Allright, I know, it's been a while but I think I got some time to write.
Besides Cain, I also got two other stories in my head. One is kind of the anti-Da Vinchi code (not sure if I'll call it Zealots or the Michelangelo Complex), the other is a love story...with guns and jazz.
Anyway, first things first, the second to last chapter of Cain; the most graphically violent chapter (with a cliffhanger). Enjoy...
Cain
Chapter 4
Grace felt as if she were in a nightmare: an odd dream which she could not wake up from. She could only stare out of the bedroom window as a colossal giant appeared out of the forest.
Grace had never looked at the face of a demon before; she had never once ever known the face of torment, the face of anguish, the face of true hell.
It had all begun with the appearance of the wanderer that night. It had all begun the moment she first saw him. His eyes had shown a visage of pain; a life perhaps better left unlived. Yet in those same eyes, she had seen hope; hope that one day he would discover the truth: the truth of why he can never die...
"Who are you?", Grace said to herself as she saw the wanderer about to slay the demon. "What have you done to incur the wrath of God?" At that moment, a demon sneaked up behind her...
***
Cain look up at the colossal giant. He was covered in black fur and spiked armor. His form was that of a moving mountain, or a black volcano that is about to erupt. His face resembled that of a boar's.
Cain knew that these demons were Legion. Once, they had attempted to destroy the Savior 2,000 years ago; but the Savior forced them into swine. Since then, they had been forced to take the form of pigs.
"We are Legion, as we are many." There numbers lied in the millions, yet essentially they were one demon: one demon in many parts. That is how hell operates: no demon has his own individuality; they all are merely mindless drones which serve to elevate Lucifer to the highest position.
Cain had heard enough. He decapitated the head of the small demon instantly; the head fell to the moonlit grass and stained the ground with its black blood.
Demons, which could physically kill humans, could be killed themselves; they have to gain a physical, living presence in the world if they want to exist on the physical plane. However, they only had one spot on their bodies which life flowed; for most it was around the head. This giant demon was no exception.
The wanderer knew that the colossus would be much harder to kill than the previous; though he was much bigger, this demon moved just as fast. Cain recognized the weak spot; the inside of his skull. Reaching the head would be the challenge; it was 500 ft. high.
The giant swung his fist at the wanderer. Cain immediately dodged it; he needed to stall for time. He through one of his swords at the demon and hit him in the eye. The demon winced in pain as the wanderer ran through the forest.
The trees were Redwoods, about 300 ft. high. No where near tall enough to reach the head. But the wanderer did have a plan.
The giant had lost his prey in the forest; his eyesight was poor. He could not return to hell without his prey. He didn’t even see it when a huge tree fell on his back.
The wanderer had cut down a tree with his sword and used it as a ramp. He ran up to the demon's back and used two of his double-edged swords to pierce the demon's back.
Cain climbed up the mountain’s back with his swords as climbing spikes. The demon struggled and roared as hard as he could. He rolled on ground and tried to crush Cain's body. The beast had a mass of millions of tons; Cain heard as his bones snapped and his muscles internally burst.
The wanderer felt the pain which he had always known; the pain which he had to live on; the pain which he wished he could die upon; the pain which made him stronger...
The colossus stood up, wondering if his prey was dead. But Cain had reached the back of his skull. Cain began using his swords to pry through the head; similar to how a hand pries through the exoskeleton of a crab. A waterfall of black blood erupted through.
The giant grabbed a Redwood and lifted it off of its roots and began to pound the back of his head...Too late; the wanderer had only felt two of the blows; Cain was beginning to carve his way into the demon's skull with his swords.
The demon sprawled and screamed in pain. The wanderer twirled his swords inside the demon's head, busting the skull, and sending black blood everywhere out of the demon's head. Finally, Cain burst forth out of the top of the demon's skull; swords in hand, drenched with the blood of man and demon.
As the demon began to fall, Cain jumped off and landed on a Redwood tree. The colossus fell to the ground bellow; his blooded created a lake on the forest floor. The mountain had been crumbled...by a mustard seed.
Cain clung to the tree in anguish; every pore of his body seeped with blood, as he threw up parts of his internal organs. The curse was keeping him alive, alive in true death.
