I sing back up vocals on this song.

This is my band Stay Fashionable playing at the Peterson Compound in Millington TN on 7-16-2022

I am very cool and hip and not at all old or insane. Many individual people like me, some even in groups.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waH7pvEIgD4

Shit's going all screwy.

Angelo Trussel, the drummer for Walking on Landmines, is moving to Minnesota. He's a great drummer. However, if he's not going to be around, the next first choice who's interested is... me. Shelby, the guitarist for WOL, has a record label called Emotions False records who record in Sun Studios (yes, THAT Sun Studios. It's actually not that expensive to record there). The vocalist Gabriela is apparently super excited I'll be in the band, and I might start brewing hooch again since everyone in that band drinks.

I've already decided to join and had my first practice in this band, and it went well. In the process of courting the opportunity, I also got my other band, Stay Fashionable a gig with WOL while Angelo is still in town. I know it's a stereo type for drummers to be in tons of bands... yeah, it's a stereotype for a reason. With covid restrictions falling and Shelby just living down the street from me, it only makes sense that I'd join his band. So yeah, SF has a gig 4-9 at RockHouse on Raleigh LaGrange in Memphis as well.

That's a lot of music news considering the buried headline on this post, about my experience attending Fool's Ball.

Fool's Ball/Fall Ball are biannual events that happen in north mississippi run by a family of Dead Heads that's been doing it for 20 years. Mark and Donna Christiansen celebrated their anniversary one year by inviting all their musician friends over and getting extremely fucked up off as many substances they could get their hands on. I'm not trying to dry snitch, but I think you'll get my point here.

So me and Jana are camping in our deluxe giant tarp tent bungalo I rigged up using penny tie outs and a massive 20 by 50 tarps tied between my car and two trees. So the first night this dude named DooDoo shows up, screaming about how he's a water sign and he's looking for a female fire sign and he's carrying around this big stick screaming at the top of his lungs. Apparently this dude is tweaking his absolute nuts off on M E DOUBLE F. He keeps screaming that his name's "DOO DOO" and "DON'T STEP IN ME!!!" He keeps screaming the gamer word even though everyone around is pale as the driven snow. dd It's 40 degrees and this dude is running around with his shirt off, gets into some kinda fight with some dudes, and ultimately gets run off later in the night after screaming for like half an hour.

Well we all wake up the next morning, and this dude is still up, tweaking his fucking tits off, trying to climb trees, screaming at God, trying to talk about religion. He's trying to steal coals from fires to get a fire started. He gets a bud light bottle and wraps a hose around it; he later says it's a symbol of his father's love. He comes to chill in my camp a little bit and I humor him, and he starts talking about the Aryan BrotherHood and talking about how he's dutch, english, and Irish, which, last time I checked, makes him a fucking mutt.

I mean this guy is methed out of his motherfucking mind, which isn't actually a common thing at the Ball. Normally people go there to trip and chill and be all groovy peace and love and shit. I roll him a j to try to chill him out, but he only smokes a few puffs. I always take that as a bad sign someone's a serious meth head if weed can't chill out their tweakery. You can always tell the bad tweakers when they don't even like weed because it harshes their tweak. Dude keeps saying crazy shit about religion and tries to introduce me to Jesus and shit, real fucking psychotic shit. I humor him because fuck, it's the Ball, I expect people to be fucked up here. Dude was farting and barking like a dog, doing a really convincing retard impression, all kinds of wild shit.

I'm chillin, just boiling some coffee and trying to heat up some red beans and rice with sausage I'd cooked the night before.

So old DooDoo wanders off, and the dudes he was screaming at recognized him, and they start fighting. This whacko had been carrying around a giant stump all night. So this DooDoo piece of shit and these two guys start beating the dog shit out of eat other with fucking hunks of firewood, everybody's fucking bleeding, it's a real mess.

