enjoy.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3wubPFy41w
Introduction of The Morning Star
"How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations! You said in your heart, 'I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly, on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon. I will ascend above the tops of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.' But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit. Those who see you stare at you, they ponder your fate: 'Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble, the man who made the world a wilderness, who overthrew its cities and would not let his captives go home?'"
it was rainin feral cats and rabid fuckin dogs. it was late. so fucking late. if you squinted and craned your neck, looked towares the dead, flatlined horizon, you could almost see the faint flicker of pre dawn.. or perhaps it was drowning moonlight being swept away, off the enda the fuckin world. he was on the bridge, oblivious, no, more that he didn't particularily give a fuck about the torrential downpour. maybe he found it to be clensing. god knows that partciularily sorry fuck had a lot that needed to be washed away... he stood in the center of the bridge.. no cars, not a soul in sight. the fires in the hobo camp below it had long since dwindled.. even the smoke had vanished and joined the ghosts of the dead metropolis. the river was black and silent. no stars were reflected innit.. if there was any they sunk into the fuckin tarpit.. and across the water.. the waves didn't crash on the shore. they rolled softly like a dirty old carpet.
and the buildings? the monolithic skyline? steel cocks that fuck the slut of a night sky? they were blackened, hiding in their own shadow, limp and flacid in the silent night.. every light was off.
was it the end of the world?
had he been walkin so fucking long he missed the end of it all?
he was born Michelangelo.
but everyone knows him as the Morning Star.
the dead that is. well, the very soon to be dead. he tells the unlucky ones he's torturing before he kills them all about himself, his namesake and a whole buncha other grisly fuckin shit. he's got the time. he's a perfectionist. he takes his time with his killings. it's all he's got.
it's his fuckin love.
it's his fuckin poetry.
it's his fuckin god.
his fuckin punkrock.
in a perfect world, no one snitches and nobody fuckin bullshits ya. but nothings perfect. not even god. and this world? it's worse than fuckin shit. it's the shit that a shit would shit. and if it was left for a few million years ta ferment. that's how earth was created. shit shitting shit shitting shit shitting shit. that's how humans came ta be. everybody lies. everyone bullshits. no ones word means shit.
there souls are smeared with shit
that's why the gangsters hired the Morning Star. he made anyone talk. some were easier than others. his reputation preceded him and the victims didn't need much coaxing to talk. most people who believe in integrity, dignity, ones "word", loyalty, friendship, all that FUCKING shit would be pretty depressed at how quickly everyone cracks under the makeshift barbed wire nooses, pencil iron maidens, other instruments that will remain left to the recesses of a degenerate types imagination.. grown men, on their knees like a 42nd street queer in a bathroom stall, fuckin beggin, givin up their own mothers, wives, anyone, just for a chance to live another fuckin day.
if they told him what he needed to know it would be quick 'n relatively painless. if not he would torture them slowly and as excruciatingly as possible. pain that far exceedes anything the mind can concieve. most people, in fact everyone who hasn't been smited by the Morning Star have no reference point to even try to comprehend how one would feel during these unimaginably agonizing moments.
how could ya know? have you ever been nailed to a wall by your tongue, doused in gasoline and left there for days, just awaiting the inevitable flames to wrap around you and burn everything that is you and leave you alone in pain and then nothingness? consume your flesh and memories, loves and soul?
no, you wouldn't be able to acurately imagine that kinda pain. wouldn't show that sort of suffering the humbling awe and respect it deserves. no one would. Except for Tommy Gun Sullivan. he was doing a whole lotta fuckin talking when he got locked up on a grand theft auto charge. he hadda scroll of a fuckin rapsheet and it was lookin like this time the piggies had him cornered. he was gonna have to do some serious fuckin time upstate. at least a dime before he could face the parole board. none of the little few month vacations in the cushy county jail. that sorry bastard was gonna be workin the chain gang by day and takin it deep up the ass at night.
but he left straight from the precincy without a mark on 'im, smokin a big ol' fuckin cigarette, hands in his pockets.. the fuck might as wella been whistling and swingin a goddamn cane around.. whistlin dixie wit his cock in 'is fuckin hand.
it didn't take a fuckin genuis to figure that the bastard squawked. thankfully he was a small time little shit so he was never told any of the lucrative business ventures, nothing too incrimating.. that a little bit a money couldn't smooth right over. grease a few fuckin palms but it was still money that didn't need to be spent. it coulda been avoided. would have ta be. because, he had said somethin, and for that he would never say another gaddamn motherfuckin word!
