Saturday, August 29, 2009

Chapter 1: Rude Awakenings (PART 2)

Somewhere IN THE DISTANCE, birds were chirping wearily. Cool wind RUSHED by, hurrying ALONG SOME nearby brook. Grass crunched UNDER nearby footsteps. SLOWLY, CONSTANTINOPLE began to LET LIGHT slip into his VISION. It was THEN THAT Constantinople realized BEING HIT with the butt OF A rifle IN THE FACE did indeed hurt.


“Oh, holy shit.” Constantinople MOANED AS HE rolled over, trying to gauge his SURROUNDINGS. He LAY ON slightly wet GRASS; canvas stretched OVER HIM, providing his SHELTER. Dry mud WAS CAKED ONTO his his face and clothes. There were VOICES speaking outside the tent; Low WHISPERS and hushed decisions. Constantinople PROPPED HIMSELF up onto one arm, and ran OVER his FAINT memories from THE NIGHT before. The MEMORIES were fleeting, and CONSTANTINOPLE HAD trouble piecing everything BACK TOGETHER. The FEELING the figure HAD GIVEN him remained, however. In SOME TWISTED way, Constantinople felt he had COME ACROSS an animal no man is meant to see.


The voices OUTSIDE continued as Constantinople POURED OVER what had happened. The ECHOES OF screaming women and children clotted HIS MIND, and he shook it vigorously as IF THEY would simply spill out of his ear like water. He was WRONG. Part of HIMSELF thanked the black NIGHT FOR covering up the faces of the VICTIMS SO THAT he was not haunted by THEIR IMAGES as well. The other part OF HIM IMMEDIATELY lurched in a pang of self-disgust. HE COULD not gauge HOW MANY had been in that CHURCH, NOR IF any escaped. His head POUNDED AS HE tried to remove himself FROM THOSE fog of memories, but THE TURNING in his stomach intensified. AS THE memory of the fleeing MOTHER returned to his MIND, Constantinople again thanked THE MERCY OF the night, but not before THE IMAGES OF what he could make out were repainted in his mind’s eye. HIS STOMACH turned again, this time tightly, and as Constantinople TURNED ON HIS side, warm vomit TRICKLED OUT of his mouth as if it was fizz dribbling out of A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE. As he wiped the chunky MESS FROM his mouth, the flaps on THE TENT opened up and in walked SEVERAL MEN, DRESSED in military uniform.


“Is this him Gates?” The man IN THE MIDDLE of two others ASKED. He had a long, narrow FACE CURIOUSLY dominated by his large nose.


The man HE HAD called Gates spoke. “Yes, General Schuyler. There were several on site reports. He even beat the Dovers’ girl before setting fire to their house.” GATES SPOKE in an even tone, the PITCH OF his voice, however, was a LITTLE too high, a little TOO GRATING.


“Good God. At least we have him now.” He turned TO THE other man next TO him. “Report back to Washington that we have the man responsible. Any scouting teams should be notified to return as well. We can’t be wasting men at a time like this.” The younger soldier NODDED AT these words and briskly LEFT THE tent. Schuyler seemed OLDER THAN his BODY suggested as if IT WAS aging by some other STANDARD than OUR OWN.


“If I may make a suggestion, sir,” Gates spoke UP, HIS eyes slowly moving back and forth BETWEEN CONSTANTINOPLE AND Schuyler, “we have an opportunity here. We have someone fully guilty of terrible acts. We have the means to deliver punishment. Why don’t we do so publicly? Make an example out of him. Right a wrong, sir. Prove that we aren’t afraid to go just as far.”


Schuyler shook HIS HEAD slowly BUT with a PARTICULAR STEADINESS. “But we are afraid, Gates. We can’t commit those kind of acts. There are lines. What will be done with him is up to the Continental Congress and Washington.” As Schuyler spoke, GATES EYES FLASHED with something Constantinople decided WAS A mixture of jealousy AND CONTEMPT. “We’re certainly not in any place to make a decision of that magnitude. Besides, we’re not yet fully operational as an army. To make such a statement to the British would far too quickly infer their wrath.”


