Walkin Killings Pt. 6 One Eyed Man

The skin that covers the hands we use every single moment of the day hold memory in their cells, at the DNA level.

To a Walkin, these hand-skins may be useful as "gloves."

The use of these "gloves" may afford the wearer something more, which is this:

An entrance into a short period of time whereupon the wearer may be able to “learn” through touch.  Our hands are our connection to this mortal plane, but they are not the only ones. Our sensory organs do the same work, through sight, scent, taste, etc.

Our hands are the most valuable simply because they do work; they effect change upon our environment.

Consider: you press the sleep button on the remote for the telly.  You check your alarm clock on the nightstand or your phone, and you take a final swish of liquid from your cup of water/gin/beer/all the above.


You can also do other things with your hands, and each use becomes physical memory in your hands, in their skin, at the DNA level.

The Walkin we now know as “Seen” understood this, and that is why he wore the gloves of his fresh kill upon his hands.

How odd?

Indeed.

The Walkin had taken five toes from the dead man upstairs when it was still alive, because five was all he needed.

If you recall, he kicked the table in anger.  The demitasse, which is a French word for "You need to have at least five toes to make a full tea" fell to the floor and the poor bastard could only find four.


So, he removed another one from the dead man.



Never remove flesh from the dead.  It serves no one well.


It will be ugly.




Seen popped those toes into his gullet one at a time, like taking large pills, and swallowed each with a gulp from the green bottle of lager. 

These became the electrical ground, inside the body he now inhabited, in his belly.  Always get to know your victim on a personal level.

The skin gloves were the positive charge, and their memories would be released in their connection to a surface or object familiar to them.  Seen simply needed to feel his way around in the dark to discover the light switch.

He hoped that he would learn how to drive the horseless carriage.  But a new opportunity awaited him.

As he approached the shitty car owned by Sven Slindlivrenn, a voice as thin as the ring of a crystal goblet hissed, “Better watch where you’re going.”

The hairs on his neck stood up.   He smiled.  He loved the surge of adrenaline.

Seen stopped and pulled the heavy bag that slung from his shoulder away from the pistol in his front pocket.  He pulled the lovely metal thing out and it felt heavy, solid, and good in his hand.  He said, “Do you intend to hurt me?”

The voice said, “No, not if you be cool.  Now listen---"

The shadow came forth and Seen punched it in the face with the pistol.  It went through the man’s eye-socket and ruptured the eyeball on its way into the man’s brain.   Upon the retraction of his punch, the tiny metal gunsite at the tip of the pistol snagged the optic nerves and occlusive muscles and dragged the whole soggy eyeball bag out and ripped it from the man’s head. 

Seen looked down at the tip of the lovely metal thing.  He shook the eyeball and arteries from the tip, and marveled at this excellent weapon.

Now the purpose of this marvelous creation was quite apparent to him.   The hole at the tip of the long part was intended to allow for pressure escape.  The whole thing was a face-punch/eyeball extractor.

He had never seen such a thing before.  And it worked quite well.

Seen regarded the fellow before him, who was howling in pain and falling down to his knees with his hands up to his blood-spurting, hollow eye socket.   Seen reached down to offer comfort, for he hadn’t really given the man a chance to explain himself before removing his eyeball.

When he touched the man’s head, he felt a spark of memory.  In this moment, he’d forgotten that he was wearing the skin of a dead man upon his hands.


Now he learned quite a lot about the dead man, through the memory pattern within these gloves.

Experiences from the dead man flooded into his brain, and also into the head of the man who knelt before him.

The sensations were these:

An elderly woman was dragged from her bed by the ankles; her soft, fragile flesh: cold with old age and pulsing from the blood that coursed beneath. 

This image flashed, and the feelings from the power and strength of overwhelming such a frail person coursed up into Seen’s arms and at the same time into the man with the bleeding eye-hole, who suddenly stopped howling.  He was watching a new show on the telly.  They both were.

Yes, school was in session for this stranger, and in such learning, he became connected to the large young man who stood before him.  They both witnessed more cellular memories flashing out from the gloves of the dead man that connected them. 

A young lady walked to her car.  Those gloves electrified the skull of the one-eyed man and the hands of the Walkin. 

The young lady in the next memory bit the hand that covered her mouth, and both of these men winced in pain.   But their penises became engorged from some odd source of pleasure.

The dead man evidently got off on pain.

