Epitaph Chapter 1

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Epitaph Chapter 1

Post by Orc on Sat May 09, 2009 11:05 am

-Originally posted elsewhere; I have the entire log of the RP from when I copied it, and these are the latest posts found.-
Spoiler:
The_Albatross
04-07-2009, 11:35 AM
“We have to go masked” Apostle said. “Our masks are the only
things that will protect us now – but at the same time, they will bring us
danger. I suspect that the Feds will soon enough come after us and other
vigilantes. But for now, we must wear them. We cannot let them know of our
identities, or they will hunt us both our vigilante life, and our normal life.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the Feds were behind the dumpsters. Let’s go.”
Apostle put on his robe and opened the door. He then led Spectre back to the
dumpster alley via the rooftops. A few moments later, they were standing on a
fire escape a few feet above the screaming infants

“By the way, I do apologize about your motorcycle. But better our lives than
it. We’ll have to get it back from the Feds, I’m certain they’ve taken it. I
promise you by all that is holy we will get it back. Now, if my suspicion is
correct . . . Someone will come by in a few hours to take the children away.
We’re going to need some sort of vehicle to follow them. You were on the phone
with someone back at my home – do you think they could give us a ride along
with all of those weapons? I am sorry if this creates any inconvenience.”

Jameson sat in a quiet classroom. Every student in the class was either
reading, or pretending to. Some covered their heads with their books and slept.
Though Jameson was very tired from watching all of the Yankees game last night,
he was eagerly reading.

They came around a bend and a dog came out barking. Ahead were the lights of
the shanties where the Indian barkpeelers lived. More dogs rushed out at them.
The two Indians sent them back to the shanties In the shanty nearest the road
there was a light in the window. An old woman stood in the doorway holding a
lamp.
Inside on a wooden bunk lay a young Indian woman. She had been trying to have
her baby for two days. All the old women in the camp had been helping her. The
men had moved off up the road to sit in the dark and smoke out of range of the
noise she made. She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his
father and Uncle George into the shanty. She lay in the lower bunk, very big
under a quilt. Her head was turned to one side. In the upper bunk was her
husband. He had cut his foot very badly with an ax three days before. He was
smoking a pipe. The room smelled very bad.
Nick’s father ordered some water to be put on the stove, and while it was
heating he spoke to Nick.
“This lady is going to have a baby, Nick,” he said.
“I know,” said Nick.
“You don’t know,” said his father. “Listen to me. What she is going through is
called being in labor. The baby wants to be born and she wants it to be born.
All her muscles are trying to get the baby born. That is what is happening when
she screams.”
“I see,” Nick said.
Just then the woman cried out.
“Oh Daddy, can’t you give her something to make her stop screaming?” asked
Nick.
“No. I haven’t any anesthetic,” his father said. “But her screams are not
important. I don’t hear them because they are not important.”
The husband in the upper bunk rolled over against the wall.
The woman in the kitchen motioned to the doctor that the water was hot. Nick’s
father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big
kettle into a basin. Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he
unwrapped from a handkerchief.
“Those must boil,” he said, and began to scrub his hands in the basin of hot
water with a cake of soap he had brought from the camp. Nick watched his
father’s hands scrubbing each other with the soap. While his father washed his
hands very carefully and thoroughly, he talked.

