*****

An angel. Gliding on the roof types. Tails of his duster acting as dark wings, giving an eerie, beautiful sound as wind sailed through the black vintage cow's skin. Three similarly clad figures struggled to keep up with no avail. He was still too fast for them. And the briefest of smiles touched his lips as he stopped and waited for them to catch up. He looked down into the windows of the fully lit warehouse looking at her and the old man, both fully loaded with devil killers and white witch potions. He would call her Mary.

Catching up, they leapt down to the door of the warehouse and the sounds of flesh slapping, demon screeching, beckoned Jon to enter. He did so, his lovelies right behind him, and he nearly squealed with delight. So much death and destruction and it wasn't even his birthday.

Then he saw HER. Mary. And he saw the foulest of the foul come up behind her. Too dog faced for even Cerberus to mate and too ancient even for Charon to let board. He was behind the bastard child of the order of Aurelius on a breeze and pulled out that baneful of hearts with his hands. And so it and that body blew away on the wind. But he saddened at the fact that Mary full of grace had already been sent to the Bastard up in hell. But maybe he could save her soul before it was too late. A desolate silence burned in his ears and tore his eyes away from the beautiful Virgin. Looking up he saw his maroon stained childer killing the last of the mortals and he couldn't help but be a bit disappointed. He wanted to have some fun too. But he will get his later. YES�another creation. And then he saw the old man. The voyeur. And he felt the pull in that place that nasty soul should be to make this one holy too.

"Gather them both." And his errant brood lifted them sloppily onto their backs. He growled, "One hair harmed and I will let you all greet Apollo." The lot of them strengthened their holds on the bodies. Just as he reached the exit, he stopped in mid-step and his body emitted a low grumble in response to the thumping in his ears. The sound of life.

"What is it?" The youngest of the chosen asked, but he was quickly shushed by a low growl that Jon identified as Devon.

Jon closed his eyes and turned his head toward the low, fearless drums. Eyes open and Jon faced a closed white door. At the door, he kicked down the wood and ventured inside. And the drumming in his ears put on flesh as he saw the mortal calmly going about whatever it is that he was doing moving back and forward from one contraption to another, while this loud racket beamed into his head from his walkman. So oblivious. To Jon. He couldn't have that.

He stepped right into the path. The dark, curly haired young man suffered only a momentary shock as he turned to face the blue-eyed vamp, then went around him to get to his contraption. He spoke, not even looking at Jon. "Does the master know that you are here?"

Jon had to contain his anger as he caught the boy by his throat in mid-rotation back to his other contraption. Even then the kid showed no fear as he held up his left hand. A mark had been tattooed into his skin. Jon looked at the mark and back to the kid. Worry suddenly filled those eyes. His captor didn't know the mark of the Master. But he never struggled. He had come to know the bite of a vamp pretty well. None deeper than the other. Eventually it stopped hurting. And maybe this time he could quite possibly die.

So when Jon's face shifted he simply offered his neck. Jon's face shifted into one of disgust. So simple? No fight. And he felt a dread upon his would be heart. And he knocked the boy out.

He had Devon carry the boy since Devon was the only childe with nothing in his hands. He took the body with a bit reluctance and Jon would have to fix that. But not now.

***

The Watcher was first. He had to be made beautiful first. Mary's soul would wait for him later.

Well the obvious first where the eyes. Such sinful beauties. Carefully cut out. Put those away for later. Cause god is NOT wasteful.

He took his time as he sewed up this vacancies in the man's eyes. It still felt like he was being watched. Jon relished in the goose bumps.

He brought out his special brew, a mixture of priests saliva and something his science teacher called "sulfuric acid." Jon cringed as he tried to say the words. He just referred to it as Sun juice. For its beautiful burning effects.

He poured it very carefully, enjoying the deliciously bitter and biting scent of burning flesh. Right down the middle of the evildoer�s chest. Satisfied, he made another right across the chest. And he wished to Thanatos that the body was still alive�to deliver the screams he so desired. But this would have to do. The cross laid upon his chest he moved forward.

He took more of the sun juice mix and with a paintbrush painted it around the skull. A perfect sphere around the skull and it with the most gentle of tugs he pulled the top half of the skull it made an orgasmic popping sound as it slid off.

He sat it down carefully to the side and continued. He slowly pulled the sides of the gelatinous grey matter away from the wall of the bone�careful, careful, careful just like peeling the orange fruit away from its rind and he gently he pulled at the cord extending into the bone of the spinal.

And he starts to pour in the secret of ingredients. Sugar and spice, with roaches and mice. Eyes of newt and pieces of rotten fruit. Shit and maggots, fingers and thumbs, complete the recipe for this old one.

He sits back and carefully sews, then staples, then sews the top of the skull onto the head. Never can be too careful. And he delights in the sight of the moving bulges under the thinly haired head. And the last of it. He takes out the last of the sun juice and drips it ever so slowly onto voyeurs midsection beaming blissfully as the liquid pain rips into the flesh and dissolves the mortal coil and when it is done he is sad. So soon?