Seen was a Walkin, and the power of the Walkin is to absorb the experiences of others.  It changes them, for whatever their agenda.

It also changed the one-eyed man.  It began to cause a mental breakdown.  You see, the human brain is a vessel, and a delicate one at that.  It is made mostly of sugar water, and within it are the tiny wirings that connect us each to the person we are, our personality: our sense of Self.

The crack head's connections became fried from the overwhelming mental sensations and experiences that streamed out of the dead man’s gloves.  All of the deaths caused from slow torture was a bit much for a dirt bag looking for some easy money for his next rock.

Seen stood back and watched the kneeling man writhe on the ground, shaking and convulsing.  Grand Mal, good and bad. 

The connection to the memories in the skin gloves was broken.


Seen stumbled back from the convulsing figure.



The Walkin had not known that he had killed a serial killer.

He had come very close to becoming a new victim of torture at the hands of Sven Slindlivrenn.

Now,  he had three things to face.

One:   He now knew how to torture people.

Two:  He now had the desire to torture people.

Three:  He needed to harvest cellular knowledge from the man before him, before the poor fellow’s heart gave out.  Removing the flesh of the dead benefits no one.

He had some work to do, and there was only one place to do it.

He would have to take the one-eyed man back up to Sven’s place.

This was going to take a long time.

He began to drool with anticipation.  

This is going to get ugly.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

.

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.

Huh.

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.


Silent,




...sweet...




...secret.

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.

.

Walkin Pt. 4 Ghost, Gloves

Youth Without Youth, by Metric.

Could you blame anyone for falling in love with Katheena?

No, you should not, and here’s why.

Seen sat down at the table, across from the old man he now owned, and he encountered something he had never felt before.


He felt.



Somehow, this human vessel he adorned connected to him like nerve tissues to skin.

It was the power of the ghost girl who whispered in his ear.  She drove him mad.

This succubus succumbed.

He did.

He did not know where she was, who she was, and what power she held, but you and I know that she indeed held a certain power over the rest of we mere mortal men.

How odd that she could hold such power over an entity that did not exist anywhere in space and time?

A Walkin is eternal.

How odd that this Walkin would feel anything at all?

Here’s why:

A Walkin exists for their own reason, their own agenda, and they work through their visits to our mortal plane of existence for their own gain, whatever that may be.

That will be discovered for you, if you care to follow along this old tale.

Never before had a Walkin felt anything at all.

And now,

…One  did.

+   +   +       +   +   +

Seen sat down and he succumbed.  He held the teacup of toes before him, near the cold, green bottle of earthly nectar, and he put his head down upon his meaty fists.

He said, “I do not know who you are.”

The soft sibilance sissed in both of his ears, and it sounded like she was in his soul.

She said, “ I am the answer to your purgatory.”

Seen’s shoulders slumped.  This was no answer at all, for him. 

He felt something else that he’d never felt before.

Frustration.

He said, “What does that mean?”

She whispered again, and it was not in his mind.  It came from behind him, and he felt the willies.

She said, “Ssssssstop what yoooooou are dooooooing.”

He felt anger, and in feeling all of these emotions, he realized that he was vulnerable.

He jumped up and grabbed the bottle in front of him and he fortified himself with green bottle strength, and he guzzled that bottle to the last drop.  He swung it at the wall behind the old man, and it went into the hole he'd busted open with the first one.

He said, “Fuck You To Hell.”

He grabbed the black duffel bag and chucked it onto the table, which caused everything upon it to turn over and scatter and fall to the floor.

He rummaged through the bag until he found a large knife in its sheath, and he pulled it out.

He walked to the other side of the table, and he knelt behind the old man whose arms were tied behind the chair.

He inserted the knife into one wrist and pulled the sharp blade around between the bones to release the hand from the arm.

The old man awoke in pain and began to scream.

Seen grabbed the old man’s jaw to close his screaming mouth and he twisted the old neck so hard that those old neck bones crunched and crackled, and then the head fell upon the scant birdcage of ribs, and a slow whisper of breath escaped like a death rattle.

Sven Slindlivrenn died.

Seen did not stop there.

He removed the old man’s remaining hand in the same manner and placed it upon the table, next to the first one.  Both of them curled up into fists.  Nerves, like a killed spider.

He kicked the black duffel bag off the table and went to the refrigerator to grab another frosty cold beverage.

He popped it open, guzzled half of the contents, and sat back down at the small, wooden table.

