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 uglyprint |
[samael] Holden H U N T |
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Posts: 9 07/23/08 19:24:12 |
Feeling unknown And you're all alone Flesh and bone By the telephone Lift up the receiver I'll make you a believer Take second best Put me to the test Things on your chest You need to confess I will deliver You know I'm a forgiver Reach out and touch faith Personal Jesus, Depeche Mode
Last Edited By: uglyprint 07/23/08 19:44:47.
Edited 1 time.
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uglyprint |
#1 | |||
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Posts: 9 07/28/08 16:05:37 |
Most people would've been content with their chance to start over in a new life, but he was a stubborn son of a bitch. The Gaza Strip lit up in the
middle of the night and left nothing but metallic carnage among the ashes of everyone involved in the seven car convoy. Everyone except for Saul Hunter.
Israeli hospitals offered primitive care -- he remembered the feeling of his pulse slow to a stop and the blurred faces behind masks that had a concentrated
look as they stitched pieces of his skin back together. He'd been eviscerated; split open just under the sternum.
"You're lucky to be alive." The gruff voice of a confidante offered over the phone when the swelling had gone down enough for him to speak.
"You could've died." There was something exhilarating about that phrase. His eyes had darkened, once a warm amber were now near pitch. It was
hard to tell where the tar black of his pupil stopped and his iris began. Months of rehabilitation on Israeli soil had him back up and running. The papers of
America had declared him dead -- the heir apparent to the throne carved out of coal and lined with oil, but like his father he only managed to escape death.
What actually happened to Saul in Israel remained hazy; he shed his name, shed his family and evolved into something else. Holden Hunt. Holden was successful
with trade and commerce -- industrial shipping kept his company in the spotlight and himself out of it as he never really appeared at formal functions or in
photo opportunities. It was what he had Jolie for. The French born native with a pale face and fair hair looked better than he ever had, so he used her face
as the primary promotion. What lurked beneath the surface was that Holden Hunt's company had been shipping arms under the table for decades.
Dedalus Inc was every bit as ingenious as the man behind it; ruthless and cutthroat, it provided anything and everything to the highest bidder. That was just
how Holden worked; an affected surface charm while darker things lurked beneath. He was a death dealer and the great golden calf of the new millennium --
rebirthed under the true sign of the one Truth.
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uglyprint |
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Posts: 9 08/02/08 10:52:36 |
"I'm not one to make your decision's for you." Batiste's voice was bred from the original voudou queen; it leapt out of his mouth like
bayou water and smoke. "But they don't eat like you do. Them woman and man see an egg," he paused as he lifted up an unblemished and pregnant
egg to examine. "They eat it without seein' what it is worth."
"So you're telling me that I argue over the price of eggs?" Holden seemed amused. His madman eyes looked almost amber in the light but the
sticky tar of a pupil seemed to stretch out like a starbloom; unnatural. He leaned against a side table while Batiste continued to inspect the egg in the
light; its bulbous end revealed a darkened pit where the yolk was attached.
"No, I'm sayin' that a man like you cracks the egg," he emphasized this with the end of a knife cracking the egg firmly on the top. Large
fingers peeled away the shell until there was a hole in the top of it. "And looks to see the signs." He tipped the egg over so that its contents
were disemboweled on a saucer. Its yolk was spattered with blood and the yolk ran toward the edges.
Holden shifted, uncrossed his arms and looked over the shoulder of Batiste who swallowed harshly. His mouth twitched into something cruel for only a moment.
It was the skeptic's look that followed as Holden lifted his fingers in some type of Benedictine gesture while a hand splayed over his heart. Ovamancy
was an underrated art but better saved for divining the sex of child and Holden had all of the wrong parts for such a task.
"You mock, but you'll see." Batiste let the words leak out of his mouth like the ill-fated omen that got Creole whispers sung to it while the
mess was poured into a skillet.
"Funny for a man like yourself to find religion in one that condemns your own." Holden watched as the man prepared the egg, its reddened flecks
making the yolk an entirely unnatural orange. Pepper and salt were next to go in; West Indies stock from the slave trade he presumed. Batiste was a relic in
the modern world.
"I don't believe in God, coulevre, just the devil." Dark eyes lifted to search through Holden as if they could rip his skin and
musculature straight from his bones. It rattled him somehow; that this man saw through the layered facade that had birthed Holden to such great heights. He
lifted a knife and tapped it against Holden's sternum, beneath the dully colored fabric there was a faint clinking. "You say you not a man of
religion, but you wear my gift like you devout."
"It's to ward off bad spirits is it not? I'm trying to keep you at bay." Holden's mouth curved easily, a joke that had less mirth
behind it than most. He wore it because it kept his dreaming quiet and black, an unconscious state that did not reveal the burning fields of some Roman
village or the hot sand of Damascus. Things that could not be explained by his backward logic were things that he did not wish to experience.
