Original characters written by bob.
rough as hell voice sample dont look at this rn im working on it ok\\ house rules.
Jimmy Hopkins.
You've tried the American dream, now try the American nightmare. You're a mongrel, a dog, you were raised by gators in the NYC sewers, so you thinks you can swim with them. You can't spend your life sitting on fences, at some point, gun to your head, you're going to have to make a choice, and either way, it's gonna hurt, standing there like a cheap thrill, not a care in the world because your heart is beating, after so long, you feel sick, but you're alive, and they're all fucking dead.
There's some dead bitch in the house. She won't leave you alone, she won't go away. She's trying to remind you, of all that stuff you did. And there's this thing, at the window, wearing human face, crawling around on all fours. You think you get to just walk away, with all that money and a couple new nightmares? You're cursed. You deserve it.
You've known this entire time. Stop pretending. You're not done. You're not finished. It was bound to happen, written in stone, they find you, out in the cold, and you go back to the city, you tell everyone they lit your house on fire, tried to kill you, you lit the fire, you did it, you wanted an excuse.
You thought it would all go back to the way it was. Something saw you, saw what you did, saw what you've always done, throughout time, and you locked eyes with it, stared back a little too long, it chose you, but for what?
Death.
Something from the other side, wearing human face, your brain floods with chemicals, you can see the space between the atoms, gifted sacred rhythms, all your pain washed away, did you slip? Did you fall? The night sky, in her robes, her hood, she loves your stories, plague masks and scythes and all that foreboding, and yet, she smiles, she's friendly, warm, you fall into her, and you realize, she should not be called Death, we were wrong. We were all wrong, about everything. The future is written, and the past scrambles to make it happen, it's a place, and you can go there, if you want, and most do. Sift through the past, and that warmth, her warmth, will dutifully follow with you. She's holding your hand. She is not death. She is not the grim reaper. She is everything. If nothing dies, nothing lives, and if nothing lives, the wind shapes the mountains, and the tides eat at the shores, that's her, it's all her. You glimpse her, before you bubble away into the everything of what comes next, and she loves you.
Good night.
Cheech.
So you've seen something from the other side. It shook you more than the blood-shed, than your time served, patching people up, trying to save your friends. You get discharged, there is no home to go back to. You're just trying to shock your brain, and maybe the acid will make you melt into the couch. Nome, Alaska. They don't like you. Your neighbours kinda weird. You see something from the other side, for the second time, something different this time, and you do the most cowardly thing you've ever done in your life, you turn tail, you run.
He needs help. You left him. You should go back. You should help him.
John Grieves.
The Watcher and his apprentice are sitting by the fire, despite the humid air, the tension is thick, and icy. The old man is staring at the boy, eating his beans straight from the can. The boy, he smiles, coyly.
Watchers are an odd folk. They know things they shouldn't. “Do not look at me like that, heathen,” the old man is practically over the fire, long nail jutted into Johns face, “I know what you've done, and I know what you'll do, deviant.”
“You've been drinking, old man,” the boy says. He's too small for that gun on his hip..
“Is your prick not covered in witch-juice? Are the three-hairs on your chin,” nail digs into the dimple on Johns' chin, the old man has taken a hold of him, and shakes him, “not covered in witch cum?”
John is in the sand. The old man deflates, milky eyes in the fire, “you will betray me, in the end.”
The old man told no one what he knew.
Seventh son of a seventh son. They all know things they shouldn't. The old man knew he would die, bullet in his back, for trying to kill the woman with emerald skin John saw in a dream. If you asked him at the time why he did it, he'd tell you he wasn't sure. In one act, he became a rogue agent. A Watcher, in bed with the enemy.
Together, witch and Watcher, they tried to fix this sick land. And maybe along the way, John stared into the cauldron too long. It's been 100 years, and his corpse has become restless.
What are you looking for, dead man?
Molly.
I don't care! I don't care anymore! So what, you've seen pictures of me naked, I fucked your dad, the senator. I don't care! It was a cheap thrill, for a while, but we got out, clean. And sure, there's the outstanding tab, there's the balance these fuckheads have decided I owe them, cornered animal, sure, I'll dance it off – and nobody asks me to dance! I only know how to flail!
How did we end up here?
It's just, I dunno. I thought he cared.
More I look back, more I realize I just cleaned up his messes. You know that saying, the man in charge, the woman that knows what's going on? I was the woman, he was the man. People used to say we looked at each other like we were in love, HA! What a fucking joke. We only kissed once. He was covered in blood, and I was free, for the first time in my short life. We were just kids. We quickly forgot about it, and moved on. And in the noise that came after, I decided I wanted to live in the quiet.
Quiet has a cost.
I NEED MONEY!!!!!!!!!
ON REQUEST:
DOCTOR DOOM!!!!
also here's my manual autoplay xoxox
