Lame Beggars Walk: A Tale of Sister Merciless Part 1 “Bloodrumor”

Posted: June 5, 2011 in Uncategorized

[All through May, every Sunday I put up a chapter of a five part serial starring Jimmy Plush, Teddy Bear Detective the protagonist of the book of the same name released on Amazon yesterday. In June, I’m going to share a story featuring another character I’ve written about, a heroine you’ll get to see more of in Jonathan Moon’s upcoming Technicolor Tentacles anthology and William Pauley III’s The New Flesh: Episode 1 anthology. Her name is Sister Merciless, a chainsaw wielding nun who means trouble. Her adventures in the tradition of Heavy Metal, Red Sonja and Vampirella are not for the squeamish. But neither is anything else I write. Enjoy.]

Lame Beggars Walk: A Tale of Sister Merciless Part 1

Bloodrumor

“Got a score to settle,” said the werebear, face rearranging, head expanding, bones snapping, knitting back together, “and I plan on settling it.”

The rabbi’s eyes couldn’t help but glance over the marks on the arms of the werebear’s companions. Symbols of the thousand year Reich knifed into their flesh. Worshippers of Thunder of Glory, like most werebears, like most of the blackmetal boys that polluted the city with their yowling, incoherent screams and their acts of terrorism, acts like the rape of his daughter. Coming into the temple of Parter of Seas and making demands like that. He didn’t want to tell them shit.

“What the fuck was your name again?”

The werebear growled low.

“I am Skorn Nightsoil, lead singer of Runeaxe. Talk fast or die, genetic chaff!”

Runeaxe. Talk fast or die, genetic chaff. These fucking people. The rabbi wondered if he could draw the magnum under his robe and eviscerate the heathen shithead. The rabbi possessed certain knowledge that made the furred, fanged, manbear face of a blackmetal monster far less of an intimidating prospect than the werebear thought he was.

“Only one berserker,” the rabbi remarked, “five of you and only one berserker. You must not be much of a band.”

The berserker let out a roar. His mouth foamed.

“Do not try my patience, filth!”

Filth. This disgusting animal had called him filth. The rabbi contemplated Parter of Seas, imagining the god’s sacred name. Hesh-Ton be praised.

“You’re looking for the nun,” the rabbi said with a smirk, “The Bloodrumor. The Harbinger of Bedwetting.  The wielder of the Gutrender.”

The werebear brought his face in close, spitting foam as he spoke.

“Runeaxe will kill her. Take the chainsaw.”

At the other end of the temple, a panel of the wall slid open. A hulking clay man, tall and broad as the werebear emerged, its face carved to resemble the great Hesh-Ton. Moving surprisingly quick with big strides, the golem got behind the four members of Runeaxe, who, transfixed, watched the battle of wills between the rabbi and their hairy, smelly, musclebound leader. The rabbi was laughing. It made them nervous and unable to keep their eyes off of him.

“You’ll kill her? You’ll claim the Gutrender for Thunder of Glory? And if you die you’ll be returned to Earth on your beautiful golden panzer accompanied by a chorus of valkyrie? Is that it.”

The werebear wrapped a huge furry hand around the rabbi’s throat.

“That is it. Tell me where to find her!”

The words of Hesh-Ton flowed through the rabbi.

“Get your paws off me, you damn, dirty bear!”

The shit went down quickly for Runeaxe. In ages past, it took plane crashes and bus wrecks to destroy entire heavy metal bands in a minute. These were tougher times. The gun practically jumped into the rabbi’s hand, sending a blessed high caliber bullet into the werebear’s chest, knocking him to the floor. With great clay fists, the golem caved in the spines of the drummer and bassist of Runeaxe. Screams. A cessation of nervous functions. A fist through the head of the lead guitarist. A fist through the head of additional guitarist. Two sprays of red and a band was all but dead. The werebear clutched his wound and whimpered knowing that the day was lost.

“You should be grateful,” said the rabbi, taking aim, “that is us and not her doing this.”

The Bloodrumor, the Harbinger of Bedwetting parked the giant scorpion on which she rode from place to place outside of an obscure cantina in a desert town beneath everyone’s notice. Those in the know would know her by her prodigious size, six feet nine inches tall in her thigh high black boots. She wore nought but the red wimple and chainmail bikini bottom  that showed that her connection to the abbey she had long since forsaken and they could know her for her voluptuous form  and the blood red chainsaw she wielded, with its cruciform handle and its aura of hunger. But the men in the cantina were not in the know. And most of them were blind.  So when she entered, none knew her.

The eyeless monks, the bar’s patrons,  kept their attention on their beers and their mutton and their braille scriptures. The eyeless bartender kept on pouring drinks.

“Servants of the Blind Shepherd,” she announced to the room, “I am the Bloodrumor, the urban myth, the Harbinger of Bedwetting.  I am Sister Merciless,  sworn foe of the gods and wielder of the Gutrender, sacred chainsaw forged to eat the gods. I have come to find the missing children and to tear your temple asunder!”

Next Week “Lambs to the Slaughter!”

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