Page Five Ghouls – September 30th, 2017

Dead Man’s Party

 

Byline: Gary Llewellyn

Dateline: September 30, 201

Guldur’s Law states, “As an online discussion about magick grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving necromancers approaches one.” They’ll tell you necromancy isn’t about hatred of the living, but about communion with the dead, which sounds great until they start dragging wights out the ground, then I have to bail on my weekend in Tahoe (I’m banned in Vegas AND Reno) and shove a bunch of screaming corpses back in their graves. What happens when one gets too big for his britches and raises a sentient undead? Do you let that slide just because the worst you can say about the talking skeleton is that he’s a cheapskate. A skinflint. A tightwad. A Johnny Nopaycheck. Sure he’s been jerking me off for the last year, but he’s okay. What about the next one? And the next ten? And the next legion? All under his command. Or even worse, he can’t control them. How about the not dead types who throw in with him? Out of maybe, greed? If Oberon thinks Alwyn is going to cut him out a little piece of earth to play I’m-the-king in, he’s an idiot. Which brings me to the second possible motivation, stupidity. Check. The third, cowardice. None of these are mutually exclusive, in fact, more often than not, all three are present. I’m just not sure what Oberon’s exact calibrations would have to be to throw in with a necromancer, but then again nature is entropy.

Most necromancers are easily identifiable, as they tend to look like people who have heard the word ‘necromancer’ and know what it means. Their habit is wherever you find decay, naturally occurring or otherwise. They are not limited to raising humans from the dead. Any animal or plant will do, as long as it’s dead. Mostly what comes back is a mindless thrall. Kind of like that popular prime time soap where people fuck with each other against the backdrop of undead being more or less carnivorous squirrels, except under someone’s control. What Alwyn went and done, is gave one agency. That’s a problem. You get a hundred thousand of these things, even if they tell Alwyn to fuck himself, you’re still looking at a destabilizing force the world has never seen. Where are you going to put them? How long do they live? Do they reproduce? Is this something that will grow out of hand in a decade? It has to stop before it starts. Consider yourselves #blessed it hasn’t yet, because I couldn’t tell you why.

If it were up to me, I’d have offed this guy a long time ago. I’ve had plenty of chances. I’ve been up this guy’s ass for almost a year. Almost had him Jersey, but he got the jump on me, next thing I know I’m a Czech prison. He keeps tipping Interpol off on me. But everytime I get close, they won’t let me pull the trigger. We can still reach him. We can still reach him. There’s nothing there to reach and there never was. Oh bring his granddaughter to him. She can reach him. But don’t tell her why you’re dragging her around the planet, almost getting her executed by Oberon, kidnapped my Interpol. Make sure she stays safe, she’s delicate and oh, by the way, Gary? You won’t be getting paid for a couple weeks. Times are lean, amirite! Well, motherfuckers, your delicate, little, unwitting, hostage negotiator tamed a tarrasque and is the general of a kobold army and did a number on Oberon, that frankly, made even me queasy. She calls her own shots now and is finally, properly informed to make those shots count. And I for one, am delighted to play the role of her hatchet man on this one.  

 

Are You Receiving Me?

 

Byline: Stephanie Morgan

Dateline: September 30th, 2017

 

SEG-ers, I have a confession to make. My Grampy Morgan was a Necromancer. It’s a secret my family has kept for decades, but today it can no longer remain a secret. Alwyn Morgan was not only a necromancer, but was also the necromancer that raised Uncle Mort. My family took Mort in after Grampy Morgan ran off to a compound in northern Idaho. We figured he’d just while out his days doing calisthenics, training to raise a cadaver from 300 yards while on the run from the cops and occasionally updating his blog, The Daily Worm. But Grampy Morgan had other plans. Bigger plans. A world of, by and for the raised dead.

Uncle Mort, I know you’re very attached to Grampy Morgan. After all, he raised you from a cadaver. You think you can reach him, but from what I’ve heard and the aftermath of the things I’ve seen, I don’t believe that to be the case. I’m sorry, Uncle Mort, I know he’s your dad, in a weird way I’m not sure I understand, but he’s also my grandfather. I love my Grampy Morgan, but he’s crossing lines. I have the means to do something, so I am. Gary told me everything. I don’t blame you for keeping me in the dark. Knowing me back then I would have lied to me too. I’m not telling you this to start a dialogue, I’m telling you this so you can come to peace with it. I’m not firing with nerf darts. It’s like Gary always says, ‘the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.” Uncle Mort, Grampy Alwyn Morgan, the renegade necromancer, must die.

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