Path-notes from the Edge of Forever(4)

So, I was working in my apartment. My project was fairy simple. I wanted to begin the process. The process is very key. Part of this process involved ritual scarification. I want to put the alchemical alphabet on my body in a way that I can manipulate. So, the project was to use the wood-burning tool to etch the proper symbols onto my knuckles. Air, earth, fire, and water on the first (1st) knuckle and then mercury, iron, sulfur, and gold on the set of knuckles below it. The next set of symbols will come to me in dreams as these did.

So, rub the area down with benzocaine, burn the symbol in and then rub salt. A lot of pain to be certain, but a small price to pay in the larger picture. I was very disciplined. It was late at night and I did not scream. There was more pain than I expected. I even cried, I can't remember the last time I cried... and then a funny thing happened.

I had what I can only call a moment of clarity. I went out onto the back deck and looked down into the courtyard of the apartment complex. It was as still as death. Snow had blanketed it and was lazily drifting to the earth, lit only by the sodium arc light of the street. It was a moment of pure sublime beauty, and I thought to myself..."What the fuck am I doing with my life?"

I think I took a wrong turn somewhere. A lifetime of thwarted desire has made me into a twisted freak to the point where I can't even TALK to regular human people. I can't look them in the eyes for fear of what they'll see in mine. I'm so disconnected from ordinary humans that I keep myself busy with all of this mystical stuff to keep myself from realizing how lonely I am. I'd howl at the moon right now if I could. I'm so disconnected from human beings that I’ve got two dozen (24) DVD's of nasty S&M rape fantasy video, and I play that stuff constantly. And I haven't jerked off in..Fuck. I can't remember how long. It's like wallpaper to me now. I don't have any friends. My family has washed their hands of me. I have the leg of a secretary in my freezer.

It's moments like these when you realize that you are a monster, and probably have been for a long time. When did you make the choice to turn away from...all of it?  When did THAT happen?

And as I hold my ruined hand to my breast in the cold frozen night, I wonder whether I made myself into one(1), or whether God decided to make me into one (1).

Does it makes a difference?

Dr. Dennis McMurtry

Concept: Over the hill spook

Desc: The first thing you notice about Dennis is his bulk. He is a bit overweight, which is to be expected from a man who spends much of his day writing and reading. but much of his bulk comes from the fact that he’s fairly broadly framed. and for a man his age, he’s not terribly fat. There’s still muscle underneath and with some time and effort, he could be back down to his fighting weight in no time, should the need arise.  His hair is running to silver and he is beginning to look like a bit Santa Claus-like. Every once in a while he shaves his beard off and seemingly drops ten years. He smiles a lot and has an open manner. His nails are a mess and he tries not to bite them, but you know how it is.  He wears glasses that are mostly for reading, but he puts them on to look smart too. He can wear a suit without looking uncomfortable in it but tends to opt for sweatpants and t-shirts around the house. In any event, there will be traces of dog hair on everything he does wear.  Dennis’s body bears a few scars from an unpleasant time he spent in the hands of the Bulgarian secret police. Those guys are all dead now. Just saying.

History: They say that every single university in America hosts at least one recruiter for the CIA. Dennis is one of those guys. A career spook straight out school with a fresh Poli-Sci degree. Dennis became one of the many many people involved in the shadowy world of the cold war in the 70’s and 80’s and also during the transition after the fall of the soviet political party in the nineties.

A life like that has its ups and downs. He got married and he and Margarett traveled around extensively in Europe and Russia. Dennis’s cover was that of a photojournalist and it turned out he had an actual flair for the work. They had two kids, but one got sick and died from leukemia. Tommy’s death drove a wedge between Dennis and Margarett. especially since Dennis was often away for long periods of time. While Dennis and Margarett’s marriage ended several years ago, they are still in touch and talk often about their daughter Cecilia. (Each has a somewhat complicated relationship with their daughter and it’s one of the few things that they still commiserate over.)   Dennis lives alone now, but dates on occasion. He’s a bit of a silver fox.

Dennis works at a nearby university. He teaches journalism (His doctorate is not bullshit) and when time permits, writes books. (mostly about journalism, but he’s still got that potboiler spy thriller he’s been working on for a decade.) He earns extra money on top of his CIA pension by kicking the occasional bright young thing in the direction of Langley.  He does this by going over the papers that his students write with a program designed to textually analyze their papers and cross-reference the word choices to various indices of the Meyer-Briggs personality inventory.  Not only does it usually yield him at least one recruit per semester but it has come in handy as a means of academic advising.  (“I’ll be honest Ms. Daniels. While I think you have a keen mind and decent writing skills, I can tell you absolutely do not have the temperament for television news. You’re flatly too nice.”) 

