Who in the world can stop this now?

It wasn't Maria, in St Louis... now, we had been adults, you see, and in the throes of passion. I met my son, who we'll just call Shai. He was very keen on being upset with me, despite me having never even known of his existence. As one of the things he did know about me was that I was a gangster, my prim grey coat and agreeable attitude didn't quit jive with his expectations. It was not difficult to sweet-talk him out of righteous fury, but curiosity got the best of him and he started to show an unacceptable level of interest in my life. As such, I arranged to make another meeting with him at a later date and promptly pretended that the event had never happened. And that will be that. He's thirty-three now, he doesn't need daddy around to care for him. All I'd end up doing is drag him into, well, this mess.

But, ahem, that's enough of my personal life. I've heard a rumor that the only compatriot of mine involved in the Greyskin incident who objected to me describing the story here has died rather messily - all of his teeth removed, I hear. Terrible, terrible. All but rumors for now, however, so please be patient while I receive confirmation.

The Face of a Generation

Some of us propose that the Father is a simulacrum, the face of the veil. I have heard evidence to support this theorem, although it is probably some sort of heresy to openly espouse it without the backing of a shift in the Timberwolves' line of thinking. I suppose I shall simply let those of you who visit my cozy corner of the internet decide for yourselves.

Lily's husband had been dead for five years. Lily's husband had been stalking her with intent to kill for five years. Obviously, something wasn't quite right here. For whatever inscrutable reason, the Father had singled out his prey, and one lonely night so deigned to pounce.

Lily was prepared, of course. She had survived for five years as a self-affirming widow due to preparation, instincts and uncanny aim. Not that it did her any good, as she had never been able to (as far as she could tell) actually land a solid blow upon the thing that wore her husband's signature greatcoat. Sometimes she shot, sometimes she stabbed, but the glassy eyes of the Father's mask betrayed no sign that metal had met flesh.

Over the years she had developed an uncanny ability to predict when her husband would come knocking, like an old woman feeling an oncoming storm in her bones. It should be needless to say that it's very, very difficult to take a god by surprise. We are quite sure that many parts of this story are embellished (I did, in fact, hear it directly from the horse's mouth) due to this fact. Lily's husband gently pushed open the locked door like (and I apologize for lapsing in my sophistication) it wasn't no thang, and was promptly reintroduced to his old umbrella. The Father shrugged off this unorthodox means of assault to find that Lily was gone, and he proceeded to search the rest of the house.

He entered Lily's husband's old room, coldly surveying it with a strange hint of recognition. Then he was shot in the back with a twelve-gauge shotgun.

The Father stood for a moment, still. A scream pierced the air, and Lily heard her husband's voice for the first time in five years - a scream of pain. Her vision blurred and bright white spots consumed the world as she saw the Father turn to face her. Its chest had shattered like glass, as if her husband's likeness were a shell around what she saw within his chest.

 Simultaneously she saw her husband stumbling back, shouting in agony, his face freed from the gas mask as he bled and died on his old bed. But they didn't happen at once, and the two visions alternated and interwove and coexisted and Lily screamed because she couldn't make sense of it and her eyes kept being drawn to the hole in the Father's chest. But then the Father took all of the pain away, and pulled her into a tight embrace. The pain was gone and her body was on fire. Then the Father took off his mask, and she saw Him, and she saw Bliss.

This was approximately the point, we theorize, that Lily entered the Father's dominion. Neighbors called the police, and they found Lily not breathing and surrounded by blood. Forensics indicated that the blood was deeply stained into the bed and carpet, and had been there for at least five years. Fortunately, they were able to resuscitate Lily. She described to them a near-death experience, a feeling of absolute protection. This was only half of the truth, of course. Myself and my compatriots later extracted the rest, catching her before her inevitable suicide.

I Can Still See

It appears that, once again, I have a computer in my possession. Times are tight, after all, and after the third time my laptop took a bullet for me I decided that, perhaps, continuing to purchase computers was not a worthwhile investment. Recently I have moved into an apartment and, as such, it seemed appropriate to acquire a desktop and return to this blog. While I attempt to articulate the resolution to the cliffhanger I appear to have left you with, here's yet another yarn.

Not long ago, a man began to forget. Nothing material, at first, he simply forgot his dreams. Although not odd for many people, this man had enjoyed being able to recall most, if not all of his dreams. He mourned the loss of his nightly jaunts, sure, but he paid it little mind. It was when his roommate reported to him that he had been screaming in his sleep and wandering about the apartment that he began to wonder if there was something else going on.

