#crankegos

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 2: Operation

(Disclaimer: only three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about K.O. here. For more information about Caliban and R.D.—who are only mentioned, but still deserve some credit—go here and here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)

(There's a little something-something included at the end of this story; a sneak-peek for the events of Day 6 and Day 7. Originally, there were going to be three bonus snippets at the end of three specific stories, all leading up to a separate story as a Halloween Special. But I was on a time-crunch, and plans had to change. Just figured I'd give some extra context.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, disembowelment, knives/blades, descriptions of illegal business, implied violence, implied murder/death, mentions of cannibalism, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7

___

A slick, bubbling sigh crept up into the air as Murdock raked his dagger down the target’s chest. 

The crimson line left in his wake slowly grew wider and wider, oozing out to unveil the remaining layer of muscle tissue that stretched about the sternum. Having that stuff be touched by cool, relatively fresh air for the first (and last) time must’ve been something else. 

The edges of flesh seemed to pucker, almost resembling a frayed seam in clothing. 

Even if he typically didn’t do much harvesting himself, he’d still stuck around to chat and watch one of his many accomplices harvest from plenty of targets in the past. He still knew most of the basics.

Through the years, Murdock and Caliban had bonded over quite a few things—knives being one of them. Sure, the cannibal’s pun-addiction never failed to be infuriating, but he (and, by extension, his sister) was still a damn good colleague to have. 

Someone who was not only a reliable body-disposal resource, but also knew how to make collective millions on the Black Market, as well as help play some thrilling games with the mob’s targets?

That was someone who you’d have to be an absolute dumbass to not want in your corner for this type of business. 

And business was typically good when knives were involved. Yeah-yeah, other weapons had their merits, other weapons were more suited for certain situations, take your pick. 

(OR just finally own up and admit that blades are the best when it comes to dramatics. Not only because they make the work nice and messy, but they also require you to actually practice and learn so you can eviscerate the idiots who decided to talk behind your back with even more skill and flair than the average JoCat-inspired comeback.)

Knives were one of the things to have awoken his passion for mayhem years ago. 

Knives brought blood, and blood brought profit and suggestion and energy…

A soft, strangled groan seeped out through the target’s teeth. Murdock paused, turning his head to peer down at the other man’s eyes. 

It seemed that most of the lights were out—save for one that was still trying to flicker out of pure desperation—but someone was still home. He wouldn’t be for much longer, of course, if the lack of motion and the glaze in his eyes and the unnatural angle of his neck and the space between each shallow, wheezing, barely-audible breath was any indication. 

Murdock chewed his lip before shrugging to himself, returning his focus to the incision. 

It could be hard to apply the right amount of force (since people were infamous for being shockingly durable and shockingly fragile at the same damn time). But then, there was always a plethora of potential buyers wanting organs for a plethora of increasingly specific and increasingly fucked-up reasons. Even the ones with a little damage could still make money.

As Murdock set his blade off to the side and took hold of the sections he’d just sliced, pulling them even further apart and tearing a few strands of formerly internal tissue, he caught a metallic glint out of the corner of his eye. 

There, resting right above where he’d just started cutting, was a tiny pendant crafted in the shape of a butterfly. Squinting at it, Murdock realized that the charm’s bright yellow material looked oddly pure. Moreso than the brass of his own necklace. Not only that, but there was a total of four little gems adorned it, one attached to each wing, all cut in a Marquise style.

…Gold, a voice in his head hissed. GOLD.

The color, the way it shone in the light; there was no way this thing wasn’t genuine! Hell, if his guesstimate was right, then it had to be fourteen karats! Which, in turn, meant even at its size—just big enough to balance on his thumbnail—it would still be worth a little over five-hundred dollars. 

Even more than that if those stones were authentic diamonds and not just Swarvoski…

Sure, when it came to stuff outside a target’s body, a price like that wasn’t much compared to the prices of the stuff inside a target’s body. 

But that was just it: patrons of the Black Market were often there simply because they’d grown bored of normal luxuries (and true luxury never came without the suffering of others, did it?). 

If they weren’t looking for organs or skin or bones, then they’d be looking for trinkets that seemed casual at first, only to come with sinister stories. 

Such as, for example, a little jeweled trophy snatched away from the poor victim of a hitman while they lay dying a slow, painful death. 

Bloodstains could dress up the sale even more, but then, most of those elite customers got all pouty and extra annoying if they couldn’t flaunt what they bought. With that in mind, Murdock decided to put the butterfly charm off to the side until he was done with the harvesting. 

The thin chain snapped like a reed as he pulled, pinching the butterfly’s sides between his index-finger and thumb.

And then, all the jokes Caliban had made about butterfingers were ringing in his ears as the pendant was suddenly airborn…

___

Of all the things K.O. had imagined when he’d first been offered a place in The Pentas Family, petsitting was not one of them.

Not that this was really a problem, mind you—he’d gotten the other things he’d expected and then some. (A better fighting schedule, a much more profitable hidden-in-plain-sight arena, opponents to beat to a pulp, paid assignments on top of the money he raked in each time he won a match…)

Besides, while he was a definite dog-person, he still had a soft spot for animals in general.  

Even the one that might just be attempting sabotage at the moment. 

“I know what you’re trying to do, Snare,” K.O. called, not looking away from the cutting board and the various leafy things he’d been systematically chopping up for the past few minutes. 

Snare’s only response was to keep weaving around the fighter’s ankles, regularly pausing to reach up and paw at his knees. 

A half-smile on his face, K.O. continued, “Look, even if I did end up getting one of my own fingers by accident, I still wouldn’t give it to you. I already gave you one from Cal’s freezer, and the instructions say you can only get two per week. That’s just the rules, and the only time I can really break any rules is when I’m in the ring.”

He paused, thinking. “And even then, I save that for when the other guy decides to fuck around and find out.”

Snare tilted his head, craning his neck to look up at him, his dark amber eyes eerily thoughtful as always. Even if Caliban was the only person who could really read the leucistic hare’s body language, K.O. just knew when he was being judged (whether it was in a playful manner or not).

“...Yeah, I’m not sure why I told you all that, either,” K.O. replied with a shrug. 

Sooner or later, everything was ready. 

K.O. reached over to set the knife down in the sink, then carefully lifted up the cutting board and strode out of the kitchen. Snare followed along, only to bury his nose in his bowl, nibbling at the mix of dark green the fighter dropped off.

K.O. carried on, soon marching up a narrow staircase that stood just across the hall from Caliban’s bedroom. 

This house’s second floor only had two rooms to offer: a tidy guest suite, and a surprisingly spacious office. K.O. entered the latter, setting the board of goodies down on a desk in one corner before surveying the cage that loomed in another. 

Where Snare’s hutch was wide enough to nearly take up half of Caliban’s living room, the enclosure that R.D. had set up for her rats was tall—topping four feet of wire-mesh, the metal framing of its sides hidden by smooth gray wood. Hell, K.O. would put money on this thing being intended for creatures like ferrets or chinchillas…but then, even the smallest animals needed way more space than what they were usually given in the pet stores. 

The cage’s interior was organized into five levels, all connected by little ramps. Judging by the little nametags that were attached to the corners of the tiers (HERBERT on the first tier, SURRIDGE on the second, MOREAU on the third, FORSYTHIA on the fourth, and PHIBES on the fifth at the very top), each one acted as a sort of bedroom for each of the rodents. 

“Hey, guys. I figured you’d like some snacks to start off the week,” K.O. greeted, leaning down and smiling as he peered through the mesh. Through all the bedding and tiny blankets and even tinier toys, several pairs of beady eyes peered back, each with a little pink nose that twitched curiously.

K.O. hovered by the desk, flipping through the notes that had been left for him. Once he got to a page labeled FEEDING, he took a moment to re-read: 

There’s a big bag of nutri-pellets in the cabinet by the cage; just one tablespoon in each bowl is enough per day. (Make sure to refill their water-bottles every morning.) Still, rats are big omnivores, so it’s best to give them a little extra variety 1–3 times per week.

Phibes likes apple slices (PEELED AND WITHOUT THE SEEDS)

Moreau likes thinly-chopped carrots (again, PEELED)

Surridge likes small cuts of pear and mango (if you didn’t already guess that they should be PEELED AND HAVE ANY SEEDS/PITS REMOVED…well, I’m not TOO disappointed, but still. You’re an adult, you should be able to see a pattern by now) 

Forsythia likes kale and spinach, judging by how many times he’s tried to sneak leaves out of Snare’s bowl (I know I was specific before, but please, PLEASE tell me that you won’t try to peel stuff like leaves)

Herbert likes cauliflower and broccoli (look, I’ll be very grateful if you follow my instructions, because that means you care about keeping my little guys healthy and happy…but if you seriously try to peel tiny trees, then I’ll have no choice but to tell Cal to keep an eye on you for a while)

Rats really only need protein on occasion. Too much in one sitting will just make them sick. So, if you think that they deserve a meatier treat, then it has to be something LEAN. There’s a container full of roast chicken in the fridge; these guys all love a thin slice of the breast or skin. (If you really want to go the extra mile, carve the bones out of the wings and break them in half. They’re perfect for gnawing habits, plus the marrow is a great source of vitamins and minerals.)

DO NOT FEED THEM ANY HUMAN FLESH. SNARE CAN ONLY PULL IT OFF BECAUSE HARES ARE NATURAL OPPORTUNISTS; THEY’RE BUILT TO SCAVENGE OFF OF LARGER PREDATORS WHEN THEY NEED TO. YES, WILD RATS CAN HANDLE THAT TYPE OF DIET, BUT THE DOMESTIC ONES JUST CAN’T.

Good luck, and thanks again for taking the time to look after everything! See you soon!

— R.D. & Cal

K.O. snorted; the letter was dripping with sarcasm, but he respected people who were so meticulous with their pets. It just meant that they cared.

Plus, it felt nice that he was trusted to help out with something like this; after all, it wasn’t like Caliban could afford to just drop Snare off at a boarding kennel, considering the hare’s special diet…

Each tier on the rat-cage had its own little door, which made it easier for him to drop off the right snacks into the right bowls. None of the rodents tried to scurry out or climb on this new person's arms, though they did approach to cautiously sniff at his hands. 

(Well, all but Moreau. He just squinted at K.O. with near-palpable suspicion. But then, Moreau only had three limbs—there was a stump where his right hind-leg should’ve been. So, it seemed he had every damn right to be a little withdrawn.)

Before he could try to pet any of them, however, a faraway noise caught his attention…

“...Murdock?” K.O. called, remembering exactly what he’d been up to before all this.

Murdock didn’t call back, either because he hadn’t heard his accomplice or was just intentionally ignoring him. 

K.O. chewed his lip, then closed the rat’s cage back up and headed back down the staircase.

All the while, that noise got somewhat louder and clearer, muffled yet echoing in a way that could only be caused by old concrete walls.

Once he’d returned to the first floor, he couldn’t help but smirk upon recognizing a string of very frustrated, very colorful words set in that familiar baritone. 

___

Blood was a fickle thing. 

On most occasions, Murdock enjoyed that fickleness. 

There were so many different ways that deep crimson juice could seep out of someone just depending on the angle of a laceration. 

Sometimes you had to make it all rush out and splatter all over the walls in a manner of minutes, other times you got a chance to stretch the bleeding out and watch a pool form on the floor, growing wider and deeper and darker. In any case, you never missed out on feeling the weight of your blade as it sank into flesh.

This current occasion, however, was not one of them. 

“Where is it?!” Murdock hissed to himself through clenched teeth, looming over the fresh cavity.

Despite his leather gloves, it was pretty damn obvious that his knuckles were turning white. He gripped the surgical tweezer he’d found in Caliban’s toolcase, jabbing it back-and-forth, side-to-side in the crevices of the target’s intestines. 

Crimson droplets came spraying out, though the stains they left weren't really noticeable, considering the deep shade of currant that colored his favorite turtleneck. On the other hand, the specks that landed on his black-tinted shades stuck out in a very sinister way.

