a birth of a Monster

Imagine a grungy green door with words "Room 73" engraved into it. Picture a rusty doorknob with a thick black moss growing around it. Now try to move away from the door and gaze at a brick wall covered in vandalism and derogatory words. Place the door square in the center of the brick wall built around it. Good, you're almost there. Now make it so it sounds like furniture is being pushed around a hard-wood floor and different women scream out the words "oh" and "yes" again and again in high-pitched tones. Well-done, see how simple that was?

Thrusts and moans echoed throughout the Motel 6 as naked bodies humped, penises were sucked and cunts were eaten out. Sweat and cum filled the lone room where the party had ensued, and a total of eight men and eight women got right down to work, and down into other things too. An organized, well-planned and invite-only orgy began at approximately midnight on June 28 19?? and lasted until six in the morning that same day. That night, a monster was conceived.

That night, this same day, so many years ago, one woman had many partners. One woman spread her legs and asked, "what's for dinner?" And she got served a delicious helping of pregnancy with one of eight men being the father of an unborn child who would become that which is now but a memory. A warlord of the urban mafia. A Satanist. An egomaniac. A sociopath extraordinaire.

"He can't be mine!"

"He has to be yours! I was with your first - you and your premature little cock. It has to be you. Has to be."

"Not me. Wasn't. Sorry to disappoint."

"Not me either."

And as questions were raised, and a fetus grew, so too did a forest of lies and misconceptions. A forest that, although metaphorical, existed in the child's mind, and became a sanctuary in his adult life...

...The burning sensation of becoming nothing but a memory hissed and sizzled within his mind. He stood tall, against an oak tree with a cigarette in his mouth and his eyes as wide and dazed as the crimson sky that swirled and expanded gracefully. And as it flushed in a counter-clockwise rotation, flipping inside out, it swallowed itself into darkness - exposing a black hole that consumed all around it.

The sky blinked twice, and the black hole disappeared into the eyes of cancer-stick-smoking madman. His eyes told quite a story. The bags under his eyes alone could have a book written about them. The story was like a pop-up book, revealing truths never thought to be possible; the results of being stressed and hunted all hours of the day. His black hair dripped an ooze that left a toxic trail down his face. Sweat. Grime. Dirt. Ink. Whatever it was, the harsh liquid dripped downwards, covering his head whole, masking the monster that lurked within us all.

For he was our alter-ego. Our menace. Our devil that appears on our left shoulder while our angel glows on the right. He was a man without a first or last name, and even his proclaimed alias became just a whisper in a sea of sounds.

'Devil.'

They called him.

'Devil.'

He called himself.

And as the forest wept and became submersed in the holographic universe, many years ago, it all came to be. The mother of the satanic son cried and pushed forward as all hell broke loose. An anti-Christ without a known father, perhaps one of eight, opened his eyes inside of the womb and surged to freedom through the gaping vaginal walls that revolved and huffed, leading into God's Earth.

She died during birth.

"Oh! Yes! Oh! Oh! Oooooh!" she moaned that night nine months before her death as eight dicks picked their spots and fired their loads down main street wherever fate would lead them. Oddly, nine months later, she repeated those same words as her cause of death wandered to freedom aboard a hospital bed covered in the blood of another. The blood of an unborn.

Twins. One alive and one dead.

"What are those in his hands?" a doctor cried out, gazing in awe at the newborn's soft claws and the pair of eyes that were part of what would have been his twin brother's newborn face. The twin who wept inside the womb died inside his already deceased mother. He died without any eyes.

To remove the eyes: to remain trapped inside. To never have the opportunity to witness the real world, but rather, become a blinded animal lost in an unfamiliar woods. And as the eyes and sight of the twin were stolen away, even in infancy, the legacy began to grow...

All because of an orgy in a Motel 6. All because a woman chose to get fucked. She created a demon without empathy inside of her. A demon who wouldn't behold absolution. Lost in an abyss that divides and haunts us, and lingers on, breathing its last breaths as the sky mellows above and all eyes await his next move...

