Casino Barriere Lille Salle Spectacle

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
After a flight to Zurich, an arranged car that would drive us to the Casino Zurich greeted us. Immunda and I stepped out, our mysterious benefactor had taken care of the bill.
The building was the opposite of what I’d expect of a Casino. The beauty of the Monaco Casinos spoiled me. Elegant architecture to hint the opulence and sin that was waiting within. A monument to greed and desire, both expressed in the building's content and in the domes and spires outside.
In stark contrast to Monaco, this was a four or five-story building, rectangular, with a sign on the front which read “Casino”. They lined the outside in lights and lit brightly, but the outside what wholly unremarkable. It almost looked like a bank or apartment building repurposed to a Casino. It was the definition of Swiss architecture: Function over Form, and that was dull.
It spoke nothing of what was inside, with lavish furnishings, intricate decorations and rows and rows of card tables. Through the bustle of the lobby, tourists and gamblers abound, Immunda and I finally tracked down the front desk.
One reason I enjoyed Switzerland because I could speak Italian with a fair chance that the other person also knows Italian, or at least enough to direct me where to go.
I explained, “My companion, and I were meeting someone? An American woman, Samantha Waldroop?”
She smiled, “Allow me, Ms. Waldroop is in the VIP Lounge, she said she would expect you.” She picked up a desk phone calling someone. She smiled brightly after her conversation in what I would only describe as a sweeter version of German, “someone will be with you shortly.”
A waiter came to greet us and motioned for us to follow him.
As we departed the front desk, the hostess called out, “Es het mi gfröit!”
I just waved back as they led us through a maze of slot machines, card tables, and televisions. The odd bar and restaurant sprinkled here and there. Ultimately, we arrived at an area that was far less crowded and secured by a velvet rope and a guard.
The guard immediately undid the rope, and moved across the entrance, allowing us to pass.
Finally, after passing many an empty table in a red and dimly lit room, we were let to a single booth that had a maroon curtain around it. Our escort opened the curtain and bowed slightly, his arm motioning for us to enter the private booth.
That’s when I saw the raven-haired American girl. She wore a black dress with a Bateau neckline with a black sequined trim; it reached down to her mid-thigh. Over the dress, she wore a one button coat by the same designer, as the colors matched flawlessly. With a pair of expensive Louboutin black high-heels, I was immediately envious of. Say what you will of the French, but fashion was their strong suit, and Samantha wore that French fashion well. A pair of dark sunglasses completed her look, despite the dimly lit room.
She turned to us, motioning for us to sit, she had an earpiece in of some sort, on the phone with someone.
“Yes, Derik,” she motioned to the escort, and made two motions with her hand, gesturing to us, and the escort vanished in a flash.
“No, Derik, I’m in Zurich. Yes. Because at this point I’ve got to ensure our assets are secure. Given the current economic climate, someone has to. No, I want anything liquid transferred to euros,” she growled, “Yes I said everything liquid, I did not stutter!” she threw the earpiece to the table, turning to us. “Sorry, not everyone shares my vision of prosperity, apparently.”
I sat down in the small booth next to her, and despite Immunda being further away, her nose curled at Immunda’s musky scent. Something I was growing increasingly used to, which I considered bothersome.
She didn’t bother shaking our hands, but immediately began to speak, “Time, I’m told, is of the essence.” She heaved a sigh, “or at least I’m told this is by my Master. To be honest? I don’t feel the need to rush for him.”
“Aren’t you in direct service of a demon?” I asked her, smiling, “wouldn’t that be disobeying?”
Samantha removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes which were nothing but a pair of black orbs, “yes, unwilling and willing all at the same time.” her dark globes looked me up and down, “Seems to be something you desire.”
I nodded, reveling in the abyss of her eyes.
She placed her sunglasses back on, “My journey is rather different from yours. I never sought the darkness, it found me.”
“How so?” I asked.
“My idiot brother bartered a deal with a demon, he demanded wealth, insane wealth,” she sipped bubbling champagne from a thin flute-glass, “of course, the demon gave the money to my parents,” she took another sip, “who died… then he died… all in exchange for my soul.”
Immunda scoffed, “another can not give a soul that isn’t their own without-”
“Consent, I’m well aware,” she took another sip, “which I gave.”
I smiled, “so you gained great wealth?”
“Among other obligations,” she said swirling the champagne around the glass, “demons, my dear Bella, don’t see us as much more than stepping stones. And the king of all demons? Lucifer? He despises our mere existence.”
“Those who don’t serve-” Immunda tried to interject.
“He hates us all,” Samantha clarified, she then turned to me, “... but your desire, Bella, is in line with his, isn’t it? You hate your fellow man, almost as much as he does. I’ve never seen such hatred in a mortal before. Dare I ask what brought it on?”
My smile fell, “I led my life for God, instructed by my mother. She was dutiful and pious. My father? Much less so.”
“What did he do that was so terrible?” Samantha asked.
“He gambled away everything we had, then died leaving us on the streets,” I heaved a sigh, “two nice girls on the street don’t stay there long. Soon enough, traffickers abducted us, they raped my mother to death before my eyes.”
Samantha placed her glass down, removing her glasses, her onyx spheres had a white glint in them. She reached into a large woven crocodile bag, pulling out a pair of small envelopes. “You’ll be in the mood for a change, then.”
“Change?” I reached into the envelope.
Inside was a black American Express card with my name on it. In addition, there was a German and Japanese Passport, all in my name. Last, was a bundle of Euros, there had to be at least five or ten thousand in there, of varying denominations. Finally, was a set of SIM cards and a new phone.
The phone was pricy, I could tell for certain, trimmed in gold and had an odd mark on the back, was a high-end Samsung phone. I turned it over to see some gold inlay under the glass of the back.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Tools,” Samantha explained, “Don’t worry about any finances, charge the card, there is nothing in the world you can buy that this won’t buy you, call wherever you want, find out anything you need from the contacts in those phones,” she sipped from her glass again, “while on your mission, live your best life, because Lord knows, when it’s all over, none of us will have a pleasant time.”
Immunda looked into his own envelope, and grinned, “Excellent, you’ve been most helpful,” and he left with that.
I moved to leave before Samantha grabbed me.
“Not so fast,” she advised.
I frowned, “what-”
“I can see your true desire, Bella.” Her black eyes locked on to mine, “Do you truly think it’s possible?”
I smiled smugly to her, holding my hand up, a small flame appearing within. “I already have power given by them, why wouldn’t they oblige my deepest desire for my loyalty?”
“Your desire to become a demon, while I understand it, is lofty.” Samantha warned, “if you fail…”
“I lose everything,” I explained, “I’m aware. You may also be aware: I have nothing. So what do I have to lose?”
Samantha was silent for a moment or two, “they really took everything from you, didn’t they?”
“I returned the favor,” I glared at her, “as you did.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Yes,” I pointed out, “The way you explained his death,” I grinned, “Your parents, your brother, you killed them.”
Samantha nodded, “Yes, I did. My parents weren’t something I meant to do, my Master acted through me. I learned quickly, as my father and mother’s hearts stopped in front of me, that someone without a soul is at the mercy of their Master’s will.”
I nodded, “It’s the only reason I haven’t offered my free will.”
“Needless to say,” Samantha said as she took a sip of champagne, “I took my time with my brother. I was free after my parents died, and we were to inherit the fortune he sold my soul for equally.”
“And I’m sure you weren’t in the sharing mood at the time?” I suggested.
“No, I wasn’t,” she finished her champagne, “nor have I been since.”
“You and I aren’t so different you know,” I pointed out.
Samantha was silent for a moment or two before she faced me again, her black eyes scanning me, “It isn’t entirely too late. You’re young, there is a path to forgiveness, but if you walk this path now, there isn’t any going back for you.”
“You think I want to go to God?” I asked, offended.
“Want? No. But your goals are too lofty. You hope to become a demon, with what? Favors? Demons are not the generous sort to share their power with a mere human woman,” Samantha warned.
I shook my head, “It’s about proving loyalty, and showing them how vicious I can be. That I’m willing to do anything, to suffer any sin, and push past any moral barrier in their service.” I grinned, “Then, someday, I’ll be the one offering deals and bargains with desperate mortals.”
Samantha sighed, “Maybe you will reach your ultimate desire. You’d be a terrifying demon.”
I smiled, “Thank you.”
“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” she began, placing her sunglasses back on, “why do you travel with that want-to-be summoner?”
“He’s my decoy,” I explained, “as long as I’m with him, everyone will focus on him.”
Samantha sneered, “then get him clothed in something proper, and get him not smelling like a damp cellar.”
I nodded, and stood up, heading after him. Once I had done so, Immunda turned to me, “We have tickets, according to these,” he pointed to his phone, showing a flight that left in about five hours to Boston, in the US, of all places.
The phone that Samantha gave me soon buzzed, and a message appeared on the screen: “Live your best life.” On it was an appointment at a store, the name displayed on my phone was: “GAITO.”
…
I walked into a very pricey looking store; the racks had dresses from high-end designers, and shoes to match. They lined the racks with high-end brands, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Carolina Herrera, Akris, Valentino, Prada, I was in paradise!
Prices were nowhere on the products, as this was not the average clothing store.
An assistant walked out quickly, heading from the back as soon as I walked in.
“May I help you?” he asked. He was a thin man and wore a very well fitted three piece suit. The fabric shimmered in the light as he moved.
“Yes, I was told to come here,” I explained.
“By whom?” he asked, looking down his nose at me, something I was used to.
“Samantha Waldroop,” I informed.
His expression immediately shifted, “ah, you must be Bella!” He extended his hand, “A pleasure. I was told to spare no expense for your attire. Please, follow me.”
I followed, and he brought me behind a curtain, bringing out a tailor’s tape.
“Sizing?” I asked, smiling.
He nods, taking my measurements, “Ms. Waldroop has already selected a wardrobe for you. I’m told to send it to your new apartment in Boston.”
I smiled, “Oh?”
“Yes,” he chuckled, “she’s very discerning.”
“I would say so,” I grinned to him.
“I have one dress I’ll size for you right away, it should not take long. In the meantime, while you wait, I’ll give you a voucher for the closest salon and spa,” he finished jotting down my measurements, and fixed me with a sly grin, “I must say, Bella, you live up to your name. I truly cannot wait to see what a lovely gem like you will look like with some proper polish.”
“You flirt,” I laughed.
He smiled at me, “Perhaps the next time I’m in Boston, we can get together.”