“I didn’t do anything.” Constantinople FINALLY PROTESTED. “Whatever you’re saying I did--if it involved that massacre last night--I didn’t do it.”


The two men TURNED AND looked at him intensely. Schuyler SCRUTINIZED THE man. He had obviously VOMITED ONLY a short time ago; he could see THE REMNANTS OF it, and the stench danced AROUND HIS nostrils. His dark, blonde HAIR LAID IN disarray upon his head. He would PROBABLY be a fairly attractive, average MAN IF NOT for the massive bruise which sprawled across the left SIDE OF HIS face, dancing MOSTLY AROUND his eye and forehead. Also, he LOOKED FAIRLY unkempt. Something about THE LOOK SEEMED familiar to Schuyler though he could not place it at the MOMENT. Staring at CONSTANTINOPLE, Schuyler could feel the ernest in his words, in his eyes. Part of HIM WANTED to believe HIM; how anyone COULD COMMIT such actions were BEYOND him. However, THERE WAS far too much evidence against the suspect TO EVEN BEGAN questioning his innocence.


“You didn’t do it?” Gates spat. “You didn’t beat children? You didn’t shoot women? You didn’t burn down the whole damned town? Of course you didn’t. Except that we have countless people who saw you do otherwise. There were survivors in that church. They even claimed it was your face they saw in the darkness.”


“I don’t know who they saw,” Constantinople STARED DIRECTLY into Gates’s eyes who seemed to have NO PROBLEM RETURNING the gaze, “but it wasn’t me.”


“So we go off of your word? Whoops, that’s your defense, ‘Trust me.’ I think you’ll have no trouble getting all the way to the gallows on that one.”


Constantinople STRUGGLED TO stand up but found HIMSELF RATHER dizzy and fell quickly BACK TO the ground. “I will not go to the gallows. I didn’t do anything! I wasn’t even in the town until sometime after the attack must have begun. I’m--I’m a drifter. I found some tents and slept in them. When I awoke, I found the night disturbed by flames.”


That look, Schuyler realized, was the same LOOK THE BEGGARS in New York WORE. It was a look of desperation and CONTINUOUS SADNESS--a LOOK of despair. This man was a vagabond, NOT A RUTHLESS murderer. “Who are you? And what happened to your face?” Gates seemed REPROACHED by Schuyler’s flat, calm tone.


“My name is Constantinople. I came traveling from Boston. I don’t know how long ago. When I awoke, I tried to find someone to help. Then I stumbled upon the one’s responsible. At least, I think they were. It was a British outfit; one of them--the leader--shot a woman and set fire to a church. They found me, and one of them hit me with his rifle.’


“Can you recall any of them?”


“Of course he can’t recall any of them.” Gates leered at the TWO OF THEM. “He is making it up. He killed countless, innocent people. How can you treat him as if he’s innocent!”


Schuyler calmly turned TOWARDS Gates, his STARE PIERCING through him. “I’d like to remind you of your places, Gates. I am in charge; I will freely question my own prisoner.”


Gates, somewhat SHAKEN, REFUSED to fully retreat. “I understand, sir, but we have people who have already identified him. They seemed more than simply sure, sir. It is not that I question your judgement, sir,” Each time he added this, Constantinople NOTED, IT SEEMED to grow sourer and sourer, “I simply cannot stand being lied to directly by such a little monster.”


“Then leave, Gates.”


As they spoke, CONSTANTINOPLE STRUGGLED WITH his memories, trying to remember WHAT HE had seen. How many of them were there he could not remember I know there was more than five more than six? He tried TO REMEMBER THE face of the FIGURE IN charge; he HAD THOUGHT for a second last night HE HAD MADE it out, but no shape or FORM CAME to his mind.


“P.C. Bowen.”


“What?” The two officer SAID ALMOST simultaneously as they WERE reminded of the THIRD PARTY in the tent.


