Murder Picnic: Of Angels and Demons




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[1] Type O Negative “Christian Woman”

[2] Type O Negative “Black No. 1”




No God. It was all just one big fat lie. A complete fabrication. Lost in translation over thousands of years as the blood of Christ has become increasingly tainted. This messiah may well have been sainted, but I wonder what he would’ve made of the manner in which his sacred words have been raped of all meaning. Lest we not forget the bible is actually a pretty fucking dark read. “O daughter of Babylon … happy is the one who takes and dashes your little ones against the rock!” – sound familiar? Gotta love those Psalms right? And the whole damn book is chock full of blackened little gems like this; once you learn how to read between the lines that is. Yet, blasphemy is generally regarded as one of the most unspeakable acts a mortal human can revert to. All the while, holy wars are raging and it is religion to blame for so much needless bloodshed. It’s way beyond fucked if you ask me.



Don’t even get me started on judgement as Hell tends to get a raw deal over the whole “eternal damnation” thing; when it’s the Almighty directly responsible for sending the sinners south in the first place. Heaven forbid you break one of the ten commandments and it’s frowned upon to bend them also. Hardly what you’d call unconditional love is it? I mean, what if you’re born rotten to the pulp of your core? Does that make you a bad person? Aren’t all of God’s little creatures supposed to be beautiful and therefore treated equally? Or does that exclude little girls who just so happen to enjoy shaking rock salt onto slugs just to watch the little slime wasters dissolve? If so, then I guess I really am damned. And I can either spend the rest of my life repenting for my sins or continue to commit them and square things up on judgement day. Needless to say, I’ve been veering towards the latter of late.



It’d be a whole different sermon if I felt like I mattered. If a single one of my prayers had been answered or even acknowledged. The lord works in mysterious ways apparently and I get that as his actions repeatedly dumbfound me. For every second the creator chooses to ground me in reality, another passes where I feel persecuted and unworthy. So excuse me if I lack faith in the clergy. But really, what has God done for me lately? Has he warned off the Visitor who sneaks into my bedchamber night after night to taunt me? Does he massage the area when my chest becomes tight? Do a solitary thing to alleviate my blight? Well I guess that depends on how willing I am to settle for yet another one of his “signs”. The indirect approach may please the less discerning amongst us, but to me, it just reeks of yellow-bellied cowardice.



Granted, scripture clearly states that he sent his own begotten son to suffer for all of our sins. But notice Christ waited three days and nights before the big resurrection, presumably biding his time until the Romans dispersed as he didn’t fancy getting pelted with rocks. Now I’m not suggesting the son of God to be a gutless wonder. But I can’t and won’t commit my entire existence to serving one who took one for the team 2000 years back and has been living off the royalties ever since; regardless of how kindly he suffered. Times change. People change. Views and opinions change. However, religion always stays the same. Not to blaspheme but Jesus H. Christ, that sounds suspiciously like the resting of laurels to me. Yet still the lambs flock in their droves every bloody Sunday to rejoice the Almighty. They chant their hymns, forgive one another any trespasses, and come away feeling galvanized and hopeful for the future. Then they skip home full of the joys of spring, only to find a letter on their doormat informing them that they have pancreatic cancer. Blessed Assurance? I’m simply begging to differ.



I tend to keep my lack of belief to myself, not out of shame or fear of castigation, simply doesn’t figure that high on my priority list if I’m honest. What is it they say?


There is no shadow of turning with Thee / Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not / As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be.


Uh-huh, that pretty much ties a velveteen bow around the whole point I’m making here. I’m done with divinity, have chosen my route and walk the Grey-Chapel Path with newfound affinity. Righteousness just seems so goody two shoes and the world doesn’t need another Samaritan. It needs to bleed. We need to bleed. And I simply wouldn’t dream of not making things bleed. Sometimes it’s the only way to get the blackness out of us. Worshiping a false idol through empty verse may keep the wolves from the door. But what if they’re already inside. There just so happens to be an alpha in me right now. And he’s had his beady eye on my soul since my very first period.



