GO INSANE (AND EAT YOUR MATES)

"Ah, short suits you," said Semper. Looking about the room as Valencia Explained Rou, his state, and the event which caused it. A Stag party, The first and last one Semper would ever attend. Soon Valencia and Semper were laughing and smiling as she went through the room explaining each face and the name that belonged to it. "You're a damn encyclopedia," taking a sip between my sentence, "I'm Semper, It's a pleasure," I said in near shouting and put out my hand to shake hers.

Semper began to wonder for what reasons Valencia could be breaking her habits of sobriety, and tonight of all nights, her mother couldn't be the only reason...her mother was just the projection of fear and anger. Semper stopped these thoughts before they ran away with her and looked out into the crowd as people blended together. She had an urge to leave. Something didn't settle right in her stomach, but after a few moments pass she turns back to Valencia, her curiosity getting the better of her. Ordering another drink she began to think and speak altogether.

"Harlot? Really? quite a thing for a mother to say. You know, we're a lot alike you and I, My father called me a Whore once too."

Semper reached into her pocket and pulled out a small sketch pad, placed it in Valencia's hand and opened to the first of its many erotic images. Sexual scenes, explicit positions, women on women, men on men, each page had another art piece more detailed than the last. For such a tiny book, the drawings had every refined detail of the naked human body in endless posses and actions.

"Now I have more money then I know what to do with and My father is dead," taking a sip of scotch to pause ",never knew my mother. Why he didn't approve of my profession was obvious, The human body just fascinates me. What makes me happy made my father cry." Semper said through a smile. "What makes you happy?"
 
Jim had no idea what was going on anymore. Suddenly Damien had been pulled into the mix, Mama let out a hearty laugh, and the next thing he knew, a couple hundred pounds of rowdy black girl and an unfortunate businessman were descending upon him. Like hell he was going to die like this, and instinct kicked in. He turned, jumped as high as he could and leaped off from the wall and out of danger- well, that was the idea. What really happened was Jim got to a decent height, and tried to bounce away, but, in his drunken state, his foot hit the wall sideways and he came tumbling back down, landing on top of the fallen woman. He scrambled to get back up and off of her, and in the fray he got caught on something. He felt his feet hit the floor and he did what any frightened animal would do- he jumped hard. His powerful legs carried him into the air, and somehow taking a large portion of Mama's shirt and all of her bra with him. He landed and looked at the mess. Seconds after she must have seen what had happened, too, and bellowed the customary saying:

"God dammit, Jim!"
 
And, once again, Nicholas found himself uttering a short statement in the softness of the highest (or perhaps fluffiest) of Brian Blessed's sentimentality; this time, though, the statement was not meant to be intelligible, or even meaningful, as it was an utterance born of pain. For Father Christmas's Rudolph, herein disguised as a Sugar Mama, had rather prematurely propelled him to his yearly course, but with a wall, floor, and a few shards of beer-coated crystal barring his route. He was fortunate, however, in that the Burger Queen failed to add to her accidental efforts, as her attentions, in the course of these motions, seem to have been diverted.

To what, or rather to whom, they had been temporarily diverted became, after that bit of the commotion, Nick's new conversational partner. But the conversation created wasn't much of a discourse, it turned out, as the whole thing, in terms of sound, remained rather one-sided. For as Damien spoke his command, Nicholas's soft utterance had loudened into a full crescendo of agony, as his drunken body realized the extent of his fall's damage: the aforementioned shards of glass had actually dug themselves into Nicholas's body!

(Nothing too serious, though, as the wounds he acquired deepened only in the epiderm of his back. His scream was more of blind exaggeration than any actual panic)

Anyway, the crystals became the least of his problems, as the discussion he had just been drawn in turned out to be less of a discussion and more of a challenge, when Damien's instruction (after a few long seconds) actually registered in Nicholas's mind. Coupling this brief moment of awareness with an even briefer moment of sobriety (which perhaps came about when a pickled perfume of piss filled Nick's nose), this Saintly Sinner found himself not desiring yet another humiliation; and, while defiantly pulling up his pants [over his now-softened white licorice stick], he made his reply: a stout, distinct, and all-too-hearty "No".
 
