Swamp Thing / Kill Your Conscience

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king acid
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Joined: Sun Jul 07, 2013 12:58 pm

Swamp Thing / Kill Your Conscience

Postby king acid » Sat Jun 30, 2018 9:40 pm

::35 miles outside of Baton Rouge, Lousiana
6/30/2018, 1:40 AM::




An onyx black 2000 Ford Explorer slows to a halt along the side of Interstate-12, and the doors open with a creak as the headlights dim and the engine turns off abruptly. The petrid air reeks of algae and marshland flora as the two inhabitants step out of the vehicle. One man, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, rounds the front of the automobile and approaches his compatriot, who is completely restrained by a straightjacket and Hannibal Lecter-esque bite mask. The young man uses a set of keys to unshackle his mask, revealing scabbed and torn lips underneath complementing a brusque five o’clock shadow. The restrained man licks his lips frantically and shifts uncomfortably in his straightjacket.

“So, why the hell are we out here in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere, again?” says the younger man with an air of annoyance to him.


“Hm, because there’s a certain endearing quality to this swampy wasteland- wouldn’t you say?... I need something here, that’s why. Now, please unshackle me from this infernal contraption, we have work to do. Don’t worry young Virgil, I don’t bite. Hard” responds the crazed man in the straightjacket.

The younger man, Virgil, obliges after a few moments of obvious confusion, walking behind the seemingly deranged individual and undoing the clasps of the jacket, letting him have his much-desired freedom. The jacket comes loose and exposes two heavily tattooed and scarred arms underneath and a worn and torn Metallica “Master of Puppets” t-shirt. He rotates his shoulders a few times and stretches dramatically, letting blood circulate to extremities that it hadn’t in ages. Without warning, he opens the back door of the Explorer and pulls out two pairs of knee-high fishing boots and tosses a set to Virgil before donning a pair himself. Virgil looks down at them in a state of bizarre bewilderment and begins to protest before being cut off unceremoniously.

“Now now young Virgil, we are going to be trekking through the muck and grime of the swamp, you must prepare yourself. Plus you want as much space between your legs and the gators that lurk in these murky waters as possible!” the delusional man states with a little too much cheer to his voice.

“My name is not Virgil, for one, it’s James- and for two, did you say fucking gators?” the young man exclaims breathlessly as he pulls the boots on hurriedly.

“Yes, Virgil, gators. They live here, just like you live in your mom’s basement. And much like the Cheetos you pray on, they will fucking eat us, so quit your bitching and put the boots on” the snarky older man says as he steps out into the dark waters, raising a compass to navigate and using a flashlight to guide his way through the Circles of Hell that certainly await for he and his guide. Speaking of his guide, Not-Virgil awkwardly stepped into the water behind him (trying not to make too much noise to piss off the reptilian inhabitants of the marshlands) and shuffled up behind the man with the flashlight who apparently knows where he is going. They slowly glide through the moss and algae-coated black swamp water, making slight changes in direction every so often to correct their course. Virgil shifts uneasily anytime he sees even slight movement out of the corners of his eyes, whether it be leaping insects or slithering serpents. His anxiety begins to rest as they slowly tread upwards out of the water and up onto solid group for the first time in what seemed like hours. Virgil’s fears of the fauna of the swamp had been alleviated, but the faint occult chantings that now echoed from deep in the swamp where a dim glow of flame in the distance burned now seized his respiratory system like a plague…



::A dark and desolate chamber
The past, maybe?::



The Master walked back and forth across the dirty floor of the room, mutteringly annoyingly under his breath as his guest hung limply from the pillar which is wrists were shackled to. Jeff’s head draped over a bucket of water, and attached with tape to the temples of his head were two electrodes strapped to a small device on a desk near The Master. Jeff’s every breath became something like a soft moan, struggling to even exist.

“I will eliminate every shred of your association with your so-called friends that you invaded my home with. That menace, Sean Young, that pest, Rob Chapman, that insufferable annoyance, Lx-Tim… no alliance you held in your mind with any of them shall continue to exist once I’m through with you. How does that sound, dog?” speaks The Master with an air of superiority, waiting for a response from the broken man hanging near-lifelessly before him, The man’s chapped lips parted slightly and he barely managed a whisper in retort.


“Master, you seemed to have forgotten one of the names- maybe, even the most important one. Mar-GHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” Jeff’s words are cut off violently as The Master activates the machine next to him, sending more volts than are probably safe into the electrodes taped to Jeff’s temples. After what seemed like an eternity of excruciating, exhilarating pain, Jeff’s electrified body comes to a limp once more and he breathes in shallow, broken spurts, barely alive from his captor’s torture.


“What was that name again, dog?” utters the Master mockingly.

“Wh-what name, Master, I know not of what you speak…” suffers the breathless, lifeless Jeff as The Master watches with a satisfied grin spread across his menacing lips.



::35 miles outside of Baton Rouge, Lousiana
6/30/2018, 2:38 AM::




Virgil and his partner-in-crime, Ace (who insists on being called Dante for some peculiar reason) slowly approached the glowing light in the distance, the rhythmic chanting growing ominously louder as they do so. Virgil can’t quite make out the language that is being used- perhaps some ancient African dialect? He was of course, no linguist, so none of the jumbled syllables made a lick of sense to him regardless of origin. Ace marched forward in a frenzy, his purpose for this journey seeming to be residing in the looming woods beyond. The glow of flame finally became clear in the muggy night, a row of lit torches acting as an entryway into a small village made of stick huts. Out here in the middle of the swamp, just a short drive from the capital of the state? Shivers went down Virgil’s uneasy spine as the chanting suddenly stopped and shadows zipped around the two men in the darkness. Ace raises his hands above his head with a smile on his face as Virgil reached for his firearm in fear.

