Prologue
It's been misattributed: 'it's the journey, not the destination.' And this is a sort of travelogue, sort of; if you'll excuse the metaphor. It's a tale of travelling minstrel’s who’ll play their part’s, to depart in their allotted time; a story of a fiction; isn't it? Where to draw the hook, line; sinker? And I do use 'and' at the start of a sentence! So, who am 'I'? To say that 'that would be telling' might be leading you down rabbit hole’s meant for bigger fish to fry; though, fair to say, 'here be Red herring's’. You live with that? What's it not? It’s not for those who might be searching for easy answers to life's important question's you might have already heard but a challenge to face the music played before in bitter discord. Dare you ride the scorched plain’s in search of some deeperness? Still, the dilemma preserve’s you’re right. But, oh my; you may’ve been misled. It's the sin buried deeply you don’t recognise or give credence too: The mistake’s you've made yet love and hope; they will always continue into this dawn's sunset. Salient? Even from here the silence is deafening. In closing, as the adage goes: 'there's nothing to fear except fear itself'. What's the worst that can happen?
Son of Erin
She’d been a child, once. Now she was grown up; her body betrayed her. Who was he? What did she care? The deal done; the cash paid; who was next? No, what did she care? Sex sell’s. Linda reached for a cigarette. Her life was over too many years ago; though who was counting, no, not her. He came. With his hands on her temple he pushed her head deeper into the pillow. At least her sudden death was quick.
The blade slid across her throat in a practised sweep.
She was trash. She had not reached for higher; she had the body men would pay for, if only she could find an agent to protect her from the worst; yet how does a woman interview a pimp? But still she was still under the cover of protection who took his ten percent cut for her spreading her leg’s for stranger’s who’d given him the deposit. A rose by any other name? Sex sell’s. When she was just a child she’d got paid much more, however her period stole that income from her. They wouldn't pay as much for her as they had before, so she took on the advice she was given to do trick’s that they would make up for her in her earning’s; it was easy. Meat Linda. It wasn't her birth name; it was from a movie she had watched once, but could not, despite how hard she’d tried, remember which, or who starred in it. What’s it matter?
And as the blade slid across her throat she realised she did not care. She was glad.
"Baby," he said as he murdered her. "Forgive me."
The first time, in this body, it had been arduous: so much blood; a Fountain of pleasure as it spurted across his groin. He came. He’d attempted to pray for forgiveness.
"Forgive me," he’d cried, like always, sometimes; however, his cries were only to himself, not out loud. His arm’s held the victim as he killed her; it was her fault she couldn't fight back. She was too weak; he was not to blame. She could’ve tried harder. It was a bloodied mess: he paid triple to Craig; he would sort this fucking mess out. That's what he did, the good boy. He liked Craig.
The second time was better. Craig gave him her number: he suffocated her then he cut her, yet it didn't quite satisfy him like it had the time before, the sigh was not there - he wanted more. Oh, yes, he could pay; he could easily afford the slab’s to desecrate; just give him the chance’s; wasn't that fair?
The next time he had left evidence’s. He had to go back, to slaughter another, she deserved it. He set the house alight and shot those who came scurrying out, running from the flame’s. By now he’d done it perfectly. This lady who called herself Linda died in his arm’s tonight. Her eye’s, tongue, nose were trinket trophies. He shot Craig in his temple.
He always said, "forgive me." Once he had meant it. He wiped the mess from his hands on her knicker’s.
Erikson laughed as he switched through the TV channel’s, recalling the sensation’s he felt as he tore the meatball from its nerve, tasting the juice’s. Nothing was on; he was bored. He could hunt tonight. Was he a monster? He didn’t doubt he was; but they yet not had a name to pigeonhole him by, Erikson liked that. He cooked the tongue in a tomato sauce and served it with egg fried rice. But why did it always take so many pan’s? Fry the onion's, add veg and sweat. Who made such a mess from so basic a task? Nothing was on, never was; his form was uncomfortable.
