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Messages - Mister Biz

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Tomb of the Unborn / Smile for the Camera - Prologue
« on: May 26, 2018, 06:30:24 PM »
        A flutter of movement caught the attention of a man who preferred to be called The Director. He went by many different names though no one could really be sure of what his real moniker was. Pale blue eyes glanced up from the pages of the novel in his grasp and focused on the large television on the far wall. The image on the screen was delivered from a camera that sat positioned in a shadowy nook above his front door. It was in the perfect place that you would never notice it if you weren’t looking for it.

   There were two men outside his door. They were tall older men, dressed in fashionable grey suits with thin and slicked back grey hair. Everything about this pair seemed grey and The Director knew that it wasn’t just the security camera imagery causing it. He never bothered to learn their names. He just referred to them as Number One and Number Two. Number One being the fitter of the two and Number Two looking like he had been constipated for the best part of a decade. The duo stood in front of his door for a few moments, whispering to themselves in tones that his hidden microphone within the doorbell couldn’t pick up.

   The Director adjusted the square eyeglasses that sat on his face and studied The Grey Twins for a few seconds more before returning his gaze to his novel. He didn’t need to hear the conversation to know what it was about. They were talking about whether to knock on that door again. Whether or not to waste more of their time with the man they had already written of as a failure with nothing to offer. They would knock, though. The Director was sure of it. They never resisted a chance to tell off the lowly failed filmmaker

   After a few minutes, he heard the soft knocks of Twin Number One. He was the thinner of the two and his knocks always sounded the lighter of the two. Probably because he was the subordinate in the relationship between the twins of grey. The Director’s hand moved slowly from the book in his grasp and under the table where he flipped a switch. There was a buzz as his front door flipped in and open quickly.

   The Grey Twins hesitated for a moment on his threshold. He didn’t look up from the words he was reading but he could feel their anxiousness. The room always filled with the particular aura of fearfulness whenever these two came around him. Was he really all that frightening? He prided himself on being fairly innocuous. It was a gift really.

   Their footfalls eventually made their way to his ears and the corners of The Director’s mouth curled in a slight smile. He heard them move through the primarily dark room to the table where he sat under three perfectly positioned bulbs to cast his table in the perfect amount of light while leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

   Wooden seats creaked as the men sat down and waited for The Director to pay them any attention whatsoever. He wasn’t going to just yet. They had arrived three minutes late, waited outside for more and hesitated for more. They kept him waiting so it was his turn to do the same.

   “Excuse me, Mr. Dorian,” Number Two said, his voice deep, thick, and fat. “We’ve come all the way here again and…”

   “Wait a tic,” The Director, also known as Mr. Dorian, said raising his index finger. “I’m reading. Just a moment.”

   He started to hum a pleasant tune as he continued to read the fantasy novel in his hands. His eyes shot up from the book once in time to catch The Grey Twins exchange irritated glances at each other. He paid them no mind though as his gaze focused on the written words. This was a dance that all three of them were all too familiar with. Dorian would contact The Grey Twins. They would come over to his small and forgettable home and office and sit under the triple bulbs like they were in a noir interrogation scene. He would make his pitch. They would reject him in a almost-polite-but-just-barely tone. Leave. Rinse. Repeat. It was the same every time. Not now, though. They would hear him out now. There was no way that they could turn him down.

   Once he finished his current chapter, he slid in a bookmark, closed the book, and positioned it very carefully so that it was on lined up perfectly with the edge of the table and positioned right in the center of that ledge. He smiled softly as he folded his hands upon the book and looked at the two men before him.

   Through the circular frames of Number One’s eyeglasses, The Director was able to get a clear look at himself. He had a head of red hair that hung to his shoulders like a simple cascade of copper. He was dressed in a moss green sweater that was worn over a white button up shirt and maroon necktie. He studied the looks of The Grey Twins and his smile threatened to widen.

   They were unnerved by him. They always were. There was something about him that always set them on edge. There was something about his eyes, his smile, his demeanor, something that just chilled their blood. From the looks in their eyes, it was like they were next to a dog that had rumors of being mean. Yet, they hadn’t seen it bite. It didn’t mean it didn’t.

