girl again, knowing he draws these kinds of troubles to himself.
She grins and aims her nipples at him like blow darts. It doesn't take much to ruin a perfectly wonderful fantasy. He slips off and carefully makes his way over the rocks and weeds to the dock, wondering how it could've gone so wrong so quickly. In some strange fashion he always asks for too much.
The corpse in scuba gear spins in a slow eddy. One flipper glides along the surface tension of the water, moving back and forth as though the diver were still alive. The guy's rubber suit is torn in places, great jagged rips as if a shark has mauled him. The girl begins to languidly swim closer, giggling as the fog swells and lolls. She clicks her teeth loudly, repeatedly. Church tries to hold back a scream but can only half restrain himself. A wounded goat's bleat escapes him.
"I want you," she tells him.
"Why me?"
"I need you, honey bunch."
"Uh huh."
"Get in here! Swim with me!"
"Play with your friend some more, he won't complain."
"Come back," she insists. "I want to bear your children. Hundreds of them. Thousands!"
" Ohboy !"
Church scrambles up the path towards the cabin, groaning and grunting, tasting blood and wondering if he's actually dying somewhere, gut-shot, dreaming all of this. He's been in jail before but he can't recall for what. Did he used to rumble and knock assholes through plate glass windows? Did he ever rob banks?
As usual, he's screwed up what should have been simple. A wrong turn in the woods and now he's lost, wandering through the brush and having the shit scratched out of him by cat-claw briars. There's a light in the distance.
A pyre has been lit against what they used to call a coven tree.
It has to rise from the direct center of the covenstead , that area where witches draw their power, the place where natural earth energy emanates from and is at its strongest. The bonfire roars and consumes kindling, ladder-back chairs, old kitchen cabinets, torn mattresses, the widescreen TV, grandma's old steamer trunk, they're really tearing the place apart.
You can guess at what comes next. Church catches another powerful whiff of blood. They're out there with the redheaded girl that Malone was making a move on. She's being bound to the coven tree with yellow nylon rope. He recognizes it as the sort of line you tie to the back of a boat for water-skiing.
She's screaming and thrashing but Lucifer Jr. and the others have a good grip on her and she flails uselessly, the micro-skirt rearing to show off her thong. Lucifer Jr. squawks and throws his arm over his eyes like she's flashed him a crucifix. Church is oddly aroused by the whole display. The frat boys stand around drunkenly gawking, holding their beer cans tight to their bellies and giggling quietly to one another.
Church may not be a hero, and he's almost certainly out of his mind, but he doesn't suffer from inertia. With a cool flood of adrenaline coursing through his temples, he bursts out of the woods and rushes forward without any idea of what he's going to do next.
This is why you shouldn't draw your spirituality from Jackie Chan movies, unless you're willing to pay the price.
The burning girl shouts at him, "Here, take it! Take it!"
"Take what?"
"The money!"
"What money?"
"Take it and go, please don't hurt us!"
"Me? I'm not hurting you."
He sees that his watch is back on his wrist and knows that things are about to get bad. He's either coming back into himself now or he's going even farther out. Which is it going to be? Which does he want it to be?
Church blinks and abruptly he's standing in the middle of a bank, staring into the faces of terrified tellers.
A short, middle-aged woman with hair the color of a four-day old bruise is shoving cash at him, and he notices he's got an open gym bag in his left hand and a sawed-off shotgun under his arm. There's a haze he
She grins and aims her nipples at him like blow darts. It doesn't take much to ruin a perfectly wonderful fantasy. He slips off and carefully makes his way over the rocks and weeds to the dock, wondering how it could've gone so wrong so quickly. In some strange fashion he always asks for too much.
The corpse in scuba gear spins in a slow eddy. One flipper glides along the surface tension of the water, moving back and forth as though the diver were still alive. The guy's rubber suit is torn in places, great jagged rips as if a shark has mauled him. The girl begins to languidly swim closer, giggling as the fog swells and lolls. She clicks her teeth loudly, repeatedly. Church tries to hold back a scream but can only half restrain himself. A wounded goat's bleat escapes him.
"I want you," she tells him.
"Why me?"
"I need you, honey bunch."
"Uh huh."
"Get in here! Swim with me!"
"Play with your friend some more, he won't complain."
"Come back," she insists. "I want to bear your children. Hundreds of them. Thousands!"
" Ohboy !"
Church scrambles up the path towards the cabin, groaning and grunting, tasting blood and wondering if he's actually dying somewhere, gut-shot, dreaming all of this. He's been in jail before but he can't recall for what. Did he used to rumble and knock assholes through plate glass windows? Did he ever rob banks?
As usual, he's screwed up what should have been simple. A wrong turn in the woods and now he's lost, wandering through the brush and having the shit scratched out of him by cat-claw briars. There's a light in the distance.
A pyre has been lit against what they used to call a coven tree.
It has to rise from the direct center of the covenstead , that area where witches draw their power, the place where natural earth energy emanates from and is at its strongest. The bonfire roars and consumes kindling, ladder-back chairs, old kitchen cabinets, torn mattresses, the widescreen TV, grandma's old steamer trunk, they're really tearing the place apart.
You can guess at what comes next. Church catches another powerful whiff of blood. They're out there with the redheaded girl that Malone was making a move on. She's being bound to the coven tree with yellow nylon rope. He recognizes it as the sort of line you tie to the back of a boat for water-skiing.
She's screaming and thrashing but Lucifer Jr. and the others have a good grip on her and she flails uselessly, the micro-skirt rearing to show off her thong. Lucifer Jr. squawks and throws his arm over his eyes like she's flashed him a crucifix. Church is oddly aroused by the whole display. The frat boys stand around drunkenly gawking, holding their beer cans tight to their bellies and giggling quietly to one another.
Church may not be a hero, and he's almost certainly out of his mind, but he doesn't suffer from inertia. With a cool flood of adrenaline coursing through his temples, he bursts out of the woods and rushes forward without any idea of what he's going to do next.
This is why you shouldn't draw your spirituality from Jackie Chan movies, unless you're willing to pay the price.
The burning girl shouts at him, "Here, take it! Take it!"
"Take what?"
"The money!"
"What money?"
"Take it and go, please don't hurt us!"
"Me? I'm not hurting you."
He sees that his watch is back on his wrist and knows that things are about to get bad. He's either coming back into himself now or he's going even farther out. Which is it going to be? Which does he want it to be?
Church blinks and abruptly he's standing in the middle of a bank, staring into the faces of terrified tellers.
A short, middle-aged woman with hair the color of a four-day old bruise is shoving cash at him, and he notices he's got an open gym bag in his left hand and a sawed-off shotgun under his arm. There's a haze he
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