THE FIFTH BOOK OF SLAUGHTER
5 Slaughter 1: 1-2
The reign of terror
And thus the Deceivers reign of terror flourished within the minds and hearts of all who gazed upon Him. And through His work, torment and suffering enveloped the souls of the cognizant while peace settled upon the spirits of the dreamers.
5 Slaughter 3: 1
Earthly things
Whose end is destruction, whose God is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame; those who mind earthly things.
Mikey Stormrage sits alone in his apartment, sunken deep into the tattered cushions of his hand-me-down couch, XBOX controller in hand, Taco Bell wrappers littering the arm rests of the couch while partially drained taco sauce packets provide a spicy aroma to the scene.
Mikey is entrenched in WZCWs latest video game, replaying his most recent match against Constantine, for the 46th consecutive time. His eyes are glazed and reddened, his hair unwashed, still donning his ring attire from Revolution, minus the boots which are slung haphazardly over the back of the couch.
As his fingers strike buttons in a monotonous pattern, his face is blank and disinterested, his eyes becoming weak with each subsequent ticking of the Mario themed clock hanging above his television set.
A white fuzz overcomes the screen, momentarily distorting Mikeys view of the action. Unfazed by the brief interruption, he pounds more furiously at his controller.
The pre-recorded commentary of Jack Cohen is interrupted by a foreign voice emanating from the television set.
Slaughter: Do not fear, for I am with you, Mikey.
Stormrage furiously mashes buttons, unaffected by the beckoning of the voice, delivering blow after blow to a stunned Constantine in the center of the ring, using his digital namesake to avenge his real life defeat.
Slaughter: Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with My righteous hand.
Mikeys hands freeze, grasping the controller limply, staring forward into the monitor, his eyes heavy and unfocused.
Slaughter: Who can harm you if you are eager to do good?
The television screen slowly fades to black as two miniscule violet circles appear deep within the darkness of the screen. The circles grow and take form as the voice carries on in a calm, smooth tone.
Slaughter: But even if you should suffer for what is right, you are blessed. Do not fear what they fear, do not be frightened.
The face of Serafina follows closely behind her all too familiar violet eyes, filling the screen in front of Mikey, gently smiling.
Slaughter: The fear of the Deceiver is a fountain of life, to depart from the doldrums of death.
Serafinas face turns cold, her eyes squinting, as if she were staring a hole through the onlooking Stormrage.
Slaughter: For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate you from your Redeemer.
Serafinas face fades as her full figure comes into focus. Her white robe glistening in a blinding light, her violet pupils the only feature of her face still evident through the overwhelming brightness of her figure.
Slaughter: Look at you, Mikey. Look at what youve become. You are alone. Your Armada's frailty has been exposed and soon will cease to exist. All of those around you have abandoned you. Where is El Califa? Embarrassed and subsequently vanquished by the Great Deceiver.
And you believe Matt Tastic still cares about you? Your name has not likely crossed his mind, let alone passed through his lips in the wake of his own destruction at the hands of the Harbringer.
You are weak. Your mind tortured, your spirit broken. The torment of your past life still weighs heavily on your present demeanor. You, Mikey Stormrage, are alone.
Serafina extends her arms to either side of her body, fully illuminating the room with a fierce brightness. Stormrage gazes on, squinting his eyes but never shifting from his original slunken position.
Slaughter: Release yourself to Me, Michael. Allow your Redeemer to cleanse your spirit. Submit at the feet of the Angel of Death and allow yourself to be reborn in the spirit of hatred. Seek revenge amongst your oppressors, sway the opinions of your doubters, remove yourself from the gluttonies of sloth, resurrect your tortured soul from the darkness which envelopes you. GET UP, MICHAEL! Retool your arsenal for the quest for your coveted gold.
Serafina's figure emerges from the television screen, hovering inches above the dusty faux-wooden floor of Mikeys apartment, gazing down upon him.
Slaughter: You dont have it in you, do you Michael? I can see it in your eyes. The bridge has once again vanished and you are suspended in the thin air of your pathetic existence. The starving eyes await beneath you, assured of your imminent collapse.
Serafinas body twists sideways, hovering horizontally just above the floor beneath Mikey. Her violet eyes looking up at him as the slight smile returns.
Slaughter: Your hope is dead, Michael. Your star has faded into the blackness of the night sky. All that remains is worthless celestial matter, riddled with pain and failed aspirations.
Serafina closes her eyes as her body returns to a vertical position. She extends her hand slowly toward Mikey, her long fingers cutting through the stale apartment air.
Slaughter: Fall in line, Michael. Redemption is an enticing proposition for the eager, but an unfortunate consequence for the rejecters. You shall be redeemed, not by choice, but rather by force. Your wounded spirit will be suppressed in the Tombs of the Mutilated, left to suffer for the remainder of eternity, gazing at the sky through cracks in the ceiling, wondering if there are any stars left to inhabit the night. And when that red rooster crows in the distance, every morning, for the duration of your existence, you will be reminded of your failures. And through your suffering, death will slowly take hold of your spirit.
As Serafinas finger grazes Mikeys forehead his body quivers and pulsates furiously before settling in a disturbingly calm state.
Mikeys eyes snap open, his foot knocks over a half full paper cup of Diet Coke from the coffee table. He quickly scans the room, rubbing his eyes with the clammy palms of his hands as the blue-screened television set hums faintly in the background.
Mikey grabs a T-shirt from between the couch cushions and throws it on the splattered puddle of Diet Coke on the floor. He sits with his chin in his hand as the scene slowly fades to black.
