The Marble Monster

By: D. Claypool & C L King

a/n: When I was at a friend's house (C L King; go figure) I was playing with her laptop and started typing a strange little story thingy. I never finished writing it. After I left, Cassie decided to keep working on it. I have a challenge for you: find the spot that I stopped and she started.

Otherwise, enjoy!


There once was a boy. Not a very remarkable boy, but a boy all the same. He sat on the porch tapping away on his keyboard, not giving any mind to his surroundings – especially ignoring the kids across the street. Ah, those annoying loud kids.

Tap, tap. Keys tapping, fingers flying, hair moving with the light breeze. The sunlight was dying as dusk fell. His music played loudly into his ears. He could hear nothing but his music, which was probably why he was doing such an amazing job of ignoring his annoying neighbors.

Keys tapping. Birds singing. Kids playing (if running, falling, and yelling is playing). Music too loud. Sun too soft. Everything so … wrong.

Yes. Everything seemed wrong; somehow incomplete, out of balance. The sunlight was draining across the horizon, the world falling into its own shadow. Everything wrong. Maybe not everything but very, very close to it. Perhaps there was only one missing piece.

What's the kid typing, anyway? Why is his music so damn loud? What's so important that there's a thoughtful frown covering his face that college students only get when they're deep into thought of something they consider important? WHAT'S THIS KID UP TO?

Gah. He's typing, humming every now and then to the music that's blasting from his headphones. Cell phone laying on the table beside him, little light blinking on and off. Damn cell phones. What's the point of having a phone that only works in certain areas and allows any crazy to call you wherever you are, no matter the time of day, and even if you don't answer, the psycho can still leave a threatening message? IDIOTS!

He moves a little bit, looks like he's actually moving to a beat. He picks up his iPod and plays with the spinny wheel. Turns up the volume to an even more threatening height. Adjusts an ear bud. Types away on the keyboard. Smiles.

Ah, he's using an instant messenger. He's laughing now, and pulling out an ear bud so he can use his phone to dial a number. Wait, no, he's only texting someone. Text messaging, another pointless feature of the modern world. What's the point of sending a three word long message that cost you ten cents and the person receiving it ten cents when you could call the person in question for the same price? Dumb, modern world.

I, myself, prefer the world of yesterday. People were good neighbors. Kids didn't yell too loud. Cars didn't blast their rap-rock bullshit too loud on the street and music was actually … music. Clothes covered people's bodies; flowers weren't for forgiveness but for celebration of the joy two people create. What happened to that world? When did it turn into this world, with loud kids, loud music, neighbors that you don't even know, and a phone always on you so anyone can stalk you?

Stalkers. Haha, to think that I'm complaining about the modern world and the stalkers while I myself have in fact stalked this college-age kid for three or four weeks now. He doesn't have an interesting life, really. He types on his laptop a lot; probably not healthy for his eyes to always be staring at the screen like that. I'm laughing again. So many stupid realizations to be made about this world. This corrupt, evil world.

I'm hiding in the bushes of this kid's neighbor's house (see, stupid neighbors, don't even care when there's a marble monster sitting in their freaking hedge) just watching him typing on that HP laptop. Well, texting some girl he met last weekend on his phone. I can always tell when he's texting her, because it takes a lot longer for him to come up with a good message for her. Stupid troubles of the modern nineteen-year-old college preppie. I think he's just confused; you should hear some of his music.

For the world's sake, he needs to be annihilated. Diminished. Put out like a candle. In your modern terms, murdered.

I am not a murderer. I am the Marble Monster. I take human life when I need it, most of the time when I want it. My role is complex and stressful, take it from me. God cast me out of Heaven with Satan; it was not pleasant, and now Satan's set me the job of wiping out all human life that goes against the grain of his Perfect Race. Idiot. What if I don't want to? He never thought of that now, did he? I didn't mind Heaven. It was kind of nice. Then the idiot got us cast out. Moron. Had to argue with the Most High, didn't he? GAH!!! Stupid.

So on the face of God's earth, I must wipe out anyone that goes against Satan's idea of the Perfect Race. Especially the boy typing on his laptop. Satan doesn't like his type at all. He knows he's disturbed in the mind and enjoys torture novels, but he would never admit it to his friends. Not even Dean Koontz novels are disturbing enough for this crazy fuck. I saw his past. As a teenager, this kid had his head on straight. Black clothes, black hair, dark music. Dark, dark, dark. Then he went against his own race. He turned. He turned to nothingness. He turned to the senseless technology obsessed idiocy of the modern world. He doesn't even know what he's majoring in, and he's in college for fucks' sake! Stupid people.

