sam_arkand

Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor...on the accordion.

Rock it hard core, baby.

Then the children of Israel cried unto the Lord their God, because their heart failed, for all their enemies had compassed them round about, and there was no way to escape out from among them.
Thus all the company of Assur remained about them, both their footmen, chariots, and horsemen, four and thirty days, so that all their vessels of water failed all the inhibitants of Bethulia.
And the cisterns were emptied, and they had not water to drink their fill for one day; for they gave them drink by measure.
Therefore their young children were out of heart, and their women and young men fainted for thirst, and fell down in the streets of the city, and by the passages of the gates, and there was no longer any strength in them.


Book of Judith: 7:19-22

Pain. Between her thighs, in the wound at her side, at feet still unused to walking barefoot on sand and stone. Was this Purgatory? Bethany wandered among the hills, lost and alone, as if a soul denied the balm of Heaven and the judgment of Hell. What had she done to deserve this? What was her sin? Was this a test? The Hebrews had wandered in the desert, enduring many trials, before coming to the Promised Land. The Lord Jesus had suffered on the cross. Bethany walked in the valley of death, but she feared not. God would provide. He provided the dew she had licked off the leaves of a bush this morning, the dead bird she had eaten raw at noon. He had given her the strength to--

To.

So much blood.

( Three kings... )

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

What it said on the tin.

*****

Pistol in hand, Ziva descends the stairs. A whisp of smoke curls out of the muzzle of her gun. One step two steps three. Down into Sheol, the resting place where both the righteous and wicked dead sleep together in peace until Moschiach comes. Her half-brother lies in the shadow of Gibb's boat. Blood pools beneath his head. He had always called her "shochet"--the kosher butcher trained to make a clean cut. Or a clean shot. As every night when her dreams take her here, she mourns the brother she loved instead of the monster she listened to in those last moments.

( What rough beast... )

"A werewolf attack?" McGee asked, beer mug frozen halfway to his lips. "Really?"

"Right out of American Werewolf in London," DiNozzo said, sipping his own draft with relish. "First year on the Baltimore homicide squad. Five chewed-up bodies, spread over three nights all over the Western. What we used to call a 'full Cleveland'."

"A serial killer who wore leisure suits and white belts?" McGee's brow wrinkled in confusion.

( Meetings... )

Note: this a sequel to Pigtails and Tweed

****

Director of Mossad Eli David stared out at the landscape passing outside the car window. Highway One was an apt symbol of Israel's position in the world. The main highway linking Tel Aviv to Jerusalem wound among the Judean hills in its eastern reaches. North and south were the Occupied Territories--promised by Hashem to His chosen people, now contested between Israeli settlers and the Palestinian rabble who squatted there. The route to the capital was a narrow, precarious path snaking between enemy lands. The burned out hulks of tanks and trucks along the fringes were memorials to the intense fighting during Independence and the Six Day War, to keep the road open to the heart of Yis'rael.
( Read more... )

Our Slayers, Our Selves by Andrew Wells, Esq.

Into every young woman's life comes a change. Before, she is a shy bud closed against the world. Then, one day, it comes. The bud trembles with life and strength. The miracle happens. A new day dawns as her petals open to greet the rosy-fingered dawn of a new stage in her life. She has become a glorious, vital flower. Naturally, there will be questions.

Among them may be "I can now bench-press a Volvo?"

Weirdest informational hand-outs, ever.

( Coda... )

One thing about DC: great sense of production values. Abby sat next to Ziva on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The Reflecting Pool was the darkening blue of an early summer day shading to twilight. The Washington Monument rose up like a don't-think-of-Jimmy-Palmer-at-all spire, the tip glowing bright from the setting sun. If you squinted, you could see the National Mall and the Capitol Building beyond. Tourists and District inhabitants clustered around the Memorial and the banks of the pool. Some took pictures, others followed tourist guides, some even were having al fresco dinners on the grass. Ordinary people doing ordinary things. Statistically, of course, at least one of them might know about demons and vampires and an eternal battle between good and evil. Here, though, in the fading day one could only see the world and the beauty in it.

"'I know about pigeons, Lilly'," Abby said, sipping Caf-Pow through a straw. "Kate always quoted that when we came here."

( Field trip... )

She could do this.

Sweat trickling down her back, Abby stood before the entrance to Autopsy. The underground room, with no sunlight, and all the dead bodies. One of which might suddenly come to unlife and slowly slide out of the morgue drawer when your back was turned and it would be Ari, only not Ari, something even worse than Ari wearing his face. And it would be Abby down there instead of Kate, like it should have been the first time around.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

Ducky had to be warned.