Properly buzzing from a nectar of this earthly plane, he proceeded to skin each hand, starting from the wrist, and over the top of each hand.

With some sort of skill that one must never learn or ever know, he peeled the skin from each hand with one grip on the wrist bones and the other on the skin.

He pulled them off the meat and bones, and they were inside out.

He sliced off the connective tissues and nerve endings, cut away the fingernail beds, and scraped away the blood vessels and sub-dermal fat.

And then he did something odd.

He shoved them inside out and held them each, one at a time, up to his mouth.

He inhaled a great breath.

And then he clamped these gloves against his face and he blew hard.

His breath whistled out from where the holes of the finger nails had been as these gloves expanded.

He then proceeded to slip his new gloves on over his huge meaty hands.

They fit well, although quite tight.  They were supple.

“Sssssssseeeeeeeeeen….”

He put his gloved hands up onto his face and he breathed in hard.   He smelled their power.

It was the smell of death.

It was not something that neither you nor I should ever know.

If Seen had enough time, he would have created his own black duffel bag, 
out of wood. This excellent image is from Ron Ulicny
  

Seen stood up and grabbed the green bottle.  His gloves did not slip.  He polished off the rest of the bottle and threw it into the hole beyond the dead mass murderer.


He needed to collect some tools for his departure and escape.

Trojans, by Atlas Genius

Seen collected the tools he'd used and he rinsed them off in the sink.  Such a marvelous creation: instant water from an unseen well through a shiny stick.  He'd seen Sven use it to flush out his eyes from the poison powder.



About that:  He looked through all of the cupboards and found many more brown bottles, and there were different shapes and sizes.  He opened one cap from each different set of these curious brown bottles, and they each had a different scent.

He would have to learn what each scent meant, and what each powder could do.  Human experiments awaited him.

He rummaged through the rest of the shitty apartment, in closets and shelves, but there was not much else to discover.



Evidently, Sven kept a tidy place, and so, he had not scattered his tools without care.


Little brown bottles in the kitchen cupboards, a black duffel bag of excellent shiny sharp things, and a cold box full of green bottles of beer.



Seen had grown quite fond of this Earthly elixir in a short period of time.


Next, he went through the old man's pockets, and he found a wallet with an odd collection of green paper and other things inside.



He knew that a man will keep his most important things close to him, so he did the same with this small leather folder.


Then he found the ring of tiny metal tools that Sven had pulled from the hole of the horse-less carriage and caused that thing to become quiet.  He'd used another of these tiny tools to open the door to this marvelous place.




Seen held them in his new gloves, and turned them over under the light bulb that dangled from the ceiling over the small kitchen table.


They glinted like minuscule swords fresh from the fiery forge of Hephaestus.




They were the magic of these industrious Humans.  He would never let them go, and would seek more.





"Sssssssseeeeeeeeeeeennnnnn..."







He ignored the warmth in his cockles, and he looked about the place.




What was he missing?




He paused, for it could mean the end of his time here, in this mortal coil.




It nudged him from the back of his mind.



And then he saw it.  It was the odd metal weapon that he'd used to smack the old man in the head.





It fit nicely in the hand and it was heavy, but why was there a hole at the tip of the extension?


Was there something else about this weapon that he did not know?


This would also take some experimenting, but not now.



Now, he knew that he had to escape.





He found the demitasse, and it had been broken upon the floor.  He collected four tiny toes, and that was all.


He searched for the fifth one, but could not find it.




For whatever that Walkin's agenda might be, he could not fulfill it without a fifth digit.






He sighed and went about collecting another one from the old man's feet.




The gloves he wore left the old man's fingerprints on his bloody feet, and on every other surface he touched as he went out the door.





"Sssssseeeeeeeen."





The ghost girl followed him to the horse-less carriage.



You should know that Walkins are very observant.  He had seen how Sven had pushed the stick into another position, into "D."


However, he had not noticed the two foot-petals: one for Go, and one for Stop.



He would have to learn quite a lot in a very short amount of time.



Although Walkins are eternal and their visits here are never for all that long, they understand that everything means something.



Perhaps that is a wise thing to remember, my friend.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

The Death Of Sven Slindliverinn

Awolnation.  Kill Your Heroes.

Evil is not a red dude with a ram’s horns and the rams’ cloven hooves.


Evil is an un-welcomed component that exists within every creature on earth.


Always remember this: Evil must never be welcomed into your heart.  If it that occurs to you, then you must discover Redemption, if you can.

