A little something I wrote:
Pe, pe peo ple said his brain was infected by devils
In fected by, in fected by, in fected by devils
People said his brain was infected by devils
On top of a hill, partly hidden by a group of tightly knit oak trees, sits an ivy covered mansion. Its large windows, tall floors and opulently decorated well kept halls inevitably inspire old wealth. Money you can loose with a drug habit and a couple of well intentioned friends. Wealth?, you can’t get rid of wealth. As generations pass it gathers a mind of its own. The family relinquishes all responsibility to lawyers and smart money growers. The only occupation family members employ: gratuitous spending and mingling with their like. So removed from the world of ordinary mortals they no longer seem to be a part of it.
A large room, ceiling engraved with lions and eagles surrounding the masonic sign .A sturdy sculpted massive wooden door, held together in iron straps, is facing a big top rounded window. The white walls are lined with bookcases loaded with eminent, classy looking books, the classic signs of an impressive and valuable book collection in a house where nobody reads.
It’s sunny outside, golden white glinting upon every surface. But upon passing through the window of this room the light becomes cold, grey and depressing. The feeling you get when sitting in a dark room glancing outside to the bright sunlight. Bats like this feeling, it makes them feel secure, why can’t some men too?
An old bitter looking man sits in a tall, oak, armchair – its arms are sculpted in the shape of two lion heads roaring and showing their teeth. The man sits with his back to the window, in a dignified, yet leisurely position. Impeccably dressed he wears: dark colored slippers, a pair of smooth gray silk pajama pants, a silk ruby red caftan with a black low neck & thick black sleeves & a thick red foulard around his neck. His face is dark and covered with gray three day old stubble. Eyes are black, penetrating and seem to blaze anything that they point at. The hair is full, soft, grey and combed back as only italian mafioso’s know how. His hands are wiry and seem to clutch his beautifully adorned glass of cognac, reminding of an eagle, perched in a tree upon a rocky mountain and scanning the valley below.
As with most old people his most habitual facial expression was firmly itched upon his face. As such, even the smiles of Augustus Cromwell have a menacing look to them. This is because his most accessed emotion is anger, with hate as a close second. Known to his closest “friends” as Augustus C, he is as bitter as wormwood and as mean as only a man who has had everything and enjoyed nothing can be.
A thought carelessly goes through his mind, grabbing his attention and discharging one of his constant smile/scowls: “They will all die! There we will all be equal and their happy, empty, useless lives won’t mean anything”.
The air is thick and anything that can be heard pains the ear. Every sound in this room is born of the deepest silence. And, as the first sweeping note of a violin solo brings/sings hope, so does every noise here sing desperation and emptiness. OR The air seems to vibrate with even the smallest of noises as the deep silence of this room seems to be always broken by sounds that have the effect of smashing glass upon a weak heart.
A servant opens the door, he asks softly:
- Will there be anything else, sir?
- Get out of here James, go back to that rundown house of yours! he spits in a bitter spiteing tongue.
James voice changes to cold and official:
- Very well, have a pleasant weekend sir. He turns and leaves, slowly closing the door behind him.
- Fuck You! the bitter old man yells, interrupting a sip from his drink.

