𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑵𝑬, COLLISION.
𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟐 , and i am on trial for something i did not do. my wrists are RAW WITH VIOLENCE , & marked with the 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩 - 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘴 and hatred for an innocent [wo]man. i can hear the muffled sounds of blurred - out sobs of a mob begging for my death. the judge begins to deliver a sentence i already know : “ VERDICT : 𝚠𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚢, 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝙹𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕 𝙳𝚊𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚛, 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚒 ——- ” i open my mouth to plead my innocence, but my voice is a 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳. THE RAINBOW HAS FOUND ME , and the world collapses in on itself. WELCOME TO THE MADNESS STREAM, next stop : [ ??? ]
DATE UNKNOWN. LOCATION UNKNOWN.
IN THE DARKENED CONFINES OF A SLEEPING LAB, RAC SHADE FINDS HERSELF OUT OF TIME, OUT OF HER MIND,
𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓. THE SOFT WHIRRING OF A VELVET BLUR BLINKS INTO THE VAST EMPTINESS WITH A FAMILIARITY FOREIGN TO RAC, RED
AND YELLOW, RED AND YELLOW, BECOMING UNDONE INTO THE FORM OF A MAN ABOUT TO RECEIVE THE SHOCK OF HIS LIFE.
AN ARMY OF GORILLAS, and a gang of old creeps busting my balls. what more do i need ? the to run away sinks in the pits of my stomach, the soles of my ragged - ran feet trailing FLAMES BEHIND ME. “WE’LL GIVE YOU A CALL,” what the hell does that mean ? i’m just as much apart of this team as the bat, why am i being treated like last week’s CHICKEN ROT PIE ? ❝ harry truman, doris day, RED CHINA ... JOE DIMAGGIO [...] WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE ! 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗,’ since the world’s been turnin.’ WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE! ❞
SHADE THE CHANGING WOMAN: EXCUSE ME, COULD YOU TELL ME WHERE EXACTLY I AM ?
❝ NO, … we didn’t light it, but we tried to —— - 𝑶𝑯, 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑻. ❞ 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢.
𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 .
@gothmite .
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“Does God want goodness or the choice of goodness? Is a man who chooses to be bad perhaps in some way better than a man who has the good imposed upon him?”
A Clockwork Orange (1971) dir. Stanley Kubrick
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hellmagi.
❝ OF COURSE I HAVE. it’s like BLOODY CLOCKWORK with you lot , ennit ? christ, you filthy , old classist, don’cha have sum’fin better to do? WELL , CHIEF ( … ) just about finished this pint - 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐂. ❞
❝ ENOUGH PRATTLING , JOHN CONSTANTINE. do not for one second confuse me for any mere mortal, or lowly demon of hell. i have existed among these cosmos before the galaxy itself came to be. i have seen many men, far beyond your power attempt to deny fate her dues, and i will be here long after your feeble little heart gives out. you are 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘. and a stain you shall remain. do not test my patience , lest you wish to join Kent Nelson. ❞
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hellmagi.
I FEEL LIKE A PRIEST CONSIGNING A NICOTINE ABSOLUTION: the taint of a reprehensible humanity rides the 𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘺 - 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦, & nervous atmosphere out a ajar casement to die with the tailend of a bloated cicada’s cacophony of ingratiatingly jarring, clashing hums. 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙻𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝙳𝙰𝙼𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶, like the death choke of condemned innocence. ❝ CONSTANTINE. ❞ a perverse choir, abased nuns of the brides of 𝐉𝐔𝐃𝐀𝐒 order sing a name reigned in the obscene occult, from lip to lips like the body of christ. it is an conglomeration of CRIMSON viscera - embedded in a fishnet laced gullet choking 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓 like a husband with a bad temper. 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘴, my lungs screams like fighting cats. 𝐈 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐄.