“Certainly,” I lied as he handed me a voucher and his business card.
...
A few hours later I was sauntering into the airport wearing a dress that costs more than most people’s houses and a pair of heels that likely cost the same as some poor bastard’s car.
I was grinning ear to ear. After the salon, even Immunda cleaned up well.
We had to go to the airport soon, but I needed supplies. I turned to Immunda, “I’ll need some regents,” I explained.
“More shopping?“ Immunda grumbled, “You have that feather, isn’t it enough?”
I rolled my eyes, “I’m feeling too naked since the damn priest captured me.”
“Naked?” he frowned, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Just wait here,” I stopped by a pet shop, “I need to get a few things.”
I popped inside and purchased a set of feeding mice. Feeding mice are interesting little creatures. If you think they don’t know their fate, you don’t know body language. They know exactly what their destiny is.
I walked over to Immunda, “I’ll need a minute or two,” I then slipped behind an alleyway.
Immunda just shrugged and waited. He just leaned against the wall In his suit. An expensive one and while he refused to have his beard cut, it was at least now looking manageable. The stench was, lesser, masked by a cologne.
Regardless the alleyway was a welcome break from his stench.
I set the box of mice down and opened it up. The mice clustered together in the corner, fearful, worried a snake’s belly would soon be their fate.
A weak fire wrapped around my hand, flashing over the little creatures, “I was like you once,” I explained to them. As I spoke, my intentions flowed from my spirit into theirs, and they stopped their cowering. “They preyed upon me, like you. I now call on you to be a predator, with me. Give up your bodies, lend me your spirits, allow me to empower you.”
One brave little mouse snuck towards me.
I grinned and grabbed him with my flaming hand.
The mouse squeaked at first, its fur turning from bright white to black, and its body withered in my hand.
Soon the flame turned black, and the mouse’s mouth opened. A black spirit slid out, and coiled sweetly around my hand, coiling up to my arm.
“So much better than being fed to a snake, yes?” I asked it.
The spirit, which now appeared more snake-like than mouse-like, nuzzled it self against my shoulder.
I looked down to the other four or five mice, “Who’s next?”
I had emerged now with a series of little corrupted spirits coiled about my person. Some around my waist, others around my wrists and one felt rather comfortable around my throat.
I would use these spirits to empower my spells. Creatures that know their end is near have little qualms about becoming something more. Even these corrupted spirits would live on as something far more powerful than had they merely returned to the earth. Now they were far more than they ever could have hoped to be and loyal to me for it.
Immunda grumbled, “Are you quite finished?”
I nodded, “Yes. Thoughts?” I said, running my finger along the spirit that coiled sweetly around my neck.
Immunda shrugged, “You look the same as you did before.”
The idiot can’t even see the spirits? I thought. How has he gotten this far?
...
When we finally arrived at the gate, I displayed my ticket, first-class, the first time I had ever flown in such a style.
The woman at the gate looked over my ticket and beamed happily to us, “Oh welcome! You've got the best seats on the plane!” she assured.
I was unsure why Boston was the destination, but I didn’t concern myself with where we were going. I assumed Samantha’s master has pointed us in the proper direction, so with my fate cast forth, I relished the experience.
I had spent so much time stealing, seducing, and scraping my life together, it was a thrill to be privy to the royal treatment
“Oh, Miss DelAvana, you’re just in time for priority seating,” the woman at the gate said, as she ushered Immunda and I passed the gate and through the jet-way.
Soon I sat in a luxurious leather seat, Immunda sat at the window.
A stewardess walked over to me, “Miss, would you like something to drink we take off?”
“Absolutely,” I smiled, “whatever is your finest liquor.”
She beamed, “right away,” she turned to Immunda, “You sir?”
Immunda was nervous, looking out the window, he waved her off, “no, that’s fine.”
The stewardess, to her credit, asked “would you like something to help you sleep, sir? If you’re nervous about flying.”
Immunda nodded, “Yes. Thank you.”
A moment or two later, I had my drink, and Immunda had some water and pills to take.
I leaned back, watching as people passed my seats by. Lesser people, I had always felt this, but now it felt even more contrasted. None could know the power I had, not just the money recently given to me by Samantha, but the authority that it brought with it.
A deep and contented sigh filled me with elation as I enjoyed the luxury of everything around me. Even the little darkened spirits snuggled closer to me, pleased at my contentment.
Then they began to react, not in fear, dark spirits have little to fear. They reacted as if something tasty was nearby.
“Shush pretties,” I whispered, but as I looked up, I spotted him.
He was wearing a rather simple and drab outfit, almost dirty and unkempt blonde hair. He had tanned skin and vibrant green eyes. Frozen in place, he appeared as a deer stuck in headlights. He was a short man, maybe a hair over 165cm, but not unattractive.
My beauty and expensive clothing didn’t stun him. Rather, I could tell he wasn’t the average person.
His eyes were green, so was his aura. Like me, he had companion spirits, but his spirits were all little earthen spirits. They cowered before the dark spirits which surrounded me.
I smiled, “Oh my,” I gave him a sly grin, “what do we have here?”
He gathered himself up and attempted to push past me.
With a quick motion, I grabbed him with my free hand, “not so fast there,” I gazed at him, the spirit around my neck caressed my lips as I spoke, “what’s your hurry?”
“Get away from me, witch,” the short man insulted.
His little outburst barely phased me, “What was it you called me?” I said as I concentrated on burning one of his little earth spirits off his shoulder. The spirit around my neck readied itself to leap out and attack on my whim.
“Release me,” he threatened, his earth spirits now rallying around him, how brave! “Or I’ll turn the silver and gold in your dress into needles.”
It was nice to know the gold and silver trim in my dress was real, real enough for the earth mage before me to know and even consider manipulating it. Granted his little magics would need to get past my own darkened servants to do anything. Unlikely, all things considered.
But I did not know this mage, he could do so if he had enough report with them. The imagery of my skin being pierced, and me burning the boy to cinders before everyone on the plane played back in my mind. If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to get to Boston as I was being directed.
“Playful,” I teased, “I like that,” I tried to think of an insult to befit him, after him calling me a witch, “flower boy.”
Before we could finish our conversation, the first-class stewardess was there to interrupt us.
“Excuse me, Madam, is this man bothering you?” she gave the mage a stern glare.
I grinned, amused by someone pushed away from me as if they weren’t worth my time. Better yet, she did so without my request; the world assumed that he was lesser than me, just by our clothing.
“S-sorry,” he squeaked as they ushered him past me.
I called back to him before he vanished into the coach section, “Be careful in the air young man,” I taunted, “we’re a long way from your terra firma.”
I glimpsed something strange as he departed. A powerful earth spirit was being carted behind him, and I glared at what could contain such a thing.
Behind him was a rather large rose in a glass case and a flower pot. The rose wasn’t a normal flower, pulsing within it was a powerful life force! Some kind of empowered earth spirit with incredible potential.
A smile grew over my lips, I wondered: I could corrupt a spirit that powerful? Did it have a will of its own? What could I do with a spirit that strong?
He was in the same plane we were in, so all I had to do was spot him come out. Catching the little thing shouldn’t be hard.
I put it out of my mind, for now, considering how I’d take that rose from him, and see about corrupting it for my own purposes.
…
I still recall waiting for him to come off the plane at the terminal, Immunda impatiently waiting behind me.
“We should pursue my demon, she must be here,” Immunda grumbled.
I did my best to stop myself from slapping the shit out of him for referring to her as his demon again, “We’ll get to tracking her soon enough. I want to grab that Mage’s little flower.”
“Tracking her, right,” Immunda trailed off.
I snapped to him, “Master,” I began, “you can track her yes? You’ve had enough rest?”
Immunda turned to me, “She’s cloaked,” he explained.
“Cloaked?”
Immunda nods, “Yes. I cannot sense her. I felt her power briefly but the little minx is likely posing as a human and doing so very well.”
I could feel my blood pressure rise and I considered burning Immunda on the spot.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice scream, “Allahu Akbar!” at the top of her lungs.
The entire terminal turned into an absolute mad-house! People panicked, some dove to the floor, others scurried out of emergency exits where they could.
I spotted a woman in black robes being tackled by several officers, and recognized her from the Vatican, “That’s the nun!” I shouted.
Immunda nodded, “she must be-oof!” he coughed as someone knocked him to the ground.
I looked around, frantic to find her, but in a sea of faces, I saw no one familiar. My search wasn’t in vain, however, as I spotted the mage rushing out a side emergency exit.
I pushed my way past a few people and forced my way out the same exit, hoping I could find the little bastard. This proved difficult in my stylish heels, and I tumbled to the side a few times as I struggled through the crowd.
What I came across wasn’t something I expected to see from the boy.
A police officer of some sort had tried to stop him, why I wasn’t sure.
But wrapped around the officer’s shoulders were roots jutting out of the ground. I tucked myself behind a pillar and peeked from behind the wall to spy on what was happening.
The officer screamed in pain as the roots dislocated his arms, pulling him down into the ground.
But beneath the officer wasn’t soft ground, but hard concrete!
I flinched as I watched the man’s knee-caps burst and his legs folded at an unnatural angle.
Despite the spectacle of blood and gore before me, however, I was more interested with the plant the mage has. The rose that accompanied the Mage was conscious!
It moved inside of the glass as if it were an animal, and I swear I could make out a face at the base of its flower! How powerful a mage was he?
More screaming from his victim brought my attention back to the man who was now being dragged into the earth below him.
I could see the roots empowered by incredible spiritual energy, flowing from the Mage directly into them. They swelled in strength and force, and ripped the man’s flesh down beneath the ground, his screams stopping only as he slipped under the soil.
The mage appeared shocked, though I was less surprised. Earth spirits, as with most spirits outside of holy and dark, are neutral. They don’t care about the life of the man, to them his flesh hasn’t changed state whether he’s alive or dead. An earth spirit might find a dead corpse a better place to grow a fruitful plant.
As if on cue, a sapling sprouted from the ground where the guard once stood. It appeared to be an oak tree, and as it grew, I heard a snapping noise I was rather familiar with. The sound of a jaw as it dislocated.
As the snap occurred, The Mage removed a ring from his finger, and its power was clear. The spirits calmed almost immediately, but I could sense power pulsing from the ring. That power vanished as he placed it into some kind of bag. What was that ring? Some kind of philosopher stone? Something that could empower magic so drastically, I had to have it! This mage was someone I needed to exploit to the fullest, that was clear to me.
