�� TRAGEDY THRILLS ME WHATEVER FLAVOR IT HAPPENS TO BE
DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE I'M A MONSTER,
( WE WON'T GIVE PAUSE UNTIL THE BLOOD IS FLOWING ) - - - - - - - - - -

The meat was raw, tantalizing. He held the flesh between his fingers, watching as the red juice trickled down his forearm. The smell of it was sweet and teasing to his empty stomach and to the bellies of the scavengers that overlooked with burning glances. He shot the carrion birds a smug smile and saw them ruffle their wings in anticipation of dinner. His shirt was clotted with the gore of his latest kill, and as Tristan looked at the bleeding limb in his hand he didn�t feel repulsed. It was a human arm, freshly torn from the torso of a draculoid he�d disposed of some minutes ago. It had been a quick execution by his standards, which to most wouldn�t be considered quick at all. But what could he say? He wasn�t fond of quickies, and was even less fond of drawing comparisons between killing and sex. Only one of the two was truly thrilling in his stark opinion, but even the sticky warmth of death was getting a bit too ordinary for his liking. It was starting to test the limits of his creativity, that was for sure, but real men appreciated a challenge.

Tristan set the arm down beside the dead man on the ground, looking at him with a look of feigned sympathy.�Tsk tsk tsk, look at the mess you made.� He muttered to the lifeless body, stepping on the sticky red border around the corpse. The thickened blood pressed deep into the grooved soles of his boots as he crouched lower, contemplating the mask that the dead man wore. The pasty vampiric image that peered up at him made him glower. Why did they wear such a foolish get-up? It really denounced the industry that they worked for when they pranced around like Halloween run offs. Though maybe the frightening masks were simply just to compensate for the absence of shock value. He smirked at his thoughts and twiddled his thumbs, now set on removing the guise. Knowing the faces of his kills always beckoned his curiosity, their eyes especially were the most telling... it was hard to know the squealers when they hid behind rubber. With careful fingers he clutched the man's chin, peeling off the mask that clung stubbornly to his sodium licked flesh. Tristan was surprised to see that the man was still alive, and he humored the idea that this one had a bit more fight in him then the others. It was always nice to stumble upon a human who served to break the tedium after all. Leaning in closer, he witnessed the dilation of his pupils, the sputtering of fat droplets of blood from his lips as he attempted speech one last time. "F--f-uc-k-kek-kek ya-ya-y-oo-uu" Tristan shook his head and managed a smile at the man�s butchered English, now watching intently as his life came and departed as a shadow. He had to say he was a bit disappointed with the finale of his death throes. Not even a whimper from this one. The blonde man smirked, tossing the mask away like the piece of garbage that it was.

He now registered his gaze upon the severed arm he�d placed by its previous owner, admiring the clean cut tendons, the smooth edge of the bone. This? It was his now, and it couldn�t have been done without his blade, which as he held it in his left palm felt extraordinarily powerful. The smile he wore on his face slowly progressed into a fully fledged grin, parting his lips from ear to ear and exposing the whites of his back teeth. He swallowed back his anxiety as his hand drew up towards his mouth, eying the blood on his hand that was redder than the war plains of Mars. Even now he wasn't sure why he contemplated it, why the sight of the substance dared him to do the unthinkable. It webbed between his fingers as he pulled them apart, no thicker than water no thicker than mud. It melted in dense rivers along the creases of his palms, reminding him of his own underlying humanity. He was of course not a man who was ever swayed by moral interception, and so what came next flowed naturally. He licked the gore off his fingers and made sure to taste it as it went down his throat. He sucked on the space between his thumb and forefinger as he would a lemon rind, and as the substance filled his insides he felt his body respond to their insidious sensations. It was hard to keep from moaning, and even his eyes closed as he lapped the blood clean off his skin. But then he stopped, leaving smeared blood to dry on his lips. He rose to his feet and stepped over the corpse, waving him goodbye with the severed arm before dropping it on his chest. Tristan stared into the abysmal expanse of the zones feeling invigorated. Mega Moon's was a fair distance away but surprisingly the bar was dead save for a few faithfuls. He had been fairly vigilant, though perhaps the lateness of the night was causing him to be a bit paranoid. Either way it was hard even for him to shake the dreaded feeling of being watched, though he couldn't have felt more certain that indeed someone was prying.
His fingers grazed under his chin and brought to his attention the stains of his latest experiment, and he laughed at the irony. Figures it would take the blood of the dead to make him feel so alive.


