Life's a bitch, so there's that.
This past week... worse than a bitch.
I said I didn't want to go into the house— wouldn't go into the house— but no one listened. As usual.
Fucking assholes.
There were seven of them. This was the third week in a row that we'd had more than five; I don't know if this is the new thing, but I don't like it.
Not one fucking bit.
Makes it too hard to maneuver when things go to shit. We almost bit it last week because @ghosttruck and @Turd Fergusen got wedged in a doorway when that ass-fighter started swinging.
And things always go to shit. @Morbid keeps some lovely company. Nice fucking house, too.
Fuck my life.
First room, so fucking predictable: things go to shit. Me and the Seven Dwarves, and the last three aren't even clear of the doorway.
This one was @Ducky's fault. @Ducky's a noob, a first-timer. Old timers know: never step on a Caduceus Sigil. The doctors here are fucked. @Ducky stepped right on it, the entryway exploded in a lambent flash, and there he was: a C-Section Carver in white, callously sawing away at a newborn. @Ducky handled it, though, sending Doc, baby, and the infant's irritating, caterwauling mother back to Hell with a hastily spoken banishing rite.
@Ducky wouldn't fuck up again, but wouldn't clock another banishing this trip either. I wonder if @Ducky will be back.
The front drawing room was one of the most macabre scenes I've seen in many clearance runs in the Mansion. Centered in the room, pressing heavily into the plush Oriental rug, was an altar to an unknown deity, topped with vaguely human mummified remains. Capering around the altar was a rapist of little girls, still wet from his depredations, grinning the mind-blasted rictus grin of the dead.
@Turd Fergusen put him down with that big fucking .44 Magnum he carries. Someone else smashed the altar, I didn't notice who; I was too busy bleeding out of my fucking ears.
I hate that fucking pistol.
Sexual perversion is almost de rigueur in the Mansion; untainted sexuality is almost unknown amongst @Morbid's "guests". You spend any amount of time clearing out the Mansion's denizens, you see a lot of fucked-up stuff.
You get inured to the horrid acts to which the twisted, paraphilic diversion of libido can drive humans.
Or so you think.
The formal dining room beyond the front drawing room had been transformed into a meadowy sex park, filled with all manner of maddened, superannuated fornicators; a writhing mass goaded by dementia into frantic, self-destructive, friction-fraught couplings amidst the detritus of the expensive heirloom china, age-dried flowers and trampled beeswax tapers.
I puked my guts up. I'll admit it. The sound... I still hear it in my nightmares. And holes where there shouldn't be holes.
I'm not the only one who booted in the remnants of the dinner crockery, but I won't name names.
Not @ghosttruck, though. He's from the Ozarks, by way of Florida, and octogenarian train-fucking doesn't bother him. He's seen worse, I guess. Unimpressed, he waved his hilljack Raccoon Charm and sent them all back to Hell in a single, echoey, spasmy squelch that made me lose my lunch again.
Searching vainly for an unbroken bottle of liquor to get the taste of puke out of my mouth, I let @crys_xoxo lead the way into the back kitchen. "She's been in here a few times," I think. "She knows what she's doing."
For once, my optimism wasn't misplaced. Before I'd given up my fruitless search for alcoholic bliss as a bad job, she'd dealt with the kitchen's current denizens: a neglectful, Pop-Tart doling mother, her three snot-nosed, screeching progeny, and about a million fucking roaches, all wallowing in the animal shit and garbage with which they had festooned the room.
I don't know what that thing is that @crys_xoxo carries— she won't talk about it— but it is damned effective. A metallic click, a brief, rising whine and a soul-illuminating flash of light, and they were all gone. All of them. The animal shit and garbage were gone too.
I've gotta ply her with whiskey, find out more. That thing's a gold mine. I could clean up California in a day. There's a big fucking bounty now.
The back passage from the kitchen leads to a dingy servant's dining room, a reminder of the golden days when @Morbid had servants. Normally this room is unoccupied; even the lowest of the Mansion's guests usually eschew this dusty, undersized chamber.
No one ever said @Morbid's servants lived well.
Tonight was different.
Somehow, through some perversion of dimensional physics, the room was occupied by a blood-splattered pickup truck. The pickup-truck was occupied by a blood-splattered, porky Hispanic male, quite dead, and the macabre, static scene was enlivened by a very animated, screaming, grocery-laden woman. She turned to us, hysterical, and shrieked "what the fuck is this fucking bean-"
@Turd Fergusen's hand-cannon boomed again, cutting her off mid-slur and turning her head into a mist of blood and bone-fragments. The truck and its cargo vanished in a puff of sulfurous smoke.
