Brand New Kingdom chapter 1 redux

He awoke to the sound of purring emanating from the headboard of his bed. It was an alarming sound given that David Gibson owned neither a headboard or a cat. Leaping out of a bed that was not his in a manner that could only be described as "manic," David gained enough composure to survey his surroundings.

"This room isn't mine," he spoke in a tone of fright. He then went into the fairly typical tirade of statements that accompany such a situation. "Where am I's" and "how did I get here's" filled the modestly sized room along with a variety of other questions David knew would not be readily answered.

After he had calmed himself, David decided the best course of action would be to illuminate his surroundings. In his attempts to feel his surroundings for what his night adjusted eyes allowed, he tripped, catching himself as his body met the ground. The floor was carpeted, another foreign notion introduced to his already confused mind. His hands felt their way in the darkness until they found success in grasping what became a cord. Following the cord to its point of origin, David's elation became muddled by the lack of visuals as his eyes adjusted to the new found light. The incredulous look on his face wasn't from the foreign environment he'd been recently introduced to;

it was the fact that he occupied a room that had no doors or windows.

In an attempt to make the story much more riveting, I've come to the conclusion that it must be restructured, so for anyone who has followed the last two paragraphs, forget what you've read. Pretend it never happened. Make believe this is an all new joke and you want the punch line so bad it hurts.

Brand New Kingdom Ch1 part 2

They were in a state of panic. The experiment yielded a phenomenally different result than anticipated. In an attempt to create an entirely new infrastructure, a world dictated by electronic transcript,Dr. Ernest Suelov and Dr.Sarah Bartelt along with a number of colleagues and assistants designed a system that would transport an entity into what could only be described as a "pocket dimension." The parameters of this dimension were linked directly to an electronic device that resembled a book. Any input in said book would immediately be represented in the world, comfortably dubbed "Fictopia," ergo if it wasn't in the book, it didn't exist in the world.

They started out small. The first step was to put in a room, if dimensions weren't specified the book would apply the average room size of the country it was found in. The book was built with adjustable application options, a feature they would soon regret. In twenty-four hours they managed to decorate the room with all the constituents of a typical North American room, complete with cornflower blue paint and a classic decorative trim.

The first major leap was an attempt at transportation. The infant world posed a number of possibilities, one of which was to operate as a backup earth. Environmental corruption was on the horizon and Dr. Suelov and Bartelt posited that if they could develop a method of transportation, a route to place objects from this realm there, then that could be extrapolated across the world, allowing them to recreate the entirety of Earth and place it in a cleaner dimension, complete with parameters defined by them.

"I wanted to tell her, I truly did. I wanted to communicate all that I felt. That with the entirety of me, I wanted her. That the word love didn't quite encompass what I felt, that if it were to try to capture what I had, it would be swallowed, consumed whole along with its surroundings. I want to share with her my dreams, to take my heart and place it in her hands so she'd be assured that it had no other home."

Joe's words trailed off, his ramblings meant nothing to his calico companion who found her best course of action involved resting herself within close enough proximity of his head to groom his trademark shaggy top. Nothing could be done to soothe his soul, he wanted his lady and that was an impossibility as it stood.

It wasn't his fault.

He was associated only in name, or at least 98% so.

It wasn't his fault.

That didn't change the fact that he now resides in fiction

Red Devil will be continued in www.theredredkroovy.blogspot.com

Red Devil chapter 1 part 3

After I knew that pig was dead, I grabbed his ammo clip and honest to God I had to stop myself because I didn't have a damn clue where to go. I guess I could go home, but then what? Not like I can stay in that shithole forever. I could hunt down my girl and my ex,but knowing her, she's already dead......or one of them. She was a good fuck but damn was she dumb, and I mean "Jessica Simpson chicken of the sea" dumb. She was probably at work and left Kylie at home with the babysitter. My best bet was to head to her place, which was a mile fucking away on 3rd street, but it's not like I have other shit to do. So I'm walking down Paulding because it's a wide, which gave me time to react to any crazies that want a piece, ignoring the violence around me. The mayhem would have been too much for some; a body impaled on a stop sign with several littered around it, my guess being a bunch of poor bastards lost hope when shit went down. Good riddance I say. Those panicked pussies would have just dragged the rest of us down. I'm not getting killed because of some suicidal cunt can't handle the shitstain life has become.

The whole street was a mess, I had to watch myself because it was so easy to step on some broken glass, shards of metal, hell slipping in blood was an easy bet since it was fucking everywhere. The place looked like a damn meat factory. Kind of smelled like one too at this point. Thank God it wasn't terribly hot today. I started thinking about my girl when I stepped in something, slipped and fell. It was a fucking intestine that wound up to its source, hidden between two cars like he was trying to get away. AS I got up, attempting to brush myself off, ringing what I could out of my newly crimson shirt, it hit me.