So this whitesupremacist tweaker fuck gets thrown out by security, and starts telling all these lies about how he's got to pack his tent and leave in his truck, me knowing full fucking well he was begging for a ride down the street to pick up his tent to me less than an hour ago. Well he hims and haws and runs his fucking mouth until they threaten to zip tie him and drag him out. He balls up his tent and takes it towards the stage...... towards a truck that doesn't exist. And the owners of the tent. Those were all just made up psychotic lies he told to delay getting thrown out, after spending all night claiming he was fucking security, picking fights and trying to throw other people out.

So now it's his last stand, and Dookey dipshit made one very large mistake.

The Ball is run by the Dixie Mob.

And the Dixie Mob's enforce is AwGo Fucking WHAT.

That is his name.

Awgo. What.

Awgo what you say? AW GO FUCK YOURSELF.

He's.... he's a formally diagnosed diassociative system, gets a crazy check, the whole nine. Infamously "treats" his PTSD with vast quantities of LSD, and uses meditative exercise for hours on end doing push ups, sit ups, pull ups, and balancing on ropes and juggling axes for fun. The man is an absolute maniac. Old bouncer at every decent club in Memphis, the guy used to do headstand push ups while getting tazed for kicks. The cops are scare shitless of him, and he regularly runs for elected office just to piss off the government. Dude is... not to be fucked with. Built like a brick shit house.

Like, when I got my head scar, at the Rally Point, Awgo was the security guard there.

So Awgo beats the absolute dog shit out of this guy. Awgo has a dixie flag with gay pride colors tattooed on his neck. He does not play any kind of nazi shit. He personally defaced the Nathan Bedford Forrest statue before it was removed. It's not so much that he loves civil rights so much as he hates fucking nazis and loves hippie shit.

Now this righteous mother fucker Awgo kicks 9 kinds of shit out of this piece of shit DooDoo, they zip tie him up like a trussed hog, toss him in the bed of a truck and toss him in the nearest ditch. Later some cops showed up and the dudes he assaulted probably pressed charges.

Oh, and a guy jumped off an overpass on video yesterday in Memphis.

So yeah, I'm doing fucking great. Totally stable. Nothing triggering me at all right now. Not dissociated AT ALL. Nah, a sleepless weekend camping in the cold as fuck eating funny chocolates and tasting tiny stamps while witnessing a violent assault by a tweaked out whitesupremacist didn't set me off at ALL.

I mean, especially not with 5-12 just a little over a month away. Gosh, that event didn't involve any crazy violent assholes.

Yeah, but musically, shit's going great.

Mental health spiraling out of control. I'm gonna get way worse working my way up to 5-12. It's been a pattern for years. I dropped out of therapy because they said I was too crazy to get trauma treatment. Why the fuck should I keep paying them money when for 4 years they did jack shit to help me other that force drugs and threaten to have me hospitalized? it would be different if I was court ordered to be there, or because I was depressed, or because I needed medication.

Yes, I'm well aware people with my trauma history should get diagnosed and treated. But I did that shit for four years and got WORSE. Fuck that shit. Fuck giving them money. Fuck documenting my own imprisonment. I was supposed to document a recovery, not gather evidence against myself.

It's like now I need a therapist to deal with how fucked up therapy made me, but I don't think I could ever do intake again. I've done it twice and it's fucking horrific and doesn't help me one bit. I don't think I'm willing to do intake again to get a new therapist, and my old therapist won't fucking help me.

But yeah, anyways, sleep is a hoax, I'm taking the money I was spending on therapy and spending it on recording equipment. I'm in the best band ever. Eat a dick vultures.

I started recording right at the millenium.

I started out using tascam cassette records, that's how long ago I started.

Most of the stuff I've produced I did on an analogue board mixed live into a tascam all in one live CD recorder.

Sometime in the early Teens I got a pricey tascam 8 channel all in one hard disk recorder CD burner

I went in with a bandmate to get it, and taught him how to mix so I wouldn't have to anymore. For the 5 or six years our band stayed together, I would make him do all the mixing, and he eventually just started using the tascam as an interface and nothing more as technology developed.

