walter reid, the man in black (walkin) wrote in thereincarnates, @ 2021-03-31 10:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | adrienne o'carroll, walter reid |
Who. Walter Reid, Adrienne O'Carroll, and a very special guest.
What. The Man in Black has come to town.
Where. Caesar's Palace. Vegas, for posterity's sake.
When. Late Tuesday night.
Warnings. Violence, manipulation, torture, and eventually, yes, death.
Life, in its abundance — and wasn't it grand? He could smell it, the veil between worlds thinner here. Here-not-here: how he had been once, how he hadn't been at all. There was a cycle, the wheel o' the world spinning and stopping here. Grand Central Station wrapped up in a neat little bow of flesh and bone and sin. It was a nexus, of sorts, a convergence of all that was, that is, that will be. Here, he could sense all powers that had stopped him, in all forms he had been gifted: the crone, the gunslinger, the sheriff, the spider among them. Out there. Somewhere. With fingers to the glass, a deep, steadying inhale, it all came to him like a song. A tune of death and all its friends, a jaunty, happy tune. It sang of many things: shoes, ships, ceiling wax, and a tale of fallen kings. Death would be satisfied on this night, and the wheel would do as it always did best.
The penthouse floor had been loaned to him freely. The promise of wealth and riches never went amiss in the hearts of man, of that there was certainty. But there was, of course, work to be done, and the stage required setting. A fire in the chosen suite, every curtain drawn back, to expose the world down below for what it really was: a smattering of lust and color, dragged across a canvas with fat fingers, mixing business with pleasure, summer tones with winter. Bright. Neon. Chrome. It was not for him, any longer. There would be a new palace, a new place, but it was powerful. It was poignant. Poetic. A girl with purple hair, somewhere that isn't Here: P-p-p-perfect. Teeth flashed, a shark's smile, the grin of a thousand dead men; this would do fine.
From the bedroom, a jukebox played. Willie Nelson moved through every open door. The night life ain't no good life. He wondered how long it would take, to what end it would come to fruition. There would come a time in the desert, a time of understanding, of listening. This world was one more in countless, their universe a copy of a copy of a copy. Always different. After-images, lens flares, shadows on film. He understood the work that would be done, the purpose that would be served. For now, the dirty work. Hands on hands and blood between them. But it's my life. There would be walking and there would be a palaver around the fire. In the deep, dark dead of the world, there would be change.
Those same boots that had tread the long, winding roads of night crossed the floor, turning toward the bar with the sway of a simple man, a humbled man. Neither of which he had ever been, would ever be again. Footsteps in the hall. The muted sound of voices. Mine is just another scene — he withdrew a bottle of Tennessee Whiskey, letting it splash against glass walls before he spun the lid from its neck. From the world of broken dreams. A smile. That same smile. The one thirsty for more than drink.
"Well, well, well —" he spoke to the room, three glasses tucked into the grip of his fingertips. Head canted toward the door as the figures crossed the threshold, a marriage of the macabre. A willing sacrifice. "Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?"