Suddenly, a demon holding a women appeared across from the wanderer; he had looked identical to the small demon before. The demon stood there at the top of a Redwood tree, holding Grace.
"No matter how many you kill, no matter how hard you try, we will keep coming. You cannot kill all of us. We will torment, and torment, and torment you until you finally grow weak enough for us to kill you". "I will never let the likes of you kill me" "Why?!" "Because...it is my curse...my curse to bear...the curse which I can not pass on to another...even to a demon". The demon held Grace tighter, she began to choke. "Then we will cause others to share the same fate as you! Come with us or she dies!"
Cain felt the pain deep inside him. He wondered, wondered when he would finally die. He was sick, sick of running and running from the inevitable. He felt the pain everywhere, he wanted it all to end.
The wanderer looked at Grace. "I will come back for you!" With that, the wanderer took one of his swords and pierced his chest. He felt a sharp pain, and clutched his chest in agony. His body fell to the forest floor.
Grace screamed out. The demon smiled and jumped through the trees with Grace to the portal of hell.
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Well, there it is, chapter 4. All that's left is chapter 5, the conclusion. Should be good stuff.
I'm in a writing mood today, so why why don't I give you guys the prologue to my summer project...
This prologue contains subject matter about the Church of Scientology (this is the religion that you may know is one of the most popular "religions" in the hollywood circle). Hear is the scientology website: (http://www.scientology.org/) and here is the wikepedia on L Ron Hubbard, the founder of the Church of Scientology: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L._Ron_Hubbard). Here also is an anti-scientology website: (http://www.xenu.net/).
Zealots
Pt. 1: The Michelangelo Complex
Prologue
The cloaked man entered the church parking lot. It was a sunny day in Los Angeles, ironic considering the dark deed that was about to be done.
The building was about 20 stories high and almost resembled that of a business office. The man looked at the sign over the church foyer doors: “The Church of Scientology”. What an oxymoron, the man thought. He knew this place was far from a religion.
Scientologists don’t seem to care much about what they believed or why, all that simply matters is results; they simply wanted an answer to life, and to live life to the “fullest”(at least to what they believe is the fullest). The cloaked man believed that this was the true religious opiate, exploited by one group of individuals. It was time to end it.
There was something particularly special about this scientology church; it was the center of Scientology’s exploitation network. It was time to end this bastard religion.
The cloaked man entered the front foyer doors. There was a young receptionist at the front desk, a cross joined over a four point star hung on the back wall behind her. “Why hello,” said the receptionist in a cheery voice, “how may I help you today sir”. “I’m here for an appointment to see Mark Baxter”, said the cloaked man. “Certainly,” the young receptionist replied, “name please”. The man gave a cold look back at her, “Simon”. “Last name” “…Simon”. The women was very sceptical, she didn’t trust this man at all.
She picked up the phone and paged the 20th floor. “Uhh, Mr. Baxter”, the receptionist spook into the phone, “there’s a Mr. “Simon Simon” here to see you”. The receptionist nodded, “uh-huh…yes…yes all right. Go right ahead sir”. The man left the front desk and entered the elevator.
When he reached the top, he entered a huge room full of cubicles; hundreds of workers busily typing away at their expensive computers. The Church of Scientology, to say the very least, has a lot of money; its wealth continues to grow, and almost resembles as much as the Vatican’s. The Church has often used its wealth in the US to win lawsuits against anti-scientology sentiment, as well as use their ties to Hollywood celebrities to gain influence in the media. Time to end it.
The cloaked man pushed open the door to the office of Mark Baxter. The door immediately electronically locked behind him; the room became sound proof, and there was only one ceiling light in the entire room. Obviously, the business going on in this room was to be kept secret from the rest of the building.
Mark Baxter sat at his small desk; he was a fairly large man with thinning black hair and glasses. He gave a dark stare to the cloaked man and held out his hand. “You’ve got the drugs”, said Baxter. “Right here”, replied the cloaked man. Simon took out about 100 kilograms from his cloak pocket and handed it to the man.