A small yet strong hand in the small of her back. Her life seemed to filled with small yet strong women. Abby could see Ziva as a Slayer: dark hair flying, stake whipping out, carving a swathe through a horde right out of Army of Darkness. A David destroying a thousand Goliaths. Now it was alright, it was fine. Ziva was here. Ziva was one of the team. Ziva had learned the Gibbs Rule #0: Always have your partner's back. Someone had her six. Abby could do this.

( Tripping to Patmos... )

"Happy birthday, Tim!" Abby said, rushing into the bullpen with gift boxes in her arms.

"Thanks. But it's, uh, not for a few months." McGee blinked when he opened the box. "A cross? Perfume?"

"Never too late to accept Jesus in your heart." Abby hung the gaudy wooden crucifix around his neck.

"Gah!" McGee flinched when she doused him with several puffs. "Garlic! Much too much garlic!"

( Rule #9: Always have a stake... )

Church had always been there for Abby. Not "the" Church, perhaps. Her love to Catholicism was never blind to its faults. For example, she had no problem attending Mass without confessing her time with Mr. Giles. What God would call that a sin? Yet since the first Sunday her parents had taken her to Immaculate Conception, church had always brought comfort and grace. Someone nasty might say that it was because Abby would respond to any cheerful music and bright lights. No denying it: the hymns, the richness of the priestly robes, the taste of host and wine all drew her in. She had tried a few other paths to the divine, from Quaker meetings to vision quest. Even Zen meditation, in which she found that the void within herself chanted "redrum". None of them had the power of joining with the congregation to sing the Kyrie and Gloria.

Except now. Abby struggled to lose herself in the rites. On either side of her, the nuns in their black habits and white veils knelt while praying the Acclamation. Having sisters as your bowling team certainly had benefits when getting the better seats in the house; their pew was fairly close to the altar of the Cathedral of St. Matthews. Abby said the words. They just didn't mean anything. Images distracted her. A stake kept handy in the morgue, an invitation inside that wasn't, patrols in graveyards, a town where barbecue fork accidents were a common cause of death. All clues to a mystery that shouldn't be. Because in the real world vampires were symbols of the unclean or repressed Victorian sexuality, and magic was a transformative psychological process through intense ritual, and cemeteries were creepy rather than dangerous. As intellectually fun as suspicious neck wounds might be, finding out they were taser burns was really a relief.

Demons did not exist. Evil was human evil.

Vampires shouldn't.

( Revelations... )

A Suicide Commando track blared out of Abby's cellphone while she bounced around the kitchen. All the impressionable children seemed either to be out on those volunteer community patrols or sound asleep. So, the token concession of modesty of one of Mr. Giles' oxford shirts and a pair of panties served as evening wear. She had left her hair down after he had loosened the bun while teasing for her what seemed like hours and hours and wow had it been worth it at the end. Flipping open the waffle iron, she tossed yet another mass of carbohydrate-rich goodness onto her plate. Two fourteen ounce cans of Reddi-Wip wielded Hong Kong action hero style sprayed a layer of cream of a thickness usually seen on Antarctic ice sheets. Garnish with chocolate chips. A great way to start the day.

Her phone beeped out the tone of an incoming text.

G GOOD? F

( Afterglow... )

"Funniest thing I ever saw," Rona said, chasing pieces of General Tao's around her plate. "She comes up out of the water like she's a drowned rat, with only that bikini on, and Mr. Giles is staring at her like she's Venus rising out of an oyster shell."

"It comes from when I was in burlesque," Abby explained, eating dinner with the others in the front parlour, "We used to do this Romero Cabaret on the stage at my uncle's bar. I was Zombie Lilli St. Cyr. Quick costume changes and wardrobe malfunctions happened all the time."

"I swear, afterwards, the man walked into a tree." Capturing a nugget, she flicked it at Vi. "Yo, catch!"

"Um!" Vi snapped the flying chicken out of mid air. She held the still-damp bikini top against her. "Do you think this would work for me?"

"Works on Abby 'cause she's stacked." Rona clicked her chopsticks. "Me, I've got back. You? Skinny white girl with no ass."

"It's true. I've got no back," Vi said despondently. "I'm backless!"

( Extreme measures... )

Funny how you could live for years in a city without seeing some parts of it. Abby had heard of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. It ran right along the DC side of the Potomac. It was pretty popular among the jogging crowd, which infested the District like fleas on her old dog. Abby's own physical fitness program usually involved wild dancing and the occasional weight lifting of construction materials at Habitat for Humanity projects. The attraction of huffing and puffing along a sidewalk escaped her. So the canal was one of those places you knew was there, but didn't spare much thought.

