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HERE'S A STORY WAWAWA

Surrender stole what sold was sought for breaking molds and cracking casks of his liquid escape from the foggy transom of that bloody, wolf-killing-son-of-a-b***h.

It knew the time had come. It had taken on the name of names. The masters name. It had written the name into the depths of It’s mind and had become one with the memories not only in thought… But in the reaches of time itself. It knew just as surely as it wrote the name in blood with a talon across It’s barely-there image of an arm. Even as the flesh bubbled with the tattoo of the name as it drew itself upon the very soul of the heart of the deeping call upon the echo of that persona.
It knew as the name wrote deeper…
Into the depths of reality itself.
Deeper still.

Into places where thought became truth.

Where truth became word.

Where word became law.

It knew.

The time had come.

The statued gargoyle stood frozen in It’s wretched compulsion of bloody mayhem and derelict fury.

A door was unlocked in the makings of the name upon it.

A door made of IT from the name opened.

He opened it with a snap as the seams of the figures outline separated.
Literally splitting the sides of the thing in some cartoonish caricature… Like when Wiley Coyote runs straight into a ******** mountain, while trying to catch that damn Roadrunner, leaving behind a perfect outline of his crazy a** in the rock.

Meep Meep.

Parting the way with fingers shone to cracked nail and calloused knuckle through the breach in the door of the ghastly monster. Pulling through as though against some great weight that junctured the door to the world.
Anchored it in realities grasp.
Steeled it against him.

He flipped the bird through the opening he made.

They were small hands. Tobacco stained the middle finger as it raised. Dirt was caked under the nails. They grasped and tugged and pulled at the split in the door of the outline of the thing that moved ever so slightly for the effort.

Hinges formed at the opposite end. Creaky and rusted shut with the blood and gore that was caked to them.

A sound came from behind the door. Small and angry. Like a baby hornet.

“Fook this shite… Nex dime I take the FORKING TRANE!”

A child’s voice bellowed with a frustration that did not suit the tenor of it’s master… The words came out truncated. Meek. Angry for angers sake. Inconvenienced. As though the business of literally walking through a being into another plane from whichever place this child came from was an inconvenience routed by something as simple as a train ticket.

“Farking open yer arse up ye beotch! I ain got none but time to waste!”

The voice carried a hint of old Irish brogue… But the face that emerged from between the crease of the monster wore it like an ill-fitting suit on an octopus.

The nose pressed through… Crooked to the left from some fight that broke it once upon a time ((But ohhh mercy sakes alive, you should have seen the other a*****e)) and had been repaired with some ductape by an old hooker with fake tits, a nurse outfit, and a penchant for lying about her medical degree.

The cheeks were wind-worn and freckled. The youth of them ignorable for the dichotomy of the poorly stitched up scars that laced their otherwise supple surface… Some looked like angry knife marks, others looked like someone had launched a bottle rocket off of his face.
His chin had a good little cut, to the cloth of a baby Errol Flynn it moved as he jawed some silent curse at the door at it squeaked open a few more inches for his straining efforts to pass.

Those limpid pools in which we mortal fools may drown blinked madly… The eyes of the person who became clearer in that gateway were a toil of green and ivory and gray. Shaded by his creased and angry, black eyebrows (The left of which was blocked partially by a Buzz Lightyear bandaid that had come loose from a cut on the brow) The eyes were ringed with dark circles from a number of sleepless, drunken nights… But they blazed with a righteous, victorious fury as he slammed his chest through the opening and passed his body through.

He was a child.

No more than 4 or 5 years old. Pasty white. Albino almost. His hair was hidden beneath a black skull cap with a pilots pin tacked to the side. A twirl of curled black hair stuck out the base of the back of his cap. He wore a faded denim vest over a short sleeve, filthy white t-shirt. There were words written on the shirt from some witty saying that had made him laugh years ago when he saw it… But they had faded with time beyond his years.

He was no more than 4 feet tall at best… Inching all 75 pounds of himself through that wacky opening… His baggy jeans damn near came off when he finally squeezed the last of himself through. Leaving behind one of his beaten-up, mismatched, black-on-white Converse Allstars in the gap with a flying tumble onto the bloody ground.

“Ye fooking shite… Good Riddance Chuck FOOOOKIIING Taylor!”

He spat from his potty-mouth in the direction of the shoe, his spit landing just to the left across the leg of the door-monster he gave no heed. He rolled to his feet with a sigh from his back and reached back through the opening to grab his baggage as the seams in the creature began to close... As though his allotted time to break the rules of reality had passed and now the world was fixing itself.

His hands came back through, carrying a cloth bag with leather straps and a carrying handle. It was embossed with pink flowers over a black background and had a tag attached with a flight number and the name of it’s previous owner…

He frowned down at the item as though he had never seen it before in his life… Looking it over till he found the name and read it aloud… Slowly… As though it were a great strain to read the name and an even greater pain to hear it out loud.

“Mary Poppins… MARY FOOKING POPPINS!!?!?!? THAT BIIIIITTTTCCCCHHH!!!!!”

He cursed in a roar and threw the bag over his head in a fit of childish rage. Diving for the hole as it continued to close, to grasp at what he truly sought.

A Book emerged from the void in his hand as it sealed… More accurately, as the void was drawn closed behind the Book. By the Book. It wrote the creature closed from the pages as they opened from the written expulsion of the child from IT’s reaches. They were vellum, the pages… What brief glimpse he had of them was stolen as the book closed and the clasp upon it’s mysteries sealed with a golden lock.

He held the Book to himself… Looking up at the figure of the monster he had just stepped through with those tired eyes… Not at all surprised to see the vision of hazy monstrosity standing there where his door through it had been made. He frowned at the monster and spoke in a firm command towards it.

“Get the fark outa ere ye banshee b***h”

The being bowed as though the greatest honor had been bestowed with the insult and became as dust in the wind. Evaporating into nothingness till the boy was alone in the alley.

He sighed… Cocked his leg and cut some cheese with a laugh at himself… And he turned around to observe where he was… Blinking the sun from his eyes as he caught his bearings, till he muttered past a twitching lip that smacked in front of a parched, sticky tongue in his thirsty mouth..

“Need a ******** drink…”

He gave a sniff, and hoisted the bag of Mary Poppins over a shoulder with the Book under an elbow and made for the smell of blood and drink on the wind.

Whistling supercalifragilisticexpialidocious as he walked off for the distant sign that read

HALF OFF LIQUOR.