The door opens. The door closes. Heavy clangs of metal against metal. They do it every damn day. The food is decent for aliens. But he's getting tired. And he can only write scripture and curse over the walls so many times. He can only entertain so many ghosts. He gets so bored with ghosts, they're never any fun, ain't one of them even a little funny.
They should've killed him by now. Not even an inquisition, no torture, no withholding of necessities, nothing. This was just motherfucking insulting. He doesn't know what he's waiting for but the Messiahs whisper in his ears; stay, stay, wait, the miracle is coming, stay, the wicked work must be done this way. THEY MUST PAY IN FULL AND IN BLOOD, WAIT NOW. And so he waits, with 'yes of course's and 'as it is willed's. But them terror tricked bitches don't slide food and shitty ass drink in this time. There's the jangle of keys, the thump of a body. The keys slide so pleasantly to him, right where he can see, just where his eyes had been settled. A gracious gift.
His breath is sand. It's a slow trickle down the turned side of the hour glass. Without a change in his face, his eyes move to find her across the block. His head tilts, pulling his gross shaggy mane with it. There could be dead things in there. He probably doesn't care. He looks at her, impassive, no more amusement, his rage quiet-- but there, always motherfucking there. There is dried blood coating his hands and if she looks, she can see that it is his own, dark and indigo, as he reaches slow for keys on the floor. By some miracle, there's still dexterity to those colossal meat hooks.
"Thought he said he didn't want this gift." He speaks with a flat rasp, and yet his voice is clear still. "TO PUT NEW WRAPPINGS. To paint in different hues. BUT UNDERSTAND, MOTHERFUCKERS, THAT IT DOES NOT CHANGE WHAT THINE EYES BEHOLD. And what thine eyes have behold would not be motherfucking changed by the rowdy whisperings of those without god."
Somewhere he slipped into parable and preach. He speaks like he's speaking to many, thousands, all paint faced, all indigo, all eyes orange with the bitter glow. But he looks at her like he's well aware it's just her. It's just a reciting. "I LOOK DOWN UPON AND BEHOLD. Let it be known, my sisters and brothers, he is motherfucking aware of the rabble. I BEHOLD, MY DEAREST MOTHERFUCKING FAMILY... Color. IT IS COLOR WHAT THINE LOOKSTUBS DRINK UP FOR ELIXIR REACHED. Bluest of blues will tell you this matters. MOST MAROON OF MOTHERFUCKING MAROON WILL THINK IT MEANS REEKING SHIT. I tell you what it is. THIS I WILL MOTHERFUCKING TELL YOU, IT IS THE DAWNING OF THE FUCKING DAY. For all blood is sacred and it is sacred on our walls. IT IS SACRED IN ITS SPILL. It is sacred in the showing to us that we are blessed, my children, for see they cannot, no rust, no fish, they cannot fucking touch us, and they cannot see the kingdom of carnival to come, the Messiahs' motherfucking paradise. THEIR BLOOD IS OURS AS DUE TO PAINT THE MOTHERFUCKING WAY. All those brighter than us. THE DARKEST OF US FOR THE DARK CARNIVAL. My ninjas, my family, I preach to you that it is our hatched duty to bring on the raucous, and so then, shall we not motherfucking bring it?"
The crowd would call. Long Live the Mirthful, Love To The Motherfucking Family, Hail, hail. They'd sing praise, offer cheer. Spill soda into the air and color and light and sound and beauty. He's just got a piss-poor prisonblock and a red haired wiggler girl with a face like a valkyrie fell into his old paintings, leaving her yellow, green, blue, red, brown. The black is new.
