Episode 14ac - the Marionettes of Mammon

In which the distant diabolical Flabby Devil lets loose its minions of marketing.

from: Not Jack 3.1415926 - Taught Strings
by Mat the Hooplah, blump on a blog for Saint Seer of Tallow, who waxes postpoetic.

--continues--

The Third Marionette, dangling from slack strings, sped up at its approach to Evile Blanche the Evil Evil Clown.

She turned whiter than her normal pallor could have allowed for, against all expectation. Her pet Leum, unconscious, as well as Traught. Neither provided any further distraction for the Marionettes, or even the Flabby Devil himself, if he even felt distracted, or for that matter, anything.

The unstable Third Marionette, swirling white beyond the black, reached towards her, its undulant pseudopods reaching, grasping, as if to bridge the gap in the ceiling of a most profane chapel.

Blanche ducked its double-flailing at her, ill-timed and poorly conceived, and slid over to one side. The Third Marionette shifted off-balance, giving Blanche a moment to assess her situation.

beside the Third Marionette, the Fourth through Twelfth eyed her (if, indeed, the carefully scrutinizing orbits were eyes - might have been anything) with anticipatory cruelty. These were no mere mortal Marionettes. They had been willful, divine beings, dragged from their homes and caves and warrens and hives, strung up, and made to dance to the Flabby Devil's ever weakening understanding of the world around him, as he continues his slide into the lethargy of his lipidinous treachery.

Blache took in the scene with a glance:

the Fourth Marionette, rusted and scraping, screaming for reprieve from its blood-rusted coggings, reached out two serrated vices, each with multiple sharp edges within, at the end of long, telescoping appendages.

the Fifth Marionette, loud, hissing steam from the broken seams of its neglected body. Loose screws blew angry vapour, which emanated from the boiling roar in its deep belly to rest as a wispy cloud around its head and neck.

the Sixth Marionette, an imbalanced horror, splendidly smooth and blasphemous in her androgynous hermaphroditism. Plainly curved to resemble the most comely of human female forms, yet without the life breathing within, the inert mechanism was but a failed homunculus.

the Seventh Marionette, this one most disturbing, although Blanche could not say why. It hung lifeless at the end of heavy metal wires that remained taught, rigid and unmoving. It dangled to the Flabby Devil's left hand, off-centre, yet holding onto a verisimilitude of symmetry, yet its imbalanced appendages remained hidden within its own shadow.

the Eighth Marionette, a strong, willful and malicious device, armored and armed for combat, this one clearly had been added most recently, as its armor still retained its robust tight-fitting scales, the weapons their sharp points, honed to poisonous intent. This one, not broken as the others, eyed Blanche long and coldly with its distant black eyes, as empty as a starless sky, and about as reassuring.

the Ninth Marionette had all of its arrows, from crossbows mounted on and about its body, aimed at Blanche. She started slightly at seeing the bent tips and frayed feathers that made up the shafts of the rotted and beetle-pocked shafts. She had nothing to fear, except by accident. It was yet too far from her, and it wasn't nearly as unsettling as its predecessor.

the Tenth Marionette, a flailing urchin of long, mechanical arms and levers, unfolded and telescoped its many appendages towards one object it held loosely in one arm.

My wallet!

the Tenth Marionette used all of its digits to carefully open the wallet, extracting the slug, the button and the chocolate coin from it.

The Eleventh Marionette, the source of the Fourth Marionette's rust, it would seem, was leaking clear, opaque and dark fluids, spilling them onto the earth, which refused to ingest them. The stream slowly streamed across the ranks, adding a slippery medium to their already unnaturally imbalanced and shuddering motions.

the Twelfth Marionette, and the last, to the Flabby Devil's far left, stood in a growing pool of liquids, mostly from its predecessors endless leakage, itself slipping and sliding in it, unable to move in any direction, and only sinking deeper into its personal deluge.

As the Third Marionette finally rounded itself towards Blanche, she took quick action.

Evile Blanche, the Evil Evil Clown, scooted out of the Third Marionette's field of vision, leaving it to a dexter-sinister debate on whether to turn clockwise or counter-clockwise. By the time it had rounded on her once again, she hoped that her ruse had not been ill-conceived.