   “See this?” The Director said, gently lifting his book and holding it to them so they could see the cover. “Line of Kavanaugh. Its fantasy. It’s amazing. It really is fantastic. That M.N. Henschen can really craft a tale. She’s perfect. She really is. I’m actually jealous. I don’t get jealous but I am. I can only dream of being this good. I won’t ever come close but this time I’m on the right track. Hear me out.”

   “We always do,” Number One said. “Look, Mr. Dorian, I’m sorry but I don’t think we’re going to be able to have a working relationship. I mean, this is the twelfth visit we’ve made here. Correct?”

   “Thirteenth,” Number Two chimed in. “And after this, I’m afraid that we’re going to have to stop taking your calls. For the final time, your ideas just aren’t enough to gather an audience anymore. Slashers are on the way out. They had their time in the eighties and nineties but you have to get with the times. No one wants to see dumb teenagers get chased through the woods or suburbia being chased by a loony with a knife, chainsaw, or anything else pointy. Its come and gone. You have to move on.”

   “No,” The Director snapped, slamming the book down on the table. The act was followed up by his palms crashing down upon the steel as well. His smile had been replaced with an ugly snarl. “They are not on the way out, you pretentious pile of pig shit. Film elitist snobs like you and the critics dumb down the entire sub-grenre. You tell people they are pointless. Every other type of horror film gets made except slashers. Then you say no one wants them when they weren’t even an option. Bigwigs like you don’t like them so you are trying to fuck us other fans out of the genre as well.”

   “Mr. Dorian,” Number one said, his eyes wide with fear and his hands up in surrender. “Please calm down and tell us your idea. No promises. The studio still doesn’t want to fund a movie but go ahead anyway.”

   “Oh, no need,” The Director said, his subtle smile returning. “I already filmed it. I got an investor. Found some actors and did the whole thing in a set I built myself. I just need distribution. Because I think your studio can get it to much more people than I can. If you like it, you can remake it. It’s amazing, you’ll see. No brain-dead teenagers in the woods. It's adults. Normal people in a concrete labyrinth designed to test their sanity.”
   “No dumb teenagers?” asked Number Two raising an eyebrow.

   “No,” The Director said, his smile becoming wide and manic. “Picture it. You have a french soldier taken from a battlefield in Syria, a former Miss Illinois, a rugby star with anxiety issues, a former college quarterback taken out for injury, a behavioral neurologist, the lead singer of a punk rock band and internet celebrity known for workout photos. You see, no real cliches. I’m taking the heart of the slasher and making it new. The Seven are kidnapped by an unseen force and forced to try and survive against his fiendish henchman.”

   The Grey Twins looked at each other for a moment with something new in their eyes. They were interested. At the very least, they wanted to hear more. Finally. His plan was working. They were listening to him. They were taking him seriously. His grin became almost cartoonlike which seemed to unnerve The Grey Twins even more.

   “Tell us about the villain.”

   “No spoilers, gentlemen. You want more, you have to watch it. I have it loaded up on a DVD back there. That is the only way you will see what happens.”

   “Alright,” Number One said with a nod and holding out a long slender hand. “Give it to us, we will watch it and get back to you.”

   “Do I really look that stupid?” The Director asked. “No. You’ll take it, not watch it, tell me no and go on. No. You are going to sit there and watch it here so I know you did.”

   “Fine,” Number Two said. “Let’s get this over with.”

   The Director rose and moved back into the darkness before returning with a portable DVD player. He turned it on and spun it to face The Twins. As they settled in to watch it, he had to refrain from laughing. This was the best day in a long time. The execs were finally watching his movie. It was finally happening. He was on his way to being a household name. Or one of his was.

   It was showtime.
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Poets Promenade / Re: Hopes of a Survivor
« on: May 08, 2018, 08:10:59 PM »
Unfortunately, yes. It happened. I was eight and being babysat by my favorite cousin and she and her best friend crossed a line. Their act was so grieving, I made myself forget it.