I pressed my back to the wall, and I looked down at my dress. The threat of turning the borders of my dress into needles wasn’t just idle chatter. Was the Mage caught off-guard by my presence? Did he spare me merely because there were others around us? Should I be following him instead of Immunda?
“Oh my God,” the Mage’s voice said in despair.
His reaction added doubt to whether he’d be keen on making me into potting soil as he did the guard he had just mulched. He didn’t know his own strength, that was certain, yet he knew enough to be wary of me.
I heard a muffled scream, and glanced upwards to see the mage running off with his potted plant, “damn it!” I growled.
But the muffled scream continued. It was coming from the small sapling.
I approached the tree tentatively and watched as the leaves shook slightly. The muffled screams came from the soil below, and as I looked down, I saw the horrified eyes of the police officer that the Mage had cast his magic on.
“Oh dear,” I bent over, looking into his eyes, “you’re in a bit of a spot, aren’t you?”
He blinked, his eyes, now more bloodshot, darting back and forth.
I flicked the small trunk of the sapling, eliciting a groan from the soil. A thought came to me, and I snapped one of the smaller branches of the tree. Blood dripped from the small broken branch and the man screamed in pain. “My my, seems you and this little tree are one,” I looked down at him, a devious grin coming over me, “I doubt you wish to be down there forever… unable to die, unable to move, yes?”
His eyes blinked a few times.
“Blink twice for yes and once for no,” I smiled, pacing around him, “understand?”
His eyes darted back and forth and blinked twice.
“Good,” I smirked, getting down onto my haunches over him, “now… how’s about you allow my dark magic inside of you? I might get you walking again.”
His eyes narrowed, and he blinked once.
I shrugged, standing, “I wasn’t offering out of benevolence,” I began to walk away, ignoring his fading cries, “I’ll ‘leaf’ you alone then.” I grinned wide, I wondered if I came back to him in a few days, if he’d be more agreeable?
​
Part 5

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
After a flight to Zurich, an arranged car that would drive us to the Casino Zurich greeted us. Immunda and I stepped out, our mysterious benefactor had taken care of the bill.
The building was the opposite of what I’d expect of a Casino. The beauty of the Monaco Casinos spoiled me. Elegant architecture to hint the opulence and sin that was waiting within. A monument to greed and desire, both expressed in the building's content and in the domes and spires outside.
In stark contrast to Monaco, this was a four or five-story building, rectangular, with a sign on the front which read “Casino”. They lined the outside in lights and lit brightly, but the outside what wholly unremarkable. It almost looked like a bank or apartment building repurposed to a Casino. It was the definition of Swiss architecture: Function over Form, and that was dull.
It spoke nothing of what was inside, with lavish furnishings, intricate decorations and rows and rows of card tables. Through the bustle of the lobby, tourists and gamblers abound, Immunda and I finally tracked down the front desk.
One reason I enjoyed Switzerland because I could speak Italian with a fair chance that the other person also knows Italian, or at least enough to direct me where to go.
I explained, “My companion, and I were meeting someone? An American woman, Samantha Waldroop?”
She smiled, “Allow me, Ms. Waldroop is in the VIP Lounge, she said she would expect you.” She picked up a desk phone calling someone. She smiled brightly after her conversation in what I would only describe as a sweeter version of German, “someone will be with you shortly.”
A waiter came to greet us and motioned for us to follow him.
As we departed the front desk, the hostess called out, “Es het mi gfröit!”
I just waved back as they led us through a maze of slot machines, card tables, and televisions. The odd bar and restaurant sprinkled here and there. Ultimately, we arrived at an area that was far less crowded and secured by a velvet rope and a guard.
The guard immediately undid the rope, and moved across the entrance, allowing us to pass.
Finally, after passing many an empty table in a red and dimly lit room, we were let to a single booth that had a maroon curtain around it. Our escort opened the curtain and bowed slightly, his arm motioning for us to enter the private booth.
That’s when I saw the raven-haired American girl. She wore a black dress with a Bateau neckline with black sequined trim; it reached down to her mid-thigh. Over the dress, she wore a one button coat by the same designer, as the colors matched flawlessly. With a pair of expensive Louboutin black high-heels, I was immediately envious of. Say what you will of the French, but fashion was their strong suit, and Samantha wore that French fashion well. A pair of dark sunglasses completed her look, despite the dimly lit room.
She turned to us, motioning for us to sit, she had an earpiece in of some sort, on the phone with someone.
“Yes, Derik,” she motioned to the escort, and made two motions with her hand, gesturing to us, and the escort vanished in a flash.
“No, Derik, I’m in Zurich. Yes. Because at this point I’ve got to ensure our assets are secure. Given the current economic climate, someone has to. No, I want anything liquid transferred to euros,” she growled, “Yes I said everything liquid, I did not stutter!” she threw the earpiece to the table, turning to us. “Sorry, not everyone shares my vision of prosperity, apparently.”
I sat down in the small booth next to her, and despite Immunda being further away, her nose curled at Immunda’s musky scent. Something I was growing increasingly used to, which I considered bothersome.
She didn’t bother shaking our hands, but immediately began to speak, “Time, I’m told, is of the essence.” She heaved a sigh, “or at least I’m told this is by my Master. To be honest? I don’t feel the need to rush for him.”
“Aren’t you in direct service of a demon?” I asked her, smiling, “wouldn’t that be disobeying?”
Samantha removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes which were nothing but a pair of black orbs, “yes, unwilling and willing all at the same time.” her dark globes looked me up and down, “Seems to be something you desire.”
I nodded, reveling in the abyss of her eyes.
She placed her sunglasses back on, “My journey is rather different from yours. I never sought the darkness, it found me.”
“How so?” I asked.
“My idiot brother bartered a deal with a demon, he demanded wealth, insane wealth,” she sipped bubbling champagne from a thin flute-glass, “of course, the demon gave the money to my parents,” she took another sip, “who died… then he died… all in exchange for my soul.”
Immunda scoffed, “another can not give a soul that isn’t their own without-”
“Consent, I’m well aware,” she took another sip, “which I gave.”
I smiled, “so you gained great wealth?”
“Among other obligations,” she said swirling the champagne around the glass, “demons, my dear Bella, don’t see us as much more than stepping stones. And the king of all demons? Lucifer? He despises our mere existence.”
“Those who don’t serve-” Immunda tried to interject.
“He hates us all,” Samantha clarified, she then turned to me, “... but your desire, Bella, is in line with his, isn’t it? You hate your fellow man, almost as much as he does. I’ve never seen such hatred in a mortal before. Dare I ask what brought it on?”
My smile fell, “I led my life for God, instructed by my mother. She was dutiful and pious. My father? Much less so.”
“What did he do that was so terrible?” Samantha asked.
“He gambled away everything we had, then died leaving us on the streets,” I heaved a sigh, “two nice girls on the street don’t stay there long. Soon enough, traffickers abducted us, they raped my mother to death before my eyes.”
Samantha placed her glass down, removing her glasses, her onyx spheres had a white glint in them. She reached into a large woven crocodile bag, pulling out a pair of small envelopes. “You’ll be in the mood for a change, then.”
“Change?” I reached into the envelope.
Inside was a black American Express card with my name on it. In addition, there was a German and Japanese Passport, all in my name. Last, was a bundle of Euros, there had to be at least five or ten thousand in there, of varying denominations. Finally, was a set of SIM cards and a new phone.
The phone was pricy, I could tell for certain, trimmed in gold and had an odd mark on the back, was a high-end Samsung phone. I turned it over to see some gold inlay under the glass of the back.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Tools,” Samantha explained, “Don’t worry about any finances, charge the card, there is nothing in the world you can buy that this won’t buy you, call wherever you want, find out anything you need from the contacts in those phones,” she sipped from her glass again, “while on your mission, live your best life, because Lord knows, when it’s all over, none of us will have a pleasant time.”
Immunda looked into his own envelope, and grinned, “Excellent, you’ve been most helpful,” and he left with that.
I moved to leave before Samantha grabbed me.
“Not so fast,” she advised.
I frowned, “what-”
“I can see your true desire, Bella.” Her black eyes locked on to mine, “Do you truly think it’s possible?”
I smiled smugly to her, holding my hand up, a small flame appearing within. “I already have power given by them, why wouldn’t they oblige my deepest desire for my loyalty?”
“Your desire to become a demon, while I understand it, is lofty.” Samantha warned, “if you fail…”
“I lose everything,” I explained, “I’m aware. You may also be aware: I have nothing. So what do I have to lose?”
Samantha was silent for a moment or two, “they really took everything from you, didn’t they?”
“I returned the favor,” I glared at her, “as you did.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Yes,” I pointed out, “The way you explained his death,” I grinned, “Your parents, your brother, you killed them.”
Samantha nodded, “Yes, I did. My parents weren’t something I meant to do, my Master acted through me. I learned quickly, as my father and mother’s hearts stopped in front of me, that someone without a soul is at the mercy of their Master’s will.”
I nodded, “It’s the only reason I haven’t offered my free will.”
“Needless to say,” Samantha said as she took a sip of champagne, “I took my time with my brother. I was free after my parents died, and we were to inherit the fortune he sold my soul for equally.”
“And I’m sure you weren’t in the sharing mood at the time?” I suggested.
“No, I wasn’t,” she finished her champagne, “nor have I been since.”
“You and I aren’t so different you know,” I pointed out.
Samantha was silent for a moment or two before she faced me again, her black eyes scanning me, “It isn’t entirely too late. You’re young, there is a path to forgiveness, but if you walk this path now, there isn’t any going back for you.”
“You think I want to go to God?” I asked, offended.
“Want? No. But your goals are too lofty. You hope to become a demon, with what? Favors? Demons are not the generous sort to share their power with a mere human woman,” Samantha warned.
I shook my head, “It’s about proving loyalty, and showing them how vicious I can be. That I’m willing to do anything, to suffer any sin, and push past any moral barrier in their service.” I grinned, “Then, someday, I’ll be the one offering deals and bargains with desperate mortals.”
Samantha sighed, “Maybe you will reach your ultimate desire. You’d be a terrifying demon.”
I smiled, “Thank you.”
“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” she began, placing her sunglasses back on, “why do you travel with that want-to-be summoner?”
“He’s my decoy,” I explained, “as long as I’m with him, everyone will focus on him.”
Samantha sneered, “then get him clothed in something proper, and get him not smelling like a damp cellar.”
I nodded, and stood up, heading after him. Once I had done so, Immunda turned to me, “We have tickets, according to these,” he pointed to his phone, showing a flight that left in about five hours to Boston, in the US, of all places.
