Post by Gurgen Hovhanissian on Aug 5, 2016 3:07:51 GMT -5
The video opened to Robert May leading Frank and his eternal camera through dark, almost completely abandoned streets. “Come along now,” the dauntless reporter called out to his trusty sidekick, “mustn’t let The Beast wait.”
“Where are we off to anyway,” wheezed Frank, evidently not used to physical exertions beyond pressing buttons on the remote control, “Not Ikea again, I hope.”
“No,” Bob confirmed, still leading the way, “not Ikea.”
“What was that all about anyway?” Frank inquired.
Bob stopped suddenly, almost causing Frank to crash in to him.
He sighed, “You really want to know?”
“Oh dear,” said Frank, “It’s one of THOSE things, is it?”
Bob took a moment to resign himself to the fact that he’d have to get inside the head of the Beast. “Ok, sure, let’s do this … you know how a bookcase holds books, right?”
“Oooookay,” Frank said with apprehension in his voice, unsure and dreading where this was going.
“Well, Gurgen thought that a briefcase …”
“Fuck no …”
Bob nodded, “was a set of shelves filled with … briefs.”
“And he thought that briefcase of choice …”
“Pretty much,” Bob guessed, “with lace, no doubt.”
In a hurry to chase the image of Gurgen clad in frilly lace briefs from his mind, Frank insisted, “Let’s just go find The Beast.”
“This way,” led Bob.
Soon enough, Bob seemed to recognize the door he was looking for and ducked inside.
Briefly the screen faded to black when Frank followed Bob inside.
How the next scenes got to be committed to a digital medium, we’d probably never find out. Suffice it to say someone put a whole lot of effort into it.
Gurgen, in his trademark fur coat, stood in the middle of a small circle of light, case by a vintage light bulb. One couldn’t make out the size of the room as the light pierced the darkness only so far. Gurgen was holding a hunting knife and pulling the skin of a decapitated animal that was suspended by its hind legs from a concrete column. His hands and face were smeared with blood. The ever so slight echo from his actions suggested that this was a rather large room. A dripping faucet, somewhere in the dark, provided the only continuous source of sound.
Suddenly, Gurgen’s theme music began to play. Gurgen, startled, dropped the knife. The sound seemed to come from everywhere. Beast turned this way and that trying to identify the source.
But, when the singing started, it came from only one side.
Beast faced in this direction. A light came on. It illuminated a black clad man wearing a cowboy hat.
In Lemmy’s typical voice, reminiscent of an aging dodge starting on a cold morning after being idle for 6 months, the man declared that the Beast behind our eyes was loose.
As he came forward we could see that he was quite skinny. His cowboy boots jingled at each step.
He held his head tipped slightly forward. The camera only showed an emaciated lower face adorned by a handlebar mustache.
The two men stood opposite of one another. Gurgen clutching the knife he had evidently retrieved from the floor.
The man ceased his singing. He tipped his hat and simply said, “Beast.”
Gurgen replied with a nod, “Lemmy.”
For a moment, the only sound was once again the dripping faucet.
Finally, Gurgen added, “You’re dead.”
The man chuckled, a sound more readily associated with a 2000 pound price bull suffering from terminal bronchitis. “You think that would stop me?”
Gurgen shook his head. “Why have you come?”
“Ah,” Lemmy said, lifting his head. His eyes were entirely black pits of oblivion. His face was otherwise no more horrific than in life. It suited him. “Now we come to meat of things.”
At the mention of meat, Gurgen was reminded of the carcass he was working on. He returned to his task.
Behind him, Lemmy explained, “You have a big match coming up. Your opponents are probably training hard right now. And you … you’re more concerned with dinner.”
Now it was Beast’s turn to chuckle. He sounded more like a giant ground sloth … with terminal bronchitis. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat … Beast knows for a fact.”
He patted the bloody remains of just such an animal.
“Still,” Lemmy said, remaining at a distance, “in your time at NAW …” In a flash, he’s right behind Gurgen. He whispered into the Beastly ear, “… what have you done?”
Acting on reflex, Beast backhanded Lemmy. But he ended up punching nothing but a wisp of smoke.