“One of the soldiers. The one who did this to me.” Constantinople GESTURED TO THE messy mask ON HIS FACE. “His name was P.C. Bowen. At least that’s what the one in charge called him.”


The two stood in silence FOR SOME TIME, turning THE NAME over in their minds. Constantinople gazed at THEM. Gates looked more than FRUSTRATED. The maa HAD carried some SOUR disposition on him FROM THE second he entered the tent. Slightly SHORTER than Schuyler, Gates nevertheless MADE AN IMPOSING figure. He was certainly SOMEONE CONSTANTINOPLE was comfortable having AS AN enemy.


“Gates, I want you inform Washing and the Continental Congress on what has happened. Tell them of this P.C. Bowen, and if the family name means anything to them. Perhaps some loyalists may know.” Schuyler SEEMED TO TURN some thoughts over IN HIS head as if DEBATING on an ACTION.


“So now we let him leave because he rats another soldier out? Or has made up a name? These people deserve justice!” Gates’s face TENSED, and Constantinople BECAME AWARE of many lines on it.


“They will have justice. Appropriate justice. Now leave, Gates.” Gates nodded IN DEFEAT AND turned on his feet, “And be quick.” Gates nodded ONCE MORE and disappeared OUT OF the flaps OF THE tent.


Not knowing WHAT TO DO, Constantinople relaxed onto HIS BACK. DISPLEASURE COURSED throughout his entire body, and he let OUT A HEAVY sigh. Why was I wondering down from Boston? The thought entered his MIND AND would not leave, and Constantinople REALIZED HE had no idea why it had occurred. Did it even really happen? He shut his eyes and tried to remember. THERE WAS nothing; only BLACKNESS. The last memory HE COULD even recall WAS waking in the TENT, yet he felt SURE THAT he had actually traveled downward FROM BOSTON despite having no recollection of such a journey. He could NOT DECIDE which aspect OF THIS was more troubling to him.


“Would you like some dinner?” Constantinople jolted AS HE REALIZED SCHUYLER still stood in the tent. “You were out for some time.”


Constantinople nodded and stood UP SLOWLY. Once he WAS UP ON both of his feet, Schuyler turned and left the tent. Following HIM OUT of it, Constantinople found HIMSELF greeted to a bleak evening. A sadness HUNG in the air as soldiers milled ABOUT THEIR tents, pulling off worn coats and ripped boots. This was NOT THE CAMP of a trained military organization; it was the camp OF SOME scraggly men with firearms. Although, men WAS CERTAINLY A relative term. Some of the soldiers, Constantinople REALIZED, were barely TEENAGERS while some others were likely GRANDFATHERS, barely capable of moving about. As he followed Schuyler, some of the soliders NOTICED HIM at last and began to STARE. Though he knew he had DONE NOTHING wrong, the looks alone nearly CONVINCED Constantinople he had been behind it all. For some of this MEN, he could tell, this war was NOT ON PRINCIPLE, it was deeply PERSONAL.


As they CONTINUED walking, they came to a clearing where a group OF TREES stood in the center. On one WAS A man--his hands tied around the BACK OF THE TREE. He appeared to be sleeping, but CONSTANTINOPLE COULD not perfectly tell. TENTS WRAPPED around the trees in an imperfect SEMICIRCLE, and several soldiers watched the man anxiously.


“We found him this morning, wandering in the woods.” Schuyler said, aware of where Constantinople WAS LOOKING. “He tells us to call him by some absurd name. We cannot even figure out how to spell it.”


As he spoke, two of the soldiers headed OVER TOWARDS them. Only a FEW YARDS, away from the TREES now, the soldiers grabbed Constantinople by the ARM. He struggled momentarily but soon realized HE WAS far too weak. Shrugging ANY RESISTANCE OFF of him, the men dragged him to one of the trees and quickly tied him to it. The noise of it awoke his neighbor who BEGAN TO LOOKaround suspiciously as one WAKING FROM an immersive dream.