What had she missed. Abby followed Mr. Giles' in his expensive folding kayak in the cheap plastic one rented from a boat center in Georgetown. It hadn't taken her long to learn the basics of kayak paddling. A lot of flailing in tangents to go straight. Pretty much her approach to life. Also, there had been lots of long-ago weekend trips with Uncle Charlie in his pirogue to check his trap-lines. Fog over the bayou, the rhythmic thunk of punting pole or paddle propelling the shallow canoe between the moss-draped trees. Here, there was a lot more life. Trees cast welcome shade from the early-summer southern heat. Canoes, other kayaks, and the odd paddle boat navigated the calm waters of the canal. Cyclists and joggers passed by on the old towpath running beside the canal. Including Rona, pacing them on a bicycle carrying a hamper for lunch. Mr. Giles lead the way.

A Mr. Giles stripped down to swimming trunks and a light T-shirt. The muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching with each paddle stroke. Not the chiseled look you saw on Marines or the pumped appearance of body builders. The fitness of a mature man who kept himself in shape. Obviously hitting teenage girls with wooden swords did a body good.

Very, very good.

( Messing about with boats... )

The Order-Militant of Saint Joan Invicta

"From time immemorial, there has been one girl born in each generation gifted by the Almighty with an angel's strength to fight vampires, demons, and other minions of the Adversary.   The Hammer which falls upon the dark ones who presume to prey upon good Christians.  She is the Malleus Nefandum."

abstracted from circa 1500 Ordo Percontari Malleficarum treatise on Slayers

( Deus Volt! )

Shoggothoi is one of the underground sensations on the heavy metal circuit. More grotesque than GWAR, singing lyrics more doom-laden than the darkest Scandinavian black-metal band, and with a stage show that regularly injures people in the front row, they are considered by true fans of the genre as "****ing METAL!" Fans marvel at the realism of their make up.

It's not make-up.( FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK... )

     Abby figured that, in the event of her death, already owning a coffin counted as an advantage. Close the lid, and her friends could just slide her into the grave.  Not before the Jim Henson-style funeral service, of course.   With the eulogies delivered through Bert and a jazz band leading the procession to the graveyard.  She had even worked out a combination last-exit-and-embalming machine in case the end game was especially painful.  Something along the lines of The Abominable Doctor Phibes.   The Kidwell case had provided her with real world--if disturbing--data. Also Ducky had taught her all about trochars, which were amazingly cool. She'd started her own small collection of the things. But it was an academic thing, since Abby intended anything terminal to be as drawn out as possible.  As many parties along the way as she could manage.  Actual suicide?  Big sin, no temptation.

   Waking up in said coffin with a pounding caffeine-overdose headache and memories of making a complete ass of yourself came close to tempting her.  Still, life was precious to Abby. Killing yourself off was the easy way out, anyway.  Thus, her ending up on Mr. Giles' doorstep the next day bearing two gift-wrapped bottles.

   ( Gone Saturday visitin' )

Abby had unleashed her inner Israeli cab driver. The black scooter--an Indian-made copy of a manual-shifting Vespa, accented with cheerful skull stickers--slalomed through the late rush hour District traffic, blue smoke belching from its exhaust. After years of dealing with Christine's flat feet, Abby had finally benched her hearse except for band gigs or Halloween trips to the graveyard. The live video game of getting to work on two wheels had been enough stimulant to make her choose Puggsley as her chosen mount. Not to mention that, unlike a Harley Fat Boy, getting run over by it would hurt a lot less.

There was a certain amount of tunnel vision happening in her helmet visor. How many Caf-Pows had she had in the past two days? Eight had caused clinical psychosis in howler monkeys during the LD50 trials, but really she felt fine. Maybe she should invest in a beer hat for maximum efficiency. With holes for her pigtails. Or a Camelbak! She had needed the caffeine boost. All of a sudden the ballistics matches from the depot shoot out hadn't quite matched up, and Gibbs had been all "grab your gear" which metaphorically included her as well, and it had been wall to wall chaos until they finally caught the Marine sergeant who had been collaborating with the right-wing militia. So very very busy.

So very very frustrated, because she needed to punch Mr. Giles very very hard in the shoulder right now.

( Vengeance! And coffee... )

"As Tony would say," Abby said, bent over the autopsy table, "thanks for watching my six."

"When a woman offers to drop her trousers," Dr. "Ducky" Mallard said, gloved hands probing her hindquarters, "I find it the height of disrespect to say no. I assure you that my interest is completely professional."

"As doctor or pervert?" Abby glanced back.

( The doctor is in... )