[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Five]

[Felt alittle short changed on this one. I'm slipping tenses again (My biggest weakness) However, here you are. In the spirit of things, I'm putting this out their as it is. Spelling mistakes and grammar aside! The most important thing is a rough draft being shown so I don't let this blog slow down!)

Golems can’t see in the dark.


A lot of times, people hear you are a supernatural being and assume you’re good to go in the areas of flying, seeing in the dark, and mesmerizing teenage girls to dry humping spells. What can I say? I blame Twilight.

So when the lights went out, I only had the light glow of the trash-can fire that someone was using to roast dinner. Shadows danced around the area, each one intermixing with the frozen bodies of civilians. I spun around as something brushed past, a fist raised.

Nothing.

Another wave of screams echoed off the walls, and I did my best to pinpoint the nearest attacker. As you can imagine, the atmosphere along with the visibility was making it nigh impossible. Add fear into the mix, and you have one confused clay-doll.

“Come out!” I bellowed using my unlimited amount of wit. Finding no one to take me up on my challenge, I added, “Pussies.”

I waded through the darkness, careful not to push aside the frozen citizens of Grid Eight. From the flickering light of the trash can, I found the majority of faces had entered that dazed expression, their mind deciding it was better to turn off until a logical explanation could be reached.

I heard another sound behind me and turned just in time to have a ball of garden hoses thrust in my nose. I felt what amounted to a dozen mini-jack hammers smashing into face, and I threw my fists upward. Whatever had attacked hadn’t counted on that. My knuckled connected to what I thought might be a chin and sent the creature launching. It flew through the air before smashing itself into the side of the flaming trash can, tipping it on its side and the burning contents to the floor.

The fact that I had an exposed flame now on a dirty floor surrounded by frozen people didn’t register immediately. What did register was the head full of snakes that hissed and struck out as far as they could towards me and the old hag with the oozing lips and extended claws who sported said snake-fro. She (And they… Or were they just all one?) hissed, jumped to her feet, and charged me.

I shook off my surprise and ran to meet her half way. However, before I could get more than a few steps into my charge, I felt something heavy come down on my back. Again, a dozen hammers slammed into me, this time on my neck. Claws gripped my shoulders, and I spun, trying to get the new witch off of me. I smashed through a cheaply improvised table holding scraps, and we both fell to the floor, the thing still on my back.

I might have been made out of clay but that didn’t stop me from feeling some pain. I was wired to feel hints of displeasure when my body was being damaged, and I assure you, I was in the process of just that. A dozen or so serpents chipped away at my skin as the thing’s claws dug into my shoulders, deep.

I look ahead, a flaming piece of timber just a few feet away, right outside the burning embers. I reached for this burning Excaliber and then felt the witch dig her claws into my shoulder blade. Something cracked and my whole limb stop functioning. She had cut my ‘strings’.

I slumped forward as I hollered in pain. The witch seemed to take this as a sign of victory, and I felt her continue her onslaught. My back felt like it had lost a few pounds at this point, and I felt tired.

I wasn’t invincible. I took a beating that would have killed a man a long time before me but I wasn’t invincible. What I was, though, was stubborn. Monuments could be made about my stubbornness.

I screamed, using the boiling rage inside my body to push all my remaining strength back into my legs. I hauled us both up, dove forward, and twisted as best I could. I landed with her pinned to the ground- Right on top of the flames. Fire and clay were never a bad combination, kids. Fire and flesh was.

The creature screeched and let go. I stumbled to my feet, away from the creature, and turned just in time to see the thing clamper to its feet before completely igniting as if she was covered with gasoline. She made it a few steps before completely exploding as if she was some monster in those cheesy 70’s monster movies.

And here I was without popcorn.

I turned to face the one I had previously engaged only to find her with a child thrown over her shoulder. The creature was frozen with shock, staring at her downed sister. The snakes responded before she could, her serpentine-hair pulling back before spitting at me. Goblets of goo splattered my chest. Could have been poison. Could have been some paralysis-brew. Whatever it was, it didn’t work. I charged forward, my programming guiding my actions more so than my brain. The witch gave out what might have been the start if an “Oh hell” before I drove my fist into her face. Cracking and popping bones greeted my fist. She fell, the kid landing painfully to the floor.