I got to the point where I'd just rent a studio to record in, since that meant access to a bad ass mic locker and engineer. It also cut down on my recording a lot, but I was putting out proper records and a lot times getting someone else to bankroll it too. Clout is nice.

Well, it's been a while since then, and they finally make cheap laptops that can do the job you'd need a proper production machine to do a decade ago.

So I pulled the trigger on a new rig, cables and all. I've still got some of my old drum mics, and I got my hands on some decent instrument mics too. I'm probably going to make more serious recordings than the phone videos of me doing solo acoustic stuff I've been releasing lately.

I'm probably just gonna use it to release decent versions of my goofy solo stuff.

But still, if all goes well and I put some work in, I could start putting up some real quality submissions moving forward. I'm certainly digging the higher accuracy of the tools on Reaper.

I got banned from Reddit for saying pedophiles should kill themselves.

It was interpreted as a "threat."

Bruh, any reasonable person thinks it's better to kill yourself than rape a kid.

It's official: Reddit is for fucking pedos.

I'd already seen too much pedo shit on Reddit than I was comfortable with.

Then, the same week, a furry that was into pedo shit called Polybun from reddit went on a mass shooting.

So... uh... yeah maybe Reddit really isn't for me.

I recently got on twitter, but it's pretty aggro shitty.

Probably okay to make a new newspost now. Holy crap.

https://youtu.be/xwU-mEjk-Nc

I play accordion now. I mean, I still play drums, but also apparently I play accordion.

It's weird, don't ask me how that works.

I've been doing a lot of music stuff of the past 10 years, been on tour in a bunch of states playing drums.

It's been pretty surreal.

but yeah, I also have another band, called Stay Fashionable

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cq6H_jEJ6wU

But most importantly, I shitpost a lot on the forums.

That's my true art.

The shitposts.

As you all well know, I have recently been recruited by an internet policing organization (or so I thought) called Ironfist.

DO NOT TRUST IRONFIST.

Ironfist had one of their front organizations hack my account because I was leaking too much information about their plans to bribe high ranking security officers of popular websites to monitor online forum activities.

At first, the money was good, and I didn't think anything of it, but now I realize that Ironfist is not to be fooled with.

This may be the last message I post with this account.

Chapter13

Madeline Mayweather wasn't thinking about her family as she did inventory on the mind-boggling catacombs of drawers inside the ambulance. It was just another day of work, another day of picking up elderly victims of high-blood pressure, kids with broken bones, overdose cases, and indigents that just wanted a free ride. Why think about family when there were needles to be restocked, IV bags to be organized, and gauze packs to be counted?

Sure, in the back of her mind she was aware she had an Uncle Thug, an Aunt Lucille, and that her great grandmother's house had Caroline Parker living in it. She was even aware that her family was more than a little superstitious, well, to be honest, downright into voodoo. She was a modern girl, though, and she lived in a world full of computers and cell phones, not a word full of weird spirits and mysterious potions. She worked as an EMT, not as an assistant to some silly witch doctor, and just because she came from a family of loonies didn't mean she couldn't be something more.

"Need any help?" Rick offered sweetly.

Madeline's face went tight as she smiled. He was so cute! He had just enough stubble, and the most wonderful little dimples...

"No, that's ok. I've got it," she mumbled, trying not to look him in the eye.

"You need anything, you just have to ask." Rick said, his brilliant blue eyes like sapphires as he looked at her attentively. He'd been driving with Madeline for a few weeks, and it was only a matter of time. He knew she had a good head on her shoulders; she wasn't going to risk her job over him until the time was right.

Finally she looked up at him, and they locked eyes.

"No, really, I'm good."

They both stared just a little too long, savoring the moment.

"Ok, I guess I'll go kick some tires or something." Rick said, looking away. She'd be sitting next to him again soon, and he was patient.

