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Former MemberFormer Member Posts: 1,876,324 The Mix Honorary Guru
Please could you close the other post with this name. This is the real one


Thoughts raced around Malwark’s mind like bees in a jar. He was thinking intensely whilst he sat askew in his chair. His left hand was scratching the knuckles of his other in quiet, frantic bursts. To even watch him left a lasting sensation of awkwardness. He was an awkward man at his most awkward.

Malwark felt a warm drip slide slowly down his index finger. The polite sensation managed to grip his entire attention for one fleeting moment as he noticed the crimson bulb pace down his curved finger leaving a trail of scarlet slime.
The drop of blood looked like a precious jewel in the bright spotlights on the hallway in The House of the Waning Moon.
Malwark focused on the bright spot of light emanating from this ruby jewel, from where the light stream from the neon’s above reflected off of it directly into Malwark’s open pupils.
The light bolted through the lens, where it was inverted, then coded by phenomenally complex nerves into a bio-digital image. This was the image Malwark saw.

Malwark retraced his thought pattern from just before the distraction and continued. He shuffled his feet. He thought some more. He two’ed and fro’ed. He gasped a sigh. He mused over the technical viscosity of jelly. He laughed sardonically at himself and then scratched his head.
He dipped his hand into the left inside blazer pocket and reached. He fished out a box now nearly void of cigarettes. He apathetically flicked it open and in a simple and deft move slammed one length of the box into a pitcher palm on the other hand.
A lone filter tipped Davidoff premium blend cigarette popped its orange head out. He had watched himself carry out his own commands, but the events of the last few hours, and the automization of his habits left him feeling more an observer rather than the instigator of these little moments.
And more so, as it was not a feeling he was entirely unfamiliar with. No, on the contrary, it seemed blatantly apparent that too often he felt an observer in his own life. In his own actions. As if guided forces more powerful than his own will, but that is not to say, higher forces.

Malwark took the cigarette and placed it in his mouth. He then turned his eyeballs side to side without moving his head, trying to spot Satan lurking in the shadows using his black magic to play Malwark like a puppet and force him to poison himself. When he could not spot anything he broke code and had a good look around thoroughly dissatisfied with the lack of a paranormal event. It was true that Malwark walked on a razor’s edge on the tip of a chasm of insanity, but that was his game plan. He attempted to be no more normal than most normal people attempt to be insane. So he felt very comfortable in this position he liked to stay, no matter how precarious.

He fumbled for the small box of matches he had purchased from the kindly fellow at the corner store. After what seemed like an epoch he had successfully located them and struck on with a loud crack, however in his enthusiasm, the match broke and the flaming head flew a couple of feet in front of him. His patience was dropping at an exponential rate. With far greater care he lit the next match like a true gentleman and proceeded to cover the exposed tobacco nib of the cigarette with the radiation. He intuitively inhaled at that moment and felt the cool, languid smoke stroll into his lungs and open up some deck chairs to sit around a while to enjoy the view. Within five seconds nicotine and a whole cocktail of chemicals surged through the arteries and synapses nestled deep within his brain. The nerve center seemed to instantly switch back to normal settings and dam’s of anxiety broke relieving all the pressure.

Malwark rolled his eyes into the back of his head and slumped exhausted backwards into his uncomfortable chair. ‘The murder, the murder!’ he kept on thinking as he finished the second and third tokes. He kept puffing away. ‘Who commited the murder?!’ he screamed in his head.

He was very gradually sliding forward out of his chair but he was locked in far too great a rapture to ever notice. He was sitting on a grand wingback adorned with maroon bison leather kept supple by constant moisturizing. Unknown to Malwark, it was of particular importance to the head-housekeeper who viewed it much like a trophy and so kept the leather particularly supple giving it a texture of being dry-lubricated. Malwark, still in a deep rapture with his head tilted back, suddenly fell onto the floor with a startle and a thud. Broken out of his irreverent reverie Malwark looked around for any trickster in the vicinity to be met only with the rich décor of the empty drawing room. Within seconds he felt a searing pain on his thigh and noticed his one-time friend and muse, his Davidoff cigarette, had punctured a hole through his trousers and was making good progress on his thigh.

Given the circumstances of the last hours Malwark felt somewhat anesthetized to the pain and for a good few moments just gave, to what any outside observer would describe, a mixture of a melancholic and loving look. Much like a parent watching the mischievous deeds of their offspring in action.

Even when he screamed quietly in agony and whacked the cigarette away he still felt a detachment to the pain. For it wasn’t pain any more but a controllable sensation. Though he was not in total control of this force yet he felt he could with focused practice take complete hold of pain, and thusly, banish it so never need it be felt again. He wondered if this was what the Tibetan Monks did. He made a mental note to travel to a Shaolin temple once he had some free time.

Without another moments hesitation Malwark jumped onto his feet and marched straight out of the room in search for Ethelred.

In the now empty room Malwark left, there happened on a most peculiar occurrence. The antique furnishings re-began a conversation they were having whilst they were in their own private company.

‘So do you think it was the otherside that did it?’ enquired the sprightly voice of the chandelier.
‘Maybe. But it just seems to obvious.’ The wise but obstinate wingback chair replied.
‘Perhaps it was people working for the other’s?’ the Persian rug compromised.
‘Hmmmn.’ The chair said dimly now obviously deep in his own thought.

‘Curioussser and curiosssor’ hissed the fire in whisper-like tones that immediately silenced the room. For when the fire spoke they knew it was only in tongue. Far away Lord Mandrake frowned into his crystal ball now glowing with red and yellow lashes. The colours flickered off his face as his eyes grew wider. Though it was unclear through the flames in the crystal ball, he believed he had found the man he was after. That face after that thud. He swore he knew it was him. That face. And when he smoked, it was at its most distinct. Malwark, oh brother, where art thou?
A new ashtray in the middle of the drawing room built up the courage to speak up.

‘Why’s everyone so quiet?’ it asked innocently in a squeaky voice.

‘Ssshhhhhhh!’ snapped multiple pieces of furniture at once.
And the new little ashtray, thoroughly disheartened and confused, pursed its lips and stayed in silence.

‘Curiosor and curisor’ Mandrake said again. This time it only echoed faintly around the rich decorated, for other than that ghostly expression, it lay in absolute silence.
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