“Where is it, where is it, where in the flying FUCK—”

“Where’s what?” A familiar voice interjected, accompanied by a hollow chorus of footsteps that were growing closer and closer. 

Murdock paused, straightening his back and glancing over his shoulder just in time to see K.O.’s thin-yet-muscular form descending the hidden staircase (or, one of many hidden staircases, to be precise. Almost every one of his peers had a den like this). 

The Pentas Family’s resident illegal-fighting champion wandered over to stand by his side, glancing down at the mess on the block kitchen island that, thanks to Caliban, doubled as a human-disassembly station. 

Murdock heaved a sigh, finally loosening his grasp on the tweezers. It was a bit surprising that he hadn’t broken them just yet.

 “...I found some jewelry on this guy last-minute,” he explained, nodding to the target’s face (which was, interestingly enough, still twitching and twisting in agony. The strangled sobs had multiplied and even gotten a little louder). “I was just taking it off to put in its own jar or whatever for selling later on—”

“But you dropped it and can’t find it now?” K.O. finished, not bothering to hide the mirth that started to flicker in his blue eyes.  

“I know where it is!” Murdock snapped. He then pointed at the target’s guts, speaking quickly before his friend could remind him of the aggravated mantra he’d been spitting out just a few seconds ago, “I saw where it landed! But when I tried to grab it, it somehow slipped again and sank in deeper.”

K.O. sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, brow furrowing with sympathy. He moved to stand on the other side of the island, opposite of Murdock, before squinting down at the body cavity. “Well, what does this jewelry look like?”

“A butterfly. A really small, golden charm with diamonds studded on the wings,” Murdock answered, nearly bumping heads with the fighter as he leaned over again, pushing the tweezers back down into the tangle of bloody, organic tubes. 

“...Huh. So this guy technically has a physical butterfly in his stomach,” K.O. announced, chuckling as he fidgeted with the pockets of his amaranth-dyed jeans. “Cal would’ve loved this.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Murdock warned, trying his damnedest not to imagine all the puns Caliban would use if he’d been present to see the incident at hand.

(Even if he and the cannibal in question had agreed on plenty other examples of taunting terminology from the criminal underground.)

The cage-lights that adorned the tunnels’ old walls every twenty-or-so feet were dim and flickering. But their near-ancient glow still glinted off of blades quite nicely. 

Both Murdock’s dagger and Caliban’s cleaver had seemed to sear through the air as they took turns slashing at their victim, circling around him not unlike a pair of sharks. 

The intruder had collapsed against the old, rusty railing, crying out in pain and probably regretting every choice he’d made that led to sneaking down here.

Murdock tsk-tsked, kneeling down to snatch a handful of the intruder’s hair, forcing him to face him. “Hey, that’s what attempted sabatoge gets you. Especially when you think you can just break into our dens.” 

He’d traced the very tip of his dagger along the intruder’s cheek, drinking up some more fear before he pressed it into skin. He only used enough force to bring out a little bead of dark red; this show of restraint really didn’t mean much, considering the mess of blood and bruises that he and his accomplice had already inflicted on his head, his neck, his arms…

The bead in question soon turned into yet another thin line that ran down the man’s face, eventually merging with the gore that oozed from his busted lip.

“Wait!” Caliban had suddenly exclaimed, moving to kneel by the intruder’s side. “Wait-wait-wait, hold on!”

“The first couple ‘waits’ didn’t tip me off,” Murdock had snarked, though he did pause his movements. “Why? What’s the matter?”

Caliban grabbed hold of the intruder now bloodstained shirt-collar, partially lifting him up. He then gestured to all the fresh cuts marring flesh. “All these wounds are hungry, ‘Doc! Can’t you see that?” The mask of faux-concern slipped, sadistic glee worming its way back into his expression. “We’ve gotta feed them some SALT!”

The intruder squirmed, wretching and gibbering and shaking his head as he tried to escape. But it was no use; pretty much all the air had been knocked right out of him. And even if it hadn’t been, the collective pain from all those bleeding gashes would’ve slowed him down.

“Oh...Oh!” Murdock crowed, nodding as realization came along. He reached over to clap his accomplice on the shoulder. “Good point, Cal! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!” 

Caliban smiled cheekily. “That’s why we have these little collabs, isn’t it?” 

Murdock got to his feet, pacing along the old platform to peer at the intentionally-place graffiti on the walls. “We shouldn’t be too far from your den—” He then stooped back down, trapping one of the intruder’s arms in a vice-like grip. “C’mon, let’s get to it!” 

“Right!” Caliban cackled, taking the intruder’s other arm as he stood. 

With that, the duo had started dragging their victim along to his fate, eager to test out yet another interrogation tactic. 

“You really think you’ll have enough salt for this?” Murdock wondered aloud, glancing back at the struggling mess of a man who decided to fuck around and was now finding out. 

“I mean, I should,” Caliban replied. His brow furrowed as he stared at the floor, probably going through a silent checklist. 

A few seconds later, he simply shrugged, a sharp, toothy grin etching its way across his features as he looked back at Murdock. “But even if I don’t…I did put a gallon-jug of vinegar under the sink just yesterday.”

“Ooh,” Murdock hummed, offering an unhinged smirk of his own. “Yeah, that’d do the trick for sure!”

Caliban nodded. “Plus, it won’t make much of a dent in the skin’s price, as long as I wash it during the harvest…” 

Murdock’s free hand moved to tug at the edges, trying to give the tweezers in his other hand a bit more leeway. Blood pooled up and out due to the pressure. 

K.O., meanwhile, fidgeted in place, watching and thinking. “...Remember, skin goes for ten bucks per square-inch. So, if some sections need to be cut smaller because they’re too stretched—”

“I’M AWARE,” Murdock replied, raising his voice to be heard over the truly sickening (one might even say gut-wrenching) song of squelches caused by all the friction. 

The target made a feeble attempt to raise his voice, but that didn't change the fact that he was well past forming coherent sentences anymore. 

K.O. raised an eyebrow at this, shock beginning to ripple in his eyes.. “Hang on—is he still alive?”

Murdock, taking another quick, angry little break, shrugged. “In a way.”

“But—but I broke his neck not even an hour ago!” K.O. protested, moving to gape at the target’s twisting face. “He fell like a soggy trash-bag! Like a ragdoll! He hasn’t moved at all since before we even got here!”

“Broken necks aren’t always fatal,” Murdock mentioned, digging through the fleshy maze yet again. “Sometimes it just damages the spinal nerves enough to cause paralysis. Maybe you just didn’t twist it enough.”

K.O. hummed at this, surprise warping into morbid fascination. For whatever reason, he didn’t reach around the target’s neck to finish the job just yet. Instead, he went back to glancing in mild, semi-snarky awe at the sheer force of Murdock’s pissed-off snarl and forehead-creases. 

Murdock was too focused to see how the fighter sidled around the island to stand just behind him.

That changed with a quickness as he felt a weight materialize on both of his shoulders. 

“Here, you look stressed—”

“What makes you say THAT?” Murdock growled, refusing to look away from his work. 

“—let me give you a shoulder-rub,” K.O. continued, his tone of voice just singing about the shit-eating grin that was growing on his face. 

“I don’t want one,” Murdock argued, rolling his shoulders with much more force than strictly necessary. “Do not touch me, do not touch me, do not touch me, do nOT TOUCH ME!”

“Alright, alright,” K.O. relented…but only for a few seconds. “I can still help—what if I just put my arms under yours?” 

 “YOU FUCKING GET THOSE OUT FROM UNDER ME!” Murdock snapped, shifting in place to fend off his accomplice's arms before they could brush against his sides. 

K.O. snickered, finally holding his hands up in defeat. He moved into Murdock's field of view again, coming to stand by the target’s head. 

For the next moment or two, there was somewhat blissful silence. 

“What if you just left it like this?” K.O. piped up again. “It might give some extra edge to the sale. Kinda like one of those raffle games.”

“Raffle games?” Murdock echoed, incredulous.

“Yeah! Y’know, the whole ‘Guess How Many Beads Are In This Jar! The closest number gets a price!’ thing.”  K.O. spread his hands in a lame gesture. “Maybe you could squish these intestines into a jar with the butterfly still inside, then just tell potential buyers about it! No way there won’t be at least one person desperate enough for gold that they’ll dig through cold guts.”

Although that idea did sound pretty funny, Murdock still shook his head, snorting. “The average set of intestines are about sixteen feet long when they’re stretched out. Good luck finding a jar big enough to hold all that and keep it sealed without cracking.”

With another forceful sigh, Murdock threw the tweezers down. He took a second to tug at his gloves, then flexed his fingers…and plunged his hands into the target’s intestines. 

Full. 

Submersion.

While he didn’t gag or retch or react in the way any normal person would, Murdock still couldn’t help but cringe a little. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually handled entrails like this—he’d forgotten just how thick and dense they were. 

The hitman set his jaw and kept at it, glaring at nothing in particular as his fingers became lost in the maze of gore. Even with his gloves on, he’d still be able to feel the sharp, carefully-sculpted edges of that stupid godddamn butterfly charm…once his hands actually came across it, that is. 

More wheezing, unintelligible sobs came leaking out through the target’s teeth. 

“Calm, cool, collected…” K.O. taunted, drumming his fingers on the target’s forehead. “…I’m gonna frame you for tax-fraud…”

Murdock didn’t pause, didn’t look over at the fighter…but he just could stop himself from sputtering a small, low, flabbergasted chuckle at such a random comment. 

He didn’t see the way K.O.’s lips curled into a tiny, genuine smile. 

Whether or not the target was still in the headspace to be worrying about a threat to his taxes (or the current state of his organs), he still kept on wailing, kept on choking.

Kept on being an annoyance. (A much more macabre annoyance than average, but an annoyance all the same.) 

“This FUCKING GUY won’t shut THE FUCK UP,” Murdock seethed.

He finally looked back up from his work, locking eyes with K.O. as he used one very messy hand to toss his thumb over his shoulder. “Get a towel—get some paper-towels, get some water. We’re gonna FUCKING waterboard this guy.”

Now it was K.O.’s turn to sputter with disbelieving giggles. But he certainly didn’t hesitate. He raced over to the utility sink in the corner, returning seconds later with a wad of dripping paper-towels. 

“Next time you TALK—” K.O. started to warn…only for the target to let out another choked scream. The fighter pursed his lips and slammed the soaked towels down onto the target’s face.

…It actually ended up muffling the ensuing cries even more than expected. 

And that got a genuine belly-laugh out of Murdock. Maybe not enough to stave off an impending migraine, but something was better than nothing. 

“You’ll be sleeping with the fishes!” K.O. chortled, pressing his handed on top of the mess to keep everything in place. “You’ll be sleeping with the goddamn FISHES!”

More time passed by; now that all those distracting screams had been taken down a notch, things seemed to move a bit faster.

The metallic stench of still-warm blood hung heavy around the duo. Had the air been any hotter down here, it might’ve grown thick enough for them to almost taste the plasma as they breathed

“Let’s be honest here,” K.O. said, shifting in place and lifting his hands away from the target’s face (somehow, the paper-towel-gag didn’t slide off to plop down on the floor). “Can you actually get that butterfly out?” 

 “I am so close—I just felt it, I almost had it out, but it just clipped the edge of the—” Murdock took a deep breath, turning his head to crack his neck a few times, relieving some of the tension that had gathered there. “I swear to God, I can get this!”

“Alright, alright! If that’s the case, then it might not be as deep as it was before!” K.O. moved closer, leaning down toward the cavity. He reached over to pluck up the tweezers, then started gingerly probing at the entrails. 

Murdock’s own hands pulled back, soon coming to rest on his temples in a noble attempt to keep his brain from eroding through his skull. He barely even noticed how the blood smeared against his skin.

A hollow, aggravated, exhausted groan poured out of his lungs. For a few seconds, he simply took a turn to watch. 

Evidently, the powder-keg of K.O.’s patience had an even shorter fuse than Murdock’s. 

