like that one much at all. Banned in 11 countries. And Kentucky. Not that we ever fucking went to Kentucky."

"Feel My Viscera"
from their 11th album, "youdon'tlooklikemycousinstevewhothefuckareyougetoffmyfuckingfuton"

"Right. Yeeeaah. Okay. This is Tim's opus. His fucking baby. Man. This was- I heard he got on seventeen best-of lists when you did that "Greatest Whatever's" thing. He blew us all away with his work here. What can I fucking say? Genius. Nobody plays a washboard like him. Nobody ever will. The solo album he did - that was such a fucking tragedy. The world, they, the world just wasn't fucking ready. Nobody knew what to do with his kind of sound just yet. It was just so beautiful but they- Look, I love this song. I really do. But it's FIFTY-SEVEN MINUTES LONG. Could we maybe, just, skip over it? Or something? I think I'll get a massive fucking aneurysm if we have it vibrating in my goddamn skull for that long. I mean, yeah, it's amazing and all but even when he was recording it the rest of us just went out for all-you-can-eat pizza. Could we just- thank you. Jesus on a biscuit."

"Squirrel of Rage"
from their 14th album, "We Are the Fungal Issues", their first album after the tragic death of Brian Wanamaker

"Total shit. Move on."

"I Am Your Pet Freak"
from their record-setting 17th album, "Setting Babies on Fire"

"YES. God, yes. This was the first time I think we really clicked again. We'd always said Brian would be with us in spirit but this album was when it really worked. I think the effort we put in meant a lot. And the Santeria priestesses, with the uh, reanimated cyborg flesh grafts and electrodes, well, they had a lot to do with it too. But mostly, I give all the praise and credit to Sarah. It was her idea to forcibly re-animate parts of Brian and it was her mindset at the time that really was the driving force for the album.

I'd hit a dryspell creatively. She'd just given up her third child for adoption to a Third World country to force him to grow up stronger and faster but somehow - Somehow, that just energized her all the more. Sarah was a whirlwind, a dynamo, a fucking goddess and not just sexually in this case. Half the songs on this album were written by her. This one was one of mine but still, the energy? All Sarah's. Travis had her name tattooed on his clavicle after this was done, right above Brian's left eye. And Tim gave her part of his left ear in tribute. That was a great year for us. A really good fucking year. Second renaissance, man. Second Renaissance."

Shortly after this last rambling memory of happier times, K.D. Bryan's head took on a new kind of hum - his snoring. His handlers came in quietly and I was ushered out of the room before I could awaken him and ask him for further thoughts, ideas or demands on my body.

Without even being able to fondle his lower right forearm, where a decayed remnant of Wanamaker's nose taunts me, I am forced out by his transsexual bodyguards and tossed unceremoniously onto the black sands that border his property.

As I lay upon the beach with a broken femur, I can see the loons taking flight before a brilliant green and purple sunset. I realize in quiet retrospect that the moments I spent in the presence of K.D. Bryan were akin to the time a mosquito might spend sucking on the blood of God. There were

PLEASE INSERT $350 AMERICAN FOR NEXT TWENTY-FIVE PAGES

Her eyes lock with mine as I feel the tightness around my throat, causing me to breathe in raspy hot breaths.
Oh fuck all, not this again.
I look for salvation within the pale orbs of my lover, but am greeted with naught but fear. My heart leaps hopefully within my chest; perhaps it is fear for my safety that bathes her eyes in moisture. Fear for the neck of her lover, her scandalous highwayman.

Gods teeth, was I a fool!
The darkness between her lips grew as she opened them, as if to speak, to cry out, to scream for redemption, to howl; "Mercy! Mercy for the man I love!"
But this doesn't happen...

Never does, does it?
Her eyes turn away.
The crowd that has gathered grows louder. I search the eyes of my accusers, unclean men armed with gleaming metal and spiteful words. All I find is condemnation. They shout crimes in my face: the robbery of a livery last night, a waylaid shipment of gold, and its company slaughtered. I soon loose track of the accusations as my eyes fall upon her flaxen hair. She is pressed up against her father's chest.

Father!? Vile shit-eyed, fiendish fuck! Mayor of the village. I have the suspicion that the man would press his fat, greasy face upon the wall so he could listen to me give it to his daughter as he masturbated!!
Even over the shouting I could hear her sobbing. I stared at my accusers, defiant. I didn't commit the crimes held before me. I'm no saint (Far fuckin' from it, murderer, thief, pirate) but I've been good as of late.