"GIRL," He greets at last, speaking for real this time. "He is brimful with justs and unjusts. HE IS SICK WITH THE ILL FUCKING SOUNDS. There is a silence calling. THERE IS A WANT FOR HAPPENSTANCE. So what all shall it be? WHAT DANCE SHALL BE DEIGNED TO DOING THIS TIME? Of things wished and wanted, things to what one shall motherfucking return. TELL. Impart to he." Is it a bribe? A deal? If it is, it's a strange one, but sure enough at the ending of his words, he holds up her keys with thumb and forefinger.
no subject
They should've killed him by now. Not even an inquisition, no torture, no withholding of necessities, nothing. This was just motherfucking insulting. He doesn't know what he's waiting for but the Messiahs whisper in his ears; stay, stay, wait, the miracle is coming, stay, the wicked work must be done this way. THEY MUST PAY IN FULL AND IN BLOOD, WAIT NOW. And so he waits, with 'yes of course's and 'as it is willed's. But them terror tricked bitches don't slide food and shitty ass drink in this time. There's the jangle of keys, the thump of a body. The keys slide so pleasantly to him, right where he can see, just where his eyes had been settled. A gracious gift.
His breath is sand. It's a slow trickle down the turned side of the hour glass. Without a change in his face, his eyes move to find her across the block. His head tilts, pulling his gross shaggy mane with it. There could be dead things in there. He probably doesn't care. He looks at her, impassive, no more amusement, his rage quiet-- but there, always motherfucking there. There is dried blood coating his hands and if she looks, she can see that it is his own, dark and indigo, as he reaches slow for keys on the floor. By some miracle, there's still dexterity to those colossal meat hooks.
"Thought he said he didn't want this gift." He speaks with a flat rasp, and yet his voice is clear still. "TO PUT NEW WRAPPINGS. To paint in different hues. BUT UNDERSTAND, MOTHERFUCKERS, THAT IT DOES NOT CHANGE WHAT THINE EYES BEHOLD. And what thine eyes have behold would not be motherfucking changed by the rowdy whisperings of those without god."
Somewhere he slipped into parable and preach. He speaks like he's speaking to many, thousands, all paint faced, all indigo, all eyes orange with the bitter glow. But he looks at her like he's well aware it's just her. It's just a reciting. "I LOOK DOWN UPON AND BEHOLD. Let it be known, my sisters and brothers, he is motherfucking aware of the rabble. I BEHOLD, MY DEAREST MOTHERFUCKING FAMILY... Color. IT IS COLOR WHAT THINE LOOKSTUBS DRINK UP FOR ELIXIR REACHED. Bluest of blues will tell you this matters. MOST MAROON OF MOTHERFUCKING MAROON WILL THINK IT MEANS REEKING SHIT. I tell you what it is. THIS I WILL MOTHERFUCKING TELL YOU, IT IS THE DAWNING OF THE FUCKING DAY. For all blood is sacred and it is sacred on our walls. IT IS SACRED IN ITS SPILL. It is sacred in the showing to us that we are blessed, my children, for see they cannot, no rust, no fish, they cannot fucking touch us, and they cannot see the kingdom of carnival to come, the Messiahs' motherfucking paradise. THEIR BLOOD IS OURS AS DUE TO PAINT THE MOTHERFUCKING WAY. All those brighter than us. THE DARKEST OF US FOR THE DARK CARNIVAL. My ninjas, my family, I preach to you that it is our hatched duty to bring on the raucous, and so then, shall we not motherfucking bring it?"
The crowd would call. Long Live the Mirthful, Love To The Motherfucking Family, Hail, hail. They'd sing praise, offer cheer. Spill soda into the air and color and light and sound and beauty. He's just got a piss-poor prisonblock and a red haired wiggler girl with a face like a valkyrie fell into his old paintings, leaving her yellow, green, blue, red, brown. The black is new.
"GIRL," He greets at last, speaking for real this time. "He is brimful with justs and unjusts. HE IS SICK WITH THE ILL FUCKING SOUNDS. There is a silence calling. THERE IS A WANT FOR HAPPENSTANCE. So what all shall it be? WHAT DANCE SHALL BE DEIGNED TO DOING THIS TIME? Of things wished and wanted, things to what one shall motherfucking return. TELL. Impart to he." Is it a bribe? A deal? If it is, it's a strange one, but sure enough at the ending of his words, he holds up her keys with thumb and forefinger.