The phone that Samantha gave me soon buzzed and a message appeared on the screen: “Live your best life.” On it was an appointment at a store, the name displayed on my phone was: “GAITO.”
…
I walked into a very pricey looking store; the racks had dresses from high-end designers, and shoes to match. They lined the racks with high-end brands, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Carolina Herrera, Akris, Valentino, Prada, I was in paradise!
Prices were nowhere on the products, as this was not the average clothing store.
An assistant walked out quickly, heading from the back as soon as I walked in.
“May I help you?” he asked. He was a thin man and wore a very well fitted three-piece suit. The fabric shimmered in the light as he moved.
“Yes, I was told to come here,” I explained.
“By whom?” he asked, looking down his nose at me, something I was used to.
“Samantha Waldroop,” I informed.
His expression immediately shifted, “ah, you must be Bella!” He extended his hand, “A pleasure. I was told to spare no expense for your attire. Please, follow me.”
I followed, and he brought me behind a curtain, bringing out a tailor’s tape.
“Sizing?” I asked, smiling.
He nods, taking my measurements, “Ms. Waldroop has already selected a wardrobe for you. I’m told to send it to your new apartment in Boston.”
I smiled, “Oh?”
“Yes,” he chuckled, “she’s very discerning.”
“I would say so,” I grinned to him.
“I have one dress I’ll size for you right away, it should not take long. In the meantime, while you wait, I’ll give you a voucher for the closest salon and spa,” he finished jotting down my measurements, and fixed me with a sly grin, “I must say, Bella, you live up to your name. I truly cannot wait to see what a lovely gem like you will look like with some proper polish.”
“You flirt,” I laughed.
He smiled at me, “Perhaps the next time I’m in Boston, we can get together.”
“Certainly,” I lied as he handed me a voucher and his business card.
...
A few hours later I was sauntering into the airport wearing a dress that costs more than most people’s houses and a pair of heels that likely cost the same as some poor bastard’s car.
I was grinning ear to ear. After the salon, even Immunda cleaned up well.
We had to go to the airport soon, but I needed supplies. I turned to Immunda, “I’ll need some regents,” I explained.
“More shopping?“ Immunda grumbled, “You have that feather, isn’t it enough?”
I rolled my eyes, “I’m feeling too naked since the damn priest captured me.”
“Naked?” he frowned, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Just wait here,” I stopped by a pet shop, “I need to get a few things.”
I popped inside and purchased a set of feeding mice. Feeding mice are interesting little creatures. If you think they don’t know their fate, you don’t know body language. They know exactly what their destiny is.
I walked over to Immunda, “I’ll need a minute or two,” I then slipped behind an alleyway.
Immunda just shrugged and waited. He just leaned against the wall In his suit. An expensive one and while he refused to have his beard cut, it was at least now looking manageable. The stench was, lesser, masked by a cologne.
Regardless the alleyway was a welcome break from his stench.
I set the box of mice down and opened it up. The mice clustered together in the corner, fearful, worried a snake’s belly would soon be their fate.
A weak fire wrapped around my hand, flashing over the little creatures, “I was like you once,” I explained to them. As I spoke, my intentions flowed from my spirit into theirs, and they stopped their cowering. “They preyed upon me, like you. I now call on you to be a predator, with me. Give up your bodies, lend me your spirits, allow me to empower you.”
One brave little mouse snuck towards me.
I grinned and grabbed him with my flaming hand.
The mouse squeaked at first, its fur turning from bright white to black, and its body withered in my hand.
Soon the flame turned black, and the mouse’s mouth opened. A black spirit slid out, and coiled sweetly around my hand, coiling up to my arm.
“So much better than being fed to a snake, yes?” I asked it.
The spirit, which now appeared more snake-like than mouse-like, nuzzled itself against my shoulder.
I looked down to the other four or five mice, “Who’s next?”
I had emerged now with a series of little corrupted spirits coiled about my person. Some around my waist, others around my wrists and one felt rather comfortable around my throat.
I would use these spirits to empower my spells. Creatures that know their end is near have little qualms about becoming something more. Even these corrupted spirits would live on as something far more powerful than had they merely returned to the earth. Now they were far more than they ever could have hoped to be and loyal to me for it.
Immunda grumbled, “Are you quite finished?”
I nodded, “Yes. Thoughts?” I said, running my finger along with the spirit that coiled sweetly around my neck.
Immunda shrugged, “You look the same as you did before.”
The idiot can’t even see the spirits? I thought. How has he gotten this far?
...
When we finally arrived at the gate, I displayed my ticket, first-class, the first time I had ever flown in such a style.
The woman at the gate looked over my ticket and beamed happily to us, “Oh welcome! You've got the best seats on the plane!” she assured.
I was unsure why Boston was the destination, but I didn’t concern myself with where we were going. I assumed Samantha’s master has pointed us in the proper direction, so with my fate cast forth, I relished the experience.
I had spent so much time stealing, seducing, and scraping my life together, it was a thrill to be privy to the royal treatment
“Oh, Miss DelAvana, you’re just in time for priority seating,” the woman at the gate said, as she ushered Immunda and I passed the gate and through the jet-way.
Soon I sat in a luxurious leather seat, Immunda sat at the window.
A stewardess walked over to me, “Miss, would you like something to drink we take off?”
“Absolutely,” I smiled, “whatever is your finest liquor.”
She beamed, “right away,” she turned to Immunda, “You sir?”
Immunda was nervous, looking out the window, he waved her off, “no, that’s fine.”
The stewardess, to her credit, asked “would you like something to help you sleep, sir? If you’re nervous about flying.”
Immunda nodded, “Yes. Thank you.”
A moment or two later, I had my drink, and Immunda had some water and pills to take.
I leaned back, watching as people passed my seats by. Lesser people, I had always felt this, but now it felt even more contrasted. None could know the power I had, not just the money recently given to me by Samantha, but the authority that it brought with it.
A deep and contented sigh filled me with elation as I enjoyed the luxury of everything around me. Even the little darkened spirits snuggled closer to me, pleased at my contentment.
Then they began to react, not in fear, dark spirits have little to fear. They reacted as if something tasty was nearby.
“Shush pretties,” I whispered, but as I looked up, I spotted him.
He was wearing a rather simple and drab outfit, almost dirty and unkempt blonde hair. He had tanned skin and vibrant green eyes. Frozen in place, he appeared as a deer stuck in headlights. He was a short man, maybe a hair over 165cm, but not unattractive.
My beauty and expensive clothing didn’t stun him. Rather, I could tell he wasn’t the average person.
His eyes were green, so was his aura. Like me, he had companion spirits, but his spirits were all little earthen spirits. They cowered before the dark spirits which surrounded me.
I smiled, “Oh my,” I gave him a sly grin, “what do we have here?”
He gathered himself up and attempted to push past me.
With a quick motion, I grabbed him with my free hand, “not so fast there,” I gazed at him, the spirit around my neck caressed my lips as I spoke, “what’s your hurry?”
“Get away from me, witch,” the short man insulted.
His little outburst barely phased me, “What was it you called me?” I said as I concentrated on burning one of his little earth spirits off his shoulder. The spirit around my neck readied itself to leap out and attack on my whim.
“Release me,” he threatened, his earth spirits now rallying around him, how brave! “Or I’ll turn the silver and gold in your dress into needles.”
It was nice to know the gold and silver trim in my dress was real, real enough for the earth mage before me to know and even consider manipulating it. Granted his little magics would need to get past my own darkened servants to do anything. Unlikely, all things considered.
But I did not know this mage, he could do so if he had enough report with them. The imagery of my skin being pierced, and me burning the boy to cinders before everyone on the plane played back in my mind. If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to get to Boston as I was being directed.
“Playful,” I teased, “I like that,” I tried to think of an insult to befit him, after him calling me a witch, “flower boy.”
Before we could finish our conversation, the first-class stewardess was there to interrupt us.
“Excuse me, Madam, is this man bothering you?” she gave the mage a stern glare.
I grinned, amused by someone pushed away from me as if they weren’t worth my time. Better yet, she did so without my request; the world assumed that he was lesser than me, just by our clothing.
“S-sorry,” he squeaked as they ushered him past me.
I called back to him before he vanished into the coach section, “Be careful in the air young man,” I taunted, “we’re a long way from your terra firma.”
I glimpsed something strange as he departed. A powerful earth spirit was being carted behind him, and I glared at what could contain such a thing.
Behind him was a rather large rose in a glass case and a flower pot. The rose wasn’t a normal flower, pulsing within it was a powerful life force! Some kind of empowered earth spirit with incredible potential.
A smile grew over my lips, I wondered: I could corrupt a spirit that powerful? Did it have a will of its own? What could I do with a spirit that strong?
He was on the same plane we were in, so all I had to do was spot him come out. Catching the little thing shouldn’t be hard.
I put it out of my mind, for now, considering how I’d take that rose from him, and see about corrupting it for my own purposes.
…
I still recall waiting for him to come off the plane at the terminal, Immunda impatiently waiting behind me.
“We should pursue my demon, she must be here,” Immunda grumbled.
I did my best to stop myself from slapping the shit out of him for referring to her as his demon again, “We’ll get to tracking her soon enough. I want to grab that Mage’s little flower.”
“Tracking her, right,” Immunda trailed off.
I snapped to him, “Master,” I began, “you can track her yes? You’ve had enough rest?”
Immunda turned to me, “She’s cloaked,” he explained.
“Cloaked?”
Immunda nods, “Yes. I cannot sense her. I felt her power briefly but the little minx is likely posing as a human and doing so very well.”
I could feel my blood pressure rise and I considered burning Immunda on the spot.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice scream, “Allahu Akbar!” at the top of her lungs.
The entire terminal turned into an absolute mad-house! People panicked, some dove to the floor, others scurried out of emergency exits where they could.
I spotted a woman in black robes being tackled by several officers, and recognized her from the Vatican, “That’s the nun!” I shouted.
Immunda nodded, “she must be-oof!” he coughed as someone knocked him to the ground.
I looked around, frantic to find her, but in a sea of faces, I saw no one familiar. My search wasn’t in vain, however, as I spotted the mage rushing out a side emergency exit.
I pushed my way past a few people and forced my way out the same exit, hoping I could find the little bastard. This proved difficult in my stylish heels, and I tumbled to the side a few times as I struggled through the crowd.
What I came across wasn’t something I expected to see from the boy.