Good? No, preoccupied with the twat of the mayors daughter!
My heart pulled at my brain. I had to speak up; I had to tell this surly crowd that I was with Elisabeta. That she and I were locked in a clandestine, lovers embrace. I had to, to save myself from whatever oblivion was rushing to meet me…but I couldn't.
I was such a fool.

I loved her.
I could not speak. I cared too much for her, for her eyes, and her lips. For her laugh, and the way her fingers danced in my hair after we had made love. If I said the words I knew had to be said, I would ruin her life. No, I couldn't speak of us.
She would have to do it. For she said she loved me too.
I believe she started to turn towards me as they were putting the sack over my face. At any moment the voice of my angel will ring out, delivering me unto salvation. Of course we would have to leave this village, miserable shit stain that it is, but we would have one another to....
That was as far as my revelry went. I suppose the lying whore never spoke up, or perhaps the spiteful, black hearted bitch spoke too late, because the next thing I knew a fuckin' rope was snapping my neck.
Pop.
What?
D'you want a fuckin' happy ending? Ok...how 'bout this. I've been down here for months, and I still haven't found a sodding pub.

Happy now?

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The Hole

Jem Waites stared down into the dark hole trying hard to distinguish any shapes or colors. The hole was ringed with a small wall of stones much like the wall Jem had put up a year ago around the old well at the south end of the farm. Jem guessed that the diameter of the hole was about four feet wide, and it had to be more than twenty feet deep because when he shone the flashlight down it was unable to penetrate the blackness. Jem remembered when the county crew got permission from Jem’s father to create the hole. It was intended to be some kind of waste collection pit for a new drainage system that the state was installing, but the funding ran out, and so did the crewmen. Jem’s father, Obed, tried for the longest time to get the county to seal the hole but there was always one reason or another that they couldn’t come down and do it. For weeks Obed threatened to have Jem fill in the hole, but father and son became so busy with the farm that they just never got around to it.
A month later Obed took ill and died. A week before he expired Obed had Jem build the small wall of stones around the hole, no one really knew why, least of all Jem.

Old farmer Howard Phillips often said that he would look out of his window at night and see Obed crouched down in front of that hole. The old farmer said he could see a fire burning nearby, and he swore he could hear a rhythmic chanting. Then again farmer Phillips also claimed that faceless creatures would carry him from his bed at night and bring him to other worlds. The old man was crazy, but Obed did seem to have an obsession with that hole. It was a persistent topic on the Waites’ farm during the last few weeks of Obed’s life, according to day workers. On more than one occasion Obed yelled and screamed at Jem, while hacking up blood, and demanded that the boy drop stones down the hole until it was closed forever. Obed always calmed down and apologized to his son right afterwards. Farm hands had said that they didn’t think he apologized because he had hurt his son’s feelings, but because he really didn’t want the hole closed.
It is rumored in town that poor Obed was found dead in the main doorway of the house, the doorway facing the north pasture, as if in an attempt to make one final journey to that hole.
Jem knew that it was all hearsay, country talk. Although he had been working in the corn to the east when the hands found his fathers body so he couldn’t say for sure. He was well aware of the penchant for the older folks in town to make up wild stories in an attempt to garner attention to themselves and their backwoods wisdom. Still, there he was staring down a deep dark hole.
Last time Jem was in town Goodie Watkins told him that his father held truck with rust skinned devils from down that trench, and he got whatever he deserved.
Jem didn’t see any devils, but his mind did stagger at the inscrutability of that pit. The sheer enigma of that blackness caused his mind to reel. That mystery compounded infinitely with the fact that the hole was bored right through the center of something Jem knew so well. As a child he had played among the high grass of the north field. He had his first kiss here, and had lost his virginity in the woods that ringed the property not far from where the hole is now. It baffled him how something so unfathomable could exist within something so familiar. Like a hole in his reality. Perhaps these were the thoughts that drove his father mad and killed him. Jem doubted it; his father was a pragmatic man, not given to flights of fancy. But still, it was all very odd, Jem had to admit as he gazed down into that hole. This business was very odd.
Old Howard Phillips stared down into the Waites’ pasture that adjoined his own property; the north field the Waites called it. He could just make out, past the dense wood that separated the properties, young Jeremiah Waites crouched before that obscene hole the same way his father had done before he died. The boy, like his father, was just kind of, sitting in front of the hole. The word supplication popped into the old farmer’s head but he wasn’t sure what it meant, even though he had heard it in church time and time again. That boy’s gonna go nuts like his old man did.
Farmer Phillips wondered if what Goodie Watkins had said was true. He wondered if she really saw Obediah signing the devil's black book and then lying with the prince of lies himself. He didn’t wonder long though, Goodie Watkins hadn’t been to the Waites’ farm since Obediah’s grandfather, Ambrose, married that queer girl from Dunnich. That was most likely where the madness in the family came from; you don’t mix Dunnich blood into your family tree and walk away unscathed. The old man shook his head at the lad kneeling before the hole. It would only be a matter of time before something terrible happened.
For the next four days customers of the Waites farm complained that they hadn’t been receiving their regular deliveries. A week later farmer Phillips anonymously called the sheriff, though everybody knew it was him, and reported that the dogs nearby the Waites farm had been barking for two whole days. An officer was dispatched, and within an hour, the body of Jem Waites was carried away in a body bag. Farmer Phillips would not open his door to answer the officer’s questions, and the window facing the Waites’ north field was boarded up. The old farmer died within the next month.
There was talk that Jem had started a second hole in the root cellar inside the house. Goodie Watkins claimed that when the sheriff had found Jem his arms were hacked open and his blood was draining into the hole. Unfortunately these rumors were never substantiated. Within a month a strange collector from the city purchased the Waites property. Locals say he tried to excise the hole so he could bring it back to the city for study but it collapsed under its own weight. Soon after the property was razed and sold back to the county, where it languished for a number of years before being turned into a cemetery.

