Across the plane I saw his eyes on my plunder, my winter's prize:
From winter lands the wind did blow tracked summer dirt across the snow-
My Genevive she'd milk the throws of other gains I plundered.
I wondered how, that day I took her, his eyes might wander if he'd not mistook her-
For a golden treasure he'd horde instead while I be comforted with milk and bread-
But love is powerful, more so that greed
And so I took the reigns of my steed-
And rode towards his visage in the wheat.
Come at my love I challenge and entreat-
But ye will suckle only death's teat when I am down from the highlands.
And so I picked my scythe up quick and rode towards king and rode too quick-
To turn or think my brother's advance was no more than an outward glance-
Towards outer heaven's fluffy shell and I were to send him straight to hell
For he did not die battling well but rather in a muddy field.
My cows did shriek at the startled scream that lasted a minute for lack of means:
When I did send his head aloft to land at the foot of my humbled wife.
If there existed love before she did not show, for him, remorse.
She only showed a jilted glance that I had slain in cruelty of chance-
That the sun set softly behind her head and his gaze had met the sun instead
And for his life, I'd made him dead
In the field of my last day on earth.
I'd know the reaper later that night and she would show no Valkrie's might
But yet her softness was my light unto the heavens everlasting.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Story Stopper
Part V: Divine Retribution
Deviel once told me about an Indian man she visited in 1983 who was murdered slowly by a bag placed over his head. The pain in her heart caused a thunderstorm in Pottstown Pennsylvania that night.
Death is something that should be delivered quickly and those souls that linger in between life and death are pitiable in my mind. The brutality of a slow death is one every reaper has encountered in one way or another but the suffering is never something to be admired or envied.
Mob hit murders are cases of sick and twisted minds that can be so drawn out that, especially in the present case, even a reaper like deviel is compelled to give that soul (however evil it may be) a second chance at paradise.
"I waited half an hour in the room as he kicked and struggled before passing," she said. "The killer let air into the bag periodically so the death was drawn out as much as it could be. At the end, his soul was in bits and pieces and the killer had residue on his clothes that he seemed to revel in like he was the reaper its self."
She went on to explain that after she had assembled what remnants of a soul this man had, pieces of how his physical form would have been represented were still missing. She tried to convince what was left to repent its evil ways and gain access to paradise instead of hell but it had the capacity of a four year old and she was forced to carry it to hell despite its best intentions.
Nothing so skims the realm of the hereafter like a murderer. Especially one that kills his victims slowly. When that man died in 2013, she did not hesitate to reap him in a way that forced him into his acceptance of death as she dragged him to hell with vigor and ferocity.
When there is no punishment on earth for an evil doer, you better believe that a reaper can take divine retribution like none would ever believe on earth. As light and fluttery a spirit as Deviel was, when it came to punishing the truly wicked and depraved, she showed no remorse and did her duty with a resolve only the heavenly host himself could match. I think this is most what I loved about her because it is the human element that one loses when they die and become a reaper.
It is that power that they gain, however, when they get to talk a spirit into acceptance of death. A reaper is a cog in a divine machine of amazing magnitude and splendor. We are all that stands in the way of a soul and its final destination. She became more than just a reaper the moment she decided to "give man fire" by giving him the ability to choose where he felt his immortal soul belonged; when she became Promethius she gained the human element of reaping that went beyond human understanding. She played god and was allowed to because that is truly what he intended when he made "man" in his own image.
Throughout the centuries, I have loved her and fallen out of touch; loved her again, only to fall out of touch again for a lifetime or two but on that day in 2013, I swore that we would cohost the divine position of Grim and at the same time, we inadvertantly became the balance of power between heaven and hell.
Death is something that should be delivered quickly and those souls that linger in between life and death are pitiable in my mind. The brutality of a slow death is one every reaper has encountered in one way or another but the suffering is never something to be admired or envied.
Mob hit murders are cases of sick and twisted minds that can be so drawn out that, especially in the present case, even a reaper like deviel is compelled to give that soul (however evil it may be) a second chance at paradise.
"I waited half an hour in the room as he kicked and struggled before passing," she said. "The killer let air into the bag periodically so the death was drawn out as much as it could be. At the end, his soul was in bits and pieces and the killer had residue on his clothes that he seemed to revel in like he was the reaper its self."
She went on to explain that after she had assembled what remnants of a soul this man had, pieces of how his physical form would have been represented were still missing. She tried to convince what was left to repent its evil ways and gain access to paradise instead of hell but it had the capacity of a four year old and she was forced to carry it to hell despite its best intentions.
