The Master Race, Chapter 09
No more delusions, illusions, etc. The façade is stripped away, leaving only the naked truth that is cold-blooded murder. This is the purest form of murder: Murder for the sake of murder. No ulterior motives, whatsoever. As such, it dispenses with the façade of being “she”.
It still looks female, of course. Feminine looks, feminine ways, feminine wiles, feminine etc. But, it no longer “fancies” itself female, or a person for that matter. The walking, talking Barbie doll has devolved into The Real Barbie Blank. Only the remnant [of Jaspers] notices the change. Yet, he doesn’t raise the alarm. He’s consigned himself to his fate.
We don’t choose the things that we believe in. They choose us.
It, the dandy, his cohorts, and the remnant pace down the hallway toward a door that seems to beacon to them. Neither leftside nor rightside, said door is at the end of the hallway.
Backtracking … This referring to the creature in question as “it” is not a singular exercise. Flying squarely in the face of conventional practice, this is a plural situation.
Here and now and always, for that matter, colloquial usages just don’t apply. Yes … Never have. Never will. Can’t.
Bram Stoker’s Gothic, Victorian ideal of the romantic Master finally and utterly debunked? No bare-chested Twilight fantasies [of Jacob and Edward]? The answer to all of those questions and others like them is a resounding “yes”. Now, doesn’t that take the starch out of your knickers, so to speak? Now, try and pitch a tent, faggot.
Based upon the gender of the body of the vile, hellish creature in question … There’s this common misconception … She is The Master. He is The Master. The Master is an “it”.
The Borg do not have names. They have designations. And. Only The Queen has a personality, and it is unique unto her. As such. The various drones are null and void.
So, like The Borg. The Master is not a name. It is a designation. A designation that they all share. They are the one, who is the many. They are legion, who is one. They are one and the same, and yet they are not. The singular usage also refers to the plural, and the singular also refers to the singular.
On this world, The Master is territorial. And, The Master’s territories never overlap. Hence, one Master per territory.
On other worlds, in Creation, The Master travels in hordes. Herds that make The Master the dominant species. Ipso facto, those are Dead Worlds.
The Master is not sentient. In spite of whatever elaborate, involved conversation that The Master may be able to carry on at length about with the most learned of humans. The Master is not a person at all. The Master is an animate corpse. The Master is “undead”.
Therefore, it is correct and proper to refer to one of their kind as “it”. Although even the most learned humans, knowing full well what they are in the presence of, can from time to time slip up and misspeak, and refer to one of their ilk as he or she.
The Master is cruel, unyielding, and relentless. The Master is a pitiless fiend. Hard. Loathsome. Merciless. Vile. An abomination. Corruption incarnate. There’s nothing remotely romantic about them.
The Master has no collective consciousness. They have no consciousness at all. They are not people. They cannot think. Yet. They have something. Something analogous to … intelligence, for want of a better word. Something expressed as “voices” in their heads that only they, and their collaborators, can hear. And, they have personalities, too. They have personalities unique to the individual, just like a “real” person does.
They finally reach the door. You can smell it in the air. The smell of impending death. The Master smiles, broadly.
The humans … Their plan is quite simple. Once the dandy and his cohorts are alone in the room with The Master, door closed, they will attack before The Master has a chance to react. The unexpected acquisition of a discredited wizard as an unwitting ally is seen as a plus, though obviously too problematic to be considered a windfall.
Again, like their comrades downstairs, they crave the deadliest of games. Instead of paying the whore for sex. They intend to butcher her for sport.
The Master opens the door and strides forward, moving so gracefully and effortlessly, that it’s as if it glides into the center of the room.
Foolishly, the humans follow—the last one closing the door behind him. Once they are all inside, the humans attack. Too bad. Too late. Not enough. The Master reacts, instinctually, and without pause. Bottom line … Zero reaction time, on the part of The Master!
All of the humans, except for Jaspers’ remnant, are on stimms. But. The Master, just like Helga, is on another level, entirely. It also takes on these multiple attackers with ease.
Hawk and Fisher were a different story, entirely. Such skilled, high level, mundane fighters as them. They were able to defeat The Master in spite of its supernatural advantage, without the use of stimms. Bottomline: stimms would add absolutely nothing to their already elite level fighting portfolio—i.e., they’re already fighting at the highest levels that humans are currently capable of. Plus. They experienced, expert monster fighters.
The Master is a blur of movement—i.e., the genuine article, not that stimm-fueled mortal imitation known as fast-forward. Two of the humans get their throats ripped out by the daggerous fingernails of the fiend’s klawed hands before they can draw their swords.