M'buto lounged on Mark's black satin sheets, gloriously naked in her new body. She rubbed a casual hand over her chest, savoring the softness of her skin. Things had changed a lot since she'd last been incarnate, and for the better. For one, showers. Oh, sweet glorious HOT showers, and a panorama of soaps and scents to go with them. She'd thought she'd spoiled herself with oils and jasmine back in the old days, but this, this was an orgy of sensual delight.

Still, she missed servants. There was a time when the idea of bathing herself was simply ludicrous. Why, the slaves were falling over themselves to volunteer, and she'd only allow an elite few to scrub her precious skin. Some days she'd even held court from her giant marble tub, with the firebox underneath. If it wasn't for prune fingers, she would have lived there.

Regarding servants, it was probably time to check on Berry. She'd left the girl as intact as she could, but she'd been expecting at least a LITTLE resistance to the possession. It was kind of eerie how dead the girl was inside, like she just didn't have the will or motivation to fight back. Sure, she was one of the soulless, but that normally made the psyche MORE vicious, not less.

"Good morning Berry." M'buto nudged inside her mind, trying to get some kind of response.

"M'buto?" Berry asked sheepishly, still disorientated from being forced into her own subconscious, now nothing more than a voice in her own head.

"I was wondering... you're not offended that I've been taking... liberties... with you, are you? You've been awfully quiet."

It was one of M'buto's favorite taskmaster techniques, role reversal. A good master understands what it's like to be a slave, understands what the slave is feeling, what motivated them. The trick was to know how to be a servant yourself, and by acting like a servant, she ensured her people's empathy and devotion.

"NO!" Berry retorted harshly, almost whining.

"Well then, sweetling, what seems to be the matter?" M'buto prodded, like she was speaking to an introverted child.

"It's just...you know what I want more than I do," Berry replied, "Like Mark. I mean, I've sliced him before, and it was hot, but you made him cut HIMSELF, and then WATCHED. You made him WANT the pain, something I could never do..." Berry's ego strengthened as she went on, becoming more focused. "It's like watching an artist when you control me; like watching a movie. Only it's better because it's really happening..."

Movies... M'buto checked the girl's mind. Ah, fake stories you watch, like a play or a dance, entertaining lies to distract the ignorant from the sad truth of their lives. Modern people were strange; they had some much freedom, and yet they made themselves slaves to such vapid frippery.

Back in the old days, a girl like Berry would have only known the toil of the fields, her greatest value merely a full belly. She would have been appalled by the perversion of blood sex, but movies had twisted her little mind to the point where not only were such things not abhorrent, but she actually WANTED to do such sick acts purely for novelty value. She should have been deliriously happy and content in her lifestyle, yet she had been corrupted to be a vicious little monster to Mark, whose generosity was the only thing she had.

M'buto smiled to herself, thinking about it. Apparently bathing wasn't the only thing that had changed since she'd last been incarnate. Now she was curious... exactly how twisted WAS this little girl the Lord of Pestilence had chosen to host as her body?

"So my little Berry, this is your world... what do YOU think we should be doing?" M'buto left the question open-ended.

The reaction was almost painful as Berry's psyche went rigid, suddenly grabbing for power she'd subconsciously ceded to M'buto.

"We need to destroy Caroline Parker."

Hmm.... Interesting....

The scarred man looked down at the scrap of paper Timmy had given him. He hadn't given the flamer much of a break on the bag, but if this number didn't work, Timmy was going to have a lot more broken. He was kind of weirded out just holding the paper. After all, who dots the "i" in "Madison" with a little circle? Still, business was business, and he tapped out the number on his phone with a gnawed thumbnail.

He stared at the numbers stupidly before he hit "send," focusing eyes blurred by a mix of Jack Daniel's whiskey, two oxycontin, and a line of crushed Adderall tablets. Yep, they were the same. Still, he had an eerie paranoid feeling, like he was forgetting something important. Really important, like "left the stove on" important. FUCK! He should have snorted more Adderall; stupid numb-dumb pills were making him loopy. Wait...wait...number...phone... Berry...why? ZAG! Cheap South American coke!

