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Chapter four : Liptons First steps after being released from the mental…
Chapter four : Liptons First steps after being released from the mental hospital
Freedom yes. But not a coin in his pocket. Lipton wasn't even sure who survived following the team's destruction of Rupert Bunsens attempt to leave the planet with the world's elite who had wrung out Gaia's beauty for personal gain. The thought of the moment they'd cracked the packed vehicles supposedly impregnable glass sides and the oceans pressure bursting through to drown the evil fuckers gave Lipton a proud smile. The sun bathed his face and all felt well with the world. Which of his crew had made it he had no clue. Knocked unconscious till the crew of a fishing boat dragged him aboard. Consciousness had returned in a bruised, dream like series of waves. He could see wreckage and the bodies of the dead once wealthy floating here and there. Fractured components of the craft struggled in the choppy sea, odd figures. Disheveled he saw them calling out for help but he couldn't tell who they were. All aboard the vessel he'd stolen from Porlock Weir had known that some, maybe all might not return. The Druid lads from Clun, the witches, Skree or Peter? Were they among those who survived? Jesus would undoubtedly have made it but his body could easily have been smashed and the debauched son of god could be anywhere reanimating. His next mission was to find out who lived. What exactly had happened. And this required he be the shaman he and Skree had both inadvertently become through their excessive use of psychedelics during their teens and early twenties. The human brain is not fully developed until it reaches roughly 25. Skree and Lipton had augmented the physical substance of their brains through firstly their discovery of magic mushrooms. The sacrament peculiar to and abundant in the British islands. Virtually invisible to most as they choose who they deem worthy of their use. Some seasons even the two shamans had failed to find many. But in the early years, from age 13 to 14 both spent mushroom season with wet knees and exploring dimensions most common men would never encounter. For sure, there were a few who tried them out and found the experience way too much. Some were even casualties, damaged for life; periodically sectioned by mental health professionals. But Lipton and Skree would both spend the autumn in deep engagement with the earth and it's gift that through history has held a knowledge for the few that each year were prepared to face the fears, stare clear and open eyed at the mirror to their souls. Nursery rhymes and fairy tales made sense. The patterns found on rare, pre Christian stone work. The standing stones that are still around. Many in the Orkneys, many in Yorkshire, Somerset and most counties have stone circles, groundwork's or other evidence that are understood to the open of mind under the influence of psylocibin. These islands are blessed with an abundance of the liberty cap and throughout history small numbers have been called to them and this gnosis has something that can be imagined as a beanstalk that stretches back through time. This Druidic knowledge stretches back to when man first arrived. Small branches of divergence have led off in exploration as small communities took journeys through the use of the sacrament. But its central core of knowledge, understanding and power has always been there. Mushrooms grow where people go and are only abundant where we tread. The liberty cap is the true sacrament of these islands. As foods that grow locally are nutritionally accurate for human survival in that place. Global trade has seen foods from all over the world available yet the correct diet is what we evolved alongside. Indeed we are part of the same thing. And the same applies to appropriate psychedelics.
However at around 16 years of age, when Skree and Lipton began to find themselves out of the family home and consequently finding their own money they both moved on to LSD. Unlike their peers who mostly fell to the side; scared of what these powerful compounds revealed. Few of us really want to know ourselves and would rather play out the acted character we create for our interactions with others. Unlike their peers they began to spend more time on what is commonly known as 'set and setting'. Preparing their minds over a period of days, eating the right diet, exercising to get their bodily systems ready. And to find the setting. A place and time were none of the grey and dull, the black and dark could intrude on the experience. Ensuring that they were in a place where they could completely let go of the side rails. So many trips are ruined by desperately resisting. RThe real journeys occur only when one throws themselves in, letting go of all security ties.
Further compounds were introduced. Advances in development of Albert Hoffmans gift to the world. Al lad, eth lad, pro lad, LSZ. Not to mention DMT, 5meoDMT, Ketamine and a whole plethora of new substances that became available during the period prior to 2015s ban on what had become a Wild West. A large part of the research chemicals were just weird. But amongst the crap there were diamonds.
Ultimately after a point the pair had rendered themselves shamans. But neither was of the kind to be a village doctor. Far from it. Their duty was to try cure humanity of a growing darkness that in all likelihood will see the destruction of the species. Lipton and Skree after meeting various entities, creatures, demons, angels and other forces whilst exploring different dimensions became appointed to fight the grey wherever they found it.
For many years shouldering this responsibility was too much. The sheer evil of what they had seen seemed beyond the scope of any man, shaman or not. They found themselves subject to heavy addiction to alcohol and drugs to desperately shut off what they had seen. Homeless at times both lived dangerously, taking anything to hide from their fear. They were regularly pestered and harassed by mental health professionals who were simply unaware of what inhabited different dimensions, some just a fine membrane away from bursting through. But ultimately they stepped up and shouldered their responsibilities. After all it was themselves who had got themselves here.
Lipton knew he must now find Skree, alive or dead. And this would take sacramental use of the right psychedelic. He set off walking, not looking back at the mental hospital he had been released from. The sun felt warm on his face and smiling he walked on toward this star that gave the planet life.