Hey, the kid was alive at least.

A choir of screeches echoed throughout the chamber, and I turned, fist held prepared. From all around me, I saw shadows that seemed to slither back and forth between warm bodies. They moved closer to me, four of five beings, each with hissing friends on top of their heads.

“I’ll kick all your asses,” I threatened.

Yeah, I wasn’t impressed with my words so you could image how they handled it. A sound of what might have been laughter moved around me as they descended.

That’s when the sound of the chug-chug-chug of a generator started up. The lights suddenly snapped on and I was greeted with the sight of the ugliest pair of sisters I’d ever seen. Swamp Crones sat at the popular table compared to these girls. They didn’t like the way they looked either because as soon as the lights activated, they screamed in unison, shadowing their eyes with their hands. They turned away from me, rushing for the shadows the lights couldn’t reach.

And with that, they were gone.

I stood in place, panting for breath. My body told my brain that I was hurting, twisting my programming for me to respond to what pain must feel like. My knees grew weak, and I fell to them. My arm resting limply at my side, and I just sat.

I don’t know how long it took for Max to join me. I became aware of his presence when his hand slapped the back of my head. I flinched, looked up, and squinted at the man.

“You don’t fight Medusa’s in the dark, She-Hulk,” Max scoffed before he attempted to lift me to my feet. It was either my size or his lack of upper body strength that didn’t make that happen. He gave up after a few attempts before slumping down to the ground himself.

“Medusas,” I repeated.

“People frozen, snake for heads? Ugly as sin?” Max shook his head. “Doesn’t take much to put the name to the face.”

I nodded as I reached to my coat, plucking a burned piece of skin from my jacket. It wasn’t mine.

“Medusas… From that poem?” I asked. “Didn’t they turn people to stone?”

“A poem using metaphor. Who ever thought of such a thing?” Max mumbled before standing up to attempt lifting me again. This time, I helped and made it to my feet. The people of Grid Eight weren’t exactly frozen still, but they were still in a stupor. The fire from the trash can had thankfully not caught hold of anything other than the witch so it didn’t take more than a few stomps from my boot to put out any real risks.

“How’d you shake the spell?” I asked Max.

“Laziness,” he responded. “Theirs, not mine. Must assumed everyone experienced the dazed effect from their spell already and stopped usin’ it. Since that shit don’t work on me…” He trailed off, assuming I got the picture. I did.

It took little more than a few minutes until people starting coming out of their daze. None of them the wiser- Some assuming a gas leak was the reason. Me and Max played dumb, nodding along. No sense trying to explain the truth. People never understood it anyways.

And then the first parent screamed for their child. Then the next. Then the next. And this continued.

Almost all the children were missing from Grid Eight.

And I couldn’t help but feel like it was my fault.

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Four]

Whatever Grid Eight used to be, it was long forgotten. Some speculate it was a service center where the early diggers slept and lived while working this deep. Some think it’s the remains of a subway station that was abandoned half way thought construction. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anymore. What it became was my domain, my piece of solace. A place where people lived with simple ignorance of their status up top.

I brush past the small bazaar, everything from food to junk being bartered, and offer a wave towards the trio of old men who sit slumped in their rocking chairs. The three of them offer nothing but a silent nod as I continue along my merry. I pass families laughing, music playing, dogs barking- Mind you, I also pass through the coughing, the pained, and the simply hungry. But what can I say? I’ve decided to wear my rose tinted glasses today. Grid Eight is a pocket of humanity in the Underneath which means you get the good and the bad.

I start my rounds. I move from huddled mass to huddled mass, my haul growing lighter as I ‘share the wealth’. Please, don’t take this as a sign that I’m a nice guy. Really, I’m not. But in Grid Eight, you don’t survive when you’re greedy.  Grid Eight is beautifully communal or beautifully socialist depending on if you watch Fox News. I get the traditional slaps on the back, a few cheers, maybe a hug or two from some rugrats before  I finish my wade through Grid Eight. I move to my little corner in the station, slip into my tent, and drop what remaining loot I have.