She had attached all of the Second Marionette's severed strings to her own appendages.

The Third Marionette regarded her briefly, and then turned away.

Phew.

Evile Blanche began to untie the string around her left hand, when she felt it pull her upwards suddenly, and with unexpected strength.

The Flabby Devil had just found his replacement for the unstrung Marionette.

Evile Blanche felt the chilling will enter her limbs through those light, almost imperceptible strings.

--to be continued--

Episode 14ab - more blabbity from the flabbity

In which mammon's manipulated mechinatious marionettes mete out miasmatic misery.

from: Not Jack 3.141592 - Discordant and Discordduck
by Mat the Hooplah, trouble tale tweaker for Saint Seer of Tallow, herald of the sundered renderings, and remembered mutterings.

--continues--

"That's, um, unexpected," said Evile Blanche, the Evil Evil Clown, at the sight of her immobilised dragon, her pet Leum.

"unexpected?" gasped Traught. "What's going on? I mean, that's a dragon!"

"careful, Traught," cautioned Blanche, as she retreated away from the approaching marionettes, each one broken, or ill-repaired into an irregular cacophony of motion, stuttering after them. The First Marionette stepped lightly over Blanche's pet Leum's prone form, with a shudder of the Flabby Devil's smallest finger.

A loud, hollow, thunderous boom sounded behind them. Blanche's spirits sank (as if they could sink any further than here, atop the profane pyramid) even as she turned to confirm that the doors had indeed sealed them in.

aghast.

The Second Marionette approached, it was barrel-topped, with thick spikes jutting towards Blanche. She looked to all sides for a means of escape, a means of evasion, a means of defense.

even if that meant a sacrifice?

what voice was this?

"Did you say anything?" she demanded of the boy, who had curled up into a foetal position. "Traught!"

"No."

She looked back at the-

sacrifice

-at Traught.

sacrifice

"Traught, do you have a knife? Something sharp? A stick? Anything?" she looked again at the-

blood

-at Traught, who lay still, paralysed in horror beyond recognition, and held a pocket knife. Blanche reached down to take it, knowing that a mintaurian monstrosity threatened from but scan arm-lengths behind her. "Thanks."

She turned to confront the-

blood and blessings

-to confront the-

blood, and you shall be saved

-to confront-

blood you

-to-

she turned of a sudden

and

cut

its

strings.

The Second Marionette fell to the ground with a clanging echoing to a relief in its own silence.

"Traught? I think we'll be OK."

Evile Blanche saw the Third Marionette, a four-legged, four-armed two-headed beast, a chaotic swirl of white and black, hard and soft, turbulent and fluid, time and space, creative and controlling.

She heard the clickickity clicking of its mechanical heart. It beat with a rhythm. One that sounded regular.

not quite.

something not quite right.

It was a small white circle that seemed to whorl in the eye of the black storm in the entropic body before her.

It was its heart.

And with each beat, the white circle got a little bit bigger, and a little less circular.

tending to the turbulent.

The Third Marionette stood over Traught's unmoving form.

and the heart beat, that wearied, rusty clickity-click.

it was accelerating.

--to be continued--

Episode 14aa - Speaking of the Devil in the Flesh

In which Evil Evile Blanche brings Traught to the summit of the dais of the Flabby Devil.

from: Not Jack 3.14159 - the Dismount.
by Mat the Hooplah, suddenly silent scriptoleer for the Saint Seer of Tallow, the shallow skimmer of aetherial wading pools and their acrid warmth.

--continues--

"WELL? OUT WITH IT?" the voice continued, rumbling through the foundations of the underworld.

"Gershwin Flabberglass," replied Evile Blanche, no fool to underhanded trickery.

"DON'T CARE. YOU HAVE NO APPOINTMENT. YOU HAVE NO CAUSE TO DISTURB. LOOK AT YOU'RE GARB! YOU'RE UNPROFESSIONAL. THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE," the voice continued, Blanche's ears grew more sensitive to it.

Traught kept his hands up to his elbows over his ears. Apparently he didn't care for loud noises.

"What? I'm wearing a tie," Blanche said, defending herself. A big white and black bow tie, however, there was no denying it.

