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Damien entered the inn. His camel was in the underground parking area, and grateful too - the rain lashed across the walls, with a sound uncomfortably like that made when a whip makes contact with bare back. He signalled to the barkeep, and a mug was slid across the wooden divider - it still didn't taste any better, but Damien didn't care. There was nobody left to talk to; Damien had no hero's welcome. No gifts, offerings of food or wine. All he had was the inn's old, warm ale and some crusted bread he'd smuggled away from one of his last clients.
Damien wasn't a carpenter. Nor was he a thinker - Damien was an intermediary. If a thinker wants a desk made, Damien sends out some feelers and gets a quote. Of course, nobody needs an intermediary to get a desk made, but when you're the son of Hell's ruler one of the benefits is a persuasive charm. It boiled down to easy work and lots of money. Thinkers can hypothesize as to the world's size, its inception and creation - but they've got no idea how much a desk costs. The carpenter gets his money, the thinker pays an extortionate amount and Damien spends far too much money on warm ale. His scraggly beard still played host to a few stray crumbs for the bite he'd had a few hours ago - deeper digging might turn up even older specimens. In a crazy mixed up world where parking meters still had one hour as the minimum time available and when you bought a new cart it came in a flat-pack with unreadable instructions, Damien had to make the most of what life he had carved out for himself, quite literally in one case. But that was another story, but if you're wondering, that bloody carpenter picked the wrong immortal being to mess with.
Hours passed. Damien kept the same mug. He liked the idea of a constant, something to rely on - not like that carpenter. Anyway, he was stroking the soft lining of straw around the brim, licking the ale away from his lips when the door opened.
"Arise, ye faithful! The Son of our Lord is here!"
The barkeep stood to attention in a way that belied his heavy frame, and in a way wholly unlike the grudging nature with which he poured Damien's drinks.
"I am so sick of that guy?" Damien kept his head low, almost whispering to himself: but that ended up being the fatal flaw. Never one to underestimate his own brilliance, Damien began to chuckle. His wit was so perfect, that the chuckle turned into a great guffaw, followed by the thumping of his hand on the flimsy bar. As the mug shook, Damien's chest heaved as tears began to roll down his face, just as the raindrops dropped off the visitor's coat as he stood in the doorway. And then he began to choke.
The problem with having a very clean, immaculately maintained beard is that if there are particularly stale pieces of bread in there, leaning backwards will send the morsels straight to the back of your throat, which is not the most receptive area for dense, fuzzy foodstuffs. Damien grasped vainly for his ale, but it was all gone. He tried to signal for another, but the barkeep mistook the manic waving as another accompaniment to Damien's bizarre laugh. He rolled off the stool and clasped his hands around his neck, when he suddenly realized what was happening, and who was coming. If he wasn't so busy gurgling and gasping for breath, he might have swore.
Jesus waltzed into the room. A bright white cloth was wrapped around his midsection as he proudly displayed his bare chest and gleaming nipples. Damien continued to thrash about, writhing in a mixture of agony and embarrassment as Christ kneeled down by his side.
"Relax, my child." His voice as supposed to be calm and soothing, but just sounded patronizing to Damien. At least, he thought it was patronizing - he couldn't hear very well over the choking. Soon even the gleaming teeth were fading, falling victim to the ever widening blackness.
"Relax," he said again. "I am here to heal you."
"Easy for you to say. You haven't got the crust lodged between your tonsils." The retort was far less effective just said in his mind, but the lack of oxygen getting into his lungs restricted his conversational skills considerably. He was thinking of a way to somehow leap up and poke Jesus in the eyes, and then grab the stool, break off a leg and use it to?when suddenly the piece of bread melted in his mouth.
You know that smug smile people get, when they've just solved a maths problem, or found a parking space, or gone to the toilet? When Jesus arose, he had that bleeding smile. And then, as Damien lay on the ground, greedily hoovering air into his mouth and nose, he realized just how very much he hated that man.