“You see, Nick, babies are supposed to be born head first but sometimes they’re
not. When they’re not they make a lot of trouble for everybody. Maybe I’ll have
to operate on this lady. We’ll know in a little while.”
When he was satisfied with his hands he went in and went to work.
“Pull back that quilt, will you, George?” he said. “I’d rather not touch it.”
Later when he started to operate Uncle George and three Indian men held the
woman still. She bit Uncle George on the arm and Uncle George said, “Damn squaw
bitch!” and the young Indian who had rowed Uncle George over laughed at him.
Nick held the basin for his father. It all took a long time.
His father picked the baby up and slapped it to make it breathe and handed it
to the old woman.
“See, it’s a boy, Nick,” he said. “How do you like being an intern?”
Nick said, “All right.” He was looking away so as not to see what his father
was doing.
“There. That gets it,” said his father and put something into the basin.
Nick didn’t look at it.
“Now,” his father said, “there’s some stitches to put in. You can watch this or
not, Nick, just as you like. I’m going to sew up the incision I made.”
Nick did not watch. His curiosity had been gone for a long time.
His father finished and stood up. Uncle George and the three Indian men stood
up. Nick put the basin out in the kitchen.
Uncle George looked at his arm. The young Indian smiled reminiscently.
“I’ll put some peroxide on that, George,” the doctor said.
He bent over the Indian woman. She was quiet now and her eyes were closed. She
looked very pale. She did not know what had become of the baby or anything.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” the doctor said, standing up. “The nurse should
be here from St. Ignace by noon and she’ll bring everything we need.”
He was feeling exalted and talkative as football players are in the dressing
room after a game.
“That’s one for the medical journal, George,” he said. “Doing a Caesarian with
a jackknife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders.”
Uncle George was standing against the wall, looking at his arm.
“Oh, you’re a great man, all right,” he said.
“Ought to have a look at the proud father. They’re usually the worst sufferers
in these little affairs,” the doctor said. “I must say he took it all pretty
quietly.”
He pulled back the blanket from the Indian’s head. His hand came away wet. He
mounted on the edge of the lower bunk with the lamp in one hand and looked in.
The Indian lay with his face toward the wall. His throat had been cut from ear
to ear. The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk.
His head rested on his left arm. The open razor lay, edge up, in the blankets.
“Take Nick out of the shanty, George,” the doctor said.
There was no need of that. Nick standing in the door of the kitchen, had a good
view of the upper bunk when his father, the lamp in one hand, tipped the
Indian’s head back.
It was just beginning to be daylight when they walked along the logging road
back toward the lake.
“I’m terribly sorry I brought you along, Nickie,” said his father, all his
postoperative exhilaration gone. “It was an awful mess to put you through.
“Do ladies always have such a hard time having babies?” Nick asked.
“No, that was very, very exceptional.”
“Why did he kill himself, Daddy?”
“I don’t know, Nick. He couldn’t stand things, I guess.”
Do many men kill themselves, Daddy?”
“Not very many, Nick.”
“Do many women?”
“Hardly ever.”
Don’t they ever?”
“Oh, yes. They do sometimes.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Where did Uncle George go?”
“He’ll turn up all right.”
“Is dying hard, Daddy?”
“No, I think it’s pretty easy, Nick. It all depends.”
They were seated in the boat, Nick in the stern, his father rowing. The sun was
coming up over the hills. A bass jumped, making a circle in the water. Nick
trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chill of the morning.
In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his
father rowing, he felt quite sure that he would never die.

The text didn’t make much sense. Jameson had been expecting more – this story
was somewhat lame and it didn’t make much sense. A few minutes later, Mr.
Whittaker spoke up.

“How many of you watched the Yankees game last night?” Nearly every male hand
in the classroom shot up. “That game was a perfect example of the masculine
theater. Last night, Retzlaff failed. Everyone was watching him, everything
depended on him. Ever read anything about his father? His father pushes him more
than anyone else, he’s the equivalent of a stage dad for musicians. The same
concept applies to Nick here. His father wanted him to watch the birth of the
baby as a rite of passage. Nick was unable to watch, though his father didn’t
notice it. Thus, he did not prove his manhood and therefore he failed. Last
night, Retzlaff was faced with a challenge. He crumbled. This is a small
example, but I think you understand how theme connects. As we read on, you’ll
notice that the theme continues, particularly in the bullfighting stories.
Let’s read one one. Go to Chapter IX, everyone.“ The students groaned and
flipped to the page Mr. Whittaker had requested.

“The first matador got the horn through his sword hand and the crowd hooted
him” Mr. Whittaker read. “The second matador slipped and the bull caught him
through the belly and he hung on to the horn with one hand and held the other
tight against the place, and the bull rammed him wham against the wall and the
horn came out, and he lay in the sand, and then got up like crazy drunk and
tried to slug the men carrying him away and yelled for his sword but he
fainted. The kid came out and had to kill five bulls cause you cant have more
than three matadors, and the last bull was so he was so tired he couldn’t get the
sword in. He couldn’t hardly lift his arm. He tried five times and the crowd
was quiet because it looked like him or the bull and then he finally made it.
He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd
hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.” The students looked up,
most of them very confused. Jameson, however, made some sense of it.