The memory came back in December.

This poem is me getting there confrontation that I'll never have.
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Poets Promenade / Hopes of a Survivor
« on: May 08, 2018, 12:04:27 PM »
I hope your crucifix burns
When you grab it in your prayers
May a mark be left seared upon you
A symbol of the unseen scars left in your wake
You wear the symbol of a god but the things you do are unholy

I hope your friendship soured
With the grinning imp at your side
Who spews niceties as sweet as poisoned fruit
The one who made first contact with your adoring follower
Spreading her venom through lips and tongues to corrupt and condemn

I hope you remember
The bitter taste of your sins
The tense embrace as you took your turn
The trust you soiled, the bond you broke, the boy you defiled
The forever felt impact of your soft destruction of your own flesh and blood

I hope your son is safe
I pray he never suffers my fate
May he always just refer to you as Mother
Whereas once that I called you Hero, Goddess, Cousin
Now my mind has opened and I can hardly speak your name, Betrayer

I hope I can hate you
Your cruelty caused compassion
I forget your deeds but not the after effects
I loved twice as hard for each shred of shame you left
Placed on the brink of darkness, I fought to keep others from falling over

I hope I forget again
Not out of fear or pain but peace
I pray that your touch fades from thought
I wish that your taste washes clean from my mouth
I want to not just forget what you have done but that you exist
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4
Lovers Lane / One More Time
« on: April 27, 2017, 07:58:16 AM »
Prologue

It was raining outside. I could hear it gently tapping against the window. The gentle sound of a million tiny collisions against the sides of my home resonated throughout it. Yet, one wouldn’t think that there was any poor weather by looking outside. Apart from the tell-tale drops of water on the glass, there was no real sign that the precipitation existed. The sun shone brightly. The handful of darkened clouds appeared to be around more for providing effect than actual weather. Yet, it was raining nonetheless.
   
I sat on the edge of the bed and watched the drizzle for what seemed like hours. The pattern of the water running down the glass had me almost totally enthralled. Each drop pulled me deeper and deeper into a content daze. A miniature eternity passed by me as I sat and watched the rain fall. My trance was interrupted by a pair of slender arms sliding up my back and then wrapping around me. A small smile played across my lips as I cast a look over my shoulder to see who was behind me.

My gaze was met by a young woman with long, curls of crimson. She had caramel eyes that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight pouring through the window. Our lips met briefly in a gentle kiss. As it broke and she pulled back, I saw that she was smiling. Her lips pulled into a soft pink crescent. She slipped her arms from around me and strolled away. I watched her walk out of the room, her pink satin nightgown swaying softly with her every movement. Her steps were poised and graceful, no noise emanating from them. It was as if each footfall never connected with the hardwood. She strode on the sunlight itself.

Rising from the bed, I let out a deep breath and followed her from the bedroom into the equally bright living room. She glanced over her shoulder at me and flashed me a bright smile that shone even brighter than her eyes. Her ivory teeth, seemingly reflecting all the light in the room. She stopped in the middle of the living room and turned. In a soft yet sudden motion, she pivoted and started in a ninety degree angle. Still I followed; she opened a set of double doors and stepped out onto a balcony.

Following in her footsteps, I crossed the living room. On the balcony, I wrapped my arms around her narrow waist and kissed her neck softly. A soft sigh escaped her lips as I planted another soft kiss on her beautiful neck. I paused for a moment right above her neck, taking a brief moment to allow her scent to flow into my nostrils. She smelled faintly of lilac. Her favorite fragrance that she always made sure to spray upon her pillow before she laid down. Just to guarantee that she still smelled good when she rose in the mornings. It seemed like she always smelled of it. Always had a small bottle of perfume around to make sure it was constant. Always enough to be intoxicating but never enough to be considered overdone.

I planted a soft kiss upon her cheek before holding her tight and smiling softly. Small, cold raindrops fell upon us, yet we didn't care. We stood in silence, simply looking out at the city that lay below our lofty apartment in the sky. She placed a small hand upon mine and leaned back against me. I kissed the top of her head and took another breath of her scent.

