Disclaimer: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac and its characters are copyright Jhonen Vasquez. The Original Characters in this story are mine, not yours. Enjoi.
As the now rickety rental car rolled up to the abandoned and barricaded cathedral far outside the town, a cloud of black thunder came rolling over the hills. The surrounding, serene countryside was interrupted only by the barbed-wire fencing around the stone and cement blockades in front of the church that was carved so cleverly out of the surrounding black-tree woods.
Mort stepped out of the car, shovel tight in hand and an unnecessary revolver tucked in his belt. "Wish me luck, Thomas" he said.
"Sure thing, pal" Tom said. "Make sure you use that gun, okay? It was my dad's."
"Was?" Mort repeated. "Your parents aren't dead. I've talked to them."
"It was his before I stole it" Tom admitted. "You wish me luck too, dude. I might need it."
"Godspeed, Thomas" Mort said. Tom rolled up the window and drove away with Mul's cloak billowing out the back of the car.
"Who's he after?" Tom asked Mul, watching Mort's solemn approach of the ominous church.
"A crazed Catholic priest who now is know as 'the Ripper'" Mul explained. "He is more of a favor that heaven has asked our lord to dispose of and he obliged under some circumstances. Namely that would be allowed to track down your target, this mysterious killer we know nothing about.
"Jormungandr" Tom lowed. "I looked it up on WikiPedia. He takes his name from some giant Norse snake that holds the world together. I think it's just a 'my dick's this big' kinda stunt, not anything too symbolic. Then again, I could be wrong."
"What do you mean?" Mul asked.
"A killer's name represents them" Tom explained. "I haven't really established myself as a killer, but Mort has. He's 'the Mortician', one who is an expert as funerals and other matters regarding the dead. I'm Thomas Quindale, naturally athletic nerd. I can't really go around with the name 'the Gamer' and expect to be feared, y'know?"
"Good point" Mul said. "Anyway, this guy you're after isn't a normal human. He was a cloned super-soldier in a Cold War program that was recently aborted. Turns out he went back to the lab he was born in and destroyed it, which the Government branch covered up with the secret news of abortion since the Cold War is obviously over."
"Sounds like a game plot" Tom said. "That's good. It'll help me focus. So I have to stop the crazed super-soldier with a funny name from rampaging and causing a political scandal or something?"
"No" Mul answered, "he actually got all his legitimate revenge on the orchestrator's of the operation that birthed him and several others. Now he just wants to kill you, for reasons even Heaven can't fathom yet."
"Sweet" Tom said. He was getting anxious and excited, as he moved in his seat and started speeding through the forest path to the main road. "So I'm like a destined one? I won some sort of destiny lottery or something?"
"That's what it amounts to" Mul said. "Frankly this incident is unavoidable. You would have to fight him eventually, King of Killers or no, so it may as well be now to establish some dominance among the secret world of assassins."
"Hell yeah" Tom growled. "I'm loving this game now! YEAH!" Mul strapped his seatbelt in with the dread of an over-excited, homicidal young man being behind the wheel of a nearly broken car. Tom ignored all the road signs he could and bolted down the highway towards his destined meeting place at the edge of the city...
Mort, meanwhile, walked warily through a narrow opening in the side of the convent base. It was a spacious, almost ominously so, lobby with hanging paintings of infinitely Christian depictions. A huge marble statue of the decapitated virgin Mary stood in the center of the large room like an obelisk. The many paintings of Jesus and the Apostles, which this church was previously famous for carrying, were torn and crudely marked in long-dried blood. They were given clownish make-overs with extended and sophomoric attempts at swastikas on their foreheads. Mort drew up his hood and clicked on his goggles, as the rolling clouds were beginning to cut out the light.
"May God have mercy on your souls" Mort lowed softly, "because I sure as shit will not! Defacing these images insults the millions of people who love them. I can't let anyone blatantly laugh in the face of someone's beloved leaders..." Mort drew his shovel out and held it in both hands with vindictive anger. Little did he know just how well occupied this place was. From the black shadows, cultists lurked about with silent knives and metal claws which they planned to use to rip Mort's dark skin from his fine muscular structure.
"I should keep Tom's revolver in mind for now" Mort told himself. "It may not work on a demon, but if he has grunts it will definitely slow them down. If not, I can always just clip off his limbs to down him." Mort proceeded into one of the side rooms, filled with desks and old, broken computer desktops that was most likely a sort of office area for the people who worked on the financial situation at the church. In the darkness Mort could hear some movement. He closed and locked the door behind him, finding it initially odd that there was an unbroken door leading to such an unimportant area, and started forward slowly.
