A steady wind suggests something of the ominous as I saw before me many tiny leaves being swept away, resistless, imparting in me a deep sense of awe. Yet what was bothering me I knew lay far deeper than any emotions of wonder. Simply put, the wind was not enjoying itself in the way it usually did when playing with leaves, and I knew that because of a rancid smell that wafted past as the wind came by the balcony window. It was a familiar smell, rancid, yet disturbing. It made me feel somewhat distressed as I closed the window shut. But not before a common house fly zipped in. It carried with it that same smell that was on the wind and I realised it was the smell of dead flies; I remember squashing them as a boy which is when I first encountered that strange smell. My distress seemed to attach itself to this zig-zagging insect as it flew throughout the upper study. My uncle wore an amber ring with a blow fly inside of it, which he would often say he stole from Beelzebub just as he was escaping one of the circles of Hell. But I never paid such stories any mind. The fly buzzed loudly at me, as if it were addressing my presence within its flight path. But as the windows turned black, I realised the buzzing was to request for the rest of its swarm to appear. Millions of them, crowding the balcony, bursting through the window, so thickly as they blanketed everywhere the eye could reach. They were insidious, loud and filled with the malice of losing their king, so they searched everywhere, including down my throat, leaving nothing more than a suffocated corpse.
How is the latest Hellboy movie so badly written and directed in an age where comic book movies are the norm? It’s rife with redundant characters, useless motives, tenuous relationships to the main character that serve no narrative purpose, bad acting, moronic Pixar monsters in a film that’s R-rated and a terrible ending. It’s a shame, the comics are actually well written, like modern day Poe built on a foundation of Lovecraft and American folklore. They’re a celebration of classic horror and weird fiction with a biblical narrative trajectory. And yet none of that comes through in this new movie. None of the beauty, none of the pathos of it’s characters, none of the gothic charm, none of the cool stuff. Del Toro should have returned. To hell with it.
Jean-Pierre searched frantically for his sword in the rubble. He was sure it landed there after Lab Rat knocked it from his hand during their battle. But for all his efforts, JP couldn’t find the sword. What he did find though were small footprints, which he realised must have been Iggy’s. The young boy must have had caught up to him and watched the battle ensue, biding his time so he could steal the sword.
JP shook his head in fright. The boy was in more danger with that sword than he would have been stuck in Lab Rat’s grasp. For JP knew that this was no any ordinary sword, even though it had been an heirloom in his family for generations. This sword was the greatest killer in all of history, fore by its blade had taken the life of over 40 million people and counting.
The sword first belonged to JP’s ancestor, Sir Leone, a French knight who made a name for himself as the Crying Killer of the First Crusade. It was given to Leone by the Church and was said to have been forged with Macedonian steel and the blood of a murdered king using the fires at the top of Mount Vesuvius. The Church declared that the greatest warrior among their knights must carry this blade into the war because could kill even the most powerful of kings. Sir Leone took the sword with him on his crusade and it spoke to him. What it said led to the slaughter of thousands. It was only the beginning in the sword’s tale. This story will be its end.
JP ventured along the rooftops of Cairo. Quickly, he noticed a tall man with odd hands running along the adjacent rooftops, chasing none other than young Iggy. JP jumped and ran after this man, who had stopped above a gap between the buildings. As snakes ran down the tall man’s leg, down into the gap of the building, JP threw a poison knife from his back pocket at the man. He pierced his left eye and the man screamed in agony. JP noticed Iggy being flung to the other side of the corridor between the buildings. The tall man was now gone, in a flickering of shadows. JP yelled out to Iggy but he didn’t answer. Making his way down the building, he lost sight of him just as a car came screeching around the corner.
To be continued
On the coattails of Jean-Pierre’s winning blow against the diabolical Lab Rat LX, young Iggy took the sword that JP was no longer watching over and ran off with it – first through the cracks of the crumbling building and then through the winding streets of Cairo after dark.
Little did Iggy know, a man with two right hands was chasing after him. Normally, Iggy would notice such a tall man following him, except that this man was following the boy from high above on the rooftops. With the way the moonlight was focused, the man’s shadow didn’t appear in front of Iggy as he ran, instead, the shadow was in three, two on either side of Iggy and one some length behind.
Quickly, Iggy turned a corner into a narrow corridor between buildings. He shuffled his way through, struggling between the encroaching buildings. The man with two right hands stopped above the corridor, planting his feet on either side of it. Now Iggy noticed the man’s shadow, high above him. The boy looked up and saw snakes slithering down the walls.
Iggy wriggled and squirmed, trying to push himself through the tight corridor, as the hissing got closer. Then Iggy felt something pulling at him from his feet, which yanked him up, turning him upside down and flailing the sword in Iggy’s hand all over. A snakes head then went flying and then another as Iggy flipped back around and to the ground on the other side of the corridor. The snakes had him, but by sheer luck Iggy survived thanks to his tight grip on Jean-Pierre’s sword.
Iggy could hear the man with two right hands screaming in agony. The snakes were a part of him, but Iggy didn’t know that. All he knew in that moment was that he was free, which meant he needed to pull himself together to run out of there. Blood spooled at the corridor’s exit, as Iggy launched himself like a sprinter.
To be continued…
From a slow beat, the needle set itself into a groove as the record turned and the music played to a crowd of one. The speakers were silent, as all through the house the other residents slept and that melody, which played softly, seeped in through the beat; and the crackle of the record dotted the tune. It was heard through headphones, it was tapped to with feet, it didn’t know any better, this little drummer beat. Singing was heard, vocals were uttered, and the cry of a horn grew dim as the percussion muttered. Splattering and chattering came in with the drums, this time accompanied by chords and a synthy hum. It was now the end: the record runs out, the needle is still going, no more crackle; just crowing.