Cranium Insanium: Epilogue



Sequence in Full

Verse One
Verse Two
Verse Three


Marcus Miller. The thorniest of brambles in my side, the owner of my dreamscapes, and admiral of my anguish. Evil in three dimensions; there are no minced words when stating his vile intentions. Pure distilled evil in a fleshy mask. he stands before me now, sharpened axe glistening at the prospect of a forthcoming grind. He’s about my height, albeit a lot better maintained and you could rest a spirit level between us as he stands so close. No halitosis but instead I am greeted by the aroma of unprocessed meat and a wisp of death. It’s a far cry from the delectable scent of Baby Sister’s sweet center.


I’ve been here once before in another place and time and my former wound has reopened, bleeding through any compacting dressing and bleeding through urgently. My midriff feels cold and, in turn, blazing hot, and even the numbness smarts like all hell. Faced with my fears, my bladder has relinquished all fluids and runs down my inner thighs, fused with free-flowing deep red. My grimace is impossible to disguise; I’m clearly in shit street and about to get pulled for jaywalking.


My pungent fear is akin to fresh morning dew to those dead eyes. It gets him off to watch me squirm like an ant under a magnifying glass. I’m assuming Marcus took additional delight from dissecting that frog during biology lectures; likely ran his tongue along its precisely cleaved underbelly. Imagine the most grotesque beast imaginable and then multiply by a hundred, and now you’re in the ball park. The apple consequently dropped far from its tree although his Baby Sister has displayed many of his traits during their bloody exchanges so presumably there’s a fucked up gene present in both siblings.


Right now Audrey is the least of my concerns, maintaining my fading life-force is vital and is looking less likely by the second. I dodged a bullet during communion but it seems to have ricocheted as it hurtles towards my spleen where I stand, intent on shattering my frame like a glass pelvis. I believe his plan is to fashion a fresh orifice through my heaving torso large enough to slide a bible through, both testaments!


“Take it like a man Keeper.” My inner monologue delivers its deadpan retort as it is concerned for my safe-keeping at this point. I hold eye-contact, or at least, gaze into the two inky chasms which show no remorse or second thought. I just hope he makes it swift and relatively pain free; curiosity may well kill this particular cat as I crave the taste of his lunged weapon against my yearning pelt. Once the nerve endings have been severed it’ll be plain sailing although I’m assured Marcus would simply refocus his attentions on a previously unsullied area to desecrate instead.


For the first time during our current face off; I blink my peepers. This gives all the encouragement he needs to feel like he’s psyched Keeper out (which he totally has) and he commences his carnage. First up is my left arm, from the shoulder-blade and it takes three hacks to separate this limb from its bloodied nub. If I desired agonizing pain then agonizing pain has been faithfully provided and I instantaneously vomit crimson. Fuck! That really needles! I have to wait for the second swipe as he fetches a screwdriver from his back pocket. His unique brand of D.I.Y. doesn’t appeal and I attempt to turn and flee. No such luck, the tool is rammed into the back of my throat, straight through my new-fangled tattoo. It’s tugged free and the backed-up blood jettisons from its open fissure. My shell begins to slacken and is further defiled by a second swing of that axe.


This time it only takes one hack and my leg drops to the ground like loose change. My feeble attempts to recoil only serve to widen his trajectory and allow for a more punishing rejoinder. I sink like the titanic and land face down in cerebral excretions. Clawing frantically I feel a further twinge, this time with machete and I discern such from the elongated blade which glides through the flesh behind my knee as though sun-baked butter.


I did request a little suffering but regret that foolhardy decision as the weapon carves through the malleable surface, only slowing to negotiate the marrow. The whites of my eyes are crimson now, which delights Marcus enough to flip me over like a stubborn pancake. I have no discernible appendages, right leg hangs by the most slender of threads and I’m bleeding out faster than a menstrual gnat. “Finish me Marcus” is my sole spluttering as I gargle from a windpipe filled with sanguine fluids. He’s not feeling charitable however.


The blunt esge of the screwdriver is used next as it jostles my eyeball way back into my rapidly hemorrhaging brain. It bursts like an airborne colostomy satchel adding retinal fluids to the broth. No release yet for Keeper although he vacates momentarily to prepare his ultimate smackdown. His boot is raised maybe six inches from my head and then the curb-stomping begins. The first two stamps only push me deeper into the squelching pillow of matter I am sprawled out across. Third time lucky for Marcus as he realigns to directly above the screwdriver, which protrudes from my gaping socket. He takes his last stand and the sheer vigor of his final attack is sufficient to split my skull like an over-ripened honeydew. He stands over me and surveys while the last few droplets of life-force seep out of me. Then it all turns black.

darkness as me

I awaken in last night’s clothes, laptop still on my chest as I must have crashed out for half a day’s cycle, maybe longer. I check myself hysterically and there’s no sign of forced entry to my body other than the stitches along my abdomen which are healing just fine. A dream? It’s the only feasible explanation for my continued existence. I sit forward and turn to look in the bedside mirror and, at that point the dread washes back over me. My reflection is of a crudely masked head with two dead eyes staring right through me.


Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

First Knight of TOK
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor #ThePiper
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013


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