The smell of lilacs and rainwater wafted into my nose as a small rumble of thunder came from overhead. I cast a glance at her and saw that her gaze was focused on the clouds above. I looked to the sky as well and saw that the sun was starting to disappear as the clouds that once just hung there merely for effect began to grow and shift. For some reason, watching the clouds above fascinated my companion but filled me with complete terror.

I let go of her and turned around. I stepped back into the living room, automatically hitting the light switch on my way in. I moved halfway through the room before looking behind me. My lover stood on the balcony, her arms outstretched. A single ray of sunlight remained outside, shining down gloriously upon the balcony and the angel that stood there. It reminded me of a movie I saw once. A long time ago.

A small smile pulled at my lips but it quickly retreated and I moved back into the bedroom. Turning on a lamp, I resumed my place at the foot of the bed. As I sat, I focused my gaze on the floor, avoiding looking at the window as the sound of the rain picked up pace, smacking forcefully against the glass. It was no longer light and nice. It was becoming forceful and violent. The light in the room was overpowered as lightning flashed outside and lit up the bedroom.

I buried my face in my hands and took a deep breath. Anxiety was filling me and I didn't know why. Something was amiss in this perfect world. The sun wasn't just dipping behind the clouds, it was vanishing. Being swallowed by the storm. Deep down, I knew that it couldn't be. It was just a storm but my fear convinced me otherwise. There was another flash of lightning that managed to penetrate my hands and closed eyelids.
As the bright light subsided, I could hear a light set of footsteps march up in front of me. I glanced up from my hands and saw my female companion standing there, completely drenched. Her hair hung to her shoulders, heavy with moisture. Her nightgown clung tightly to her slender form as she smiled down at me. He brought a hand up and gently stroked my cheek. Water flowed down her porcelain flesh and gathered in a puddle at her feet. It almost looked as if she was crying but with the water coming from her hair, it was hard to tell. She leaned in, kissed my forehead and then knelt down to stare directly into my eyes.

“You are going to get through this,” she said, her sweet voice hovering in the air for a moment after she spoke, clinging to it like the rain and smell of lilac clung to her flesh. The way I had clung to her on the balcony. Her hand reached up and cradled my cheek as a tear suddenly appeared and rolled down. “I promise that you will. The storm will pass. It always does.”

“Mona, please,” I said. I leaned in to kiss her but before we could make contact, there was a loud boom of thunder that seemed to shake the entire world and she suddenly dropped out of my sight and sent me sitting bolt upright in bed.

I looked around and found myself out of the luxury apartment that I had been in just moments before. Instead, I was in a crummy downtown dwelling that reeked of booze, cigarette smoke, sweat and stale air that hasn't tasted a breath of anything fresh in a long time. The smell of lilac was completely eradicated. Gone alongside the dream. With Mona.

I sat in complete blackness; the single light in the room had burned out long ago. I wanted to scream for Mona, to tell her about my horrid nightmare. The differences between the dream and reality were slowly setting in. I felt the spot next to me in the bed and felt that it was cold. She wasn't here. She never was. Never would be.

She never set foot in this vile apartment. Hadn't been here to see me cover the ground in liquor bottles and to stay up until I passed out from exhaustion or alcohol. I hadn't felt her touch in years. Hadn't smelled lilac. I lay back down and took a deep breath as I focused on the blackness around me, listening as droplets of water slammed against my windows. Forceful and violent drops of water that crashed against the glass. It was raining outside.
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Tomb of the Unborn / Chapter 3
« on: April 10, 2017, 07:23:08 AM »
Chapter 3
Signet City Police Department – Slumland Precinct
Tuesday, 9:05 AM

Without thinking too hard, I figured that the next place I should visit would be the cop shop. I needed to see the evidence that they had collected for myself. I needed to see who his victims were. See if I could make out his hunting grounds, hunting methods, or any other details that were known to none but the madman and his merry men. I had spent years pouring over all the details of his methods, his cult and his victims. Yet, there seemed to be no pattern.

