To the extent that it still had a mind, or a face, both glowed with an unholy menace.
Black leather and brimstone alight with red peppercorn and blood amber.
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It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.
It should have been, but that’s the weather for you. For every mad scientist who’s had a convienient thunderstorm just on the night his Great Work is finished and lying on the slab, there have been dozens who’ve sat around aimlessly under the peaceful stars while Igor racks up the overtime.
But don’t let the fog (with rain later, temperatures dropping to around forty-five degrees) give anyone a false sense of security. Just because it’s a mild night doesn’t mean that dark forces aren’t abroad. They’re abroad all the time. They’re everywhere.
They always are. That’s the whole point.
Two of them lurked in a ruined graveyard. Two shadowy figures, one hunched and squat, the other lean and menacing, both of them Olympic-grade lurkers. If Bruce Springsteen had ever recorded “Born to Lurk,” these two would have been on the album cover. They had been lurking in the fog for over an hour now, but they had been pacing themselves and could lurk for the rest of the night if necessary, with still enough sullen menace left for a final burst of lurking around dawn.
Finally, after another twenty minutes, one of them said: “Bugger this for a lark. He should have been here hours ago.”
The speaker’s name was Hastur. He was a Duke of Hell.
Smoky-sour labdanum, black patchouli, wet tobacco, and brimstone.
Another woman suspected of witchcraft was Helen Clark who confessed on April 11th that the devil had appeared to her in the likeness of a white dog, and that she called her familiar Elimanzer and that she fed him with milk-pottage and that he spoke to her audibly and bade her deny Christ.
Strangely sinister frumenty: oatmeal, heavy cream, butter, salt, and a whiff of brimstone.
These, she knew, were inappropriate thoughts to have in the springtime.
Sweet fig and golden almond with buttery amber and a flutter of autumn leaves.
Who better to comment on the flips, throws, and visible panty-lines of the pro-wrestling world than a bunch of drag queens? The Nobodies' ongoing video series maps out this cultural terrain for anyone who might not have otherwise clocked the generous overlap between wrestling and drag.
Black Leather and strawberry lip gloss