Max is sitting in front of television, a bowl of beans balanced on his stomach as a shoeless foot attempts to adjust the rabbit ears on top of the set in order to get a clearer picture. Max isn’t exactly what you call the peak of human perfection. In truth, he’s a rather shitty side kick. He is about forty pounds over weight, smelled like the end result of a carnival’s port-o-john, and seemed content with wearing the same torn jeans and flannel shirt. And that is just touching on his physical flaws. You know when someone says ’atleast he has a good personality’? Well, they wouldn’t say that about Max. He doesn’t. He’s an old, cranky, and some-what insane man. However, Max was one of those rare norms who could see through the Veil which means that he made for a good middle man. When  the ‘Magic-Kin’ wished to know something mortal or do something in the mortal realm, Max was their man. Plus, given the man’s age, he was an encyclopedia of knowledge when it came to the unknown.

‘How’d it go?” Max asks as his toe nudges the  rabbit’s ears just enough to allow for a woman’s moan to escape from the speaker before the static returns. He looks towards me and shovels a spoonful of beans into his mouth. I don’t give him anything verbal. I just open my jacket to show the signs of buckshot. Max eyes the damage, notes my anger, and the belches. “Well, I did warn you about shotguns.”

“No, Max. You didn‘t,” I shoot back as I move towards the television. I take hold of the rabbit ears and the screen suddenly breaks into perfect clarity. Whatever went with building me involved electricity which allowed little tricks like this possible.  “You warned against the sprinkler system but said I had nothing to worry about as long as they didn’t start a fire.”

Max turns his focus back towards the television and shrugs his shoulders. Apparently, the skin-flick on the television held more interest. “Then watch out. I hear they might have shotguns. Happy now? Sheesh, you big baby.”

“I was shot, Max.”

“And I have crabs, your point?”

I let go of rabbit ears and move to where I had thrown the bag of loot. After the run through of Grid Eight, it was lighter than it had previously been. I pull out the remain stacks of bills from the bag, pull open the loose panel from the floor, and slip it all away with the rest of my ‘horde’. Technically, this isn’t all mine. A third of it belongs to Max, but Max isn’t good with money so I helped monitor it for him. Insert Jewish stereotype here.

Afterwards,  I grab one of the many cans of spackle and a putty knife and flop down into the arm chair next to Max. I pull my shirt over my head and begin to work repairing the damage. I’m not exactly Michelangelo but I’ve down this enough to fill in the hole, even it out, and maybe attempt a redefinition of muscles.

“Any deaths?” Max asks as his foot abandons the top of the set to move to the dials below. He does some fancy foot work to turn the set off and turns his attention to me. I just shake my head. I splatter another glob  of spackle onto my chest deciding that the silent treatment was best used on Max.

He seems to get the point and focuses on his beans. He brings his beans midway to his mouth before freezing. And when I say freezing, I mean a solid freeze. Statues could take pointers from him. My brow wrinkles as a I stand, unsure if this was serious or if Max had been working on this act for awhile. If he had…too much time on his hands. A bum with time on his hands? I know, imagine the impossibilities.

Then I notice the sounds around me. There isn’t any. That music and laughter and coughing and barking? All gone. All silenced. Mute.

I walk out of the tent and look around. The entire Grid Eight stood frozen around me. The only movement involved the trio of old men swaying in their rocking chairs. The dogs are even still. It was like everybody just decided to stop and freeze for a portrait. One thing is different about them all, however. Their bodies might be frozen but their eyes sure aren’t. As I pass them, I see their eyes dart towards me in panic. Some simply look around, confused and lost. And I know that look. It’s the look I saw in the eyes of the security guard I punched out earlier. It was the brain unable to handle all this. This was Veil work. No doubt about it.

I move down the isles of tents, tables, anywhere. Every place I go, people seem stuck. I find a father holding his child over his head. I find a couple in the act of making love. I find a few rats who seem to have decided to join in the party and remain still on top of a hunk of unguarded cheese.

The lights flicker once before shutting off completely. And in the blanket of darkness, I hear what can only be describe as the sound a cat makes when you skin it alive. A horrible shrieking that would rupture my ear drums if I had any. What’s worse, the shrieking isn’t just coming from one spot. It’s coming from multiple spots all round me. I wasn’t just dealing with one thing. I was deal with -a lot- of things.