The Morning Star was sittin in his apartment waitin for the sorry fuck ta walktz right on in. he was sittin on the love seat. perfect fuckin posture. latex gloves on. nice suit on too. sad, empty night black jacket with a button down grey.. grey, so dead and fuckin ashen grey shirt.
him: can i beg?
MS (morningstar) : course ya can beg. how can i stop ya?
him: please sir. (drops to knees. walks closer towards the Morning Star on his knees) I don't wanna die. I don't know what this is about. but i'm sorry. sorry as all fuck. i dunno. please. don't hurt me. don't kill me!
he looks up. he sees morning stars eyes for the first time. the fuck stops begging.
him: this is pointless. i'm going to die right? and you're going to kill me?
MS: yes. i am
him: but my girl. i can't leave her alone. i promised. please man. please. what about her?
MS: i won't hurt her. dunno what the fucks gonna happen to ya ladyfriend. i won't lie to ya. that's one thing i won't do. i can promise I won't hurt her.
him: what are you going to do with me?
MS: I'm going to pull you apart. leave you in bloody fucking pieces. (stubs out cigarette on coffee table. pulls out another one. looks at it and lights it after contemplating something no one will know but him.)
him: please (sobs rise. orchestral and rich with emotion. it gets harder n' harder ta feel but he's feelin it now. fuck yeah he is. fuck yeah. they always are) please just let me go. i'll do FUCKING anything! (pisses pants. smells like shit to. probably shit. but he'll shit the rest out post-mortem)
MS: you fear it.. death.. ya don't gotta.. ya really don't. it's that way on account a ya don't know death like ya know life. i'll tell ya something that I truly hope gives you some form of comfort, I mean it. I swear (cross his heart and hope ta die. the fuck really means it).. i'll tell ya some things about it, ta help ya familiarize yourself with it. get acquainted to it. i'll tell ya something really fucked up and kinda creepy. way back in Roman times during the gladiator fights, after all the fightin and drinkin and sister fuckin were done, when all the paying customers escorted the arena, someone had to come out and finish off the mortally wounded gladiators and animals and slaves lying around in their filth n gore and shit. each one dying alone, writhin in the sand and sun fading and burning out behind the great coliseum. wish I coulda seen it. and that particular excecutionary/janitorial position required the individual to wear an interesting uniform... a hollowed out dead head of a bull, all decaying and deathly and terrifying as all unholy FUCK.. looked something like a minotaur. they carried an enormous hammer that came crashing down on the victims skull.. the whole shit caved in, musta looked like pumpkin guts, eyes n brains.. just a total pile of fuckin slop. slop that useta hold such wonderous thoughts, dreams and loves and such. none of that beautiful shit was left behind. just filth and gore and shit and puke and dirt. dirt turned to red muddy soup from the blood. wherever they went, they musta took the beautiful stuff with em. you're going there now too. I truly believe tyou're the lucky one. I gotta clean up ya shit.
there is mostly darkness and muffled screams. zebra striped moonlight and darkness projected through partially drawn blinds, the one bedroom partment was as filthy n' lonely as the man that had inhabited it.. in the end, shorty before dawn slipped in the back door unnoticed, last call for moonshine in the night sky of Gotham, there was silence, broken glass, and black blood. blood everywhere and on the floor, slightly outta the reach of the outstretched corpses hand was a picture of a woman who he had loved very much in life. he had promised to find her again in death and continue to love her forever. she was on the beach in the picture. sitting in the sand wearing a little polka dotted bikini...like the song, he had said. Coney Island. they were young. she stared outta that picture forever and fuckin ever I guess.