“I thank you for not having attempting an escape,” Schuyler told Constantinople, some regret in his voice, “but I must assume the worst, unfortunately. Someone will be along with a bowl of something for you shortly.”


“Hey, I want to eat too!” The other prisoner cried. “I didn’t even do anything. You can’t have me tied to a tree. Aren’t you guys supposed to be all about freedom?” He struggled against his restraints, but they refused to give.


“Listen here,” one of the soldiers spoke up, “don’t you test me, Hlebtastic. Or I will beat you until you’re quiet again.”


The general turned and spoke to the soldier. “That won’t be necessary.” His stare, HOWEVER, said MUCH more. “I appreciate your cooperation, Constantinople. Perhaps you are as innocent as you claim.” Schuyler turned and walked away briskly, eventually RETIRING TO one of the SEVERAL tents IN THE distance.


“Did he say Constantinople?” The other prisoner called Hlebtastic asked, moments after Schuyler disappeared.


“Yes, that’s my name.” Constantinople SPOKE WITH some dejection. HIS voice broke over THE short sentence.


“Shit. I found you!” Constantinople’s head snapped UPWARDS AND towards toward Hlebtastic.


“What? What do you mean?”


“Hey! I said no fucking talking!” The solider had regained his TENACITY now THAT the general HAD LEFT.


“Fuck you, pal.” Hlebtastic said casually. “Tell me. Am I on time? Every thing's normal right? Nothing weird?”


“What are you talking about? A whole town was just burnt down; a whole group of people massacred."


Hlebtastic’s face INSTANTLY DROOPED downwards, AND HIS EXCITEMENT quickly turned to dismay. “I came too late.” He shook his head. “It’s already started.”


“What? What are you talking about? How do you know me?”


“You two! I said shut the fuck up!” The soldier threw his gun TO THE GROUND and stomped over TOWARDS them.


Hlebtastic didn’t seem to NOTICE; he slumped and simply REPEATED SOFTLY: “I came too late.”

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Chapter 1: Rude Awakenings (PART 1)

It WAS dark and silent WHEN CONSTANTINOPLE awoke. He breathed. The air was warm, AND A STICKINESS clung to his skin. Somewhere on THE EDGE OF THE wind was THE SMELL OF something burning. The silence GAVE way TO THE sound of muffled SCREAMING AND shouting. Then the edge OF THE WIND CARRIED more than just a smell. It carried terror.


JUMPING FROM his makeshift BUNK ONTO the cool ground, Constantinople GRABBED his wool JACKET AND WRAPPED it around his body. As he STEPPED out FROM his tent, ready TO ACT, his legs froze. The night SKY WAS ALIVE WITH fire. Racing forwards WITHOU thinking, Constantinople rushed PAST BURNING husks and trampled tents, looking for any semblance of life. Instead, his nose was greeted WITH THE ODOR OF scorched flesh--something he found disarmingly SIMILAR TO THE smell of A BOTCHED meal. These people WERE NOT the source of the screams; they STILL CONTINUED and were a ways OFF YET. As he darted about, trying TO ORIENT HIMSELF, CONSTANTINOPLE heard a faint groan.


Running towards it, half OF A BUILDING faded into view. It slouched outwards TOWARDS Constantinople AS IF men were pushing against it. The was A RESULT OF, HE soon saw, the other HALF OF the BUILDING which had FLED its mortal body and collapsed onto THE GROUND. Underneath the rubble, SOMETHING stirred, and it began TO MAKE noises similar to that of a man.


“Hey! Someone’s here; don’t worry!” DESPITE THESE shouts, the only reply Constantinople, RECEIVED WERE the faint scream IN the distance. “Hey, do you hear me in there? I’m going to get you out!”


Constantinople breathed HEAVILY AS HE tossed rubble to the SIDE, slowly UNEARTHING A body. As the man started to be revealed, HE TURNED HIS head towards Constantinople.