Very well. He lifts the upper torso away from its lower compliment, cringing at the mess the liquefied flesh was making on his beautiful wooden floor, and carried the body to it's allotted space in his gallery. He took two large hooks, of pure moon metal , that dangled from chains that connected to his ceiling, and pushed them through the back of the body and left it to get the lower torso. Pushing a small, thick chain into the bottom of the top half of the body, he rooted the opposite end of the interlocking metals into the bottom half of the body. Finished! Finished! He stepped back and looked at the body, slave to any air that may flow through the room, the lower half hanging below the top half about three feet. He opened a window and watched as the body twisted like a wind chime in opposing directions. It was beautiful. He was contented to stare at his creation when he realized that "Mary" was desperately calling for redemption. And God is a forgiving god.

**

She's special. Even when her lungs no longer expand and contract. Even when her hands and mouth and feet no longer do anything to harm him or his genus. Nevertheless, she must be made beautiful. He soaks her body in rancid milk, leaving it with a gorgeous white glow. This will be his greatest creation yet. And he is alone, cause they are sinners. And god dost not dwelt among the sinners. He brings out the sharp blade. Cause in the beginning was the sword. And the sword was with god. And the sword was God. The first incision is made at the beginning of the throat, below that beautiful chin. He cuts out a small square exposing the shiny, blood splash, trachea. And he firmly places the eye of the watcher into the hole. It had been the only part kept of the old dirty man with the foulest of thoughts and the worst mouth. He was a watcher. And a trickle of maroon seeps from the hole and look the eye is crying. But he must move on.

Slither slather and all the goodness.

Get on down the flesh colored road.

Slice and now a whole gapes in her chest, between the nursing maids. And there is a fountain of the red stuff but he lets it drain into a bowl. No fun with it just yet. He pushes in a long stemmed rose. And it is planted into her chest and blooming with life and essence. He adds another and then another and then another and the hole is now a bouquet fit for the day of the Valentine Massacre.

Get on down that maroon splashed, flesh colored road.

With Surgeon's skill and gods grace he splits the skin above the womb. Carefully, so carefully he inserts the fetus of a swine and suddenly she is bursting with life and he replaces the skin with the black silk thread. Moving down he once again employed that dark thread as he made her a virgin forever. That swallower of the lingams closed. For SHE was a virgin. Moving on.

Her hands are sewed delicately to the sides of her chest and her fingers are nailed to the breasts covering the baby suckling nipples, but careful not to interrupt the rose garden.

He covers her face in shiny white powder because she is a lady and a virgin. Forever. The knife is used once again and for a final time and he cuts off both eyelids, letting the dark maroon blood trickle down the stone white cheeks. And the blessed virgin, bountiful with a branching heart, and crying.

And he feels like creating again. One more time. And the mortal heartbeat brings a smile to his face.

**

He looks at the boy in disgust. How can one be so fucking weak. His youngest, as frail as he was, didn't even behave in such a deliberately subordinate matter. But there is potential there.

Whoosh. Flesh made contact with flesh and the thunder of the connection bounced and danced around the room. And he relished in it. Those large brown eyes, suddenly so afraid stared up at him. And the body to which they belong found itself chained to a wall. And it realized something. It was cold. So very cold. Icy winds nipped at his skin and he realized that he was naked. Warren's brown orbs questioned the blue ones. But he didn't dare speak aloud. And Jon just couldn't have that. He slapped the face again. And again. Until the voice finally asked. "What did I do?"

Jon smiled. "You didn't do anything?" Slap harder and the boy was bleeding.

Eyes watered, "Then why are you hitting me?"

"Because I want to." He slapped the face three more times. Then spoke. "Do you hate me?"

The answer was immediate and disgustingly subordinate. "No."

A direct punch to the gut. The figure tried to double over, cover that now sensitive part of his body, but the silver metals denied him.

"Do you hate me?"

"No."

Slap, punch, kick. Repeat.

"Do you hate me?"

"Y�yes?"

Blood trickled from his nose. But it was more of a question.

Punch.

"Do you _ hate _ me?"

"Yes!" And this was a shout.

"Do you wish you could kill me?"

Hesitation. Slap, kick, and�"YES! I fucking hate you. I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!"

Jon smiled and pulled the boys head back. Canines separating the folds and freeing that trapped life beneath. And the boy's scream was most heavenly. Deeper. And it was so warm. Drink life. Like there was no tomorrow. And there wouldn't be for him. Not for this life. Finished he retracts reluctantly and tips his head. Warren knows exactly what to do. And for a brief moment Jon is in ecstasy as the blunt incisors tear through his skin. And his drink is as deep as his other childer. And he knows that this one is made worthy.

End It