AFTERTHOUGHTS (70)
PIMP MY BOOK (8)
PARMAN
The following is an edited excerpt from the Penumbra horror/dark fantasy novella, Parman, written by yours truly, and published by Visual Print Enterprises.
The two friends stare at the figure some ten feet away, man-shaped, to be certain, but powerful, made out of (or perhaps, wrapped in) some white, chitinous substance, all emphasized, stylized musculature, and bony ridges and barbs, features obscured in a helmet or mask of some sort, which displays only the vaguest contours of a face, its eyes glowing an unearthly blue.
The figure stands, menace and intent in his muscled stance, his stillness an implication of strength, of power.
The friends straighten their shoulders, their backs, as if shrugging off their drunkenness.
Suddenly, the ivory figure leaps into the air and strikes, a foot catching one on the chin, sending him to the street. The other foot is blocked though, with a solid forearm; blocked, then grabbed by the ankle.
The man swings the armored attacker down, slamming him, hard, against the pavement. Instantly, the man lunges for the white figure, but he is blindingly quick, and already rolling, and on his feet, ready to face his enemy.
The man pauses, just long enough to flash a cold, guillotine smile, before he steps forward and attacks. What follows is a blur of motion, of attack and counter-attack, strike and block, fist against forearm, foot against shin. And though the man is slashing his fists and flesh to bloody shreds on the thick barbs on his enemy’s forearms, he evinces no pain, intent only on the duel.
Finally, the rhythm is broken, the flat of a palm catching the white-clad figure under the chin, sending him staggering back a few paces. Quickly, the man lashes out with his foot, catching the ivory figure square in the stomach, in the stylized abdominal muscles on his armor.
The blow is hard, knocking the wind out of him, doubling him over. Before he can recover, hands are grabbing his arms, pulling them back, while a knee, forcefully, painfully, digs against the small of his back.
Caught in the brutal hold, trying to recoup his strength, the armored figure looks at the man who stands in front of him, in a fashionable, two-sizes-too-small polo of some shimmering fabric, gloating.
“Hey, Uno,” the man says, flashing that grin.
A fist rams into the armored man’s abdomen, and though the angry, sharp pain makes him want to double over again, he can’t, because of the agony of the hold he’s in.
The man leans in. “We’ll be sure to bring Mangilala your head.”
This is all he’s been waiting for.
His knee slams into the man’s groin, and, just as the man folds up in agony, his helmeted head butts savagely against the top of the man’s head, sending the man sprawling to the street.
Then, in a supreme effort of will and muscular strength, the one called Uno does double over, quickly, pulling the man who holds him off his feet, and up, and over, dropping him heavily on his companion.
Standing over the stunned pair, Uno’s hands flare, a blinding corona of white light outlining them. Even as the companions try to get to their feet, Uno grabs them by their foreheads, and they scream, shrill, high-pitched keenings, the light spreading, blanketing them.
Their skin begins to char then, to peel back in glowing, blistering shreds of ash.
Moments later, their skeletons are visible; their bones, and what lies within.
As Uno releases both skeletons, what look like grey water balloons spill out from their rib cages, falling on the street with liquid plops.
Uno looks down dispassionately (and though his features are obscured, one can tell this by his stance, his body language, and the way the eyes of his mask—if mask is indeed what it is, and not his true face—simmer a cold, sky-distant blue), at the two foot-long grey worms that writhe on the asphalt.
Uno places a booted foot on one of them, and it jerks, its needle teeth trying to snap at Uno, its all-too human face twisted in a malignant grimace, its eyes burning with malice.
“You will fall, warrior,” it says, its voice, the screeching of fingernails across a chalkboard. “You will fall, and we saitans shall feed on your innards.”
Uno applies pressure, and the worm bursts in a noisome flurry of blood and sewage.
He turns to the other one, which seems dazed, in shock, its eyes glazed over in an idiot stare.
Uno’s foot comes down, hard.
If the above tidbit has suitably intrigued you, Parman is available in bookstores. (And if you don’t see it on the shelves, ask for it, please.)
Or, if you’re so inclined, you can drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo) this Saturday, May 24, 2008, and attend “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” where I will be among the menagerie of wild writers and artists the good people of Visual Print Enterprises will gather for your awe and amusement.
Parman (and lots of other goodies) will be available there.
It’s from 3pm to 6pm, this Saturday; see Afterthoughts (67) for more details.
Hope to see all you fine folk there!
(Parman cover image by Oliver Pulumbarit.)