Nothing so skims the realm of the hereafter like a murderer. Especially one that kills his victims slowly. When that man died in 2013, she did not hesitate to reap him in a way that forced him into his acceptance of death as she dragged him to hell with vigor and ferocity.
When there is no punishment on earth for an evil doer, you better believe that a reaper can take divine retribution like none would ever believe on earth. As light and fluttery a spirit as Deviel was, when it came to punishing the truly wicked and depraved, she showed no remorse and did her duty with a resolve only the heavenly host himself could match. I think this is most what I loved about her because it is the human element that one loses when they die and become a reaper.
It is that power that they gain, however, when they get to talk a spirit into acceptance of death. A reaper is a cog in a divine machine of amazing magnitude and splendor. We are all that stands in the way of a soul and its final destination. She became more than just a reaper the moment she decided to "give man fire" by giving him the ability to choose where he felt his immortal soul belonged; when she became Promethius she gained the human element of reaping that went beyond human understanding. She played god and was allowed to because that is truly what he intended when he made "man" in his own image.
Throughout the centuries, I have loved her and fallen out of touch; loved her again, only to fall out of touch again for a lifetime or two but on that day in 2013, I swore that we would cohost the divine position of Grim and at the same time, we inadvertantly became the balance of power between heaven and hell.
The Mind state of a Mobster
The most satisfying way to kill a man is slowly. A knife is a quicker way to kill somebody than a plastic bag and a plastic bag isn't as quick as a piano wire. The satisfaction I get from making the reaper wait means I get to spend time with both the reaper and the soul he reaps like a party where we all get a bullet of cocaine.
God knows what the reapers of my marks thinks about in those moments of sheer blissful release. One can only hope that the man talks to his maker in those moments and asks for forgiveness for all the people he killed and fucked over. It's a rare pleasure.
It's a rare pleasure because I am the one who gets to force them into a corner of goodness. The longer it takes them to die, the longer they have to make their final arrangements with the one they call god. People have different gods too.
I once had to kill an Indian mobster who had statues of gods all over his house. Who am I to complain because being catholic, I think I might want to pray to the various saints in those precious moments.
Life is funny like that. Most of us think about nobody but number one but when you got a wire around your neck, you all of a sudden turn a celebrity at an awards show.
"I want to thank Jesus Christ who is my lord and savior (I truly feel this in my heart); saint Xavier who helped me find my keys when I kept on losing them; the holy mother who guides me daily and Saint Edmund who will hopefully make life hell for Tony Mo who ordered this hit."
God knows what that Indian douche prayed to but I'll bet he went to hell for killing people and screwing people out of their money with his system to short change people on gasoline. I didn't feel bad about any of it because I am the purveyor of death, not the one who judges. It's a job and though I revel in the moment of slaughter, it's still only a job I like when all is said and done.
Sometimes, when I'm unfocused, I wonder what I might eat for lunch or if the pretty girl who gave me a lap dance for free one time at Vito Pinciotti's joint will be there tonight. It really depends on my mood that day but when you follow orders, it doesn't matter if I'm killing someone new or killing someone who gave me the hit order the day before. I am the purveyor of death and like any bussiness, my services are up for auction to the highest bidder.
God knows what the reapers of my marks thinks about in those moments of sheer blissful release. One can only hope that the man talks to his maker in those moments and asks for forgiveness for all the people he killed and fucked over. It's a rare pleasure.
It's a rare pleasure because I am the one who gets to force them into a corner of goodness. The longer it takes them to die, the longer they have to make their final arrangements with the one they call god. People have different gods too.
I once had to kill an Indian mobster who had statues of gods all over his house. Who am I to complain because being catholic, I think I might want to pray to the various saints in those precious moments.
Life is funny like that. Most of us think about nobody but number one but when you got a wire around your neck, you all of a sudden turn a celebrity at an awards show.
"I want to thank Jesus Christ who is my lord and savior (I truly feel this in my heart); saint Xavier who helped me find my keys when I kept on losing them; the holy mother who guides me daily and Saint Edmund who will hopefully make life hell for Tony Mo who ordered this hit."
God knows what that Indian douche prayed to but I'll bet he went to hell for killing people and screwing people out of their money with his system to short change people on gasoline. I didn't feel bad about any of it because I am the purveyor of death, not the one who judges. It's a job and though I revel in the moment of slaughter, it's still only a job I like when all is said and done.
