Death’s Muse / Flesh Eating Bacteria

Dominance games are eternal.  We get to continually pay the price for the dregs of Earth and time that seek the continual application of degradation always.  There is Death. There is Death’s Muse. There is Death’s Casino

Death’s Muse the continuing story

Flesh Eating Bacteria

And there were other players who tried to leverage proximity to Death into ways to get over on him, to crash his domain, steal his influence and power.  These players were those of seeming stature and false promise.  Some came up to their places in this universe as slight playthings of Amy the Muse   Amy used her playthings well and without shame.  She had given them meaning. She had given them lust.

There are always those who feel that they are Kings of heaven, hell and in-between.  They preen.  They posture.  They stick out their chests and claim the thrones of influence and low morals.  These are the power brokers of Death- Land … the power brokers of the highways and byways of standard life.  These are the flippant punks that call the tune for too damn much of the aggravation that I have to try to right in my day job as knight errant for lost causes.  It’s a congenital condition I have not done enough to dispel.

Thugs and gentlefolk thugs and punks and punkettes plied Death for his tricks and the more bold challenged him. Muse Amy oversaw the action from her studied position as madam, hostess, keeper of the faith and eternal dispenser of pleasure and pain.  There were prizes dangled, secrets used, tools of lust, revenge, dominance, and submission offered.  These tools were extremely useful, extremely wished for.  A wasp’s nest, a viper’s trove entertainments and challenges for Amy.  Death needed good fodder to sink his teeth into.  He needed to be able to cue the suckers.  The suckers needed to slide in the ooze of Fat Boy.

Death did not like his job forced to be unusually mundane.  Fat Boy and his enablers forced in many loss of wills to survive.  Death was not open to be in position to be welcomed by multitudes unable to find sustenance in daily living due to the polluted ether offered by continued contact with the deadening toxic influence of Fat Boy and his dancers.  In such atmospheres the minds that they possessed were useless and open to atrophy.  This was not pleasant for Amy to perceive either.  The soulless feeding, fondling, flocking to the soulless gave the devil little to bargain for as well.  A world of toxic acid was a unwelcoming place.  Just the fumes of rot.  Damn.  I had to get up in the morning and deal with the dull mud of the special pieces of punk, punkette, playpunk, playpunkette.

Influence through time is a strange and specious thing.  Paths through deadening voids of action, purpose, standing, presence leave influence baked into the system so that those who can skate on the tides of interaction with no balancing or mitigating frameworks can challenge the Muses, beat the Devil, ride astride the stallions of fate and demand fidelity from lost sinners everywhere.

Empty actions of the base fools everyday stasis and useless gestures by useful idiots and we’ll meaning saints just continually spin the wheels of tomorrow forever. The seeking and searching for the whip hands of lesser gods. All players in Death’s casino were shooting for the magic of eternal sneers.  It was always time to be one up on the Fates.  It was always time to grasp the eternal whip.  Some chose to ride with Fat Boy.  Those with the least functioning reality filters. They were seduced by the rages of inadequacy.  Amy’s constant flock.

I traversed back alleys.  I got information.  I got contacts.  I got stories to tell.

Pitch traversed back alleys.  He got information.  He got stories to tell.

Sloop was back alleys.  Traversed to get to her. 

We had freedom to play.  We had freedom to act.  We had freedom to slap down invertebrates and others.  We had freedom to play our little games as well.  We had freedom to game the system.  We had freedom to stand for truth and beauty.  Amy was not our muse either for nothing.

Building a nice little defense against being swallowed up by toxic creatures requires building fire walls, brick walls, paths on the right angles, protections for body and spirit that can bite and bite back.  It requires a mind that can stand to taste the charms and focuses and constant prodding of rank bastards and sultry women.  Tough vile women.  It is a calling.  Sometimes working without a net.

 Strange and injuring creatures are seen close up.  They look back and the hope is that you’ve garnished a minimum amount of usable respect and fear.  The hope is that your game holds.  Q

There are ways to attack the knowing useful idiots and pond scum licking punks and users.  There are ways to attack fire breathing honchos and subtle owners.  There are ways to play and there are thick hides to develop.  Fat boy begged the question as to whether the whole of worlds could be made to implode on the strength of a systemic vulnerability open to the flesh-eating bacteria that lived in Fat boy’s toxic bile.  Flesh eating bacteria scared the mass of common soldiers of the master races and actors.  The flesh-eating bacteria of Fat boy threw them in line. Flesh eating bacteria were ugly bits of nonsense / business  for Death, Amy. Fat boy was an egregious deformity from the circles of hell.

Stories unfold.  Protagonists interact.  Casinos watch the whirlwinds of games.  Death sits watch.  Amy knits in the corner.  Her magic stirs.  A rainbow of pleasantries.  Ugly rides ugly.  Fat boy’s bacteria.  Into the swirling pits of retribution.  Waiting for a stake in the heart. Sloop would love to shove it ..

Amy watched.  Amy always watched