In one swift, fluid movement, he tossed the tweezers away, one hand curling in a fist that plummeted against the surface of the guts with a wet, smacking thump! 

And then…THEN…

Time seemed to slow down. 

Whatever primordial entity that potentially ruled over this cruel universe finally decided to say, “Why not?” 

Because as the intestines quivered from the strike, a tiny, glinting projectile suddenly erupted out from the very center of the mess, arching in the air before landing just a few inches away from the cavity with an anticlimactic plink!

The two mobsters both froze in place, their mouths dropping in near-perfect unison. 

The next moment almost felt like a whole hour as they stared down at the golden, diamond-encrusted, butterfly-shaped trophy. 

K.O. was the first to break the stunned silence, throwing his head back and practically screaming with laughter. Murdock followed suite, his own guffaw starting out with a wheeze that built up in volume over the course of a few seconds. 

“Did you see that?!” Murdock just barely managed to ask, still wracked with breathless cackles. 

“How did that just happen?!” K.O. asked, getting a rare pass for answering a question with another question.

___

[You actually read this far? Wow, that’s dedication! And as a thank you…here’s a little hint at what’s to come, featuring a couple more fanmade characters: my second-ever CrankEgo, and my first ever SepticEgo! To learn more about them, go here. I just feel like the ever-obscure EldritchPlier needs another rival besides my own LeviathanPat. And why shouldn’t that new rival come with his own semi-cultist companion like Cruz?]

(One more thing: if you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)

The Oozing Crown hadn’t even been closed for a minute. 

Outside, the electric sign at the top of the building hadn’t even been turned off yet. 

It still glowed with an eerie light that somehow still managed to be welcoming. Its neon wires all worked together to portray a grinning, emerald-green skull with hot-pink liquid fountaining out of a jagged hole in its parietal. 

One Moses Norbert had just barely finished cleaning the main floor, securing the rows upon rows of bottles behind the counter. Just as he reached to lock up the shelves for the night, a very distorted, very familiar voice came pouring into his mind like molten lead.

“𝗕⃥𝘖̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘝̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘐̸𝗫⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘈̸𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸.⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘎̸𝗛⃥𝘛̸.⃥”

All the time Moses had spent running the surface-level of this business granted him the power to find the coveted bottle of Suntory Toki just by muscle-memory. He moved into the kitchen, grabbing a can of Coca-Cola Vanilla from the fridge before setting a pan atop the stove.

 “Oh, yeah? Praytell why? Cosmic seasonal depression beyond my comprehension?” Moses asked, chuckling to try and hide the way he stiffened. 

It wasn’t at all uncommon for the creature he’d learned to call Septic to ask for some special drinks once the brewery-and-distillery-combo was devoid of all mortal witnesses. 

Hell, jokes connecting his drinking habits to the fact that his otherworldly tone was somehow laced with an honest-to-God Irish accent had been a big part of his and Moses’ bonding in the past. 

But this was…different. 

It wasn’t like Moses was a stranger to adding all sorts of distinctly un-kosher things to soda or alcohol by now, but being asked to boil beverages was never the best omen.

“𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘐̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥,” Septic snickered, though his pitch was still obviously weighed down by something else. “𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗘⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘐̸𝗦⃥.̸”

Despite the fact that no-one was actually around to see his expression, Moses raised an incredulous eyebrow (besides, he knew Septic could see far, far beyond the barriers around them).

“October,” he answered. 

“𝗬⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥.̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸?⃥”

“…Halloween,” Moses continued, occasionally stirring the soda as it started to heat up and bubble.

“𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘜̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗢⃥.” A chorus of almost porcelain clicks echoed through Moses’ head; Septic must have been gnashing his multitude of sharp, jagged teeth together in contemplation. “𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘗̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸ 𝘔̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘐̸𝗥⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘝̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸-⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗬⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸ 𝘉̸𝗬⃥.̸.⃥.̸”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Moses agreed, his brow furrowing at memories of stupid Karens who had ruined one night of trick-or-treating too many when he’d still been just a little kid.

The cola had reached a rolling boil by now, so he turned the burner off and fetched a glass from one of the cabinets. After pouring a little more than a shot’s worth of the whiskey, he carefully upended the steaming pan over it. 

And as the concoction practically mixed itself together, realization came in. “…Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

“𝗜⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸,⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘔̸ 𝘐̸?⃥” Septic snorted, an eye-roll evident in his pitch.

Moses crossed the kitchen, rooting through the storage closet tucked into one corner. It took little time for him to find a wooden chest stashed on the highest shelf, well out of view to any strangers who might’ve come in here for whatever reason. He opened it up, fishing out the mask he’d been given years ago, as part of the pact he’d made when he was first brought to the apartment on top of the brewery’s roof. 

The mask was an amalgamation of leather and metal. It almost resembled one of those typical, vintage gas masks…that is, if those pieces of old-fashioned gear were designed with six spindly copper blades attached to the base of the mouth-guard by a set of rivets. It resembled the mandibles of some kind of hellish, overgrown insect. 

And that wasn’t mentioning the mask’s eyes. Yes, it had a primary pair for the wearer to actually, y’know, see through. But it had many, many more, all scattered about the top, having apparently been welded onto the mask’s dome. Right now they were a deep, rich shade of cobalt, though they would sometimes change color depending on what type of ritual he participated in. 

Even though he’d signed a (relatively) mutually-beneficial contract years ago, Moses was still somewhat at risk. 

Trees emitted oxygen, outer abominations emitted surreal terror that could physically manifest in a number of nasty ways. 

(And that included the whole “names have power” schtick. The last part of Septic’s name was the only part that could be spoken by a mortal without causing their vocal cords to explode into tiny, sinewy pillars of thorns from the inside-out. Despite all the adjustment Moses had gone through, the last time he’d dared try to say Septic’s full title, he’d ended up crying bloody slugs for the rest of the night.)

(...Plus, having a special mask for stuff like this gave way for the perfect excuse to make jokes about using protection during rituals. Oh sure, you could say that you wouldn’t jump at an opportunity like that if you found yourself working with a sentient crime against nature…but then your mother would’ve raised a fucking liar.)

Pulling the mask over his head, Moses stepped out of the storage closet and knelt down in the center of the kitchen; the cellar door was well-camoflauged, topped off with a slab of the same material as the floor in here, but he knew how to find the right edges. 

Like some kind of weird, reverse murphy-bed, the door glided up and open, revealing a short steel stair-unit.

With that, Moses grabbed the freshly-brewed beverage and headed down. 

As usual, the basement was dark, but the mask helped Moses’ eyes to adjust quickly. It was also much, much bigger than the brewery’s main floor; his footsteps reverberated as he paced along an industrial catwalk that overlooked all the machinery down here. But then, most of that stuff was attached to the walls, not taking up too much space. 

No, what really needed accommodation were the tanks—a group of seven, to be exact. Six were positioned by the sides, split into two groups of three. They were each about eight feet tall, each painstakingly crafted from silvery metal, each able to brew or distill about a hundred barrels’ worth of product. 

And yet, none of them could really compare to the seventh tank.

It stood before the rest at the very head of the room, looming at fourteen feet. It boasted a shiny copper material…though, you couldn’t really tell whenever Septic was active.

As Moses descended yet another metallic staircase and approached, a bright glow sparked to life inside the seventh tank, casting the room in a dark-yet-vibrant shade of green that silently screamed with toxicity. 

Moses’ shadow stretched along the floor behind him as halted just a few feet away from the radioactive-looking vessel. The source of that glow rose up, floating in the center and not even having to wade closer to rest his hands—or, more precisely, his clutches of talons—against the tank’s foremost inner wall. 

Even though Septic’s outline was blurry, it was still easy to see the several eyes scattered about his torso in arms. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes, all glowing and rolling around in their misplaced sockets. A mane of long, dark hair twisted through the liquid, the movement looking similar to trapped, spasming eels.

The tank’s hatch (which nearly scraped against the ceiling) popped open with a pressurized hsssssss. Clouds of discolored steam billowed into the air, along with a smell that was reminiscent of geyser pits…that is, if the natural sulfur came with a trace of sweetness that could only ever be produced by rotting flesh. 

Moses held the glass forward, prompting Septic to reach up. One of his arms gave off a chorus of pops and cracks as it protruded from the hatch, stretching far too long far too quickly.

The bones in his translucent skin shuddered and warped, his translucent skin glistening. Droplets slid off, smoking as they met their end against the concrete floor.

Then, just a millisecond after his claws wrapped around the glass, the limb retracted back into the tank with an echoing splash!

Septic’s outline craned his neck to greedy gulp down the casual elixir. Once the glass was drained, he opened wide, causing the strands of torn flesh along his cheeks to stretch even further.

The liquid inside the tank did nothing to muffle the cacophony of crunching and shattering that would’ve made much more sense echoing up from the depth of a malfunctioning garbage disposal.  

Septic then let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders. “𝗔⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥𝘕̸ 𝘚̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥.̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗠⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥.̸” He nodded in Moses’ direction, pupil dilating in the eye on the center of his chest. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘚̸.⃥”

“No problem,” Moses replied, nodding back. He started rocking back and forth on his heels. “So, what’s this Halloween ritual about? If you’re already taking the atrocity-equivelent of blood-pressure medicine, then it’s gotta do with something bigger than the usual stuff.” 

Despite his new anxiety, Moses couldn’t help but snicker to himself. The usual stuff he’d just mentioned involved harvesting souls and emotions from the people he could get away with knocking out and dragging down here to meet a very gruesome fate inside any one of the tanks.

(And he didn’t even really have to clean them out afterwards! Thanks to Septic’s power, the mess pretty much always just dissolved out of existence once the task was complete! How lucky was that?!)

“𝗜⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘍̸,⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥.̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘞̸𝗘⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘓̸𝗣⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥.”  Septic clicked an elastic, forked tongue. He slowly spun around in the tank, almost like the stuff inside lava lamps. 

Moses tilted his head to the side, curiosity worming its way into his head. “Wait…this’ll call for more people than just us? For guys like…like you?”

Septic nodded; despite his obvious apprehension, he still bared his fangs in a grin at the inquinsitiveness. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘖̸𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗕⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘞̸ 𝘗̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘚̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗣⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘚̸𝗞⃥.̸ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥'̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗙⃥,̸ 𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥,̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗬⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗙⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘛̸.”

Moses hummed at this. Yeah, there was still a lot of foreboding that came with the statement…but already had bragging rights for working with a cosmic horror! And soon he’d get to work with even more?! 

There was no way anyone else’s upcoming Halloween plans could compare to his. No. Fucking. Way.

“𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥,” Septic warned, having clearly both seen and felt the rising adrenaline. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥��̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘚̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗜⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥.”

“...How the hell can I not get excited at a concept like that?!” Moses asked. “If human drama manages to be so weirdly entertaining, then eldritch drama must be even wilder!”

“𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥,” Septic agreed with a sardonic chuckle. “𝗟⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘒̸,⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗣⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸,⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗩⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘐̸𝗙⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥.̸” 

He paused, diving down for a few seconds before floating closer to the top of the tank. “.⃥.̸.⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸,⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥,̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘝̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸.⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘒̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸.” 

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” Moses chuckled. He then glanced at the catwalk over his shoulder. “How long will you be gone?” 

Where some monsters were bound to follow rules that kept them out of places, Septic was restricted to being kept in a place. Ever since he’d had that chance-meeting with Moses, however, he’d had a counter to that pesky binding.

Granted, he could only stay out of his tank for a short time before being dragged back by whatever force was in there underneath him, but he wasn’t one to look a gift morbid-fascination-prone-human in the mouth. 

“𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗪⃥𝘖̸ 𝘋̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘚̸𝗔⃥𝘝̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘈̸ 𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥𝘎̸𝗬⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸.”

“Gotcha. Well…good luck with that, I guess.” Moses moved closer, soon climbing on the stepladder that was pretty much always propped up against Septic’s tank.

He held the hatch’s brass handle in a vice-like grip, knuckles very quickly turning white. He ever-so-slightly leaned to the side, bracing himself. “Ready when you are!”

The green light grew more vibrant, more poisonous.  

The tank began to rattle, to groan, to shudder in place. The unearthly liquid inside gurgled and churned as Septic’s form all but flooded out. 