"UNACCEPTABLE." boomed the voice, "YOU DON'T HAVE AN APPOINTMENT. BE GONE BEFORE I SET A PACK OF DAEMONS UPON YOU. IN FACT, I WILL ANYWAY."

Here Blanche felt the need to intervene.

"Well, you did notice these ID passes affixed here. And the third daemon downstairs there said that the appointment was set. we're not only going to sign on board with the Big Man, but we're going to open the gates for thousands and thousand more literate souls," she said with strained feigned exhuberance.

"NOW THERE"S A THING. THAT DAEMON-"

"That Daemon cowered before the mere mention of your displeasure."

"AS IT SHOULD!"

"It wouldn't evoke your displeasure. Not willfully," continued Blanche, observing the shift in the Fourth Daemon's disposition. Something stirred within the black viscous sludge deep within its pitch pumping organ.

"IT WOULDN"T. IT IS WEAK. IT FAILS. IT MUST BE TAUGHT. IT MUST BE CURSED. FOR MY DISPLEASURE," screeched the Fourth Daemon, as it abandoned its post, and flew down the Devil' s Dais to the tier of the Third Daemon.

There remained two huge doors between Evile Blanche, and Traught, who had become paler than his escort during the last episode.

"I don't like it here," he shaked out between chattering teeth.

"No, no one does. Not much more. Not only will this build character, you'll continue to build it for decades afterwards."

"That's not reassuring," he replied.

"No, it's not. Where did you learn such a big word?" she asked.

"I can read, y'know," he snotted at her.

"I'm sure. Look, one more, just past the Devil beyond the Doors, and then we're out of here and back onto the fair grounds."

"You lying?" he asked, suspicious, growing sly.

"No. Not now. One more. Promise."

"K. How do we get in?"

Blanche checked under the Fourth Daemon's oversized desk. "There's a buzzer here, it will unlatch the gate. You may want to cover your face with a cloth or something. I'm serious. You buzz me in, and I'll open the door. You join me and we're in. K?" she winked at him.

"K," he twitched and eyebrow in a vague and awkward gesture.

They took up their positions, Traught at the desk, his finger hovering in withstrained anticipation, Blanche at the double doors, ready to pull them open by their large brass rings.

"Alright Traught. Rea-"

A sudden stench from the tier below. A smoke as of a tire fire poured upwards in gouts. Traught sought cover beneath the desk. Lightning branched across the surface of the tower, withdrawing suddenly back into the encroaching storm-cloud.

Evile Blanche's pet Leum, a dark, unctuous, sinewy dragon, appeared from within, a satisfied smirk upon his face, to match the blood there. It had grown in its power, and even now crackled yet larger with the fresh ozone of electricity and impermeable black fog.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Her pet Leum replied, "I was compelled to attend this moment."

"What? Why?" now Blanche grew suspicious.

"It's a compulsion. I don't have an answer, however, I know there's one beyond that door."

"What happened back there?"

"Traught," said Blanche's pet Leum," be a dear and buzz the door."

He did.

and Evile Blanche opened the double doors a crack. Traught ran up to join her, her pet Leum on her other side.

She swung the doors open, and there

for all three to see,

the Flabby Devil himself.

the Big Man.

the Beast.

A Devil of such massive girth so as to rival great lakes, if they were as insulating as fat, keeping the Devil so far within the waves of lipidinous incarceration that he couldn't feel anything, anymore. He could barely move.

But the Flabby Devil has eyes. Piercing eyes. It's eyes blue, it's skin, if such it could be called, the flat white of a belly-up bottom feeder, the hair upon its pate thick, coarse, and stubbly.

The eyes drew in everything, drew in all the light, like a black hole. They missed nothing, and turned every subtle variable shift in illumination into vast stores of information, with which it inacted its dread purpose.

through the Twelve Marionette Monstrosities that dangled from the Flabby Devil's prodigious, prolific digits.

"Well?" asked Blanche of her pet Leum, "do you have your answer?"

"Not yet," it replied," my answer lies in a Marionette."

Evile Blanche's pet Leum approached the first Marionette, a clockwork machine, cogs missing, misfiring, spindles slipping, rods seizing, yet, on the it churned, in fits and backfiring stops.

The Flabby Devil twitched one of its long, tendrilous fingers, and the First Marionette approached her pet Leum.