Where the fuck were all them?

Red Devil chapter 1 part 2

So I'm running down the stairs knowing damn well those elevators are fucked. You see that shit in the movies all the time, some dumb nobgoblin goin on the elevator when shit goes down only to get caught with more problems.

Fuck that noise.

Anyway.

When i hit the first floor, I see shit everywhere. Blood was all over the place, on the ceiling, on the tables as well as running down the doors like red rain. I didn't know what to do, I mean would you? As kids we did test runs all the time for disasters, tornados, earthquakes an all that but there never was a "world goes to hell" drill and you know it looked like hell. Men were torn apart, their limbs missing, their insides decorating the pavement. That shit didn't mess me up too much, it was seeing the little girl, her face carved out like a pumpkin with her pigtails still intact, her leg several feet from her body, covered in teeth marks and forcibly removed muscle. I have a daughter and that shit wrecked me. I threw up all over the sidewalk and man was that bad timing. The fuck was I thinking? The world ending and I'm just going to walk outside, where everything is happening. Yeah, I'm a pretty fuckin smart guy. I wiped my face off and looked around for some daddy hammers, you know weapons, because god knows whatever's goin down, I've gotta watch myself. Luckily I found a cop who wasn't needing his pistol. The weird thing was, he really wasn't touched. I mean he was dead, that much was obvious, the hole in his chest where his heart used to be spoke volumes, but I swore I saw him move a little bit, and you know when I buttoned his holster on his pistol, the fucker grabbed me. He had a hole in his fucking chest and he grabbed me! Of course by that time I had his pistol out aand put two in his head, but how the fuck did he move without a heart?

Red Devil Chapter 1 part 1

These things always have beginnings. Shit just doesn't magically fucking happen, there's a build up. Whether we know it's there or not is to be decided, but it is most definitely there. And you know, if no one wants to tell this fucking story, what with the apocalypse and all, I bloody will. Shit used to get passed down by word of mouth, why not start it again. When in Rome, fuck a Roman, right?

For me it started while I was in a conference meeting where my boss was telling me pretty much how big of an asshole I am and how I don't do my job very fucking well. Who's the clown now you dead motherfucker. I digress. Anyway, he's yelling and spit is flying everywhere, it felt like he was hiding a fountain in his esophagus, and turns that shit on every time he wanted to speak with personally. Well he's bitching and moaning about some T.I.S. reports I failed to turn (read: didn't give a fuck about) when we both hear this collision. It sounded like something out of a Michael Bay movie, shit is just flying everywhere. People are screaming and sirens and alarms are going off like crazy. Pretty awesome, right? Well, we're both peering out when this guy, some quiet bloke who normally kept to himself and ate ham sandwiches on rye every fucking day, bursts in through the conference door and stares at us with bloody horror in his eyes. He looks at the two of us and screams "People are going mad in the streets! There's violence everywhere!" My first thought, is oh not again. There have been little riots in recent weeks, nothing spectacular, you know, a little violence, a little robbery, usual stuff. It was always weird to me though, because in the videos on the news you could see guys in those big yellow suits, the kind you would see on people handling biological shit, like viruses and what have you. The fuck would they be doing at a riot scene? That and they were spraying down the sidewalks with this weird blue chemical wherever these dark stains were that kind of looked like blood, only much much darker, leaning towards black. I was wondering whether the shit really hit the fan this time when I saw panic guy get tackled by what looked like a gangstered motherfucker, his chains swinging as he took panic guy to the ground. It hadn't registered, but a lot of the screams we were hearing were coming from inside the building as well. I ran to help panic guy, until I realized that G-Unit junior was ripping his fucking throat out with his teeth. It's pretty racist I know, but my first thought was "Oh shit, some rapper's gone and made a new fad." Then I looked around and saw a bunch of people just as fucked up as he was. Some lady in a nice, but bloodstained sun dress was nawing on this guy from accounting's leg while he was crawling to get away. You could see the blood trail from his wound, the bitch didn't seem to give a shit that her meal was moving. Hoping that gangster would stay with his meal, I did what any red blooded american would do: I grabbed a keyboard, crossfaced my boss with it, picked up a monitor, knocked that bitch out so that guy can get the fuck out and went to the stairs.

