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Old September 17th, 2013, 10:25 PM
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In Corpore Sano - Epilogue

Okay, here it is, the end of the story. Enjoy. (I'll post a follow-up content with a few notes, as usual, in just a moment.)

Warning: This epilogue was posted almost immediately after part 19. Make sure you have read part 19 before reading this.

-----

In Corpore Sano
Epilogue

This story has been completed. Content warnings and general description are included with the prologue, general commentary is in the comments following the epilogue.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Epilogue

-----

I woke up with a start as a blast of chilly air blew across me and fell into a panic attack. After a few minutes it began to resolve and I took stock of my surroundings; I was sitting in a comfortable chair, where I had dozed off in the sunny afternoon in the late autumn.

After passing out on that lawn, I had regained consciousness in a hospital. I was burned so badly that it was only by the narrowest possible margin that the doctors had decided against immediately amputating my legs, and they had debated over my left arm as well. Still, the triage team had put off the decision, and by the time the doctors reconsidered, I had begun to heal so well that they had become doubtful of the original diagnosis. With all the pain, and the side effects of the painkillers, it took me a while to realize that I was back to human size, if still very large. (When the owner of the bar came to visit me, he recognized me at once.)

The police covered everything up. They weren't happy about it, but when Detective Beaufort had shown up with the rest of the prisoners and startled them into sending every man they could spare or call back to duty to an address which turned out to actually have blown up, they were inclined to take it seriously, and when they started investigating the ruins of the house they became less and less thrilled with the idea of explaining things to the public. It takes a lot to make a forensics expert sick, but some of the remains they pulled out of the building... there was a mass funeral for the victims. In confidence, Inspector Anderson had told me that they really weren't even sure how many people were in the building. The remains were far beyond identifiable, and even counting skulls hadn't been possible for a variety of reasons which he didn't outline but which I could imagine a little too well. Instead, they just put together a list of large men who had disappeared that night and went with that, instead.

After talking with me, when I was again able to talk, we came up with a working theory: when Paul died (or otherwise ceased to be Paul in any meaningful way), all of his magical semen ignited, and those who had been unfortunate enough to have any in their bodies had it burned back out of them. It explained the known facts -- Detective Beaufort had fortunately been permitted to take a shower once back at the station, and had only suffered a lot of pain and a loss of body mass and height. I hadn't been so lucky, but at least I had been fortunate enough to drop the bottles I had rescued from the house. Two of them had exploded like firebombs, while the third had partially melted. The contents were certainly long gone by the time the analysts got to them.

Whether that was enough to explain the thoroughness of the destruction of Paul's house was debatable, but nobody was asking questions -- by the time the police arrived, the second floor had fallen in, and most of the exterior walls were at least partially gone, and in the end almost everything had simply settled into the basement. By the time I worked up the courage to go see it, everything had been cleared away by bulldozer and weeds were growing over the top. It was left as a vacant lot -- nobody liked the idea of living in a house built on a site where hundreds of men had met violent deaths.

In confidence, Inspector Anderson had shown me the notebook which had been recovered from a fireproof lockbox which Paul had kept in a safety deposit box under another name. There were photographs of the statue I had seen, the one of the scratched hand. Not entirely to my surprise, the palm of the hand, which I had not seen in person, had an eye on it.

The notebook contained what seemed to be translations. Each page had rows and rows of text; first a row of scratches, and then a line or two of English text underneath. The English wasn't very correct, as you might expect in a word-for-word translation, but the contents were certainly suggestive. There were lists which seemed to be recipes, and instructions, and descriptions which seemed fairly familiar. For what it's worth, here's what one page said, minus the scratches (the brackets seemed to mark Paul's interpolations and comments):
where {their} heads are {there are} hands {.?} {hands for heads? is that what the statue is?} {they} not dare approach in daylight but search {where} power has been {used?} while power {is} master held {mastered?} {they are} not harm but seek return {of the statue? how do they "seek"?} {they} do not go {depart?} but {you} shall know {they} remain by signs and portents {.?} not to search {for them?} for to them {?} is the power to destroy souls {minds? brains? some examples would help}
With the aid of a magnifying glass, it was possible to identify the scratches in the notebook as being the same as the minute ones which covered the statue. Where Paul had gotten the statue, and how he had figured out the script -- which nobody in the police department could even identify -- was something we would never know, but Inspector Anderson pointed out that Paul had returned to school for a master's degree in philology. It was possible his professors might be able to identify the script, at least, but the coverup meant we couldn't possibly approach them, and the question had to be left in abeyance.

