3A: The Return of the Steve

Outside of a random building in a random suburb of Venice, Italy, the incomparable Steve Sayors calls out to a seemingly random by-passer. This level of randomness seems far too coincidental!

“Oh my gosh, there you are!” Steve shouts at the passer-by, who stops on his way into the building.

“Steve!” comes an equally shouty return. “I’m so glad you’re here! Wait… this is the real you, right? Not a fraud?”

“Of course it’s me,” Steve replies. “You’re such a goose.”

“I really am,” the other person confirms, all goose-like and such. “What brings you here, friend?”

“I was hoping to get your opinion on a few things that The Baphomet had said,” Steve answers with a completely sensible response. Why else would Steve Sayors be talking to a professional wrestler? “So, tell me Ali…”

“Let me stop you there,” Steve gets interrupted before he can say the name. “Baph’ seems to think that I’m not ready for this First Blood match. But what’s his rationale? The fact that I hit up the old Google machine and looked up different ways to make people bleed. What, that means I’m not prepared? Apparently, research is a bad thing in his mind. As if he knew from the moment that he fell out of his mama how to slice and dice his victims? Shit, as if he’s never looked up blood sacrifices online for his finger-banging fun-times? Fucking hypocrite. For the record though… I’ve never had a papercut. It seems that our resident all-powerful demonic overlord still gets them though, so I guess advantage me?”

“I guess…” Steve agrees, foolishly falling into agreeing with someone in a way that will no doubt come back to haunt him whenever he eventually counters The Left Hand in the flesh. “What about the rest of The Left Hand? The Baphomet said he’ll keep them out of the match.”

“He’s saying he’ll do that to make me feel comfortable, right? Because he’s an honourable man. You know, for someone who doesn’t concern themselves with ‘what society deems appropriate’… why does Baph’ want me to think he’s ‘honourable’? That seems very… cultured… right?” He tuts and shakes his head. “I don’t really know what the fuck Baph’ is talking about though. I told him that I wouldn’t believe him if he said that, but then he went and said it anyway. Let me be clear, again, because apparently saying it once isn’t enough: I’m not worried about his flunkies. Not at all. Bring ‘em all, I said. What I did flag, however, was that it was weird that they were all females. Not intimidating – weird. It didn’t worry me. It more reflected on him. Still does, by the way, and he’s done nothing to detract from the idea that The Left Hand is just a raging sex cult, like back when the Knights Templars were plowing ass in his name.”

“Regardless, he still seems to think you’ll raise your left hand though…” Steve suggests.

“I’d rather drink Bleach,” he harshly says, and raises a right middle finger to the camera accompanying Steve. “Now excuse me… I’m needed inside.”

“In here?” Steve queries. “This is a library.”

“I’ve got a story I’m going to read!” he announces, as he pushes past Steve.

“We’re in Italy though!” Steve calls after him. “Do you even speak Italian?”

“Apparently!”

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3B: Story Time

A Very Alias Christmas!

Page 2 In a colourful corner of a luminous library in valorous Venice, a suspicious storyteller holds court with a prattling pack of annoying ankle-biters. This vexatious vagrant sits on a bedazzled bench designed to look like a Christmas throne. (Note: Not the real image.) Apparently it’s customary for Santa to sit on a throne. Where that particular practice sprung from is not for this neutral narrator to ponder upon. Instead, I shall simply pay my respects and be on my way: All hail Santa Claus, Emperor God-King of Consumerism and our Souls. With the chortling children wriggling and writhing, and their perturbable parent-folk joking and judging in the background, our master of mirth must do the impossible: entertain five- and six-year olds for more than just a fleeting second. What with their Minecraft and Fortnite and YouTube and Crack, kids just have no attention span these days! “Once upon a time,” Oh the tale is beginning! “Santa Claus and his wife – first name Mrs., last name Claus – were sipping tea in their cabin at the South Pole.” “But Santa lives in the North Pole!” objected one enthusiastic excrement who had been magically brought to life years earlier in an unexpected instance of ass to pussy that ‘just happened in the heat of the moment’ as the father would later explain when questioned. “Quite right you are,” our teller of tall tales confirmed. “But it’s a little-known fact that Santa and his Ho Ho Ho also have a holiday home in the south. He even has a gaggle of girl-elves on retainer there, who keep the place proper and are ready follow the will of their Master Christmas at a moment’s notice. Santa, you see, is a bit old-fashioned, and very non-feminist.” “What’s a feminist?” the poop-come-person pipes up again. “Feminists are people who believe in feminism.” Duh. “Well what’s that?” Again with the interruptions from the tiny turd-tot. “Feminism is this ridiculous concept that women deserve to be treated the same as men, when in reality, they often deserve better.” The maudlin mares who birthed these babbling babes get a kick out of that, and the coprolite turned kiddo is sufficiently embarrassed by the answer and his penis that he shuts the fuck up. That allows this merry myth to not just continue but to commence even, as we really hadn’t gotten under way at all. “On this particular day, as the Northern elves were quite literally slaving away on the toy-making front, Santa was seeking to relax before his forthcoming reindeer ride. The eve of Christmas was quite a taxing time, you see, so Santa needed to work up the will to partake. There is only so much motivation that can be gained from milk and cookies before satiation kicks in. The rest is generated from the miracles and marvels he dreams of beforehand while on his vacay.”