Moses’ instincts screamed at him to lower his head and wrench his eyes shut…but everything was over before he even could. 

The glow had vanished, leaving the basement full of shadows, safe for the light that trickled down from the kitchen through that door-in-the-floor. 

The air was clear. 

Septic was gone…though, his voice was stubborn enough to stay for a few more seconds. “𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸!⃥”

“Likewise!” Moses called back. As he slid down the ladder and started making his way back toward the kitchen, he added, “…And bring me back a toy!”

[To be continued on Day 6...]

___

@sammys-magical-au

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

@sammys-magical-au ...😏🤣 (I know these aren' t the vibes I've set up for certain characters, but this would still be hilarious in that context.)

people will say "why cant the eldritch gods just be nice to humans :((" and then kill a bug for existing near them

[o-crud]

Just watched Jacksepticeye’s IRIS video, and Anti’s new design gave me some inspiration for a Blank design!

[koficlouds]

Fandoms I plan on using for Angst of April 2022

Ego fandom(Jack, Mark, Ethan)

Sandersides(all sides)

Countryhumans

Hetalia

Planethumans

Apphumans

Yes, I am very weird ;-;

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Headcanons: Crankegos ⚙️

Aight, we’re doing this so buckle up, because I got a lot to share!

Note: I consider Memento one, but he’ll be in another post with Mori where I’ll go more into-depth about them both.

Mad Mike

Runs both an ice cream shop and an ice cream truck (he changes outfits depending on which he’s working at).

Once owned a highly successive business.

But it was shutdown after Silver Shepherd discovered that the ice cream was being laced with drugs.

Since then Mike tries to stop doing that..but once in a while he’ll put a tiny bit of cocaine in a scoop or two (claims it’s “extra sugar”).

Loves to bake on his days off.

Contrary to his song, he’s got a soft spot for kids and never drugs their desserts.

Struggles with his own addictions from time-to-time, but he’s getting better at dealing with the withdrawals.

Very flirtatious.

Also fluent in French, so that gives him extra brownie (pun intended) points.

Somehow, someway..he’s evaded police ever since the encounter with Silver.

Not very good at talking about his or other people’s problems...so he usually just whips up some ice cream as a temporary solution!

His eyes turn to pink and blue swirls whenever his sanity dips or if he wants to hypnotize someone who insulted his business practices.

Mike’s just a bubbly guy all around.

Blank

One of Ethan’s less malicious dark egos.

Embodies his anxiety and nightmares (though mainly the former)

Blank himself has severe anxiety issues that tend to make him panic over small things.

Corroded teases him for being a crybaby sometimes, but he can’t help he’s overly-emotional. 

Gets very self-conscious of his acne/black eyes/appearance in general, afraid of scaring people away.

Has bluish-pale gray skin.

Likes wearing baggy clothing, though it’s really only to hide the wilted vines and black veins that wrap around his arms and legs.

When he has a breakdown, black oily tears stream down his face, he shakes violently, the room get abruptly cold, and he mumbles unintelligible gibberish.

It can go on from a few seconds to almost 15 minutes straight. It's extremely hard to snap him out of it.

Has haptephobia (fear of physical contact), but he’ll let people he’s close with (like the other egos) make contact with him.

Hates being thrown in with the rest of the dark egos.

Corroded

The first of Ethan’s dark egos, albeit the more forgettable one.

He’s a rusted robot, with gray/brown skin that’s metallic in some areas (especially on his face and hands).

Completely hollow inside (physically) except for metal “bones” keeping himself together.

His eyes are also empty sockets instead of being purely black.

Like Anti he’s a glitching entity who induces paranoia in people with hushed whispers and clones of himself.

Bitter to Ethan about being used for the 5-year anniversary poster advertisement, despite that not being his intention at all.

Also resents Blank for becoming the more popular dark ego.

Regularly drinks oil.

If you call him an animatronic he can and will decimate you.

His biggest pet peeves are being taken for granted and being called a “dumb robot”.

A major weakness is his legs being so rusted they lock up and he can’t move for a long while.

Heapass

A punkish prisoner who’s best friends with Yancy.

He’s been arrested for smoking illegal drugs, dealing said drugs (with Mike, who managed to escape officers while ditching him in the process), and excessive speeding/reckless driving.

But he was sent to HTP for a fatal hit-and-run (while he was smoking grass behind the wheel).

Doesn’t talk a whole lot, but he likes to stand around and smugly grin like he’s got a trick up his sleeve.

Spoiler: He doesn’t, and if you were to ask Yancy about him he’d tell you Heap is one of the sweetest people he’s had the honor of meeting.

He did break his arm during a brawl (tho he told the warden he fell in the yard).

He’s good at keeping secrets. He has no reason to gossip unless you insult his family.

Also dyed his hair black. Just because.

Jake

Was among the many bright scientists trying to find a cure for the spontaneous zombie plague.

He was also Prof. Beauregard's assistant.

Though unfortunately he didn’t last long before he ended up turning.

Surprisingly he still retains much of his scientific knowledge.

But he can’t wrap his rotting brain around complex formulas.

So he’ll sometimes try to mix chemicals and write notes--both of which turn out to be huge messes.

With the other Crankegos, Jake has his own lab.

He gets agitated easily, so he’ll go there to calm down if he needs to.

Can still speak normally, though his voice is extremely scratchy and he hates repeating himself.

So Yahoo often translates for him.

Likes being with a group of zombies...humans not so much.

Though since the Crankegos aren’t exactly human, he doesn’t mind them at all.

Bernice

She’s the gothic mother hen of the Crankegos.

Though at the same time she’s a vicious mama bear if you dare cross her and/or her family.

She’s stern with Mike and Corroded, but very soft towards Heap, Jake, and Blank.

The prisoner often looks to her as a mother, since he didn’t have the best relationship with his own growing up.

Loved red, black, and silver makeup. Especially eyeshadow and mascara. She makes sure to visit the dye shop every so often to keep her hair a bright red.

No one knows how she pays for all those times. But she does it.

Very sassy and likes to show-off a lot, though she’s not a narcissist. 

She’s very generous, too, and can’t stand the thought of being completely obsessed with only her own happiness.

Don’t ask her if she feels weird being the only female Crankego. She’ll break your kneecaps.

Cries at animal rescue/adoption commercials all the time.

Likes wearing meme shirts to be “hashtag relatable”.

She says it exactly like that and Ethan, Heap, and Mike groan every time she does.

Saint

He’s a very holy man, of course, with much dedication to the church.

While Saint doesn’t say what church (or even what his name is for that matter) he’s from, he practices good teachings.

Scolds people if they constantly curse/take the Lord’s name in vain.

He tried integrating memes into his teachings so younger generations won’t be as bored during mass.

But when Jeremiah (Priestiplier) proofreads his writings..he just shakes his head in disapproval.

So those never see the light of day.

Thinks Blank, Corroded, and Jake are horribly cursed and regularly tries spraying them with holy water.

He just gets three annoyed inhuman beings glaring at him.

Heap and Mike confess their recent sins to him sometimes. It helps them get stuff off their chest.

Though Mike always starts out by saying “I’ve been very naughty-”

And Saint has to stop himself from slapping him with the book.

Beyond that, he’s just an all-around good dude.

Yahoo

Like Bing and Google, he’s a search engine-based android designed to answer people’s questions.

Often speaks in a soft and sincere tone of voice, though he can be firm when necessary.

One of his eyes is more cybernetic than humanlike, and it’s capable of many functions including infrared and x-ray scanners, as well as being able to instantly identify any individual he sees.

That’s how he got to know all of the Crankegos so easily.

He’s on good terms with all the Googles...except for Blue, of course, since he thinks he’s just another rival.

But Yahoo still tries to be kind regardless.

Unfortunately some take advantage of that, though Bernice and Mike usually come to his defense.

He’s terrified of water and viruses..so he tends to stay away from Blank and Corroded.

When he’s recharging, both his eyes glow purple under his eyelids.

He’s got a lot of service features, including Yahoo! Finance (to help with personal finances), Answers (a q&a), and Mail.

Kinda misses the funky logo the company had from 1996-2013

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

To be honest, I was imagining Cal using the meme as an excuse to pester Sam even more than he already does whenever they cross paths, but perhaps that'd be too expected.

Your idea is dripping with irony and I love it 😂😂😂

In fact. . .

___

Caliban's Experience with Cannibalism Day

[Scene: Caliban's house, specifically the main/normal kitchen. It's early in the morning, and R.D. is already up making herself breakfast. After a few minutes, Caliban enters, dressed and ready for the day.]

Caliban: Good morning!

R.D.: Oh. . ! Morning, Cal. Didn't expect to see you here so soon.

Caliban: *pauses as he looks through the refrigerator* . . .You didn't expect to see me in my own kitchen? In the house that we've been living together in for years now? *chuckles* How well have you been sleeping lately?

R.D.: *rolling her eyes* I just assumed you'd go to your den-kitchen first. Y'know, to get some "bacon or sausages" for your breakfast.

Caliban: *shrugs* Can't blame you for that. But no, one of my feeding days was just yesterday. I'm all good for now.

R.D.: *hums* Sure. I just figured you'd specifically make today one of them.

Caliban: Why?

R.D.: Because it's Cannibalism Day.

Caliban: *freezes in place, blinking for a few long seconds* I'm sorry, w h a t ?

R.D.: Today is Cannibalism Day. Didn't you hear me? *smirks* Have you been getting enough sleep?

Caliban: *starts shaking his head, laughing a little* Ah, so my humor is finally rubbing off on you. Good to know!

R.D.: Who said I was joking?

Caliban: I did, because A. today is literally Cinco de Mayo, and B. there's no way a holiday called "Cannibalism Day" would ever fly anywhere. Emphasis on the Cannibalism part.

R.D.: *shakes her head* It's not impossible for two holidays to fall on the same day. *pulls out her phone and taps at the screen, then shows it to Caliban. Sure enough, the very meme at the top of this post is there*

Caliban: . . .Well, if there was ever an age to celebrate memes, it's the one we're living in.

R.D.: Precisely. And you're the only cannibal I know, so. . .Happy Cannibalism Day, I guess.

Caliban: *chuckles, shaking his head* Thanks for the well wishes. *reaches out to pull R.D. into a hug*

R.D.: *reciprocates the hug, smiling* No problem.

___

[Scene: the abandoned subway tunnels that connect all of The Pentas Family's platform-office-dens. It's about noon now, and Caliban is currently walking and chatting with Murdock]

Caliban: Have any changes been made to today's schedule? Should I tag along for that job you'll be heading to later?

Murdock: *shakes his head* Nope. As far as I know, the others are all making progress with their own assignments. I've been watching this particular target for a couple months now; no matter what happens, I'll still end up having him right where I want him.

Caliban: *nods* Alright, then. So, I guess that just leaves me to bounce between you all? To make sure things are running smoothly?

Murdock: That's what it looks like. For now, at least. I'm sure you'll find a way to get back at us eventually.

Caliban: *raises an eyebrow* Get back at you guys for what, exactly?

Murdock: *raises an eyebrow right back at Caliban* For leaving you out of the fun. I can't even deliver tonight's target to you because the job requires poison; I'm literally on my way to pick said poison up from Aza right now.

Murdock: *starts waving his hands in over-exaggerated gestures, making even more over-exaggerated expressions as he goes* You'll probably want to have the next target while they're still alive, right? Because the amount of planning and work that'll take on both our parts might make up for the slight you've faced today?

Caliban: . . .I mean, don't get me wrong, that does sound appealing. *grins* Sounds like a meal to die for, even.

Murdock: *groans, facepalming and shaking his head*

Caliban: But why do you assume today's a slight for me? What do you take me for? Some twisted, bloody version of Tinkerbell? I can live without playing a part in everything for once.

Murdock: Today's Cannibalism Day, isn't it? *checks his phone before Caliban can respond* Yeah, it is. I thought out of all days for you to want to cook up some huge, elaborate scheme, this would be it.

