Kompy's Art Hunt

The first thing Ken remembers was the searing pain of every bone, every sinew, being ripped asunder and put back into a new place. That was the kind of pain that stick with you, no matter how long you live.

Ken 1 pushes a shovel into the dirt below him, digging through the red Georgia clay at a solemn pace. Though it only slightly bothered him, he wiped the reddish sweat from his brow and rubbed his left eye. The only eye he has. Some nights, he looks at Ken and wonders why the others get two eyes. He wants to tear their other eye out.

Ken 2 is not far away, using his garden shears to snip rhythmically. Unfortunately, his shears were made for someone with ten fingers. His eleventh finger gets in the way. He watches Ken 1 with the eye on the back of his head. Maybe one day he can give him his extra eye.

Ken 3 sits silently tonight. Outside of the Oakland Cemetery, he wears the old military uniforms that were given to them. Every step away from his brothers hurts him, but Lord Laird said that mortals wouldn’t be so happy to see three of the same Ken out and about. He drags his quarry inside, a heavy body bag and a book with a geometric engraving on its cover.

Just past sunset, the warlocks broke into Oakland Cemetery, two young ones, and in their haste to escape the Kens, dropped a book. Laird had forbade them from entry, everyone who wasn’t of Clan Hecata, and yet, they came.

Ken felt nothing as he dragged the body closer to the shack, quitting the little insecure thoughts within their mind. Ken 3 unzips the body bag and lays the tome flat on the table. The words are almost unfamiliar. Ken was taught to read by Laird, since Ken needed to read tombstones and follow signs. If Ken 3 couldn’t read it, Ken 2 would look at it through his eyes and read. The three Kens come inside of their shack after Ken 2 locks Oakland Cemetery with a heavy metal chain and padlock.

The body was fresh, only an hour old. A young man with not quite the same features, but enough of a similarity to Ken that they could work with him. His long blonde hair with too long, and his blue eyes were too dark, but it was time to learn.

Ken 1 hovers over the body, and using Kens' eyes, would attempt to mold flesh and blood. Ken cut open the body with a scalpel, as if it were any other embalming, ignoring the growling in his stomach. Though he tried to call upon the blood, the blood of the dead man in front of him did not move.

For hours, each Ken took their turn, but the body only became cold. Ken felt a sharp pain in their chests. Ken 1 throws the book across the room as the other two simply lap up the blood of the dead. Once Ken is as full as they can be, they bury the body in the grave outside. Laird would be mad if he knew they stole from the warlocks.

But Ken… for once… looked at each other. The rage builds, each minor imperfection in Kens' bodies, each tiny little detail needed to be fixed. Ken was imperfect. Ken needed to be fixed, and Laird could not do it. Ken needs to fix themselves.

Ken 2 picks up the book off of the floor, flipping through each page as the others wait. There is one last thing they could try. Ken 2 closes his eyes, stepping close to Ken 1, who closes his own. With the words in the book, and the knowledge they have slowly stolen over the decades,

Ken 2 covers his mouth to smother a scream. Pulsing, burning pain electrifies his hand, the finger withdrawing into his hand as Ken 1 whines. A new finger appears on Ken 1’s left hand. Now he has eleven.

Though they fed Laird and kept to themselves, Ken waited to find themselves alone at night. At first, it had been fixing their own flaws, but it was never perfect. Not quite. Each part was always off, and couldn’t be fixed without more pain and hunger.

Ken 2 stared at a bush that he had tended to in the cemetery. Each leaf was imperfect to another… every branch was slightly out of place. This feeling borrowed into his mind and he couldn’t be rid of it… until he realized. The bush as whole looked… perfect. But each leaf, each branch made up of each part was slightly imperfect. Each Ken was part of the whole Ken. Perhaps each Ken were imperfect parts of a perfect whole. Perhaps… Ken needed to stop worrying about eyes and fingers, and perhaps… become Ken. The real Ken.

Residents in Atlanta would hear a loud scream coming from the cemetery. Though news to no one, Salvatore Giovanni covered the police call with his inside guy. Laird’s domain covered the Cemetery, and he didn’t want his ass to be caught in the crossfire of some stupid choice those ugly Blood Brothers made. He steps out of his car, slamming it shut.

The padlock on the gates sat heavy, but was no match for his spare key. The Kens were not sharp by any means, and couldn’t even read, so what was the point of keeping them as watch dogs anyway. But Laird had said that they had withdrawn, and this scream could be an indicator. What kind of plan had they cooked up tonight?

The cemetery was quiet. Stone tombstones and obelisks stood still, as if a tiny movement would shake the cold visage of the night. Salvatore was not scared of cemeteries, but perhaps his dead heart quaked as he got closer and closer to the groundskeepers' shack.

Though the door was open, the lights were off, and there wasn’t even the slightest sign of the creepy triplets. Salvatore felt his stomach drop. Laird was going to have his head if he let the Giovanni run his dogs off. He uses his flashlight and scans the rest of the cemetery, hoping to spot the brothers in its grasses. After all, the gate had been locked… shit. From the outside.

Salvatore rushes back to the front entrance, but stops short, a sharp strike of fear. A large, bumbling mass of arms, legs, and heads clumsily navigates the cemetery, trying to remain away from the gate, and stops short when it sees Salvatore.

The Giovanni stares, mouth agape, as it grumbles at him. Not aggressive, but definitely a Masquerade breach. Tzimisce creation? Maybe something those damn Tremere warlocks cooked up in that stupid Chantry?