“Leave... me. Please,” he coughed UP WHAT WAS likely the dust of the VERY building ON HIM, “you have... to... to stop them.”


“Look, pal, the only thing I’m going to do is save you. Then we’ll worry about everything else.”


The man looked AT Constantinople and NODDED, TOO TIRED too put up any resistance. EVEN IN the dark, his black, messy HAIR WAS VISIBLY covered IN SOOT. His face WORE THE SIGNS of many years, wrinkles HIDDEN BY a short beard. DESPITE HAVING some decades behind him, there was an AIR OF YOUTH about the man even under all THE RUBBLE.


“Are you in the rebellion?” He asked SOFTLY.


Constantinople shook HIS HEAD AND gave a HALF-smile, though that was quickly CUT short AS another scream PIERCED the sky. “No. At least, not yet.”


“But... but I heard thought I heard you approaching from our tents...”


Constantinople FROWNED and spoke without looking at THE MAN. “I was traveling. Coming to the city and heard noises. Are you?”


“Yes... yes sir. Private Gabriel Delahaye. Member of...”


“Gabe, why don’t you tell me what hapened?”


“I... I was having a wonderful dinner with my wife, Gwyneth--she’s the Best--and suddenly there... there was a roar, and they were just on... us. Fucking burned everything.”


“Who?”


“The... the British. They... lit everything. Those bastards even torched the orphanage.”


Fucking Christ, Constantinople thought. Torched children? The British don’t do this. Damn it, they never did do this.


“What? You’re sure?”


Yes! Who the hell else would it be? They’ve never... never done anything like this. This goes way beyond war!”


Nodding IN AGREEMENT, Constantinople LIFTED THE last of the debris off of Gabe and STARTED TO PULL HIM free.


“Ow, shit! Shit! My leg!”


Constantinople STOPPED his liberation and REPOSITIONED HIMSELF, noticing the giant gash that HAD ALREADY caught GABE’S attention.


“Woof. We’re going to need a bigger bandage.”


“It’s fine.” Constantinople REASSURED Gabe as he PULLED him ONTO the much SOFTER GRASS. “I’ll find you some help or something.”


“No. You’ve done enough. Others need more help. Go find them, and stop any of those bastards if you can.”


“But--”


“Listen to me. I will be fine. Go help someone else. Now.” Gabe feebly attempted to push Constantinople but seemed to give up halfway through. “Go.”


Leaving with no small hesitancy, Constantinople gazed WEARILY AS THE FOG soon ate the leaning,half-standing STRUCTURE BACK up. The screams SEEMED LESS frequent now, but this WAS NOT SOMETHING that eased the feeling in his stomach. Flames FLICKERED FEEBLY in the distance OF HIS fractured view. He WIPED SWEAT from his brow AS THE ODOR OF death again GREETED his nostrils; he was closer.


It was some time before HE REALIZED HE HAD actually ENTERED into the city. Where BUILDINGS ONCE proudly stood, ONLY charred, fallen shambles REMAINED behind A GROWING fog as if being SLOWLY ERASED from time. Constantinople quickened his pace. The ground BELOW HIM WAS soft and freshly tossed. Looking DOWN, HE COULD make out a procession of footprints and hoof marks. SOON THERE were no longer any sullen shacks but GREAT BUILDINGS STILl playing host to their taxing guest. A FEW PEOPLE scurried by or ahead of Constantinople, but none stopped for his calling, instead treating him as a specter. STILL, STARTLINGLY FEW people ran about, AND IT WOULD do little good to enter ONE OF THE glowing buildings FOR A fruitless search. He STUCK TO the tracks. His LUNGS tightened, both PRESSED FOR air and chocked BY THE COMPETITIVE elements in the night. As HE CHOKED on nothing, Constantinople FOUND THE tracks leading him to a LARGE, OPEN SQUARE where a SINGLE BUILDING had not yet entertained THE OPTION of burning DOWN: a large, WOODEN CHURCH. He ran STRAIGHT TOWARDS it, noticing--only AT THE LAST moment--that A LARGE group OF MEN IN RED COATS were STANDING OUTSIDE.