A police officer of some sort had tried to stop him, why I wasn’t sure.
But wrapped around the officer’s shoulders were roots jutting out of the ground. I tucked myself behind a pillar and peeked from behind the wall to spy on what was happening.
The officer screamed in pain as the roots dislocated his arms, pulling him down into the ground.
But beneath the officer wasn’t soft ground, but hard concrete!
I flinched as I watched the man’s knee-caps burst and his legs folded at an unnatural angle.
Despite the spectacle of blood and gore before me, however, I was more interested with the plant the mage has. The rose that accompanied the Mage was conscious!
It moved inside of the glass as if it were an animal, and I swear I could make out a face at the base of its flower! How powerful a mage was he?
More screaming from his victim brought my attention back to the man who was now being dragged into the earth below him.
I could see the roots empowered by incredible spiritual energy, flowing from the Mage directly into them. They swelled in strength and force, and ripped the man’s flesh down beneath the ground, his screams stopping only as he slipped under the soil.
The mage appeared shocked, though I was less surprised. Earth spirits, as with most spirits outside of holy and dark, are neutral. They don’t care about the life of the man, to them his flesh hasn’t changed state whether he’s alive or dead. An earth spirit might find a dead corpse a better place to grow a fruitful plant.
As if on cue, a sapling sprouted from the ground where the guard once stood. It appeared to be an oak tree, and as it grew, I heard a snapping noise I was rather familiar with. The sound of a jaw as it dislocated.
As the snap occurred, The Mage removed a ring from his finger, and its power was clear. The spirits calmed almost immediately, but I could sense power pulsing from the ring. That power vanished as he placed it into some kind of bag. What was that ring? Some kind of philosopher stone? Something that could empower magic so drastically, I had to have it! This mage was someone I needed to exploit to the fullest, that was clear to me.
I pressed my back to the wall, and I looked down at my dress. The threat of turning the borders of my dress into needles wasn’t just idle chatter. Was the Mage caught off-guard by my presence? Did he spare me merely because there were others around us? Should I be following him instead of Immunda?
“Oh my God,” the Mage’s voice said in despair.
His reaction added doubt to whether he’d be keen on making me into potting soil as he did the guard he had just mulched. He didn’t know his own strength, that was certain, yet he knew enough to be wary of me.
I heard a muffled scream, and glanced upwards to see the mage running off with his potted plant, “damn it!” I growled.
But the muffled scream continued. It was coming from the small sapling.
I approached the tree tentatively and watched as the leaves shook slightly. The muffled screams came from the soil below, and as I looked down, I saw the horrified eyes of the police officer that the Mage had cast his magic on.
“Oh dear,” I bent over, looking into his eyes, “you’re in a bit of a spot, aren’t you?”
He blinked, his eyes, now more bloodshot, darting back and forth.
I flicked the small trunk of the sapling, eliciting a groan from the soil. A thought came to me, and I snapped one of the smaller branches of the tree. Blood dripped from the small broken branch and the man screamed in pain. “My my, seems you and this little tree are one,” I looked down at him, a devious grin coming over me, “I doubt you wish to be down there forever… unable to die, unable to move, yes?”
His eyes blinked a few times.
“Blink twice for yes and once for no,” I smiled, pacing around him, “understand?”
His eyes darted back and forth and blinked twice.
“Good,” I smirked, getting down onto my haunches over him, “now… how’s about you allow my dark magic inside of you? I might get you walking again.”
His eyes narrowed, and he blinked once.
I shrugged, standing, “I wasn’t offering out of benevolence,” I began to walk away, ignoring his fading cries, “I’ll ‘leaf’ you alone then.” I grinned wide, I wondered if I came back to him in a few days, if he’d be more agreeable?
Part 5

[Transcribed from the dictaphone of Flynn VanDeBerg, during his investigation into a murder of a man who's body was dumped in the mangroves of a rural Australian Town]
Chapter four - ‘The gateway. 9 rifles.’
I'm thinking more and more about documents; hidden in the dark of the basement, down the stairs, behind the green door in the courtyard at the back of Archbishop Raymond Gubbel's house.
I'm convinced there's some piece of information there which holds the explanation of these awful going's on. Tommorrow I will break the lock, search for the answer, today I must lie here in my own bed; reflect, record...then sleep.
It's been two weeks since my last recorded journal. It's a Thursday. A great deal has happened in the last fortnight. I can only guess where to begin filling in my readers.
I don't know what it was that possessed me to concede to Pheobe, my prejudices against heroine had always been strong. She'd always been civil to me, and I couldn't be cold towards her when she invited me in, confiding in me that the others were out in Oper Bodie for the night. Maybe it was her melancholy loneliness that I understood, or the creepy weather, the eerie sounds and my aching thumb which persuaded me to accept a drink, then stay for a several others. Yeah maybe it was loneliness, or maybe it was something more ; unavoidable attraction, of flames, and moths and.... As I was gathering up the tarot Pheobe had innocently asked me if I was able to do a reading with the dummy cards. Of course I'd told her it was possible, obviously I was keen to try out the new deck in any capacity I could. The wine was flowing steadily again; dangerously. She'd asked me first, if I could do my own reading while she watched, so she knew what she was getting herself in for. I told her that it was considered a dangerous omen to read your own fortune, and that cultured practitioners avoided it; she'd then nervously taken the role of client.
'Shuffle the deck, and think over some predicament', I told her authoritatively. There was a heavy tension between us, not least since the subject of heroin had not yet been broached. We avoided eye contact as she contemplatively allowed the cards to slide around in her slender hands, half closing her eyes.
I had an uneasiness doing the reading which wasn't typical of my temperament. I'd never interfered with a layout before, but as soon as she placed down the first card, and I read with terror 'The pointer of the bone' something inside me had triggered, and I slammed my hand over hers. 'Wait!' I said hesitantly, 'I'm supposed to shuffle first.' As I quickly lifted and flicked the cards in casino style my brain was racing delicately, Why had I just felt the need to lie? That wasn't like me. Because of my research today? Because I didn't want to deal Pheobe a bad omen? The second time Pheobe dealt, I didn't interfere; even though once more, something about the arrangement of cards had me siphoning dread. The first card I laid out was the 'Milky Way' card, then Criss crossed on top of it, 'Judgement'. Why the repetition of these two cards again? What could it mean?
Pheobe stared at me now, sensing the anxiety in my eyes; 'What does it mean?' She stammered, echoing my thoughts, 'Is it bad?' 'No! Not at all.' I replied recovering, trying to create a more superficial answer than the one I sensed in my terror filled heart, 'It's a metaphysical question you are asking.' I didn't say the words that were truly on my tongue, the words I feared; 'It tells me your question is a broad one, about life, you're seeking ...an answer ...to something profoundly deep, or perhaps you are trying to grapple with the random processes of the universe.' She looked at me, cynical but yearning, as if she knew I was right, but pondered the vagueness of the answer, couldn't any question be considered in that vain? No, not all questions. I laid out four more cards, then flipped them over one by one; Star cross'd lovers, the unlucky bushman. The rainbow serpent, the corroboree.
I didn't like the thoughts coming into my mind. But it felt impossible not to play them out now. 'Well?' She asked impatiently. I rubbed my face with apprehensive tenseness; 'The lovers in the past tense, to some degree I feel your question is about yourself, about fate?' 'Don't teeter around' she snapped, 'Obviously it's a question about love. I don't need your interpretation to see that the cards at least are on the ball.' 'Right' I said, wishing I could somehow move backwards in time, instead of forwards to the inevitable pitfall ahead; 'The unlucky bushman rising ...is in direct relationship with your fears.' I said avoiding what I read there, 'But what does it mean?' she hissed. I sighed heavily; 'Uh...it could mean, that there is a male figure who has recently entered your life. A man...a man who is...' 'Is what?' 'Doomed... Perhaps... Doomed...To some unpredictable fate.' Pheobe went silent. I read on, afraid to dwell for too long.
'The rainbow serpent and the corroboree in the future tense...' I said thoughtfully, (as this part at least hadn't clarified completely in my mind); 'There's a meeting place. An event in the future. A perilous meeting...' Pheobe leapt in here, trying to interpret the cards herself; 'A meeting on serpentine road,' she said; 'The man of my affection is fated to a fateful meeting on Serpentine road?' 'No..' I stopped her, my heart pounding, not liking the insinuation; 'I don't think the cards would suggest anything so literal.' 'So what then?' 'I...uh...' I stammered, 'Let me look at the final cards to put it in perspective.' I flipped the final four cards in a vertical row. 'The Gateway', '9 Rifles', 'Fall of the outlaw', 'Ye olde hangman'.
Some incalculable misery ran through my blood as I digested the cards before me. First, the uncanny and unwholesome fear came; that in spite of my best efforts and protestation, I was in some sense reading my own fortune, and even more, that there wasn't just the slightest of a hint of the tragic about it. Pheobe just looked at me silently now, her eyes demanded an explanation of the cards dealt. 'To the immediate future, and the conclusion of your fortune,' I said gulping in the back of my throat. 'There is something...something...' 'What?' She said, 'Something bad isn't it?' 'I don't know. Cards can be ambiguous. But the meeting referred to seems to be fated to some foreseeable ill.' 'What do you see?' She persisted. 'I....uh...the gateway. The gateway implies the opening up of some new...' 'Barry's Gateway! That's a place. It's a plateau up in Oper Bodie!' Pheobe yelled, 'Something about Barry's gateway.' 'No. I think you're being too literal. 9 rifles is a force of negativity, something surmounting against you ...or ...the male figure. There is a definite descent, an end to the narrative. A tragic decline to the romance, something....' 'What's the hangman mean?' She asked, 'what's the fall of the outlaw?.' I went quiet, feeling green, I backed away from the cards. Pheobe had sensed it in me.
I hadn't resisted at all, happy to take on any escape. She dove towards me and our lips met, the wine was heavy on both our lips, but the heat was irresistible, I felt my eyes close. Before I knew it she had pulled off her loose fitting top, and my hands were running over her soft flesh.
What impulse had so overpowered me? I wasn't a creature of such simple persuasion. In the frolicking of our passionate embrace, moving to Pheobe's bedroom; anything had seemed plausible, and with a sense of foreboding on the horizon I so desperately wanted to escape into the present. My pants had been around my ankles as she had thus straddled me. For a long time we warmly melded, thrusting toward nothing but a chemical bliss.
