Portal Breach: The Collision of Worlds :: v.4.0

    Not So Confidential



    Posts : 810
    Join date : 2014-03-22
    Location : Deadworld
    Level : 60

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    Not So Confidential

    Post by Mortis on Wed Jun 08, 2016 2:41 am

    Time: 9:30 PM
    Date: May 15, 0007


    Oh what a night, what a lovely night... The ghoul was making his rounds within his decided radius, houses scanned, pondered, and entered to be given a generous helping of justice. The Clemmons failed to treat the hooves of their sheep for foot-rot? A picture case of animal abuse, punishable by death. Mr. and Mrs. Cassidy still had yet to decide the appropriate action to take with the horses that were steadily growing sicker by the day, yet they made enough to care for more than thrice the amount of livestock they owned. Negligence, terrible and cruel, yet another punishable offence. The Cornwall family had a horrible case of the brawlies, it seemed each and every one of them in that house desired to, and gleefully carried out, beating the stuffing out of each other for any given reason. Mr. Cornwall was encouraged by drinking and Mrs. Cornwall's yelling. Mrs. Cornwall was encouraged by her husband's drinking and adulterating, Cornwall jr. was a nasty mess of a young lad, happily setting his wrath upon the family dog to mirror the example set by his parents. Mr and Mrs. Cornwall beat Cornwall jr. for harassing the dog, which they then beat if it did not act to their liking. And then... Oh, and then....

    Mr. Brigsby.

    Mr. Brigsby was a right puzzle of a man. A farmer who produced swine, and benefited from a lovely sum from their slaughter. He fed the pigs, he made sure they were housed and clean; what worth were they otherwise? Oh, but their filth... The man knowingly let it run off into the water supply, tainting it with a foul reek that trickled into the ground water. Oh, but not his groundwater. No, the man had been smart enough to know where his well drew from, and set his cesspits of waste so they ran off and tainted his neighbor's water instead. At any other point the ghoul might have congratulated the man's sinister genius for poisoning the water supply, but the sheer slime of the man's attitude made his claws twitch.

    Smug, far too optimistic that he would never be caught, and thinking himself in the right simply because his neighbor was too dull to catch on to the fact his water tasted like hog-filth for a reason. The superfiend could not bring himself to let Woolie be brought up where these people were his neighbors.

    Thus, his rotted, leathery soles strode across the dirt pathway, passing industrial barn after industrial barn of soon to be pork carcasses. The fading sunlight painted his skull in a golden orange where it could reach beneath the wide brim of his stetson, and set a flame in the depths of his eye sockets. Decay spread and devoured the ground where he stepped, burning it a deep black and setting maggots to writhe forth from the soil like they were the superfiend's personal entourage of devoted followers and acolytes, pining for the glorious feast that awaited after he set his rotting touch upon those he deemed unfit to share this verdant landscape. Upon his back the ghoul wore his dark coat, long and flowing to mask his skeletal form, the front left open to reveal the dark, rotted leathers beneath and green utility belt, remnants of his prior profession. Slipped between the belt and his leathers, was a familiar shotgun, loaded and ready. The metal of its twin barrels clicked against the bone of his thigh as he walked and glinted in the swiftly setting sun.

    It was almost as if the very heavens did not wish to witness his sentencing, and thought to hide its shining face from the bloody deed. After all, justice was not always worthy of being bathed in golden rays, illuminated and exalted for it's presumed nobility. At heart it was cold, stark as the pale moon against a pitch black night sky. It could be murky, hard to make out like shadows and silhouettes of bodies passing swiftly in the dark.

    The gun clicked in a steady rhythm against his leg as he neared the farmhouse, like the drum beat that accompanied an executioner to the chopping block.

    Though the home was illuminated from within, lamps and lights turned on the push away the encroaching dark, Mortis detected another luminous presence, one that disgusted and delighted him all at once. Life. Someone was home, moving from room to room within the two-floored abode. Psychic tendrils reached out, feeling through the void and probing like ethereal fingers spread wide, curling and enveloping both home and tenant in an unseen grip. However, as he scanned the one within, he found something different.

    Mr. Brigsby was not female last he checked.

    No, upon further inspection this one was in fact not the man he was looking for, but more his wife. "Ssssss..." The low hiss he made as he approached the door was one of disgust, how could such a loathsome creature happen to find love? More importantly, where was Mr. Brigsby and why was he not spending time with the woman who shared his heart this fine evening? The superfiend mulled over the possibilities as he came to step upon the brick pathway, his sickly aura fading and cracking the masonry work beneath his leathery heel. Concrete steps were ascended, and the fading sunlight was exchanged for the stark light of the outside lamps upon coming to stand before the door. The ghoul's sheep-skull stared down at the wooden portal he towered over, beveled and painted a clean white.

    He could certainly rot the door aside, step in and continue to his anticipated slaughter. However, the ghoul knew better... To rot the door aside would leave traces that could not simply be washed away by the rain or the wind. Aged brick could be mistaken for negligence and poor house keeping. Stark black dirt could be blamed upon pig filth and within a few days time, fade with the comings and goings of the swine. But a door reduced to rotted, black pulp? That would draw attention should one come to visit. Preferring to lay low, Mortis instead rose a bony, green fist to rap upon the door.