Caliban: . . .Okay, I know I should be questioning you about that meme, because there's no way in Hell you actually thought I already knew about that. But I think I might just look past that because yOU MADE A PUN FOR ME!!!

Murdock: *freezes; his face shifts through shock and disappointment. He groans again* Ohhh, shit—

[The two of them are near the entrance to K.O.'s den. Just as they're about to pass the platform by, the door opens, and K.O. walks out. He's initially looking at his phone, but glances up just in time to see Murdock and Caliban.]

K.O.: *does a double-take* Oh—oh, hey Cal! Speak of the devil, huh? I was just about to text you!

Caliban: *nods to K.O.* Text me about what? Did something happen with the fights you'll be having tonight?

K.O.: *shakes his head* No, everything's still in place. I just wanted to let you know that The Boss gave me permission to have a death match! And it's way overdue, honestly. The upcoming opponent is a HUGE asshole. Do you want to come get the body yourself once I'm done, or should I take it to your den myself?

Caliban: *blinks; he's grateful and a little confused at the same time* Uh. . .well, either one of those options will work for me, but I guess it'll depend on the time. Thanks! What a lucky coincidence, right?

K.O.: *chuckles* I really don't think there's anything coincidental about it. It's Cannibalism Day, so, we've gotta act accordingly. But yeah, you're welcome!

[K.O. jogs off down the tunnel before Caliban can say anything else. After a few seconds, Caliban and Murdock resume walking.]

Caliban: *side-eyes Murdock* . . .Alright, what's the game here? Did R.D. put you guys up to this?

Murdock: *holds his hands up in a lame gesture* Why the suspicion? Everyone who's anyone knows about Cannibalism Day.

Caliban: *sputters* Well, I didn't!

Murdock: I find that hard to believe. Maybe you just forgot about it this year? We've been pretty busy for the past few months, so I guess I can't blame you if that's the case.

Caliban: Wha—no, I didn't forget about anything! You know why? Because I've never celebrated "Cannibalism Day" because it's just a meme I was only made aware of this morning!

Murdock: *rolls his eyes* Okay, calm down.

Caliban: I AM PERFECTLY CALM!

[The entrance to Azalea's den is further up ahead in the tunnel. Much like K.O., Azalea happens to poke her head out of the door just as Murdock and Caliban are approaching. Azalea quickly picks up on the argument]

Azalea: *clears her throat* Murdock, do you really have to antagonize my brother on today of all days?

Murdock: *points an accusing finger at Caliban* Hey, he started it!

Azalea: *hums sarcastically* A likely story. *Smiles as she turns her attention to Caliban* How are things going? I know you'll probably do your celebrating later tonight, but have you been enjoying yourself so far?

Caliban: *purses his lips; he's still frustrated and confused, but he always tries to stay calm around Azalea* . . .Yeah, I guess so. Can't really complain.

Azalea: *nods* That's great! Okay, so, I've got things to do with Murdock, and I know you'll have to be on the move for most of the day. But before you go, and before I forget—

Azalea: *reaches into one of the pockets in her waist-apron and pulls out a book. Specifically the novel, They Ate The Waitress? by D.N. Schmidt. She holds it out to Caliban* I know this isn't much, but I saw it at a cafe while I was out on last month's job. And, well, I have a feeling that you'll really enjoy it.

[Author's Note: Yes, I'm referencing a real, legit novel, and yes, it would absolutely be right up Caliban's alley. Look it up and you'll see what I mean]

Caliban: *carefully takes the book into his hands, smiling as he examines the cover* That's really thoughtful, Aza. I appreciate it.

Azalea: Of course! Today is basically a second birthday for you, isn't it? *laughs, holding the door open and gesturing for Murdock to come in* Oh, one more thing: I was talking with Johnny and Garret, and it looks like neither of them will have any bodies for you today. But Johnny said he's gonna drop a bottle of Sangiovese off at your place sometime. It's not Chianti or Aramone, but he says it tastes just as good!

Caliban: *nods, taking a subtle deep breath* . . .I guess I'll be owing him a favor for that.

[Murdock and Azalea disappear into Azalea's den. Caliban is left standing on the platform, blinking as he slides the book into one of his jacket's interior pockets.]

[Footsteps echo from somewhere even further up the tunnel. A silhouette in the shadows approaches Caliban, but it only takes a few seconds for him to realize that it's just Parker, who is half-carrying-half-dragging a very full bodybag.]

Parker: *stops short as he notices Caliban* . . .Well, damn it. There goes my surprise.

Caliban: *squints at Parker and the bodybag in turn* What surprise?

Parker: *chuckles* That was the whole point. *sighs and shrugs as he nods to the bodybag* Happy Cannibalism Day, Cal. It's last minute, but I figured you'd like it. And you'd better like it, since I had to pull so many strings to not have to drown this guy in saltwater or a chlorine pool.

Caliban: *numbly nods as he begins walking alongside Parker, slowly but surely escorting him and the body to his den*

Parker: *instantly notices Caliban's demeanor* What? What's that face? Where's the usual barrage of puns?

Caliban: I'm not sure I can afford to elaborate right now. . .

___

[Scene: it's much later in the evening. Caliban is now present at the aftermath of one of his peer's hit-jobs. He and one Sam Ryder (who's been dragged into Pentas shenanigans for the umpteenth time now) are helping the cleanup crew]

Sam: Soooo, how's Cannibalism Day been going for—

Caliban: *does a neck-snapping double-take and points at Sam* NO.

Sam: *takes a step back, holding their hands up in a defensive gesture* Hey, there's no need to bite my head off over a simple question.

Caliban: *eyes twitch; a smile tries to creep onto his face, but he's frustrated enough to squash it down* DON'T TRY THAT. DISTRACTING ME WITH PUNS MAY WORK A QUARTER OF THE TIME, BUT TONIGHT IS NOT PART OF THAT QUARTER, YOU HEAR ME?!

Sam: Dude, chill out! Did something happen earlier? I thought you'd be all excited and smug and taunting about a meme-holiday like this.

Caliban: You'd THINK that, wouldn't you? Well, if I'd actually known about this just a few days earlier, then I would be! I'd be ecstatic! But I can't be today, because it feels like everyone I know is in on something that I somehow never even thought of myself!

Caliban: Do you know how that feels?! To have something that should be so obvious and special hidden right under your nose until the very last minute?! It gives off some actual psychic damage! PSYCHIC. DAMAGE.

Sam: . . .

Caliban: AND ANOTHER THING! Just imagine if I'd had to spend a lot of time in PUBLIC today! If all the members of the family know about this meme, if even you know about this meme, then what's to say everyone in the Inlets doesn't know about it, too?! Can you IMAGINE how nerve-wracking that would be? What are the ODDS that someone could get a wild theory and COMPLETELY BLOW MY COVER WITH A MEME OF ALL THINGS?!

Sam: . . .I'm sure those odds would be pretty damn low.

Caliban: But pretty damn low does NOT EQUAL ZERO!

[A moment of silence passes by, seeing Sam stare at Caliban while he stares at nothing in particular, breathing heavily and almost shaking in place.]

Sam: I mean, I can understand that to an extent. And keep in mind, that extent is a very small one. But. . .well, at least this means you'll be a little more prepared for Cannibalism Day next year, right?

[Caliban throws his hands up in the air and storms over to a sofa in the corner of the room. Coincidentally, some cushions on said sofa are stained with blood. He lays down on one side of the sofa, hugging his knees to his chest and slowly rocking back and forth. Sam watches him, chewing their lip before walking through a door across the room. After a moment or two, Sam returns with a medical organ transportation container.]

Sam: Alright, you're obviously not in the best headspace at the moment. And this might seem like part of some weird joke against you, but I promise it's not. *hesitantly approaches Caliban. They pointedly set the container down near the sofa and back up a few paces*

Caliban: *doesn't budge from his position on the sofa, though he does glance at the container, and then at Sam*

Sam: There's a heart inside. Before all this, I just happened to be in the States when a mission fell into my lap. I don't have time to explain, and even if I did, it'd still be none of your business, but things got messy. And I remembered what you said about the heart being *can't help but grimace*. . .the best part. I know you rarely get a chance to. . .enjoy any hearts for yourself since they're so valuable on the Black Market, so. . .yeah.

Caliban: *eyes widen. He hesitates for a few seconds, then reaches down, grabs the container, and holds it to his chest as he curls back up* . . .Thank you.

Sam: *nods* Don't mention it.

Caliban: *now grinning manically; his frustration is still there, but he's definitely calmed down a bit* You really know how to. . . serve people best.

[If you listen very, very closely a rimshot can be heard somewhere in the distance]

Sam: I SHOULD'VE KNOWN YOU WERE GONNA PULL SOMETHING THAT! GOD DAMN IT, THAT'S WHAT I GET FOR LETTING MY GUARD DOWN—

___

I cannot believe how much time and effort I spent on this.

On a JOKE.

A JOKE that I probably DRAGGED OUT TOO MUCH TO BE FUNNY OR WITTY. 🥲

. . .Oh, well. Happy Cannibalism Day to my scrungly fanmade boi. Hopefully he'll have some more fun with it next year.

Thank you for indulging me, Sammy. 💞😂

happy cannibalism day! 🧠🫀🫁🦴

[dreamcatcher-faux]

Got inspired by @just-silly-liv-things 'Villain' animatic! Not too proud of this but I still wanted to post it

[vantruce]

crappy mad mike doodle because i have art block please help me

[psychoticanti-blog]

Dark: The rules are clear, Anti: you can't make a kid an official ego.

Anti: *sends Dark a picture of Blank*

Dark: Okay I will make an exception because he looks polite.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

OKAY OKAY OKAY IT'S FINALLY HERE!

(Sorry about the long wait, friendo 😅 Don't worry, things should move along a little easier after this. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!)

___

Abel Impulse [Part 1]

(Disclaimer: two of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms. MadPat was created by Random Encounters)

(Now, as for the fanegos who do belong to me: for more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on Phoenix, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on K.O., go here.) 

(Trigger Warnings: murder/death, poison, blood/gore, violence, mentions of beating/fighting, mentions of allergic reaction, mentions of cannibalism, knives/blades, fire/smoke, mentions of arson, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

___

Azalea wasn’t quite sure why the knocking had startled her. 

Aforementioned knocks had been soft, just barely making the old door shake in its frame. They hadn’t even made her jump; just sent a quick, light flare of something both cold and hot up her spine.

It wasn’t like she’d been alone—no, she’d had company ever since sunset. 

First with her peers, during the long drive from the Cove Port Inlets to one of many small, decaying towns on the side of the roads across all those vacant fields…and then with her latest target. (Well, that was only technical. She hadn’t been hired to kill him. This was a bit more personal than most jobs. Then again, there was no denying how he’d painted a target on his own damn back, so…)

A sleazeball who went by the name Mr. Honey. Very ironic, considering what she’d done to him. 

It wasn’t like Azalea had been on-edge due to her current environment, which was, to put it frankly, decrepit as all getout. 

Wallpaper peeling in awkward curls, the smear-covered shards of a few broken windows here and there, a smell in the air that was like if a thrift shop had just given up…or a perfume made from the blended remains of bedbugs. Azalea was no stranger to rotting, run-down places. Hell, this wasn’t even the first time she’d found herself in an abandoned motel for a job. Sure, it wasn’t very glamorous, but it worked. You had to be flexible if you wanted to be successful in business like this. 

(This was Honey’s fault, really. According to a few underground grapevines, he’d made this forgotten inn a hideout for his goons—including the one she knew was currently taking more licks than even the average Tootsie Roll Pop—for almost a year now. No way this was the first time someone else had found it and snuck in while he was away…though it’d definitely be the last time. The last time for him, at least.)

It wasn’t like the room Azalea had chosen for this session had been very silent. Her victim’s voice had been tapping on her eardrums for about an hour or so.

The whistling that grew louder and louder as he’d drawn closer to her hiding spot. 

The shocked sputters when she was able to jump him, which had quickly evolved into threats and insults as she managed to hog-tie him and drag him away. 