Erikson was the eldest; he missed his Sister and Brother’s, his Father and Mother. How long had it been since they had all been together in the shade of cops under the equinoxes moon? Yes, he would hunt once again tonight; the sauce needed thickening and he would be damned if he'd stay up stirring when he could solve the issue with a killing; it was quicker, and easier.
Vampires? Don't be ridiculous Erikson thought to himself, as he did on such nights as these; ask yourself, he has often pondered, where did they first come from in the first place? She’s had a decent punt at exposition then milked it (bled it) for all its worth, but, seriously? Zombie’s; he could sort of get the half-dead, not as if they, those, weren’t without their contemporaries, but those Savage Gardener’s? Seriously? He read the chronicle’s, but she should have quit when she was ahead. They passed 'these night’s' presently, yet she kept on saying it. Mummies? The dead risen? Yes, Erikson had to concede to the legends of Werewolves as they were cut from the same cloth as himself, but Vampire’s? He had even read a stupid little book that had said it was authored by The Grim Reaper; my God, wasn’t there no new stories? How that would come to bite him in the arse. Erikson Betony swore to himself, cursed his existence, his lazybones, for not putting his own tale to paper. That's who he was since the beginning, Erikson Betony, and now it was soon to be time when he must change form. He had killed countless time’s, sometimes for pleasure, he'd must admit, and some for, what: need? Did Erikson need to kill? And did he really need to change this, his, form? How long had it been in this shape of man? To many distraction’s; he had a thirst on him he wanted to satisfy for no other reason than nothing was on. It was as good as any. Yes, he so had to write a diary, someday. Erikson, the son of Erin, the carpenter. Betony he adopted to fit in with these times.
He chose his victim from the crowd congregated outside the club, a poor innocent. Erikson was long passed caring over such discernment’s, the boy would supplement his diet.
Why must it always be about physical strength? No, he’d much higher power’s than overwhelming with punches, he beguiled them; hypnotized them, fathomed them; sold his wants as what they wanted. Erikson could stand right in the middle of a crowd and yet still nobody saw him.
"Hello. I have been meaning to come and chat. I love what you're wearing. It speaks to me," Erikson said, none of his mate’s noticing him. A spell? No, it was easy.
"Was that you earlier?" It wasn't.
"Yes. I asked you if I could get ya a beer. When you ignored me I thought you were straight. I'm used to that." The boy blushed. His friend’s didn't appear to hear a word which was being said; you blame them? It was throwing out time; easy pickings, a veritable feast. "Odd frog? I adore those t-shirt’s; love their pun’s."
"Thanks, mate."
"What do you call a woman with a frog on her head..." I love it. Can I get you a burger?"
"Cheeseburger with bacon?"
"Sure. Tomato Kermit?" The kid chuckled.
"Why not?" They separated from his gang, the lad’s seeing for the first time; they knew what was happening and they felt glad for Ben. Some bum-fun was long overdue for their pal. Kester teased yet wasn’t without care; he was pleased for him. And who was the bloke? None of them could agree afterwards, but they all knew they were right.
Erikson grabbed the goad by his pathetic top and shoved him against the wall. Benny preferred it rough, like Erikson cared. The knife plunged into his stomach and slid upwards, his mouth held shut with the greasy wrapper of stale bun and undercooked, unidentified meat with burnt onion’s and plastic square's. He reached in through to the chest to grab the sternum and yanked it down, which caused the treat to fall to its knees, the warm blood cascading everywhere. The knife withdrew to be plunged again. He raped him as his life departed; that's what at last made him climax. Finally, after the crunch of the spine bone’s, the remembrance’s. Yes, it was time to change his form; the camera’s must have spied him. An excuse to do what he had wanted to do for so long? Yes; this body was cumbersome.
