Sunday, September 11, 2011
Former cheerleader. Former blood whore. Infected. Witch.
She had played with Barbie dolls as a child. Had played with football players as a cheerleader. As a blood whore it was vamps. Now, as a witch, the unfortunate people of Darktowne.
A willful blood whore, she had been an alley slut, one of those who lurked in alleys and byways to give themselves to vamps. Had lasted nearly eight months. Nearly turned a few times. Nearly killed by vamps to keep her from turning. But she hadn’t, and she lived.
Then that slug of a human, Albert Early, had found her, had taken her out of an alley. Off the streets. Had taken her to a city library where he had been hiding. She was out cold, nearly naked, bite marks everywhere. Big Al Early was a big husky heavy set glassy-eyed sneering son-of-a-bitch who only looked out for Big Al. Prick, bastard, arrogant, egotistical, stuck on himself were a few of the other ways to describe him. One time street thug, one time scavenger, full time dickhead. That was Albert Early. The few friends he used to have had called him DA for Dickhead Al. Affectionately, of course.
Big Al thought Tamsin would be easy pickings. Have some fun with her, and then toss her out on her ass. Didn’t quite work out that way. First night in the library, second floor, lying flat out on her back, Tamsin got slimed. An unhealthy dose of stark raving mad lurking in the shadows slime had slipped right up one nostril, and another piece into her left ear. Assaulted on two fronts. Made her a highly dangerous and lethal adversary once awake and provoked. Big Al found out the next morning when he tried to put the make on her. Tamsin beat his ass within an inch of his mangy miserable life.
Big Al took off like a scared rabbit, found a new place to hide.
Tamsin stayed at the library. She had friends there.
The mad slime turned Tamsin on to books. Found out some cool stuff in the library. Things about witches and cults and aliens and demons and other really weirdo shit that most people never heard about, and wouldn’t want to. Most would go ass grabbing ape shit mad if they ever did hear about the weirdo shit that Tamsin had taken to reading.
Ah, but not Tamsin. She just smiled and looked for more books on the subject. Got herself a rock solid spell casting interest in witchcraft.
First it was the normal witch shit. A little history here and there. People, places, things. Burnings and hangings and boulder pressings. All the normal ways to kill witches. Tamsin didn’t like it. Pissed her off. She decided right then and there that she was gonna be a spell caster. If some Tom, Dick head, or Harry ass prick would try to take her down, feel or fuck her up, she’d frog ‘em good.
She bubbled and toiled and troubled for days. Taught herself spell casting, people hexing, and potion mixing. She stirred human bones in a horrible magical mix of toad excretions, eye of newt, bat’s blood, and vinegar. Tried it on some bastard lurking around outside. The bastard blew a gasket. Eyes bugged out, tongue flapped in the wind. Put himself out of his misery by slamming his face against a brick wall ‘til there wasn’t much of a face left. Tamsin would have to refine her methods. And ingredients.
Then she licked a toad, and toad-witchery commenced.
Tamsin read all she could on toad-witchery which wasn’t much. Still enough to set her on the path to becoming the most badass bitch of a witch in all of Darktowne. There were others, spell casting witches, but none would compare to Tamsin Blight. Some would try to stand up to her, but she would fix ‘em. Turn ‘em into toads and frogs and grasshoppers and parking meters.
Well into her toad-witchery self-education, Tamsin began to hear strange whispering voices, eerie and airy and musically discordant voices. They spoke to her. Strange words she didn’t know, but somehow understood. They told her about the book. Thee Book. Under lock and key, hidden in a vault below. Down in the library’s basement. She fought off cobwebs and rats, turned a few rats into frogs and toads on her way down to the basement and vault.
She found the vault wide open and waiting for her, Thee Book just laying there collecting dust. It was a really old funky book. Leather cover (dried human skin, but she didn’t know that) and strange hand-written words and a title she couldn’t pronounce. Psychotic Manuscripts was close enough for Tamsin’s pronunciation. Though really old and creepy and strange, it was at least two, maybe three, dozen editions removed from the original.
Back upstairs, second floor, by candlelight the burgeoning toad-witch paged through the book. Her eyes lit up. She smiled. Be damned if the Psychotic Manuscripts didn’t talk about some big furry toad-god. A big black furry croaker called Sodagui. What could be more fitting for a toad-witch than a toad-god? Tamsin studied and studied and read and worked on those pages and chants and words. She was a toad-witch. Now she had herself a toad-god. And she was bound and determined to bring that toad-god to Darktowne.