3 is the Magic Number

18 Jul
3 is the Magic Number

Here They Come

“Shitshitshit! I think thats the last of them! Is that the last of them?”

“I think so, I don’t know, is Lothar down? Fuck!”


“We’ve got incoming! Klem get on the door, do NOT let any of those fuckers through!
Lothar? Lothar! Can you stand? Ok, you’ve got our backs.”

“I see one, no, two more hordes heading this way! SHIT! They’ve got trolls! FUCK!”

“Trolls…godsdammit!…ok….Aziz, you’ve got about 5 mins to memorize Fireball! Hurry the
fuck UP! Jelnon we need you to lay down covering fire, ok? OK? JELNON OK? Ok! Shitfuckpeople, we don’t have time to fuck around! Dammit I’m bleeding, Eric, get over here! Yeah hurry up, just a Cure Light Wounds will do. NO! We DONT have time for you to Commune.”

“WHAT? NO! Get up with Klem, make sure those fuckers don’t have any undead with them”

“Captain! CAPTAIN I see Ravagers behind the trolls! Ohgodohfuckingshitidontwannadieinthisshithole! CAPTAIN!”

“YEAH OK I HEARD YOU! Get this barrier up now! NOW! Eric see what you can do about
those Ravagers, and I don’t care if you have to burn every godsdamn spell you have, make sure!!”

“Captain they are running now! DAMMIT! I can see swarms of stirges with them! FUCK I hate those blood-sucking little fuckers! Lothar! LOTHAR! We need your sword!”



“Klem the swarms are advancing! They look ………..oh gods oh FUCK! They are undead stirges! WEVE GOT UNDEAD! Eric! Hurry up with the captain! They are almost on us!”

Leave Me Alone

Quiescense – dripdripdripping through the autumn haze.
Birdsong and cricketscree fill my head with buzzing white noise.
I stuff snail shells into my ears – drowning sound.
I clutch soggy events of days past round my slippery ribs and shudder at the thought of icy dawns soon to come.
Torn down broken bones of houses long tumbled are my only friends.
Not the dog nor the cat nor the rabbit nor the mouse come near.
I stink of death and blood and ancient ways, and I am fear to them.

Long have I tarried in this quiet place where man races above
neither seeing me nor hearing me nor wanting to know of me.
At night, when the moon sleeps, I put sharp brokens on the black road.
When I hear the monster smash into the trees I eat what remains.

Once I found a looksee dropped by a child’s hand.
It was scrawled in graffiti and runes, in the new tongues.
It had a picture of me. Of me. Of my kind. Of my race. Of us.
I am the last.
I am the bones of the earth. I am smoke. I am moss. I am dust and stone.
Do not go trip-trapping on my bridge.


The demon was surly.
It had every right to be.
On its home plane it was known as X’lax’Ich’mtomn-the Unholy, sometimes called X’lax-the-Unclean, or X’lax-the-Impure.
But this ugly bag of mostly water that had him imprisoned insisted on calling him “His Most Unholy Irreverent Scourge of Pureness”. The very egotism of it unnerved him.

Being a mid-level T’anarri he was entitled to certain respects and honors, but even he bowed to the power of the Glabrezu and the Vrock, and the Pit Fiends, they saw him as nothing more than meat-fodder. One more soldier in the Eternal War. If they caught one whiff of this impudent human’s slithering, sickening servitude they would chain him to the top of Mount Agony and laugh their collective horns off for millennia. He would probably never be allowed to enter the Palace of Fuck and Death again!

X’lax rubbed his cloven hooves over his face and swore in Infernal. Bad enough that this summoning circle was cramped as Heaven, but it was drawn poorly, the efforts of a low-level dabbler, pathetic really.

How could he have been captured by this fool? He could remember a time when only the most powerful necromancers and diabolists would dare speak his name aloud. When the mere sight of him slew over a dozen virgin sacrifices chained in some dank cave, sent there for his hunger and pleasure.

He wanted so badly to speak to this mortal, but the spells of binding would not let him speak. He could move, cramped as it was, but could not sit down or stretch his tail. Fuck he wanted a cigarette badly, too. He had promised his brood-mate (a delicious piece of damnation that he purchased from Ythrak-the-Unyielding during the last Cycle) that he would stop, but the temptations of the mortal plane were too great and he found himself craving a smooth blast of nicotine followed by one or two virgins on which he could feast and sate his eternal appetite.

The mortal was drawing closer. He held some arcane tome in his hands, glass-rimmed eyes squinting at some sigils drawn in child’s blood 1000 years before the birth of the Enemy’s son, that crown-of-thorns-wearing-dupe. X’lax looked up, wondering what humiliating task the mortal was going to force him to do, when the mortal opened his mouth and began chanting in Infernal.

X’lax smiled. The fool’s pronunciation was pathetic. It wasn’t even worthy of brood-spawn who have yet to devour their mothers. With the botching of the ritual, X’lax was free to ignore both the spells of binding and the summoning circle that confined him. He reached out one taloned claw and reveled in the smell and sound of fresh blood pouring across his flesh.

Maybe after he had lunch he could dominate some weak-minded mortal into grabbing him a fresh pack of Marlboros.

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Posted by on July 18, 2017 in Flash fiction


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