He preyed on those that he and the general populace considered lesser classes of humans. Drug dealers, prostitutes, strippers, porn stars, etc. Those who thrived and survived in the world of vice and sin were his targets. He would take them, kill them and leave them displayed as if they were his precious little dolls. Asshole.
           
My eyes stared out the windshield as I drove and my heart sank. If there was ever a place that was a target-rich environment for the vile piece of shit, it was my kingdom. Slumland as the natives called it.  With each passing face and each battered car, I wondered who would be the next to go. Which poor soul was leavening home only to never return? Would I catch him this time? My inner ghosts laughed at the mere thought of me finally getting one over on Father Sinner. After all, it’s not like I knew too much about him. He worked thoroughly and meticulously. There was only one time he deviated from his pattern. Just the singular anomaly in his carefully crafted routine. There had to be a message there somewhere.
           
My brain spun as I tried to figure out what that exact message could be. After a few minutes, I reached over and cranked the volume on my radio, allowing all thoughts to be blasted away by the excessive volume of the hair metal that rattled out of the speakers.  The music always helped me when I got too deep in my thoughts. It was most likely my healthiest coping mechanism. Better than the cheap cigarettes and whiskey brand whiskey that I usually went for. And it required much less energy than trying to fuck my troubles away as I have tried to do on so many nights with Lucy.
           
Lost in the music, my auto-piloted body delivered me safe and sound to the parking lot of the Slumland precinct of the Signet City Police department. Killing the engine, I leaned my seat back and stared at the exterior. I always dreaded having to come here for any reason. My reputation had caught up to me a long time ago. I had been born and raised in Signet, became a cop then ran to Vegas to become a big shot homicide detective, only to come crawling back with my tail between my legs. Not only that, I came back a bitter, jaded drunk  who had been drummed out of the force for crossing one to many lines. I was a disgrace. Now, I was a private dick who usually had to help them out because no one in their district would be seen in the presence of the law.
           
They all despised me. The sole exception was Z. But sooner or later, he was going to figure out just how toxic I was to his promising career and he would turn on me like the rest. I would drink to his better judgment on that day and then forget him in a cloud of cheap cigarette smoke, the taste of low-class whiskey, and the sweaty perfumed aroma of the finest woman in Signet City.
           
When my initial bout of hopelessness and depression finished washing over me in that moment, I straightened my seat up and exited my Rustmobile. I strolled to the front door and pulled it open. Immediately inside, I drew the laminated credentials that Z had made up for me. I was an official “consultant.” Much to everyone’s chagrin. I followed the hallways until I came to the detective’s bullpen. As I stepped into the enemy territory, my eyes started their automatic scan for the one friendly face in the joint.
           
“Ms. Wolfe,” a high pitched voice said, causing me to cringe ever so slightly. I turned and saw a tall, leggy woman sauntering in my direction. Her blonde hair and tan were both, I’m sure, the products of some bottle of some sort. She was wearing a red button-up shirt that was two sizes too small with two buttons too many undone. She was dressed in a god awful leopard print mini skirt that seemed like it was just one wrong step away from revealing to everybody the print of her panties.
           
“Goldenrod,” I said to her with a slight smirk.
           
“It’s Sunflower,” she said, with a voice that was just a couple decibels below the sound only dogs can hear.
           
“Equally as ridiculous,” I told her.
           
“Oh you,” she said, putting on a smile that was faker than the basketballs that she called tits. “It’s good to see you. You hear to see Chiefy ‘cause he’s out at an important meeting right now.”
           
“Oh, please,” I snorted, “please don’t lie to me. It’s beneath you. Like ‘Chiefy’ is most nights. I’m here to talk to Z and see what you have on a string of serials killings you’ve got going.”
           
The smile vanished off of her face faster than a heartbeat and was replaced by some honest emotions. Anger, disgust, loathing. I relished seeing her too pretty face morph into something ugly. There was something proper in seeing one’s inner self reflected outside.
           
“Z’s not here. He’s out,” she said. “Why don’t you leave and I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
           
“He knew I was coming,” I told her. “I’ll just go to his desk. Usual spot, right?”
           