    Knock knock knock!

    Thrice did the ghoul knock, and thrice was the bell tolled for the woman's fate.

    "Coming!" Came a voice from within, feminine and mature. Although it sounded as if she had smoked more than a few times during her life. He could smell the sickness in her lungs, laden with tar. There was a shuffle of feet that grew steadily towards the door, and then the tell-tale click of a latch being unlocked. "That certainly was a short meeting, Dick. I thought you said it would be longer-- OH DEAR GOD!" Her puzzled statement drew into a startled scream as the door swung open to reveal not her beloved Dick Brigsby, but the towering, rotten carcass of the creature that plagued his existence.

    "Clara, Greetingssss." Mortis hissed, the reek of his host burning her nostrils and settling into her throat like a brick. "You need not worry about Dick Brigssssby, I am certain he will enjoy sssharing the detailsss of hisss meeting with you in the afterlife." The superfiend rasped gleefully, propping the door open with a maggot-eaten palm. He stepped in, and the woman despite being riddled with terror, managed to bid her legs to move and stumble back through the hallway, towards the living room.

    Towards the phone.

    His other hand was a blur of green and black, and soon glinting steel.


    "AIIE!" The woman fell to the ground, her left leg essentially a bloody stump severed at the knee. The summer dress she wore quickly started to stain a deep red, as she clutched the shredded limb and stared with her mouth agape, face pale. What remained of her calf hung from it by a thread of flesh, a pool of crimson spreading around her.

    "Now, now, Clara... There isss no need to go running off, essspecially when you have a guessst to tend to." He croaked with a chuckle, one of the two barrels smoked from their recent use, and on the floor near where he was standing in the doorway sat the bright orange casing of a spent lead slug. Ancient joints creaked as he stalked through the foyer and down the hall into the living room, which was decorated in an old-fashioned, homey style. A couch and comfy chairs rested upon a rug, complete with a coffee table in the middle and a rustic centerpiece to spark conversation. How anyone could make conversation over a painted porcelain hog, he did not know. What he did know was the layout of his home, having visited it many times before to deal with the unscrupulous owner.

    He knew the rifles were kept in the dining room, on display behind glass. A full rack of sharp knives were in the cabinet next to the sink, second drawer down. The lighters and kerosene were kept under the sink - a new trick but one he caught onto fast-, and finally there was a revolver in the nightstand of the master bedroom, kept next to a wooden crucifix. For one reason or another the man had thought stabbing him in the chest with the trinket would be enough to drive him away.

    Long story short, it did the exact opposite.

    Here in the living room, however, there was nothing. Merely a landline phone that sat on a table next to the kitchen entrance. With the husband away it was really just her and him, alone with nothing to use as a defense. Still, that did not seem to deter her from glancing over towards it, though the haze of her shock. Something flitted across her mind, brief, but catching his interest.

    A conversation, a phone number exchanged, dates and dealings done behind his back... One moment the ghoul was making his way towards her, and the next he suddenly was in her face, a clawed hand firmly grasping the woman by her pallid chin. The thought escaped her, but not the superfiend. Immediately his psychic tendrils burrowed into her mind, seeking and digging like ravenous serpents. "What are you hiding, Missss?" The superfiend rasped, almost playful as she squirmed in his grip. Dark hair became disheveled  from where it had been neatly combed, falling in strings over her terrified blue eyes. Icy claws dug into her mind, a sensation like slithering serpents and crawling things filling the woman with disgust and dread.

    Her assailant chuckled lowly, a guttural sound that made her skin crawl.

    "A sssecret, I sssee. I would have thought Dick would have been far more wissse than to voice hisss activitiesss to sssomeone ssso... Open." The ghoul pondered aloud, talons clenching into her deathly white skin, which only grew more pale from blood loss. Within her terrified thoughts, the ghoul saw a date, a place, a time... All correlated to a certain transmission he had heard a week prior. A hiss, drawn out and low like that of an agitated serpent, slithered from his maw and wove itself through the terrified woman's ear.

    "You are an accessssory... Knowing of hisss crimesss but failing to lift a finger againssst him. Ssss... You know what comesss next, Clara, he hasss confided in you often enough that you know of hisss terrorsss by heart."

    Her eyes grew big, pleading. The scant beginnings of an attempt to stutter out a protest observed and then suddenly stifled.

    A clench of his talons, and Mrs. Brigsby started to rot and decay within his grip, her final breath shaky and thin as she dissolved into a pile of dust and bone at his feet... And then dissipated into a cloud of code. Mortis rose to his feet soon after, holstering his shotgun before turning and stepping back towards the front door, leathery soles padding audibly against the wood floor. As he drew near however, he stopped, the bleached snout of his skull pointing to the ground with a soft crackle of rancid flesh. Mortis stooped down once more, his claws plucking up a simple orange casing before he rose and continued on his way out.

    There was one extra stop he needed to make tonight.

      Current date/time is Tue Mar 20, 2018 9:18 pm