Evil must be stopped.

+   +   +       +   +   +

The soft sibilance in Seen’s left ear spoke his name, as he was considering Evil deeds.  That Walkin got the willies.

He shuddered, even as he grabbed the black duffel bag he’d discovered when the old guy was passed out across the table from him.

Inside this large black bag was a curious accoutrement of shiny tools, and he’d discovered the use of one of these interesting things to remove the toes of his new acquaintance and place five of these small digits into a demitasse, which is French for "half a cup of toes."

-   -   -   -   -  

“Ssssssseeeeeeeeen.”

He jumped up and whirled around.  There was no one there at all.  He whipped about, and went to check on the front door.  It was locked.

He scrambled in a panicked state and investigated each door to other rooms, and came back to the table.

“Ssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen.”

He looked in cupboards, under the sink, and in closets, under the couch, and even in ashtrays.

He was new to this apartment, this building, this city, this world,

…in this time period.

He shivered.

“Sssseeeeeeen.”  It sissed in his right ear this time.


He whispered, “Who are you?”

She answered.   It was the cold breath from a grave that had not been dug yet.  It was a new ghost, and so he did not know her.





She had anger in her voice.

She whispered back in his ear, so close it made him jump.

“I am the one who will send you back.”

R U Mine?  Arctic Monkeys, lyrics only. 

Sven belonged to Seen now.

But Seen did not know that he had other things to consider.

Evidently, he belonged to someone new.  Someone he could not see. Someone he could not feel.

How odd for a Walkin to seek "feelings."


Eternals do not hold emotion.



Emotion is a human thing.





Yet, he was in a human vessel.




Never the twain should meet.

See you on the weekend, my friend.

It's going to be ugly.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

Walkin Killings Pt. 3

Perfect Day, by The Constellations.

Seen pointed the gun in his hand into the old man’s face and he pressed the brown bottle he held in the other that contained a curious white powder against Sven’s nose.  He said, “You left this little brown bottle on the counter, near your mess.  And you left this metal weapon in the cupboard above.  What have you been doing? What did you intend to do, with me, with these?”  He pressed it against Sven's nose so hard that it made a crackling noise.

Sven looked up beyond the barrel of his own pistol, into Seen’s eyes.  He felt urine seep out.  He was about to die: he was certain of it.  He said, “I intended to kill you.”

He felt a charge of electricity in his loins; such a sick bastard that he was.

Seen sighed.  He pulled both evil things away from Sven’s face and sat down, and he placed these tools down on the table, away from Sven.

Seen said, “You are honest here and now, and that is payment for more life for you, for a short length of time.  Let us begin on a new footing, shall we?”

Sven nodded, and he felt a bit of semen flow out.  Indeed, he had a bit of an orgasm.  Gross bastard.

Seen continued, “Now is the Question and Answer Time, do you comprehend?”

Sven nodded.  He did not know what was about to happen, but he was fully involved.  He wanted more, for some strange reason.

Seen said, “Good.”  He sniffed the top of the green bottle of beer and smiled.  It was safe.  He smelled the open brown bottle of powdered sedative and he frowned.


He held up the green bottle and chugged that beer down.  He did not take his eyes off of Sven, and when he was finished, he threw that green bottle at the wall behind Sven’s head with such force that it punched through the wall-board and hit the outside siding and then clunked down between the studs.

Sven said, “May I have a sip of my own beer?”

Seen nodded.  “Of course.  Beer loosens the tongue.”

Sven grabbed his own green bottle, and when he did, Seen whipped up the pistol and said, “Wait a minute.”  

Then he took the green bottle from Sven’s hand and set it down between them.  He said, “How much of the powder does it take?”

Sven felt watery shit seep out from his arse.  He said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Seen punched Sven in the left eye with his huge, meaty fist.  He said, “You must not play this game in such a manner.  Now listen: how much of the powder in this brown bottle does it take to do what you intended to do with me?”

Sven shit himself as he orgasmed in his tighty whities.  He was, indeed, no match for this newcomer.

Sven said, “About the size of a grape.”

Seen said, “How much will kill you?”

Sven said, “I've never bothered to find out.”

Seen dumped the contents of the brown bottle into the green bottle and he saw that the beer began to rise.  He dropped the gun onto the table and pressed down upon the top of the beer bottle with his palm.   He watched Sven reach for the gun and he whacked Sven with the hand that was steadying the bottle, and this gave Sven a swelling on his right eye.