Steam erupted, coughing out words, sussurations in a language none had ever heard beyond the doors. But what matter that? It still had its charms and sway over the behaviour of even so powerful a beast as a Dragon.

Evile Blanche's pet Leum fell inert to the ground, its slumped figure like a discarded river, devoid of motion.

--to be continued--

Episode 14a - Distort and DisTraught

In which the Flab trickles downhill as Evile Blanche the Evil Evil Clown and Traught continue ascent to the throne of the Flabby Devil.

from: Not Jack 3.1415 - the Discharge!
by Mat the Hooplah, desperate dye-in-the-wonder of Saint Seer of Tallow, of whom, posthumously, naught was found but his auditory channelings.

--continues--

The Second Daemon refused Evile Blanche and Traught passage, as the ID pass given them by the First Daemon was not properly affixed.

"What do I do? Put it on?" asked Traught.

"There's no other way. There are about seventeen more of these things around the corner, cruel and bored. We have to, I guess. Me first." and Evile Blanche put on her ID tag.

Traught followed suit.

"There," she said, showing it to the Second Daemon.

"Fine. Sign in," it said.

"What?" Blanche felt the noose tightening.

"Sign in. You gotta sign. Here," the Second Daemon held out a beautiful specimen of stationery, a marble-finished pen, like water-rippled emerald across its polished surface.

Blanche caught herself leaning over to the visitor's registry. She stood up suddenly, feeling again the perfect weight of the pen. The ink must flow so smoothly, without blotting.

She leaned over again. Traught kicked her in the shin.

"Ow. What's wrong with you?" she whined.

"You told me not to sign anything, and you keep trying to sign. So I kicked you for lying to me."

She dropped the pen. "Egads, what am I doing?"

"Yeah. What, indeed," said Traught haughtily.

"You," she said sternly to the Second Daemon, "we already signed in down below. Remember? She issued these passes. You forgot already. She called ahead."

"She did?" it asked, its confidence and bluster momentarily thrown off.

"That's why you've decided to let us past. Remember?" she asked, throwing a wink at Traught.

"That's right. Thank you," scratching its head, the Second Daemon stepped aside and let them past.

"How'd you do that?" asked Traught, bewildered and bewondered.

"These ones have terrible memories, and don't care about the rules so much. If you give them an excuse to torture you, they will. If you play by the rules, about which they know nothing, you can do just about anything."

"Huhn?"

"Never mind. I think the next one could be a lot trickier. Never met one, only heard about them," said Blanched as they approached the third tier.

"Hi there! I'm the Third Daemon on your climb up the echelon to the Big Man himself. It's great to meet you."

An extended hand, a huge grin, likely cursed onto its face for all eternity. Traught trembled at the site of its prominent teeth.

"I just want to welcome you here, and let you know that we care deeply. Now, what is it I can do for you here today?" A patient pause, the Third Daemon suddenly all ears.

"Be careful. It interprets your words in twisted and corrupt ways. Don't speak here," Evile Blanche whispered.

Traught nodded.

"We have an appointment with the Fourth Daemon, you see," said Blanche.

"Yes, well, ha ha, the thing is about that, is that I book all of the Fourth Daemon's appointments personally, and I haven't got you in my book. However, that's not even a little problem. I think we can squeeze you in, there was a cancellation.

"If you wouldn't mind just signing the ol' ink and swirls right here in this appointment book, you can scoot right along," the Third Daemon held out an even more magnificent pen.

"You know the Fourth Daemon well, don't you?" asked Blanche coyly.

"Of course. We've been damned together since I don't remember when," it replied.

"You know how it hates to be angered."

"Do I. Boy, you have no idea," the Third Daemon said.

"Then you know what it will do when it finds out you've forgotten the appointment with us. You forgot to write it down. Remember?" Blanche waited.

The Third Daemon cocked an eyebrow, suddenly unsure.

"See, we have these ID passes, which means we've already signed in anyway. Now if there's a cancellation, what's the harm in us just continuing up the echelon?"

The Third Daemon scrutinized them with a look of raw skeptcism. "You don't look like slayers. or saints for that matter. What are you exactly?"

