Vamp-Ire the Mars-Parade – Brouhaha Origins

Vamp-Ire the Mars-Parade – Brouhaha Origins

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

This is amateurish roleplayer sermon, unworthy of highest academic standards!

Helpful LINK:

Only dead fish stop swimming against the stream!” – A graffiti I once read…

Well, last night I checked my ego-dreams, read about the 55000 Re-Tweedledee’s & 2 million likes, 5 billion favorite’s of my first Brouhaha fiction sermon, LINK to part 1,and decided to try to deliver more! Musical hint coming along:

There comes a moment, for the own ego no longer bathes us in ignorance, and we realize that midlife crisis is just another mainstream simplification. Real Life rarely looks as polished as the Movies. Real life hurts us with or without justification, and that real life was worth it for a while, as it brought all the joy, all the sex, and all the indulgence we loved, too.

For some of us letting the own facade down is difficult in precisely the solitude which would allow us to keep it secret. Still it is not just another misery loves company. It is one of those social rites which even the non-occult-crazed can understand. Some by instinct, some by gut-feeling, others due observation or prudence.

I experimentally shift the writing style, back into omniscient third person or such. As Roleplay gives a total Fuck about Literary rules, and those academics are rarely Truest Brouhaha anyway! Rumor is they live to explain the anal in banal & canal.

Hell’s Heroes unleashed – Adrian, the Believer

The teenager lying on the antiquated bed of his grandma’s guestroom had his eyes closed, his acne scarred face obviously relaxed. It was a supposed midday nap, but those dreams came back again, and when he slept less those dreams came as flashbacks, which frightened him even more. Nightmares & Madness were enemies who had defeated him before after all.

Dream, Europe, between 1970 and 1979: Mamma’s car dashed through the night, northward, onward, northward, northward. If they would just manage to cross the border from Accursed Italy to Switzerland it would all become one little bit easier! The Mafia did not care. And we all know that the Sicilian Mafia was invented exclusively to produce fierce gangsters who live for nothing but snatching their own bastard sons from those tourist harlots they impregnated! Makes quite some sense to six year old kids who know only Mom’s side of the story.

1000 Killers, surely hired by that Sicilian Mafia, were hunting Mom that night. They had one hundred tanks, a battalion of badass-unicorn (dark unicorn) riders, helicopters, and perhaps even the USS Enterprise along for the hunt. At least that was the clearest estimation panicked little Adrian ever got about the truth of the situation.

Mom had her final split-up with Dad, and it must have been quite a little scene they had made in their escalating conflict. The Sicilian Mafia did not care, nor did it know mercy. Kid-Snatching was their own way to serve God after all. It had a desperate streak about it, when his Mom pushed him into that car, the one she’d spontaneously stolen from Dad, and started her desperate attempt to make it back to Germany! All she had was Dad’s stolen cash and a damn palm-pistol after all!

Still this is a tale of the Young Brouhaha! Bold, Confident, Punky-Brawlers who would take on God’s Army with not the slightest hesitation, nor any shivers of fear. There is an alternate depiction of Brouhaha, as over-glorified, proletarian loudmouths hyped only by communist retards and invented due a lesbian fever-dream, but Truest Brouhaha resist such ‘insane pseudo-psychology’ with just one shrug or smirk.

The rushed race through the dark went on, and, as usual, the dream closed in on the rest-stop along the road. Mom knew she had a head-start-bonus of perhaps forty-five minutes, as her skipped-but-once-beloved Orazio would need to beg the Don for permission before he could hunt her down without repercussions.

And the dream proved itself treacherous once again. Adrian stood next to the car, while his Mom had rushed into the mini-shop, and the Wolfman, indeed the one from the old black and white Hollywood movie, attempted to whisper to Adrian. ‘Young One, don’t be scared. I know how you can end the Curse God did cast unto you! All you need…’

And Adrian awoke, as always, before that dreamy Wolfman could tell him about that supposed curse. Much like with Dracula’s Dream-Self. First Adrian had feared the supposed monster, blood-drinker and such, only to find out that, compared to most humans, he sure was more good guy than those who slew him! But in dreams even the Vampire Count fled cowardly, as ‘The Thing’ always showed up to torment Adrian with seizures and feverish awakenings. A real bad-ass antagonist it was. Had nothing to do with cocky young Adrian secretly having watched those Horror movies behind Mom’s back though!

The years with Grandma had not been easy, and his Mom, far away hiding in some nigh-forgotten village. They sure took a toll on the development of enjoyable sexuality, too. But the priests of the Catholic School insisted THAT would actually be a virtue, as women were the Devil’s whores, Mom’s excepted, and no woman who wouldn’t be more Lilith & Eve than Virgin Mary… Church sermon, you know? 😉

So the lowborn among our Truest Brouhaha faced his eighteenth birthday ambushed by an old dream! Adrian was not yet defeated though, as this tale takes place decades before the crippled, sickly wreckage we know as a remnant of him dies away. On the contrary, with a confidence “which would make von Clausewitz proud”, did he charge into the night, ready to take on ALL of his adversaries and problems PLUS the notorious not-getting-laid which, looking back, is a traditional stigma of Truest Brouhaha! x-) If God did abandon him, then only witchcraft or Satan could save him. So much seemed clear…

A day later, on his birthday instead of celebrating ‘into-it’ Adrian, Pager in hand, prepared for the fateful meeting of which Tremor’s Sorcery Coven with some Count St. Germain was a watered down plagiarism at best! Ego Dominion. But God had one more ace up his sleeve, so much must be admitted! Elfriede F., true name obscured in respect to the dead and their families, I mean this is fiction anyway.

Mere hours after being kicked-out of the guestroom of his grandma Adrian returned to ‘the room which was not his own to dwell in’ only to be challenged by Nazi Germany’s fiercest survivor. Elfriede was among grandma’s best friends, and had scolded and scorned Adrian on a regular. Adrian was finally sick of it, and like only the Brouhaha clan would do, decided that throwing a curse into her face was the best he could do about it, as violence was ‘Evil Sabot’ way, and granny would kick him out for the mere attempt.