Score two for @Turd Fergusen, and a throbbing migraine for me. I should have kept the shoggoth-herding gig.
With the echoes of the Magnum still shredding my synapses, I scouted the way down the darkened corridor that lead from the servants' depressing chowhall to their downright demoralizing sitting room, which has been the scene of some truly vile depredations during the tenures of the several former masters of the Mansion.
I do not like this fucking room. If a child is to be abused during any given iteration of the Mansion, chances are, it's going to be in this room. I have seen things that I can't unsee here. Many things.
I always take the final darkened twist of the corridor with my eyes closed, so that I can brace myself against the wall facing the doorway before I see whatever horror the shabby couch-lined room holds this time.
Steeling myself, I opened my eyes to see a filth-stained bed in the center of the room. Laying on it was a disheveled, malnourished young girl, filthy trach and feeding tubes trailing from putrescent gashes in her body. She was quite dead. Her vile neglectful parents weren't.
@Muriel Schwenck fixed that. She doesn't talk much. That's probably a good thing.
One sardonically spoken word of power, and the girl's parents morphed out of existence, panic rising in their eyes until it became an unbearably bright electrical arc that fused their widened pupils and spread downward, splitting their bodies into darkling nether halves that collapsed into the now-crackling electrical gash in reality.
The bed and the little girl faded slowly into darkness.
Many of the manifestations that we have to clear are the echoes of domestic violence, the psychic stain made all the stronger by the intensity of emotion between the victim and the victimizer. The tableau that awaited us in the front library was one of these, and it was a scene fraught with crazed, angry energy.
A pop-eyed, scrawny, pubic-bearded man knelt atop his teenaged daughter, choking the life from her as he sprayed her with incomprehensible, drug-fueled, spittle-laced invective. As we watched, an indescribable spasm of fury crossed his face, and he drew an ugly-bladed hunting knife and slashed her throat.
As she gurgled her life away, and her father ranted, @ghosttruck pointed the Raccoon Charm and they both dissolved into so much smoke.
Two for @ghosttruck, and so far so good, but the worst is always upstairs, and there were just too fucking many of us. If we got attacked on the main staircase, it would be a rout.
Of course, that's what happened.
@Sugar Cookie saved our asses.
Half-way up, packed on the slippery stairs like sardines in a can, there was nowhere to go when a very visibly pregnant 12-year-old girl materialized at the head of the stairs, a worthless example of Michigan man-boy looming angrily behind her. A violent shove, and she was among us.
@Sugar Cookie leapt to the top of the stairs and pressed a silver crucifix against his forehead, the holy instrument singeing a blackened, smoking cross into his flesh. He screamed and vanished, taking his tormented child-love with him into the Nether.
Rout averted.
Waiting in the front bedroom was an exercise in applied evil. Atop the kitchen range, spatially mislocated from the kitchen below, was a vat of boiling water, and suspended above the roiling surface was a squalling, terrified little girl, held aloft by a demented hick crone, who cackled whiskey-scented nonsense.
A soul-shattering shriek ripped its way from the child as the eldrich cunt lowered her feet into the water, boiling the flesh from her bones in an attempt to "teach her a lesson."
What @Sue sue did was a mercy.
That left the servant's bedroom in the very back of the house. As it has often been the scene of rape under the auspices of previous owners, it is often now the scene of rape-related residue in the house's current "rescued" condition.
(rescued my ass)
Tonight was no different.
Soldier man, little girl. It's a story as old as war. It has played out in this very room before, in the shadows and the dust, on the cheap mold-ridden linens.
It played out again tonight. @crys_xoxo put an end to it. Click, whine, flash.
Amazing. I want that fucking thing.
Back out through the front bedroom, and back down the main staircase, and thank the Mother of all Fuck, nothing has re-spawned. We don't always get that lucky.
I don't remember @crys_xoxo ever clearing the back bedroom. That's the toughest room. And she bagged two tonight... she's getting really good.
This was @Turd Fergusen's fifth run in a row, and @Sue sue's been in the Mansion for two weeks now. It seems like some of the backfield is firming up.
Then I realize... two, two, and two. "Most clears" split two ways a few weeks ago; @Sugar Cookie and @ghosttruck both cleared three. That had never happened.
This week split three ways: @ghosttruck, @Turd Fergusen and @crys_xoxo. Two each.
That's never happened either.
The power is getting fragmented.
I don't want to keep doing this.
