Let me distract you with music.

No, I'm not dead. Just spent most of the year in the Amazon. Don't ask, I'll explain soon. Dirty deeds were done dirt cheap, and I was the one left with mud on the boot.

Almost Halloween, which we all know is a busy time for me and my ilk. I can't wait. I've been in need of some action. They're letting me out of the archives; no more musty books.

Yea, it's been a weird year. Glad to be back and vocal.

But for now, click here and listen: RoninGeisha on 8Tracks

Shakedown

Demons; it’s so hard to find one that will keep its end of a deal.

Depending on where they come from, some demons just are too shifty for their own good. Case in point; I know a guy, who’s not really a guy, who runs a “bait & switch” operation in a pawn shop near Chinatown. He’s generally harmless, except he likes to sell corrupted, cursed, and haunted items, some of which are of his own creation. Now and then, I go and shake him down. Rules are rules, and as long as he doesn’t break the simple one, he can run his artifact trafficking business all he wants, as long as me and my people get notified and first dibs on anything that may be useful.

So I stop by Chan’s earlier today, since things have been a little quiet from him. As I’m walking in, he’s shoving a little girl out the back door, slipping something into her backpack. A glance from me, and my wingman slips back out the front and does his thing. I hate sneaky shit, and Chan is notorious for it. So I follow him over the back room, throwing down my usually front-room banter, just in case anyone is watching. Once in the back though, I shoulder into Chan, knocking him into a chair, and I land a swift heel to his jaw.

Chan is not a powerful Yaoguai. He may not even be full blooded. I don’t remember his true name, but I think he may have been a dragon at some point. Anyways, he’s a wimp, but he’s smart; real smart. So smart that he knew to take my deal when I offered it to him as an alternative to being flayed open on a dissection table. But sometimes, he tries to pull one over on me, and the boy forgets that I hate that shit.

So after getting my boot to his face, Chan tries to act surprised by my actions, saying they are unwarranted. I ask him he slipped into the girl’s bag was, but he tries to by sly and play it off that she’s his mortal granddaughter, and he was giving her something to give to her mother. Of course, my phone alerts me to an incoming SMS, and it’s Jackson; he’s heading back to the shop with the girl, who isn’t acting normal. I get right up into Chan’s face and let him know I may be collecting an arm, again, if the girl is under any magic. He gulped, loudly.

Though he can regenerate, it’s bad for him to lose a limb. Chan doesn’t lose any power or anything, but it opens him up to be influenced by the holder of said flesh. I had the damn thing cremated, then had the ashes compressed into a cute little fake diamond, which I wear on a charm bracelet. Is it irony that my charm bracelet really is covered in magical charms? Anyways, it still takes him a year or so to grow a new arm back, and it’s weird for customers to see this little arm, and if they ever come back, to his a normal arm in its place. He uses the twin excuse.

So Jackson brings the little girl into the backroom, and from the start I can tell things are fucked. We sit her down, and Jackson gives her a once-over; drooly, eyes pitch-black w/ no whites, ice cold, and forlorn looking. We look into her pack, and find nothing but an old vase. I pulled it out and swung it over to Chan, why reared back from it. It had a slight vibration, a hum, a resonance. I had a clue what it was, but wasn’t positive. Chan looked worried as I opened the seal on it and peered inside. Eggs. Chan’s eggs.

I knew what it meant; I knew exactly what these little eggs are for. There are 4 of them, but only one will hatch. Only one had the chance to grant Chan a new offspring; maybe even one to reincarnate into. I’ve done this twice before, stopped poor old Chan from pulling a phoenix. If he does, I lose my power over him, which I think is his immediate goal. I’m sure other reasons include his bad arthritis, IBS, and lazy eye. I think his current form is in its 90s. Old fucker, but still has demonic blood in its veins.

With an “oops”, I drop the vase and let it shatter. I know Chan watched it fall and break in slow-mo, his demeanor erupting slowly into sadness. He just looked up from it to me with this sad puppy face, like I just kicked a kitten. He knew I did it on purpose, just as well as I knew why he had them in the first place.

It took Chan about 5 minutes of vocalizing in old Cantonese to break his puppet curse on the girl, who was in fact actually his granddaughter. What a sick fuck, controlling your own blood to go and hide your demon eggs in the sewers for you.