I asked about the statue. To their embarrassment, it seemed that the police had found it in the ruins without a single scorch mark or (as far as anyone could tell) additional scratch, put it in an evidence box, and then lost the box. Nobody knew how, or when, it had gone, but it was definitely in the ruins (Inspector Anderson swore he had actually handled it), and definitely not on the truck when it pulled into police headquarters. Whether it was stolen by some unknown partner of Paul's or whether one of the things had come back for it we never knew, and weren't really interested in finding out. As long as it was gone, the particulars hardly seemed to matter.

Detective Beaufort later took the notebook, shredded every page, lit the shreds on fire, and threw the ashes into the ocean in two batches in different locations. As he explained, not only was it necessary to permanently lose the notebook in the interests of the coverup, but it wouldn't be a good idea to let anyone try out the rituals, either. Aside from the more obvious negative side effects, certain elements in the "recipes" suggested that, at one time, there had been at least two more prisoners in Paul's house, two other names on the missing persons list who wouldn't be coming back.

My burns healed rapidly and impossibly well. When I left the hospital, I didn't even have a scar anywhere on my body. The doctors, taking their cue from the police, quietly revised records to show that my burns had only been second-degree.

My mind, on the other hand, had been somewhat less well-treated. It didn't take long to discover that my inability to get an erection at the party had been symptomatic. My libido had completely vanished, and it took with it my stronger emotions. For the better part of a year, I was utterly unable to feel any erotic feelings whatsoever, and intense emotional situations made me feel slightly nauseous. I speculated that perhaps the thing I had surprised in Paul's back yard had attempted to destroy my mind, and had only hit whatever it was which was running the body, which was composed of nothing but lust and emotion. Perhaps Paul raping me had given me some sort of split personality, and the active one had been sheared away. My psychological state had been a blessing in disguise, if that were true. In any event, strong emotions were simply gone.

Except in my dreams, of course. I got to relive my time at Paul's over and over every night for weeks. I couldn't even see a therapist, because of the coverup. Within five minutes, any therapist worth their salt would have diagnosed me with twenty or thirty serious conditions and medicated me into oblivion.

Gradually, the nightmares had faded and I had become numb. I welcomed it, after what I had been through.

Besides, I had a lot to keep me occupied. The bar owner had begged me to come back to work for him, and I had agreed. Although tips were never quite so good again -- our patrons couldn't afford to give a couple of million dollars a year to a bartender -- it wasn't unusual for me to break five figures on a good night, and I even managed to break six on a long, busy shift later that year.

I needed the money. The hospital bills alone were staggering (private insurance -- the only kind we get in America -- will do anything to weasel out of paying even basic costs) and I needed new clothes, a new car (my old one had been towed, impounded, and -- by the time I got out of the hospital -- sold; I might have been angry if it hadn't been too small for me anyway), and I wanted a new house.

The police had hesitated over the cash box for a while. The official story had left that detail out, so that officially the thing didn't exist. In the end, they split the contents between all the men who had been kept prisoner in exchange for their complicity with the coverup. It had been an enormous fortune, but my share, having only been a prisoner for a few days, hadn't been very much.

After about ten months, my emotions came crashing back with such force that I wound up sobbing, curled up in the fetal position, in the staff bathroom at work. It was a week before I was stable enough to come back to work, and even then I had mood swings for another two months.

On the other hand, my libido had started showing itself again, which was some compensation. Bill -- Detective Beaufort -- had never stopped checking up on me, and it was only at this point when I began to realize that his interest wasn't entirely disinterested. I was grateful to him for waiting, but as he rather crudely put it, a boyfriend with movie-star looks, bigger muscles than a bodybuilding champion, and a two-foot cock was worth waiting for. (He had retained some of the mass I had given him when I raped him, but was still much more ordinary-looking than I would ever be again. To give you some idea, he was only six feet eight inches, to my eight feet two.)

Before long, he had moved in with me -- I had plenty of space now. We were reasonably happy together -- any desire for tempestuous affairs with sexy third parties had definitely been burned out of both of us for good. I had joined Bill's gym to get away from the memories associated with the other one, and now that my libido was back our workouts were a lot of fun. Only two days before, I had waited until Bill was struggling to bench the better part of 700 pounds and had said, in carefully studied tones:

"Really, Bill? Writing my name over and over and doodling hearts around it?"