Sometimes, when I'm unfocused, I wonder what I might eat for lunch or if the pretty girl who gave me a lap dance for free one time at Vito Pinciotti's joint will be there tonight. It really depends on my mood that day but when you follow orders, it doesn't matter if I'm killing someone new or killing someone who gave me the hit order the day before. I am the purveyor of death and like any bussiness, my services are up for auction to the highest bidder.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
The Mind state of a Mobster
Everyone starts off with a gun. It's painfully easy to point and click to make a long struggle into a short drop. It's even easier to kill someone with a phone call; hence the reason I have a job. To be a "hitter," you could have several different motives; most people do it for power.
It is in this way that these people kill to gain rank and find their last weapon in hitter training to be a telephone. The phone is a weapon that's only suited for those who know death and have carried out the sentence but who also no longer have a reason to kill. It's OK for people who are in it for the power but for those of us who enjoy the job, our last weapon is the knife.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, is more satisfying to the professional hitter as the struggle followed by the look of fear and surprise in the mark's eyes as the knife slowly drains the life from the mark's body and into the hands of the knife weilder.
To kill with a knife is the ultimate in professional killing because it brings you as close and personal as you can get with death. It moves you into a warm embrace with a real life escaping soul. It's enough to make you want to kill an innocent but that's against the rules.
Evil doers are acceptable targets though because in that final moment where your hand is over their mouth and nose, the weight of your body pressing their warm spiritual essence upwards, they see the extacy that is their final moments and you get the sensation in your mind that this may be the most transcendant, good and truly purest moment of their lives. It's not always rapture though.
Anthony Maurice Genovece better known as Tony Mo, once "allegedly," chopped Berto Benece's head off with a pizza spatula for sleeping with Frederico Genovece's sister. He later told Rico Genovece, "upon entering the establishment, I knew he was going to run and as I could not access my gun or knife, the closest thing was a 3 foot pizza spatula so I did him with that instead." Poor Tony could have turned him into the headless horseman were it not for that pesky spinal column which turned Berto into a pez dispenser instead.
Tony told Rico about the ordeal not half an hour after the event over baked lasagna and Pasta Fajole. It is my impression that Rico got his emotional mortal retribution over the hanging spirit of Berto in the clothes and skin of Tony Mo as he sat at the table that night.
This may need some explaining: you see, when a hitter kills a mark, some believe that as the soul leaves the body, it hangs in the air like a bad stench on the hitter himself. Some might be worried about such things haunting them but there's very little one can do to punish the rich and damned.
Oh! There's an evil spirit haunting me? Either kill me or shut the fuck up and let me sleep.
It is in this way that these people kill to gain rank and find their last weapon in hitter training to be a telephone. The phone is a weapon that's only suited for those who know death and have carried out the sentence but who also no longer have a reason to kill. It's OK for people who are in it for the power but for those of us who enjoy the job, our last weapon is the knife.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, is more satisfying to the professional hitter as the struggle followed by the look of fear and surprise in the mark's eyes as the knife slowly drains the life from the mark's body and into the hands of the knife weilder.
To kill with a knife is the ultimate in professional killing because it brings you as close and personal as you can get with death. It moves you into a warm embrace with a real life escaping soul. It's enough to make you want to kill an innocent but that's against the rules.
Evil doers are acceptable targets though because in that final moment where your hand is over their mouth and nose, the weight of your body pressing their warm spiritual essence upwards, they see the extacy that is their final moments and you get the sensation in your mind that this may be the most transcendant, good and truly purest moment of their lives. It's not always rapture though.
Anthony Maurice Genovece better known as Tony Mo, once "allegedly," chopped Berto Benece's head off with a pizza spatula for sleeping with Frederico Genovece's sister. He later told Rico Genovece, "upon entering the establishment, I knew he was going to run and as I could not access my gun or knife, the closest thing was a 3 foot pizza spatula so I did him with that instead." Poor Tony could have turned him into the headless horseman were it not for that pesky spinal column which turned Berto into a pez dispenser instead.
Tony told Rico about the ordeal not half an hour after the event over baked lasagna and Pasta Fajole. It is my impression that Rico got his emotional mortal retribution over the hanging spirit of Berto in the clothes and skin of Tony Mo as he sat at the table that night.
This may need some explaining: you see, when a hitter kills a mark, some believe that as the soul leaves the body, it hangs in the air like a bad stench on the hitter himself. Some might be worried about such things haunting them but there's very little one can do to punish the rich and damned.
Oh! There's an evil spirit haunting me? Either kill me or shut the fuck up and let me sleep.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