"I'm a Clown, of sorts, by way of Evil, which should displease you to no end. Not sure about the lad. Best be on our way. Thanks a mill," Evile Blanche walked past the Third Daemon, and they continued climbing.

"That was easy," said Traught.

"Of course, you just had to stand there and do nothing. Well done, by the way. You'd be amazed how many times this sort of thing goes awry because of unthinking lunkheads," Blanche considered her own words for a moment.

"Is the next one going to be so easy?"

"I hope so, yet have absolutely no basis for it. Did you see how scared the daemon got when we mentioned the Fourth's anger?"

"Oh, right. That's right," Traught said, his eyes growing wider.

"WHO DARE DISTURB ME IN THE MIDDLE OF ALL THIS WORK!!!!' boomed the voice from the fourth tier.

Blanche turned whiter, a beacon of terror illuminating one of the worse neighbourhoods in the underworld.

--to be continued--

Episode 13 a - Disconcert with the Flabby Devil

In which the Hearts of Darkness beat again, much to Traught's disenchanted chagrin.

from: Not Jack 3.141 - The Flabby Devil's Sociopathological lying around and about.
by Mat the Hooplah, a man, new and sis to Saint Seer of Tallow, secreter of spirits of the fundament.

--as this has become too terrifying, even for so bold a narrator as yours truly, commentary shall be replaced with quotations. may the wheel turn in your favour--

"I've seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils that swayed and drove men - men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be..."
-- Marlowe, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Elbowing its way through the palpable darkness, an oleaginous, jaundiced light smeared itself over the surfaces in the room giving everything a similar distortion, and sickly pallor.

The Flabby Devil sat (one could only assume) upon his throne on high, before the great dais stood Traught, Evile Blanche the Evil Evil Clown, and her pet Leum, and black and slippery dragon. They remained transfixed by the profanity that dripped down the stairs to the throne in a vicious, viscous slick.

"Bwaahahahahaaaaa," laughed the Flabby Devil, sending waves across his body from the depths of his layers of jowls. The sound made Traught and Blanche cringe, and her pet Leum was uncharacteristically unsettled.

The Flabby Devil teetered atop the pyramidal dais. What seemed an infinite number of uneven steps, flanked by daemons and gargoyles along the perimeter, dancers and musicians played power tools and unmuffled engines in paroxysms of disorientation.

Evile Blanche schemed the situation out. It would best do to take the child, and skip past this particular nasty. He had grown considerably since she had last seen him, which hadn't been so long at all. His corpulence swoll like a restless ocean beneath his thick skin, waves running across his face and body with every motion, every word.

Traught was transfixed on the Flabby Devil in the distance above, Blanche reached to touch his shoulder, when he bolted. Traught raced directly at the crooked, broken, crumbling stairs that twisted and swtched-back all the way to the apex, the Heart of stagnant blackness.

Traught took the first step as Blanche reached him. As her pet Leum could fly, he didn't concern himself, and remained aloft, aloof.

The first daemon stepped before Traught, barring his passage. This was his alter-ego, a hollow reflection of himself. "I'm sorry, you cannot pass at this time." Traught looked for a way around, but the uneven stairs distorted his perspective, giving him vertigo beyond a casual glance.

"When can I?" he asked.

"No," said Blanche, "you're playing their game."

"What?" said Traught, as if he'd only just noticed that she'd arrived.

"Don't play their game. They'll insinuate, and lead on, and trick, and lie, and cajole, and goad, but nothing is above board."

Traught retained his confused look.

"Look, there is no way to win. It would be a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent who may just bludgeon you with their forehead. Get it?" Blanche doubted Traught did, despite his emphatic nodding, which took some time to abate.

"No," Traught was liking this less and less, if that was even possible at this point.

"Do you have an appointment," the daemon asked.

"Don't answer that!!!" Blanche interjected with thrice potence. "Look, kid, I don't know what you know, but if you've never dealt with this before, I'd understand. This isn't just any schoolyard bully."

"no?" he asked meekly, yet hopefully.

"No, this here's the granddaddy. this here's the fat man who sits on all of the fat men all the way down to the Principal, of all bullies," Blanche whispered conspirationally.