Channeling every bit of energy he could muster Adrian finally confronted the old crone who still insisted to be a lady in honored gray! Masking his curse channeling with the sugarcoated words of the moment he felt the rush of triumph and victory well-deserved after long abuse. But Elfriede only blinked, shrugged-off the inferior witchcraft, chuckled and scolded him, a genetically inferior bastard from that weak democracy, for trying loser-side witchcraft on one who had murdered her way to real power and the ever-supreme Nazi way. It shook more than his ego, as foolish loser or desperado or not, Adrian was a believer in the democratic ideals, and while witchcraft was certainly not his greatest talent he had practiced and meditated to prepare it well.

The dark witch only chuckled, explaining in inhuman detail WHY he is too weak to be considered a threat worth killing. And the next moment grandma comes in, looks at the both of them, and starts to place coffee, cups, tools, and the cake unto the table. Fully unaware of what was an enormous spiritual struggle to young Adrian. Elfriede shocked even more, being fully unimpressed and merely going back to regular small talk with his grandma! No Nazi boasting, no witchcraft sermon at all, as if nothing had ever happened!

Shaken, scolded, and shocked Adrian went through the ordeal of eating from the cake. His last hope anchored in the secret meeting soon to come. His life was lost, when God had abandoned him. But now his very soul had been challenged by the Twisted Cross. As a mockery of the three old Commodore 64 Bard’s Tale 3D RPG’s one could say: “Adrian, your Ego faced Death itself in the form of Elfriede, the unrepentant Nazi-Witch!”. It was a black day for the new Germany, and even a fool like Adrian was fully aware of this old, dark stain going far beyond his own meaningless existence and grandma’s weird choice of friends.

Still he had managed to call in the only persons, world-wide, who could turn the tides of such a wrathful God. Back then he still had real hopes…

Hell’s Heroes unleashed – Bestial, the Conniver

Bestial, to Adrian back then, was the one exceptional longhair in a heap of dope-lobotomized losers and freaks. Bestial, to himself, was the older brother who had just woken up to be greeted by some female acquaintance of his younger brother who offered him a blow-job. With one swipe of his hand the staple of Aleister Crowley books flew off his bed, and his black leather pant offered nearly no resistance to the female hands opening it.

With the woman busy around his pelvis-area 51 Bestial contemplated the pact he had negotiated. Hosting the secret meeting of Adrian to become part of it from the start. Delegating all the work to his mother and younger brother was done, so he could lean back and enjoy right now. He would even have time to take a shower before that meeting began. And, Oh Lucky Day, his drug supply ran steady and nearly unlimited those days.

To a well-read practitioner of Magick it was no surprise that his supreme will had intercepted the dreams of lesser mortals to open the road towards unspoken desires he had harnessed & carried for quite a while. Bestial may have the looks of a Satanic Junkie turned Hotel-Mama-Tyrant, but he was only pretending such simple answers could define him. His plans involved a drug-experiment for occult purposes no uninitiated person would ever understand, hence it made no sense to reveal anything about it to those lesser minds and bleaker souls.

And he had found the most crucial ingredient needed: An anguished good-guy who was so pure of faith that he simply couldn’t become suspicious about anything of it. The perfect Fool. Oh, Satan DID protect his servants, no doubts about that in Bestial’s mind.

Hell’s Heroes unleashed – Brakeman, the Rogue

It was one of the boring routine days to Brakeman. Admitted, some simpletons considered those routines miracles & heroism, but a mind like that of Brakeman had long shaken-off the proletarian delusions, fully aware how much more formidable the academic standards had proven themselves.

It was one of those days, some train wreckage or traffic jam crash, and his usual saving lives along with giving his card to any date-able woman of proper age. Somehow that Adrian guy had performed some significantly inferior attempts to get his attention, and Brakeman, humanitarian he was, had played along.

The martyrdom he endured to make the underprivileged feel as a welcome part of the modern, democratic society. In those years, since his father had died, Brakeman had learned to be a man about absolutely everything in life. It had sharpened his mind, and granted him a maturity few others ever reached. Real men don’t brag, and Brakeman was a real man about all of it, even the chapters about him.

Hell’s Heroes unleashed – Thurston, the Judge

The road was his chosen home, whenever his family did not burden him with their demands. Joshua knew, and enjoyed his drive. He was the man behind the wheel, and certainly the Truest Brouhaha candidate his own mind could ever define. He knew that desperate look Adrian had the night he attempted to lure Joshua out of the own secret circle, and he even felt touched by the honest begging he had attempted.

Still time was limited, and the call of university and career had long been heard. But darkness had its own hold on both, Adrian and Joshua Thurston, actually Death & Darkness had so. The unspoken understanding for such was not a gift everybody could boast with, still it wasn’t especially rare either. Driving was a meditation in its own way. A connection with mortality and the spiritual ever-after. There was a power in those moments, not the feelings about them, which Joshua secretly wanted to wrest. It was hard to reap, but daily practice on every drive brought him closer and closer to a success.

The car was a fruit of his work. Both on the job and when it came to familial considerations one would never mention to outsiders. Joshua knew Adrian a grave-robber by ilk, and while the simpleton did not display a too clear grasp on it, he had told truism about the real life mysteries into Joshua’s face. Words evidencing that they both had been stomped by life in vaguely similar ways. Weird, as it was, Adrian had been one of the few who recovered from it due the own efforts. Joshua liked that, as it suited his own re-definition of manhood.

And double as much he warded himself against the suspicious need for an older brother which Adrian had displayed. He knew the dysfunctional family life, but he knew his own priorities had to be kept clear just as well. One never knows who would drag oneself down into that bottomless pit after all. Words, much like squeamish radio broadcasts, spoil Zen in the Art of Driving though, and Joshua had taken the extra long path to the next destination today. Driving. One with the Flow. Driving…

Hell’s Heroes unleashed – Super K, the Judas Goat

Adrian had made the mistake of considering K a friend. K appreciated the opportunity to enjoy himself on Adrian’s expense for that misconception. It was splendid, all the villainy for zero of the guilt. He would reap it for whatever it was worth, and then date his girlfriends. There is not much more to say. His Mama served him well, and he had much time to walk on those graveyards.