"No."

Damien was taken aback. Nobody said no to him, unless they were moronic or had a death wish (or happened to be called Mama Meat Grinder). In his drunken state, both probably applied to Nicholas. Or else Nicholas hadn't yet been acquainted with Damien's oh-so-kind nature. Which was fine. Damien would just have to educate Nicholas of how things worked with him. Because 'no' was definitely not going to be Nicholas' final answer if Damien had anything to do with it.

While Nicholas was pulling up his pants in idiotic defiance, Damien gave a rapid low blow to Nicholas' private area. Then for good measure he gave Nicholas another knee down below, followed by a liver strike (which normally Damien would have softened to stop the opponent going out cold, but that seemed unnecessary with Nicholas' 'layers'). Firmly gripping Nicholas' arms, Damien hissed in Nicholas' ear, "You are damn lucky I left my glock at home for Rou's Stag. I said to give me your pants. So you're gonna give me your pants, you little shit." Damien released Nicholas' arms, and took a couple of steps back. Considering the compact space, Damien doubted Nicholas would be able to make a run for it.
 
Valencia couldn't bring herself to flag down the bartender, even though she had a nice stack tucked away in her purse, the same chanel handbag that grew legs and walked away in the hands of some stranger no doubt. However, the uppity Brit was hardly concerned with money and a nice bag. The new company, with a face she couldn't place even though Semper verged on familiar stranger, kept her attention. Perhaps it was the drinks. Perhaps it was the music. Perhaps it was how soft Semper's skin looked in the colorful lighting. "Not hardly, Semper. I never forget a face." She took Semper's hand and all she could think about was the warmth beneath her flesh. Nearly choking on a cough, she pulled back to cover her lips. With an apologetic look, she watched as her new companion looked away with the posture of someone about to flee. It did not last long, in fact as soon as Semper turned back around Valencia doubted it even happened.

Interest piked, Valencia ducked her head close to Semper's to get a closer look at what she presented. Erotic images of both men and women wearing nothing but their flesh and lust, it stunned Valencia and she found herself blushing modestly. However there was a certain appeal to the drawings, she could see that each line and curve was drawn meticulously. Carefully. With a finger she gingerly traced a few of the drawings, a glimmer of a smile on her lips. "They are tremendous Semper, both savage and beautiful all at once." And she was right, many of the poses were brutally primal and others graceful. The woman beside her had much talent, but Valencia's fascination was moved into sympathy and of course a touch of pity. Close to apologizing, she bit her tongue knowing better than to apologize for something that was none of her concern. Ms. Winters was very well educated in the art of refined politeness, something her mother taught her long ago, even though it was involuntary.

"We cannot possibly make everyone happy, if we tried surely we would all go insane." She laughed however hollowly. What she said was something she could atest to in more ways then one. Semper's next question caught Valencia off guard, looking like a doe in headlights; mouth gaping, eyes wide, and unblinking. "Me... happy." Valencia turned away from Semper and stared into the lit up bottles of assorted poisons. "I-i don't know." Oh but she did, Valencia was always a sly little fibber.
 
If nothing, the crowd had all but turned to silence, and the thumping of speakers was all that was left through their vibration. Bringing back the sketches once they are all displayed, neatly tucked back into her pocket. Valencia didn't know, and Semper had started this thing and set out to finish it.

"Of course you know" She spoke too softly to be heard, but taking Valencia by the hand and rubbing her knuckles gently she knew. Maybe Valencia's Ideals of happiness were extremely different from Semper's but in all truths she knew that Valencia also used her hands much like an artist. It showed in the flexibility of her digits, the slender elasticity of the tendons, and how she moved the fingers when she spoke.

"...but you don't have to tell me" Semper shouted with a smile. Placing her new found friends hand onto the bar she lunged over it to tap the bartender and held up two fingers to the man before placing herself back on her respectful side. "Waiting was never a thing of mine, I'm rather impatient," Semper hid a giggle,"So," They are briefly cut off as the bartender brings them each a new drink, Semper hands the other to Valencia and continues,"How do you know the Groom-to-be?"
 
