Sunday
Aug292010

Finale

Dear Diary,

The priest is coming down here. He's got four friends who are the end of the world and I think they all want to entertain us. Strapping lads. War, famine, death, and pestilence, vying for our attention. I'm excited. I've been practicing my manners and my dance steps and my conversation and I'm trying my best to look as nice as I can in my Sunday suit up on this cross. The machine below just clicks and whirs and screams and shuffles and roars. Laughing laughs and works. Last minute. Last minute. Always working. Always busy.

I'm a worse plague than the one at the Armageddon. We're never hungry (Though sometimes I want candy). We're our own, beautiful war. Just being here, as flesh and metal and wood and sickness and nightmares: we've seen death, we like the way he looks and we want to introduce him to everyone in the whole world because we think he's so nice. I want to have fun. I want to play like I did before the fire and the diseases. I can't wait to meet my very first gentleman callers!

Laughing shows me pictures. The town drunkards and the bearded American fuzzy thing line up. Wait their turn. I'll wait. I want to see Barrington and Stockbridge again. Maybe they'll actually talk to me now that I'm all dressed-up and pretty. I want to pet the Bison. We don't have those over here in England and I've always wanted to see what foreign pets are like. I hope he doesn't break; he seems so fragile. Like a little kitten. Like Groucho badger was fragile.

The Priest, the Sea-Cow, the Drunks and the Bison; while the whole world watches.

I feel so happy. I'm even starting to enjoy the nightmares. Sometimes when Laughing laughs, I laugh too, and sometimes I laugh louder and longer than he does, and he stops and looks at me and I guess he's so proud of me that he can't speak for a while.

Thank you Laughing. Thank you for everything. Thank you for making me pretty. Thank you for letting me play. Thank you for saving my life and letting me ride From Hell. Thank you for giving me this new home and giving me sweets. I promise I'll make you proud.



Yours,

Lilly Limbcake

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I like this girl. A lot. I look forwards to meeting her.

Father will like her too.

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Alright then, let's start this shit rolling.

Tonight, we will be sending Father Leo McGarry underground to annihilate the ripper's insult to nature and finish this threat so that we can have our two finalists duel uninterrupted. Once the Ripper's beast is dispatched, we can make ourselves comfortable to watch the Manatee and the Bison fight for the title. I'm sure it will all be very pleasant and everything will go according to plan.

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Oh, why do I have to kill her. Can't I just keep it as a pet?

Good Evening, ladies and gentlemen. It’s you old friend Father Leo McGarry here. I do hope you’ve been enjoying this week without any fights. My solidarities go out to whoever attempted to fight each other with screws. Ah, poor fools. Left to think for themselves, they bring out screws.

So, I suppose you’re asking yourself as to how I’ve been keeping myself occupied over these vacant days. It’s no fun being cooped up in here. The library isn’t anywhere near what it should be. I’ve had to dedicate time to reading modern political theory, and I must say, I’m glad some of your thinkers have bought into Father’s reasoning. Nasty, brutish, and short indeed. 

Where is the barkeep? I’d like a glass of one his finest scotches in this commemorative flask I’ve pieced together out of Indian demons, elephants, and moles. You see, I’ve been giving a mission by our proprietors. It seems that I have to go and deal with the mess that The Ripper created. My Father doesn’t like it when people create demonic things without his permission. The papers weren’t filed and it just won’t do. Don’t think of me going down there to exterminate that thing as me caring about humanity or your little fight, I’m on official business to ensure that demonic creations are held up to the highest standards. 

It’s a shame he didn’t just file the papers. It truly is a spectacular creature. I suppose that’s what you get when you use non-union sacrifices and a man who’s too clever to be caught.

Oh, I’d like to introduce you to my associate. He’s here to make sure that everything is done according to the proper rules. One of Hells better tour guides and a man who should need no introduction to those of you who are better read, please say hello to Virgil


“He…hello?”

Oh, don’t be shy, Virgil. Just take a drink. You don’t want a drink? Alright then.

Virgilian Death Count: 1

I know it stings, but just take a damned drink. We have work to do.

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Gentlemen, I am reporting to you live from the transporter. I have Virgil with me. 

Virgil... Virgil...Damn you, you weak-spined actuary!