Page 3 “On this winterly warm summer’s day in the frozen wastelands, only a few days before the festive freakshow, Santa sat on his sovereign seat, with three of his little lady-elves lined up in front of him according to the law of the land. He scanned from one to the next, analysing. With a booming bellow, Santa’s magical voice echoed round the room. He asked his hapless helpers something that they had never been asked before! Santa asked them what it was that the wished they would receive for Christmas! I tell you, chums, the elves were excited but also rather shocked. Never before had Santa enquired about the elves’ interests!” “Well why not?” asks another interested imp. “Why not indeed,” the speaker dismisses derisively. “So what did they ask for?” the cretin continues to press. “Being the innocent infants that they were… you know, mentally…” He taps the top of his head. “…they couldn’t decide right away. They huddled up with their heads together, chittering and chattering away to help make up their minds. But these were individuals here – individuals with independent ideas. Somehow, they had to come up with common ground. Now… to understand what happened next, it might help for you to hear about how each of the elves came to reside in this happy, hopeful house. It might help for you to hear their names!” An audible “ooh” oozes from the uninhibited urchins. “First among the naïve non-starters was Quinner the Winner,” the storyteller starts. “Now, she was a lowly lass that had several severe issues in need of addressing. Chief amongst them was her reputation. All day and all night, Quinner the Winner had to put up with her peers poking fun at her in muted murmurs behind her back, and in merciless mockery to her face as well!” “Why were people mean to her? Isn’t being a ‘winner’ a good thing?” With a seething sigh the teller of tales stares daggers and danger through yet another ant who insists on interrupting. Salvaging his self-control, he flits his fury away and sanguinely smiles. “Well you see young one,” he reassuringly replies. “It was irony. For so long, Quinner the Winner tried to keep up with all of the other exceptional elves. Unfortunately, everything she did ended up in Ashes! She just kept losing! It wasn’t until she aligned with this alliance of misdirected misfits that Quinner the Winner ever actually received her heart’s deepest desire: a win! But what more could she wish for from this wonderous wizard? She dared not dream of the Universe! And she surely couldn’t handle a Shooting Sar!” “Umm… excuse me,” interjects an aging aunt to one of the bleating brats. “I’m not really sure that this story is pitched at the right level for the kids here.”