Valencia turned her blank, tightly drawn face to the woman beside her, Of course you know. That was what left the woman's lips and was stolen by the almost tribal sounding music. Tilting her head to the side, she wondered what the woman was thinking as her opposite gingerly massaged her fingers. Her slender fingers which had seen years of keys and been beaten into the perfect shape. Pianist fingers. However, the piano only emptied her mind of any anger or pain. Another chain around the box. Was that happiness? Something that took away the pain for a little while, just to leave a feeling of emptiness behind?

Of course she knew, but it was buried under centuries of memories that did not belong to her.

Semper shouted over the sound and dragged her attention once more, Valencia found her smile compelling. After all but standing on the table to get the bartender's scattered attention she looked to Valencia and explained her deeds. Laughing once more with more glee, she shook her head and waved off the minor indecency. "Please darling, you go after what you want. I see no crime in instant gratification!" The two were rewarded with a new drink that Valencia managed to sip at with more self control.

"Rou and I met through a friend," She started, but had to repeat herself to be heard. "He is quite known for not carrying through with his hobbies." Feeling a spark of gossip in the back of her mind she simpered, "Or his women, bless the heart of his pretty fiance. Anyways, he had taken a liking to classical music of all things, and found he wanted to play the grand piano. So a friend of mine introduced us and I began to tutor him, since then we've barely even spoke. The invite was completely a surprise, but I needed a break so I accepted." She shrugged and took another heavy gulp of her drink.
 
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Unfortunately for Nicholas, the first response that popped into his mind (running away) was found by him to not be a viable course of action. Damien had, by chance or by choice, cornered Nicholas to a rather compact section of the club, and if Nicholas ever tried to spring past him like a deer, the Drug Lord would need only to flick his coke-handling wrists to make trip and fall the day's meal of venison.

Fortunately for Nicholas, the second response that popped into his mind (fighting back) was not as invalid as it had seemed. His experiences in University wrestling had given him ample training for this kind of situation, and the fast and solid blows to his genitalia and liver would not have served to be impediments (the fat swallowing up those sets of organs had protected them from any lasting pain or damage).

And so, after zipping his fly, tightening his trousers to his tools, standing up, stretching his muscles a bit, brushing off the meek grains of glass in his back, doing a few warm-up exercises, and satisfying an odd itch he had on the back of his neck, he returned to his stout, distinct, and all-too-hearty reply ["No!"], but with the fat trimmed, the volume lowered, and the boastfulness turned into a chilling and somehow sinister whisper [
"No...."] (one which was perhaps reminiscent of Brian Blessed's role in Henry V). Then, he charged.

His back was arched into a quarter-circle, his arms were spread long and wide beside his body (like the arms of a cross), and his stout legs were crooked as if he were riding a horse; and his head continued looking straight and true, steadily directing the momentum of his figure to his foe's side. His charge was a professional charge, one he'd specially mastered to take down his opponents while assuming the advantages of his weight.


 
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Even after Damien's attack, Nicholas was still asking for more. Which wouldn't normally matter, since Damien was usually more than happy to teach buggers like Nicholas a lesson. Sadly though, today was supposed to be Damien's day off from such work, which made him doubly pissed that he actually had to do some dirty work. Meaning that Damien would have to be twice as ruthless with Nicholas. Oh joy of joys.

Glad for taking a few steps back before, Damien prepared to counter Nicholas' practised charge. Damien smoothly slid his legs backwards, while the top of his body slanted into and over the charging Nicholas. With locked hips, Damien began to lean on the area between Nicholas' shoulders, using his hands, and then arms, to push down on Nicholas. This lead to Damien forcing most of his upper body weight onto the back of Nicholas's neck and head. The sprawl Damien had performed upon Nicholas should leave Nicholas' face pressed against the floor, hard. Content with the new position upon the floor, Damien gave a swift 12-6 elbow to the muscular area next to Nicholas' left shoulder, before resuming the full pressure of his body weight onto Nicholas' shoulders.

For a milli-second Damien ran through various attacks which he could do to Nicholas next. Obviously Damien still wanted to take Nicholas' trousers, so he'd have to work something around that.
 
