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| Welcome To The Night You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality. This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories. Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Seether; - Truth | |
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| Topic Started: Wednesday, 26. March 2014, 19:22 (1,256 Views) | |
| Mac | Wednesday, 26. March 2014, 19:22 Post #1 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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I think over the last few weeks, I've grown to hate my secondary Haven more than I've hated any room I've been in. Possibly more than I ever hated Marco's basement, but maybe I'm just so far removed from the memories of Marco's basement they're faded in their intensity. This place is small, way smaller than my warehouse. It's also in Cammie territory, because I know no one will expect to find me here with the way I stand on the Capes. At least it's a basement suite, bottom floor in an apartment building that has a nice solid layer of concrete as a roof. It makes it pretty sound proof, and cool. The cool is important, because the way I keep freaking the fuck out and frenzying waking up from my shit fit on a cool floor helps get my thoughts together. I've always liked the cold, because I've always ran to warm. Maybe it's my maybe Viking ancestory? Maybe I'll look into what the fuck my Pa was some day, but I doubt it. I'm not sure I give a shit, and looking into that dirty family probably wont make me feel any better about being the shit I am today. I'll probably find out I come from a long line of shit, destined to always be shit. I've got a kitchen, but I haven't cooked in it. I've been getting out now and then at mid day, when the sun is highest and the call of the blood the least potent. I stock up on precooked shit, take out, and just laiden the fridge with it here and microwave it.... Actually, my diets probably better this way. There's vegetables and shit in some of the chinese take out. I haven't been here the whole time, only since about a week and a half after Toran died. Two days later, when Church started calling wondering where the fuck I was... I left. Standing in the security line at the airport was nerve racking, trying to think back to every bullet and bit of metal shrapnel that's pierced my hide since the last time I flew. Hoping to holy hell, nothing was left behind and I wouldn't be detained. I already look like a fucking freak show terrorist, my best hope for a quick exit from London requires me to NOT light up this body scanner like a christmas tree. Panicking about making bad desisions by leaving at all... Such a huge part of me saying stay, stay, stay... And another, more dominant part of me wanting to stretch my wings to the wind and get the fuck out. Escape all this crazy, escape all this brain twisting insanity that I can't even cope with. It's to much. It's to different, and difficult, and it's like trying to drop religion from your life when you're a believer. How do you stop believing something thats BASE to your instincts? Beliefs you need to deal with the shit in your past? Ireland sucked, but at least it sucked away from the peoples faces that were melting my brain in a cacophony of thoughts and feelings I just don't know what to do with. Then that asshole summoned me. I was back in London by mid day the following morning, bag over my shoulder with that desperate desire to get to the thing that makes me feel so good, and so bad at the same time. I even went to his apartment, but it was day time... the call had faded, and I touched the door with both hands, dissolved the call, and left. What, was I supposed to go in? No. Fuck that. I could have... I could have slipped in by day, crawled into bed and hoped when he woke up with that stupid look he gets in those first few moments of waking, that he'd just pretend I never left or ask why the fuck I did it. I couldn't though... I left for a reason, a real deep, profound reason that I NEEDED to know. I never really...go this deep. I never dig and try and find the answers, I always brush off and pick myself up and just go on. I feel like... I can't. I'm so stuck. I'm standing burried in the sand up to my thighs, and I can't trudge out of this muck that got me trapped. I'm like a bird in a cage beating is wings against the bars until it breaks, especially locked in this apartment. I'm stir crazy and losing it, but at least he's stopped calling me. After that first day I knew I needed a safe space, to prevent myself from breaking in the night. I locked myself in, and swallowed the key. When he summoned me again that night when he woke? I tried to scratch the door open. Being closer just made the call that much more poignant, and I wanted to get to him... I broke my fingers, bled all over, sat in a pile of ooze and flakes of flesh as I put my head down and cried on my knee's. Didn't know I could do that shit still. Confused as if I was back in my teenage years of excessive drug usage, not understanding the world around me because the Heroine or Acid was distorting it all, making me see and believe things that weren't really there. Wanted to answer it, wanted to forget all these thoughts in a way only he can make me forget. When I wake though, and he's dead beside me, cold and unmoving and so unexcusably ....dead? I'll just remember it all though, feel it all. Taste the copper pennies in my mouth, feel the bucket of ice poured into my soul by my own doing. Feel dirty. Betrayed, betraying. Questions ripped opened that I had plugged up with so much anger and hate. He trusts me not to kill him. While he's moving, smiling, laughing and nearly convincing me he's a person? I trust me not to kill him too. That fucks with my head enough right? But when he's dead, stoney and made of unmoving ice? That's when the urge to remove his head is overwhelming. Thats when my head buzzes, and confuses me. Thats when I have to get out of bed, stumble around trying to detangle myself from those horrible needy images, and get out of where ever he is. Sometimes I stay, and that's even worse. Staying... Staying makes me think all the questions that much harder, fuller, staying makes me try and figure it out. Makes me wonder if I'm right, or wrong. Makes me wonder if Tory wasn't right in New York, to kick the ever mouthy shit out of me when I said to her she had no soul. Worked out to drown it all, spent the time learning new forms of body control, even Yoga. Pushing flexibility, pushing in any way that could make my body hurt enough to drown the world outside away. I'm an expert at spending time with myself, I'm usually by myself. Days turned to weeks, and I think it's finally... broken. He stopped calling me by blood over a week ago, maybe even more, and I can't feel him in the city. For a few days now, when I wake, I don't feel drawn away. I think I may be free again, I think I'm able to think clearly and without feeling like Fanger Voodoo is fucking with my mind. It's almost scarier than when I was bound. Now I have to face up, with my biggest excuse I've kept using to reason with myself gone, or flee again because lets face it... I'm a fucking coward. She was glad to see the rear of the door to her secondary haven close, listening to it lock with her on the outside this time. She'd finally run through her terrible, rank, and worn out sneakers. They'd been replaced with a new pair, this pair a flat grey running shoe that laced up with black laces, her usual jeans had been replaced with a pair of more form fitting, flattering ones that didn't bag about with extra fabric and hide the gems of destruction she usually sported. She wore a black loose t-shirt, not a wife beater, that read “We are the Weirdo's” on the front, hair gathered up into a dread bun like she liked to do more often than not, harness system still beneath the shirt hiding enough toys to make her feel somewhat secure. Thick, dark, reflective shades covering her eyes as she stalked down the street in her usual predatory fashion. Headed to the warehouse this time, to see if it was still standing or someone had lost their shit and frenzied and burned it down... Her feet had the urge to turn around still, head back to safety, head away from the war zone that she as really unfit for. She was so good at killing, and so bad at conflict. Like always, would it dissolve into what she was good at? Without that bond there, would she find the answer she needed by taking things down the road they should have gone from the start? The path that would have left me... me. Instead of whatever the fuck I'm turning into. Edited by Mac, Friday, 11. April 2014, 18:21.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Saturday, 5. April 2014, 16:02 Post #2 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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How long's it been, Church? How did you break so fucking fast? I don't really wanna think about the answer right now...I don't wanna think about any of it. But I don't have a fucking choice, really. That's the problem with addictions, they're all you think about so long as you can't put your hands on them. And fuck knows that when Mac decided to get out of dodge, there was nothing I could do. Calls, texts - I bombarded her with messages from the moment that that Lucy bitch dropped the bombshell on my lap. I didn't realise how severe a mindfuck it really was, and my phone was smashed into dust in frustration of there being no reply. I know-I assume she's not dead, she can't be, what the fuck could kill her? But the fact that I don't know eats me up. The fact that somebody else had to walk in on our 'domestic bliss' and ruin everything. Cause it was fucking bliss, and now it's gone. Now instead I'm alone in the world again, a freak, a monster, with no-one who understands how my head works. My head, by the way, filled with fucking desire to see someone else besides Mac. Supernatural compelling in the blood I drank from her...Jebus what a fucking mess. At first, I couldn't complain. We're not all touchy-feely crap, we're not clingy, hell there were some nights I wondered if she even liked me beyond the things I do to her. At first, it was fine. I missed her, but I could maybe understand what was going on. Well, no, that's a lie. I don't try to understand that girl. But I can appreciate her pain, cause I know she's got a heart even if she forgets sometimes. An' it beats just like a regular persons, but she put up so many walls around it, must get muffled. So