“How about it,” a disembodied voice came from the dark, “What have you done to date?”
His breathing accelerating, Beast replied with a shrug, “Beast win some, Beast lose some. Beast has been doing alright.”
Standing behind The Beast, Lemmy queried, “And you think that’s enough?”
Beast spun around to see nothing but curling smoke.
Pointing at the darkness around him, Beast shouted, “Beast fights, Beast hurts … And Beast takes the pain. All the pain. It doesn’t bother The Beast! The more you hurt The Beast, the stronger he gets!”
“Good” The word sounded very near. A fist plowed into the belly of The Beast. Despite the scrawny nature of Lemmy’s arm, it really seemed to do some damage as the Beast doubled over.
A knee to the face and a kick in the kidneys later Beast lay in the dirt, coughing.
Lemmy kneeled next to the slain Beast. “How strong are you now, oh mighty Beast?”
Beast tried to rise but when he got a foot off the floor, Lemmy punched him in the nose.
“Did taking the pain help against Noah?”
Another punch.
“Did you beat Noah?”
Punch.
“And your last match …”
Lemmy got to his feet and planted his boot on the Beastly face. Grinding his heel, he asked, “Was it you who got the pin or Danny?”
He released The Beast. The latter’s face wasn’t just smeared with cat’s blood now.
“Danny got the win … not you … Danny, whom you’re facing in less than a week …”
Beast spat out some blood. His massive paw shot up. He grasped the slender neck of his ghostly tormentor. This time, Lemmy did not fade into mist.
“Good,” Lemmy said, apparently unperturbed by the death grip on his throat.
Beast used Lemmy’s face for a punching bag, screaming madly.
It only served to amuse the phantom. “Good” it repeated in between the punches.
Enraged by Lemmy’s mocking, Beast released the throat and instead seized upon the spirit’s legs.
With all his might, he swung Lemmy at the concrete pillar. The undead head connected. Shards of concrete went flying. The partially skinned cat toppled to the ground.
And Lemmy was gone again.
Beast sagged to his knees. He huffed and he puffed.
Lemmy appeared from the dark again, unhurt by his ordeal, this time holding a guitar. He began to idly play the long drawn out chords of Beast’s theme.
“March or die, Beast,” Lemmy said, “March or die … You don’t take the beating, turn the other cheek, eat the dust … You beat and kick and slam … bite if you have to. No matter what they do to you, you keep swinging those logs of arms. Fight and rage, Beast … FIGHT!”
He placed his hand on the strings shutting the instrument up, “March or die, Beast. Cause, the instant you stop fighting, stop marching … that’s when you die.”
And Beast was alone again. He grumbled, “Lemmy made Beast drop cat.”
He picked the flayed feline off the floor, dusted it off some, but before he could resume the meat extraction process, he was again interrupted.
His theme surrounded him again. The Beastly shoulders sagged. When the singing started, it was still a deeply manly voice, though with none of the cheese grater on Styrofoam roughness. It was melodic, soothing even.
This time the man who stepped from the shadows was clad in tight fitting pants … that almost seemed to be tights. There might have been a codpiece underneath, given a certain hard to miss bulge. A gaudy, leather vest with wide shoulders adorned his upper body and he sported gigantic hair that albatrosses could nest in.
The way he sang the first couple of lines, one would almost welcome Armageddon.
He ceased his rendition and silently observed The Beast. The leaky faucet not missing a beat.
“Beast,” he said.
Beast resigned himself to yet another visitor from beyond, “David.”
Bowie took off his Jareth wig. “Yeah, well, this never fooled anyone, you know.”
“You’re dead,” Beast established.
Bowie nodded, “It’s a bit of a drag, but there you have it.”
“You here to beat The Beast up too?”
“Certainly not,” Bowie assured, “That was Lemmy’s role, may he rest in peace.”
From above Lemmy’s voice resounded, “Fat chance!”
“Regardless,” stated Bowie, “Lemmy asked you about what you did before. I want to know how you’ll handle Danny, Trent and Vano.”
