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All good things ...; Retrogressional
Topic Started: Dec 13 2017, 07:00 AM (120 Views)
The Armenian Beast

The cold winter air whipped through the abandoned streets of what had once been the great city of Vancouver. Now, only ghosts and memories resided among these crumbled buildings. There was no movement save for the ashes that swirled in a grotesque facsimile of the vibrant denizens who used to reside here.
Wait, there yet was some independent movement. Obscured by the billowing ashes, a giant of a man trudged through the streets, his heavy boots kicking up dust as he went. Beside him, a smaller figure walked. One could be excused for mistaking it for a dog, but upon closer inspection it was a rat, as far beyond the mean for its race as the man was beyond mere humans. Now that he had come closer, the man proved to be fur clad. He wore a dust mask that long since took on the same hue as his massive beard and unkempt hair. A sledge hammer, wrapped in barbed wire was slung over his shoulder. He seemed to be walking with intent, a clear goal in sight.
Indeed, he never needed to get his bearings. At intersections, he briskly turned this way or that, never pausing. Eventually, he reached a building that was in a marginally better state then the rest of the empty shell of Vancouver. He marched to the front door. Power had of course long since ceased to run through the wires that fed into these doors, so they remained dead to him. The man cautioned the rat with a hand gesture. He raised the hammer and with a single mighty blow smashed the doors open, though they did not move back far, hindered as they were by the nearly three inches thick layer of dust and ash that covered everything.
The fur clad behemoth pushed past the door, the rat following in his wake.
Once inside the howling of the wind abated and he was left alone in a deep silence that chilled more than the winter air outside.
He walked to the center of what once might have been the lobby. There, he removed his mask, drew a deep breath and bellowed, “Asylum?! Wolf?! Ruby?!”
The only sound the building had for him was the echo of his own words.
He lowered his head and shook it ruefully. Dust fell from his beard.
He tried one more time, “Tenzin?! ANYBODY?!”
But the dead did not stir.

His shoulders slumped. He remained like this for a minute, until a scratching sound drew his attention.
His rat was pawing at something.
“What Eddie find?” The man asked.
He trudged over to investigate. Brushing aside the ash, he found that it was a head. Eddie was certainly not the first rat to find it, judging by the amount of tissue missing. The skull lay bare in several places, gnaw marks clearly visible in the off-white bone.
The man held the head up to eye level. His eyes, that was, as the head no longer sported any. He stared into those black hole and commented to his rat, “Who this been? CJ? Mike Manning?”
He swallowed hard and added, “Maeve?”

The Rat didn’t say. The head didn’t say. The Building didn’t say.

He placed the head back where he had found it and covered it as best he could with ash. Placing his huge meaty hand atop the mound, he spoke, “Sleep now. Whoever it be, work be done.”

One more stop … he marched to the reception desk and pulled a bottle of wodka from his fur coat. He placed it on the desk shouting at the people he knew weren’t there, “Beast be leaving this here … in case peoples want it.”

But even the wodka did not entice the ghosts to rise.

He turned to his rat and said, “This always happen. Where Beast go destruction soon follow. Come along, Eddie, Beast gotta find other place. Beast gotta keep moving. Or maybe destruction catch Beast. Can’t have that, right?”

The rat sat up on its hind legs and cleaned its whiskers. It was probably the closest to an agreement he was going to get.

He walked out the door, the rat in tow, hurrying to make use of the last of the day’s light.

What remained, other than a partially eaten head, an untouched bottle of wodka and a soul crushing silence?
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