Connections across dimensions: his Possession and my Opportu
By Fanglord, Spellcaster of Z-137 Dimension
A soul is a soul is a soul, I say. Do I like what I do? Sure. I'm lucky. But at the end of the day, it's a job. I have a boss too. If your soul is on my list, I’m devouring it. It's nothing personal.
But holy shit, Jeremy pushed my buttons. I hadn’t even stepped out from behind the Shadow Veil to reveal my unholy form, and I’m watching this dude and I was going out of my mind. It was like no wonder this guy has never been laid. For starters, he never washes his hands. Ever. In and out of fast food bathrooms and movie theaters and Golden Corral - you name it. Not once. His hands are just shit mittens.
He paces in circles, snapping his fingers when he’s trying to remember something. So hard to watch. I wanted to shake him and be like, Your dentist appointment is at 11, douchebag! And I won't bore you with details of his chewing, other to say that by sound alone, you'd think it was a dog licking its asshole.
There were so many of this things that I thought, does this fucker see me? Is he doing this just to mess with me?
To give you some context, at one point I was about a second away from conjuring some fourth-level blood wraiths from Krazgapan to drag his ass straight to the sluice gates of Shozgord. I honestly can’t remember a time in the last seven death moons that I felt such an urge to hollow someone out. Sores, fever, possession, madness, self-mutilation, dismemberment, bowels festooned, dick stuff, nipple stuff, shit with his eyeballs – you name it, I was gonna do it to him.
But then he started sketching out ideas for this e-commerce start-up. And it made a lot of sense. So I said to myself, Fanglord, you have to get in on this.
Morning, Tim. Happy Monday. So, I had an interesting weekend. You and the lunch crowd go to Sullivan's, right? Every other Tuesday. Yeah.
Anyway, I was there on Saturday, just spread out in this booth when this gorgeous woman walks in. Curly black hair, a little rough around the edges, pre-stage influenza. Just how I like.
So slithered into the bathroom to make sure my tubes were nice and oily, and then squirmed my way next to her at the bar and ordered myself the usual: a roach egg cream martini garnished with a dirty sponge.
Now maybe it was liquid courage, but after a couple sips I just turned to her and blurted out, Wanna take me back to your place? Now, that caught her off guard. So she goes, You're disgusting. Leave me alone. Playing hard to get, clearly.
So I said to her, Honey, if you’re worried about falling in love, it ain’t that kind of thing. I just want to wriggle around your bathroom floor, drool all over the hair, skin cells, fecal droppings and dead bugs that have collected in the corners, around the toilet and on your bathmat, turn them into a soup and suck them into my stomach.
She got an urgent telephone call, apparently, and had to go. Two ships passing in the night , I guess.
So, catch the game?