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Chapter 3: mi5. 21century Witchfinders. The Royal Family. High rank…
Chapter 3: mi5. 21century Witchfinders. The Royal Family. High rank Police and the Hammer.
How many people a year die in police custody every year. It is easy to keep a person alive while they are in your care. Get them a drink, some food, a toilet, a sink and somewhere to sleep. Yet somehow 2000 people on average, a year die whilst in police custody. But perhaps we should not place all the blame on the men and women who have to do the dirty work. And why are certain individuals deemed so dangerous to the status quo that they must be eliminated. The last official Witchfynders were given their registration under king James and these were few. Times were changing and the enlightenment had seen reason and the scientific method find societal consensus begin to look upon Witchfynders as superstitious. The last witch to be officially burned to death was Janet Horne. Her daughter had misshapen feet used for riding towards the devil with. She bravely escaped but her mother was not so fortunate. The upstanding Christian townsfolk smeared her in tar, paraded her through the town on a barrel before burning her alive.
As times changed witchfynding as a practice grew more secretive and though Witchfynders found themselves becoming less overt their number never truly disappeared. Dwindled, yes and those remaining synthesised to a secretive body known of only by those who held the real power. Royalty knew. As did the spooks who today are known as MI5 and 6. The establishment has retained some two dozen Witchfynders led by the Witchfynder general. It's true there were no more public mass executions like those carried out by Edward Hopkins who hanged 19 witches in one session. Instead this secretive department of the state continued its business in disappearings where suspected witches simply disappeared. A recent case found a dog and a mobile phone on a bench by a small shallow river. Despite the river being searched in great detail no body was found. Two weeks later, in a spot numerous people had gone by a body was finally discovered. Little information came out on its condition nor any explanation as to why it had not been spotted by police or members of the public who had initiated mass searches. More simply the number of people who die in mysterious circumstances whilst in police custody rarely causes media outrage.
Science has moved on since the days of Edward Hopkins when a wider public awareness of witchcraft was about. Culture began to embrace a more scientific and logical understanding of humanity. The unexplained was soon assumed to be subject to natural law and ultimately all could be thought to one day submit to human understanding. Yet consciousness, the one singular thing we know to exist continues to baffle the neuroscientists whose scanners and tests have delivered virtually nothing as to how matter can think and feel. Despite this complete absence of any clue as to the essence of being a belief still remains, through our hubris, that one day we will crack the hard problem of consciousness.
Who really runs the country. Governments come and go like football players and managers but the clubs continue. The government are analogous to our politicians who rise in popularity and fall just so easily as the players and coaches the fans love and hate. But they could all be swept away and the country would continue to run. MI5, MI6, our national and international intelligence agencies. GCHQ in Cheltenham scanning all communications to protect the country. Most people are happy these are there to protect us from terrorists and to give them their credit they have been brilliantly successful in nipping terrorist activities in the bud. Also an aristocracy of land owners that finds its summit in the royal family has been in control since 1066. The fallings out and inter family politics has continued for close to a millennium but has remained largely private and unseen by the lower orders bar the odd passing scandal such as when the misguided matching of the future king to an outspoken girl. Divorce and a tv interview that opened up far too much to a changing public may have been allowed to take place. Martin Bashiers interview with Dianne Spencer opened the eyes of the public to a secretive world but her subsequent relationship with a non Christian from beyond the tight circle left little option for the royal family. Her execution was messy but perhaps appropriate for someone who spent much of her time courting and rejecting the press in equal measure. Her suspicions car crash in a tunnel in France whilst being followed by paparazzi and the failure to get her to a hospital for two hours left her dead and no longer a problem to the family with a long history of beheading any provocateurs who sought to reveal secrets to the greater public.
Moving on Charles married his childhood sweetheart and found happiness. His enthusiastic support of environmental causes gave him popularity in contemporary culture. His talking to plants, his writing curiosity in the supernatural was slowly played down as his mother aged. Following his coronation , unknown to the public, among his earliest moves was to gather together the country's few remaining Witchfynders. Rupert Bunsen had been a close friend as had a number of those who perished in the destruction of his spaceship that was called by Bunsen the Noah project. Indeed he had one of the highly sought after tickets and but for the timing of his mother's death and his ascension to the throne he would have been amongst those bodies that littered the sea following the destruction of Noah. News had soon spread that only witchcraft could have prevented Bunsens dream. Witchcraft was afoot once again. King Charles was soon in contact with MI5 and the Witchfynders were summoned.