"Eat." Batiste held out the plate of an egg to Holden, who took it and sat down at the table. He folded his arms over his chest and watched the man carve it into four even pieces. They were eaten in a distinct pattern -- North, West, East and South. It unnerved him.
"I know what I'll do about the situation," Holden began easily as he placed the fork down on the plate. "But I didn't need an egg to
divine my decision."
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uglyprint |
#3 | |||
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Posts: 9 08/10/08 18:15:20 |
"You were dreaming."
He wakes with a start; a body arc and sage smoke in his lungs expels like the lingering ghost of his soul. There is no voudou spirit casting a shadow over
his skin, just words in his ear that echo. The bleach light from the blinds makes the polished stone of the talisman on the nightstand wink at him. He should
have worn it. As his body sinks back into the mattress, he feels the weight of iron bones compress -- like a diver with the bends, he lurches onto his side
and doubles over. Feet touch the cool tile of the bedroom floor and he adjusts to their cold feeling. His innards realign as whatever it is inside of him
finds a place to settle.
When he stands, the length of his spine crackles and he rolls his neck swiftly. Muscles work over bone to carry him toward the bathroom that is bathed in
fluorescent lighting. It smells of a slow chemical diffusion even as he sinks his face into the basin of the sink. The water is scalding hot; steam curls
like ether around his head. He counts off the dreams in order of their chronology but cannot remember their names. When he emerges from the shallow depth he
smears his hands over his face to wipe the water away. He does not recognize the face in the mirror. Burned dark around the eyes, it is the symbol of sulfur
that catches his eye most. Archaic and old it sets him in a rage but the moment he blinks, he is thrown back from the mirror and it shatters.
He remembers the glass in a hallway and the firechild who threw herself upon the pieces like a sacrifice on an altar. The red, red, red seeps into the fabric
of a dress that is torn at the hips and stuffed into a pocket. He remembers bartering with it, keeping it safe in his bone box of memory. No shrine, no
temple because the house would collapse in on itself if it were anything more than a sepulcher. The cool marble of the floor welcomes his skin as he crawls
across on his belly, ripping open all that was tucked so neatly back in by the kind hands of a healer. Rotten fruit spills and his jaw distends to swallow
it; to swallow himself. The whispers in his ear are undecipherable -- they blend together in a singular chant. Sanskrit tongues anointed with the holy fire,
they burn his memory with a name.
He wakes without the sheen of sweat nor the clammy hesitation. Batiste. That bayou bastard has been reading his bones in the dark again.
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uglyprint |
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Posts: 9 08/14/08 00:12:52 |
The city lit up underneath the heavy eye of the sun -- African red, a bad sign. Batiste read the sky as Holden watched the skyscrapers melt from behind a
window. In the back seat, he smeared a hand over his mouth and kept his attention elsewhere as the Stones lit up the radio. The driver turned it up slightly,
having recalled Holden's interest in the band, but it was dismissed entirely. Dark dreams and a talisman in his pocket made his demeanor heavy; half mad
with glassy eyes, he waited until he arrived at the dark hall of the bayou bastard. Neither of them spoke as asphalt was treaded by the car's departure
but they had the same stare -- like lions circling one another just before a battle.
Batiste broke first, smoke trailed from his mouth in beckoning as he headed back into the house behind the heavy door that Holden let close behind him. The
smell of sage was overwhelming but the distinct tinge of sulfur was what had him alert. Holden's jawline twitched at a rapid pace, threatening a spark
while neither of them spoke. Batiste lowered himself into a chair behind a table and watched Holden pace back and forth. There was something about the way he
moved that seemed off; the way he shed his jacket and clawed at his throat.
"Y'got the devil in you today, Holden." Batiste lit another cigarillo with a match. Sulfur lingered like a stale reminder as Batiste hollowed
out his cheeks. The smile he received was borderline manic. "Y'been chasing demons too long in the dark."
Holden refused to respond and instead tore at his neck again; it was a spirit that refused to give him a tongue, one that refused to be named which ran so
deep in his blood that it even caused Batiste to shiver. Holden dropped a hand and drug his knuckles across the table slowly. In the presence of this false
prophet, his eyes became heavy lidded and dark. He continued to pace until he drew blood -- tarblack and thick, it created a jagged line over the wood grain
but didn't seep in. Batiste examined it far enough away that even the scent wouldn't linger in his frame of reference.
"There's blood on y'hands." Batiste spat the words across the table. "Ain't yours."
"You put something in me," Holden began, peeling the cobwebs from his throat -- a guttural sound. "And I want it out."
"I told you, coulevre."
"You changed something." Holden clawed at his stomach beneath the fabric of his shirt. "I can feel it shifting around, swimming
around inside of me. What did you do?"
"I told you to wear it." Batiste made a motion toward his neck and Holden slammed his hands down on the table. "You got too much in
y'blood."