No human was around to watch as it let out another cry, melting apart and into three separate beings. The Kens.

“Goddamnit, you Creepy fucks!” he hisses, the Kens almost looking embarrassed, as if being caught naked, “Don’t you ever fucking do that shit again! You know who has to handles your little outbursts? I do!” Salvatore genuinely felt sick to his stomach, and that was a lot for a Giovanni. “if I catch you doing that one more time, I'm getting Laird to call the Prince on your dumbasses.”

The Kens eyes sharpen, falling on him, but they don’t say a word. They never do.

               The Boss, guys, and I all got into a nasty scuffle the other night. It was a bloodbath. Nothing I’d ever seen before.

               Guys that I’d known since forever. Gone. Forever. Over a couple blocks of pavement.

               I felt that shit tear through the tendons in my leg, but I had to keep fighting to keep the Boss alive. To keep the rest of my brothers alive. To keep me alive.

               Over and over and over it tore through the muscles in my body, the skin covering it as I took each one while laying on top of the Boss. Over concrete. Asphalt. Land.

               I stared at my own reflection in the puddles of red everywhere, breathing so heavily even though I couldn’t take much more of the pain. I closed my eyes as everything stopped burning, bit by bit.

               You wouldn’t know that looking at me now. I look pretty good, don’t I? I got my hair cut short so no one could grab it. I got new threads, made for a man, you know? I’ve been drinking this tea that the Boss gets made from that ramen shop down the street. Its… unique. You can’t have any though, so don’t ask. Only the Boss decides who gets to drink it.

               Where was I? Oh.

               When I woke up, everyone was gone. The blood was gone. The debris, and everything else, before I realized I wasn’t in the street anymore. It was like I woke up from the worst party ever. My head hurt like I had it smashed in, and I was in my own bed. I’ll never forget seeing the Boss sat next to me. I could hardly see him at first since he boarded up my windows, but he was there.

               He smiled at me, but I’ll never forget him offering me tea for the first time.

               You don’t get to just drink tea with the Boss. Only cool guys do. Guys the Boss likes. He gave me a cup from a whisky glass, and I pounded that shit like it was my first time ever drinking something. I’d never been so thirsty before, and when the Boss asks you to drink his tea, you damn will.

               It’s tangy, salty, and all that. An acquired taste. At first, I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t. Not in front of the Boss. I thanked him, expecting him to get up and leave, but he didn’t. He stood up, brushed himself off, and took my cup from my hand. He poured me another, and I drank that too. I guess the taste never bothered me since I’ve had stronger, so I guess I could just keep pounding it until he ran out.

               I still drink it now. It’s pretty good. You still can’t have it though. It’s addicting, like top-shelf whisky. It’s like I can’t ever get enough. Hell, it even looks like a Bloody Mary, but its tea. Boss says so.

               I asked Boss about how the defense went. He said that everyone was okay, and I couldn’t believe him for a moment. I saw guys bleed out, crying for their mama. What else would’ve happened?

               They’re okay. I saw them myself. Some guys can’t walk, some can’t hold a gun. They looked surprised to see me too, but happy. They said I got the worst of it, like I was Swiss cheese at the end, but Boss got me all fixed up, so we all tried to get a round.

               I can’t drink any more. Everything makes me want to throw up now. Boss says it’s because they got me in the liver, which makes sense.  It’s like nothing hits the same. I can’t even eat soba noodles anymore. They just… make me want to puke, too.

               I guess I can’t complain. I eat better, and Eva says that it’s better that I don’t drink. I used to get blacked out all the time after I collected cash. It used to help the bruises stop aching, but I’ve been stronger without it. Maybe she was right.

               Eva’s been an angel. Boss says I can’t go out much, but I stop by her place at night. She’s always tired and hates that I can’t visit her when she’s awake, but I tell her that she’s prettier when she’s all sleepy. Her eyes get all fluttery and she yawns so cutely. Never mind when she starts to get really tired, and she starts to lay down and she cranes her neck just the right way. It’s adorable, you know? Like a swan’s neck.

               She gave me some jewelry last night. She saved up all her money and got me some nice stuff. It made me smile. I kept it in the box so I wouldn’t lose it. We stayed up so late that night, I started getting really thirsty. I hadn’t bothered to keep any of Boss’ tea on me all night.

               Now listen, you can call me whatever you want: bad guy, gangster, evil, or a monster, but you have to at least hear me out a little.

               Boss said I had to be back by 22:00, but I was having so much fun with Eva. It really wasn’t like anything else. I’d missed the way she used to talk, the way she used to tilt her head back when she laughed, the way she smelled tangy and salty when you snuggled close to her. It got a little crazy.

               A bit too crazy.

               They must have told you what I did by now. I’m not telling you anything else, except that guys make mistakes sometimes. One moment, you’re having the best make-out session ever, and then the sheets get messier and messier, and…

               You learn what’s in Boss’ tea.

               Would it be… too much to say I died that night? That a part of me is gone now? I thought so, but I found out I died before that night.

               Mia doesn’t remember what I did. I can’t look at her anymore. I thought the Boss was going to chew me out for what happened, but he just shook his head. I keep thinking about how it felt during it, like a beast came out and ate my girlfriend alive, neck first. I ignore her phone calls.

I keep thinking I’m going to puke when I drink Boss’ tea. Someone made this tea. Someone poured their blood into my cup. I can’t stop drinking it.