I waited. Sure I called, and sure I smashed my phone, but part of me was expecting her to come back to me. I called out to her when the phone was in bits, compelled her to get her ass to me for a seeing to like no other and yet, nothing. Silence. I think it might've been around this time that I sampled a certain fucking trickster bitch, and I needed to get creative to fill sate my appetite for destruction minus my most favourite partner in crime...ever. Made me crave the needle. I gave that shit up for a reason, and after a few weeks of the soberness, I started thinking clearly for the first time in fifty years. I realised that I was already on this earth far longer than I should ever have been, that if I hadn't been around the world honestly would be a better place. I mean, it would, right? One less bloodthirsty psychopath creeping around. Lord knows I've killed people in my day and, frankly, they weren't all bad. And London...I'm sure things would be no different, but at least I wouldn't have this tumour of guilt stabbing me in the guts and make me seek penance for what I've done. Of course, there was the ultimate retribution I could have bestowed upon myself by walking into Cammy land and fucking shit up, but I guess there is some sense of self preservation knocking around this bag of bones. I opted for something less finalizing. Namely trying to piss off every sombitch living or dead to the point they wanna wail on me with baseball bats and lead pipes. I needed the pain just to function and not degenerate into the beast I once was. I realise now that Mac was the equivalent of moving onto better, harder stuff. Whatever fucked up thing I am, she catered to all of my needs. Drugs were...distractions. Keeping me from thinking, from feeling, from hurting. I was just a husk. Without them though, I am subject to the whims of my primal nature, something dark and unnatural that stirs me the wrong way. Well, by society and Camarilla standards, the wrong way. For what I really am, it's perfectly natural; A Sabbat shovelhead who should've been chewed up as cannon fodder a long while back. Dangerous, destructive...not words that suit me, but it's what I'll be without a punch bag like Mac. Fuck just...Come back baby. Please. Before I do something stupid. I had to stop here, and no, I ain't planning on catching a bus. I limped down the street and parked my ass on this bench cause I just need to sit and buzz...not let the care bears see me when I'm like this; blood splattered and high as fuck, or at least that's what I'm hiding away under the regular hoodie. It's all to similar to the night Aguirre found me losing my god damn mind, but it's far too shameful for me to think of that right now. This time I walked into the Dream with a purpose; to get my ass kicked. And while I wasn't interested in breaking any masquerade, a dude climbing onto the roulette table and taking a bloody piss on the spinner was met with a prompt roughing up and throwing out. Apparently, that was strike three, and I'm banned for good. Like I give a shit. The poor fellow who's neck I chomped on happened to be something of a junkie himself. I didn't wire him up, but at the same time, I didn't particularly care. I'm usually more careful, but what the fuck does it matter now, huh? Being coked up sure made gambling a few grand away funnier, though, had the unfortunate side effect of dulling the smack down security laid on me. But I imagine the moronic giggling actually pissed them off enough to give me a few extra licks, so it all works out in the end, right? I stretch out an arm and smile in response to the twinge as opposed to the expected wince. Now those boys sure did know how to thump, ball up their fist and just drive it into me. No real understand on how I tick though, punching me in the face is too damn straightforward. I wrap myself up in my arms, provoking those spots that have been beaten tender to silently object to the pressure. I refuse to knit anything back together. I close my eyes and try to forget it all. Wonder if a bus does come if I should just climb on unquestioning. It could take me from London. It could lead to the airport and get me out of this fucking nutbag country completely. Yeah...that seems like a good move. A wise means of keeping myself out of too much trouble...by going to raise hell somewhere else. Yeah, that'll make all your problems go away. Forget London, forget your friends, forget Jack and forget her. If vamps in general weren't such untrustworthy fucks I might just allow one to crack open my noggin and take all those lingering memories away. Take me back to the miserable junkie who never gave a damn 'bout no-one. I just. Jebus. I bury my head in my hands as this fucking cocaine plays a number inside of me. That raw burn that kills brain cells and compels action. I just wanna hang. I don't really wanna think about the answer right now...I don't wanna think about any of it. |
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| Mac | Sunday, 6. April 2014, 20:25 Post #3 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Her apartment was still standing, and other than a few unimpressive dents in the heavy machine door she was surprised to see that it appeared absolutely intact. Well, bully for her. Ain't like it really mattered though, she'd only be there a few more nights before persuing her intentions of leaving London properly. A check out, after finding out the truth about her fucked up brain space... and what the fuck was going on inside that empty, blood pumper in her chest. Bondless. No excuses... Right? Not really the truth though, because she knows she can make excuses for nearly anything. She's great at them, even when the easy ones are gone she's clever enough to be able to tuck truths behind walls that help make shit black and white. The bacon and shit in the fridge had gone bad, she hadn't even though of it. One slight crack of the door was all she needed to slam it shut and gag, moving to rip down the paper off the fridge. She'd left that much of a note, as she always intended to leave if she died while hunting or on business. It was kind of a goodbye... a Bloody smear of her lips on paper. He'd never busted in though, so it ain't like he ever got it. That, that was surprising. She'd thought he would, oh well. Maybe she wasn't such a priority afterall? Good. It was so much better this way, because every little snippet of resentment she could muster just gave her that much more resolve. The paper crumpled in her hand, becoming a squashed and mishapen for as she chucked it onto the counter and moved to slide a hand under the mattress of her bed, just to check. Her fingertips brushed up against what she was looking for, and she dropped her backpack on the bed to sit for a moment. She left the warehouse, locking up behind her and taking the route she walked so often. It all felt different, walking down this street. She knew the smell of it, the taste of the air on her tongue, the anticipation she got while she headed towards his apartment. It all build up inside her, knotting and cloying in a sickening feeling... But it felt different now. Every step was altered, wrong, missing something as she went. Maybe it was being bond free, and somewhat sober. Sobriety always killed her emotions, sobriety was a state she tended to avoid at all costs because it left her... hollow. Was she hollow now? Or was every step strange because of the new shoes? She'd worn the same ones for years, till she couldn't excuse the lack of rubber on the bottom and the duct tape holding them together. She did like things to stay the same, so much panic over even the simplest of changes. Shoes. A gentle remedy for the question was the flask in her back pocket, and she took it out to tip back the contents in a hearty, open throated swig. It warmed her on the way down, but not with the usual burn of the near toxic vodka she drank. She'd sprung for Fireball, she's sprung for the old favorite from high school and years with Mel. Sweet, too sweet for her now that's for sure, but with a great and tantalizing sizzle that left your mouth warm and coated in cinnamon. Standing at the door of his apartment to knock was like trying to lift an arm full of lead. All that anxiety springing up, but squashable in her state, riding the edge of so little liquor in her system she was almost able to start going to AA and claiming to be clean. There wasn't enough potence to Fireball, it was a baby's drink... but it was a steely resolve of all the things she'd lost to the night. Taste on her tongue a reminder. She did knock, and when she did it wasn't a gentle or timid sound. Once she managed to make that fist raise up, she hammered on the door to try and ease off some of that tension. How was he going to react afterall? She'd skipped out, without any real reason. He didn't know, he'd just been...left. She'd just walked away during the day, boarded a flight and fucked off. How was she supposed to explain that to him? Would he let her, or would his hand be at her throat in a temper so fast she couldn't react? She was made of rubber, solid shit that helped her brush off what would kill most other mortals. Brass tacks and iron balls. She could however, die. He was strong enough to kill her if he really wanted to, in those hands she'd learned that the first night they fucked. His swift knee to the chest had brushed her ribs into fragments, fragments she'd barfed up the next day while he patted her on the back and then helped render her unable to walk, again. Brujah, Celerity.. Danger. God he was dangerous. That was part of the allure. Faster, stronger, a challenge. A grumpy disposition that didn't mind her own Cunty attitude, and a great deal of ... She killed the thoughts that went with it. Hammering again as the door remained resolutely unanswered. “Fine fucker!” Well, it's not like she could have called ahead. She didn't have a phone anymore, she'd smashed it. Smashed it to prevent herself from answering him. To prevent.. The air was cold on her bare arms as she left the apartment, taking a moment on the way out to kick over a bench in the lobby. It spun off the ground and hit the wall, cracking with a loud splintering as she slammed the front doors open so hard the hinges protested with a similair noise. She was nearly shaking now, coming down off an adrenaline spike she'd been riding out of nerves. Just fucking leave. You tried, get the fuck out of London. Her new sneakers were as eerily silent as the old ones, as it wasn't the footware that created her ghostly pacing it was the woman