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But his charge was tempered. And less than a moment since he had begun his charge, he found himself marinating, face [and belly] down, in the mix of beer, vomit, and piss that was the club's rat-pool, with his opponent, Damien, forcing him in the mix, and tenderizing him with a few hard blows to the shoulders.

Of course, even though he was locked in a practically inescapable position, Nicholas would not be barbecued without a[nother] fight. Like a supermodel trying to get out of a costume obviously out of her range, Father Christmas kept squirming and twisting and wriggling and jiggling, defiant against losing his pants to some fool who so strongly reminded him of his bully-filled days in primary school. Ultimately, though, his little cockroach dance would have been of no use; all he did was to comprehensively soak his clothes in the foul-smelling mess.

"NO!" And, like an infantile version of Brian Blessed, he followed up on his all-caps expression of futile resistance with a long string of fairly senseless swears and curses. His body relaxed, and though his words did not show it, his mind had prepared for the inevitable, expository humiliation.

But then, at his fourth exclaiming of the word "bellend", a miracle happened: by the strange intervention of whatever (or whomever), the Saintly Sinner suddenly found his burden of personified evil released; and, taking advantage of this good fortune, he threw his opponent to the side, got up, and turned his whole body into a terrestrial meteor, laterally slamming all of his [redacted] stone upon the villain's liver. "Victory!" his mind rejoiced, before it realized the strength of the alcohol-puddle he'd bathed in, and very briefly fainted in empowered intoxication (and perhaps also in odd remembrance).
 
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It would seem Damien had underestimated just how strong an opponent Nicholas would be, for Damien suddenly found himself flying into a nearby wall. Stupidly Damien had given his opponent a window of opportunity, something he may not of done had his mind not been intoxicated. But as the case was Damien had a good few beers down him (a problem which was his own fault), leading to his less than enviable performance ending with him being tossed aside into a wall.

There was no time for Damien to regret his decisions though. Life as a dealer had taught Damien to always be prepared for just about anything, especially in a fight. So Damien was almost ready to try and deflect Nicholas' next assault. I say almost ready since one can never be properly set up to deal with a human cannon ball coming towards your liver (unless you're living in an anime, of course). Damien gave a sharp exhalation of his breath to tighten his chest, while doing his best to roll back with the assault.

Impact. It hurt like hell. Not as much as if Damien hadn't braced himself, but it was still excruciatingly painful, especially considering Nicholas' weight. Wincing in pain, Damien slid down the wall, as Nicholas fainted at his feet. Tommorow they'd both be feeling more than a mere hangover... Or at least they would have done if they were to survive the night. Perhaps both fortunately and unfortunately, the after-effects of the fight wouldn't go far beyond the spot on the floor they resided in currently, for worse agony awaited them. This trouser conflict was just a taster of the oncoming storm.
 
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Head perking, ears open, and a drastic change in posture from slouching to proper, Semper was alerted to the sounds of a scuffle. Double taking to Valencia and finally back to the lower rumbling vibration undertoned by the Music pumping through the club. By the bathrooms, it happened. "Oh," said Semper, "They have bathrooms, time to break the seal."

Standing into a graceful sway she finished a final drink and placed an empty glass before an empty chair. Shame really, bladders being seemingly smaller when consuming hard beverages. The commotion was not enough to deter Semper from heading in its very direction for the woman's facilities. Arriving at the edge of the crowd that began to gather around the scene, she glanced around briefly before finding the girls lavatory door.

Soon, Semper would be too far gone to regret not leaving when she had the chance.
 
A man who looks and sounds like the spunk baby of Nick Frost and Brian Blessed and a rather scary looking gentleman are all but attempting to murder each other, whilst an inebriated parkour artist has just managed to tear most of the clothes off the top half of a woman the word “hefty” was invented for.

The bouncers of Club Consumption have, to use the colloquial expression, “seen some shit” over their years in employment at this place. But this is most certainly the most concentrated display of insanity they've witnessed in recent memory.

It's very soon about to be topped in a big way, of course, but we'll be getting to that shortly.

