lantern soul 9

Part 2: psychics are forever, but chaos is the creator's best friend.

 

 

The child is born but lifeless. He has no soul yet cries out—all the working professionals and those who know to understand—terrified at his movement—terrified at the perverse life in its refusal! It's a choice to be bizarre.

 

His mother cried out, afraid, saying out to all who would listen, "take it away, destroy it!"

 

But a voice quieted them with its self-assurance. With a bark and a growl, "Somebody shut that bitch up!"

 

He was like some ancient Pimp with black horns, a raccoon fur coat (dyed a neon purple), and a long-rimmed fedora tilted to one side.

 

"Like give the kid, and I will kill y'all quick." The man said, pulling out a blunderbuss hidden in his fur coat—holding it forward like some phallus.

 

The doctor, still covered in a mess from the birth, turned towards the man before half his body disappeared in a blast that sprayed parts of him (or more accurately exploded parts of him) onto the faces of those in the room.

 

The man Screamed in calm musical bark, kind of in control, but so quickly did he lose it. "I am blind, joe death; damn your eyes!" now with a Tommy gun (also pulled from that fur coat {what the hell else is in there?}) He jumping some primitive dance to the rhythm of rat ta tat of holding down the trigger just a little longer than is required for leaving those bouncing, pulsing corpses dead.

 

Then, after all, were massacred, he lit a cigar pacing the carnage. Proclaiming to the corpses, "well damn, I hit the baby." while he is marching to music between a delta blues and the kind of headbanger shit al Jorgenson loves to phone in. The ghosts of those he killed are playing instruments covered in flames. Their eyes are empty and black. Demons holding the strings playing their spirits like twisted puppeteers of suffering marionettes. But the song goes on. Now leading the band in some reconciliation, he plays a solo on a kazoo (also pulled from his fur coat.). All the while, he was stomping and grooving in his unsexy way.

 

"To hell with this," he screams. The ghosts of fire disappear, but the demon puppeteers are gloating and laughing.

 

"I said, To hell with it." then, catching his grift, they to fade to wherever it is they belong.

 

He picks up the bullet-laden baby that smiles at him.

 

"yeah, uncle blind joe death is here." He says as security busts in the room, marking him in their crosshairs.

 

"Freeze you sick son a bitch!" says one, but before the other can start.

 

Blind Joe Death hollers out, "damn your eyes!" covering himself in his fur coat like batman, "turning on" his heat-resistant cape and collapsing with the baby's in a spiral of purple.

 

"I can't tell if I am dreaming or if the world is just fucked up." Says one of the bloated security guards. His asshole flexes a notch or two up on the terror scale when he hears an echoing Godzilla roar from outside the window.

 

"what do you think!" is that? Why it sounds like a kaiju-sized version of that sardonic sadist Blind Joe Death.

 

The slow, hesitant, or sincerely not brave security guard raises the hospital blinds seeing the horned man dancing with red-skinned demonic topless dancers. Then like some elevator giving out a collapsing down to the basement. The hospital is swallowed into the earth.

 

Months later, they would lower a camera down the square hole to see what had caused the collapse. It never came back up, but they sent a special microphone down in a heat-resistant box years later and when they tuned into it. They heard the suffering of the damned, their cries and screams.

 

Or at least that is what the children on the playground will tell you about the hospital that hell embraced.