When the invader’s had come down from the North they’d taken his Mother and Sister; they’d gutted his Father; they burnt him and his Brother’s alive. As his life departed from him his crumpling ashes body realisation was prevalent; he knew he was dead, yet without fire or light. Time lost all its meaning as he floated between the worlds of the living and the dead. Was his precious family going through the same? They’d come to slaughter in drove’s; there was history there to tell, though not today. Someday.
Life, what force compelling one to live. That need throbbed through him now. There was a voice.
"To be, or not to be?" What a stupid question; and what did it mean? "My son, you have done my holy will; how may I reward you?" Erikson recalled the conversation, from since before The Christ was preached.
"I want to avenge my family," he’d responded, without any thought at all.
"You want to kill the guilty? I can appreciate that, my child." Who was this? How unclear it was, how uncertain he was back then, now was obvious, but prior to those saint’s from across the sea the voice that spoke was unidentifiable, now he knew its name. "Eternity awaits your soul, my boy; how will you stand on the last day?" Erikson had no clue to what these words alluded to, the desire to revenge an addiction he must appease. Did he know?
"Return me to my life and I will fertilize the ground with the decaying bodies of those I will kill, in your name."
"In my name? No, you don't know my name and never shall, but you’re not the first." How things had changed; he knew some of his many name’s now, so had the speaker lied? It would not be for the last time over the centuries, yet, despite the untruth’s told Erikson would fulfil his bargain. And so he was returned to life, though not in his old body; was it one of his Father’s companion’s, and he would soon learn it was one he could alter to his vagrant whim, if it could be called that; it was a metamorphosis, was a regeneration, a rebirth. Even his senses had expanded, they’d increased. He was whom man should’ve always been. No, no fiction’s of great strength’s held need to him; he could see people’s auras, their inner self’s; what they were, or were capable of, if they ever knew it, or not. But if his, this body, he would discover, was destroyed, he would enter into the still warm carcass, the shell, the cadaver of another, any other, as he would do so, so many times. The Voice had lied.
Yes, his soul had been reborn in these land’s to hunt, and that part cannot die.
It's been misattributed: 'it's the journey, not the destination.' And this is a sort of travelogue, sort of; if you'll excuse the metaphor. It's a tale of travelling minstrel’s who’ll play their part’s, to depart in their allotted time; a story of a fiction; isn't it? Where to draw the hook, line; sinker? And I do use 'and' at the start of a sentence! So, who am 'I'? To say that 'that would be telling' might be leading you down rabbit hole’s meant for bigger fish to fry; though, fair to say, 'here be Red herring's’. You live with that? What's it not? It’s not for those who might be searching for easy answers to life's important question's you might have already heard but a challenge to face the music played before in bitter discord. Dare you ride the scorched plain’s in search of some deeperness? Still, the dilemma preserve’s you’re right. But, oh my; you may’ve been misled. It's the sin buried deeply you don’t recognise or give credence too: The mistake’s you've made yet love and hope; they will always continue into this dawn's sunset. Salient? Even from here the silence is deafening. In closing, as the adage goes: 'there's nothing to fear except fear itself'. What's the worst that can happen?
Son of Erin
She’d been a child, once. Now she was grown up; her body betrayed her. Who was he? What did she care? The deal done; the cash paid; who was next? No, what did she care? Sex sell’s. Linda reached for a cigarette. Her life was over too many years ago; though who was counting, no, not her. He came. With his hands on her temple he pushed her head deeper into the pillow. At least her sudden death was quick.
The blade slid across her throat in a practised sweep.
She was trash. She had not reached for higher; she had the body men would pay for, if only she could find an agent to protect her from the worst; yet how does a woman interview a pimp? But still she was still under the cover of protection who took his ten percent cut for her spreading her leg’s for stranger’s who’d given him the deposit. A rose by any other name? Sex sell’s. When she was just a child she’d got paid much more, however her period stole that income from her. They wouldn't pay as much for her as they had before, so she took on the advice she was given to do trick’s that they would make up for her in her earning’s; it was easy. Meat Linda. It wasn't her birth name; it was from a movie she had watched once, but could not, despite how hard she’d tried, remember which, or who starred in it. What’s it matter?