His twisted face lit up, finally motivated. Nothing was important like "cheap cocaine" important! The thumb dropped onto the "send" button right before Scar put the phone up to the "normal" side of his face so Berry couldn't hear the creepy lisp noises from where the left side of his mouth didn't close.

Star's phone lit up in its holster on his belt, buzzing like an angry bumblebee. He looked down at it: Straight Mike? That was weird; he rarely called before 9 PM. Maybe it was important?

"Hello?"

"Shit man, shit's bad. Fucked up. Caroline just got back from Pedro's. Fucker shot her! I'm so fucking pissed at thug right now! Where the FUCK was he?! FUCK!!" Mike's voice quavered as he spoke in a rush, the words jumbling in his mouth unintelligibly.

"Whoa! Shit! Slow down, man. Where's Caroline? Is she ok?" Starburst's eyes went wide. Momma had told him Mr. Stallings was mad she hadn't been keeping a good eye on Caroline. This couldn't end well.

"She's ok, she's ok, FUCK! I can't believe it, she's ok. Showed up at my apartment, blood all down her thigh, talking all cool like she was gramma. No hole, though! She's stronger than gramma was! Fucking evil strong!!" Mike was still hysterical, and Star realized it wasn't all because of the shooting. They all knew Caroline wasn't the same as Mama Agnes, Senora Maya, or Mrs. Black, but bouncing back from getting shot was unheard of.

"God damn it Mike, chill out!" Star snapped, exasperated, "What do you need me to do?"

"Ok, ok," Mike panted, "Somebody stole something from Mama Agnes gave to Caroline, a shrunken head of some witch named M'buto. They tried tracking the thief's aura, but it was done by one of the soulless."

"Ok..." Starburst drawled slowly, letting him know he was calm, helping Mike to calm himself by knowing he was listening.

"...so Dom points out someone's poured blood on the doorknob at 1st Holiness, Maya blood, so Caroline goes to see Pedro. ON HER OWN! She didn't tell ANYbody!" Mike took another breath, realizing he was losing control again, "So Caroline shows up at Pedro's, and Pedro just shoots her! But then she doesn't go down, she just takes it, then Angelia beats the fuck out of Pedro for some reason. Ends up Pedro DID have Zag steal it, but ANOTHER soulless stole it from HIM!"

"Wait...what? How the hell...?" Star responded, flabbergasted.

"No, no, so it gets worse. Right, so ends up this head, M'buto, was a mixed blood witch, the baddest there ever was, and she was a servant of Pestilence. So Dom thinks Pestilence is trying to bring back M'buto, and that means..."

"... all four horsemen will be working together in the same place." Star finished, now every bit as scared as Mike. "What the fuck are we going to do?"

Mike swallowed, realizing it was HIS job as emissary to do this.

"We're having a coven. Pedro and Caroline have already worked it out, but they want to get Mama Agnes' opinion. She's the last of the old ones left, and she's the only one with the wisdom to stop Pedro and Caroline from doing something stupid. Well, that and her house is midway between Pedro's and 1st Holiness Pentecostal."

"Holy shit...I...I...I've got to talk to Mama..."

Caroline smiled for the first time she could remember for a long time. Dull gray rain dripped from the sky in a mist-like drizzle, covering her precious roses in a dusting of sparkling droplets. The rain soaked her hair into a ragged stringy mop, gluing her shirt to her modest breasts and small potbelly. Her chewed fingernails caressed each petal gently, sending droplets cascading down her wrist. She pressed her face into the bloom, her face nearly swallowed by the giant crimson petals. Life, life wasn't good, but life was...LIFE, and enjoying it was a choice, not a circumstance. The chill of the rain, the dull gray sky, the smell of wet manure that made those magnificent blooms possible, it was beautiful because it was REAL, and for no other reason.

"You know, sometimes I worry about her." Lucille confided in her brother Thug as they stared pensively at the mad woman barefoot in the rain, bloodstains sill covering her clothes. From her mountain of a brother came a distant rumble:

"Just sometimes?"

