“Nine divines and seven hells. Gods.” The Captain cursed to a higher authority than he’d ever done. “Thrice-damned devils.” The trail had abruptly run cold, colder than the frosted raindrops that pelted the darkened city streets; roughly as cold as the girl he’d been tracking, whom he’d just found frozen solid.
He shook the moisture from a cigarette and pulled from his cloak a small brass dragon, crafted by magic and sold by the dozen to agencies all over the city. He held the dragon in place at chin-height, twisting its tail until a tiny blue flame bubbled its way out of the trinket’s jaws and onto the suddenly-dry hempen paper. The downpour bent around the cerulean embers as he stared at the girl, whose lips would never make another letter aside from O.
The devil gave me wisdom,
because for wisdom I had asked.
“A sage’s choice”, he winked at me,
and vanished in a flash.
“But what about—” I cried in vain.
I haven’t seen him since.
The devil gave me wisdom.
He didn’t charge a cent.
He thought so cursed I’d end my life
And double what I spent.
The devil gave me wisdom!
That jester laughs at me.
Each koan and tale I know for fact
Lacks the truth of lies;
And lacking personal experience
I’m just a walking tome that dies.
The devil gave me wisdom:
I should have asked for love.
But knowing him as I do now,
I know just what he’d say:
“I’ll grant your love, O lonely man,
I know for what you pray.
But knowing you as I do now,
I doubt your love would stay.”
Expensive beer flowed and expensive foam overflowed, merging with an expensive suit and tie to cause, unsurprisingly, a very expensive problem. But that could wait for later. Dyson Rappelling, executive brainiac, father of two-going-on-three, soon to be royally smote, toasted to his fortune. He’d just closed a deal and was about to become very rich.
Something underneath his desk made a “flish” sound. The beer glass made a “kshmslink” sound. Dyson made a “gahelusthckkK” sound, and died.
Shutter your windows
and lock up your homes
I’ll spin you a tale
that’ll send chills through your bones.
If you listen real closely
you can hear distant shrieks:
A sound not from lost children
nor from murderous freaks!
Perhaps you’ve heard tell
of a peculiar swarm
Which comes from a place
that’s both evil and warm
They shriek out in hunger—
a GLUTTONOUS DIN
They’ll creep through your home
and devour your kin
You can try and escape,
but there’s nowhere to run
Your panic and fear
are just part of their fun!
You don’t stand a chance—
It’s your life that they prize:
Their deafening drone
will drown out your cries;
As you whimper and wheedle
They will take what they crave.
Leaving nothing behind
But your UN-MARKED GRAVE.
It’s growing louder now—
That horrible noise—
Can you hear it? They’re coming.
Yes! The BUG BOYS!