“Sir,” one of the RED COATS said, his VOICE SYRUPY AND coated in thick accent, “most of the women and children have evacuated here for safety. They have lost the city. We can fall back: there’s no more need for any of this. I doubt any morale remains here. We don’t need to torch this church, for God’s sake.”


Ducking TO THE SIDE, Constantinople FOUND A PLACE to HIDE behind a FEW barrels. They WERE WET and leaking NOT UNLIKE PIG slough, and Constantinople HAD TO cover his MOUTH TO HOLD down his audible gag. Slowly PEERING AROUND THE edge of the barrels--keeping A FIRM GRIP ON his nose--he cold see the RED COAT who had spoken MOVING TOWARDS A FIGURE not dressed IN THE APPROPRIATE attire.


Whether it WAS HIS LACK of RED or something else ALL together, something about THE FIGURE immediately DISTURBED CONSTANTINOPLE more than THE ENTIRE scene enveloping it. As he CONTINUED to gaze, some inexplicable DREAD began to WRAP around his THROAT. The figure was casually HUNCHED, as if studying SOMETHING BELOW it, in a manner at ODDS with the grisly setting IT HAD NO doubt helped create. From WHERE he WAS SQUATTING, pinned against the FOUL BARRELS, it appeared as IF THE HAIR atop its head WAS recklessly disheveled. What was MOST DISARMING to Constantinople of ALL WAS THE manner in which the FIGURE SWUNG around as it turned to face THE RED COAT. The movements ITS BODY orchestrated were like NOTHING he had ever SEEN. They were NOT THE movements of a GROWN HUMAN but something much more primal, SOMETHING MORE natural. It was AS IF SOMETHING had stumbled out of the woods and was maddeningly impersonating A MAN, despite NEVER HAVING seen one.


“It’s always about morale with you people. Or losses. Or victories. Isn’t it?” The figure SPOKE IN a cool BUT EXCITED voice which was CONSPICUOUSLY devoid of any accent. He lurched towards THE RED COAT. “Always going on about how you have to win. Or lose. Or save. Or sacrifice. You still don’t know what. it’s. all. about.” He SPOKE MATTER-OF-factly.


“Then, what, sir,” the red COAT PRESSED, more than a trace of contempt PRESENT IN HIS voice, “is this all about.”


As he finished SPEAKING, THE DOORS of the church flew open AND A WOMAN came rushing out, screaming “Elizabeth” AS LOUD AS her shaken body would allow. The figure PROMPTLY pivoted. Whether the GUNSHOT CAME from a pistol or rifle, Constantinople could NOT TELL, but the woman’s body and half OF HER BRAIN had crumpled ONTO THE GROUND before her words had FINISHED BOUNCING off the dying buildings. The ECHO SEEMED to last for AN ETERNITY, and as it BEGAN TO fade, Constantinople became convinced it TOOK ON A mocking tone, silently BECOMING a dark laughter.


“Nothing. It’s about,” the figure SPOKE, THE INFLECTION in his voice unchanged, “nothing.” He then PROCEEDED to grab a torch from A NEARBY SOLDIER and tossed it at the wooden DOORS which embraced the FLAMES almost immediately. “Dare to dream, you guys.”


A cacophony rose FROM THE church--now bathed IN FLAMES--and Constantinople shut HIS EYES AS he heard the screams AND SHOUTS OF those inside rise up INTO THE NIGHT sky like SMOKE. He could HEAR some men SHOUTING. The exits were BLOCKED. THEY WERE blocked; they were all trapped. They WERE all going to die. Children CRIED, and women screamed. Footsteps CLATTERED AGAINST the floor adding an ungodly RHYTHM behind the screams and shouts.The fire ATE AWAY at the walls of THE CHURCH, slowly CLIMBING UPWARDS like destructive ivy. The NOISES grew LOUDER until a giant crash PIERCED Constantinople’s ears. The roof had collapsed and in its wake LEFT ONLY SILENCE. Constantinople gasped.