“Danny, Trent and … Vano,” Beast repeated absentmindedly as he finished skinning the cat.
“Please tell me you’ve give it some thought,” Bowie insisted.
In order to avoid confronting Bowie and his own lack of preparation, Beast began to build a fire out of discarded cardboard and pallets. “Sure, Danny, Trent and Vano, Beast has it covered.”
“You have no plan, whatsoever, do you?”
“Well,” Beast stalled, “Beast usually just steps into the ring and then the rage takes over. Next thing Beast knows, Beast has his fist and a good chunk of the beard down someone’s throat.”
“So,” Bowie surmised, “Your plan, dear Beast, is to throw a really big hissy fit.”
“It has worked so far!” Beast avowed.
“Marvelous Beastie, that was before. Next week, you’ll be facing all three of them at the same time. Do you really think a temper tantrum will see you through?”
Beast pondered the question. He nodded his head and admitted, “No.”
“So, let’s go through it one victim at a time, shall we?”
Bowie sat down at Beast’s makeshift campfire, opposite of The Beast.
“Danny, let’s start with Danny.”
Beast poked the cat, it wasn’t done yet. “Danny’s cool, Beast likes him. Danny is on Beast’s side.”
Bowie slapped Beast across the face.
“Hey! No hitting The Beasts!” Gurgen objected.
Unhindered, Bowie continued, “That was last week. He’ll gladly burry his fist in your face this week.”
“Beast can’t help it! Beast like Danny!”
“And I suppose you like Trent too …”
“Yes!”
“And Vano”
“Weeeeeell,” Beast hesitated, “Vano is a bit full of himself. Vano thinks he’s something special. He thinks the world is hanging from his balls.”
“His BALLS?” Bowie repeated.
Gurgen leaned closer, “It’s an Armenian expression, don’t worry about it.”
“I shan’t!” Bowie resolved.
“Not to worry, Beast will cut Vano down to size”
Now Bowie did some leaning in,”What if Vano cuts Beast down to size.”
Beast whispered, “Beast cut him down to smaller seizes.”
“Very well,” Bowie stated, “How about Trent and Danny? I’ll tell you a little secret … they’re cousins.”
“That can’t be! Beast objected, “They have different last names!”
“Cousins don’t have to have the same last name!” Bowie shouted back. Yes, even apparitions could lose their patience.
Beast scratched his beard. A weevil fell out, straight into the fire. “Bowie knows … brothers often don’t get along. They both want to be the best … maybe the same is true for cousins. So, what if Beast …”
He beckoned Bowie to come closer and whispered something in the ephemeral ear.
“That’s quite crafty of you, Beast,” Bowie observed, “It might just work.”
Beast smiled contently.
Bowie got up. “Your cat’s almost done,” he said. Then, he turned around and vanished into thin air.
Beast poked the cat to confirm Bowie’s observation. The leaky faucet was now joined by the crackling of the fire; a song of water and fire.
Beast was no longer surprised when a piercing scream erupted all around. No Beastly theme this time though. A man appeared in the flickering light of the campfire, if a man it was. He stood at least two feet taller than The Beast. Like Gurgen, he wore ripped jeans and no it wasn’t the sort you bought, ripped and all from the store. He wore a leather jacket, adorned with metal studs and chains over a t-shirt depicting a corpse erupting from a no doubt well deserved grave. He had the sort of hair albatrosses might nest in if the poor birds of good omen wouldn’t be scared shitless by his very appearance if they came within a ten mile radius of him. When he stepped closer to the flames, the campfire illuminated a face of crackled yellowish skin and a double row of crooked, jagged edged teeth.
Gurgen showed no signs of worry. This creature from beyond was familiar to him.
In a voice that made Lemmy’s seem as smooth as a sheet of fine silk draped over the shapely buttocks of a teen bride on her wedding night, the creature spoke, “Beast.”
Without getting up, Beast acknowledged, “Eddie.”
In keeping with tonight’s surprises, Beast observed, “You’re VERY dead.”
Eddie just shrugged. He plonked himself down, opposite of The Beast.
“Let Beast make a guess … Eddie’s here to hit Beast too?”