"So, this here," she paused for consideration,"doesn't care about you, or anything to do with you. All daemons want is what they don't have. The minute they get something they want, they want something else, which they don't have. It's a particular torment to which the Flabby Devil is the precurser."

"What do we do?" Traught was becoming more cogent with every passing moment.

"First thing, we're not going to play along, which means signing something and selling your soul. Never sign your name to anything. Understand?"

He nodded.

"Good. Second thing, be careful for their weapons. They pull red tape out of the air and bind you with it until you're immobile."

"k"

"If you can capture their buck, they will let you past. However, they are shifty about sending the poor thing elsewhere the moment you think you have them cornered."

"Check"

"Third, don't listen. They will speak in an increasing amount of detail. As it becomes more intricate, it becomes more distant, and the next thing you know, you've signed something. Never sign anything!"

"I remember. Was I supposed to listen to you?"

"Quiet! Fourth, we're going to have to..."

"If you don't have an appointment, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," said the daemon, who had been gradually steaming into a petulant snit of deep-affrontery.

"This is our moment, Traught. You ready?" Evile Blanche braced herself as if in runner's blocks.

"Sure!" he imitated her, preparing to race past the daemon.

"Traught? You have an appointment. Please go ahead," the daemon produced two ID passes.

"You sign anything?" Blanche accused.

"No. Did you?"

"No."

They took the ID passes in hand. "Don't put it on," she advised, and they stepped through the passage upwards to a second tier.

where awaited a second daemon.

Evile Blanche held up her ID pass, and the Second Daemon, a thickset bulldog of a being, short-necked, snub-nosed, red-faced and sanguine in disposition, behind distant porcine eyes, looking up past the sty.

"You have to put the ID passes on to pass," snuffled the Second Daemon.

Traught and Blanche looked at each other, uncertain.

--to be continued--

Episode 12a - Traught Trots

In which the lost waif wanders every which way but out of the darkest city of Dis, a massive absence hanging in its dust-scoured streets, Evile Blanche the Evil Evil Clown and her oleaginous dragon pet Leum.

from: Not Jack 3.14 - Evil Evile Blanche's gawds.
by Mat the Hooplah, nine-fingered paper dye-scratcher for Saint Seer of Tallow's endless ramblings under what can undoubtedly be nothing other than serious food poisoning.

--bless those of you who have returned to observe what can only be our darkest turn in this otherwise meandering tale. The muse who oversees this evocation has a twisted sense of the absurd. Observe.--

Every street lay in deepest shadow, darker than any that had fallen over Traught. Darker than under the covers. Darker than the best spot in hide-and-seek. Darker than the middle of the night on the New Moon. Darker than a cave with the flashlight off. Darker yet than any immolation rained down from a displeasing Sun magnified through ingenious glass, and down on an anthill.

these streets swallowed him. Not all of him, but some small measure. His arms and legs felt like rubbery flesh, not vital, but moving. He could move his eyes, but saw nothing. He only knew about the wall beside him because he couldn't move past it. His hands, and entire body, were numb. He fumbled along, deeper into the darkness, weaving his path towards what awaited him in its blackest heart.

-

Evile Blanche followed in her pet Leum's viscous wake.

"Well?" She asked, her voice absorbed by the impenetrable black.

"Well what?"

"Do you have a scent? Oops, sorry."

"Careful where you step. You won't live to do that again," replied her pet Leum in a soft hiss. Menacing.

"Ow. Now we're even. Keep a civil forked tongue. Do you have the scent?" She asked, distracting the dragon from pursuing any other thread of conversation.

"Yesss. Not far now. But we must hurry."

"Why?" Blanche asked nervously.

"He's slowing down his pace. And he's heading directly for the hold of the Flabby Devil."

"Why hurry? This should be fun." Blanche rubbed her palms together in anticipation.

"You're underestimating the Flabby Devil, and overestimating this child. Let me eat him and be done with it."

"No. No eating. Maybe some nibbling if you're good. Or rather, not. Or Evil Evil, at the very least." Blanche crossed the street, found the opposite wall, and continued at a hurried pace.

Her pet Leum hisssed under his tongue.