Attitude: Dennis is very relaxed. The kind of relaxation that comes from a knowledge that you’ve done some very bad things in the name of truth, justice, and the American way, and yet somehow...Managed to live through it.  Dennis was a very hard man once but time and the exigencies of spook life have softened him some.  He would have been miserable if he’d stayed at Langley and gone into analysis or whatever. So now, Dennis enjoys his life and allows some of the more horrible memories to recede into the background of his past.  Heck, seems like all that stuff happened to another fella...and official documents seem to bear that out.

Which is not to say that Dennis doesn’t still occasionally have that itch to get back in the field. But lately, he finds that there are ways to work that out.  two semesters ago, there were a series of rapes that occurred on campus. One of the young ladies was a journalism student... and then, the rapes just stopped. It’s almost as if the rapist simply vanished from the face of the earth. What does that tell you?

Skills:  Old habits die hard. While most of the Dennis’s “Instruments” are under the concrete in his garage, he still has a pair of pistols (legally obtained, serial numbers and everything) that he puts through their paces once every couple of weeks. Dennis’s fighting skills could probably stand to have the dust shaken off of them, but the reflexes are still there. He is idiomatic in Russian and German language families and can get by in Spanish, and Mandarin. Additionally, his Journalism and spy training have made him into a top flight investigator. and he knows a small smattering of combat medicine.  Dennis is the kind of guy who has plans and resources at his fingertips.  He knows how to make thermite and IED’s. He knows where you can get burner phones at 4 in morning, and he knows at least 5 places in the surrounding area where you could dump a body.

Gear: Other than the aforementioned pistols, Dennis has a few dots of Armory and at least 1 Dragunov sniper rifle that is in perfect shape. He normally carries a smart phone. A small razor sharp pocket knife. A wallet with a decent amount of getaway cash. and a taped roll of quarters.

Home: Dennis place is not some spy haven, but he does own it outright. He's got a number of slicks and hidey-holes, but not really much to put in them. His garage has a decent number of tools and there is a black metal cabinet in one corner full of mason jars or various chemical compounds ready for mixing should the need arise.

Circle: Dennis has allies and contacts in the following areas: Local Journalists, Academics, Police, Municipal. 

Story Uses:

“Don’t worry. I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing before.”

Dennis is the sort of person that you’d want in your corner or on your side when things go sideways. He’s not the sort of person who flips out in the face of danger and has skills in unusual areas. He makes a great Ally. He makes a great Contact. He makes a phenomenal Mentor. 

“This is Harbinger. I’ve encountered a situation. I need to come in.”

The downside of this, of course, is that Dennis can be a bad person to cross. He’d be the sort of fellow who’d go to a meeting with you with comprehensive files on you in button-down mode, a knife taped to the small of his back, a radio detonator in his pocket, and a sniper on the parking garage 3 blocks away. Has he encountered the supernatural before? Well... There have been things that he’s seen for which he still doesn’t have a good explanation.  So getting on the wrong side of Dennis is bad not only because he’s got the backing of the university behind him, not only do most of the journalist working in radio and TV in the surrounding area owe their jobs to him, but a couple of calls might get the CIA to look very carefully in the direction of people causing him trouble...and maybe Task Force Valkyrie too.

Connections:
* Aldous Church and he worked on a thing some years ago.  It was not pleasant.
* Detective Bela Janofski was the lead detective on the campus rape case. Dennis suspects that Bela knows exactly what happened to the rapist but has chosen not to say anything.  Detective Janofski struck him as being pretty darn smart.
* Patricia "Carnie" Pitt was one of his students. and a good one too. He has her in his rolodex.

Path Notes from the Edge of Forever(3)

I am giddy.

Last night was a total triumph. For the first time in the whole of my life, I can understand the beauty of mortal human flesh. I can understand why normal sheeple can give it to one another like some kind of unwrapped gift. UNwrapped! Ha! I touched a new place. I found a kind of soul music and indeed in those timeless moments in my apartment. I found a sort of release that I had never known before.

They can see it in me. I can sense it. They know that today I am different. Their bovine eyes can see that I am filled with the white light.

I have to stop rocking back and forth, but I am so filled with excitement. I would shout. I would sing. I would give a thousand (1000) prayers. But their eyes on me are distracting me. They don't understand. They will never understand. Not even if they had a hundred (100) years.

And, after I had washed the blood off of my body, I thought...This must be how Christ felt. I could feel a chorus of angels singing to me as I drove her body to the edge of town. The sinkhole where she lays now ought to be hallowed ground. Hallowed! Or, or hollowed! 

