Daftwager Twitter Fiction: Day 42

Two of Eight

Two of Eight

Day 42: 


07:00; Sometimes dawn bells depress me. Then I recall; they merely sound that the death tolls of all my enemies are a day nearer. Mister Dead Horse will get them all eventually – but he’ll never take me, alive.

07:15; Morning service in Notre Dame cathedral. Generally don’t confer with Him, but needs must. This is His House after all and, given current events in Paris, he must not have left it for some time recently.

07:30; Earlier at La Pantalon Rouge, Open tempted me to stay in bed with an offer to do something that would have made me see God, or at least call out his name. “Immanestitizing the Eschaton” – Curious.

07:45; Confessions going on. Tempted to ‘confess’ my deeds; wonder if my confessor would condone or condemn my standing aside at Frey Druss’ execution, given public misconception on what Druss was.

08:00; No illusions on the PF & TM affair; I don’t mourn a dreamer like Frey Druss, I fear for my professional self. Despite the pleasingly-French dead resulting from their attacks, to lose Paris itself? Terrible!

08:30; Also know I’m not the first to work this out; not Dan Brown, thankfully. I know that those who Psylent Film & The Monochrone portray as murderers haven’t really murdered. As does everyone else.

09:00; The gendarmes know. P & TDLS know. Percule Heureaux, odd French detective, knows. Il Grande Tigre Libre, masked luchadore sleuth, probably knows while his E Zodiac Circus tours the States.

09:30; Doesn’t matter about evidence. There isn’t an impartial jury in France that would convict these ‘Projectionist Protectors’ because there isn’t an impartial jury when it comes to these villainous vigilantes.

10:00; If I could hide my infamy as justice, I’d like such legal precedents. But they could come for me. There are already places the bad cannot bide within – Townsend, Velo City – Paris shall not be the next.

11:00; The cathedral finally empties – I am alone with Him. Time to talk. You know how to talk to Him, of course; press the hands together, hold the silent whistle steady, and blow. Above, the old wings stir.

11:05; For a monster, His landing is quite agile. The ape-like body, the bat-like wings, the human features, the leathery skin; the Beast of Our Lady resembles the gargoyles outside more than the angels inside.

11:10; Oh, he is scientifically explicable, just imponderably old. Rather than a demonological soul-taker, BOOL is a genetic Hannibal Lecter. He has imbibed so many species the only certainty is His gender.

11:15; Maybe He was human, ages ago, who developed a talent and parlayed it, over time into … this. Maybe He is older than that, and just looks human because he has eaten quite so many of us, over time.

11:20; Many would like to know – He won’t tell us through words, and many would favour He tell them beneath their scalpels. This is why He has been sniffing me up and down for anything too ‘questionable’.

11:25; Some are complimented when, of legal age, they are still asked for I.D. because they look so youthful. Myself, when old acquaintances are still tense when I’ve been scanned & sniffed, I smile. Inside.

11:30; Finally, I state my business; I have some hair for BOOL to taste, identify. If this is not incentive enough in and of itself, I also have payment if He identifies the DNA’s owner. Payment: fresh Excelsoar.

11:35; He is tempted I see, but tries to play me false. He has Excelsoar. Of course, I respond, but You have heard about he can breathe in space now. New Power. New vineyard vintage. He is still nervous.

11:40; BOOL has good reason. His … evolutions … are incident-triggered. Asbestos skin because He was burned alive. Bat hearing because His eyes were taken. Wings because He was pushed off of cliffs.

11:45; Hence Notre Dame. Sanctuary. Lives in the bells, turns his hearing on and off. Sure He is immortal – but getting crushed, cut or throttled hurts every time. I’ve had a lot of fun with ‘immortals’ that way.

11:50; Still, like the genetic addict he is, he takes the hair sample. Sniffs it. Chews it. Swills & gargles it. Eats it. Quite the epicure. Rattles off the details: Male, young (when sampled 3 months ago), telepath.

11:55; Liberated DNA from Morgue Ann’s last night. The gendarme forensic scientists tied this DNA sample to the ‘Peeping Tom’ character as seen at the scene of the crimes. They know he knows the PPs.

12:00; However Peeping Tom wasn’t in the DNA database, or rather, their database. But The Beast of Our Lady, while as discriminating as the police in collecting DNA, collects to very different standards.

12:05; Ask for a name. He laughs, of course. Why, he hasn’t been out this cathedral since 1945. The terms of his sanctuary only release him when Paris is in danger or under occupation. He isn’t very current.