The doubtful taunts that crumbled all too quickly, arrogance eaten up by dread as he watched her fill up the syringe.

The screams of horror and pain after she’d pushed the needle deep into his skin, on the spot where his neck met his chest. (Not too close to the carotid artery; that would’ve just made him bleed. Would’ve made things happen too fast.)

And now, a raspy chorus of wheezes and sobs and splutters, all unintelligible and creeping along similar to how mold would spread over something damp.

(Plus, that wasn’t mentioning the another room just down the hall. Even with all the walls in between, if Azalea concentrated, she could pick up a distant cacophony. Muffled cries of pain, thuds and thumps, laughter…Well, that’d been the case earlier. Now the noise had tapered down considerably.)

So, to hear such a light tapping at the door cut through all the downright delicious agony…

Maybe it was kinda like a spark creeping toward a powder-keg, just barely being snuffed out before it moved too far up the fuse.

That particular analogy turned out prophetic as the door opened with low creeaaak, and a familiar face peeked inside, fair skin framed by long, straight black hair. “How’s it going here?” 

Azalea nodded in greeting. “Good. I think my part of this whole thing is pretty much done.”

Phoenix tilted her head, leaning a little further inside. “Wait, really? What happened to those multiple doses needing a few hours to take effect?”

Azalea shrugged, then gestured for her friend to come closer. “See for yourself.” 

Phoenix slipped inside and shut the threshold behind her. She began traipsing across the little room, only to stop short once her focus settled on the old, rickety bed in the corner. 

Or, rather, the mound of lumpy flesh that used to qualify as a person weakly trembling on the musty mattress. 

Half of Honey’s body had swelled to nearly twice its original size. Not only that, but his skin was discolored and flushed, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Clusters of shiny, angry-looking hives had sprouted up along his arms and neck and face; they could’ve been mistaken for scalds if you were watching from a distance. 

“Oh my God…” Phoenix murmured, her eyes growing wide with morbid fascination. “What did you give him?”

“Japanese giant hornet venom,” Azalea replied. 

“Okay, but how much?” Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said before how expensive some toxins can get; you didn’t run out of anything, right?”

“No, I didn’t. Just had to use one syringe’s worth.”  The softness left Azalea’s grin in favor of something sly and acidic. She knew damn well that even if those hornets were far more aggressive than bees, it still would’ve taken a couple hundred stings for them to be deadly.

Phoenix blinked, then glanced back at the man who lay gasping and somehow barely managing to even squirm on the mattress. Her eyes were searching now.

“Oh, wait—he had an allergic reaction, didn’t he?” A smirk graced her features as she looked back at Azalea, who offered a nod. 

“Exactly! What a lucky coincidence, right?” Azalea directed that last part toward her victim, her voice tapering down a few octaves. She took a step closer, leaned down ever-so-slightly.

Even through all the torment, Honey still winced, trying and failing to edge away despite the fact that his torturer actually wasn’t even close enough to reach over and poke him. 

Of course, he wasn’t just wincing from the pain. 

He’d known a whole lot about allergies himself. 

Enough to somehow hear about K.O.’s nut allergy. 

Enough to sneak around The WormRoll on a recent fight-night. 

Enough to somehow find K.O.’s water bottle and spike it with nut-infused cooking oils. After all, the match would’ve had to be technically forfeit, and all the betted money would’ve gone to Honey’s own fighter (nicknamed Swerve, if she remembered correctly) if K.O. had a reaction before he even stepped into the ring…

Thank God that The Newcomer had managed to find out—hell, they’d been the one to rush in and smack the contaminated drink out of K.O.’s hand just before he could take a sip.

Still, impressive as it’d been, it hadn’t stopped Honey and his goon from running off before much else could happen. 

Azalea wasn’t sure why; fleeing after attempted sabotage never made things better. NEVER.

Especially not when you tried to pull that shit with The Pentas Family. 

“Did you check up on the guys?” Azalea wondered aloud. 

She turned her attention back to the syringe she’d used, now being both cleaned and fidgeted with. She shifted the base of it in her palm, allowing the needle to catch some light from the dim, flickering insect-morgue on the ceiling. (She wasn’t sure how long it’d been since this motel had been left to rot, but her instincts said it was a wonder there was any electricity left.) 

“Oh, yeah. They should be ready to wrap up soon. K.O’s gotten his own fill—last I saw, Cal was halfway through with the harvest,” Phoenix reported, leaning against the adjacent wall. 

She played with the buttons on her blazer, which was tinted a deep teal hue that no-one else would’ve been able to pull off. It’d been sewn in a perfect combination of fitted and draping. Apparently to keep up the personal trend, rather than a button-down and slacks, she wore a lovely jumpsuit underneath that was such a dark shade of indigo it nearly matched her raven hair; just a hint of violet-blue buried low in the fabric.

The news brought a smile to Azalea’s face. Sure, Caliban could’ve just waited to do his disposal stuff back at home (and aside from being potential extra backup, there was no doubt he’d come here for the adrenaline rush), but it was still nice to hear that her brother was going the extra mile to help out a friend. 

Through the corner of her eye, Azalea caught another metallic glint. 

Phoenix fished a small box-like shape from one of her pockets. It shone in a silvery way, despite being covered in thin streaks of black that all worked together to form a pattern like half-melted spirals. She’d had it since even before she’d first joined the mob. Azalea wasn’t sure where it’d come from, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Phoenix had made it herself. Just like the rough-around-the-edges band of silver that was almost always coiled around her index finger, topped with a small, raw piece of garnet.

With a clink, the lighter’s top half was hanging open by a hinge. And with a soft, almost whispering fwoosh! she brought a spark to life, quickly coaxing it to grow into a thin flame that lapped at the air. She didn’t produce a cigarette—she never had, and not just because smoker’s lungs made mob work even harder than it already was—nor did she hold it close enough to her face for the glow to reflect in her eyes.

But really, that didn’t make a difference. 

Plenty of people had dark, warm eyes. 

Phoenix’s eyes had never been just warm. More like burning from inside… 

“Good thing Cal keeps a hidden stockpile. Y’know, jars and chemicals for his Black Market clients. For the stuff he decides not to eat,” Azalea mentioned, an unconventional type of sugar seeping back into her voice. “I’m pretty sure he brought a little too much ethanol along tonight. Guess I can’t blame him, since it’s not too often he gets to do his work anywhere outside the tunnel-dens back home, but still…”

The way she trailed off was very intentional. 

After all, K.O.’s car had already been crammed almost as tight as a steel drum at the start of this job. She didn’t need to spell out how there’d only be so much trunk-space after everyone was ready to go back.

Certainly not enough for two dead bodies, even if one had been hollowed out like a pumpkin. And that wasn’t even mentioning how there wasn’t exactly a good spot outside the motel to hide them.

A new smile spread across Phoenix’s features, now with a clear pop of energy. Her knuckles twitched, grip visibly tightening around her lighter.

Ethanol was very common in the world of specimen preservation (the casualdejekyll to formaldehyde, as Caliban had once said with enough pride and knowing snark to make Murdock start a small fistfight with him). It was perfect for killing bacteria and slowing down the decay process, allowing dead tissues to still look fresh.

It was also well-known for being quite flammable, to the point where it could even be ignited just by being left too close to a hot surface.

“Huh,” Phoenix finally replied, tracing her fingertips along the lighter’s stripes. She glanced around the room, grinning at the peeling wallpaper that seemed to have a similar texture to old, dry newspapers. “You really think so?”

“Sure,” Azalea chuckled. “C’mon, you know Cal; he won’t mind. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s gonna miss this place.”

“True, true,” Phoenix hummed with a joking conspiratory edge. 

Azalea’s smile went soft and knowing.

Despite all the occasional squabbles here and there, Caliban got along well with the rest of his and Azalea’s peers. Family was part of this mob’s title, after all. (It was kind of a blessing, really; way back when, he and Azalea hadn’t exactly had the resources to make many genuine friends.) 

Addiction came in many different forms, so against all odds, it made a morbid type of sense that people could bond over it. 

Caliban craved flesh and blood, Phoenix craved flames and smoke. 

They both felt itches in the back of their minds, both had urges that needed to be hidden outside of work. 

Of course they’d wound up having a little kinship. (Hell, one time R.D. had even cracked a joke about basically having an extra sister-in-law.)

“By the way,” Phoenix cleared her throat, nodding over to Azalea’s victim. “When is he gonna give it up? I mean, no rush, really, but still…”

She trailed off, leaving Azalea to pause, chewing her lip.

“Yeah, good point,” she agreed, chewing her lip. “Well, anaphylactic shock works differently for everyone. Sometimes it takes half an hour, sometimes less than fifteen minutes. I don’t know this guy’s history, but—oh!” 

She glanced back at Mr. Honey, only to cut herself off at the sight of his watery eyes, which had apparently rolled up into his head, hiding his irises from the world. 

The conversation must have distracted her from how his breathing had gotten more slow and shallow and resigned, bit-by-little-bit until it sank into the new silence. 

“...Well, I guess he’s gone now,” Azalea replied with a shrug. 

The syringe in her hand gleamed like it’d been fully polished; no more bloodstains or drops of deceptively clear-looking liquid remained. So, Azalea looked over at the dust-buried nightstand, reaching over to grab a small container—one of many that she’d brought from home, made from pink-stained wood. She popped it open, revealing six syringes in the top half, kept in place by velcro strips, and six glass vials, each filled with a different toxin, nestled in slots on the bottom half. 

Ah, make that seven syringes and vials, now that she was returning the hornet’s venom and the latest needle to be used. 

With that, she slid the box into a crossbody bag (one of her favorites, since it was fluffy and pastel; no way most people would look at it and guess that its contents were something lethal) and headed for the door, blissfully unaware that the universe had decided that she needed a callback from earlier. 

There wasn’t really any other way to explain how the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a heavy thud! as a much taller figure clad in crimson leather rushed across the threshold.

Azalea let out a short scream, which was a somewhat impressive feat, considering how her heart had all but leapt into her throat. 

Phoenix followed suite, shock forming an invisible trebuchet that launched her lighter into the air, all the way up to the ceiling. 

Did it count as a miracle how that forced it shut, snuffing the flame out before it could catch anything?

Scratch that, it was definitely some form of divine intervention. What goes up must come down, after all, and as the lighter plummeted, it managed to strike the intruder’s head with an almost cartoonish thunk! before bouncing again and finally hitting the floor.

Despite its small size, the lighter was still pretty much solid metal, so of course the intruder stopped in his tracks with a yelp, clutching at his temple and gritting a mouthful of teeth that seemed a bit too sharp the longer you looked at them.

“Oh my—Caliban!” Azalea half-shouted, relief and exasperation making a very interesting concoction as they slithered through her brain. “Don’t give me a heart-attack, I’m not ninety-two yet!” 

Instead of answering, Caliban resumed his hussle.

“Snare?!” He called, dropping to his knees to look under the bed, not paying any mind to the corpse nearby. “Snare..!”

Caliban’s voice gave Azalea pause. Despite the volume, it wasn’t sharp like usual. In fact, it seemed to almost be fraying around the edges. 

He nearly flipped the rickety old frame as he stood up and moved on to yank the closet door open. Once he’d apparently discovered what Azalea had when she’d checked it an hour or so ago (which was a big pile of nothing, unless you counted cobwebs and dust bunnies) he turned back to face her. 

She saw how her brother’s eyes bulged from their sockets, how some of the color had drained from his face, and she felt something cold and clammy trickle along her ribcage. 

“Cal, what’s going on?” She ventured closer to him, her voice a little softer than before. 

“I—I lost track of Snare,” Caliban answered. The panic in his eyes seemed to pulse; the struggle to keep his focus from dropping to the floor was clear as crystal. “The room K.O. chose—I could’ve sworn the door was closed and locked when he started on his half of the job. I was holding Snare during all that, but once it was my turn, I set him down. And by the time I was done…”

“He wandered off when you weren’t looking?” Azalea finished the report for him, making sure to be quiet and give off no trace of sarcasm. That was the last thing he needed right now.  