It's killing me.
This past week... worse than a bitch.
I said I didn't want to go into the house— wouldn't go into the house— but no one listened. As usual.
Fucking assholes.
There were seven of them. This was the third week in a row that we'd had more than five; I don't know if this is the new thing, but I don't like it.
Not one fucking bit.
Makes it too hard to maneuver when things go to shit. We almost bit it last week because @ghosttruck and @Turd Fergusen got wedged in a doorway when that ass-fighter started swinging.
And things always go to shit. @Morbid keeps some lovely company. Nice fucking house, too.
Fuck my life.
First room, so fucking predictable: things go to shit. Me and the Seven Dwarves, and the last three aren't even clear of the doorway.
This one was @Ducky's fault. @Ducky's a noob, a first-timer. Old timers know: never step on a Caduceus Sigil. The doctors here are fucked. @Ducky stepped right on it, the entryway exploded in a lambent flash, and there he was: a C-Section Carver in white, callously sawing away at a newborn. @Ducky handled it, though, sending Doc, baby, and the infant's irritating, caterwauling mother back to Hell with a hastily spoken banishing rite.
@Ducky wouldn't fuck up again, but wouldn't clock another banishing this trip either. I wonder if @Ducky will be back.
The front drawing room was one of the most macabre scenes I've seen in many clearance runs in the Mansion. Centered in the room, pressing heavily into the plush Oriental rug, was an altar to an unknown deity, topped with vaguely human mummified remains. Capering around the altar was a rapist of little girls, still wet from his depredations, grinning the mind-blasted rictus grin of the dead.
@Turd Fergusen put him down with that big fucking .44 Magnum he carries. Someone else smashed the altar, I didn't notice who; I was too busy bleeding out of my fucking ears.
I hate that fucking pistol.
Sexual perversion is almost de rigueur in the Mansion; untainted sexuality is almost unknown amongst @Morbid's "guests". You spend any amount of time clearing out the Mansion's denizens, you see a lot of fucked-up stuff.
You get inured to the horrid acts to which the twisted, paraphilic diversion of libido can drive humans.
Or so you think.
The formal dining room beyond the front drawing room had been transformed into a meadowy sex park, filled with all manner of maddened, superannuated fornicators; a writhing mass goaded by dementia into frantic, self-destructive, friction-fraught couplings amidst the detritus of the expensive heirloom china, age-dried flowers and trampled beeswax tapers.
I puked my guts up. I'll admit it. The sound... I still hear it in my nightmares. And holes where there shouldn't be holes.
I'm not the only one who booted in the remnants of the dinner crockery, but I won't name names.
Not @ghosttruck, though. He's from the Ozarks, by way of Florida, and octogenarian train-fucking doesn't bother him. He's seen worse, I guess. Unimpressed, he waved his hilljack Raccoon Charm and sent them all back to Hell in a single, echoey, spasmy squelch that made me lose my lunch again.
Searching vainly for an unbroken bottle of liquor to get the taste of puke out of my mouth, I let @crys_xoxo lead the way into the back kitchen. "She's been in here a few times," I think. "She knows what she's doing."
For once, my optimism wasn't misplaced. Before I'd given up my fruitless search for alcoholic bliss as a bad job, she'd dealt with the kitchen's current denizens: a neglectful, Pop-Tart doling mother, her three snot-nosed, screeching progeny, and about a million fucking roaches, all wallowing in the animal shit and garbage with which they had festooned the room.
I don't know what that thing is that @crys_xoxo carries— she won't talk about it— but it is damned effective. A metallic click, a brief, rising whine and a soul-illuminating flash of light, and they were all gone. All of them. The animal shit and garbage were gone too.
I've gotta ply her with whiskey, find out more. That thing's a gold mine. I could clean up California in a day. There's a big fucking bounty now.
The back passage from the kitchen leads to a dingy servant's dining room, a reminder of the golden days when @Morbid had servants. Normally this room is unoccupied; even the lowest of the Mansion's guests usually eschew this dusty, undersized chamber.
No one ever said @Morbid's servants lived well.
Tonight was different.
Somehow, through some perversion of dimensional physics, the room was occupied by a blood-splattered pickup truck. The pickup-truck was occupied by a blood-splattered, porky Hispanic male, quite dead, and the macabre, static scene was enlivened by a very animated, screaming, grocery-laden woman. She turned to us, hysterical, and shrieked "what the fuck is this fucking bean-"
@Turd Fergusen's hand-cannon boomed again, cutting her off mid-slur and turning her head into a mist of blood and bone-fragments. The truck and its cargo vanished in a puff of sulfurous smoke.