“There’s someone over there.” The voice was UNDOUBTEDLY that of the dark figure, and Constantinople cursed under his breath. “Bowen, retrieve him.” He PAUSED. “Or her.”


Constantinople’s mind RACED; he had mere MOMENTS TO TRY and escape from A LARGE platoon of red coats. Quickly throwing together A PLAN IN HIS MIND, he decided when to make his MOVE. He waited until he could hear the SLOW CRUNCH of the soldier’s steps approaching him. HOLDING HIS BREATH, Constantinople shifted his BODY WEIGHT forward. Here it goes, he thought, time to make a fuckin’ break. He PUSHED HIS hands down on the ground, PROPELLING HIMSELF upwards, and immediately, a rifle snapped into STEADY ATTENTION IN front of his face. Somewhere UP ABOVE, a low, rumbling BIT OF thunder broke the silence.


“Shit.”


The RED COAT STOOD planted, his stance never wavering, but he CARRIED AN expression of both shock and CONFUSION THE SOURCE of WHICH Constantinople could not place.


“Hit him. With the butt of your rifle, Bowen.” The directions BELONGED TO the voice of THE FIGURE THOUGH it had moved beyond Constantinople’s view.


“Sir,” Bowen RETORTED, “he has seen us. He knows what we did. My God, he can tell everyone. We must take him prisoner at least.”


“Office P.C. Bowen, I have given you a direct order, and I expect you to obey it.” The man SPOKE WITH AN eerie familiarity to Constantinople. The tone, the INFLECTION, THE rhythm were all so KNOW TO him, yet they were distorted AND TWISTED as if he was recalling memories OF A DREAM. The source of THE KNOWLEDGE escaped him “It is certainly not the most efficient course of action, but it is.... Well, it is the most interesting.”


“Sir....”


“Goddamn it, Bowen. I said do it!”


What little SIGHT AVAILABLE to Constantinople suddenly EVAPORATED. Fortunately FOR HIM, he felt nothing as THE BUTT of Bowen’s rifle collided WITH HIS FACE.




Ed. Note: I was ORIGINALLY GOING to put THIS chapter up AS A SINGLE entry, but then I realized HOLY shit that fucker WOULD BE long as A WHALE dick. NO THANKS. So I split it up and will PROBABLY CONTINUE TO DO so in the future. I may post the OTHER HALF later in the week OR SOMETHING. I dunno. STICK TO the Twitter and THE INFO WILL stick to you! THANKS FOR reading y'all! HAVE FUN at DINNER!


Saturday, August 1, 2009

PROLOGUE: The Letter at Saratoga

The following letter was found outside of the area formally known as Saratoga County, NY during the Colonial Rebellion. Hidden inside a metal container, the letter has become widely known as one of the last correspondences of the rebellion, as well as one of the most cryptic. Many believed it related crucial information--in code--that never reached its intended target. Instead, the letter resides at the Colonial Rebellion Memorial Museum where it is seen by thousands of guests daily. The letter reads:


Dear [illegible],


It comes. It comes for all us. You likely ask of what I am speaking, friend, and I only wish that I could describe it to you. Yet no words conceived by our mere mortal minds can hope to communicate the true atrocities I have seen, the true horror, lurking behind that very shadow we call fear. He KNOWS EVERY move WE make. He knows WHAT WILL come TO be. How can we HOPE TO stop that? How can WE BRACE for what is to happen? HOW CAN WE?