I can't stop laughing...The jokes just keep coming... I have to be careful or I'll draw notice.

I am glad at least that no police saw me.

It would have been awkward, as I no longer have a license to drive.

At least there is plenty left in the freezer. And tonight, I shall make a victory dinner.

Yes. 

Today is going to be a good day.

From the Diary of Emile Belasco (4)

One of the things they don't tell you when you're first starting out in this bizarre little pantomime is that things are rarely cut and dried. The times when one knows that one is acting in the right are countable on one hand in the life of a magus.

Of course, the dark is bad. Of course, the dark is evil. Of course, the dark means to do you ill. 

But the thing that you usually miss in the throes of youth and inexperience is that the light comes with heat and too much of it can burn you. The light is as impersonal and uncaring as the dark. We can be ground between the gears of the endless struggle between the two if we aren't very careful.

Making deals with angels is every bit as dangerous as making deals with demons. With demons, there is always the expectation of being screwed. And for their part, they always expect us to try to screw them in exchange. That's par for the course.

But you never expect an angelic being, a power of light, a being supposedly composed of perfect love, to screw you over, and always mouthing the belief that they are doing it for the greater good.Possibly even YOUR greater good.

Bloody pricks.

And of course, if you try to wriggle out from under the hammer, their fury is intimidating, and the collateral damage is impressive. My experience with them leads me to posit the theory that the peoples of Sodom and Gomorrah were regular people like us. They just made a deal with the powers beyond human morality and as such suffered as none had before... or since.

From the Diary of Emile Belasco(3)

I hate the Internet.

You know, in my day, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth, the ability to be taken seriously as a practicing magus was predicated on a few things that were within the scope of my control. Before delving seriously into the practice of Magick, I, at least, took some time to get a degree in Psychology, with study of the paranormal as an interesting sidelight. I took the practice of magick and the exploration of the unseen world very seriously. And while I never subscribed to the raging atheism of stage magicians, I did think it prudent to study their work. While I've never had the luxury of skepticism, I have on occasion found at least a couple of things that were spoiled for me by serious scientific inquiry. In fact, one can make a case that most haunted houses could stand a vigorous check for carbon monoxide fumes, and for infrasonic phenomenon. Taos, New Mexico has a hum that some people can hear, and it's a well-known fact that infrasonic frequencies can cause erratic behavior and even hallucinations in people. Infrasonic phenomenon are naturally occurring in some places. Is it so far a jump to wonder how many "hauntings" are in fact nothing of the kind? And I speak as a person who has WALKED in the spirit world.

But, in the fullness of time, the field of occult research has been crowded up, not only by John Edwards, James Van Pragh and other charlatans of their ilk but also by any hausfrau with an itch for the paranormal and time to code a web page. God's teeth! At least stay away from the hokier aspects of our work. Every pair of eyes that sees a web page that looks like an advertisement for a store selling Halloween costumes makes my work that much harder to digest for the serious thinker.

By the thrice great, I am an old old man. I'll be shouting at neighborhood youngsters to get off of my lawn next.

Dr. Ronnette "Ronnie" Franklin

Concept: Off the books Doctor

Desc: A slim and relatively athletic African-American woman in her late twenties. Smart eyes and a nice smile, but often dogged by a lack of sleep and a lack of things to smile about. She tends to keep her hair tied up and away from her face. She wears glasses for reading now. She has a rough voice like a young Demi Moore and a no-nonsense demeanor that she shows to her patients/clients. Clean nails. Never bothers with shoes other than sneakers.

History: Ronnie is the eldest of four sisters. While all of the Franklin girls are pretty smart, Ronnie was the only one smart enough to get an academic scholarship, and go on to medical school.  Ronnette is a good girl and for the most part was smart enough to avoid many of the pitfalls of youth and inexperience. She grew up lower middle class and had many friends and family who suffered with much less than her. Her desire to help people and use her knowledge was what powered her through on many long nights studying.

Well. That and the bennies.

Yes. like a lot of people caught between desire and demand, she found herself using to keep going. It certainly doesn’t help matters that internships and residencies have become completely ridiculous when it comes to the sheer number of hours working the floor. The long hours finally became too much and the occasional pick-me-up became a regular habit in order to stay in the game.

Add to this, that her specialty, trauma medicine is usually a fairly high-stress specialty to go into...and well...There always seemed to be too much to do.

And then, of course, as these things usually go, she got caught. And because she was a woman of color they threw the book at her.

Now she runs a back alley clinic because she has no license anymore.