Incredulity can only last so long, however, and soon enough something in their pathetic two pound meat brains clicks; a quintet of bouncers begins to lumber towards the, to use the colloquial expression, “shenanigans” occurring outside the bathrooms, each of them a hulking gent of an unspecified Eastern European origin. Nicolas and Damien are dog-piled by a bouncer each, all four of them collapsing into the ground in a, to use the colloquial term, “clusterfuck” of limbs and startled yelps. Jim is grabbed by the back of his shirt by a third bouncer (who rumbles “that's enough of that shite, you nonce,” before beginning to drag him towards the doors) and the Good Lady Meat Grinder is awkwardly grabbed at both arms by no less than two bouncers before starting to be escorted towards the door.

Over at the tables, Rou is in the midst of extolling the virtues of his “let's go watch the stars tonight it'll be totally fucking brilliant you guys” plan when he notices that four of his stag night guests are being forcibly removed from the premises. This apparently does not sit well in his heavily inebriated little meat brain, for with a disgruntled snarl he staggers over towards the toilets before Jonesy, Duncan or Cerys can catch him. Somehow managing to remain horizontal throughout this motion, he latches onto the arm of the bouncer escorting Jim out of Club Consumption and slurs,
“Tha'ssssss my mate you're chuckin' out, y'cuuuuuuunt!”

This, finally, is something that the bouncer's amusingly limited consciousness can get behind: he grabs Rou with no small amount of enthusiasm and begins to drag him along as well for the ride. Rou takes this about as well as you would expect a miserable little human who's been drinking since around three in the afternoon to take it.

Which is an extremely round-about (and colloquial) way of saying “not very well at all”.

“Get yoooooour fuckin' hands off me, you cocky shit! I know the manager here!” His protestations are met with a gleeful silence as the bouncer hauls him along, Rou hollering all the while. “Police brutality! I'll have your badge, y'bastaaaaaaaaaaard!”

Back over at the tables, Jonesy blinks twice.
“I... guess we should probably go help him.”
 
The tranquil moment against the wall was quickly killed. Expectedly a pair of bouncers were finally intervening, although not in a particularly helpful way. Despite the fight already having ended, the bouncers leaped upon Damien and Nicholas, causing an unholy tangle of bodies. Accidentally- or at least Damien hoped it was accidentally- one of the other doggy-pile participants poked Damien in a positively private area, causing him to let out a quick yelp. Agitated, Damien attempted to pull himself out of the pile. Instead, however, he simply became more entwined with the other humps of flesh. Good job, bouncers.

After another thirty seconds of... whatever it was supposed to be... Damien finally managed to escape into his own personal breathing space. Slowly standing up, Damien prepared for what he knew was coming next- being escorted outside. Sure enough, one of the bouncers clamped Damien's hands behind his back, and began hustling Damien in the direction of the door. Untroubled, Damien allowed himself to be escorted, not causing the bouncer any further trouble. You'll understand that this was not out of Damien's sheer good will- such a thing is non-existent. Rather, Damien didn't want the club to have to ask for any information on him, since personal information was deadly in Damien's business. The fight had already been too risky, so it was best to politely walk out of the club with the bouncer.

When Damien felt the bite of cold air rush at him through the door, he was suddenly thrust forwards out of the door. This caused Damien to trip, although he caught himself at the last moment, leaving Damien in a 'proposal' kneeling position. Behind him Damien heard the bouncer bark something about never returning, before the bouncer disappeared back inside. Groaning as he had to stand up again, Damien glanced up at the stars, before discarding them as meaningless. Who cared about the stupid stars? Damien had far more important things to worry about at the moment. Although they were more important than he could have ever realized...
 
Before he could quite process it, Jim had been snatched up by his collar and dragged towards the door like a kitten. He didn't put up much of a fight. He was drunk, not stupid. No possible way to take down the mountain of a man currently escorting him through the door- and rather rudely at that. It was only after he had pulled his face from the accumulated muck in the street that he realized the man of the hour, Rou, had been taken along with him. Looking about, he also noticed his other mates being flung from the club, including one who was there before himself- that uppity bastard son of a Norwegian whore, Damien. Though he never showed it, Jim despised the drug lord. Didn't quite know why, just this feeling. Either way, here they were all out now, and likely banned from the place. Ah, well, there were plenty of places to get drunk. Some nicer ones, too. But, that didn't much matter at that point, did it?