TAGGED ;( Achilles Dearest)
WORDS ;( 9 3 0 )
LYRICS ;( VICARIOUS BY TOOL )
NOTES ;( our sexy menz at play <3)
CREDIT ;( BROOKE FROM CAUTION )

�� TRAGEDY THRILLS ME WHATEVER FLAVOR IT HAPPENS TO BE
DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE I'M A MONSTER,
( WE WON'T GIVE PAUSE UNTIL THE BLOOD IS FLOWING ) - - - - - - - - - -

It was his first time, and you never forget your first time. As his tongue searched for the last bits of red residue, he couldn�t help but find himself get a little� aroused. It wasn't sexual excitement that thickened the traffic in his veins, but a new fangled thrill. It was merely experimental of him to have done what he had done. He derived enjoyment out of not only testing the limits of others but his very own. Seeing how much those human limitations would fray before they were torn down completely, or tethered stronger than before. It got his heart beating a little faster, the compacted muscle in his shoulders tensing in response to the metallic tang. His mouth tasted of tungsten, an unusual flavor that would�ve been fit for a machine, but why a human? The properties were strange. His victim in particular must�ve been taking iron supplements, his taste was quite piquant.

When he was all licked clean, Tristan saw a form emerge. A tall, long-legged creature with no face, just a ruse. He carried a gun that wasn�t disappointingly meek like those pretty pistols most joy killers toted around. Apparently they�d fallen for some misconception that shooting heated rainbows at your foes was considered intimidating. Unfortunately they clearly underestimated the pleasure of hot magnesium ejected from a loyal rifle. This one man in particular carried with him a double barrel shotgun that had no doubt breathed down many necks. It was a long, phallic representation of an unruffled manhood. He could tell the character of a man based on his weapon of choice most of the time; which was why the presence of his mask was a little offsetting. The suspicion in his voice was most rewarding however. Tristan wasn�t the least bit offended that he had been caught indulging in ungodly acts. He was very much a fan of the sacreligious and frowned upon things. His smirk only grew at the stranger�s disgusted comments, and his head angled to the side in amusement.

�It would barely constitute as cannibalism.� He replied, calm and factual. Just because this Draculoid happened to be finger-licking good didn't mean Tristan was about to dine on his liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. His eyes sparked, a common look for those who were desperately withholding laughter. What was it with these Killjoys and there use of masks? Had he missed the memo? It could not have been more symbolic of their cowardice. The blonde cynic began to pace as his mind filled with troubling thoughts, hands now entwined behind his back. He wondered if he should fashion his own mask, just so his visitations wouldn't be so sorely noticed. His eyes found the corpse on the ground and for a minute he contemplated defacing it. Literally. Skinning it from brow to jawbone to make himself his own interpretation of a draculoid mask. He had a twisted humor, no doubt, but he figured a putrid flesh mask wouldn't be well received.�You humans and your stigmas.� Tristan scoffed with a shake of his head. He stepped closer to the man to see that his guise was marked with what he presumed were initials. Ink had been used to stencil the A and the H over each eye socket, but what did they stand for? Out of all the killjoy hero garb he�d seen this was perhaps the most intriguing. And by intriguing he meant just a little step above the usual quota of dull. �The difference between blood and any other bodily fluid is impalpable yet we all know how eagerly you humans spit or swallow.� In his warped mind there was no difference between blood or saliva, or any other emission. Why was it wrong to taste one but not another? Their guidelines were so useless and specific, riddled with biases that made no logical sense. Tristan did not adhere to their dogmatic code of beliefs. He lived how he saw fit, attempting to shed the mundane trials of day to day living by spicing up his routine. Perhaps now he was becoming too deviant for their liking, but people simply feared what they refused to understand.

�Please save your preaching of harmful substances when you pump your airways full of cancerous tar and black death.� He eyed the cigarette hugged between the slit in the man's mask. Trist chuckled then and sought closer inspection of this wayward man. He was very brave for approaching a �cannibal�, which had been tonight's choice word. If this costume hero knew what was right for him, which he clearly didn�t, he wouldn�t be tempting a creature with an unusual appetite. Of course Tristan was never in bad company. Everyone was entitled to their own vices, their own mental health issues. He could only wonder just what dread and damage lurked behind that mask. Where was the beast that did his bidding? Oh he was somewhere under there surely...