doing the movement. Predatorial and frightening to most people, sending humans skittering out of the way when her brows were knitted so tightly that her usually pretty face wore a scowl that said 'fuck off'. People tended to obliege the Amazon. God she was hungry, and she wanted a bacon cheese burger with more bacon than bread, burger, or cheese. Maybe just ten pounds of it, fried just short of crispy. Drown herself in salty treats. He was sitting on a bench, arms around himself and looking like absolute shit. She saw him from the side coming down the street she was walking, causing her to pause uncomfortably. He looked like someone had put him through a meat grinder, then stuck his bits back together and clothes him in second hand rags. It made her gawk stupidly at the back lit profile, street lamp on the opposite side she was standing. Her hand slid under her shirt, brushing against the items in her harness as she contemplated the chances of him killing her. She backed up a few steps, silent as always, ready to turn and leave. Fuck this shit! FUCK IT! She couldn't do it, she couldn't handle that tide that kicked at her insides when he was looking so fucking used. She felt like trash, shittier than shit, re-affirming her resolve not to go poking around into her dads side of the family to discover the endless shitty lineage she was sure been sprung from. Her Ma though... Her Ma wasn't shit. As much as she hated the woman now, as much as she resented her for all the many ways she'd failed at life... She'd never been the shit her Da was. If she left now, without... Trying to explain something, just up and ran like she always did, that would make whatever little bit of goodness her Ma might have given her obsolete. She wanted to run, and she wanted to ... to what? WHAT DO YOU WANT MAC? To die? To live? To suffer? To be -happy-? She'd never deserved it. Not after all the shitty things she'd done, she'd never deserved to have the last half a year with him. She'd never deserved to feel so good, torture was her penance. It was the taste of blood in her mouth that broke her speech, that made her pause from running and bring hazel eyes to that sad figure on the bench. Her heart was a lead weight, and she'd bitten through her lip again. The usual smooth insides of her inner lip shredded to all hell over the last few weeks in solitude. “I'm sorry.” She felt like she was made of lead suddenly, someone had carved her open and pulled her bones from her body, poured molten metal into her meat suit and left her there staring. Sure she looked fine from the outside, but her heart felt clamped in her chest as it beat heavy and rapid. She was such a cunt. I'm sorry?! Who the fuck said that shit? Edited by TapestryofShame, Sunday, 6. April 2014, 20:33.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Tuesday, 8. April 2014, 20:38 Post #4 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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You know when you get that cut or that bruise you can't help poke and prod, to flare that tender motherfucker back to life and you got no idea why you're doing it? I got a cut on my lip that is just that, and the momentary raw tingles poking it with my tongue gives me are seemingly enough to occupy my brain for the moment. It's simple and surprisingly effective to put my brain on stun and keep it out the whole 'kill' region. Cause fuck me if there haven't been a few extra bodies kicking around as of late. I assume. I don't really remember...What I do know is that Mac was doing the city a kindness by keeping my dumb ass all tangled up. Likewise, maybe I was with her, though I'm sure Hammy wouldn't shake my hand for being such an outstanding citizen. And just like that I'm thinking about what could have happened to her; if she left, if she got caught, if she finally bit off more than she could chew. I'd expect to have seen a lot more tanks if that were the case. I know the fucking reason, the instigator, and frankly it's taken a lot for me to not find where the fuck they are and burn everything of theirs to the ground. Maybe it'd draw Mac out...if the person who made her flip by dying happened to die for realsies. Fuck if it don't make me angry thinking about it though, the fact that she decided to blank me and leave. I could've helped. Taken her mind off things. Hell, we could've left this crappy city for a while and just get our minds back in the gutters where they belong. At least it used to make me angry...right now I just can't muster that hate. Why, Baby? “I'm sorry.” I hear her say somewhere, almost sincerely. It just makes me hurt all the more. "Like fuck you are." I grumble, rubbing my eyes in an attempt to clear up the blurry vision that comes with just staring blankly at nothing for too long. Or at least I seem to think so. With a mind that's intoxicated, I'm closer to being a human than in a long while, and I seem to be falling victim to their dumb biological ticks as well. I feel rough. Drained. Like I haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks, regardless of the fact that I drop like a stone come sundown. I even emit a little sniffle, though that might be cause of the blood and whatever bits of bone are still jarred out of place are blocking it up, making my mad mumbling sound a little nasal. It actually takes me a few seconds to notice the figure that's looming close by...I look to those beautiful brown peepers and my insides turn cold. God damn if it ain't all a little too perfect. I mean, I'd spent some solitary moments pining over her already, of course, but as to the right here, right now? Well, right now is right now, but I have no idea where the right here is. For all I know I strayed too far from Enfield. Might've found myself in psycho domain, with the head honcho reaching in and plucking the dread out of me to use as a mask to mock me. Hell, I give myself too much credit. I'm not entirely sure what I sucked up out of a group of tweakers tonight, maybe something that oozes psychosis. Maybe there's nobody there at all. Just a man who looks like he's sitting on deaths door. And if whoever is watching can see how tired I feel, I mean, I look tired for the majority of the time but now I feel it. I feel fucking exhausted, and if whoever can see this, they'll probably think death is long overdue. "We are the weirdo's..." Would I imagine that? I ain't never seen it on her. Those sneakers...look a bit too sturdy to be hers. And yet all the while, I'm sure she's biting her lip like she always used to in anticipation. Always so ready and eager to please me like I wanna please her. But here we are, in the foulest of moods I've been in since...at least six months. "What sick fuckin' joke is this?" I growl low, but even in saying that, my throat seems to get a lump in it. If I had a heart, it might be lodged there, if not hammering away furiously with charges of adrenaline. A few hours ago I might have tore into her, visage or not, with all the animalistic fury that my sire passed to me. She took away the addiction from the junkie, and fuck would I have had made up for lost time with brutality she ain't seen, that even the real her wouldn't like. "S'at really you, Princess? Not some fuckin' mind games?" Seems too good to be true, but hey, wasn't that the whole point about her from the start? I lift a hand and outstretch it to her, as if I gotta put a hand on her to believe she's really there. Or believe it ain't all in my mind. But before I can, I just let it drop back down to the bench with a sigh. Defeated. "Pretty sure my Princess don't say sorry. Don't give a fuck 'bout other people. What makes you any different, eh?" |
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| Mac | Tuesday, 8. April 2014, 23:36 Post #5 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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"Like fuck you are." Granted. She could get behind that sentiment, she was the one who dropped everything and took off like the flighty bitch she's always been. No point in denying it, no point in trying to pretend this wasn't all on her. She had a tendency to dig her own grave in neigh on every situation, she never expected to be able to salvage this fuck up really. Maybe there was that tiny, flickering candle of hope somewhere deep inside that cynical, cunty shell. It wasn't one she gave much fuel to though, because hope was best in small doses so you don't drown in the disappointment of your shitty reality. Shitty reality was real, and reliable. "Fuck you Doc." Oops, defensive mouth. Hard not To respond to the degradation of her intentions with anything less than rage. It was just, natural to her. Counter productive to the situation though, or was it? What was she doing there? Blowing this situation sky high to keep things alive? She had thought looking at him would sort this shit out, that Bondless and free she would see his pretty, ridiculos face and find herself perfectly able to give him the finger and catch a flight out to Tokyo, where her next job was lined up. Not so easy, infact it was completely opposite. A good hard part of her wanted to do just that, tell him he was a soulless creature in an animated shell. Instigate, throw vodka onto the fire of whatever anger and animosity had blossomed inside him and set it all ablaze with her cruelty. Yet, standing there looking at the sad state of him made things muddled and confusing. She didn't know how to sort out the vice insider her chest, or the crashing guilt that she was so unaccustomed to. Had... Had she done all that? Left him to fall back to his old ways? "I ain't got a lot of... Normal shit in my wardrobe. It's either the usual, or some stunty weird get up like you saw when I got myself Hammy. Sorry if I wanted to not look like a murderous hobo, and I figured a dress and heels would make it look like I've been out having a gay old time in the last month, which is far from the fucking truth you big fucking idiot. Sorry if you can't accept a god damned apology but I ain't going to break down into tears and beg you understand. I don't even understand. You look like shit." That pressure in her chest was getting tighter, winding like a spool and pulling all the strings and fibers in her body tighter. Tenser, wrapping around her heart as if revolving on a spit and making her head swim, tighter and tighter. She popped her flask, and drained the last of the contents in an easy swig that burned to sweetly. Much to sweet. Change sucked, fuck this shit. It made her gag, spluttering up cinnamon droplets that she regretted weren't the more potent vodka she ordered to drown herself in. The sweetness in her stomach didn't help, coupling with the anxiety clawing at her insides. "I feel like shit." She felt like throwing up, to much. All of it was to fucking much. She needed to bolt, or spew... So she did. A splattering of that sweet whiskey hitting the cement in the most profoundly unsexy moment she could imagine aside from pissing herself. "I need some vodka." Edited by TapestryofShame, Wednesday, 9. April 2014, 05:07.