12:10; He is still laughing. I even join in. Then I ask him how He already has Excelsoar’s DNA if He does not go abroad. Sure, it was a simple slip in His conversation, but He doesn’t entertain much. Ooops!

12:15; He backpedals but I switch tracks, to terribly mix metaphors, and mention that I do know the terms of His sanctuary here. He is released in defense of the city. In payment, He takes a virgin sacrifice.

12:20; As I have mentioned, not demonological. Literal virgin sacrifice. They are quite alive afterwards. They need to be, to bear his children. 1870, 1914, 1939 – Manchild, Wrathchild and Lovechild borne.

12:25; He says they’re just his children. I counter that his children are ‘just’ nothing. He is the vine, they the branches. They have brought their papa blood, sweat, tears, hair, saliva, semen, ovums & stem cells.

12:30; There isn’t a super in Paris – and beyond quite possibly – that those three haven’t stolen a lock of hair or a kiss from, haven’t cut in battle or taken to their beds, to take home to Father for His approval.

12:35; One of the 3 children ‘sampled’ Peeping Tom. Or was a parent of PT’s, possibly. BOOL has a handful of powers He can use, but He can genetically impose any of his wide repetoire upon conception.

12:40; BOOL divulges. Lovechild took PT some years ago. Telepath – distinctively, an ability to predict what you were going to say. Doesn’t call himself Peeping Tom, refers to himself as Mr. Scripts. Writer.

12:45; I procure an address. I hand over the glove I pumped Excelsoar’s hand with (That cretin, barehanded? Never). I turned it inside out and scrubbed my own DNA off, to the best of my ability, of course.

12:50; Strange. Oh the trade is good, BOOL even figures out how Excelsoar can breathe in space now (wrestling an alien gladiator by the light of other suns will do that to you), but He can tell something else.

12:55; Somehow He knows E was in his secret identity when I took this sample. Just off the job – adrenaline still high, but something in the sweat chemicals, indeed the fact he was sweating, says E’s alter ego.

13:00; Return to La Pantalon Rouge to dine – no cafés today, and I left all my DNA-laden B.O.R.E. at LPR when calling on old gene pool BOOL. I took enough chances as it is, UNDEAD smelling as I am.

14:00; Cherry-Blossom Bosom serves Elysian appetizers while Open hand-feeds me oysters. When I mention that I must depart to acquire my mindreader, she asks me to read her mind now. It is very Open.

15:00; So that is an ‘Immanestitizing the Eschaton’. I can see why it took the full hour. The thirteen-step gallow-pyramid, the giant golden apple costume, the American Medical Association CD. So very busy.

16:00; BORE armed & forewarned, I ring for Mr. Script’s ‘modest’ apartment. Or ‘social climbing’ pit. On intercom he is inquisitive. I tell him I am interested in his screenplay. Buzzed in expediently. Writers!

16:05; As Mr. Scripts realises I am not a film producer deathly interested in ”The Faceless Brides of Doctor Dread Desireé”, not because he can read it in my mind, but because he can’t read my mind at all …

16:10; … I bop the slack-jawed schmuck on the head with the freshly imprinted BORE blocking his powers. Tie him up, down on the floor, with all the new knots De Syn & Mandy Handy showed me earlier.

16:15; The screenplay play was an educated guess. Anyone pun-obsessed enough as to give MS as their writing initials certainly has an unread ManuScript lying around. Unread for a pun reason, the hack …

16:20; … and similar signs of low intelligence and high desperation led him to fall for my ruse. Leaf through ”The Faceless Brides of Doctor Dread Desireé” while waiting for my tied down telepath to wake up.

16:25; “TFBODDD” is a sensitive Gothic Historical Comedy, complete with undead butler, evil twin brother, secret skeleton selpuchres in the walls and silver floorsafes under the carpet. It is also quite bad.

16:30; It isn’t the love interest achieved who is, overtly, an unrequited crush. It isn’t mortal enemy overthrown who is, palapably, a schoolyard bully. But these things don’t help father-figure fanfiction flashback.

16:35; Read rest of the manuscripts, expecting the same. Quite the opposite. They are all books, films and plays that are powerfully written, delicately scripted, ingeniously stage-directed. They are also stolen.

16:40; “The Lovely Parade”, Wonderboy’s latest new classic. ”The Vitamin Devil”, a Vita Min biopic. ”The Thunder Grave”, a three act masterpiece by Sir Claude Claustrophile, first staged in Paris last night.