Oy vey.

[Urban Fantasy Novel] Fist Full of Clay Scene One

[Like the title? I don't! But I was stuck so I just threw something there! Okay! This is my first draft to the story of Emett. Remember, first drafts are supposed to have spelling errors and 'fat' to trim from the story. So, toss me a suggestion if you wish]

Max never said there would be shotguns.

If I had known that taking a shell to the chest was going to be part of this little bank heist, I would have asked for maybe a benefits package or at least a boost in pay. Pistols? I can handle pistols. They aren’t a pleasure to be shot with but they’re a pin prick compared to shotguns. Shotguns ‘buck’. Shotguns don’t spit peas but are a torrent of pain. Shotguns leave big holes and cause people like me to be cranky.

Max really never said there’d be shotguns.

I’m not sure how long I’m in the air. Truth be told, I don’t really remember how I got here in the first place. However, I do vividly recall my body crashing into the wooden frame of the checking counter, the screams from the bank customers drowning out the shotgun’s shell hitting the floor. Me? I don’t scream. Shows weakness and hell, I need to make up ground after being brought down by a slug to the chest.

I hear the world around me explode into action. The sound of some security guard who developed a sudden stutter is screaming for my colleagues to freeze, and I just know that the guy has just signed his death warrant. You don’t yell at goblins- They’re a cranky lot and when push comes to shove, they tend to take it a step further and remove your head.

I can’t really blame the guy, though. Like most humans, he can’t see past the ‘Veil’. Like, right now? Johny Justice is thinking he’s staring at a motley crew of gang banger thugs who are out to ‘cap and tap’ this and that. In truth, they are a motley crew of gang banger goblins.

Trust me, there is a difference.

For one, goblins speak in a pitch that only dogs pick up. And right now, while the Justice League is thinking he’s got his bank robbers pinned down and silent, they were most likely crafting a plan. Me? I’ve resigned myself to just laying here, a crater still sizzling in my chest. Like I said, shotguns weren’t mentioned in the planning of this thing.

I roll my head to the side, a subtle gesture that most observers might hold up to gravity, and I take a glance at the scene. Seeing through a Veil is hard to describe, however, the simplest way of doing it is state you sort of see two things. For one, I see the assortment of my ‘home boys’ as the world sees them. Scrawny white boys wearing baggy jeans, wife beaters, and ski masks, silently holding up their arms in surrender . On the other side of the coin, I see the cracked reptilian features of the goblins. I’m not hearing a sound from them, but the way their lips are moving, I can sure the hell bet that they’re plotting.

And then the security guard comes into view and I feel my insides churn. He was an old guy- probably a few years from retirement. Call me observant too or just call me lucky, but I note the wedding ring on his finger, and I know I can’t just lay here. I know I can’t just let this guy walk into a trap. Why? Well, simple answer, it’s in my ‘programming’.

So I sit up Terminator style. I figure if I’m going to get shot again, why not do it as bad ass as possible. I get the effect I want because some blonde teller named “Ruth” screams her head off. The guard spins around just in time to get a face full of thrown checks- Not enough to hurt him but hell, who expects to be attack with checks? Loan Sharks? His shot goes wide and I’m on my feet within seconds. Two seconds flat, the shotgun is sailing out of his grasp. Three seconds, the old man is being pinned against a granite pillar, my hand wrapped firmly around his throat.

He pisses himself and I remind myself to throw away these shoes later. I see his eyes dart down to the smoking crater in my chest and then back to my eyes. He can tell I’m the angry sort and that his shell sure the hell didn’t hit my ticklish spot.

“What are you?” he asks, and I can see that switch in his mind flickering vigorously to make sense of this madness. He won’t be remembering much of this part of the heist, that’s for sure. That tends to happen when norms meet up with folks like me.

“Ain’t it obvious, Captain America?” I ask as I pull back my fist. “I’m Jewish.” And with that, I give the guy a night cap a crossed the chops. He was out of the count for now and safe from the goblins. I drop him to the ground, step around him, and toss a glance back towards the confused customers and tellers. “Sholom.”