"Queen to B4," he announced, staring a young-looking blonde-haired girl in her crystal blue eyes. The black beret on her head hid a horrible scar on her forehead, caused by her reckless father who demanded perfection from his daughter. The tournament title was on the line. The boy became a prodigy at the game of chess all on his own. Infatuated with it, and obsessing over it. His foster parents watched from the side-lines that Sunday afternoon as their son dominated the board and made mince meat out of the tournament title's other contender.

"If you fail to win, I know what your father will do to you," the boy told his opponent, looking into the audience and a bushy-bearded lumberjack of a man who watched on with intense eyes. "He thinks you have a gift. That you're the next Bobby Fischer or something. Well, guess what - you're not. And I'll take beating you in this game as a win, but I wonder what will be the case if I let you win under the condition I ask your father to let me watch as he punishes you for not winning by yourself?" the boy mocked his younger opponent and hissed with his serpent's tongue, sending chills down the girl's spine.

"No..." the girl began to tear, and pushed her king down onto the board in an act of defeat, retreat and surrender. "I can't." But the boy gazed on at her with a sly, smug look upon his face, "good game," he chuckled, "if you don't make it to the next tournament, I'll be sure to tell you all about how I won it anyway... as I dance on your grave."

The girl wept and cried, walking away as the young boy was presented with the chess tournament title by an old man. People cheered, others clapped, yet no one was capable of seeing beyond the mask; beyond the boyish good looks and artificial charm. Not even his foster parents who smiled with pride at their foster son, trying to hold back their tears of joy. He was theirs... despite the boy's foster mother's dirty little secret...

And behold, just a few months later...

There was a calling from the corner of the room where a boy sat with his knees pulled tightly against his chest watching as the wood in the fireplace burned away, providing heat and warmth to the freezing house. "Are you going to sit there all day?" the boy's foster mother asked, grabbing a few plates from a kitchen cupboard adjacent to the room where the boy sat, rocking back and forth. The boy did not answer. "Oh, come on," the mother sighed, placing her hands at her hips, "you've been like that for days. Maybe your father was right. There *must* be something wrong with you."

The boy looked up at his mother with his long black hair slightly covering his orangey eyes. She was a noble woman to say the least, but she was not the boy's biological mother. She was just his foster parent, and nothing more. Because of this, the boy saw this woman in a different way than most boys would see their mothers. Rather than being loving and caring, he saw her as nothing but a whore, and for good reason too. In fact, it was the reason for his restless rocking - a memory had resurfaced in his mind.

"When I was younger," the boy began, looking at the woman with a relentless stare, "you put your lips on me. You licked me when I was sleeping." The woman stood perfectly still, and her hands became like ice, gripping the plate she had in her hands so tightly it put stress on her fingers. "I never did that. How could you think..."

"...But you did. I remembered. I remembered when I was playing with my friend." The boy's foster-mother gazed into the boy's eyes as he turned away from her, keeping his head low. "What friend?" she asked. "You mean that girl?"

"Yes, that girl," he replied, still not facing his foster-mother. "Julia. The one who was on the news. The one who everyone is crying over. Everyone but me."

...There was something wrong with that boy...

Both he and Julia ran through the park, navigating their way through thorny branches and tall weeds that needed to be removed. The boy and his friend jumped over a park bench and pressed on, deeper into the field and out of the rather dirty and overly urban entity of the industrialized-residential area. Julia was a nice girl with green eyes and black hair. Her skin was tanned enough to make her look like a young Latina model - someone pedophiles wouldn't pass up to call their 'friend'. And although the young boy was just a few months older than Julia, he was already viewing her differently than most children and young teens. He eyed her as she ran with him, and he felt his dick stiffen as an eruption of feelings blossomed around him.

As they made way into the forest that engulfed them and blocked out the afternoon sun, the son of one of eight men took his first steps towards becoming the feared lunatic he was meant to be. He twisted his frame as he lurked behind his friend and scrambled into the unknown, out of the known path he and his friend were accustomed to taking.

"Hey, where did you go?" Julia asked, her words echoing through the woods, drowning out the chirps of crickets and the birds flapping their wings. "We're not supposed to go down there!" but the boy did not reply.