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Friday, 11. April 2014, 02:29 Post #6 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Hah. Now that sounded more like my Princess. Not taking any shit, even if it weren't my intention to shovel it. She still called me 'Doc' though, if I had a heart it sure would've jumped at hearing that name for the first time in what feels like months. I'm not even looking at 'her' anymore, cause I don't know what the fuck this is, what she's doing or what she expects. I listen to her words, sure, but I'm still not sure what to think. I suppose her saying 'I'm sorry' - actually having the words come out of her fucking mouth - well, that's as good an apology as Mac can give. She's not gonna beg for forgiveness, throw blame around. Fuck maybe it really is her. I don't shift my gaze from a particular pothole on the road, but something twinges when she comments on how I'm looking. Something unpleasant. I just clamp up, seeing as a few calming breaths don't mean much now that I'm a cold one. Even when the scent of whisky threatens to make me barf (cause fuck me if I ain't had enough of that in the past 72 hours), I don't look up. Whiskey ain't right, not even if it's to set my ass on fire, which by the way I ain't gonna give two fucks about until I'm doused in the stuff. And even then... The familiar, or at least a noise I heard a lot in my youth finally draws my attention. Would a hallucination vomit? Smell as fucking bad as it does. And almost like she can read my mind, she decides it's appropriate to declare her love for Vodka. More confusion. More mindfuck. But I'm looking at her again, with eyes so fucking damn desperate for it to really be her, for this to not be a sick bit of fun for some deranged and perceptive motherfucker. Jack could read minds, I know cause he used to call me out on shit all the fucking time. If this is him, wouldn't he know that I'm suspicious? Wouldn't he have blown me away right now, or can he read the doubt and know to play it cool. I rub a hand down my face, weary in body and mind. "I don' need an'pology, baby, I just need you. S'the only thing tha'sgonna make me feel better. I'm so gorram...bored with- no. Not bored. I-" That's not the right word. Mundane? Uninteresting? Ha...lifeless? I try and shake off the stupid but my heads full of pixies and fairy dust. "Nevermind. I guess it ain't too important. I-" My eyeballs are on fire right now. The longer they're resting on those hazel peepers that I know so intimately, and almost literally lived to see fill with desire and want and hunger, and fulfil those desire to replace that look with satisfaction. Dare I say adoration. Cause I sure as fuck adored her and every minute we spent in blessed anguish. Adored. "You gonna take a seat, Princess?" I don't bother to pat the space next to me all 'sex offender' style. I just ask with my eyes. God I hope they're all pathetic and puppy dog. Cause right not things are awkward, tense, but not bloody. If she turns and bolts, you better believe that's gonna boil my blood. I mean, she didn't just show up to mock me right? She wants to, well, apologies for one. I just kinda wanna lay a hand on her still, know it's really her, feel that burning radiate from her, make that heart pump fast and hard. And if she runs...I know it's gonna be bad. My beast is gonna wanna take that hammering heart and tear it the fuck out. |
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| Mac | Friday, 11. April 2014, 17:22 Post #7 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Hollow? Empty? Feeling vacant and void? Were those terms he was looking for in replacement of -bored-? Bored wasn't the right word, related in some ways to the right word maybe but certainly not strong enough to indicate the feeling of something being lacking and wanting in the space beside you. Her shoes felt glued to the ground, perhaps by their newness as much as her own indescision in this instance. Take a seat? Yeah, that sounded smart... Take a seat next to a bloody, beaten fanger whom you've fucked over pretty hard. None of it felt right, none of it made sense. Her mouth tastes like sweet vomit, and she tipped up the flask to empty the last swells onto her tongue, and swished it around before spitting the contents to the sidewalk. She was stuck, glued to the sidewalk as she fought that raging, beating hearts tempo that usually preceded her need to run. She was always running. She would die running, and laughing, but what was she running away from, and where was she running to? What was so funny that she always wanted to belly up a laugh and spit in the reapers face when shit was going sly? Those green eyes, those deep little pools that she wanted to pick out of his face and cradle in her hands. How had she ever thought there was nothing behind them? How had she started to feel like something -was-? When had everything she believed in gone ascew, and slipped into the territory of shifting ideologies and water so deep she couldn't touch down? She hated swimming. She also couldn't sit next to him on the bench, she'd get stuck on the porch with Mel's and J.J. She'd remember all those times where she was to fucking pent up and had a stick up her ass so far she couldn't relax enough to show people she gave a flying fuck. She just... she didn't know how. She never had that happy childhood, she never had those warm cuddle puddles with parents and siblings. She'd had beatings, cigarettes burned into her back, and sexual molestation by a man who should have been her superman, instead of her lex luther. She moved, silent and eerie as always. She was a whisper on the wind, a ghost moving through the city. Her skin was pale, chalky looking, even with the yellow light of the street lamps thrown over her figure as she stepped up behind him on the bench. A hand slipped up over his form, to press hot and tempered against his cool cheek. Touching him did nothing to relieve that tension that was spooling around her insides, it just seemed to make it all shift painfully like she'd run full tilt into a wall. A rising weigh in her throat, while everything in her chest seemed to be sinking in mud. “You make me feel alive, human, good... but I don't know how to be a person baby... I fuck everything up. I hurt everyone I love and I never know how to fix it... When I try, I hurt people more...” The words are hard in her throat, stuck on that weight and hitching with shaken breath. His blood was all over him, as well as the scent of others. It was salty, and the muscles in her neck reflexively shifted with a basic hunger that she always felt around him. She wanted to wash the taste in her mouth out, drag her tongue all over his face and lick him clean and proper. Help put him back together, doctor him the way he doctored her. He was a mind fuck. Everything about him. She could make him forget her, she could tip his head back and look him in those beautiful green peepers... and rip herself from his mind. Would that help? Would it help to heal the damage she'd done by being a cunty, selfish bitch? Because she'd do it again, she was sure. It was just in her, she couldn't help it. When shit got to real, and to crazy she didn't have the coping mechanisms to deal with it. She just went, into the night, wandering... Would he, would he wander with her? The thought made her head swim, disgusted. Selfish. She would never -deserve- anything so remarkable or meaningful. She didn't deserve the last six months with him. She didn't deserve the Bacon, or the laughter, or the nights of blissful anguish under his rough and cool touch. A touch she wanted so bad, her knee's were sliding together in the usual manner that preceded her wanting to mount and claim him. She tried to tip his head back to look down at him. “You don't deserve to be stuck with a twat like me, and I don't deserve to be happy. I'm a sack of shit, remember?” She'd lean down to kiss him on the forehead, purposefully trying to pick a spot with a nice wide cut, as if her kisses could make it better, but really seeking to leave the taste of his blood on her lips one last time. Her voice held irony and humor, as if trying to lighten the horrible meaning behind them. Her eternal reality, because hope was a bitter and hurtful thing that she hated having. Then it was time to go, because all the knots inside her were snapping and releasing when her lips touched him. It was like being knocked over, unpreppared and left shaken. She had to run, because ... she was Mac. And Mac, was scared of nothing and everything all at once. Edited by Mac, Friday, 11. April 2014, 17:33.