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The Shadow Of The Tower

I

The warrior stood in the doorway of the small inn. A blanket of silence slowly fell over the few patrons as the howl of the winter winds announced the newcomer to their midst. They watched him pull shut the heavy oak door to keep the bitter cold outside. He was tall, taller than most men in the village, so much taller that he had to duck his head a bit upon entering the warmth of the inn. Draped about his wide frame were furs from many different animals sewn together in the distinctive style of the northern tribes, a clever layering pattern that helped trap body heat close to its wearer. But this stranger was no northern tribesman; his hair was black as soot and much longer than any barbarians. The tribes of the north, according to their rites of manhood, wore their fair hair short. In his dark hair were many braids, warriors braids, symbols of an accomplished fighter, one who has killed many. The stranger stalked forward like a great cat. He watched all and seemed to notice everything without ever turning his head to actually set his gaze upon anything. His weapons hung at his left hip, two great blades sleeping quietly in a double sheath, one right on top of the other. The villagers had word from the scouting outposts that an armed traveler was heading towards the village. Very few warriors take solace within their village walls being that the town’s proximity is so close to the mating caves of the Other Race, a breed of humanoid creatures, bent and misshapen by whatever god created them. Every winter they travel to the caves in the west to mate and all within their path is razed to the ground. All inside the inn had heard tales of this particular stranger, however. They had heard tales of a large, dark haired warrior with a dual sheath for two arcane blades. One who is said to have accomplished great deeds, tremendous battles fought and won. They say even mighty wizards have fallen beneath his blades....and everyone fears wizards.

The stranger unclasped his weapon belt and placed his two sheathed blades atop the bar. His arms were bare and the barkeep, a young redheaded girl, noticed his thick, sinewy muscles. Soon enough all noticed as well as he stripped out of his damp furs. An old man that was sitting at the bar watched the stranger intently, with what looked like fear and apprehension on his face. The warrior stripped down to a heavy cloth shirt and trousers, still wearing his warm fur boots.

The redheaded girl walked toward the warrior slowly. Her father, who owned the small inn, put her to work behind the bar with the hopes of luring more of the older men in the village to give up their coin for a drink from the pretty lady. She studied the warrior’s face; it was very different from any of the other men in the village. His skin looked hard. He had a broad mashed nose that didn't look like it sat right on his face; his skin was pale and dirty from what must have been a long journey. His cheeks were scarred in places and his hollow eyes were shadowed and mysterious. He had a square jaw line that melded smoothly with his neck, which was thick and powerful. With a large callused hand he rubbed the days worth of beard stubble that had grown on his chin, he seemed displeased. While he searched through his journey bag she studied his arms and chest; both were massive. She wrung her hands and wondered what a powerful warrior like him had come to their meager little village for. She only knew one thing; A handful of farmers and miners would stand no chance against such a man.