Now I have to kill him. What fun toy shall we use on this one? He likes torture novels. I'll put him in one, if that's what he likes so much. Evil laughter is pouring from my brain as I contemplate tearing the life from him. This is probably why God threw me out with Satan. I'm about as evil as they come. I like killing things. Okay, I don't like it; it makes me remember that God threw me out. But it's kind of fun. In a sadistic, insane, psychotic way.

The kid.

The kid is still sitting on his porch, playing with that accursed phone. Phones. Stupid phones. He's texting again. He's plugged his iPod into his laptop and is listening to it through his computer. The music is blasting, screaming, and (I think) swearing. It's denouncing God. Damn music. His damn phone has rang. It makes me want to jump from my hiding spot right now and tear it from his hands just to drop it on the concrete and stamp on it.

He's laughing. With my superior hearing skills, I can tell that it's a girl, but not the one he met last weekend. No, I think this one's his sister. Maybe his brother's wife. They're hard to tell apart, okay. Won't matter tomorrow morning – he'll be stone fucking cold dead on his floor, staring towards God in Heaven holding a Rosary.

It baffles the police around the world. They can't figure out who their "Rosary Killer" is; it makes me laugh. The police in this country don't allow God to come into their judgments, so they wouldn't ever think that it's an angel cast out of Heaven that's killing all these people. Of course not. Stupid.

There he goes. On with his life. He wouldn't even care if someone told him his life would soon be taken, would he? Of course not. He is not an angel. He doesn't understand Satan's ways like he used to. Evil and Darkness: the Evil King's Ways. And if anyone knows those things, it would be me. Me. Yes, me, the Marble Monster, the Bringer of Torture, the Angel of Death, the Rosary Killer.

But on to the accursed task of disposing of the boy. I pull up the hood of my black sweatshirt. Fucking modern world and its modern clothing. I'd much prefer the beautiful robes of Heaven and Hell.

Silently walking out of bushes. Of course. No one notices. No one cares if an angel dressed in black walks out of their bushes on to the sidewalk. Past those annoying children who go on running and screaming. Up to the porch where the kid still sits. He's hung up with his sister. Selecting a better track to listen to on his iPod. He's oblivious to anything around him, to me briskly approaching him. He finally looks up as I stand only five feet from him, on the first step up to the porch. He pulls out his earbuds quickly and, what seems to be, angrily. He does not wish to be disturbed while he goes on with his typing and texting.

His face twisted into a demanding and annoyed glower. He opened his mouth to say something. I did not need to hear his voice. I knew that all he was going to do was ask me what my business was here. What did I want of him. Who was I. To go away. He's busy.

Well, I'll just have to answer him now, won't I?

You don't care who I am. Even if you did, I don't think I'd tell you. His face lost its angry glare and his mouth closed shut.

"Who… wha…" He stutters. He's never had an angel talk to him telepathically. "What do you---"

I don't want anything really. Just come to see you off, help you along, you know? He's wondering off to where, help with what, who is this man. I told you! You don't care who I am! The question of my identity completely flew from his mind. Ah, angelic powers are wonderful.

Just come on inside now. It's getting dark. We wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you, would we? His mind blank, no questions, no fears, just me and him. I walk up the steps, not taking my eyes off of him even as he turns and walks into the house in front of me. The screen door slamming shut behind me.

You do understand what my purpose is? You do know that this is all how it should happen. This is the Plan. You will be with Him and be happy there. Don't you see? You are not suppose to be here. He knows. He is afraid. I quiet him. I sing him the Lullaby of Death as I approach him. There's nothing he can do. His blood is for me. Mine. Come to me, child, I will bring to you a greater purpose than you have ever imagined. Your days have been numbered. Today is your last. Into my arms, my embrace. Yes.

I leave him as I always leave my imperfect victims: Cold, laying on the floor, eyes staring widely at the ceiling, rosary in his folded hands across his chest. I walk out the front door to find the annoying children inside their homes, asleep in their beds. They do not yet know the horrors that surround them in this corrupt and evil world of today.

Ah, it will be wonderful when this task is done and over with. I will not have take these lives. When the world is perfect, that is the day I rest. I will not rest on the seventh day. It takes longer than that make the world. God rested on the seventh day; maybe he should have spent that day bettering the human race. Then I would not have this accursed task.

But, there is still so much more work to be done. I am no where near to the completion of Satan's Ultimate Goal. I know that much. Now I must go on to find the next one, the next Imperfect. But I can sense someone calling to me. I have only had Satan call upon me but never in the delicate, bearable way a human being does.

A young woman. A very young woman. No older than fifteen. I can hear her soft feminine voice cutting through my conscience like a stiletto. She's calling me, crying out for me. Ammiel. Ammiel. I need to know… I need to know… I heard her through the noise of the street in the city, the cries of the ones who call unto God, the one who will not come, the one who will not answer. But I am different from Him. I come. I answer. Satan knows and Satan answers. And so do I.

Ammiel. Ammiel.