Young Writers Society

NERO

Fuck you. Fuck every one of you.
Let me be honest. You are, all of you, the reason that I am so lost in this world. So depleted of vitality. Of passion. It has taken me a very long time to realize this, but now that I finally have, the question begs. Does it really even matter any more?Nihilism
Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one of us that sees things as they truly are. That sees ourselves as we truly are. Not as the crowning jewel of four billion years of evolution, or as the divinely wrought rulers of a fallen paradise rendered in our glory. No, not any of that. The very opposite of all that. As mutants. Freaks. Anomalies. We are not beautiful, in fact we're the ugliest thing to rear its head yet. No one wants admit this, and no one ever will. They can't. To do so would be admitting the fact that they've been lying to themselves for the entirety of their short little existence on this hunk of dust we call home. The truth is that we have all become caricatures of ourselves and ultimately of one another. The invisible masks we've worked so hard to keep on our faces are slowly and painfully beginning to slip, exposing our hollow souls to the harsh and unforgiving elements of reality. Not so much nihilism. Too impassioned. I don't care that much for this beginning so far. I get sick of people preaching this kinda stuff, ya know? But I trust you enough to believe you can make it work.
I wish it wasn't this way. No joke, I really do. But it is and there's nothing that can change that. My acceptance of this sad truth has led me to the conclusion that I simply do not belong here, in this so-called society. This underworld. My infinite hatred has bubbled up inside of me for so long that I fear it has reached a breaking point. To say that I've become disgusted with my own kind is a sort of hilarious understatement. I'm practically genocidal.
Yeah, we're a fucked up bunch of monkeys. We're hateful and petty and stupid and we reek of the endless bloody history of our civilization, and try as we might that stench will never wash off. It's a part of us. It's our heritage. It's who we are.
Anyway.I did really like this part, especially the "anyway". More apathetic, which I like.

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The blacklights in Club Sanguine cause everything to glow blue or white and the relentless pulse of the strobes is beginning to make my head feel like someone's drilling into it from multiple angles with a few electric screwguns. This sensation is only amplified by my utter repulsion at the people dancing around me, if by dancing you of course mean slapping and slithering against each other like a colony of tapeworms, grinding pelvis against pelvis, male against female against female against male against male, all to the rhythm of some post-industrial eurotrash techno bullshit they call music and sounds as if it was composed by a couple of retarded kids on ketamine. The fact that most of these degenerates here are actually related to me in some way, however distantly, is in of itself enough to make me want to start projectile vomiting all over the place. If only life were so grand. I try to distract myself from all this nonsense by turning my attention to the slinky little vixen sitting beside me. like that now you've set up a scene
Briony.
I can't help but ogle her perfectly shaped ankles and the little silver chain of charms that hangs so carelessly around one of them. Skin white and ethereal under the radiant blacklights above us. Her navy-blue lips go thin with suspicion when she catches me staring and so I say:
You're awful pretty tonight.
She looks at me incredulously, eyebrow arched.
Is that like a joke or something?
What, I can't compliment my own girl from time to time? Compliments don't sound good on you. I like this
I know. People always think I hate them. I don't hate anybody.
Or like anybody, she said.
I like you.
Loving and liking are not mutually exclusive. don't like this as much. parts of the dialogue start feeling a little forced/pretentious
I shrug and she reaches into her little red reptile-skin purse, producing a pack of cigarettes. I have my own but they're menthol and taste weird with my cocktail so I ask her:
Mind if I get one of those?
Only if you ask nicely.
Give me one of those cigarettes or I'll bite your nipples off. By the way, though, I love how you're integrating the dialogue and the lack of quotation marks.
She grins and puts two cigarettes between her lips and lights them both before handing one to me. I look at the little blue smudge from her lipstick on the end of the filter. For a long time we just sit there smoking and watching the crowd of people morph around us like one big sweaty organism, mist and fog rising off them into the metal grid of beams in the ceiling, suspended from which is a whole cosmos of different lighting equipment. I look down at my own pulsating reflection in the table that I'm sitting at. It's made of some faux-onyx material, just like everything else in Sanguine. The cocktail of drugs coursing through my veins is beginning to make my body feel numb and weightless and inevitably my gaze falls back to Briony's ankles until finally she catches me staring again and says:
Seriously what the fuck is with you tonight?
I'm sorry, I can't help it. Just do me a favor and don't wear that anklet thing any more. For my sake.
That what?
