Suggested Audio Candy:
Tom Waits 16 Shells From A Thirty-Ought Six
It’s all in the eyes. They call them the windows to the soul and I concur such claims. I’ve met folk before who have possessed nothing whatsoever behind the eyes and it’s as though they cease to exist beyond their crust. It seems like these people are placed here just to make up numbers, either that or they’re fucking good at hiding their true selves. Others have eyes that gift direct access to their souls, bleeding essence through their retinas, and telling a thousand fables just with a solitary glance.
It’s eminently clear which category our Dark King falls into as his piercing blue eyes appear to conceal a lifetime of love and also the most exquisite pain. Is his soul tortured? My assumption would be both yes and a resounding no. There’s agony in there for sure, but it never overawes the softness to his stare. He leads the way, shows us that suffering, when channeled correctly, can fast become genius and he does all of this via these two admittedly stunning blue portals.
It has been six months since I had the exclusive pleasure of making his acquaintance and it wasn’t long afterwards that he appointed me his First Knight. For a scribe just cutting their teeth, albeit deliciously, he fast-tracked me straight to self-assuredness and offered me a most prestigious weapon to join him in imminent skirmish. Naturally I accepted and drew my Crimson Quill from its sheath. I got to work immediately and have never once found myself short of topics to wax about.
It is effortless chronicling the life of someone you believe in wholeheartedly. The words flow, nay gush, and my passion translates into something of dark beauty every time, failing none, in such instances. We began to collaborate together almost immediately and he respected my vision enough to understand that I just scribe and post, almost without drawing breath, and trusted that. There has never once been a time when he has required me to run something by him first and this speaks volumes for the man and his faith in me as his brother in arms. Our conversations often consist of “bro, I need you and Diane to find a shower and some blood, posting in two”. Despite the fact that their schedule is loaded fuller than a Catholic priest’s wank-cannon, time is always set aside for such matters of importance.
Matt Farnsworth has already proven himself long ago, he’s fucking titanium and he damn well knows it. Some may confuse his single-minded vision as arrogant but I would suggest these folk take another look. Belief my lovelies, gallons upon gallons of brutal bloody perspective and the cojones of a water buffalo combine to provide him his vantage point. On the other hand there’s Keeper, chasing the rabbit around the track, and barely even out of the paddock. Why the hell is this guy going to afford me the opportunity to make any sort of demands? After all, TOK is his baby, along with his eye-bleedingly bodacious Dark Queen of course. He could have told me to get off ma horse, and drink ma milk if he’d seen fit. He didn’t. Why? Because there’s a cortex of acumen beyond those baby blues.
He was aware from the very moment he read my appraisal for his social media slasher goliath, The Orphan Killer, that I got him. My prose reflected his soul and I didn’t once miscalculate with my observations. Instead I bowed down to his intensity. After our first Skype chat he informed me that some find his intensity uncomforting. I swiftly retorted that he didn’t need to worry about this with me. No judgements, his eyes had already told me his tale, my passage to his soul had been uncluttered courtesy of this burning intensity. Nobility goes a long way with King Matt. He appreciates the sentiment when another tells it how it is, doesn’t dress it up like a carnival queen, just admits to their own humanity.
I fall fast and hard, it takes me the faintest of introductions to know whether I love somebody. It took that Skype call, a fraction to be precise, to know this of our Dark King. It was monarch and minnow, but he didn’t treat once me like pond-scum. Nope, I was welcomed into his world, shown around the place. I like what I saw, nay this is no time for indifference, I FUCKING LOVED WHAT I SAW. The clue is in the influx of articles which have followed. I cannot scribe of something I don’t share belief in; that’s the only time the Crimson Quill runs dry.
Instead it just kept gushing. The words from my soul are meticulously woven around his visionary photography, dancing around the most delectable imagery like hand in silken glove. A match made in the blazing chasms of hell, you could say. Although my personal pilgrimage has distracted me from scribing of my favorite topic over the past few months, this has actually been calculated. I’d been nurturing the Grueheads and assisting them in arming themselves with their own quills so it felt organic to let others use their intense passion of all things TOK to paint their canvas.
Now I’m back, from outer space, tooled up like Machete, minus the glorious mustache of course. Thirty nine years in and I still haven’t mastered facial hair. The Rivers of Grue are in transmogrification and my attention is now divided, thus I have an army of collaborators to breathe yet more life into this whirling behemoth. Waxing TOK is still in its infancy and there are many of us fighting for this cause.
On this occasion, with female peepers scouring through this post and three fingers down their sodden panties, I wish to get them off. This isn’t to be crass, purely righteous. I feel that prose, when delivered distinctly, can evoke sensual feelings which would be foolish to ignore. My case in point is this: last night I informed my dear friend, AnnThraxx, that the well-guarded Monster piece she granted me access too had made me cum. That to her was a delicious compliment as she didn’t judge me or envisage me tugging away with my tongue unraveled at the side of my mouth. She took it the way I already knew she would. We’re all adults here so we may as well tell it precisely as it is.
If it seems I am becoming distracted then, I assure you, this is not the case. I simply love to give insight into what motivates such passionate scribing. Belief, trust, devotion, perpetual motion. We grease the cogs without procrastination and, as a result, this mighty chariot plunders forth. King Matt leads us there into skirmish, and in Rivers of Grue, he has found a militia staunch comrades only too willing to march alongside him.
I raise a goblet of the finest grue to this cruel cavalier as he wears his pulsating heart proudly and his eyes provide windows not just to his soul but also to the future of horror. He’s hot! Hotter than lava. His bared flesh, cruelly painted and caked in blood, offers unbounded seasoning for our souls. The beast behind those generously cupped hands? Rapacious no doubt. I’m sure crimson flows relentlessly through his gnarly member, Matt does nothing by halves, and I’m sure his intensity extends to his lovemaking prowess. For a perceptive soul such as myself, that’s a no-brainer.
Is it hot in here? Fuck yeah it is. Right now the temperature is soaring and I would imagine there are a fair few ladies getting off at the sight of our Dark King. Think of me as your spotter, just here to make the process more pleasurable. However, it runs far deeper than mere lusting. We love King Matt. We love his madness, his badness, his kindness, the whole nine. Most critically, his vision is ours also. Our machetes are raised in salute to our lord vehemently and many souls are invested. The King is dead, forever live the king!
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
First Knight of TOK
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2015)