Page 4 “How so?” he curiously queries. “Well, some of the words are a little bit trickier than the kids might understand,” the meddling maiden mentions. “And the tone seems a bit… off.” “As does the colour of your fake tan,” the raconteur rebuts. Concerned Karen backs away bewildered and the ribaldry of the retort boosts his own reputation amongst the rug rats. “So what did she ask for, Mister?” asks another attentive ape, bring the story back to the centre. “Well that all depended on what the harem from hell could decide on together,” muses the metricist. “Quinner the Winner consulted with her colleagues, whom each had their own reason for recruitment. The next on the list of duds and disappointments was an elf with special elven powers of her own! L the Spell!” “What were her powers?” comes the inevitable interrogation. “I’m glad you asked!” he animatedly affirms. “L the Spell had the power to make everybody think she was better than she truly was! She could magically make others think that she could compete on the same level as legends. She revelled in rare rave reviews! But the harsh honest truth was that when push came to shove and shove came to push, L the Spell couldn’t muster the magic. Neither Hecate nor Hera responded to her heartfelt requests for help, Circe certainly abandoned aid, and Dionysus drunk himself too deep to care. Against μια αληθινή θεά, L the Spell had cast her spells, but in the end it was L the Spell who herself was cast. And that led her to the portly priest named Santa.” “What did she want to ask for?” asks a voice from the enraptured ensemble. “A path,” he begins to explain. “L the Spell had dwelled in the dark for oh so long that she had forgotten what the light even looked like! Come on everybody, give me a show of hands who has ever bumped into something at night when the lights are out?” The majority of the mongrels raise a reluctant right hand. Some of the more gaudy grown-ups also offer a right-handed appendage, eager to enter this thespian’s theatre themselves. The transient tramp’s right arm also arises, and for the most minor of seconds the gathered group were united as one in their detest for the dark. “I thought as much,” he confidently commends his own astute assessment. “That much was true for L the Spell too! Imagine if you will, a forever night. No sunrise ever arising. And no lights! No power! Nothing but darkness! What would you do? Would you stumble around, bumping and bruising? At first, L the Spell did. But eventually, her will was worn down. Alone and afraid, she lost all her life’s lessons. So when Santa came to recruit her to his rabble, she rejoiced, and signed on the dotted line.”

Page 5 “What about the other one?” pressed a pest who had previously inputted. “Who?” he asks, unaware of another. “The third lady-elf,” the peon pushed on. “Oh her!” he says with a chuckle and chortle. “It’s very easy to forget about her – Geri Venereal.” “That’s quite enough!” grouches a grumpy grandpa, who then hoists a half-human from their spot on the floor. Making quite a scene, he and the child chart an arc through the auditorium, under an arch, and out the door. A shrug is a simple enough response for the reader. “The interesting thing about Geri Venereal,” he recommences, resolute in his regaling, “is that she doesn’t always seem to be like the other lousy lapdogs. It almost feels like she didn’t even want to be an elf! Like they forced her. At least at first.” “That sounds horrible,” pipes the pipsqueak with perpetual pronouncements. “It sure does,” he nods with a neurotic knowing. “But when the tribal trinity triumphantly emerged from the muddled mess and amassed in a line in front of Santa once more, it was that meek madam Geri Venereal herself that delivered their demands with an honourable honesty! Power, she asked for. Respect. Purpose.” “Purpose…” a mother of many mustered maggots muttered under her breath. The wayfarer winks at her to acknowledge her attention. Snapping out of her absorption in the artistic account, she covers her mouth in shock! Nestling her noggin in the nape of her husband, she tries to regulate her reddening cheeks. “That’s right,” coos the curdling but charismatic creep. “And after Geri Venereal announced their laughable longing for meaning, Santa smiled a sinister grin and raised himself up from his heavy holiday haunch. He towered over his luckless lackeys and directed them to each raise their Left Hand. The dutiful dolts diligently complied, and Santa promised them every whim and whimsy, as long as they embraced the encroaching eve.” “Did they get it?” came the question most concerning the crowd. “No!” he scoffs with a scowl, then a grin. “Of course not. They tried. They raised their hands like loyal little monkeys, but the thing is… none of the elves were any good. And if someone isn’t good, Santa doesn’t give them presents. All they get is coal! Coal, spelt L-O-S-E-R.” “That spells ‘loser’,” a perceptive pet informs.