The fucking ankle bracelet or whatever it's called. Don't wear it. It drives me crazy. I can't even focus.
You're getting more and more ridiculous as you age, you know that?
I know.
You know what I can't stand? she says, switching topics like she's got attention-deficit.
I shake my head.
The fakeness.
The fakeness?
The fakeness. The fakeness of it all. Of life and society and all that stuff. Sometimes it bothers me so much I'll go for days without any social interaction. I won't even look at someone's face without wanting to scratch it off.
Not even mine?
Obviously you don't count.
I can't tell if she's serious or not but I take a drag off my cigarette and say:
Not everybody's that phony though.Catcher in the Rye, anyone? haha sorry but some parts feel like that. Sure some people are, but I mean, there's still plenty of people out there who live their lives openly and just say fuck whatever anyone else thinks. Wearing their heart on their sleeve type of thing, you know? Totallyyy not cohesive with his prologue-type thing at the beginning. I don't like that, unless the prologue thing is meant to be his frame of mind later, as often times they are. Can you distinguish them more, the prologue and the start of the story? Cause right now, in the beginning/prologue he's all "people are disgusting fake animals", and then right now Briony says the same thing and he's just like "not really.
Yes, I know what you're saying. But I disagree. I think they're phony too, they just happen to be better at hiding it. And the funny thing is that most of them probably don't even realize it. No one, and I mean no one, acts the way they truly feel. No one admits the things that are really going on deep in their head and their heart. Even if they say they are, they're lying, You can never know the truth about someone. I don't like how she is saying this so soon after he just said close the same thing in the prologue. It's too.... contrived? soon? I dunno. It's like the same theme being shoved down our throat, only that would be okay if Nero was doing it both times but now that someone else is doing it, and saying the exact same things as he did? And now he's disagreeing? Yeah, too contrived or something, can't really find the right words. Unlessss you distinguish the prologue from the club scene more, maybe.
I scratch at the stubble on my chin and jaw before asking:
And what exactly has lead you to this conclusion? Had a bad experience you haven't told me about?
She shrugs.
Not really. I mean it's like, think about how everyone is always saying to just be yourself. Just be yourself, just be yourself, everything will be fine if you just be yourself. Everybody says that, but nobody really fucking means it. The people who actually do just be themselves, the ones that really go for it, they're the outcasts and the weirdoes and the freaks. The serial killers. The lunatics and sociopaths of the world, they act like themselves. They're being true to what they are. But then you look at the other end of spectrum, all the people who are famous and powerful and charming and beautiful and have these magnificently enviable social lives, they're the ones who are living a lie. They're the ones wearing the mask. Being good at social interactions pretty much boils down to learning how to interpret and then best manipulate the people are around you. Not maliciously, per se, at least not always. Not even knowingly most of the time. But still. That's what it is. I mean, just look at movie stars. These are possibly the richest, hippest, most loved group of people on the face of the earth. Their every utterance is taken as some profound piece of wisdom. If they endorse something, it becomes golden. Merchandise, charities, political figures, you name it. These people, their entire fucking career is based on pretending to be something that they're not. Why do you think they're so good at talking to people? At being charming and funny and all that stuff? It's because they've been training to do it their whole lives, and so far it has worked out pretty well for them. They're professional bullshitters. same thing
She finally stops to catch her breath and take a sip of her drink. I can't help but grin; there's just something cute about her when she gets all worked up about this kind of stuff. I go to take sip of my gimlet before realizing it's empty. do like his attitude right here I suck an ice cube into my mouth slosh it around, tasting the limey-bitterness of the alcohol that has soaked into it. Briony looks over and I hold up my glass and say:
Want a refill?
She shakes her head, turning back to watch the so-called people dance with feigned interest. I shrug and stand up, preparing myself to begin wading through the crowds. I can see the blue light of the bar dazzling from all the way on the other side of the club and it motivates me to commence what is sure to be a harrowing journey.
I fucking hate clubs. Or maybe I just hate this club. I haven't been to many other ones.
On my way to the bar some little blond chick practically falls into me, breathing heavy and using my arms for support. I stare down at her dumbfounded, trying to figure out if she's attractive or not. She takes it as interest and cracks a big dumb grin.
You want to go have some fun? she asks.
Oh, believe me, I already am having way too much fun.
I meant even more fun.
That sounds dangerous.
