Bloodstains, On A Bleak World: A Tribute To Sonja Blue...
entry by Brat Bondage
1/18/2005 7:44 AM
| Her eyes, bludgeoned blue, and shaded by the smoked tint of her sunglasses, scan the alley for signs of demon refuse. As the hunt for Lord Morgan drags her further and further, into the cesspool of the underworld, combating its supernatural denziens, becomes more like running an obstacle course. With each stop leaving her battle scared and bloodstained, it becomes a game of prolonged suicide. Which begs the question: When she finally confronts him, what will she have left in her, with which to fight?
There's movement behind a dumpster. As the wind picks up, the soiled scent of humanity tells her, it's merely a street person, rolling over in their sleep. The aroma almost intolerable, it's pugnent potency is sufficient enough to subdue the thirst. A thirst, currently pushing her to the brink of sanity, and threatening to consume her whole.
But that's another matter altogether. Right now, there's buisness to attend to, and lives to take. The "Other", will just have to wait his turn.
Retrieving her blade, from the stealth confines of her boot, she licks clean the remnants of her last battle, and tucks it into her sleeve. The saltiness ignites a fire in her senses, and once again she feels alive, with hate and contempt. Hate, for being forced to exist in such a miserable state of servitude, to both the blood and the setting sun. Contempt, for the one whom sired her, and left her to die in a filthy gutter. These tawdry thoughts being mere psychological fuel for future wars, she takes them for what they are worth. Reading into them no more, and no less. The human sense of self-pity having left her long ago, she just soldiers on, in a fixated state of perpetual annihilation.
The boozecan entrance, is now mere yards away. Echoes of drunken debauchery, ring in her ears. If her heart did beat, it would surely have quickened with anticipation by now.
Pausing, she prepares herself for confrontation.
Zipping closed, the thick, leathery exterior of her jacket, she protects the pale, exposed skin, of her tiny waist and breasts. Clad in dead cowhide, there will be no unnecessary blood spilling tonight. On her behalf, anyway. Retrieving her belt, from the tattered remains of her denim jeans, she layers it around her hand. Building it's strength, while protecting her fist. A smile crosses her face, as she anticipates giving the first crownie answering her knock, an "up close and personal view" of that wrapped, right hook.
Knocking at the door, the peephole slides open. As the face behind glares back at her suspiciously, she wonders if he can see his imminent demise, reflected in her shades.
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