Eddie croaked, “If I were then YOU’d be dead. No, I’m just here to eat your cat.”
Before Beast could defend his prey, Eddie yanked it from the fire. He did have the courtesy to tear it in half and share with The Beast.
They ate in silence for a moment, then Beast chuckled.
“What?” Eddie queried.
“Beast just realized … Eddie is eating pussy.”
“Harhar, very bloody funny Beast … besides so are you.”
This amused Beast even more, “Ah, but Beast LIKES eating pussy!”
“I don’t want to hear about your sex life, Beast! … And I pity the lady!”
Beast swallowed a chunk of cat’s ass and said, “What DO you want to hear about then?”
Eddie pulled a flask from his jacket to wash down the cat with before answering, “I want to know … if you win this match … what then? Who will you face?”
Seeing Beast pull a bottle of wodka from his coat, Eddie added, “Or are you going to get massively plastered, throw up on a copper, get arrested, break out of jail, beat a few cops into a pulp … get beaten into a pulp yourself and be carted off to an insane asylum awaiting a lobotomy?”
Beast savored the wodka in his mouth. He wondered about Eddie’s question.
Concerned Beast might be taking things a bit far, Eddie noted, “That’s not a challenge, by the way. I’m not daring you to go out and do just that. Please don’t do that.”
Beast swallowed his wodka. “Beast think getting plastered was a good idea.”
“No, Beast … I mean, sure have a drink if you want, but you need more of a plan than just liver cirrhosis.”
Beast tossed the bare cat bones into the fire. He watched the fire lap at the bones and pondered Eddie’s question.
Sure, people had wronged him at NAW … even by something as simple as taking the last slice of pizza in the cafeteria. But then again, there were always people wronging him.
There was only one person at NAW who vexed him.
He looked up at Eddie. “Noah,” he said.
Eddie nodded. “That, at least, is a plan … more dangerous than liver cirrhosis, sure, but it IS a plan.”
Eddie got up. “Thanks for the dead cat,” he said before vanishing amidst another unearthly scream.
Staring into the fire, Beast murmured, “You’re welcome.”
And with that, we left The Beast with way more to ponder than his poor defenseless brain could ever hope to manage.
“Where are we off to anyway,” wheezed Frank, evidently not used to physical exertions beyond pressing buttons on the remote control, “Not Ikea again, I hope.”
“No,” Bob confirmed, still leading the way, “not Ikea.”
“What was that all about anyway?” Frank inquired.
Bob stopped suddenly, almost causing Frank to crash in to him.
He sighed, “You really want to know?”
“Oh dear,” said Frank, “It’s one of THOSE things, is it?”
Bob took a moment to resign himself to the fact that he’d have to get inside the head of the Beast. “Ok, sure, let’s do this … you know how a bookcase holds books, right?”
“Oooookay,” Frank said with apprehension in his voice, unsure and dreading where this was going.
“Well, Gurgen thought that a briefcase …”
“Fuck no …”
Bob nodded, “was a set of shelves filled with … briefs.”
“And he thought that briefcase of choice …”
“Pretty much,” Bob guessed, “with lace, no doubt.”
In a hurry to chase the image of Gurgen clad in frilly lace briefs from his mind, Frank insisted, “Let’s just go find The Beast.”
“This way,” led Bob.
Soon enough, Bob seemed to recognize the door he was looking for and ducked inside.
Briefly the screen faded to black when Frank followed Bob inside.
How the next scenes got to be committed to a digital medium, we’d probably never find out. Suffice it to say someone put a whole lot of effort into it.
Gurgen, in his trademark fur coat, stood in the middle of a small circle of light, case by a vintage light bulb. One couldn’t make out the size of the room as the light pierced the darkness only so far. Gurgen was holding a hunting knife and pulling the skin of a decapitated animal that was suspended by its hind legs from a concrete column. His hands and face were smeared with blood. The ever so slight echo from his actions suggested that this was a rather large room. A dripping faucet, somewhere in the dark, provided the only continuous source of sound.