Henry Bennett worked most of the time in finance. His frame, however was not what most would imagine an office worker to have. A keen runner and a daily user of the gym before work kept him strong. At six foot five he towered above the MI5 people who had called again for his services. Few knew that he was the Witchfynder General, the title Edward Hopkins had created all those years ago. Rather like Albert Pierrepoint, the chief and most skilled hangman who worked prior to the abolition of hanging in 1964. Pierrepoints father and uncle had done the same work before him though he fine tuned the long drop technique they had developed. Looking at the size and physical condition of the man or woman to be executed he knew the precise length of rope that would snap a person's neck and cause instant death. Prior to this there had been people survive the drop if the rope was too short and the condemned too strong. Others were decapitated if the rope too long. Following Pierrepoints executions the bodies were left to hang for an hour before being taken down, cleaned and prepared for burial. Working in a number of jobs before becoming the landlord of a pub he would be called when needed, travel to the prison the night before, peep through the cell hatch to assess the length of rope needed for the job. The following morning he would carry out his work treating the condemned with respect and have them taken from the cell to the platform, stand them on the hatch, tie their arms to their sides with a leather belt, hood them and pull the leaver in a matter of seconds. It is estimated he hanged between 420 and 600 people in his career including 200 nazi war criminals. Numerous miscarriages of justice took place and it was this that ultimately led campaigners in succeeding to have the death penalty repealed. However the practice continues to take place in certain less advanced in thinking countries like Saudi Arabia and North America. By Though keeping his work secret from most he felt compelled to write an autobiography following a series of misconceptions about his work in the press.
In 1974 he wrote that the death penalty had been a folly. He said that there had been murders from the beginning of time and no penalty had ever been able to stop heinous crimes. Henry Bennett was similar in that he kept his work secret from friends and family however he was deeply enthusiastic in his work. The testing of witches was a science to him. Stripping the accused naked to find the nipple from where the witch suckled their demonic familiar using metal tools handed down from Witchfynder to Witchfynder from Hopkins day till now. Probing the suspect until his skilled eye had located the evidence of witch hood. The dunking chair of old had been modernised to a tank but the principal was the same. And the burning was now largely carried out in furnaces which were heated slowly so the witch was able to renounce their commitment to Satan before they died.
Superstitious thinking hadn't changed. No understanding of witches had ever developed. Witches existed but these ideas of alliance with the devil and nipples for feeding familiars was ignorant idiocy. A Christian perception imbedded in establishment thinking. Nevertheless, unbeknownst to the public witches were still being executed by Witchfynders and often for no reason and frequently in more torturous ways. This evil and secret department of the state has been part of the establishment and the country's rulers for centuries. For a normal person to grasp the reason is all but impossible but it lies in a patriarchal society that has always been suspicious and afraid of the female. Indeed men had built the world we live in; its roads and buildings, provided shelter and protection. But wars are the work of men. Violent crime is the preserve of men bar the rare oddity. The terrible violence against women evident in the extreme cases like Peter Sutcliffe but common in the domestic environment throughout the country. Rape within marriage was until recently legal and still less than 1% of reported rapes lead to a conviction The protesters who came out following the murder of Sarah Everard by the police man Wayne Couzens were treated brutally by the police though some were disgusted by his crime. We can only hope that the jailhouse justice of righteous inmates in prison will ultimately find this evil individual.
The prime minister and a few close advisers stood fearful and crestfallen. A couple had been deemed worthy by the now dead Rupert Bunsen and had seats on Noah. The PM had hoped for a last minute cancellation but hadn't been party to the details of when the take off was to take place. Two high ranking MI5 officials stood slightly apart but all were silent and scoobied as to what to do now the mission had been destroyed by a ragged bunch of mysterious individuals who had gathered together. Two shamans had been found to be the ringleaders but druids and witches the establishment had no prior knowledge of were involved too. Each of these….these terrorists? No. Subversives yes. Murderers all, must be eliminated and 'interrogated' before their death.
Without a knock the door opened and a figure that seemed to fill its frame entered. The Witchfynder general.
"I'm guessing that this summons is serious enough to drag me away from my work"
The PM felt that it was up to him to speak to the imposing figure. "Indeed it is. Were you aware of the Noah project."
"I'd heard talk and rumours. A crazy project to my mind but a tragedy that so many of the wealthy and world leaders should die from the miscalculations of its engineers."
PM "Well no! It was not in fact technical problems that caused its destruction. In truth it attacked and sabotaged by some strange people, people who had not known each other a few weeks before the disaster. It is beyond my field of understanding but our intelligence sources have suggested that they were druids, shamans and witches."
At this Bennett an inner rage saw his face redden, his shoulders enliven his posture and a piercing stare focused first on the prime minister before scanning each person there to measure their manner. "If this is true it is the most serious gathering of those who stand against god and our saviour Jesus Christ that has happened in a century. Me and my men have killed some but these worshippers of trees and the devil himself are thought to be pretty much driven to the tips of the island and incapable of causing any real harm."
PM "I'm afraid we don't have much to go on. They stole a boat from Porlock Weir. We know they had some lunatic who claimed to be Jesus Christ among their number. The rest is just snippets retrieved from mobile phones gathered by the few who filmed the disaster. One is quite clear. There are voices that say "come on Lipton and Skree" as they rescue the two men in the water. We have no other names. There's some rambling nonsense about Jesse Presley, the dead twin of Elvis Presley who was buried shortly after his birth. I'm sure you are familiar with the old wives tales of demon conger eel hybrid creatures created by witches centuries ago . Well some parts were found and captured that were severed by the broken glass. It appears the old wives were right. We've been able to put these broken parts, heads and tails that are still moving. In fact since we moved them in protective tanks away from the disaster area and into our laboratories they have grown stronger and our scientists are growing scared."
