Gory Detail #53 "Goodbye"

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The Gore Monger is eternal. As long as there are little kids to pull the wings off flies and country music, the Gore will go on. I can't ever stay in one place for too long though. The warrants and restraining orders begin to build up and people start asking questions about the stains and the missing cats. When this happens I have to leave the blighted soul I've been tormenting and find a new haunt. After four glorious years here skulking the Ooze, the time has come to let go and move on.

I thought I'd take this final dark hour together to tell you where I came from and share the joys of some of the souls that have played host to me.

Enjoy.

'Where were you born?' They always ask me that. I don't remember being born. Does anyone? I've seen birth though, the blood and screaming. I think I must have enjoyed my birth. I'm like that.

What I remember first is The Call. I was walking on a forested ridge. On my left was the Mediterranean, swollen by the melting of the last ice age. To my right was a wide valley with a small lake and a prosperous stone age culture. I don't remember the names of all the tribes. It doesn't matter.

Near the center of the land bridge, a small river was flowing from the ocean to the valley. It had been running salt water for several years but seemed too small to be of concern. That was before The Call and the cracking noise.

I was called to be there at the edge, staring at the smooth rocks of the river bottom when one of them cracked and broke. I didn't understand at first, but soon a gout of water erupted from down the precipice on the valley side. The dislodged rock had let a funnel of water into the dam between the two worlds.

Five minutes later, I was running for my life. First a hundred feet then half a mile of the dam gave way.

A wall of water sixty feet high roared into the sweet low lands. It took not just tree leaf or tree trunks, but the roots and half the hill besides.

I remember quite clearly a woman of twenty, black eyed and beautiful, standing over a cooking fire. She had glanced up the hill many times that morning, wondering what the noise was. When the wall of churning brown water reached her, it did not follow the stream bed. It came straight over the hills.

She ran maybe ten steps before it struck her. She didn't suffer much. The water was moving at more than a hundred miles an hour. It slammed her brain into the back of her skull and she knew no more. It was still fun for me though.

The force of the water peeled her skin off in awkward tags that flew from her like flesh ghosts.

As the water twisted her and pounded her against the rocks and trees it carried, the tendons in her joints tore and her bones were scattered.

Organs too were sanded away and became part of the blood tide.

When she settled to rest at last, she was in the depths of the newly formed Black Sea. While the tide would run on for years completely filling the basin, for this woman and her people, The Calling had come and the struggle was over.

For me though, The Calling had not been an ending but a beginning. Whoever I was before was gone and the Gore Monger was there laughing in his place.

I have been hosted by so many wonderful people since then.

Ghengis Khan would send his troops circling miles around the village he wished to sack, sending cows and wild dogs and men stampeding before them so that the village was filled with every life form for miles. It was a slaughter, so pure. Everyone bleeds the same.

There was sweet Cleopatra who tested her poisons on her slaves, and chose not always the ones that killed most quickly but sometimes the ones that killed the most slowly.

There was Pat Sajak. That was a mistake. I see that now.

It was My dear Marquise de Sade, who I was actually only with for a short time but who held up so well on his own with his perversion and his rotting off nose, who summed it up best.

On his tomb stone it reads; "Kill me again or accept me for who I am for I shall not change."

Goodbye me.

Now get out there and write. 

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