Page 6 “It sure does,” repeated the reputable rogue. “And that made Santa sad. All of the excitement and energy that he expected to absorb from the mirth and merriment of his elves was for nought! He wanted inspiration but got infirmity instead. But Santa would not give up that easily. As the elves restlessly retired to their rooms, Santa sought his absolution in the ambition of another! Rather than moaning about his misfortune, Santa would look outside of his cult and his captives. Braving the summer’s snow, he stepped out of his cabin. He surveyed his surroundings and spotted some smoke spewing towards the sky in the distance. With his head down and his hiney up, he heaved through the wilderness of winter without end. As he trudged and he trodded past the frozen fields of his reindeers, the source of the smoke was revealed to be a formidable fire struggling to combat the cold.” “It was tended to by a dishevelled derelict with bushy blonde hair, scruffy skin, and insecure indigo irises.” “Kind of like you,” snarks a sniffling snoot. The weaver of this web beams and continues the chronicle. “As Santa approached the smouldering smog, the wayward warden of the billowing bonfire stood to face him.” Awash with austerity, the speaker’s face solidifies in solemnity. “Santa asked him to raise his Left Hand, and Santa would grant him whatever he wanted! BUT! Before any of you brainiacs butt in again and ask what it was that this wanderer wanted, I’ll tell you this… Santa couldn’t give it. Because this man… this man wasn’t good either. And kids… if he wasn’t good, then what did you get?” “Coal!” the kids sing in a choir! “And how do we spell that?” he asks in return to his retinue. “L-O-S-E-R!” they chant and they cheer. “Well done, well done, all of you.” His face aches in approval. “This man refused to take Santa’s coal. He may have been a loser, but he refused to be one of the lemons that littered the corridors of Santa’s holiday home. Because he knew that Santa’s sack was full of empty entreats. When asked to raise his Left Hand, this vigilant vagabond refused! He raised his right. Over and over he raised his right. For he saw Santa for what he truly was.” “What was that?” asked an inquisitive irritant, ignoring the announcer’s agreed arrangement.

Page 7 “A fraud!” he hoarsely hissed. “A fake. A conman. Santa promises the world but only delivers the best presents to the people who can afford it themselves! Have you ever wondered about that, kids? Why poor kids don’t get X-Boxes but rich kids get cars? Santa’s a myth! A lie! Santa doesn’t exist!” The precious parents puff smoke from their ears. They stomp as they swarm and start screaming and shouting. They scuttle about and scoop up their spoiled little sprogs. “How dare you?!” they curse through curt and coarse accusations. “You’re awful!” “All of you sheep just follow the fable!” the ruiner roars at the wretched wrens. “And your parents play it up for their perverse pleasure. They’re lying to you! Santa won’t give you what you want! The Baphomet won’t give you what you want! He’ll just ask you to raise your Left Hand and then take credit for what you could already provide for yourself!” “You suck!” exclaims an entrepreneurial young boy. “Thaddeus Duke was right about you!” Even in Italian, the words of the whippersnapper cut to the core. The boy turns and breaks camp from this caricature of a hero. With the mob making tracks to depart from the dais, the staff of the study hall swoop in on the swindler. Badgered and besieged, he is forced to step back. He gets out of dodge and doesn’t return as the last of the delegates disperse. But shrouded by shade in a corner colonised by computers, someone remains… A familiar Angel.

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3C: Back to the Path

She presses the button on her earpiece and speaks in a hushed whisper.

“Yes, it’s him.”

A digital crackle replies.

“I’m sure.”

Crackle.

“No, he didn’t see me.”

Crackle.

“Unclear. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

Crackle.

“Yes sir. Over and out”

And nobody lived happily ever after…

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3D: Quote This!

“So apparently I get the final word. Bully for me. Were I another man, I would probably use this opportunity to come up with some witty retort full of inuendo, piss, and vigour. I don’t need to do that though. Not for you, Baph’. All I need to do to send a final message to you, is raise my right hand like so and remind you of what I am to you – what I am to the myth of The Baphomet. Ash, Geri, Lycana… they can focus on their own adventures against Jenny Myst and the like. But as far as you’re concerned? It’s all about me, baby. With this right hand, I’m a reminder of the limits of your power. I’m a reminder of your fallibility. You’re going to give me one more opportunity, right? Man, you already know the answer. And as long as I hold out – little old me, the nobody, the nothing – as long as I resist, your entire plan hangs on a knife’s edge. Because if you can’t take me, then what the fuck can you do? I am more important to you than you’ll ever admit.

And you won’t have me.”



(Any guesses what hand that is?)





BTW, are we still doing hidden messages? Man… if you can’t have me, you’re going to try to be me, aren’t you? Pathetic…