it's a bastard's paradise

[physiognomy]

"Somtimes you gotta take control of your own fate. I ain't no lap dog to Luck or Fate or Love-- or any of those god-damned idiots. I have my own luck and my own fate. I'm tired of ripping myself to shreds and dragging Josie into it. She's a good kid. She deserves better.


Kahn's dead. He's sittin' out in front of the halls with a slit throat and a knife in his hand. He didn't argue a god damned word when I told him I was takin' over the halls. He just smiled this crazy old man grin (you know, I'm startin' to think he wasn't that crazy) and opened the doors for me. These halls-- their mine now. Memory is mine.


If Mary wants me stuck down here doin' this shitty ass job, then fine. But I ain't stickin' myself in no god-damned war. Everyone has their own choice. And I made mine."

[physiognomy]

He moved the match deftly across his fingertips, sitting on the steps of the Halls. His features were gaunt and lifelessly; dark patches hovered under his eyes with a thin layer of facial hair dusting his chin, stringy and graying. John wondered if Fate was toying with her cat's cradle-- he thought about what it would be like to sleep with death and if there was some immortality in it. He thought, I'll ask Luck. John's mind moved in broken, stuttered shuffles down paths that seemed foreign. He rolled the match across his fingers and stroked the ring on his left hand with the other.


John reeked of gasoline and sex. He slept with a whore in the cheap hotel on the corner of Carthy and Bluebell. They fucked eachother with a resigned apathy; he would get off and she would get paid. She would leave before the sun cracked though the hotel's venetian blinds still smothered in his scent and quietly collecting her money. He would reflect on the curve she left in his bed and take a shower. The world kept moving with consistency and hardly remembered the previous day.


It was when he retreated back to the Halls that John realized what he had to do: burn. Redemption, cleanth, carbon and ash.


John stood and moved back inside. The carpet was so soaked with fasoline that little puddles rose when his feet pressed down. With a careful solemnity he removed his hat, shirt, and tie-- he left them to burn with the rest. From his back spread brilliant sparrow-gray that pushed against the edges with the room with the simple span of them-- John's laugh was almost sickening. He recalled, with vague amusement, that in having wings for over a century, he had never flown. Like a fuckin' novelty item. "Least that means I ain't losin' nothin'," he murmured to himself as he reached up and behind him with the saw braced against his palm.


It hurt less than he thought it would.


Tattered and torn in pieces before him were the remains of his wings, fractured pieces of bone, skin and feathers: it would burn with the rest. Two heavy incisions crawled down his shoulders, messy and bleeding with reckless abandon. John crouched down, only once, and collected the feathers. He would remember somehow. They were still sticky with gasoline and blood when he stuck them in his pockets and walked toward the door when his shirt was back on (it did nothing to hide the blood). John struck the match against the brick wall and tossed over his shoulder: the room lit up like a brilliant dawn.


He walked down the street and wondered where he could find pancakes at this hour.

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ May 16, 2005 08:54 PM: Message edited by: seven magpies ]</font>

[physiognomy]

It wasn't that hard for him to find Josie-- at least not as hard as he thought it would be. On the door of her apartment, tacked up with another piece of gum, was a note. It was not on God's Holy Scriptures this time, but a piece of yellow-lined paper.

jose--

wanted to know if you still have orwell. can't find him. gimmie a call sweetheart, i'll buy you a drink and promise to behave-- let bygones be bygones, yeah?

--john

ps. i burned the halls. staying with aaron. he's fucking nuts.

[physiognomy]

"Aaron's somethin' else. 'Course, everyone knows who Aaron is, it don't matter who you're tooin' for. Aaron ain't like me. I got some independence. But Aaton-- his purpose is his life. Makes me wonder how the two of us haven't killed eachother yet. He's funny, see. He'll mean one thing and be thinkin' something completely different. I got to figuring him out a bit-- just a bit though. I ain't digging too far into what I can't handle.


Jose is somethin' else too, though I have a god-damned time trying to convince her of it. I think I failed with that one, I almost tore her throat out last time I saw her. She don't get it. Maybe I don't get it either-- I never will, I guess. I ain't sayin' I don't care for her-- but there are limits, to protect me and her too. Not like livin' with Aaron is much better. Heh.


Maybe I ain't meant to live like this. Maybe I was stupid to choose this. Not like I can do anything about it now-- but I can die well, can't I? I can die like an angel and not like a man. I can do my part this way too. Maybe Aaron ain't so far off-- maybe there's somethin' I missed along the way.


Christ, I am a fool."


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[physiognomy]

<center>Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.




John Coldwell was the massacre man: naturally hateful and ill-mannered, he entered his second lifetime with less respect than the first. He tethered his violent personality with a constant supply of alcohol and cheap cigarettes, scrounging up whatever he could manage while still remaining unemployed. He was fond of dressing in suits and fedoras (although he could rarely afford them) as much as he enjoyed his weekly prostitute. He was a modern day Gatsby, indulging himself in scandal-made money for the vain goal of clinging to the past. To accompany his addictive personality was the book of psalms, which he was never without, although it was now missing two pages and any religious value what-so-ever. John was on the his last leg-- he waited impatiently for the impending blow of death to hit him and did whatever he could to coax it closer.


However, like most miserable bastards, he never got what he wanted.

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