She laughs stupidly, a lock of blond hair falling across her face. Her head cocked to the side. I can tell she's baiting me to move it away from her face for her, to tuck it behind her ear, all romantic like, but it's too bad because she picked the wrong motherfucker for that shit and so instead I just shove her off me into a nearby crowd of people, watching as she is sucked into it like a planet being engulfed by a black hole. The look on her face is priceless and it briefly puts a smile onto my own.
Suddenly I feel like masturbating to the ancient memory of my first crush. I wonder how old she lived to be.
Claustrophobia, that old friend of mine, it crawls up my spine and all over my skin like a little family of spiders. Sweat builds on my forehead. My fingers, my toes, tingling like I've done too much coke because I have. My head reels and I get that sick sense of panic from suddenly being confused as shit. Where the fuck am I again? What am I doing here? The world is hazy and alien to my puny mortal mind and I feel like crawling underneath one of the tables and laying there in a fetal position. Waiting it out. But I don't know what it is I'd be waiting out. All these giggling goblins maybe, faces like carved pumpkins that sneer at you on Halloween night. Yeah, if another person approaches me I may punch them in the face. Or gouge out their eyeballs. i like this imagery, you capture it perfectly
Finally at the bar, I squeeze in between a very ugly woman and some muscle-bound fuckface that gives me his best tough-guy look. LOVE THISIt's a mug that I vaguely recognize but don't care enough to remember. He seems to remember me though because he quickly turns to stare the other way once he gets a good look at my face. The bartender comes up after a minute or so and gives me a friendly nod, and I realize I somehow lost my glass on the way over here. By now it was probably shattered into a million pieces and sticking into some poor fucker's foot.
What you need, Nero? says the bartender.
I glance him over. Shiny bald head and face pierced in all the major categories. I can't be sure, but I don't think he has any eyebrows. He obviously knows me, and I probably know him too, but honestly I'm in no mood for chit-chat and anyway right now I probably wouldn't recognize my own dick. hahahah I order another gimlet and watch him go about his work. The guy seems like a professional and when he's done with the drink he gently but swiftly places it before me, as if it were the holy Eucharist itself. Some divine sacrament. Though my mental state may be exaggerating the theatrics of the whole ordeal. I kill the gimlet in one shot and gesture for another, and then realize with sudden horror that I will soon have to fight my way back through the crowds to my booth with Briony. Like a savior coming to my rescue I feel a quick tap on my shoulder and turn to see a worker of mine standing there, looking as though he'd just snorted a line of something the length of his arm. Lelux. He's sweating like a pig, black hair messy and ragged, the bangs falling in front of bloodshot eyes. He looks like a goddamn junkie and he leans down to my ear trying to whisper something but it's useless over the absurd volume of the music so he just yells instead.
Got to talk business with you. Privately.
I sigh and let him wait there for a moment. Jittering and jiggling around like a bowl of cafeteria jello. Finally I succumb and follow him through the sea of mouth-breathers.
Out back of the club, my eyes and ears take a few seconds to adjust to the less extreme stimuli. Lelux has his hands shoved into the pockets of the weird fucking khaki blazer he's wearing and his beady little eyes are darting from left to right and even up at the roof, as though someone might be perched up their eavesdropping on us. I get into my business-mindset and stare straight at him but he keeps trying to avoid my gaze until finally I say:
Shit man, what are you on crank or something?
He looks at me wide-eyed. Bewildered.
What?
I said what are you all cracked out on, huh? You look like you've been injecting smack into your eyeballs all night.
What? I'm not on anything dude, I'm just...
Bullshit. You're all spazzed out. What are you dipping into the coke again? I thought you told I don't let the guys in my pachetto abuse their product.
I ain't fucking abusing, man. Who even says that? I did like, two lines with my girl the other night. She was freaking out at me dude, I was just trying to get her to chill out. You know how that shit is.
Not really, I lie.
Alright, well, that's not the point anyway. But look I'm just saying, you know, every once in a while some shit comes up, and you know...some shit comes up and you just- do like this dialogue so far
I shake my head, putting my hand up for him to stop but he still rambles on incoherently for awhile before finally shutting his mouth. I look him dead in the eye and put my super serious face "super serious"? really? I dunno, that just sounds like something a middle-school girl would say. haha on and say:
Fuck the preamble, alright? You said you had to talk business privately, right? I'm hoping that whatever business you have to discuss is actually important enough for you to interrupt me while I was so pleasantly relaxing with my lady friend in this fine establishment we find ourselves at. Ehh. I get what you're trying to go for, but I don't like how it came out that much, especially the "in this fine establishment we find ourselves at. Now tell me whatever it is that you want to tell me so we can both get the hell on with our lives.