Instruction

The days grew steady as practice and delivery reached perfection. The chaos of battle broken down into fundamental form, then sampled out to the recruits inn hope that they can handle the taste. In retrospect, there was an antiseptic, antibacterial form to the SRS (Soldier Recruitment Service). Not literally of course, but the training sessions were meant to help develop a tolerance in the soldier, to build an immunity to the torrential, impassionate fields to follow.

Precipitation

The rain came in, as expected. Housing ourselves in state supplied tents, essentially a composite of Cervidae parts. The skin, sun stained and smooth, canvased the frame. A square structure made of bone, connected by a strong adhesive derived from melting the ligament and fat then mixing it with the inner lining of the Cervidae intestine. The typical Cervidae can create a tent that houses a unit of three. I see your face, curious as to how I know. I told you, I ask alot of questions and Sampson was always more than willing to supply me with an answer.

The war was never far from my thoughts. The battle of Sobral had just ended in State victory, thought casualty count was high for both parties. We lost 10,000 soldiers and Sampson always had a way to put it in perspective; " That's the entire population of the Callin District. Every person living in Kennedy: dead." Scanning the other soldiers present for his words, I noticed a realization in many eyes. For quite a few, this was their first batlle, their first taste of the reality that is war. The thought of everything they knew, their very existence being negated brought every facial gesture to a halt. The abstract gained recognition, personal. They could feel the lives they had taken gaining shape. What was once the enemy suddenly had a face, a family and meaning all their own. Existence brought battle to a personal level, placing fear and doubt into everything they fought for. The thought occurred to me; what was the intent behind Sampson's words?

Apprehension

There is a fear in me. I've only recently discovered it and yet it holds the sensation of antiquity, as if it was passed to me in ceremony. It eats at me in the quiet; the places in a man's mind where nothing else dwells. The place where hope dare not tread, lest it be swallowed by the abyss that is despair. It is sporadic in its exposure, a slow acting poison that never quite leaves the system, it merely allows the bearer temporary relief of symptom. Unfortunate that the cure exists always........and never.

Amore Dos Mundo

She spoke to me, quite frankly, and I wanted more. I wanted every word to become a part of me, to lay seeds that would spawn

"It's wonderful isn't it? Often times I would grow hostile towards the outside. Everyday I see death and destruction. I see the bodies of nameless soldiers littering fields that once served a purpose other than a makeshift cemetery. Those who still have a name rarely escape unscathed. The wounded arrive back to the City-State to be treated, but some wounds cannot be mended by medicinal means. Patches and slings hardly replace missing limbs, and those that return to the small, outlying village receive even less in the way of benefits. And really, what do you tell a blacksmith who's hands no longer function properly? What pittance can redress a lifetime of uselessness? I see all of this, the widows silently morning their broken bones, the disabled crying out for what had once been, I see all of it. I know you don't think so, I see it in your eyes; you think I'm some ignorant girl, lost in a world that doesn't concern the Insecta, but I assure you, my position as hunter and trader of the villages affords many perspectives of the City-State."

Her words were bitter wounds of reality, carving into my very being. Funny though, the thing I felt more than my own discriminatory thoughts paining me, was the amount of admiration I held for her.

"You would think that I would be bitter as a result of these sights, but all it takes is one; one little girl to smile at you, to give you thanks for a trinket I made to pass the time, a flower and a smile, a smile filled with youth and absent teeth, the kind of smile that is so genuine that you cannot help but believe hope exists, that not everything is wrong or destroyed, that real faith exists and the world can be better. Wonderful isn't it?"

Desultory

"Have you ever observed an ant before, or any insect for that matter? Its movements are curious, at least to my eyes. It appears to come and go at random, its purpose and direction guided by the lay of the land. It cares no more about where it has been, ever focused on where it is going. That, then begs the question; where is it going? Does its movement warrant intentions, do its legs carry motives? Is it simply searching for the next meal, or does it simply meander and if it recognizes a useful piece of its life's puzzle, it acts accordingly? I seem to be full of questions, but it simply goes to show what even the tiniest of creatures can illicit in thought. What do you think, Garrison?

Sanctorum

We arrived in short time, the Sanctum brimming with practitioners ready to give their senses to the unknown. I was simply pondering the string of events that lead me here. In retrospect I knew, whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not. Sampson and his wife wore typical garments suited for practice, purchasing myself some as well since I sold any superfluous items in my possession to become a hero (eventually). It was my only goal in life, what did I need of respectable garmentry when my armor spoke for me in all situations. The architecture of the church of state was incredible. Intricate designs in front with several pillars, seven to be exact, each plated with an outline of important people and the moments they created, a summation of the seven times, points in history that lent to the creation and success of the state. If this interminable war would ever end, that moment would undoubtedly become the eight pole.