16:45; Of the above, only “The Thunder Grave” has seen the light of day, and that was the prior night. All stolen, all so new that he would have to steal from the publisher’s to get them. Or so it would seem …

16:50; … to the publishers. All of these are returns, with attached threats of legal action if MS doesn’t stop stealing scripts from their offices and resubmitting it as his own. Sounds unreasonably stupid, even …

16:55; … for a serial & unashamed punster. The plagarist’s punishment attached to such stupidity would far outweigh any possible payoff. So, to a supposed telepath, or so BOOL tells me, ideas may occur …

17:00; … without control. The pansy scrivener finally comes around from an hour-long coma. I hold up an intellectually-purloined paper and ask if he thinks that he wrote it himself. He replies yes, without lie.

17:05; His story, like Mr Scripts himself, is quite simple. He was born with a talent to pick apart minds, of the exact type I have hungered, for years, to acquire and he uses this insidious instrument to … write!

17:10; Its a common disorder; Super can build robots, so every desire is articulated through robots. Want a girlfriend? Either build an android amour or some rough-tough bots to kidnap a real one. Synoptic.

17:15; Similarly, Mr Scripts wishes to write, is serially rejected and, rather than ‘putting in the work’ (as if what writers do is work!), has lifted manuscripts from the minds of their original writers, in the writing.

17:20; Doubt very much MS knowing exactly what he was doing. Oh, I have no belief in his innocence, just an equal lack of confidence in his mental cogniscence. Mr Scripts lacks the focus his ability merits.

17:25; The legal costs of his mounting unconscious, incontinent plagarisms reduced his already meagre finances. He suffered a brief attack of love for a stranger – Lovechild’s sampling – who became the crush.

17:30; Thus the Projectionist Protectors were attractive to MS. Saw them in a cafe, where he did the most of his ‘writing’ (because he was unconsciously reading the other pretencious patrons for inspiration).

17:35; On his own Mr Scripts could only read the topmost thoughts of others – audio of everyday stuff. But as the Monochrone could search out guilt in the brain, and Psylent Film could provide the imagery –

17:40; – Mr Scripts was suddenly supplied with secret horrors, tragic perspectives and realistic terrors. In return, he helped the Projectionist Protectors find people to fall beneath their psychic gavel of justice.

17:45; They used to be quite embarassing, the PPs. Rush into a café, declare a death warrant on evil, and the guiltiest thought they could project was the mistreatment of a duck. Mr Scripts changed all of that.

17:50; Cafe: MS conversed on cellular telephone, implied police presence, stirred old crimes to top of true murderer’s thought & mind. Text to that effect (Terrible writing explained) to the PPs to come judge.

17:55; As to why he wasn’t there yesterday, his reply is simple. Growing anxiety over the PPs make every diner nervous, guilty thoughts at the top of their minds constantly. The PPs don’t need Mister Scripts.

18:00; Working with a highly fiction-fermenting mind as Mister Scripts has attuned The Monochrone to dread fantasies, of which their are far more in Paris, than the realities. I take my new BORE and depart.

19:00; Why are Psylent Film’s projection’s of the mind’s mysteries in black and white? Because dreams are colourless and quiet – MRI of sleeping REM-brains suggest this – sound and colour are added later.

20:00; Return to LPR notional. Tempted to discard the situation and retain my trophy – finally, a mindreader. But a facist France, that I don’t rule, disquiets. Then Excelsoar defenestrates a front window table.

20:05; Wonder what I would have decided if that boor hadn’t interrupted my reverie. Conclude it elsewhere? But he is trashing my current abode and, the greater insult, his beserker fit isn’t actually about me!

20:10; Apparently, E heard this was a house of ”ill-repute”. Open opened with her standard double entendre; ”Oh, it is very well reputed house, sir, and we have no illnesses or sickneses except that of love.”

20:15; E added to his state of already-drunkeness by imbibing most of the bar, coercing the entertainment to repeatedly play ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ and began tossing the furniture around like a riot in an IKEA.

20:20; Excelsoar’s manifesto here seems to consist of punishing the patrons & staff of LPR for destroying the plexiglass pyramid upon landing, plying a trade inconsistent with E’s ideals and having a good time.

20:25; I have obtained this information by listening to E’s ranting over the past twenty minutes. Assuring myself sufficiently that this doesn’t regard me, I proceed inside to check on my mail. Screams echo out.