M'buto stared at the flashing lights as the small gray box vibrated its way towards the edge of the end-table, finally falling off into a round metal trash can with a "PLUNK!" She smiled kittenishly as the thing rattle with a pathetic buzz inside the trash when she noticed the remnant of Berry's mind fighting her for control again.

Really? Wow. M'buto picked the thing up and sure enough, it DID have a little screen on it, like a scrying glass on a combination of acid and steroids. She clicked a button with a manicured nail, and just as berry remembered, a cracked and zoned out voice began whispering from it. M'buto held it up to her car. Apparently there was a protocol...

"Hello?"

"Berry?" the whiskey stained voice replied, confused by M'buto's clean cut African accent on Berry's voice.

"This is she..." M'buto answered. It was technically true, after all, and she saw no point in explaining the situation.

"Hey, yeah, Berry... so... uh... I heard Zag's back in town. I was just wondering, uh, if he was still, you know..." the wasted voice stammered.

IDIOCY. M'buto was a patient mistress, but if she had any pet peeve it was stupidity. It was always funny, after a battle, to interview the prisoners with intelligent questions. The best and brightest she saved as slaves, not willing to waste them on the cook pots, but the stupid ones... they either learned how to think quickly, or learned how to boil slowly.

"Who are you and why are you calling me?" M'buto demanded imperiously, just seconds from ending the conversation altogether.

"C'mon Berry, you know me, it's Scar," he wheedled, his voice turning smooth like a pimp's.

Scar...Scar... M'buto pumped Berry's memory. Wait, there, yes, SCAR. Nicknamed for the big rip in the left corner of his mouth, which was left by...Thug, in retaliation for selling Straight Mike some fake pills. Alarm bells went off in Berry's mind; Thug was the muscle behind the Black family, the family Caroline Parker controlled. With his underground connections and malleable drug warped mind, he was a good candidate to work as muscle in the new M'buto Empire. After all, being as dumb as he was, the chances he'd survive long enough to get on her nerves was virtually nil anyway.

M'buto shifted gears, changing her voice to Berry's club girl squeal.

"Oh, SCAR! Hey, how ya been doin'?

"You know me, every day I'm hustlin'" Scar rasped, already losing focus on why he called.

"Haha," M'buto squeaked, "Honestly, I don't feel comfortable talking about this over the phone... why don't you just come by?"

It was almost too easy. She'd been itching for a fresh meal since she'd been reincarnate, and now an expendable weapon to attack the Black family fell right into her tiny manicured fingers. She'd start small of course, picking off the weak stragglers in the Black herd. Like....

M'buto entered the trance, sensing the nearest carriers of Black blood. A large matronly woman came to mind, Lucille, the trance informed her. She refined the fog, and to her surprise a needle of pain shot into her mind, like a brief burst of intense migraine. Warded! Apparently this Lucille woman was no soft target; she was protected by Black magic. Hmm...

M'buto refined her search again, this time specifying the unprotected. Who was this? Ah, perfect, defenseless. And young, too, vibrant even! Luckily this one disdained the traditions that protected her relatives in favor of "science," whatever ridiculous upstart cult THAT was. Sadly, by the time this girl learned the mistake of taking the wisdom of her elders for granted, she'd already be making a piecemeal journey through M'buto's belly.

Scar waited just inside, the derelict doorway of an abandoned house, waiting for the siren and lights just as Berry had asked. He couldn't believe Zag would try and test his loyalty like this, but then again, no undercover cop would go so far as to rob an ambulance. Back before the war, Zag would never have done such a thing, but then again war changed people and Berry certainly had no reason to lie. Besides, it wasn't the first time he'd ripped off any ambulance. Everybody knew they had all the best dope in there, that good medical grade shit.

The sound of sirens broke his line of thought, and just as the flashing lights came through the window, he faded into the shadow of the hallway....

"You want me to go with you?" Rick asked her warmly.