“I don’t think Chiefy will like that,” she said.
           
“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit. Why don’t you go and keep pretending like you’re his secretary and call Chief Mitchell and if he doesn’t like it, then he can call his golf game short and come tell me himself.”
           
“Pretend? I am his secretary.”
           
“You are a whore with typing skills. You are nothing more than his mistress that he pays to be a secretary or assistant or whatever so his wife doesn’t find out. She already knows by the way, paid me to find out. Your head technique is horrible. I’m a lesbian and even I can tell you suck at sucking. Now run along, Daffodil, unless of course you can tell me any other Chief of Detectives that has a secretary.”
           
“Bitch-ass dyke,” the human equivalent of nails on a chalkboard muttered as she stormed off. A couple of detectives nearby clapped. I gave a bow and strolled on to where Z’s desk sat. His desk was fairly neat and tidy. There was a picture of his wife, a couple of pens and pencils situated in a crimson mug, a laptop and a nameplate with DET. Z. NICHOLAS etched into it. Sitting on top of his laptop were two boxes. Guess he got the evidence of the first crimes out before running off to chase down the scant amount of leads that this case could muster.
           
Sitting down and placing the boxes at my feet, I flipped open his laptop and without a thought entered his password. Gloria. His wife’s name. Amateur. I dug through his files until I found what I needed. His notes and the crime scene photos.
           
The first victim was Jennifer Rowan, a prostitute, and the other was Isabelle McKenzie, a low level drug dealer who was known for letting clients sleep with her for a fix. Both purveyors of vice. Father Sinner’s perfect targets. I didn’t know either of them personally but I knew that they hung around the same block that Tits was located at. Interesting. He hadn’t centralized a hunting crowd so precise before. What was he getting at? Was it because I was a regular there? It had to be. He was toying with me. Again.
           
I opened up the crime scene photos and began to scroll through them. At first it was as monotonous as I remembered. Tedious and infuriating. But something was different. It took several pictures of the victims but something stood out. A new twist on his signature.
           
I pulled up the first box. Jennifer’s and opened it. Pulling out evidence bag after evidence bag, I made mental notes of all the similarities. Pristine, handmade, white dress. Silver dagger with engraving and victim’s blood. And the newest collection to the Father Sinner Hall of Horrors. A photograph that had been found in the victim’s grasp. A black and white photo of a young woman with blonde hair, leaning against a dumpster with a bloody dagger between her legs. It was another victim. But not just any other victim. It was his very first victim. He had taken pictures. Something about that seemed even more unholy.
           
Flipping the picture over, I found a set of strange markings written on the back. I put everything back and then dug into Isabelle’s box. Another picture. This time of his first second victim. These were left for me. He came to my home, hunted at my hangout and left bodies where I would be forced to see them. He was rubbing his escape in my face. My failure to protect all his other victims. Putting the box back together, I slammed the laptop shut and marched out of the building.
           
I got to my car and couldn’t find the strength to open the door. All at once, I was assaulted with memories that I had tried to shut away in the darkest corners of my mind. Every crime scene, every mother’s sob, everything from the first three times he had come to wreak havoc played at once in my skull. The weight of everything piled on top of me and drove me to my knees. Maneuvering to my butt, I leaned against my car and buried my face in my knees.
           
Breathing became hard as my heart started to race. I could feel Father Sinner behind me, plunging his fingers deep into my skull. He played my mind like a vile violin. My heart pounded with the force of a sledgehammer cracking concrete. My breath became quick and shallow as anxiety washed over me with the gentleness of a tsunami. Looking up from my legs, I quickly looked at every single person or car that passed, certain that every man, woman, child, or canine was Father Sinner.
           
He was here because of me. I had failed to catch him before. I wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t quick enough. I couldn’t handle his evil or the way he could manipulate everyone and everything around him. Because of that he got away. Then he tracked me home. He struck in the heart of my kingdom and when I didn’t respond, he struck at the Princess. I fought to get my brain back under control as one fact reigned supreme in the chaos in my cranium.
           
This was all my fault.
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