You see, there’s something different about the scent of my season and this particular gray has one hell of an acute sense of smell. I’m under no illusion that he couldn’t tear me apart organ by organ at any given moment, should my actions displease him. That being said, this spirit animal of mine is just one of a far wider collective. If you asked me to recall them all, then I’d struggle as they prefer to hang back in the shadows than dare enter the wolves lair. But while very much mindful of the murder of crows that watch from the tall trees of my trepidation, squawking their noisome intent; there is one eye which remains omnipresent and with a far more charmed vantage than its lesser brethren.



A Raven. No craven. One thing’s for sure – you won’t find an observer any keener. It sits on a time-weathered tombstone over by the red cedar. Its plumage is flecked in silvery ash, which I’m guessing has something to do with the Grey-Chapel Path due South of its limestone perch. It has never once so much as flitted since very first sighting. And to a dismembered toy such as I, its charcoal gaze is actually rather inviting. It plays guide and I abide, following its procession of bloodied lily petals to what I’d presume to be the blackest heart of my innermost soul. At the end of this twisted pathway is a mausoleum and, should my bearings be on-point, then entry would set me back to the discordant tune of the blissful ignorance of an eternity without perpetual agony. The only thing within which is fluid is time.



Other than that, it proposes a somewhat parched run for the foreseeable ad infinitum. So what is a girl supposed to do? Pray to a God who sponsored the snatching of her innocence before her parents could let her down lightly about the Easter Bunny? That God? Or the one who bankrolls the PTSD which robs me blind as a result of the ungodly things I’ve been forced to witness in my lifetime? Perhaps it’s the God I heard guffaw every time I grazed my knees as a child. If it is, then I have a little sermon of my own already prepared for the occasion. Not sure I’ll be seeing those pearly gates after this admission. Thank unholy Christ for perdition.


This girl that I know… she has skinned knees. They bleed often. They heal, but never completely. She has this inherent tendency to find fresh razor wire, and she cannot help her sadistic need to crawl slowly across it. Hence, the scars. Held closely within her core.
But, that is what I call… Devout.


If only the same could be said for my faith in higher powers; then I’d be… well… just another lamb for the slaughter I guess. Instead, I’d much rather dig my heels in. Refuse to conform to either expectation or the relentless peer pressure that guilt trips us into taking these pointless communions. I’d much prefer to be given my Hail Marys, flat-out ignore them, and go check out that stuffy sepulchre instead. And I’ve gotten fairly close, in all fairness. But while my actions have verged many times on damn careless, I’m some way from short on awareness. For that I have my Twinbear to thank, as she knows just how to outflank the darkness.



By the time I reach the crypt entrance, she’s already there and forbearance isn’t her strong point. But there’s plenty good-natured about the manner in which she persuades my great caution. It’s absolutely no less than I’d do for her, indeed, I’ve been stood in the precise same spot as she on a great number of occasions. We’re both afflicted you see. Both somewhat damaged. And have both had a skinful of having our skulls fucked through by religion’s rape stick.



One of these days we’ll both venture within and accept whatever purgatory awaits us. As a matter of fact, that’s kind of why I’m here now. Excuse her tardiness but there are well over three thousand miles separating Pennsylvania and Scandinavia. Actually, I believe that’s her now. I shall leave you in her more than capable hands and continue to scope out this curious tomb. The stage is all yours mine Twinbear.



My sweet Twinkitten. Gorgeous lady. Indeed, you inspire me every single day. So unbelievably much. I thank the day the universe made these two forces meet with the smallest of odds. But with no chance to stop it. Crystalline. And to think, it only took a nanosecond to unlock it. That was fifteen years ago now and neither one of us have gone back on our solemn vow. To always be right there for one another. No matter what.



Especially in the moments when the edges begin to blur. It’s about that time when the voice of reason slurs and all manner of unfavorable charges are incurred. For as much as we can both exist in the light, it tends to burn our skin after so long. We flash those winning smiles of ours all damn day long, but beneath lies a very quiet desperation. You see, daylight simply doesn’t gel with our overwhelming urge for predation.