Suddenly, Gurgen’s theme music began to play. Gurgen, startled, dropped the knife. The sound seemed to come from everywhere. Beast turned this way and that trying to identify the source.
But, when the singing started, it came from only one side.
Beast faced in this direction. A light came on. It illuminated a black clad man wearing a cowboy hat.
In Lemmy’s typical voice, reminiscent of an aging dodge starting on a cold morning after being idle for 6 months, the man declared that the Beast behind our eyes was loose.
As he came forward we could see that he was quite skinny. His cowboy boots jingled at each step.
He held his head tipped slightly forward. The camera only showed an emaciated lower face adorned by a handlebar mustache.
The two men stood opposite of one another. Gurgen clutching the knife he had evidently retrieved from the floor.
The man ceased his singing. He tipped his hat and simply said, “Beast.”
Gurgen replied with a nod, “Lemmy.”
For a moment, the only sound was once again the dripping faucet.
Finally, Gurgen added, “You’re dead.”
The man chuckled, a sound more readily associated with a 2000 pound price bull suffering from terminal bronchitis. “You think that would stop me?”
Gurgen shook his head. “Why have you come?”
“Ah,” Lemmy said, lifting his head. His eyes were entirely black pits of oblivion. His face was otherwise no more horrific than in life. It suited him. “Now we come to meat of things.”
At the mention of meat, Gurgen was reminded of the carcass he was working on. He returned to his task.
Behind him, Lemmy explained, “You have a big match coming up. Your opponents are probably training hard right now. And you … you’re more concerned with dinner.”
Now it was Beast’s turn to chuckle. He sounded more like a giant ground sloth … with terminal bronchitis. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat … Beast knows for a fact.”
He patted the bloody remains of just such an animal.
“Still,” Lemmy said, remaining at a distance, “in your time at NAW …” In a flash, he’s right behind Gurgen. He whispered into the Beastly ear, “… what have you done?”
Acting on reflex, Beast backhanded Lemmy. But he ended up punching nothing but a wisp of smoke.
“How about it,” a disembodied voice came from the dark, “What have you done to date?”
His breathing accelerating, Beast replied with a shrug, “Beast win some, Beast lose some. Beast has been doing alright.”
Standing behind The Beast, Lemmy queried, “And you think that’s enough?”
Beast spun around to see nothing but curling smoke.
Pointing at the darkness around him, Beast shouted, “Beast fights, Beast hurts … And Beast takes the pain. All the pain. It doesn’t bother The Beast! The more you hurt The Beast, the stronger he gets!”
“Good” The word sounded very near. A fist plowed into the belly of The Beast. Despite the scrawny nature of Lemmy’s arm, it really seemed to do some damage as the Beast doubled over.
A knee to the face and a kick in the kidneys later Beast lay in the dirt, coughing.
Lemmy kneeled next to the slain Beast. “How strong are you now, oh mighty Beast?”
Beast tried to rise but when he got a foot off the floor, Lemmy punched him in the nose.
“Did taking the pain help against Noah?”
Another punch.
“Did you beat Noah?”
Punch.
“And your last match …”
Lemmy got to his feet and planted his boot on the Beastly face. Grinding his heel, he asked, “Was it you who got the pin or Danny?”
He released The Beast. The latter’s face wasn’t just smeared with cat’s blood now.
“Danny got the win … not you … Danny, whom you’re facing in less than a week …”
Beast spat out some blood. His massive paw shot up. He grasped the slender neck of his ghostly tormentor. This time, Lemmy did not fade into mist.
“Good,” Lemmy said, apparently unperturbed by the death grip on his throat.
Beast used Lemmy’s face for a punching bag, screaming madly.
It only served to amuse the phantom. “Good” it repeated in between the punches.
Enraged by Lemmy’s mocking, Beast released the throat and instead seized upon the spirit’s legs.
With all his might, he swung Lemmy at the concrete pillar. The undead head connected. Shards of concrete went flying. The partially skinned cat toppled to the ground.
And Lemmy was gone again.
Beast sagged to his knees. He huffed and he puffed.
Lemmy appeared from the dark again, unhurt by his ordeal, this time holding a guitar. He began to idly play the long drawn out chords of Beast’s theme.