I’m sorry, I must do my upmost to compose myself, friend. These are dark times. We--I have made this POSSIBLE. It is I who have erred in this endeavor. Through my own faults, the course of EVENTS THAT should be have altered; it has all changed. Dark is day day is dark. He repeats this over and over in my mind; he taunts me with such words. I know not how to escape his grasp now for his HOLD IS tight on everything regardless of time or space. I have FUCKED THIS shit up. Dark is day day is dark time and time and time


moves


around and


around


without regards to what we want or how we feel and his hand churns the waters on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and


Dear God, I hope this letter finds its way to you. I fear that it matters not. That no matter what I do, this letter is doomed to never reach its audience. Every step thus far has been a miscalculated failure despite knowing what would happen at every turn. Except, that is not the case. We should have known, we did know what happened at every turn, but there was another. Another came with us who should not have been. He was like me but is not, and he sought to undo our every move, unraveling any modicum of a plan we had. I have failed. Part of me searches for an explanation as how this doppleganger might have made his way back with us, but I see only darkness in my mind. Darkness and his hand, reaching out towards me, attacking my mind, trying to seize my last vestibule OF HOPE. But no, no, no, no, no he must not have it. He CANNOT have it until I have written this, my last, my final, my only chance.


I will not hesitate to say that I have little of knowledge of what will happen next. In fact, I have never physically seen him, but I know he is there, beyond the veil of time. Somehow, what has happened here, what this doppleganger has caused has allowed him to manifest and diffuse across all time. I FEEL HIS presence, even if I cannot see it. He now CONTROLS WHAT HAPPENS on that BATTLEFIELD, and we ARE ALL sure as HELL DOOMED to a horrifying fate. As I write this, my hope fades, but I do not know for what reasons. Perhaps, I am realizing the idiocy of this final move. I am in check, backed into a corner and am no longer thinking straight. Logic has failed me thus far, though, so why should I choose to rely on it now? If indeed everything has changed, who then am I writing this too? Who do I plan to receive this letter? I know where to leave it, for such is why I have moved to such a grisly scene of human destruction, but will you be here? I no longer know. Even if you do receive this letter, what then? It is not enough for YOU TO SIMPLY know that all has failed. It matters not if I take that step, although I must to be here. Perhaps this letter changes nothing then; perhaps we have made such a change that it cannot be undone by something so slight. PERHAPS WE have nudged the flow of time onto another rail, another course, and it will take something EQUALLY AS drastic to set it back. If such can ever be done. I doubt anything will be the same. We have destroyed this country. I have destroyed this country. Somehow, I, Constantinople, must undo the damage I have done, the fate I have created before he possesses my mind and prevents me from doing so. My resolve must strengthen and hold and strengthen and withstand and hold and. I know


not

what to do

for i feel all of reality

spiraling away

from me

God where do I

go from here!

what moves must I make

to be set free

and be happy

and happy

and happy

and happy

and


HE IS here! He is HERE! in my mind, holding on, tightening tightening tightening tightening grasping fightfightfightfight I must. Lord in Heaven save me from this fate I pray and pray and pray and pray but just grow old and wait for answers that never come but He shall give answers He shall give us all answers and we must bow before Him and praise Him for He is above us and around us and we can never fully perceive Him for his GREATNESS ELUDES OUR own perception AND SENSES He shall MAKE AND MAKE AND MAKE and we shall WATCH AND PAY and watch AND PAY and WATCH AND pay forever and ever BACK AND FORTH He is all. We are nothing nothing nothing


nothing


NOTHING




NOTHING






into the ABYSS FOREVER and ever we WILL FALL for we cannot stop Him. NO ONE CAN stop Him. He HAS THE BIGGEST and IS MORE than G--


Here a massive line pulls away from the letter as if the author had literally torn his own hand away from the writing. Not much else is known of the piece other than it must have been sealed shortly after in its protective casing, eventually being buried beneath the ground. Whether intentional or not, the letter was not discovered until some years later, after the rebellion had been squashed and order reestablished to the American Colonies.

Friday, July 24, 2009

TWITTER

I HAVE caved. I have a FUCKING twitter now.

http://twitter.com/AnAmPatriot

KEEP AN eyes on HERE in the future, y'all.

Hopefully I'LL GET BACK to the INTERNET soon, but SHIT HAS GOTTEN real down here.


Keep me in YOUR PRAYERS.

Friday, July 17, 2009