Before I left, I bought some of his special inventory, and I even waived my discount and paid full price for them. I may be a cold-hearted bitch some times, but I’m not going to rob the man.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

100˚ in my head

I think music has been the only thing keeping me sane the past 3 days. I hate being sick. Holed up in my apartment, getting bad delivery food from 3rd rate restaurants. I may have to bribe someone to go get me something better. I'm tired of sitting here watching movies and reading books and just being a lump. I want to go outside. But the medtech said I need to let this run its course. Which means I may not be able to make it into work tonight.

It makes me look weak. I hate looking weak.

Guns Are A Girl's Best Friend

I am a gun enthusiast, to say the least. Like the sword, they can become part of you. Like the arrow, they can exact pinpoint and accurate damage. Like fire, they can destroy everything.

My love of guns started at a young age, when my father purchased for me a target pistol at age 12. It was a Ruger Mk. II, and I still have it to this day. I don't think it's been fired in about 6 months. I fire all my guns at least once a year, after a good cleaning of course.

I learned gun safety, maintenance, sighting, and milling of my own ammunition. This was normally my favorite part of any given weekend with my father, as he was a genius when it came to creating speciality ammo. We went over close range and marksman skills, as well as some trickshot and duelist moves. He was an amazing gunsmith as well, but I never had the chance to learn those skills.

Before being shipped off the school, I was given my first "real" guns. Up until this point, I owned only my own .22 w/ the Ruger. This was bittersweet gift, as I was 16, and had recently realized they were terrible and distant parents. Hormones, they suck. Anyways, for my Sweet 16 I was bequeathed a Heckler & Koch PSG-1, and a Smith & Wesson 910. I still own the PSG-1, and she is actively used. The 910 however, there's a story behind the loss of that pistol. A long one not being iterated now. Short of it is, it saved my life by its destruction when I did something stupid.

While at school, my parents were killed. My father in the line of duty, so to speak, and my mother shortly after, for being in the right place but at the wrong time. Had she arrived a mere 15 minutes earlier, my father would have only suffered serious injury, and not the same fate as her, which was to be blown to kingdom come.

At that time, when I inherited a disgusting fortune and their estates, I also learned about who my father was, what he did, and what I would become. Which is not what I am today, again, due to my own stupidity. There are a few of those stories. Maybe some other time. But, I now owned a massive gun collection.

At least 200 pistols, rifles, SMGs, and a few prototypes and antiques were now mine. I spent day cataloging, inspecting, and choosing which would stay, and which would be liquidated with most of everything else. I may have missed them, but I did not miss how they lived. But in the end, I kept about 14 guns. But two of them in particular were my prize choices.

They were haunted.

Guns, like any other object, can be imbued with the energies, or spirit, of an owner. When an object, lets say a car, is held in high regard or given special affection by an owner, that "rubs" off, and can stick. These two guns, which I have on me at all times, were my parents' sidearms, and they were present at their deaths. Not just present, but used, to defend themselves, to take down enemies, and were in-hand when they died. Wether willing it to happen or not, my parents live on in these metal shells.

The first of these is a Glock 22c, I jokingly call "Senior Glock". I pronounce it as Señor, but i mean Senior. Like old. This was my father's sidearm of choice. Never asked why, but he always had it on him. There is an inscription down the right side of the slide that reads "Power means many things, but weak is not one of them." He had said this to me many times, like a mantra, and it is ingrained into my being.

The second is an S&W 908, which was my mothers, dubbed "The bitch who's idea it was to send me to -that- crazy private school for a few years so she could go tour europe.". I realized shortly after it was easier to use "Priss". My mother was many things, a mother was not one of them. I was closer to my father, and that was more like a teacher/student relationship as it was. My mother was more like an apathetic nanny, except I had a nanny who was more caring. As a gun, she's a much better person. At least she's apologized and admitted to treating me badly.

Recently, I've added some new members to the family, though none of them are haunted. There's the HK416 D10RS, which is mostly for field work, and I am babysitting a DSR-50 for some testing, though i -really really- like it, and may just keep it. I can do that. I checked it out properly with a no-limit form from work. Yes, it's an AM rifle, but have you seen some of the shit I have to shoot at? HUGE THINGS!

So that's why I have gun love. And anyone who doesn't love their gun is just asking for it to jam on them.

I am trying not to recoil in my own skin as I type. Blogging; meh. This is something someone of my "status" does not do. It's a taboo, so to speak.

But I've gone out of my way to make sure I'm being discrete. I know better than to use real names, except maybe my own, which is really just a line of code in a database. Just like everyone else. Information is what defines us, information is what controls us. And information is power. I digress.

A small, tiny peephole into my existence has been opened, and if you wish, you can peer through. But don't be shocked and awed by what you may see, it's really just a portal into the truth of things.