This is the tension part Mort told himself. It's most likely going to be like a movie. The enemy has limited resources and I limited stamina. I must conserve myself, especially my gun, until something absolutely necessary comes up. I need to pace myself. As Thomas would observe, this is just like a video game. I just wish now that I were better at these type of games... Suddenly the clacking of metal parts entered the room from some unknown corner. Mort lowered his goggles and clicked them on. He could see in greens and blacks again, unbeknownst to his enemy, and saw the carefully sneaking figure coming at him down the row of desks. Initially, Mort ignored the threat and continued faking blindness around the room.
"Where are you...?" Mort growled. He saw the man, wearing a tattered cloak and gauze wrappings all over with a hand-scythe and metal tassel, sneer quite evilly and continue silently ahead. Mort kept his shoulders low and his tension high as he very warily approached the enemy. He saw his enemy reel up with a toothy grin, prepare a devastating chop, and Mort bashed the little man's jaw apart from his skull with one solid blow. His enemy out of commission, Mort stomped over and made an example of his stunned lamb.
"Let me teach you what happens when the tenants of religion are destroyed" Mort growled. He kicked the man onto his stomach, stabbed his neck with the spade of his shovel and speared it with his foot clear into the wooden floor. "With no mercy, there is no regret in overkill. And to anyone who can hear this, I personally do not believe in the Christ God! I know that the winds of destiny blow strongly at my back! I cannot condone, however, this blatant spitting in the face of another's faith! For that alone I will make sure you pay, sacrilegious bitch!" In response to Mort's rant the distant sound of chainsaws revving was heard, followed by the mad cackling that ran over them. A lump passed through Mort's throat.
"Oh shit" Mort mumbled. "I never planned on chainsaws. I fucking hate those things!" In the far distant area where these heathen monsters wielding tools of destruction lurked, even more lesser-armed villains rushed forth to intercept and destroy their intruder. The Account of the Mad Preacher and his Congregation starts here...
In the descending twilight of the evening, Devi found herself in a most unlikely place.
"Shit, Tenna" she groaned. "Why did you drag me to a fucking fashion show?"
"Why not?" Tenna chirped. "You were just sulking around all day, reading weird books and making up fake math theories. You need to see the world, or at least go out and make fun of it to the face. Come on! I bet you'll say the word 'anorexia' at least twenty times by the end of the show!" Devi was unmoved by the concept but flattered by the idea of her friend thinking this much of her.
"Alright" Devi finally said. "We'll stay for a bit and make fun of skinny girls. Then we'll go home."
"And?" Tenna added.
"And..." Devi added in defeat, "we'll stop at 'Taco Hell' on the way." Tenna nearly hugged her, but the show was starting and she didn't want to miss out any of the great fun-making she would do. Backstage, Yvonne prepared herself while Beelzebub scanned the minds of every young lady to find one with the appropriate level of guilt or dread to warrant a coming murder. Then, he returned to Yvonne's side and crawled up through her dress onto her head.
I believe I found her Beelzebub said.
Excellent Yvonne thought at him. Who is it? I want to end this promptly and get back.
It is the girl wearing all blue Beelzebub said. Yvonne looked in her mirror as she smooched her lipstick to her lips and spotted her at last. She looked quite depressed, slumping in her chair with her long, silky wig and blue corset over a perfectly flat silken skirt and blue heels. Her theme was either sadness or...blue. Yvonne couldn't bother to figure out which one. Instead, she tried to find some way to measure what her power was and find a weakness before the fight actually happened.
Could you figure anything else out from touching her? Yvonne asked.
Only that she isn't entirely human Beelzebub responded. She has a large hint of demonic energy, much like the previous target that I tried to navigate you to. She is definitely the target. What her powers may be, I am not sure.
Shit Yvonne metnally cursed.
"Miss Daisy?" a call girl called from the room door. Yvonne darted her head around and raised her hand. "You're first. Dead Phreak, Asia and Sour Blossom are on deck." As Yvonne moved out for the walkway she saw the other three girls get up and caught a quick glance of her target as she left. She saw, in the mirror, the true symbol of her demonic representation. She frowned openly into her face, but in the mirror there was no face. Just contorted and severly twisted skin covering her face.
This should be easy Yvonne told herself. Little did she know that it would not and would never be easy for her...The Account of the Sobbing Ghost is begun.