SO, right. On to actually posting about what happened.
I made my way into Los Angeles, met up with Marley, and we hit the hay shortly after, taking shifts sleeping in the back of the Caddy and watching the night around us. It's unnerving to watch the sun descend behind the horizon, I'll be honest. That reassuring orb, that granter of bountiful life, leaves the human race stranded in isolation and shadow, even if only for less than a dozen hours, for a portion of time worthy of its own moniker and a myriad of symbolic relations, archetypal characteristics and underlying connections with humanity's global unconscious. But hey, again, I'm getting ahead of myself. Our game plan afterward started out simple - after our snoozzzzzzzzZZZZZZ
PARDON ME FOR THE PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT (AS YOUR SPECIES LIKES TO CALL DICTATES FROM ABOVE): THE PRECEDING SPIEL OF INFORMATION IS JUST TOO VALUABLE TO LET GRACE THE EARS OF OUR LOYAL, SCRUTINIZING LISTENERS IN SUCH A CONCENTRATED DOSE.
YES, INDEED, I AM QUITE THE TEASE. DON'T FLATTER ME WITH YOUR REHEARSED DENOUNCEMENTS OF MY APPLICATION OF DRAMATIC TECHNIQUE. MY MOUTH REMAINS SEALED ON ALL OTHER MATTERS, AND I REMAIN OFF TO THE SIDELINES...EXCEPT WHEN IT CONCERNS CERTAIN FUTURE PLANS. OR ARE THEY PRESENT PLANS? WHO KNOWS ANYMORE.
...AHH, BLAST IT ALL. I WILL GIVE YOU SOME TEASERSsssssssss and its feet just keep FALLING forever and ever, its bones would puncture from every fucking angle and clickity-clack as it strode but it didn't sound like clickity-clack it sounded like shickity-crunch, but it would still stand upright and grin at me with that fucking goat's smirk and then i would be insideofitohgodicant
CANT describe the feeling of watching the Ankhalankh. of seeing things that never should be seen of witnessing the impossible it overloads the mind. those other bloggers say they witness the impossible and survive and say they can comprehend they CANT they DONT nothing is like this
not when you are watching yourself do...THINGSicant describe them as anything but THINGS because if i do ill go back andseeitagainjesuschristiWONTGOBACK. calm. stop. back on point - anyone who can articulate and illustrate their impossibilities doesnt see the impossible. the impossible is indescribable, and you shouldnt see it and you know its wrong because this isn't just some almighty supernatural fuckface who can shit with your head it's a god damned common creature on a different planet in the material world
and theyre out there in droves
DROVES OF THEMTHEGOATTHEWOLFTHEDOEANYTHINGBUTTHEDOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWOW!
WHAT A WONDERFUL SNIPPET OF OUR PROTAGONIST'S ACTION-PACKED LIFESTYLE.
WELL, LOOKS LIKE THE INTERFERENCE IS CLEARING UP. HOPE YOU ENJOY THE REST OF THE SHOW.
That's how I'm here now, in Newark. Freaky shit, huh? I'm hoping never to experience it again, but if that can't be the case I'm moving in locked and loaded, maybe grabbing a 2x4 and enough blindfolds to go around.
That brings me to the next order of business - the information I received from the Obelisk (well, intercepted, is the better term) and broke to Sage yesterday. About his buddy, Time Lord, hiding some excerpts of a story from him. If you go and look on AmalgamationSage's blog, you can probably see a strange little tale about this Maiden with a penchant for murdering folks and murdering them proficiently. Well, Mr. Sage himself can't see that. When I informed him about Big Whitey's tiny reveal (and how it happened as dictated in the previous paragraphs, which you should easily be able to refer back to), he simply laid back in the Cadillac, which we had been relaxing in for a small period of time while awaiting the go signal from my good friends in Ironbound to head off to the docks, and sighed heavily while rubbing both the back of his neck with his left hand and the front of his temple with his right hand simultaneously. I don't know how he took the news in particular (he's a very reserved chap when he wants to be), but I can guess it didn't bode well for his future situation. He didn't really speak for the rest of the first day, although we did josh a bit while switching shifts for the graveyard watch when the package got bogged down in Customs.
