Mornings come as a dull white inauguration to a worn out day. It's bright when I want it to rain, Grey on days that should've been sunny, and slow on days when my adrenaline is going through the roof.
Today.. todays it's hot. Like god put a magnifying glass under the sun. It's a day ready to combust into a million flames, yet here I am, in the space of my room; overlooking a rainbow of concrete.
My adrenaline is always high, and my good mood is a murderous rage. No wit no will, yet sharp as sin, I'm a pitiless mercenary.
Me and more like me .. we're hired for the entirety of a whole war..we're not hitman, we're mercenaries and killing is our purpose to breathe. Mafia war, world war, galaxy war or blackhole war..it doesn't matter.
If you shove a rose up the barrel of my m16, I will fry your ass with benzene flare.
Fields, flowers, white flags, dwellings and mercy... everything we raid, conquer or go through, we starve, burn or kill. We've no mates, we've brethren, and even those we sometimes maim and kill.
We are sent back when the war gets over or our contracts; Whichever happens first. Some wars are swift, spanning a few months or a couple of years, but some keep on for decades..millenia.
.. for the past few turns I've been sent as torture artist for covert military operations, secret evolution projects and warlords.
Deaths on torture chairs are often inevitable and a thing of incidental beauty, and I never had to worry about that same old chestnut 'how to get rid of the body'. The dead bodies were usually flung over battle encampments, trenches, stalemates..or strewn over a freshly carpet bombed city. Once in a while they'd be sold to a starving nation.
Ah, but let me not hold you hostage to disoriented adventure of black ink white page, for it is a rabbit hole, and who's to say a mercenary wouldn't eat that silly rabbit?
Hours of meditation are a mandatory mercenary training exercise, to keep a clearer head. It acts as a shield against all the voices that feed on your senses, and my sincere weapon for meditative calm is Audiobooks.
Audiobooks when I'm working, to drown out the voices and provide a prettier narrative to repetitive slashes and strokes. *you learn to read between the lines, uncode signals and signs that are an echo of your own
The bait was in the making as I started listening to one audiobook after another while I sank ships, burnt oil rigs, and slit throats.
and then one day I stumbled on 'Wayne of Gotham audiobook'.
- Batman, without the visual! how terribly difficult to follow and banal it would be, but it was a movie in my mind, and I smiled and gasped at how well they built on suspense and anxiety. It was a typical Batman story, but they perfectly wove past and present through flashbacks in narratives. Old school batman, deep baritone, dank dark caves, more blue than black.
-Stepehen King came in next..in an avalanche, while I Filled silo's with severed limbs and flew F-22 Raptor's over rubble towns, Stephen started with a solo trumpet of 24 short stories, and by the time I was dressed to the nines in my combat boot and fatigues, Stephen was a full blown symphony with his 'Revival' and 'Mr. Mercedes'.. and while I do accede milord, that they weren't his absolute best, it didn't matter to moi. The narration was spectacular, like bricklaying horror and suspense, juxtaposed with real life existence, as I punched in nuclear codes over a city.
I could burn through the tar black orbs of your eyes, sow more words into your inner eyelids, and emblazon it with random despair, dear sir, but I hear the sirens wailing. they're shouting for us to fall into ranks..it's time for deployment. lacing up my boots and feeding on covert battleground missives, I blast through audiobookbay, for strictly meditative purposes.
Today.. todays it's hot. Like god put a magnifying glass under the sun. It's a day ready to combust into a million flames, yet here I am, in the space of my room; overlooking a rainbow of concrete.
My adrenaline is always high, and my good mood is a murderous rage. No wit no will, yet sharp as sin, I'm a pitiless mercenary.
Me and more like me .. we're hired for the entirety of a whole war..we're not hitman, we're mercenaries and killing is our purpose to breathe. Mafia war, world war, galaxy war or blackhole war..it doesn't matter.
If you shove a rose up the barrel of my m16, I will fry your ass with benzene flare.
Fields, flowers, white flags, dwellings and mercy... everything we raid, conquer or go through, we starve, burn or kill. We've no mates, we've brethren, and even those we sometimes maim and kill.
We are sent back when the war gets over or our contracts; Whichever happens first. Some wars are swift, spanning a few months or a couple of years, but some keep on for decades..millenia.
.. for the past few turns I've been sent as torture artist for covert military operations, secret evolution projects and warlords.
Deaths on torture chairs are often inevitable and a thing of incidental beauty, and I never had to worry about that same old chestnut 'how to get rid of the body'. The dead bodies were usually flung over battle encampments, trenches, stalemates..or strewn over a freshly carpet bombed city. Once in a while they'd be sold to a starving nation.
Ah, but let me not hold you hostage to disoriented adventure of black ink white page, for it is a rabbit hole, and who's to say a mercenary wouldn't eat that silly rabbit?
Hours of meditation are a mandatory mercenary training exercise, to keep a clearer head. It acts as a shield against all the voices that feed on your senses, and my sincere weapon for meditative calm is Audiobooks.
Audiobooks when I'm working, to drown out the voices and provide a prettier narrative to repetitive slashes and strokes. *you learn to read between the lines, uncode signals and signs that are an echo of your own
The bait was in the making as I started listening to one audiobook after another while I sank ships, burnt oil rigs, and slit throats.
and then one day I stumbled on 'Wayne of Gotham audiobook'.
- Batman, without the visual! how terribly difficult to follow and banal it would be, but it was a movie in my mind, and I smiled and gasped at how well they built on suspense and anxiety. It was a typical Batman story, but they perfectly wove past and present through flashbacks in narratives. Old school batman, deep baritone, dank dark caves, more blue than black.
-Stepehen King came in next..in an avalanche, while I Filled silo's with severed limbs and flew F-22 Raptor's over rubble towns, Stephen started with a solo trumpet of 24 short stories, and by the time I was dressed to the nines in my combat boot and fatigues, Stephen was a full blown symphony with his 'Revival' and 'Mr. Mercedes'.. and while I do accede milord, that they weren't his absolute best, it didn't matter to moi. The narration was spectacular, like bricklaying horror and suspense, juxtaposed with real life existence, as I punched in nuclear codes over a city.
I could burn through the tar black orbs of your eyes, sow more words into your inner eyelids, and emblazon it with random despair, dear sir, but I hear the sirens wailing. they're shouting for us to fall into ranks..it's time for deployment. lacing up my boots and feeding on covert battleground missives, I blast through audiobookbay, for strictly meditative purposes.
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