The roommate could never exactly recall how he discovered these screaming episodes, only vaguely recalling waking up and encountering the man sleepwalking. When pressed for details, he could never supply them. Even when he consciously decided to keep an eye out, he could never remember the specifics. Not even when he stayed awake and waited and even tried to blog, he could only recall vague sentiments. At his wit's end, the roommate set up a video feed one night. The next morning, he watched it.

The tape ran for a while, until the familiar screaming started. The roommate's eyes were glued to the screen as he saw the culprits. Ivory white things appeared in the footage, like spiders made of bone and bleached  muscle. To say they appeared is misleading. They appeared retroactively - when they suddenly blipped into existence in the footage, crawling all over the man and buzzing, they had been there all along.

The spiders cluttered close, probosces emerging from what appeared to be their heads as they all swarmed about the man's heads. Wet slurping sounds dominated the audio for several minutes, accompanied by the man's muffled screaming. Then it was over, the spiders gone, for they had never been. The man rose from his bed, blood running from his face and panic in his eyes.

"Peter! Peter!" He shouted, banging at the door of his room. The door creaked open, revealing the roommate with tired eyes and blood running down his face.

"Go back to bed. I swear, I'll never get any sleep with your racket."

The door closed, and the tape ended. The roommate Peter stared blankly at the screen, suddenly aware of the several holes bored into his skull. Then, just as suddenly, he wasn't.

"Anything on the tape, Peter?" The man asked.

"Nah. I think you're just crazy or something."

Interlude

I have been asked by a few of my associates as to why I use the term 'Archangel' in this blog. I answered that it is simply a term of convenience, as it is the name that my readers would be familiar with. Personally, I use the term 'Father' when conversing with other Timberwolves and 'Azrael' or 'Archangel' when speaking with all others. Azrael is a better fit, I think. The Archangel of Death...

Before the holocaust, there was the occurrence that lead to the codification of the word 'genocide'. The rise of the Young Turks in the Ottoman Empire lead to a nationalistic fervor - the land that is now Turkey would regain its former glory, a land of one people and one religion. However, in the way of their projected eastward expansion were the Christian Armenians (totaling some two million) and that simply would not do.

The perfect solution to the Armenian question came in the form of the First World War, and with the world distracted the genocidaires went to work. First all of the Armenians' weapons were taken away (the Armenian soldiers fighting in the war reassigned to slave labor). Professionals in Constantinople were taken away in the night and swiftly disposed of. Groups of Armenians were marched out of their homes and bayoneted by death squads. Even more were marched hundred miles to the harsh deserts of Syria, every step of the way calculated to lead to their death.

One night in the Syrian Desert; an elderly man stood with a young boy, the only other Armenian survivor of their march. They were quite lucky that they had survived that long, but the soldiers had decided that there were too few left to continue the march, and as such the duo were lined up to be shot. The elderly man was skin and bone, but the boy was in even worse a state - he looked as if he was simply rotting away, bits of flesh hanging off him as if he were already in the grave.

As the soldiers prepared to shoot, the elderly man reached down and touched the child's shoulder.

"It's alright, (o). We'll be seeing each other again very soon."

The boy gave a knowing smile, and then the shots rang out into the night. The elderly man did not fear, for he had seen the angel of death and knew that he would be avenged. The boy, on the other hand, did not fall.

The Turkish soldiers swore loudly, thinking that they had missed, and gave another volley. The boy smiled a wide, crooked smile, and refused to die as they unloaded bullet after bullet into him.

"Don't you see?" He asked, voice wheezing - his lungs had been pierced at least eight times. "I can see. I can see everything that you've done. I've been shown what you've done."

Then the soldiers recoiled, threatening to break ranks, as the boy reached into his skull and tore out his right eye. Blood poured down his face as he tore the optical nerve, which shimmered with white light. The eye floated into the air and expanded, the wind picking up as it grew to the size of an elephant, hovering in the air. The optical nerve had become hundreds of long, downy wings, interlocking together and lighting up the sand below.

"I CAN SEE," it boomed, "I CAN SEE."

