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02.08.06 Strike
I: Wessex, England - outside the
Lancastrian Ancestral Estate
This was just supposed to be a
quick, enjoyable stop in Europe. I had a few things I needed to
get done before I prepare for the next "Outrage."
Firstly, I had to acquire a new wedding ring for Marissah. She
lost it in the condo after having taken it off to bathe, so she
says. We scoured that place top-to-bottom, despite my suffering
the ill effects of the bout with Seamus - she insisted I look.
And look we did, to no avail.
She cried and cried until I assured her repeatedly that I would get her
a new one. £375
000 down the goddamn toilet because of a bath.
Life's a bitch, and my wallet's been paying a handsome price as of late
because of it. Marissah's friend Paulus, whom I hired to manage
my finances, hasn't been the wizard of Wall Street I'd been
hoping. With all that's going on career wise, I've not kept as
keen an eye on my pocket book as I did in past days, especially when I
ran Robert Lancaster Investment Enterprises, which I'm happy to hear as
of late, is prospering. I'll have to check in with Paulus
sometime soon in the future, and see what he's been investing in,
because my portfolio's been taking a beating.
I laugh to myself quietly. As long as he's not channeling my
money into some secret Swiss bank account or something.
Shit it's chilly out here. Perhaps a leather jacket wasn't the
best outdoor attire to don.
Here I sit just outside the Estate, on the doorstep of the little pub
that sat on this land for decades. Closed down now by myself, in
a fit of anger with the owner who had occupied the premises for as long
as I can remember, and longer yet.
It stands vacant, boarded up, lest any vagrants or junkies attempt to
make the backyard of my Estate a squatter's den.
I've wondered if what I did to him was the right thing to do. He
was a kindly old man, always treated me and my family with the greatest
respect.
But no. He raised his voice to me, he cursed my name, destroyed
my portrait. He got what was coming to him.
I spit on the ground and clear my throat. I reach inside my
jacket pocket and pull out a little flask, given to me by Thane, with
the inscription reading, "Here's to ya Boris!" alluding to my frequent
drinking to an extent that would parallel former President Boris
Yeltsin. It served its purpose well many a night, and it does so
again tonight.
A quick nip of J&B warms the soul, and clears the mind.
Even after years of alcohol abuse the amber fluid still makes me shake
a little as it swims down my gullet into my innards.
This bloody trip did not pan out as I had hoped. Most of all with
seeing Edward. I went to my ex-wife's condominium today to take
him out. I squatted down and held my arms out to get a hug, but I
didn't get a hug. I didn't even get a visit. He refused to
let go of Stephanie's niece's leg. She's about the only one in
her family who can stand me now apparently. Edward cried and
moaned about not wanting to go out. I was shattered. She
tried to explain that he had been acting temperamental as of late,
perhaps explaining his reluctance to go out with me.
I hadn't seen him in weeks, months, and I cherish any time I get with
my little boy, my treasure. And he refused to even come near me.
I want another child. Badly. I tried to raise the subject
even in passing again with Marissah - nothing. She freaked out
and bloody well ranted on about career, enjoying our relatively
still-new marriage, blah fucking blah. I can't get anywhere with
her anymore it seems. The only quality time we get is when we're
on the road, then she's off to Saks, Hèrmes, and with my credit card, of
course.
She still puts out, and puts out damn well, so that's some satisfaction
anyway.
Career has given me a great deal of satisfaction as well. I am at
the top of my game, more so than I ever have. Nobody is
invincible against me now. There was one point where I did coward
before the likes of Adam-X, Nighthawk, Nick Cyprus - no more.
Daemon Curtis is formidable - he is champion for a reason.
But we are the Destroyer of
Worlds. We are the Destroyer of Worlds for a reason. With
one shattering of his cane we stole a bit of his soul, drained a bit of
his hold on the golden orb, and spilled his blood, quenching our
thirst. He heard our message, he felt our message, and he will
live with that message forever more.
The world is ripe for the taking - all we need do is reach out and take
it.
And we shall never look back. Never.
Those moments will come. For now I have to wait.
Patience. Evaluate. And then, strike.
strike.
As in, strike of a match?
Why not. A little evil to set the tone for times to come.
And to appease my master.
What the hell.
I stand up and rifle through my pocket and find what I'm looking for.
A moment or two later, the old public house stands in flames.
Too bad I didn't have a camera to send the pictures to the old bastard
who ran the place.
Into my Jaguar, and off into the English night. And home to the
United States.
I hear I have an interesting match looming.
Oh Mr. Curtis.
Your days are numbered.
I am become Death
The Destroyer
of Worlds