Bennett "I have already seen these abominations and they must be destroyed swiftly. It's madness to think your scientists are able to cope with even fragments of demon."
pM "Of course general"
Bennett's demeanour had completely dominated the room. Those who spoke did so apologetically and called him sir.
Bennett "I have been aware of Skree and Lipton for some time but have never been able to completely work out if they are in league with satan or not. We have kept a watch but both have seemed to be on the poverty line, both have been sectioned at times under thee mental health act, this led me to think they were no threat."
PM "Well from what little we know they were the architects of this act of terrorism and whether they are mystics or satanist matters not. Kill them. There were some women, undoubtedly witches seen by the sole survivor. What she describes is beyond natural law. There were a few others too. These were casualties of their own hideous actions. We have the bodies but as yet we don't know who they are."
Bennett "I will take over now. My team of Witchfynders will track down and burn them alive for God and his glory. I will need everything you have. I must begin my work now."
PM "indeed sir. Anything at all you need just ask and it's yours. And purely out of interest could you forward me film of their executions. It's important I see the evil destroyed in the name of our good lord. Thank you."
With this the Witchfynder general turned and left. A lunatic who believes he is Christ! The deluded fool, he thought. When Christ returns he will be known across Christendom not hiding away, colluding with devil worshippers. And that Skree and his mate Lipton. Both homeless drug addicts most of the time with mental illnesses. How on earth could they have conducted an act of terror on a par with 9:11? For a fleeting second his mind made a link, 'didn't Christ hang out with the homeless'? But the thought was soon gone. His church was always full and attended by drivers of expensive modern cars. The homeless only had themselves to blame. And the female witches. He had always taken the greatest pleasure in stripping them and closely studying their bodies to find the teet the demons suckled from. And his manhood never failed to rise and point to the lord above as they burned. Indeed he had often stroked his shaft through the fold in his cassock, cradling his testicles, slowly opening the fold to show the witch how it pointed to heaven and as his self caress reached the holy level his seed would explode skyward and fall before the flames. And this time the Hammer would crush the so called shaman.
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Chapter 2
Chapter 2
The introduction to Father Henry Bennett. Witchfynder general and his journey to Porton Down during which he picks up a hitchhiker and picks up a junior Witchfynder
Porton Down
Father Bennett combed a small, chewy lump of porridge free from his beard with his long yet carefully manicured nails before taking his eye off the road to look in the rear view mirror, checking his facial hair for any further particles of his hastily consumed breakfast that may have strayed to mar his formal appearance. He'd risen, as was his habit, at 4:30 sharp and following his ablutions, oats and prayer, left his modest detached house on the outskirts of Launceston early to avoid the traffic. The black jaguar he drove was as pristine as he liked his appearance to be and the white dusty remnants of the clot he freed irked him somewhat speckling the cars upholstered floor two inches from the mat beneath the pedals. He carried a cordless vacuum in his trunk and made a mental note to extract the offending oat dust when he next stopped.
The recent weather had been miserably wet so today's cloudless sky found him feeling buoyant and holy. He had to suppress a smile as the first rays of morning sun gently lanced through his windscreen by plucking a half dozen pubic hairs from his groin area. Life in the service of his god required a constant humility and whilst marvelling at his creation in all its glories was commendable a mumbled prayer was the appropriate response not an indulgent smile. Cutting away his trouser pockets allowed his hands the freedom to make such discreet depilatory inflictions of minor pain to return the mind away from such trivial pleasures as the enjoyment of a sunrise and back to his mission of freeing the world of satanic and demonic eruptions. He'd learned the trick from a highly respected priest he'd studied his craft under. Witchfynding was a specialist branch of the church and its chosen crusaders. Selection for boys with an aptitude for the vigilant requirements it took to see the devil in a man or woman whose misfortune it was to harbour demonic tendencies took place at a young age. His years under father Erasmus were proud and fond memories for Bennett. The day he was woken from his bed, no older than five to begin his induction into the select order by the priest saw his life begin a journey he now relished. Indeed those early years were spent in rectal agony and confusion yet once ordained as a junior Witchfynder and now old enough and able to select out boys for his Fathers pleasure rendered his years of pious suffering worthwhile. The open pocket trick inevitably could find the devil take his hand for earthly pleasure but large bald islands in his sea of pubic bristle were evidence of a holy adherence to his sanctity.
The drive to Porton Down and his appointment to meet the government biologists would take a couple of hours. He was once more on a mission from god. This was a chance to study live demons, or certainly parts there of, first hand. He'd cast out many in his career but mostly they were gone once his work was successfully completed. Sometimes mucus or slimy ectoplasm was left behind on his hands and the bodies of those he'd saved. Yet physically accessible specimens were extremely rare. Demonic possession was not entirely a fate suffered by humans though animal examples were extremely rare. But not two years had passed since he'd recognised the mark of the dark lord in his next door neighbours rabbit. It's extraction was a prolonged affair taking several days in his basement though the hours of work were interspersed with time he spent recuperating in his living room. Natalie next door was quite baffled and kept calling out for 'Snuffles' late into the summer evenings before the poor child was taken to bed by her parents. He'd recently begun to notice her small breasts develop and had prayed on many a night that the demon had not jumped ship, as they were prone to do. Exorcising her might well cause more alarm than a missing herbivore.