Nocturne, on the other hand, well that’s where the real unicorns hang out. Once those skies blacken, we can let our inner monsters out of their enclosures. Cages are dangerous and, while intimacy is a given, it can get a little cramped dependant on the dimensions of your beast. Said monster can be an awful pain at the very least but, when you finally accept it, it is a formidable force.



My advice has always been to keep it tight, but not too tight. Let it off its leash from time to time by all means, but don’t allow your beast to become too keen. The last thing you need is for it to come over all territorial. As raging hell-fiends tend not to come with step-by-step tutorials. No instructions or lengthy inductions, just appetite for destruction. And perhaps a touch too healthy as, for all that stealthy skill, it’s time to hide the vases once they zone in on the kill.



Dependent on will, this can go one of two ways. Should we harness this darkness, then they can be tamed. Not permanently. And all too often they’ve caught second wind before the red mist has settled. But it needn’t end in bloodshed. Just to be clear, I’d have no complaints if it did and can vouch for Twinkitten too, in case she hasn’t already made that Crystalline in abundance.



So many seem reluctant to address the elephant in the room. To find peace with the fact that they’re somewhat damaged. And any thoughts which steep in shadow are very promptly banished. Some turn to religion, others like my Twin and I choose to act in ways less christian. Every last drop of contempt she vents is echoed through my own disdain. You can say we share a brain and certainly won’t offend us. As push to shove, we give no fucks whether you choose to comprehend this.



I have only one priority right now. My Twin requested counsel and had received her RSVP by the very next brainwave. No fuss or drama. Indeed, I’ve seldom seen her calmer. As we both knew all too well this day would come eventually. We’ve been coming here for far too long now to deny the Raven eye’s silent cry any longer. The time has come to accept the invitation extended by our visitors. To unlatch the rusted iron bolt and venture deep inside this vault.



Smells revolting, like a hundred thousand years of dank erosion. Indeed I’ve never seen a sight so dreadfully imposing. But I’m ready now. Sword arm steadied now. And I can discern the glint of Twin’s steel in my mind’s eye as I state that. She’s the Ripper and I’m the Driller. That is to say that, while her incisions are clean as clean can be unless she feels like a blow out, I’m the kind of cordless bitch who hardwires into show out. Speaking of the ole devil, I think I feel a surge coming.



Come inside the dusty scratchy sandbox of my cranium. Acquire my taste, you’ll find it elemental like uranium. Alloy gears grind as I shred through the rind. Undeviating, alleviating bone of flesh, I confess I’m no less than a pest. Evacuating crimson resources. Draining vital fluids as though pouring myself a nice tall glass of tap water. It doesn’t really matter if it spatters. Indeed, Twinkitten insists on such. That way she knows just the spots to apply her antiseptic. And boy is it a stinger. Dead-ringer for the very worst pain unimaginable.



A tribute act to blindest terror quite simply ineradicable. Our methods have been known to lean just a smidgen towards radical. So what say we leave the gristle and get on with the sabbatical. Monster is out of the cage now you see. And beasts of a tether tend to skulk together. Adhesive nightmares we provide, which I hear they cater for inside. Something that will stick with us. You know, like the story of Christ. From our callous hearts comes iniquity. Our evil imaginations have no limits. Let’s turn the tables Twin and be the ones who pay a visit.



Hell to the unholy fuck YES Twinbear! We have conquered our demons and wear our scars like wings. Tattered they may be, but they flatter not to deceive. For we have fallen so far from grace. Our halos tasted salty as we chewed them like phlegm and spat out our newfangled devil horns. Darkness came. The wolves confided. Raven guided. And now we shall “come inside”, thank you disembodied tormentors. Now get on your motherfucking knees you brood of vipers. Pretty please. And while you’re down there, wash our leprous feet while we bleed your giblets out with rusted nails and sew them to your tongues. Come mine Twinbear. Let us sin.





Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill



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