The fateful night

The Bastygian Tales version of a cramped garden hut, shared by eight families in the house, turned into the secret palace of the Brouhaha. Servants, minions, harlots, and carry-their-behinds experts awaited each Brouhaha by the dozens, and in each room of the sacred, arcane palace the Brouhaha mercifully accepted as good enough.

Fanfares were blown, the greatest professors of Germany’s elite universities struggled valiantly to keep their envy on a leash, and the top-models of the world murdered each other for the mere chance to become the next-best throw-away Brouhaha groupie. The ego is so much more artful on those bleak and desperate facts that science simply fails to score. And ego IS a Brouhaha topic, science is just for … Others.

The five… One = Adrian, Two = Bestial, Three = Brakeman, Four = J.T., and Five = K; The five Brouhaha Founding-Members and their, err, “Maldivian Concierge”, namely Jonah Fryberck, rose from their seats the moment playing such utterly crappy Fennesea Roleplaying games, like Dracula – van Helsing comes gunning, or Nosferatu – Sewer Sex & Rat’s Ass Polemics, or Cult – Splatter the Punk RPG, had culminated in their maltreated and suppressed true personalities finally finding some wisdom in that insane gibberish, which still was so much more than all God ever had to offer.

Adrian: ‘Oh, yeah, ahem, it is just my spine starting to hurt.’ Secret Thought: ‘As if I would share THAT with any of these unbelieving replacement fuckers!’

Bestial ‘Crowley! I mean, just wanted to dance.’ Secret Thought: ‘As if I would share THAT with any of these uninitiated replacement fuckers!’

Brakeman: ‘Well, if you all start standing-up I can clean my glasses.’ Secret Thought: ‘As if I would share THAT with any of these lowborn, unmanly replacement fuckers!’

Joshua: ‘Just gotta get something from my car then!’ Secret Thought: ‘As if I would share THAT with any of these degenerate, underclass fuckers!’

K: ‘Whoa, Adrian, you really spoil it for all of us again.’ Secret Thought: ‘As if I would share ANYTHING with those despicable, pro-living-girlfriend losers!’

Jonah: ‘Then I clean my glasses, too, and fetch something from my car!’ Secret Thought: ‘Those fools would not ever qualify for my army, even the voices in my head agree on that!’

It would have remained a regular noob-day in the desperado-empires of Nerdistan & Geekland, but this time something DID interfere. Unseen and Unnamed, as it drove those power-hungry attention-junkies unto the pathway of what their own minds would call True Brouhaha…

The ritual’s secret ingredient

What would it need to make a handful of emotionally-tormented, egomaniac weirdos charge this world, as if whim would guarantee instant-successes? Besides a society ignorant, uncaring or mad enough to encourage such… Merely enough X to charge heedlessly into the night…

Their fatal err fateful X

X of Adrian: “Benevolence!”

X of Bestial: “Crowley!” Aka conformity or submission to those idiot books of magick…

X of Brakeman: “Conviction!” Yeah, he was so the warlock.

X of Thurston: “ Instinct!” And TOTALLY not due Anthony Hopkins dating that Gorilla.

X of K: “Defiance!” Actually more self-absorbed, prideful self-pity celebrating…

X of Fryberck: “X?” Richard’O’Brian once decided it takes its toll… But if we note madness, then Jonah may frenzy like Troile himself!

Health-Issues forced me to stop writing, and spoiled my original focus. Freestyle means I invent the story while writing it, and such got spoiled by circumstances. If only I would  have to apologize to my 666 million paying customers..? 😉


Desperate Measures – The Path Less Traveled

Desperate Measures – A flashy-fiction Horror-Story
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

In absence of the money for university-reeducation I offer the following warning to readers in many of my cost-free files:

I wrote this in Pietroschek Prose, not US-English, nor British English. Pietroschek Prose is something like unintentional, imbecilic-moronic violation of the two English versions to which it is often accidentally compared to. 😉

Arnold’s Perspective:

I was running for my life. A mad dash through the forest, which only minutes ago was intended to be my grave. I escaped my captors after a vicious and desperate brawl. Did not even find out why those goons wanted to kick me into a grave I had to shovel for myself.

I spat an acidic, brown slime every rest, as I paid the price for years of smoking. Nicotine is a nerve-soother and ego-booster, but as well one toxin to be careful with.

My instinct made me take the path less traveled, avoiding the easy routes, as any pursuer would catch someone like me. Right now the fatal accident of my wife and the loss of my job soon thereafter, during the ‘depression’ I still knew as traditional mourning-phase, seemed the least of a problem.

Still they had taken their toll on a rough and humble dude, spoiled much of the sports I did in better years, too.

I ran for my life, coughed-up a toxic juice I had myself to blame for, and didn’t even know into which direction I was running. But at least I was still alive enough to try.

A felt eternity I progressed with no pursuer showing up or gunning for me. I felt so reminded of the movie ‘Wrong Turn’ that I lack the words to describe it.

But this was real life. Pain, sweat, and coughing reminded me fiercely enough. A two-lane road split the forest ahead of me and I spotted a car. The joy within arising only until I could see that it was a wrecked car, collided with a tree.

But hope is persistent as oft, as it is treacherous or futile. Maybe some clothing, food, drink, or a mobile phone could be salvaged from the wreckage? I had no hope for a handgun, as I was already lucky to still exist.

I hopped down the little hill which I was sure had been erected artificially, one of those state-projects which make prison-inmates do physical labors for the greater public good. Dunno, if it was true though.

The nausea arose due my foolish lack of logic. A wrecked car spoke of an accident, and one possible result was a dead driver or even worse, an entire family leaving only their corpses behind. Flies buzzed around me, as I searched the car.

It was the lack of time which made me overlook the first hint. In retrospective I should have seen that the solitary driver, now a corpse in early stage of decay, had a weird, though vague, resemblance to me. Lucky me, an identity I could use to keep a low profile and get rid of my past troubles.