Tristan slowed his movements then and set his curious sights on the little eye holes. He could see the vividness of his green eyes even in the absence of light. There was something about their piercing quality paired with the drone of the voice that beckoned his memory to recall someone... someone important. Unfortunately that mask impaired his mind's ability to dig up whatever repressed memories he'd sent to an early grave. He was still so tempted to tear the latex off the man�s face at once. It was almost offensive how he chose to hide behind a plastic ruse. Tristan wondered if he�d speak so boldly if his anonymity was taken from him; stolen by ferocious hands. "Don't be afraid to take that mask off any time soon. I'll show you mine if you show me yours." he emitted a low, throaty chuckle once more. He feigned losing interest by slightly turning away. He wasn't about to waste his time feeding into this gimmick if he wasn't going to know his true identity. Or was this masked fool just afraid of the exposure? Without further warning, Tristan removed the leather jacket from his form that had grown suddenly 'heavy'. He'd of course removed it in hopes of having this stranger lessen his guard, but it'd also been too warm for him. The climate out here was far less generous than the regulated temperatures of Battery City which he'd grown accustomed too. Even in the dead of night the place pulsed feverishly. With the jacket removed his scars were now visible, peeking around the black sleeveless shirt he wore. The fragmented, fleshy tissue was silvery and deeply embedded into most of his upper side. It was common for most to wonder about what had caused such unnatural scarring, but few had ever voiced their inquiries. A cruel smile now formed on Tristan's full lips. In those cold, blue as gunmetal eyes, there was no fear. He was dread personified.


TAGGED ;( Achilles Dearest)
WORDS ;( 1 1 5 5 )
LYRICS ;( VICARIOUS BY TOOL )
NOTES ;( LEZ CONTINUE TO DRAW PARALLELS BETWEEN DREAD AND OUR RP. I LOVE IT. <3)
CREDIT ;( BROOKE FROM CAUTION )

�� TRAGEDY THRILLS ME WHATEVER FLAVOR IT HAPPENS TO BE
DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE I'M A MONSTER,
( WE WON'T GIVE PAUSE UNTIL THE BLOOD IS FLOWING ) - - - - - - - - - -

Tristan looked up, his otherwise unconcerned expression now twitching with confusion. He didn�t understand what this man meant at all when he went on to describe the supposed �body fluid� spectrum, and how the two could be so different. He shook his head, eyebrows pinching together. There was no spectrum. Blood, sweat, saliva, cum. They were all the same in his mind, but of course people would find a way to become over sensitive and bathe it with controversy. He looked down on his brightly stained fingers, contemplating how he could be so wrong. Every juice and string of meat that made up his being were all manufactured, distributed and recycled until eventually the factory shut down. Was blood so unclean when one took the others into account? Saliva was force-fed with every kiss and each round of fellatio was followed by the digestion of swimming sperm cells. Tristan tilted his head, puzzled by the argument that made no sense to his skewed brain. How could that not be considered cannibalism as well? The tone of disgust in the masked man�s voice made him scowl in return. Apparently this stranger failed to realize that anybody crazy enough to lap up blood probably didn�t have the moral capacity to see past their own actions. The poor man would�ve accomplished more within these past few minutes talking to a damn wall than with a sociopath. Tristan�s nose wrinkled, the waning scent of blood stinging still within the cavities. His red fingertips buzzed, cool sweat collecting on the back of his neck. He spoke coldly in response.
�I think every little person on this earth is a cannibal, one way or another. I'm not afraid to embrace that.� He blinked but his face was devoid of understanding. Tristan was lost and could not be reached. He was just another soul trapped in the dark thicket of insanity, possibly looking for a conscience to call his own or retrieve the one he�d lost many years ago. Emotion, humanity; had been wrung out from his heart by taut, unforgiving hands that twisted it until not a drop of humanity was left. His hand brushed up his arm, pulling against the raw skin. The scars that raised the flesh sent memories shooting up his fingertips. Humans would never see past their own hypocrisy but he didn�t mind bearing the brunt of it. He had been an outcast for as long as he could remember, pushed to the margins of society for being strange. But it was more fun on the sidelines as he later learned.

Tristan�s lips curled into a sinful smile then, and he padded forward a little more when the topic shifted to their taste in bad habits. He was mindful of the contagions swimming in a man�s bloodstream but his lack of concern for anything including disease made experimentation quite easy. He had no qualms about anything he did, as the thirst to quench his boredom outweighed rational thought anyway. �Who said I was anything but reckless and misguided?� He chuckled, eying the cigarette clenched between the man�s teeth which puffed out silver streams. The scent of carcinogen-laced breath assaulted his senses, riling up his stomach which churned with half digested steak from an earlier meal. Luckily he never refunded his food back to nature, but the stench of cigarette smoke had vile effects on him. Ever since he was little the creeping smell of nicotine had never sat well with him. Both of his parents had been heavy smokers, the house always reeked of ash. His mouth puckered up as though tasting something horribly sour; the memories ran so deep they caused physical ailment. He was on the verge of commenting about it but was stopped short. His eyes widened when the stranger went on to reveal that he wasn�t much a stranger after all.