Putting on some kind of facade was a common underground tactic, one they’d both learned a long time ago. (Hell, Murdock did it all the time when he was in public.) But if anyone could tell when Caliban was being genuine with his emotions, it was her. 

Caliban nodded ruefully. “I realized I hadn’t taken any fingers for him, but once I did, he—he was just gone! I almost tore up the whole damn room, but I couldn’t find him anywhere!” He wrung his hands, glancing back and forth between his sister and Phoenix. “Have you guys seen him?” 

“...No, I haven’t. The door’s been closed since I started up on my half,” Azalea replied, her heart sinking as she saw how his eyes were glistening. 

Phoenix shook her head, a similar type of worry creeping across her features. 

“Did you check any of the other rooms? I saw some open doors while I was keeping watch,” she offered as she quietly stuffed her lighter back into her pocket. 

“Yeah, yeah. Up until this one, I mean…” Caliban chewed his lip. “There’s just a few left on this floor, but still no sign of him so far.”

“Okay, okay.” Azalea nodded, reaching up to put at hand on his arm. “No reason to stop looking, right?”

“Right!” Caliban echoed with an empathic nod, staying by his sister’s side as she led him through the door and back out to the hallway. 

Phoenix followed the duo, quick to push Room 23’s door shut behind her, closing off the corpse before any eyes could’ve potentially peered through the hall’s windows at the wrong time.

(There wasn’t really a reason to go back to that room, but even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. the knob’s lock had been picked earlier, so it could be picks again if need be.) 

Azalea caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and it only took a few seconds for her to recognize the figure exiting the last room down the hall. The jeans he wore had been tinted amaranth; the exact same red shade as the boxing trunks he wore to his fights. 

K.O. was resourceful like that—he didn’t want to represent The Pentas Family only half of the time. (The fact that they complimented his sleeveless, bleach-dyed shirt so nicely helped.) 

“Any luck?” Caliban asked, taking a couple steps toward the slightly younger man. 

“Not yet,” K.O. replied, his voice apologetic and a bit lower than usual. He winced as the cannibal stopped short, shoulders slumping. He closed the distance himself, pausing opposite of Azalea, his blue eyes as determined as they were sympathetic. 

 “Hey, it’s not like this is The MGM Grand. There’s just fifteen more rooms to go,” K.O. continued, gesturing past them to the alcove across the hall, where the matted carpet turned and stretched to cover a narrow staircase. He then reached over to clap Caliban on the back. “He couldn’t have gone too far. We’ll find him, I promise.”

Anyone else would’ve flinched, considering how K.O.’s hands were still adorned by a pair of brass knuckles (especially since they were both smeared with fresh blood). 

But Caliban only took a deep breath and nodded. “Thanks. I owe you one after this—don’t let me forget.”

A brief smile flickered on K.O.’s face. “Don’t worry about it.”

And with that, he raced down the hall, his footsteps getting more and more faint as he descended the stairs.

“Maybe he went back to the room you guys used after you left?” Phoenix wondered, her eyes now thoughtful as she scanned the world around her. “He might think he’s just playing a game with you.” 

Although worry still had a strong grip on his eyes, Caliban perked up. “Good point…!” 

He turned on his heel, Azalea letting go of his jacket sleeve so she could jog alongside him past one door, then two, then five…

“I’ll go help look downstairs!” Phoenix called after them.

Azalea tossed a quick “Thanks!” over her shoulder as Caliban ducked into Room 30.

(Even if motels were meant to be smaller scale, there was no doubt he and K.O. had felt a little disappointed that there weren’t enough rooms here for digits to reach the sixties and then some.)

“Snare? If you’re here, then fine, haha, you got me,” Caliban called, his voice getting a little closer to breaking. “Y-you can come out now…”

The scent of iron—or maybe pennies? It was hard to tell sometimes—hung in the air, heavy like the heat of dryer exhaust.

Even as she helped her brother search, Azalea couldn’t help but examine his and K.O.’s work. Checking under the bed was the first thing she did, and just like Room 23, there was a dead body lying on it, so…

Neither his arms nor legs were bound, but strips of nylon were strewn about a folding chair in one corner.

Granted, the pressure tattoos they’d left around the corpse’s wrists were a bit hard to see, what with all the angry splotches of pink tinged with yellow that bloomed over almost every square inch of visible skin. 

Azalea knew from experience that it’d take a day or two for those marks to turn black and purplish-blue…then again, the guy’s skin would adopt a sickly shade of gray by then.

The bruises on his face were complimented by streaks of dark red, oozing from a nose so broken that it could’ve been compared to a ball of clay squished by a toddler’s fist, as well as busted lips and some freshly-broken teeth.

Above it all, a pair of eyes that were both swollen shut from repeated strikes (kinda fitting, since this guy wasn’t in any condition to ever open them again).

And yet, all the obvious head-trauma hadn’t been what killed him. No, that honor went to his neck, which rested on the mattress at a very uncomfortable angle, forcing him to face the wall and nothing else.

 “K.O. must’ve taken his time with this, huh?” Azalea inquired. 

“Yeah, he did,” Caliban replied, glancing over to the beaten mess of a man. “It was kinda interesting to see, since he usually moves so fast in the ring.” 

Azalea tilted her head to the side. “It was nice of you to be so patient.”

(Well. Patient might’ve been a generous word if she was honest. Long, wide strips of skin were missing from the corpse’s arms; portions of muscle tissue underneath had been taken as well, leaving some of the gashes deep enough to reveal slivers of bone. Though most of the slicing had been done with a knife, there were messier bits here and there—curving scrapes that ended in small, shallow holes that could’ve only been left by teeth…)

Caliban shrugged. “Can’t really blame him for wanting to stretch the session. Considering what could’ve happened, I mean.”

He kept moving as he spoke, gathering up glass jars in his arms. The fresh specimens inside  bobbed up and down as the chemicals gently churned around them them. The disturbance almost made them look like blood was still coursing through them. Like they could still be functional, still be alive. 

They clinked against one another as Caliban deposited them into a box on the coffee table. It was a snug fit, especially with a tupperware container—likely full of skin and fingers—being pinned to one side, but it seemed to work.

The corpse’s chest was open wide in a classic Y-incision, flesh jagged around the edges. The ribcage had been spread like one of those stiff-jointed stim toys, the ends of each one snapped off. Other than that, the cavity looked truly hollow—unless you counted the intestines, that is. A few of them were dangling out, probably having been tugged this way and that while the kidneys were being taken.

The carnage was all topped off by the dead man’s hands. A total of ten bloody stumps at the base of each knuckle.

“I should’ve done it earlier,” Caliban murmured, gazing down at those stumps, shaky hands clutching at his hair as he headed over to the door. Snare clearly hadn’t come back here, so the search had to continue. “He would’ve stayed if I did...”

“Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Azalea protested as she followed him. “Snare wouldn’t just leave you for no reason. He’s never been to this place; he probably got curious and went off exploring.”

Caliban swallowed a lump in his throat, nodding. “Right, right. It’s just—I’d hate if he thought I forgot about him—”

For the third time tonight, something came along to make Azalea nearly jump out of her skin. At least she wasn’t alone for it, seeing how a violent shudder raced through her brother’s shoulders.

A chorus of barking and yipping tore through the air somewhere outside the building.

The two of them exchanged glances, both of their eyes growing even wider to accommodate the way panic was getting closer to becoming something physical. 

One part of Azalea’s mind went back to all the times her and Caliban’s peers had commented about stuff like Sibling ESP. It was an interesting concept to be sure, though she’d been on the fence about it for the most part. Skepticism had nothing to do with that; she and Caliban had just been through so damn much together. 

Right here, right now, however, she could tell  exactly what he was thinking. 

Snare was fast. Snare was crafty. Snare could hold his own, whether it was against humans or other animals. 

And yet, if there was ever a time for What Ifs to infest a person’s mind…

“Cal?!” K.O.’s voice rang up through the thin walls, almost bouncing off the corners. “Cal, Aza, get down here!”

Caliban was off like a shot, stampeding halfway down the stairs before the words were even fully in the air. 

Azalea stayed on his heels, to the point that it was astounding they didn’t trip each other up. 

Caliban jumped over the last step before disappearing around the corner. “...SNARE!”

Azalea practically ricocheted off the wall, skidding to a halt just in time to see a pale blur bounding up into her brother’s arms. 

“Oh my God, oh my God, buddy…!” Caliban almost squealed as he spun around in a tight circle, hugging a very familiar cat-sized, long-eared bundle of white fur to his face. 

He paused, looking his pet dead in the eye. “You scared me half to death! You raised my blood-pressure like you were gonna get paid for it!” A breathless laugh tumbled out of his mouth. 

Snare, of course, didn’t reply, unless you counted how he pressed his little Y-shaped nose against his owner’s cheek, wriggling excitedly in the embrace.

Azalea let out a little sigh; admittedly, there was still some whiplash in her mind, but it was always nice to see pets getting love. She made a mental note to give Cuddles extra attention once she got back home.

“So—so, where was he?” Caliban asked, still chuckling with relief as Snare tucked his head under his chin. “Where did you…” 

He trailed off, eyes widening and jaw dropping. 

Azalea followed his gaze, only to feel her own face fall.

K.O. stood just a few feet away, fidgeting in place, carefully bouncing another critter in his arms.

It was a dog—a relatively small one, only so much bigger than Snare, with floppy ears and a coat of short fur a mix of tan, black, and white. A low, anxious whine rumbled in its throat, though it grew quieter as K.O. scratched its belly. 

“Hey, don’t worry. It’s alright, it’s alright…” K.O. mumbled, his eyes darting back and forth between his accomplices and the canine. “I, uh—I think Snare must’ve smelled him, or something. I found them running around somewhere by the back entrance.” 

Caliban nodded, confusion and relief making for a very interesting cocktail on his face.

 Snare leaned forward, curiously tilting his head as he stared at his…chaser? Surprise playmate?

“...Well, he can’t be a stray. Look, he’s got a collar,” Azalea mused, stepping forward to get a better look at the red band around the dog’s neck. And as she gently prodded, she discovered that, rather than a metal tag, a small barrel was resting against the dog’s chest.

She froze; she recognized this collar. 

Hell, she remembered making remarks, both snide and genuinely curious, about how Saint Bernards were the only dogs that ever really wore barrels, and that practice in general wasn’t exactly common nowadays, so why would…detective-trained beagles need to…?

“Guys…” she blurted, glancing at K.O., glancing back at her brother. “Guys, this is—”

“Casey’s dog,” Caliban finished, a new type of anxiety flickering in his eyes. 

In almost perfect unison, the three of them hurried away from any nearby windows. 

“But we haven’t seen him snooping for weeks now!” K.O. proclaimed, ironically hugging Scout a bit closer. (Thankfully, said beagle didn’t seem to mind too much.) “This was a random job! We weren’t even expecting to come here! How the hell could he have tracked us?!”

Caliban’s furrowed his brow as he stared at the floor, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. 

Azalea found herself in a sort of similar boat, struggling to see any potential answers.

K.O. was right, after all; there shouldn’t have been any way for Casey—for any investigator—to have figured out what was going on here.

The revenge-plan had been made so quickly; really, it was sheer luck that they found about about this motel being used as a hideout when they did—

That train of thought came crashing to a halt as Phoenix came into view, leaning around one corner by the dusty old check-in desk. Her face was a mask of concern, fiery eyes wide and uncertain. Without a word, she motioned for her peers to come closer. 

And so they did, following her lead down yet another hallway, passing by more rooms (as well as a pool that just had to be a biohazard by now) before reaching a glass door at the very end.

One that led out into the parking lot, which stretched all the way around to the back of the building.

Phoenix stopped just before the threshold. Not pushing the door open, not turning to the others. Instead, she simply pointed.

The old motel wasn’t the only thing in this area that had been left to rot a while ago. It truly seemed like the small town around it had become unsaturated as a whole. It was just one of those places that was meant to be avoided, yet stubbornly kept halfway-functioning. One of those places where cops didn’t bother to come around all that much…

A little neighborhood stood not too far at all from the motel. 