“Now now, Young Virgil, let’s not be hasty here. We are in their home after all…” Ace calmly posits under his breath, urging his younger compatriot to not respond with violence quite so quickly.

Humanoid shapes slowly slither out of the shadows around them revealing men of savage tastes and alignment, wearing peculiar headdresses and bone necklaces. They covered themselves in loose cloth and had strange markings painted all over their nearly-nude bodies. Perhaps the most alarming attribute of the swamp tribe were the spears they pointed at their guests, the heads carved out of some strange oily black stone. Virgil flinched audibly and visibly as Ace uttered something in a strange tongue to the armed swamp men. They hesitantly lowered their spears as Ace reached slowly under the collar of his shirt, pulling free an amulet seemingly framed in the same oily black stone that the spearheads were made of, inlaid with superbly pure gold. Engraved in the inner part of the medallion was a strange creature of peculiar proportions and apocryphal symbols surrounds it. The natives nodded and spoke a phrase back to Acid in the same tongue he had just used and turned and began to lead the two guests down the torch-lit path.

“What the fucking fuck was that? Why do you speak their language? What the hell is that necklace? Where the fuck are we going?” frantically exasperates James-Virgil while waving his hands in a crazed state, following the group of swamp tribe men down the path.

“I’m a procurer of rare and power items, Virgil, and this amulet happens to be one that they recognize, admire and respect. It grants me elevated status in their culture and access to something that they are sworn to protect- the item that we are here to retrieve for my personal uses. They haven’t been seen or interfered with in decades, living here amongst the creatures of the swamp just a few miles from civilization. They knew the day would come that someone would come to retrieve the item they guard and cherish- however, they did not know who, and they did not know when.” Ace said with a flash of a violent, malevolent grin.


A large shape loomed in the darkness beyond as the torches began to disperse into a circle. The shape could barely be seen in the dark cover of the night, it’s strange geometry not helping in the slightest. It was a large statue made of the same queer onyx stone that the amulet was inlaid with, and seemed to depict some disjointed chimerical creature with draconoid and cephalopodic features- yet seemingly ominous humanoid as well. James shivered at the ghastly sight as the tribesmen formes a ritualistic circle around the hideous art piece and began to mumble a discomforting chant. Something that (to James) sounded like “cat who lube, rule yeah” whatever the fuck that means. Ace solemnly approaches a singular altar that laid before the grotesque creature and placed his hands on it. Suddenly he began to shake and tremor violently, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and sickly foam erupted from his lips. James could do nothing but look on in horrified shock as the cultists continued to chant, leaving Ace to his devices…



::A dark and desolate chamber
The past, maybe?::



Jeff hung slightly lower than usual on his post, allowing his face to ever so gently touch the bucket of standing water below. If he didn’t concentrate entirely on using his little remaining strength to keep himself propped up, his mouth and nose would dip below the surface, causing him great duress. He found this out rather violently when he managed to get a small amount of sleep and awoke to drowning from his self-inflicted waterboarding. A television screen flashed in black and white static in the corner, the only light in the dank chamber. Music seemed to play over the crunching of the static waves, or was it just in his head? He could hear the soft melody of the girl’s voice clearly, but it still felt disjointed and distorted by the static.

“I was standing, by my windowwwww
On one cold, and cloudy day
When I saw that, hearse come rolllllling
For to carry my mo-ther awayyyyyyy


Will the circle, be unbrokennnn
By and by, lord, by and by
There’s a better, home a-waiting
In the sky, lord, in the skyyyy”


Jeff, as if on cue, drifts off into a fever dream. He dreamt of times when he went by titles like “The King of Turmoil” or “The Artist Formerly Known as God”, and now he here hangs a broken and dessicated corpse living only to serve as entertainment to The Master. He dreamt of times when he held thirty pound belts of leather and gold and not a soul on this plane of existence could stop his dominance. He dreamt of living like a king amongst his brothers, coming up through the ranks and then ruling with the likes of legends of the industry like Lx-Tim, or Rob Chapman or M-

He suddenly jolts awake again from the disgusting water violently entering his lungs. He fights with every fiber of his being to pull himself back from the bucket, feeling the strain and tears of his shoulder muscles as they contort unnaturally to prevent him from drowning. He coughs and vomits uncontrollably and tries to remember what he had dreamt of, but to no avail. Once he finally regained his bearings, the siren song within the static slowly crept up on him once more…

“I went back home, my home was lonesome
Missed my mother, she was gone
All of my brothers, sisters crying
What a home so sad and looooone

Will the circle, be unbrokennnn
By and by, lord, by and by
There’s a better, home a-waiting
In the sky, lord, in the skyyyy”



Ace Acid began to dream again.



::35 miles outside of Baton Rouge, Lousiana
6/30/2018, 3:16 AM::


Ace continued to spasm as if he’d been electrocuted and the swamp men act like nothing is queer about it at all. Finally, James decides that enough is enough and marches forward with a new sense of gumption and places his hand on Ace’s shoulder. Suddenly the spasms stop, and Ace’s pupils return to the front of his skull, dilated heavily as if in some sort of trance. James then notices that Ace’s hands rested not on the altar itself, but on an ancient and arcane looking tome underneath. It’s cover and pages were mangled and worn but something about just looking at it made James sick to his stomach. It gave off some sort of aura, or pulse that malevolently and maliciously invaded his thoughts and psyche. Ace picked it up and shoved it under his arm before looking him in the eyes, sweat and tears dripping down his torn asunder face.


“We have what we came for. Now let us begin.”

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