“March or die, Beast,” Lemmy said, “March or die … You don’t take the beating, turn the other cheek, eat the dust … You beat and kick and slam … bite if you have to. No matter what they do to you, you keep swinging those logs of arms. Fight and rage, Beast … FIGHT!”
He placed his hand on the strings shutting the instrument up, “March or die, Beast. Cause, the instant you stop fighting, stop marching … that’s when you die.”
And Beast was alone again. He grumbled, “Lemmy made Beast drop cat.”
He picked the flayed feline off the floor, dusted it off some, but before he could resume the meat extraction process, he was again interrupted.
His theme surrounded him again. The Beastly shoulders sagged. When the singing started, it was still a deeply manly voice, though with none of the cheese grater on Styrofoam roughness. It was melodic, soothing even.
This time the man who stepped from the shadows was clad in tight fitting pants … that almost seemed to be tights. There might have been a codpiece underneath, given a certain hard to miss bulge. A gaudy, leather vest with wide shoulders adorned his upper body and he sported gigantic hair that albatrosses could nest in.
The way he sang the first couple of lines, one would almost welcome Armageddon.
He ceased his rendition and silently observed The Beast. The leaky faucet not missing a beat.
“Beast,” he said.
Beast resigned himself to yet another visitor from beyond, “David.”
Bowie took off his Jareth wig. “Yeah, well, this never fooled anyone, you know.”
“You’re dead,” Beast established.
Bowie nodded, “It’s a bit of a drag, but there you have it.”
“You here to beat The Beast up too?”
“Certainly not,” Bowie assured, “That was Lemmy’s role, may he rest in peace.”
From above Lemmy’s voice resounded, “Fat chance!”
“Regardless,” stated Bowie, “Lemmy asked you about what you did before. I want to know how you’ll handle Danny, Trent and Vano.”
“Danny, Trent and … Vano,” Beast repeated absentmindedly as he finished skinning the cat.
“Please tell me you’ve give it some thought,” Bowie insisted.
In order to avoid confronting Bowie and his own lack of preparation, Beast began to build a fire out of discarded cardboard and pallets. “Sure, Danny, Trent and Vano, Beast has it covered.”
“You have no plan, whatsoever, do you?”
“Well,” Beast stalled, “Beast usually just steps into the ring and then the rage takes over. Next thing Beast knows, Beast has his fist and a good chunk of the beard down someone’s throat.”
“So,” Bowie surmised, “Your plan, dear Beast, is to throw a really big hissy fit.”
“It has worked so far!” Beast avowed.
“Marvelous Beastie, that was before. Next week, you’ll be facing all three of them at the same time. Do you really think a temper tantrum will see you through?”
Beast pondered the question. He nodded his head and admitted, “No.”
“So, let’s go through it one victim at a time, shall we?”
Bowie sat down at Beast’s makeshift campfire, opposite of The Beast.
“Danny, let’s start with Danny.”
Beast poked the cat, it wasn’t done yet. “Danny’s cool, Beast likes him. Danny is on Beast’s side.”
Bowie slapped Beast across the face.
“Hey! No hitting The Beasts!” Gurgen objected.
Unhindered, Bowie continued, “That was last week. He’ll gladly burry his fist in your face this week.”
“Beast can’t help it! Beast like Danny!”
“And I suppose you like Trent too …”
“Yes!”
“And Vano”
“Weeeeeell,” Beast hesitated, “Vano is a bit full of himself. Vano thinks he’s something special. He thinks the world is hanging from his balls.”
“His BALLS?” Bowie repeated.
Gurgen leaned closer, “It’s an Armenian expression, don’t worry about it.”
“I shan’t!” Bowie resolved.
“Not to worry, Beast will cut Vano down to size”
Now Bowie did some leaning in,”What if Vano cuts Beast down to size.”
Beast whispered, “Beast cut him down to smaller seizes.”
“Very well,” Bowie stated, “How about Trent and Danny? I’ll tell you a little secret … they’re cousins.”
“That can’t be! Beast objected, “They have different last names!”