I switched the identity cards and snatched the drivers license and wallet without any hesitation, though not without speaking a prayer for the deceased, for I was a Catholic in the good years. Disturbing the Peace of the Dead was one of those crimes against the soul we may be held accountable for on judgment day.

I took a soft-case bag reminding me of the notebook-bags which became trendy shortly after the year 2K bullshit had calmed down. I stuffed all from the car into it, or into my pockets, as I was in a real hurry. And last but not least I got a small plastic-bottle of water, a French brand I never had before.

Deciding not to risk more I didn’t walk along the road, but instead through the woods on the other roadside. I didn’t want to make it extra-easy for whoever lusted for my funeral.

Mortgages and loans temporarily dissolved due the fact that my identity was now a corpse in a car did somehow make me smile. For now I was Arnold Brice, and, wondering about more info about my new self, I went through the loot I had snatched from a dead man.

The first thing I got was a cell-phone, one of those mini-computers of the modern age, I hate ’em. The logo was so weird that I fail humor it. The eye above a pyramid, faint memories of a TV documentary came back into my mind.

Yeah! A private investigator license and ID plastic. Oh, not a sane one though, paranormal investigations. Like that drug-crazed freak on You-Tube, or wtf? Dammit, the modern age really had it with the opening of psychiatry doors. Yes, how rude of me to value my sanity.

Needing a rest anyway I decided to sort through the loot now, preparing myself to function like a citizen, if need of it arose.

I had a rolled-up ‘rain-jacket’, one of those company-giveaways which were soaked through after 5 minutes of downpour. Its logo was once more that accursed eye above a pyramid. Damn, God sure wants me to look like the one fool on the run.

I got the cell-phone plus paraphernalia, like a loading station, a mini-keyboard, and papers. Documents about the work my deceased benefactor had on his schedule. Too much to read, but I already knew it was Witches and Haunted Houses or Ritual Spots, two decades of TV had not failed to hammer the basics into public awareness.

Whoa, a mini-flashlight compatible with the loading station of the phone? Sure as consequence such wasn’t the cost-aware way to gear-up. But for me the next 72 hours would mean life or death, as anything beyond failed to make my mind consider it at all.

Continuing my walk parallel to the road I hoped for a Diner or Gas-Station in the vicinity. I could need a Coffee or at least a Cola to get my blood-sugar level up again. And soon after food there would be shelter to worry about.

Assured that I had just lost my mind, as dimension travel was scientifically impossible, I stared open-mouthed unto the neon-sign. It read: ”Trudy’s Diner, 10 Miles to Mercy’s Sake”.

I sat down, focusing on the most crucial task at hand. Signature faking. I copy-catted the signatures of the ID, and from both credit cards. After a while I found myself satisfied with the spontaneous results, three out of three clearly resembling the originals, and mustered my confidence.

Long Tale made short: I cleaned my shoes and pant, rejoiced in that Ghosthunter-Jacket suiting me decently, and made my way to the Diner. My only real worry was that certain goons could lurk for me or arrive shortly after me.

But I could feel that trouble was not yet brewing. And neither was the County Sheriff the Diner’s most frequent customer. Not like the movies, often a good sign! Though I remembered ‘Fahrenheit – The Indigo Prophecy Demo’ with a Diner Experience of a darker sort… Could oneself get away with murder? In that game I did.

With a dead man paying for my expenses I enjoyed my rest, not without a streak of guilt, as I minded one more silent prayer. Catholic Imprinting is weird, but no the worst either.

With vegetables unavailable I had to content myself with a Coffee and a pancake. Not much of a problem, when falling face-first into a grave was the most recent offer I had in comparison.

And then I heard the heralds of my future course. Once more not my pursuers, but the waitress. She had recognized my Jacket, and concluded that I must be one of those ‘Investigator-Types’. From that to the old woman waiting for one took just twenty minutes.

Not too eager too blow my own cover I paid my bill, signing the fluid signature I had practiced, and went to work. Down a small road which was hard to see from the roadside.

I made the acquaintance of Donna Pearson, a granny vehemently insisting that there is urgency in investigating the witch-house. The Witch-House being the last outskirt of civilized folks, found at the other end of a downtrodden forest-path in that no-men’s-land.

The old woman had told me that something had changed recently, and that the locals didn’t dare to go there, as the priest scolded them in public. Luckily the Granny still knew what business meant, as she had shown my that she can pay, too.

With some effort I could rent myself a car, and take a dive, before anyone traced down the deceased investigator’s whereabouts!

It was afternoon, when I made way on the forest-path. It took its turns, surprisingly often so, but in an estimated twenty minutes I found myself outside a house, not a mere ruin.

My eyesight fell unto the door-bell, which was triggered by an electronic mechanism and a classic button to press.

The woman who opened the door a short while later was black-haired and green-eyed. Her stature what I would call a typical female of medium size.

‘Ma’am, I am Arnold Brice, and I came to see, if everything is well out here in the woods.’ I showed my investigator ID in a foolish notion of mimicking TV.

‘Nice to meet you, I am Aileen Blackthorn.’ she gestured me to follow her into the house, casual and unafraid I would say.

What followed was the most comforting chat since my wife had died. And neither did a black cat lurk around us. An adult woman doing some academic study in the field of Herbalist history. My host was far from a Satanic Priestess or Ghostly Apparition, about that I was certain.

‘Mr. Brice, did you arrange lodgings, or may I offer you my guest room for the night, and my company for the evening meal?’ asked Aileen Blackthorn.

‘Mrs. Blackthorn, I never meant to cause you any inconvenience. I was merely so enervated from my day that I lost my sense of time. And I would gladly accept your offer, yes.’  But I felt like the Eunuch-King of Morons that moment.

I had totally forgotten my manners, and any care for those around me. My body needed rest, and had tricked my brain into a naivety I found a notch too anti-social.

The evening went on while I befriended my host with all the sympathy she so easily made possible. Occasionally I felt the sting of emotional scars which I still had to endure aplenty. Still Aileen was an individual I found much less erratic than the city folk I was used to.

