As a lord who called to Moses and summoned a meeting, I needed my own followers and a flock, where I could start laying down my commandments, or possibly the rules of fight club.
My war was a spiritual war, and I had to start putting together a crew of loyal followers; my very own disciples of chaos. However, before one must embark on this journey, we should honour the contracts ascended from the nether regions of the cosmos.
As with my last possession, it was fun getting used to my vessel, but it got tedious hearing the constant blathering of loved ones and acquaintances. It soon turned to chaos, especially when I dropped the act and promptly revisited my murderous vocation. The fall of Babylon, the dwindling age of man was set for an apocalyptic renaissance. Over the centuries, this past-time has boasted magnificent rewards, as my empirical shadow has laid waste to Victorian High Society, added fuel to the fire of Salem and charged glasses with Rasputin. I would laugh most of the time during these moments but people would start to get curious and probe into my real identity as soon as the body count skyrocketed.
Of course, in my arrogance I would occasionally let slip my true age over a bottle of cognac, which I would put down to merely a scholarly joke to whomever may have been listening at the time. They would simply remark that I was a scholar of history. What they didn't realise was that I could distinguish between history and the details at the time. Ergo, there was a mammoth difference between the recordings of a historian and the life one has played out over history. Sometimes, it was the little things: the smells of the book burnings in Berlin or the disturbing way in which Herodotus would stare down at my groin when trading. These experiences would be forever burned into my psyche, not so much as a scar but more an internal tattoo of human experience. Such intrinsic value that would prove to be priceless.
A new start is always important, though a desperate twinge within my psyche suggested I honour Adam by gaining him some payback.
I guess I'm sentimental.
Also, a contract written in blood is not to be taken lightly. Re-birth into this beautiful reality opened up new possibilities and the hope of an endless spiralling chaos. It was a pity I had to start the orientation phase, though at least there were medleys of souls to play with.
You know that favourite moment where you found an elegant, Tuscan-like café, which provided that ever quaint balcony for you to sip at a mocha and people watch for hours on end? I loved it too and this was a philosophy I was completely in sync with.
While I know I had work and less than noble pursuits ahead of me, I was enjoying some leisurely time drinking in the sights at a quaint British cafe, along with a Chai Latte. I think you're probably confused and beginning to think this is all a façade, but rest assured, I was very happy. I could pour over a coffee table book about coffee tables, gaze over the natural aesthetics of mahogany furniture, arrogantly sniff at the sweet crisp scents of Brazilian coffee grounds while thumbing over a tabloid newspaper and feel completely 'human' (for lack of a better word). The difference was that I could work on my craft of reading people. Despite what many believe, this was not a collection of telepathic powers but more an advanced version of cold reading and instinct combined.
I watched earnestly on while a young trainee fumbled around with a loaded tray, begging her balance to keep the cappuccinos from tumbling over, knowing this was her trial shift and the supervisor's eyes were watching beyond the mass of curly blond hair, hoping this one wasn't another dud. The café had a high staff turnover and it wasn't just the dismal pay but the manager with bi-polar disorder which kept driving away hordes of young wait staff and baristas. They fidgeted over the register and continued to check against the summaries, just hoping for an error so they could blast the fresh-faced minions who were just happy to keep their job.
I flexed my heightened vision toward the street and watched a young hipster manipulate their ample purple cino pockets, flirting the fine line between self-satisfaction (What was the saying: Pocket Billiards?) or merely skipping through tracks on their iPod. The ear phone cords kept getting sucked into his amazing hedge of a beard. Hanging off this creature was a short and slightly chubby brunette who kept turning her head as though he would magically talk to her. Her fingers interlocked with his yet they couldn't completely cover over the white mark where his wedding ring normally sat. She would hope that he would finally leave his trophy life with the trophy wife. Failing that she would buy another pug and hope it's even more affectionate.
How do I do this, you probably would ask? Okay I admit the ring mark was a dead give-away but everything else was a combination of clues. I would read humans like indigenous trackers would read the land. This involved scanning over seemingly minute details to the untrained eye. Each time I saw one of these spots, I would receive an engrained image closely linked to this person. It wasn't telepathy, or telekinesis, but it wasn't far off.
I basked in this most glorious afternoon, reading novel after novel of walking human interest stories. Every hour I would partake in another wonderful ritual of something mocha sweet with a morsel of pastry savoury; letting the taste buds absorb what my mind's eye could not. Rush hour seemed to be the best time, as humans seemed at their most stressed and also their most exposed. It seemed that the most notorious and perverse creatures were usually dressed the most conservatively, like great whites dressed as sea-lions in a vast ocean of white-bait.
Eventually as the day blurred onward, I noticed a bunch of skinheads congregating. I could feel every one of their tragic backstories of domestic violence, abandonment issues, drug-taking, gambling and laundry list of petty crimes; all for a sense of belonging. At this point I became the confident fly fisherman, patiently letting the line hover over a fat body of salmon-infested water, knowing I would get a bite very quickly if I just let it sit on the surface with only the gentlest of lures. I knew this would be too easy, so I let the image of me leading these urban soldiers simmer and glanced back at my table.
The yellow legal pad was waiting for me patiently and I endeavoured to start laying out a plan. I grasped at the pen and imprinted a series of dot points underlined by a dainty calligraphy which would soon tick off a number of lives like they were units on a checklist. This wasn't too hard to imagine, as they were literally names on a page. First I had to prioritise changing Adam's identity and lay waste to the sea of troubles awaiting at the Rabbit's Foot. The first people that came to mind were Manager and Amy. I would have to check in on Czaba and touch base with Lazlo. The latter would actually be about business and nothing sinister. Like Adam, I actually admired the man in a sickly way. He reminded me of a much, much younger version of myself. I'm sure the guy would have made a great wingman during the medieval days.
Each bullet point was followed by a line skewering towards a larger theme. Eventually this would all merge together to become the grand plan, which would be glued to the back of a wall like the spider diagrams you see in a detective thriller. Though this diagram would be dwarfed by much larger schemes and the assurance of a much larger stage for the collective chaos I had in mind.
I thought I may have to ditch the foreshadowing for a while, just so I wasn't breaking too much of the golden rule of showing, not telling. I just enjoyed sharing too much, which was always a curse for the rest of us egomaniacs. This was also steering too close to the narrative of a Bond film, where the evil supervillain would reveal too much of their grand plan just before Bond's untimely escape. Instead I finished up my last coffee, tucked away my legal pad and exited stage left before getting one more last glimpse of the band of skinheads: A reckless band of brothers who could be the enablers for my addictions. Everyone needs a support work and I felt the urge to need a group of disciples to call my own. Maybe they would call me master, or the saviour, or perhaps Tyler Durden. Maybe our paths would never cross again, though that was something I felt I would regret.
"There are no strangers here. Only friends who haven't yet met."