Seen said, “You cannot cheat.  It is not your move yet.”

The pressure inside the bottle eased, and Seen let the exhale of noxious fumes from this new concoction escape beneath his palm, in small passes of gasses.  He bent and sniffed each time he did this.  He stood back up, and removed his palm.

He said, “The scent from this bottle is much like the escaping wind from the fermenting body of a dead warthog in a mid summer’s day.”

He wiped his palm off on the small patch of hair upon Sven’s old head to dry it off from the putrid smell, and he grabbed up the pistol with the other hand.


He pressed the pistol into Sven’s left eye, which was swelling and turning purple, and he said, “Now you be the judge.  You have to decide how many sips you will take until you finish the bottle.  Each sip will mean the loss of a digit.  A thumb for a finger of lager, a toe for a sip of your life, until you finish it all.”

Sven finished shitting and cumming and pissing himself, and he looked at the empty brown bottle and he looked at the bubbly green bottle of tainted beer before him on the table.

He had had never known such fear, and at the same time, he had never known such joy.

What would he do?

All answers would be acceptable to Seen: Sven knew this at such a moment.

He had an instinct that none of us should ever know.



This is what that means:

Sven grabbed the green bottle and held it up, and he looked into Seen’s face with his one good eye.



He said, “Fuck You.  Kill Me.”

He swung the green bottle at Seen’s head and Seen ducked.



When the pistol fractured his skull, he felt the release of another bodily fluid: blood spurting out. 

White light drained into red drained into black drained into brown drained into green drained into clear, and then he was back in his youth.

Swizzeland.

Lederhosen.

Wheel and stick.

Licorice.

It smelled like the scalding of flesh.  It smelled like a barbeque.  It smelled like someone had cauterized a weeping head wound with a red hot spoon from a gas stove in a shitty apartment in Fuckno.

My Moon,by Feist. Grizzly Bear Mix.

His wrists burned.


His arms were tethered behind him.

His right eye opened, but the left would not.  A blurred figure wavered before him, awash in the pink of seeped blood.

Sven said, “I thought I killed you, Father.” He went away in his head again...

He awoke again in the flash of a new white light, and then the white flash exploded again.  Seen smacked him a third time with his open palm. 

Seen said, “I will not hit you again with this marvelous iron weapon.  But perhaps you would like to play this game for yourself in a better manner?”

Sven shook his head to make it clear, but this action made his eyesight grow dim and his head to throb more.  He said, “Please don’t hit me again.  I will do what you say.”

Seen said, “That will purchase you more time.  You should know that I had to stop the bleeding from your skull with a hot iron.  Sometimes, the wound heals.  Most times, it turns green and begins to stink, and then death follows.  That may take a week of pain.”

Sven grimaced.  “I don't want to get an infection, gangrene.  I need to get to the hostibal.”

Seen’s eyes widened.  He said, “Do you mean the place where you and I first met?”

Sven shivered.  He recalled how he had almost turned onto a side street to get home, instead of driving past the hostibal.  How would everything have turned out if he had simply turned left?

Seen said, “If you are nice, you can go there to the hostibal.  You should see what I have done to your lower digits.”  He held up a small teacup, and inside, there were five small toes.

Sven passed out again.

Seen laughed.  He put the teacup back into the refrigerator, near the green bottles and a plate of sausage. 

This excellent cold box invention with the green bottles of beer inside of it chilled his own toes, as the cold air seeped out onto the floor, over the sandals he wore.  



Birkenstocks.

He grabbed another green bottle, to sip in patient rest, for the re-awakening of his prey.

As he sat back down, gulping half of the bottle, he heard a soft sibilance in his left ear.

“Sssssseeeeeeeeeeeeen…..”

This Walkin got the willies.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

The Walkin Killings Pt. 2

So Alive, by Blueprint 

Sven drove along side streets and under bridges.  He was a shadow figure, one who lives in the border between light and dark.  The shadow figure traverses both worlds: Sanity and Insanity.  He pulled into a narrow alley and drove around behind.  He parked in the dark hollow, out of view,  and turned off the little rust bucket. 

When he’d bought her, he was not so much concerned with her appearance as he was with her heart.  Certainly, he would not waste his money on anything conspicuous or extravagant.  He wanted to remain hidden.  He simply wanted to be assured that she would start every time, and that she had enough power and handling to avoid or even escape whatever may lay ahead on his crooked path.