And today, what did we do? We rolled up to the Newark Docks, into a dark, dankly smelling side loading lane to meet my buds Juggs and Wondrous Steve, fellows who I hadn't conversed with in close to half a decade. Salutations went around in droves, but we immediately digressed to business before the shipment needed to be placed back on the Peruvian cargo cruiser to pick up some heroin from El Salvador.
From a compartment concealed by the collection of whoopie bags, water-spewing flowers and double-heads sided quarters, Juggs revealed a few fantastic pieces for use: a Walther PPKH .38 for myself to keep with the shotgun, a dozen large clumps of C4 with some REALLY elaborate, varied detonators, flak jackets and grenades out the wazoo, and a few other odds and ends, rifle-wise, adding a pinch of wood and iron spicing to the explosive mix. I picked one up (an AK-74u, I think) and offered it to Sage, but he shook his head and just replied, ""I don't feel comfortable with guns. Not my style."
Oh, well. His prerogative, considering he's a crazy fucking magician who can throw fire and shit.
Our little journey to the docks ended abruptly after we loaded the equipment into the Lac's trunk, considering I didn't want Sage around to get caught up in some out-of-the-blue gang crossfire between the Portuguese and the small faction of rugged motherfuckers who rolled in the West Ward. We hopped in and headed off onto the road, picking up some fast food along the way (from Sonics, I think, don't remember what we got) to satiate our appetites. But as we were passing a random street corner while finding a decent place to park up and hit the sack for the night, he grabbed my shirt collar and told me to pull over towards a very, very familiar place.
Old Man Donato's townhouse.
He asked me if I knew the person living there, and when I said yes he added, "There is a REALLY, REALLY wrong vibe coming out of there. Something isn't right in that place." Which, suffice to say, didn't give me much confidence for the future's outcome, considering I've known Donato for most of my life and during my childhood he acted as a surrogate godfather and sometimes uncle-esque figure in lieu of my actual parents. But the next part, oh MAN, the next question kicked the uneasy feeling in my stomach up a notch to full-blown panic when he inquired, "What's the name of the guy living there, anyway?"
"That's Donato, a Portuguese shaman who's lived here since who knows when. Hell, even my parents remember my grandparents talking about the gu-"
And I glanced back at Sage, and the look on his face conveyed two emotions: the first, a complete and utterly startled sort of shock, and the second (the emotion that REALLY made me nervous), horror. Complete, utter horror in his eyes, as if I had just told him that his supposedly deceased cat faked its death in order to enact revenge against him for all its servings of Meow Mix over the years. But this look didn't conjure itself up in regards to the man himself, Sage made sure to tell me that after I asked him what his deal was.
"Jesus Christ, Snore, why didn't you tell me you had some sort of mystic in your town before? We need to go talk to him, as soon as possible. This could get very ugly, very quickly if we don't, so that time would preferably be NOW." Sage made his way to exit the vehicle, but I stopped him before he could rush on over and bang on the front door like an idiot.
"He doesn't come back until Tuesdays. We'll go tomorrow and visit him." At this point, I was eager to simply get the fuck out of there before something else insane happened, or some magic defense system Donato may have left up took a potshot at Mr. Sage because he exhibited paranormal power. And we did leave for then, and found a spot soon after in a random, shitty park somewhere. I'm writing this as Sage takes his turn of napping on the graveyard shift, us shielded from the endless umbra only by the blue-white flare of the laptop light. It helps, I think, to vent towards nothing. Seems to me like one of the only true ways to vent your feelings harmlessly into the ether, by converting them into meaningless data particles.
So, to cut a long story short, we're visiting Old Man Donato tomorrow. At its best, this meet-up won't be pleasant. At its worst? I'm afraid the community's going to burn down to its foundations.
Well, goodnight ya'll. I'll be snoozin' soon, too. Hopefully, no bad dreams tonight. And I know this is a long post, but bear with me. Promise it won't happened again.