His face had gone slightly more red than it already had been, and as he suddenly threw the weight upward he exploded. "Dammit! Knew Anderson couldn't keep his damn mouth shut!"

That last humorous memory dispelled the remains of the panic attack, and I went to investigate the source of the cold air.

The door to the house was open, letting in the night air. That was almost enough to set off another panic attack, because I was always careful to lock the doors when I came in. And Bill was out at work, even though it was my day off. I selected a knife from the kitchen, just in case, and went prowling through the house, but nobody was there. It didn't even seem that anything had been stolen. Someone had picked our lock just for fun. I almost had another panic attack just thinking about it.

When Bill came home, we made a more thorough check, and neither of us was able to name a single thing which was actually missing.

It was only two days later that I realized: the threadbare, battered fedora, which my parents had found in my backyard on the night I went missing and kindly brought inside for me, the one which the movers had tossed into a box because I had obviously forgotten to pack it, was gone.

Last edited by tekuno; September 22nd, 2013 at 08:17 PM.
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Old September 17th, 2013, 11:04 PM
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Okay, time for some notes.

I have been asked "what are the Things?". Well, the story doesn't actually say this -- and therefore you are free to imagine what you like -- but they are the former owners of the statue, as you would probably guess from what was happening to Paul in that last scene.

You can thank my regular chat partner for convincing me not to leave the narrator with more significant physical damage. Originally, he was going to lose at least a leg.

The Things are actually modeled on a bad dream I had. It wasn't a nightmare because it wasn't presented in first person; it was actually a very coherent presentation like a horror movie. There was only one of them, and it was a monster which, unlike all other monsters which children fear, would not only not go away when you turned the lights on, but could only attack you if you looked at it with the lights on. During the day, it was vulnerable and would pretend to be a human (or something humanoid). In the dream, the Thing attacked a family one by one, until only two children were left. As the attacks had happened, the family had gradually learned about the existence of the monster and its weaknesses, and so the older one went out during the last day of the dream hunting the monster with a baseball bat. Naturally, the (sort of apocalyptic urban) area was full of statues and dummies and people bundled up against the weather, and none of them was actually the monster. Finally the kid went home to avoid being out at night alone. The youngest knocked on the kid's bedroom door, and when the kid opened it, the monster was just behind them, and they were grinning. They closed their eyes and turned away as the monster shuffled forward...

Very evocative dream. I get coherent storyline dreams like that now and then. Usually less creepy, of course.

I wish I had chosen other words for Paul to babble. Eggs, eggplants, third floor, business, and faces, aren't very good ones. I posted it last thing before bed, and came up with those words last thing at night. I should have come up with something more menacing and less silly. (Come on, brain, "eggplant"? Is that really the best you can do?) By the time I realized how dumb they were, it was too late.

I honestly wasn't sure the exact direction the story was going to take at first, which is why the dreams weren't a little more focussed. (I knew Paul was going to have an artifact of some sort which let him alter people's bodies, and that using it was gradually going to drive him insane, and there was going to be a big implosion where Horrible Things came in and Got everyone, but I hadn't worked out the precise details. That's what comes of not having an outline to start with.)

I could easily have made this either much creepier or much sexier, but pushing either one would have been a sacrifice of the other, and I chose to go with what you see here. Overall, I don't think it turned out too badly -- it certainly got a lot of reaction, which is good. (I admit, I like seeing comments and "Thank Yous", although I would probably keep going even without them.)

(Oh, incidentally, try rereading the prologue now that you've read the whole story. Fun, eh? I didn't even realize the fire link until just now.)

(One more thing: if you liked this story, you might find this video entertaining. Or just disturbing.)
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Old September 17th, 2013, 11:14 PM
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Okay, two more things:

Although I hesitate to claim the influence of a famous author for my fetish porn, I just suddenly realized that there's some elements of this story which echo things by Haruki Murakami, whose novels I enjoy. (Read The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, and A Wild Sheep Chase, and you will begin to see some ideas being stol--- borrowed.

Also: starting with part 14, I've been tempted over and over to have the Things play rock-paper-scissors to make decisions. But of course, once you start laughing at a horror story, the horror is usually gone. I don't think my writing would have been able to withstand it if I started doing that.
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Old September 17th, 2013, 11:54 PM
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Again, thanks for the great ride. I became emotionally invested in Scott, and am glad it ended well for him.