He placed his belongings on the long wooden bench that ran the length of the bar. Everything but his blades, which he dropped within reach on top of the counter. An old man, the only other person to sit on the bench with the warrior, eyed the stranger carefully. He had been watching the stranger from the minute he entered the bar. Slowly the warrior lowered himself down and sat hunched forward with his large arms resting on the smooth wood of the bar top. He slowly raised two thick fingers signaling to the barmaid that he was ready to order. The small redhead hurried over and stood before him with her hands behind her back and her chest thrust out just like her father had taught her. Much to the girl’s surprise the warrior didn't even glance at her out thrust bosom, his eyes flicked immediately up to meet hers, and he stared at her squarely. She hadn't really noticed his eyes when he came in because the inn was too dark and her eyes, like her mother’s, were starting to fail her. This mans eyes looked like that of a hawk. They were darkened by shadow but she could still feel the intensity that radiated through his amber orbs. They sparkled with a ferocity she had never seen before, but there was something else as well, something that she would have thought impossible. In his eyes she saw a kind of wisdom. A cool intelligence she would have never expected to see on a barbarian, but perhaps on a wizard, or a priest. His harsh voice broke her concentration and she snapped to attention. He stared at her expectantly and she immediately realized that she had been too busy staring into his eyes that she had missed his order. Not wanting to offend him any further, she quickly spoke up.
"W-what? Excuse me sir?"
His eyes narrowed. A shadow obscured them from her view as he leaned in closer. Close enough so that she could smell his breath, which was, again, not what she expected of a barbarian. He smelled clean, cleaner than most of the men in her village.
"I said I'd like a farwyne...please."
She wrinkled her brow and felt a slight perspiration dot her forehead. Farwyne, farwyne...c'mon Krynissa don't anger this man any further.
"We...umm...we don't carry that...sir." She tried to flash her best smile but was much too nervous to pull it off correctly. She imagined she looked as if she were in pain.
The warrior sighed and bowed his head. He slid a powerful arm from the bartop and rummaged through his journey pack. Krynissa's stomach dropped. What was he looking for? She thought. A dagger with which to carve my heart out? A battle axe to split my skull? She jumped backward as he quickly jerked his hand from his pack and thrust something at her face. She had to stifle a yelp until she realized what he held before her. It was an empty waterskin.
"Just fill this with water then."
She relaxed, nodded, took the skin from him and walked to the back room where the water pump was.