The series of events that unfolded next were hard to bottle up. Tristan�s jaw muscles were working overtime, trying to keep his mouth from falling agape. There was a dramatic heaving of his chest which could�ve denoted surprise and anger, possibly both, as Tristan saw past the mask and into those ever familiar green eyes. Though his voice had aged and his appearance too, Alex�s eyes were still unmistakeable. Tristan took a step back but hastily corrected his footing, moving forwards with hands that trembled and desired to tear the latex mask off his face. He wanted to gaze into all the changes and consistencies, see Alex's wry smile take shape as bold and vivid as his memory was of it. Tristan's eyes glistened, catching the light of the nearby streetlamp that stood aglow, the sole witness to their reunion. At first his words sounded gurgled, articulated by a tongue that had went numb and teeth that had almost began to chatter at the surge of adrenaline coursing through his body. That cursed nickname of old pierced his skull like a hot bullet and he refused to acknowledge that it was him, Alexander, saying his name after all those years like nothing had changed.

Was he ever in for a surprise�

Tristan�s eyes glared coldly at him, trying to muster up the old feelings of kinship that had bridged them together for almost twenty years. He had buried those sentiments long ago. Still, the gleeful voice of his old friend made him feel something. To be called Casper again had been oddly comforting. The name itself had been immortalized. What had once been a cause for irritation felt like a caress along his cheek, making him feel secure and that he was right where he belonged. Eventually a smile formed and he shook his head at the incalculable odds of them ever crossing paths again. It had been so long since he had been struck with that feeling of shock, but there he was� standing in all his glory, his Alex. Tristan stood so close that the air they exhaled was caught in the same stream, and he cocked his head to the side. His voice was filled with uncharacteristic warmth, a tone he had not spoken in for nearly a decade.
�Oh don�t act so surprised Alexander that I am alive, I believe I�ve been through worse things than a little apocalypse scare.� He chuckled at his sarcasm, thinking back on Seattle. His eyes flicked upwards as he recalled the rainy, polluted city before its death throes. The memories were no better than grimy polaroids left to yellow and tear as the years wore on. Needless to say he didn�t pay a visit down memory lane all too often. �It�s been interesting. Watching the world change, the power shifts and the degradation of our generation. But I�ve waited almost ten years for a moment like this when I can actually say I�m pleasantly surprised with the way things turned out.� He rested his hand on Alex�s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, looking down on him with his trademark grin. �I have a place in the city but as you already know, downtown isn�t the most captivating place on earth. At least here you get some diversity of character.� His bored tone of voice lightened up then, and what started with a tremor in his arm shook his whole body. He didn�t know why he pulled him in and embraced him, but it was brief enough that neither man was stripped of his dignity. �It�s good to see you again, old friend.� He muttered, gazing at the night sky over top Alex�s head. Tristan pulled away then, studying the mask the man wore. He knew that most Killjoys wore masks, which undoubtedly meant that Alex was an ally. Tristan was surprisingly quite neutral when it came to the age old war between the big bad company and the revolutionaries here in the zones. He preferred to keep to his own affairs, stir up his own trouble, and take his own prisoners.

�I�m not surprised to find you running with the Power Rangers, either. Always a rebellious one... how's that turning out for you, huh? Saving mankind? Obliterating monotony? What ever it is that you Killjoys do.�The man couldn't help but tease. Talking to Alex was like slipping into a pair of worn in shoes. He took note of the gun he held, smiling at the fact it was not the kind that shot super-hot rainbows at their enemies. That was definitely a redeeming aspect, for sure. He looked away then, collecting his thoughts. Some things never changed, but he knew that what had remained the same was greatly outweighed by what hadn't. Tristan looked back to his friend eventually, drawing a sigh. �So tell me� who are you, Alexander?� The question was oddly worded, but he felt it appropriate. Alex more than likely had a killjoy nickname, was part of a gang, and partook in the rest of their traditions. It would be almost impossible to draw a parallel between the men they were today and the boys they were of yesteryear. Could they even still be friends? His brows knit together at the very thought and his stomach began to stir. Vicious curiosity ripped through him and he peered over towards the bar that patiently waited in the background. He began to walk towards it, eying the doors which were half ajar, kept open by a bar stool. Tristan looked over his shoulder, a wisp of flaxen hair falling into his eyes.
�Still a fan of Jack?� He smiled, remembering how ruthless their fights could be over a bottle of alcohol or a drinking contest. The invitation alone was a coax as his smile spread. His youthful features may have matured, but every so often, in the form of a wink or the flash of his teeth, he�d look just like he did in college. The awkward, socially absent Neanderthal with the white blonde hair and the loud mouth sidekick. Was he still Casper? Of course he was, he always would be.


TAGGED ;( Achilles Dearest)
WORDS ;( 1 6 3 0 + )
LYRICS ;( VICARIOUS BY TOOL )
NOTES ;( <33333333 He'll always be Alex's wittle bitty Casper. <333)
CREDIT ;( BROOKE FROM CAUTION )