“Ignore the long rambles, and just go to the bottom of that vignette. He puked,
and fell down in the sand. The crowd did not approve of his effort. In their
eyes, he failed in his quest for manhood. Retzlaff did the same thing last
night. He went out there, in an attempt to get the Yankees to the playoffs.
With a hit, the Yankees would have a chance to get there. But he struck out. To
fans, he failed. What happened to Retzlaff last night is a perfect example of
Hemingway’s masculine theater.” By now most of the students were asleep –
Jameson, and a brown haired girl aside. Her mouth was wide open, her face was
red, and her eyes were looking down at her crotch. Blood and other bodily
fluids covered her once white skirt and chair.

“Jesus Christ” Mr. Whittaker said. “Someone get the janitor”

GamerDude2000
04-08-2009, 09:37 PM
"Sure...except he lives in South
America."

Spectre silently cursed his luck. He wasn't so concerned about his motorcycle
until now. What were they supposed to do about transportation? He didn't have
any friends to ask. Those few that he considered friends couldn't provide him a
car easily. Hell, none of his business partners could provide him a car. He was
as good as...wait.

"Damnit!"

Ruby slammed the faxed paper onto the table. The hell was this? Her father got
a TV from the government? What sort of bullshit was that? And why couldn't a
girl enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning without being stressed these days?

While contemplating this thought, the phone rang. Raising an eyebrow, Ruby
walked over to it. The caller was blocked, as usual. Probably one of the bar's
perverts calling to give her a hard time. She was used to it by now. No one had
really done anything to her yet. As long as they kept their hands off, she'd be
fine.

"Hello?" she said as she picked up. The voice she heard was not who
she expected.

"Spectre, hi!"

"You have no common sense, do you? Your phone lines could be tapped! What
do you mean you know they aren't? The hell does a Mexican electrician know
about phone taps? You know what, forget it. I need a ca...no, I do not need a
drink and a massage, I need a damn car. No, I will not remove my mask if you
deliver it, yes I will take good care of it, and yes I need it now!"

Spectre sighed. He hadn't wanted to drag her into this. However, following the
pattern of his life, he didn't have a damn choice. It angered him. Why the hell
couldn't life work like a god damned puzzle just once!? The thought of a
puzzle, however, reminded him of last night. That caused him to shudder.

He quickly rattled off the address where the car was needed and hung up.
Hopefully she'd come through. If not, they were fucked.

"Friend of mine's bringing a car."

Entaris
04-21-2009, 04:38 AM
Ray shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. -Ah,well,
everyone's a critic...and some of them are actually homicidal cultists that
want to control the world...but meh- Domh commented in his head, causing him to
smirk into his cup.
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Re: Epitaph Chapter 1

Post by Venomar on Sun May 31, 2009 3:29 pm

“Excellent. So,
while we wait. . . I never did properly introduce myself. My name is Anthony
Grey, but to you I am known as the Apostle. I’d ask to be excused for my brutal
methods, but yours are just as savage.” Apostle said, as he scanned the
area.”It seems you and I both understand the nature of this world, despite our
differences. Though many of your earlier opinionated statements were vastly
incorrect, your actions have helped me to respect your misguided moral center.
Actions speak louder than opinions, I suppose. Between the both of us, amidst
our foils, appears to be a common desire to rid the world of its scum. Do you
share my sentiments? Also, I must ask. . . Do you believe in God, Spectre?”

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Re: Epitaph Chapter 1

Post by GamerDude2000 on Fri Jul 10, 2009 10:03 am

“Adrien Daniels,” Spectre said with mild attention as he examined the world outside a window. How he wished he could always view the world from the other side of a window. A little piece of glass separating you from the evils of the outside. A filter, allowing the good to come in but keeping the evil locked away from your sight. The world would be a better place if everyone viewed it through a window. No one would have to do anything to stop bad occurrences because they wouldn’t exist.

“God? I believe in him. I believe he stopped giving a damn what I do a long time ago,” Spectre answered, still gazing out the window. He had an interesting relationship with God. He knew He existed. He knew He didn’t care right now. More power to him. Spectre would wash his hands of this world just as quickly as God did if he had the chance.
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