Instead, she was stuck waiting, and gently paced herself deeper and deeper into the edge of the woods she was not used to. Her black sneakers pressed deep into the muddy ground, sinking into the bubbling muck. Her eyes wandered as she pressed on, slowly taking steps away from the path trying to find her friend. "Come on, this isn't funny!" she cried, now completely out of sight from people who walked or biked through the path as her small frame became hidden behind trees and tall grass. She was a brave girl for her age, and ran forward, up a small hill and gazed downwards at the valley below and the pattern of sharp, hazardous rocks that dominated the way down.

Julia breathed in deep again and turned straight around into a punch to the face from her friend. The boy elbowed his female mate in the back of the head and tossed her to the ground on the top of the cliff and stared down at her as his eyes told a vicious story. His stare alone brought tears to her eyes as his own line of sight burned her frightened worrisome expression into his mind for an eternity. "What are you doing--?!" Julia gasped and cried, just as her friend grabbed a fist-full of rocks and long grass and shoved it into her mouth.

"Shut up, bitch," he instructed, watching as she did her best to spit and cough up the rocks and grass, but had little success as he pressed his hand against her mouth. "Oh, Julia," he smiled, licking her cheek and her forehead, relishing the feeling of doing so. "You're just like my foster mother." Julia did her best to struggle, but the boy was too strong, holding her down and ripping off her shorts, pulling them down to her muddy sneakers, whispering into her ear, "you are so precious. So, so precious to me."

"...You are so precious. So, so precious to me," the boy gazed up at his foster mother, licking his lips. "You thought I forgot about that, didn't you? You thought I forgot all about you licking and kissing me. As you should have, I was only three or four. I was weak and powerless."

"Listen to me!" the boy's mother ran towards him, placing her hands down onto his shoulders. "I'd never had a child before. Never. And your father couldn't do the trick. You were all I had. I wanted to cherish you in a way that no one else would!" but the boy would have none of it. "Shut up," he demanded, slapping his foster mom across the face.

"I'm leaving. And don't try to stop me," the boy got to his feet, looking his mother in the eye. "What happened to Julia," he began, smirking, "you might as well blame yourself for." And with that, he walked away, leaving his foster mother all alone and saddened, like a lonely tree in the middle of a desert.

A young female body lied broken, bloodied, stripped and dead at the bottom of the gully in the nearby woods. Her body was bruised all over, and the sharp-edged rocks did the trick in ripping apart her flesh. She laid face-up, with her dead eyes staring up at the full moon as the wolves howled in the distance. A new lone wolf had been born.

And so, the boy grew and grew, and traveled from city to city, finding jobs wherever he could: waiting tables, butcher shops, selling drugs - the boy grew on the streets and literally grew out of the clothes on his back. He would establish contacts along the way - rowdy, rough people with fetishes for violence and pain. Sadists. Sadistic night-dwellers who roamed the underground world of sex, drugs, violence and mob-mentalities.

Then eventually, the boy became a man...

"He's got a gun!" were four words that became common place in his world. He ruled with gangs, mafia and puppets who danced on thin strings, ready to obey his wishes. He became known as Devil from those who opposed him and those whom he worked with. Tales of his childhood became folklore and myths around the underground scene. One particular night, as the scent of sweat and booze filled the air, flashing lights lit up the dark room and naked women danced from pole to pole, he sat like a statue, taking in all that was around him.

"Are you him?" a thick-necked, heavily-built Asian man asked, sporting a leather coat and platinum earrings. The man simply nodded.[color=blue]"I am," [/color] Devil replied. "I am indeed him, as you put it."

The Asian man had a seat next to Satan's eighth, and looked at him with cruel intentions. "My group has told me about you. Devil. How you operate and act the way you do. Merciless. Blood-drunk. Insane."

"Get to the point," Devil instructed.

"Help us win a turf war, and I'll make sure your legacy grows. That, or I kill you as soon as we step outside," the Asian man grinned, but was simply met with a sly laugh and an automated weapon pressed against his kneecap.

