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A bit more NaNoWriMo:
John Doe sat on the box tomb of Garnett McCarthy (1906-1953) the best vantage point in Hesperides Cemetery, and through the eyeholes of his corpse mask, looked out over the city. Gradient City, he thought, not for the first time – the city of slippery slopes, paved with the corrupt ideals of a sick society. Tonight, though, there seemed something more than usually unstable about his unruly charge – this new felon with the cryptic name, what was he up to? There was something perverse in his attacks, something obscenely childish. Doe could respect a mass killer like Retrograde, or a sadist like Spine. Such men he viewed as his proper opposite numbers, fit meat for avenging angels. This Obscurant, though, with his fireworks and his toy bugs, was not taking the game seriously. He was destroying the purity of the conflict with his jackass knavery, just like that old fool Mandrake. Doe’s hands itched, and he took his gun and cradled it like an infant, soothingly. Let those weakling Five have their shot at the new boy first, trying to make sense of his self-indulgent dribbling; then after their inevitable failure, his victory over disorder would be all the sweeter.
John Doe sat on the box tomb of Garnett McCarthy (1906-1953) the best vantage point in Hesperides Cemetery, and through the eyeholes of his corpse mask, looked out over the city. Gradient City, he thought, not for the first time – the city of slippery slopes, paved with the corrupt ideals of a sick society. Tonight, though, there seemed something more than usually unstable about his unruly charge – this new felon with the cryptic name, what was he up to? There was something perverse in his attacks, something obscenely childish. Doe could respect a mass killer like Retrograde, or a sadist like Spine. Such men he viewed as his proper opposite numbers, fit meat for avenging angels. This Obscurant, though, with his fireworks and his toy bugs, was not taking the game seriously. He was destroying the purity of the conflict with his jackass knavery, just like that old fool Mandrake. Doe’s hands itched, and he took his gun and cradled it like an infant, soothingly. Let those weakling Five have their shot at the new boy first, trying to make sense of his self-indulgent dribbling; then after their inevitable failure, his victory over disorder would be all the sweeter.