When she'd sidled off for a moment I had appreciate the tease, continuing to stroke my hard cock. I hadn't even registered negative emotion as I watched her tie the strap around her arm, and push the syringe over the bubbling spoon. The intoxication was all over me, I'd only asked ; 'Why do you need it?' To which she had seductively whispered; 'Try it. Try it.' And somehow all will power and resistance within me had absconded. I tied the black leather strap on myself, pulling until it was taught and my arm throbbed with lack of blood flow, the pain in my blackened thumb increased and I welcomed the sharp piercing dullness of the needle which heralded a christ-like relief from burden. The instant the chemicals hit my bloodstream I felt the warm thrill of incalculable ecstasy which I had avoided my entire life. The screaming apathy of utter release from the pain of life.
I don't recall at what stage in our love-making the hallucinations begun. It all sits fresh in my memory like a dream I've just awoken from. I remember kissing her neck, when I'd noticed something unusual about the birthmark below her collar bone. It pulsed. I'd calmly watched it grow, the laceration glowing like pink neon, as the lips of the wound, pursed and opened up like a budding rose petal. Emitting light. I vaguely remember looking inside that gaping pink hole, and inside the periscope of pink ribbon: viewing objectively a thousand sexual fantasies, bodies writhing over each other in a glorious bright-pink mardigras of lust and life. Cocks sliding in and out of cunts like pistons. Platforms of tits. I must have lost time.
It could've been hours later for all I know, as I recall coming to a relative degree of consciousness, slumped against the grimy bedroom wall. The walls were textured like leaves. Wet leaves. Pheobe was not in sight, but I was hallucinating twice as much now. I remember feeling like my body was submerged in water. That the room was filled with ecstasy, like a bath tub, but through some unseen sinkhole --joy was slowly draining.
Something had alerted me to the sensation in my penis, and I had looked down, initially seeing Pheobe's dainty hand rubbing furiously up and down. But then I'd looked, surprised by the change; and what I saw when I looked down first succeeded the paranoid half of the trip. Instead of a dick, all I could see when I looked beneath was a wet, muddy mangrove stalk, pulsating wildly and dribbling at the end. The floor was all mud now. That was all I could see from wall to wall, my mangrove stalk throbbed and gibbered. The mud bubbled and spluttered.
I sat there, like a tree submerged in the water for I don't know how long. I knew that all joy had fled, but still there was something darker that permeated everything. I remember my black hand, behind like tree roots that wound down into the earth. Thumb was like the night sky. The pain was mere being. There was a laptop on the dressing table. I stared at it for half an hour at least. The light of the screen, wavy digital lines warped by my viewpoint. There was a meaning I couldn't grasp. The plant thing stumbled back into the room now. Wet branches for legs, it rustled with leaves, slinking like a dragging branch. The plant lady straddled me, rubbing itself over my trunk. I don't remember how I got home. I know that I lay in bed for hours before the trip subsided. I know that the peak terror came traversing the dark path from Pheobe's house to mine. I still can't think over it clearly as I lay here in bed. Was any of it real?
Pheobe and I have continued casual encounters. I may be mildly addicted to heroin. I've spent a great deal of time with Norah and David, we are becoming good friends, though the whole group's foundations appear to be built upon quicksand, in some ways we are all tip-toeing around glass, aware of some inevitable looming catastrophe in our self funded addictions. I believe David and Pheobe may have had previous sexual relations. There is a tension there, although I sense that their passion was extinguished some time ago. We've had some intense and deep conversations as a group ; about the meaning of life, the nature of reality, love, existentialism and death. I see something in David that I failed to recognise in myself previously, now I can't help but sense it constantly. He is looking for something, the same thing I've always been seeking myself, some grand join the dots; a map of information to collate the puzzle pieces of history, philosophy, science, psychology, art, knowledge, the world and the self ; somehow unite it all under a colossal shadow. To recognise a faceless demon of truth who haunts the living with its indescribable yet terrible form. Something... something...
More abrasive run-ins with the locals. There is a constant threatening air amidst their kin; only mildly masked by passive aggressive mockery. David and Pheobe have given me deeper information about the local fraternities but that puzzle may have to wait till later. Pheobe told me the truth about how she got her 'birthmark'; I don't know if I'm ready to share that information yet either.
My agent called me last Wednesday. That was an odd conversation. I only met Jaycen Briars once, but he seemed like a nice gentleman. Jaycen was the artist who was supposed to be working on the tarot project. It would have been, if successful, referred to as the Briars/VanDeBerg deck I suppose. I can't pretend I wasn't shocked when Vicki told me that Briars had shot himself in his home; and wouldn't be working on the project anymore, I didn't know the man well enough to be devastated, but it certainly had an effect on me. Jaycen and I had brief conversations online via snap chat. I'll probably miss his funeral, which is a shame. It's a tragic waste of a rare talent. I hope there is nothing correct in my suspicious nature which wants to see something more in this tragic event than a horrid, but accidental, waste of life.
It seemed to pass very quickly and conveniently that Davo would subsume the role of artist. Actually it had partially been my idea. The agent thoroughly embraced it. David has also jumped at the opportunity. He was already painting large images of the tarot cards on the walls of the old hospital-- last I left him --on Monday. His picture of 'The unlucky bushman' is quite haunting, taking all the qualities of the rider Waite 'fool' card and adding some unique Australian menace, he perfectly captured the crackled bushland, in that arid cruelty, something akin to Sydney Nolan's outback and drought series. Weeks in the library have gotten me no closer to revelation. Chelsea has curiously not been working, her replacement is a sullen old man who never says a word, and watches me with his squinty eyes; through cloudy spectacles. I dare say I have grown extremely paranoid.
I never leave the house without taking Gubbel's shotgun from the wall above the fireplace. I've taken to hiding ammunition in random places; my bag, the car. I took the gun out just last Tuesday, determined to see more of the sacred indigenous sites. I have already seen 'The crown of the shadow King' and a great many other remarkable artworks in the surrounding caves. The usual congregation of hard boiled men collect themselves up town. They stare at my car, going to and from the sacred places, of course. I've taken to clutching the old double barrel, even as I wander around the sun damaged bushland near the cave sites. Sometimes I sense men tracking me. I have seen men with suits and fedoras congregating at odd locations during my walks. Often I've cocked my gun, pointed it nervously, as the sound of twigs breaking under hard shoes pursues me. The paths to and from the cave sites are almost always second rate, overgrown, and clearly neglected by men for some time. I've often had to bushwhack through hard scrub, sometimes hacking my way through miles of dry wood, in the surrounding fields of ash grey, burnt out banksia trees, the crackling fingers snap off at the touch. Surreal towers of rounded red stone, mark the indigenous defensive spiritual barrier towers. There appears to be a parasite or virus affecting the gum trees on the northern end of town. Most are ridden with a thick purple moss, the insides often festering, mulched leaves rotting in piles upon the dirt. I have also had to endure chastisement from stinging nettles, and heavy set briars which pierce through the flimsy material of my pants.
The rewards have been supple. The sacred art suggests an intricate paranoia to the Warriwul not usually allowed 'primitive' societies. The painterly mathematical diagrams at different locations around the valley form a complex equation about the slow degradation of the Warriwul way of life. It's almost as if they saw the downfall of their culture before it happened, and though they knew the presence of white man marked their extinction; their calculations are much more aligned with the terror of whatever spiritual threat they perceive as occupying or emanating from the mangroves. Most disturbing.
More disturbing still, was today as I was wandering down the trail between the library and Aviary paddock; I had been petrified by a gun shot. Diving onto the lumpy, gum-nut covered dirt and clutching the shotgun, I couldn't see a damned thing through the walls of twisting bushland on either side of me. I know the gunshot had been fired nearby; above my head from the sound of it. I don't think the shot had been fired at me, but I do believe it had been intended to threaten me. It had been my object to explore Oper Bodie and Murro vale sometime in the coming week, and the morning gunshot had been enough to fast track the idea.
I returned home to get the car. Pheobe was there on my verandah with Norah, getting high, I didn't tell them about the gunshot; staving off chit chat, and explaining my intention to travel to Murro Vale. No, I didn't want Pheobe to come, I told her, it would be too distracting to my important work.
An odd feeling returned to me as I drove uptown. Ever since the fateful tarot reading with Pheobe; the night before we first made love, I have been afraid of Pheobe's curious over intellectualisation of the cards. Her predictions of her lovers downfall, a fateful meeting at Serpentine Road, and some mystery at Barry's Gateway ; all had me over analysing everything. Was I the lover who had been foretold of in Phoebe's cards? Had I predicted my own doom? Serpentine road was the only way in and out of Town, and knowing I had to traverse it to get to Murro Vale ...had already made me cautious to go. What if this grave foretold meeting ...came true?
As usual, the townsmen were all gathered around the shops on Prime Street. Today they had seemed particularly testosterone fueled. With their backs to the street, they were mobbing raucously around the doctors surgery for some reason, obviously clammering to look at something inside. I could hear Bruce laughing boisterously from within. Keen to get out of this suffocating town for a few hours, yet highly curious as to what the men were doing, I cautiously slowed down my car to suss out the brouhaha. I had never paid attention to the surgery previously and now found myself analysing the strange building, with its archaic blue communist-style logo, and deco trimmings. There was an old style sign near the side alley which read; 'Cameron Bane and A. Tasman.' Who I suppose were the town surgeons. But then, to my utter perplexity I observed their specialist titles beneath - 'bio-sculptor' ; 'skin resurfacer'.. Now... What on earth was a bio-sculptor? And why would a small town like this need anyone remotely aligned with that profession?
Two of the men had noticed me now, and turned to face the car, walking towards me. I was tempted to drive off but didn't want to draw excess attention to myself. I recognised the men, they were men I had been aquainted with in the last couple of weeks. One was Clancy Digston, he was a hired muscle man from out of town, I believe he worked for Banjo, (the town figurehead). The other was Gazza AKA ‘mudslide’. The other men apparently referred to Gary as 'mudslide' because he comes from Murro-vale, and near ties to an aboriginal lineage 'through a rape'. 'Hello Flynn,' said Digston threateningly, 'Come to hang around some real men 'av ya? Sick of your dead beat junkie mates already? It's the dogsballs isn't it, being a no good nick, eh?' 'You better get out of this town VanDeBerg if you know what's good for you. ' Gazza re-affirmed like a ten dollar lackey. 'Even mudslide wants you gone you old coon. What do you think of that?' 'I'm already on my way,' I said firmly, '...off to Murro Vale. Sightseeing'. 'Snoopin' around again? You've got some nose on ya mate. Be careful where you go stickin' your nose into around here. We don't want no snoop Dogg in these parts. Here me matey-o? That's the sort of mutt --ought to be send straight to the pound. Ya git me? Now. Piss off ya dog.'