After all, none of them would be alive long enough to worry about what club they could or couldn't go into.
 


Semper was now beyond distracted, before she could make it to the bathroom doors she was suddenly following a crowd of large men shuffling the messy mass of chaos. In the hustle she watched Rou get carried off with the others. Feeling, what one might call loyalty, but blindly and to her own dismal end. She emerged from the doors of the club with the rush of people into the night air. That night air. Semper was completely numb to everything, but that cold night air broke through that warm drunken aura and gave her what would be her last moment of tangible serenity.

There wasn't any time to think about anything else an as Semper became lost in her moment, more bodies filed out from the door of the club onto the sidewalk, over flowing into the street, she mindlessly followed their cloud. She had now begun to forget everything, holding on to nothing, letting go of everything and becoming lost in overturned people of Rou, and his stag night was far from over.


A memory began to invade her through a chill in the air. "Semper Fi!" cried a voice. Semper's mother called down for her there was panic in the name. A little Semper ran to the top of the stairs of an older house that now only existed in her mind. Inching slowly closer to the door at the end of a dark hall, Semper peered a large blue eye into the room...


Semper tripped backwards over the curb and landed strictly on her arse. The memory left broken. Semper had never fallen over, tripped, or so much as let herself sit on the curb as she did now. Anyone who was anyone would blame it on the alcohol coursing through her veins, but She knew better than that. Semper knew she was getting closer to remembering things she didn't want to remember. Her hand met her forehead in attempt to keep the memory at bay. The world around her became colder and less real with every passing second. No matter how much alcohol she had ever consumed at a time....Semper never felt as strange as she began to feel now.


She stayed seated on the concrete, head in hand. Waiting for that nagging memory to give up and leave her be.
 
To the amusingly inept sensory organs of the human form, limited as they are to just five forms of input, emerging from the gloomy din of Club Consumption must feel something akin to a drowning man breaking the surface of the water. The weird filter created by the rippling, bassy speakers cannot reach them here, leaving only a ringing sound and the impending threat of tinnitus in it's wake. Out on the streets of Soho once again the smell is an improvement, but only slightly; cigarette smoke so thick it seems to choke out the air, Indian takeaway and the potent aroma of vomit.

Truly, London is the cultural capital of human civilisation.

Jim, Damien and Rou are deposited in a decisive manner not far from where Semper comes to an unsteady stop, whereas the dear Lady Meat Grinder is escorted somewhat gingerly to the doors. The bouncers start moving slowly back to the doors of the club whilst keeping their eyes locked on the trio of recent patrons who now lie on the paved stones of the club's exterior.
“You three are barred, yeah?” the one at the front growls like a discount Ray Winstone, “Don't fackin' come back.” As they retreat back into the interior, the rest of Rou's mates wander out, squinting their eyes at the harshly-bright street lights of Soho. Jonesy and Duncan move together, somewhat unsure as to how to approach the situation, until the crimson trainwreck that is Cerys drifts past Rou's soon-to-be-brother-in-law, still lacking any garments on her lower half that human society would deem socially appropriate. The hand that brushes across the front of his leg, expertly placed to be just high enough to make him uncomfortable, snaps Jonesy out of his stupor and sends him wandering over to the crumpled heap that is Rou.

Valencia is the last to finally exit Club Consumption, joining Semper on the side of the pavement and sitting next to her recent acquaintance. Jonesy, meanwhile, has grabbed Rou's right arm: Duncan his left. Together, the pair manage to scoop the mess that is the groom back to some semblance of standing (a perfect demonstration of why humanity really ought to have made the effort to evolve more limbs if ever there was one) and try to keep him steady.
“Well, guess we're not getting back in there tonight,” Duncan quips awkwardly in an attempt to break the silence that hangs across the disjointed group, “What's our next move?” Rou attempts to say something, but all that manages to emerge from his mouth in unintelligible nonsense.
“No idea, mate,” Jonesy replies, “And whilst we're almost all here, anyone seen that other guy? You know... Nick, was it?”
“Over yonder, sweetheart,” Cerys points out with a grin, her hand raising in the direction of one of Club Consumption's walls. Nicholas sits slumped in a manner which suggests he may have been imbibing more than a few alcoholic drinks this evening, his face bruised and bloody, happily tucking into a box of chips he's somehow managed to get ahold of. “Least he's happy.”