Virgilian Death Count: 5

We are being beamed now. My next report should come to you from the surface.

Fatherspeed

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Gentlemen, I am reporting to you live from the surface.

I do not like what I have become witness to. Virgil has died, again.


Virgilian Death Count: 27

I am actually somewhat frightened, if that is the appropriate term for the emotion you humans consider to be fear. Granted this is nothing worse than anything I've seen Father do, but the fact that it could potentially happen to me is discomforting. It's not as if I'd die, I am the Spawn of Satan, after all, it's just... I've become accustom to this host. McGarry is a decent chap and his screams of torment as he lives trapped inside his own head, unable to do anything in what was formerly his own body amuse me. Plus, being a man of the cloth, he'd be sent up to Heaven and there would be no way for me to keep tabs on him. As stated, we're sticklers for appropriate paperwork. If you're fast-tracked, you're fast-tracked. Damn Papists.

We're approaching the beast now.

Hello Lily, It's me. Leo.

Oh, no.

She isn't happy.

Halt! I command you! In the name of my father! Of Abaddon! Of the Accuser, the Adversary, the Angel of light and the bottomless pit! Of Apollyon, Beelzebub, and Belial! The Father of lies and King of Tyre! The Leviathan, Lucifer, and the Serpent of Old! I command you to


.........

.............

.........

TRANSMISSION LOST

TRANSMISSION LOST

TRANSMISSION LOST

TRANSMISSION LOST

TRANSMISSION LOST

ATTEMPTING TO RECONNECT.

RECONNECTING...

RECONNECTING...

RECONNECTING...

RECONNECTION FAILED.

TERMINATING TRANSMISSION.

TRANSMISSION TERMINATED.

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Now it's time for the sirens

We have lost touch with a powerful supernatural force. What's worse, said force is now entombed in a lead-sealed vault with a monster created by the sickest mind in England. 

We have no way to see what's going on down there, but I can tell you it's fucking loud, even from the surface and through all that lead.

Now we wait and fucking hope for our man to come out with that beast's head in his hands. If Leo hasn't emerged in 24 hours, we are taking drastic measures. By which I mean guns. Massive guns.

If we don't have a winner we like in 24 hours' time, we're going to level the fucking place anyway. After all, it's the only way to be sure.

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Dear diary,

I can dance...I am best at the WALTZ. I am having so much fun. My gentleman caller and his high up horses knew some steps but I have been practicing. Just for them. Just for you.

I am the dancer in the dark.

I am this many dead things.

I am air that kills. Your air. All around.

I am the roar of the machine.

I am your screams. Your singing nightmares.

I am the dead laugh of all murdered gods.

I am still dancing. I am we. WE ARE ALL DANCING. Here.

DANCE WITH ME. LONDON. ENGLAND. EUROPE. WORLD. ALL THINGS WITH OR WITHOUT A NAME REGARDLESS OF THEIR SHAPE OR FRAME MAY OFTEN BE MISDIAGNOSED AS SOMETHING MORE THAN WHAT IS MOST.


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Feeling wonderful!



Yours,

Lilly Limbcake

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Virgilian Death Count: 28

The pain. The insufferable pain. 

I don't know what's going on down there. I don't know why Leo isn't back yet. I don't know where my ledger book went.

His Father isn't going to like it when I tell him his only son, begotten to the world for his own amusement and literary purposes, has gone missing. I've already died twenty-eight times since I came here to file the paperwork. Twenty-seven of them were McGarry's doing, but that last time...

That last time nearly killed me.

I'm not a man who blindly follows party doctrine. I'm of the virtuous unbaptized, and I really think that one of these days, I may finally catch that white banner. Some day in the future, maybe around the 1960s, I hope to finally get out of Hell and head... somewhere else. I don't know where.

I'm not a man who blindly follows party doctrine, gentlemen, but I'm still going to take this time to advise you. I say this as a lawyer for Hell; pray if you think it will do you any good.

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Dear diary

What's this he says about "who art in heaven"? New us mumbles about a place above. He's already down below enough. Nowhere to go now but up.

Up to heaven.

Wall of lead in the way. The path to heaven is not clear.

Clear the way.

Break the wall.

Climb, climb, climb to heaven.