Before we both withdrew for the nighttime she gave my a slight hug. Without a kiss or telltale touch that usually meant sympathy and being close, no sexual advance. Once more assured I went into the guestroom, my last question for the evening about where to find the toilet.

We wished each other a good night and went into the solitude of our rooms. I had my first chance to think through all which had happened, and I already felt the treacherous insomnia shaking-off the leaden lethargy which had slowed me throughout the evening.

Luckily I had not made the worst kind of impression unto my host, as Aileen was blameless in the charade I pulled off and, so far, in the worries of Donna Pearson.

Unaccustomed to the room I decided to take the mini-flashlight with me into bed, and positioned the cell-phone in its station to serve as a night-lamp within reach. I had abandoned the thought of crafting an improvised baton, as my host had given me no suspicion which could legitimate it.

Sleep caught me, and I awoke in cold sweat, lucid images of killers, my grave, witches and nightly terrors (Latin: timor noctis, as even the old Romans and Barbarians already knew such) were still fresh on my mind.

It was short after midnight, and I needed a smoke. No egomaniac I readied myself, got dressed and sneaked downstairs, intent to smoke in the open doorway before tainting the room of my host. I guess I was comparably silent, as I made it to the stairs.

Inhaling from the cigarette I felt the chosen poison kick in, nicotine comforting my nerves, though impairing my body in other ways, too. A weird feeling seemed to force a connection between my dreams and reality unto me, but I had read Milton and that H.P. Lovecraft guy, and was done with it.

Dissociate Personality Disorder and Drug Abuse were the truisms TV taught us about all that occult hogwash and need for the paranormal. Spirituality wasn’t good enough for spoiled-city-people who considered smartphone Apps to be anything but archaic remnants of the urge to commit slavery!

But, in another silent prayer, I thanked God for the shelter, the pleasure of Aileen’s benevolence, and prayed for protection of the house and its inhabitants nonetheless.

‘Could I have one of those cigarettes?’ asked Aileen.

‘Sure’ came my reply, even though Faith and Pain took one instant to struggle within me.

While handing my lighter back to me she inquired: ‘ Since when did you know?’

‘The moment I felt you behind me, for it felt too good to be true’. I answered.

‘How sad’.  Noted Aileen.

‘Maybe, somehow depends on your next decision, doesn’t it?’ I stammered.

Her body pressed against my backside, as she slung her arms around my chest and belly. I knew the Beast I had disturbed in its lair. And I had no need of a Curse of the Wendigo, nor of any Black Widow Mystery. I knew my own dark side, and the moment prayer made me sensitive enough to feel her presence it was clear.

I had fallen to the one Evil I hadn’t expected, the one Evil I had always harbored within myself, the best-known Evil of all. Two killers, each with a minor cannibalistic streak, shook their bodies in a rhythm only their proverbial hearts could perceive.

Both caught between their belief and their urges, both uncertain how to decide now. No God interfered, and no Gate of Hell opened to devour either of us. We stood there, knowing that our feelings, even if mutual, would wax and wane for a while, only to falter while our urges still remained.

It was the Death and Rebirth of Love and Faith, but it was, too, more than mortals were able to handle. It was too close to perfection to allow us being satisfied with normal life ever again. Killing each other or a suicide pact were all which remained an option. And which it was is meaningless, as in both cases I can’t tell you more of it, right? 😉







Memories TOTALLY not about Vampire the Masquerade (or us).

Vamp-Ire the Mars-Parade – Last Brouhaha Standing

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

This is amateurish roleplayer sermon, unworthy of highest academic standards!

Helpful LINK:

There comes a moment, when the own ego no longer bathes us in ignorance, and we realize that midlife crisis is just another mainstream simplification. Real Life rarely looks as polished, as the Movies. Real life hurts us with or without justification, and that real life was worth it for a while, as it brought all the joy, all the sex, and all the indulgence we loved, too.

For some of us letting the own facade down is difficult in precisely the solitude which would allow us to keep it secret. Still it is not just another misery loves company. It is one of those social rites which even the non-occult-crazed can understand. Some by instinct, some by gut-feeling, others due observation or prudence.

The little talk is set in generic city, and specifically into a cheap generic diner of it. Even the protagonists admitted that they ain’t special enough to craft out a unique background!

Adrian: Another coffee, please. Lots of lactose-free milk and sugar.

Waitress: You sure they’ll show-up at all?

Adrian: *shrugs*

And while customers enter or leave, and the waitress does her job, Adrian stares into the nightly sky, drifting into the tear-jerking nostalgia once more. A decade since his cat had died, and years after the loss of Huggy Woman. Life’s been the longest road this bummer ever had to walk. Life.

Dodging his own tears his eyesight falls upon the Brouhaha T-Shirt they all purchased for their meeting. ‘Better dead than uncool!’ its slogan. What foolish, youthful pride they had once fallen for.

Thurston: You still owe me money!

Adrian: Mistaken Identity, Sir?

Thurston: Not again…

Adrian: Sorry, stock market courses, global porn-strike, and a dire need for drugs!

Thurston: Seen the Doctor?

Adrian: Yes, as if gut-rot wouldn’t be enough. It is DJ LC early on stage.

Thurston hesitates for one blink of an eye. But then he regains his composure.

Thurston: So the Afterlife-Mafia may come soon?

Adrian: Only the Bosses know, J.T.

Thurston: Oh, dammit. You forgot ten university graduations and fifty ex-wives with one heart-failure, but the one thing you remember is…

Adrian: The darkest secret of all who ever came close to me.

Both chuckle, as the minor quirk of using his middle-name did stop worrying Joshua-Thurston decades ago.

Brakeman: If I wouldn’t know better than I’d say that my business associate has fallen for another bum’s tragic tale!

The voice of Brakeman makes both other Brouhaha jumpy. It is clear to see.

Thurston: Please, Sir, gimme a coin!

Adrian: Dear Mr. Brakeman, did my office fail to inform you that our business appointment has been shifted to the 30th of February, and from London to Tokyo?