-

In the mid-distance, a light. As Traught approached it, being the only point of reference he'd seen in what had seemed an eternity, it's glow took on a distorted halo, as if a lantern's glass was smeared with translucent jelly. His attention turned to his nose, as it, too, was suddenly filled with the first hints of sensation. He tasted it on his throat, but couldn't quite recall what it was.

The light drew nearer.

A sound swelled into his perception. His mind slipped into his ears.

A rhythm?

No.

Irregular. A broken heartbeat. A cacophonous symphony. Harpsichords and discord.

Traught felt the fear welling, a chill through his nether regions, threatening to freeze him in place, in paroxysms of paralyzed fright.

His mind sought refuge, but his eyes saw only the approaching light, distorted, bent, rent. His nose smelled the acrid aromas. His tongue tasted bitter jaundice. His skin felt the caustic burn. His ears kept drawing back his attention, compelling him to listen to it. Unnatural. His nervous energy stilled.

He had arrived at the source of the profane light.

Profane.

-

Evile Blache addressed her pet Leum with a tone of fondness that may have contained the roots of barbs. He kept up his guard as the pair approached a foul-smelling illumination in the distance.

"Honestly," asked the dragon, baiting, "what's the worst that can happen?"

"I can't honestly say, which has me concerned. I've encountered all kinds of Evil, most of which are either cruelties or betrayals, often both. I can't imagine how much further the Flabby Devil will go. It has never ceased to astonish me." Blanche paled beyond her usual pallor, the white of her face glowing in opposition to the approaching light.

The cracked timepiece sounded in their ears.

"I loathed this," her pet Leum's tongue writhed out, his words a flaming gasoline spill burning an opaque river.

The two approached. Evile Blanche could feel the massive puissance thickening the air before them, putting up resistance to their progress. "What's this? Pet Leum?"

"Never encountered such a thing. The air thickens. The Flabby Devil is more massive than ever," the dragon hisssed, an edge of hesitation introduced for the first time to its disdainful larynx.

They found the source of the sound, and the light.

Profane.

--well, what better place than this to leave you to my devices, my dearest blog-servers. May you gaze into this Abyss with as much mercy in your soul as this Abyss has when it gazes into you. Be not afraid to return, to meet the monstrous aberration of the Subnatural postpomo technomythology.

Where else would you expect to find an Evil Evil Clown?

You'll meet the Flabby Devil. May you never do so twice.

-to be continued.

Episode 11a- Traught Discends

In which the Chirrugueresque circus tent holds tales of horror and woe in its heart of darkness.

from; Not Jack; Book 3.1 - Sepia, see Dora
by Mat the Hooplah, squid-squeezing slanderer of Saint Seer of Tallow, burner at all ends.

as we remember, before our leap over the chasm into a newest year, Traught, high-strung, over-sugared young Circus-enthusiast shuddered with excitement as the Crowd around him teemed with anticipation. He had never been left unattended in some capacity, and the building excitement surged like fudge through his veins - coagulated lightning.

Traught's Uncle wandered the Midway, searching for a means to end his search for his nephew.
Patch abducted, Ms Pell searching for him, ensnared in the intrigue.

And a restlessness building into a riot, all having to do with cheese on a stick.

if the Summer has its dog days, these are the cat nights. Dogs howl and cats yowl, add the screech of an owl to deliver us, once again, into the thick of it.

read on, behold, be ware, and be warned. This is not for the feint of heart, or sissies of any type, whether affected or afflicted--

"I recall everything, as if it was but to happen," said the Ellephant, drifting off suddenly. The Mouse, subconsciously sliding against slipping off of the spacing storyteller's skull. slowly. The Mouse Nightmared.

With the black miasma of the Nightmare, a spirit of a stallion come to churn up the deepest darkness of dreams in the ossiferous caverns of the soul. It billowed out, like an oily fog, to enshroud the entire crowd whole, into its Abysmal hug, its tendrils of desperate fear. A need teetering over the edge of the unspeakable.

but this darkness was much deeper. much worse. The cold indifference of the shallow stare from the pitch eye of a slain cuttlefish.

Traught's jittery jiggles suddenly stopped. the tendrils slithered up his legs. he kicked at them in vain. This fog wouldn't blow over. He held his breath and ran, tripping immediately over the person who had been seated next to him. He lost his balance, falling into the aisle, and down the hard, wooden stairs into the bleachers.