"No, it's ok, just an overdose call. By this time she'll either be completely out or stoned enough to just let me walk her to you. I'll go inside, get a quick check of her vitals, and whatever she's been smoking will leech out of her system by the time she gets into the ER." Madeline answered with bored detachment. It had happened so many times a day she didn't even question the routine anymore.

"Alright, I'll just keep it running then."

Madeline trotted briskly across the crack brick walk, a black First Aid kit slung over her shoulder as she approached the paint-chipped doorway. She grasped the doorknob firmly, peering through the dirty glass as she shouted "AMBULANCE!" at the top of her lungs. The knob turned easily in her soft white hand as she pushed herself inside, knowing every second of indecision could cost someone's daughter's life.

"AMBULANCE!" she shouted again, this time her head whipping around the half-destroyed crackhouse.

"She's back here!" answered a hoarse voice as the sound of booming footsteps filled the empty hardwood hallway.

Madeline tried not to flinch as the drug ravaged man grabbed her hand, his face barely recognizable as human.

" I just came in, and she was laying there twitching," he explained breathlessly as they ran to the back bedroom. Madeline felt her skin try to crawl away from the touch of his sickly warm fingers as he spoke through blackened teeth. She pulled away the second she burst through the doorway, dropping to her knees to check her patient for signs of breathing. She was astounded at how small and cute the girl lying in a jumble on the filthy floorboards was as her fingers shot towards the victim's carotid artery. Good, there was a pulse...

It only took a blink for it to happen.

Madeline's head jerked back, sharp slicing pain tearing through her throat as a set of perfect pearly whites dug deep into her neck, severing the artery. She tried to escape, scrabbling frantically, but two tiny iron-strong hands anchored deep into her hair, taking the tiny assailant up with her as Madeline stood.

M'buto's legs wrapped with tight heat around her, the witch-queens throat pumping vigorously as it drained the still living blood from Madeline's neck. The stricken victim tried to scream, but M'buto's jaws clamped her throat shut like a vice, stopping all function of her vocal chords.

Good. The struggling was good. Keep the blood flowing, tinge it with sweet adrenaline, spice it with tangy fear, pump it generously to muscles and organs it will never reach so she could gorge herself. It had been a long time, too long, but the anticipation only made the blood that much sweeter as the sound of Scar's boots faded from earshot. The stricken girl thrashed, already losing her vigor as M'buto sucked her life blood greedily. In a valiant effort, Ms. Mayweather dug her right pinky obscenely into M'buto's eye-socket, just barely short of the force needed to pop it out of place as spots swam in front of her eyes. Bright green eyes, wide with fear, suddenly aware of the wet pressure of M'buto's naked vulva beneath the short skirt she'd been wearing. M'buto's hips pumped as she sucked, finally reaching delicious climax as the eyes of Caroline's adopted granddaughter went glassy in the dim light.

Both bodies slumped to the ground as M'buto's orgasm pulsed, shaking her with hot pink delight. Finally the witch queen wiped her chin, smearing blood across her lower jaw and arm garishly. She took a palm full of the still warm blood and rubbed it sensuously between her legs, sighing contentedly as her victim's lifeless body cooled on the floorboards.

"WHAPWHAPWHAP!!"

Rick flinched as he heard the sound of the junkie's uncalloused palm slapping against the window of the ambulance. Immediately he popped open the door, knowing an instant's hesitation could mean life or death for Madeline's patient.

"Something's wrong!" the junkie lisped. Rick grimaced as he watched spit spray from the twisted corner of the man's mouth as he shouted. "She said come quick!"

Rick never second guessed as he ran past the junkie into the house, his feet following the sound of the struggle as he bolted through the ramshackle shack towards his partner. His jaw dropped to his chest when he saw the little prostitute's teeth digging into his sweetheart's throat.

It only took one second of hesitation, one brief window of vulnerability, for Scar to slip the heavy wrench out of his pocket. The cold steel glinted in the dingy light of the window...

A small chip of bone sliced through Rick's brain, and suddenly, it was over.