Brakeman: Hm… *suspicious look*

Now three Brouhaha chuckle, and one waitress summons her ‘no-nonsense composure’, delivering a coffee to Adrian and asking the other weirdos what they want to order. The Fennesea-Roleplay Sermon they discuss DOES make the waitress pray for a Nerd-Slaying Serial, but so far none shows up.

Thurston: Vanessa?

Adrian: Wasn’t she pregnant?

Brakeman: Her husband considers it ill-suited to know her associated with the Brouhaha any longer, I daresay.

Adrian: Daresay, that is his version of ‘I guess’.

Brakeman: *stares the traditional daggers into the eyes of the lowborn loudmouth*

Adrian: Didn’t you two, both, marry your roleplaying wives? Queens of Hearts and so?

Thurston: My old boy is feverish. Had no choice.

Brakeman: Business calls on the morrow, sorry.

Adrian: Any sense in waiting for Bestial and K?

Thurston: Bestial seems very busy doing body-building.

Brakeman: And even we uncovered some of your TOTALLY harmless notes about the state of the art concerning K! *glares at Adrian*

Adrian: mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! *poses theatrically*

The bummer fetches a menthol-cigarette from a package, and lightens it afire. Inhaling, coughing, inhaling once again, though slower and focused on it, struggling.

Thurston: That is really a new low.

Brakeman: I had hoped you felt tempted to point-out being different, but that’s really it. Lung Cancer for those useless tobacco sticks, and not the slightest regrets?

Adrian: I regret a lot, being me has never been part of that though.

Uncomfortable silence lurks for one moment, but decades of practice let the trio snap-back into the spirit of the True Brouhaha instead!

Adrian: Twenty years on psychology websites, and not one with a solution. Most with the same stereotypical explanation. Dammit, Vamp-Ire the Mars-Parade was simply the best we could achieve, no more, and no less.

Thurston: Oh, that night the Sabot struck I really thought we were dusted!

Brakeman: I must have been absent.

Adrian: Aye!

Thurston: Yeah!

Adrian: Nothing hit us harder than that fairy tale crossover!

Brakeman: Except the next adventure, maybe.

Adrian & Thurston: True!

Brakeman: And then you decided to switch sides, Join the Sabot, any memories why you did so?

Adrian: No, truly none. Maybe the inner turmoil of being one of the two Satanic Brouhaha anyway? Nah.

Brakeman: Hm… that deep fall you took does indeed remind of the Bali Clan.

Thurston: And now two Corporate Brouhaha listen to the Devilish Sermon of the one Satanic Brouhaha?

For a mortal in midlife crisis it does make so much more sense. In secrecy most of us had heard songs like ‘Forever Young’ or ‘Who wants to live forever’, too. Few above age 40 wouldn’t consider a Faustian Bargain to become a Brouhaha Brawler Punky instead of withering away, lost in their routines of career, family or failure. It DID all become alike somehow. Mortality is a burden to live with, and it grows more heavy with every day we grow older, and thus grow consequentially weaker.

Adrian: Dreams of Today are Ego-Bursts of tomorrow, it is Cola time!

*Another social rite is indulged*

Adrian: A toast, for those forced to go before their true time had come!

Thurston: A toast, to the Society which hosts us!

Brakeman: A toast, to the future awaiting us!

Adrian: Now let’s shake-off this sentimentality, as if any of us would have ever aspired to be part of the Brouhaha!

And so it was done. Right in time for a cellular-phone call to reach Brakeman.

*Emotionally-Touching Moment my prose couldn’t get written* 😉

Brakeman: Sorry, I have to leave early, but one last thing, Adrian, care to accompany me to the car?

Adrian: Until this becomes another gay-sex orgy we never had for real!

Brakeman: *eyes rolling*

Thurston: Don’t worry, I drive our lil Bummer home!

Brakeman: Good, but that’s not it. Let’s go.

Adrian and Brakeman walk towards the parking lot.

Brakeman: So you die like a stubborn mule instead of asking any of us for help?

Adrian: I was tempted, but it is the price for my own choices made.

Brakeman: Can’t you imagine that somehow WE ALL see that a bit differently? No man is left behind once held real meaning, you know.

Adrian: Sorry, never had a course on how to save a life the casual & cultivated way, I daresay.

Brakeman: We pay the best doctors money can buy, and you will struggle against the Cancer, as much, as you have struggled against every damn norm in your entire life!

Adrian: Ayouch!

The Bummer Brouhaha is visibly wracked by pain, crashing to the ground. And rising up again quickly thereafter.

Adrian: *cough*… I am fine!

Brakeman: Yeah, THAT is clear to see.

Adrian: Olaf, get home well, greetings to your wife, and be ready, when your newborn needs a father!

Brakeman: Well, err, thanks. I ‘guess’. Are you crying?

Adrian: Nah, just a tear-jerking from the pain! Now saddle-up, Cowboy!

Brakeman: Until next time then!

Adrian: Yes, until we meet again, Corporate Brouhaha!

Returning to Thurston in slow motion the face of Adrian displays an enervated, tired composure.

Thurston: So we came to save a life tonight. Did we?

Adrian: God may know. Time to drive home.

Thurston: Yes, Milord.

Adrian: Yes, Milord, let’s eradicate those degenerate devil-worshipers once and for all!

The car drove with maximum speed, clearly ignoring the laws. Both passengers were pressed into their seats.

Thurston: Does he know?

Adrian: Will we live long enough to find out?

They both popped some pills, swallowing greedily…

Thurston and Adrian looked at each other…

Thurston: You still doubt any chance of an Afterlife?

Adrian: Outside of porn? Yes!

The impact killed both of them quickly, as they stopped being ‘uncool’…

Flashy Fairy Tale – Deviants & Dragons

Deviants & Red, Horned Dragons

Humorous Minimalism & Flashy Fiction © Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

It was the age of fairy tales in the wonderful kingdom of Deviancy RT. Long centuries of joyful productivity and happiness were only rarely disrupted by the craven deeds of the wicked. Yet now once again it had come to this.

