A Special Day [Oneshot Repost]

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Vagrant Orpheus
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A Special Day [Oneshot Repost]

Post by Vagrant Orpheus »

Today is a special day. In fact, it’s so special that I’m taking the night off.

The Crow doesn’t work on special days.

There’s a haze of lights, dancing specks in an indiscriminate corona, and briefly, oh so briefly, the entirety of Crowtalon City and Los Angeles dims to blackness. I read once that these power outages cause on average five people to die each night. Fuckers. You’d think after twenty plus years of this, they’d be used to it by now.

The Crow steps out of the teleporter, clad already in my black bodysuit. It’s tight, like a second skin, like the ballet leotard I wore as a child. Before I became an orphan. Before my parents d-

My balls are itchy. Fuckers.

The Crow glances around the little room, at the banks of lights, and I sigh. This is my twilight, the rare minutes where I am neither The Goddamn Crow, Vengeful Vigilante of the Night, or Wayne Banner, Emperor of Earthly Delights. I am the black-clad man. Like a ninja.

Ninja… Banner learned from ninja when he was younger. He went to Japan and I learned the art of flipping out and killing people. I’ve put it to good use as The Crow. The Goddamn Crow. Which is why I’m…

Wait. It’s a special day, The Crow is off for the night. So I decide to feed my pets.

Down at the bottom level of the building, the towering monolith of cobalt and obsidian, is a delivery bay. Every night the portly little butcher delivers a vast trolley of meat. Freshly dead meat.

Meat that still bleeds.

Bleeds like the breasts of a whore.

Like the breasts of my mother, the finest whore to have lived.

Lord rest her soul.

As The Crow rambles on in his head, I wander down to the bay, and smile at Richard Gray, Age Twelve. I don’t like him.

But it’s a special day. So The Crow smiles.

I hand a cigar to the kid. Grand Mile, best there is.

He refuses it.

I don’t like him.

He’s high on glue again, that much is clear. Banner groans inwardly and curses the child. He’ll end up hooked, and an addict. Like me.

Nobody wants to end up like me.

Not even I want to end up like me.

Fucker. What a pussy.

The Crow has started bitching again, as he wheels the trolley of meat to the elevator. Pansy. But The Crow knows how The Crow feels.

His parents are dead.

They can’t share the special day.

By the elevator is a calendar. It’s Richard Gray Age Twelve’s calendar.

I took it from a brothel last year. It’s stained slightly, but the pictures will make Richard Gray Age Twelve a man.

Banner reaches out for the pen and slashes a large, ugly X though a circled day on the calendar.

Because that’s how I do things.

Large and ugly.

Big and brutal.

Like a whore. Because that’s the best kind of whore, the whore that makes killing the whore fun.

I step into the elevator and it ascends to the top of Crowtalon, screeching to a halt, as if it had been denied entrance to heaven.

Or was too much of a pansy to jump from the top of the tower, bursting free of its constraints and fleeing to a future only it could dictate, free to move up and down of its own volition, no longer a slave to the insanity of humanity.

I think it’s the latter. The elevator is a flaccid cock.

As the doors slide cleanly open, the air is filled with sensations.

Feathers rustle ceaselessly, a constant whisper of torment and sins.

Beaks clack together, a promise of things to come.

Hoarse cries echo through the large room, the deathly croaks of souls trapped within birds.

Not just birds. Crows.

Fucking crows. I hate them. Loathe them with a passion. They are symbols of everything I am not, embracing darkness, death and omens.

Banner begs to differ though. He is as bad as them, and has embraced it. He even called himself The Crow.

The smell hits me at the same time, a choking bird smell. A smell of stale shit, wet feathers and avian aromas. It’s a fetid smell, a smell I cannot get enough of. It is me. Darkness, death, an omen of ill fortune. The scent of crows.

As The Crow idly starts to throw scraps of meat from the trolley, he wonders whether Richard Gray Age Twelve will like his present. Because today Richard Gray Age Twelve turns thirteen, and is no longer a pussy. He’s on the path to being a man.

As the birds crowd around, pecking, jostling and fucking around, I think of my gift to Richard Gray Age Twelve. A syringe, a vial and a twelve-pack of condoms. Soldier Serum and sex. What could be better to make a limp dishrag a man?

A man.

A man like me.

Me, a man.

A man my parents never saw.

Because my parents are dead.

Shaking his head, Wayne Banner strides from the room with the trolley, a single slab of raw meat left for Richard Gray Age Twelve’s pet.

He insists the whoregirl isn’t a pet, but I keep her chained up in the kennel anyway. When he becomes a man he will use her.

Just like the whore she is.

The journey down to the basement kennel is tedious, and The Crow hums. An annoying song. I’d stab him, but it hurts. So Banner and I squabble about the song I’m humming, and we pull out a cigar to smoke.

The smoke tastes good. Calming.

I enter the dimly-lit room and glare at the huddled child. She’s an orphan of course.