================ =========== ============
I like the character; maybe I should make a book of short stories about the hilarious feud between these two biblical characters. What do you think (about the story, not that idea)?
Damien wasn't a carpenter. Nor was he a thinker - Damien was an intermediary. If a thinker wants a desk made, Damien sends out some feelers and gets a quote. Of course, nobody needs an intermediary to get a desk made, but when you're the son of Hell's ruler one of the benefits is a persuasive charm. It boiled down to easy work and lots of money. Thinkers can hypothesize as to the world's size, its inception and creation - but they've got no idea how much a desk costs. The carpenter gets his money, the thinker pays an extortionate amount and Damien spends far too much money on warm ale. His scraggly beard still played host to a few stray crumbs for the bite he'd had a few hours ago - deeper digging might turn up even older specimens. In a crazy mixed up world where parking meters still had one hour as the minimum time available and when you bought a new cart it came in a flat-pack with unreadable instructions, Damien had to make the most of what life he had carved out for himself, quite literally in one case. But that was another story, but if you're wondering, that bloody carpenter picked the wrong immortal being to mess with.
Hours passed. Damien kept the same mug. He liked the idea of a constant, something to rely on - not like that carpenter. Anyway, he was stroking the soft lining of straw around the brim, licking the ale away from his lips when the door opened.
"Arise, ye faithful! The Son of our Lord is here!"
The barkeep stood to attention in a way that belied his heavy frame, and in a way wholly unlike the grudging nature with which he poured Damien's drinks.
"I am so sick of that guy?" Damien kept his head low, almost whispering to himself: but that ended up being the fatal flaw. Never one to underestimate his own brilliance, Damien began to chuckle. His wit was so perfect, that the chuckle turned into a great guffaw, followed by the thumping of his hand on the flimsy bar. As the mug shook, Damien's chest heaved as tears began to roll down his face, just as the raindrops dropped off the visitor's coat as he stood in the doorway. And then he began to choke.
The problem with having a very clean, immaculately maintained beard is that if there are particularly stale pieces of bread in there, leaning backwards will send the morsels straight to the back of your throat, which is not the most receptive area for dense, fuzzy foodstuffs. Damien grasped vainly for his ale, but it was all gone. He tried to signal for another, but the barkeep mistook the manic waving as another accompaniment to Damien's bizarre laugh. He rolled off the stool and clasped his hands around his neck, when he suddenly realized what was happening, and who was coming. If he wasn't so busy gurgling and gasping for breath, he might have swore.
Jesus waltzed into the room. A bright white cloth was wrapped around his midsection as he proudly displayed his bare chest and gleaming nipples. Damien continued to thrash about, writhing in a mixture of agony and embarrassment as Christ kneeled down by his side.
"Relax, my child." His voice as supposed to be calm and soothing, but just sounded patronizing to Damien. At least, he thought it was patronizing - he couldn't hear very well over the choking. Soon even the gleaming teeth were fading, falling victim to the ever widening blackness.
"Relax," he said again. "I am here to heal you."
"Easy for you to say. You haven't got the crust lodged between your tonsils." The retort was far less effective just said in his mind, but the lack of oxygen getting into his lungs restricted his conversational skills considerably. He was thinking of a way to somehow leap up and poke Jesus in the eyes, and then grab the stool, break off a leg and use it to?when suddenly the piece of bread melted in his mouth.
You know that smug smile people get, when they've just solved a maths problem, or found a parking space, or gone to the toilet? When Jesus arose, he had that bleeding smile. And then, as Damien lay on the ground, greedily hoovering air into his mouth and nose, he realized just how very much he hated that man.
================ =========== ============
I like the character; maybe I should make a book of short stories about the hilarious feud between these two biblical characters. What do you think (about the story, not that idea)?
It's like one mind...only one half is more NOTABLE then the other.
That's exactly what I would've typed, O English_Blokeo, if I wasn't so - tangled. El gratitudo.
Black Glove wrote:
> I liked how it was descriptive, giving you a picture, but not too much so as to leave it bleak.
There, I added a bit for you oh Blacky one.