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Friday, 11. April 2014, 23:20 Post #8 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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My pleading eyes have to fall away from her form again, the burning that is all in my head becomes too great. What is it that makes it so difficult? How is it so different, the last night we spent together to now, without any interaction at all and we've seemingly both broken down to something weak. I'm pissed, of course, at her and the people who set all this episode off. I'm...guilty. Guilty for being a fucking fanger in the first place and, even though she wouldn't have been so infatuated with me and I likely wouldn't have survived as long, not the mortal she could feel easy around. I almost wince as I see her figure shift in the corner of my eye, though I notice it's closing in. Suddenly there's the warm and comforting touch of a psychopath. If my lungs were working I'm quite sure they would've frozen up in this moment, because while I'm all too familiar of that flaring heat that seeps through the skin, lord knows it's taken far too long to be laid upon me again. It's her. For real, it's her. I doubt that anyone on the face of this planet burns as bright as my Mac, literally. It sends my brain a series of violent and confusing signals, because if this is really her, then her words are all true. Shit words, of course, my baby is worse than me when it comes to expressing herself. I listen intently, eyes squinting at her touch. I don't like the words she's saying, and I sure try to respond, but soon enough I'm having my world tilted to line up with her, to see the shadow of the Mac I knew lay down and kiss me. Kiss me goodbye... "Wait." I grab her hand, albeit a loose grip considering what I could do. Namely vice around her fingers and break them. I don't wanna scare her off, and yet, I wonder if such a move would remind her of just what she's missing. What we're both missing. "No you...fuck. You show up again just to give me a sorry and a goodbye? No, no fuckin' way. If you think running is the only way to solve your problems then...Jebus, fuck you, you retard." My voice hasn't seemed to crack out from weary drones, but I can taste the venom as these words exit my mouth. That edge of anger at the sheer fucking insult she's trying to pay me right now. I also seem to have stopped slurring, a sudden swell of determination that couples nicely with my rage with the whole stupid fucking situation. "So I don't deserve you? I don't deserve to be happy? This ain't a one way deal, darling. I'm getting fucked here, don't I get a say?" It isn't fair, not that a whole lot is in this world. I somehow managed to spin on the seat with unprecedented grace for a junkie, and once again my desperate eyes are on her. "I don't want a person. I don't want you any different, darling, so don't think I do. What was so wrong about the time we had, huh? Sure I was a fucking moron occasionally, but you I don't think..." I have to think about it, cause I'm not sure. She really didn't screw me over. Not in ways that was damaging. Or at least, she had fun from it. I don't know what I can say. "You can fix it by staying. I'd never not take you back, Princess. Just..." God I'm weak. I'm pathetic. I'm a fucking parasite trying to keep the best thing ever around. And fuck me if I'm ok with that. I'd do damn near anything for her to stay. And I'd do something fucking stupid if she goes. "Please..." Just one little word. Our word. Used for the first time beyond begging to indulge in desire. A request I have never been so desperate for her to adhere to. |
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| Mac | Saturday, 12. April 2014, 08:06 Post #9 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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If she hadn't been so shell shocked by his sudden wrist grab, and startled into a look of stupid fear, she probably would have laughed out loud at his commentary that she was a retard. Inside, she laughed on the inside. Boy was right, such an insult wasn't something she could fault him for. His touch however, cold and iron in it's thick fingered grip, left her skin shooting up with goosebumps. They raised up her arm, sliding along one shoulder, beneath her teeshirt, and then appearing up her neck and sliding into her hair line as that all over body shiver caused her to wriggle for a moment to try and ease the chilly burn. “This ain't a one way deal, darling.” That was something she often forgot, overlooked on purpose because of her rather intensely selfish world view. But, why the fuck would he want her to stay? She'd litterally -dissappeared- on him, just upped and gone into the night without explaining any of her reasons. Her shitty reasons that were entirely selfish, and had not taken into account other than superficially, his investment in whatever that had between them. Sure, she'd thought about him. She'd though about him -a lot-, but rarely did she think about him thinking about her. Not only because she was a selfish cunt, but because... she was a sack of shit too, so how could he have such a high opinion of her, how could he -want- her the way he did? How could anyone, ever, want her on the level of those begging green eyes. She was the girl made of fuck ups and cuntitude, to the point that once her own allied Hunters had attempted to blow the support structure of a building while she was still inside. She was that bitchy and bothersome to most folk, that they either avoided her or actually tried to kill her. “What was so wrong about the time we had, huh?” Everything, and nothing. Everything that was jumbled up, her insides having fragmented and become sharp glass edges to chaotic feelings. She felt like they were now being stirred around, slicing her up. “Please.” She was pieces, bits and pieces of a very broken, fractured human all jumbled together and tossed into a cereal bowl. Trying to use her tongue as a spoon to scoop up enough letters to make words, thoughts, sentences. Like a child in kindgerten struggling to try and convey thoughts that were almost bigger than she had the capacity to comprehend herself. Her throat was tense and dry, like she'd left London and was standing in the desert. This desert was cool and blanketed in night, cold against her wrathfully warm skin. “I don't know... how...” Didn't he get that? She didn't know -how-. How to do anything, not like this. She could rip and strip a man down to his bones, tear and claw. Kill. She was good at breaking things, naturally. Born good at hurting, it was a gift. She had no skills when it came to creation, motivation, to -nuturing-. “ I'm so confused, about...so fucking much, more than you know baby.” About so much more than he knew, because he didn't know what set her off. He didn't know Toran, how they met, her small handful of good things she'd tried to do now and then. The bits and pieces of attempts at being not a good person no, but a person. Something she failed at abysmally. About the trail of shit that had followed her her whole life, wrought by her constant stream of fuck ups. She could never make the right choices. “.. I thought it would be easier. If ... If I broke my bond to you. I thought, I could come and see you... And you wouldn't look like you. You'd look like Marco. You'd be just a fanger, teeth and blood and soulless sockets... That I'd see things... clearly.” She wanted her hand back, because the contact with him was making her arm feel like it was going to turn to silly putty, or like Lockhart had just fucked up a spell and all the bones in her arm were dissappearing. Rubbery. Would her legs get boneless too? Would she just fall over, and become a sack of guts and skin on the side walk? “Instead, I just... see you... and you're covered in blood yeah, and you sure as fuck have fangs, but... I'm not sure you're empty, I don't want you to be, even if it would make it simpler, and you sure as shit don't look like Marco.” There was a slight pause, and she didn't know if he would understand what she meant. She didn't know she understood what she meant, other than... she wanted to see him as fangs and rage and a hollow shell, because it was simpler. Easier. Instead, he was that man who made her feel shit beyond her control, made her laugh at him being a retard most of the time, made her come over and over, and ... cooked her bacon when he'd broken her to much for her to do it for herself. Hell, he'd even got toilet paper for the apartment because a girls gotta pee. He did all these things, and ... gave a shit about her. Actually, truly seemed to give a shit. “You make me stupid Doc.” He always had, hadn't he? Edited by Mac, Saturday, 12. April 2014, 08:12.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Sunday, 13. April 2014, 12:26 Post #10 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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God this is wrong. So wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen, not now, not ever. How the hell did it happen? Anyone looking from the outside in, perhaps with a pair of masquerade fooled eyes, would've thought we were in some sort of crazy love. A lustful relationship that had no clear signs of slowing down. And when you look at it knowing what I am and what she is, the notion of fucking each other forever don't seem too impossible. She doesn't know how to be...I dunno, normal? Well that makes two of us. And baby, I don't care. Does she get that? I mean, I can't comprehend what kind of thoughts are running through that crazy mind of hers at the best of times, now I don't wanna even try. Her life was destroyed by things like me. She hunts and kills things like me, for survival....for enjoyment. I think she was always twisted up by what I pretend to be, namely a human fucking being, but what about those who were just that? Aguirre and Flint are a mindfuck even to me. She can maybe justify the monster I am, but those two? Aren't they proof that maybe I can save my soul? My stomach is full of a sticky, sickly feeling at the very mention of Marco. And such a thing would be insulting if it wasn't for the fact that deep down inside I could very well become a nightmarish creature like him. Hell, I can obsess. I can go crazy for chicks and never want to let them go, blind myself with fucking beliefs that they're just as infatuated with me. I might've felt the same about Mac until now, and the revelation that she broke the bond that made her so obsessed with me. I...forgot it. I mean, I knew what I did the first night we met, but I am not the victim of its constant yearning and desire. All the want I have for Mac came from her and her alone, not some cheap voodoo. She doesn't owe me the same amount of respect, since everything she's experienced has been with a dash of false love and lies. I wanna say something but I can't. Even though she tells me I don't look like the monsters that haunt her dreams, it's pretty fucking difficult for me to agree with that. To argue the reasons why she should stay. And then she says she's still stupid for me. My dead heart skips a non-existent beat. I'm on my feet and wanting to just, fuck, hold her? That sounds cheesy as fuck, but it's so true. I wanna just feel her against me, feel alive again through her. I don't though, cause that touchy-feely crap didn't have a place in our relationship even when we were on good terms. I don't know whether or not the air has suddenly dropped a few degree's and become infinitely more refreshing, cause suddenly I can leave behind the buzz of whatever chemical in my blood. I can ignore the stings and aches of lesser men who required severe motivation and couldn't even take a slap back. It's sobering to have my favourite drug dangled so close again. It's selfish, I'm selfish, I'm addicted to her and I want her back. In my bed and in my veins. Is it though? I make her feel good to. And I enjoy it. It's like a performing my good deed for whatever day in the way only