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Author: Lunatic Asylum.
Taken From: http://www.geocities.com/lunatic_asylum/index.htm
e-mail: lunatic_asylum@slayer.org


			Artist of Death: Full Release.

			Part 1: Transformation. 18.VI

 A man sitting next to nether table seemed to be in the depression. As he
mumbled, he got and got more portions of anger to be uncharged in a moment. So
he closed both of his eyes and took a deep breath in. His fingers seemed to be
trembling alittle, but heart - was not. A momentary lapse of his
unlinked thoughts led him to one thing - he is a minion now, or, better say a
slave. Slave, who can never disobey his Master, and who can never break the
rules. "Rules? All of my life I was mistaken that rules in the world are for
tresspassing them. Now, one sidemove and I'll meet Him."

 It began two days before, he, Marthy Strafe was a genuine Master of Arts, and
he was finishing his first really fascinating work - a picture "In Claws Of
The Death", in fact this was a project-name, and later it became the name of
the picture. It wasn't the one from commercials, so no one knew that he was
involved in that direction of art. And that inclination is the cause of his
troubles.

 Now it didn't seem to him what that was troublesome, it was his new aim of
life. Life which, by a simple mortal, would be called a suffering. He looked at
his picture once again - it was standing on a pedestal with a touch of a
shadow, glowing in
the darkness of unseen light. He changed his eyesight to the centre of the
masterpiece: brightly, as in reality he saw demon tearing his victims and
holding bloody pulsating dying body. It's odd he enjoyed it. He noticed he
became stronger now and although he hadn't a sleep for thirty hours, he hasn't
a lust for it. "Shit, my headache" - he said. Some sort of noise crawled onto
his mind - through his ears. He heard some one telling "Astarot" and "Marthy"
from time to time. But time is a thing to be explored, and he was stranger
here, in the world where he had lived for 36 years.

 It was a little rainy and now he wanted to walk out this dwelling place, to
sally down the streets in the neon lights of sleepy city. He took his rope
from the floor near the door and a dark long coat from a cabinet. It's funny
'cause he would never walk in the streets in the nights, even police was afraid
of patrolling area where he lived - probably because it was a poor district
where bums and robbers felt like home. It was the place where they were all
born, and there they earn for theirs living by killing and robbing.
Often, morning newspapers were full of notes: "Killed today", or "Person is
missing", signed this person last night had been seen here, in this district.
People like Marthy always would get an adventure on theirs asses in two
seconds. But from his "new birth" he had a fearful outlook - and everyone
he met moved quickly out of the way. Anyway, Marthy would kill somebody
today, he felt it, he smelled that.

 He passed the church and some queer feeling visited him, his skin shuddered
while he felt grim, dread cross on his back.
 Abruptly his falcon eye met hers, and he was acknowledged that he should
get her. "Innocent girl" - he tried to arise some feelings and ceased that -
it was all in vain. On the run he quickly emptied his right pocket taking the
tough rope out of it. The child even didn't noticed a crazy person behind,
but hearing frightful steps of a running man, she turned to him only to be
frozen with surprising mine.

 Finally he brought her home. Now it was time to construct an altar for victim.
Sucking, like a vulture blood from girl he spilled red liquid on floor, forming
5-pointed star with a circle around it, he set up five candles, each on its
place of the star, and retired in satisfaction, approximately he had few
minutes to do the rest. In the former life he was a Christian and used to talk
about
morality - now it is gone. Hastily forming altar of books on Christ he put last
candle on the top. Now everything was done, except one last note - he did it
with no remorse, no emotion. He put the body right in the star, and repeated
loudly the words, whispered by someone in his ears. Suddenly he was enlightened
with knowledge that they were slaves like him, and he knew that slaves don't
have their own lock on soul - a mystery to be found by someone.

 Obsessive pictures flashed in his sanity, and he lost control, falling down
the ground... When he came round he saw no one in the room except altar,
candles and BLOOD...

			Part 2. Sacrifice	24.VI
 "Had days better than this" - he said softly, standing up and shaking himself
off. Cold breeze entered the room, and Marthy felt pain. Pain that he might
call a trifle and somebody - a crisis. He drained his powers to overforce
the calls. Now he sees there they are calling - to the cemetery. He followed
invisible creatures, tracking them until he lost them from the sight, and found
himself near the entrance to the graveyard, one for the entire town.
Never in his life he heard so brilliantly.
Eerie sounds filled this dwelling place as he caught a sign of the
speech of THE DEAD! He had no place in soul for frights and nevertheless, he 
had bitten his tongue being astonished. "Unholy God" - he said making first
step towards the nearest tombstone, "If I were them I wouldn't be talking so
much". Picturesque things were around him - full moon reflecting sunlight,
larvas near the places there they all were buried and him, dressed in black
coat and somewhat black trousers with spot of seldom rain. Cool wind waved
his hair.
"Tough guy" - thought an ace-of-diamonds gravedigger who was standing nearby,
coming in the contact with Marthy he said in his farmerous manner: "Wuzzup,
sonny. Ya c me, ol' man workin' here and nobody gonna speak wi' me, it's
nice of you to come here, I see you ain't here for a visit, yeap?...".
Marthy looked down at him silently.
"Hey I am talkin' to you. Are you deaf? Relax, fellow, wanna drink some, ah?".
Marthy realized that the man was drunk and stinked like a rotten monkey.
Paying no attention to the old man, he walked to the grave. Kneeling down he
cleaned the dust from the epitaph in the place he currently was and read it.
"Why did somebody wrote this stuff", said old man, "I think it's a kinda joke
or sort of. What's written here?".
Marthy began: "Satan, oro te pro arte a te spero. Satan, oro te
pro arte a te spero. Satan. ter oro te, opera praesto. O Satan! oro e te rapta
reportes!" - he knew it was a cure from sanity and he read and
read it till he realized that he had read it for 6 times.
Blood filled the moon and grim light earthquake occurred. When the last word was
done, graves began to shake and soil moved away and fell under ground. 
Marthy knew they would face him and become his faithful dogs or furiest enemies.
One by one the figures raised from coffins. Nobody could guess why it was
happening. He knew. He knew that there were six hundred sixty five wasted lives
here: a g.rl was the last. Gravedigger shouted but Marthy even didn't spared
a second to think about old man, who was in the ground by the balls. He was
shouting and trying to get out, but soon he was paralyzed - a broken spine
didn't let him to run back home - to the park to his bum friends. His eyes lost
its light and accuracy and he felt unconscious only to die in few seconds.
This was an unexpectable victim, but virtually sixty-six were in place: a g.rl
wasn't here and old man was.

			F I N E

XX.XX.99