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BloodAndChocolate
Planetoid
- Joined
- Dec 8, 2016
- Location
- Fuck All Nowhere
There wasn’t really anything about Rowan Hart that stood out. He was attractive, but not in the way that made people look at him twice. Tall but not too tall, brunette, brown eyed, nice jawline, lean but not thin, good shoulder-to-waist ratio. Perfectly ordinary, unmemorable, normal. Like an unsuspecting car on a busy highway, he faded away into the background. He usually prefered it there.
“The thing is, Martin,” he says, to the man sitting across from him, and then snaps his fingers and asks, “Do you mind if I call you Martin?” when he doesn’t get a negative response, he continues with, “The thing is, I’m much too young to be having a midlife crisis. I mean, I’m only 24. So assuming I live passed 48, this can’t be a midlife crisis. That’s supposed to happen at, like, 50 right? At least, that’s what all the movies say.”
Martin doesn’t answer him, but it’s all as well, because Rowan is pacing at this point, rambling. “Maybe it’s not so much a crisis, maybe I’m just bored. I told myself I’d never get one of those 9-5 desk jobs because I’d have to throw myself off a cliff with that kind of repetition in my life. But even my current job is starting to feel repetitious, ya know? Maybe I’ve gotten too good at it. There’s not a thrill any more. It’s like...making a sandwich, right? Like, it’s a fine sandwich, whatever, but I used to really enjoy the sandwich. It’s like boring sex, that’s a better metaphor. I wonder how married people do it. The same fuck every damn day for the rest of their lives. Maybe if he’s really good, but damn man, I just can’t see it. I guess you can’t understand that though, eh Marty? Still a virgin, what a shame. So I guess think about the sandwich then.”
Rowan stops by the open book on the table, tapping his pocket knife against his chin in thought. “Did you know I was never very good at Latin?” he asks. “My grandmother always wanted me to learn it better. Used to smack my knuckles with a ruler. Used to tell me ’Rowan, if you don’t learn to read it, you’ll never understand what’s in this book.’ The ironic thing is, if she knew that I was using it, she’d skin me alive. Good thing she’s dead, I guess. Oh!” He spins around again, facing Martin. “I’m not speaking ill of the dead! I miss her, honestly. She used to know great things about the occult. She just never wanted me getting into anything bad. But being good is so boring, ya know? And we’ve already talked about how much I don’t like to be bored.”
Still, no response. He’s unbothered, and turns back to the book. The diagrams make the ritual more coherent, fill in the words that he can’t understand. “She was from Louisiana, my grandmother. I used to really believe in this stuff. Voodoo, the occult, anything like that, when I was a kid and she was raising me. Got a little older and thought it was bullshit. But then in college, it was like, my calling. And now? Well, hell, what can it hurt?”
A good bit, actually, if he’s translating right. Things like cutting him in half if he does the lines wrong, or condemning him to hell if he says the words wrong. “Probably shouldn’t be fucking with all this Latin if you’re not fluent, huh, Martin?” he mutters. “Maybe I should just pack it up and go home, yeah? But to what. An empty apartment, whatever free porn I can get off of Tumblr, and some instant ramen? Alright, that’s melodramatic. I actually have a good porn membership. My job pays well, ya know? And the instant ramen is more of a preference choice, I can eat better, I just don’t want to cook. Maybe that's my problem! Maybe it’s laziness!”
He doesn’t bother looking at Martin this time, because he knows he’s not going to get an answer. Instead he reads the passage he needs and lets the room lapse into silence for a moment. Finally he spins around and walks back over to his companion. “You believe in God, right? What am I saying, of course you do. The whole ‘sex after marriage thing’ really bit you in the ass. Think your God is proud of you for your celibacy, Marty? Think he’ll be ashamed of me for selling my soul for a couple of cheap tricks?”
Rowan grins, and tilts his head for a moment while he waits. “Not gonna answer me huh? Ah well, all for the best I guess. What do you know anyway? You’re dead.”
Martin Stutterburg’s corpse stares back at him, wide eyed with blood running down from his open mouth. He’d been a lackluster kill. Hadn’t even begged for his life, just dropped to his knees and started praying. It’d made it too easy to step behind him and slit his throat. Rowan hadn’t even felt a flicker of...well, anything. Anticipation, fear. Maybe a little excitement, when he saw the promise ring on the man’s finger. Three virgin kills completed his circle.
So now here he was, in the basement of his home with three bodies, using his fingers to paint blood around in pentagrams and runes, and now that he had the last symbol, he sat down in the middle of it with his book.
On this day, Rowan Hart - hired killer, bored millennial, occultist prodigy, - was going to summon a demon, straight from hell or whatever there was beyond this world. Maybe he’d ask, when the thing arrived. It was beyond the point though.