“...ssssssssssSTARS,” Rou manages to blurt out finally, his glazed eyes firmly affixed towards the heavens. Jonesy pats the guy he's somehow been saddled with this evening on the shoulder.
“Maybe we should call a taxi or something, get this one back to the hotel before he passes out.”
“STARS.”
“Aww, what's the rush darling? Night's still young, innit? Think of all the shit we could get up to. In to.”
“STARS.”
“That's great, Rou, yeah. I think Jonesy might have an idea. We could always head out again after we've dropped him off, right?”
“STARS. HA. HAHA. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA--”

A laugh that most residents of this pathetic little planet would describe as “hysterical” begins to billow from Rou's mouth, starting loud and building. Growing. Accelerating. Within seconds it's a crescendo, too loud to be natural, vocal cord-tearing at its level.

Slowly, the scattered group of friends and acquaintances turn to look at the man who has brought them out tonight.

Slowly, their eyes turn upwards.

Rou's promised shooting stars have indeed come at their expected time. Only they've apparently decided they quite like the spot they've come to and are apparently sticking around. They frame the moon, somehow now full despite it being the middle of the month, in a five-point shape, burning furiously for all watching to see. The moon itself seems to grow in it's luminosity, a disturbing blue hue to it's shine as a dark hole appears at it's centre.

Then suddenly movement.

An impossible movement, yet each of them sees it as plain as day. If only for an instant. Something that should not happen, but does regardless.

The moon blinks.

And it's gaping pupil settles upon London.

“STARS!” Rou howls, his scream like gravel, bloody froth appearing at the corner of his lips, “HAVE COME RIGHT AGAIN!”

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END OF PART ONE

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...THE STORM...










Once upon a time, another peculiar German fellow with rather outspoken views (and who would later lose his mind) wrote a book.

No, we're still not talking about Hitler you fucking Neo-Nazi. Plenty of Germans have written books, you know, and there's far more to the world than your inconsequential categorisations of race.

In this book, said German man laid out his view of the universe. A vast, incomprehensible, uncaring, godless universe, in which his species was but a speck of dust in comparison. He wrote of an abyss, a looming void, and the risk one takes when staring into it for too long.

But of course, none of you really listened. Like foolhardy infants staring up into the sun, you looked upwards into the heavens yet still had the arrogance to assume that nothing was looking straight back.

After all, if there's one thing humanity has demonstrated it's your inability to take to heart the advice given by the few redeemable members of your pigshit race.

For that German chap was right on the money.

All save for the godless part, that is.





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“And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise --then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust...”
- The Masque of the Red Death, Edgar Allan Poe



When The Smiths first sang “panic on the streets of London” back in 1986, they likely didn't have anything quite like this in mind.

Yet of all the emotions and sentiments humanity is capable of expressing, 'panic' seems the most apt for describing the general sentiment on the cobbled roads of old London town at this moment in time.

At least for the humans still in possession of their mental faculties.

Your species does not yet possess the words to adequately describe the mental state of the rest. And given what is going to occur tonight, it never will.

On a corner street of Peckham, several miles away from where Rou screams with delirious jubilation, a takeaway cook who was preparing meat just minutes ago chuckles happily as he sticks a blade into both of his cheeks, gouging his mouth further open from cheekbone to cheekbone. His laughter as a horrible slurping tone to it now as he steps out from behind his counter and after his fleeing patrons, his knife raised above his head.

Out across the teeming roads of Knightsbridge a taxi driver howls and slams his foot down onto the accelerator, sending his vehicle hurtling onto the pavement and into the gaggles of people standing staring at the sky. They scatter like pinballs, a trail of shattered bones and ruptured organs in the cab's wake. The car comes to a sudden stop as it plows into the side of one of the exclusive shopfronts of the district, sending glass and brickwork flying. The taxi driver is still howling with amusement, the smell of petrol filling his nostrils as he becomes aware of his vehicle's leaking tank. With disjointed, painful movements, he jerks free a zippo lighter from his jacket pocket, snaps it open, and hurls it out of what remains of his front wind-shield with a triumphant jeer. The taxi becomes a fireball in an instant, expanding out and consuming more of the building, more of the pedestrians, more of London in it's greed.