It would’ve been impossible not to see movement in front of one house in particular, on the outer-edge of the block: a man dressed in some kind of light-brown suit, spattered with dark red stains that just barely shone in the light of a nearby streetlamp. (Sure, it could’ve been paint. But people like Azalea and her peers knew better. If anyone knew red, it was The Pentas Family.) Caliban sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. Azalea looked over just in time to see one of his eyes twitching.

Phoenix pursed her lips, nodding. “I thought you’d recognize him.” 

The group kept staring, kept watching as the same man Caliban had ranted about having a grudge against—for very valid reasons, mind you—pull someone else out of the backseat of a car. 

The other man was very tall, and very clearly unconscious, seeing how he didn’t even try to struggle as he was half-hoisted from under his arms and dragged along the lawn. He boasted a head of black hair and dark brown skin…which somehow didn’t hide a couple bruises and cuts on his face. 

In fact, it seemed some blood had even managed to drip down onto a shiny gadget that hung from his neck…

“There he is,” K.O. blurted after a collective gasp broke the new silence. “It’s him.”

Casey.

Casey Frickin’ Clowes (the Frickin’ was silent, of course). 

The same private detective who’d been trying to disrupt underground business in the Cove Port Inlets. 

The same investigator who, despite all the taunting and tricks and near-misses he’d gone through, blatantly refused to give up on his work 

The same guy who had, somehow, against all odds, turned out to be…oddly fun in the whole cat-and-mouse scheme of things. 

(More fun than the average cop, that is.)

And he was being dragged into a shady house by a scumbag who’d gained quite a bit of infamy for the amount of missing childrens’ incidents surrounding his own work…

“So.” Phoenix finally turned to her friends, her eyes cautious. “What do you guys think we should do?”

“...Step in,” Caliban answered. “Otherwise that onise-bitch is gonna kill him. There’s no way that’s not what he’s planning.” 

“But how can we go about that?” K.O. asked, carefully rocking Scout in his arms. “Without giving him too much to work with?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Azalea replied, subconsciously raising a hand to draw small circles on Caliban’s back, feeling just how tense he’d gotten in so little time. “We always do, right?”

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @lexusinsannus @im-a-weird0 @b-is-in-the-closet @lampsforsocks

I knew you,

In another life

Back at it again with another little comic of Casey Clowes and his brother runaway murder case. Not many are aware of how deeply rooted the hurt hatred the detective has to the child murderer, but most can make an obvious and reasonable guess. Though there is much more than what Casey leads on.

Despite all the horrors, pain, and hate they feel, they were and may always, despite one not wanting to, be brothers. Maybe Casey would like it, that in one lifetime, in all possibilities, life may not have been cruel to give someone to him only to tear them away.

@wouldntyou-liketoknow @crazy-obsessed-enby @iswmperson @lexusinsannus @sammys-magical-au

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Moses Norbert

(For a little extra context about these characters, go here.)

My second ever fanmade CrankEgo (yeah, I know his name is a near-complete rip-off, I think it's a funny reference, so leave me alone).

Just like Cruz and Sol, he has himself a very, very rare friendship with a very, very frightening guy. As for who that guy is...well, just keep reading. You'll find out eventually.

As for how he met the aforementioned buddy: years ago, Moses found himself trapped inside a horrific, surreal dimension not unlike The Backrooms (the reason he ended up there in the first place is a story for another day, of course). It took a while of running and hiding for his life, but he eventually stumbled upon one corner of the dimension that had apparently been claimed by something...different from all the monsters he'd faced up until that point.

Shockingly enough, that something didn't just immediately attack him. Instead, he started a snide conversation with Moses, somehow already aware of all the hell he'd already gone through. Turns out, this creature had eyes everywhere...in quite a literal sense. Sooner or later, he decided to be in a bargaining mood: he could help Moses return to the human world, just like that. Only...the creature made it clear that he did NOT work for free. If Moses wanted his help, then he'd have to make it worth. His While.

Moses' mind was pretty much hanging on by a stubborn thread. So, he agreed. You'd better fucking believe he agreed to the terms in less than ten seconds. With that, he blinked and found himself being shoved through the hatch of a large, copper tank, falling into a heap on cold, concrete floor, coughing and sputtering and soaked to the bone. And after a moment, that same tank was illuminated from the inside-out by a familiar, terrifying figure.

As it turned out, this was the basement of The Oozing Crown, a brewery/distillery built on top of the creature's earthly territory. And now, as part of his new debt, it's where Moses was going to work and live. For quite a long time...(Good thing an apartment was built where the main building's roof would have been.)

Of course, calling this whole arrangement tense in the beginning would've been a serious understatement. And yet, somehow...Moses found himself getting along with the creature. Understanding the creature. Laughing with him about mixing drinks and addiction-fueled (alcohol and caffeine alike) shenanigans and tattoos and how stupid most other humans tend to be. Soon enough, he was learning how to perform rituals and capture offerings and help with harvesting stuff like emotions and souls and minds themselves! So, in summary, way more interesting stuff than his former life. To this day, Moses has no idea how it really happened (and it's fair to bet that the creature isn't sure how it happened himself), but he isn't complaining.

Continuing the little trend I've established, Moses' ceremonial tool is pretty small and unassuming upon first glance. It's a fancy vintage corkscrew that he found soon after being brought to The Oozing Crown. The pointed tip is deceptively sharp, perfect for either pricking little droplets of blood from fingers or leaving deep bore-holes in flesh. Not only that, but the handle can switch from being light as a paperweight to heavy as a cinderblock with a quickness. Pretty handy for breaking bones or knocking victims out. (Plus, since I can't help myself: the handle is crafted in the shape of a duck. If you know, you know. If not, my condolences to your soon-to-be-lost innocence. You can't tell me that irl Ethan wouldn't find that funny.)

You know the good boi Spencer, right? Irl Ethan's dog? Well, Moses has a lil' buddy named Mincer whose disguising glamor looks suspiciously similar to that handsome pile of fluff. His true appearance is basically a miniature Cerberus, only with each of the heads being more skeletal before the vertebrae disappear into his chest-fur. Oh, and his tail is made up of a bunch of snakes. Because of course it is. Despite all I've implied about that dimension Moses was trapped in, there was actually one other monster that wasn't making it his life-mission to kill him in any number of grotesque ways. Well, Mincer eventually managed to follow Moses' scent into the brewery's basement. Moses panicked at first (because duh), but once he realized the lil' guy was actually friendly, he didn't hesitate to adopt him.

I came up with the look of Moses’ mask in a similar way to Sol’s: basically just mashing the designs of this mask and yet another mask together in my head. (Damn, I’m really just showing how much stuff I drool over on Etsy, huh?) The material would be a combination of metal, glass, and maybe a bit of rubber or other softer stuff for the interior. The eyes along the top would be blue—though I wouldn’t say no to the potential of them changing color when certain things happen during rituals. Since toxic fumes are gonna be a big part of C.S.'s nature, I really wanted Moses’ mask to emulate a special kind of gas-mask.

___

Now, for the sake of convenience (and so I can stop calling him "the creature")...

ColosSeptic

My very first fanmade SepticEgo

Yep, he was the thing Moses found in that dimension. He was the thing to bring Moses back to Earth, and he's the thing Moses is currently working with, both in a casual and professional sense.

Now, where EldritchPlier and LeviathanPat are bound by rules that keep them outside of places, C.S. here is bound by rules that keep him inside a place. And that place is...you guessed it! The primary tank in The Oozing Crown's basement. Aforementioned tank is basically a gateway to his corner of that Backrooms-esque dimension I've probably brought up a few too many times now.

The main part of C.S.'s and Moses' deal revolves around his binding. As of right now, Moses is the only human capable of letting C.S. out of the tank without getting killed or having his mind broken for his troubles. Still, the binding is made of some extremely strong stuff; no matter what happens, C.S. is always forced to return to The Oozing Crown and back into his tank sometime after he exits. Depending on how far he wants/needs to travel and how long he wants/needs to be away. C.S. usually has to save up a lot of energy in advance.

He tends to feed on non-corporeal things. Souls, emotions, voices (one of his all-time favorites, actually. Makes it easier to mimic them when needed), thoughts, shadows, etc. He can siphon the stuff off of his victims just by touch if the mood suits him, but he typically prefers to have Moses bring said victims down to the basement and into one of the other tanks. (Yes, they're used for brewing/distilling normal stuff for the business, but come on. You can't just be surrounded by drink-making equipment and not use it for yourself sometimes.)

Remember how I mentioned toxic fumes above? They all but pour out and fill the air whenever the tank's hatch is open. Sometimes they're simply deadly enough to breathe in (trust me, they'd have a much worse effect on your lungs than smoke or any similar, non-oxygen gases). Other times however, they can be even more sinister. Rather than being poisonous, they can cause all sorts of hallucinations for whoever inhales them. Either way, you'll want to wear a very special protective mask in his presence.

His skin is mostly transparent; both his bones and internal organs often move around inside him, almost in a swimming or crawling way. They also glow and shift through a variety of colors (shades of green are the most common) that can change depending on circumstance (outside magic, his emotions, etc.) Very similar to a diaphonized specimen.

...Y'know, I was about to describe all the other aspects of his appearance in detail. But right now, I think I'll just stop here. I am going to be writing about him pretty soon, after all...😈 (Plus, it's not like I can't update this afterwards.)

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou

[ratdadarts]

@kinglyqueenly!!! Its done!!! 9 hours worth of hard work for this masterpiece!!!!

@crankgameplays hhhhhh

[melasong]

Just an idea

Ok so I was thinking, those of you who watch or know what the show Supernatural is knows that every once in a while they do an episode or two that has nothing to do with the main story line and is basically a one off. Well I had the idea of Jack, Mark, and all the other guys being on a show at a convention when one of them is attacked by one of the egos, be it Jack’s, Mark’s or whomever and they have to call Sam and Dean in for help. Well let’s say that the brothers are no match for all the egos who are evil ( yes even our loveable Chase, JJ, and Jackieboy) because of being under the control of Anti and Dark, and it is left up to Jack and gang to fight them in one final battle royal. @septicart-appreciation @jacksoopticboop @scarletravens @punkygeefunk @therealjacksepticeye @markiplier @antisepticjack @antiknife @shadowstakeall

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

(I wish I had something funnier to contribute, but this meme is all that's popping up right now 😅 I'm so sorry. Thank you, Sammy; this legit made my morning 💞)

Murdock: *folding his arms across his chest* Yeah, well...you s u c k.

K.O.: Oh—oh, shit!

Sam: *blinks a couple times* ...Your mom.

Caliban: *gasping in disbelief* Ohhhh?!

Murdock: *pauses, then narrows his eyes* YOUR DAD.

K.O.: ...*purses his lips, opening a bag of popcorn*

Caliban: OHHHHH?!?

Sam: *takes a few steps closer to Murdock* Your dad's DEAD.

K.O.: I—oh, OH—

Caliban: *starts cackling with laughter*

Murdock: ...He's not dead!

Sam: Then where is he?!

Murdock: *raises a finger to dictate his next words...only to shake his head and glare at Sam before storming off*

(Author's Context: I know I've only shaped out so much of my own personal lore/headcanons for Murdock in The Pentas Family/[The Future Mob Project], but just be aware that Murdock is acting all frustrated like that not because his dad is dead, but rather, because his dad ISN'T dead. Take that for what you will...😈)

Murdock: during a nuclear explosion, there’s a certain distance of the radius where all the frozen supermarket pizzas are cooked to perfection.

Caliban: there’s also a distance where the people are perfectly cooked!

K.O.: THE FLAVOUR ZONE!!

Sam: there is something horrifically wrong with every single one of you.

{@wouldntyou-liketoknow 💖}

[blueberry-demon]

Blank's side says "Emotions aren't weaknesses" for those who can't get past the blurriness :3 @crankgameplays

[warfstachenby]

idk about you guys but EminemGamePlays is my favourite ego 🥰