The soldiers didn't notice the bloodied, rotting boy and the rusty bayonet until it was too late. The lone survivor, the one who had broken ranks the second the Eye had manifested in its true magnificence, was intercepted by the Russian army. On his body, they found a beaten and bloodied journal containing this tale. At the very end was a sketch of the British Tomb of the Unknown Warrior (which the soldiers, obviously, did not recognize). Underneath was a dotted circle, and in perfect Russian, "I'll be seeing you very soon."

Be you on the 'right' side or the 'wrong' side, blood is still being shed. While (arguably, and I shall not be getting into such debates here) justifiable, you must take care that you do not delve to the depths of your foes.

Contact

I received a letter at my residence yesterday. In it was a simple message - "Please meet me at [this place] and at [this time], it is important. Love, Maria."

Maria was from the days before the Timberwolves, when I was a rogue combing the streets for money and drugs. She was a quick fling, and I'm curious as to why she would contact me so many years later. The obvious answer is that it is a poorly-constructed trap. I am willing to humor either Maria or the moron who thought this would fool me, whoever it may be. Anybody with such an intimate knowledge of my life would be an eldritch horror from beyond the stars or a simple security risk (to myself or my associates), either of which would be reason for backup. As such, myself and two other Chicago Timberwolves will be taking a little field trip on Saturday down to St Louis.

Personally, I'm quite worried that it may actually be Maria.

Sañjīva

Last night, I had the wonderful opportunity to impart some information to the Free Radical. I am now considering telling the story of how myself and a few of my compatriots happened across those two poor Choir victims, but I will have to ask the permission of those involved and ensure that it does not contain any information deemed inappropriate for the public to hear. Hermes tolerates the existence of this blog, but I walk a thin line and prefer not to be forced to take it down if someone were to complain.

It is, however (even with our connection to the Archangel) extraordinarily rare to hear somebody complaining from beyond the grave, so I shall take this opportunity to tell of an associate of ours.

Anton lived a lonely life, a man shuffled all across the world and considering no land his home. The only real sense of identity he had was as a Buddhist, and as such he became rife with self-loathing at the things he had to do on the streets of Chicago. When we found him, he was deep in depression and on the verge of suicide. We helped him, however. The Timberwolves gave him a home and a family, and did not force his hand to evil deeds. He incorporated the Archangel into his own theology as the personification of Nirvana, and although many of us were... uncomfortable with him twisting our faith around himself, Anton was quiet about his beliefs and Hermes' predecessor ensured that the issue was not pressed.

After failing to show up to several 'meetings' despite confirming that he was interested in our product, an affiliated dealer then went off the radar entirely. Concerned with the money in our pockets, several of us went to go track the dealer down (Anton included). Simply enough, he was at home, but he looked like hell. We instantly assumed that he had been injecting questionable heroin, as his left arm had been rotted down to the bone but he was still alive and breathing. Anton, having the most first-aid experience, tried to patch him up - but the dealer died on the spot, as if he had simply been waiting for someone to say goodbye to. "Goodbye, Anton."

I had been unaware that Anton had known this man. Anton seemed to be unaware of this fact as well, and we chalked it up to eldritch shenanigans and allowed the matter to rest. However, shortly after, Anton began to sleepwalk every night. He complained of terrible, vivid nightmares - he would wake up naked in a place where the ground was made of hot iron, and then innumerable terrible beasts would swarm over him, tearing him apart.

Over, and over, and over again.

Sometimes it would be with iron nails, or the teeth of giant red beasts. Sometimes he would be pierced by arrows, or have his flesh stripped off strand by strand as if it were made of string. Then every morning he woke up, still screaming, as the wounds of his dreams were still present, and only he could see them. I decided to help him through this, linking his dream to hell (although I did not specifically recognize it as the Buddhist hell at the time) and thinking that perhaps he was having a crisis of faith. I was right, in a way. As these nightmares continued, he became certain that this was the fate that awaited him after death. His belief in the Archangel had been wounded, and I feared for his safety.

While this was going on, there had been a string of serial murders in the area committed by a man wearing the skull of a deer. Usually we stayed out of such matters, thankful that at least those murdered were in a better place, but then one of our own was killed. He was just a young one, and had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Instantly the attention of the Timberwolves was upon the murderer, and the packs were sent out to hunt.

We cornered him in a dingy alleyway, guns drawn. He looked familiar, in his filthy blazer, with his vague accent...