Alright, alright. I'm short.
I know you're short. Get some platforms. hahahah
Fuck, man, you know what the hell I mean.
How much?
Like, half.
Half? love this bit of dialogue
I know, I know. Look it's no biggie though, I've got a deal for ten pounds tomorrow and then I can re-up from Isaiah. Once I move that shit we'll be good again, right? Then we can start up with the Canadians again?
Yeah, except then you'll just owe Isaiah money instead of me.
It's cool dude, I'd rather owe Isaiah than owe you. You're a good guy, you know, I don't want to ruin our friendship.
I roll my eyes.
Fuck that shit. I'm a whole hell of a lot more understanding than Isaiah is. Besides, I'm your vadovas. This is my job, right? I've got to deal with everybody else's bullshit. I mean I'm not a tyrant, I don't mind waiting to get paid for a little while. I'd rather wait a few days than see you get fucking decapitated because Isaiah wants his money yesterday. I know you're good for it. Just...do not dip into the shit, okay? I mean shit man that's like my only rule. Don't abuse the product. Got it? like how we're starting to understand more of Nero and what he does
He nods and then hangs his head low, like a little kid being told not steal from the cookie jar.
And you have should have just called me about it. Don't wait around to tell me about this stuff. The longer you wait the worse it gets. Besides, we're strimoroi, we have to look out for each other right? No one else is going to. That's for fucking sure.
Yeah, you're right. Sorry dude.
It's all good. How's Delia?
Ah, she's good man. On my case and shit, as always, but, you know. Actually though my cousins-
Yeah well look I'm fucking spent, I'm heading out. Call me tomorrow and we'll work this shit out, okay? love that part, the interruption
Back in the club I find Briony still sitting in the same position that I left her. Sipping on the same apple martini. The flashing strobes and roaring music rattle my brain, shaking me to the core and now it's starting to give me a bad headache. I come up behind her and put my hand on her shoulder.
I'm heading out Bri. Are you coming or do you want to stay here for awhile?
Would you mind if I stayed? I think my friends might be coming.
Yeah, go for it.
What was that all about?
What?
The thing with Lelux. I saw you go outside with him.
Oh, nothing important. Just business shit.
He owes you money, doesn't he?
I grin.
You can read my mind somehow, can't you? He owes me a little, nothing major. I'm leaving though. Have fun okay? I think I might just walk for awhile and take a cab home. You going to be okay to drive later? Yeah, I'll be fine. Your formatting with the dialogue gets screwed up sometimes, even in the word doc. If that's purposeful, how the "Yeah, I'll be fine" doesn't get its own line, well, I don't like that really.
I kiss the corner of her mouth and for a moment I'm tempted to just say fuck it and stay with her, but then I look up at all the manic faces and grinding bodies and blaring music and I feel my claustrophobia threatening to return in full force. Before I know it I'm already heading for the door, practically running.
The night sky is deep blue and cloudless, twinkling with faint dots of starshine even though most of them are bleached out by all the fucking light-pollution. I wander down the sidewalk lackadaisically, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the city around me, which is both refreshing and oddly disconcerting. This melting-pot of culture and ethnicity. A token of the new world where heritage and tradition have been engulfed by progress and then left to stagnate like artifacts in a museum with no curator.
These ponderings cause me to descend into some sort of melancholy trance, one that is only broken by the sudden and distressed yell of a nearby female. It's full of panic and fear and already I can smell the sweet metallic aroma of blood wafting through the air. I follow the scent down into a darkened alleyway and there I see a small and shadowed figure, hunched and writhing against something on the ground. My view obscured by the steam rising from a vent in the foreground. good imageryThe figure hasn't yet noticed me and already I can hear that wonderful little slurping sound. It's been so long since the last time I have. The smell of blood is overwhelming and already I've got a nice little chill down my spine. whaaaaatt I deliberately kick a glass bottle with my foot. It clangs loudly against a trashcan, causing the stooped creature in the alley to raise its head. Platinum-blond hair and boyish features that I can just barely make out in the darkness. He's straddling the lifeless body of what seems to be a young girl laying face-down, her neck twisted into a ghastly contortion of what it once was and leaking blood from an open wound. I stick my hands into my pockets casually and say: whatttt, vampires? or something? gag. no. ew.