His small band of Witchfynders were well tutored in the historic occurrences of the particular demon flesh hybrids that had been summoned to destroy Noah, the spacecraft created by the billionaire entrepreneur Rupert Bunsen. But not a single one had been seen in his time nor decades before. If what the prime minister and his small cabal of advisers and senior ministers were saying was true, some of the body parts thrown out of the sea onto police and customs watercraft that had raced to the oddball billionaires attempted rescue had been collected and taken in great secrecy to the Porton Down laboratories. Such was the size of the explosion that had ripped open the spaceship's bulk and the pummelling density of the shoal of conger eel demon hybrids that hungrily entered the opening to greedily eat its occupants that eel and human chunks had littered the surrounding waters. Some were collected for burial and cremation by the families of the unfortunate passengers and others selected for Porton Downs scientists to study. But science alone was not enough to learn from these body parts. It would take experts of another kind. The excitement in the thought of seeing with his own eyes these ungodly creatures remains found his jaguar breaking past the speed limit. Any police officer, once radioing to his superiors, would undoubtedly defer to authority and let him on his way though the inconvenience and the time lost if pulled over was to be avoided. He was to pick up a lower ranked Witchfynder at the Mac Donald's in the services near Yeovil. Brother Tobin could be an irritant with his jovial demeanour, frequent use of social media and undignified shoulder length hair though he was studious and diligent in his Witchfynding. He would need support if this group of Shamans and Witches were to be exorcised and destroyed. And Yeovil was still an hour or more away.
As the jaguar made its steady path down the a303, an A road? Yes, but a road that carried more traffic than some motorways. Bennett allowed himself a brief smile as he thought of the roadworks that would destroy all buried vestiges of paganism around Stonehenge. Back in the 1980s as a child he recalled how the new age pagans that emerged, taking to the road in raggle taggle vans seeking a life outside the mainstream. Most embracing new age beliefs of a strange and no doubt satanic nature. They were long ago crushed by the more conventional soldiers of the establishment bar small pockets that held on. It was said by the government officials that he had spoken to that the shamans and witches he was commissioned to track down and destroy found sanctuary on such sites. Of particular offence was the individual who claimed to be Christ, and the few who he now hunted believed him to be just that. The two ringleaders that were his closest confidants, self appointed shamans Skree and Lipton completed the three central targets of Bennett's holy mission. It was understood that these three had commissioned the Witches to summon these demons from the deep. P
Just as he was beginning to grow bored and fearful of distraction at the thought of the mundane journey ahead he saw a poor child, a girl of some 19 years at his estimate, stood hitchhiking at the road side maybe 200 yards ahead. Surely she must be aware of the dangers of dodgy men. Those who had never stepped within a church. Still at an age where influence and experience could colour the person she would become. Ironically she wore the fashion of the very soiled urchins that formed the New Age traveller movement that had caused the pagan problematic situation in the early 80s at Stonehenge. Her vulnerability drew him to pull over lest she fall foul of a vehicle of hippies that might steer her life away from the good lords path. As he came to a stop by the girl he saw beneath her embroidered jacket a cheesecloth blouse and beneath that the two proud buttons of her nipples the morning chill had given life to. Perhaps the sign she was already falling in to the hands of the devil. He nevertheless gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps all her braziers were in the wash and the clear visibility of her proud breasts an innocent oversight. Left hand on the steering wheel, right slipped into trouser pocket where he stroked his already awakened manhood before the pubic pluck he had learned from his teacher.
Rebecca Littler had had her fill of her parents hypocrisy. Normally she could stomach it and she had agreed to complete her schooling in Cornwall despite her growing realisation of how cut off the county was from the rest of the country. The group of friends she'd had since infant school took trips into Plymouth where they would go out clubbing and meet boys now they were of an age where all were able to pass themselves off as university students in their early twenties. But the poverty of public transport meant they'd invariably have to make a bond somewhere in the evening with acquaintances so as to have somewhere to crash. Julie and Helen were great friends. They'd shared hopes and dreams as they'd grown. Both were from families in her village, Tregaron and as cousins had an intuitive telepathy of which Becca, as she now preferred to be called often felt excluded from. But somehow even these excursions into the city that spanned Cornwall and Devon had grown predictable and tiresome. Last October whilst exuberant on mdma and Smirnoff ice as the club they had all flirted their way past the doorman to gain entrance to drew close to closing time she'd caught the eye of a handsome yet shy graphic design student called Nige. Emboldened by the drug and feeling horny as fuck she decided to blow his tiny mind by shimmying through the crowd in his direction and placed her arms on his shoulders and without introduction kissed him deeply on the lips. Even with the stroboscopic lights she could see him blush. She could tell that this was the night of his dreams. After a brief druggy introduction they'd shared a
highly edited resume of their lives up till now.