Vicarious

The prey was mine that day, or rather I, as the prey, was made that day.  I ventured forward to establish dominance in the hunt, but the beast didn't move a single eye, or what I had imagined to be eyes on my preconceived notions of a head.  Without warning, it burst upward....She burst upward?  A well placed spear fell the Cervidae and I was left in a daze.  Did I see hair flowing from the helm?  Reality brought itself to my attention as I realized I was standing in the brush, gazing vacantly at an armored hunter who had just procured my dinner.  

Weaver

"Sir, if I may; Why do you tell these tales? I mean, I understand certain aspects, like illustrating to the men the meaning of battle, companionship, the story of man an all that rot, but what do you get out of it. I don't mean to be blunt, but.....I guess I feel like some of these stories pain you to tell." To him, my response was an eternity away, words that would finally release him from his burdensome curiosity. I'm glad to lead men like him, those that are aware of substance beyond the shallow skin of reality. " Is pain not a commonality of our profession? I don't mean being a soldier, or a Hero, I mean being of persona; the act of being a person. Stories to me are the ties that bind: they operate as an avenue, a connection to the moments in my life I want to know, as well as the ones I don't. They give me the opportunity to provide wisdom, be it in those decisions I made rightfully or ones that fall otherwise, either course they gain recognition and I cannot hide from the fact they exist no matter how much I want to hide from them. Knowing you know my story is enough for me to face the errors of my past rather than hide. You remember Phaea don't you? He was a very real man and a very real illustration of what I never want to be. I'd rather be a man faulted for his honesty, but lauded for his allegiance to his comrades rather than one who abandons the moment matters get difficult. When times are in their harshest state, would you rather be allegiant to those who were with you in difficult times or those who only know the joys of your company rather than the sorrows?

As surely as I've found my footing, illness has crept her withered hands into me, and I will be interred for the time being. Apy polly wogies.

She bore the armor of the Insecta, a tribe that modeled itself on what is normally considering the smallest of creation. The plates fit together seemingly perfectly, allowing movement and protection. I came across her the night prior, hunting in a wooded area just off our course. At first I had mistook her for a large animal, nestled into the ground, slumbering to the sounds of nature. The thought did occur to me to hunt it, but I restrained myself when I realized what adorned it was armor. Piercing it would be more pain than necessity. The movements were subtle at first, and since the beast was foreign, at least to me, I wouldn't have known the difference between that of the creature as opposed to that of imitation. When I found the creature's eyes with my own, there was a realization; we were hunting the same prey. i wasn't about to forsake the large Cervidae, the beast was capable of feeding a scouting troop if the hunter wrests properly, and today I was that hunter. In retrospect, the hunter and the hunted held many meanings that epoch of kismet.

The One

Following orders can mean many things to many people. To some, it is a stringent stance, textbook in hand and the vocals of a superior resonating in the dome. To others it is a varied mistress who situates herself in the realm of circumstance. Trust me when I speak; no textbook will prepare for battle. None. And that means any battle at that, be it matters of love or matters of war. Preparation is only the art of fine tuning the senses to what will inevitably happen. A binding with never prepare you for the true nuances in life, this I attest with my life.

Intrusion

"We don' want you around ere" she said. The words felt hostile and ignorant. We were simply trying to save them, to defend their village from aggressors. We had no need to, it wasn't a mission required of us, we just happened upon the active ransacking of their village on the way to Cinquedea. A local mafioso was attempting to impose its will on them, forcing currency out of them through violent method. I was the first to catch a glimpse of a girl, not more than five years of age being handled. Her taker, a Mudono, held her by the wrist and was guiding her to an end housing, long since abandoned and positioned on the end of the row. When my eyes met hers, i knew what had to be done. I left from our caravan, sprinting across the field wielding my twelve cutter. I reached the door, which in reality was nothing more than a warped piece of wood dangling from a single hinge, and arrived to find the her tear stained face screaming as he held her hands. Murder was in my eyes, I ached the possibility of beheading him where he stood but resigned myself to my position and unkindly removed him from the building. Being Mudono, his leadership status was evident by the Caroko skull on his shoulder. Seeing this, I dragged him to the square, in view of the other mafiostas and proceeded to fisticuff him mercilessly. I left him breathing, though barely, and in the hands of the locals. A mafioso doesn't function without their leader, so they scattered, like so much filth in the wind. Expecting a thank you, I instead received insults and sediment, a heft combination for a modest soldier. At the time I felt disdain for them and for their horrid response to what I felt was gallantry. Now I realize what it meant. A single act doesn't compensate for years of being ignored, cast aside by the State and left to fend for themselves. A single act can break a heart. The same cannot be said of healing it.