Unnamed Journal Volume 3, Issue 1 - Page 20

Drunk Vampire Hunter around. So I should have still been in the mausoleum. Instead I was somewhere on the edge of a graveyard in the deep of the night. And there were voices. This would have been a fine time to jump up and check my surroundings. Unfortunately, everything hurt. And I do mean everything. My eyelids hurt. My fingers hurt. The pits of my knees hurt. I decided that it would be much wiser to await events. So that’s what I did. Did I sleep? I don’t think so. I think I hurt too much to sleep. I remember not being aware of things though, and I remember my conscience disembodied in the form of a large bluebottle fly yelling at me to finish the job, which didn’t make any sense at the time. “Shut up, bluebottle fly,” I intended to say, even though it came out more like “shbbububluhuh”. “FINISH THE JOB” yelled the bluebottle fly, in a voice that caused my scrotum to spontaneously retract. I’m talking razor blades on chalkboards set to some kind of avant-garde prattle, LaMonte Young playing Sebelius backwards. “Fufushbubbuh” I replied. You can probably guess what was going on there. “I CAN’T! YOU NEED TO FINISH! YOU NEED TO FINISH!” yelled the fly, in a voice like nuclear armageddon. What the hell was he talking about? And then the last dregs of the crap snapped out of my tortured liver. Like a set of weights just dropped from my limbs, I snapped up and looked around. There was a hole in the middle of the graveyard, and it was spewing this greenish fox into the air like a soft volcano. Like an English moor emitting mustard gas. It looked like Lovecraft’s asshole. And above it, horrible burning lights like fireworks were making weird yellow screaming sounds. Yes, I know a sound can’t be yellow. This is my story. There were three or four black shadowy figures standing above me. They had cloaks to hide their faces, but I knew them almost instantly. They are among the most feared creatures in the netherworld. They are grim, and bloody, and they seem to operate on a longing for death and violence. I speak of course, of Hospitallers, the Vatican’s secret demon-hunters. As it turns out, the second of the Crusader Orders only pretended to sit on Malta for centuries and then become a charitable doctor organization. All front. As it turns out, tangling with the Hashashin in the Holy Land way the hell back in the day intimated them to a whole world of demonic energy above and beyond the back-and-forth between Jesus and Mohammed. As it turns out, the Templars went whole-hog into this weirdery, and were guilty of every last thing they were accused of. I shit you not. Phillip of France did nothing wrong. According to them, anyway.