Two evil advisers had convinced the beloved king to accept a ‘political-marriage’ between the virgin and the knightly Horned Dragon. The nobles of Deviancy RT, just like the vassals and commoners, found nothing wrong in a sign of trust. Though they were, alas, wrong.

Evil had arranged for a virgin who would be all but harmless. Necessarily, as the enormous costs and efforts to keep any evil teen a virgin for years were nearly indescribable. And knowing of the compulsive do-goodhearted attitude of Deviancy RT, Evil could connive at its scheme.

So it came to be that the heroic Horned Dragon of Deviancy RT, a unique specimen of his kind, was lured into a sinister trap spun by his fiancee the Evil Virgin. Long had the fiendish Frigid schemed to thwart the plans of the Evil that had dared to force her into a nunnery.

And when she had found the old Grimoire she had discovered a way! She would sacrifice the most powerful good soul in all the land to bargain with a Demon Prince. She planned to sacrifice the honored Red Horned Dragon.

Deviancy RT had long lived in peace. And still, in this fierce crisis, the people of the realm did not falter. On the contrary, the best heroes and heroines of the Land arose to rescue the good, loyalist Dragon from the bewitching Virgin.

And so an epic journey began and a mighty quest awaited the heroic souls of Deviancy RT. Many challenges had to be overcome, plenty of grisly monsters had to be neutralized…

Until finally, the four greatest heroes and heroines of the Land found the evil Virgin and interrupted her Satanic Ritual. Freed from the wicked magic, the Horned Dragon himself delivered the false fiancee into the prison she deserved, the dragon’s stomach!

The Land having been pacified, he decided to marry a Horned She-Dragon and waited long hours until the first eggs began to crack and the future of Dragonkind was secured for Deviancy RT. And they lived happily ever after, until this author is merely another fantasist and a liar! 😉


Shadowrun – Family Affairs aka Vengeance of the Vampire

Family Affairs Revision 1.10

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, my rights reserved!


For those who do not know Shadowrun it may help to click & read:
Shadowrun Background Info 


When forced into battle Fox always fights to kill, not stun or capture.’ From Shadowrun – Shadows of Magic.


Thou shall not suffer a witch to be born!”. That pseudo-prophetic-warning weighed upon my mood alike arcane significance, while I woke-up. Some brain-dregs like that formed the sermon of another, hopelessly outdated, yet supposedly-holy book. My problem about it was that the woman whom I had married was a witch, and my daughter thereby could be suspected to be a witch, too. Even by the shrivels of scientific education which I care to remember, Chummers.

All she had wanted was to get to that teenage-band ‘Celtic Soul’ concert. Well, we had not forbidden that, just failed to tell her about it in time. So she did what every good daughter does. Rebelliously she made use of the personality traits inherited, and learned from her parents.

Next time you tranquilize your elders you might wake up in the cauldron along with spices, Dear.” I wished I could tell her, as for now she was still missing. When we had finally gathered enough cash and credit both, me and my wife, had decided to proverbially leave running the shadows, and the big city life, behind.

Technology was mobile so we did not miss much and did spend our time in an arcology much like those retired rangers often tend to do. Controlled environment, security, and some comfort. Independence, as we could produce our own food and water. Except for me nearly all others knew how to brew alcohol, too. Not Synthanol, but real, handmade-brew alcohol…

When it all started, back in 2053, I had been a Street-Shaman. Or better said I may have once been supposed to become one. Fox was my calling, but a criminal underclass was my environment. There is no great prudence which a high caliber bullet into my head could not neutralize instantly. We had our problems from the start. Because I guess Fox knew it, yet decided to leave my choice to me. Even the well-meaning can hurt one brutally that was not new to me.

I had done that. After ten years of running with Fox, and as Fox, I told my Totem that we better depart. It was mutual. I did not lose all my magic. I was not killed by some breach of my spirit either. Without Fox I simply was a proverbial shadow of a man. There was no day in my life I could be fully awake for more than four hours. That was the price to pay. Lifelong imprisonment on the borderline to dreamy slumber. Like a sedated lunatic. I hated Fox even more, yet knew it was not his misdeed. Fox was just one more totem, and the fat and bloated man whom I had become did not look prudent or tricky at all.

We had done, as parents typically do, when their child goes missing. We had instantly indebted ourselves, and hired a private investigator who had scored some successes in Seattle, precisely the city where ‘Celtic Soul’ were predestined to jump upon the stage. But there is this truism about solutions among shadowrunners: “An easy solution is no solution at all!” The Bitch named Consequence is not fucked by anyone without dire repercussions to follow. My wife tended to smack me with one of her elbows whenever I was caught babbling vulgarism aloud…

The Sleuth had returned to us with one of those facial expressions one only wants to see in SimStim entertainment. The fact that he visited an arcology at all proved him professional enough to me. He delivered a message from my daughter’s pseudo-kidnapper. Kinda: “Come, jump into my trap so I can avenge myself, or your offspring… signed K.”

Insanity has only one limit and that is certain death. I should have killed K straight the first time he had proven himself a false friend. I did not, brainwashed by the laws of old, long-gone democracy calling it murder. So he had risen in power, and was eager to put the blame upon me once again.

He’ll have you raped, and tortured to death!” my wife commented with the shimmer of divination magic in her eyes.

Or worse: He forces me to listen to his self-pity-fuck sermon again! I will not abandon our child to his fangs!” I tried to fake a smile, and to pretend immortality.

K had become the boss of a special gang. Süpür-K <-> Homosexual Turkish Criminals. Funded by some corporate media friends of him, them hoping that K, who happened to be a vampire since 2055, would gift them immortality! K had played the patience-card. Bluffing about how his rise in power would mean the blood by which they will soon be created would be much stronger. Well, the virus in that blood to give some detail. Corpse-Lovers and Coffin-Sleepers are wrong in the head for sure.

So I ventured into the big city one more time. I needed neither magic nor scouts to find a K who wanted to be found. Shortly after midnight, shortly after because my fat old me was out of breath, I had entered the gang-hosting mansion of the vampire. Former friends make fierce enemies. A mutual wisdom. The stench of feces alone could have killed me, and I always had the suspicion that certain homosexuals perceived it as perfume of a kind. Disease Worship, pretty common.