He'd pulled. After informing Helen and Julie and an even briefer introduction where they telepathically shared their judgment that he was a safe option she'd gone back to his student digs for a night of dull and unmemorable sex. The preparatory snogging session lasted longer. In the dimmed lights she'd removed her top revealing her bra that contained what she considered her best features. Her bra had been digging into her underarm all evening and for that reason alone she wanted to free them. Nigel lay back on his bed, this being unarguably the greatest moment his life. Ensuring light rays from his bedside lamp were angled providing a spotlight she unclipped the centre clasp, arched her back and thrust her chest forth . Nigel looked like a deer in the headlights as the pride she'd never before revealed to a boy stood forth. His trouser front looked troubled as she leant towards him his hands gratefully stroking and feeling her boobs. His cock fell much larger than she'd imagined a boys to be beneath his trouser front as she stroked, feeling its shape beneath the fabric. Unbuttoning him and pulling down his boxer shorts through curiosity she saw his engorged member spring out. She carefully stroked it twice and to her surprise he came, covering her arm, shoulder and left breast. Trying to suppress her feelings of disappointment and disgust she asked for directions to his bathroom. Soon they both slept for an hour until the drugs in her system dragged her reluctantly awake while Nige snored on. She spent the night staring at the ceiling waiting for the first bus back. At the bus stop her two friends huddled in the rain. They'd managed to latch on to a student party nearby where they had more mdma and were given their first lines of cocaine by a long haired man who looked twice the age of the others there. They'd made the most of it, dancing for much of the night and giggling wondering how Becca was getting on. She felt too ashamed to disappoint them so gave a dreadfully embellished version of her night.
Unfortunately this destroyed her party nights out in Plymouth as Becca tried to steer Helen and Julie away from anywhere they were likely to encounter Nige yet disastrously he invariably seemed to appear as though he'd tagged her with a police tracer. Unable to admit her fibbery to her friends she continued her unsatisfactory relationship with him.
But now she would make a break from him as well. She'd left her phone for her parents to find who could be relied on to follow up their intrusive emotional sacrilege in finding a justification to read her messages whenever they could. Well they could call Nigel all they wanted. They could have each other. In fact she felt sure they'd get on just fine.
Becca held out no sign to say where she was heading as, in all honesty she did not know. For sure she had been warned of the possible dangers of hitchhiking. One night in Plymouth, when neither she nor Nige felt like clubbing, they'd watched a terrible slasher movie where the protagonist found herself in the car of a serial killer and bravely fought through an hour of increasingly unlikely scenarios before having to level a shotgun leant against a door jamb and punched two grapefruit size holes in the killer's chest. But her luck today appeared in as a jaguar driven by a man of god, dressed in their customary black with a neat white collar certifying his credibility.
Despite the new age look of the child Bennett slid his car to the side of the road and following a brief few words Becca sat beside him, safe on his leather upholstery where no crazed rapist could take her.
"Thanks for stopping. Are you a vicar?"
Bennett chuckled and replied, "no child, though I do god's work. There are many ways to serve the lord."
Becca considered her own beliefs for a moment; her crystal altar, her new age spirituality and a personal collection of random ideas she had learned from books she had bought in Plymouth on a plethora of idols.
"Are you a woman of faith?" He asked though to a man of his age she was far from womanhood.
"I have my own beliefs on higher powers that help us all, I'm not religious but very spiritual."
Bennett considered this admission that she conversed with none Christian beings angered him and his face flushed as his right hand irreconcilable took a large clump of pubic hair to soothe his growing rage. Attention having drifted from his driving caused the jaguar to drift also. Each cats eye his tyres ran across caused a quiver in her fine breasts. The loose waist coat had been pushed aside by her magnificent attributes and he could not draw his eye away from the sight of her nipples jiggling to the rhythm. Satan had intervened and drawn his hand to hold the steering wheel steady to witness the unholy brazen temptation of her bosom of quiver of which Becca was quite unaware. Correcting his line back in to the lane was the act of the lord returning his mind to his usual Christian condition.
'Oh lord, please I pray provide me the strength to conquer Satans temptations.'
"I'm sorry? Did you say something?"
"Just a brief prayer for our safe journey."
Becca smiled back. She thought she had caught his gaze focused on her chest. Surely not she thought, not from a man of god.
He may never have noticed the tattoo at all had she buttoned her white cotton blouse fully up to her neck. She may even have fooled him into thinking she was an innocent child as those less trained, those not blessed with a radar for evil. The thought of how the devil and his helpers were so able to hide in plain sight enraged him. Thinking of Father Erasmus he slipped his right hand discreetly into his pocket and grabbed a large clump of pubic hair. Then glancing once more over to his passenger and the quivering temptation of her flesh he became aware that his holy sword was pointed to the heavens. For sure his calling was riddled with a thousand sacrifices that one must make. Yet the righteous zeal he looked forward to exploring in the creative manner he would punish this whore of Satan provided him great comfort. Witchfynder General Bennett sent a brief text to brother Tobin to let him know that he was running a little late and instructing him to wait, perhaps buy a breakfast on expenses.
The body of Rebecca Littler lay undiscovered for many months despite innumerable motorists pulling into the lay-by only yards from where she lay. Animals; foxes and rats had scattered her parts much of which was never found. Not until late the following winter when a urinating lorry driver took an interest in the white dome he had jet washed. It had been assumed Becca had run away. Taken agency and left behind the life that failed to satisfy her. But by the time what could be found of her bones were given a proper burial no evidence, dna or otherwise remained to tie Father Bennett to Rebecca Littler.