Looks like somebody was having a little too much fun. like this dialogue tho
He gets to his feet, taking a few steps towards me and I see that he's far younger than I would have previously suspected. Late forties maybe, barely out of adolescence. totallyyyyy confused Handsome but with vaguely effeminate features. Big black eyes. Blood dripping messily from his lips and chin and he says:
Who the fuck are you?
I'm nobody. Who are you?
I'm nobody too. Now go mind your own business before you get hurt.
Yeah, right. Whose pachetto are you in?
What?
Your pachetto. Who's your vadovas? Your captain?
I don't know what the hell you're babbling about.
You're not from around here, are you?
What's it matter to you?
Actually it matters quite a bit to me. You can't just go around feeding anywhere you want like some fucking animal. Is that what you are, a stupid animal?
Apparently that last line pisses him off enough to take shot at me. He lunges forward, bloodsoaked hands outstretched like crude talons, moving with more speed than I was expecting. Still I'm able to sidestep him and quickly slip my arm around one of his biceps, using my body as leverage to snap the little bastard's humerus like a pencil, causing him to screech girlishly and fall to the ground.
Now that was really fucking stupid, wasn't it? What's your name anyway, tough guy?
Fuck you, he snarls. His voice is different now, drained of confidence but no less hostile. I smile and produce a cigarette from my pocket.
So, what's your name again? I ask.
He glares at me, eyes glazed over with tears as he holds his misshapen arm against his body. I briefly consider shooting him in the face, but eventually he gives in and murmurs:
Blondie.
Blondie? That's your name? Blondie?
What you got a problem that too?
No. It's just, you know. Different. Even for a strim.
Blondie snorts and tries to stand up but it must cause a lot of pain because he gasps foolishly and falls back onto his good elbow. I light my cigarette and say:
You know you're going to have to bend that arm back into shape or it'll come back like that?
Of course I fucking know that.
He grabs ahold of his wrist and gives it a light tug, barely moving it at all before letting go and wailing with pain. I rolly my eyes and bend down to help him but he quickly recoils and turns away from me.
I don't need your fucking help.
I shrug.
Suit yourself, tough-guy.
For awhile I just stand there with my cigarette, enjoying the cool menthol on my throat and watching the smoke curl and undulate through the air. Blondie's trying his best not to whimper like an injured dog, but with little success. Finally I say.
You don't know who I am, do you?
An asshole.
Well yes but that's not all I am. My name is Nero. You heard of me?
He wipes his bloody mouth on his sleeve, leaving a long red stain
No, I've never heard of you.
I figured not. If you had heard of me then you probably wouldn't be on the ground with a broken arm. Now I don't know what backwoods shithole it is that you came from, but around here, in this city, we don't go feeding out in public like it's nothing. What if it was a cop passing by that heard this girl scream instead of me? And you find yourself sitting in a human jail cell with no identification, no social security number, nothing but the lint and pennies in your fucking pockets? You know what happens then?
Yeah, I know what happens.
I bet you do. Are you even in the tribe? Do you even know what that is?
Yes I know what the fucking tribe is. I'm not a retard.
Could've fooled me. You're obviously not a member though?
My brother is.
Who's your brother?
None of your business. okay, okay, I'm not repulsed by the vampire/whatevers anymore. I love this development, and am very intrigued and interested to see what all of this is
I let out a sigh and pinch the space between my eyes. My brain is pounding relentlessly against the inside of my skull.
Alright, look here fuckface. Normally I'd be obliged to detain your ass in some abandoned warehouse and beat the piss out of you for a few hours, or at least until you start talking. But luckily for you, my head happens to feel like it's about to explode like that volcano over in Sweden or Norway or wherever the fuck. So I'm going to let you off with a warning. like this a lotNext time you feel like feeding, go talk to your mystery brother, or whoever, someone in the tribe that you know, and they'll help you. There's a reason we spend a few million a year on blood trafficking. And it sure as shit ain't so your narrow ass can go around chomping on every bitch that walks by. Got it, Blondie?
He spits a wad of bloody mucus onto the wall beside us, sniffling and wiping his nose. Then he nods somberly and I say:
Jesus kid, don't look so fucking distraught. You're making me nauseous. LOVE this last line. brilliant.

So I love Nero in this last scene with Blondie, and am extremelyy intrigued by all of this, but I'm gonna stop the review here. I'll definitely keep reading, though, and most likely review some more for like the next chapterish thing. I'll try to give you an overall review on the whole thing, too, once I finish reading it; sorry that this was not that.




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