20:30; Depressing thing is that Excelsoar isn’t really drunk. Constitution is far too strong – only Fratboy could metachemically methylate something strong enough to outdo that. He just believes he is inebriated.

20:35; LPR shakes as I open a Whitby package. As mentioned, eviscerated remains of my household servants were happened upon. Exponentially more interesting, more of my old BOREs have been found.

20:40; Imprints taken before the rage of Nation. All of the projectionist, pre-telepath type; DoomBrain’s teleport and so on. Sent for them when it emerged psychics were abroad in Paris; careful forethought.

20:45; Asked for them to be sent separately; extra packaging protection against the mail-handling monkeys at Le Harve. This one is … M.O.M.’s. He could project mental states upon his subjects. I do smile.

20:50; A great gale rushes through the building. I take Henri Jambe’s mental imprint from the telepathic absorber that created it and, with MOM’s imprint I build a rudimentary mental state projectionist. HaHa.

20:55; Small charge primes it, then I proceed to the ballroom, where Excelsoar tosses defensive soldiers & sailors around like rag dolls. Time to strike at Excelsoar’s mind, I think. A sharpshooter’s tiny target.

21:00; Sailors & soldiers sag into unconsciousness. Excelsoar asks, who else dares! Tap his shoulder with wooden cane & theatricality. If desperate for acceptance from strangers, I could have been an actor.

21:05; He turns in rage and irrecognition – the persona P.I. Stephen Staker wears glasses, just the type of trick that would fool Excelsoar. Make it clear he can leave now without injury to himself, overmuch.

One of Nine

One of Eight

21:10; E laughs the laugh of the brave rage, and throws a fist that would split my chest. Which I catch in my fist, then twist to the side sufficiently to further knee him in his gonads with an anatomist’s precision.

21:15; Falls, then gapes at me in confusion. Inspiration strikes, as slow as a wave on a long beach; this new offender must merely be strong. Easy. He arises, akimbo, and strikes his patented pose for flight …

21:20; … and nothing happens. He even hops a bit. Doubt he has been without that little power since his late teens. Instant aerial attack. This angst allows the opening I require, and I begin beating him. Hard.



21:25; Any martial arts expert could take me apart with ease. Excelsoar isn’t one. Always confident to fall back on his powers, he has no other strategy. I meld boxing & fencing into a cane-wielding weapon.

21:30; Of course, I have to be careful that neither my cane or my bones shatter when attacking him. I’ve already acquired an aching bruise where I caught his fist and my knee took a bollocking from his ‘nads.

21:35; When E believes he is drunk, he is. A placebo. As Henri Jambe he has developed a subconscious supression of his powers. No floating down stairs. No crushing with a hug. No typing faster than light.


21:40; As BOOL informed, there is a distinct change in Excelsoar in his alter ego’s mindstate. Much like how one’s mental state can control breathing, Jambe’s stength, speed and flight are subject to his mind.

21:45; But not his invulnerability. Much like how one can’t stop one’s heartbeat by thought, his skin is still steel. Must make his social life difficult. The man of steel in a world of kleenex women. Explains a lot.

21:50; No matter. In fact, its a great benefit; he also has Jambe’s sensitivity to touch – can inflict all the pain I want and raise nary a bruise. Innocent. All my Christmas Days & Walpurgis Nights come at once.


21:55; Stand by the window the table exited through. Excelsoar attempts to rush me and I step aside – a cartoony trick, yes, but to Excelsoar’s now only-ordinary speed & reaction times, a very effective one.

22:00; An Excelsoar-shaped silhouette in the street around Excelsore. Vaudevillainous speech rises unbidden in my throat, ready to declare my victory over France’s champion; cut off by a round of applause.

22:30; France is topsy-turvy. Destroy a national monument – get a parade. Defenestrate a superhero – everyone wants to buy you a drink. And, if there was any drink left, that would actually mean something.

23:00; Open insists on tearing off my clothes to examine my injuries. Then she insists on tearing up her clothes to make bandages for my wounds. Open further prescribes plenty of bed rest for the both of us.

23:30; Playing Doctors & Nurses takes me back to my nursery days, when I spayed and lobotomised the cat. Open has a very interesting PVC nurse’s number, while I sport something very Doctor Horrible.

00:00; I administer 2 injections of something and tell her to call me in the morning. Early morning call. Excelsoar decided my reverie significantly. I am a bad man & just a bad man. I have situations to worsen.


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