Brother Tobin took a quick selfie, smiling and thumb up #whenbreakfastis on the company. Quickly posting to his instagram and Facebook accounts before tucking into his double sausage and egg McMuffin. He'd been sternly spoken to about his use of social media and until now there had been very little to cause concern. But the honour had been simply too much to keep to himself. In truth he had very few followers and these were family or people he'd become acquainted with through his work with the church. So when he heard the Witchfynder General himself had called for him he had been unable to keep digital silence. The text from Father Bennett came as a disappointment. Such had been his excitement he'd been well over an hour early and Yeovil services takes few minutes to explore. Hence Brother Tobin had been waiting a full four hours by the time he saw Father Bennett's black jaguar pull into the carpark. Bennett was something of a legend to those who had studied alongside Tobin. Such were the secrets of the craft that beyond a certain point of learning there really was no turning back. So potentially dangerous was the knowledge deemed to be that any one that found this branch of the church was not for them essentially had to be silenced. There was talk of reposting at far flung monasteries. Whatever the truth none were ever heard of nor mentioned again.
Once sat next to Father Bennett brother Tobin took on a courteous servile manner. The Witchfynder General gave a brief speech on the extreme secrecy of what they were doing. He warned the younger Witchfynder that they would see things today no man or woman should ever have to see. Tobin respectfully kept his eyes to himself. Despite his superficial obedience the potential social media possibilities delivered to him a rush that most crack heads would envy. As yet his superior had not asked him to hand over his phone, perhaps assuming that any assistant the department assigned the service of would know that carrying such technology on this level of mission was understood to be a strict no no. Tobin blushed and quietly retained his secret. He held a deep respect for Father Bennett. The man was something of a legend to the younger trainee witchfynders. Hard as nails and devout as they come. It was rumoured that he was into three figures in those he had wrought justice upon. Nevertheless, the fear of incurring the wrath of this most fearsome of men failed to overcome his desire, no need, to post to his followers. Usually immaculate father Bennett appeared a little ruffled. Tobin felt an inner smile as a small trace of a spilt breakfast, perhaps porridge and a thick smear of what must be jam marred the lower trouser leg. Bennett caught Tobins stare and immediately plucked three tissues from the dispenser above the gear stick. Swiftly he swiped away the mess on his lower trouser leg, a clump of oats and blood, whilst retracting his side window before throwing the clump away. Thus the last trace of his carelessly consumed breakfast and Rebbeca Littler were gone.
The remainder of the journey passed with no further communication between the two Witchfynders though both quietly gave prayer for strength in the work that lay ahead for them.
Porton Down is arguably the most secretive and controversial government military science facility in the country. Entry is only for those who are required to be there. The black jaguar was waved through the various checkpoints and only on the final gate was Father Bennett required to show his security clearance, even this was something of a formality. The Witchfynder General was known to even the most lowly soldier working at the facility and all showed reverence and respect. He was pointed to a carpark space reserved for him and accompanied to the door that led to his specific area of interest. Here Bennett and Tobin were welcomed by military personnel who in turn put the priests in the hands of a pair of men in white lab coats. They took them down a corridor and into a heavily protected room where the two most senior scientists stood. It was here that the magisterium of the Witchfynders took over from science. An authority essentially from the Vatican and the pope himself however in working practice it was MI5 that solicited the skills of this darkest and most secretive division of the Church. MI5 had information on virtually everyone the state had cause to fear and many more who were of no threat, just deemed a bit too odd.
The large thickened glass tank stood some eight feet tall, eighteen inches above the head of the tallest of men present. Father Bennett crossed his chest, doused the air with a streak of holy water taken from the vial attached to his belt and uttered a prayer in Latin to create a fragile, protective layer between the team and the tank. Stepping forward from the group followed closely by his associates he scanned the ungodly sight before him. Three eel tails the size of his arm coated in a green slime that glowed, luminescent swam vigorously around the tank; unguided by any brain only the demonic evil of some strange dark power. A stench of putrefaction caused the young Witchfynder Tobin to vomit heavily. The scientists called out for the maintenance technician to bring a bucket and mop. But more disturbing was the short thicker length of conger demon slightly thicker than the body parts that darted about the water. Teeth, long needles dripping in the same green gloop that coated the rest each two to three inches in length framed the open mouth that gnashed together. The black dead eyes had clearly taken in the visitors focused on the priests and pulsed a glow. Stirred and enraged by the newcomers the half eel took a swift squiggle line to build up speed before ramming itself with immense power as it tried to reach and kill. Splitting on the glass which held up to the Grace of god. Enraged in its inability to reach its target it span off around the tank. A wave of profound fear overcame the group of men who were unable to resist the temptation to move back. Tumbling over each other as they impulsively retreated, all now vomiting as a dark terror overcame them. Tobin to his credit at least remained in the room, wiping away the sick from his chin took the iPhone from his pocket and faced away to take a quick selfy. The photo his small bunch of followers would see was half of Tobins vomit smeared face looking terrified with the back of father Bennett alone stood in silhouette framed by the blue water of the tank. No demonic conger eels showed up. Demons in general can not be photographed existing in the thin membrane that stands between our shared reality and the mind of their beholder. Bennett, oblivious to the infantile attempts at social media recognition Tobin sought out so desperately stared, mesmerised by the demon parts. No stranger to the forces of darkness he alone was able to study these hellspawn parts. What powers must the witches who had summoned up from the belly of hell this repugnance? It was clear this would be no easy task. Not the simple dismissal from this gods earth that had been his duty on Rebbeca, the hitch hiking whore of a witch he had raped and slaughtered with little regard earlier that day. These witches were in a different league. As he turned and walked away, towards the door as Tobin hid away his phone already his mind was working on the torture it would take to remove them from this life. The Witchfynder General would need all his powers, all his expertise and experience, all his soul to cast out the Witches of Clun who had returned these demons to this realm.
