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“Ella… I’m so sorry… Goodbye, my love.” But then just as I thought I heard her calling my name back, I was transported back to the Hell I was now forced to face, hoping like fuck it meant that she had heard it. Because this had been my last chance to do so and, well, if this was it for me, then I wanted her to know that my last thoughts were of her.
“Strange, but I just had the oddest feeling that I have done that recently,” Marcus said, cocking his head to the side as if trying to make sense of his own thoughts.
“Yeah, well I hope it came with a slice of ass kicking because we are sure as fuck gonna need some of your tricks, Jester,” Asher said, not knowing who Marcus truly was, but he was soon to find out.
Marcus grinned that creepy as fuck grin of his, before pulling forth some of his power, now transforming himself from the idiot best friend I was used to and into an enigmatic killing machine.
The transformation rose from the ground, starting with thick, heavy shit kicker boots in dark red leather, with steal toe caps gleaming silver. These looked like upturned fangs as they curved up into deadly tips. The thick leather was paneled with overlapping armored black plates framed by thick stitching. The tops of his boots arched back like Calla Lily petals, giving them a fantastical element that continued to be the theme of his battle outfit.
Tight, thick leather trousers matched the Demonic hide his jacket was made from, one that reached the ground with a flare of dramatics. The long sections were metal stitched with the same armor on his boots, it was high collared and had an elaborate cape that mimicked the more traditional costume of a fool. Stiff, triangular points curved upwards around his shoulders, each with metal piping shining under the arena’s flaming lanterns above. The hints of a matt-black chest plate was seen underneath, one strapped with gleaming weaponry at the ready to be unsheathed.
As for his unusual hair, the red sections were twisted back from his face, held in place with intricate leather strips interwoven in the pieces. This gave his painted, sharp features an even more serious tone when his startling blue eyes started to glow, telling me he was now concentrating the rest of his power on bringing through his favorite weapon.
His summoning staff.
One he plucked from the magically charged air and twisted it with blurring speeds before it was held under his arm, making Asher’s eyes go wide, as the power hummed around his body like fire. Then he told him with an unnerving grin,
“I am not a Jester… I am but a murderous Fool.” At this Marcus twisted his staff, making it ignite in blue flame that he then aimed at the Demonic crowd.
They erupted into a rowdy cheer. To them, this was all just entertainment to be had at the expense of our lives by being forced to forfeit them in nothing short of what would soon be a massacre.
As for Marcus, well he may have acted like the cocky bastard most took him for, but the truth was, he was one of the best fighters I’d ever known. So, I knew that despite fucking around, if he wanted you dead, then chances were, he was counting your last seconds for you.
As for Asher, he shrugged his large shoulders and said,
“Alright, then let this death be in the name of your funny laughing, brave, dancing girl.” I grinned at that, especially when Orth looked back and asked,
“His what now?” However, he never got his answer as the first wave of controlled Demonic souls came at us, forcing me to strike out with my claws, causing the ghostly Demon to fall back a step before I answered,
“Red, he means Red, who else the fuck would he mean?”
“Hey, I will have you know I am also an excellent dancer,” Marcus said, spinning around in what surprisingly looked like a dance move before hammering his staff hard enough the Demon I had knocked back the first time.
It was known as a Pocong, meaning wrapped in shroud in Javanese, which is a Malayo-Polynesian language spoken by the Javanese people from the central and eastern parts of the island of Java, Indonesia.
Oh, but the shit I had learnt since becoming a Demonic fight club owner. As not only did I indeed like to read… something I remember Ella waking up next to me to find me doing once, and I took great pleasure in teasing her about when faced with her shocked expression. But I also made it my business to know and understand the origins of those who wished to fight in my ring.
Which had once been two brothers of the Pocong.
They were in appearance ghostly figures, wrapped in what looked to be a shroud known as a kain kafan to the Indonesian people. This was something they used to wrap their dead in, hence why they believed a Pocong to be what a Western society would today class as being a zombie. One of the living dead risen from the grave, for this dressing of the deceased they believed played an important role in death. They would cover the body in white fabric, lengths tied over the head, on the neck, and under the feet. Then the important shroud was tied firmly at certain points to ensure it remained in position during the journey to what was to be its final resting place. Once the corpse was placed into the grave, it was believed that the knots of the shroud had to be undone, for if this was not done, the corpse would rise again and be known as one of the Pocong.
Which was now why the same brothers came at us, with multiple long lengths of this shroud now dragging on the floor. For these two unfortunate souls were only some of which I could recognize as being taken from my club as ‘payment’ by Niniane.
“Yeah, but are you my girl?” I asked dryly in answer to Marcus’s dry wit, before punching back and kicking the mid-section of the closest Pocong brother. In truth, no one really knew much about their true origins, only who they were thought to be in the mortal plane.
As for Marcus, he turned his head and said in a freakishly girly tone,
“I could be, handsome.” Then he winked and blew a kiss my way, making me shake my head and, fuck it, but I started laughing. Because if I was about to die, well, I didn’t want to give the bitch calling the death bed shots the satisfaction of seeing me sweat about it.
But then all conversation stopped when Asher asked,
“Do you usually talk this much when doing your killing?” All three of us looked at each other and nodded in unison, each of us replying,
“Yeah.”
“Pretty much,” Orth said, while Marcus with his usually cockiness, winked at him after saying,
“What they said… well, that is if these two aren’t in beast form slobbering all over their kill that is.”
