Anatoly Posted September 29, 2011 Share Posted September 29, 2011 The flesh is weak Johnny, only the soul is Immortal. And yours belongs to ME. - Louis Cyphere, Angel Heart "What is it in Man, that would drive them to madness? How is it that those who become marked, whose flesh becomes tainted, are always the ones to go first?" Benedict often wondered about such things, and tonight was no exception. The chilly nightwind shared with him its caress, sending shivers down his spine. He readjusted himself, evoking a creaking noise from the lawnchair on which he sat, its chipped paint and rusted nails a fitting entourage to the beat-up minivan behind him that housed his kitchen and his home. He knew a thing or two about madness, that's for sure. And flesh - he knew about that too. Some strange gift that had been sneaking its way into people's minds and bodies, making them more than Human and less than Gods. And driving them to insanity. And for each gifted with such wonders, a thousand more turned to nothing more than a gibberous, fleshy effigy. Nothing more than a shambling tombstone reading "here was once a Human being". He worried about himself too, sometimes. All cheer and smiles he seemed, laid-back like one of he beach boys. But he knew of flesh and minds, and he knew his wasn't infallible. That's why he camped outside sometimes, taking moonlit strolls and keeping an eye out for incursions of Zombie hordes or worse. Because sometimes, just every now and then, he'd worry about what might happen if he'd gone off the deep end. He'd been staring down that hole a long time before he decided to turn its back, and you never know what might be sneaking up on him. Benedict got off the chair, another strangled response followed. He set himself in motion, every once in a while breathing in the thick night air, tasting it on his tongue. Sometimes a scent was familiar, made him think back. Sometimes he'd smell food and he greedily ran his mind along its ingredient. Sometimes the smell'd be somewhat more...raunchy, and he'd smile that Glasgow smile of his that hid teeth that would make Jaws cringe. But not this time. This time, he smelled death. His brow furrowed, and he tucked his chef's hat under the waistband that fastened his apron - this might get dodgy. With a speed and silence hard to achieve for one so big as he, Benedict set off towards a nearby set of sandy dunes, a while off the quickly deteriorating road that led to the compound. "Expect problems, and eat them for breakfast" - Alfred Montapert Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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