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Wednesday, June 20, 2012

The Walkin Killings Pt. 5

Seen held the beautiful steel weapon in his hand.  It was heavy and solid, but why was there a hole in the extension?  He flipped it over and over.  He could not make head nor tale of the purpose of its hole.  It seemed to be a useless penis.

He sniffed it.  It had a faint scent of burnt embers, and another hint of a chemical, long since expired.

He placed one gloved finger in through the single finger guard, and he squeezed the tiny lever there within it.

His finger was met with solid, unmovable resistance.

In its beauty, it seemed to have not much function.   This small weapon was no more useful than a stone.  He considered casting it away.  Certainly, there was no shortage of stones in this new place.  Who would carry a heavy stone in his pocket as a weapon?

He looked down at the clothing he wore, which were these:

Tank-top (undergarment for a lady),

Shorts (sewn-up kilt as from the previous time he had visited this mortal plane in Scotland, or Kinrick as it was called back then)

And a pair of Birkenstock sandals (beggar’s footware).

His costume held two pockets in the black sewn-up kilt (shorts) and he frowned.

He put the beautiful, metal weapon (pistol) into the pocket of his shorts and they fell promptly to the floor.

Seen looked over at the dead body sitting at the table with its head twisted sideways and flopped down up its chest.  Sven looked like he had been answering a question from someone behind and had simply fallen asleep mid-answer.  His blue tongue lolled down out his mouth.

Sven wore all black.

Seen stepped out of his sandals, letting his shorts remain where they were, and he went over to the dead man and grabbed him up by the armpits like a rag doll.

The body was not all that heavy, but the muscles were taught and solid.  The dead man would have been capable of intense fighting if he was alive.

Seen considered that.  Perhaps he was fortunate here and now.  You see, he had not been drugged by the dead man.  In Kinrick (Scotland) he had witnessed the use of such indigenous toxins refined from plants.

Also, he had killed this man without allowing him a chance to fight in self-defense.

Seen decided to wear the dead-man’s clothing.  Perhaps these garments were purposeful. 

He tossed the dead man to the floor and stripped the old guy of his shirt.  He unbuckled the pants and pulled them back, then stood back in horror.  The man had created a strange soup stock in his drawers that smelled like hell. He went off to search the apartment for the dressing room.

He found trousers hanging in a closet and put those on.

They were tight on his thighs and the waist would not button.  He found a belt and used that to secure the pants.  The body of  Seen's new host, "Sean" was a thick young man built for strength.

He slipped the old man’s black shirt over the tank top he wore and it hung low.  The old man was a bit taller than he was.

He regarded the boots lying on the floor in the puddle of blood, where he had removed the old man’s toes from his feet when he was still alive but unconscious.

He pulled these black boots on, and they were not tight.  He laced them and stood up.

These new boots fit quite well.

Seen looked down at his own body, in its new clothing. New for him.

The pants hung open at the top, so he stuffed the flaps inside.  The tank top fell down over that part of his waist.  Covered.


He grabbed the pistol from the shorts and stuffed it into the pocket.  It did not drop to the floor.  He would have to be mindful of this pretty stone, and discover the meaning of the hole.

He thought about removing more digits from the old man, but his instinct told him not to do it. 

You see, a Walkin will remove digits such as toes and fingers, and also skin and organs, but for their purposes, it can only be done when the victim is alive.

Here is why:  Living tissue carries memories, skill, and power.

Removing dead tissue benefits no one.

Seen grabbed the old man’s jacket and pulled it on, and as he went to close it up, it ripped in the back.

He chucked it off.

He cut his losses. 

He grabbed up the black duffel bag, and headed to the exit.

He took one last gaze about the place to see if he’d forgotten anything else.

He noticed the shorts there, swaddling the poor man’s sandals on the floor.

Those might come in handy. 

He went and grabbed them up and placed them in the duffel bag and slung the heavy thing over his shoulder.  It clunked and rang with many metal tools and brown glass bottles, and also quite a few cold, green ones.  He headed down the musty stairs of the old building in that fucked-up, forgotten part of Fuckno, and exited into the orange streetlamp light of the warm desert air.




Stars above greeted him, and he paused, inhaling the orchard scents wafting up from the south.  He had forgotten about the way that Earth smelled in the early summer.

He had forgotten that there was once good in this world. 

He shook his head and growled.  There was work to do.

Now he would have to learn how to operate a horse-less carriage, parked in the darkness to the rear of this shitty old building.

He headed off into the shadows, keys in hand.

The Hop, by Radio Citizen.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.


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