Spin-off

They came. It never even crossed our minds that we could fight them. They were utterly superior.
They asked for those of us with a mathematical understanding of the sensorial realm. Many of us died before we even began to understand what they meant.

There were few who could save us. Those who were willing to try were even more scarce. Those who did save us are hardly even known to most. But they are the ones that drove ravenous gods away by simple gestures and looks.

When They came, the first reason they spared us were the paintings of on Piet Mondrian. They seemed to hold some sort of code for them and when one mental midget asked them - "What do you see in them?" they learned that we did not understand. And they learned the rare glimpses of truth we saw were far in between. And so they asked.

Words, the men of words, they had nothing to offer them. All of them died.

Painters were absolved. Mondrian was their messiah.

Film-makers died by the thousands, until They found a film by Andy Warhol. We then became the film-makers' messiah.

Sound was their soft-spot. They were overwhelmed by information, but they emerged unscathed and enriched and full of angry confusion. They could not understand, at first, how come we could even understand the audible medium and not create perfect structures within it, always. Once again, we had proved we did not understand. They were assaulted by the likes of Frederik Thordental, Dream Theater, the G3, all trying to "shred" them with their skill. They died.

Only one group convinced them to spare the whole wretched race. They were our tool and their tool of mercy.

The House (part 1)

It was pretty dark in the room when I woke up. The only light came from a neon tube full of fly crap and thick with dust. I noticed right away it was much too high for me to reach and wipe clean, so I just let my eyes get used to the murky light and I tried to figure out where the noise was coming from...

I'll never forget that noise... It sounded like someone eating something indefinite, not too soft and not too crunchy either, like some sort of gristle... Didn't strike me as peculiar to begin with, but it soon became very unsettling as it seemed to grow louder and louder, taking on different textures to the point it sounded almost like dogs eating a carcass or something.

Then there I saw him, in a corner, by the door. He wore jeans, perfectly colored, tight, black jeans that looked fresh out of the clothes-presser. He also wore a small t-shirt of indefinite color. He looked like he had somehow fallen asleep on his feet, leaning against the corner - his hair was covering his face down to his lips. From between the frayed ends of his greasy locks you could see a small chin, sunk-in and potholed, barely defining the neck-line. One of his hands was in his pocket, moving something around, very slowly. The other one he kept flipping, like he had a pain in his wrist. It popped every time, like a clock - every second a small, organic CRACK, each identical to the one before.

I found myself wondering how such a scrawny guy, as thin as humanly possible, could maintain such fascination over me, for it seemed I had been watching him for half an hour when he finally lifted his head slightly. I barely had time to notice his nose, like a beak, and just about see a gleam where his eyes ought to have been. All of a sudden I found myself trying to justify my presence to him in a raspy voice.

"I... my name's... tricky... You won't remember it... sorry"

Even then I couldn't help trying to pull off a pun on my name, but for the first time ever something inside told me it'd be better to keep him confused somehow. Looking back I realize it was a desperate, instinctive attempt at self-preservation. My mind hadn't figured out the danger yet, but the rest of my body was racing, doing everything in its power to keep me from exposing myself to this man.

He just smiled and said "I don't even want to." It sounded both friendly, like he had gotten my joke somehow, and menacing. Bone-chilling smile, the smile of a full-up cannibal... it just took a second but it explained my previous reaction to myself - I had been right to try and keep him guessing. It had been useless.

However the first time I felt I had lost control of the situation was when he finally said, like it had come from the far reaches of his mind -

"Stagger Lee"

- and immediately, from somewhere behind me and to my left came a THUMP! noise and something that sounded like the panicked shuffle of feet, then a high and trembling voice yelped and I heard a body slam against a wall. I had been so taken with observing Stagger Lee that I hadn't realized there was someone else in the room. I'd thought I was leaning against the wall opposite to the door, but as I turned around I saw that it was actually a table - some sort of hospital table. I didn't stop to look at it - I was looking for the source of the yelp... there he was, another guy, more well-built, looking healthier but scared out of his mind and obviously trying to cope with the sight of Stagger Lee. He knew something I didn't, and suddenly I felt exposed and disadvantaged. I crawled over to the new guy as fast as I could, trying to calm him down and also reacting to the sudden wave of laughter that came from Lee's half of the room.

"Kid's been smoking too much, don't let'im talk, it's gonna fuck up his vocal cords" said Stagger Lee between two fits of laughter. Against any better judgment I told him to shut up and stop scaring the kid. He did. I should've ran then but Jack - he later told me his name, between the panic attacks - grabbed my hand and pinned me next to him, like I was his life-line.

Stagger Lee had gone back to popping his wrist and ingnoring us, so I took the time to ask him who he was. Like me, he couldn't remember where he was and how he had gotten there. Of course he couldn't talk in so many words, I mostly read between the "IT'S FUCKING STAGGER LEE!!"s. Even then I couldn't muster up the courage to face him but at this point I was anything but calm and composed, so I started to really look around the room, some part of me screaming "You fool! take the time you have and use it to get more time!" Yes, I suppose it all felt like a race...

She was lying on the table, motionless, looking dead. Pale, tired face, long, tangled strands of dark hair that looked as though she had been crawling through a sewer to get there, ragged and dusty jeans and a once-blue, now stained beyond all recognition tank top. She was barefoot and her fingers and toes seemed crushed and bruised. There was a bulge in her right cheek - either a freshly received punch had left it there, or she had something in her mouth - it was hard to tell in the dim light and I wasn't going to check right then and there.

Then I heard his deep voice, ironic and cruel in a subtle, looming way:

"Is she alright? I do hope she isn't dead..."

Her chest seemed like it was heaving slightly, but I was far too alarmed to seriously look, so I just said

"No, she's not dead!" - trying to sound as sure of myself as I could.

"Good, cos' if you want through this door, you'll have to leave one of you behind. And since you two pretty-boys've gotten to know each other so well, I don't think the decision making process will have to bee too long and arduous. Just leave her to me and I'll give you two a head start."

All this without even flinching, without the slightest sign of emotion, without even bothering to make it sound like a joke.

Jack was out the door before I could even realize that I was following him. We left her there. With Stagger Lee. Only now do I realize the true meaning of this. Now, when I hear the two of them singing and closing in.