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After the Death of Bunsen
After the Death of Bunsen
Chapter 1: Lipton leaves the 'mental institution' he had been held in for months following the destruction of Noah, Rupert Bunsen and all the other super rich who had bought tickets to leave the planet.
"so mr Lipton, you believe that you are not only a revered Shaman, a friend of witches and Druids but also an Archangel now. It seems that your talents have developed even further than last time you were here."
Lipton muttered a curse under his breath before swiftly retracting. His curses now weren't mere insults. A lazy comment could ruin lives.
"No doctor. I was under a number of illusions when I was sectioned. These hallucinations have now passed and I feel well enough to reintegrate into society."
The psychiatrist peered from behind his half lens glasses, scrutinising his patient, looking for honesty. Patients, particularly smart ones would often learn the right answers and project sincerity whilst still suffering from serious mental illness.
"You were quite insistent when you arrived mr Lipton that you were able to fly,"
His mocking tone irritated the Shaman and it took immense self control for his eyes not to dilate. Lipton had stopped arguing with the staff at the mental hospital weeks ago now.
Smiling in an affectation of humour in his condition on arrival, "Wow! I really was messed up back then. Imagine believing I could fly? The stupidity of it all is embarrassing now sir."
Of course he could fly. All angels, even humble beginners could.
"Indeed. And no more delusions of the financial elite boarding spacecraft."
Lipton summoned up a chuckle he half believed himself, "ridiculous, I know. And wasn't i babbling about sir Rupert Bunsen or something? I must have heard something on the radio about his tragic death. The sea has claimed many lives but few as noble as the great entrepreneur. I, of course, shoulder some blame for my bout of psychosis. Serves me right for experimenting with mind altering drugs. I'll not be doing that again."
Dressed in a white lab coat, as though he were a real scientist, worse still, talking as though his chosen field was as respectable as a surgeons. The incarcerated shaman could see the irony. The study into mental illness in 2023 was in a similar position of other medicine in medieval times. Before the discovery of bacteria the world beyond the reach of the human eye led to superstitions. Modern psychiatry, until an understanding of how meat can think and feel will remain subject to similar superstition. Yet psychiatry and its adherents would continue, oblivious to the comedic irony in claiming the same reverence that other fields of medicine enjoyed. This twisted notion is perhaps most obvious to any shaman than it is to anyone else.
"No doctor. I'm grounded back in reality. All thanks to you and your team too sir for which I shall remain eternally grateful."
Just for a second the psychiatrist wondered if he was being mocked though this second slipped like a drop in to the ocean of seconds that had gone before making up his morning before his self assurance reasserted itself and he returned to his pompous self regard.
"Well I've discussed it with the team and we're mostly in agreement that you are free to leave. I must insist on the importance of continuing with your medication. Any lapse in this could result in a return of your condition. I'll be seeing you on a weekly basis for a while until we're quite sure that you're okay. And remember should any symptoms, however small start to reemerge please call us here at the hospital."
Lipton stood up and smiled. He gave the idiot a firm handshake and looked him confidently in the eye.
"I'll not be back sir. And thanks again for all your support and understanding."
With this Lipton strode away, down six flights of stairs, along a strip light lit white corridor, past an elderly man mumbling about umbrellas, avoided a woman in her twenties crouched urinating choosing not to look at the widening yellow tinged puddle, "goodbye Jenifer," he bid her, took a right turn and found reception. Here the decor shifted to the feel of an infant school, brighter colours and a collage of paper animals made in the art therapy group with upholstered wooden furniture in small clusters where family visitors drank tea and coffee from the coin machine near the entrance. The look of municipality betrayed the fact that the doors were locked until a staff member was there to open them.
He gave his name to the receptionist who produced a file where various papers were pushed his way to sign and a Tesco bag for life containing the few belongings he had arrived with three months earlier. The receptionist smiled and said "goodbye mr Lipton. I'll click the door as you reach it." Seven more paces towards the thick sheets of glass before he heard the locks triggered. A further four and he could feel the wind on his face.
Lipton paused and breathed deeply. His first clean air; free from the scent of badly cooked food, piss and disinfectant since he had been dragged in here screaming by four burly nursing staff back in January. It felt cold to his skin, too long attuned to central heating. Spring was on its way and birdsong twinkled over the noise of traffic.
It felt good to be free.
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