❝ NO DOUBT you’ve ’eard of me ? QUITE A BLASPHEMOUS REPUTATION, I HAVE. oi, a fag might do you some good, eh ? how about it ? NOT EVERYDAY YOU COMMIT A MORTAL SIN. ❞ THE SUDDEN RED , viscous tide is futilely crushed; has him stomping in 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, a blockade for SHADE & this paid piper, CONDUCTING AN ORCHESTRA OF DEPRESSION FROM A SCORE, WRIT WITH THE JUICE OF LIFE. he is in a dilapidated lifeboat enraptured with dime gaped cavities, AND I CAN’T BLAME HIM. after all; 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝐈'𝐌 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆.
𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃: IS SUMBODY GAHNA TELL ME WHA’ TH’FUCK IS GOIN’ AWN?
THE REVERENCE OF A ATHEIST IN A CHURCH, spitting through the glory - hole confessional and pissing in the holy basket of offertory. ❝ relax , boston. shade here is gunna have himself a silk cut and hear us out, that right? ❞
𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗 , and disco is dying a bloody , vitriolic death under a bombardment of 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. tens of thousands surround the innocence of this rhythm and tear it to shreds, as if their very lives depended on it. A MATCH IS STRUCK , and the sins of the people are seared onto black vinyl - flesh , and blown to bloody chunks in this violent segregated warzone. 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗 , and a city steeped in a permanent night - silence braces itself for a winter chill of unrest. LIVERPOOL: HOME OF THE OCCULT AND THE BIRTHPLACE OF LUNG CANCER , erupts in violent seizures, exorcising the DEMONS from within and spewing black chunks and toxic bile, under the watchful eye of thatcherist propaganda. 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗 , and i’m trapped in A MASOCHIST’S WET-DREAM, body - bound and strapped to a STAKE, my new dying body awash with lightning, and fried synapses burning on a palate of lethal electricity. 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗 , and EARTH’S ALIEN INVASION BEGINS WITH ME.
❝ YOU CAN CALL ME SHADE. and i can’t say that i have. who’s the ghost ? [ 𝙱𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙳: 𝙰𝚈𝙴, 𝙰𝚈𝙴… 𝚃𝙷𝙴 “𝙶𝙷𝙾𝚂𝚃” ‘𝙰𝚂 𝙰 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙳𝙾𝚄𝙲𝙷𝙴-𝙱𝙴𝙷𝙶… 𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙱𝙰𝙷𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙽. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝙶𝚄𝚈𝚂 ‘𝙽 𝚃𝙷'𝚆𝙰𝚈 𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙺𝙸𝙽’ 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙼𝙴𝙷… ] what do you want from me, constantine … ? ❞
I MET THE DEVIL AND HE WEARS MY SKIN , and i have a mouthful of candy corn where my teeth should be, my tongue fattened with confusion and sewn tight like the leather of your lower intestine. i open my mouth to curse eternity and my voice is a car crash of angry screeches and fear. THE RAINBOW HAS FOUND ME , and the world collapses in on itself. WELCOME TO THE MADNESS STREAM, next stop: NEW YORK. ❝ NO, NO … NOT NOW —— the madness stream! it found me. you two need to get out of h —— ❞
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❝ JOHN CONSTANTINE , you’ve toyed with the scales of chaos and order for too long. your unchecked power and crimes against fate require correcting. you will accompany me immediately, for 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐝. ❞
@hellmagi
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hellmagi.
COLD, LONELY. heavy and unforgiving is the liquidsong, and caroling sadness i find myself drowning in, not a giraffe necked bottle of a bloody mary, or the summer fumes of nicotine in a cloudburst of RANCID CANCERS. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 ? debased by tetanus steel and carved like a shaman totem. i am a lost boy waiting for the ticking crocodile, 𝐈 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄 , 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘭𝘥. i dance a blundering and maladroit BOHO DANCE with a dying lump of flesh christened death & blind - shuffling and scattering decrepit bones in a prophesied fore, 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎, and together we are a eggshell engagement of the ailing flesh and bone, holding each other in a raft of flotsam’s embrace, 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦. adam, nearly urging this wine-vat compliant eve to cultivate our old romance need and make a legacy, (TAKE) make 𝐦𝐲 [a] 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. and i nearly do. but she is a promiscuous girl of old love, & i can never seal it with a kiss. MAYBE ONE DAY PETER PAN WILL GROW UP AND GET HIMSELF A GIRLFRIEND.and like some immoral practice of blasphemy, 𝙰 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵 - 𝙼𝙰𝙳𝙴 𝙲𝚁𝚄𝙲𝙸𝙵𝙸𝚇𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙱𝙸𝚁𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁 , the shade is returned to this world for a cycle of pain and hardship. AS IT SHOULD BE.
𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃: YAH GAHTA’ BE BUSTIN’ MAH BAWLS WIT’ THIS ONE. 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄: TRUE, ENNIT? CAN’T KEEP A GOOD MAN DOWN.
a silver blight of smoke is biting in a vice & virtue power play. and surprising no one, ADDICTION WINS.
SHADE: Am I dead?
❝ KID, YOU THINK YOU’D SEE ME MUG DOWN WITH THE FALLEN ? ’sfunny guy, most you lot are. ❞
BRAND: Wit’ the fahlen? Aye, take it easy, Jahn...
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐏𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐃 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 , i’m shattered, a almsgiving dead man, a parsimonious zombie reanimated by a frigid working hand and humanity’s self preservation deep in my gut. ❝ All right, old son… steady on, i didn’t mean anything by it. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧’ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭. that’s just his truth. HELL, maybe you are dead. then it’d stand to reason that i’m here to make a offer for salvation, dunnit ? this heaven and hell stuff, yeah? 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵. ❞
the hollow husk once occupied by a living, breathing soul lies dormant in this bloody filth , bobbing along the tempestuous tide, DESPERATELY STRUGGLING to stay afloat like some half - sunken ship wreck fighting to preserve a legacy that no longer exists. 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 - 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 settles back amid the rising tide of bath water , a sharpened butter knife sinking through the EXPANSE in a guilty panic as if another second on the surface would expose it to further ridicule and abuse. 𝙸 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙳𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚅𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙿𝙾𝙴𝙼𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝙵𝚃𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝚈 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙼𝚂 , the dilapidated scribble - work of my pain bared for all to see. i search for the words amid the carnage & bloody discharge , 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 , for descriptions of golden sunsets melting onto a canvas of emerald greens and verses of poetry long lost to my EMPTIED MIND.
TECHNICOLOR DAYDREAMS AND DEAD KENNEDYS LINE THE HOT SUMMER STREETS OF DALLAS, TEXAS & i’m lost in a sea of my own filth in nowhere, nevada. ASSASSINATION NATION AND THE STAR MANGLED BRAIN MATTER seething through the gaping exit wound like some filthy rectal failure in the back of one empty skull. the hole in his head blows bright red kisses to horrified onlookers, calling to MAD MEN ACROSS AMERICA to take turns sodomizing the sanctity of this democracy and fucking his traumatized skull, spewing AMERICAN FILTH onto the concrete like a pervert’s seed in the desperate mouth of some strung - out nobody.
ASK NOT FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS, and in the sullen darkness of this suicidal nightmare appears samael, the locust king, swathed in nicotine wings and rotten feathers. he’s molting, and on the brink of death, this 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐘 of a one man army against a battalion of demon soldiers. ❝ i’ve been dead a long time , and this is just my personal hell. the madness has won and now we’re all pawns in this twisted game of chess. who are you? ❞
𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃: JAHN, WHA’ TH’FUCK IS THIS NUTSO GOIN’ AWN ABOUT?