He introduced himself as -Hart-, and asked why we hesitated. I replied (for I was quite a bit less sophisticated in my early days) "Shut the fuck up Anton, we know it's you. Get that stupid mask off and face us like a man."

He removed his mask, and our suspicions were confirmed - we were facing Anton. However, we knew that it was -Hart- before us. The posture, the expression, the way he spoke was all wrong. It took us approximately ten seconds to determine that something was horribly wrong, and another five to fill -Hart- with lead. The screaming that resulted afterwards was very much Anton's, and I recall cussing very loudly.

"I don't... I don't..." he repeated, in a pleading voice, as he bled into the gutter. Then at the very last moment he calmed, looked up to us with dull eyes, and thanked us as he died. -Hart-'s murder spree continued uninterrupted, and we ended up losing three more good men before we got the sense to send the victim as far away as possible and make sure he couldn't get back to pass It on.

Old pain doesn't die (it waits), and I would prefer not to relive the experience once more to glean a meaning from it. Find your own this time, if it so suits you.

Double Date

Outside my window there is a graveyard, the happiest place in the world.

I have been looking into Buddhist teachings lately. To be enlightened is to be free of this mortal coil, and to become free of suffering. It is interesting that the creatures I discuss all offer their own form of nirvana.

A little more than a week ago, our leader woke up to find a post-it note stuck to his mirror. On it were the twin triangles and a simple code.

qdqdzmz nds ji ocz xgjxf ojhjmmjr wmdib orj

Our leader isn’t much of an intellectual (my apologies, Hermes), so the code was brought to me to decipher. It a simple Caesar Cipher, and I had the real message in my hands quickly enough.

viviere six on the clock tomorrow bring another

We were, at the time, in Chicago. I couldn’t help but laugh when I read it – it appeared that the Archangel had invited us to dinner. As I was the only one in the room, Hermes told me to have my best coat and left. The next day we met in front of the Viviere and went in.

“Hello, do you have a reservation?” the man at the front asked, looking warily at Hermes and his moth-eaten grey business suit.

“They’re with me,” said a thin-faced man in a considerably fancier suit than Hermes’. I was lead to a table, and the thin-faced man whisked Hermes to another part of the restaurant. I surveyed the other people at the table. The one next to me was in a red sweater, leaning backwards and looking sullen. He looked to be in his early twenties, with short black hair and small bags starting to form under his eyes. Across from me was an elderly woman, white hair shining oddly in the dim light. Then, next to her, was a middle-aged woman who looked to be on the verge of tears.

“What’s all this about, then?” I asked, picking up my menu and surveying it in a vain attempt to look casual.

“Just a meeting, looks like. I don’t know why they wanted spares... or psycho cultists who don’t know shit, but, you know, not judging,” the sullen behoodied one drawled.

“Please, we’ve just met,” I replied. “My name is Thoth*, it’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

“Jacob,” the sullen one said, rubbing his hand against his cheek like he was used to something being there and kept forgetting that it wasn’t. “Does that mean I get to tell you how sick you are later, Timberwolf?”

“I certainly hope so,” I said dully, studying the elderly woman’s hair. That’s it, I thought, it’s wet. “Am I to presume that you are a Camper?”

“Yes. In addition, I have identified Jacob as a proxy of the Slender Man, and the terrified woman next to me is a servant of the Smiling Man.”

“Haven’t heard of that last one before,” Jacob grumbled. “How many are there, now...?”

The Camper paused, and then slowly said “Unknown.”

“Yeah, what good are you, then,” Jacob said. “You, with the flowers! Where the fuck did your boss come from?”

The middle-aged woman made a kind of choked squeaking noise, looking down to see a rose pin on her jacket. She tore it off and put it on the table, looking at it as if it was going to attack her at any moment. Jacob started laughing, a high-pitched grating giggle that made me want to stick my dinner utensils in my ears. He picked up the pin and pocketed it.

We slowly became familiar with one another, ordering wine and swapping stories while our superiors spoke. It took a long while, but I eventually became comfortable. But alas, all good things come to an end, and we parted ways considerably more drunk (sans the Camper, who remained dead serious throughout the entire dinner).

Jacob was found dead the next day, torn apart at the waist and stuffed with roses. It’s like a Christmas truce – you may have a friend on the other side, but it’s inevitable that the situation will get out of your hands. It is better to simply wait in our trenches and wait for the war to end.

*I said my real name, which I will not be repeating here.