And as the blade slid across her throat she realised she did not care. She was glad.
"Baby," he said as he murdered her. "Forgive me."
The first time, in this body, it had been arduous: so much blood; a Fountain of pleasure as it spurted across his groin. He came. He’d attempted to pray for forgiveness.
"Forgive me," he’d cried, like always, sometimes; however, his cries were only to himself, not out loud. His arm’s held the victim as he killed her; it was her fault she couldn't fight back. She was too weak; he was not to blame. She could’ve tried harder. It was a bloodied mess: he paid triple to Craig; he would sort this fucking mess out. That's what he did, the good boy. He liked Craig.
The second time was better. Craig gave him her number: he suffocated her then he cut her, yet it didn't quite satisfy him like it had the time before, the sigh was not there - he wanted more. Oh, yes, he could pay; he could easily afford the slab’s to desecrate; just give him the chance’s; wasn't that fair?
The next time he had left evidence’s. He had to go back, to slaughter another, she deserved it. He set the house alight and shot those who came scurrying out, running from the flame’s. By now he’d done it perfectly. This lady who called herself Linda died in his arm’s tonight. Her eye’s, tongue, nose were trinket trophies. He shot Craig in his temple.
He always said, "forgive me." Once he had meant it. He wiped the mess from his hands on her knicker’s.
Erikson laughed as he switched through the TV channel’s, recalling the sensation’s he felt as he tore the meatball from its nerve, tasting the juice’s. Nothing was on; he was bored. He could hunt tonight. Was he a monster? He didn’t doubt he was; but they yet not had a name to pigeonhole him by, Erikson liked that. He cooked the tongue in a tomato sauce and served it with egg fried rice. But why did it always take so many pan’s? Fry the onion's, add veg and sweat. Who made such a mess from so basic a task? Nothing was on, never was; his form was uncomfortable.
Erikson was the eldest; he missed his Sister and Brother’s, his Father and Mother. How long had it been since they had all been together in the shade of cops under the equinoxes moon? Yes, he would hunt once again tonight; the sauce needed thickening and he would be damned if he'd stay up stirring when he could solve the issue with a killing; it was quicker, and easier.
Vampires? Don't be ridiculous Erikson thought to himself, as he did on such nights as these; ask yourself, he has often pondered, where did they first come from in the first place? She’s had a decent punt at exposition then milked it (bled it) for all its worth, but, seriously? Zombie’s; he could sort of get the half-dead, not as if they, those, weren’t without their contemporaries, but those Savage Gardener’s? Seriously? He read the chronicle’s, but she should have quit when she was ahead. They passed 'these night’s' presently, yet she kept on saying it. Mummies? The dead risen? Yes, Erikson had to concede to the legends of Werewolves as they were cut from the same cloth as himself, but Vampire’s? He had even read a stupid little book that had said it was authored by The Grim Reaper; my God, wasn’t there no new stories? How that would come to bite him in the arse. Erikson Betony swore to himself, cursed his existence, his lazybones, for not putting his own tale to paper. That's who he was since the beginning, Erikson Betony, and now it was soon to be time when he must change form. He had killed countless time’s, sometimes for pleasure, he'd must admit, and some for, what: need? Did Erikson need to kill? And did he really need to change this, his, form? How long had it been in this shape of man? To many distraction’s; he had a thirst on him he wanted to satisfy for no other reason than nothing was on. It was as good as any. Yes, he so had to write a diary, someday. Erikson, the son of Erin, the carpenter. Betony he adopted to fit in with these times.
He chose his victim from the crowd congregated outside the club, a poor innocent. Erikson was long passed caring over such discernment’s, the boy would supplement his diet.