The point, was that his life was missing something, and if he had to sell his soul to get a few puzzle pieces, then so be it.
“Hey Martin, watch this.” He sent a wink the corpses way, and then began to chant.
“The thing is, Martin,” he says, to the man sitting across from him, and then snaps his fingers and asks, “Do you mind if I call you Martin?” when he doesn’t get a negative response, he continues with, “The thing is, I’m much too young to be having a midlife crisis. I mean, I’m only 24. So assuming I live passed 48, this can’t be a midlife crisis. That’s supposed to happen at, like, 50 right? At least, that’s what all the movies say.”
Martin doesn’t answer him, but it’s all as well, because Rowan is pacing at this point, rambling. “Maybe it’s not so much a crisis, maybe I’m just bored. I told myself I’d never get one of those 9-5 desk jobs because I’d have to throw myself off a cliff with that kind of repetition in my life. But even my current job is starting to feel repetitious, ya know? Maybe I’ve gotten too good at it. There’s not a thrill any more. It’s like...making a sandwich, right? Like, it’s a fine sandwich, whatever, but I used to really enjoy the sandwich. It’s like boring sex, that’s a better metaphor. I wonder how married people do it. The same fuck every damn day for the rest of their lives. Maybe if he’s really good, but damn man, I just can’t see it. I guess you can’t understand that though, eh Marty? Still a virgin, what a shame. So I guess think about the sandwich then.”
Rowan stops by the open book on the table, tapping his pocket knife against his chin in thought. “Did you know I was never very good at Latin?” he asks. “My grandmother always wanted me to learn it better. Used to smack my knuckles with a ruler. Used to tell me ’Rowan, if you don’t learn to read it, you’ll never understand what’s in this book.’ The ironic thing is, if she knew that I was using it, she’d skin me alive. Good thing she’s dead, I guess. Oh!” He spins around again, facing Martin. “I’m not speaking ill of the dead! I miss her, honestly. She used to know great things about the occult. She just never wanted me getting into anything bad. But being good is so boring, ya know? And we’ve already talked about how much I don’t like to be bored.”
Still, no response. He’s unbothered, and turns back to the book. The diagrams make the ritual more coherent, fill in the words that he can’t understand. “She was from Louisiana, my grandmother. I used to really believe in this stuff. Voodoo, the occult, anything like that, when I was a kid and she was raising me. Got a little older and thought it was bullshit. But then in college, it was like, my calling. And now? Well, hell, what can it hurt?”
A good bit, actually, if he’s translating right. Things like cutting him in half if he does the lines wrong, or condemning him to hell if he says the words wrong. “Probably shouldn’t be fucking with all this Latin if you’re not fluent, huh, Martin?” he mutters. “Maybe I should just pack it up and go home, yeah? But to what. An empty apartment, whatever free porn I can get off of Tumblr, and some instant ramen? Alright, that’s melodramatic. I actually have a good porn membership. My job pays well, ya know? And the instant ramen is more of a preference choice, I can eat better, I just don’t want to cook. Maybe that's my problem! Maybe it’s laziness!”
He doesn’t bother looking at Martin this time, because he knows he’s not going to get an answer. Instead he reads the passage he needs and lets the room lapse into silence for a moment. Finally he spins around and walks back over to his companion. “You believe in God, right? What am I saying, of course you do. The whole ‘sex after marriage thing’ really bit you in the ass. Think your God is proud of you for your celibacy, Marty? Think he’ll be ashamed of me for selling my soul for a couple of cheap tricks?”
Rowan grins, and tilts his head for a moment while he waits. “Not gonna answer me huh? Ah well, all for the best I guess. What do you know anyway? You’re dead.”
Martin Stutterburg’s corpse stares back at him, wide eyed with blood running down from his open mouth. He’d been a lackluster kill. Hadn’t even begged for his life, just dropped to his knees and started praying. It’d made it too easy to step behind him and slit his throat. Rowan hadn’t even felt a flicker of...well, anything. Anticipation, fear. Maybe a little excitement, when he saw the promise ring on the man’s finger. Three virgin kills completed his circle.
So now here he was, in the basement of his home with three bodies, using his fingers to paint blood around in pentagrams and runes, and now that he had the last symbol, he sat down in the middle of it with his book.
On this day, Rowan Hart - hired killer, bored millennial, occultist prodigy, - was going to summon a demon, straight from hell or whatever there was beyond this world. Maybe he’d ask, when the thing arrived. It was beyond the point though.
The point, was that his life was missing something, and if he had to sell his soul to get a few puzzle pieces, then so be it.
“Hey Martin, watch this.” He sent a wink the corpses way, and then began to chant.