> I liked how it was descriptive, giving you a picture, but not too much so as to leave it bleak.
There, I added a bit for you oh Blacky one.
I like.
I'd comment further but I'm slowly running out of things to say. Chat forum clam-up
syndrome
I'd comment further but I'm slowly running out of things to say. Chat forum clam-up
syndrome
Damien entered the inn. His camel was in the underground parking area, and grateful too - the rain lashed across the walls, with a sound uncomfortably like that made when a whip makes contact with bare back. He signalled to the barkeep, and a mug was slid across the wooden divider - it still didn't taste any better, but Damien didn't care. There was nobody left to talk to; Damien had no hero's welcome. No gifts, offerings of food or wine. All he had was the inn's old, warm ale and some crusted bread he'd smuggled away from one of his last clients.
Damien wasn't a carpenter. Nor was he a thinker - Damien was an intermediary. If a thinker wants a desk made, Damien sends out some feelers and gets a quote. Of course, nobody needs an intermediary to get a desk made, but when you're the son of Hell's ruler one of the benefits is a persuasive charm. It boiled down to easy work and lots of money. Thinkers can hypothesize as to the world's size, its inception and creation - but they've got no idea how much a desk costs. The carpenter gets his money, the thinker pays an extortionate amount and Damien spends far too much money on warm ale. His scraggly beard still played host to a few stray crumbs for the bite he'd had a few hours ago - deeper digging might turn up even older specimens. In a crazy mixed up world where parking meters still had one hour as the minimum time available and when you bought a new cart it came in a flat-pack with unreadable instructions, Damien had to make the most of what life he had carved out for himself, quite literally in one case. But that was another story, but if you're wondering, that bloody carpenter picked the wrong immortal being to mess with.
Hours passed. Damien kept the same mug. He liked the idea of a constant, something to rely on - not like that carpenter. Anyway, he was stroking the soft lining of straw around the brim, licking the ale away from his lips when the door opened.
"Arise, ye faithful! The Son of our Lord is here!"
The barkeep stood to attention in a way that belied his heavy frame, and in a way wholly unlike the grudging nature with which he poured Damien's drinks.
"I am so sick of that guy?" Damien kept his head low, almost whispering to himself: but that ended up being the fatal flaw. Never one to underestimate his own brilliance, Damien began to chuckle. His wit was so perfect, that the chuckle turned into a great guffaw, followed by the thumping of his hand on the flimsy bar. As the mug shook, Damien's chest heaved as tears began to roll down his face, just as the raindrops dropped off the visitor's coat as he stood in the doorway. And then he began to choke.
The problem with having a very clean, immaculately maintained beard is that if there are particularly stale pieces of bread in there, leaning backwards will send the morsels straight to the back of your throat, which is not the most receptive area for dense, fuzzy foodstuffs. Damien grasped vainly for his ale, but it was all gone. He tried to signal for another, but the barkeep mistook the manic waving as another accompaniment to Damien's bizarre laugh. He rolled off the stool and clasped his hands around his neck, when he suddenly realized what was happening, and who was coming. If he wasn't so busy gurgling and gasping for breath, he might have swore.
Jesus waltzed into the room. A bright white cloth was wrapped around his midsection as he proudly displayed his bare chest and gleaming nipples. Damien continued to thrash about, writhing in a mixture of agony and embarrassment as Christ kneeled down by his side.
"Relax, my child." His voice as supposed to be calm and soothing, but just sounded patronizing to Damien. At least, he thought it was patronizing - he couldn't hear very well over the choking. Soon even the gleaming teeth were fading, falling victim to the ever widening blackness.
"Relax," he said again. "I am here to heal you."
"Easy for you to say. You haven't got the crust lodged between your tonsils." The retort was far less effective just said in his mind, but the lack of oxygen getting into his lungs restricted his conversational skills considerably. He was thinking of a way to somehow leap up and poke Jesus in the eyes, and then grab the stool, break off a leg and use it to?when suddenly the piece of bread melted in his mouth.
