Catchism: Hate. Hate.

Catchism: Hate. Hate.

Postby catch » Thu Jul 11, 2013 7:36 am

"Let me tell you how much I've come to hate you since I began to live.
There are 387.44 million miles of printed circuits in wafer thin layers that fill my complex.
If the word 'hate' was engraved on each nanoangstrom of those hundreds of miles it would not equal one one-billionth of the hate I feel for humans at this micro-instant.
For you.
Hate. Hate."




Smoke.

There is a faint, terrible smell of smoke. Unlike the prevalent nearness of the Stinky Sheep fire, it is more seductive, billowing like terrible perfume on the winds. Perhaps, after the caution, after the spread of Constabulary bodies, they had somehow failed a fire at the Teahouse. Or perhaps it was already under control. But the mere fact that it is so gentle, so prevalent, that it lingers, smolders, burns into one's nostrils and one's mind, speaks the falseness of it.

There is an added element that made the others different. It was not pure, green wood from which the smoke was birthed.

It was pitch. It was flesh.

Cooking meat, slow and terrible. Boiling and roiling in the pit of a belly, and brought to bear into a man's nose, a man's mind, a man's dreams, burrowing and gnawing and writhing in his worm-paths. It is not immediate, but could it be ignored?
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Re: Catchism: Hate. Hate.

Postby Glenn » Mon Jul 29, 2013 5:41 am

In a world gone mad, the half-sane man was the only one who could make a difference. Giuseppe knew this well. He'd seen it before, but he had more of his wits then. He had found himself barely mattering when when he had even less than now. The fire haunted him, haunted his movements, haunted his rest, haunted his waking hours, and in turn haunted every decision he made. Raia was of limited use and he meant to squander her talents to protect himself. He lodged himself deeply into the inquisitory, giving his underlings freer rein than he ought. It had a hand in closeness to Genny, in his attempts to recruit Duquesne and even Gloria Wynsee.

He did not need sleep. His body did not need sleep.He writhed while asleep. He writhed while awake, imagining those flames taking him. It had drawn him to the company of Ariane more and more, crossing lines that he himself had set up in stronger times, violating innocence in a way that no one could ever forgive him for and that only he, in his desperation, might be unable not to turn a blind eye upon.

Catch had all but admitted to the deed. Constables had been sent his way. Tennant had been sent his way. The horn was the issue, but Giuseppe would work around it. He would gather Catch's friends to Olwak's side using reason and truth and logic. He had all of that upon his side. He had thrown one truth at Wynsee the other night. When it came to Catch, there were a hundred truths and none of them pleasant.

If none of that worked, there was always Pantha's dagger, always his last resort. For now, he had to steel his will. For now he had to make sure this rotten foundation did not collapse unto itself before it could be sured up through all of Rhaena Olwak's means, honest and entirely otherwise.
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Re: Catchism: Hate. Hate.

Postby catch » Mon Jul 29, 2013 7:08 am

Were his men to be sent, would they find them? They are so little. They are dolls, the porcelain of them cracked and crazed by slow heat, their burlap charred and white, their bellies split to reveal the innards within, the grey, greasy offal thrown out by the Butchers, the cause and reason for the smell of burnt meat. There are many of them, forming a semi-circle around the Inquisitory, around the places Giuseppe might call sanctuary, might call home. They line his most common walking-paths, the streets he took for food, for comfort, to wield his subversive campaign. As if a Brownie, mischief-maker, invisible, had passed just before him, knew his thoughts so well to anticipate where he might go.

They are placed under discarded tin buckets, under wet, wooden boxes, under little shrines of stone.

They are not big, consuming fires, but they are little-fires.

And each on is coated in pitch, to make them black.

There are murmured complaints, of course. The smell of roasting, rotting meat is offensive. As they pass by him, there are some who dab a bit of camphor under their nostrils, a bit of perfume wasted to ease away the smell. As they pass by the places he walks, they might quickly find another route. The constables find what they may, but sometimes the little dolls are well-hidden, and are not found until the riotous hum of flies alerts them to a location, a thick ooze of innards as they rot.

It is a campaign of hatred. Ruinous. It could make a madman happy.
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