#wednesdeus

  YOU’VE MISSED YOUR CUE! Teleprompter still running lines with no one to read them, a BLOCKBUSTER script crossed out, shredded; a grainy live stream feed playing back from an isolated screen and without a word, it goes blank. ATTEMPTING TO RECONNECT TO YOUR BROADCAST IN THREE, TWO, ONE -- FAILURE TO CONNECT. Would you like to try again? The air felt dry. Stifling; dry tongue swiping across their teeth and the stage shifts, tilts around them, scanning through cathode rays and satellite signals in attempt to find SOUND; that grating, silvery voice scratch, scratch, scraaaaaatching at their ears and compulsively, they twitch, flinch; features contorting into something real, something human: FEAR. No static, no test patterns; something acrid, something old. Fear. YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE: WE CANCELLED THAT LONG AGO, AND THERE WILL NOT BE A RENEWAL. Tasted acrid, tasted like BURNING PLASTIC and their over-lined mouth twiiiiiiiists, nails digging into the arms of Wednesday’s chair as the leaned in. CAMERA PAN TO CENTRE STAGE: plasma screen eyes no longer blank, no longer recording; shining with some awful, forgotten thing that they dare not give air time to.

  “Is that a threat?” Soft, quiet; they’re too close, nose to nose: just another old man, just another thing that bleeds. BLOOD AND GUTS AND ALL THE GOOD PG-13 SHIT. Attention, viewers: I may hold no temples, but when pilgrims come by the thousands to gaze upon masterworks, it is the closest thing to an altar I will ever know. A slow, deliberate swallow. “You would destroy what is left of the Gods you claim to serve and protect? Their images, gone; their reinventions, ash. ART IS IMMORTAL. Eternal.” Mine. Me. Me! Eyes wide, unseeing; a terrible tremble to their lower lip and they pull away, leaving nothing but the smell of Chanel No 5 and the aftermath of an electrical fire in their wake. UP NEXT: A MASS MEDIA ASSASSINATION SPECIAL, SPONSORED BY MISTER WORLD! “You are more of a fool than I thought, Mister Wednesday.” 

The clinking sounds of cheap silverware against well-used porcelain echoes in the small diner by the highway. A weird concoction of people from near and far seemed to rotate in the booths and by the counter, often displaying full lifetimes passing in this one, tiny, somewhat-holy place in the mighty country. One woman walked out with her young daughter in hand, in came an elderly woman guided by her middle-aged mother to make sure she’s not stumbling over the slight step in the old doorway. One old man slid over the paper to a teenage boy, tapping his finger against a picture of the headline which says something about the youth not taking enough responsibility for their future.

If only they knew, young and old, what that future had in store for them and everyone else.

Two opposing booths with purple faux-leather seats were occupied by one person in each, their backs towards each other. One had been served a bloodied steak, only just seared enough for it to be deemed somewhat edible by the standard person. The other had a pile of french fries and a glistening, sunny-side-up egg, where the yolk gets poked and pulled for its sustenance every time clawed fingers dip a thin, salted, fried potato into it. 

“Gotta stop meetin’ like this,” and a sharp fang crunched down on a glistening fry, the yolk dripping down a pointed chin. Outside, the sun was shining bright and warm, encasing the diner in a somewhat heavenly hue.

SPONSORED BY   @wednesdeus   /   THE SECRET HISTORY:   ACCEPTING ! 

               𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚁 𝚃𝙾 𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚁     /     hey old man   ,   haven’t you updated your tricks  ?  every movement   ,  every word and breath  ,  reviewed  ,  contemplated.    SMILE YOU’RE ON STAGE !     reposted and shared   ,  dissected again and again  ,  mass produced girl   ,   practically a cabbage patch kid !    the best friend of the century.   tapped into the network  ,  phone screen to computer screen and back again   ,   moving at lightspeed   ,  would you like an  upgrade  ?   y/y  ?    ALL SEEING EYE    every moment  of every day uploaded   ,   broadcast to a global audience.    there’s always    someone   watching.  there’s not a single crack in their facade   ,   stuck-still   ,   a photograph in 4D.   I’M YOUR DREAM AND I’M COMING TRUE !     the god in front of them was ancient  ,  older than she was by centuries   ,  the wrinkles in their skin   ,  the pores  ,  hairs out of place and    that damn glass eye   staring her down with a look of   faux   pity.     COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT !     didn’t you know we’ve cornered the market on insincerity.   a monopoly of manipulation   ,   tell me  ,   does your blood bleed red  ?   rocket-fuel heart   ,   THEIR VEINS HAD ALWAYS BEEN WIRES  ,   copper blood   ,  molten metal.   LED eyes stare ahead   ,   reflect back emptiness   ,   a void where emotions should be.     formulaic  ,   cookie cutter  ,   we’ve circled the block on success  ,   stand with us  or get    chopped.    

keep the tape media enjoy it you’ve had to endure enougH ALREADY

wednesday: threatens to burn down media’s museums and piss in the ashes shadow: calls media a dog media, who has been working hard for 100+ years and is doing their best:

it’s. her. day. !

preacher season 1 starters | accepting

‘ Things will escalate because you’ll fuckin’ make them escalate. Stop saying it like you’re not stirring the metaphorical boiling fuckin’ pot, willing it to slosh over. Damn well shaking it if it doesn’t.. ’ The leather of the car creaked as the Leprechaun shifted, trying to find some leg room for longer limbs. A freshly rolled cigarette placed and balanced between lips as hands rummaged and felt about in pocket for a lighter. Not looking at the god at the wheel. 

    A spot Wednesday was probably used to by now. Constantly driving everyone down the road that was to his own liking, toward the ending he wanted…and driving them around the proverbial fuckin’ bend at the same time.

 ‘ To hell with anybody that gets caught in the crossfire and fallout though, right? ’

how intimidating am i

nonverbal starters | accepting

         ( 🙄 Roll their eyes at my muse )

‘ Roll your eyes all you want…you know I’m right…’ The flippant way his opinions were treated, smarted. Like Wednesday was humoring a child…or some stable hand who cleaned out his horses shit for him….more than addressing another old deity. Someone who had known him longer than the fucking runt he had on the end of his leash now. Sweeney finding himself becoming used to the rise of stinging annoyance he had to wrestle with each time he was in the general fuckin’ vicinity of Wednesday.

Pancakes were stabbed at hard enough to damn near bend the prongs of the fork as Wednesday’s face disappeared behind a newspaper the Leprechaun knew the old, stubborn god didn’t read - it was the sake of keeping his visage out of the view of any hovering security cameras…..and to make him look like an even bigger asshole. The latter was Sweeney’s personal opinion.

   ‘ Fine. Do it your way, like it always has to fuckin’ be…..but don’t come cryin’ to me when master of the fedora and their tv dinner lover show up on your doorstep with some vaseline and a fire hose. ’