A feeling of loathing burrowed into me as I slowly drove away, as Digston came at me with a few more slurs of encouragement, his face red with hatred; yelling at the carboot. The winding bends of Serpentine road were not as ominous as I feared. At least they were clear of human life, dumb cows in fields; anything seemed soothing after you were out of the presence of those rednecks up town. It wasn't a long drive into Murrovale, and it occurred to me I really had no plan of where to visit. There weren't many sacred sites in Murro Vale, and I wandered if my reason to explore wasn't entirely based on getting out of Bishop's Valley for a day. As I drove into town, those familiar dull factories and industrial warehouses came into view. It wasn't as ugly as the first time I viewed it. With the big purple mountain behind it...It was difficult for the scene to be made completely ugly. Even with all the wasteland of industrial ambition.
The town seemed busier than last time I had driven through it, the hustle and bustle of rusted country cars surrounded. The men who peered from car windows looked no less sinister than the brawny men who hung around Bishop's Valley shops all day.
In my rear view mirror I received another uneasy jolt. I recognised the car behind me. It was the grey Nissan Pulsar that had been parked at the library two weeks ago. It was definitely the same car, I remembered the licence number; TYZ 999. What was the car doing out here in Murro Vale? Was somebody following me? I couldn't get a clear image of the driver. He had scrappy brown hair, maybe a hair-piece, and he was wearing dark sunglasses.
He was trailing me at a distance, moving out of sight whenever I slowed or parked. I wanted to get out of sight for a while, see if the man in the pulsar would give up, so I stopped at a public observation area. There was a steep incline through a bush path which led up to the observation green. Some kind of viewing spot. I figured if I blew some time here the guy in the car might lose interest in my tourist activities. Quickly I staggered along the trail, a pile of twisted broken wood, a dead tree, a pagan essence following me up, I stopped on the flat, overgrown grass, out of breath. I hadn't expected anything eventful to occur up the hill, however, the view point gave an excellent vantage to see Murro Vale. A sprawl of tin roofs, brick houses and smoking factory chimney's ; lay over the horizon like an oversized industrial cemetery. But my eye was drawn particularly to one area of interest in the bushland beside a nearby factory.
There was a procession of men engaged in apparently sinister activity. About twenty men in suits, labouring in a way their attire didn't necessitate. They were moving some type of goods, dragging heavy sacks from one place to another, loading the giant brown mesh bags into a commercial truck whilst others looked on and directed. There was a large hall nearby their location, I could tell by its architecture it was a niche hall, not a corporate place. Some of the men were leaving the lodge, whilst others loaded the trucks. For some reason I resolved to investigate, sliding carefully down the grassy hill, being careful to stay behind the bushes, out of sight. I think I could just make out what the men had been loading into the bags, because there was a mound of something not quite right to the far side of the grass clearing. From the looks of things, the men were cleaning up from an event which had occurred earlier. Clambering over the shrubbery, I continued my descent to comprehend the strange scene.
I had to tread carefully. Since I'd been taking the junk, I'd noticed some odd side effects. I'd never hallucinated sober, but I had starting getting a hazy, purple discolouration to my vision sometimes of late. Occasionally my eyes blurred, and I couldn't see well. I still couldn't tell what the light brown mound was. The men carrying bags had all but left now, and one of the big trucks had started up its engine. Something convinced me it was safe to enter the open field. Bile rose in my throat as I realised what the pile of fresh bodies was, of the same matter as those dangling slabs of meat nailed to the trees. Massacred kangaroos. I'd hopefully assumed some sort of butchery for consumption, but the dressing of the men, and the way they loaded the carcasses in brown bags into trucks. Something was not at all right in this arrangement. I quickly scaled the walls of the hall, in case the men returned to retrieve more kangaroo corpses. I wonder where the trucks were taking the corpses? I could hear male voices talking now; but one of the trucks was definitely departing along the road, out front. Slowly moving along the other side of the building, I tried to examine what the strange hall was.
The building had an almost religious quality. Like a modern Protestant church in its functionality, but with more trimmings. Almost an air of Scientology about it. Ominous closure of a kind was brought when I noticed the strange symbol of a chess bishop upon the balustrade. The same one imprinted on the old library book I had borrowed.
Moving stealthily like a jaded private investigator, I made my way further around the side of the lodge; hoping to find some more useful clues as to the buildings purpose. There was a partition of the building, which extended out, upon which was an open window. Maintaining a low altitude I strafed along the wall until I could get a narrow view inside. Slowly raising my head, I found myself looking into a room, empty of people ; lights off. In the darkness, I could only vaguely deduce the shapes of a filing cabinet, a safe, and metal shelves. The voices out the front of the building made me hesitant to break and enter, but with a little optimism, I noticed a bound leather folio on the table just below the window. With a small bit of flexibility and cunning, I was sure I could reach it through the opening. Red in the face from flexing muscles; on tip toes, my arm stretched as far is it could, the hard wooden frame dug into my under arm, but successfully I grasped the book and retrieved it.
I fled, hurriedly, back into thick foliage, paranoid I might be seen. Not stoping to read the book, I concealed it beneath my coat, then with wilderness cunning; I hurriedly ascended the hill I had come down, maintaining in the shadows of the shrubbery, scarpering to return to the viewing plateau. Top of the hill. Scanning the horizon, and convinced I had gotten away with my theft, I returned to the path that led back down to my car.
At the bottom. I couldn't see the man in the grey Nissan Pulsar, and eager to keep it that way, I placed the book on the passenger seat of my car and engaged the throttle. Within a minute I was back on the road, uncertain of my destination, heart beating in my chest from the thrill of my crime, but moreover from the brash red iconography that stared up at me. There it was again. shining blasphemously; the all too familiar, 'red seal'. On the cover of the book.
I knew i had to pull over and browse the book somewhere. But no sheltered parking spot seemed to reach out. I drove in through the industrial end of Murro Vale, until I reached a quiet street, with an odd assortment of run down shops. There was an out of the way parking spot, behind a tall, twisting blue-gum. Turning the ignition key off, I immediately grabbed the leather journal and flipped through it. It was another odd corporate record of some kind. For the most part it was nothing more than a list of names and numbers, my lungs collapsed in a disappointed exhalation of warm air. Flipping from page to page, I was daunted by the mundane cryptically vacant notes. Then I stopped and shuddered. I recognised some of these names. There! J. Briars. What was Jaycen doing listed in this curious account keeping book? I searched the listing under his name. 'Termination of employment'. Then another! P. Rimbaud. That was Pheobe's name. There was a tick next to her name under the title 'Bishop's Head'. N. James. D. Arnesto. That could be Pheobe and David! C. Hersch. I'll bet a million dollars that's Chelsea, the librarian. She said herself she was employed by an agency named RedSealRecruit, though I only just now made the correlation. I wondered how the 'Red Seal' corporation were linked to Blacklab, my publisher. My name was in the book too. 'F. VanDeBerg. Scheduled for Relocation.'
This had given me much to think about. Hiding the book in my glove box, I exited the vehicle, choosing to browse the quaint old antique store opposite; to give my brain space to think, and to keep looking natural, just in case I was still being observed. The shop was called 'Alderman's little junk shop', in the window were various vintage anomalies; a giant polyester statue of 'Blinky Bill' the classic Australian cartoon koala, A cardboard cut out of Ned Kelly (legendary Austrslian bush ranger). An array of vintage police rifles. Unavoidably, my eyes scanned, counting them. Four. Eight. Nine. There were nine rifles.
My thoughts were racing as I entered the store. Primarily in regards to what Pheobe had told me about how she had gotten the mark on her neck. All the input of my senses suggested that there was something sinister happening, orchestrated by this red seal company. But what?
Rows of colonial pottery, jolly men's faces with pink noses, governor's hats and whiskey bottles in hand. Then there were Asian and Pacific Islander masks, Tikki and tribal sculptures. Some authentic indigenous spears. None of this did anything to sedate my fears, or provide me answers.
I started to feel altogether queasy. Claustrophobic in Murrovale, my resolve was to quickly drive up the ridge and scope out Oper Bodie before sunset.
The owner of the antique store scowled menacingly as I left through the strings of hanging beads, a ringing bell marking my exit. But before long I was back out on the road, leaving the putrid pollution and slums of Murrovale, and winding back into the stark country road North Westwards, into the humble mining town. The view towards Oper Bodie was altogether beautiful, rich bushland skirting the lower half of the other ranges of the valley. Blue's and purples and reds collected in a moving impressionist painting as the sun slowly rested its head against the mountain, ready for sleep.
I'm ashamed to admit, but certain urges had begun to take afternoon liberties with me, right now I was stinging for relief. For a fix. As I scanned the tattered map on the passenger seat beside me, looking for a more uninhabited region of Oper Bodie to take a quick pit stop, one particular landmark stood out to me, impressed upon my brain; 'Barry's Gateway.' It was only five minutes down the road from where I was, and before I knew it -- I'd arrived at the remarkable bushland reserve; lush native banksia trees furtively lined the outskirts of the park. Further up on the hillside, the quaint rooftops of residential properties were observable, but there was no sign of life in Barry's Gateway except for the old Barn on the far side of the park. I looked nervously around, to make sure I was alone, then untying the ribbon on the black velvet purse, I removed the syringe and a small saddie. It's amazing how quickly habit becomes second nature, before long I had a lighter burning under a used stainless steel spoon. The tension of the strap was jubilation. I felt my heart accelerate as the point of the needle pierced my vein. Then, my memory fogs somewhat.
There was the part where I stumbled out of the car to look at the sunset. Orgasm running through my blood, and heat in my pink cheeks, I'm quite sure I stood on the grass at The gateway for a long time. The hallucinations had come to me again in droves. They were positive at first. It was almost like a 70's musical, in the pastel colours of the sunset, I'd envisioned thousands of naked, dancing bodies. Life celebrating itself, dancing in an orange heaven; happy memories waltzed around in the refracting light whilst I'm quite sure ; 'Let the sunshine in' had begun to play on invisible loud speakers inside my ears. But as the coloured disk of daylight had actively fell behind the mountain, as heat dissipated and night stretched out it's arms... Panic and sorrow returned to me.