“Cousins don’t have to have the same last name!” Bowie shouted back. Yes, even apparitions could lose their patience.
Beast scratched his beard. A weevil fell out, straight into the fire. “Bowie knows … brothers often don’t get along. They both want to be the best … maybe the same is true for cousins. So, what if Beast …”
He beckoned Bowie to come closer and whispered something in the ephemeral ear.
“That’s quite crafty of you, Beast,” Bowie observed, “It might just work.”
Beast smiled contently.
Bowie got up. “Your cat’s almost done,” he said. Then, he turned around and vanished into thin air.
Beast poked the cat to confirm Bowie’s observation. The leaky faucet was now joined by the crackling of the fire; a song of water and fire.
Beast was no longer surprised when a piercing scream erupted all around. No Beastly theme this time though. A man appeared in the flickering light of the campfire, if a man it was. He stood at least two feet taller than The Beast. Like Gurgen, he wore ripped jeans and no it wasn’t the sort you bought, ripped and all from the store. He wore a leather jacket, adorned with metal studs and chains over a t-shirt depicting a corpse erupting from a no doubt well deserved grave. He had the sort of hair albatrosses might nest in if the poor birds of good omen wouldn’t be scared shitless by his very appearance if they came within a ten mile radius of him. When he stepped closer to the flames, the campfire illuminated a face of crackled yellowish skin and a double row of crooked, jagged edged teeth.
Gurgen showed no signs of worry. This creature from beyond was familiar to him.
In a voice that made Lemmy’s seem as smooth as a sheet of fine silk draped over the shapely buttocks of a teen bride on her wedding night, the creature spoke, “Beast.”
Without getting up, Beast acknowledged, “Eddie.”
In keeping with tonight’s surprises, Beast observed, “You’re VERY dead.”
Eddie just shrugged. He plonked himself down, opposite of The Beast.
“Let Beast make a guess … Eddie’s here to hit Beast too?”
Eddie croaked, “If I were then YOU’d be dead. No, I’m just here to eat your cat.”
Before Beast could defend his prey, Eddie yanked it from the fire. He did have the courtesy to tear it in half and share with The Beast.
They ate in silence for a moment, then Beast chuckled.
“What?” Eddie queried.
“Beast just realized … Eddie is eating pussy.”
“Harhar, very bloody funny Beast … besides so are you.”
This amused Beast even more, “Ah, but Beast LIKES eating pussy!”
“I don’t want to hear about your sex life, Beast! … And I pity the lady!”
Beast swallowed a chunk of cat’s ass and said, “What DO you want to hear about then?”
Eddie pulled a flask from his jacket to wash down the cat with before answering, “I want to know … if you win this match … what then? Who will you face?”
Seeing Beast pull a bottle of wodka from his coat, Eddie added, “Or are you going to get massively plastered, throw up on a copper, get arrested, break out of jail, beat a few cops into a pulp … get beaten into a pulp yourself and be carted off to an insane asylum awaiting a lobotomy?”
Beast savored the wodka in his mouth. He wondered about Eddie’s question.
Concerned Beast might be taking things a bit far, Eddie noted, “That’s not a challenge, by the way. I’m not daring you to go out and do just that. Please don’t do that.”
Beast swallowed his wodka. “Beast think getting plastered was a good idea.”
“No, Beast … I mean, sure have a drink if you want, but you need more of a plan than just liver cirrhosis.”
Beast tossed the bare cat bones into the fire. He watched the fire lap at the bones and pondered Eddie’s question.
Sure, people had wronged him at NAW … even by something as simple as taking the last slice of pizza in the cafeteria. But then again, there were always people wronging him.
There was only one person at NAW who vexed him.
He looked up at Eddie. “Noah,” he said.
Eddie nodded. “That, at least, is a plan … more dangerous than liver cirrhosis, sure, but it IS a plan.”
Eddie got up. “Thanks for the dead cat,” he said before vanishing amidst another unearthly scream.
Staring into the fire, Beast murmured, “You’re welcome.”
And with that, we left The Beast with way more to ponder than his poor defenseless brain could ever hope to manage.