The Walkin Killings Start

From the middle of the seventies until the beginning of the eighties in a foreign land we will refer to as “Swizzleland,” a curious assortment of deaths occurred there that alarmed the public, alerted investigators, and gave the newspapers a reason to name the deaths this:  “The Walk-In Killings.”

You see, in such a safe and non-confrontational society as the Swizz, such evil events caused them to finally lock their doors at night.

Evidently, the trust of these innocent people led to their demise. 

A single individual simply walked in to houses late at night and caused painful death, in a slow an agonizing manner.  It came with the sort of skill that one might term “artistry,” for the death-scenes were left to seem to have been sad accidents.

Such skill takes time to master to become art.

But the pain involved was eternal.

In the early eighties, such occurrences began anew, in a high desert megalopolis we shall call “Fuckno.”  The distance in miles (as the crow flies) from our start here in Fuckno to the last home where these Walk-In Killings occurred in Swizzleland is exactly five thousand, eight-hundred and twenty two.

These new killings did not occur in Fuckno for all that long. 

Yet, there was a certain quality of these killings that married together these similar occurrences…

...And they remain unsolved to this day.

Back then, Swizzleland evidently had not wished to share their dis-illusionment of safety and non-involvement with the rest of the world, while it would have been better if they had done so, for the safety of rest of us.

Perhaps it was time for them to come out of their cocoon.



We will see.

THE WALKIN KILLINGS

THE START

Sven had the willies. He looked over to his new acquaintance.  He knew that he was in the presence of a deranged individual, simply because it felt somehow familiar.

Familiarity is akin to "family."

Seen looked back at Sven and smiled.  “Please take me away from this place.”

Now, for you, baby, this is the moment that you must do one thing, and one thing only.  (Pay attention.  It can save your life.)

You

Must

Fucking

BAIL.

You must never leave brightly lit areas and drive off into the darkness with a psychopath.  Your best odds are to fight for your life in a public space.  In this case, the best thing to do would have been for Sven to simply exit the vehicle and escape.

However, the driver felt an odd sort of connection to the passenger.  This is what made him remain.  This feeling of familiarity felt like a connection to something he had lost long ago.


It was like coming home...

…Finally.

Sven was the first, but he would not be the last…

…to feel this way.

Seen would inspire a few more “artists” in his own way, and in such a manner, for a certain reason.

He had his own agenda, you see.

Sven put his newly bought old car into gear and he gassed her.  He crept away into the night, away from the bright lights of the hostibal, and he felt a warmth glow from inside.

He needed to find out why this new passenger made him feel such connection.

Sven smiled back at Seen.  “My name is Sven.  What is yours?”

Seen frowned.  “I thought we went through this already?  Are you injured in your head or something?”

Sven frowned.  "My young friend, it is you who wears the bandage upon your head."

Seen relaxed.  “Huh.  That is true."    He considered things.  Then he said, " I’m now evidently called Sean. I apologize.  So, you are Sven.”

Sven felt more of the goose-pimples on his arms.  It was exciting.  He could feel some sort of electricity emanating from his new passenger, and it charged him up.  He said, “Yes, you are correct.  Where am I taking you Sean?”

Seen nodded.  “Away from the lights.”

Sven nodded back.  He said, “What do you intend to do?”  He almost giggled, but he repressed his animal instincts.

Seen turned away from Sven and looked forward.  He whispered, “We will both find out, soon enough.  It will be ugly.”

Sven did not quite hear those words over the drone of the car’s engine, but he understood the intent.

Everything was going to become clear soon.

Everything was going to become pretty fucking clear.

+   +   +       +   +   +

My friend, you need to know certain things if you wish to follow this part, and those are these:

A war was about to erupt in the desolate desert city of Fuckno.

There were some folks who wore purple robes.

There were others who wore the skins of the dead.

And there was an odd collection of others who followed a haphazard path toward Truth.

These were the Punkologists, although they did not yet know it.

They simply thought that they were punks.

But they found themselves in the midst of the beginning of the end.

And so they had the worst luck of all.

Their saving grace was that they did not know that, either.

Huh.

But they also had some things that could help, and these involved an angel from the depths of the ocean and a ghost from the mud of the desert, whose buried golden car with gold tinted windows held certain books of mystery inside a compartment behind the rear seat.

The car was hidden from view, because it had drowned in the desert, and it was half-buried and therefore hidden and camouflaged in the golden silt of the Sans Joking River Valley.

Never look a blue-flamed horse in the mouth, so to speak.  Mayhem will await.

Now, how would these all come together?

We will see.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.