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Paul Sharits - T,O,U,C,H,I,N,G (1968)
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𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟽, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟻
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
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TWELVE O’CLOCK, THE WITCHES SABBATH: the soft hum of a midnight showing begins to die down in hushed amazement and haunted intoxication. 𝙱𝙾𝙾𝚉𝚈 𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃 𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂, and somewhere in this sea of bloated faces and nicotine clouds, a man shouts something obscene as if it were swelling in his chest and boiling over like STEAM in a teapot. “ 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 ! ” curtains are drawn and A SPOTLIGHT INVADES THE STAGE , struggling to find its target. 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 - 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 , severed limbs and decapitated heads stuffed in topsy - turvy boxes return to their full-bodied GLORY. THE AUDIENCE’S ATTENTION IS MINE, i’m reading their amazed disbelief like daddy’s old arthurian text, tales of KNIGHTS IN SHINING ARMOR, demons of the night battling dragons and warlocks fighting for peace. i steady my hand and make myself into a living legend. MERLIN’S GOT NOTHING ON ME. cheers and roses rain down on me, the audience chants my name “ZATANNA! ZATANNA! ZATANNA!” as a hand riddled with callouses and swathed in a father’s warmth seizes my hand, a soft smile greeting my gaze. DADDY AND DAUGHTER, hand in hand. everything is as it should be —— 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩.
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊: ZATANNA... ZATANNA... ZATANNA! ENOUGH. I’M CUTTING YOU OFF. JUST GO HOME, Z.
THE HANGOVER BLUES: wake up. feel like shit. drink the pain away. throw up last night’s dinner. repeat. repeat. repeat until i get the courage to blow my brains out: but i won’t. “it gets easier.” “you really should take better care of yourself.” “what would zatara say?” i’m numb to the pain, or just too wasted to even care. i hear the morning forecast and half-notice the ACCUMULATION OF DUST BUNNIES AND EARLY MORNING SHADOWS WALKING TOWARDS ME. i haven’t gone crazy yet. it’s the witch boy.
❝ oh, this is rich. even for you… years wasted on cheap parlor tricks and card games, indulging mortals fat with impropriety for witch and warlock folk alike… and now you retire to the bottle. what wickedness hath your father committed in denying you thine rightful power… indulge me , have you any pleasure in knowing your pitiful father burns in hell? hath you no joy? A LIFETIME OF FIGHTING AND NOW AN ETERNITY OF SUFFERING. a fitting end. ❞
𝐙𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀: PISS OFF, KLARION. NOT IN THE MOOD.
𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍: I’VE HEARD WHISPER OF A WITCH - MAN
TO STUBBORN TO SUCCUMB TO THE DEVIL’S FLAME.
WHAT SAY YOU ACCOMPANY ME --
𝐙𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀: STOP IT, KLARION.
𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍: AND WHAT OF CONSTAN --
❝ NOIRALK EB ENOG! ❞
@hellmagi : WITH A JUDAS KISS.
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From The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari (1920).
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hellmagi.
IN THE DEAD DARKNESS OF NIGHT & a diligent dynamo - hum of a epileptic and crying city is the only sound. 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. IN THIS PRELUDE , we are caught in a anxious whirlwind of perverted, wicked debauchery, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘭𝘭 nightmare of a death steeped in the TAIL OF A DREAM AS IT VANISHED INTO A YEAR ZERO BLACKNESS. a rotten timber hiding underneath beige Martens in a aging tell is groaning in protest, or shame. A SMALL SINGLE HIDES IN A CORNER. like a naughty child; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, mildewed quilt — — in the baby blue air of bad nights, the soporific purr and hungry buzz of constant, growling faucet rain is a catcall in a familiar place. and in this 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌 𝐇𝐔𝐁 of 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴 exists a lottery digit of lust, greed and a desperation like dirty COFFEE GROUND. 𝙰 𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙴𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙷𝙾𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙿𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚆𝙾𝙾𝙻 𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚂 , & WAITED, in the cursed patch of piss and 𝘐𝘕𝘍𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘈𝘓 𝘉𝘖𝘖𝘡𝘌, waiting for a cold steel savaging a fat vein. 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖; been performing a grandeur of NIRVANA high stakes since 𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄.
𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓:
𝐈𝐍𝐓. THE DOWNTOWNER MOTEL, 𝐋𝐀𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐒, 3:43AM.