The old man's eyes involuntarily followed the young girl as she carried the skin through the deep red curtain that led to the back room. He looked back at the warrior and licked his lips, realizing how dry his throat was. Not from the lack of fluids, for he had been drinking all day, but from his nervousness of the task at hand. He lifted his glass of milkroot to his lips and swallowed the last of it. The soothing, minty liquid slid easily down his throat, but he swallowed hard anyway. The bargirl pushed her way through the curtains holding the full waterskin. She placed it in front of the warrior and asked if he needed anything else. She looks more nervous than I feel, the old man thought to himself. He couldn't hear what the warrior asked for but the young girl stepped into the back room again. He laughed inwardly at his own tension, who would have thought that I, Vrin Mallor, would ever have trouble talking to anyone? He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out, perhaps a wizard has stolen my voice? No, no wizard, He realized, just cowardice.
The barmaid came back with a plate of meat and bread and set it before the stranger then got him a mug of Sweetale. The barbarian started to eat heartily as the old man once again begun to psyche himself up. Vrin you old fool! This stranger may be our only hope. He can kill the Baron and free this town, just tell him the story. He seems just and reasonable, surely he won't kill you for speaking will he?
The thought of the warriors blade slicing it's way through his old neck caused him to swallow hard.
"E-excuse me kind sir?"
The sound of his creaky voice startled himself, no turning back now. The warrior lifted his head up, but did not look at Vrin. Vrin moved in closer to the barbarian. "May we...converse?" He said, gesturing slightly with his hands. The stranger swallowed a mouthful of meat, gulped down some ale, then turned to look at the old man.
"My name is Vrin Mallor," he announced with pride, "and I am the eldest of this village. It is not a position of power but it does put me in the unique position to...” He paused to search for the right word " …welcome, newcomers to our small town."
The warrior lifted his cup to his lips and drank again. Vrin cleared his throat; his nervousness was beginning to abate.
“We…well, that is, I would like to make a proposition. A small bargain that could be mutually beneficial to the both of us."
As he spoke he tried not to look into the strangers’ eyes, for they bothered him. Not as dull as most people's, and blackened by shadow...within, and without. The warrior placed his cup on the bartop and leaned forward.
"Go on."
He spoke, Vrin thought, with the raspy shadow-like a voice of a man who has spoken to no one for many days. Vrin cocked his head to the side and coaxing confidence into his voice he spoke.
"Before we bargain, sir, might you grace this old one with your name?"
The warrior stared in silence for a few moments before he spoke, and for a second it appeared to Vrin that the man had forgotten his own name.
"I am called Kall."
Vrin raised a brow, now you know his name old boy, and names hold much power.
"Yes Kall. As I was saying...” he trailed off, trying to remember where he had left off.
"The deal." Kall reminded him.
"Ahh yes, the deal. You see my good man a few days before this hellish storm rose up a great tragedy befell me, and the good people of this town. My only daughter, the village seer, has been abducted...kidnapped."
Kall detected some sorrow in the old man's voice as he looked down to cracked, shaky old hands.
"I was powerless to resist as the wicked land Baron traveled down from his lofty black tower and snatched my darling...Theresa, away from me." A tear rolled down his cheek and sweat formed on his brow. Kall turned back to his plate.
"What does this have to do with me?" He growled.
Vrin looked up, astonished.
"What? Why, you, my barbarous friend could help me! Help us! This wicked man, this Baron Ungerdaak has held us in his thrall for years. He taxes us beyond any amount we can pay and he steals our children and livestock as he sees fit! If you have even a shred of humanity in you, you would lend us your mighty sword and right this egregious wrong!"
"What's in it for me?" Kall sighed.
Vrins' eyes glanced around the room, all were watching now and he racked his brain for the right words. Before he could find them, Kall offered them up,
"Gold?"
Vrin looked him in the eyes.
"All that we have!"
"Women?"
"You can take your pick, we have fine breeding wenches here. To bed down with a warrior would be a welcome privilege for many."
"Animals?"
"Sadly we have very few. But you may take as you see fit!"
"And if I do take; the gold, the women, the animals. What is it that makes me better than this...Baron Ungerdaak?" Vrins' eyes flickered about, searching for a response, one that he found quickly.
"You will not stay. You will take your bounty and go far away from this town. It will be part of the deal."
"And if I decide to stay old man? Who’s to stop me? Say that I enjoy your gold and women and animals so much that I decide to partake of them every month? Or week? Then you have just hired yourself another Baron Ungerdaak. One that will not be as easily vanquished, I can assure you of that. But no, old man..." Kall turned back to his plate of meat, which had now gone cold, "you have nothing I want."
Vrin was astonished, he would never have thought that this warrior was capable of turning down such an offer.
"You...will not help us?"
"I am not a hero, and you have nothing to offer me."
A new argument sprung into Vrins' mind, if he couldn't get this barbarian to go to the Barons tower things would only get worse. His shoulders slumped in mock defeat as Kall finished up his plate of cold meat.
"So, great warrior, where will you go then after leaving us to our fate?"
Kall chewed, swallowed and answered.
"I will travel east, toward Gryphon Mount."
"Gryphon mount is a long way from here friend, and it is a nigh impenetrable mountain range, but you will surely be killed before you reach it."
Kall’s head perked up at this and angrily turned toward the old man.
"Do you threaten me old man?"
Quickly Vrin threw his arms up in defense, "No! No, kind sir. Know you not what season this is?"
Kall narrowed his eyes and thought.
"It is...OothorMarch." He said quietly, now aware at what the old man was getting at.
"Exactly...the Other race will be traveling to their mating caves in the west. Imagine a great misshapen horde of those beasts stomping their way across the snowy countryside. You are a great warrior, and, most probably, a wonderful journeyman, but in this storm even you will have to use the roads. Eventually you will happen upon the horde and they will not leave you alive."
Kall bowed his head, the old man was right; there was very little chance of him evading the mating horde and an even smaller chance of him being able to fight his way through. Vrin leaned back in the bench, triumphant.
"Now, the people of this village would be glad to extend some courtesy toward you and lend a helping home 'till the storms let up, but," He continued with a wry smile, "we are not heroes, and you do have something to offer us."