Why must it always be about physical strength? No, he’d much higher power’s than overwhelming with punches, he beguiled them; hypnotized them, fathomed them; sold his wants as what they wanted. Erikson could stand right in the middle of a crowd and yet still nobody saw him.
"Hello. I have been meaning to come and chat. I love what you're wearing. It speaks to me," Erikson said, none of his mate’s noticing him. A spell? No, it was easy.
"Was that you earlier?" It wasn't.
"Yes. I asked you if I could get ya a beer. When you ignored me I thought you were straight. I'm used to that." The boy blushed. His friend’s didn't appear to hear a word which was being said; you blame them? It was throwing out time; easy pickings, a veritable feast. "Odd frog? I adore those t-shirt’s; love their pun’s."
"Thanks, mate."
"What do you call a woman with a frog on her head..." I love it. Can I get you a burger?"
"Cheeseburger with bacon?"
"Sure. Tomato Kermit?" The kid chuckled.
"Why not?" They separated from his gang, the lad’s seeing for the first time; they knew what was happening and they felt glad for Ben. Some bum-fun was long overdue for their pal. Kester teased yet wasn’t without care; he was pleased for him. And who was the bloke? None of them could agree afterwards, but they all knew they were right.
Erikson grabbed the goad by his pathetic top and shoved him against the wall. Benny preferred it rough, like Erikson cared. The knife plunged into his stomach and slid upwards, his mouth held shut with the greasy wrapper of stale bun and undercooked, unidentified meat with burnt onion’s and plastic square's. He reached in through to the chest to grab the sternum and yanked it down, which caused the treat to fall to its knees, the warm blood cascading everywhere. The knife withdrew to be plunged again. He raped him as his life departed; that's what at last made him climax. Finally, after the crunch of the spine bone’s, the remembrance’s. Yes, it was time to change his form; the camera’s must have spied him. An excuse to do what he had wanted to do for so long? Yes; this body was cumbersome.
When the invader’s had come down from the North they’d taken his Mother and Sister; they’d gutted his Father; they burnt him and his Brother’s alive. As his life departed from him his crumpling ashes body realisation was prevalent; he knew he was dead, yet without fire or light. Time lost all its meaning as he floated between the worlds of the living and the dead. Was his precious family going through the same? They’d come to slaughter in drove’s; there was history there to tell, though not today. Someday.
Life, what force compelling one to live. That need throbbed through him now. There was a voice.
"To be, or not to be?" What a stupid question; and what did it mean? "My son, you have done my holy will; how may I reward you?" Erikson recalled the conversation, from since before The Christ was preached.
"I want to avenge my family," he’d responded, without any thought at all.
"You want to kill the guilty? I can appreciate that, my child." Who was this? How unclear it was, how uncertain he was back then, now was obvious, but prior to those saint’s from across the sea the voice that spoke was unidentifiable, now he knew its name. "Eternity awaits your soul, my boy; how will you stand on the last day?" Erikson had no clue to what these words alluded to, the desire to revenge an addiction he must appease. Did he know?
"Return me to my life and I will fertilize the ground with the decaying bodies of those I will kill, in your name."
"In my name? No, you don't know my name and never shall, but you’re not the first." How things had changed; he knew some of his many name’s now, so had the speaker lied? It would not be for the last time over the centuries, yet, despite the untruth’s told Erikson would fulfil his bargain. And so he was returned to life, though not in his old body; was it one of his Father’s companion’s, and he would soon learn it was one he could alter to his vagrant whim, if it could be called that; it was a metamorphosis, was a regeneration, a rebirth. Even his senses had expanded, they’d increased. He was whom man should’ve always been. No, no fiction’s of great strength’s held need to him; he could see people’s auras, their inner self’s; what they were, or were capable of, if they ever knew it, or not. But if his, this body, he would discover, was destroyed, he would enter into the still warm carcass, the shell, the cadaver of another, any other, as he would do so, so many times. The Voice had lied.
Yes, his soul had been reborn in these land’s to hunt, and that part cannot die.
