Legends of the Treasure Child : Demon Spawn

Night time somewhere in Macedonia. The temple. A large, square bulk of stone upon stone forming a big black tower against the night sky. John looked to his right. A huge iron bell had been hoisted and pegged up on a woodwork on a small height some hundred metres away. He had seen this temple, which actually was a monastery, so many times in his sleep. He knew what waited inside. A merry-go-round of Death and Destruction. Not for him, but for them, he he. He became aware of something tugging at the cloth around his elbow, and he looked down to see a monk draw his final breath, as he finally succumbed to the blood soaking his lungs. There was a final gurgle from him, one last contraction of his clutching fingers, working, striving to get loose from John’s grip. Then they let go off the dark fabric, and his arms fell limp down underneath his maimed body. John dropped the dead body. He bent down, and wrung the dead monk’s arm out of its socket. John walked over to the thick wooden door, and then used the wet end of the arm as if it was a paint brush. When he was finished, he took a step back and took a look at his handiwork. He had painted the symbol from memory. It wasn’t his memory, but it belonged to a previous version of the Treasure Child, one who long since had lived and then finally perished. He grinned his best Jack Sparrow grin – he couldn’t really help it since he was his father’s son and looked like a polished version of him – before he politely knocked at the door. The heavy wooden door immediately fell off its hinges, falling inwards and down with a loud bang which resounded throughout the dark hall. Christ, how John loved his dark power! And combining them with the magics of Hell gave astounding results. He was quite impressed with his own merits so far. He heard a commotion of voices, screaming and questioning at the noise he had just made, and he saw robed figures with torches come running towards him from the end of the hall. Ah, this was going to be a treat!

He allowed them to move real close, so they could get a real good look at him. The fear on their faces was as expected, but he wasn’t prepared for the fact that several seemed to be recognizing him. Had Jack been here, or was it something else they saw? They stood petrified for a moment, each of them staring wide-eyed at him. He watched them scurry, their crowd breaking up and scatter like a rat’s nest exposed. John felt somewhat disappointed. But then one monk tripped and fell, and John hit him in the head, rendering him immobile yet conscious. All the while the monk struggled to keep his bearings, John took the time to hoist up his robe and fish out the monk’s behind. It was pale and ruddy, covered with hair and not really looking like it was chiselled out of marble, like Jack’s rump. All the same, John thought to himself, a hole is a hole, and the Treasure Child was getting horny just by looking at it, stroking his cold fingers across the shivering flesh. He buried himself to the hilt in one push, and his moan mingled with the screams of agony from his victim. Music in his ears.





Jack was up late, pouring over contracts with new clients. He frowned, sipping carefully from a cup filled half full with rum. Oh, the blessed bitter drink! But not too much, he had to be in shape for the twins in the morning. It would be a lie to tell himself he didn’t long for a real rum party, but the business was up and going, and he needed a clear head to be able to steer through a treacherous sea of merchants of the East Indian Trading Company, vengeful pirate lords and greedy and needy ladies hiding behind their makeup and swooning performances. Then there were the gang lords of Singapore, the Chinese Emperor and the bloody agents of the Roman Catholic Church – the witch hunters and the priests hiding their greed for gold behind their black dresses and white collars. All of them, Jack told himself as he drank up his cup of rum, was after his Treasure Child. His own flesh and blood! Jack had never felt so much hatred and anger before in his life. John was one of the few worth protecting. And John loved him unconditionally. Jack poured himself another drink – just a little bit more rum, he thought to himself while he listened to the heavy breathing of the twins. He returned to his papers, trying to be smart about it, trying to think like John, for John seemed to understand all of the writing, what it meant and the terms included. Jack would often get caught up in a condition and, with his highly vivid imagination, interpret it into a thousand different not very logical meanings, leaving for John to catch him and haul him back onto track. Jack had learned from John that the written word – the transactions taking place on paper were becoming increasingly important. The verbal accords were going out of fashion. The letters with the insignia of the East Indian Trading Company were the ones Jack despised reading the most. Just seeing the insignia still made him queasy. On impulse, Jack got up and went outside for some fresh air. Just as he’d turned and closed the cabin door behind him, he heard a familiar sound of beating wings. He turned to look, and was immediately picked up into the air by strong, clawed hands. The Pearl quickly diminished in size, and the last thing he heard was the ever distancing commotion as Cotton’s parrot raised the alarm.





John buried his teeth in the screaming monk’s neck, tasting the hot blood pulsing in squirts from the punctured vein. The monk screamed again, his body shaking with the tremors of a uncontrolled orgasm mixed with death spasm. His energy began to rise from his dying body, and with it, the monk’s soul. John drew the death-filled air in through his nose, feeling the energy absorbing though his skin. He sighed contentedly before releasing the dying body. He looked up, his face and golden eyes naked with bloodlust and dark magic. Up there, above the altar of the small chapel, was the figure of a live-size Jesus Christ pinned onto the cross. John blinked, finding it necessary to look twice before he realized it was actually real – the person crucified, was not made of wood. It was some poor vagabond, which had been captured and dressed up to look like Jesus. Then he’d been crucified, and had undergone the same tortures as Jesus Christ. John could see it all for the sham it was – the flaking make-up, the stench of urine and blood and decaying flesh, the long, dark haired wig didn’t quite fit in place – it had partly slid off his scalp.