a monster can. "I spose you never did see me clearly till now." It's a hard fact to comprehend. Knowing her and being so intimate with her for a good chunk of time, none of which she was thinking straight. "You were either speeding on venom or addicted to my blood. I'm...I'm sorry." I pause briefly, shaking my head immediately at the lie I just stated. "Well, I'm not, cause you know how glad I am that I didn't leave your ass to die. That I know you at all is...I won't regret that." I let go of my grip at her wrist at some point mid sentence, not sure when exactly but it was while I was getting lost in her gorgeous eyes. The same eyes that were squinted and full of tears as I cut the better part of her arm off, full an anger in the construction site that melted into intrigue. Utter glee and mischief as she made me sparkle like it was forever the fourth of July. And after I tracked her down and we 'resolved' our differences, I got to be the luckiest guy on the planet for half a year. Having those eyes on me, full of want and desire that climaxed into exhausted satisfaction. I live to make this fucker feel good. I don't like seeing them like this - full of messed up and clusterfuck. "I'm your Doc. And you...are my Goddess. I sure as shit can't tell you what to do, but as for you being 'deserving.'" Maybe I cheered up from knowing how I make her stupid still, because I spit out a short hack of laughter, and shake my head at the silliness. "You deserve all the good things I do to you. Mainly cause you drive me fucking loopy till I do it but..." My hand has unknowingly made yet another move. Finding it's familiar place at her hip; a reminder of normalcy in her life...or the complete and utter lack of it. "I ain't never gonna stop wanting you." |
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| Mac | Monday, 14. April 2014, 18:15 Post #11 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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A light and almost uncomfortable smile cracked her wrinkled, wide eyed confusion. She did drive him loopy, and she did it on purpose a lot of time. Instigation, throwing vodka on the flames to watch it go bang. Having him comment on it just vindicated that sadistic little part of her that enjoyed provocation so very much, and she couldn't Suppress the flickering corners of her mouth. They had to be careful though, cuz this shit was starting to stumble into even more uncomfortable territory of being 'romantic.' This was a tight rope walk, because she didn't know how, or want to walk into that world. Certain thresholds couldn't be uncrossed, and there was no way she wanted to get stuck in some doey eyed, simpering, doting world of the carebears. That would make her throw up again, and there was a huge part of her that already wanted to do just that. Her stomach had yet to really let go of the need to purge, feeling bloated and like someone had poured vinegar into a balloon full of baking soda, although it's contents were entirely stomach acid and the remnants of cinnamon whiskey. He'd never stop wanting her? What the -fuck- was wrong with him? Well, she knew the answer in the short of it. A lot. However, she didn't see how that statement could ever be true. Never stop? Everything stopped some day, it was inevitable. Even if they managed to make crazy work along side crazy, one of them would die some day. That would be an end. An end niether of them particularly wanted, and she was pretty sure he would be the one standing looking I to the empty dark on the other side. She came close to dying every other week, a decade of wreck less subconscious death wishes she was to afraid to give into. "You would baby, if you knew the shit I bring down on the people in my life." The shit she would continue to bring down on people, because she was a tsunami, laying waste and damage to the landscape around her. Sometimes without rhyme or reason, but destruction on a whimsy of volatile bad decisions. Leaving everything turned up and over in her wake, others treading water or drowning in her shit storms. "I fuck over the people I give a shit about Church. Don't ... Don't even mean to do it. It just happens...Toran... I had this friend, I rescued his poor fucking ass from a shovel head." A though occurred to her, a truth that was slightly uncomfortable in it's birth in her mind. "He wasn't my friend before that mind you, and rescuing him was a by product of obtaining myself diner. He got ghouled in the process of me killing the cunt that was eating him... And I kind of liked to torture the boy a bit, egg him on and shit. When I told him the truth he freaked out, and wanted to get clean. So for the next month, I stuck around and we made nice and shit... Well, as nice as I get. He understood the surly cunt in me, and I kind of liked the innocent wide eyed boy that he was trying to cling to after he learned the truth." She swallowed, so far it wasn't so horrible to tell that story. She hadn't intended to do something good, but she had hadn't she? Got a taste for being someone's hero again, a feeling she had somewhat of a minor addiction to. She was a glutton for worship. "He got clean and I split. But... The shit that follows me around followed me to him, and ruined his life man. Followed him to prison, tortured him there... And he just.. He just became a fanger. Here in London, he met a chick he went gaga for and went Fanger. After everything... He knows the god damned truth, he's been subjected to... Horrible shit on my account, and he just went grinner. I don't... I don't even ... I can't comprehend it. I wanted him to live, to be a good thing out there that maybe I actually helped keep in the world. Then he fell apart, because I fucked up... And keep fucking up. I screwed Mel's. I... She's all my fault. All mine... And I tried to fix and I made it -worse-... I always make it worse. I fuck everything up baby..." Including London. London was a problem now, a huge one. Usually she blew in and out of cities like most people change clothes. (Was Church wearing the same trousers as the last time she was over? That stain... It was in the same place...)) London was accumulating the shit stack of her choices. She got caught on truths that made her stomach feel like it was swelling further. Sawyer. Did she rat on the rat? "Hammy... The Cammies have Hammy. I should never have kept him, but I did. I fuck up constantly. I'm demented." She brushed his hand off her hip suddenly, mostly because she needed to lean over in fear she was going to spew again, a coupling of emotional build and vent leaving her ready to wretch. Edited by TapestryofShame, Tuesday, 15. April 2014, 21:30.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Wednesday, 16. April 2014, 16:45 Post #12 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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God-fucking-damn the women I know and love. They're so fucking stubborn. This outright refusal to acknowledge all the nice points I make, only focus on the self-loathing and the worthlessness, 'jeez, Church, you should leave me to wallow in my own fucking misery cause that's all I deserve.' Why the fuck do I never seem to get an equal say, huh? People know what a fuck up I am? Somehow I'm infallible in the eyes of my comrades. Then again, I'm probably a worse person for it. Mac tells me all the dark things that occur in her history, of the fucking lunatic cunt she is underneath all the 'nicey-nice' she has to put on just to be around other people. Me? I hide it all away. Keep it secret and suppressed till one day it catches up to me and blows up in my face. I can comprehend what she's saying a little better than maybe she realises - It was mindfuck. Or I imagine it would be for her to see someone who's brushed on the veil before, almost ended up getting choked out by it, then plummets back into it headfirst. I thought about it already, these two fangers that I am disconnected from by just a degree, and how they're fucking idiots. Who would ask for this, knowing what it'll do to you? Who would give this, knowing what it's done to them? Baby vamps that weren't buried six feet under for shits and giggles probably only see the good. That they can be civilized and proper, that the beast is something they don't need to worry about until it's trying to take over. But it's always there, always watching and waiting and whispering encouragement into your ear. It wants to be free, and whether it's ten, fifty or a hundred years down the way, you'll realise it's creeping up. By which time it might already be too late. Regardless, the tale of Toran gives me an insight to Mac that I never would've known unless she told me direct. It seems almost fantasy for her to make a friend, cause who makes it past all the teasing and shenanigans? And with that in mind, maybe I can stomach how much he actually meant to her. I'm a little concerned and confused as to what shit followed him to prison because of her, I mean, Marco is dead...right? I always figured she was safe. Then again, he was Sabbat, he had pack mates, or childer; hell if he had worth, having him die and the killer be allowed to escape is an insult. You don't fuck with the Sabbat...A lesson that I try to forget myself, and subconsciously pray that Jack didn't take my leaving as an unkindness. He's free to take me cutting the fuckers head off any way he deems necessary though, when...if, that ever happens. Capes have Hammy? Somehow this isn't a surprise. Not a problem. He's just a skull. Not like they have a bunch of witches and spiritualists on hand. Oh wait... Yeah, exactly, wait. What the fuck do I care? I'm more phased by her comment of constantly fucking up. Being demented. Don't think I can quite argue that case but...jebus. She's seemingly on the go again till she bends over and gives the pavement a good looking over. Fuck, can't this bitch keep anything down? Maybe this is torture. Maybe being able to list the reasons you're a terrible person, and do so with such ease, is a terrible affliction. I find myself taking a step closer and laying a hand on her back, patting it with meaty hands like some twisted and oversized baby burping. Seems more appropriate right now than slapping some sense into her. Maybe I can't convince her to stay. Maybe she shouldn't. But just thinking that she's gonna leave stirs something hateful and greedy inside me. It would put me back in the gutters...and I don't wanna go back. Even if it's where I belong. "You act like it was your fault from the get go, honey. You...you didn't have a choice in