Kall leaned forward and grabbed the cloth of the old mans shirt, enraged. How dare this old man mock him using his own words! How dare he presume that Kall could be subjugated like a sheep in the field! Kall felt the icy grip of the dark lord Thanatüs clasp around his soul. With little effort he heaved Vrin up into the air and the other patrons of the inn stood, startled at the warrior’s sudden violence.
"Know you this, old man! Know that if I needed a home to seek refuge in during the storms I would take one! Know that if you ever speak to me in such a way again my lord Thanatüs will have your soul!"
A portly farmer grew brave and armed with a thick walking stick rushed to aid the old man. Kall tossed Vrin aside and turned to meet his attacker. The farmer swung downward with the stick to try and brain the tall one, but Kall easily shielded the blow with a muscled forearm. Kall quickly grasped the stick and gave it a good yank, with intent to wrest it from the farmers grip, but the farmer held fast. Instead of letting go he stumbled forward and Kall smacked the back of his fist into the fat mans face, swatting him aside, and unconscious. A heavy wooden chair flew in Kall’s direction and he used the walking stick to deflect it. Hoping the warrior would be distracted by the chair a younger and thinner man ran to attack the burly warrior. Kall easily snatched the boy out of the air in mid leap and held him off the ground by his thin neck. The boy felt consciousness leave him as the warrior squeezed the air from his throat, he had no chance of fighting back as darkness encircled his brain.

"STOP THIS!" The old man yelled from atop the bar. "Warrior, I implore you, put the boy down before he dies!" Kall tossed the boy to the wooden floor and took a menacing step towards Vrin.
"I meant no threat warrior! I did not mean to mock you! We are but farmers, not fighters. These men work deep in the caves harvesting shade fruits and Shadavars because the land around here is frozen and unyielding. You will be well taken care of if you do us but one service, a service that should not cause you to even break sweat. You mentioned the dark one, Thanatüs, he is one of the old gods. The darkest of the stars in heaven above! Your allegiance to him proves to me that you are well versed in the ways of death, and your actions and movements in battle do nothing to dissuade that point. BUT! The only way to align yourself with the dark one is to enslave yourself to him. Kill Baron Ungerdaak, free my daughter and our land, and...and, perhaps this one act of kindness will be the one that frees you from his clutches."
Kall looked around at the fruit of his anger. Two men felled and the rest too scared to stand up for themselves. When would the lord of darkness release his steely grip forever? Kall stood thinking. He glanced up at the barmaid; she was huddled in the corner shaking. Her hair had come loose from its bindings and now splayed out across her shoulders. True fear pervaded her eyes. Kall thought back, back through time. Back to his days in the city of alabaster, the Priests City, city of holiness and healing. He thought of an apprenticeship, his apprenticeship, one that went tragically wrong. When he was younger he had dreams of bettering their world. Too many wars had ravaged the populace; his own father had died in the Great War, leaving Kall with a younger sister to take care of. Kall loved his sister; he would have given his life for her.
If he hadn't taken her life first.

Kall’s eyes searched he barmaids' features, she bore an undeniable resemblance to his sister, his now damned sister. If only he hadn't dabbled into the halls of Arkana. If only she hadn't entered the summoning chambers whilst he invoked the minor deamon, Azter-rath. Now his beloved sister lay in the pits of Thanatüs' dark kingdom. The only way of getting her back was to agree to become the hand of the dark lord. To be used to inflict his evil will on those of Kall's world, using Kall as his vessel of destruction. Fists clenched and head bowed Kall said the five words that he knew he would come to regret,

"Show me to this Tower."

Go back here to let me know what you think, and if I should edit and post the rest.

Word:
The Invisibles

What the hell can I say about the Invisibles? It is truly a magnum opus. A prophetic meld of magic, conspiracy, and spy-adventure novel, with a twist of drug paranoia thrown in there. Yes, it is by Grant Morrison, and No, he is not paying me to write good things about him on my blogs. If you've ever had a hint of doubt about the world you live in, then you need to read The Invisibles. If you've ever seen strange lights in the sky, or heard a weird noise in the dark of night, or ever, in your misspent youth, convinced your parents to buy you a 'magick' book, then you must read it. If not, go about your life, blissfully unaware of the secrets that surround you.

I am thinking of some way to sum up the plot...okay...throughout history there have been groups of Invisibles, cells of spy units dedicated to fighting the ultimate evil, a horror of Lovecraftian proportions. The seven books that make up the whole contain sex, time travel, violence, magick, abductions, ancient mexican deities, drug use, great writing, great art, and craziness that only Morrison can deliver.

Don't make me explain it...just read it.

Thought: I have to go to school soon, and I'm not really looking forward to driving in the snow.



When it snows things always seem a little more quiet. A little more grey. People are a little more peaceful.

There is a slight echo in the air.

We've had alot of snow in New York over the past two months.

Word: Sigh, finally! It took me almost an hour to figure out how to convert a regular, normal, everyday (free), blog into this blog*spot plus powered monstrosity you see before you. The devil is in the details.

I have another blog (thetestingground.blogspot.com), but it's more of a jokey, news related, editorial site.

Check it out, then come back here for some thought.