Seen looked over at him with raised eyebrows.  His eyes were getting used to the dark, and he could just make out Sven’s face.  “Where are we now, Sven?”

Sven said, “We are at my secret place, Sean.”   He got out.

Seen followed him to the rear of the vehicle.  Sven opened the trunk and pulled out a black duffel bag.  From inside of it there came a soft clinking of metal things.  Always mind your bag of tools and weapons.  Never leave them anywhere, no matter what.

He closed the trunk and headed off to the entrance of the old, three story building.  The stucco could have used a good power scrubbing, even under the wan orange glow of the streetlight.  Seen followed him.

They walked three flights up to Sven’s secret place.  The interior held no paintings or decorations, nor any sort of indication that is was a place much adored at all.  It was simply a place to stay, for the time being.  It was the sort of place a fugitive might call home.

Sven set his duffel bag down behind the small kitchen table and said, “Why don’t you have a seat?”  Seen sat down in one of the wooden chairs with his back to the door.

There are two important considerations to make when you sit anywhere, at anytime, and they are these:

It is the best practice to never leave your back unprotected to the entrance.  You should sit so that you can observe all entrances anywhere, especially if others depend upon you for their own safety.

On the other hand, when you are in a strange place, all alone, and you are in the company of a strange person, and, most importantly, that person is familiar with the place, then you are at a disadvantage.  You must never let that person place themselves between you and the only portal of exit, of escape.

Sven went to the refrigerator and asked, “Would you like a beer?”

Seen smiled and said, “Yes, please.”  How long had it been since he’d had beer?  How much time had passed?  How good would it taste?  He figured that like everything else in this land, it would be delicious.  Beer was easy to make wrong, but in the land of plenty, one had choices between bad and good, isn't that right?

Sven handed him a can of beer and Seen looked at it.  What was this?  He turned it over and around in his hands, and felt how cold it was.  Odd.  He read the side of it, and the only word he understood was “beer.”  There were various writings scribed, or, upon closer inspection, they had actually been painted upon its surface.  Extravagant. It must be quite good, for the maker had pride.  

He regarded the top of the thing and could not make out head nor tale of the structure.

Sven sat down at the table across from Seen with a green glass bottle of his own beer and saw what Seen was doing.  He cocked his head as he sipped, and then he understood.  He said, “Would you like me to open that for you?”

Seen looked up from the weird little container and held it out.  “If you would be so kind, please.”

Sven cracked open the top of the beer, showing Seen what he was doing. 

Seen’s eyes went wide, and he grinned.  “Simply marvelous construction here,” he said, and he sipped the contents.  It was horrible.  He almost spat it back out, but that would have been rude.  He grimaced as he swallowed the foul taste.  “This tastes like something a rat would piss out!”

Sven said, “I apologize!  I thought that light beer was what a California 'dude' like yourself would appreciate.  Here, take a sip of this.”   He held out his green-bottled beer.

Seen sipped it, and it was not much better.  “Have you not any good ale?”

Sven shrugged.  “This is one of the finest lagers, but if it’s ale you want, I don’t have any.  Sorry about that.”

Seen said, “I apologize for my rude behavior.  I mean no disrespect to you in your home.  A green bottle of the finest lager would be great, please.  And thank you, kind sir.”

Sven came back with another beer, and as he set it down, he said, “You know, when you first  introduced yourself, you said that you are evidently now called ‘Sean.’  What does that mean?”

Seen took a large haul from the green bottle and grimaced.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a low, rumbling burp beneath his palm. 

He said, “It is what you may call me.”

This did not sit well with Sven.  It seemed like each question he asked led to more questions to ask.  His feeling of enjoyment with this new acquaintance was wearing off.  He nudged the black duffel bag with his black boot, beneath the table, and it comforted him.

He considered that he had been wrong after all.  Such a sad thing, really.  The poor fellow appeared to be simply deranged.  There was nothing enticing about continuing this course of friendship with the young man. Well, at least there was the opportunity to have some fun.  He had been awaiting such an opportunity since he’d escaped Swizzleland to California.  And this new opportunity had simply hopped into his car, near the hostibal.


He counted his blessings.

Sven continued.  “What were you called before?”  Now he was simply making small talk to put his new victim at ease, before the fun would begin.  He would slip something into the next bottle of lager for his guest…

Seen took another large quaff, and he burped again.  “You know, this is not all that bad.”  He felt the familiar, but long-lost sensation of beer buzz.  It had been centuries.  He answered Sven, “I was called Malcolm.  But that is not my real name.”