Score two for @Turd Fergusen, and a throbbing migraine for me. I should have kept the shoggoth-herding gig.
With the echoes of the Magnum still shredding my synapses, I scouted the way down the darkened corridor that lead from the servants' depressing chowhall to their downright demoralizing sitting room, which has been the scene of some truly vile depredations during the tenures of the several former masters of the Mansion.
I do not like this fucking room. If a child is to be abused during any given iteration of the Mansion, chances are, it's going to be in this room. I have seen things that I can't unsee here. Many things.
I always take the final darkened twist of the corridor with my eyes closed, so that I can brace myself against the wall facing the doorway before I see whatever horror the shabby couch-lined room holds this time.
Steeling myself, I opened my eyes to see a filth-stained bed in the center of the room. Laying on it was a disheveled, malnourished young girl, filthy trach and feeding tubes trailing from putrescent gashes in her body. She was quite dead. Her vile neglectful parents weren't.
@Muriel Schwenck fixed that. She doesn't talk much. That's probably a good thing.
One sardonically spoken word of power, and the girl's parents morphed out of existence, panic rising in their eyes until it became an unbearably bright electrical arc that fused their widened pupils and spread downward, splitting their bodies into darkling nether halves that collapsed into the now-crackling electrical gash in reality.
The bed and the little girl faded slowly into darkness.
Many of the manifestations that we have to clear are the echoes of domestic violence, the psychic stain made all the stronger by the intensity of emotion between the victim and the victimizer. The tableau that awaited us in the front library was one of these, and it was a scene fraught with crazed, angry energy.
A pop-eyed, scrawny, pubic-bearded man knelt atop his teenaged daughter, choking the life from her as he sprayed her with incomprehensible, drug-fueled, spittle-laced invective. As we watched, an indescribable spasm of fury crossed his face, and he drew an ugly-bladed hunting knife and slashed her throat.
As she gurgled her life away, and her father ranted, @ghosttruck pointed the Raccoon Charm and they both dissolved into so much smoke.
Two for @ghosttruck, and so far so good, but the worst is always upstairs, and there were just too fucking many of us. If we got attacked on the main staircase, it would be a rout.
Of course, that's what happened.
@Sugar Cookie saved our asses.
Half-way up, packed on the slippery stairs like sardines in a can, there was nowhere to go when a very visibly pregnant 12-year-old girl materialized at the head of the stairs, a worthless example of Michigan man-boy looming angrily behind her. A violent shove, and she was among us.
@Sugar Cookie leapt to the top of the stairs and pressed a silver crucifix against his forehead, the holy instrument singeing a blackened, smoking cross into his flesh. He screamed and vanished, taking his tormented child-love with him into the Nether.
Rout averted.
Waiting in the front bedroom was an exercise in applied evil. Atop the kitchen range, spatially mislocated from the kitchen below, was a vat of boiling water, and suspended above the roiling surface was a squalling, terrified little girl, held aloft by a demented hick crone, who cackled whiskey-scented nonsense.
A soul-shattering shriek ripped its way from the child as the eldrich cunt lowered her feet into the water, boiling the flesh from her bones in an attempt to "teach her a lesson."
What @Sue sue did was a mercy.
That left the servant's bedroom in the very back of the house. As it has often been the scene of rape under the auspices of previous owners, it is often now the scene of rape-related residue in the house's current "rescued" condition.
(rescued my ass)
Tonight was no different.
Soldier man, little girl. It's a story as old as war. It has played out in this very room before, in the shadows and the dust, on the cheap mold-ridden linens.
It played out again tonight. @crys_xoxo put an end to it. Click, whine, flash.
Amazing. I want that fucking thing.
Back out through the front bedroom, and back down the main staircase, and thank the Mother of all Fuck, nothing has re-spawned. We don't always get that lucky.
I don't remember @crys_xoxo ever clearing the back bedroom. That's the toughest room. And she bagged two tonight... she's getting really good.
This was @Turd Fergusen's fifth run in a row, and @Sue sue's been in the Mansion for two weeks now. It seems like some of the backfield is firming up.
Then I realize... two, two, and two. "Most clears" split two ways a few weeks ago; @Sugar Cookie and @ghosttruck both cleared three. That had never happened.
This week split three ways: @ghosttruck, @Turd Fergusen and @crys_xoxo. Two each.
That's never happened either.
The power is getting fragmented.
I don't want to keep doing this.
It's killing me.
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