Up and up and up and whatever meets us past the walls gets to come along.

Breathe my air. Quick and painful. Slow and painful. Laughing approves. Laughing has our book of life. No names in the book. You are not named.

Up and up and up and ROAR the cats and the machine and the people and the father and me and the nightmares (the funny man who came with the father went away). Drums above. Drums that sound like booms!

Breathe my air. Then you'll be like me and then I can burn your houses down because you're all a danger to the community.

Then you get this new home that growls and roars and clicks and whirrrrrrrs.




We're going to kill all of you.


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I need some fresh air. This door is thick and stubborn but I shouldn't have too much trouble opening it.



Yours,

Lilly Limbcake

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CRISIS

We've lost fire control. All of our weapons systems are boned, and we can't even get power to the smallest deck turrets. We are a sitting fucking duck, an-

-OH SHIT WHAT THE HELL IS THAT GODDAMN NOISE?

THE GROUND'S CRACKING

SOMETHING'S COMING U-

It's just sitting there in that fucking pit it's blown in the city, laughing. We're fucking powerless - can barely even keep this damn ship in the air. What the hell is it waiting for?

Excuse me old chap, but I think we should settle this... like gentlemen.

____________________

Dear diary,


Great tobacco sea-sky. We see you. Under all that suit. Airtight. Isn't it hard to breathe? Hard to share my air? See to your tailor, sir. Laughing tailored me, and now I have the prettiest dress in Europe.

Just a few snips here and there. Let it breathe. Let yourself breathe. My air. Inhale deep. You and the rest of London. The whole world. Take in my breath and dance and then lie down for a bit because the dance takes a lot out of you.

Even while the rest of us is ripping and gnashing and doing a dance of a different kind.

Sea cow. I can see you in my head. No suit. Eyes like glass and naked. You had a good waltz. So much fun and so nice to show a little girl like me some kindness before you're off on your way. Handsome. Obedient. Fat and fuzzy. Everything a pet should be. Like a Whitechapel badger. Like a big, grouchy badger that never had a chance. That died because of me.

I see you now and I see you so soon, Sea cow.

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It's so bright out here. So fresh and warm...




Yours,

Lilly Limbcake

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Dear diary,

Still, hours after, I can taste the flying frock. Every once in a while, the machine will use our new wings to pick the human from its clicking teeth. Mangled, murdered man meat. Father Leo McGarry. We killed him, I think.

"This is my body," he seemed to say. So we ate, and now that we took him for our meal, we can ascend. Heaven? Still far away, still blocked by the unclean flesh. Closer, though.

Thank you for your communion, Father. We are cleansed. You have nurtured our body and strengthened our souls.

Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we have received from Thy bounty.

And all that we are yet to receive, the skin and meat of lesser beasts and men. For the machine. For my all-consuming sickness. For the demon wings that guide us. For Laughing, who is a good man.

Amen.


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Fire? All of this fire reminds me of something...

I wonder where the funny man who came in with the Father went.



Yours,

Lilly Limbcake

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Dear diary,

Standing here, amid this glowing warmth, with the machine, the lions, the townspeople, the wings, the diseases, the nightmares, and Laughing's pride, I feel different. Lucid? Melancholy? I'm looking up at the sky and even though the only thing I can make out clearly is the cracking, world-shearing pain, I can see an outline of something high up.

It's probably not important. Just a blind spot in my vision. Something to smear and dilute and spread across my perception until it loses all relevance. Something pretty and fleeting; a place to play in my thoughts. Tobacco and sea and sky and a dead, white world in the blackness above. Peaceful. It has to go. I can't have peace for long, it gets so quiet that it makes me think about all that's happened, and I hate doing that. The past is worse than the nightmares ever were.

It's warm, here. It's bright. It's pretty. Shouldn't think. Shouldn't dwell. I'd like to sing, but I can't remember the words to anything but the nightmares. So I'll just hum a bit.

...

...

...


The warmth hurts, but then again, everything hurts, these days. Laughing said it was for the best. I can't do anything but take his word for it. He's paid me so much attention. He's pinning his hopes on me, I think. My head hurts. It's burning around me. All around me. For real this time?



The fires remind me of...






...Home.






Eternally and finally yours,

Lilly Limbcake

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