You know that smug smile people get, when they've just solved a maths problem, or found a parking space, or gone to the toilet? When Jesus arose, he had that bleeding smile. And then, as Damien lay on the ground, greedily hoovering air into his mouth and nose, he realized just how very much he hated that man.
================ =========== ============
I like the character; maybe I should make a book of short stories about the hilarious feud between these two biblical characters. What do you think (about the story, not that idea)?
Damien wasn't a carpenter. Nor was he a thinker - Damien was an intermediary. If a thinker wants a desk made, Damien sends out some feelers and gets a quote. Of course, nobody needs an intermediary to get a desk made, but when you're the son of Hell's ruler one of the benefits is a persuasive charm. It boiled down to easy work and lots of money. Thinkers can hypothesize as to the world's size, its inception and creation - but they've got no idea how much a desk costs. The carpenter gets his money, the thinker pays an extortionate amount and Damien spends far too much money on warm ale. His scraggly beard still played host to a few stray crumbs for the bite he'd had a few hours ago - deeper digging might turn up even older specimens. In a crazy mixed up world where parking meters still had one hour as the minimum time available and when you bought a new cart it came in a flat-pack with unreadable instructions, Damien had to make the most of what life he had carved out for himself, quite literally in one case. But that was another story, but if you're wondering, that bloody carpenter picked the wrong immortal being to mess with.
Hours passed. Damien kept the same mug. He liked the idea of a constant, something to rely on - not like that carpenter. Anyway, he was stroking the soft lining of straw around the brim, licking the ale away from his lips when the door opened.
"Arise, ye faithful! The Son of our Lord is here!"
The barkeep stood to attention in a way that belied his heavy frame, and in a way wholly unlike the grudging nature with which he poured Damien's drinks.
"I am so sick of that guy?" Damien kept his head low, almost whispering to himself: but that ended up being the fatal flaw. Never one to underestimate his own brilliance, Damien began to chuckle. His wit was so perfect, that the chuckle turned into a great guffaw, followed by the thumping of his hand on the flimsy bar. As the mug shook, Damien's chest heaved as tears began to roll down his face, just as the raindrops dropped off the visitor's coat as he stood in the doorway. And then he began to choke.
The problem with having a very clean, immaculately maintained beard is that if there are particularly stale pieces of bread in there, leaning backwards will send the morsels straight to the back of your throat, which is not the most receptive area for dense, fuzzy foodstuffs. Damien grasped vainly for his ale, but it was all gone. He tried to signal for another, but the barkeep mistook the manic waving as another accompaniment to Damien's bizarre laugh. He rolled off the stool and clasped his hands around his neck, when he suddenly realized what was happening, and who was coming. If he wasn't so busy gurgling and gasping for breath, he might have swore.
Jesus waltzed into the room. A bright white cloth was wrapped around his midsection as he proudly displayed his bare chest and gleaming nipples. Damien continued to thrash about, writhing in a mixture of agony and embarrassment as Christ kneeled down by his side.
"Relax, my child." His voice as supposed to be calm and soothing, but just sounded patronizing to Damien. At least, he thought it was patronizing - he couldn't hear very well over the choking. Soon even the gleaming teeth were fading, falling victim to the ever widening blackness.
"Relax," he said again. "I am here to heal you."
"Easy for you to say. You haven't got the crust lodged between your tonsils." The retort was far less effective just said in his mind, but the lack of oxygen getting into his lungs restricted his conversational skills considerably. He was thinking of a way to somehow leap up and poke Jesus in the eyes, and then grab the stool, break off a leg and use it to?when suddenly the piece of bread melted in his mouth.
You know that smug smile people get, when they've just solved a maths problem, or found a parking space, or gone to the toilet? When Jesus arose, he had that bleeding smile. And then, as Damien lay on the ground, greedily hoovering air into his mouth and nose, he realized just how very much he hated that man.
================ =========== ============
I like the character; maybe I should make a book of short stories about the hilarious feud between these two biblical characters. What do you think (about the story, not that idea)?