any of this. He took that away from you. He fucked you up, cause I don' need to sugar coat it...you're fucked up." It's tough to say such things, when ordinarily her thick skin might've shrugged it off, I don't know what words stick like barbs. "It's causation, baby. You never wanted any of this, it happened. Stop telling me Mel's was your fault, cause it wasn't. Marco was a fucking monster, baby, in the realist sense of the word. If not him, it could've been another one, fanger or not. That's the kind of fucked up world we live in, baby." Splatter. All the time's I've seen this bitch heave and been completely unfazed by it is worrying. "Me knowing what I know now, back a few decades? It...it ain't fair to say it now, I know, but I could've stopped him, baby. I could've found and killed that sumbitch before he ever laid a finger on you." Jebus that was hard to say, even if there's no strain indicated in my voice. It's not fair to dangle that 'what if' in front of her, especially when the past is not something that can ever be changed. And all the same, it's too fucking true. If I knew then what I know now...Me, Vic, maybe even Jack; I could've thought up a reason and we could've gone torn him to pieces. Not to say Mac would be happy, or alive, but she might have had peace. I would never have known her...but that seems a fair exchange. "Just like I could've stopped Jack...maybe...not let that son of a bitch use me and wipe out the east...and maybe I wouldn't feel so damned and feel this need to just...end it." I'm not sure I ever actually told her that before. "Whatever trouble follows you, baby, I don't care. I'll tear it's fucking face off, or I'll die trying. Maybe you're afraid of someone else's blood being on your hands, weighin' your soul, but I'm telling you I'll risk it. Hell, let's go kill this fucking shit before it can kill us! There's not much I wouldn't do for you, Princess. Dying ain't something I'm too picky about anymore." |
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| Mac | Wednesday, 16. April 2014, 22:54 Post #13 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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How was he so... kind? Church and the word kind didnt seem to make sense to her, but that was frankly how he was acting with her. Trying to relieve her burden, her guilt. Tell her it wasn't her fault. While she espoused such a frame of mind on her own most of the time, putting the guilt and haunting memories on a back burner in silent mode somewhere, right then, when she was trying to convince him how much he didn't want her around? She couldn't flip the switch to turn all of it off. She had that switch, but the person on the other side of it was a douchebag she didn't want to be. As she leaned over to spew, his big hands thud what she supposed was supposed to be comforting pats on the back. They weren't quite comforting though, the potence ladened patting only triggered the sensation to spew more. As she listened to him try and absolve her of her burden, it just made the swelling of her stomach grow that much tighter, till the experimental volcano needed to blow. She was fucked up. He was right, if it wasn't Marco... it would have been someone else. Someone else would have crashed into her world and started blindly swinging the bat at the pinata that was her life. Full of tasty treats to bring down and steal, stomp all over. Her life was like that, always had been. People had been stomping through her life since she was a kid, no wonder she had become such a violent little monster in response to it. She'd done what she needed to do to cope with it all. Still, Mel's was her fault. More than he knew... and more than she would tell him. She didn't want to keep feeling this way.She wanted to stop feeling ...shitty. She also wanted to stop feeling .. so intensely. It was overwhelming. Splatter. Listening to him talk about the shoulda, woulda, couldas if things had been different, if he got a chance to go back, it made her push up from where her hands had braced on her thighs for the spewing. She straightened up, although she had somewhat of the slightest forward angling as if she suspected she would hurl again. Going back wasn't an option, and it wasn't a way she tormented herself. He shouldn't either. Then he was actually talking about him, a subject somewhat forbidden. Boy didn't like to get into his history, he liked to gloss over it. Distance himself. “...and maybe I wouldn't feel so damned and feel this need to just...end it." Sentiments she understood on the deepest level. A constant urge to do the craziest, most dangerous stunts that came her way. The little death wish that followed her everywhere she went, a stream of incidents that each time left her on the edge of that secret, burning desire for the end. Each time she was at that final edge, to cowardly to give into the call of the veil. The animal instinct to live overriding everything else. She wanted to reach out and take his hand, instead her fingers just balled into a fist. “There's not much I wouldn't do for you, Princess.” She was standing straighter then, wishing she didn't have the taste of vomit all over her mouth. She wanted to kiss him, because damned if that wasn't the most grandiose declaration of someones -positive- feelings for her she'd ever heard. She'd had plenty of people espouse the horrors of the sorts of mutilations they'd like to ply upon her, she ain't never had... whatever the fuck this was. What now, what was she supposed to say to ... that? Don't die for me baby, I would miss you? Didn't he know that? He'd have to know that, he'd have to know... she couldn't say it, those sorts of things got all caught in her throat. Or was staring at him dumbly while she tried to figure out how to talk again enough to get the point across? She didn't know how, how to do all this stuff. “I... I want to go home, I want to brush my teeth...” And in case he mistook what she was saying, a stupid sort of grin took her face for the first time... and something seemed to lighten and shift sideways inside her. “I want to strip you down, and make you feel as alive as you make me feel...I want to hurt in all the right ways...Got a bit of time to make up for. ” That jaunty tip of a shoulder, head tipping at just the right angle to create a clear strip of neck to view. She was searching for his hand then, because it was easier to touch when she was instigating... this sort of play. She had to bring it here, to touch him... and she so desperately wanted to bridge the gap her spewing had created again, missing the feeling of his cool hand on her hip. Seeking that cold comfort. Edited by Mac, Wednesday, 16. April 2014, 22:59.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Thursday, 17. April 2014, 20:03 Post #14 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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For a moment, I have no idea what's gonna happen. I can't comprehend having Mac slip away from me and being able to maintain my sanity as a plausible future. And yet, she has me convinced that I will have to somehow take that path, because the mindfuck I give her is all too much. I get it. The generalization. That a fanger is no different from another, cause ain't it the truth? The only variables usually looking at how old the fucker is, how he has composed himself over the years. Disciplined and in control, knowing the constant internal struggle and overcoming it with decades of self reinforcement. Or me. Course, there are those who have embraced the dark side too, can somehow keep their mental functions all operational and still be a gods damn abomination, which is exactly the problem. I sit somewhere in the middle...maybe gravitating towards the darkness a little more. Why? I'm pretty level headed for a Brujah, perhaps because of braincells being destroyed en masse and being chilled it out is just a mild retardation I have. But I'm sick. I'm, by some standards, evil. I have to hurt. Both myself and others, I have to hurt. Ordinarily a horrid and damned thing to do, but not to her. With her it's positive, it's loving. If I don't have her, then somebody else has to take her place, and given how exclusive a taste it is for us to share, the person is usually too weak...and unwilling. But it don't matter. She finally speaks her verdict, and it's one I wholeheartedly agree with. Elation doesn't speak volume enough to how I feel...providing that word means what I think. And it's a philosophy that we embraced together the night after I tracked her to her warehouse. The past is past. It sucks and it's unchangeable. It's gone and we'll forget it. Just like we'll forget this hiatus from the feel goods in a marathon of making up. I notice all too well the signs her body flashes, all with that stupid grin that makes me feel high just having it shine on me. I meet her fingers with my own, letting my hand be guided back to its favourite place (well...one of them). It doesn't simply settle there, but wraps around as I take a step forward to be at her side, and rest on the opposite curve. "Sounds like a plan, Princess." I smile. Not full blown stupid grin, my head is still a little clotted up to be showing that ecstatic enthusiasm. Make no mistake, I'm enthused. I'm enthused as fuck to get to the stripping and the feeling good. But the smile, I guess it's relief. Gratefulness. Adoration of my merciful Goddess of Fuck and War. Even so, being so close to her again as to smell her, cause she sure stinks. That pool of vomit didn't just appear, after all, and I'm stuck inbetween the idea of rushing like fucking hell back to her place, or just tearing that stupid ass shirt off her right now. Anticipation be fucked, this wasn't our normal working for it shit. What's pent up inside is gonna be awesome. If I can wait that long. I found myself staring deep into those eyes of hers, as per usual, but now so close and knowing she's not leaving, it's kind of hard not to instigate something to get her started. I dip my head down and bring my lips to hers; gentle at first, but it doesn't take long to build to something intense and familiar, a hand sliding to the back of her neck as I want to keg her and fuck on the spot with the animalistic lust she stirs up so damned well. It's all I ever want to do - please her. Even parting her lips with my cold tongue and really getting a taste that matches the awful smell, it doesn't bother me as much as it probably bothers her. And if I could make her scream with just a finger - no, not like that you creep - I'd give her all ten. So I stop. Before I really can't go anywhere without feeling her come. I reluctantly stop myself, slowing down, laying sweet kisses on her bottom lip, then top, alternating a few times before I can pull myself away. Not far mind you, just an inch or so, where I can see very little beyond the gorgeous face and those beautiful eyes. "Guess you're gonna have ta clean my teeth too." I bet she'd enjoy doing it too. But it shouldn't be necessary. I know something I can wash this flavour out with, as the little nips I left on her lip will certainly allude to. Princess is back in the right castle. 'Bout fucking time. |