Augustus Cromwell sits alone, smoldering, half muttering, half yelling to himself:
- Damn these servants, you pay their fucking kid’s schools and this is how they behave! Vermin!
The air is still.
A sharp pain in the chest. Every heartbeat is a hammer slammed to his eardrum. Tightness grips his throat. Sweat pours from every pore: salty, wet and cold. Augustus Cromwell is dying. He knows this and decides on an aristocratic pose for his soon stiffening corpse. His shaking hand places the cognac on the small XVII century hand sculpted coffee table next to him. He leans back trying to still himself. The pain jerks his chest and sends his body to the floor. His mind curses: “(Why doesn’t anything ever work out the way you want it. By Monday, I’ll be smelly and swollen. I should have exploded myself in a sunken coffin”. Heaving throes shake the body. It gasps for air. It dies.
Silence. 13 seconds pass. If anyone where there, they would have noticed that a hundred years seemed a lot shorter. And, as the falling tree that no one hears, this sensation leaves a memory only in the mind of the universe.
As if from every point on the window, the air ripples.
A see through figure raises itself up from the facedown carcass. Its body is young, supple and somehow... ideal. The apparition looks around as if savoring its surroundings, stretching and flexing its body. It slowly starts showing discernable features.
The hair is black and the eyes are even more piercing. Augustus’s face is glowing white with health, yet, underneath the robust skin, the old man’s scowl still lurks.
NOTE: A spirit is not the same as a ghost. A ghost is a spirit that is free. A spirit is what is left of us when our bodies die – sometimes called a soul, but rarely as this usually has a different meaning.
A crackling sounds starts building in the room – a black portal bubbles itself into existence upon the surface of the window.
NOTE: A war scythe is a vicious looking weapon that is used by death angels due to its extensive offensive and defensive capabilities. It mainly consists of three parts: a 1.80 meter long, straight, lightweight metal shaft called a snaith, a blade and a grip. The blade is 60 centimeters long, sturdy and curved; it is mounted perpendicularly to the toe of the snaith. The upper end of the snaith consists of a heavy spherical holding grip. This has three main uses: to allow the scythe to be grasped securely, even while swung one handedly, to counterbalance the weight of the blade allowing it to function as a quarterstaff and, finally, to bludgeon as a mace.
The death angel tightens his hold on the grip of his scythe, with a mighty push of his huge black wings he pounces through the portal. His eyes sting as he bursts through, as if jumping wide eyed into water.
The tightly held metal ball is slammed into the apparition’s chest, smashing its body through a bookcase.
The spirit of Augustus screams, the air turns into searing needles, halting the death angel midstride in his advancing attack. The spirit kneels and immediately jumps forward, an electrically blue energy emanating from the clenched fist of his extended arm.
A counterclockwise spin of the scythe blocks the attack, fluidly followed by a blow that crashes the metal ball into the apparitions jaw, sending it to the floor. It narrowly avoids a downward flaming scythe strike so strong it judders the decking.
Nimbly, the young Augustus lifts himself upon his hands to a crouching position and explodes into another deafening yell. The sound climbs higher and higher, caressing every pain receptor it can reach. It slowly seems to take shape, catching fire.
Blake buries the blade of his scythe into the ground, holding onto it for balance against the tidal wave power of the scream. His huge black crow-feathered wings close around his body; an imperfect sphere is engulfed by raging fire.
As his energy is expanded, the yell dies down.
The death angels wings spring open, dispelling the smoke; he closes the distance. He slashes downward and diagonally.
Augustus dodges, the scythes blade passing over his head as he rotates his torso.
Quick as an arrow, Augustus rotates his torso around the scythe, its glistening blade passing over his lowered head, grabs it by the heel and lodges it into the floor’s wooden planking.
The disarmed death angel is grabbed by the neck, lifted into the air and violently slammed to the floor.
Having already grabbed the apparition by the wrist, Blake pulls it downwards. His metal heal connects with the nasal bone in a muffled crunch. In one fluid graceful move, Augustus Cromwell’s body is lifted onto the same foot, thrown to the floor, and straddled. The Askaran Dagger pierces his throat to the hilt.
NOTE: An Askaran Dagger is a modified Xiphoid – a retractable forearm dagger, a class of weapons whose blade is housed in a forearm worn wristband. The Askaran Dagger is a single bladed weapon, with one sleeve, housed in a simple, dual spring loaded guide rail. It differs from an assassin’s tool in regard to the fact that it must be manually retracted. The sleeve allows the blade to double its length, reaching 40 centimeters above the knuckles. The blade is sharp, double edged, 3 centimeter wide at the base and made from an unknown metal that is as hard and lightweight as titanium, but shines as only polished silver can. This weapon is intended for piercing but has enough length and resistance to be used for slashing as well.
Golden white blood drips from the blade, it blackens and hardens before reaching the ground. The air feels as a just sheathed sword, the smooth impeccable end of a consummate action; completeness as an attribute of motion.
Energy flows anew. Clothes shred and rip themselves away from the body, as if of their own volition. The chest is exposed. With rakish speed the sign of Caiaphas is carved deeply into the apparition’s otherworldly flesh.
Most onlookers, had there been any, would have thought this symbol looks corporate. They would also have thought that this isn’t a noteworthy observation. The fact that corporations share similar characteristics to what we usually deem as evil: ruthlessness, selfishness, cruelty or irrationality would not have occurred to them; neither would the fact that beings with similar mental characteristics, share similar physical characteristics, no matter the inner workings of any particular universe.
Blake’s wrist is slit, the sacrifice is made.
Deeply, the ritual of Baqir is asseverated:

Puon het lordw ni a tReag hitew droush Upon the world in a great white shroud
Tiss het engal tiwh het rakd gwins fo Khan, Sits the angel with the dark wings of Khan,
Sih deah si gihh, ubt sih reath si wol, His head is high, but his heart is low,
Lifedl tiwh het naip fo naterel feli fwol, Filled with the pain of eternal life flow,
Ubt vene sa sih naip verne vesdicee, But even as his pain never deceives,
Sih lliw ot perwo verne His will to power never recedes
Nad roughth sih lliw: And through his will I now command:
Het tingpar fo royu nibeg nito tandist sevalh The parting of your being into distant halves

Blood drips upward from Augustus’s lacerations. Tiny droplets spin around each other, faster and faster, bubbling, extruding hair-like tentacles, weaving themselves into a golden ring: two serpents with hollow eyes, one devouring a large, oval ruby, the other coiling around it. A new Mnemon’ankh is forged.
NOTE: Mnemon’ankh - loosely translates as memory of life. Such artifacts come into existence at the separation of the mind (memory, personality, ego) from the spirit (essence, the primal you, what is left when everything that is changeable is stripped away). It encompasses all the memories and experiences of the birthers life.
A sturdy silver chain slithers silently through the air; it flows through the Mnemon’ank’s orifice and closes behind Blake’s neck. It lets itself fall, clattering with other chains and rings.
The death angel hoists the mutilated body on his shoulder. He slowly walks to the portal. The moment he passes through flames erupt. Books burn, blackened blood boils, glass cracks. As the blaze devours the room its former aspect returns.
The room is unchanged, yet quite different. The feeling is warm, the air is peaceful and the light seems to have gathered strength, peering through the glass and playfully casting the shadow of an old willow tree next to the corpse of an old man.

Suggestions and criticism are quite welcomed.