A third man gets his throat ripped out by its snapping, unhinged jaws. Transformed … Its mouth is now a living nightmare. A razor-blade smile. Large, straight, pointed teeth – serrated teeth – long serrated teeth and blood drinking fangs. A killer tongue. A tongue which is a bloodlusting, self-sustaining organ. He does get a chance to draw his sword and stab it through its heart the skewering blade coming out its back severing its spine, for all the good that does him.
It hurls him into a wall like he’s a ragdoll. As if he’s the discarded toy of a spoiled brat who’s grown bored with him.
It pulls out the transfixing blade and breaks the blade over the head of a fourth man, fracturing his skull, killing the man outright. This is the only time that it uses something other than itself as a weapon. It laughs in the deranged fashion of a lunatic worshipping a full moon as it throws away the two halves of the broken sword.
Another blur of movement. The Master lashes out, ripping a gaping hole in the dandy’s trousers. The dandy goes into shock. Blood gushes out of his crotch where his manhood used to be. Agony engulfs his loins. In one, quick, vicious strike, it has emasculated him completely. It cackles as it munches on his mauled penis and testicles. He quickly bleeds out and dies.
The wizard just stands there and does nothing … unable to move. Transfixed by this personification of evil. Like a cat playing with mice, The Master has made mincemeat out of the dandy and his no longer jovial, no longer alive, cohorts. For the first time in a very long time, the conjuror feels the darkness closing in on him. And as he looks upon The Master, unable to avert his gaze, he sees the abyss looking right back at him, flashing that razorblade smile. The vanishing!
Deep down, though, part of him is glad. Soon, very soon, his suffering will be over. Finally, he will be free of this cruel joke of an existence that his life has become. Either he will be butchered like the others, or …
Goddess, he thinks. A realization that triggers something.
“Goddess,” the wizard feebly utters. The Master misinterprets the remnant’s proclamation. His Id is dispelling: the something that was triggered by the realization.
“Behold in despair, your new master.”
His plan had been simple enough. Weave a spell. Let the abyss devour him. Become the pathetic wretch that he is now. Become the wandering ronin. And, wait.
And, when he had finally found that which had taken his beloved wife from him, his Id would dispel [said spell and the gazing into the abyss], and he [the real him] would either destroy that [goddess] creature, even if he died in the process, or he would fail and die trying.
That twinkle in his eyes returns. The remnant gives way. Gives way to John Jaspers. The Master was not the only one wearing a façade. The wizard suddenly stands tall. Enough lives have been lost, tonight.
Again, that public lie versus his private truth. Clearly, he’s a sociopath who “enjoys” fooling himself. That and the paradox is what endeared him so much to his late wife.
There’s also that other thing … No matter how courageous the act he commits. He’s not a good man. Then again, he never has claimed to be. Unlike what a deceitful politician would do.
The Master flashes a toothy grin. Plans within plans. It’s “lived” [read: existed] much too long to be so easily caught off guard. It recognizes that another trap has been sprung. From the git-go, it recognized that multiple traps were afoot. One was obviously the dandy and his cohorts. It recognized that Jaspers was some type of bait for another.
It taunts him. This is an expression of its inherent cruelness. The inherent cruelness of all Nosferatu.
The others died much too quickly. A dictate of necessity. This last one shall die slowly. Prolonged agony.
It finishes off the dandy’s eats, wiping its hands on its dress. It will lick the gruesome leavings off of its dress, later.
Back to himself, for the first time in a very long time, he is no longer the broken man that he was. But in having done what he’s done, allowing others to die when he could have done something, not lifting a finger to help, he’s shown that he’s no longer the hero that he once was. He has fallen. A hero has fallen. Then again, truth be told, he was never that man. He was never a hero.
Revenge. Revenge is why his Id didn’t trigger earlier. He needs to destroy this thing himself.
He has become obsessed over time. No matter the cost in human lives [innocent or otherwise], he will not share this [the destruction of this fiend] with anyone. Yes. If successful … It proves that he could have saved some, if not all of men who lost their lives, tonight. More than just a fallen hero … In a sense, he has become something akin to that which he has hunted for so long. The Darkness calls to him. It [The Master] also calls to him.
As aforementioned, it was only his public image that he’s undone. His heroic persona, so to speak. Deep down, inside, he was always akin to the something that he’s hunted for so long. For too long he’s lied to others. For too long he’s lied to himself. He’s the real monster here. As much a monster as this hell spawn something standing before him.