JOHN CONSTANTINE IS SMOTHERED BY THE INTENSE SMELL OF
METALLIC , & COPPER LIKE SOMEONE HAD JUST WASHED A SACK OF
QUARTERS. BOSTON BRAND, A DEADMAN, HAS ALLOWED A SOUND CLOSE
TO SYMPATHY HOP FROM HIS STITCHED GULLET. THERE IS A JOKE SOMEWHERE THAT THE ONLY LIVING BEING IN THIS ROOM DOES NOT FEEL A THING.
BRAND: Awh, Christ. We’re late, John. Real frickin’ late.
CONSTANTINE: Mm -- Wouldn’t be so sure, mate - in a world where I’m talkin’ to a bleedin’ dead man, it isn’t far ‘nuff off to say a few nicks to the wrist isn’t gonna’ put this bloke out of commission, yeah?
BRAND: You can’t be serious, man. Have a li’l respect for the poor fella.
❝ 𝐀𝐖𝐇, 𝐂'𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍 … you know better than anybody: THERE AIN’T NO RESPECT FOR THE DEAD. ❞
𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙸 𝙺𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈 𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝚆.
❝ oh christ. WHAT A BLOODY MESS, SHADE. ❞
@madvest : in a glorious technicolor.
FADE IN: INT. BARNUM & BAILEY CIRCUS, BOSTON, MA. JULY 6TH, 1911
The Late Midday Air is heavy with fearful excitement, so overbearing you’d piss yourself in a leg-twitching spastic anticipation. “COME ONE, COME ALL TO BARNUM AND BAILEY’S WORLD TRAVELING
CIRCUS! STARE IN AWE AT THE HUMAN TORSO! TREMBLE BEFORE THE SAVAGED DOG-BOY! AND BE AMAZED BY A FAMILY’S THREE OF WHITE NEGROES! COME ON DOWN!”
IT’S THE SAME THING EVERY SINGLE TIME: the audience awaits with bated breath, timid hands clutching the still-exposed gap between their crooked jaws, busy with half-assed chewing and the soft murmurs of fearful anticipation. give thousand strangers occupy the audience, 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝙵𝙵𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚄𝙴 𝙰𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂 𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙲𝚃. the announcer steps up to the podium faced with the piercing gaze of ten thousand hungry eyes, 𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 , slick with the taste of freshly counted dollar bills, and shouts to the heavens in a raspy falsetto of drunken one-notes. two STARK WHITE palms seize the horizontal bar and pull 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑. he flies straight up, suspended high above the masses and clung to a rope like some human metaphor for the BLACK MAN’S ROLE in this DISTORTED AMERICAN DREAM. this is a ritualistic lynching, a legacy come crashing down, and then BANG! 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦.
𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐌𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇, my slit wrists smiling up at me, flashing sinewy teeth and a 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. i pull back the fetid, BLOOD - STAINED SKIN from around the wounds and 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦 , playing with the soft gelatin of my muscles & pressing down on my veins like keys on a broken down piano. my fingers are looking for a tune but 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 and the soft glug, glug, glug of the shower drain struggling to swallow the winevat bath water strewn with blood. LAS VEGAS IS CRYING A WEEPY CRY AND I’M DEAD. she’s a sad drunk, penniless and filthy and begging for more. HER EYES ARE FATTENED DOLLAR SIGNS LEAKING $100 BILLS ONTO AN ALREADY DROWNING STAIN OF A CITY. the LATE NIGHT GAMBLERS and lonely street walkers are swimming in her intoxicated bile. LAS VEGAS IS CRYING AND SHE DROVE ME TO DO IT. slot machines whisper filth into the ears of fat men, and somewhere in an ally washington’s hands are down somebody’s pants doing anything for a quick fix and the chance to be spent on anything. 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀, land of the stupid and home of the dead.
BRAND: Nice goin,’ John. You wanted to stop and get a couple’a smokes and now this poor bastard went and did ‘imself in.
two psychopomp figures gravitate to my blood play like awestruck children at a CLOSED DOWN JUNKYARD. and somewhere along the way, i find the strenght to speak.
❝ 𝐀𝐌 𝐈 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃? ❞
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