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| Mac | Friday, 18. April 2014, 01:53 Post #15 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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It felt... Good. So good to have him slide close and lay those blissfully cool hands against her agitated, tense skin. A soothing balm for her heat, rain on the dry Tennessee soil. She's been in a drought for far to long, and just having him that close again was more than enough to cause her tense emotion knotting to undo. He was cutting all the strings of her angst, snipping threads one by one so it fell away like a shiver that ran from his touch outwards to very tips of her fingers and toes. She remembered staring into those green eyes months before, when he'd filled his mouth with blood to tempt her in. Thinking that all she saw was hollow and empty, but there was something there... And maybe it was bad, maybe it was evil and twisted, his wanting of her and her of him. They way they crawled in through each other's eyes, locked in a heated gaze, and took up residency in each other's mind. Nails out, digging in. Infecting each other on some primal level with a desperation to find that blissfully agonizing fulfillment that perhaps, no one but them ever really understood. If it was bad? Being good could go fuck itself, because this felt so right she didn't give a fuck about anything else anymore. She didn't have enough good in her life, she didn't have enough moments to give a fuck about living. Coming to London was supposed to be one hell of a grand finale to her life. Chambers was a death trap, the hit on him was supposed to be a farewell hurrah that would leave her name on Hunters lips for a decade. Instead, she'd found the job scooped by someone else, and an empty city to fuck around in for a while. She never intended to stay... Never intended to find something that made her feel so god damned alive, so flesh and blood and all over good that she'd be willing to forget he was... Dead. Not even willing to just forget it, but willing to appreciate that it was infact this horrifying quality that she hated so fucking much it was hard to stand, that made him exactly what she wanted. Hard ice for her eternal burn. It was bad... But, when was she ever good at being good anyways? Let's burn in hell baby... His lips on hers were like that first moment you wrap your idiotic hand around the barbed wire fencing. It shocked and electrified, made you want to pull back from the intensity... But kept you locked in place almost helplessly. Tongue sliding into her mouth, both immensely disgusting considering the taste lingering there, and three times as invigorating because he just didn't give a flying fuck that she'd spewed.. Twice... Or was it three times? It was hard to remember exactly, through all the emotional and verbal up chuck that came with it. His hand on the back f her neck was almost to much, and there's never been a moment she wanted harder or feared more. Then they were parting, and he was kissing her lips so tenderly it was to much to take. She ... She was no good at this sort of thing, even if she didn't want it to stop. Could he hear the hummingbird wildly beating against her chest cavity? Struggling, elated and needy. Clean his teeth? After that kiss... How could they ever make it anywhere? This street was forfeit, the pavement would be fractured and crushed beneath them... That bench he'd been sitting on, they could break it in a fury of fucking that left Ares and Aphrodite's affairs looking like elementary school hand holding. Her teeth bit through her inner lip, purposefully and with a vengeful need to get his engine as started as he had hers. Blood filled her mouth, and that would sure do to fill that need to rinse their mouths. She bit deeper than usual, so that she'd have an ample supply of peppery red to let him lick and suck from her lips. A hand knotting into those damnable trousers and yank his hips to hers as she sought his mouth again, nothing timid or soft in her approach. He could do the gentle touches, she would bring the needy heat and demanding challenge. Her hands slid up to his face, to bring his lips to hers and wash his mouth with her own taste. A certainly better one than a moment before. He'd know just from the way she moved, the way they moved together that she was intending to leave her feet and bring her legs up to his waist and move to help relieve some of that need to bring him within her in the best, most human ways. Squeeze him, lay pressure through her vice like thighs on his previous injuries, from a beating by less able hands than her own. She'd break the kiss to drag her tongue along one of the cuts in his cheek, to get the taste of him for a moment, let it dazzle her senses before plunging back in, body moving as if in a state of such desperate heat she's simply dissolve into ash if he didn't help save her from it. [/color] "Bliss baby... You're my bliss." [/color] She'd called him bliss before, but in more of a admiring and less serious tone. Could he... Really imagine what it meant when she said it then? She couldn't imagine getting more than a step or two away now, although she wouldn't mind it if they did manage to distance themselves from the vomit sprays. |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Saturday, 19. April 2014, 19:23 Post #16 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Oh, that familiar feeling. No matter the time we spent apart, I have become accustomed to the hammering of that frantic heart as it sends pulses from her chest into my own. A few precious seconds of lying to myself; Look, a heartbeat. I'm a real fucking boy! She makes me feel it. Makes me feel like I might actually reach the top of the mountain and roar something primal in a moment of perfect satisfaction. She makes me forget that I never actually managed to. She's the one of the few people to have the balls to go toe to toe, and of the even fewer who manage to win. How glad I am as she nearly tears my pants with the intent to get us as cosy as possible, and trap me with those fucking skull-crushing thighs. I gasp at their magnificence as they attempt to constrict and control me. I say gasp, but more a silent, drawn out moan as another sense is ignited. I could smell the blood before she even sank her teeth into the soft flesh of her lip, and crashing my lips into hers as soon as I'm able. And just like that, I'm not in hell anymore. I'm living heaven on earth. My hands are already searching that solid body of hers, up underneath her shirt so my hands may fill with another sensation I'm so used to and so longing to feel again. Makes you wonder how she doesn't throw up more, constantly expelling the temperature of a raging fever like it ain't no thing. I wanna pull this goofy t-shirt right off of her, and I would were I not all too aware of where we are. Things have a habit of escalating...the second we make any sort of contact, or flash a certain set of eyes. Fuck. We're gone. I'm too lost in giving her something fiery and wild, desperate to lap up every inch of her orifice of blood with my tongue, at the risk of smushing our faces together. I find her bottom lip caught between my own, and I suck that fucker like a kid with a blow pop, trying to break through to the real good stuff. I'd question how weird a comparison that was, were my mind not so busy projecting images of our past endeavours...and imagines the future ones. She breaks things off, and immediately I'm at her neck, arms wrapped right around like an embrace as I just wanna lose myself so completely. Lose everything in a haze of hurt and her blood. Then she calls me bliss. her bliss. And finally I can grin like a shark into the flesh of her neck. "I told you baby, I live to please you." I mutter before finding our mouths doing battle again. The irony of such a statement ain't lost on me. But it's so damned true...cause I can't even give her enough pleasure. Sounds crazy, right? The screams and moans that come out of this lady would make porn stars blush, but fuck if I can't come, she might as well do it for both of us. Sometimes I wonder if I could fuck her to death. Probably. But given the severe bloodloss and bodily damage she endures every time we're together, it's not really gonna be the 'sex' that puts the nail in the coffin. Still, don't mean I can't imagine my baby too overwhelmed by it all, slipping to the other side with the widest of grins on her face. And it doesn't mean I can't try to do it. Now that's loving someone, right? "Somethin' I won't be able to carry on doin' if we're caught out here come sunrise."I'm getting too lost in the heat, expectedly and gladly, but I gotta watch my ass. We lost track of time the first night we spent together, and with this being the first night in some time, seems like a bad omen to do it right here on the streets. Or at least do it on the streets a lot. Cause there's very little that can stop us now; we're neither shy nor caring about a little public disturbance. I find myself wondering things. For example, can we actually fuck on the move? If anyone can it's us. It's not like it'd be a strain to carry her like this the entire time...but sure enough a couple of scary looking fucks boning their way down the street, through a car park, right up to her door...it's gonna draw attention. Unwanted attention. Someone would probably film it. Fuck that. If anyone's making money from our escapades, it's us. So I start moving, kissing her again and again while I provoke something down pressing between her legs. I guess we can find somewhere quiet and comfortable, a car that I can sprawl her sweet ass out, have her ride me to hell on...fuck this is funny. I'm gonna try and get us to her place...or literally die trying. And even after all the angst, all the feels here tonight...it would still be one hell of a way to go. |
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3:14 PM Jul 11