In scientologist practice, it is forbidden for one to take any forms of street drugs. It was ironic for a man like Mark Baxter, one of the head counselors at the Church of Scientology, to be taking crystal meth. “You feel justified taking these”, said Simon. Baxter sniffed the meth to make sure it was authentic, “Did you know why, when L. Ron Hubbard died, the Church of Scientology wanted to cremate his body”. “No idea”, replied Simon. “It’s because we didn’t want the public to find out that he was taking alcohol and drugs just before he died”, replied the desk man.
Simon had enough, he immediately pulled out a gun in his pocket and aimed it at Baxter’s head. “Figures,”, replied Simon, “even among its highest members, scientology remains hypocritical at its very core”. The man at the desk seemed hardly surprised; “Looks like we got another one”, Baxter said.
Four guards appeared from around Baxter’s desk, each holding semi-automatics pointing at Simon. A fifth guard appeared right behind Simon and held a gun to the back of his head.
“Give me your gun”, said Baxter. Simon placed his gun on the desk and slid it over to him. “Oh, by the way…”, said Baxter, “if you have any friends planning to kill me, they’re probably dead; you simply showing up here with this simple of a set up shows just how much you underestimate our organization. Cops with a lot more guts than you have failed in these sorts of operations, and just like all of them, you’re going to end up dead as well”.
Simon just stared back at him, “How long do you think you can get away with this? Eventually some one will stop you; eventually someone is going to take this evil organization down”. The man looked back at him. “How am I evil”, the man said, “I’ve helped to give people what no other religion can for them: results! I help to give them piece of mind, and I help to give them purpose to their lives”.
“You only repackage answers so that you can exploit them”, Simon said, “you offer them happiness in exchange for money, and the happiness you give them is nothing but an illusion.” The man looked at Simon, “How are we different from any other religion?” “The purpose of any true religion is to spread what those religious followers believe is the truth”, said Simon, “exploitation only comes when religion is corrupted. Your church, your church merely picks apart what it needs from other religions to gain influence; the purpose of your church is exploitation”.
Baxter could not argue with that; scientologists had taken meditation methods from Budhism and Taoism and bent them to create what they called “Dianetics” therapy; they even used the recognizable sign of the cross as their official symbol. “Scientology gives people the answers a lot of people want to hear”, replied Baxter, “answers that they need to live. It makes them happy with their lives, isn’t that enough of a reason why Scientology should be defended?” Simon chuckled a little, “Happiness and satisfaction are just feelings created by the brain; a string of chemicals could give the same kind of euphoria that your so called ‘answers’ give to people”.
Baxter became enraged, “Enough of this…kill him now”. One of the guards spook up, “On my mark...”. The guard raised up his hand to give the signal to the man behind Simon’s back. “Ready, Fi…” Too late. In a split second, one of the guards turned away and shot at the guard across from him; he fell dead to the floor. Another guard aimed his guard at the betrayer, but before he could fire, another guard across from him had shot him in the head.
Two guards lay dead on the floor, and now two guards had their guns pointed at Baxter’s head. “Drop your weapon”, one of the guards yelled at Baxter; he immediately dropped his weapon. “What the hell just happened…”, said Baxter in a terrified voice.
The guard with the gun behind Simon’s head now came forward and fired three shots into Baxter’s chest. Baxter fell forward, his head pressed on the top of the desk.
“All right”, said Simon to his fellow conspirators, “head down to each floor. Kill anyone who we know has any connection with the inner Scientology council or the Priory. The others will make sure they don’t escape”.
The former guards exited the room, about to accomplish their task. As Simon was about to leave, he heard the voice of Mark Baxter from behind him. “Who are you people”, Baxter said.
Simon walked back and stabbed an engraved knife into Baxter’s desk and then walked out of the room.
Just before he lost consciousness, Mark Baxter saw these words engraved on the knife:
We are the ones who hide in the darkness in order to protect the light
We are the ones who use fabrication in order to protect the truth
We are the ones who use temporary death to bring eternal life
We are the ones who fight Holy war to bring Holy peace
We are the Zealots of God
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Well, their you go, a Sunday’s worth of writing (hey, you don’t always necessarily have to go to Church to honor God on the Sabbath). That should keep you guys entertained for a little while.
Remember, sometimes “the pen is mightier than the sword”- Lord Byron, poet
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