K was well prepared. Neither my weapons, nor my suicide-capsule escaped the vigilance of his guards. I wasn’t surprised. So I went into the vampire mansion. Once more a black sheep coming home. Ready to face my self-declared judge. It was much, as I had anticipated. K wanted something, which I could not offer. I saw it in his eyes, when he made his melodramatic moves, sneaking around my bound daughter like a ghoul around a passer-by who had just died of heart-failure.


K believed the brain-crap he was babbling, he did not just play the victim. With all his nocturnal powers he was still trapped. He had to blame me, for he failed to accept the responsibility for, and consequence of, his own misdeeds. I couldn’t end our friendship, for he had always been faster than me. Didn’t he know that much at least?

Now you miss that capsule I presume?” K asked in his triumphant mood. His fangs nearly shining in the semi-darkness.

A bit. Still I just wanted you to be distracted until the spell works…” came my reply.

The last memory I had was the realization dawning in my child’s eyes. My daughter was transported home, as I unleashed the energy of a forbidden spell. An old, Norse witchcraft born of merciless demand. The one even attempting such a spell is torn to shreds within the proverbial moment of his deed. It is a spell made only for females. It saved my daughter, and robbed my oldest adversary of his vengeance. I died gratefully. I had understood the prophecy. I just had not expected my daughter to be already pregnant.

End of Story 1

Shadowrun – Shadow-Friends, revision 1.01

For those who do not know Shadowrun it may help to click & read:
Shadowrun Background Info 

Shadow-Friends 1.01
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

“Dark Mother, Kali-Ma, guide us!” The chant was habitual by now. Alphard Johnson intoned it with joy and conviction. The backroom was unlit. Sound-dampening padding attached to the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. A minor Refugio, a shabby sanctuary crafted for the magically awake among his flock. Alphard bathed in the darkness, drawing energy from it like a hungry vampire drains lifeblood from its victims.

His sacrifice was not understood by his clientele, and Alphard had long accepted that it was a burden which only a handful of brethren and disciples even knew about. It was the price he paid for the Dark Mother’s supportive guidance, and he paid it willingly. Though sometimes he missed home, grew proverbially homesick.

Technically  official  Meta-Magic-Theory  made  him  one  more  Shaman.  A  dangerous simplification. Alphard was a cultist, a special form of magic user and the Dark Mother was not his Totem but his Patron or Deity. There were truisms about similar principles in the comparison of relationships for Shaman to Totem and Cultist to Deity. Yet defining it via those too often resulted in mutually unwanted misunderstandings.

When Alphard had learned that beyond all the accusations and paranoid ramblings only the Dark Mother fought against Demons & Injustice, then Alphard had paid her respect. For from his  perspective  she  deserved  it,  a  heroic  and  solitary  Sacred-Police Task  Force  against exceptionally dangerous criminals and abusers.

He had come to her after his third Shadowrun ever had culminated in utter catastrophe. His team had been send against a coven of witches and warlocks serving the Adversary. The Adversary was the true patron or deity behind creatures like Satan, Shaitan, or Wendigo plus countless other guises, and heaps of disinformation.

Since his original magic had been burned out of him Alphard believed in stuff like hellfire. His team had survived, crippled and scarred, because they were allowed to survive as a frightening example for other Shadowrunners. Seattle remembered it for several years. In the aftermath of it he had found help and healing where it was most unexpected. Still the hags’ prophecy haunted him. Barely recovered, freshly accepted as a child of the Dark Mother he had encountered a messenger of the adversary. She had just come to talk that much was true. “Painstakingly will be your existence, and you will be murdered by the only family you have left!”

That was 24 years ago. It was true that his scars, received from the dark ephemera encountered on that proverbially fateful run, had never fully healed. Recurrently he had days in anguish or outright agony. His will opposing the onslaught even though his will was mortal while the hellfire was not. Twenty years ago he had to leave the sacred temple. It was his start as a Mr. Johnson and Cult-Agent. Tasks he had learned to coordinate and execute quite well. Modern computers had allowed him to fund and support the cult, send Shadowrunners against enemies of the Dark Mother frequently, and prosper along with it.

It was a blessed time.

With 46 years of age he was a veteran mage of sorts. He had seen and experienced much in his life. He even got happily married for a complete decade. Just that all their children were born dead, and that his wife had committed suicide, when it became too much for her. The Dark Mother was there giving solace and healing what she could. Once again. But Alphard was a man of his time and he had not ignored any chance to evade or defeat the prophecy. He had failed time and time again. Even the Dark Mother had reassured him that the prophecy was verified and would inevitably come true.

Alphard slipped into his Lined Duster armored coat. He wore the holy symbol of his new Family, stuck the Remington Roomsweeper into its holster and ensured that ammunition was sufficient. Slower than in his younger years he walked through those streets of Seattle. The smell of the city, the pulsing of its energy, like lifeblood to a human body. The atmosphere he had learned to love. All those impressions which had accompanied his triumphs and routine throughout  the  years. It was  a wonderful walk.  When  the  alley  before him deepened  in darkness it was a spirit of fulfillment, and relief, which made him venture into it.

He had been reborn in darkness and everything good in his entire adult life had been supplied by that darkness. Now he had to be strong and regal, as it was the least he could do to show proper respect. The Shadow before him was so solid that any cultist gifted with dark-sight would have stared at it in awe and admiration. Its female form radiated power, divinity, and solace. Alphard looked into the eyes made of blackness like an infant who feels all nightmares banished when Momma comes to give him a good-night kiss.

“This is your wish?” The Shades’ voice was angelic to Alphard.

“Yes. I thank you for all of it!” Alphard barely saw the motion coming… The Cultist barely felt the strike…
Before his head had fallen from his severed neck Alphard was already reunited with the one essence he had ever found comfort in. It was a good, darkling Death to choose.

“Dark Mother, I’m coming home!” his last faint echo of a chant on the Astral Plane…

End of Story 5.