In an alleyway not far from the Thames, a gang of youths with crimson pouring from their eyes and mirth on their voices move like predatory animals towards a couple walking home from the clubs. They take the male first, killing him fast in a flurry of blades and fists and boot-heels. The female they pin against the wall, laughing all the while as one of their number approaches with a claw hammer. With a motion far more deft than someone with empty eye sockets has any right to make, he drives his weapon down upon the screaming, begging, blubbering girl's head, caving it open with a few blows. The gang sets about the contents that begins to leak from the vicious wound, stuffing it into their mouths with a sound akin to ecstasy.

These are but a few of the sights to witness in London tonight.

Not the sort of thing they mentioned in the tourist brochures.


Back in Soho, just outside Club Consumption, Jonesy is looking on in horror at the gibbering, cackling figure that was his brother-in-law-to-be just a minute or so ago. Rou has collapsed where he and Duncan dropped him, his gaze still locked at the thing in the sky that none of the three pound brains present can process, his voice now gone, gore now trickling from his mouth. Jonesy is dimly aware of the sounds beginning to erupt around him; the shouts, the screams. The laughter. Yet it's not quite registering with him yet. His poor little mind, woefully inadequate for even this taster of what tonight shall bring, just isn't quite grasping the situation at hand.

So he does what many humans have done when confronted with things they just cannot understand.

His mouth opens, and he yells,
“What the fuck is going on?!” which is not exactly achieving much in the grand scheme of things, nor is it doing anything to alleviate the situation at hand. Humans are masters of shooting themselves in the foot and pissing away what time they have left, it seems.

Behind him, the doors of Club Consumption smash open and the bouncers re-emerge. Four of them are wrestling the last of their number to the ground, laughing as they go, a viscous red substance smeared around their mouths. The final bouncer is fighting for his life, but against the combined, heedless weight of the others he doesn't stand a chance.

They finally drive him to the ground and begin to hammer down punches and kicks to his head, each blow sending a sickening thud echoing across the exterior of the nightclub.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Jonesy adds again, unhelpfully.
 
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“What the fuck is going on?!”


Gazes acended to the Moon and a feeling rose up in Semper's stomach as glass Flew past her and Velencia in a hasty display of muscle and flesh. Blood flew up everywhere Covering the girls in its ruby red hue accompanied by the sickening sounds of cracking bones and desperate gurgling.

“What the fuck is going on?!”


Semper stood expeditiously, "No time to ask question you dolt!" she shouted over the miserable and misfortune assembly of humans. Those bouncers wouldn't stay distracted too long, Semper drags Valencia to shove him out of his shock. They stood in horror as the three bouncers began to consume what was left of the hapless and blighted forth. She grabbed Jonesy by the collar and gave him a brisk shaking, unable to speak as the sight swelled her eyes. Semper couldn't look away, like a child who sees the ocean for the first time, she was transfixed on the unsightly image and the only sounds she could make was that of the gentlest whispered warnings,

"Run...Run...Run....Run....Run..........Run......"


Semper stayed attached to Jonesy and Valencia for a moment, keeping them close to her was the only thing that seemed right, the man who gave her the address and the woman that spoke to her about happiness. Happiness, which was now one of the farthest concepts for Semper to think about now became objectified into these to human meat bags she now clung to.

Suddenly, her eyes caught by a glimmer at her feet, a long piece of glass about the length of her forearm. She ripped at the hem of her dress and wrapped it around the glass to hold in steady in her palm. The sounds of London were all but distant sirens and the screeching of tires. People Howling out in agony sounded London's Symphony of cacophonous cannibalism and it heavily marked the air. The bouncers were quickly done their feast of flesh now turning their hollow gaze onto the group.

"RUN!" Semper vociferated from the heart of the assemblage of the stag night.
 
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