Attitude: The only way out is through. Someday she may get her license back but right now, she spends every waking moment trying to figure out ways to keep it together. And she’s learned a lot in a very short amount of time. But will it be enough? Will it ever be enough?

Skills: Ronnie is a very talented trauma doctor and meatball surgeon. In addition, after having meth addicts crash her place once too often she’s become proficient in the use of a pistol. Her knowledge of recreational chemical entertainments is becoming deep and pervasive. She'll have deep dots in Medicine and Science with applicable specialties.
Mentally, she's stronger in Resolve than anything else. Socially, she's pretty good with Composure and Physically, she'll likely have more stamina. She runs to stay fit and has dots of Athletics to prove it.

Gear: Ronnie carries a large tool bag that she keeps her medical gear in. It's tough and water-resistant. It also holds her pistol and her mace sprayer. She's got a smart phone loaded with medical apps

Home: Ronnie rents a studio apartment about 2 blocks from her "Office" The neighborhood is a little sketchy, but she knows it like the back of her hand and most of her neighbors know about her situation. Most of them are deliriously happy to have a doctor nearby, but as you know there is at least one hater in the complex who thinks she's "Stuck up"

Circle: While Ronnette isn't the sort of person to presume, she really doesn't realize how many people have benefitted from her work and how many people in the neighborhood would take axe and fire to anyone that might harm her. She may not have noticed yet, but there are people in the background who have seen to it, that the Meth-heads will leave her be from now on. She's like the "George Bailey" of the projects.

Story Uses:

“No promises. But I’ll see what I can do. Now put your leg up here.”

Ronnie patches up criminals, she’s known to gang-bangers and organized crime people alike, as being capable and close-mouthed. This has allowed her to keep the light on in her tiny little clinic. Criminals pay a lot better than the regular people from the neighborhood.

“Did you dance with a semi truck? His collar-bone is broken in four places...”

Ronnie has seen some things and is likely known to few hunters groups who have had need of her services. While she always plays it off like, “Oh that? Oh, I assumed he was just raving from the pain” she’s paid careful attention to the things that Hunters have said on her table. While she may never take up arms against supernatural threats herself, she’ll certainly be willing to lend a hand.  She’s most likely aligned or friends with people from “The Union”

Connections:
* Charlie knows her and recognizes her.  She often stops to talk to him. more often than not she's got a spare donut for him.
* Big Dan Tarleton has had his fighters patched up by her more than once. She doesn't like him much, but he pays on time.
* Tyronne "Tiberius" Glover has been on her table. She dug 4 bullets out of him. He feels as if he owes the doc beyond the cash his boys laid off on her. This could be something of a double-edged sword.

Path-notes from the edge of forever(2)

Page 67:

I always knew that I was destined for something higher. This was not something my parents could ever understand, being poor white trash. They could barely understand themselves much less me. I think Mother may have had a glimmer, but Father was a lost cause. I read that phrase in the book Dune, "For the father, nothing..." and I can feel it toll my inner bell. My father will never know my depth. 

And, it has nothing to do with ambition, at least not the way most people understand it. My cow-orkers in the office I work in, are human filth who mightily strive each day to kill each other for money or position. They're excrement. They can't even touch the deep and meaningful life I have wrested from the hands of the gods. My senses are full and rich. My thoughts are long and full. I see the world and, while much of it revolts me to my core, I can see small traces of the beauty that the creator meant for it and it has been worth all the struggle. The marks on my flesh. The endless nights of vigilant contemplation, knowing the movement of energies even in the dim cold recesses of this filthy apartment building.

I have powers beyond their kenning. I break thing with my very touch. That's why I no longer drive. I take the bus out of a sense of public duty and sparing the commonweal being endangered by my very presence, though they hardly deserve it. And I do not... NOT ride the bus because of what the judge said. Nor what my doctor said. May they burn in one thousand (1000) HELLS! Someday, I may be able to shut off a mortal life with my mind, and then I will ascend, but not before handing out mortal justice to those who have harmed me with their lies and ignorance.

1) The woman with the odd eye at the DMV.

2) The red-faced man at my grocery behind the deli counter, with his false laugh.

3) The bus driver who I do not like.

4) Jerry and his yappy little dog next door.

5) The policemen who come around when I make complaints who are filled with lies!

6) Mrs. Dominguez, my third (3rd) grade teacher.

7) That fat fuck that is looking at me right now.

8) The editor of the newspaper who refuses to pass on my wisdom to a larger world.

9) Cenobite and those other losers on the message board. Their day will come and they won't be so fucking clever!

10) Jane from the office, who put me through so much pain! 

11) Nancy! A thousand (1000) agonizing deaths for her!

(The text goes on in this vein for at least 16 pages)