One.

Ouch.

Two.

Ow.

Three.

Wince.

Four.

Bruise.

Five.

Sore.

Six.

Ache.

Seven.

Hurt.

Eight.

Pain.

Nine

Enough.

Traught came to a stop, hanging over the edge of the Ring itself, his nether cheeks Mooning the invisible crowd that uttered not a word. Then again, Traught thought, maybe I'm just not hearing them.

then, a spark. Correction, a sparkler. No, it became a flame. A fire. roaring, crackling, cackling. It burned in a perfect Circle. The Circle of flame spoke without moving its lips.
Traught, I know what you fear.

Traught became terribly terrified. He didn't even know what his own fears were, and trembled fearfully at the possibility that the flaming circle did.

A Clown, malicious in its makeup, a swirl of black on white. Unless it was white on black. Or something similar. Or even if it wasn't, the effect was meant to astound, and it rather did.
Traught was astounded.

"I'm not afraid of Clowns. Not even Evil Clowns!" he said defiantly, puffing his bellows into preparation for a petulant output.

"Not to worry, dear boy. I know what you are afraid of. Besides this isn't a Clown, nor even an Evil Clown. This here nasty is an Evil Evil Clown. I've told her what your fears are."

Traught managed to gulp despite his growing tension and expectation. What could be so frightening?

"Hello, Traught, is it? I'm going to put on a show just for you. You're going to love it. Adore it even, I'd say. Now, by the look of you, you're a bit of a devil in a sugar-pile, but this is going to appeal even to the strobe of you attention. You can call me Evile Blanche the Clown, and I'm going to show you the truth."

Traught’s neck turned to rubber, and he passed out, the black swallowing him behind his own eyelids. Not even in sleep could he escape the ineffable terror that welled up from within him to meet it in cataclysmic contact. The inky swirls enveloped him, splashing against his cheeks.

Traught found himself at the edge of a dark, foul-smelling river. He pulled away as his gag reflex sought to purge any trace of it from his stomach. He heaved, wretching violently while he retreated.

"Oh, now, don't be shy. Introduce yourself. Do you have any idea where you are?" asked the voice of Evile Blanche the Evil Evil Clown out of her obfuscation.

"N-n-n-n-no," was the meek, timorous, mousy reply, uttered only when in truly shocked terror.
"This is the City of Dis. You may have heard of it, you may not. Either way, this is going to make a Dickensian sweatshop look like the smiling end of Paradise. It isn't the only City in Hell, but it does have one distinction. It's the capital of this particular frozen part of the lands of suffering without redemption. And even the Hierarchs of this Abyss of merciless cruelty shun it."

Traught could no longer move.

"Well, I won't be carrying you along, dear fellow. I'm only here as guide and torturous insight. I won't carry you on my head, you might crush my hat. I'll summon something for you." Evile Blanched clapped her white gloves together. Out of the river, a black serpentine dragon, long whiskers dripping acrid splotches across the landscape.

"Hope you enjoy the ride."

Traught's terror came around. He broke and ran.

"Ah, so, you're ready for the tour after all. You, my pet Leum," said Evile Blanche to the dragon, "you may come along, to witness. I can't recall the last time anyone's come here from the lands of the living."

Leum replied, his voice spilling as thick a slick as the air, pungent with acrid smoke, could buoy, "I have slept long, and have forgotten much. What do I witness?"

Evile Blanche rolled her eyes, "the snaring of a mortal soul."

"Has this happened before?" asked her pet Leum.

"Stories without anchor, drifting from one thought to another," she replied dreamily.

"Long then."

"Not so long as your sleep, restless pet," she purred as the two went in pursuit of Traught, an urchin the in capital of the Underworld.

--now I shall interrupt, to truly spin this away from its inevitable horror for just a moment longer. Traught has already found himself in dire circumstances outside the suspect attention of Evile Blanche and her Pet Leum, whatever manner of beast he turn out to be.

this bodes not well. Despite Traught's high tension, high vibration, high oscillation, he was entirely fragile, and perhaps the stress of so many extreme visions in such a short spanse might traipse him over a precipice, and into a frame of mind not altogether suitable for children.

one can only hope.

--to be continued--