A casualty of the war on whores.

I draw the charred stub of my cigar from my lips, and flick my eyes around the mouldy wooden room. Too dry to stub the cigar out against the wall. Wayne has to remember to fix the climate controls sometime.

So I stub the cigar out against the pet. Whimpering, whining thing that she is. A bitch-dog. A whore. I pull away, and see that the girl has managed to burn another small hole in her shirt. Silly slut.

The Crow tosses her the meat, and she slowly pulls herself up to fetch a pan. No doubt Richard Gray Age Twelve will stop by later and cook the meat. Filthy waste, but she’s a whore. A not-man. She can’t stomach the food of a real man. So I let it go.

I’m pretty sure Richard Gray Age Twelve takes some of her cooked meat and eats it when I’m not here. It is two pounds of meat, so there’s no shortage, but he’ll never be a man if he continues to eat cooked meat.

When he turns thirteen, that habit will stop.

I reach out, my strong, black-clad arm shoving aside her bed easily, giving access to her toilet. It’s a barred section of the floor, which runs down to the sewers. Glinting in the darkness of the sewers are the beady eyes of sewer orphans.

They’re not my orphans.

I feed them anyway. I toss the leftovers and the bones down there.

These orphans have no parents. They have no home.

When they are able to understand, I will conscript them.

For now I simply feed them.

Their gratitude is strange. It’s a strange feeling. Sometimes I get it when I save a victim on the street, but usually I get fear and revulsion. As Banner, I get platitudes and yes-men, gushing gold diggers and business executives. But no gratitude.

The orphans are different. They are grateful. Such a feeling is queer, and settles diffusely in The Crow’s stomach. I shake it off, with a swig of Scotch.

I leave the room, and move towards the living space of Richard Gray Age Twelve. Banner makes a mental note that he has to go and collect the gift later on tonight, to give to Twelve, to make him a man. I stop, and remind myself to call him Thirteen from now on.

As I wander by the elevator, I stop. Something has caught my eye. It’s a calendar, that calendar I got for Richard Gray Age Twelve. I look at it, staring at the circled day. It means something, something Banner’s mind is not quite equipped to comprehend in a haze of alcohol, nicotine and psychosis. Then it clicks. Of course, it’s his birthday.

I detour, and open a draw in my storage area, taking out the package. Then I travel up to his room. His whiny goth emo room. It’s all black. He’s a pussy goth.

I ignore the fact that I haven’t given him any new light bulbs for six months. He’s just being emo. Emo. What a strange term.

The emo fashion is fucked up. Like a corpse. Like a goth. Except more pansy and involved in more fashion. Like a gay. A gay from a movie.

I don’t like emos. I see them on the streets. And I listen to Richard Gray Age Twelve in my ear.

My ear. He’s speaking.

I turn to him, and manage to smile. I hold out the package and he stares at it glumly. I don’t understand. It’s his birthday, and he doesn’t care.

He opens it and I look at him, his eyes flicking from the items inside to me.

“Happy twelfth birthday. Now you’re Richard Gray Age Twelve!” I exclaim. Inside of me, something whispers limply.

Ten years, it says.

This is the tenth year you’ve ordered serum and condoms, and the tenth year you’ll fail to collect it.

My heart feels heavy, but by the time the though is complete, I’m bewildered.

The serum and condoms are for his thirteenth birthday. I’ve always planned it that way.

His thirteenth birthday isn’t until next year.

Richard Gray Age Twelve looks up at me with clouded eyes, sorrow misting them up.

I look at him, as he takes the tube of glue and the pack of cigars out of the box. I nod, conveying my pleasure.

But he keeps looking at me, like there’s something wrong with me.

He’s right. He’s only just turned twelve, but he’s right.
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Shroom Man 777
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Re: A Special Day [Oneshot Repost]

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

God damn this is great. No one is ever as fucked up as the Goddamn Crow, goddamn it. I love this, how he's just straightly out of his fucking mind - how he's got utterly no remaining redeeming human features left! How he's inhuman. And batshit insane, UNAPOLOGETICALLY batshit insane!

A Special Day, indeed.

Man, Richard Gray, Age Twelve. I don't like him.

The Crow is a complete and utter psycho! Goddamn. I just love reading these deranged narrations we've created, just for him. It's wonderful, that's what it is. The Goddamn Crow.
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"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
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Re: A Special Day [Oneshot Repost]

Post by Heretic »

Holy shit? Who is this guy? He claims to be many people...I lose track. I read some Crow fiction, but holy shit, how old is Richard Gray? Is he actually 12? If so, then he lives in a very insane environment...
Computers are like Old Testament gods; lots of rules and no mercy.
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Shroom Man 777
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Re: A Special Day [Oneshot Repost]

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

The subjective and objective reality of the Goddamn Crow is an inhumanly horrible one - truly a disturbing reality. But we play with his psychosis and homicidal tendencies for the lulz.
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"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
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