Sven nodded.  Deranged people always had a crazy story to tell.  So he prodded. “What is your real name, my good friend?”

Seen paused.  He regarded the green bottle in his hand, and he said, “This tastes like another one, if you please.”  He downed the last of its contents.

Sven hopped up, and he smiled.  This was too easy.  He reached into the cupboard beyond the refrigerator and pulled out a small brown bottle of white powder.  Then he grabbed a bottle of lager out of the fridge and placed it on the counter.

Seen said, “You would not be able to pronounce my real name.”

Slipping Away, by Barcelona 

Sven nodded.  Of course he wouldn't be able to pronounce Seen's real "name."  Such a crazy person.  He popped the top off the beer and gently poured into it some of the white powder.  He covered the opening of the bottle with his thumb with great force so that the beer would not bubble up and shoot out.  He said, “Try me.  I speak several languages, mainly that of the Swizz.”

Seen burped again, and he said, “Swizzleland, eh?  Very well.”  Then he spoke in Sven’s native tongue as if he had been born and raised there.  He said, in that foreign language, this: “I also speak many languages, for I have learned them all.  I have existed for millennia, and I will live for eons, and I will always return to this mortal coil.”

Sven’s face turned white.  His thumb slipped away from the green bottle he held with trembling hands, and beer spurted out all over the front of his black shirt and into his face.  It got in his eyes.  He let go of the bottle and it rolled away on the counter, jettisoning its contents onto the floor, the wall, and everywhere else as it spun around like a small jet engine.

 

He staggered to the sink and ran cold water, cupping its stream into his open eyes as he leaned over.  The beer with the powdered sedative mixed into it was quite acidic, and it caused his eyes to burn.

Seen jumped up and came over to where Sven rinsed his eyes.  Sven was disgusted with himself.  He was now in the most vulnerable of situations, and he felt rage against his foolishness.

His eyes burned, but he felt certain that he had gotten the acidic mixture out of them with minimal damage to his corneas.  The water felt cold, and that was a relief.  He turned off the faucet and grabbed the towel from the dish rack and dabbed his eyelids. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was stuffed up.

Such a fool am I, he thought.  All of his thoughts were in his native language, you know.

And this young man had just now spoken it with perfect clarity, in the dialect of the old.

Like a King would speak it, centuries ago, in his own land.

His reaction had made him lose his guard, and in his foolishness, he had become incapacitated long enough for his prey to escape, or worse:  To allow him, he, Sven, to become the prey.

Seen simply hovered, wanting to help if he could.

And that made Sven even angrier at himself.

His poison had poisoned him.  It was only the innocence of his prey that kept him from becoming prey.

Such a fool.

It would not happen again, he promised himself.  He did not know that he would be wrong about that.   But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Sven sat down across from Seen with two fresh, unadulterated bottles of lager.

Seen grabbed his up and held it out towards Sven, speaking a toast in Sven’s native language, in the manner of the Kings of old.

Sven got the willies and said, “Please, let us speak in the language of this new land.”

Seen nodded.  He reiterated, in Murricanese, “Your heart, our hearts together: for the rise to the end of all hearts forever.”

Sven grabbed his own bottle, clinked it against Seen’s own, and replied, “With the end comes the new beginning: the death of geld, and all of sinning.”   He finished his full bottle in one long draught.  Then he burped loudly.  Seen had spoken the old warrior’s prayer of his land.

Seen laughed at Sven’s burp, and finished his own.

Then he got up to go to Sven's refrigerator.  "More is indicated, yes?"  He paused there, holding up the little brown bottle sitting upon the beer-spattered counter.

He sniffed it, and then he turned around to Sven and held it out. He said, in the manner of the Kings of old, in Sven's own native language, “What, pray tell, is in this small bottle?  What have you been up to?  What did you intend to do with it here and now?  With me?”

Sven felt his skin crawl.  

He was no match for this newcomer.  

He could feel it in his bones.

Some of the lyrics to the song above:


Wait just a little bit more


Only take what you came here for


I trusted and I promised to believe


I swore


That you would be the first and the last


But I did not know


You'd take me




But you're taking more




And this is how I'm slipping away....

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.









OK, One More For You.



This song will hint to you about what follows, in The Walkin Killings, Pt. 3

Perfect Day, by The Constellations.

.

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.

.