Infamous Sinphony - Sniveler

Infamous Sinphony - Sniveler

Along Came a Spider

            The Magician leaned heavily into the sink and rinsed the afterbirth from his mouth. He waited momentarily and listened to the water spiraling down the drain.

              The Spider listened as well, “Feeling better?” said the Spider.             

               The Magician watched to the water, getting the raw taste of rot from out of his mouth, eyes, and lungs.

               The Spider maneuvered himself across the overhead lamps and slipped down an attached web. It then climbed a cabinet, roughly some sixteen inches above the Magician’s tottering head.

              “Nothing to say after all that?” asked the Spider.

               This time the Magician had heard the eloquent voice, surreptitiously offered a glance about, as if he were hearing things.

              “Who’s there?” blurted the Magician.

              “A friend . . .”

             “Friends? My friends are dead, I have no friends” said the Magician softly.

             “You have made quite a mess haven’t you?” said the Spider.

             “Mess?” said the Magician, and put hands to face and turned and looked at the Spider, hidden from the kindred thing’s solid black eyes; his once human skin had turned considerably to a deep blue scarcely covering the Magician’s tissue, veins, and muscle.

             The Spider fled across the attached web, safe from capture, safe for now.

             Yes, escape, my friend. 

             He’d been safe for centuries, and now the unthinkable has found him.

            “There was no real escape,” the Magician simply answered. “Escape is the price paid for admission.”               

             The Spider said nothing, and listened.

           “You think you’re alive little friend? Wrong! You’re in the same place I’m in, only I am the stronger, and they’ll come for you, as well. They’ll come for you and take you to the flesh farms, like they had done to me centuries ago, genetically reborn

Fruit Loops

            “Stop right there…put your hands on your head you son of bitch!” hollered Rolland.

            But the ghastly thing wouldn’t listen, it wanted nothing more than to kill this man shouting at him, after all the master had made him whole, made him wholly. Raised him from the dead, brought him back from the dust, back from rubble and bones. He heard the lord then, whispering in his ears.

            Fruit Loops, the lord said; tear that man’s eyes out of his skull and the tongue as well.

            “Yes lord!” muttered Fruitloops, his own eyes like rotting eggs in his head.

            “Stop right there,” said Rolland. “Or I’ll blow your brains out!”

            “Praise the lord!” answered Fruitloops. “Praise God almighty.”

              What the fuck did he say?

               At that same instant, Roland pulled the trigger, no time for games; Fruitloops was closer than ever, chewing at the bit, but the trigger mechanism jammed and Fruitloops grabbed hold of Rolland, fighting desperately.   

Cryonic Freeze

           “Jesus Christ, it looks like a space ship.”

            “And it is, for all intensive purposes, Detective Lovejoy; it’s the place where dreams are made, a place that hope and forgiveness is realized.”

            “Compelling speech, Doctor Stein.”

            “You didn’t believe a word, I said, did you?”

            “No, not really.” He stood before one of the cryonic crypts: massive, polished to a mirrored finish. “I find the whole idea of frozen corpses, fascinatingly macabre.”

            “Really, and as a homicide investigator you don’t find crime scenes any more macabre?”

            “Sure, I find homicide very, satisfyingly macabre, oddly doctor.”

            “So what makes this place any different?”

            “I don’t know, doctor, perhaps its the idea of bringing somebody back from the dead, back from the heaven or hell, back from oblivion, take you pick?”

Gutted

            “You’re trespassing, Deputy.”

            Groggily, Wilbur didn’t answer, the terrible heat, and the drugs prevented him from doing so.

            “Hear me?”

            “I don’t understand?”

             Pilgrim laughed, at him, mocking him.

            “What have you done to me?” Wilbur fell to his knees, dizzied.

            “Whatever we want to do with you, law man? What would you have us do with you?”

            “Give up.”

            “We couldn’t ever do that.”

            “What then? Kill me?”

            “We’ve got better plans than that for you law man.”

            “What sort of plans? I’ll be missed, others will come looking for me; others will come.”

            “And if they do, why should I care?”

            “They’ll find my patrol car, they’ll arrest you; they’ll arrest all of you for what you’ve done.”

            There was considerable silence before the floating man answered Wilbur’s charges, but the clamber of a baby crying scuttled the conversation, regardless of the   doubtless discourse, the ruin of murmuring.  

            “Fiends!”

            Laughter followed, “What’s the matter?”

            Wilbur’s sobered expression suggested that the floating man was a play on light, or a fabrication like the other things he had seen that night