"How about instead, you get down on your knees and suck my cock," Devil suggested, using his eyes to briefly, yet noticeably draw attention to the gun under the table. The Asian man couldn't believe his fate. "Do it, or your kneecaps are gone." Devil spoke in a serious tone. All eyes in the club - even those from the girls who danced on the poles took notice as the leader of one of the most high-profile gangs in the state literally got down on his knees. "Unzip it," Devil demanded.

The boy was no longer a man, but rather, an entity. A prophet. He had become fearless and sociopathic. His laughter. His surreal tone. The way he walked and moved. The words he used. It was all coming together. The world was his sandbox, and his universe... his views - they caught on.

A hero to demons. A saviour to the sick-minded. An enemy to all.


Present Day.


God's tears rained down from the heavens as men and women carried away a casket to represent the once-existent body of Andrew's former Friend, May. Only family on her side came to the funeral as Andrew stood with his back pressed against a brick wall, watching from the sidelines as her parents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and friends bowed their heads with the rain dripping off their black attire. Andrew was not welcomed there. After all, it was his fault she had died - literally eaten by purgatorial children.

The only man to ever come inches away from ending Mike's life gazed down at the phone in his right hand, eyeing a text message he had received a few minutes ago. 'Sorry Andrew, I'll be late for the funeral. Something has come up.' That message wouldn't have bothered Andrew so much if it wasn't for who had sent it. Rush. Since when did Rush ever refer to Andrew by his first name? Wasn't he always just Superman to him?

"I hope you're happy," one of May's cousins approached Andrew. The rain had flattened his blonde hair and the humid weather, despite the rain, forged a mixture of sweat and water on his face. "She was always good to you. Why couldn't you just love her? Why'd you have to go fuck that dominatrix slut?"

Andrew did not answer. Despite what May's cousin thought, her death was out of Andrew's control. It was only as time slipped away that the inevitable truth - that some deaths could never be prevented, took center stage. Nonetheless, May was yet another victim and a friend to pay the ultimate price for ever coming into the life of Andrew "The Devil" Savage.

That day, as angels cried and tears were shed from above, only a few miles away, a forest continued to grow. A forest that would never be forgotten. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

'One new message. Superman: Where were u?'

Rush's cell phone beeped and sounded with the alert of a new message as rain dinged against the windows of his small apartment downtown. The lights were off. The television was muted, yet showcased a channel of nothing but static. An assortment of detective awards were positioned around the walls of a main living area. Inside the frame of one, a newspaper article had been cut out and placed inside. The caption read: World-class Detective Thwarts Mob Threat. There was a picture taken from a still image of a security camera of Andrew's car being blown to pieces with the flames scorching the body of the devil himself.

"You are a brave man, it would seem..." Devil spoke, as his reflection appeared in the frame the news article was in. "In fact, I should kill you right now, but as the old saying goes, an eye for an eye only leads to more blindness." Devil turned around and stared at an immobilized Rush who had his mouth taped and his hands tied together behind a chair he sat on. "But you didn't kill me. You just scared me for life." It was true, Devil's face had hideous burn marks and blackened skin. Below his right eye was a scar that stretched down to his bare chest, only revealed by the black wife-beater he wore with his black pants. He walked towards Rush, gazing at his helpless victim. He tilted his head and smiled, taking a knife out of his pocket.
"And so, I'm going to take it literally. I'm going to make the entire world blind."

All Rush could do was stare on as his eyes were literally carved from his face. A signature of the Devil of old. That night, a monster resurfaced back to the top of the food-chain. That night, an old warlord marched back into the realm of relevancy and gathered attention around the world as he once again returned to bask in the spotlight. Most-wanted lists. Alive or dead. It was just a game to him, and he played it well.

That night, as the forest grew and the sky burned from above, showcasing an orange moon that hovered ominously like a separate entity, Devil smiled and smoked his cigar something fierce. This world was his world. His doings were cold and calculating, and only revenge was on his mind. In a world where hate reigns supreme and murder is as common as acts of kindness, the odds and science of chance are thrown off balance.

He walked onward towards his destination. Far out of the reach of the simple-minded who couldn't even fathom his mindset, let alone his most simplistic of actions. He walked towards his vision of a world purged in darkness, blindness, and crisis. He walked alone.

He walked with the roar of a thousand sirens behind him, and a trail inked with blood.