PROVENDER: A Parka Worn Backwards

thefirsttinghewasawareofwashisownhandexploringthecontoursofthebonesinsidethemaninfrontofhimandallhecouldfeelwasajoythathnowhewasaliveandadesiretoknowthefaceofhisfatherbutthefacewasobscuredandhisfathercasthimawayintothedarkandemptyspaceabove

 

He propped his scaly feet on the little stool that kept them off the rug. He bought a roach clip after seeing the main character use one in The Big Lebowski and was pleased with his investment. It protected his hands when the joint got too small to hold without burning them. Though he was an enforcer of the moral law he wasn’t such a square that he would deny himself this. A treat after a week of hard work well done.

Something moved in the house. He knew the sound of the house settling and this was not that. It sounded like someone dragging a heavy sack across the hardwood floor and before it could enter his field of vision he was already out of the chair. The spliff tumbled out of his hand and out of the holder onto the carpet and the gun came out of the dresser and into his practiced hand.

It crouched in the doorway, but even hunched over it took up the entire space. The muzzle flash from his weapon gave him a better look. It looked like a stretch frame from a cartoon with the teeth and the containing mouth smeared vertically.

heswamthroughtheairandthebreezewascoldthenightwasdarkthelightsaboveandthestarsbelowblendedintoashapelikeaspheresothatwhereverhelookedhewasinfinitelyfarfromthetapestryofshiningthingsthatsurroundedhim

His knees hurt. The thing around his cock was his own fist. It was enclosed in a leather glove made from the same creature that donated its tusks to the project, coated in the same vegetable oil he used in the tanning process. The thing on his face, which had almost asphyxiated him, was the hood of his thrift store Lands End winter coat. The smear of pulsing color in the center of his vision remained when he opened his eyes. The living eyelid opened but the vision still occluded by the artificial lid of the jacket.

Simone, of course, was dead.

The thing on the floor moved. He felt it shift through the floor.

He remembered that he had hoped this would happen. Had spent the last day or how many days crouched and sweating and touching himself. He had made the skin glove because there was nothing to mount in the handstitched mound that now loomed invisibly over him. A hide exterior containing only bones.

It pressed down on his head through the synthetic shell of the parka. The outstretched limb was soft but had a hard part in the center. It wanted to feel the contours of his face. It was imperative that he keep it concealed.

His voice was raspy from near suffocation and endless repetition of the ritual song. Not even a song, a mated pair of high and low notes. Something a choir would do to warm up, repeated in sequence until his breath ran out. He whispered.

“Kill him. Kill him.”

 

hesawthatthereweremanythingslikehimselfmadeofheapedbonesandleatherandteethbutalloftehmupsidedownandmovingbackwardsandashenoticedthisapieceofhimbrokeoffbutitmustnothavebeenimportantbecauseitsabsencechangednothingaboutwhathappenednext

 

He led her by the hand to the spot where he laid the soft fur on the ground. She laughed at his shaking hand and the hammering blood inside and squeezed him tight so his dick indented her soft belly. The earth below rose to make a bed. The flowering trees above reached down to make a blanket. They’d stay here forever amid the plants and soft fur and the sound of the wind on the leaves. They’d never return to endless sizzling meat and rivers of tallow burning his hands and grease stains and machines that chimed until he lost his hearing.

She kissed him. He entered her on his knees.

 

hewastoldbyhisfatherwhosefacewasocculdedthathispurposeforexistingwastofindthemanwiththelizardlegsandoneofthelightsgrewlargeruntilitwasnotsofarawaybutexpanding

 

The man who held the triad of teen frycooks at gunpoint behind the McDonald’s under the interstate might have been a TNI raincoat, or a Sleeper, or a killer priest. To his victims it wasn’t important. Their role was essentially the same. He stuck in memory because below the waist his body had been converted to that of a lizard by an errant spell. Though the transformation came with a functioning set of genitals he found that sex with a reptilian cock was a near instantaneous dribbling, not at all comparable to the prolonged excruciation he preferred.

Fortunately, he brought help. The lady fleshcrafter and the gentleman executioner. He liked working with them. They took orders well but had enough imagination to surprise him. He could watch them work and get all the benefits without exerting himself.

He looked at his victims, crouched naked and shivering in the parking lot. The useless little clothing mage, stripped of his powers along with his uniform. The fat girl covering herself with shaking hands. The third was strong enough that the half lizard wasn’t sure he could beat him in a straight fight. He imagined how victim number three would look with his cock invaginated, pushed in by the fleshsmith’s questing hand and stretched around the executioner’s sword. An excellent feeling came over him.

He’d have to leave one of the little shits alive. It was the only way they’d learn.

heopenedandclosedhismouthandfeltsomethingtearandseparatebetweenhisteethandthenhedidntthinkaboutanythingatall  

Doomedsarcoma

 

RITUAL: A PARKA WORN BACKWARDS

Cost: User's discretion

Ritual Action: Create a monster out of bones sewn into leather. Don a hooded jacket backwards so the hood covers your face. Have sex with the heaped bones and leather while singing the ritual song. The size of the handcrafted monster determines how long the ritual must be maintained to animate the agglomerated corpse.

One day for a child-sized taxidermy

Two for a man-sized taxidermy

Three for a bear-sized taxidermy 

Effect: When the ritual is complete the heaped bones and their leather enpouchment will rise from their grave on the floor. Imbue the creation with as many charges as you please. Tell it who you want it to kill. Do not let it see your face.

 

THE CREATION

An animated leather sack bristling with claws, teeth, tusks and beaks. The shape and size are determined by the skill and stamina of the caster. Sometimes they're shaped like people, or animals. They have no sense organs but they move with purpose and to see one in motion is an Unnatural 6 shock. Stats given are for [child sized/man sized/bear sized versions]. 

WT: [25/50/100]. The Creation is not subject to the normal rules for shock/unconsciousness.

Living Taxidermy 99%: The Creation reenacts the disassembly of its own constituent parts on the intended victim, inflicting [Unarmed +6 Wounds/Firearms Damage/Instant Death]

Tumbling Flight 99%: The Creation can swim and fly at the speed of a walrus underwater, maxing out at 25 miles per hour. To those inured to the horror it looks profoundly stupid, flopping around and moving "backwards" through the air.

Laughing Bag: Blades and blunt instruments deal normal damage to the Creation, tearing away at the enclosing leather or shattering the bones. Firearms deal unarmed damage, the bullets might break bones or just poke harmless holes in the hide. 

Unerring Tracking: The Creation targets whoever the creator instructs it to kill. It attacks people who physically obstruct it but otherwise ignores them even if they attack it. This is subject to two constraints.

1. If the Creation sees the face of its creator it immediately attacks them. 
2. If the target of the Creation has more charges than the caster imbued it with, it turns around on contact with the intended victim and returns to kill its creator.