• 25 June xxxx: Honey Eyed beasts (1)

    Luther:




    Getting off the train with my single suitcase in hand, I felt the air thick enough to swim through, and the sun made it boil as if even the sky had a vendetta against the area. I scoffed, indignant at the wrathful sun above. "... Hell, it seems, is not fire—but humidity."


    No amenities were set out to combat this hellish environment that seemed to melt even malevolent spirits that shambled to and fro, melting into puddles of the damned. None! The only thing keeping me from keeling over was the righteous fury that burns exclusively in those cast aside by the incompetence of Headquarters— and the mighty need to complain at the lack of personnel to handle such egregious oversights.

    The more I thought about it, the more I was forced to walk past laughable shacks at best acting as “houses” and do trust that I had to feel just that as I was forced to trek across town, the closer I got to the main building…!


    I stopped as my long, still heart quivered in horror before my face became crimson.

    Even the air sizzled when I arrived at the atrocious excuse for a building, though that may have also been the inner fury I felt, being forced to bear witness to the decrepit, rotted-out shell of a bar with the same address as the supposed central hub. I checked my Dispatch notes. Thrice.

    Voghal, Luther F.- Reassignment: Fool’s Gold. Address:...


    It was the same. It was the bloody same address. My knees buckled in despair as I bore witness to a board of this ramshackle establishment fall off the roof with the slightest breeze. I had to remind myself—breathe, Voghal—lest I go into the most undignified rage and obliterate what must have once been a door into musty, splintered dust.

    When the sun and heat proved more potent than my rage, I found that the inside of my new hell was decorated like a saloon and a parlor. A decrepit saloon at that, with cobwebs in nearly every corner, including a poor upright piano that hadn’t been dusted in a decade, let alone tuned or played.


    I stood frozen, scandalized.
    A crime.
    A crime against sound.

    … I decided then and there that that would be my first personal project, especially if I could free the poor thing from its cruel owner from continuing to keep it around as a bloody ornament in this botched job of proper ascetics next to a jukebox of all damn things.

    And then I noticed the walls.

    What I assume was originally a beige wall is now a spotty yellowish brown from what I could only assume was heavy smoking throughout the years, which would make sense as the air and the furniture smelled of despair and nicotine.

    I was so focused on the travesty before me that I had not noticed the speedy long… everything that launched onto me, tackling my form with a growl.