I think your sexy, scary, funny balance was just about right
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Old September 19th, 2013, 08:34 PM
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Very interesting journey. Went from erotic to just plain bizarre. (Third floor for the business faces eggplant eggs? What the 天晓得 is that supposed to mean?)
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Old September 20th, 2013, 12:04 AM
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Yeah, I think that MOO adequately encapsulates the underlying theme.


The fedora was just the topping on the dessert.
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Old September 21st, 2013, 10:18 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by V.R.Goh View Post
Very interesting journey. Went from erotic to just plain bizarre. (Third floor for the business faces eggplant eggs? What the 天晓得 is that supposed to mean?)
Well, you see, it's a sort of mental 文字化け, representing the 絶対混沌 Paul is experiencing and the 倒壊 of his 精神状態.

(And phooey on you for using a kanji the Japanese have dropped but the Chinese still have. I eventually swallowed my pride and used the Unicode hex to check an online dictionary, which promptly made it clear that U+6653 has been phased out in one of the kanji reforms. And here I was trying every possible radical combination and stroke count which seemed even remotely possible for half an hour.)


Quote:
Originally Posted by nnnrg View Post
Yeah, I think that MOO adequately encapsulates the underlying theme.

The fedora was just the topping on the dessert.
If you really want disturbing, check out the "MEOW" video by the same artist. (Seriously, "MEOW" is one of the more disturbing things I've seen -- an extreme case of juxtaposing a cute cartoon style with horrible, awful content.)

Well, I'm done with family visiting time, and back to work on writing. I'm going to write a short titled In Pursuit of Mr. Blue next, and then start work on Some Assembly Required, which will actually be in the "Media" section, because it turns out that, if you look closely, image embedding is turned off here in the story section but not there, and that will be done partially as cartoons. (I'll make a thread here to signal when there are updates.) My spiffy new stylus is finally here, so I can start getting used to it (it does work significantly differently from the old one) and hopefully draw with a bit less frustration.
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Old September 22nd, 2013, 09:09 PM
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Sorry to keep posting more and more replies to this thread. (On the other hand, people are thanking the replies, so maybe that's not entirely bad.)

Anyway: first off, I have now fixed up the formatting on all the parts of this story to make it easier to read, for those of you who are just starting it now or want to reread it later for some reason.

Secondly: I just realized that I never gave the attribution of that quote with which I opened part one. The one piece of information I actually promised in advance that I would give, and I blew it. Whoops! The first parts of it are from the internal monologue which Dekko gives at the beginning of The Eyes of Dekko, which was the story of issues 17 and 18 of the long-defunct Zot! comic book. (He's also the antagonist, or one of them, in the only online Zot! story, but he's a lot more collected in that one.) The last few bits are from the final parts of his last monologue. One of the best "crazy" speeches I've read. (But then, Dekko and 9-Jack-9 are two of the best cartoon villains I've ever encountered, so it's hardly surprising that they would have some good lines.)

And, finally:

Quote:
Originally Posted by lsosuke View Post
This story sound like it cant be hot boring but i will read 3 parts if i dont like ... Is your worst story XD
Well, sorry if you didn't like it. I did actually put a warning at the top that it was different, and not everyone's cup of tea. But as a wise (if rather crude) writer once said:

Quote:
The saddest part of it is, society has developed a general solution to this problem a long time ago. It's called money. Can't seem to get someone to care about your goals? well it turns out that a few benjamins can usually change their mind.
I'll be absolutely thrilled to write exactly the sort of thing you like, provided you're willing to pay for it. A story of this length, to give you some idea, represents somewhere in the range of 60 to 100 hours of work all told. If you'll arrange for a reasonable rate of, oh, $10/hour, I'll be happy to tailor the writing to your tastes. Otherwise, well, nobody is forcing you to read it.
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Old September 28th, 2013, 07:34 AM
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天晓得 = tian xiao de

Quote:
Originally Posted by tekuno View Post
(And phooey on you for using a kanji the Japanese have dropped but the Chinese still have. I eventually swallowed my pride and used the Unicode hex to check an online dictionary, which promptly made it clear that U+6653 has been phased out in one of the kanji reforms. And here I was trying every possible radical combination and stroke count which seemed even remotely possible for half an hour.)
Yeah, sorry about that. Sometimes, I'll curse in Chinese a la Firefly.
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