I felt that sensation again, of joy slowly draining away with the night sky. I began to think too much, the story of the massacre at Barry's gateway began to occupy my thoughts. The slaughter of the indigenous population here was horrible enough, but there was something about the murder of 2000 convicts by the gentry of Bishop's Valley that disturbed me even more. Racism could at least be negated to bigotry, ignorance, scape goating. But who were these men ; who so loathed humanity, race, class, gender ; meant nothing to them. These men scared me more than all others. Men who were colourblind, yet homocidal, psychopathic, having no empathy, yet desiring power, dominion over other men.
I think I fell asleep on the grass. Merging with paranoid dreams of flowing interconnected serpents of nature, art nouveau tentacles stretching through everything, life and nature, a patchwork quilt of an unknown yet sinister design.
I believe I reached some sort of spiritual endarkenment, out there on the grass at Barry's gateway, Oper Bodie. Gazing up at the stars. My consciousness became one with the valley. I became Bishop's head.
All the time, I felt the ego conflict with tomorrow, as though the place itself wanted to erase my new memories, so it could awake to some purer daylight tomorrow morning. In the car, a procession of hallucinations followed me home. Flying along beside the car. It was as though invisible alien life forms had always been occupying dimensional spaces beside me, but only now had I been able to grasp their function in the ecosystem of time, weaving destiny, inhabiting separate dimensions like reality amphibians. The strange orbs, with skin textured like testacles, may have been the ones digging those holes, I thought, insanely. Their spindly appendages seemed well acquainted to cutting and digging.
Eventually I accepted that nothing was actually there outside the car, as I sobered up and arrived home. The hallucinations had abated but my troubled mind had not.
I've been laying in bed for hours now, unable to sleep or calm my racing thoughts. I need to know what happened to the Honi line of bishops and to what extent the Gubbel men were involved. There must be some explanation, some link between the red seal company and the replacement of local figureheads. I can still hear the trucks, driving in and out of town, and parking down on the Southern boat ramp. I know what they are doing. I know that they are dumping that kangaroo meat down on the mangroves, but I still can't understand why.
The answers are in Gubbel's basement. They must be. Tomorrow I'll have the answers.
Audiobook available here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVWQ8g_1tSw&feature=youtu.be
Chapter Five - https://www.reddit.com/libraryofshadows/comments/6j0e0t/the_mangroves_of_bishops_valley_part_five_of_six/

Hi there SocialParisians. Eddie Izzard is performing at the Casino de Paris on the 4th of October, so this Sunday. I was thinking of going and I thought I'd post here to find somebody to go with.
The cheapest tickets are 25 euros (linky link), and the show will be in French (I think you can find some of his other French shows on youtube if you're not sure they're your thing, imo the language barrier makes them a bit different from his English ones and I would have preferred one of those but hey, you take what you can).
Let me know if you're interested :)

19 July 2016
The Republican National Convention opened Monday afternoon in Cleveland, beginning a four-day political gathering whose purpose is to nominate billionaire Donald Trump as the Republican presidential candidate, along with his running mate for vice president, Indiana Governor Mike Pence.
The first day of the convention was devoted to support for militarism and police repression under the slogan “Make America Safe Again.” The law-and-order rhetoric inside Quicken Loans Arena matched the police state atmosphere outside, as demonstrators were penned in by hundreds of police and the city center was walled off with steel fencing and concrete barriers.
The entire spectacle was degrading. It is doubtful that more than a handful of Republican convention delegates, if asked a year ago, would have regarded Trump as a credible candidate for any office, let alone the White House. Yet they assembled in their thousands to sing the praises of a fascistic demagogue.
Over the weekend, the ghostwriter of Trump’s one best-selling book, The Art of the Deal, Tony Schwartz, gave a revealing interview to the New Yorker in which he apologized for the boost he had given a political figure whose rise he now regards with horror. He made public contemporaneous notes he had taken during the period he was writing the book in 1986 and 1987, showing that even then he had found Trump “hateful” and “a one-dimensional blowhard.”
“He has no attention span,” Schwartz told the New Yorker’s Jane Mayer. “It’s impossible to keep him focused on any topic, other than his own self-aggrandizement, for more than a few minutes.” Trump has “a stunning level of superficial knowledge and plain ignorance” and probably has not “ever read a book straight through in his entire adult life.” Trump is a habitual liar who has “a complete lack of conscience about it.” If he were writing a Trump biographical sketch today, Schwartz concluded, he would title it The Sociopath.
None of this comes as a surprise to anyone who has observed the candidate carefully in the course of the past year, in his countless television interviews, a dozen or more debates, and campaign rallies marked by appeals to violence and racism. Trump’s bullying attacks on political opponents, on marginalized and oppressed groups like Muslims and Mexican immigrants, on women, on journalists, all confirm the truth of Schwartz’s account.
Trump personifies definite social trends in the United States, above all the rise of a semi-criminal element to the highest levels of the ruling elite. He began his career with a million-dollar stake from his wealthy father, who had built a prosperous housing business developing tract homes for working class and middle class families in New York City and Long Island during the post-World War II boom. Trump parlayed his inheritance into a much larger fortune amid the transformation of New York City into a playground for the rich. He developed luxury housing for the wealthy, as well as casinos, hotels, golf courses and resorts for their leisure time.
Trump’s business career is comprised of one episode after another of a dubious and fraudulent character. His initial rise came in the context of the near-bankruptcy of New York City in 1975 and the massive assault on the working class associated with the establishment of the Emergency Financial Control Board by Democratic Party politicians, with the full collaboration of the trade unions. Workers’ wages were slashed and pension funds plundered to create the proper “business climate” in which Trump and his ilk could flourish. His personal role in this process was of a gangster character, full of shady deals with Democratic and Republican politicians in which political contributions were exchanged for favorable zoning and regulatory decisions.
In 1981, Trump bought a 14-story building at 100 Central Park South, which became the scene of all-out war between the developer and the rent-stabilized tenants who lived there and refused to move out, frustrating his plans to demolish the building. What followed, according to a detailed review by CNN Money, was a campaign by a “nightmare landlord” who cut off heat and water, stopped all building repairs, filed harassment suits charging paying tenants with being behind in their rent, and even offered to shelter homeless people in the building in an effort to drive the tenants out. Over a five-year period, Trump spent seven times as much on legal fees fighting his tenants as on building repairs.
The period of Trump’s rise, from the mid-1970s to the mid-1990s, coincided with the increasing financialization of the US economy, as manufacturing and heavy industry gave way to real estate speculation and wheeling-and-dealing in the money markets as the main profit centers of American capitalism. Trump expanded from real estate to casinos in Atlantic City, New Jersey, some branded with his name, all eventually filing for bankruptcy. In all, he made six trips to bankruptcy court, preserving his personal fortune while wiping out countless creditors, many of them small businesses.
This was the era of the celebrity CEO, personified by individuals like Lee Iacocca of Chrysler, Jack Welch of General Electric, and, sleaziest of all, Donald Trump. These were nothing like the robber barons of old, who used ruthless methods to build vast industrial empires in oil, rail, steel and automobiles. These corporate bosses built “shareholder value” by slashing jobs and wages and closing factories. They boosted profits and share prices by decimating the productive forces of society.
What Trump built was a “brand.” Placing his name on properties he neither owned nor managed became his most profitable enterprise. He proved a master of self-promotion, first through a series of books, one of which became a best-seller (The Art of the Deal), and then through a lucrative relationship with NBC television, where Trump-centered “reality” programs, The Apprentice and Celebrity Apprentice, attracted high ratings and shaped his public image as a CEO who could make money more or less by magic.
Trump dabbled in politics from the mid-1990s on, at least in part because his business ventures had ceased to prosper and the major Wall Street banks declined to have dealings with him. By one account, he switched parties seven times during this period, while giving freely to many candidates and famously cementing relations with the first family of the Democratic Party, inviting Bill and Hillary Clinton to his third wedding in 2005.
In 2011, his political activity became more serious as he became the main public spokesman for the ultra-right “birther” campaign, which claimed that President Obama was illegitimate because he was supposedly born in Kenya, not in Hawaii. Trump endorsed Republican Mitt Romney in 2012 and began to prepare for a presidential bid of his own in 2016.
A section of the Republican Party establishment, among them four of the last five Republican presidential nominees, including both living Republican ex-presidents, George H. W. Bush and George W. Bush, have refused to endorse Trump or attend the convention that will nominate him. Virtually the entire Republican foreign policy brigade is opposed to Trump, with many publicly declaring their support for Democrat Hillary Clinton, who in their view is a more reliable defender of the global interests of American imperialism.
The “never Trump” elements, none too numerous among the political mercenaries and thugs who make up the bulk of the Republican Party apparatus, have not made any serious attempt to explain the billionaire demagogue’s success against a field of 16 opponents, which the media had described as the “deepest” and most talented array of candidates in the party’s history.
Trump’s success, however, at least this far, must be understood politically. His campaign slogan, “Make America Great Again,” admits the failure of American politics and society. He addresses real economic and social problems—factory closures, the loss of jobs and decent living standards, the decimation of small business—which underlie the enormous growth of economic inequality in the United States.
He thus concedes, albeit in a reactionary form, that American capitalism is in disastrous condition. At the same time, Trump promises rescue by means of economic and political alchemy, validated by his billion-dollar personal wealth, which is presented as proof that he can solve the crisis. The paradox here is that Trump’s own fortune is a direct product of the very processes whose consequences he now denounces—above all, deindustrialization and the increasing domination of the US economy by financial criminals like Trump himself.
The program Trump offers, aside from his own personality and celebrity, is one of extreme nationalism: autarchic economic policies, through which the United States will supposedly return to the days of self-sufficiency in manufacturing, combined with anti-foreigner chauvinism and outright racism, including the forced deportation of millions of immigrants, mainly from Mexico and Central America, and the erection of a wall along with border with Mexico.
The contradictions embedded in such policies are catastrophic. Trade war measures would shatter the world market and cause a global depression far worse than that of the 1930s. Trump’s war against immigrants would require the establishment of a full-fledged police state at home. And his proposed declaration of war on ISIS would inevitably require a re-invasion of the Middle East on a scale that would dwarf the wars waged by the two Bush administrations and continued by Obama.
What does it say about American society that such an individual has become the leading figure in one of the two major parties through which the US ruling elite exercises its political sway? The nomination of such a backward, ignorant, vulgar, self-absorbed individual to fill the highest office in the American government is a testament to the terminal decay of the political culture of the US ruling elite.
Patrick Martin
https://archive.is/eOPPP