"Answer my question." Holden's voice demanded while they looked at each other.
"You got too much in y'blood. Too much on y'hands."
"I killed a woman's children. Twins. Did you read that in your eggs?" He began his pacing again. "Ripe in the womb. I felt them."
Their cycle of life, their vibrancy and the weight they took when they left.
"I felt them too."
Holden stopped moving and stood as a slim shadow with hands at his sides. His blood dripped slow like honey from his open knuckles as he turned his face
toward Batiste; dark and light in a very delicate balance with no real definition on sides, they existed in the same plane for a similar purpose.
"Get it out," Holden snapped and Batiste moved to the discarded jacket to take the talisman from it.
"What did I tell you?" His hand fisted the dark stone that he pulled from a pocket. "You don't take this off again, coulevre. I
know you--"
"Stop." That phrase. That awful phrase slung from so many mouths made him dizzy. He raised his hands to block out the pounding of that repetition while Batiste slung the chord around Holden's neck. It took only an instant but his grip was like iron. "Reach inside me again Houngan, and I cannot promise that you'll have anything to draw back."
"I wasn't in you." Batiste did not move his arm from the grip even as he felt his fingers lose their sensation. "You got too much
in your blood."
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uglyprint |
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Posts: 9 08/16/08 00:47:14 |
He had not heeded the warning given to him by March -- still stubborn on the idea that no one knew what was best for him except himself, he had driven home and dressed both hands. Like a stigmatic without the finishing marks, he fell into sleep with both hands scratching at the heavy stone around his neck. It held him back but not without leaving a mark; the bruisebloom leaked out around the circle of the talisman darkly. His dreams became blank -- a black screen where his mind was sent reeling, free from the thoughts of the day that had rattled him so much. Then it started. The soft call of seraphim like the distant sound of traffic.
She named you.
The voice made his body twitch involuntarily, shifting to the side as if it would rattle loose the voice or at least provide a face.
She named you, Saul, it taunted. Named you like the king and the apostle but you don't believe in Him do you? No use for metaphors, you
wouldn't write a very compelling epistle.
A face materializes in his mind's eye, but it never fully reveals itself as anything more than a blur. The voice continues, warm and inviting to his
ear but the sound of it makes his body convulse. His eyes are flickering to the waking world -- tiny vessels are exploding as whites flutter.
We've been through this before, you and I haven't we? Not my brother anymore though are you? There is a laugh. No, you are not my
brother but something else. Something only half complete.
His body continues through the convulsions but there is a force like hands on his shoulders, pressing him down into the mattress while his body arced and
rattled. His teeth chatter and his tongue lolled as his skin began to lose its coloring. There was a sound like something snapping and then his body went
limp, relaxed.
Come find the man who bears your burden.
--
When he woke, it was without the talisman around his neck or the bandages on his hands. Healed from within a dream, he looked for any signs of
disfigurement in the mirror for a long time before he dressed himself for work. The drive into the metropolis felt easy even as the radio blared the
latest political jargon at him: he only caught key words as he parked and headed into the building. Very few things startled his staff more than when he
entered the building unannounced; all those who tried to look busy were soon met with the same deer-in-the-headlights stare that he was accustomed to
feeling in life outside the walls of his empire.
Ten minutes late, he crashed a board meeting with fluid ease. The twelve people who sat around the length of the board room table represented his major
stockholders in the shipping trade. Each had their own agenda for dealing with him but none of them had ever actually met Holden Hunt. It was a
prerequisite that none of his affiliates ever dealt with him directly because of what had happened six years ago on the Gaza Strip -- name not, know
not.
"Everyone out except for Eliat," he announced as he knocked over the latest graphs of figures, a hand pointed. "You stay right where you
are."
The affiliates filed out of the room with their feathers ruffled and waited around the door expectantly as the blinds were darkened one square of glass
at a time. Eliat, a portly man with less than a few swipes of hair to comb over the top of his head began to bead up sweat profusely. Holden let his jaw
twitch but waited for the other man's nervous cough before he started.
"I want you to do me a favor." Favors never came cheap in this line of work. "I need every transaction that this company has ever done
with your affiliations on my desk by the end of the day --"
"B-but that's impossible I--"
"I am not finished." Holden lifted up a hand to stop the man from saying anything else. "I also want you to research an incident
that happened in the Gaza Strip six years ago. Check everything from April to December. Medical records especially, I want a list of every doctor in
every hospital or medical research facility within a fifty mile radius, am I clear?"
"Y-yes Mr. Hunt," was the timid reply.
Outside of his room, he stopped by one of the desks where an elderly woman sat taking a phone call. He hung up the phone without letting her finish her
sentence and while the hard lines of her face had been ready to yell at him, she stopped short when she realized who it was.
"Find another woman to run this company. I don't want anyone thinking that we are all just running around with our heads cut off." No, he
did not need to cut the throat of a chicken to handle his business.
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